"Thousands have." She glanced over idly as an associate shoved a swearing suspect with a bloody nose into a nearby chair. There was a brief tussle, and a spate of curses followed by mumbled threats. "God, I love this place."
"Yeah, there's no place like home." He snatched up what was left of his coffee before his partner could reach for it. "I'll work from the other end, the first station she worked for. Thea, if we don't come up with something soon, the captain's going to yank us."
She rose. "Then we'll have to come up with something."
He nodded. Before he could pick up the phone, it rang. "Fletcher."
"Slick."
He would have grimaced at the nickname if he hadn't heard the fear first. "Cilia? What is it?"
"I got a call." A quick bubble of laughter worked its way through. "Old news, I guess. I'm at home this time, though, and I—Damn, I'm jumping at shadows."
"Lock your doors and sit tight. I'm on my way. Cilia," he said when there was no response. "I'm on my way."
"Thanks. If you could break a few traffic laws getting here, I'd be obliged."
"Ten minutes." He hung up. "Thea." He caught her before she could complete the first call. "Let's move."
Chapter 3
She had herself under control by the time they got to her. Above all, she felt foolish to have run to the police—to him—because of a phone call.
Only phone calls, Cilia assured herself as she paced to the window and back. After a week of them she should have a better handle on it. If she could tone down her reaction, convince the caller that what he said and how he said it left her unaffected, they would stop.
Her father had taught her that that was the way to handle bullies. Then again, her mother's solution had been a right jab straight to the jaw. While Cilia saw value in both viewpoints, she thought the passive approach was more workable under the circumstances.
She'd done a lousy job of it with the last call, she admitted. Sometime during his tirade she'd come uncomfortably close to hysteria, shouting back, pleading, meeting threats with threats. She could only be grateful that Deborah hadn't been home to hear it.
Struggling for calm, she perched on the arm of a chair, her body ruler-straight, her mind scrambling. After the call she had turned off the radio, locked the doors, pulled the drapes. Now, in the glow of the lamplight, she sat listening for a sound, any sound, while she scanned the room. The walls she and Deborah had painted, the furniture they had picked out, argued about. Familiar things, Cilia thought. Calming things.
After only six months there was already a scattering of knick-knacks, something they hadn't allowed themselves before. But this time the house wasn't rented, the furniture wasn't leased. It was theirs.
Perhaps that was why, though they'd never discussed it, they had begun to fill it with little things, useless things. The china cat who curled in a permanent nap on the cluttered bookshelf. The foolishly expensive glossy white bowl with hibiscus blossoms painted on the rim. The dapper frog in black tie and tails.
They were making a home, Cilia realized. For the first time since they had found themselves alone, they were making a home. She wouldn't let some vicious, faceless voice over the phone spoil that.
What was she going to do? Because she was alone, she allowed herself a moment of despair and dropped her head into her hands. Should she fight back? But how could she fight someone she couldn't see and didn't understand? Should she pretend indifference? But how long could she keep up that kind of pretense, especially if he continued to invade her private hours, as well as her public ones?
And what would happen when he finally wearied of talk and came to her in person?
The brisk knock on the door had her jolting, had her pressing a hand between her breasts to hold in her suddenly frantic heart.
I'm your executioner. I'm going to make you suffer. I'm going to make you pay.
"Cilia. It's Boyd. Open the door."
She needed a moment more, needed to cover her face with her hands and breathe deep. Steadier now, she crossed to the door and opened it.
"Hi. You made good time." She nodded to Althea. "Detective Grayson." Cilia gestured them inside, then leaned her back against the closed door. "I feel stupid for calling you all the way out here."
"Just part of the job," Althea told her. The woman was held together by very thin wires, she decided. A few of them had already snapped. "Would you mind if we all sat down?"
"No. I'm sorry." Cilia dragged a hand through her hair. She wasn't putting on a very good show, she thought. And she prided herself on putting on a good show. "I could, ah, make some coffee."
"Don't worry about it." He sat on an oatmeal-colored couch and leaned back against sapphire-blue pillows. "Tell us what happened."
