Hot Blooded

by Lisa Jackson

  But Samantha Leeds hadn't been able to live with herself, or so it seemed. She'd quit the show and the radio station and gone into private practice until the past six months, when the same people who had worked with her in Houston had lured her to New Orleans.

  Ty took a sip of his drink. Crushed the ice between his teeth.

  He remembered the entire scenario with Annie Seger. He'd been one of the first to arrive at her house and had witnessed the devastation of not only her, but her entire family.

  Annie had been a pretty girl with a few freckles dusting her nose, short reddish hair and blue-green eyes that had sparkled in life.

  A waste.

  A shame.

  Carrying his drink, Ty walked outside to listen to the lapping of the lake against the dock. Sasquatch followed him outside and, nose to the wind, trotted off the verandah to the yard, where he lifted his leg on a stately old live oak.

  Crickets chirped and a solitary frog croaked as his dog wandered between the trees and sniffed the ground. Ty glanced at the Bright Angel, sails down, gently rocking against her moorings. Somewhere far off a siren wailed plaintively, muted by distance. Far into the horizon the first gray light of dawn was breaking.

  Ty thought of Samantha Leeds, only a quarter of a mile away.

  A beautiful woman.

  An intelligent woman.

  A damned fascinating woman.

  A woman he imagined he could make love to over and over again. Telling himself he was a fool, he fantasized about what it would be like to take her to bed, to feel her ragged breath as she lay beneath him, or the feel of her skin, soft as silk, against his body.

  No doubt about it, she was getting to him.

  And he was letting her.

  Which was a colossal mistake.

  He tossed back his drink and whistled to the old shepherd as he walked into the house.

  The last thing, the very last thing he could do was lose his sense of purpose; his objectivity. He'd made a promise to himself and no one, especially not Annie's radio-psychologist was going to stop him.

  "Why didn't you help me, Dr. Sam. Why?" The voice was young and frail and seemed far away, through the patchy fog and dense trees. Samantha followed the sound, her heart pounding, her breath tight as she tried to peer through branches dripping with Spanish moss and blocking her view.

  "Annie? Where are you?" she called, and her voice echoed through the woods, reverberating loudly.

  "Over here…"

  Sam ran, tripping over roots and vines, squinting in the darkness, hearing the sounds of the freeway in the distance over the lonely hoot of an owl. Why had Annie lured her out here, what did she want?

  "I can't find you."

  "Because you're not looking hard enough."

  "But where… ?" She broke through the trees and saw the girl, a beautiful girl with short red hair, big eyes and fear cast in her every feature. She was standing in the middle of a cemetery with headstones and raised coffins, a filigreed iron fence separating her from Samantha. In her arms she held a baby wrapped in tattered swaddling clothes. The baby was crying, wailing horridly, as if in pain.

  "I'm sorry," Sam said, walking along the fence, searching for a gate, trying to get closer. "I didn't know."

  "I called you. I asked for your help. You turned me away."

  "No, I wanted to help you, I did."

  "Liar!"

  Sam dragged her fingers along the posts, hurrying faster, trying to gain entrance, but no matter how many corners she turned, how far she ran through the rising mist and shadows, she couldn't find the gate, couldn't get close, could never reach the girl and the baby whose muffled cries tore at Sam's heart.

  "Too late," Annie said. "You're too late."

  "No, I can help."

  She saw the girl move then and shake out the blanket. Sam screamed as the folds opened and she expected the baby to be tossed onto the ground, but as the worn blanket unfolded, it was empty, the baby having disappeared.

  "Too late," Annie said again.

  "No. I'll help you, I promise," she said, breathing hard, feeling as if her feet were cast in concrete.

  "Don't…" a male voice warned.

  Ty's?

  John's?

  She whirled but couldn't see anything in the black woods. "Who are you?" she cried, but no one answered.

  Somewhere far off someone was singing "American Pie."

  The fog grew denser. Sam ran faster. Her legs felt like lead, but she had to reach Annie, talk to her, before… before what?

  Sam's eyes flew open.

