No Hero (13 page)

When she and Dev arrived at the station, a crowd of reporters was milling about. Dev passed by the front of the building and drove around back. “Looks like your cronies have been camped out all night, waiting for you.”

She turned to look at them. “For me? Maybe they’re here to get information on the murders.”

Dev snorted. “You’re one of them, Connor. Which would you be after, a slim lead on a homeless kid’s murder or a juicy story of a famous TV journalist and her stalker?”

At his casually tossed out words, her heart thumped painfully in her chest. She nearly choked on her shocked response. “
Stalker
?”

…

For a seasoned investigative reporter, her stunned reaction was surprising to Dev. He pulled into a parking place behind the station, got out, and opened her door. Taking her arm, he whisked her across the few feet of asphalt and through a back entrance just in time to dodge the reporters who were scurrying toward them.

“Yeah,
stalker
,” he said. “That’s what we generally call someone who sneaks in and out of a celebrity’s house, leaving no trace, and paints cryptic warnings in plain view.” He sent her a sidelong glance. “You can’t be surprised.”

She looked uneasily at him. “I just hadn’t thought about it like that. I was picturing someone who was obsessed with
you
—not me.” She uttered a short laugh. “I thought he—or she—was just trying to stop me from being mean to you.”

He didn’t miss the faint drawing up of her shoulders and the quiver of her lower lip as she began to absorb what he’d suggested. “Are you telling me you’re not afraid?”

“Yes, I’m—” she cleared her throat “—afraid. You may think I’m an idiot, but I’m not stupid.” She pushed a lock of hair from her cheek. “People have been murdered because they got too close to the object of the some maniac’s obsession.”

“I’m thinking more have been murdered because they
were
the object of obsession.”

She nodded a little jerkily, making the lock of hair fall back over her cheek. He itched to tuck it behind her ear. Matter of fact, he itched to
nibble
on her ear.

“Okay. I said I was afraid. You don’t have to render me petrified with terror.”

He grabbed a newspaper from a desk and handed it to her. “Have a seat and check the paper while I see if Givens and Benoit are ready for us.”

Before he could do something really stupid.

…

Reghan watched Dev disappear down a corridor, then looked down at the newspaper’s headline.

Local Talk Show Celebrity Target of Fan Stalking?

“Oh no,” she whispered.

Right under it was a photo of her standing beside Dev’s car, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her eyes wide as a deer’s in headlights. She knew exactly when it was taken. Dev had just walked away, back toward her front porch. The moment when the crowd of reporters had descended on her. She looked pale and lonely and scared, her expression uncertain as to whether the mob would talk politely to her or tear her apart.

Next to that photo was one of her front porch, with the L
EAVE HIM ALONE OR REGRET IT
graffiti centered crisply and clearly in the frame of the shot. It looked ominous and menacing, even in black and white.

She scanned the article. The reporter, whom she’d thought was a friend of hers, had interviewed her boss. Worse, her boss had apparently been all too eager to share information about her last several shows, and had recounted, or rather embellished, stories of anonymous threats, veiled warnings, and outraged telephone calls following some of her telecasts.

She was reaching for the phone when Dev came back. He laid his hand over hers. “What are you doing?”

“I’m calling my boss. Look at this. Can you believe it?” She punched the paper with her forefinger. “He allowed them to plaster my picture and my name all over the papers.”

Dev leaned over and glanced at the article. “Hmm. I’ll bet that hurt.”

Reghan bristled at his sarcasm. “Look,” she said archly. “I get it, okay? I understand how awful it is to have your private life dragged out in front of hundreds of thousands of people. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. Don’t even try to make this the same thing. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the
victim
.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Really? You didn’t do
anything
?” He shrugged. “Whatever. It’s still news, right?”

Her face burned. He was throwing everything she’d done and said to him back in her face. She’d said the same thing to him on the air.
It’s news, Detective. And the people have a right to know.
Now she could hear how pompous and self-serving she’d sounded. She remembered being vaguely disturbed when Fontenot had asked her how it felt to be part of the feeding frenzy. But she hadn’t really gotten it back then. Now, having experienced that frenzy firsthand, she understood what Dev was insinuating. And what he’d been trying to get her to see, with his not-so-subtle gibes.

