Hot Blooded

  "And Hollywood hasn't discovered him yet?" Sam said with a grin, as Charon ducked into the thick privacy hedge that ran on either side of her property.

  "Oh, he's not an actor," Edie was quick to correct. "He's a writer who just happens to be handsome as the devil. And that east Texas drawl of his, my stars," she fanned herself emphatically, as if the mere thought of this hunk caused her to melt inside.

  "If you say so."

  "I know a good-looking man when I see one. And I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts the new tenant has money, as well. Milo Swanson's tight with a dollar, he wouldn't rent to just anyone. You and I both know he'd charge an arm and a leg." She nodded, the brim of her floppy hat waggling and shading her face as she reached down for the handles of her wheelbarrow. "Anyway, the man just moved in last week. You might want to go down and welcome him to the neighborhood."

  "Maybe I could whip up some Jell-O," Sam suggested.

  The older woman chuckled and waved Sam's sarcasm away with one gloved hand. "A bottle of wine would be better." She extracted a checkered handkerchief from one frayed pocket. "There's a wonderful Pinot Noir from Oregon down at Zehlers—Molalla Vineyards makes it, and I guarantee it would be lots better than any flavor of Jell-O."

  "Duly noted," Sam said, as the dog sniffed at her shoes.

  "I hope so." Edie mopped the sweat from her forehead, then picked up the handgrips of the wheelbarrow again and made her way to the back of her property. Hannibal, tail curled, trotted after her. Sam smiled. Edie Killingsworth was the one person who had welcomed her to the neighborhood only days after she'd moved in. The older woman had brought over a casserole, fruit salad and yes, a bottle of Pinot Noir in a well-used picnic basket and invited Sam to visit anytime.

  Now, Sam glanced down the street to the old Swanson place, a quaint cottage in sad need of updating. A beat-up Volvo wagon sat in the drive, and boxes, broken down and flattened, had been left at the curb with a trash basket. Curious, her ankle aching, she walked past the neighboring houses, all on lots shaded by live oaks and shrubs. When she was close enough to the Swanson place, she looked past the rambling cottage to the dock and there, rising on the swells, was a sailboat, a large sloop, its sails down. For a second she thought it looked just like the one she'd imagined she'd seen a couple of nights earlier—the one with the man at the helm in the middle of the storm.

  But it had been a dark night.

  Her nerves had been stretched thin.

  There were lots of sailboats—thousands of them around these parts.

  Even if she had seen one that night, there was absolutely no reason to think it was this one. She shaded her eyes with her hand and stared at the sleek craft as it swayed on the water. Its name, Bright Angel, had been painted near the stern, but even from a distance she noticed that some of the paint had chipped. There was a box of tools lying open on the dock as if the owner was working on the boat. So the guy drove an aging Volvo and spent his time sailing or working on his boat when he wasn't writing whatever it was he wrote.

  Maybe Mrs. Killingsworth was right.

  Maybe a bottle of wine… and a Jell-O mold were in order.

  "I don't care what you say, I don't like it." Eleanor was reading George Hannah the riot act when Sam limped into the station the next afternoon. Soft jazz emanated from hidden speakers tucked into the neon-lit displays of Louisiana artifacts separating the reception area from the business offices and studios, but the music did nothing to soothe Eleanor. Not today. Sweeping a glance in Sam's direction, she paused long enough in her tirade to comment. "You got the cast off! Good. Feelin' better?"

  "Like I lost ten pounds." Her ankle was still swollen and hurt like crazy, but at least she was cast free and only used the crutch when she really needed it. She'd had to forgo heels or even flats for running shoes, but anything was an improvement.

  Eleanor, despite her foul mood, cracked a smile as the phone lines jangled. "Well, you got here just in the nick of time. I was telling George that no matter what the ratings are, I'm not interested in any kind of scandal. This guy who keeps calling you—your personal nutcase—has got to stop."

  "You heard about last night," Sam said.

  "Yeah, I heard. Tiny's got it all on tape." Eleanor, dressed in black, looked like the proverbial avenging angel as she paced in front of Melba's desk. "The way I see it, we still got us a problem, here, a major one."

