by Gail Bowen
Copyright © 2012 Gail Bowen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Bowen, Gail, 1942-
Gail Bowen Ebook Bundle [electronic edition] / written by Gail Bowen.
(Rapid reads)
ISBN 978-1-4598-0449-4 (PDF) ISBN 1-4598-0450-0 (EPUB)
I. Title. II. Series: Rapid reads
PS8571.0985B37 2010 C813’.54 C2009-907248-3
First published in the United States, 2010
Summary:Three Charlie D mysteries.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by Dreamstime and Teresa Bubela
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15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
LOVE YOU TO DEATH
ONE FINE DAY YOU'RE GONNA DIE
THE SHADOW KILLER
To Kelley Jo Burke, who understands the
power of radio and uses it wisely.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
A wise man once said 90 percent of life is just showing up. An hour before midnight, five nights a week, fifty weeks a year, I show up at CVOX radio. Our studios are in a concrete-and-glass box in a strip mall. The box to the left of us sells discount wedding dresses. The box to the right of us rents XXX movies. The box where I work sells talk radio—“ALL TALK/ALL THE TIME.” Our call letters are on the roof. The O in CVOX is an open, red-lipped mouth with a tongue that looks like Mick Jagger’s.
After I walk under Mick Jagger’s tongue, I pass through security, make my way down the hall and slide into a darkened booth. I slip on my headphones and adjust the microphone. I spend the next two hours trying to convince callers that life is worth living. I’m good at my job— so good that sometimes I even convince myself.
My name is Charlie Dowhanuik. But on air, where we can all be who we want to be, I’m known as Charlie D. I was born with my mother’s sleepy hazel eyes and clever tongue, my father’s easy charm, and a winecolored birthmark that covers half my face. In a moment of intimacy, the only woman I’ve ever loved, now, alas, dead, touched my cheek and said, “You look as if you’ve been dipped in blood.”
One of the very few people who don’t flinch when they look at my face is Nova (“Proud to Be Swiss”) Langenegger. For nine years, Nova has been the producer of my show, “The World According to Charlie D.” She says that when she looks at me she doesn’t see my birthmark—all she sees is the major pain in her ass.
Tonight when I walk into the studio, she narrows her eyes at me and taps her watch. It’s a humid night and her blond hair is frizzy. She has a zit on the tip of her nose. She’s wearing a black maternity T-shirt that says Believe It or Not, I Used to Be Hot.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Mama Nova,” I say. “You’re still hot. Those hormones that have been sluicing through your body for nine months give you a very sexy glow.”
“That’s not a sexy glow,” she says. “That’s my blood pressure spiking. We’re on the air in six minutes. I’ve been calling and texting you for two hours. Where were you?”
I open my knapsack and hand her a paper bag that glistens with grease from the onion rings inside. “There was a lineup at Fat Boy’s,” I say.
Nova shakes her head. “You always know what I want.” She slips her hand into the bag, extracts an onion ring and takes a bite. Usually this first taste gives her a kid’s pleasure, but tonight she chews on it dutifully. It might as well be broccoli. “Charlie, we need to talk,” she says. “About Ian Blaise.”
“He calls in all the time,” I say. “He’s doing fine. Seeing a shrink. Back to work part-time. Considering that it’s only been six months since his wife and daughters were killed in that car accident, his recovery is a miracle.”
Nova has lovely eyes. They’re as blue as a northern sky. When she laughs, the skin around them crinkles. It isn’t crinkling now. “Ian jumped from the roof of his apartment building Saturday,” she says. “He’s dead.”
I feel as if I’ve been kicked in the stomach. “He called me at home last week. We talked for over an hour.”
Nova frowns. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. You shouldn’t give out your home number. It’s dangerous.”
“Not as dangerous as being without a person you can call in the small hours,” I say tightly. “That’s when the ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties can drive you over the edge. I remember the feeling well.”
“The situation may be more sinister than that, Charlie,” Nova says. “This morning someone sent us Ian’s obituary. This index card was clipped to it.”
Nova hands me the card. It’s the kind school kids use when they have to make a speech in class. The message is neatly printed, and I read it aloud. “‘Ian Blaise wasn’t worth your time, Charlie. None of them are. They’re cutting off your oxygen. I’m going to save you.’” I turn to Nova. “What the hell is this?”
“Well, for starters, it’s the third in a series. Last week someone sent us Marcie Zhang’s obituary.”
“The girl in grade nine who was being bullied,” I say. “You didn’t tell me she was dead.”
“There’s a lot I don’t tell you,” Nova says. She sounds tired. “Anyway, there was a file card attached to the obituary. The message was the same as this one—minus the part about saving you. That’s new.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Marcie Zhang called in a couple of weeks ago. Remember? She was in great shape. She’d aced her exams. And she had an interview for a job as a junior counselor at a summer camp.”
“I remember. I also remember that the last time James Washington called in, he said that he was getting a lot of support from other gay athletes who’d been outed, and he wished he’d gone public sooner.”
