Hot Blooded

  "Time for me to disappear," Melanie said with a trace of envy. "The he-man cometh." She slipped past a huge pot overflowing with heady blossoms, then edged around a mannequin dressed in antebellum splendor just as Ty reached Samantha.

  "Sorry I'm late. I got held up. Navarrone. The guy's timing leaves a lot to be desired, then traffic was a bitch." He caught the stem of a wineglass balanced upon a tray carried by a slim, bored-looking waiter.

  "I managed to survive without you," she teased.

  "Did you? Hmm." His eyes held hers for just an instant. "And here I thought you'd be pining away for me." A slow, sexy smile crawled across his face.

  "Dreamer."

  The band struck up another song but it faded quickly, as if the speakers had suddenly given out. Few people noticed as conversation droned, but Ty glanced up at the balcony. "Technical problems," he said watching as the bass player fiddled with the amplifier.

  "Shouldn't be. Half the people in the station can handle this kind of equipment. Rob, George, Melanie, Tiny, even I know how to work the basic stuff."

  A few more people seemed to notice that the music had stopped and Eleanor headed toward Tiny, gesturing toward the second story. Tiny turned for the stairs but not before a screeching of a microphone, feedback of some sort, caught all the guests' attention.

  "What the devil?"

  Music began to play, but not from the band, no it was the first chord of "A Hard Day's Night."

  "Oh, no," Sam said, her heart thundering.

  The music played and faded quickly, men Sam's voice filled the tightly packed arena. "Good evening, New Orleans and welcome to Midnight Confessions…"

  "Did you tape this?" Ty demanded.

  "No." She saw George Hannah stop talking and Eleanor chase after Tiny. The courtyard was instantly quiet. "… tonight we're going to be discussing.…" men Sam's voice faded. She felt two hundred pair of eyes upon her. "… sacrifice and… retribution …"

  He's taped together some of my shows, she thought, her heart racing wildly, her eyes scanning the crowd. He was here. She knew it. But where? She searched the entrances and balconies… where the hell was he?

  Tiny was climbing to the balcony and Eleanor had turned her attention toward Sam. Marching through the crowd, she glared at Sam. "Did you know anything about this?"

  "Of course not."

  "Get her out of here," she ordered Ty.

  "This is Midnight Confessions and so I invite you to call in… what's on your mind, New Orleans? Let me know …"

  "What the hell's going on?" George was looking straight at Eleanor. "Is this someone's idea of a sick joke?"

  "You tell me," Eleanor shot back as Bentz, talking into a walkie talkie, joined them.

  "Find out where he's broadcasting from," he said, snapping off the handset and glaring at Eleanor. "We'll need to get everyone out of here—I've got backup coming and we'll usher everyone into the parking lot across the street."

  George stepped forward. Got in the detective's face. "You can't have our guests treated like cattle!"

  "Have you ever sacrificed yourself?"

  "Watch me." Bentz snapped his fingers to a uniformed cop. "I want the names and addresses of everyone who walked into the building in the last week. I'm talking construction crew, hotel staff, guests, delivery men, anyone. Now, let's get going." Already people were moving toward the doors.

  Bentz's radio crackled and he snapped it on. "Okay, I'll be there." He snapped the handset off and explained. "Looks like we found the source." He started toward a stairwell and Sam was on his heels. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, "Police business. You stay."

  "No way. This is about me."

  Bentz whirled. Sweat dotted his brow and his face was florid. "You'll damned well do what I say. Until I find out that the scene is safe and secure and the crime-scene team has had a chance to check it out, you stay here." He glanced at Ty. "Make sure she obeys."

  He turned again and left Dr. Sam sputtering. Damned fool woman. Didn't she know how dangerous this was? He took the steps down to a basement room where several cops were standing guard.

  "This it?"

  "Looks like," one of the plainclothes cops said. "An old storage room, had been cleared out for the construction."

