Hot Blooded (7 page)

Sam wasn’t lulled into thinking the subject of the crank caller had been dropped. It wasn’t her boss’s nature. Eleanor was like a pit bull with a bone when something bothered her. She never gave up.

“I should get rid of this thing” “—she lifted her leg and cast—” “tomorrow morning, if I can convince the doctor that I’d be better off without this extra five pounds to lug around. I have an appointment with my orthopedic guy at eleven.” “Good.” Eleanor scooted out a chair and waved Sam into a seat. “Now, I’ve got to tell you that ever since that nutcase called last night, the station has been besieged with calls and e-mails. Be-frickin“-sieged. I mean, we’ve had listeners call in all day.” Her dark eyes gleamed as she wrapped long fingers around the chipped ceramic cup. “George is going bananas.”

“George would,” Samantha said, thinking of the owner of the station as she slid into her chair. Tall, dark and handsome, born with a silver spoon shoved decidedly between his teeth, George was forever worried about the bottom line, about losing a dime. He would do anything to increase the audience and the ratings. Sam considered him one step up from pond slime.

Leaning on the small of her back, she cradled her cup, blowing across the steamy surface. “I guess I’d better come clean with you,” she said, wondering if she was making a major mistake.

“What do you mean?”

“Last night wasn’t the first time the guy contacted me.”

“Come again.” Eleanor’s coffee was forgotten. She pinned Sam in her gaze.

“He left me a message on my recorder; I thought Melanie would have told you.”

“She hasn’t come in yet.”

“Okay, well, he did. And then there was this letter and a marred publicity shot.”

“What letter?”

She gave Eleanor a quick update and watched as the animation left her boss’s dark face. When she’d explained about returning home and discovering the message and letter, Eleanor reached across the table and wrapped bejeweled fingers around Sam’s wrist. “Tell me that you called the police.”

“Didn’t I say I did? Don’t worry.”

“It’s my job to worry. So what did the police have to say?”

“They said they’d send more patrols around the area.” Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Did they come out to the house?”

“Not yet,” Sam said. “Why not?”

“I haven’t been home much.”

“Jesus H. Christ…” Eleanor sighed loudly. Her neatly plucked eyebrows slammed together. “Since the Cambrai police don’t have jurisdiction here in the city, tell me you’re going to haul your ass into my office and pick up the phone to tell them about the calls coming into the station here, cuz, honey, if you don’t, I sure as hell will.”

“I will.”

“You bet you will.” Eleanor wasn’t taking any excuses. “As soon as you finish your coffee, you use my office.”

“I’d planned to call tomorrow,” Sam said. “Why wait?”

“I just want to see if the creep calls back tonight,” Sam said. “Make sure it’s not a onetime thing.”

“I doubt it. Considering what’s gone on at your home.”

“You said yourself that the station was being inundated
with calls. That should mean a larger audience,” Sam argued. “Isn’t that what we all want?”

Eleanor tapped a fingernail on her cup. “Yes, but I think you’re playing with fire,” she said, but she was warming to the idea.

“Maybe. It’s true, he’s scared me. But I’d like to find out what makes him tick. So far the threats have been pretty vague. And I’d like to find out what’s going on with him.” She finished her coffee in one swallow. “Bet my listeners do, too.”

“I don’t know about this—”

“If I get another call, I’ll run straight to New Orleans’s finest, I swear,” Sam said, raising two fingers as if she were a Boy Scout.

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die—”

“Don’t even say it,” Eleanor cut in. “And for the record” “—she thumped a finger on the Formica table—” “I don’t like this. Uh-uh. Not one little bit.”

“Don’t like what?” a gravelly voice demanded. Ramblin’ Rob, dressed as if he were planning to attend a cattle drive rather than sit in a booth with a presorted stack of CDs, swaggered in. He smelled of smoke and rain, the brim of his Stetson dripping.

“Sam, here, wants to go on the air again without talking to the police about her own private nutcase.”

A grin stretched across Rob’s weathered features. “Not so private. Seems like half the damned city was listening to her last night from the number of e-mails. I’m surprised the cops haven’t called you.” He laid a leathery hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“I think they have more on their minds,” she said.

