Hello, Darkness

by Sandra Brown

  “And we’re fighting a losing battle,” Rondeau said. “We bust up the kiddie porn rings. But for each one that’s busted, dozens more spring up and thrive. We work with the feds, with Operation Blue Ridge Thunder, a nationwide information network that deals specifically with Internet crimes against children. That’s more than we can handle. Teenagers consensually exchanging dirty email is a low priority.”

  Curtis said, “It’s like writing tickets for jaywalking, while across town, gang members are shooting each other.”

  “What about Janey’s parents?” Paris asked. “Have they been made aware of this?”

  “They’ve had trouble with her,” Curtis replied. “She has a history of misbehavior, but even they probably don’t know about all her activities. We didn’t want to alert them to a possible connection between her unknown whereabouts and Valentino’s call until we had more to go on. We were hoping your audiotape would shed some light.”

  “It doesn’t shed much, does it?” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  After a discreet knock, the door was opened and another detective poked his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Curtis. I have a message for you.”

  He excused himself and left the room.

  Paris consulted her wristwatch. “Unless I can be of further help, I should be going.”

  Rondeau nearly broke his neck getting out of his chair and helping her with hers. “What time do you have to be at the radio station, Ms. Gibson?”

  “Around seven-thirty. And please call me Paris.”

  “Do you have to do a lot of preparation ahead of time?”

  “I select the music myself and prepare my log—that’s the order in which songs are played. Another department, called ‘Traffic,’ has already logged the commercials.

  “However, a lot of my programming occurs spontaneously. I never know what song someone from the audience is going to request. But I can insert that song into the log instantly, because we have a computerized library of music.”

  “Are you ever nervous when you go on the air?”

  She laughed and shook her head, making the shaggy hairdo even shaggier and more attractive. “I’ve been doing it too long to get butterflies.”

  “Do you operate the equipment all by yourself?”

  “If you’re referring to the control board, yes. And I man my own telephone lines. I turned down having a producer. I like being a one-woman show.”

  “When you started, did you have to learn a lot of technical stuff?”

  “Some, but, honestly, you probably know much more about the workings of a computer than I know about the physics of radio waves.”

  The implied compliment brought a silly grin to his face. “Does working alone ever get boring?”

  “Not really, no. I like the music. And the callers keep me on my toes. Each broadcast is different.”

  “Don’t you get lonely working alone every night?”

  “Actually, I prefer it.”

  Before Rondeau asked her to father his children, Dean interceded. “I’ll walk you out, Paris.”

  As he ushered her toward the door, she said, “I’d like to stay updated. Please ask Sergeant Curtis to call me when he knows something.” Sergeant Curtis. Not him. The snub couldn’t be more blatant, and it irritated the hell out of him. He was as much a cop as Sergeant Robert Curtis. And he outranked him.

  He reached around her to grab the doorknob. But the door opened without his help and Curtis was on the other side of it. His complexion was several shades ruddier than usual. What was left of his pale hair seemed to be standing on end.

  “Well, it’s hit the fan,” he announced. “Somehow a courthouse reporter learned that cops were looking for Janey Kemp. He confronted the judge about it as he was returning from lunch recess. His Honor is not happy.”

  “His daughter’s life could be at risk and he’s worried about media exposure?” Paris exclaimed.

  Dean said, “My thought exactly. I don’t give a shit if he’s happy or not.”

  “Fine. You’ll have an opportunity to tell him that to his face. We’ve been ordered by the chief to meet with Kemp and try to smooth his feathers. Right now.”

  chapter 10

  Paris wheeled into the Kemps’ circular driveway directly behind Sergeant Curtis’s unmarked Taurus. She got out of her car at the same time he got out of his. Before he had a chance to speak, she said, “I’m coming with you.”

  “This is a police matter, Ms. Gibson.”

