Dead Air

by David A. Poulsen

  I climbed into the car and started for home.

  ELEVEN

  I was sitting at a table with orange juice poured at both of our places when Cobb entered the Blue Star. He hadn’t called me after I’d left the message on his machine the night before so I knew he’d be coming. I was looking at my phone and didn’t see him until he pulled out the chair opposite me.

  He was wearing a light tan blazer over a Gold’s Gym T-shirt and dressy jeans. Cobb was one of the few forty-something guys I knew who didn’t look ridiculous dressing like a twenty-something. He provided a nice contrast to my no-name grey T-shirt, ratty jeans, and Arizona Cardinals ball cap on backward. Going for the homeless twenty-something look.

  I pointed at the juice. “I’m not sucking up. I figured it was the least I could do for dragging you across town to a place that’s just a few blocks from my house.”

  “Didn’t cross my mind.” He grinned. “But thanks. Besides, I’ve brought the family to this place before and we love it. Even Peter, who is a pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner kind of guy.”

  “He never gets tired of it?”

  “Occasionally. That’s when he switches to pizza pops.”

  I smiled and nodded. “I don’t think I’ve asked for a while and I should have. How is your family?” I knew Cobb was crazy about his wife after almost twenty years together and lived for his kids, though Peter was a challenging sixteen-year-old and daughter Kennedy was entering puberty at full gallop — and with attitude.

  “Everybody’s good. Lindsay said there was minimal bloodshed over the choice of movie last night, and since I wasn’t there to referee, I’m happy for that. School went well last year. We’ll see how things unfold this fall. Every year they get older, I get more nervous. But so far it’s all good. What about you? How’s Kyla?”

  The waitress, young and full of far too much energy for that early in the day, brought two menus and a coffee pot. Cobb ordered the eggs Benedict and I ordered two fried eggs, chicken sausage, hash browns, and toast.

  When the waitress moved off and Cobb and I had doctored our coffee, I gave him the abridged summary of the day before.

  “Colonoscopy.” He shook his head. “Had my first one a couple of years ago. The crap they make you drink before the thing is the worst part of the whole deal. I feel for the kid.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Adam, if there’s anything I can do … I know people say that all the time, but I mean it. Anything at all … anytime.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it. Jill will, too.”

  We both sipped coffee before Cobb said, “I’m glad you’re on board for this, Adam. Speaking of help, I wasn’t kidding — I’m going to need yours.”

  “Have you talked to Larmer yet today?”

  “No, but I talked to Detective Landry. Buckley-Rand Larmer has been formally charged with first-degree murder in the death of Jasper Hugg.” Cobb took a sip of coffee. “He spent the night in jail and was transported to the Calgary Remand Centre this morning. We’re meeting this afternoon — one o’clock.”

  “We?” I repeated.

  “Larmer, his lawyer, a guy named Shulsky, me … and you if you want to be there.”

  “Do you want me there?”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad idea, but it’s your —”

  “Count me in.”

  “Good.”

  I leaned forward, aware of the need to keep my voice down. “Look,” I said, “I get that you believe Larmer didn’t stab Jasper Hugg, and next to Jill and Kyla, you’re the person I trust most in the world. But I’d like you to lay out for me why you think Larmer’s in the clear on this.”

  “Sure.”

  That was as far as he got as our server bounced to our table with our food. Crazy fast service. For a few minutes we were busy adding condiments and getting ready to move in on food that smelled as good as it’s possible for food to smell.

  We each sampled a couple of bites and the taste matched the aroma. As I chewed I realized I was nodding and when I looked at Cobb I saw he was doing the same thing. I came up for air, drank some coffee, and set my fork down — the way the etiquette books say you’re supposed to. I was pretty sure the people who wrote those etiquette books had never eaten at the Blue Star.

  “You ever read Calvin and Hobbes?”

  Cobb failed to set his fork down but he did straighten and pause. “Used to. Hasn’t been around for a while. Didn’t the guy retire?”

  “Watterson. Yeah, sort of. But I still go online and read them from time to time. I found one this morning that couldn’t be more appropriate. Calvin says he’s thinking of starting his own radio talk show. He tells Hobbes how he’s going to spout simplistic solutions for hours, ridicule people who disagree with him, and generally foster cynicism, divisiveness, and a lower level of public dialogue. Hobbes tells him he was born for the job.”

  Cobb chuckled. “Funny. And timely.”

  “And damn close to the truth,” I added. “And that, by the way, is the last editorial comment I will make for the rest of this breakfast.”

  We again devoted several minutes to the enjoyment of the food. Eventually we slowed, took more breaks, drank more juice and coffee.

  “Okay,” Cobb said during one of the respites. “Here are some of the reasons I think Larmer didn’t do it. First of all, motive. I think it’s flimsy at best to think Larmer was worried about Hugg taking over the show. Especially given Hugg’s aversion to the public eye … but if he was, even if he had another on-air personality in mind and assuming that Larmer actually knew something was going on, why kill the guy? Why not just fire his ass? Which is pretty much what you said.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I recall saying that.”

