by Sandra Brown
FM 101.3 was owned and operated by the Wilkins media conglomerate, which included five newspapers, three network-affiliated television stations, a cable company, and seven radio stations. The corporate offices occupied the top three floors of an Atlanta skyscraper that was upscale and sleek, with glass pods for elevators and a two-story waterfall in the sterile granite lobby.
This facility, rescued from a bankrupt previous owner, was as far from upscale and sleek as a woolly mammoth. There was no waterfall in the lobby, only a water cooler that gurgled and occasionally leaked.
The unattractive, single-story brick structure was situated on a hill on the outskirts of Austin, several miles from the state capitol dome. The building hailed from the early fifties and looked it. It had passed through the hands of twenty-two penny-pinching owners.
Run-down and tacky, it was virtually overlooked by the corporate suits—except when they reviewed the ratings charts. Appearance wise, FM 101.3 was an unsightly wart on the glossy corporate image. But it was healthfully in the black, a reliable producer of revenue.
Despite the building’s shortcomings, Paris liked it. It had soul. It bore up well despite its scars.
After the dark hallways, the flickering fluorescent light in the kitchen seemed excessively bright. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the glare even behind her tinted lenses. She took a tea bag from her personal stock in the cabinet and put it in a cup of water she heated in the vintage microwave. The water had barely begun to color when she heard voices.
Looking into the hallway, she was stunned to see Dean trailing several steps behind Stan, who was saying to him, “She didn’t tell me she was expecting a visitor.”
“She isn’t expecting me.”
Spotting her, Stan said, “He was tapping on the front door. I didn’t let him in until he showed me his cop’s badge.”
Trying to hide her consternation from her coworker, she said, “Dr. Malloy works with the Austin PD. He was consulted for a psychological assessment of Valentino’s tape.”
“So he said.” Stan looked Dean up and down. “Two for the price of one. A cop and a shrink.”
“Something like that,” he replied, smiling tightly.
Stan looked from one to the other, but when neither spoke, he must have realized that his company was no longer wanted. He said to Paris, “If you need me, I’ll be in the engineering room.”
Dean watched as Stan retreated down the hallway. When he was out of earshot, he turned back to Paris. “That’s Crenshaw? The owner’s nephew? Is he gay?”
“I have no idea. What are you doing here, Dean?”
He stepped into the kitchen, immediately reducing its already limited floor space. “Someone should be here with you during your shift.”
“Stan’s with me.”
“You would trust him with your life?”
She smiled wanly. “You have a point.”
“Until we know more about this character calling himself Valentino, you should have police protection.”
“Curtis offered to send out Griggs and Carson. I said no.”
“I’ve met Griggs. He seems to be on his toes and a real Boy Scout, but neither he nor . . .”
“Carson.”
“. . . has hostage-negotiation training. I should be here if Valentino calls again. If I sense that he’s close to losing it, I could talk to him, hopefully persuade him to identify his captive and tell us where he’s keeping her.”
That being his field of expertise, it was a plausible excuse for his being there. Nevertheless, she questioned his motive. “He may not call. You will have wasted your whole evening.”
“It wouldn’t be wasted, Paris. I’m also here because I wanted to see you.”
“You’ve seen me.”
“Alone.”
She set the mug of tea on the stained counter, turning her back to him. “Dean, please don’t do this.”
He moved up close behind her, and she held her breath, fearing he would touch her. She was unsure as to what her reaction would be if he did, so she didn’t want to be tested.
“Nothing has changed, Paris.”
She gave a rueful laugh. “Everything has changed.”
“When you walked into my office this morning, it came back. All of it. I got slam-dunked just like I did the first time I saw you. Remember? It was the night after the snow.”
• • •
Houston’s snowfall had been reduced to a cold rain that gusted inside when she opened her front door to admit Jack and Dean.
She waved them inside hastily so she could close the door. Jack’s introduction got lost in the flurry of their shedding damp overcoats and trying to close stubborn umbrellas that were dripping on her entry floor.
Once she had hung their coats on the coat tree and propped their umbrellas in the corner, she turned and smiled up at her fiancé’s best friend. “Let’s start over. Hello, Dean. I’m Paris. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“The same goes for me.”
His handshake was firm, his smile warm and friendly. He was a couple inches taller than Jack, she noticed. His brown hair was showing signs of premature gray at his temples. He wasn’t classically handsome like Jack, but ruggedly so. Jack had told her that Dean had to beat women off with a stick. She could see why. The asymmetric features of his face were arresting. They were counterbalanced by his eyes, which were pale gray and outlined by dark, spiky lashes. An absorbing combination.
He said, “I thought Jack was lying.”
“Jack lie? Never!”
“When I asked him what you looked like, he said you would take my breath away. I thought he was exaggerating.”
“He does tend to do that.”
“He didn’t this time.”
From across the room, Jack grinned at them. “While you two are discussing my character flaws, I’m going to fix a round of drinks.”