  The clock radio was still playing the last chords of the song that had followed her through the dream.

  Sunlight streamed through the French doors and overhead the paddle fan stirred the morning air in her bedroom.

  She was home. In her bed. Safe.

  The dream faded into the dark recesses of her mind where it belonged, but she was in a sweat, her head pounding, her heart racing. It had been so real. Too real. And she knew it would be back.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "We need to talk," Eleanor said. Seated at her desk, she waved Sam into her office. "Sit down, oh, just a minute." As Sam took a chair on the opposite side of the desk, Eleanor reached for the phone, punched a number, and said, "Melba, hold all my calls, would you? Sam and I don't want to be interrupted except for Tiny and Melanie. They're supposed to be here in"—she glanced at her watch—"about fifteen minutes. Send them back right at one, okay? Fine." Dropping the receiver into its cradle, she turned her attention toward Sam. "There's some weird stuff happening around here." Folding her arms across the ink blotter covering her desk, she leaned forward. "I listened to the tape of last night's show this morning. And I had Tiny add in the last call from your friendly stalker. Okay? Then I talked to George and eventually the police, one of those officers who came by last night. But now, I want to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. What do you flunk's going on?"

  "Other than that someone's trying to terrorize me."

  "One person?"

  "Or two," Sam said, "though I doubt there's some big conspiracy out to get Dr. Sam."

  "Okay, so why would anyone bring up Annie now?"

  "I don't know." Sam glanced out the window to see blue sky and rooftops. "It's been so long. I was hoping it was all behind me."

  "You and me both." Eleanor sighed, then took off the back of her earring. "So let me get this straight. The woman who calls herself Annie calls while you were on the air, then once you've signed off, about half an hour later, this creep 'John' phones again. They've got to be related."

  "I agree—he seems to think I've sinned, that I need to repent and now I know why. He's blaming me for Annie's death. But they didn't come from the same phone. The call from the woman was labeled by caller ID as a pay phone downtown in a bar, and John's call was again from a different phone booth, in the Garden District. The police are checking into it."

  "So you think this John-person conned some woman into calling you or that he disguised his voice, right? I think the police can check that sort of thing. I've told George that we need to tape all incoming calls, not just those on your program. There's no problem there," she added, wincing as she adjusted the diamond stud in her earlobe. "Except that George is thrilled with the ratings. Just like in Houston. More listeners have tuned in on the nights John calls and the nights thereafter."

  "Wonderful," Sam said sarcastically. "Maybe we should find a couple more psychos to call in."

  "I don't think that's in George's plan. But he does have a point. The e-mail we've been getting backs up his theory. The result is," she said, lines furrowing across her smooth brow, "that George is seriously considering expanding your program. Not just Sunday through Thursday, but including Friday and Saturday nights as well."

  "So much for my social life, right?"

  "We'd work it out—initially it would be your baby, of course, but then we could incorporate guest hosts or pretaped segments, or figure out which nights were
the most popular."

  "You're for this?" Samantha asked.

  "I'm for anything that keeps the ratings up as long as it doesn't prove dangerous. Now, so far, I don't like what the caller's saying. Not one bit. And this business about Annie Seger, I don't get it." Her dark eyes flashed. "For the record, I don't like it either. I want security beefed up and you to be doubly careful and we'll play this by ear. Let's just give it a little time."

  "Okay, but there's something else you should know."

  "Oh great." The lines over her eyebrows deepened. "Now what?"

  "I received a greeting card last night." Sam described the birthday card. "It was in my car."

  "Inside your car? But didn't you lock the doors… ?" she asked, then waved off her own question. "Of course you did, you're not an idiot. As I said I already talked to the police last night, but I want to know what you think. What the hell is this all about?"

  "I don't know, but I intend to find out," Sam said. "I've already talked to the police."

  "You had a busy night last night," Eleanor observed. "I'll tell George I want a guard not only at the front door of the building, but here, on the premises, at all times. No two ways about it. Until this all dies down. It's one thing for the nutcase to make calls to the station, another one to threaten you personally."

