She started toward him, and he met her halfway, next to a silver Toyota Camry that would prove to be hers.
As she neared, her smile turned sly, and she said, “Not too often do we get a real, live TV star out here in the boonies.”
“Waco’s hardly the boonies, Laurene.”
“Maybe not. But I sure didn’t expect to see a Hollywood type like you turning up at a church.”
“Outside a church. Wouldn’t want to risk lightning.” He grinned and extended a hand. “Good to see you. Really good.”
She knocked the hand aside and gave him a big, warm hug. She smelled better than the flowers in the breeze.
“Been too long,” Laurene said. “When was the last time, anyway?”
He thought for a moment. “Probably that IAI conference in Dallas.”
They were both members of the International Association for Identification, an organization made up of some seven thousand forensic investigators, examiners, techs, and analysts worldwide.
“Doesn’t that seem like a lifetime ago,” she said.
“Laurene, I’m sorry about Patty.”
“I know you are. I got your flowers and the card. Meant a lot, J.C.”
Laurene’s life partner, Patty Moore, had passed away not quite a year ago from cervical cancer.
“I’m just sorry I couldn’t make it down here,” Harrow said.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I know you’re a busy guy.”
Harrow glanced around. “Can I take you for Sunday lunch or brunch or something?”
“Sure. And I know just the place.”
They walked two blocks to a Popeye’s Fried Chicken. She knew Harrow was a sucker for the onion rings. They shared a big basket of them and some hot wings and laughed about the prospect that food like this would kill them before some bad guy did. Seated at their little table by a window, the view obscured by restaurant adverts, they wiped off their fingers with paper napkins, and the talk turned serious, as if a switch had been thrown.
“I should have got down here,” he said, hardly able to meet her eyes.
“You didn’t know Patty that well.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What you wrote? On the card? It really did mean a lot, J.C. Hell...” She sighed, and her eyebrows flicked upward. “You understand loss better than most. But you know how it is — you shake it off, and get on with it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“I, uh, checked up on you, kid. I know.”
“You know.”
He nodded. “I know. I know you went back to work less than two months ago.”
“Come on, J.C. I needed time.”
“Time to grieve.”
“Right.”
“I need you to level with me, Laurene.”
“Why?”
“We’ll get to that... if you level.”
Laurene seemed to stare out the window, though she was really looking at a poster advertising buffalo shrimp. “I got to where I could barely get out of bed, J.C. Clinical depression, the medics call it. Damn near lost my job.”
“Funny. I almost lost mine the other day.”
The dark eyes sparkled. “You? How does a TV Guide cover boy almost lose his job?”
“Haven’t you been watching the show?”
Her half smile added up to a whole smirk. “Right, I’m gonna watch some jive-ass reality show, after I been out on the street all day and all night, busting bad guys in the flesh.”
“Oh... well... I can under—”
“J.C.!” Her laugher was sharp, little knife jabs of glee. “You can’t tell when I’m playin’ you? There is not a week goes by when I don’t time-delay your ass. Me skipping commercials doesn’t offend you, does it?”
Now he laughed, embarrassed. “No. Not at all. Did you, uh... catch the show the other night?”
“Yeah, I saw it. This is how they do the ratings now? Send the star door to door?”
He leaned in. “Now I know you’re playing me, because, if you did see that show, you must already know why I’m here.” He locked eyes with her, and nothing jokey remained in her expression. “Laurene, I need a second-in-command. A second I can trust not to bullshit me, and let me know when I’m out of line.”
She sipped Diet Coke through a straw; her eyes were not on his now. She was thinking.
“You know what I’m asking, Laurene.”
She sighed. Shrugged. “J.C., I have a job. A job I haven’t been back to for long, and probably shouldn’t risk.”
“I don’t want you to risk anything, Laurene. But with your background and abilities, you could work anywhere. You’re damned good at what you do. But you are also underappreciated and underpaid.”
“It’s ’cause I’m a local girl. But I like helping out where I grew up.”
“I’m not asking you to leave Waco forever. But I am offering you a raise.”
She stretched her arm across the table and put a finger to his lips. “I’m not worried about the money, Handsome. Long as there’s health. I learned the hard way what happens when you don’t have that kinda coverage.”
“UBC treats its people well, far as perks go. They have a deserved rep for underpaying the help, but I will set your salary.”
“Suppose I don’t care about coming back to Waco.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, does this gig have legs? Will it last past this one case?”
Harrow shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose if we’re successful, anything is possible. But with the TV exposure you’ll have, a lot of new possibilities are going to open up.”
“Right. Maybe I’ll star in Foxy Brown Part Two.”
He laughed. “Hey, I would pay to see that.”
She laughed too, then got very silent, wheels turning.
Finally, she said, “If I can wrangle a leave of absence, you’ll guarantee good PR for the Waco PD? Give them some kind of love on the air?”
“Hell,” Harrow said, “I can probably get them a screen thank you in the credits every week.”
This was the kind of request Dennis Byrnes would love — the kind that didn’t cost a damn thing.
She thought a while longer. Then: “All right, Sweet Talker. I’ll hit up my boss. If they don’t put up too big a fuss, I’ll do it. What are we talking, nine months?”
“That’s the maximum, unless we decide to take this concept onto a second case. But I’m not thinking in those terms, Laurene. This isn’t about televison, not really.”
Quietly she said, “I know what it’s about.”
“Thanks, Laurene,” Harrow said. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Laurene smiled and shook her head. “You want saved, you saw where the church was... Notice you didn’t come in. Let me guess — last time you set foot in church was at the funeral. Right?”
“God and I,” Harrow said, “are not on speaking terms.”
“I been there. But God didn’t do this.”
“He didn’t prevent it.”
“No. No. But it was some sick monster that did this, J.C. And we need to find him, so he doesn’t do it to anybody else.”
“Amen,” Harrow said.
From his hotel room in Oklahoma City, Harrow called Michael Pall. The scientist seemed pleased to hear from the lawman turned TV star, and agreed to meet him in the hotel bar for a drink later that evening.
Harrow was already seated in a leatherette booth when Pall came in around seven. Only five-six, the middle-aged Pall was no Superman, but did resemble an aging Clark Kent with his black-frame glasses and thick comma of dark, dangling hair.
Then Harrow shook hands with the guy, and began to wonder if Pall — however short he might be — might be Superman, at that. He had a vice-like grip, and Harrow used a ploy taught to him by another cop buddy back in rookie days. When confronted with a death-grip hand-shaker, the cop had told Harrow, just extend your forefinger. This made it impossible for the other man to crush your hand. Harrow didn’t know all the physics of it, but damned if it didn’t work.