You Can’t Stop Me Read online

  In the second segment, Angela Batten outed the CEO of an insurance company that for years had been defrauding its policyholders by substituting new language in renewal documents—just the sort of story of corporate greed getting busted that tapped into Main Street America’s rage against Wall Street. Few in the viewing audience were aware that Crime Seen! itself came to them courtesy of the big oil corporation that was UBC’s Big Daddy.

  Byrnes knew these two juicy and very different stories would each be front-page fodder on tomorrow’s USA Today, with Crime Seen! getting plenty of play. He was neither psychic nor overconfident—just this morning, the network prez had been interviewed for both stories.

  Finally all that remained was J.C. Harrow’s season farewell, which, as scripted, was a laundry list of the miscreants the show had helped bust, all wrapped up in Harrow’s rugged, Midwestern “I’m a victim too, but I’m getting back at ’em” persona.

  With pleasure if not affection, Byrnes regarded his unlikely, ruggedly photogenic star on the monitor, where Harrow could be seen casting a film noir shadow against a brick backdrop with a single barred window—cheesy but effective.

  The former lawman sported a navy blue blazer that looked unpretentious, although it was no off-the-rack number, worn over a lighter blue button-down dress shirt, open at the collar; his jeans were faded, worn—Everyman attire that Wardrobe had slaved over.

  Piercing blue eyes stared out at America as Harrow said, “My colleagues in the booth are going to have to forgive me for breaking from script…”

  Byrnes, paying half-attention before, suddenly stood as straight as an exclamation mark, and was heeding his star’s every word, every pause, every gesture.

  “…but some late-breaking news has changed the circumstances of tonight’s live broadcast.”

  Byrnes snapped at the director, “What the hell?”

  Phillips, in a headset, his eyes blinking a Morse code SOS, glanced back helplessly at his boss.

  Byrnes leaned so far forward at the top of the aisle, he had all his weight on the toes of his four-hundred-dollar Bruno Magli loafers. He might have been a diver preparing for a double gainer.

  “You all know that, for almost six years, I’ve been searching for the person or persons who killed my family.”

  In the booth, the director couldn’t help himself, and told his cameraman to push in closer on their host.

  “Recently, a member of the Crime Seen! staff found what she thought might be a clue tying another crime to the deaths of my wife and son. This is the first new evidence that’s been turned up in the case in many, many months.”

  Byrnes yelled, “Did you know about this? Did any of you know about this?”

  The director shook his head, but his attention was on the drama unfolding before them all. Those involved in technical aspects of the broadcast ignored their big boss; others, just standing observing—like show runner, Nicole Strickland, now edging away from the network exec—merely shook their heads and melted into anything handy.

  “Next season,” Harrow was saying, “we will be following this clue, and working hard to uncover other evidence, in a concerted, focused effort to track down the killer or killers of my family….”

  Byrnes said, “Great idea, Nicole, bringing in a live audience for this episode.”

  “And we’ll be doing it right on this show. You will be with us every step of the way—helping us track down the murderer of my wife and my son.”

  Gasps from the studio audience interrupted the star.

  Picking up, Harrow said, “UBC has pledged to buy us the equipment we need, and to pay for the finest crime-scene team I can put together to investigate this case—a veritable superstar task force of criminologists and crime fighters.”

  Byrnes threw his hands up. “UBC pledged what?”

  “We’ll start assembling the team, and investigating, as soon as the show ends tonight…and we will work as long as we have to. Join us in September when we start Crime Seen!, season two, by bringing you up to date on our progress on this case over the weeks ahead.”

  His eyes narrowing, Harrow added, “Finally, a special message to one person—the killer of my family. I’m coming for you…and I’m coming soon.”

  Then the credits were rolling, which often signaled the control room getting rowdy, but right now it was like church—in more ways than one, because several people were praying.

  The screen faded to black as the show went off the air.

  Byrnes said to Nicole, “Get him. Now.”

  She nodded, cell at the ready, turning away, speaking quietly; then, cupping the phone, she said, “He’ll be in his office. He says…he’s expecting you.”

  “No shit.”

  Soon the exec was moving down the corridor, which would normally be filled with staffers quickly finishing up and getting the hell out. With the season over, the network had arranged a wrap party at the newest swank LA bistro, El Viñedo, to which they should all be on their way.

  But Byrnes found the hall lined with cast and crew.

  As his gaze swept over them, their eyes either found something very interesting in the carpeting to focus on or turned toward lead reporter Carlos Moreno.

  Byrnes’s frown withered his staff the way sunlight did vampires. “What’s this about?”

  But Moreno, six feet tall with short spiky black hair, was impervious to the exec’s gaze. His eyes locked unblinkingly on Byrnes’s. “We’re here to support our boss,” he said.

  Byrnes never flinched. “That’s very gratifying, Carlos…since I am your boss.”

  “We support J.C.”

  A few nervous nods backed up that claim.

  “All right, duly noted,” the network president said, keeping his tone even, nonconfrontational. It was a union town, after all. “I’ll see you all at El Viñedo.”

  People peeled off the wall and headed down the hall and around the corner—hostages released after a siege—though Moreno stood firm.

