Dead Air: A Talk Radio Mystery (4 page)

I stuck out my hand, but the guru didn’t shake it. Instead he peered at it, then began rubbing his fat thumb over my palm in a creepy way, as if he were rolling a Cuban cigar.

“We go live in a couple of minutes.” I forced myself to sound bubbly. “We’ve done lots of promo spots about you, and I bet the calls will come rolling in. So . . . uh . . . welcome to the show.”

I felt a shiver slither down my spine. Talk about a dark presence—this guy was giving off serial-killer vibes with his loathsome touch. All my forensic training came front and center; I had a very bad feeling about the guru.

I suddenly knew, in a very visceral way, that he was a scam artist or a sociopath. How did I know this? Call it gut instinct, training, years of coming face-to-face with anti socials on a daily basis.

This guy was a fake, a grifter, a con man.

I just knew it in my bones.

“You are an old soul, Maggie,” he said, his face very close to mine. “I can sense that you have lived many lifetimes because your chakras still seek harmony. Perhaps with my help, they can finally be realigned.”

So he wants to realign my chakras? I just bet he does! Maybe he could rotate my tires at the same time, but I bet that wouldn’t be nearly as much fun for him.

His stubby thumb left a greasy trail up my bare arm. I yanked my hand away just as Vera Mae slapped on her headphones and pointed at me.

“Line three, Dr. Maggie. Thelma has a question about . . . bioenergetic healing.” Vera Mae permitted herself a small eye roll as Thelma’s voice burst into the booth.

“Well, thank the Lord I finally got through! I’ve been calling for hours and all I got was Celine Dion and that dopey song—”

“Sorry about that, Thelma, but we’re here now to help you.” I plastered a grin on my face because someone once told me that smiling helps to inject warmth into your voice. “And your question is . . .”

“It’s for your guest. Guru Sanjay, I just have to say, I’ve read all your books and I think you’re just amazing. You’re my hero!”

The guru gave a mock-humble bow. “I am but a channel, a funnel for all of life’s mysteries, a river for spiritual healing. But if I have helped you in some small way, then I am gratified.”

He glanced over at the two thugs at the door, and they nodded approvingly. I bet they had heard this all before.

“And your question is . . . ,” I repeated, breaking up the lovefest.

“Well, I’m getting a lot of bad vibrations from my boss. I can see his aura, and let me tell you, it’s mighty scary. I think he might be trying to control my mind.”

“You were very wise to call me today, Thelma.” The guru’s voice was low and soothing. “Because I can feel some very negative energy emanating from the phone and disturbing the glowing white light at the center of your being. You are right to be alarmed.” He paused. “Let me guess. Are you calling from work at this very moment?”

“Why, yes! Yes, I am calling from work.” Thelma sounded awestruck. “That’s incredible; you really are psychic!”

“When you are in tune with the universe, it cannot surprise you. I know all of its secrets. Now, how can I help you?”

“I guess I need some specific ways to deal with my boss,” she said hesitantly. “I’ve read
Heal the Cosmos, Heal Yourself
, and I tried out some of the things you suggested.”

“Ah, yes,
Heal the Cosmos
, my latest release. It’s only $6.95 in paperback and just $12.95 for the audio version. Both are available on my Web site,
GuruSanjay.com
, and at fine bookstores everywhere.”

Before Thelma could reply, Vera Mae piped up, “Say, Thelma, did you ever read a book called
Working with Jerks
? It’s my bible. I bet it could give you some tips on how to deal with this guy.”

“I’ve never heard of it, but I could look it up on Amazon—”

“Here is what you must do, Thelma,” Guru Sanjay cut in swiftly. “You must stand firm as a spiritual seeker and not let any negativity influence your aura. You have within you the power to be a healer, a human energy force field, and you must emit only good energy.” He paused dramatically. “Do you understand me? You have the power within you, Thelma. Never forget that.”

I think he stole that line from Glinda, the Good Witch, in
The Wizard of Oz
, but I could tell Thelma was falling head over chakras for it. I hated to admit it, but put him in front of a mike and the guy had charisma. He had an uncanny way of tapping into people’s thoughts and feelings and telling them what they wanted to hear. All good performers have this talent, and I reminded myself that sociopaths are experts at reading people and scoring on their hopes and dreams.