Yes, she provided a vital service to the public, and she did her job well. She believed in what she was doing, and in the public’s right to know. But somehow she’d lost track of where the public’s right to know ended, and the individual’s right to privacy began…

She looked back down at the paper, and Dev’s name caught her eye. She read the sentence, then glared up at him. “You told them I’m ‘helping the police in their investigation’? Why did you do that?”

“Because you are,” he said evenly.

“Everybody knows what that means. It makes me sound guilty.”

“Of what? That’s the reporter in you coming out. It means what it says. You’re helping us with our investigation. Period. Speaking of which, Givens and Benoit are ready to roll the DVD.”

She followed him to the interrogation room where the TV and DVD player were set up, too annoyed to respond. Dev formally introduced her to Detectives Givens and Benoit, who were sitting at a wooden table drinking coffee. Both looked like they’d been up all night. Givens was the tall, skinny one who looked as much like a caricature of an undertaker as anyone she’d ever seen. Benoit was the short round one with the comb-over.

“Heard anything else from the crime scene folks?” Dev asked them as he took a chair next to her.

Benoit shook his head. “They’re still going over the area, but all they got were some scuff marks and a very few blood samples, all of which appear to be the vic’s.” He drank his coffee, grimacing at the taste.

“His name is Jimmy,” Dev said irritably.

Benoit looked up from his cup. “Huh?”

Dev pushed his chair back and propped one ankle on the other knee. “The vic has a name, Benoit. Jimmy Treacher.”

“Oh, right.” Benoit gave a little shake of his head. “I’ll get with CSU when we’re done here. See if they’ve got anything from fingernail scrapings.”

Givens shifted in his chair and shot a sidelong glance at Connor. “Okay, Ms. Connor, what can you tell me about this DVD?”

Reghan glanced at Dev, who pulled the disk out of his pocket and skimmed it across the table like a stone across a pond. “Ms. Connor went up to Angola back in February to interview Gerard Fontenot.” He slid it across the table.

Both detectives sat up. “Fontenot?” Givens asked in surprise.

“The wacko who kidnapped Maxwell’s wife?” Benoit put in as he inserted the disk into the player.

“Hang on a minute,” Givens said, grabbing the remote control off the top of the TV. “I’ve got some questions before we start watching.” He angled his head toward Dev. “Seriously?
Fontenot
?”

Dev gestured toward Reghan. All three men turned to look at her.

“Well?” Givens prompted.

She grimaced. She hadn’t realized she was going to have to explain everything about the interview, including the fact that the subject was Fontenot. She thought Dev would have told them at least that much. “Back in February, my producer was contacted by the warden at Angola, letting him know that Gerard Fontenot wanted to give an interview. He stated that he would only talk to me and only in person.”

Givens scowled and scribbled furiously with a ballpoint pen onto a notepad. Benoit sat back in his chair and rubbed his round belly with his palms, then slid his thumbs inside his black suspenders, stretched them, and let them go. They popped. He did it again, and then again.

“Benny!” Givens snapped, and Benoit went back to rubbing his belly.

“So you went up to Angola?” Givens asked.

“I didn’t want to. I’d seen Fontenot in court during his trial. I had no desire to be alone in a room with him. So my producer told him if he wanted to talk to me he’d have to agree to have a cameraman in the room. Fontenot agreed.”

Givens picked up the DVD case and studied it. “This is the date you interviewed him?”

She nodded. “February 24.”

“Detective Gautier said it never aired.”

“That’s right,” she said. “We decided it was too disturbing.”

“Too disturbing, eh?” Givens repeated as he opened the case and took out the DVD. He clicked the remote. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

…

Dev leaned back in his chair as Connor’s face appeared on screen. She was smiling at the camera, apparently chatting with the cameraman while he set up and adjusted the equipment and the lighting. He’d seen this part in her office, before she’d fast-forwarded to the specific frames she’d wanted him to see. He felt her shift nervously next to him. “You might want to fast-forward to when Fontenot comes into the room,” he said.

“Hold on, Dev. I was enjoying the scenery,” Benoit said, and laughed.

