Before Another Dies (21 page)

“Floyd! Get in here!”

chapter 26

S
how me.” I popped out of my office chair and motioned for Floyd to plant his fanny. He hesitated. “It's a chair, not a throne, Floyd. Sit down.”

He did and seemed to enjoy sitting in the mayor's seat. He had been with me for half a year. I thought the mystique would have worn off, but not for Floyd. Floyd was unique, and that's what I like about him.

“It's simple,” he said, and pulled himself to my computer. “It's just like going to any other Web site. Start your browser.” He did. “Type in
www.robbyhood.com
in the white address box.” He typed. “Hit Enter and wait.” We waited.

City hall was equipped with broadband three years ago so the connection came up in a second. Before me was a dark blue, nearly black background with a composite image at the center. The image moved, words appeared, and tinny electronic music trickled from my computer's speakers.

“Pretty cool Flash, huh?” Floyd said. “All the really neat sites have it. We should get one for the city's Web page.”

“I'll think about it. What am I seeing?”

“It's just an introductory page meant to get your attention. That's what Flash is, an animated image that you can play over and over. It gets its name from the program used to make it, Macrome-dia Flash. They make Dreamweaver, Fireworks—”

“I know that, Floyd. I've been on the Internet before. I mean the background image.”

He studied it for a second. “Oh, that's just composite artwork from some of the most popular topics. See, here's a UFO, here's a photo of Bigfoot, here's one of Mothman—”

“Mothman?”

“Yeah. It's a great story. See, back in the sixties—”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “What I want to know is if Robby Hood lists the topics of his programs.”

“Oh, sure. In fact—” He moved the mouse and clicked on the word Enter just below the animated image. “In fact, you can listen to his past shows right online. I think . . . Yeah, here it is.” He pointed at the image of an antique radio in the upper left corner. The word “Archive” was printed below it.

“Okay. Thanks. I'll take it from here.” He rose and I took his spot in my chair.

“Aren't you going to lunch?”

I thought of my trip to the cafeteria an hour before. I wasn't hungry then, but I was beginning to feel a little empty. I took my purse from the drawer, removed my wallet, and gave him a twenty-dollar bill. “If you'll run down to the cafeteria and pick up a tuna salad for me, you can keep the change and take Celeste out. You won't be able to do anything fancy, but you should be able to find enough tacos to feed the two of you.”

At the mention of Celeste's name a broad grin crept across his face. “Thanks!”

“I'm talking lunch, you understand? I'm not giving you two the afternoon off. I want you back in plenty of time for my two o'clock meeting. Got it?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He was gone.

By the time my salad arrived, I had made myself familiar with Robby Hood's Web site. The guy was more than a talk show host; he was an industry. There were books for sale and tapes and CDs to buy. I found a link to “Just Who Is Robby Hood?” and followed it. A new page appeared on my screen dominated by the picture of a man in his thirties with brown hair as long as mine, wraparound sunglasses, and a black goatee. “You're kidding,” I said to myself. As if in response, the picture changed, dissolving from the middle-age hippie to the image of a man who could be the anchor of a prime-time news show: black-and-gold silk necktie, sharply pressed white shirt, dark suit coat. His hair was bleached blond. It changed again. This time the photo was of a chimpanzee with a sun visor on his head, a cigar in his mouth, and playing cards in his hand. He was holding a full house.

“Cute.” I spoke to the monitor and the air in the room.

The picture changed again, and this time a sentence appeared: “Wouldn't you like to know?” I wasn't going to find help here. I surveyed the rest of the site and found articles written by those claiming expertise in UFOs, cryptozoology, government conspiracies, alien abduction, mind control, privacy rights, crop circles, angel sightings, devil sightings, Mars archaeology—how could that be?—ancient civilizations, and more. It was a collection of every fringe idea I had heard of and a dozen more I hadn't.

I went back to the archive page. A long list appeared divided by date and hour. Since Hood's show was four hours in length, each day was marked off in four sections. The archive went back thirty days. I was only concerned with the last four. What I found was:

Wednesday p.m./Thursday a.m., January 11/12

• First hour: Open lines.