“Yes, I do have the power!” Thelma gushed. “You’ve helped me so much, Guru. I’ll never be able to thank you!”

Again, the modest bow. Difficult to do sitting down, especially with an expanding gut in the way. Funny, but on television, he looked imposing, not fat, and I wondered whether he wore a corset for his public appearances.

“I am but an instrument. I am here today merely to explain the mysteries of the cosmos, through my understanding of kinetics and the human energy field.”

That’s all, just the mysteries of the cosmos? Maybe next week he can tackle global warming and the Middle East crisis. Oh, yeah, and the Riemann hypothesis; I’ve never been quite clear on how that works.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vera fingering her selection of signs. I just knew she was itching to hold up the BS! one. I gave her a tired smile as we headed into a Sassy Snippers commercial.

Who knew I would actually welcome the chance to hear about Twyla Boyd’s hair salon and her Thursday special on foils and perms?

Anything was better than the mystical mumbo jumbo coming from the guru!

“I can’t believe you met him,” Lark Merriweather said later that day. “If I could meet Guru Sanjay, even for five minutes, it would be the high point of my life.” Lark is into all things New Age: pyramids, crystals, incense, tarot,
I Ching
, channeling, and chi.

She sat back with a little sigh, her cornflower blue eyes wistful. Lark is slim and petite with a choppy blond bob that suits her pixieish face. Physically, we’re polar opposites. I tower over her at five-ten with straight auburn hair that can be sleek or frizzy depending on the famous Florida humidity.

“Really? I should have remembered you’re into Eastern mystics,” I said ruefully.
Or pretend mystics
, I felt like saying. Deep in my bones, I knew that Guru Sanjay had as much in common with mysticism as I did with aboriginal tribes in New Guinea.

The sun was beginning to dip in the western sky, and the last traces of sunlight spilled onto the round oak dining table. I’d finished my shift at WYME a couple of hours earlier and we were sharing a veggie pizza in the kitchen of our town house. It’s a cozy place with wide oak floors, exposed beams, and creamy walls dotted with colorful canvases that Lark picks up at local flea markets.

Lark and I have been roommates for the past three months and are on our way to becoming best friends. When I rented the three-bedroom condo on a quiet street lined with bright pink hibiscus bushes and flaming bougainvillea, Lark was the first person who asked to be my roommate.

Plus, she and Pugsley hit it off, and I knew it would be a good match. Pugsley is my three-year-old pug adopted from an animal shelter, and I’ve always subscribed to the adage “Love me, love my dog.”

Lark is twenty-three but seems younger sometimes. Maybe it’s because of her perpetually sunny personality. She has a kind of “life hasn’t crushed me yet” optimism that’s a nice balance to my Manhattan-style pessimism. Her favorite movie is
Forrest Gump
, and mine is anything by Woody Allen. That about sums it up.

Lark’s studying to be a paralegal, and I had no idea she was a fan of the guru. I could have invited her to sit in on the broadcast today, even though we don’t usually allow visitors in the booth.

“He’s my idol. I can’t believe I missed the show,” she said plaintively. “Why didn’t you let me know it was on today? I would have called in with a question. I’ve read all his books!”

I gave myself a mental head slap. “I’ll bring you a tape of the show—how’s that? And if you’re really interested in going to one of his workshops, I can give you a couple of press passes he left at the station. He’s doing a breakfast presentation in the morning, and there’s a big awards ceremony tomorrow night. I have tickets for some of the events.”

“Oh, I couldn’t take your tickets!” Her eyes were shining with excitement. “How could you ever part with them?”

“I’m not going to use them. Really.” I had to smile at her enthusiasm. “The dinner is right next door at the Seabreeze Inn, so the food should be good. The guru and his staff are staying there.”

We live next to one of the town’s nicest small hotels, and Ted Rollins, the manager, is a friend of mine. Sometimes I think he’d like to be more than friends, but somehow the chemistry just isn’t there. Not for me, anyway.

“The Seabreeze, huh?” She shook her head in wonderment. “Just think. Guru Sanjay is only a few yards away from me, this very minute. I wonder what he’s doing right now?” She peered out the window with her chin cupped in her hand, like Nicole Kidman staring out over the Paris rooftops in
Moulin Rouge
. “I bet he’s meditating,” she added in a dreamy voice.

