Before Another Dies (25 page)

“This way, please.” Apparently we were gawking, and our greeter wanted us to move along. “They're on the deck.” She led us through a tall arched opening into another dining area. Since this one was situated next to the open kitchen, I knew it to be the dinette. A pair of French-style doors was open, and I could feel the January ocean breeze inviting itself into the house.

The house was built on a slope of hill and the deck extended into the air above. The deck was made of a wood I didn't recognize. What I did recognize was Floyd Grecian sitting at a picnic table I was pretty sure wasn't bought at a Home Depot. He was playing chess with the thinnest man I had ever seen.

The bikini model approached the thin man, kissed him on the back of the head, and then said, “Watch your queen's knight.”

“Hey, no fair,” Floyd said. “Chess is a one-on-one game.”

“Floyd?” I said, trying to strike a chord between parent and supervisor.

“Oh, hi, Mayor.” He popped up. “I'm sorry, real sorry. I didn't think things through.”

I looked at his chess opponent who had switched his gaze from the board to West and me. Floyd caught my intent. “Oh, Mayor Madison Glenn, this is Robby Hood. And that is Detective Judson West.”

Hood stood slowly as if it took more work than he expected. Bikini-woman took a quick step forward, her eyes glued to him. Could this really be Robby Hood? He approached and offered a smile. He wore thick, round glasses, and his brown hair was thin and short. A T-shirt with the words TAKE MY LEADER, PLEASE hung on his shoulders like he was a coat hanger. Two white threads hung from his black shorts. The threads were his legs. He took my hand, bowed, and gave it a small kiss. I have never had my hand kissed. I could learn to like it.

“The Honorable Madam Mayor. You honor my humble home.” It was Hood's voice.

Humble? My house was large, and I could fit it inside his. “Um, thank you.” I was trying to remember how to curtsy, then let it pass. I wasn't dressed for it. He stood erect and turned to West and offered a hand. West hesitated.

“I won't break, Detective. I'm thin but wiry.” West shook his hand. “Come and sit down. I have a few minutes before I have to run you off.

“You've met my wife, Katie. Can we get you anything?” We both deferred. “Well, let's have a seat.” He returned to the picnic table and took a place on one end. Katie sat next to him. West and I took seats opposite them and next to Floyd.

“I'm not what you expected, am I?”

“Well,” I began.

“No need to fabricate excuses. I am what I am by the random activities of genetics and no fault of my own. My body doesn't process food like yours. I'm able to retain enough nutrients to live, but I won't be going out for the Olympics in this life. I assume you have questions for me.” He looked at West.

“Yes, sir, I do, but I have one for Floyd here.”

“Don't be hard on him, Detective. He thought I was a danger to his boss and reacted.”

“I can admire that, but my real question is—” West turned to Floyd—“how did you find this place?”

Floyd smiled. “I kept striking out. I tried business licenses, tax records, the Internet, and everything else I could think of. Nothing. So I asked for help.”

“What kind of help?” I asked.

“I have a friend who works for one of the parcel delivery services. I had learned that Mr. Hood's radio program was handled by Terminal Radio Network. I called them but couldn't get past the receptionist.”

“You were lucky,” West said.

Floyd looked puzzled, but went on. “So I figured that that TRN must have sent packages of mail or gifts or books and stuff to Mr. Hood. I also figured that some of those would come through the parcel delivery services. So I called my friend who delivers packages and asked if he made any deliveries from Terminal Radio Network. He said he did, and gave me the street name and a description of the house, and that was that.”

“Unbelievable,” West said. “I think I'll turn in my badge.”

Floyd looked confused again. “He's paying you a compliment,” I said. “You outthought him and me together.”

“That part of his thinking was good,” West groused. “Coming out here was a different matter.”

“I'm no murderer,” Hood said. “Floyd filled me in on what he knows. You think that someone is killing people based on my shows?”

“It's an avenue of investigation,” West said. “You can understand why we want to talk to you. I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, but you are a bit reclusive.”

“I like my privacy,” he said sternly. “I have a right to my privacy.” I thought of West's earlier comment about there being no more privacy. “Besides, it helps my radio show.”

“How so?” I asked.

“I'm in a tough field, Mayor—or should I say, Congresswoman?”

“That hasn't been decided yet. I'm still mayor.”

“We have something in common, Mayor; your running for congress, I mean. How many congressmen or congresswomen can there be from the district you live in?”

“Just one, naturally.”

“How many talk shows are there? Don't answer, there are scores of them. It's a tough business to get into and rougher still to make it for very long. Now I deal in the odd, the bizarre, the out-of-the-ordinary. I don't want to be like other talk show hosts who rant and rave and who seem to find fulfillment in alienating most of their listeners. They're a dime a dozen. Only a couple are worth their salt. I want to deal with what few will touch.”

“UFOs and little green men,” I said.

“And conspiracies and alternate universes and ancient civilizations and anything else you won't find on the front page. Oh, I know, you probably want to dismiss it as the imaginings of overactive minds. I say, so what? Who cares? If every topic we touch on is artificial and contrived, so what? At the very least, we've had a good time, we've stretched our brains, we're bold enough to ask questions, and if we have no answers, then at least we've enjoyed the journey.”

He wrung his hands a few times, folded them, interlaced his bony fingers, then continued. “Of all the talk show formats only a handful do what I do successfully, and the few of us who do battle for the same time slots. My competition is minimal but tough. Every listener that tunes in to Art Bell, George Noory, or Jeff Rense is a listener I don't have. I'm up against giants, so I have to use every trick in the book. Keeping my identity a secret is part of that.”

“Would murder increase your ratings?” West asked.

“Of course it would, but I wouldn't participate in anything like that.”

“Not even if it meant being number one?” West pressed.