  But it wasn't empty tonight. A tape player connected to wires running into the walls was on the floor and seated in a folding chair in the middle of the room was a mannequin, stripped naked, wearing only a Mardi Gras mask, a red wig and a rosary knotted around her throat.

  "Jesus," Bentz whispered as he stepped into the dank room. Using gloves he removed the red wig, then the mask. "Holy shit." The mannequin's eyes had been blackened and gouged to resemble the mutilated bills.

  Bentz was certain Samantha Leeds would be next.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Nearly a week later, Sam was at her desk in the station, reading her ever-expanding e-mail and trying to survive the aftershocks of the party. The police had no suspects, though most people thought someone posing as a construction worker could have entered the building. One of the mannequins had been taken from the floor and stashed in the basement and someone with a rudimentary knowledge of the PA system had jerry-rigged the tape player into the amps. The police had questioned everyone in attendance and all the hotel and construction workers. Ty had been second guessing the police and holing up with Navarrone while Sam had spent every waking minute poring over texts on serial killers, psychotics, anything that would pertain to John. Rick Bentz had stepped up the security around her, both in the city and at her home.

  Yet John had remained silent. Never once calling the station. Never taking credit for his actions.

  She shivered as she thought of the mannequin with its blackened, sightless eyes and nude body. It had been left as a personal message to her.

  A threat.

  Or a promise.

  And the ratings for Midnight Confessions continued to soar through the roof. George Hannah was beside himself and the police had been hinting that the entire scene had been staged, a ploy by the owner of WSLJ to increase the audience.

  Sam didn't think so, though she was nearly certain two forces were at work. The monster whose objective was to kill and someone else who liked to play head games—or was it one person with a split personality? Someone here at the station who was connected with Annie? For God's sake, who?

  She heard footsteps in the hallway. A minute later Melanie popped her head into the office. "Show time," she said, her long curls catching in the light. "It's time for" —Melanie wiggled two fingers of each hand and lowered her voice for emphasis—"the meeting."

  "What're you doing here at this time of day?" Sam asked, pushing her dark thoughts aside. "I came here because I was called in, but don't you have a social life?"

  Melanie grinned widely. Her gold eyes twinkled. "I've got a great social life."

  "The new mystery man?"

  "Mmmm." With a Cheshire cat smile she couldn't contain, Melanie nodded. "I think he might just be 'the one.' "

  "This sounds serious," Sam observed.

  "I'm keeping my fingers crossed and all my toes!" Melanie was practically beaming, and Sam was reminded that she was barely twenty-five.

  "So who is the guy? Anyone I know?" Sam asked.

  Melanie shook her head, but a naughty glimmer shone in her gold eyes. "Nah."

  "So when do I get to meet him?"

  "Soon," Melanie said quickly. "I'll bring him around. Now, you'd better get to that meeting. Boy George doesn't like to be kept waiting."

  "Don't let him hear you call him that."

  "Never," Melanie swore.

  Sam wasn't looking forward to the meeting. Something was up. She felt a new sense of anticipation crackling in the air. Sam had the sneaking suspicion that the popularity of her show, nefarious as it was, would be the topic.

  Since the party, WSLJ had been besieged with phone calls from the press wanting interviews, and, moreover, the calls to Sam's program had doubled and triple
d. New Orleans was electrified by the show, hundreds of heretofore disinterested listeners sought Samantha's counsel and wanted to hear their own voices echoing over the airwaves. Others sought their own form of infamy, phoning in, pretending to be "John" or another nutcase. Copycats were slinking out of the city's narrow, dark alleys in droves.

  Melanie was going nuts screening the calls, and Detective Bentz had ordered a double-blind. Any and all calls received from 9 p.m. to 2 p.m. were put through a second screen. Melanie screened the calls before a policewoman assigned by Bentz would answer as if she were Dr. Sam. Every phone call was taped and could be traced.

  And so far John had remained silent.

  The police were confident he would be caught, but even the press releases and the composite computer sketch of the suspect had yielded no arrests. John seemed to have gone underground and, to be honest, the drawing was a little too much like everyman. Any twenty-five to thirty-five, six-foot man with a decent build and dark hair was a potential suspect.

