As Cooper and Martin left the office, a small mob was headed toward it: Arlene the receptionist and Diane from Public Affairs were escorting Amanda Tucker and her entourage down the hall.

The sheriff opened his door, then paused, framing himself carefully in his doorway for a second before approaching, hand outstretched, broad smile on his face.

“Miss Tucker, a real pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

Amanda grasped his hand and said, “Me too, sheriff.” He enjoyed her grip, cool and confident, yet soft and feminine; the country needed more women like Amanda Tucker.

The segment producer suggested that the two should chat casually as they toured the building, so that the cameraman could get some interesting background shots, then sit down in the sheriff’s office for a formal interview. The soundman clipped a small microphone to the upper part of Anders’s shirt, where the straining buttons yielded to a ruff of white T-shirt, then had him slip the slender cable all the way down under his shirt. He threaded the cable out between two shirt buttons, plugged it into a black box smaller than a pack of cigarettes, then placed the box in the sheriff’s hip pocket.

The sound engineer listened to his headphones, then gave a thumbs-up to the camera operator. The cameraman said, “A quick white balance, then we’re a go…”

Amanda waited, head down, for the signal. She knew her hair was good, but her face felt over-made-up.

The producer nodded at the cameraman, who said, “Rolling…Speed.”

“Okay, Amanda, whenever you’re ready.”

Close-up on Amanda: “This is Amanda Tucker. We’re on location today at the Douglas County sheriff’s office, in Port Fontaine, Florida. This wealthy, picturesque resort town was rocked last week by the discovery of the decomposed bodies of the county medical examiner and his wife in a sunken car; both of them had been tortured and killed.

“Then, two days later, the bodies of another four as yet unidentified men were found out in the Everglades; they had all been murdered by hanging.

“At the center of the investigation of these six homicides is a man who’ll be very familiar to regular viewers of American Crime Prime Time—disgraced former New York City medical examiner Edward Jenner. Dr. Jenner is…Sorry, can we cut it there, Rob? I want to go again—I don’t think my energy was right.”

“Okay, Amanda. I thought you were fine, but we need to adjust the mic levels—you’re pinning the needle in the red.”

“Okay. Plus I think I want to go with ‘putrefied’ instead of ‘decomposed.’ What do you think?”

“Yeah, nice—putrefied’s better.”

The sheriff leaned over and said, “Very interesting. Uh, Ms. Tucker? What do you mean ‘disgraced’? What you were saying about Dr. Jenner…”

“Please, sheriff—Amanda.” She pressed her hand to his arm conspiratorially, smiling widely, her eyes gleaming. “You don’t know his story? I’m surprised. My team in New York is putting together a bio reel for Dr. Jenner—watch Update this afternoon, I think you’ll find it quite an eye-opener.”

Christ, Anders thought. What now? He’d let Roburn sort out his vacation coverage, and the ME had said he was bringing in one of the best. Jenner’s name had sounded familiar but…

“Sheriff, can we get you and Amanda over by the statue and the flags?”

The producer moved them into position, the sheriff instantly cardboard-stiff and self-conscious beneath the flags and the bulky bronze bust of his father. Amanda said, “Let’s not talk about Dr. Jenner’s past right now—I’d prefer your unbiased opinion…”

Anders shook his head. “You know, Amanda, I have to admit I’ve developed some concerns about the doctor.”

She appraised him coolly. “You and me both, sheriff. Let’s chat about this later—I think we can help each other out.”

The white light flared up again. Anders felt the flush of his face; he could almost hear his sweat begin to trickle.

“This is Amanda Tucker with Sheriff Tom Anders at the Douglas County sheriff’s office, here in Port Fontaine, Florida. This picturesque, wealthy resort town was rocked last week by the discovery of the putrefied bodies of the county medical examiner and his wife…”

The segment producer watched with admiration. Amanda could be an utter, screaming bitch, but he had to give it to her: she was a pro. He savored the way she gently pushed “putrefied” without making it obvious, like a con man forcing a card on some rube.