After the memorial service, the news cameras around the medical examiner office had evaporated. A couple were out shooting B roll on the Promenade or in the Glades, but now that the cases had stabilized, and there were no fresh leads with live, interview-able witnesses, most crews had been called back to the mother ship.
But not all.
Smiling, Amanda Tucker watched Jenner climb out of the Taurus. It was her last night in Port Fontaine, and she wanted it to count. She tossed the remains of her frappuccino into the bin and called to her producer. They wouldn’t catch Jenner before he made it into his building, but perhaps when he left…
But as she watched Jenner make his way across the lot, alone in the dark, something much better occurred to her: apparently, he was staying in some sleazy motel in the cheap part of Port Fontaine. Footage of Jenner in his new habitat would be good TV, she thought—Amanda confronting the ethically tainted doctor in his moldering pile of a hotel. It had been ages since she’d done any attack journalism out in the field, and it always played well.
“Billy, let’s get some dinner now, then we’ll head over to the doctor’s motel. You got the address?”
“Yep, I got it. Great idea, Amanda!”
She smiled. Yes. Yes, it was.