"I wrote it down." The underlying nerves showed in her movements as she walked to the phone to pick up a pad of paper. "A radio habit," she said. "The phone rings and I start writing." She wasn't ready to admit that she didn't want to repeat the conversation out loud. "Some of it's in O'Roarke shorthand, but you should get the drift."
He took the pad from her and scanned the words. His gut muscles tightened in a combination of fury and revulsion. Outwardly calm, he handed the note to his partner.
Cilia couldn't sit. Instead, she stood in the center of the room, twisting her fingers together, dragging them apart again to tug at her baggy sweatshirt. "He's pretty explicit about what he thinks of me, and what he intends to do about it."
"Is this your first call at home?" Boyd asked her.
"Yes. I don't know how he got the number. I—We're not listed."
Althea put the pad aside and took out her own. "Who has your home number?"
"The station." Cilia relaxed fractionally. This was something she could deal with. Simple questions, simple answers. "It would be on file at the college. My lawyer—that's Carl Donnely, downtown. There are a couple of guys that Deb sees. Josh Holden and Darren McKinley. A few girlfriends." She ran through the brief list. "That's about it. What I'm really concerned about is—" She spun around as the door opened behind her. "Deb." Relief and annoyance speared through her. "I thought you had evening classes."
"I did." She turned a pair of big, smoldering blue eyes on Boyd and Althea. "Are you the police?"
"Deborah," Cilia said, "you know better than to cut classes. You had a test—"
"Stop treating me like a child." She slapped the newspaper she was carrying into Cilia's hand. "Do you really expect me to go along like nothing's wrong? Damn it, Cilia, you told me it was all under control."
So she'd made the first page of section B, Cilia thought wearily. Late-night radio princess under siege. Trying to soothe a growing tension headache, she rubbed her fingers at her temple. "It is under control. Stuff like this makes good copy, that's all."
"No, that's not all."
"I've called the police," she snapped back as she tossed the paper aside. "What else do you want?"
There was a resemblance between the two, Boyd noted objectively.
The shape of the mouth and eyes. While Cilia was alluring and sexy enough to make a man's head turn a 360, her sister was hands-down gorgeous. Young, he thought. Maybe eighteen. In a few years she'd barely have to glance at a man to have him swallow his tongue.
He also noted the contrasts. Deborah's hair was short and fluffed. Cilia's was long and untamed. The younger sister wore a deep crimson sweater over tailored slacks that were tucked into glossy half boots. Cilia's mismatched sweats bagged and hit on a variety of colors. The top was purple, the bottoms green. She'd chosen thick yellow socks and orange high-tops.
Their tastes might clash, he mused, but their temperaments seemed very much in tune.
And. when the O'Roarke sisters were in a temper, it was quite a show.
Shifting only slightly, Althea whispered near his ear. "Obviously they've done this before."
Boyd grinned. If he'd had popcorn and a beer, he would have been content to sit through another ten rounds. "Who's your mo
ney on?"
"Cilia," she murmured, crossing one smooth leg. "But the sister's a real up-and-comer."
Apparently weary of beating her head against a brick wall, Deborah turned. "Okay." She poked a finger at Boyd. "You tell me what's going on."
"Ah…"
"Never mind." She zeroed in on Althea. "You." Biting back a smile, Althea nodded. "We're the investigating officers on your sister's case, Miss O'Roarke."
"So there is a case."
Ignoring Cilia's furious look, Althea nodded again. "Yes. With the station's cooperation, we have a trace on the studio line. Detective Fletcher and I have already interrogated a number of suspects who have priors for obscene or harassing phone calls. With this latest development, we'll put a tap on your private line."
"Latest development." It only took Deborah a moment. "Oh, Cilia, not here. He didn't call you here." Temper forgotten, she threw her arms around her sister. "I'm sorry."
"It's nothing for you to worry about." When Deborah stiffened, Cilia drew back. "I mean it, Deb. It's nothing for either of us to worry about. We've got the pros to do the worrying."
"That's right." Althea rose. "Detective Fletcher and I have over fifteen years on the force between us. We intend to take good care of your sister. Is there a phone I can use to make some arrangements?"
