Hello, Darkness (11 page)

She scanned it, registering her dismay. When she looked up, she said, “But these are kids.”

“High school mostly,” Rondeau told her. “They congregate at a designated spot each night. It’s a huge swap meet.”

Curtis said, “Part of the fun, it seems, is trying to match individuals with their user names, see if you can figure out who’s who.”

“And if a couple who’ve been chatting over the Internet find each other, they have sex,” Dean said.

“Or not,” Rondeau said, correcting him. “Sometimes they don’t like what they see. The other person doesn’t live up to expectations. Or someone better comes along in the meantime. No one’s obligated to follow through.”

“The computer crime guys discovered the website,” Curtis said, “and since most of the users are minors, they brought it to the attention of the child abuse unit, which investigates sex offenses against children and child pornography, which falls under the auspices of the CIB.” He folded his arms across his stocky torso. “It’s a bleed-over investigation, meaning we can put a lot of people on it.”

“That’s the good news,” Rondeau said. “The bad news is that stopping it is virtually impossible.”

Paris was shaking her head with incredulity. “Let me make sure I understand. Girls like Janey Kemp go to a designated place and meet up with strangers whom they’ve teased, via the Internet, into believing they’ll have sex.”

“Right,” Rondeau said.

“Are they insane? Don’t they realize the risk they’re taking? If they meet their chat room partner, who turns out to be less than a Brad Pitt, and say, ‘No thanks,’ they’re placing themselves at the mercy of a man whom they’ve inflamed and who is…disappointed, to say the least.”

“They’re hardly at anyone’s mercy, Ms. Gibson,” the young cop said quietly. “We’re not talking nuns here. These are party girls. They frequently charge the men for their favors.”

“They ask for money?”

“Not ask. Demand,” Rondeau told them. “And they get it. Plenty of it.”

This information stunned them into silence. Eventually Curtis said, “What troubles us, Paris, beyond the obvious, is that anybody who applies for membership in this so-called club gets it. Getting a password and access to this website requires only a few clicks of a mouse. That means any sexual predator, any deviate, would know where to go to look for his next victim.”

“What’s more,” Dean said, “his victim would probably go with him willingly. He’d have to put forth very little effort.”

“This is alarming whether or not it has a connection to Valentino,” she said.

“And we’re fighting a losing battle,” Rondeau said. “We bust up the kiddie porn rings. But for each one that’s busted, dozens more spring up and thrive. We work with the feds, with Operation Blue Ridge Thunder, a nationwide information network that deals specifically with Internet crimes against children. That’s more than we can handle. Teenagers consensually exchanging dirty email is a low priority.”

Curtis said, “It’s like writing tickets for jaywalking, while across town, gang members are shooting each other.”

“What about Janey’s parents?” Paris asked. “Have they been made aware of this?”

“They’ve had trouble with her,” Curtis replied. “She has a history of misbehavior, but even they probably don’t know about all her activities. We didn’t want to alert them to a possible connection between her unknown whereabouts and Valentino’s call until we had more to go on. We were hoping your audiotape would shed some light.”

“It doesn’t shed much, does it?” she said. “I’m sorry.”

After a discreet knock, the door was opened and another detective poked his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Curtis. I have a message for you.”

He excused himself and left the room.

Paris consulted her wristwatch. “Unless I can be of further help, I should be going.”

Rondeau nearly broke his neck getting out of his chair and helping her with hers. “What time do you have to be at the radio station, Ms. Gibson?”

“Around seven-thirty. And please call me Paris.”

“Do you have to do a lot of preparation ahead of time?”

“I select the music myself and prepare my log—that’s the order in which songs are played. Another department, called ‘Traffic,’ has already logged the commercials.

“However, a lot of my programming occurs spontaneously. I never know what song someone from the audience is going to request. But I can insert that song into the log instantly, because we have a computerized library of music.”

“Are you ever nervous when you go on the air?”

She laughed and shook her head, making the shaggy hairdo even shaggier and more attractive. “I’ve been doing it too long to get butterflies.”

“Do you operate the equipment all by yourself?”

“If you’re referring to the control board, yes. And I man my own telephone lines. I turned down having a producer. I like being a one-woman show.”

“When you started, did you have to learn a lot of technical stuff?”

“Some, but, honestly, you probably know much more about the workings of a computer than I know about the physics of radio waves.”

The implied compliment brought a silly grin to his face. “Does working alone ever get boring?”

“Not really, no. I like the music. And the callers keep me on my toes. Each broadcast is different.”

“Don’t you get lonely working alone every night?”

“Actually, I prefer it.”

Before Rondeau asked her to father his children, Dean interceded. “I’ll walk you out, Paris.”

As he ushered her toward the door, she said, “I’d like to stay updated. Please ask Sergeant Curtis to call me when he knows something.” Sergeant Curtis. Not him. The snub couldn’t be more blatant, and it irritated the hell out of him. He was as much a cop as Sergeant Robert Curtis.
And
he outranked him.

He reached around her to grab the doorknob. But the door opened without his help and Curtis was on the other side of it. His complexion was several shades ruddier than usual. What was left of his pale hair seemed to be standing on end.

“Well, it’s hit the fan,” he announced. “Somehow a courthouse reporter learned that cops were looking for Janey Kemp. He confronted the judge about it as he was returning from lunch recess. His Honor is
not
happy.”

“His daughter’s life could be at risk and he’s worried about media exposure?” Paris exclaimed.

Dean said, “My thought exactly. I don’t give a shit if he’s happy or not.”

“Fine. You’ll have an opportunity to tell him that to his face. We’ve been ordered by the chief to meet with Kemp and try to smooth his feathers. Right now.”