  “Secondly, there’re the threats and that killing of the talk show guy in Hamilton. I’m thinking there’s a connection, and I’ve already checked it out and Larmer has an unsinkable alibi for both times the Hamilton radio guy was shot.”

  “Unless he hired somebody.”

  Cobb nodded. “Unless that. Which I also asked him in the few minutes I had with him yesterday and which he also denied.” He paused in mid-point as our waitress returned, this time with the coffee pot. She eyed our rapidly emptying plates.

  “How’s the breakfast, guys?”

  “We’re hating every bite,” I told her.

  “We get that a lot.” She laughed, filled our cups, and moved off.

  “I’ve got another question for you,” I said.

  “Shoot.” Cobb looked at me intently.

  “Let’s go back to the motive thing for a second. What if Larmer found out or at least suspected that Hugg was behind the threats? Isn’t it possible that he could have offed Hugg almost in self-defence? Or as a first-strike action?”

  “Simple answer, yes, it’s possible he could have done that. As a matter of fact, I’m betting the cops and the Crown prosecutor are very interested in going down that road.”

  “But let me guess — Larmer says he didn’t even consider Hugg as the person behind the threats.”

  “Actually I didn’t get a chance to ask him that yet. I will in the meeting this afternoon.”

  “Okay,” I said, “this could go on for a while because as you know nothing would tickle me more than for Larmer to be convicted of murder and spend the next twenty-five years or so hosting all-night radio at the crowbar hotel. However, my debating the merits of the case would be counterproductive in that I am being contracted to help you prove that Larmer didn’t kill Jasper Hugg. So where do you want me to start?”

  Cobb reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper, unfolded it. “Names and phone numbers of everybody on staff at the station. Not counting Larmer and Hugg, there are fourteen people. How would you like to talk to a few of them? I don’t expect interrogation — just do your journalist thing and see if anybody is of
interest. If there is we go back at him or her a second time and see what’s shaking.”

  The waitress arrived to remove plates, which made my hesitation look less deliberate. When she left I said, “I don’t know. Research is one thing. Questioning potential suspects is a little out of my line. I’d hate to mess up and we miss the killer because I thought she looked like somebody I’d like to take home to meet the parents.”

  Cobb shook his head. “You’ve interviewed hundreds of people. And you’ve got great instincts. Bottom line here is we need to move fairly quickly, and if I have to talk to all fourteen, that could tie up two, three days. I’d like to be doing other things as fast as I can get to them. But this is important. One of these fourteen could be the killer and we need to talk to them all. But here’s what we’ll do — you interview four or five and if you’re not confident with how it went after you’ve talked to them, I’ll take a run at them.”

  I paused, then nodded. “Okay, when do you want to get started?”

  “Right after the meeting at the lawyer’s office.”

  I had just fired up the Accord when my phone signalled an incoming call. I didn’t recognize the number but took the call, anyway.

  “Hello.”

  “Looks like things are heating up big time on the Larmer front.”

  I hate it when people launch into a conversation without identifying themselves.

  “Who is this?”

  “Sorry. It’s Patsy Bannister. I thought you’d see it on caller ID.”

  “No problem. All I got was the number.”

  “Sorry,” she said again. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No, not really.”

  “I’ve been reading and watching … Jesus.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I’d already decided to say as little as possible to anyone asking about the case, but I was aware that Patsy might have to be an exception. She’d been pretty forthcoming with information going the other way and would undoubtedly expect a little quid pro quo.

  “I can’t believe Larmer would whack the guy that was such a huge part of his getting where he is. It doesn’t make sense unless he just lost it and —”

  “It’s too soon to say that Larmer killed Hugg. The police obviously have evidence sufficient to bring about an arrest, but Larmer claims he didn’t do it.” I decided to leave Cobb’s name out of it.

  “He told you that.”

  “Yeah,” I lied.

  “Well, no surprise there. So where are you in all this?”

  This was the part I wasn’t sure I wanted to share.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, a few days ago you were researching the life and times of Buckley-Rand Larmer. Now that includes a murder charge. Just seemed unlikely to me that you wouldn’t be, at the very least, interested.”

  “Fair enough. I’m interested.”

  “Any chance you can keep me in the loop on this?”

  “I can’t promise that, Patsy. First of all, I’m not sure how ‘in the loop’ I’ll be myself.” Another lie, but what I didn’t need was to be seen as a potential source of information by a media person I liked but didn’t know well. Certainly not well enough to trust. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. I know I owe you one. If it looks like something is breaking one way or the other, I’ll make sure you get a shot at it. Obviously I can’t speak for the cops, but we both know how that will go.”

  “Yeah, media briefings. Bare minimum. Ask for the public’s help. A couple of teasers and that’s it.”

  “Yeah, about like that. And even if I am involved, it won’t be my call to give you what I know. But like I said —”

  “Yeah, I know,” she interrupted. “I’m in the queue. Okay, thanks.”

  She ended the call and I knew she wasn’t happy, and in her shoes I’d have felt the same way. But I also knew there’d be damn little I’d be able to give her that she couldn’t get from other sources. That was how it worked. If we were lucky enough find the killer — assuming it wasn’t Larmer — then I’d be happy to give her a head start on the rest of the pack. But I didn’t want to promise that. And there were a lot of things that had to fall into place before that happened.