  "So put in a good word for me," Melanie said with a smile. "You know, tell George that I'm your overworked, underpaid, highly educated and very loyal assistant who's willing to sell her soul for a shot at her own program."

  "I'll remind him," Sam said dryly as she walked into one of the larger rooms in the station, the library really, but one Ramblin' Rob referred to as the "Bored Room," whenever George, the sales force, and any other execs held a meeting.

  "Samantha, come in, come in," George said, as Melanie closed the door behind her.

  Dressed in a gray business suit, white shirt, and splashy tie designed by Jerry Garcia, George sat at one end of the table, Eleanor, a dour expression on her face, sitting at his right arm. A few folders and notebooks were scattered on the table. "No reason to beat around the bush," George said as Sam pulled out a chair directly across from him and settled into it. "I'm looking to expand your show."

  "For the record, I'm not in agreement," Eleanor countered. "I think it would be a mistake. George here is looking at ratings, advertising dollars, the bottom line, but I think there's more to it than that."

  "Of course there is." George slid Sam his most disarming smile. "I'm not oblivious to the down side of what's going on, but I think we should take advantage of the situation."

  "You mean exploit it," Eleanor said, her dark eyes flashing. "This isn't a 'situation,' it's a damned nightmare. Sam's gotten her house broken into, threatening letters and calls not to mention that damned cake or the mannequin at the party for Christ's sake. And now we know that the guy who's behind it is a murderer, a butcher, a serial killer! This isn't about ratings as much as it is about terrorization. If I were you, I'd be thinking about pulling the plug on the show, at least temporarily, until this all dies down. I wouldn't be considering expansion. This joker out there means business. He calls in on line two—as if he's got a list of our private numbers. He calls in after hours. He goddamned murders women."

  "Prostitutes," George qualified.

  "Women," she shot back. "You might have noticed the police crawling all over this place because a serial killer is somehow involved. And you want to profit from this—to expand hours?" She skewered him with one of her Eleanor I'm-not-taking-any-of-this-nonsense looks. "What we need here is increased security and I'm not talking about the rent-a-cop you hired. For the time being we've got the police, and they're tracing calls, but we need to make sure some of the security measures they've employed aren't temporary. I want a permanent system to trace calls and every lock on this building changed. The way I figure it, a few weeks ago someone got in the kitchen through the balcony. The police agree. So we've put a new lock on that door, but what's to say he can't get back in? I mean we're talking about a murderer, for God's sake!"

  She took a breath.

  George leaned back in his chair and threw down his pen. "That's what I love about you, Eleanor, always stressing the positive."

  "There isn't anything positive about this."

  "But it's what the audience wants."

  "To hell with the audience. I'm talking about the safety of my—our—employees."

  George rolled his lips over his teeth and sucked in his breath. "Samantha, maybe you could help me out here. I'm talking about increasing your audience, expanding the show to a full week and making it worth your while. I'm talking increasing from here in New Orleans to every major market east of the Rockies."

  Sam lifted a brow.

  "Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but it could be a goal."

  "Jesus H. Christ, do you know what you're saying?" Eleanor asked.

  "You know, Eleanor, I don't pay you to argue with me."

  "Like hell you don't. That's exactly why you pay me. To keep your goddamned feet on the ground. To keep you in touch with reality."

  "Okay, so I've got it. Your point's well taken, duly noted, but I still think we need to take care of this opportunity. We'll double the security, change the locks, have escorts walk Samantha to her car or drive her home, whatever it takes. Of course the safety of the staff comes first."

  Eleanor leaned back in her chair and folded her arms over her ample chest, but she didn't argue, just said, "Make sure you mean it, George, that this isn't just lip service."

  "It isn't. I swear."

  She didn't comment.