“Okay, okay, enough of this.” Eleanor glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Always am.”

Eleanor rolled her large eyes. “Yeah, and I’m Cleopatra. I mean it, Sam, don’t bait this guy. Who knows how dangerous he is. He could be hopped up on drugs, or have a hair trigger on his temper. Just, please” “—she spread her hands expressively—” “take it easy.”

“I’m a psychologist, remember? I’m used to this kind of thing.”

“Yeah, right,” Eleanor muttered under her breath as she bustled out of the room.

“She’s right, kiddo.” Rob sat down. Tipped the brim of his hat back, pinned Sam with blue eyes that had seen it all. “Don’t do anything foolish, okay?”

With mock severity, Sam said, “I’ll try my best, Cowboy Rob. Honest I will.” She said it lightheartedly, but the truth of the matter was that she intended to be very careful with the guy should he phone in again. If she got any hint that he was dangerous, she’d phone the police. Pronto.

That night as she walked down the hallway, a cup of coffee in her hand, the offices seemed darker than usual. The shadows in the corners, deeper, the corridors more crooked than before. It was stupid, of course. The old building in the heart of the city hadn’t changed at all, but despite her bold words to Eleanor earlier, Sam was edgy. She’d gone home last night and nothing had happened. She’d thought she’d heard someone outside, but as she’d stepped onto her back porch, she’d seen nothing through the curtain of rain and only the whistle of the breeze and the clink of wind chimes had disturbed the night. Later, she’d spied the lone boat on the choppy waters, or at least thought she had. She’d shut her blinds and pushed him out of her mind. What was happening to make her so jumpy?

It wasn’t as if she was alone, for God’s sake. Melanie
was manning the phones, Tiny was about, making sure that the equipment was working and that the preset programs for later in the night were ready to roll.

Nothing was out of the ordinary.

Except that someone out there—in the city—wants to scare the devil out of you.

And it was working.

Big time.

She was tense, her stomach in knots as she closed the door to the soundproof booth, slid into her chair and settled behind the microphone.

Eleanor and George had been right, she thought as the intro music played through the speakers mounted over her desk. The e-mail and calls the station had received in the last twenty-four hours had far surpassed any other similar span of time. The conversation last night between Dr. Sam and “John” had spurred interest in the program, and she could feel a new sense of electricity in the station, through the headset, in the voices of the callers as they phoned in.

“Good evening, New Orleans and welcome…” She started out her show with her usual bit. Then, knowing she was dancing with the devil, said, “I thought we’d pick up tonight where we left off. Last night a caller phoned in, bringing up the subject of forgiveness, repentance and sin.” Sam’s fingers were a little shaky as she leaned into the mike. “I thought it was worth exploring tonight as well. I know a lot of you were listening, and I’d like to hear your interpretations of sin.” The first phone line was already blinking. Lines two and three lit up almost simultaneously. Once the program was over, Eleanor would probably kill her, tell her that she was inviting trouble, but though her hands were sweaty and her pulse elevated, she wanted to connect with John again…to find out more. Who was he? Why had he called? He had to be the same man who left her the voice message on her machine and was the same guy who had
sent her the mutilated publicity shot. Why was he trying to terrorize her?

The computer screen showed that Sarah was line one and Tom on two. Three belonged to Marcy. New Orleans was eager to talk about sin, redemption, quote Bible verses and express opinions vociferously about the wages of sin. Two men named John called—neither being the one who had phoned the night before. The hours rolled by into morning and Sam felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. She didn’t believe he would just go away. But there was tomorrow night.

“Take care of yourself, New Orleans. Good night to you all and God bless. No matter what your troubles are today, there is always tomorrow…. Sweet dreams…” she said, signing off over the sound of music. She yanked off her headset and pushed the appropriate buttons so that the advertisements would flow into the opening for the
Lights Out
program, then met Melanie in the hallway.

“I guess my personal creep didn’t have the urge to call.”

“Disappointed?” Melanie asked, eyebrows elevated. “I just want to know what he’s thinking.”

“Maybe it’s over. He got his jollies last night and he’s given up…gone on to greener pastures.”