  I decided I had time to get home, take a run, shower, and get to the meeting with Larmer and his lawyer.

  Which started as badly as it is possible for a meeting to start.

  Larmer’s arraignment was scheduled for the next morning, which meant that if there was to be bail, it would happen then. Thus the meeting took place at the Calgary Remand Centre.

  The room was small, spare, and hot. It smelled faintly of onion rings and long-worn socks. The socks I understood, the onion rings not so much. An incongruous painting of what looked like a Hawaiian beach hung on one wall. Justice system humour?

  I shut down my phone as I took a seat on the opposite side of a heavy rectangular metal table from the defendant and his team. I’d just wrapped up a call to Jill and had learned that the colonoscopy was scheduled for two-forty-five. Jill said the procedure should take about an hour, but that Kyla wouldn’t be fully back from the anesthesia for another couple of hours after that. The good news was she’d be able to go home then. I told Jill I’d check in later and we ended the call.

  I looked across the table, but Larmer was looking away and didn’t notice me.

  Shulsky had brought along a couple of assistants, but before he could complete the introductions, Larmer did notice me. He pointed across the table and screamed, “Get that bullshit bastard out of this place right goddamn now!”

  Quite a different communicator as the accused in a murder investigation than he’d been during our meeting at the station. I was willing to cut him a little slack on that. As I was the bullshit bastard in question, I thought it best to keep my mouth shut and let Cobb and Shulsky sort out whether I would remain in the meeting or not. Shulsky looked at Cobb, eyebrows raised, waiting for an explanation. Cobb chose to direct his comments to Larmer and leaned forward, arms on the table.

  “Something you need to be aware of. You have a lawyer and he may or may not be able to get you out of the mess you’re in. And make no mistake, whether you killed Jasper Hugg or not, you are in a very large mess. You seemed to realize that in the hours immediately after the murder and the minutes after your arrest, which is when you asked me to stay in your employ, albeit in a different capacity — as an investigator rather than a bodyguard.”

  Larmer opened his mouth but Cobb raised his hands in a no-nonsense “I’m not finished” gesture, and Larmer, to his credit, closed his mouth and listened in doleful silence.

  “That was a good decision on your part,” Cobb continued, “because I’m very good at what I do and will be useful to both you and Mr. Shulsky here in the unfolding of this case. So, if you’re smart, you want me, Mr. Larmer, and let me make this very clear, you will get me only if Mr. Cullen works the case with me. And I’d appreciate it if you’d decide on that fairly quickly, because I have a busy schedule and will want to be moving along if I’m not needed here.”

  I was pretty sure Buckley-Rand Larmer wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to in the way Cobb had just spoken to him. And I was once again beyond surprised at the different faces of Mike Cobb. The often pleasant, almost gentle guy, especially around family and friends, became a pitbull on steroids when in his investigator persona.

  The simple truth was that neither of us knew just how much of an asset I’d be. And, of course, there was another way of going about this, which was to keep me in the background beavering away without Larmer’s knowledge.

  But that wasn’t how Mike Cobb worked. He wanted me there and he wasn’t about to go about having me on his team in some surreptitious way.

  And I knew two things for certain. He was neither afraid of nor intimidated by Larmer … and he wasn’t bluffing. Larmer would back down or Cobb and I would be enjoyin
g beer and something Italian at a nearby dining establishment within the hour.

  For a few seconds I wasn’t sure which way it would go. But only for a few seconds. Larmer glanced at his lawyer, who opted to remain silent and stare at his hands. The corner of Larmer’s thin mouth twitched once … twice.

  “He stays,” Larmer said in a voice that, had there been even the slightest background noise in the room, wouldn’t have been heard. But he wasn’t finished.

  His next words were at normal volume. “But I want both of you to know that I don’t like being played and I don’t like being bullshitted.” He turned his gaze to me. “And that phony interview you staged with me was bullshit.”

  Again I said nothing. Cobb was still leaning forward staring at Larmer. “Are you finished?”

  “I’m finished.” Larmer ran a hand over his face, a face that had grown considerably redder in that past couple of minutes. “And I will guarantee you one thing. You’ll both be finished for good if you pull any more shit.”

  “Right, then let’s get to it. There’s a lot of work to be done here.” Cobb leaned back. “Mr. Shulsky, I know there are things you’ll want to discuss with your client that don’t involve Mr. Cullen and me. So why don’t we take a little time to look at the things that are of interest to all of us? What can you tell us about what the cops have to work with?”

  “What we’ve got so far is sketchy,” Shulsky said, his voice at least an octave lower than his body said it should be. “We’ll get more in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The police received an anonymous tip that said someone was seen lying in the parking lot area of RIGHT TALK 700, that this person was covered in blood and appeared to be either badly hurt or dead, and that a gold Lincoln Navigator was seen leaving the area at a high rate of speed.”

  Cobb looked over at me. “Mr. Larmer drives a gold Lincoln Navigator.” He looked back at Shulsky. “I’m assuming the police have taken custody of the vehicle.”