Programmed for Peril

Jerry Morris. He was tall, lean-faced, and serious. The commissioner said he would be assisting Detective Sarkman. They would be the principal investigators. Lieutenant Stanley would do all he could from the bomb end.
    The commissioner played his role. He expressed his sincere regrets over whatever difficulties the Palmer family was encountering, then bowed out. Sarkman, “very possibly my best detective,” would take over from here on out. Morris would assist him. Of course, if there was anything more that he could do...
    The two detectives led Foster and Trish to a room where a tape recorder was set up. Sarkman took Trish’s statement, guiding her with questions familiar to him. They slipped off his tongue so readily that he sounded bored. Worse, she had the distinct feeling he didn’t like her or Foster but was too professional to show it. She was still talking when he reached over and turned off the recorder. “I think that’ll do it, Ms. Morley.”
    “I had a little more to say.”
    He shrugged and looked at the other detective. “We get the picture, don’t we, Jerry? We got a classic situation here. We got a jealous former lover who can’t stand to have been beaten out by Mr. Palmer here. So he tries threats and malicious mischief. Tries to spy on you, stuff like that.” He looked from Trish’s face to Foster’s. “Nothing very serious, from the police standpoint.”
    “But Carson is—”
    “A weirdo. Okay. There are lots of weirdos around. Jerry and I have met our share. What we usually do is find them and give them a warning. All of a sudden their lost love doesn’t seem so important compared to doing short time.” He lifted the photo of Trish, Carson, and Melody. “We know what he looks like. It won’t take that long to find him. Just leave it to us.”
    “When can we expect to hear from you, Lieutenant Sarkman?” Foster said. “With a report.”
    The cop’s flinty eyes narrowed. “Hard to say.” He got up. “I’ll be candid. Malicious mischief isn’t my specialty.”
    “What is?” Trish said.
    “Murders.”
    She said quickly, “I’ve been told Carson killed one person for sure, and possibly six others.”
    Sarkman blinked. That at least had brought him up short. “We’ll run a check on that through to the coast. Your man hasn’t killed anybody here. And I have two dozen local murders on my plate.” He waved a manicured hand. “All I can say is Jerry and I will do our best and get back to you sometime soon.”
    Trish wanted to say so much more about Carson and how anxious she had become since learning he had returned to her life. More, she wanted to explain how formidable an adversary he would be to Lieutenants Sarkman and Morris —or anyone else. There was no time. Sarkman escorted them out briskly, making confident, comforting noises. Morris strode silently in their wake.
    On the street she looked at Foster. “They didn’t take us too seriously. They didn’t like us, either. At least Sarkman didn’t. I redly couldn’t read Detective Morris.”
    Foster nodded. “I’ve met many like Sarkman. No, he didn’t like us. The reason is simple.”
    “Oh? What is it?”
    “We’re haves. He’s a have-not.”
    “And we became his problem because of your family’s political pull.” Trish glowered. “How can he really care about my problems with Carson? Murder’s his specialty. And Carson doesn’t want to murder me. He just wants me not to marry you. Sarkman’s the wrong man for us. With the wrong attitude.” She looked up at Foster. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he did absolutely nothing to help us!” She made a note to call Detective Morris. Her instincts told her he didn’t share his partner’s prejudices.
    That evening Nicholas arrived at Trish’s home, unannounced as always. In the shadows his wide eyes looked like those of a nocturnal insect, and he spoke about as often as one. Melody sat, soprano recorder on her lap, and stared after his comings and goings. From his van he removed a meter unfamiliar to Trish. He hung it around his neck and slipped on earphones. He wandered her rooms like a silent ghost. Another device in hand, he skirted the rambling house, vanishing into the shrubbery, emerging head down, eyes on a dial.
    He summoned Trish away from Melody. In the kitchen he whispered, “Two videocams, sound and picture. One in the living room, the other in your bedroom. No others.”
    Trish gasped. “How—”
    “Doesn’t matter.”
    “I