“Maybe.” Sam wasn’t convinced. In fact, silly as it seemed, she thought he was playing a game with her. That he was listening, knowing she expected him to call, and was trying a new tactic to freak her out.

“Forget him. You all but begged him to call what with the subject tonight,” Melanie said. “He’s probably bored.”

“Or he might be more cautious. He doesn’t know that I haven’t talked to the police yet. He could have thought the cops could trace the call.”

Melanie yawned. “You know, Sam, maybe you’re not as important to him as you think.” She seemed irritated, and
added, “It was probably just a kid with a deep voice playing a prank.”

Sam didn’t think so.

“You really expected him to call, didn’t you?” Melanie asked, as they walked toward the locker room and Tiny, hurrying in, sped past them.

“I thought he might.”

“You
wanted
him to.”

Did she? That was kind of a sick thought. “I just figured he might and I could get a little insight into what it was he was talking about last night.” She leaned on one crutch as a sudden thought struck her. “What about when you were hosting the show while I was in Mexico? Did he call you?”

“Me?” Melanie laughed but the sound seemed brittle. “No way. This one, he’s
all
yours.”

“Maybe.”

“Samantha?” Tiny’s voice called down the hallway. “You’ve got a call on line two. Says his name is John.”

“What?” She froze for a second.

“I said—”

“I heard you.” She twisted around and hitched her way back to the darkened studio, where line two was blinking ominously.

“It’s your guy,” Tiny whispered, though no one could hear him until she clicked on.

“Make sure you record this.” Tiny nodded, restarted the tape. Sam grabbed Melanie’s headset and leaned over the console, pushing the flickering button.

“This is Dr. Sam,” she said.

“It’s John.” His voice was breathless, yet smooth—as if he was trying to pretend a calm he didn’t feel.
“Your
John. I know you were expecting me to call, but I was busy.”

“Who
are
you?”

“This is not about me,” he said, and his calm seemed to snap.

“Sure it is. What is it you want?” A pause. “I thought you’d like to know that what happened is all because of you. It’s your fault. Yours.” Her blood turned to ice. “What—what happened?” she demanded. “You’ll know.”

Click.

“What—what will I know?” she asked. The line was dead. “Damn.” She tossed off the headset and stared at the console, willing a light to blink again. But the phone lines didn’t illuminate. In fact the room seemed strangely dark and when she looked through the glass to the studio where she worked, she saw her own thin reflection as well as the translucent images of Tiny and Melanie in the clear glass—ghosts inhabiting the empty building.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” Melanie whispered. “Oh, yeah.” Sam nodded.

“You’d better call someone.” Tiny rubbed the stubble on his chin and bit his lip as he stared at the blank console.

“The police?” she asked.

“No! I mean, not yet.” Tiny shook his head and thought so hard he squinted. “I mean, maybe you should call Eleanor or Mr. Hannah.”

“I don’t think I’ll wake George up,” Sam said, thinking of the owner of the station. George Hannah didn’t like any ripples in the water. He wouldn’t appreciate a call in the middle of the night. “I think he cherishes his beauty sleep.”

“Well,
someone
should know.”

“Someone does,” she said, thinking of the smooth voice without a face. He knew what she looked like. Where she lived. What she did for a living. How to contact her. And she was at a distinct disadvantage. So far she knew nothing about him. Nothing at all.

“We’ve got ourselves another one.” Detective Reuben Montoya leaned a muscled shoulder against the doorjamb to Rick Bentz’s office in the weathered stone building that housed the precinct. His black hair was glossy as a raven’s wing, his goatee trimmed and neat. White teeth flashed when he spoke, and a gold earring caught the bluish glare from the flickering fluorescents overhead.

“Another one?” Bentz glanced at the clock. Three-fifteen; he’d been on duty since 7
p.m.
, was about to call it a night. A fan was whirring behind him, pushing around warm air that the old air conditioner hadn’t found a way to chill.

“Dead working girl.”

The muscles in the back of Bentz’s neck tightened. “Where?”

“Around Toulouse and Decatur. Not far from Jackson Brewery.”

“Hell.” Bentz rolled back his chair.

“Her roommate came home and found her on the bed.”

“Have you called the ME?” Bentz was already reaching for his jacket.

“He’s on his way.”