The Scarecrow by Michael Connelly Page A

and so far it had worked.
    “We’re laying low today, Jack,” Hardy said. “Nothing to report.”
    “You sure? I heard from somebody else in the building that the place is crawling with TV people.”
    “Yeah, that’s for that other thing. We’ve got nothing to do with that.”
    At least we weren’t behind the curve on a Major Crimes story. That was good.
    “What other thing?” I asked.
    “You need to talk to either Grossman or the chief’s office. They’re having the press conference.”
    I started to get concerned. The chief of police didn’t usually hold press conferences to discuss things already in the newspaper. He usually broke things out himself—so he could control information and get credit if credit was due him.
    The other reference Hardy had made was to Captain Art Grossman, who was in charge of major narcotics investigations. Somehow we had missed an invitation to a press conference.
    I quickly thanked Hardy for the help and told him I would check with him later. I called Angela back and she answered right away.
    “Go back in and head up to the sixth floor. There is some sort of narcotics press conference with the chief and Art Grossman, who is the head narc.”
    “Okay, what time?”
    “I don’t know yet. Just get up there in case it’s happening right now. You didn’t hear about this?”
    “No!” she said defensively.
    “How long have you been over there?”
    “All morning. I’ve been trying to meet people.”
    “Okay, get up there and I’ll call you back.”
    After hanging up I started multitasking. While putting in a call to Grossman’s office I went online and checked the CNS wire. The City News Service operated a digital newswire that was updated by the minute with breaking news from the city of angels. It was heavy with crime and police news and was primarily a tip service that provided press conference schedules and limited details of crime reports and investigations. As a police reporter I checked it continuously through the day like a stock market analyst keeps his eye on the Dow crawl at the bottom of the screen on the Bloomberg channel.
    I could have stayed further connected to CNS by signing up for e-mail and cell phone text alerts, but that wasn’t the way I operated. I wasn’t a mojo. I was an oldjo and didn’t want the constant bells and whistles of connectivity.
    However, I had neglected to tell Angela about these options. And with her spending the morning at Parker Center and my spending it chasing the Babbit case, nobody had gotten any bells or whistles, and nobody had made the old-fashioned manual checks.
    I started scrolling backward on the CNS screen, looking for anything about a police press conference or any other breaking crime news. My call to Grossman was answered by a secretary but she told me the captain was already upstairs—meaning the sixth floor—at a press conference.
    Just as I hung up, I found a short blurb on CNS announcing the eleven A.M . press conference in the sixth-floor media room at Parker Center. There was little information other than to say it was to announce the results of a major drug sweep conducted through the night in the Rodia Gardens housing complex.
    Bang . Just like that, my long-term story was hooking nicely into a breaking story. The adrenaline kicked in. It often happened this way. The daily grind of the news gave you the opening to say something bigger.
    I called Angela back.
    “Are you on six?”
    “Yeah, and they haven’t started. What’s this about? I don’t want to ask any of these TV people, because then I’ll come off as stupid.”
    “Right. It’s about a drug sweep overnight in Rodia Gardens.”
    “That’s it?”
    “Yeah, but it could go big because it’s probably in response to the murder I told you about yesterday. The woman in the trunk was traced back to that place, remember?”
    “Oh, right, right.”
    “Angela, it connects with what I’m working on, so I want to try to sell it to Prendo. I want