The Talk Show Murders (13 page)

“What the heck is that?”

Her attention had shifted to a novel titled
Danger Zone
that J.B. had positioned on the table in front of her, cover toward the camera. “It’s the new Stacy Lynne Chomsky,” she said.

“Please remove it,” Trina said. “This is not
The Tonight Show.
”

“There are water glasses on the table,” J.B. said. “Why not my book?”

“Nobody will think we’re pimping water glasses,” Trina said, repeating her request that
Danger Zone
be removed.

“The Nazis banned books, too,” J.B. mumbled, sliding the novel onto her lap. I guessed it would eventually wind up back on the table.

The floor manager, standing between the dueling cameras, held up a hand showing two fingers. “Two minutes to air,” he said.

Vida Evans, all five-foot-ten black-and-beautiful inches of her, settled down in her chair and received her final hair and facial tune-up. “Hello, everyone,” she said. “And, Billy, a special hello to you. So nice having you here on
my
show.”

A while back, I was asked to cohost
Hotline Tonight
, with Vida participating from the West Coast and I from the East. I’m very happy working in the early morning, having my evenings and nights free. And probably more important, I’d been treated to an unpleasant up-close-and-personal example of Vida’s ambitious, one might even
say cruelly ambitious, nature. So I turned down the gig. She became the solo host, and the network execs moved her away from her beloved L.A. to D.C. to add to the show’s gravitas. That’s when those same executives discovered that viewers who wanted gravitas had their fill of it on PBS or
Nightline
.

The ratings were tanking. She was in a city that she hated. And she blamed me.

The floor manager held up one finger. No, not that one. The index.

As that finger disappeared into a fist,
Hotline Tonight
’s symphonic theme began. On the studio monitors, the show’s logo popped. When the music faded, an off-camera announcer in D.C. began his earnestly dramatic voice-over: “On
Hotline Tonight
 … the story of two men”—Pictures of Pat Patton and Larry Kelsto appeared on the screen—“one a former police lieutenant and powerful voice in the city of Chicago, the other a struggling performer in the Windy City’s comedy clubs. Both were scheduled to appear on the same popular daytime television show”—Cut to a clip of Patton waving to Gemma’s audience—“just days before they were sadistically tortured and murdered”—Cut to another shot, this one of two body bags resting on twin gurneys. Maybe Kelsto and Patton. Probably not.

Cut to an aerial shot of Chicago at night. “Did something occur on the show to cause the murders? Is there a serial killer at large in this great American city?” That drew a groan from CPD Lieutenant Oswald. “If so, where will he or she strike next? Searching for the answers, here’s
Hotline Tonight
’s Vida Evans.”

Vida, her lovely face as serious as if she’d just seen her ratings drop even more, welcomed her viewers, gave a brief reprise of what the announcer had just told us, and introduced her “guests.” It might have been my imagination, but I think she was gritting her teeth when she mentioned my many accomplishments.

She then said something that had me gritting mine. “I believe you know our own Chef Billy Blessing has become something of an expert on murder. Billy was on the
Midday with Gemma
talk show with the late Pat Patton, and I’m happy to report that he will be guesting
on
my
show each night this week reporting on crime in the city of Chicago, with a special emphasis on the Chicago Police Department’s investigation into what many are calling the Talk Show Murders.”

There’s nothing like being dragooned into doing something you’ve already refused, unless it’s being informed of the dragooning on live TV, where all you can do is nod like an idiot. I looked at Trina, standing just behind the floor manager. She was wearing a Cheshire cat grin. “It’ll be a joy, as always, to be working with you, Vida,” I said, lobbing the conversational ball back to her.

From there, things went pretty much as expected, with Vida trying to pry information from Lieutenant Oswald and having to be satisfied with a very broad overview of what the CPD investigators had learned: basically, that some unknown party or parties had tortured both men until they’d died. The lieutenant would not specify the torture methods or the grisly condition of the corpses, nor would she validate the theory that the midday show was in any way involved or any of the other speculative theories abroad in bloggerland.