They enjoyed a convivial dinner at Jack’s favorite steak house. After the meal they migrated to the adjacent bar, where they sat in front of the fireplace and sipped after-dinner coffees. The men regaled her with stories about their college days. Of course, Jack dominated the conversation, but Dean seemed willing to yield him center stage. Jack was a talented, witty storyteller.
Dean was an excellent listener. He asked her about her work, and while she was describing a normal workday, he never broke eye contact. He gave her the attention he would give an oracle divulging the future of mankind. He hung on every word and asked pertinent questions. That was Dean’s special gift—making the other person feel as if they had become the center of his universe.
Jack’s enjoyment of the evening included imbibing too much brandy. He was sleeping in the backseat when Dean pulled his car to a stop in front of her town house.
“I think we’ve lost him,” he remarked.
She looked back at her fiancé, who was snoring softly through his open mouth. “I think you’re right. Will you see him home safely and into bed?”
“As long as I don’t have to kiss him good night.”
She laughed. “I had heard so much about you from Jack, I already considered you my friend, too. Promise me that you’ll join us for another evening soon.”
“That’s a promise.”
“Good.” She reached for the door handle.
“Wait. I’ll see you in.”
Despite her protests, he got out and came around with an umbrella as she alighted from the passenger seat. He walked with her to the front door. He even took her key from her, unlocked the door with his free hand, and waited until she had disengaged the alarm system.
“Thank you for seeing me in.”
“You’re welcome. What’s the date?” he added.
“The date?”
“Of the wedding. I need to put it on my calendar. The best man’s gotta be there, you know.”
“I haven’t set the date yet. Sometime in September or October.”
“That long? Jack gave me the impression it would be sooner.�
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“It would be if he had his way, but I want to use fall colors.”
“Yeah, that’d be nice. Church wedding?”
“Presbyterian.”
“And the reception?”
“Probably a country club.”
“A lot of planning.”
“Yes, a lot.”
“Hmm.”
He seemed not to notice that rainwater dripped off the metal tips of the umbrella frame and splashed onto his shoes. She didn’t notice that rain was being blown inside and onto her floor. Even that first night, the look they shared was perhaps several moments too long.
Dean had been the one to eventually break the stare, saying huskily, “Good night, Paris.”
“Good night.”
Often when future spouses are introduced to long-standing best friends, they despise one another on sight, making it awkward for the one in the middle who loves them both. She had liked Dean from the start.
She hadn’t known any better than to consider that a good omen.
• • •
Now Dean reached for her hand and turned her around to face him. He looked at her with the same disturbing penetration as he had the night they’d met, and it had the same magnetic effect. She felt her will dissolving and knew that if she didn’t fight it immediately, she would be lost.
“Dean, I beg you. Leave this alone.”
She tried to step around him, but he blocked her path. “Our circumstances may have changed, Paris, but not what counts.”
“What counts is what always has counted. Jack.”
“He went through hell,” he said. “I know that.”
“You couldn’t possibly know the hell his life was after that night.”
He lowered his face to bring it closer to hers. “That’s right, I don’t. Because you made it clear I was not to come and see him. Ever.”
“Because he wouldn’t have wanted you—especially you—to see him that way,” she said, her voice cracking. “But take my word for it, his was a living death for seven years before his heart made it official and stopped beating.”
“I regret what happened to him as much as you do,” he whispered urgently. “Don’t you know that? Do you think I could blithely forget? Jesus, Paris, do you think I’m that callous? I’ve had to live with what happened, just as you have.”
He expelled a long breath and pushed his fingers through his hair. He gazed at a spot above her head for a moment before his eyes moved back to her. “But at the risk of making you angry, I have to say this. What happened to Jack was his fault. Not yours, not mine. His.”
“The accident wouldn’t have happened if—”
“But it did. And we can’t go back and undo it.”
“Guilt management 101, Dr. Malloy?”
“Okay. Yeah. Simply put, I’m not going to let regret eat me alive. I’ve let it go.”
“How nice for you.”
“So your method of guilt management is better? Emotionally healthier? You think it preferable to dig a hole and hide in it?” He gave the untidy kitchen a scornful glance. “Look at this place. It’s a dark, dirty, dreary rathole.”
“I like it.”
“Because it’s no better than you think you deserve.”
When he moved a step closer, her reaction was to hug her elbows tighter as a means of self-defense against his nearness. It was also a defense against the truth of what he was saying. She knew he was right, which only made her more determined not to listen.
“Paris, God knows you’re good at what you do here. Your listening audience loves you. But you could’ve written your own ticket in TV news.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I know I’m right. Furthermore, you know I’m right.”
Unable to look into his persuasive eyes, she lowered her head and stared at the sliver of linoleum flooring between his shoes and hers. She curbed the impulse to grab his lapels and plead with him either to drop the subject or to convince her that she had paid her penance. “I did what I had to do,” she said softly.
“Because you felt it was your duty?”
“It was.”
