Dead Air Read online

  “You’re on the couch with Dr. Maggie,” I said, swiveling back to the board.

  “Your days are numbered,” a muffled voice said. The voice was soft, insinuating, chilling. I swallowed hard, and my mouth suddenly went dry. I felt the skin prickle across my shoulders. “Did you read the note I sent you?”

  “The note?”

  “It’s in a bright yellow envelope. It was hand delivered this morning.”

  I looked over at Vera, who was frantically flipping through the listener mail. She held up a canary yellow envelope with no stamp and waved it at me. Then she ripped it open, read the note inside, and blanched.

  “Did you read the note?” the caller persisted.

  “Why don’t you tell me what it’s all about?” I said quickly. “We always welcome listener opinions, good or bad.”

  A nasty chuckle from the mystery caller. “This one’s bad,” he rasped. “This is going to be the apocalypse.”

  “The apocalypse?”

  “Like I said in the note, the end is coming quicker than you think. Much quicker. It will end with a bang, not a whimper. It’s the end for you and for those godless Sanjay-ites.”

  Sanjay-ites?Oh, yeah, the people who dressed in white and were followers of Sanjay Gingii. There was something eerie about the whispery voice, and I felt little icy fingers tap-dance up and down my spine. I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman.

  I took a deep breath, my mind skidding over my options. Was it best to keep this person talking? Or break off the connection?

  I sat there, fraught with indecision as the caller rambled on. I noticed Vera tapping on the window, pointing frantically to one of her famous hand-lettered signs.

  This was a new one. She pointed to the note in her hand and then to her sign. She’d written BOMB with a bright blue Magic Marker.

  BOMB. I squinted, trying to figure out Vera Mae’s latest acronym.

  BOMB. Better Oppose Mixed Beverages? I was stumped.

  BOMB. Beer on My Breath?

  More frantic pantomiming from Vera Mae. Her face was drained of color and she was sagging against the console, her features slack. I tried to ignore the hard lump that had suddenly formed in the pit of my stomach.

  BOMB.

  Bomb. Bomb! Ohmigod. We’d just gotten a bomb threat. My thoughts scurried through my head like a manic squirrel as I tried to deal with the reality of the threat. Was it a joke? Was it serious? And if there was really a bomb, where was it?

  Would there be time to evacuate the station? Should I dial 911 or alert the switchboard first? Or the station manager? Was there some procedure I was supposed to follow?

  I looked over at Vera Mae, and now her eyes were ballooning, her mouth open, frozen in horror like the subject of one of those Edvard Munch paintings.

  I thought about my mother and my friends and the fact that I was way too young to be blasted to kingdom come.

  And then an explosion rocked WYME and suddenly I didn’t have to think anymore.

  Chapter 2

  I sat perfectly still, trying to process what had happened. Either a meteorite had hit WYME or we’d been bombed. Okay, reality check. This wasn’t the Starship Enterprise. It must have been a bomb.

  The noise stopped, but I could still feel the vibration slicing through the soles of my feet and snaking its way up my body. An acrid smell filled the air, and my eyes burned as I scrambled out of my chair. The smoke alarms were blasting, filling the studio with a noise like a 747 getting ready for takeoff.

  Then all hell broke loose in the studio. Vera Mae screamed and grabbed Tweetie Bird’s cage, making tracks across the production studio with her precious cargo. Tweetie Bird is Vera Mae’s aging pet parakeet, and she drags his heavy metal cage to the station with her every day.

  “So it really was a bomb?” I said dazedly. “It must have been; I can smell smoke in the air.” My mind felt as if it had slammed into a brick wall, but the crazy thing was, the smoke smelled familiar. An image of a movie theater flashed into my head for no reason at all.

  “Hand me your sweater, Maggie!”

  “You want me to take off my sweater?” My hand involuntarily went to the neckline of a short-sleeved raspberry sweater I had paired with some new Liz Claiborne slacks.

  “Not the sweater you’re wearing—the cardigan!” she snapped. “I have to put it over Tweetie’s cage before he has a conniption.” When I didn’t react right away, she yanked the cardigan off the back of my chair. “C’mon, girl, time’s a-wasting and you’re standing there like Lot’s wife. Let’s blow this joint.”