  The intercom line beeped and Eleanor took the call. "Send 'em back, and thanks, Melba," she said. "Tiny and Melanie are gonna join us. Maybe they have a different spin on this."

  Within minutes, there was a sharp rap on the door. Melanie breezed in, with Tiny dragging at her heels.

  They dropped into a short couch wedged between a file cabinet and a bookcase.

  "Okay, Sam's filled me in on what happened last night, but I'd like your impressions."

  "Sam's got a maniac stalking her," Tiny offered, rubbing his hands together nervously and avoiding Sam's eyes. "I think he's dangerous."

  "He's probably just getting his rocks off by scaring her," Melanie disagreed. She tossed her blond curls off her shoulder, and added, "He's probably some tightly wound religious nut."

  "Even so, he could be dangerous. I listened to the tapes three times, and I think Tiny's right. This guy is definitely off-balance. I want everyone to be extra careful. Don't go out alone at night."

  "It seems he's just targeting Sam."

  "So far," Eleanor said. "Because it's her show, but it's personal with him."

  "And a game," Samantha added. "Tiny's right, the guy could be dangerous, but Melanie's got a good point. The creep is getting his jollies by scaring me."

  "So be careful. Get a watchdog, carry Mace, don't go out at night alone, check your car before you get in. Whatever it takes until we find who the son of a bitch is." Eleanor's dark eyes focused on each of them. "I already talked to George about adding security and upgrading our equipment so that we can trace our calls—so far I haven't heard back. I don't even know if it's possible. But, if we have to call in the police or hire a private detective or whatever, I'm willing to do it. This has got to be monitored."

  "You mean stopped," Sam corrected.

  "Of course. Stopped." Eleanor pointed a polished nail at each of them. "And I want to hear about it the second something out of the ordinary happens. Don't wait until the next day, you call me directly. You all have my cell number. You can catch me anytime."

  The phone rang, and she glanced at her watch. "Damn. Well, I guess we were finished here anyway. I just hope we don't have any more trouble. We've got that charity gig coming up—for the Boucher House and we've invited all the media. I wouldn't want them to get wind of this."

  "We are the media," Sam reminded her.

  "You know what I mean."

  The phone jangled again and Eleanor reached for the receiver. The meeting was over. Tiny and Melanie had already made good their escape. Sam was halfway to the door when she heard her name. "Wait—Sam—" Eleanor called after her.

  Samantha looked over her shoulder as Eleanor ignored the third ring.

  "You get in touch with the police again and you put the fear of God into them, y'hear? Tell the officer in charge he'd better nail this sucker's butt or else there's gonna be hell to pay!"

  "Oh, that'll make things move along faster," Sam mocked.

  "It damned well better."

  "Isn't this your radio shrink?" Montoya asked, flipping a copy of a report across Rick's desk. The air conditioner was on the blink, the office an oven. Bentz had propped a fan on the credenza behind him. It droned and swiveled, pushing hot air around the room.

  "My what?" he asked, then caught sight of Samantha Leeds's name. "Shit" Bentz glanced up at Montoya who smelled of cigarette smoke and some cologne he couldn't name. Even in the sweltering heat Montoya looked cool in his black shirt, matching jeans and leather jacket while Bentz was sweating like a pig. "More trouble?"

  "Looks like." Montoya paused to straighten a picture of the skyline that Bentz had mounted over a cabinet as Bentz scanned the report.

  "Seems like her personal pervert hasn't disappeared. Not only called the station, but left a threatening note in her car?"

  "Mmm."

  "Was the car impounded?"

  "Nope."

  "Why the hell not?" Bentz growled.

  "It was dusted there."

  "And?"

  "Nothing yet."

  "Why doesn't that surprise me?" Bentz wondered, opening his drawer for a piece of gum and thinking it was time to give up on trying to quit.

  "Because you're used to the way things work around here." Montoya reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a cassette. He dropped a cassette onto the desk, right in front of Bentz's half-drunk can of Pepsi and the photos of Kristi. "Here's the tape of last night's show. The upshot is that last night, she got a couple more calls."

