Part 13 (1/2)
I'd already called in my apologies to Dr. Abramson, who wasn't the least miffed with me about the missed phone interview. Tossing around the words ”blunt-force head trauma” garners one a lot of sympathy, I'd discovered. We decided to go ahead with the show on Jungian archetypes without any preparation. I could only hope that he'd be mildly entertaining in person and that we'd get some interesting questions and comments from the listeners.
”So did they get him?” Vera Mae asked a few minutes later in the break room. She poured me a cup of hazelnut coffee, and we decided to go over a printout of some of some of the listener e-mails. She pushed a box of Dunkin' Donuts at me and I ate half of a powdered old-fas.h.i.+oned.
And then I ate the other half. Plus a jelly donut. A bear claw was calling to me, but I managed to ignore its sugary little voice. Who says I have no self-control?
”Afraid not. I couldn't give much of a description, and one of my neighbors saw a car parked outside, but who knows? They may never figure out who did it.” I went for a sugar cube and then poured a packet of Splenda into my coffee instead. Two donuts versus a packet of Splenda. If you do the math, it doesn't make any sense at all. ”And the more interesting question is not who, but why? G.o.d knows there's nothing in my condo worth stealing.”
”But maybe he didn't know that,” Vera Mae said, resting her chin on her hands. ”It was a he, right?”
I nodded. ”I think so. Or it might have been a very strong woman. Someone tall with a powerful body build.” I shuddered, remembering how the intruder had picked me up like a rag doll and tossed me against the wall.
”Well, the station is going to follow this closely. They're doing hourly updates.”
”But there's nothing new to report. I haven't even talked to the police today.” I'd been idly thinking about calling Rafe Martino but decided to wait another day. If he had any news, he would have gotten in touch with me. And I didn't want to get stuck shooting the breeze with Opie, who was probably better at hooking marlins than solving neighborhood robberies.
”This is Cypress Grove, honey. The break-in will be the talk of the town, trust me.”
I'd called Vera Mae earlier that morning to fill her in on most of the details of the break-in. She'd told me the latest buzz. Cyrus wanted to feature the break-in as a Crime Watch Exclusive, ”Talk Show Host Mugged and Robbed in Her Own Apartment!” I thought it was over the top, but he thought that my loyal viewers would be fascinated by the case and it would boost the ratings.
The reaction among the rest of the staff had been mixed. Big Jim Wilc.o.x had given me a speculative look as I checked my mailbox, probably wondering whether I had master-minded the break-in as a publicity stunt.
Twyla in Human Resources told me that if the break-in was related to my work at WYME, the station would consider picking up my medical bills. Since I had no idea who had hit me on the head, or why, I didn't expect to collect on her offer.
Irina shyly handed me a bunch of violets and a card when I walked past her desk. It read, ”I was deluged to hear you were hit on head. Your faithful friend, Irina.”
”Deluged? What do you think she means?” I asked Vera Mae, who read the note and giggled.
”Devastated? Or desolated? Something like that. Her heart's in the right place even if her English isn't up to par.”
I picked through the phone messages. Nick Harrison, my reporter pal at the Cypress Grove Gazette, had called a few times. I zipped into my cubbyhole/office to call him back, and he told me he was already writing a front-page piece about the attack.
I scrambled in my briefcase while we chatted, trying to find my day planner. No luck. It was probably buried under the mountain of papers on the desk and stacked up against the wall. The office was a mess, but here's my defense: Being a radio talk show host--even in a small town like Cypress Grove--puts you on the radar screen of every publicist in south Florida. I got a ton of press kits and promotional materials every single day. I gave up on the day planner and turned my attention back to Nick.
”And it's going to appear above the fold,” he was saying excitedly. Above the fold? Apparently getting thwacked on the head was big news in my small Florida town.
I asked Nick for an update on the guru investigation. He told me he'd already talked to Rafe Martino and learned there weren't any hot leads in the case. I guess the cops hadn't found fingerprints or any other ”trace evidence,” as Mom would say.
The cops had sent Lark's bottle of Calming Essence to a testing lab, but the results were inconclusive. They decided to send it to another lab in Miami for a.n.a.lysis. Guru Sanjay's cause of death was also inconclusive. Did he die of a head injury? Or did he die from ingesting something?
A lot of uncertainties, but one thing was sure. The bottom line was that Lark was still the key suspect. The only suspect.
The afternoon went rolling along. Vera Mae had announced a last-minute schedule change. At Cyrus's insistence, we were doing a surprise show: ”It's a Jungle Out There: Hanging Tough in a Dangerous World.” It was obvious Cyrus wanted to capitalize on the break-in in any way he could. As Cyrus says, ”It's all about the numbers, baby.”