  “Have you already called 911? And Donna at the switchboard? Shouldn’t we notify the station manager?” I started shuffling through some papers, wondering how to shut down the audio board. What was the protocol at a time like this? We couldn’t just run out the door, could we?

  Apparently we could.

  “Done and done and done. Now let’s go!”

  “Wait!” I opened the mike and slapped the first cassette I could find into the machine. The sounds of Celine Dion filled the air. I quickly turned down the volume and pushed away from the board. Music is good in an emergency, right? Didn’t the orchestra play as the Titanic sank?

  On second thought, maybe music wasn’t the best choice in this situation. Too late now.

  I could hear muffled shouts and running footsteps in the hallway outside the studio. Apparently everyone was evacuating, and through the tiny window in the door, I saw Big Jim Wilcox at the head of the pack. He elbowed the petite traffic secretary, Tammi Ngyuen, aside to bolt through the double glass doors. (Who says chivalry is dead?)

  I grabbed my purse just as I heard sirens wailing outside.

  Police cars and, from the sounds of it, fire trucks. One of the advantages of living in a small town is that help is always close at hand. Both the police station and the fire station were within walking distance of the studio.

  Vera Mae started to open the heavy door to the hallway, and I grabbed her. “Wait! You’re supposed to put your hand on the door first to see if it’s hot.”

  “That’s plumb crazy. Anyone with a lick of sense can see that it’s not hot. Didn’t you see that movie Backdraft?”

  “Backdraft. Is that the one where John Travolta played a fireman? I never thought that was one of his more convincing roles, did you? Of course, I never really believed he was an angel in Michael. Something about those grungy wings—”

  “Sheesh, girl, quit your babbling and get out the door!” She gave me a vigorous one-handed push. “You shrinks are all alike. You talk too much, and you analyze everything to death.”

  I headed down the hallway, properly chastised, just in time to see the Cypress Grove FD burst into the reception area, dragging monster gray fire hoses behind them. Smoke alarms were shrieking in the background, an ear-piercing wail that didn’t let up.

  The leader, a tall, square-jawed guy who was a dead ringer for Kevin Costner, bellowed into a megaphone, “All personnel are ordered to evacuate the premises immediately. Repeat, immediately. Do not take any personal possessions. Stay close to the walls in a single file. Proceed in an orderly fashion out the front doors. Do not run; do not panic.”

  He glimpsed Vera Mae, trotting along with Tweetie in her cage, and reached out a gloved hand to bar her way. “Sorry, ma’am. You’re not permitted to remove that cage from the building. Please put it down and proceed to the exit. “

  “Look, sonny,” Vera Mae said, drawing herself up to her full height of five feet two. “If that bird stays, then I stay.”

  “You need to vacate the building. That’s an order,” he barked. He’d moved ahead a few feet and started herding the secretarial staff along, when he glanced back and saw Vera Mae slip past the reception desk. Tweetie bird’s cage was still thumping against her leg, and a frightened squawk emerged from under my sweater.

  “Hey! I told you to drop it!” the firefighter protested.

  “Oh, put a sock in it, Billie Dean Rochester. I knew your
momma when she was teaching over at Cypress Grove Elementary, so don’t even think of telling me what to do. Let’s go, Maggie.”

  I followed Vera Mae outside, where the rest of the WYME staff had gathered in a tight little semicircle. We stood uncertainly in the hot Florida sunshine for about fifteen minutes, until I spotted a couple of firefighters making their way out of the building.

  They’d taken off their helmets and were shrugging out of their heavy yellow coats. So there hadn’t been a bomb after all? Was it just a false alarm? But what about the smoke and the noise of the explosion?

  “That song’s enough to drive anyone crazy,” I heard one of the firefighters mutter.

  I looked at Vera Mae. “I put on Celine Dion.”

  Vera Mae flushed. “That cassette was damaged. It only plays the first cut over and over.”

  “So my listeners are listening to ‘My Heart Will Go On,’ over and over?”