  Byrnes met the man’s gaze. “You don’t think I should fire J.C.’s ass?”

  “Nope.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “Give him what he wants. He’s an accidental genius. He didn’t mean to, but he just handed you and me and all of us the biggest potential ratings winner in history. If he’d come to you first, you—”

  “But he didn’t come to me.”

  “Dennis! So what? He isn’t your standard TV whore. You were well aware when you hired him that J.C. took this show hoping to find his family’s killer.”

  “And here I thought it was the truckload of money we backed up and dumped at his feet.”

  The reporter rolled his eyes. “Right, Dennis. Money. That’s what makes J.C. Harrow tick.”

  Byrnes frowned, but had no response ready before the reporter gave him a little salute and ambled off down the hall.

  The exec strode down the corridor to the dark-wood door with the name J.C. HARROW in banker-like gold lettering. For a split second, Byrnes considered knocking, then decided screw it, and went in.

  Behind his desk, J.C. Harrow appeared as relaxed and confident as a man who had just scored his biggest success, and not committed career suicide on national television.

  Byrnes didn’t bother to sit down, just strode up to the desk and gave his star a cold, confrontational glare.

  “I just want to know one thing,” Byrnes said.

  Harrow did not take the bait. He just waited silently, leaning back in his chair, his expression not quite smiling, but certainly self-contained.

  “Why did you piss it all away on a whim, J.C.? You could have come to me, we might have put something together, instead you skyjack the airwaves. Weren’t we good to you?”

  For a long time, Harrow said nothing, then, “That’s more than one thing, Dennis. If you want an answer to any of those questions, pull up a chair and sit down.”

  Byrnes had a moment—a moment where he had to choose between losing it entirely, going off like
a geyser, or behaving like a grown-up.

  So he pulled up a chair, crossed his legs, folded his hands, and (goddamnit!) smiled at his star. “Please, J.C. Enlighten me.”

  “UBC has been great,” Harrow said. “The money is generous, and I like the work. But, Dennis—I didn’t piss anything away.”

  “Nothing but your career and your starring gig on the number-one-rated show on this network.”

  “Explain,” Harrow said, not at all confrontational.

  Byrnes shook his head. “Can you really think there’s any reason I’m here other than to fire your ass?”

  “You wouldn’t need to be here, if firing me was all you had in mind. Or anyway, you wouldn’t still be here.”

  Byrnes had no response to that.

  Harrow shrugged, rocking slightly in his chair. “Anyway, why would you fire me?…I may be a relative novice in this business, but I know enough to be sure of one thing—I just guaranteed to double your ratings in the fall.”

  Byrnes sat forward, seething but in control. “You go on the air and commit my network to unknown, enormous expenses, you rewrite—off script and on air—the format of our top show, and you wonder why would I fire you? Do you think when word gets out any network would ever trust you in front of a camera again?”

  “Maybe not a live camera,” Harrow said, with a puckishness unusual for the ex-cop. “Anyway, Dennis, I don’t think you’ll let the word get out. You know that I wouldn’t take as much blame for this as you would—for allowing it to happen. I’m not where the buck stops.”

  “That sounds uncomfortably like extortion.”

  “Dennis, much as I like you, I’m not much for taking lessons in morality and business ethics from television executives.”

  “…Maybe there are circumstances where I’d consider putting you back on the air…but I’m not paying for some ‘superstar’ private forensics team or any other wild-eyed ideas….”

  Harrow sat back again, shrugged. “You can take me off the air, Dennis, but I’ll have another network signing me up for a new show by end of workday tomorrow…on my terms, right down to the ‘superstar’ forensics team.”

  Byrnes started a sigh somewhere around his toes, and finally it emerged. “Why didn’t you come to me with this idea?”

  “And have you say no? And hold me to my contract? I do apologize for the tactics, but they were necessary. Your priority is the show—mine is finding my family’s killer. I believe I came up with a way that serves both our interests.”

  Byrnes shook his head. “I can’t believe you would commercialize the murders of your own family….”

  Harrow’s laugh was a bitter thing. “Give me a goddamn break, Dennis. You’ve been commercializing my family’s death since day one of this show. And I’ve been letting you do it, because it’s a relatively harmless means to an end that is everything to me.”

  For the first time he could remember, Byrnes found himself in a room with someone he could not stare down, facing someone who wasn’t afraid of him. Like any jungle predator, Byrnes could smell fear and pounce. Only this time, the fear he sensed in this room was his own.

  “You played me for a fool tonight,” Byrnes said.

  Harrow shrugged. “I know, Dennis. And if that means you have to let me go, to save face, and let the chips fall wherever the hell, well then…no hard feelings. You’re doing what you have to do. Like I am.”

  The star rose, and came around to extend his hand toward his seated boss. “Whatever you decide, I owe you for the platform you’ve provided me. Thank you.”

  Stunned, Byrnes took the proffered hand, shook it, and said, “I’m not going to fire you, J.C.,” the words almost a surprise to himself as they came out. Without letting go of his star’s hand, he said, “But ever screw with me again, J.C., and I will end you in this business. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “I do have to say this, though.”