  If he was back to using her last name, he was irked. She held her ground. “I started this ball rolling when I came to see you this morning. If I never hear from Valentino again and the call last night turns out to be a hoax, then I owe you, the Austin police, and especially this family a profound apology. And if it isn’t a hoax, then I am directly involved and so are they, which entitles me to speak with them.”

  The detective looked across at Dean as though seeking guidance on how to handle her when she took a stubborn stance. Dean said, “It’s your call, Curtis. But she’s good at talking to people. That’s what she does.”

  Coming from a trained negotiator, that was quite a compliment. Curtis considered it for only a moment, then said grudgingly, “All right, but I don’t know why you’d want to involve yourself in this any more than you already are.”

  “I didn’t choose to be. Valentino involved me.”

  She and Dean followed him toward the door. For Dean’s ears only she said, “Thanks for backing me up.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” He nodded toward the wide front door, which was being opened as they made their way up the veranda steps. “Looks like he’s been lying in wait.”

  Judge Baird Kemp was tall, distinguished looking, and handsome, except for his scowl, which he directed toward Curtis, whom he obviously knew by name. “I’m trying to keep a lid on this, Curtis, and what does the Austin PD do? Trot extra cops out to my house. What the hell is going on with you people? And who are they?”

  To Curtis’s credit, he kept his cool, although his face and neck flushed to a deeper hue. “Judge Kemp, Dr. Dean Malloy. He’s the department’s psychologist.”

  “Psychologist?” the judge sneered.

  Dean didn’t even bother extending the judge his hand, knowing it would be rebuffed.

  “And this is Paris Gibson,” Curtis said, motioning toward her.

  If her name meant anything to the judge, he didn’t show it. After giving her a cursory look, he glared at Curtis. “Are you the one who started the false rumor that my daughter is missing?”

  “No, Judge, I didn’t. You did. When you called one of the cops you’ve got on the take and told him to start looking for her.”

  A vein ticked in Kemp’s forehead. “I told the chief that I demanded to know who was responsible for leaking that story, which has been grossly exaggerated. He sends me you, a shrink, and a—” He glanced at Paris. “Whatever. Why the hell are you here?”

  “Baird, for godsake.” A woman emerged from the house and upbraided him with a stern look. “Can we please do this inside where fewer people will have the opportunity of overhearing?” She gave their guests a collective once-over, which was just shy of hostile, then said stiffly, “Won’t you come in?”

  Again Paris and Dean followed Curtis. They were shown into an elaborately appointed living room that might have been a salon in Versailles. The decorator had padded her budget with an overload of brocades, gilt, beading, and tassels.

  The judge marched over to a dainty liquor cart, poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter, and tossed it back as if it was a shot. Mrs. Kemp perched on the delicate arm of a divan as though she didn’t intend to stay very long.

  Curtis remained standing, looking as out of place as a fireplug in this room of froufrou. “Mrs. Kemp, have you heard from Janey?”

  She glanced at her husband before answering. “No. But when she gets home, she’ll be in serious trouble.”

  Paris couldn’t help but think the girl could be in much more serio
us trouble now.

  “She’s a teenager, for christsake.” The judge was still standing, too, glaring down at them as though about to sentence them to twenty years of hard labor. “Teenagers pull stunts like this all the time. Except when my daughter does it, it makes headlines.”

  “Don’t you realize that negative publicity only makes a situation worse?”

  For whom? Paris was dismayed that Mrs. Kemp’s primary concern was publicity. Shouldn’t she be more worried about the girl’s absence rather than what would be said about it?

  Curtis was still trying to be the diplomat. “Judge, I don’t know who within the Austin PD spoke to that reporter. We’ll probably never know. The culprit isn’t going to come forward and admit it, and the reporter is going to protect his source. I suggest we move past that and—”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Not at all easy.” Dean spoke for the first time, and his tone was so imperative that all eyes turned to him. “I wish the three of us had come here, hat in hand, to beg your forgiveness for an error in judgment, a slip of the tongue, a false alarm. Unfortunately, we’re here because your daughter could be in grave danger.”

