Heat told Security she and Rook would wait in the lobby for the pro ducer, mainly so nobody would ask her to flash tin. If—as the giant poster on the studio wall said, “The Playback Is a Bitch!”—so was being a cop without a shield. The bearded man in the sport coat and jeans who came out of the double glass doors to meet them introduced himself as the line producer, which meant that Jim Steele’s purview was the show’s physical production, including hiring the camera crew. He asked if there had been some neighborhood complaint about damage or noise from their location shooting and relaxed measurably when she told him no.
“I just want to ask you a few questions about one of your former crew. Alan Barclay.”
Steele closed his eyes momentarily and told her that the whole crew was still mourning him. “If you lead a good life, if you’re fortunate enough, you get a chance to work with a guy like Alan. A lovely man. Very giving and an artist with that camera. Total pro.”
Nikki said, “His name has come up related to a case we are investigating, and I’m really looking for some background on him.”
“Not a lot to tell. He’s been with me here since I hired him freelance on Don’t Forget to Duck.”
“Great effing show,” said Rook.
The producer browsed him warily then continued, “That would have been 2005. Alan was so gifted I brought him onto Playback when we got our syndication order.”
“What about before that,” asked Heat, “had he worked another show?”
“No, in fact, he was sort of a risky hire for me because his background was news shooting.”
Rook said, “Network or local stations?”
“Neither. He’d been a rover for one of the stringer companies that provide video footage to local stations that cut back on budgets. You know, stations can’t justify the union crews to wait around on the overnight shift to shoot the occasional car accidents and robberies, so instead, they buy clips from the stringers on an as-needed basis.”
“Do you know offhand who Alan Barclay worked for?” asked Heat.
“Gotham Outsource.” Steele’s smart phone buzzed and he checked the screen. “Listen, I’ve got to get back in there. Do you have all you need?”
“Sure do. Thanks,” she said.
Before he left, the producer said, “Mind if I ask you a question? Do you guys ever compare notes?”
Nikki said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“One of your detectives was here a little over a week ago asking the same questions.”
* * *
The assignment manager of Gotham Outsource had the cranky de meanor of a taxi dispatcher. He half-swiveled from his computer monitor and, over the chatter and electronic noise of a few dozen scanners, said, “I already covered all this with your other suit a week, ten days ago, you know.”
“Captain Montrose, right?”
“Yeah, same dude who ten-eightied himself,” he said, using the police radio code for “Cancel.”
Heat wanted to slap him hard enough for his headset to embed itself in his pea brain. Rook either sensed or shared her distaste and interceded. “Cover it again, it’ll take you two minutes. How long did Alan Barclay work for you?”
“Started in 2001. We doubled our crews after 9/11, and he was part of the big hire.”
“And you were happy with him?” asked Nikki, past her anger for the moment.
“I was until I wasn’t.”
She said, “Help me out there.”
“Guy ended up being my best shooter. Great shots, hard worker, not afraid to get close to the action. Then he just flakes out on me. Adios. Doesn’t even come in to quit or say kiss my royal red hinder. Just stops showing.” He sucked his teeth. “Freelancers. These lowlifes are one rung above paparazzi.”
Heat couldn’t wait to get some distance from this goon, but she had one more thing to find out. “Do you remember the date he quit so suddenly?”
He gestured with both arms to the roomful of police radios and TV monitors. “Do I look like I’d remember the date?”
“Try,” said Rook.
The man scoffed. “You’re no cop. Not wearing a fancy watch like that. You got nothing over me.”
Rook brushed past Nikki, ripped the headset off the guy, and spun his chair so he was nose-to-nose with him. “Hey, Ed Murrow, what would it cost your business if I called in a safety tip and some city inspections of your fleet of news vans stopped you from prowling for a night or three?” He paused. “I thought so.” Then Rook wrote his phone number down and stuffed it in the man’s shirt pocket. “Start remembering.”
* * *