The Scarecrow by Michael Connelly Page B

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 to write it because it will help
     set up my story.”
    “Well, maybe we can work on it together. I’ll get as much as I can here.”
    I paused but not too long. I had to be delicate but decisive.
    “No, I’m going to come over for the conference. If it starts before I get there, take notes for me. And you can feed them
     to Prendo for the web. But I want this story, Angela, because it’s part of my larger story.”
    “That’s cool, Jack,” she said without hesitation. “I’m not trying to bogart the beat. It’s still your baby and the story is
     yours. But if you need anything from me, just ask.”
    I now thought I had overreacted and was embarrassed at having acted like a selfish prick.
    “Thanks, Angela. We’ll figure it out. I’m going to give Prendo a heads-up on this for the daily budget and then I’ll be over.”

    P arker Center was in its last months of life. The crumbling building had been the command center for police operations for
     nearly five decades and was at least one decade past obsolescence. Yet it had served the city well, seen it through two riots,
     countless civil protests and major crimes, and had been the location of thousands of press conferences like the one I was
     going to attend right now. But as a working headquarters it was long outdated. It was overcrowded. Its plumbing was shot and
     its heating-and-air-conditioning system almost useless. There weren’t enough parking spots, office space or jail cells. There
     were known areas in hallways and offices where the air was tainted and sour. There were buckles in the vinyl flooring, and
     the structure’s prospects of surviving a major earthquake were questionable. In fact, many detectives tirelessly worked cases
     on the street, pursuing clues and suspects to extraordinary lengths, just so they wouldn’t be in the office when the big one
     hit.
    A beautiful replacement was weeks from completion on Spring Street, right next to the
Times
. It would be state of the art and spacious and technologically savvy. Hopefully, it would serve the department and the city
     for another five decades. But I would not be there when it was time to move in. My beautiful replacement would be the one,
     and as I rode the rickety elevator up to the sixth floor I decided that this was how it was meant to be. I would miss Parker
     Center precisely because I was like Parker Center. Antiquated and obsolete.
    The press conference was in full swing when I got to the big media room next to the chief’s office. I pushed past a uniformed
     officer in the doorway, grabbed a copy of the handout from him and ducked under the line of cameras—a reluctant courtesy—along
     the back wall and took an open seat. I had been in this room when it was standing room