it seemed larger than most and she flipped it open. Inside were a set of press credentials. She read the ID, then checked the man’s face against the photo. She hadn’t recognized him with the baseball cap and glasses, but she could see it now.
“Who is he?” Rhodes said.
She held up the ID and noted the fear and uncertainty washing over their captive’s face. Rhodes scanned the document and started laughing.
The man squirming on the pavement was Dick Harvey, a lowlife gossip reporter from Blanket Hollywood . Seven nights a week, Blanket Hollywood played in the mud, promising its viewers another thirty minutes beneath the sheets with their favorite stars. Lena suspected that the TV show and the Web site that went with it killed brain cells.
“Dick Harvey,” Rhodes said, his voice peppered with a joyous sarcasm. “Crossing a police line and breaking into an LAPD car at a homicide investigation. Man, you’re good.”
Harvey finally settled down and found his voice. But it all seemed a little too smooth, and Lena wondered if the convulsions hadn’t been some weak attempt to fake them out.
“Come on, guys,” he said, pleading. “You’ve gotta understand the spot I’m in.”
Rhodes laughed again. “We get it, Harvey. You’re on a secret mission. You’re working undercover. But what I really want is your autograph. I can’t wait to see it right below your fingerprints when you get booked tonight. Remember to smile when they take your picture. I guarantee it’ll make the rounds.”
“But I’ve got a deadline to make. Give me a break. I’m just covering a story.”
Lena had reached her limit. “Not anymore,” she said. “What were you doing in the car? What were you up to?”
Harvey’s voice rose an octave and he began whining. “It was just a mistake. It’s late and I didn’t know where the fuck I was going. Come on. I’m working a story, guys. Jacob Gant’s dead, right? Lily Hight’s old man blew his brains out. You’re in charge, right, Lena?”
Something inside her clicked as she measured him. The hat and glasses, the sudden barrage of questions, his use of her first name. The dirtbag reporter was cuffed but still busting—still running out line.
“You stink, Harvey,” she said. “You need a shower and clean clothes. And what’s with the hat and glasses? What are you up to?”
She reached out for his glasses, but he jerked his head away.
“Fuck you both. I want a lawyer.”
He flashed a big smile at them like he’d just said the magic words. Like he thought he was in charge.
I want a lawyer.
Rhodes slapped the smile off his face and yanked him back. “You’re gonna need one, Harvey. And if you bite me, you’re gonna need a new set of teeth. Now shut up and don’t move.”
Lena ripped away the glasses, tossing the baseball cap over to Rhodes. Within a few moments, she knew that they were on the right track. Both items were wired for video and sound. Harvey had probably hoped that he wouldn’t be seen in the car. At least not until he’d recorded a sound bite with enough juice for tomorrow’s broadcast of Blanket Hollywood .
“I want a lawyer,” he repeated. “I want one now.”
Lena didn’t respond to the magic words. She’d found the camera lens, but the frames were split. On the left was a battery pack. On the right, a small thumb drive. She switched off the power and turned to watch Rhodes. The camera hidden in the hat was about the size of a dime with a high-capacity media card attached. Rhodes was holding them in front of Harvey’s face as if he’d won them at the racetrack.
“You’re a wild man, Harvey,” he said.
“I’m a reporter, and I have rights. That’s my stuff and I want an attorney.”
Rhodes shook his head. “Sounds like a mantra, but it won’t work until we’ve processed the crime scene. You’re the crime scene, Harvey, so answer the question. Did you plant something in our car?”
“I don’t have to say anything. I’m a
“Who is he?” Rhodes said.
She held up the ID and noted the fear and uncertainty washing over their captive’s face. Rhodes scanned the document and started laughing.
The man squirming on the pavement was Dick Harvey, a lowlife gossip reporter from Blanket Hollywood . Seven nights a week, Blanket Hollywood played in the mud, promising its viewers another thirty minutes beneath the sheets with their favorite stars. Lena suspected that the TV show and the Web site that went with it killed brain cells.
“Dick Harvey,” Rhodes said, his voice peppered with a joyous sarcasm. “Crossing a police line and breaking into an LAPD car at a homicide investigation. Man, you’re good.”
Harvey finally settled down and found his voice. But it all seemed a little too smooth, and Lena wondered if the convulsions hadn’t been some weak attempt to fake them out.
“Come on, guys,” he said, pleading. “You’ve gotta understand the spot I’m in.”
Rhodes laughed again. “We get it, Harvey. You’re on a secret mission. You’re working undercover. But what I really want is your autograph. I can’t wait to see it right below your fingerprints when you get booked tonight. Remember to smile when they take your picture. I guarantee it’ll make the rounds.”
“But I’ve got a deadline to make. Give me a break. I’m just covering a story.”
Lena had reached her limit. “Not anymore,” she said. “What were you doing in the car? What were you up to?”
Harvey’s voice rose an octave and he began whining. “It was just a mistake. It’s late and I didn’t know where the fuck I was going. Come on. I’m working a story, guys. Jacob Gant’s dead, right? Lily Hight’s old man blew his brains out. You’re in charge, right, Lena?”
Something inside her clicked as she measured him. The hat and glasses, the sudden barrage of questions, his use of her first name. The dirtbag reporter was cuffed but still busting—still running out line.
“You stink, Harvey,” she said. “You need a shower and clean clothes. And what’s with the hat and glasses? What are you up to?”
She reached out for his glasses, but he jerked his head away.
“Fuck you both. I want a lawyer.”
He flashed a big smile at them like he’d just said the magic words. Like he thought he was in charge.
I want a lawyer.
Rhodes slapped the smile off his face and yanked him back. “You’re gonna need one, Harvey. And if you bite me, you’re gonna need a new set of teeth. Now shut up and don’t move.”
Lena ripped away the glasses, tossing the baseball cap over to Rhodes. Within a few moments, she knew that they were on the right track. Both items were wired for video and sound. Harvey had probably hoped that he wouldn’t be seen in the car. At least not until he’d recorded a sound bite with enough juice for tomorrow’s broadcast of Blanket Hollywood .
“I want a lawyer,” he repeated. “I want one now.”
Lena didn’t respond to the magic words. She’d found the camera lens, but the frames were split. On the left was a battery pack. On the right, a small thumb drive. She switched off the power and turned to watch Rhodes. The camera hidden in the hat was about the size of a dime with a high-capacity media card attached. Rhodes was holding them in front of Harvey’s face as if he’d won them at the racetrack.
“You’re a wild man, Harvey,” he said.
“I’m a reporter, and I have rights. That’s my stuff and I want an attorney.”
Rhodes shook his head. “Sounds like a mantra, but it won’t work until we’ve processed the crime scene. You’re the crime scene, Harvey, so answer the question. Did you plant something in our car?”
“I don’t have to say anything. I’m a
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