34
The studios of WSUN-TV were not in downtown Miami, as Coldmoon expected. Instead, they were located out in the sticks, in the distant southwestern suburb of Kendale Lakes, sandwiched between a thirty-six-hole golf course and the Miami Executive Airport. Even with Axel at the wheel, it had taken over forty minutes to get there.
Coldmoon got out of the taxi and into a parking lot surrounding a long, low building that bristled with satellite dishes and radio towers. A line of news vans, their roofs covered with smaller versions of the same electronic toys, stood nearby, parked for the night. He yawned, stretched, and massaged the small of his back. In the distance, beyond a rank of single-level houses with pool cages and identical tiled roofs, he could see an unending line of greenish-brown wetlands. In the short time he’d been in southern Florida, he’d learned that it seemed to have four distinct habitats: coastal boulevards for the über-rich; gated subdivisions for affluent retirees; bleak neighborhoods out of Grand Theft Auto — and swamp.
Commander Grove was sitting in the visitors’ waiting area just inside the entrance, and he rose from his chair as they pushed their way through the glass doors into the artificial chill.
“You’re just in time,” he said, shaking their hands in turn. “I was afraid you might have gotten lost.” He turned to Pendergast. “Your segment is next. I’ll get the assistant producer.” And he hurried off down a hallway.
“He seems familiar with the place,” Coldmoon said as they signed in at the reception desk.
“Given that his duties include community relations, it may well be his home away from home,” Pendergast replied.
Grove immediately returned, followed by a brisk young woman with a clipboard. “My name’s Natalie,” she told them as she shook their hands. “Thanks for reaching out to us last night. Which one of you is Agent Pendergast?”
Pendergast gave a slight bow.
“Great. Have you been on live television before, in a studio setting?”
“I have not.” Pendergast’s expression — as it had been during the entire drive out — remained neutral. Coldmoon knew he’d spoken to Pickett earlier in the day, but the substance of the conversation had not been shared with him.
“That’s just fine,” the young woman said, leading them away from reception and down a long, unfurnished corridor. “Ms. Fleming will take the lead in asking the questions. She’s a great host, really nice, and with her experience in Philadelphia and Hartford we were lucky to get her. Your segment starts in ten minutes.” They passed a window; glancing in, Coldmoon saw two ghostly faces and a dark room full of monitors, mixers, and other video and sound equipment.
They paused in an intersection while Natalie took a second to inspect Pendergast more closely. “Hmmm. Well, we can’t do anything about the black suit, but otherwise I don’t see many issues. Let’s just run you past makeup, then we’ll get you wired up and do a sound check.”
Natalie ushered Coldmoon and Grove into what Coldmoon assumed must be the green room, then she took Pendergast farther down the hall, still speaking to him as reassuringly as if he were about to undergo an operation.
Coldmoon looked around the green room. There were couches, overstuffed chairs, a table with fruit and cheese platters, and a small glass-fronted refrigerator filled with bottles of water and diet soda. The only studio he’d ever been in was a radio station outside of Rapid City, and it had consisted of two rooms and a toilet. This place — with its whispered ventilation, high-tech equipment, and free food — was a revelation. He helped himself to a bottle of water and took a seat.
Grove sat down beside him. The normally phlegmatic commander had an eager air about him; Coldmoon almost expected the man to rub his hands together with glee. “This is perfect,” he said. “I was actually quite relieved when Pendergast called this morning to say he’d agreed to an interview with WSUN. Not only agreed, but suggested it. Its market penetration is the best in Miami-Dade, and the viewing demographics are ideal.”
“Nice that it could be arranged so quickly,” Coldmoon replied, cracking the top of the water bottle. “I understand you helped with that.”
“Carey and I are old friends.” Grove reached over and grabbed a slice of gouda from the table. “And this is the perfect opportunity to reassure the public. But I’m a little bit unclear as to what he’s planning to say. He implied it had something to do with what that reporter, Smithback, has been writing about.”
“Sorry,” Coldmoon said. “I just don’t know.”
“I’m sure your partner means well, but these newspaper reporters — they’ll twist anything to sell more copies.” Grove snagged another piece of cheese. “At least we can count on Carey to give things the right spin. She’s a class act, a real pro. And calming the waters a little will help folks sleep easier until we lock this guy up.”
There were footfalls in the hallway, and then Natalie reappeared with Pendergast still in tow. The agent did not look pleased. They had put some kind of orange foundation on his face — probably to keep his pallor from appearing truly corpse-like under the bright studio lights — but here, in normal lighting, he looked like a wax doll.
“Okay.” Natalie checked her watch. “Three minutes. Let’s go to Studio B and get you wired up.”
They started down another neutral hallway, Grove and Coldmoon bringing up the rear. Pendergast was still silent.
“A little case of nerves?” Grove asked him. “No, I guess not — working in New York, you must have conducted more than your share of press conferences. Anyway, Carey’s not going to throw you any hardballs. Everyone wants the same thing here — reassurance.”
Grove continued his sporadic coaching as they went through one set of double doors, down a short corridor, through another set of doors — and suddenly they were in Studio B: a large, warehouse-like space with cables snaking all over the concrete floor, people standing around the periphery, and a semicircle of three cameras facing a small set dressed to look like a living room, with a backdrop of the Miami Beach shoreline behind it. Coldmoon looked around in surprise. It was so fake — just partial walls and no ceiling, nothing but black drapes and cinder-block walls surrounding it, and a flooring of engineered wood that ended mere feet away from the set dressing — that he found it hard to believe any viewer would buy the illusion. There was a desk with silk flowers, some potted palms, and two plush director’s chairs placed on either side of a glass table. A woman sat in one of them, and Coldmoon recognized her as the person who’d buttonholed him on the way into Miami Police headquarters. A tiny army of cosmeticians and sound engineers surrounded her. A man holding a two-way radio stood back between the hooded cameras, gazing with a watchful air; Coldmoon figured he must be the producer, or director, or whatever. The woman in the chair appeared to be in a fussy mood, muttering at the people swarming around her and even slapping away the hand of one woman holding a touch-up brush. Meanwhile, Pendergast had been shown to his seat and was having a microphone threaded up beneath the back of his jacket and pinned to his lapel.
“One minute,” called a voice from the darkness behind the cameras. The lighting around the set, already bright, went up a notch. Several cameras on dollies adjusted their positions.
“You gentlemen please stand there,” Natalie said in a low voice to Coldmoon and Grove. “We go live in a minute.” She pointed her clipboard toward a sheltered spot that allowed views of both the set itself and monitors displaying live feeds.