Hood's expression soured. “Look at me, Detective. How long do you think I'd survive in a federal prison? I want to be number one, but I'm not willing to lose my wife, my home, and my life over it. Truthfully, I think you're more gullible than me and far more gullible than my callers. They might believe in flying saucers, but you believe that I can orchestrate a series of murders from my home—a home I never leave.”

“Never?” West said.

“I'm an agoraphobic, Detective. I haven't left these grounds in months and that was for a trip to the hospital. But wait, that doesn't preclude me from hiring someone to do the deeds, does it?”

“No, it doesn't.” West was in professional mode. I looked at Floyd. He seemed nervous.

Hood smiled. “I like that. You're a chronic doubter, Detective. I can see it in your eyes; more importantly, I can hear it in your voice. That gives us something in common. My job is to doubt. I make a living by questioning reality and the status quo while being brave enough to consider what others have dismissed as foolishness. Have you listened to my show?”

“No,” West said.

Hood looked at me.

“Just recently. I've heard a little.”

He nodded. “I know I'm not everybody's cup of tea, but people find me interesting enough to tune in every night. Even my reruns garner great ratings.”

“Just how does your operation work?” West wondered. “If you never leave the grounds, then how do you get to the studio?”

“He has a studio here,” Floyd said. “He showed it to me. You should see it.”

“I thought you came here to do battle,” West said to Floyd.

“No, I came here to find out what was going on and to ask Mr. Hood to change his program.”

Hood rose and motioned for us to follow. “Come, I'll show you what few have seen.”

He led us back into the house, through the dinette, to the stairs, and began a slow ascent. He spoke as he went. “I've had the house designed to meet my unusual needs. The upper floor is my office. What were three bedrooms now serve as studio, storage space, and Katie's office.” Katie was a few steps behind me.

At the top of the stairs Hood pointed to a door on his left. “Since this room faces the street instead of the ocean we use it to store supplies, tapes of previous shows, and everything else we don't want in our offices.” We took two more steps to a pair of doors that opened to another room. I looked in. “This is Kate's office. She handles all my correspondence and e-mail. She also handles the business side of things.” He motioned for us to follow. The hall was crowded with the five of us. We fell into single file. West followed Hood closely. Floyd stepped on my heel. He apologized profusely.

At the end of the hall was another onetime bedroom. Hood strolled inside, and we followed like ants. “This is the studio,” Hood said. I was surprised. I expected a mixer board with a hundred knobs and slides, electronic meters, and strange and fascinating things. Instead there was a wide maple table pressed against the windowed wall, overlooking the city and ocean. On the table was a computer, a digital clock with large red numerals, a phone, and a headset with a microphone.

“Like me, it's probably not what you expected. True?”

I confessed to being surprised.

“I work from here, Detective. It used to be that someone like me would have to go to a studio and have a producer operating most of the electronic details. Technology has changed all of that. I do my research throughout the day, and my producer does his from his office. He works in a studio in LA. Everything is done by computer and phone.”

“Wait a minute,” West said. “Someone calls a number, and it doesn't ring here?”

“Of course not. It can be done that way, but why would I want all the calls to ring in my house? During the show, I have two people operating things for me. One makes sure my voice is going out as it should, the other is screening callers and sending me info over the Internet. You ever use a message program to chat with someone over the Internet?”

“I have,” Floyd offered.

West remained silent.

I admitted that I had.

“Then you know that you can type messages back and forth with anyone almost anywhere in the world. When I'm on air, one of my producers tells me who is next in the cue and what they want to talk about. They also remind me when we're coming up on a break. Bumper music is arranged in advance.”

“Bumper music?” West said.

“The music you hear in the span between a break and the show. It serves as a transition and covers time discrepancies.”

“I don't understand,” I said.

Hood looked at me, then explained. “The show is national. That means I'm being heard in four time zones and over scores of radio stations. The show has prescheduled breaks. For example, most stations want some local news time. Places like San Francisco, Los Angeles, Houston, and many more give traffic information even at two in the morning. When we break at the top of the hour for station identification and local news, the local affiliates kill our feed and do their own, then they come back on. Unfortunately, not everyone can come back on at the same second. The music gives a little padding.”

“How much did Floyd tell you?” West asked.

“He told me about the murders, but I had already read about them in the papers. Tragic.”

“He mentioned that there may be evidence linking the murders to your show?”

“Of course. I assume that's why he came all the way up here and rang my intercom.”

Katie spoke up. “Are you suggesting a publicity stunt, Detective? Because if you are, then you're way off base. Ratings are one thing. Serial murder is another. You would do well to remember you are a guest in this house.”

“I'm not suggesting anything. I'm gathering information. And you would do well to remember that I'm trying to prevent a fourth murder.”

“Everyone, take a deep breath,” Hood said. He turned to West. “I don't envy your situation, Detective. Not one bit. I specialize in the strange, and whoever is breaking the necks of your citizens is definitely strange.” He looked around the room. “Let's go back out on the deck. I'm getting claustrophobic in here with all of you.”

“You still have to finish preparing for tonight's show,” Katie said.

“There's time. There's time.” Hood showed no sign of anxiety.

The interview lasted another thirty minutes and took place on the deck where we first saw Hood. Katie brought tea and cookies, which Floyd downed with enthusiasm. I caught West eyeing her as she moved in and out of the house. Nothing dissolves a man's brain faster than a pretty woman in a bikini. I started to kick him but refrained.

West ignored his tea and asked questions, taking notes in a small notebook, just like on television. I had a feeling the notes were spare, just enough to jog his memory come report-writing time. He asked questions in short sentences, and Hood answered in the same manner. It was like watching a verbal gunfight. I kept my mouth shut but took in every word.

“What's your real name?” West asked.

“That's private and part of my on-air persona,” Hood retorted.