  "Look," Sam said, deciding to nip this in the bud, "Personally I'm not ready to expand to seven days a week, if that's what you're thinking." She was run ragged as it was, and the thought of seven nights behind the microphone was too much—even temporarily. "Not unless you hire someone else to share the load."

  "Melanie could do it. With a little seasoning, I suppose," Eleanor offered up, though she was obviously lukewarm to the idea.

  "Not Melanie." George shook his head. "We lost listeners when you were on vacation."

  "Well, someone."

  "No one can take your place. The audience identifies with you, Sam. I know it would be longer hours, a big commitment on your part, but I'd make it worth your while—a significant raise and bonus if the expanded hours worked, after that you could share the booth with someone… maybe even Melanie or Ramblin' Rob or Gator, until the audience trusted them and they could wing it alone a few nights a week."

  "Rob and Gator aren't psychologists," Sam argued. "They're radio personalities. The show would lose credibility."

  "Okay, so what about Trish LaBelle over at WNAB? I've heard rumors that she's not happy with her format. She might be interested."

  "Trish LaBelle," Sam repeated, stunned. Trish's style was harsh. Judgmental. She called it, "shooting from the hip" or "telling it like it is." But Sam thought she went too far, humiliated the listeners who called in, ridiculed their problems with her snide sense of humor.

  Eleanor clucked her tongue. "No way would Trish LaBelle be second fiddle to anyone. Not in a million years. Besides that the woman's poison. I don't like her style. No siree, that's one can of worms I don't want to open." She skewered George with a harsh glare. "And don't give me any of that you've 'heard rumors' garbage. I know you've talked to her, that this is already in the works."

  The corners of George's mouth tightened. "I have to do what I think is best for the station."

  "Then you'd better start by making sure your employees are safe."

  "I already said I'd handle that, and I offered the job to Sam, but she doesn't want a seven-day-a-week job. We just went through our options with people already on staff, but"—he turned his palms toward the recessed lights and spread his fingers— "Samantha doesn't think they're professional enough, that they don't have the right degrees."

  "They don't," Sam agreed.

  "So I suggested Trish."

  "She doesn't either," Sam said quickly. "She's got a sociology degree with a minor in psychology."

  What little was left of George's smile disappeared.

  "Okay, but that's good enough for WNAB, and I think it's good enough here. What Trish LaBelle does have is AM listeners who might follow her and sw
itch to FM here with Midnight Confessions. I think the two of you could make a powerhouse team. Now, you can go it alone, or take on Trish as your partner."

  "Wait a minute, wait a minute," Eleanor cut in. "You make it sound like this is a done deal, that Trish is already on board."

  "Not yet, but I'm negotiating with her. It all depends on Sam, but one way or another, we're going to capitalize on the success of Midnight Confessions. You, Samantha, have to decide whether you're dedicated enough to run it alone, or if you can share the limelight with Trish." He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. "One way or another, we're expanding the format to include weekends."

  "So this meeting wasn't about options," Eleanor said, her feathers way beyond ruffled. "It was just a formality."

  "And it's over." He rapped his knuckles on the polished surface of the table to accentuate his point. "Let me know what you want." Standing abruptly, he tugged on his tie, then strode out of the room.

  Eleanor sighed and threw up her hands. "Sometimes I wonder why I stay."

  "Because you love it."

  "Then maybe I should hire you because I must need help, serious, deep, psychological help."

  "I don't believe it," Sam said as they walked into the outer lobby, where Melba was handling calls. "You're the sanest person I know."

  "Oh, God, then we're all in trouble."

  "I'll be back tonight," Sam said, checking her watch. She had hours before the show and a million errands to run. She didn't expect to run into Melanie lurking in the lobby of the building.

  "Well?" Melanie asked, as they passed the security guard and walked into the blazing afternoon sun. "What's up?"

  "They're thinking of expanding the show."

  Melanie's grin was instantly wide, lighting up her whole face. "I knew it! That's great news! So—how are they going to do it? Longer hours, more days a week?"

  "More days, but it's still up in the air."

  "But you can't possibly handle it all yourself."