  “Afraid so,” Vera Mae said. “Wonder what this will do to the ratings?”

  A good point. I made an executive decision. I decided to risk going back into the building. I had to change that cassette!

  I skirted around the edge of the crowd, slipped by a drop-dead-gorgeous guy mumbling into a walkie-talkie, and sneaked back into the station.

  I was making my way down the hall, and I couldn’t see any signs of fire or smoke damage. If it hadn’t been for the firefighters and the boys in blue patrolling the corridors, you would have thought this were an ordinary day.

  Luckily everyone was too busy rolling out equipment to notice me. Or were they packing up their equipment, getting ready to leave? I couldn’t be sure.

  One thing was certain. I wanted to get back into the booth and finish out my show.

  And I would have, if it hadn’t been for a six-foot male hunk blocking my path. It was the guy with the walkie-talkie I’d spotted outside. How had he managed to get ahead of me?

  “Not so fast,” he said, pulling my hand away from the door to the recording booth. “This area is off-limits, and you’re supposed to be outside. All personnel are ordered to evacuate.”

  His grip was surprisingly strong, and I winced a little as I yanked my hand away. Who was he? He wasn’t a cop and he wasn’t a firefighter.

  From the look on his face, I figured he wasn’t a fan.

  “I need to go inside to check on something.”

  “No.”

  I reached for the door again, and this time he grabbed my hand in midair. He had very nice hands, with strong fingers and warm skin. I’m embarrassed to admit that even in times of crisis, I pick up on things like this. I noticed that he also had broad shoulders, thick dark hair, and the sculpted features of a movie star.

  How did I notice all this in a split second?

  I admit it, I’m shallow.

  “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?”

  Okay, he was hot looking, but he had the personality of a storm trooper. I breathed a sigh of relief. Cancel immediate sexual attraction; storm troopers are not my type.

  Time for the famed Maggie Walsh feistiness to kick in.

  “Nobody manhandles me, bozo. Do you know who I am?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.” A little smile played around the corners of his mouth, softening his chiseled features and adding to his attractiveness. Damn! I hate it when guys like this are good-looking. It makes it so much harder to keep an argument going.

  “I’m Maggie Walsh.” I waited for a look of recognition, a pleased smile, maybe even a request for an autograph. Which, of course, I would graciously grant.

  Nothing. Nada.

  “Maggie Walsh, host of WYME’s On the Couch with Maggie Walsh show. I’m a . . . a radio personality.” I stumbled a little over this last one because according to the latest Nielsen reports, the Maggie Walsh show was running neck and neck with Bob Figgs and the Swine Report. We were practically tied for last place.

  Still, Bob Figgs called himself a radio personality, so why shouldn’t I?

  He raised one eyebrow. “Lady, I don’t care if you’re Rosie O’Donnell. You’re going back outside, and that’s an order.” He frowned. “On the couch? That’s the name of your show?”

  “I’m a psychologist. A licensed psychologist,” I said. “On the couch is a reference to Freud. He used to have his patients lie on a couch while he analyzed them. He thought it helped them free-associate as he delved into their unconscious. There isn’t any sexual connotation to the term, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that.” He gave me the once-over, a look of cool appraisal in his smoky eyes. “In fact, that was the last thing on my mind.” He had sexy eyes and a lazy, heart-thudding smile.

  “It was?” Now I was getting annoyed. Not only did this guy have the personality of a Gestapo general, but he didn’t even find me attractive. Clearly, my academic credentials didn’t impress him, either.

  Who was he, anyway? He couldn’t be anyone official: He was wearing a pair of neatly pressed khakis, a white shirt and navy blazer, and boat shoes with no socks. Plus the annoying film-star good looks and the throaty voice.

  I forced some iron into my voice and tried again. “And if you don’t get out my way this very instant, I’m going to . . .”

  I lost my train of thought just then because hunky guy stepped closer—so close I could see the golden flecks in his dark eyes and the sexy curve of his mouth.

  “You’re going to do what?” he murmured, making it sound like the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to me. His voice was low and husky, and I felt a funny little tingling at the base of my spine.

  I paused for a second, ready to spring. “I’m going back in there, that’s what!”