Lieutenant Oswald did say that the detectives assigned to the murders were “certainly aware of the fact that both Patton and Kelsto were in this building for
Midday with Gemma
. They’re investigating the possibility that the two men may have made contact at that time or that they may have left the studios together. But the feeling is that their connection to the show was coincidental. A careful analysis of the program itself has been made, leading the investigators to conclude that nothing that transpired in the course of the hour led to Lieutenant Patton’s murder.”

“Really?” Vida asked. “Let’s take a look. Right after this commercial.”

There was not a lot of chatter during the commercial, nor while we watched a section of the talk show in which Patton and Gemma nattered on about the body on the beach. After the clip, Vida asked, “Lieutenant Oswald, what about Lieutenant Patton’s announcement that he was privy to information regarding the corpse?”

Lieutenant Oswald’s smile was annoyingly patronizing. “Lieutenant
Patton was an outstanding lawman who was not terribly happy in retirement and preferred the world think he was still on the cutting edge of law enforcement. He’d made similar statements about his insider’s knowledge before, on television and on the Internet. But they were based mainly on rumor and supposition, not fact. No one took them seriously.”

“He claimed to have been right about ninety-four percent of the time.”

“Using his own measuring criteria,” Lieutenant Oswald parried.

Vida turned to Gemma and asked what she thought about Patton’s comment.

“Oh, I believe he knew
some
thing,” she said. “I’ve
never
known him to just make things up.”

Taking our cues from Lieutenant Oswald, Carrie and I stonewalled like politicians. We hadn’t met either Patton or Kelsto before the day of Gemma’s show. We denied seeing any contact between the two men either before or after the telecast. We were surprised to hear from Kelsto but were intrigued by his request for a meeting. That’s why we were at his home when the housekeeper discovered his body.

No, we did not know why Larry invited us. We barely knew him. And we knew even less about Edward “Pat” Patton.

“Gemma, what do you think about the theory that a serial killer is working his way through everyone who’d been scheduled to be on your program that day?” Vida asked.

“What a perfectly ridiculous question!” Lieutenant Oswald exclaimed before Gemma even had her mouth open. “This is real life, Ms. Evans, not pulp fiction.”

“Including Gemma, five people were scheduled to appear on the show,” Vida said. “Two were murdered, apparently by the same hand. Not exactly pulp fiction, is it?”

I felt Carrie’s hand grasp my arm. I have to say I was getting spooked myself by the conversation. Being the potential victim of one deranged killer was bad enough. Vida was opening that up to a nation of deranged killers who might want in on the fun.

“Speaking of pulp fiction,” I said, derailing the lieutenant’s tentative reply to Vida’s question, “I think J. B. Kazynski’s got a new book she’d like to tell us about.”

J.B. didn’t waste a second in holding up the copy of her latest Chicagoland caper.

Vida looked frustrated by the interruption. Trina was furious. And J.B.’s motormouthed promo took us to the end of the show.

All in all, that went pretty well.

After the telecast, I noticed J.B. lingering near the front door. The private eye had mentioned she’d wanted to talk with me about the murders, and since the word “no” seemed to be among those missing from her lexicon, I knew that meant we’d eventually have that conversation. But not then. Which is why I was still cooling my heels in the studio when Trina ducked her head in and said, “Billy? Good. You haven’t left.”

I should have opted for the talk with J.B.

Trina led me upstairs in the minimally occupied building. Most of the executive offices were dark, but the conference room had all bulbs aglow, with Lieutenant Maureen Oswald sitting at a sparkling glass table, sipping from a cup of something dark. Judging from her expression, the dark stuff wasn’t all that tasty.

“There’s a coffee machine just outside the door,” Trina said, selecting a chair across from the lieutenant.

“No coffee for me,” I said, and Lieutenant Oswald nodded her approval. I selected a chair next to her.

“Re your new assignment, Billy, Maureen has agreed to assist you in every way she can,” Trina said.

I smiled at the lieutenant, pretending this was good news.

“I prepare a daily report on department activities,” she said. “I’ll make sure you get a copy.”

“Stale news will be no help, Maureen,” Trina said.

