Murder in the Air (20 page)

An hour later they were still waiting.

At exactly ten-thirty, Dorothy's office door opened and she hurried out. “Everyone, we've got to get started,” she ordered.

Bram was a bit startled by her abrupt appearance. He was also irritated that his leisure was about to end. For the past half hour he'd been sitting on a bench talking quietly to George Chambers about some of the sound effects he planned to use for the third episode. Everyone in the old cast agreed. George had changed more than any of them. The guy was a character, all right. Not many men his age would wear a ponytail and a thick white beard. Bram was fascinated by his stories, especially the one about his search for the perfect way to represent leaves rustling in the wind.

Dorothy clapped her hands. “Everybody, take a seat. I assume you all brought your scripts.”

“But… what about Valentine?” said Mitzi, walking into the room behind George. “He still isn't here.” She touched a hand lightly to the side of her dyed brown hair. It was a casual enough gesture, and yet Bram could read a certain nervousness in it.

“I'm well aware of that,” said Dorothy, sitting down in the head chair. “But we can't put this off any longer. We have to do our first read-through today—and start working out the timing.” She waited while everyone took a seat. “Now,” she said, folding her hands on the table, “since we don't have understudies, I'm going to appoint one for Valentine. Until he shows up, Bram, I'd like you to take the part of Dallas Lane.”

“Excuse me?” Bram nearly choked on his coffee. “But… I'm already the announcer.”

“Historically, the announcer often took part in the show, often as the main character.”

“But… I'm not an actor.”

“Of course you are. You've done one role already and, I might add, you did it extremely well.”

“But it was just a bit part.”

“Look,” said Dorothy, leaning forward in her chair, “this is just temporary, so don't get opening-night jitters on me. Valentine will show up sooner or later. Although,” she added somewhat curtly, “I've just about reached my limit with that man.”

Alfred Bloom entered the room, a cigar stuck in his mouth. It wasn't lit, but it still conveyed an attitude of defiance. As he sat down in an empty chair he gripped the stogie in his teeth and said, “Don't mind me. I'm just here to observe.”

By the look on Dorothy's face, Bram could tell that Bloom's presence was not only unexpected but unwanted. It was the first time he'd shown up for a rehearsal, or, for that matter, the first time Bram had seen him at the station since last week.

Dorothy eyed him with thinly veiled annoyance as she continued, “So, Bram, I'd like you to pick up the narrative on page two. It's only Tuesday, so we've got plenty of time to polish the dialogue before we go on air.”

Once again, her words startled him. “You sound like I'm definitely going on in place of Valentine next Sunday night.”

“I won't lie to you. I'm mere inches from firing that man. He's tried my patience far too many times.”

“But—”

“You're a natural actor, Bram. Hasn't anyone ever told you that? And your voice is perfect for the part. I'm not just making it up either. I've thought that all along. Remember, you don't have to memorize the lines, you merely have to read them.” She paused, then continued. “I'm afraid that Valentine's absence this morning may have forced me into making a decision before I was entirely ready, but decide I will. Nothing comes before this program.”

There it was again, thought Bram. The crusade.

Her eyes traveled from face to face until they came to rest on Bloom. “After this morning's run-through I'll have a better idea of how to proceed. So, let's just take it one step at a time, shall we?” She glanced down at the script in front of her. “Now, Dallas, you're talking to your girlfriend, Lucy.” Her eyes shot to Mitzi. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Mitzi, though she didn't sound all that certain.

“Cue the music,” said Dorothy, nodding to George.

Two hours later Bram returned to his office, feeling like a limp dishrag. His head was still spinning from the rehearsal. It was funny, but Dorothy had been right. He
did
have a certain flare for radio acting. Reduced to a voice, relieved of the tedium of having to memorize the script, get into makeup and a costume, and move around on a stage, he was free to concentrate on the words, to create a mood, a character. He felt an instant intimacy with the microphone, as if he'd been acting in front of it for years—which, in many ways, he had. Talk radio was nothing if not theatre.

But back to the matter at hand. He searched his desk for phone messages. He found two, but neither was from Sophie. He also found a sack of pretzels—not exactly what he had in mind for lunch.

Buzzing the secretary at the main desk, he said, “Judy, did I get any other calls while I was in rehearsal?”

“Hi there, Mr. Private Eye. What's this I hear about you becoming the station's newest leading man?”

“The stories of my death are greatly exaggerated.”

She laughed. “That's not what I hear. We took an official office poll and decided that you'd make a much better poster boy than Valentine Zolotow.”

“So would Pee-Wee Herman.”

“Now, now. Don't sell yourself so short. With that handsome, wolfish smile of yours—”

“I do
not
have a wolfish smile.”

“Ever looked in a mirror?”

“Are you flirting with me, Judy?”

“Would it do any good?”

He cleared his throat. “What about my messages?”

“Actually, I just got off the phone with your wife. She has nothing new to report about Rudy, but he's feeling better and you're not to worry. She'll call you later.”

“Good.” At least it wasn't bad news.

“Oh, and someone else called. A woman. I left the two messages on your desk. She called again just a few minutes ago. She wouldn't leave her name.”

He wondered if it was the same woman who'd called yesterday, the one who said she had a letter from Arn O'Dell. “Was there a message?”

“No, nothing other than she'd try you later.”

“All right,” he said, glancing at the bag of pretzels. “I'm going over to Salisbury's for a quick lunch. If anyone's looking for me, I'll be back in twenty.”

After taking the elevator down to the first floor, Bram dashed across the street to a small, one-story cafe sandwiched in between a mystery bookstore and a one-day photo shop. Most everyone at the station ate lunch at Salisbury's a few times a week. It was the closest restaurant around, and the food was cheap and pretty good.

