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Max that, hands down, she thought Adam was creepy from the minute she started working at Fringe, six months before Adam was arrested.
    “Adam, right now I have a piece running on the wire that will be printed in every major newspaper and Web site. I can choose to quote your colleague or your childhood best friend who said you helped him graduate high school by tutoring him in math. What’s your spin on this trial? What do you think will happen this week? Tell me what you wanted to tell me. Tell me why you agreed to talk.”
    He refocused his attention on her and leaned forward. That damn smile returned.
    “Have you ever gone fishing?” She didn’t answer, but tilted her chin up in a sign to continue. There was a light tap on the window; she prayed time wasn’t up.
    “You hook a fish. It’s not supposed to hurt them, but who knows because fish can’t talk. You put them down and they flop around, their gills trying to get air, but they can’t. Flop, flop, flop. Slower and slower. Until they are lying there, unmoving, except for those little flaps on the side of their head. If you throw them back into the water, they’re disorientated for a minute, then they swim away. Only to be hooked again. They don’t learn from their mistakes. They still see the bait, they want the bait, in the back of their little pea brains they might even recognize there’s a danger, but they dismiss it. They get hooked every time.
    “Eventually, if you leave them out of water long enough, they die. But I was always mesmerized by that time between, from panic to resignation. And I always wondered why they didn’t learn.
    “Like you.”
    He stared at her, his eyes darker than they were at the beginning of the interview, as if he were excited. He whispered, so low she didn’t think her tape recorder would pick it up.
    “You’ll never find them. And it’ll eat you up forever.”
    “You’re talking about the Palazzolos.”
    “I’m not the violent one,” he whispered.
    She wasn’t certain she’d heard that right. “Excuse me?”
    He smiled. “Five, four, three, two, one.”
    There was a knock on the door and the guard came in. “Time’s up.”
    “I will find them,” she said, her voice hitching just a bit.
    He smiled wider as if he had a victory. Her stomach flipped. She’d screwed up. She’d reacted to his story, to his near-confession. He’d reeled her in like the damn fish he was talking about. He’d told her he’d seen her show, how she craved the truth. Then he dangled the truth out there and snatched it back, giving her nothing. And her reaction let him know he’d hit her button.
    She picked up the recorder and notepad and walked out without looking back.
    Damn, she was usually better than that.

 
     
    Chapter Three
     
    David Kane walked into the 115th Precinct in Queens. Though the cop shop was swept and cleaned by janitorial crews at night, a gray pallor hung over the old building, accented by the deep scent of unwashed criminals and burnt coffee. He approached the desk sergeant. Her badge read DUNN. The woman was fifty and plump around the middle, but had the sharp eyes of someone who’d seen it all and was never surprised.
    He said, “I’d like to speak with Detective O’Hara.”
    “ID, please.”
    “I’m carrying, and have a license to carry,” he said before reaching into his coat pocket and removing his identification. His New York State driver’s license, his veteran’s card (because with cops, being a veteran often granted access or courtesy), and his concealed carry permit. Even with David’s background and high-level security clearances from his time in the army, a CCP was next to impossible to get in New York City. After threats against Max when David first started working for the show, and obtaining his private security license, it had finally come through. David suspected either Max or Ben had been involved, but he’d decided he didn’t need to know.
    David also had Maximum Exposure