• Second hour: A security guard's remarkable ghost story.

• Third hour: Daniel Pat, mind-control expert.

• Fourth hour: Is the sun making us sick?

Tuesday p.m./Wednesday a.m., January 10/11

• First hour: Open lines.

• Second hour: Author Nicholas Templar,
UFO's and Cold
War Soviet Union.

• Third hour: Author Nicholas Templar, continued.

• Fourth hour: Open lines.

Monday p.m./Tuesday a.m., January 9/10

• First hour: Open lines.

• Second hour: Chemtrails. Poison from the sky?

• Third hour: Is the Hubble Space Telescope looking at you?

• Fourth hour: Open lines.

Sunday p.m./Monday a.m., January 8/9

• First hour: Open lines.

• Second hour: Chupacabra, trolls, gremlins, and other beasties.

• Third hour: The Mayan Calendar and the Prophecy of Doom.

• Fourth hour: Mayan Calendar continued.

Not the usual fare for talk show hosts, but I had already learned that from the few times I had listened to a portion of Hood's show. I was after a connection. Was it just coincidence that a security guard dies on the same night Hood's program featured such a guard with a ghost story? Jim Fritz died in the mechanic's bay of the airport while working on a rush repair job for a client. That was early Tuesday the tenth. Hood had an hour devoted to something called chemtrails. I caught a portion of the first hour where a caller mentioned chem-trails. Chemtrails, if there were such things, were laid down by airplanes. There was a connection.

Sunday's show was odd. I didn't know what a chupacabra was so I did an Internet search. I was surprised at the number of sites the search found. I clicked on the first one and learned more than I wanted to know. Stories out of Puerto Rico told of a sharp-fanged, aggressive creature that moved on two legs; stood no more than three feet tall; and attacked, killed, and sucked the blood from farm animals.
Chupacabra
means “goat sucker.” And I thought politicians had bad press. Apparently sightings were now being made in the U.S. I frowned and returned to the Hood site. Goat-sucking critters hadn't killed three people in my city; someone who knew how to break a neck did.

What was I missing? When I saw it, I wondered why I didn't see it sooner. “Second hour: Chupacabra, trolls, gremlins, and other beasties.” Gremlins! Jose Lopez was found dead in a green AMC Gremlin. I was stretching. I had to be. What kind of connection was that? Still, it was adding up. First night, Hood talks about mythical creatures, including gremlins, and a man is found dead in a car called a Gremlin. Hood has a guest on to talk about airplanes spraying chemicals in the air and Jim Fritz is found dead in an airplane. Last night—or probably very early this morning—a security guard is found dead after Hood has a guest talk about a ghost he saw while working as a security guard. Three hits. Too much for coincidence.

But wait. Jose Lopez died on the ninth, not the eighth. The dates weren't adding up for me. They seemed one day off. Hood's program aired Sunday the eighth. Lopez was murdered Monday the ninth. Was the killer just slow or . . .

The lack of sleep was making me slow. Floyd said that Hood's program began at eleven and went to two or three. I couldn't remember but that detail didn't matter. It explained the mix-up in the dates. Hood's Web site listed the day the program started. Technically, since it crossed over midnight, it was aired on two days.

I had a connection. I didn't know how to explain it, but at least it was a connection.

I leaned back and noticed that I hadn't started the salad I sent Floyd to get. It wasn't the first time I had lost myself and skipped a meal. I picked up the salad, removed the plastic cover, and then set it back down. Something had occurred to me. Clicking the home link, I was taken back to the start page of Hood's Web site. Not only did the site list past shows, but it had a section on upcoming guests.

I clicked the link and saw a page that showed the shows and topics for the week. I had seen the first three days in the archives section. It was Thursday—tonight's schedule—that I wanted to see. I found it.