  "From the guy calling himself John."

  "And a woman—a dead woman."

  "I heard that one myself," Bentz admitted, leaning back in his chair and still hankering for a smoke. "Annie."

  "You tuned in?" Montoya's grin stretched from one side of his mouth to the other. He was obviously amused at the thought of Bentz sitting by the radio, phone in hand, ready to call dial-a-shrink.

  "Yeah, I've listened every night, ever since I interviewed her. No one named John called last night."

  "Wrong. The pervert did call in. But it was after the show went off the air. It's on the tape. The technician, Albert AKA Tiny Pagano, caught it on that tape." He motioned to the cassette on Bentz's desk.

  "Just what we need." Bentz had hoped Dr. Sam's personal nutcase had given up his threatening calls. From the looks of the report, he'd been overly optimistic. "How'd you get a copy of this?" He found the gum and popped a piece into his mouth.

  "From O'Keefe. He was one of the officers on duty last night and knew you were assigned the case. He and another guy interviewed Dr. Sam at the station, then were called to meet her at the parking garage because of the note in her car. According to O'Keefe the doc was pretty shook up."

  "Do you blame her?"

  "Hell, no." Scratching thoughtfully at his goatee, Montoya asked, "So what do you make of it?"

  "Nothin' good." Bentz chewed on the flavorless piece of gum. "Annie Seger. Who the hell is she?" he asked.

  "Don't know. I suppose we should leave it to the harassment boys. It's really not your case. No one's dead."

  "Yet."

  "I figured you'd have that attitude."

  "Thanks." He had more work to do than time to do it; not only was there a possible serial killer on the loose and now the FBI was involved, but there were the usual number of homicides to investigate as well—domestic disputes turned bad, drive-bys, gang-related, sour drug deals, or people just pissed off at each other and ready to pull out a gun or knife.

  Montoya produced a pocket recorder and played the tape where it was marked, the first call being the one from the girl claiming Dr. Sam had killed her, the second from the stalker. Rick heard Annie's breathy voice again, then John's smoo
th, suggestive tone, his icy calm that slowly eroded as the conversation with Dr. Sam progressed.

  Montoya snapped off the recorder as a wasp slipped through the window screen and buzzed angrily at the glass. "I'd say John's not giving up."

  "And the threats are more pointed." Both recordings left Bentz with a bad feeling—a real bad feeling. The wasp made the mistake of coming close and he swiped at it angrily. He missed and the angry insect danced against the filmy glass of the window in a desperate attempt at freedom.

  "Definitely more pointed." Montoya found a rubber band on Bentz's desk, drew back and let it fly. Snap! The wasp dropped dead to the floor. "Do you think they're related— the call from Annie, then the one from John?"

  "Could be." Almost had to be. Bentz didn't believe in coincidence. "Unless one triggered the other—the girl heard John's call and thought she'd come up with something of her own."

  "So she just knows about Annie Seger."

  "Someone does."

  "Okay, so what was that crap about Dr. Sam being a hooker? A working girl? Does that make any sense?"

  Bentz chewed his gum thoughtfully. "We'll check it out. I want to know every day of Dr. Sam's history, who she is, what makes her tick, why she decided to become a radio shrink. I want to know about her family, her boyfriends, this"—he pulled a file and checked his notes—"David Ross, a guy she went to Mexico with and every John, Jack, Johnson, Jackson, Jonathon, Jay, any man she's ever dated that could be the caller." The phone rang loudly. Bentz made a grab for it, but as his fingers grazed the receiver, he stopped short.

  The woman they'd been discussing, the radio-shrink herself, appeared in the outer office. From the look in her eye he was willing to bet that a bad day was just about to get worse.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bentz braced himself.

  Samantha Leeds was marching through the desks sprinkled outside his door and heading toward his office.

  Dressed in a skirt that buttoned up the front and a sleeveless white blouse, she was a good-looking woman, and the set of her jaw suggested she wanted answers and wasn't going to leave until she got them.