So Vera Mae had run promos throughout the morning, inviting my listeners to call in with safety tips and home security products. It turned out to be a popular topic, and a lot of women asked me why I didn't carry pepper spray or a Taser gun.
”You could have Tasered him, sistah!” the first caller told me.
”Um, right,” I agreed weakly. Except I don't own a Taser gun and I doubt I'd have the guts to actually zap someone with one.
The next caller said I should have used something more lethal, like a Beretta. And someone else swore by a Glock.
I had the sneaky feeling that my listeners thought I'd been way too pa.s.sive in the attack on my home and self. Maybe they've never been thwacked over the head in the dark, completely taken by surprise. At the end of the first hour, I was beginning to feel like a wuss.
”You should have gotten one of those cell-phone stun guns,” Wanda from Boca said.
”Never heard of them,” I admitted.
”Honey, you just whip out your cell phone, pretend you're making a call, and zap the guy like a bug. Nine hundred thousand volts and wham! He'll be crying like a baby.”
”It has a built-in flashlight, and it comes in pink,” Vera Mae offered helpfully. ”It fits nicely in a f.a.n.n.y pack.”
”You have a cell-phone stun gun?” I asked her at the break.
”I saw one in Soldier of Fortune.” There was a touch of defensiveness in her tone. ”Not that I would hesitate to buy one. I'm a sucker for gadgets.”
I sipped my coffee as we went live again. It was obvious I was way behind the curve on the hottest trends in weapons.
Marlene from north Hollywood explained the concept of ”pistol purses” to me. Pistol purses are leather shoulder bags with compartments for sungla.s.ses, cell phone, and oh, yeah, your trusty nine-millimeter Glock. It's the latest in don't-leave-home-without-it personal safety devices.
The hour was winding down when Gina, who refused to give her city, described a Stinger twenty-two one-shot hand-gun that folds in the middle to create a revolver. It's practically the size of a pocket comb when it's folded. Yowsers.
Who knew? Even Vera Mae's eyes widened at that one.
”They've all been watching too many Bronson movies,” I said, slipping off my headphones at the end of my s.h.i.+ft. ”It sounds like half of Cypress Grove is packing heat. And the other half would like to.”
”Well, I really enjoyed the show, except I have my doubts about that one-shot gun,” Vera Mae said idly. ”What if you don't get him on the first try? Then you'd have created a real problem for yourself.” She scooped up the afternoon logs and headed for the billing department, where the logs would be recorded and the sponsors would be billed for their spots. ”When the chips are down, give me a .38 anytime,” she added over her shoulder.
”A .38?”.
She nodded. ”You bet. No mess, no fuss. Two in the head and you know he's dead.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon finis.h.i.+ng up some paperwork at the station, and it was nearly six thirty when I decided to call it a day. The sun was low in the sky, but the warm air was still rising off the blacktop, and the whole scene seemed to s.h.i.+mmer in the summer heat.
I opened the door to my red Honda Civic, wincing as my fingers touched the white-hot metal handle. I tossed my briefcase on the front seat and hesitated as a blast of hot air rushed out. It was like a broiler oven in there.
I waited a couple of minutes, then groped around under the seats to see whether the day planner had ended up there. No luck. It had to be back at the apartment or the office; those were the only two possibilities. Finally, I gave up the search and drove to Johnny Chen's for takeout with the AC cranked up as far as it would go.
I had just placed my order for three veggie lo meins when someone walked up quietly behind me. I must have been more strung out than I realized, because I felt my pulse jump. I sensed a warm body standing just a little too close to me, and my heart somersaulted.
I told myself to cool it. I was showing cla.s.sic symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder: racing pulse, exaggerated startle reflex, shortness of breath. A textbook case. All the beginnings of a full-fledged panic attack were there, which shouldn't have come as a surprise to me.
My neurons were firing for no reason at all, and I was as jumpy as if a saber-toothed tiger were sprinting after me. A primitive fear response, but a dangerous one. I had to act fast and nip this glitch in my brain or it would take over my life.
Then the mystery person moved in even closer. I could practically feel his breath on my back. Was it the intruder back for another whack at me? The skin on the back of my neck tingled, and I whirled around, holding my straw tote bag in front of me like a s.h.i.+eld.
I moved so fast, I nearly fell on top of him. My reptilian brain parts were in control, and all rational thought had vanished. My heart pounded as I connected with a powerful male body.