I wished I hadn't.

chapter 27

I
considered calling the police station and asking someone there to contact West. I could exercise my title and probably get what I wanted, but word would reach Chief Webb and I didn't want to give him another reason to attach swear words to my name. I looked at my desk clock: 12:40. I had an hour and twenty minutes before the start of the meeting I had called. It was less than ten minutes to the marina and another ten back. That left an hour, maybe a little less, for me to find and talk to West. I weighed the pros and cons, then grabbed my purse. Pro and con weighing took time. It was time to let my impetuous spirit free for a while.

I printed out my little charts and a few other notes I made and hotfooted it to my car. Thirteen minutes later I pulled onto the lot of the Santa Rita Crown Marina, the publicly owned parking place for boats and small yachts. One mile down the road was the Yacht Club that the really expensive boats called home. The parking lot was situated in front of a wide strip of lawn that framed the grounds of a long, Nantucket-style building. Its white walls reflected the sun and contrasted with the green of the grass and box-hedge planting that ran parallel with the exterior wall. The building held the rental office, a boat supply store, a small convenience store, and an all-purpose room for those hearty souls who preferred the narrow confines of a sailboat to a house.

West was easy to find. It was hard to miss the two black-and-white patrol cars, the white unmarked detective's vehicle, and the bright, broad yellow tape. This time there was no ambulance and no coroner's van. Too much time had passed. I guessed they had transported the body hours ago.

Clutching my purse, I dropped down from the driver's seat of my SUV and walked across the asphalt lot to the gate where the police activity was. The gate was ten feet or so north of the main building. A chain-link fence filled in the gap and continued around the property, turning at ninety degrees and extending past the water's edge a good ten or fifteen feet. Anyone wanting to sneak around the fence needed a boat or they would get their feet wet.

West was watching as one man and one woman in blue jump-suits milled around. The jumpsuits had white lettering on the back; some small letters and two large ones. As I approached I could see that the smaller lettering read, “Santa Rita County,” and the large letters, “SI.” It was Scientific Investigations, the arm of the county sheriff's department that did the forensics work for the unincorporated areas and the chartered cities within its borders. The Santa Rita police department was too small to have its own forensics lab.

I continued forward as if I owned the place. It was a gift I had. I could look like I belonged in almost any situation. As I neared, I saw one of the uniformed officers look my way, then say something to West. He turned but didn't approach. He pulled out his wallet and removed a bill of some denomination. He handed it to the officer and returned the wallet to his rear pocket.

He smiled as I stopped at the yellow ribbon barricade. A small group of onlookers hovered around the scene, held at bay by the Crime Scene—Do Not Cross ribbon. I put some distance between myself and the crowd. West followed. Only a few feet separated us, and I closed that gap with a couple of steps.

“You're late,” he said.

“I'm what? I'm never late. We didn't have an appointment.” I opened my purse and reached for the printout.

“No, but you're late nonetheless. I bet the officer you'd be here by ten thirty. You cost me five bucks.”

“You cost yourself five bucks,” I retorted. “You shouldn't be betting.”

“I didn't want you to think I was perfect.”

I grasped for the nearest witty remark but came up empty-handed. My heart was doing a jig. I was excited about my news. “I'm not that predictable.”

“No, Mayor. Of course not.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Did I just detect a whiff of sarcasm?”

“Nothing but clean, pure air out here. What can I do for you, Mayor?”

A few hours ago he had said it was time we started dating. He said it like he was making an observation about the weather. Here he was calling me by title. Of course, I would have been surprised if he had done anything different. We were both working in our official capacity—and there were other people around.

I had spent the short drive over practicing my speech. It was clear, short, and certain to avoid the appearance that I was meddling in a police investigation. I had acquired that reputation last year, and I didn't want to give any reason for the rumor to be resurrected. As an experienced speechwriter I knew that no matter how long or short the text, it should include an attention step, followed by a need step, satisfaction and visualization steps, and then end with a call to action.

“I prefer to leave police business to the police,” I would begin and then lay out what I had discovered. Instead, I tossed the speech and got to the point. “Here.” I thrust the papers at him. Not a stellar beginning, but it got his attention.