“Not talking about weekly salary.”
“What... what are you talking about?”
“The offer is per year.”
Byrnes frowned in incredulity. “Twenty-seven thousand five-hundred a year?”
“Plus certain perks. Three weeks’ paid vacation. Medical and dental.”
“That doesn’t sound like work. That sounds like welfare. What the hell kind of job pays twenty-seven thousand a year?”
“Twenty-seven-thousand five. Police chief of Walcott, Iowa.”
“There’s no such place!” Byrnes grinned in desperation. “You’re punking me, right? Is that brat Ashton Kutcher in the hall?”
“No, but he’s from Iowa, too. He’d know Walcott’s a real place. If I stay five years, I climb to thirty-three thousand and change.”
Byrnes was a man trying to awaken from a bad dream. “Small-town police chief. You want to trade it all for small-town police chief. Who the hell quits a hit show without something better already lined up?”
“This is better, Dennis. Better for me. Look, I know we’re a success. I know we’ve done a good job. But surely this can’t be that big a surprise.”
“Really?”
“Dennis, when I took this gig, I told you it wasn’t about the money.”
“You also wouldn’t have called it a ‘gig’! J.C., you’re a show-biz guy now, like it or not. You really think it will be so goddamn easy going back?”
Harrow shrugged. “Whether there’s a life back there for me, after what I lost, I don’t honestly know... but I need to find out.”
Byrnes’s eyebrows lifted. “Find out after doing a third season for us. I know you took satisfaction, during season one, helping bring all those bad guys to justice.”
“I know we did some good...”
“You did a lot of good, J.C. We did a lot of good. You can contribute more here than being a Podunk lawman, no offense. You want to go back to Iowa? Why not spend another year here first, socking big dough away for your golden years — you’re no spring chicken, after all... particularly for a TV star.”
That actually made Harrow smile.
“J.C., give me one more year, and I’ll have time to properly replace you for season four... unless you change your mind and want to stay on.”
Harrow shook his head. “Dennis, it’s not just me — my Killer TV team is ready to get back to their lives, too.”
“Unacceptable,” Byrnes said, with what a stranger might have mistaken for a smile.
Harrow knew better. “Pardon?”
“The network holds an option on all your contracts for next season. We intend to pick up those options.”
“Suppose we went public with our unhappiness,” Harrow said. “Suppose I went on strike.”
“I don’t think you will, J.C.”
“And why not, Dennis?”
“Because you owe me.”
And Harrow did.
When Harrow had gone off script, on live TV, pledging Crime Seen resources to track down his family’s killers, Byrnes could have fired him. Could have sued him, and hung him out to dry.
Instead, Byrnes had backed his play.
Ellen and David Harrow’s murders would have almost certainly gone unavenged without Dennis Byrnes.
“... Okay, Dennis. You’re right. I do owe you.”
Byrnes did not allow anything gloating to come in his smile.
“I owe you and I’ll stay, for one more season... but my people? They’re free to go.”
The executive shrugged elaborately. “I will exercise my right to try to convince them with pay raises, J.C., but they will not be held to the options in their contracts. I promise you that.”
“Okay.”
Harrow’s phone vibrated — caller ID: CARMEN.
Harrow didn’t leave his seat — there was nothing Carmen Garcia might call about that Byrnes couldn’t hear.
Without preamble, Carmen said, “She won’t let me in.”
“She who?”
“Byrnes’s secretary.”
“Kate,” the secretary said loud enough to carry over the phone. “My name is Kate.” The last part Harrow and Byrnes both heard through the door.
Pushing a button, Byrnes said, “Kate, what is going on out there?”
The answer came by way of the door flying open and Carmen Garcia bursting in, dark hair bouncing off her shoulders, open laptop computer in her arms, the unhappy blonde secretary in her wake.
Carmen was holding up the computer as she strode straight to Harrow. “You need to see this. Now.”
“We’re in the middle of a meeting here,” Byrnes protested irritably.
“This is more important,” Carmen said, fearless in the face of the network president. “You might explain to your secretary that news has a shelf life.”
While Byrnes and Kate looked on in offended surprise, Carmen set the computer on the executive’s desk but facing Harrow, who quickly found himself watching a video stream. Though the image was surprisingly high quality, it seemed to be nothing more than amateur porn.
And the absurdity of that made Harrow wonder if Carmen had lost her mind. News? What made homegrown smut news?
On-screen, a long-haired blonde lay stomach-down on a bed, obviously having rear-entry sex, face turned toward camera, her lover almost entirely off camera, his back to the viewer, but not blocking the blonde much from this angle, as she writhed, her moans of pleasure loud and long, distorted through the computer’s small speakers.
“Carmen,” Harrow demanded, patience frayed, “what the hell is this?”
“Not what you think it is — keep watching.”
The blonde on screen was clearly enjoying the vigorous lovemaking, but the longer Harrow watched, the more he realized that something was slightly off-kilter.
Maybe the woman was drunk or high, but something, something, seemed amiss. When the man finished, the blonde turned over on her back, her eyes open but half-lidded and unfocused. She was very pretty.
Harrow threw Carmen a look, but she pointed to the screen. “Keep watching.”
As the man disappeared completely off camera, the woman tried to get up and slowly slumped back to the bed.
Byrnes and Kate had moved around to where they could see the screen better.
“What’s wrong with her?” Byrnes asked.
“High,” Kate and Carmen said in unison. They exchanged an awkward pause, adversaries suddenly teammates.
Shaking his head, Byrnes asked, “Why get so high you can’t even enjoy...”
“You assume,” Kate said, cutting him off, “it was her choice. Ever hear of roofies, Dennis?”
Even as the pair traded a frowning glance, Carmen shushed them.
On-screen, the woman was on her back on the bed, head lolling slightly. She had given up trying to rise.
A metallic voice came through the speakers. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Voice filter,” Harrow said.
A hand came into view, stroked the woman’s hair, getting it out of her face, improving the view of her blurry-eyed beauty.
“You may call me Don Juan,” the voice said. “This is my audition tape — I intend to become your next star... the new star attraction of Crime Seen”
All eyes went to Carmen for some sort of explanation.
“Watch,” she said, grimacing. An order, but an apologetic one.