“James is dead too?”
Nova raises an eyebrow. “Lucky you never read the papers, huh? James died as a result of a hit-and-run a couple of weeks ago. We got the newspaper clipping with the index card attached. Same message— word for word—as the one with Marcie’s obituary.”
“And you never told me?”
“I didn’t connect the dots, Charlie. A fourteen-year-old girl who, until very recently has been deeply disturbed, commits suicide. A professional athlete is killed in a tragic accident. Do you have any idea how much mail we get? How many calls I handle a week? Maybe I wasn’t as sharp as I should have been, because I’m preoccupied with this baby. But this morning after I got Ian’s obituary—with the extended-play version of the note—I called the police.”
/> I snap. “You called the cops? Nova, you and I have always been on the same side of that particular issue. The police operate in a black-and-white world. Right/wrong. Guilty/innocent. Sane/Not so much. We’ve always agreed that life is more complex for our listeners. They tell us things they can’t tell anybody else. They have to trust us.”
Nova moves so close that her belly is touching mine. Her voice is low and grave. “Charlie, this isn’t about a lonely guy who wants you to tell him it’s okay to have a cyberskin love doll as his fantasy date. There’s a murderer out there. A real murderer—not one of your Goth death groupies. We can’t handle this on our own.”
I reach over and rub her neck. “Okay, Mama Nova, you win. But over a hundred thousand people listen to our show every night. Where do we start?”
Nova gives my hand a pat and removes it from her neck. “With you, Charlie,” she says. “The police want to use our show to flush out the killer.”
CHAPTER TWO
Nova walks with me from the control booth into the studio. I take my chair, and she leans against the desk. “We haven’t got much time,” she says. “So I’ll just give you what I know. The police psychologist thinks that whoever wrote those notes believes you’re in love with them and that you’re sending them a message.”
“Telling them to kill the other callers?”
Nova shifts her body against the desk. These days it’s difficult for her to find a comfortable position. “The police psychologist believes that your would-be lover thinks you’re exhausted, and that you’re crying out for help,” she says.
I feel the first fingers of a headache moving from the back of my neck into my skull. “And so I’m sending a message to my would-be lover to murder the people who depend on me,” I say.
Nova nods. “That’s about it.”
“Erotomania,” I say. “I’m familiar with the syndrome. Does the police psychologist have any handy hints about how I can get my beloved to show his or her face?”
Nova’s laugh is short and dry. “I don’t think the police psychologist has listened to his radio in thirty years. We’re going to have to play it by ear. The cops will be monitoring our calls. They want to be in the control room with me. I told them that having the boys and girls in blue hover while you do the show will freak you out, and when you freak out, everybody freaks out.”
“Except you,” I say. “You’re unflappable.”
“After nine years, I’ve learned to fake unflappable,” Nova says. She glances at the clock on the wall. “Thirty seconds to air. I’d better get back in the control room. I knocked together an introduction. It’s on your computer screen.”
I pull my chair close to the desk, put on my earphones and adjust the microphone. It’s time for talk radio—the place where everyone can be who they want to be. The music comes up. The drummer from the Dave Matthews Band counts the band into our theme music: “Ants Marching.” I live for this moment—the moment when Charlie Dowhanuik, the freak with a face like a blood mask, disappears and I become Charlie D, a guy who is cool, commanding and in charge.
The words on the screen are Nova’s, but I make them my own. Like everyone in my business, I’ve created a voice that works for my audience. My radio voice is as soothing as dark honey. For a guy who fears intimacy, it’s surprisingly intimate. The voice of Charlie D is my armor, and as long as I can fake it, I’m bulletproof.
“It’s March twentieth, the first day of spring—the season of looooooooove,” I say. “The Roman philosopher, Cicero, said that love is madness. Lovers sure act crazy. We’re reckless. We forget to eat. We can’t sleep. We can’t work. We’re consumed by our lover’s voice. Her touch. Her taste. Her scent. Her being. Scientists tell us that Prozac can cure love, but who wants to be cured? It’s fun up there on the merry-goround. But what happens when the merry-go-round starts spinning too fast, throwing off the other riders, making us sick?
“You are listening to ‘The World According to Charlie D’ and we are coming to you live from coast to coast to coast. Tonight’s topic is Erotomania—the delusion that someone, usually somebody famous, is secretly in love with you and sending you signals that reveal their love.
“Remember the movie Misery where Kathy Bates uses a sledgehammer and a block of wood to break Jimmy Caan’s ankles because she’s ‘his number-one fan’? Remember Jody Foster’s number-one fan, John Hinckley? He showed Jodie how much he loved her by attempting to assassinate the president of the United States?
“What is it about love that makes people crazy? Any thoughts? Ever been called a stalker? Ever been a stalkee? Give me a call. My name is Charlie D. Our lines are open, and we are ready to talk about looooooooove—craaaaaaaazy love.