  Mrs. Kemp moved off the arm of the divan and onto the seat cushion.

  The judge rocked back on his heels. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

  “Maybe I should tell you why I’m here,” Paris said quietly.

  The judge’s eyes narrowed. “What was your name again? Are you that truancy officer who kept hassling us last year?”

  “No.” She reintroduced herself. “I have a radio program. It’s on each weeknight from ten to two.”

  “Radio?”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Kemp exclaimed. “Paris Gibson. Of course. Janey listens to you.”

  Paris exchanged glances with Dean and Curtis before turning back to the judge, who apparently was unfamiliar with her and her show. “Listeners call in and sometimes I put them on the air.”

  “Talk radio? A bunch of left-wing radicals spouting off about this, that, or the other.”

  He had to be the most unpleasant individual Paris had ever met. “No,” she said evenly, “my show isn’t talk radio.” She was in the process of describing her format when he interrupted her.

  “I get the picture. What about it?”

  “Sometimes a listener calls to air a personal problem.”

  “With a total stranger?”

  “I’m not a stranger to my listeners.”

  The judge raised a graying eyebrow. Apparently he wasn’t used to people contradicting or correcting him. But Paris wasn’t intimidated by someone she had already formed such a low opinion of.

  Being flagrantly rude, he dismissed her and turned back to Curtis. “I still don’t understand what a radio deejay has got to do with any of this.”

  “I think this will help explain.” The detective set the portable tape recorder on a coffee table. “May I?”

  “What is this?”

  “Sit down, Baird,” his wife snapped. Paris saw traces of apprehension in the other woman’s eyes. Finally the severity of the situation was beginning to sink in. “What’s on the recorder?” she asked Curtis.

  “We want you to listen, see if you recognize your daughter’s voice.”

  The judge looked down at Paris. “She called you? What for?”

  She, along with the others, ignored him as the recording began.

  Well, see, I met this guy a few weeks ago.

  Paris noticed that Dean was watching Mrs. Kemp closely. Her reaction was immediate, but was it from recognizing the voice, or from the young woman’s description of a short-lived but hot, hot, hot fling?

  When it ended, Dean leaned toward Mrs. Kemp. “Is that Janey’s voice?”

  “It sounds like her. But she rarely talks to us with that much animation, so it’s hard to tell.”

  “Judge?” Curtis asked.

  “I can’t tell for dead certain either. But what the hell difference does it make if it is her? We know she’s got boyfriends. She flits from one to the other so fast we can’t keep up. She’s a popular girl. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “We hope nothing,” Curtis replied. “But it might tie in to another call that Paris received from a listener.” While talking, he exchanged one cassette for another. Before he played the second tape, he said to Mrs. Kemp, “I apologize in advance, ma’am. Some of the language is rather crude.”

  They listened in silence. By the time Valentino wished Paris a nice night, the judge had his back to the room and was gazing out the front window. Mrs. Kemp was mashing a pale fist against her lips.

  The judge came around slowly and looked at Paris. “When did you receive this call?”

  “Just before sign-off last night. I called 911 immediately.”

  Curtis picked up from there and brought them up-to-date. “Janey’s the only missing person who’s been reported. If that’s her talking to Paris earlier in the week, it could correlate.”

  “If I heard evidence that flimsy in my courtroom, I’d dismiss it.”

  “Maybe you would, Judge, but I won’t,” Curtis declared. “After the reporter confronted you, I understand you called off the unofficial search for your daughter. Well, sir, you should know that as we speak, patrolmen are intensifying their search and intelligence officers are tapping every resource.”

  The judge looked ready to implode. “Upon whose authority?”

  “Mine,” Dean said. “I made the recommendation and Sergeant Curtis acted on it.”

  Mrs. Kemp turned to him. “I’m sorry, we weren’t formally introduced. I don’t know who . . .” He introduced himself again and explained how he had become involved.