Chapter Ten

P
aris wheeled into the Kemps’ circular driveway directly behind Sergeant Curtis’s unmarked Taurus. She got out of her car at the same time he got out of his. Before he had a chance to speak, she said, “I’m coming with you.”

“This is a police matter, Ms. Gibson.”

If he was back to using her last name, he was irked. She held her ground. “I started this ball rolling when I came to see you this morning. If I never hear from Valentino again and the call last night turns out to be a hoax, then I owe you, the Austin police, and especially this family a profound apology. And if it isn’t a hoax, then I am directly involved and so are they, which entitles me to speak with them.”

The detective looked across at Dean as though seeking guidance on how to handle her when she took a stubborn stance. Dean said, “It’s your call, Curtis. But she’s good at talking to people. That’s what she does.”

Coming from a trained negotiator, that was quite a compliment. Curtis considered it for only a moment, then said grudgingly, “All right, but I don’t know why you’d want to involve yourself in this any more than you already are.”

“I didn’t choose to be. Valentino involved me.”

She and Dean followed him toward the door. For Dean’s ears only she said, “Thanks for backing me up.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” He nodded toward the wide front door, which was being opened as they made their way up the veranda steps. “Looks like he’s been lying in wait.”

Judge Baird Kemp was tall, distinguished looking, and handsome, except for his scowl, which he directed toward Curtis, whom he obviously knew by name. “I’m trying to keep a lid on this, Curtis, and what does the Austin PD do? Trot extra cops out to my house. What the hell is going on with you people? And who are they?”

To Curtis’s credit, he kept his cool, although his face and neck flushed to a deeper hue. “Judge Kemp, Dr. Dean Malloy. He’s the department’s psychologist.”

“Psychologist?” the judge sneered.

Dean didn’t even bother extending the judge his hand, knowing it would be rebuffed.

“And this is Paris Gibson,” Curtis said, motioning toward her.

If her name meant anything to the judge, he didn’t show it. After giving her a cursory look, he glared at Curtis. “Are you the one who started the false rumor that my daughter is missing?”

“No, Judge, I didn’t. You did. When you called one of the cops you’ve got on the take and told him to start looking for her.”

A vein ticked in Kemp’s forehead. “I told the chief that I demanded to know who was responsible for leaking that story, which has been grossly exaggerated. He sends me you, a shrink, and a—” He glanced at Paris. “Whatever. Why the hell are you here?”

“Baird, for godsake.” A woman emerged from the house and upbraided him with a stern look. “Can we please do this inside where fewer people will have the opportunity of overhearing?” She gave their guests a collective once-over, which was just shy of hostile, then said stiffly, “Won’t you come in?”

Again Paris and Dean followed Curtis. They were shown into an elaborately appointed living room that might have been a salon in Versailles. The decorator had padded her budget with an overload of brocades, gilt, beading, and tassels.

The judge marched over to a dainty liquor cart, poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter, and tossed it back as if it was a shot. Mrs. Kemp perched on the delicate arm of a divan as though she didn’t intend to stay very long.

Curtis remained standing, looking as out of place as a fireplug in this room of froufrou. “Mrs. Kemp, have you heard from Janey?”

She glanced at her husband before answering. “No. But when she gets home, she’ll be in serious trouble.”

Paris couldn’t help but think the girl could be in much more serious trouble now.

“She’s a teenager, for christsake.” The judge was still standing, too, glaring down at them as though about to sentence them to twenty years of hard labor. “Teenagers pull stunts like this all the time. Except when
my
daughter does it, it makes headlines.”

“Don’t you realize that negative publicity only makes a situation worse?”

For whom?
Paris was dismayed that Mrs. Kemp’s primary concern was publicity. Shouldn’t she be more worried about the girl’s absence rather than what would be said about it?

Curtis was still trying to be the diplomat. “Judge, I don’t know who within the Austin PD spoke to that reporter. We’ll probably never know. The culprit isn’t going to come forward and admit it, and the reporter is going to protect his source. I suggest we move past that and—”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Not at all easy.” Dean spoke for the first time, and his tone was so imperative that all eyes turned to him. “I wish the three of us had come here, hat in hand, to beg your forgiveness for an error in judgment, a slip of the tongue, a false alarm. Unfortunately, we’re here because your daughter could be in grave danger.”

Mrs. Kemp moved off the arm of the divan and onto the seat cushion.

The judge rocked back on his heels. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

“Maybe I should tell you why I’m here,” Paris said quietly.

The judge’s eyes narrowed. “What was your name again? Are you that truancy officer who kept hassling us last year?”

“No.” She reintroduced herself. “I have a radio program. It’s on each weeknight from ten to two.”

“Radio?”

“Oh!” Mrs. Kemp exclaimed. “Paris Gibson. Of course. Janey listens to you.”

Paris exchanged glances with Dean and Curtis before turning back to the judge, who apparently was unfamiliar with her and her show. “Listeners call in and sometimes I put them on the air.”

“Talk radio? A bunch of left-wing radicals spouting off about this, that, or the other.”

He had to be the most unpleasant individual Paris had ever met. “No,” she said evenly, “my show isn’t talk radio.” She was in the process of describing her format when he interrupted her.

“I get the picture. What about it?”

“Sometimes a listener calls to air a personal problem.”

“With a total stranger?”

“I’m not a stranger to my listeners.”

The judge raised a graying eyebrow. Apparently he wasn’t used to people contradicting or correcting him. But Paris wasn’t intimidated by someone she had already formed such a low opinion of.

Being flagrantly rude, he dismissed her and turned back to Curtis. “I still don’t understand what a radio deejay has got to do with any of this.”