  In her usual unruffled manner, Melba was taking call after call while George Hannah, dressed in a natty, expensive suit, was taking his tongue-lashing like a man, hands clasped in front of him, expression respectfully solemn, head nodding slightly as if he agreed with every word spewing from Eleanor's lips.

  Melanie breezed in from outside, bringing with her the scents of expensive perfume and coffee steaming from a paper cup she'd grabbed on the way in.

  "What's weird about this is that no one else heard the conversation, none of the listeners, as he called after the show was off the air." Melanie took a tentative sip and licked her lips. "It didn't affect the ratings."

  "It doesn't matter." Eleanor took them all in with one sweeping, argue-with-me-and-you'll-die glare. "There's enough interest from the program the night before."

  "So we should capitalize on it," George said, glancing at Samantha. He offered her a thousand-watt smile. George Hannah, for all his faults, was charming in his own self-aggrandizing way. And always interested in the bottom line.

  Eleanor was having none of it. "Look, George, we've all been down that road before. You, me and Samantha. Now, I don't want a repeat of what happened in Houston."

  Samantha froze, feeling as if every pair of eyes in the room had turned on her. For the first time the station owner looked uncomfortable.

  "That is ancient history," George said quietly, his smile fading as he, too, remembered the tragedy that had nearly destroyed Samantha's career nine years earlier. "No reason to dredge it up now."

  Thank God, Sam thought, sensing the color had drained from her face.

  "What're y'all talkin' about?" Melba asked as the phone jangled. "Oh, damn." With a pissy look, she took the call.

  "I mean it, George," Eleanor said, touching him on the elbow of his pin-striped suit. "We need to tread lightly. This guy sounds like a major wacko—one right out of Play Misty for Me, or Scream. It's no joke."

  "I didn't say it was one." The station owner held up a hand. "I think it's serious. Very serious."

  Eleanor's expression said it all: she didn't believe George for one minute. Lips pursed, she turned toward Samantha. "Okay, so what happened with the police? You called them… right? What did they say?"

  "That they were busy, that I should come in and fill out a report, that after that they'd send someone out to the house tomorrow—"

  "Tomorrow?" Eleanor tossed up her hands.

  "There's something about a problem with jurisdictions because I live in Cambrai, where I received the threatening letter and a call, but I've also gotten calls, here, within the city limits of New Orleans. Maybe the Sheriff's Department will have to get involved."

  "Well, it doesn't matter which branch handles it, just make damned sure someone does! Jesus H. Christ. Tomorrow! Fine. Just… fine." Eleanor forced herself to calm down as she moved her gaze to each and every one standing in the reception area. "In the interim we're all gonna be real careful, you-all got me?"

  "You know it," Melanie said, smothering a smile.

  "And you, don't you get fresh with me, girl. I want you to keep track of all the calls that come in here. Make sure the computer's got their number. Isn't that what damned caller ID is for?"

  "Yes, Mom," Melanie said sarcastically, just as she'd done to Sam the other day. "But the call came up as an anonymous number, probably from some system that couldn't be identified. There wasn't anything I could do."

  "That's the problem, you know," Eleanor said under her breath. "I get no respect around here."

  Melba pressed the hold button. "The advertising director's on line one,
for you." She caught Eleanor's eye. "A Mr. Seely called, wants you to call him back." She handed a pink slip of paper to George. "I would have directed him to your voice mail, if we had it, but since we don't…" George lifted a dark eyebrow as Melba twisted in her chair. "And here"—she slapped a couple of notes into Samantha's palm—"your dad phoned again."

  "We keep missing each other," Samantha explained, noting that the second caller had been David. So he didn't think it was over. David was like a terrier with a bone; he wouldn't give it up for anything. And Sam was the prize. She should have been flattered, she supposed, but wasn't.

  The impromptu meeting broke up, and as Sam headed down the aorta, Melanie fell into step with her.

  "What happened in Houston?" she asked in a whisper.

  "It was a bad scene and a long story." Sam didn't want to go into it, didn't want to remember what had happened to the scared teenager who had called in to her show asking for advice—seeking help. Dear God, the girl's voice still haunted her dreams at night. Dark memories skated through her mind, but she wouldn't dwell on them. Couldn't yet face the pain, nor the guilt. "I'll tell you about it later," she said, knowing she was lying.