"In the kitchen," Deborah said before Cilia could comment. She wanted a private interview. "I'll show you." She paused and smiled at Boyd. "Would you like some coffee, Detective?"
"Thanks." He watched her—what man wouldn't?—as she walked from the room.
"Don't even think about it," Cilia mumbled.
"Excuse me?" But he grinned. It didn't take a detective to recognize a mother hen. "Your sister—Deborah, right?—she's something."
"You're too old for her."
"Ouch."
Cilia picked up a cigarette and forced herself to settle on the arm of a chair again. "In any case, you and Detective Grayson seem well suited to each other."
"Thea?" He had to grin again. Most of the time he forgot his partner was a woman. "Yeah, I'm one lucky guy."
Cilia ground her teeth. She hated to think she could be intimidated by another woman. Althea Grayson was personable enough, professional enough. Cilia could even handle the fact that she was stunning. It was just that she was so together.
Boyd rose to take the unlit cigarette from her fingers. "Jealous?"
"In your dreams, Slick."
"We'll get into my dreams later." He lifted her chin up with a fingertip. "Holding on?"
"I'm fine." She wanted to move, but she had the feeling he wouldn't give her room if she stood. And if she stood it would be much too easy to drop her head on his shoulder and just cave in. She had responsibilities, obligations. And her pride. "I don't want Deb mixed up in this. She's alone here at night while I'm at work."
"I can arrange to have a cruiser stationed outside."
She nodded, grateful. "I hate it that somewhere along the line I've made a mistake that might put her in danger. She doesn't deserve it."
Unable to resist, he spread his fingers to cup her cheek. "Neither do you."
It had been a long time since she'd been touched, allowed herself to be touched, even that casually. She managed to shrug. "I haven't figured that out yet." She gave a little sigh, wishing she could close her eyes and turn her face into that strong, capable hand. "I've got to get ready to go to the station."
"Why don't you give that a pass tonight?"
"And let him think he's got me running scared?" She stood then. "Not on a bet."
"Even Wonder Woman takes a night off."
She shook her head. She'd been right about him not giving her room. Her escape routes were blocked by the chair on one side and his body on the other. Tension quivered through her. Pride kept her eyes level. He was waiting, damn him. And unless he was blind or stupid, he would see that this contact, this connection with him, left her frazzled.
"You're crowding me, Fletcher."
In another minute, just one more minute, he would have given in to impulse and pulled her against him. He would have seen just how close to reality his fantasy was. "I haven't begun to crowd you, O'Roarke."
Her eyes sharpened. "I've had enough threats for one day, thanks."
He wanted to strangle her for that. Slowly, his eyes on hers, he hooked his thumbs in his pockets. "No threat, babe. Just a fact."
Deborah decided she'd eavesdropped long enough and cleared her throat. "Coffee, Detective Fletcher." She passed him a steaming mug. "Thea said black, two sugars."
"Thanks."
"I'm going to hang around," she said, silently daring Cilia to argue with her. "They should be here in an hour or so to hook up the phone." Then, she put her hands on Cilia's shoulders and kissed both of her cheeks. "I haven't missed a class this semester, Simon."
"Simon?" Boyd commented.
"Legree." With a laugh, Deborah kissed Cilia again. "The woman's a slave driver."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Cilia moved aside to gather up her purse. "You ought to catch up on your reading for U.S. studies. Your political science could use a boost. It wouldn't hurt to bone up on Psychology 101." She pulled her coat from the closet. "While you're at it, the kitchen floor needs scrubbing. I'm sure we have an extra toothbrush you could use on it. And I'd like another cord of wood chopped."
Deborah laughed. "Go away."
Cilia grinned as she reached for the doorknob. Her hand closed over Boyd's. She jolted back before she could stop herself. "What are you doing?"
"Hitching a ride with you." He sent Deborah a quick wink as he pulled Cilia out the door.
"This is ridiculous," Cilia said as she strode into the station.
"Which?"
