The Night Monster_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [63]
“You mean without pissing off the FBI?” I said.
“Yes. They don’t always share with us.”
I probably should have called Linderman and gotten his permission, only I’d found the tracks, and could have just as easily made the vehicle without his help.
“Go ahead,” I said.
Burrell called Deborah Bodden at Fox on her cell. While she was on the phone, I went to the copy machine, and made copies of the missing women’s files, along with a copy of my own notes. I handed the originals back to Burrell as she hung up.
“A Fox News team is on their way over,” Burrell said.
“That was fast.”
“I told Bodden I was giving her an exclusive.”
“Anything else I can do?”
“I hate to ask you this Jack, but you need to leave before they get here.”
The request did not offend me. My work for the police was strictly under the table. The last thing Burrell needed was for me to be seen by the media.
“Good luck,” I said.
Buster and I took the stairs to the first floor. I stuck my head into the reception area to make sure no reporters were there. The reception area was deserted, and I stole outside and jogged across the parking lot to my car. The sun hung directly overhead, the midday heat like an oven. A brightly painted Fox News van entered the lot and drove directly past me. I kept my head down and my hand in front of my face.
Reaching my Legend, I glanced over my shoulder. The Fox van had braked next to the front entrance. Deborah Bodden and her cameraman hopped out and ran into the building, their bodies a blur.
I jumped into my car and fired up the engine. Back when I was a cop, TV news reporters had taped their interviews and edited them before putting them on air. But times had changed. Most TV reporters now broadcast their interviews live in order not to be scooped by iReporters, who sent out their stories instantly on the Internet. I was guessing that Bodden would broadcast her interview with Burrell live.
I burned rubber leaving the lot, and drove down Andrews Avenue looking for a bar with a TV.
Broward County had so many bars that people called it Fort Liquordale. The bar I picked was called The Pour House, and was located within a dingy shopping center filled with empty storefronts. The place had no windows, just a small sign with its name.
I bellied up to the bar and ordered a soda. A giant-screen TV showed a mixed martial arts bout while the jukebox played Bob Seger’s “Against the Wind.” A crew of aging, pot-bellied bikers sat at a corner table, drowning themselves in beer.
The bartender was a small, hardened woman with fresh stitches on her chin. I saw her eyeing Buster.
“You got bad eyes?” she asked.
She thought Buster was a Seeing Eye dog. “Yeah,” I lied.
“I don’t have no problems with dogs. Two bucks for the soda.”
I slapped a five-dollar bill on the bar and told her to keep the change. She stuffed the tip down the front of her blouse.
“It’s safer than putting it in a bank,” she explained.
She put my drink down in front of me. I asked her if she would change the TV to FOX. She agreed, and surfed the channels and found FOX. The words Special News Report were running across the bottom on the screen. I took out my cell phone and called Linderman at work. He picked up right away.
“Turn your TV to FOX,” I said.
“What’s going on?” Linderman asked.
“The Broward cops are about to blow this case wide open. It’s coming on the TV right now.”
“I’m turning on the set in my office,” he said.
I ended the call. The interview had started, and a life-size Candy Burrell appeared on the giant screen. Her hair was tied into a bun, and she wore a dark shade of lipstick. One of the bikers gave a wolf whistle.
Deborah Bodden stood beside Burrell and began to ask questions. The TV’s volume was muted, and the text ran across the bottom of the screen. I had been interviewed enough times to know when a reporter was on my side. It showed up in how the questions were posed, and whether the reporter interrupted you. Bodden liked Burrell, and was making her look good.
The interview lasted five and a half minutes.