Dead Air: A Talk Radio Mystery (15 page)

She put the beer bottle down on a WYME coaster, and her expression clouded for a moment, as if she were contemplating the dismal state of her acting career. I hated to admit it, but she had a point. Outside of old favorites like Helen Mirren, Meryl Streep, Goldie Hawn, and Diane Kea ton, how many working actresses are there over the age of fifty? Things are tough in Tinseltown, and she knew it.

Still, it was time for a reality check.

“Mom, you were never on
The O.C.
”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t be such a stickler for details,” she said. “A minor point. I would have been terrific on that show, but I didn’t have Edgar then, and my agent never even sent me over to meet the producers.”

“A pity.” I sneaked a peek at my watch. I tried to be surreptitious, but Mom was too quick for me.

“Well, let’s get back to Lark,” she said, switching gears. “How did her name even come up? What’s her connection to this guru who was murdered?”

“It’s very circumstantial. She was the last person to see him alive, but she did have a good reason to be angry with him. She gave him a push and it’s not certain if he fell and hit his head. Nothing seems really certain except that foul play was involved. They don’t even have the autopsy results yet, but that doesn’t seem to matter to the Cypress Grove PD. Lark is their main suspect. Their only suspect.” I quickly filled her in on the incident in Guru Sanjay’s hotel room but stopped short of mentioning Lark’s criminal background. I decided it would be best to let Lark bring up the subject herself, when she felt the time was right. I still had trouble believing it, and I wondered whether somehow Nick had left out part of the story. Not deliberately, of course, but maybe there were some details that he didn’t know about.

We moved out onto the tiny balcony, sitting side by side on a couple of navy canvas deck chairs, my latest find from “Tarzhay.” The balcony is probably only fifty square feet, but it overlooks a shady garden and a pretty little fountain spilling into a pond. I watched the copper green metal dolphins twirling in the spray, the droplets looking like tiny crystals as they landed on the terra-cotta tiles edging the pond.

It was late afternoon, and now that the haze of the day had burned off, a golden glow was settling over the scene. The scent of freshly mowed grass mingled with the fragrance of the white magnolia bushes rimming the edge of the garden. The sun was hanging low in the sky like a big orange lollipop, and a soft breeze was ruffling the fronds on the coconut trees. If it hadn’t been for this pesky business of a murder investigation, all would be well with the world.

Half an hour later, I decided to throw together a quick dinner on the balcony—quesadillas roasted on the grill, sliced tomatoes with raspberry vinaigrette, and a corn and black bean salad from the deli. The doorbell rang just as I slapped some crumbly cheddar cheese and roasted red peppers into the last tortilla.

“I’ll get it,” Mom sang out from somewhere inside the condo.

“Probably Lark forgot her key again,” I called out. “Tell her dinner will be ready in fifteen.”

Except it wasn’t Lark.

My barbecuing fork froze in midair and my heart skipped a beat when I heard Mom say, “Well, hello, gorgeous!” Hardly original. This was one of her favorite lines. And not even original. She stole it from Barbra Streisand’s acceptance speech on Oscar night.

A friendly yip from Pugsley, and then I heard a sexy male voice that I immediately recognized as Martino’s.

Martino? Here?Now?
The possibilities burst in my head like fireworks when Mom trilled, “Maggie! Turn down the grill and get in here. We have a guest.”

I quickly closed the lid on the grill, wiped my hands on a towel, and paused for a moment, flipping a mental coin. Play it cool? Light? Sardonic? A small voice in the back of my head reminded me to ignore how incredibly hot he was and not fall to pieces at the sight of him.
Note to self: Play it cool, Maggie; play it cool.

Of course, my resolve crumbled like a Thin Mint when I saw him. My hormones had stormed into high gear and my mind was running willy-nilly in a thousand directions. Let’s face it: I was a lost cause whenever I was around him.

“Dr. Walsh,” he said in that sexy baritone. “I hope I’m not intruding.” He looked from Mom to me, a slow grin flickering at the corner of his mouth.