  “Very possibly this will turn out to be a hoax, Mrs. Kemp. But until we know it is, we should take this caller seriously.”

  She stood up suddenly. “Would anyone like coffee?” Then before anyone could answer, she rushed from the room.

  The judge muttered a string of curses. “Was that necessary?” he asked Dean.

  Dean was barely restraining himself. Paris recognized the tension in his posture and the hardening of his jaw as he stood up and confronted the judge. “I hope to God you can file a formal complaint against me. I hope Janey comes waltzing in here and makes me look like a colossal fool. You’ll then have the pleasure of calling me one, possibly even getting me fired.

  “But in the meantime, your rudeness is unforgivable and your obstinance is stupid. We’ve been given a seventy-two-hour deadline, and so far you’ve wasted twenty minutes of it by being a jerk. I suggest we all set aside our egos and focus on finding your daughter.”

  The judge and Dean stared each other down. Neither submitted to the other in a silent contest of wills. Finally Curtis cleared his throat. “Uh, when was the last time you saw Janey, Judge?”

  He actually seemed relieved to have an excuse to break eye contact with Dean. “Yesterday,” he replied briskly. “At least Marian saw her then. In the afternoon. We got home late last night. Thought she was in her room. Didn’t discover until this morning that her bed hadn’t been slept in.” He sat down and crossed one long leg over the other, but his insouciance appeared affected. “I’m sure she’s with friends.”

  “I have a son about Janey’s age,” Dean told him. “He can be a challenge. There are times when you’d think we hated each other. Discounting the normal ups and downs of living with a teenager, would you say you’re basically on good terms with Janey?”

  The judge looked ready to tell Dean that his relationship with his daughter was none of his business. But he relented and said stiffly, “She’s been difficult at times.”

  “Breaking curfew? Experimenting with alcohol? Going out with kids you’d rather she not associate with? I speak from experience, you understand.”

  By placing them on common ground, he was gradually breaking down the judge’s barriers and Curtis seemed content to let him continue.

  “All of the above,” the judge admitted before turning to
Paris. “Sergeant Curtis said this degenerate has called you before.”

  “A man using that name has, yes.”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “No.”

  “You have no idea who he is?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Do you intentionally provoke this kind of lewdness from your listeners?”

  The implicating question took her aback. Before she could form a reply, Dean said, “Paris can’t be held responsible for the actions of her listening audience.”

  “Thank you, Dean, but I can speak for myself.” She met the judge’s censorious stare head-on. “I don’t care what you think of me or of my program, Judge Kemp. I don’t need or desire your approval. I’m here only because I heard Valentino’s message firsthand, and I share Dean—Dr. Malloy’s—concern. I respect his opinion both as a psychologist and a criminologist. Sergeant Curtis’s investigative skills are unsurpassed. You’d be wise to give serious consideration to what they’re telling you.

  “As for my opinion, it’s based on years of experience. I listen to people in every possible human condition. They talk to me through laughter and tears. They share their joy, sorrow, grief, heartache, exhilaration. Sometimes they lie. I usually can tell when they’re lying, when they’re faking an emotion in an attempt to impress me. They do that sometimes, thinking it will increase their chances of being put on the air.”

  She pointed toward the recorder. “He didn’t even hint at being put on the air. That wasn’t the reason he called. He called with a message for me, and I didn’t get the sense that he was lying or faking it. I don’t think it was a crank call. I think he has done, and is going to do, what he said.

  “Insult me if it makes you feel better, but, regardless of anything you say, I’m going to do everything within my power to help the police get your daughter returned safely to you.”

  The taut silence that followed Paris’s speech was relieved by the reappearance of Marian Kemp. It seemed she had timed it for just that purpose. “I decided on iced tea instead.”

  She was followed into the room by a uniformed maid carrying a silver tray. On it were tall glasses of iced tea garnished with lemon and fresh mint. Each glass rested on an embroidered linen coaster. A silver bowl of sugar cubes was accompanied by dainty sterling tongs.