  Harrow was returning to his chair as Byrnes said, “Do you have any idea what you’re proposing, how much a production like this would cost?”

  “Actually, yes,” Harrow said. “That’s frankly part of why I sprang it on you the way I did. Dennis, it was an ambush—I make no pretense otherwise.”

  Byrnes was unprepared for what happened next. Harrow handed him a fat spiral-bound document—a budget proposal.

  The exec began flipping through the pages—the numbers were large, but actually less than he might have anticipated. Still, tomorrow the UBC board would be giving the exec the kind of bad time he’d just given Harrow.

  After another endless sigh, Byrnes said, “All right, J.C.—we’ll do it your way. You’ll get your toys. I’ll even go to bat for you with the board. I’ll tell them you told me your plan ahead of time, and take the heat that should be yours.”

  Harrow frowned, confused. “Why would you do that, Dennis?”

  “Because I back my people. We’re a team. We’re a family…and I’m Daddy.”

  He waved the budget at the host.

  “But if this half-assed scheme fails, and ratings fall? It’s your ass, and your whole crew’s.”

  Harrow’s mouth made the thinnest line of a smile. “Sounds like ‘Daddy’ is strict.”

  “Daddy spanks, yes. And Daddy also has chores for you. We’ll do things your way, J.C., just as you’ve requested.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You do things your way, hire who you want within these budget parameters…but you will also be available for any and all publicity we deem necessary.”

  Harrow’s face tightened. “You know I find that distasteful. My contract—”

  “Screw your contract. This is another unpleasant means to an end that you’re going to have to put up with.”

  “Any and all publicity,” Harrow said hollowly.

  “Any and all—if this is going to work for both of us, I’ve got to be able to pump the ratings as much as possible.”

  Harrow sat silently for several long seconds. Then he shrugged. “You’re right, Dennis.”

  “All right, then.” Byrnes slapped his thighs. “If we’re going to do this, let’s make Crime Seen! a bigger hit than it is already.”

  The exec rose and moved toward the door, and Harrow said, “There’s one more thing, Dennis.”

  Turning back, the network president said, “Don’t you think you’ve been greedy enough?”

  “Not a matter of greed,” Harrow said. “But I want a new segment host.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to reward the talented PA who found the clue that set this in motion.”

  Byrnes smirked. “Funny, you want to reward him—I’d just as soon throttle him.”

  “It’s a her,” Harrow said. “Carmen Garcia.”

  The exec frowned. “Isn’t she Nicole’s mail girl?”

  “Yes.”

  Byrnes closed his eyes. “Brother—Nicole’s going to love that.”

  “Why, Dennis, are you suddenly afraid of Nicole?”

  “…I have to ask, J.C.—is this personal?”

  Harrow looked at him blankly. “What?”

  “Jesus, man. Don’t make me pull teeth—are you sleeping with her?”

  His eyes narrow, Harrow said, “Christ, Dennis—she’s young enough to be my daughter.”

  Shrugging, Byrnes said, “Which in Hollywood is a plus.”

  Harrow shook his head glumly. “You’ve been out here too long. You think everybody is an amoral scumbag.”

  “Hollywood gets to us all, J.C. Just tonight, for example, you screwed me over….”

  Harrow had no response to that.

  Byrnes threw up his hands. “All right. I’m tired. You win. I’m going home and see my wife and two daughters, who are just fine, thanks so much for asking. I’ll let Nicole know that you have a new segment host.”

  “Thanks, Dennis.”

  “You’re welcome, J.C.” He beamed at his star. “Screw me again, and you’ll find out just how amoral
a scumbag I can be.”

  Chapter Seven

  The room was stuffy, the weather warm for May, the humidity heavy, the smell of rain hanging in the still air as the Messenger (as the killer thought of himself) found the spot on the videotape and cued up the ending of Crime Seen! yet again. He had not prayed in years, but he did now. Maybe, finally, someone was getting the goddamned message!

  “Recently, a member of the Crime Seen! staff found what she thought might be a clue tying another crime to the deaths of my wife and son.”

  Watching in his living room, the Messenger smiled.

  “Next season,” Harrow was saying, “we will be following this clue, and working hard to uncover other evidence, in a concerted, focused effort to track down the killer or killers of my family….”

  About damn time, the Messenger thought.

  “And we’ll be doing it right on this show. You will be with us every step of the way—helping us track down the murderer of my wife and my son.”

  He took in Harrow’s words like clues that each needed close examination, and he wondered if it was possible that after all this time, the dumb shit-kicker he’d transformed from a retired county sheriff into a national celebrity was finally, finally getting a clue himself.

  If so, maybe there was even more work to be done than he had planned on.

  That was all right. He had been waiting years for someone to raise the stakes, and, thus far, no one had. He had sent message after message over the last ten years, and, until now, no one had discerned their meaning.

  It wasn’t as if Harrow had been the first. Far from it. By August of 2002, the Messenger had already delivered two other communications without anyone understanding what he was up to; and since Harrow’s family, there had been more.

  Many more.

  He wound the tape back slightly.

  Harrow said, “You will be with us every step of the way—helping us track down the murderer of my wife and my son.”