“It will be up to date. But I’m not going to kid you, Trina. There won’t be any exclusive information. Your merry band will only be here a limited time. The local media are with us always.”

“Understood,” Trina said. “We’ll come up with our own exclusives. Right, Billy?”

“It’s what we’re known for,” I said. “That and the
Carlyle the Walking Penis
sitcom.”

The lieutenant raised an eyebrow. “You really have a show called that on your network?”

“It’s on right after
Vaginatown
.… Joking.”

“I’ll take your word on that,” the lieutenant said, rising. Trina and I both stood, too. “You might want to check with me on the accuracy of whatever ‘exclusives’ you turn up.”

“Absolutely,” Trina said, though nobody in the room believed that for a minute.

“Chef Blessing, in reporting on the Patton and Kelsto murders, I hope you’re not going to continue to spread any more of that Talk Show Murders nonsense.”

“Are you so certain it is nonsense?” Trina asked.

“Pretty much,” the lieutenant said. “Good night to you both. Mr. Blessing, you know where to reach me.”

Trina and I watched her leave.

“There’s definitely something going on, some strong lead they’re following,” Trina said. “We have to find out what it is by tomorrow night’s show.”

“I’ll get my investigative team on it right away. Wait a minute. I don’t have an investigative team. Why not?
Because I’m a chef and a TV show host
!”

I paused to compose myself. “Trina, we both know I’m not a
reporter at all. I know my way around a kitchen. I read books. I tell a fair joke, and I can talk to people. Why force me to do something totally alien to my interests?”

“Maybe I see a talent you haven’t discovered,” she said.

“Really?”

“No. I’m using you because when you got mixed up in those murders on the West Coast, your TVQ score went through the roof. I think that’ll happen here, too. And we need something to pull
Hotline
out of its rut.”

“If I’m that good, I’m being underpaid. I should call my agent.”

“He’ll tell you you’ll be in a better bargaining position if you do bring in the ratings,” she said. “Meanwhile, I don’t want to wear you out. You’ll only be working the last half-hour of the morning show.”

She explained that she’d already notified Arnie that Karma Singleton, our right-wing entertainment reporter, would be hosting the segment featuring the thirteen-year-old basso profundo and some of my other assignments. My interview with the author of
Da Mare
had been postponed a day—which would give me time to finish reading the door-stopper—but I’d still have to chat with the stars of the new WBC reality show
Naked Housewives of Wilmette
.

At least I still got to hang on to a few perks of the job.

It was nearing midnight when I pushed through WWBC’s thick glass doors to a crisp, clear starry night, expecting to see the cab I’d ordered. Instead, I found Carrie sitting behind the wheel of her Beamer.

“What’s up?” I asked her.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. “I sent your cab away.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I was hoping you’d come with me to my place.”

“Say again?”

“Oh, God, I guess that sounded weird. I mean, I was hoping you’d drive with me to where I’m staying. It’s on North State Parkway, not that far from your hotel, but we can send for a cab there.” She was nattering. Speed-nattering. “It’s just that, with everything that’s happened, I don’t … I mean, it won’t be that far out of your way, and you’re going in that direction anyway, and … Please, Billy. I have to park on the street, and there’s never an empty space, and I wind up walking blocks and blocks. And it’s always dark and really scary even when I don’t have a good reason to think somebody might pop out of the shadows and kill me.”

I took a closer look at her. “Desperate” was the word that came to mind.

I slid onto the Beamer’s leather bucket beside her. “Okay, Cisco, let’s went.”

She gave me the puzzled look of someone who’d never seen an episode of
The Cisco Kid
when they were growing up. Then she started the engine and we wented.

“All that talk about us being on the killer’s list really got to me,” she said. “Especially after seeing what they did to that poor man.”

She was quiet for a beat, then added, “I’m going to ask Derek to get me a bodyguard.”

I assumed that would be Derek Webber, the zillionaire producer of her movie, whom Charlie Dann the Puff Potato Man had mentioned.

“I’ve heard he’s a pretty good guy,” I said.

“The best. Really smart. Handsome. Almost Zuckerberg-rich. I’ll introduce you tonight. He’s usually up late.”