“ ‘Was,’ ” he repeated with a soft emphasis. “What duty do you owe Jack now that he’s dead?” He took her by the shoulders. It was the first time in seven years that they had touched. A tide of heat surged through her and she struggled against the compulsion to lean into him and press her body to his.
Instead she said, “Dean, please, don’t. I had to make some hard choices, but I made them. As you said, it’s done. In any case, I won’t argue with you about this.”
“I don’t want to argue either.”
“Or talk about it,” she added.
“Then we won’t.”
“I don’t even want to think about it.”
“I’ll never stop thinking about it.”
The timbre of his voice lowered. His fingers closed more tightly around her shoulders. Barely but noticeably he came closer, close enough for their clothing to touch and for her to feel his breath on her hair.
The subject had shifted from Jack’s death to a topic that was even more unsettling and better avoided. She dared to raise her head and meet his gaze.
“Why do you hide in the dark, Paris?”
“I don’t.”
“Don’t you? I could barely find my way down that hallway.”
“You get used to it.”
“ ‘Hello, darkness, my old friend.’ ”
“You’re quoting Simon and Garfunkel?”
“Is that your theme song these days?”
“Maybe you should have been the deejay.” She smiled, hoping to lighten the tone of the conversation, but he wouldn’t be deterred.
His eyes moved over her face. “You’re beautiful, but no one in your listening audience knows what you look like.”
“It isn’t necessary. Radio is an aural medium.”
“But normally radio personalities promote themselves. You have no identity beyond your voice.”
“Which is all the identity I need. I don’t want to focus attention on myself.”
“Really? Then maybe you should dispense with the sunglasses.”
“She can’t. Her eyes are sensitive to light.”
Neither realized that Stan was there until he spoke. As they turned toward him, Dean dropped his hands from her shoulders.
Stan eyed him mistrustfully, but his message was for Paris. “It’s five to ten. Harry’s going into the news update and final commercial break. You’re up.”
chapter 14
“Hey, Gav!”
Gavin glanced over his shoulder, saw who had hailed him, then waited for Melissa Hatcher to catch up with him. When she got close enough to read his expression, her smile dissolved.
Foregoing any greeting, he said, “Way to go, Melissa. Were you trying to ruin my life, or were you just too stupid to not keep your mouth shut?”
“You’re pissed?”
“You bet your ass I’m pissed.”
“What for? What’d I do?”
“You told my dad we knew each other.”
“So, what’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that we’re having a burger at Chili’s tonight and he starts in on the Sex Club.”
She propped her hand on her hip. “Oh, like I’d tell your dad about the Sex Club. Duh!”
“Well, he heard about it from somebody.”
“Probably that other cop. The short, bald one.” She puffed on a lighted joint, then offered it to him. “Here. You look in need of some major chilling out.”
He pushed the marijuana aside. “What do you know about Janey?”
“She’s in deep shit. With her folks. The cops. Everybody.” Spotting a group of acquaintances beyond Gavin’s shoulder, she waved, calling out, “Hey, y’all, I’m back from France, and have I got stories!”
Gavin sidestepped, blocking her view of the others and forcing her to look at him. “Is Janey really missing?”
“
I guess. I mean, that’s what your dad told me. By the way, he’s hot. Does he have a girlfriend?”
The dope alone couldn’t be blamed for her being a mental zero. She hadn’t started out with enough gray matter to brag about. “Melissa, what do you know about Janey?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re her best friend,” he argued.
“I’ve been out of the frigging country,” she said crossly. “I haven’t seen Her Highness in weeks. All right?” She took another hit of weed. “Look, I’ve got people waiting for me. Chill, why don’t you.”
She left him to join a group who had attached a garden hose to a keg of beer and were taking turns guzzling from it. A lot was lost on the ground, but no one seemed to notice or care. There was always more where that came from.
Gavin joined his friends, who were once again congregated in and around Craig’s pickup. He surrendered the unopened bottle of Maker’s Mark he’d stolen from his dad’s liquor cabinet. As busy as his old man was tracking down Janey Kemp, it might be several days before he noticed he was short a bottle of bourbon.
Craig went to work on the red wax seal with his pocketknife. “Did you catch hell last night?”
“And then some.” Gavin put his back against the rear fender while his eyes scoured the crowd in search of a familiar face and form.
“You were so wasted.”
“Hurled on the way home.”
“Oh, man.”
“I shit you not.” He recounted the incident at the mailbox. “I’m talking projectile vomiting.”
Their laughter was interrupted when another of the boys brought up Janey’s name. “Y’all hear about her disappearance?”
“It was on the local news,” another said. “My mom asked if I knew her.”
“Bet you didn’t tell her how well you know her.”
“Yeah, bet you didn’t tell your mom that you know Janey in the biblical sense.”
“What do you know about anything biblical?”
“My cousin’s a preacher.”
“So what happened to you?”
“He tried to save me. It didn’t take. Pass the bottle.”
The others continued to swap insults along with swigs of the whiskey. Craig climbed out of the truck and came to stand beside Gavin. “What’s with you tonight?”