Givens sent the portly detective a quelling glance, then he looked down at the remote, apparently searching for the fast-forward button.

“Would you like me to find the pertinent section, Detective?” Connor asked.

Givens sent her a narrow, suspicious look, but after a brief hesitation he slid the remote across the table. “Sure,” he said. “Save us some time. Let’s stick to the parts that relate to our case, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” she responded.

“This better be worth it,” Benoit muttered.

Dev watched as Connor unerringly let the disk whirr until she saw what she was waiting for on the screen, then hit play. She was almost dead-on. Fontenot’s weaselly face appeared, and the dirtbag licked his lips. Givens and Benoit both sat up straighter as he began to speak.

“My dear Reghan. You are smarter than that. I’m not talking about the penitentiary. I’m talking about this damn chair. You know the story. During his
oh-so-daring
rescue of his partner, Maxwell, and his wife, Gautier slammed me against a marble-topped table and broke my spine. I will never walk again. That cretin stole my freedom. But I am not defeated. I have resources I have not even begun to tap.”

Benoit whistled through his teeth. “Now
this
is interesting,” he whispered.

Givens waved him to silence. Tension reverberated off the walls of the small room.

Dev felt the same revulsion now, watching Fontenot, as he had the night before. Fontenot’s voice rose as he screamed his vitriol about how he would take away what Dev valued most, in revenge.

Dev held up a hand toward Connor, and she stopped the DVD player.

“Hey!” said Benoit.

“I asked her to pause it,” Dev said. “This is as far as I’ve seen. Connor believes that Fontenot got her up to Angola because he wanted to say this on camera. She’s convinced that—”

“Dev, let her speak for herself,” Givens interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Ms. Connor?”

She leaned forward. “Right there, when he says that Dev will suffer—that’s a threat, right? And then he says that about watching what he values most, destroyed.” I mean, when I was there hearing it for the first time I didn’t think anything of it. He was raving like a madman. You’ve seen how he is.”

Givens watched her with narrowed eyes. “So you didn’t read anything into what he was saying at the time? When
did
you start reading something into it? And what was your take?”

She gave Givens and Benoit the explanation she’d given Dev about how Fontenot’s ravings began to make ominous sense once she’d found out about the teenagers from the center who were being murdered.

“There’s more, too,” she said, raising the remote. “I still don’t understand all of what he said. Maybe it will make sense to you.” She rewound for a couple of seconds, then pressed play, and Fontenot’s pale face reappeared.

“—that which he values most, destroyed,” Fontenot said, turning to look full into the camera lens. “All it will take is a mere flick of the wrist, and the slice of life becomes the slice of death. No one’s future is safe.
No one
.”

Benoit snorted. “Ugh. What a pervert.”

“Slice of death?” Givens said. “Jesus. Is he talking about slicing their throats?”

Dev sat up and held out his hand for the remote. Connor passed it to him. He played the bit again and swore. “Sure as hell sounds like it,” he said, studying Fontenot’s frozen face on the screen. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that. He’s got to be talking about the murder weapon.”

“The scalpel,” Benoit said.

Beside him, Connor gasped. “Their throats were slit with a
scalpel
?”

“That’s what the ME thinks.” Dev went back and played Fontenot’s last words again. “‘No one’s future is safe.’ He’s talking about the kids’ scholarships.”

“What scholarships?” Connor choked out.

Dev briefly explained about the program. “Brian and Darnell already had theirs. Jimmy Treacher is scheduled to take the exam next Tuesday, and I’ve got a really smart kid, Nicky Renato, who’s on the nomination list.” He went grim. “It’s called Safefutures Scholarships.”

Connor’s face blanched. “Safefutures? He said ‘no one’s future is safe.’” She pressed a trembling hand against her mouth. “Oh, God.”

Dev knew what she was thinking. If she’d known all that, she’d have put the pieces together and come to him, and could have saved at least one or two of the boys, if not all three.

He wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault. That no one would have made the connection. But that would be a lie. She was right—if he’d heard this back when it was recorded, he’d have known exactly what Fontenot was doing. He wouldn’t have believed the man could pull the strings so easily from prison, but he would have taken steps to make sure it didn’t happen.