  With a burst of adrenaline, I made a mad dash for the door once again, but something big and powerful stopped me. I slumped against the wall as if I had just run into a Subaru.

  Hot guy let out a big sigh. “Okay, lady, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.” He managed to slip one of my hands behind my back before I even realized what he was doing. “And I guess it has to be the hard way.” Another quick move and the other hand followed it.

  I felt something hard and metal fastening my hands behind my back.

  “Maggie Walsh, I am putting you under arrest.”

  Oh, no! My hands were pinned behind me and hot guy was perp-walking me down the hallway past the smoke-filled reception area, toward the double glass doors that opened onto the parking lot.

  I gave myself a mental head slap. This was not going as planned.

  “You’re a cop?” I gulped.

  A low sexy chuckle. “Detective Rafe Martino. At your service, ma’am.”

  “Look, they’ve arrested Maggie Walsh!”

  Big Jim Wilcox couldn’t keep the delight out of his voice. “Why did you do it, Maggie? Do you have a statement for us? It will be a WYME exclusive. You’ll be famous!” He fumbled around for a mike, realized he didn’t have one, and pulled out a pen and notebook from his back pocket. “Let’s hear your side of it, Maggie. Was it a love affair gone bad, or did you finally snap?”

  I gave him a withering look, and Vera Mae hurried over along with Cyrus Still, the station manager.

  “Good lord, Maggie. What in the world are you doing in those handcuffs?” she demanded.

  “Ask him!” It was impossible to gesture with my hands shackled behind my back, so I had to nod my head up and down like Mr. Ed.

  “It’s a case of false arrest—false imprisonment,” I squeaked. “This cop is taking me hostage. You’d better get me a good lawyer, Vera Mae.” I glared at Rafe, who was standing next to me, a wide smile on his face. “Or maybe get him one.”

  “Now, folks, let’s just simmer down here. Nobody needs a lawyer.” Cyrus gave me a speculative look and then turned his attention to Rafe. “Detective Martino, is there a problem here?”

  He called him “Detective.” So Cyrus knew this guy was a cop? Why am I always the last one to know these things?


  “No problem,” I muttered. “Just an innocent, private citizen getting strong-armed by one of Cypress Grove’s finest.”

  “I didn’t strong-arm you. You refused to obey me!” Rafe objected. “It’s a crime to disobey an order from an officer of the law.”

  “I didn’t know you were a cop,” I said hotly. I gave him the once-over. He looked like a J.Crew refugee in those neatly pressed trousers and crisp cotton shirt. “Is that the new dress code for Cypress Grove’s finest? You look like a preppie on spring break.”

  “I’m a detective,” he said in an aggrieved tone. “We don’t wear uniforms.”

  “I try to do my job and you arrest me? What happened to protect and serve?” I demanded.

  Score one for Maggie.

  “Detective Martino, did you identify yourself as a police officer?”

  Score one for Cyrus.

  “I didn’t have a chance to flash my badge,” he said. “I was too busy restraining her from entering the recording booth. She was going to put herself in harm’s way.”

  “Now, Detective Martino, I’m sure Dr. Walsh didn’t mean to make things difficult for you,” Cyrus said in a softly wheedling way. “She’s a very devoted employee; she was probably worried about her listeners.”

  “Yes, I was!” I thought about my poor listeners and could only hope their psyches were still intact.

  I turned to my captor. “Have you ever listened to ‘My Heart Will Go On’ for twenty minutes straight? Wouldn’t that count as cruel and unusual punishment? Like Chinese water torture? Or maybe bamboo shoots jammed under the fingernails?”

  Rafe looked puzzled and started fumbling with the handcuffs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but let’s call a truce. No charges, no arrest.”

  I yanked my hands in front of me and rubbed my wrists. I gave him my best Maggie Walsh glare, the one that I used on psychotics and convicted felons. No reaction. This guy was good. Okay, I could play it cool, too.

  “Have a nice day, Dr. Walsh.”

  I straightened my spine. Now was the time to deliver a snazzy zinger that he would never forget. A Maggie Walsh classic.

  “Detective Martino?”