  "And I'll hold you to it."

  "Good," she said, but knew she'd never discuss what had happened in Houston.

  She made her way to her computer and read her e-mail. She sifted through the usual stuff until she came to a note from Leanne Jaquillard, reminding Sam that they had "group" at the Boucher Center the next afternoon and the center was a madhouse getting ready for the benefit. Sam typed a quick reply, saying she'd be there.

  She volunteered at the center once a week, but because of her trip to Mexico, she hadn't seen the teenage girls she counseled for the better part of a month. They were an interesting group, all in some kind of trouble, all from highly dysfunctional famines, all attempting to get their lives back on track. They were some of the sweetest, most troubled and devious girls she'd ever met. Leanne was no exception. If anything she was probably the most troubled of the lot, a ringleader by nature. Street smart, undereducated, with a hard exterior that belied the frightened girl inside, Leanne Jaquillard had become the unelected leader of the group and the only member who kept in touch with Sam between sessions.

  The girl was just plain needy and reminded Sam of herself at that age—the difference being, of course, that Sam had grown up in a loving, well-to-do family in Los Angeles. At any sign of trouble, Samantha's parents had reined her in, talked with her, dealt with her rebellion and anxieties. Leanne wasn't so lucky. Nor were the other girls in the group. Sam considered them "her girls" as she didn't have any children of her own.

  Yet, she reminded herself. Someday she would have a baby. With or without a man. She didn't want to think that time was running out. She was only thirty-six and these days women had babies well into their forties, but the truth of the matter was her biological clock was ticking so loudly that at times she couldn't hear anything else.

  Her ex-husband hadn't wanted children, but David Ross had. That had been one of his most attractive attributes, one of the reasons she'd continued to see him, to try and force herself to fall in love with him.

  But it hadn't happened.

  And it never would.

  David Ross wasn't the man for her, and the disheartening thought was she was beginning to feel no man was.

  Oh, for God's sake, Sam, quit wallowing and don't give up hope. You should take some of that advice you hand out so readily every night on the airwaves. She gave herself a swift mental kick and told herself she was lucky she hadn't made the mistake of marrying David. Damned lucky.

  Ty Wheeler leaned back in his chair, the heel of one boot propped on the expansive desk, ice melting in his short glass. A bottle of Irish whiskey was uncapped nearby and his old dog was lying on the rug, close enough that Ty could reach down and scratch the shepherd behind his ears. A single banker's lamp offered dim illumination through its green shade in the shadowy cottage.

  Listening to the radio, Ty sipped his drink and heard Dr. Samantha Leeds's voice as she talked with the lonely people who called her in the middle of the night. His lips twisted. Poor sods. They all hoped she could solve some of their problems, or, failing that, allow them a connection to her.

  Such as it was.

  He stared through the open French doors to the lake beyond. Insects buzzed through the night, and the water lapped softly. A breeze lifted the curtains and offered some relief from the heat, but Ty didn't much notice. His concentration was centered on the woman's low, sexy voice wafting through the speakers of his radio.

  She was talking about commitment and fidelity—favorite topics with the late-night crowd, and he considered calling the number she kept reeling off, asking her a question or two that was on his mind.

  "Hello… who's this?" she asked, and he glanced down to the desk where a publicity shot of the woman stared up at him. Dark, near-auburn, red hair, bright green eyes, perfect porcelain skin stretched over cheekbones most women would kill for. Her mouth was wide and sensual, her smile fresh, not seeming posed… but then for all he knew the shot could have been computer enhanced, airbrushed and whatever the hell else professional photographers did to make their subjects appear more good-looking than God had intended.

  "Linda," a voice raspy from years of cigarettes identified the caller.

  "Hi, Linda, did you have a comment or a question?" Samantha's voice. Sultry as a hot Delta night.

  "An observation."

  "Observe away."