“Intruding? Don’t be silly,” Mom babbled, practically dragging him into the living room and pushing him into a basket chair. “What would you like to drink? I make a mean mojito. Or there’s beer, iced tea, or lemonade.” Mom had once played a flight attendant in a B movie, and she seemed to be reprising her “Coffee, tea, or me?” role. Was I imagining it or did she just give him a saucy wink?

He gave her a level look and then nodded. “Some lemonade would be nice. Or just a can of diet cola. Don’t bother with a glass.”
Don’t bother with a glass? Was he afraid she might try to slip him a roofie?
“I’m here on police business,” he added, just to let her know it wasn’t a social call.
Uh-oh.

“Maggie told me you’re a detective,” Mom gushed. “That is just so exciting. You know, I played a forensic investigator years ago in a movie we shot in Tijuana
. Pasiones peligrosas
.
Dangerous Passions.
Of course, the script was in English, so it had to be dubbed into Spanish and had limited distribution, but—”

“Mom,” I said sharply. “The lemonade?” The moment she sashayed to the kitchen, Rafe turned to me with a disbelieving look.

“Your mom is a movie star?”

“In her own mind. When she said it had limited distribution, she meant three people might have seen it in a drive-in in Kentucky. Before it went straight to video.” I paused. “So you’re here to see Lark?” Not a sparkling conversation opener, but the best I could do, under the circumstances.

He looked like a million bucks, a crisp white shirt showing off his Florida tan, sleeves rolled up, his dark hair boy ishly falling over one eye. He wore it a little long, at least compared to other cops I had known, but maybe the detectives had more leeway. He gave me a neutral look I couldn’t quite read, and my mind flipped through the possibilities.

“I do want to ask Lark a few more questions. But I really came here tonight to see you, Dr. Walsh.” His tone made it clear that passion, romance, or even sheer animal lust wasn’t in the cards. Bummer. He wasn’t mixing business and pleasure, after all. Rafe Martino was all business.

“Maggie,” I said automatically. “You can call me Maggie.”

“Maggie.” He managed to make it sound like a caress, and a little hum began in my head. My heart started to pound like crazy, but there was still that cool-cop look that I couldn’t quite decipher.

I stalled for time and sat down on the love seat, with the wicker coffee table between us. I was definitely feeling uneasy. Freud would probably say I was out of my psychological safety zone so I was overcompensating by keeping the coffee table between us. Like a barrier. Hmm. I considered the Freudian hypothesis for about two seconds, and then I reminded Uncle Siggy that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

“So what do you want to see me about?” I noticed I was crossing and uncrossing my legs the way perps do on
Law & Order
, so I made a conscious effort to stay still. My hands felt clammy and I folded them in my lap. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to lean back in the chair, as if I had memorized the entire first chapter of
Secrets of Body Language 101
.

He probably didn’t buy it for a second, because he fixed me with those amazing dark eyes and gave a sad little head shake. “I’m afraid you’ve been playing detective.” His voice had suddenly turned serious. “Not a good idea, Maggie. Poking into things that don’t concern you, looking for trouble.”

“Looking for trouble?” I wrestled with my conscience for a moment, wondering whether I should come clean.

He looked me square in the eye, as if I were a convicted felon who had violated parole and was heading back to the can. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Maggie.”

I was struggling to come up with an answer, and Mom chose that moment to pop up from the kitchen like a prairie dog. For an actress, she has an incredibly bad sense of timing. “One lemonade coming up,” she said, putting the glass in front of him with a flourish.

She gave him a big smile and handed him a little cocktail napkin and beer nuts like she was auditioning for the role of World’s Oldest Living Flight Attendant.

“Thanks.” He smiled back at her and I swear she melted. He took a sip and nodded approvingly. “Very nice. Tart, not too sweet.” Mom was all set to hover, but I sent her a death glare and she got the message and scurried away.

Rafe waited until she disappeared back into the kitchen before continuing, and I sat perfectly still, heart pounding. What was coming next?

“I hear you’ve been asking questions about Guru Sanjay,” he said coolly. “Interviewing potential witnesses, visiting the crime scene . . .” He let his voice trail off as if he was disappointed in me.