“While you ponder the question of whether you’ve ever crossed that thin, blood-red line between love and madness, here are The Police with their anthem to those who love truly, madly and deeply: ‘Every Breath You Take.’”
I turn down the volume on the music. When we’re on air, Nova and I are separated by the glass partition between the studio and the control room. Nova’s control room is brightly lit, but I like the studio dark. We communicate through hand signals and our talkback microphone. We’re like fish in neighboring aquariums, seeing one another but unable to connect. Many times, especially lately when I know she’s worried about the baby, I wish I could reach out and comfort her. Tonight is one of those times. As she sits behind the desk with the phone nestled between her ear and shoulder, peering over her wirerimmed reading glasses at her computer monitor, I know she’s frightened.
“Hey, Mama Nova,” I say. “Are you doing okay? I can hear your heart beating on the talkback.”
She turns to give me a thumbs-up. In the blink of an eye, the thumb disappears and she raises the middle finger of her right hand at me.
“So you’re mad,” I say.
“Just scared,” she says. “But I don’t know which finger to use for scared.”
“Next time tell me sooner,” I say. “I can be scared with you.”
Her voice is resigned. “Or you can pull your disappearing act. That’s when we all get scared: me, the network and, most importantly, our audience.”
I feel the familiar lick of guilt. “I’m not that important to anybody, Nova. If I walked away, the network would have another guy here within a week. Within two weeks, Charlie D would be just a memory.”
“You’re wrong,” she says flatly. “As far as our audience is concerned, you’re irreplaceable. Our show works because you make every member of our audience feel as if they’re alone with you in their room. When you start to disintegrate on air, they fall apart. And I have to deal with the meltdown. That’s when the mail gets scary: FedExed chicken soup, mass cards, panties, guides to aura adjustment and some really alarming letters. I’m not just protecting you; I’m protecting me. We’re back in ten seconds—and our first caller is Emo Emily.”
Emo Emily is the poster girl for wallowing in heartbreak, and she is familiar territory. “The one who broke into my house and stole all my shoes,” I say, and I grin.
Nova doesn’t grin back. “Don’t blow Emily off, Charlie. Anyone who could discover where you live and crawl in through the basement window…”
“Could murder three people?”
“Find out.” Nova raises her hand and points her index finger at me. It’s my turn now. I’m on the air, and I have one hour and fifty-three minutes to find a murderer.
CHAPTER THREE
As “Every Breath You Take” fades, I sing along. Nova’s right. Our audience is sensitive to my moods. They tell me that when I sing along, they relax because they know I’m going to make it to the end of the show. The day my beloved died, I took off my earphones, walked out of the studio and didn’t come back for a year. The people who listen to “The World According to Charlie D” worry a lot that I’m going to give them a repeat performance. I worry about that myself.
You can tell a lot about people from their voices. Words can lie but voices can’t. E
mo Emily talks endlessly about heartbreak, death, despair and betrayal, but when she says, “Sometimes I think I can’t go on,” there’s a fizzy giggle in her voice. Emily knows that she’s going to hang in long enough to blow out the candles on the cake her great-grandchildren will place in front of her on her hundredth birthday. Our listeners get a kick out of her. So do I. When I greet her on air, my tone is lighthearted.
“Our first caller tonight is one of our regulars. Good evening, Emo Emily. Hey, did you notice that line ‘Every Step You Take’? Since you made off with my not-very-extensive collection of shoes, I’m down to my high school Keds. They’re getting mighty shabby. Any chance, you’ll return my other runners?”
“A man’s shoes carry him where he needs to be, Charlie,” she says playfully. “I’m making sure your shoes will be waiting when you realize your destiny is to be with me.”
This is not the first time Emily has talked about our fated love, but three murders have given her fantasy a new and disturbing potential. “So what are your thoughts about our topic tonight?” I ask.
Emily loves an open-ended question. “My heart goes out to anyone who hasn’t found love,” she trills. “On our break today, some of the other girls at the phone bank were talking about how boring their boyfriends are. They say all their boyfriends talk about is sports and getting drunk. I said you talk to me about everything. You’re beautiful…”
I can’t let that one slide. “You’ve never seen me,” I say.
It takes more than reality to clip Emily’s wings. She flies on. “A woman knows these things. You and I are spiritual twins, Charlie D. Since I told you that, for me, listening to Emo music is like listening to the sound of my own soul screaming, you’re playing more Emo bands. I’ve counted. You’re not afraid of your emotions—not like that robot Marion with all her boring facts.”
Marion the Librarian used to be one of our regulars. No matter what the topic was, Marion did her research. She made the show smart and thoughtful. But smart and thoughtful doesn’t cut it with talk radio’s hottest demographic: listeners between the ages of seventeen and thirty-four. They like callers who are fun and crazy. They tuned us out when Marion was on, so the suits at the network told us to block her calls. I missed her. “Hey, Emily, you know the rules. No slagging the other callers.”
