“I don’t have any comment,” Bentz said. He finished the last swallow of cold coffee and glanced at the clock mounted on the wall of his office: 4:57. Time to be thinking about heading home, and here he was cornered by Jase Bridges, a reporter pounding the crime beat for a local paper.

Bridges was all over the Father John case.

“You know the identity of the killer,” Bridges pointed out. Seated in a chair at Bentz’s desk, the reporter stared at Bentz as if watching for weakness, looking for a crack in Bentz’s responses.

Bentz nodded. “It’s just a matter of finding him. That’s all I have. Hopefully that will change soon. The public information officer will release a statement with any new developments.” He held the younger man’s gaze. They both knew the current PIO was stepping down. Jase Bridges was one of the few candidates for the job.

The reporter hesitated, then appeared to realize that he wasn’t going to get anything more from Bentz. “Good. Keep me posted.” Bridges placed a business card on Bentz’s desk, nodded, then ducked out the door.

Bentz swept the card into the trash. He knew Bridges by reputation—a wild, tough-ass kid who had somehow turned himself around and landed the crime beat for the Observer, a local paper still hanging on despite the downturn in the print newspaper industry.

Bentz had never had much use for the press. Sure, fine, the public needed to be informed or when the department needed the public’s awareness and assistance. But as for the reporters who made something out of nothing, creating a story when there was none, Bentz wasn’t interested. Was Jase Bridges one of those, so hungry for drama that he blended truth and fiction, or a real hard-nosed, truth-seeking reporter?

The jury was still out.

And the thought that Bridges might end up working for the department didn’t sit well with Bentz. His innate distrust of reporters had been honed years ago when he’d been working for the LAPD. Bentz had made the tragic mistake of shooting a kid who had a gun aimed at his partner. Turned out the gun had been a toy, and the press had ripped into Bentz.

“I’m looking for Detective Rick Bentz.” A woman’s voice out in the hall caught Bentz’s attention.

“Just a minute. Do you have an appointment?” demanded the higher-pitched voice of Nellie Vaccarro, a recent hire in the department. “Hey! Wait! What do you think you’re doing?” Petite and bristly, Nellie was the secretary and receptionist for the department, and she took her duty of guarding the gates to the inner sanctum to heart. “Did you hear me? Detective Bentz is—”

“In?” the other woman guessed, footsteps now rapidly approaching.

Bentz rolled his chair away from the desk and stood just as a thirtyish brunette stepped into his office.