I immediately felt on the defensive. Was he checking up on me? And how did he know I’d visited the Seabreeze? Since I hadn’t gone up to Guru Sanjay’s bedroom, I could hardly be guilty of visiting the crime scene, but I didn’t think this was the time to mention it. I’d hung out on the front porch, talked to Ted Rollins, and swiped one of the audience evaluation forms, but Rafe had no way of knowing that. And this wasn’t the time to mention it. And I hadn’t tampered with any evidence; I’d copied the form and put the original back in the pile.

“Well, I may have asked a few questions, here and there.” I hesitated. “And why shouldn’t I? He was a guest on my show, and it’s only natural that I’d be interested in finding his killer.”

“It’s only natural,” he echoed in that eerily flat tone. And just the touch of a sardonic smile. His sangfroid act was putting my nerves on edge, and I found myself wishing I could wrap my hands around another frosty Corona.

“Well, yes,” I faltered. “Of course it’s natural. I’m not just being nosy, if that’s what you’re hinting at. The sooner I find the real killer, the sooner you can eliminate Lark as a suspect. It should be pretty obvious to you by now that she had nothing to do with it.”

The words spilled out in one rush of breath, and I felt a little ripple of anger spreading through my body. Who was Rafe Martino to tell me what to do and who I could or couldn’t talk to?

I wondered which “potential witnesses” he was referring to. Was it Lenore Cooper, the disgruntled ex-wife, or Kathryn Sinclair, the angry mother? They were the top two on my suspect list, even if they weren’t on the Cypress Grove PD’s radar screen yet. If I didn’t hunt for the real killer, who would? As far as Rafe was concerned, it seemed to be “case closed.”

“Did it ever occur to you that you might be compromising an ongoing investigation?” His voice was low and calm, and he didn’t seem to be the tiniest bit upset by my outburst. He took a long swig of lemonade and looked at me. “Doesn’t that bother you? To think that you might do or say something that would interfere with police business and make our job a lot harder?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The air between us hummed with tension. Why was he criticizing me for doing a little freelance detective work?

I felt a surge of heat rise to my face, and my voice lifted a little. “I wasn’t interfering with anything. I have every right to ask questions,” I began, but he cut me off, and a flicker of something cold went through his eyes.

“And you went to his memorial service. We were there, too, you know.” He leaned forward, his eyes never leaving my face.

“You were there?” Too late I remembered that cops often went to victims’ funerals because often the perpetrator was dumb enough to show up. “I didn’t see any of Cypress Grove’s finest at the service.”

“We were there undercover. We tried to blend.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” I felt chastised. And moronic. “Then you saw me talking to Kathryn Sinclair,” I said without thinking. I regretted it the moment the words were out of my mouth.

“Yes, we did. It looked like the two of you were pretty chummy.” He paused, looking at his hands for a moment. “Would you care to tell me what the conversation was about? Had you known her before the service?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I never met her before she came up to me in the garden.” I neglected to say that Ted Rollins had tipped me off that she’d been making waves about the guru and his dangerous “therapies.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Her daughter,” I said slowly. “Her daughter, Sarah, was a client of Guru Sanjay’s. Well, not exactly a client. She went to one of those encounter groups his organization runs, and she had a bad experience there.”

Rafe nodded. “Go on.” I had the feeling he already knew all this and was testing me. But why? I had no idea what his agenda was, and it was making me uncomfortable. Like all shrinks, I like to be the one in control, the one asking questions. Rafe Martino was upsetting the natural order of things, and I found it unsettling.

“Kathryn was unhappy with the way her daughter was treated. It sounded as though she was bullied, and eventually”—I paused, trying to be precise—“she had to be hospitalized. Her experience at the encounter group hurt her psychologically and actually damaged her health. It sounded like reckless behavior on the part of Guru Sanjay’s organization, and I was surprised to hear about it.” I bit my lower lip, wondering what Rafe was thinking.

“Did you ever wonder why she was telling you all this?”

I gave a careless shrug. “No, I didn’t even think about it. She knew he’d been a guest on my show and I suppose she thought that I would find it interesting. And as a psychologist, I could understand how destructive the whole experience had been for Sarah.” I paused. “I think she just wanted someone to talk to. You know, to vent.”

“So you’re saying she was angry with him?”