"I don't see why I have to have a cop in the studio with me night after night." She whipped off her coat as she walked—a bit like a bullfighter swirling a cape, Boyd thought. Still scowling, she reached for the door of a small storage room, then shrieked and stumbled back against Boyd as it swung open. "Jeez, Billy, you scared the life out of me."
"Sorry." The maintenance man had graying hair, toothpick arms and an apologetic grin. "I was out of window cleaner." He held up his spray bottle.
"It's okay. I'm a little jumpy."
"I heard about it." He hooked the trigger of the bottle in his belt, then gathered up a mop and bucket. "Don't worry, Cilia. I'm here till midnight."
"Thanks. Are you going to listen to the show tonight?"
"You bet." He walked away, favoring his right leg in a slight limp.
Cilia stepped inside the room and located a fresh bottle of stylus cleaner. Taking a five-dollar bill out of her bag, she slipped it into a pile of cleaning rags.
"What was that for?"
"He was in Vietnam," she said simply, and closed the door again.
Boyd said nothing, knowing she was annoyed he'd caught her. He chalked it up to one more contradiction.
To prep for her shift, she went into a small lounge to run over the daily log for her show, adding and deleting as it suited her. The program director had stopped screaming about this particular habit months before. Another reason she preferred the night shift was the leeway it gave her.
"This new group," she muttered.
"What?" Boyd helped himself to a sugared doughnut.
"This new group, the Studs." She tapped her pencil against the table. "One-shot deal. Hardly worth the airtime."
"Then why play them?"
"Got to give them a fair shake." Intent on her work, she took an absent bite of the doughnut Boyd held to her lips. "In six months nobody will remember their names."
"That's rock and roll.''
"No. The Beatles, Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry, Springsteen, Elvis—that's rock and roll."
He leaned back, considering her. "Ever listen to anything else?"
She grinned, then licked a speck of sugar from her top lip. "You mean there is something else?"
"Have you always been one-trac
k?"
"Yeah." She pulled a band of fabric out of her pocket. With a couple of flicks of the wrist she had her hair tied back. "So what kind of music do you like?" ,
"The Beatles, Buddy Holly, Chuck—"
"Well, there's hope for you yet," she interrupted.
"Mozart, Lena Home, Beaujolais, Joan Jett, Ella Fitzgerald, B.B. King…"
Her brow lifted. "So, we're eclectic."
"We're open-minded."
She leaned back a moment. "You're a surprise, Fletcher. I guess I figured you for the loving-and-hurting, drinking-and-cheating type."
"In music appreciation or personality?''
"Both." She glanced at the clock. "It's show time."
Wild Bob Williams, who had the six-to-ten slot, was just finishing up his show. He was short, paunchy and middle-aged, with the voice of a twenty-year-old stud. He gave Cilia a brief salute as she began sorting through 45s and albums.
"Mmm, the long-legged filly just walked in." He hit a switch that had an echoing heartbeat pounding. "Get ready out there in KHIP land, your midnight star's rising. I'm leaving you with this blast from the past." He potted up "Honky Tonk Woman."
He swung out of his chair and stretched his rubbery leg muscles.
"Hey, honey, you okay?"
"Sure." She set her first cut on the turntable and adjusted the needle.
"I caught the paper."
"No big deal, Bob."
"Hey, we're family around here." He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. "We're behind you."
"Thanks."
"You're the cop?" he asked Boyd.
"That's right."
"Get this guy soon. He's got us all shaking." He gave Cilia another squeeze. "Let me know if you need anything."
"I will. Thanks."
She didn't want to think about it, couldn't afford to think about it, with thirty seconds to air. Taking her seat, she adjusted the mike, took a series of long, deep breaths, ran a one-two-three voice check, then opened her mike.
"All right, Denver, this is Cilia O'Roarke coming to you on number one, KHIP. You've got me from ten till two in the a.m. We're going to start off giving away one hundred and nine dollars. We've got the mystery record coming up. If you can give me the title, the artist and the year, you've got yourself a fistful of cash. That number is 555-5447. Stand by, 'cause we're going to rock."
Books by Nora Roberts Page 351