  Ty imagined her smiling, white teeth flashing behind full lips. In his mind's eye he saw her eyes, bright with an intellect and depth that she often hid, preferring to disguise that side of her. But it was there. He could feel it. Hear it in the undertones of her words, sense it in her throaty chuckle, knew that it lurked just beneath the surface. There were incidents where she'd exposed herself, of course. It was her profession to probe deeply and therefore give up a little of herself, but those moments were rare in this medium of radio, and what she offered to her listeners was a kind voice, keen intelligence and startling wit, but only rarely did she bare her soul.

  Not that it mattered. Not that he cared, he reminded himself. She was just part of his research; an integral part.

  "I'm thinking monogamy is societal and that since we're basically all animals, anyway, monogamy is a fallacy."

  "Is this your personal experience, or your comment on our lifestyle?" Sam inquired, egging the caller on subtly.

  "Both I guess." Linda cleared her throat.

  "Do you want to expand on that?"

  "I'm just saying it as it is."

  "Are you? Does anyone else want to comment on Linda's observation. Linda, would you mind staying on the line?" Dr. Sam asked, obviously searching for some kind of controversy, the kind of thing that caused the audience to react and listen, the true reason George Hannah had hired her and put her on the air. Ty knew enough about Hannah to realize the guy didn't give a good goddamn about the listeners— only about the numbers so that he could sell advertising space. George Hannah had learned about audience reaction to Samantha Leeds in Houston, and he was capitalizing on it. So was Eleanor Cavalier, though she was more subtle.

  "Sure, I'll hang on. No problem…" Linda was saying.

  "Hello, this is Dr. Sam."

  "And this here is Mandy. Linda's got it all wrong. Monogamy is the Lord's will and if she doesn't believe that she should start reading her Bible! She could start with the Ten Commandments!"

  "Are you married, Mandy?"

  "You bet I am. Fifteen years. Carl and me, we was high school sweethearts. We got ourselves three sons, and we've had our ups and downs, but we stick together. We go to church every Sunday and—"

  Absently Ty stroked his dog's broad head as he concentrated on the conversation playing through his speakers.

  Dr. Sam spoke to a few more listeners and the argument about fidelity and marriage raged. He glanced at the phone, a shiny rotary relic from another
century that had come with the house and sipped his whiskey slowly, letting it roll over his tongue. On the desk in front of him were dozens of notes, scattered pages filled with disjointed thoughts, facts that didn't link together and questions circled over and over again as he'd tried to come up with answers, to write a story that had been on his mind for a long, long time. Ever since he'd been a cop in Houston.

  Balanced on a corner of Milo Swanson's desk, Ty's laptop glowed, waiting for him to transcribe more of his notes onto the screen.

  But the words hadn't come tonight, and he knew why. He was blocked—that damned writer's disease that assailed without any glimmer of forewarning.

  There was only one way to break it.

  He had to meet the good doctor face-to-face.

  Chapter Seven

  "I want you to check out what's happening to Samantha Leeds." Melinda Jaskiel handed Rick Bentz the report "She's a nighttime DJ—radio shrink, and she thinks she's being harassed."

  "I've heard of her," Bentz admitted. "My kid listens to her sometimes." He was seated at his desk, chewing an old wad of Nicorette gum and wishing he could have a smoke. And a shot of Jack Daniel's… yeah, that would be the ticket. But he wouldn't.

  "Dr. Sam, as she calls herself, doesn't live in the city, has one of those nice places up on the lake in Cambrai. When this started a couple of days ago, she called the local PD. They were kind enough to fax over a copy of their report, and the officers in charge seem more than happy to have someone from the city help them out."

  He skimmed the pages, and Melinda, folding her arms across her chest leaned a hip against his desk.

  "I'd like to keep a lid on this one," she said. "The woman's a quasi celebrity around here. No reason to let the press get wind of it yet. They're already sniffing around, hoping we've got a serial murderer on the streets. Let's not give them anything else to stir up the public."

  Bentz wasn't about to argue. His post was tentative at best in the department, and he was only helping out with homicide, mainly because of Melinda. He wasn't going to blow it. He'd do whatever she asked. His duties included everything from burglary and arson to domestic violence. And he agreed with her one hundred percent about keeping the Dr. Sam story quiet. The last thing they needed was copycats calling up the station. There would probably be enough of those as there was just from her audience.