“Ommmmmm.”

“What?”

I grinned. “You said he was meditating.”

“Oh, nobody says ‘om’ anymore. He’s probably sitting in the lotus position, chanting his mantra.” She sighed, as if the thrill of it all nearly sucked the air out of her chest.

Not a good image. A picture of a half-naked guru with his gut hanging over his yoga pants drifted into my mind, and I blinked quickly, willing it to disappear.

Lark continued to stare at the side entrance of the Seabreeze, as if willing Guru Sanjay to materialize like a genie out of a bottle. “I could practically reach out and touch him.”

I nodded. “You’ll have to catch him tomorrow if you really want to see him. He told me Team Sanjay is driving back to South Beach right after dinner. So this is his last night in town.”

“Really!” Lark glanced at her watch and then scrambled to her feet, tugging her burgundy knit top down over her low-rise jeans. She gave a little hip twitch and adjusted her studded leather belt so it cinched her tiny waist more tightly. “You know, I just remembered I need to pick up a few things at the drugstore. Do you want anything?”

“No, I’m fine, but what about your pizza?” It was Lark’s favorite, a mouth-watering concoction of goat cheese and fresh basil called Pizza Margarita, from Carlo’s.

“What? Oh, the pizza . . . I’ll take it with me.” Lark popped into her bedroom for a moment and returned carrying her yellow leather faux-Coach bag. It was a knockoff but very realistic. I noticed she’d fluffed her hair and had dabbed on some new peach lip gloss. “I’ll eat it in the car,” she said, grabbing a generous slice and folding it over into a napkin, calzone style. “See you later!”

And with that, she was gone.

A minute later, I realized her car keys were still sitting on the counter.

 

“Can you cover the morning news? The eight o’clock drive time? Everyone’s out on assignment this morning. Things are really hopping at the police station, and I think the mayor’s gonna give a statement later today.” Cyrus Still’s voice boomed over the phone, crashing through my sleep-fogged brain with such force, it made my teeth hurt. Someone told me that Cyrus has permanent hearing loss from covering so many rock concerts in his younger days and that’s why he always sounds like he’s shouting into a hurricane.

“Wha—” I sat straight up in bed, winced, and glanced at the clock. Six a.m. I was barely conscious and my station manager wanted to discuss the news of the day. I didn’t know which was more remarkable: the fact that Cyrus expected me to be coherent at the crack of dawn or the fact that I was working for someone who actually says things like “really hopping.”

I desperately needed an infusion of caffeine, an adrenaline rush, and oh, yeah, a functioning brain. “I can be there in forty-five,” I told him, running a brush through my hopelessly matted hair as I searched for my terry robe.

Thank god it’s radio and not television
, I thought, taking in my pale skin and sunken eyes in the wall mirror. A vision of loveliness. I’d fallen asleep watching Conan O’Brien and had barely woken up when Lark had tiptoed in, sometime after midnight.

Something niggled at the edges of my consciousness. News . . . the police station . . . the mayor. “Cyrus, what’s going on?” I asked, padding along the terra-cotta tiled floor to the kitchen. No sign of Lark and no coffee brewing. Lark and I have an arrangement. Whoever wakes up first makes the coffee, and today that would be me. Lark’s door was firmly shut.

“You mean you haven’t heard the news?” Cyrus sounded incredulous.

I stifled a jaw-popping yawn. “Haven’t a clue. Fill me in.”

“The guru,” he barked. “He’s dead.”

“Dead? Guru Sanjay is dead? Guru Sanjay the guy I interviewed?”

I couldn’t get my mind around the fact. He’d seemed perfectly healthy yesterday, if a trifle overweight with a florid complexion that probably hinted at metabolic syndrome. But he couldn’t really be dead, could he?

In
Heal the Cosmos
, Guru Sanjay insisted that death is just a state of mind, a transition of energy from one form to another. I wondered what this would do to his book sales.

“How many other gurus do you know?”

Ah, point taken. So Guru Sanjay was dead and was now part of that ultimate cosmic consciousness he always talked about. Now he was just a tiny (well, maybe not so tiny) blip of energy, flashing around the universe like a manic firefly. Ironic, isn’t it?

But there was still Cyrus’s nagging comment about cops and the mayor. I forced myself to focus. “Why are the police involved?”