Standing just inside the front door, Bram waited to be seated. There were several open spaces at the counter, but he wanted more room to spread out his reading material. He'd brought two newspapers with him, thinking he'd spend some time catching up on the day's headlines before his show started at one.

“Hey, Mr. B,” said Jerry Dimitch, the restaurant's owner. He waved at him from behind the cash register. “Good to see you.”

“The weather sure isn't hurting your business,” said Bram, rubbing his hands together.

“Nah, we're lucky. We got lotsa regulars.” He grabbed a menu and walked out from the back. “As a matter of strict fact, there was a lady in here a few minutes ago looking for you. She took a seat right over—” His eyes moved to the end
of the counter. “Huh. She must have left. I been so busy, I never noticed.”

“Who was she?” asked Bram.

“No idea. She didn't give a name. She just asked if you ever ate lunch here, and when I said you did, almost every day, she ordered a cup of coffee and acted like she was going to wait.”

The
every day
part was an exaggeration, but Bram let it pass. “Did she say why she wanted to talk to me?”

“Like I said, she just asked if you ever came in. I got the impression she knew you worked across the street. But she was kinda jumpy. She kept looking around behind her, watching the door. And she had a purse with her that she clutched, you know, with both hands, right in front of her, like it had diamonds or gold in it and she wasn't going to let anyone take it away from her.”

Bram was intrigued. Maybe it was the same woman who'd been trying to reach him all morning. “What did she look like?”

“Jeez, I'm terrible with faces, Mr. B. Middle-aged, I guess. Kinda hefty. Sorry, I don't remember anything else. Do you want a booth?”

“That would be great.”

“You betcha, Mr. B. Our best booth, coming right up.”

Bram followed him to a window table.

“You want to order now, or are you waiting for someone?”

“Give me a hot turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee. Black. And can you make it quick, Jerry? I'm in a hurry.”

“Coming right up.”

“Oh, and if you ever see that woman again, call me, okay? You've got the number of the station, right?”

“Sure thing.” Jerry scurried off into the kitchen to place the order.

Bram waited until he was served his coffee and then he took out the Minneapolis paper and began looking over the front page. Nothing was particularly new. A national athletic franchise was strong-arming the state once again, insisting that another new stadium be built with local tax dollars, the
fourth in recent memory. An animal-rights activist had attacked a truck carrying fur coats to a local department store, seriously injuring four people, including the activist himself. And the weather was cold and getting colder, just like the world was crazy and getting crazier.

Finishing his coffee, Bram decided to peruse the
Chicago Trib.
As he opened it to the opinion page his attention strayed to the street outside. There, standing next to him on the other side of the glass, was a woman, a hood pulled up around her head and a scarf covering her mouth. A purse was clutched nervously in both hands. The only part of her face not covered were the eyes, and they looked wary, like a scared animal's. She was undoubtedly the same woman who'd been asking about him earlier. He smiled pleasantly and nodded to the front door, hoping she'd take it as an invitation to come inside and talk.

She didn't move.

Bram began to feel uneasy. He didn't understand her reticence. After all, if she'd come here to find him—indeed, if she'd been trying to reach him by phone all morning—what was stopping her now? “Come inside,” he mouthed, waving her inside.

Looking frightened, she backed away from the window and took off running.

“Damn,” he muttered, feeling completely thwarted. Bursting out of the booth, he sidestepped a waitress and rushed to the door. As soon as he hit the street, he saw that it was too late.

Halfway down the block, a bus was pulling away from the corner. As it roared past, inside, near the back, he could make out a hooded profile. For one brief moment the woman turned and their eyes met. In that millisecond Bram could tell that her fear was gone. She was safe now, removed from danger—whatever she perceived that danger to be. He flailed his arms, urging her to stop, to come back. If she wanted to show him Arn O'Deil's letter, he was eager to see it. But she'd lost her nerve, and in turn, Bram had lost his one potential link to Justin Bloom's past.

18

By the time Bud Manderbach dragged himself into the office on Tuesday, it was nearly four in the afteraoon. He nodded to his secretary on his way past the reception area, asking her to bring him a cup of coffee. It would be his first of the day.

Once seated behind his desk, he flipped through the stack of papers ready for him to sign, wondering how long it would take to finish it all. He had no taste for business today, yet he never put his name on anything without a thorough examination of the material—especially personal letters, ones he'd dictated. Bud didn't have a hangover, but he did have a splitting headache. Concentration wouldn't come easily.

When Loretta entered the room a few minutes later, he scowled as she set the coffee down in front of him. “Is this fresh?”

“Yes, sir. I just made it.”

“Good.” He took a sip, savoring the bitterness. He loved a strong cup of coffee. “Say, have you reached Wish Greveen yet?”

“No, I've left several messages for him at the Maxfield, but so far, he hasn't returned the calls.”

“Well, damn it, that's not good enough. It's essential that I talk to him.”

“I realize that, sir, but I don't know what else I can do.”

“He's the writer of that radio program, for chrissake. A public man with public responsibilities.”

“How would you suggest I proceed, Mr. Manderbach?” Her reasoned tones grated on his already raw nerves.

“Call him again. Leave another message. Threaten him with legal action if he doesn't return the calls. Next, call the radio station. Rattle some goddamn cages, Ms. Nallen. You've got to be aggressive. Determined.”

“Yes, sir.”

He narrowed one eye. “Loretta?”

“Yes?”

“This is all going in one ear and out the other, isn't it?”

“Why, no, sir. I'd be happy to”—she frowned in distaste— “rattle some goddamned cages, if that's what the job requires.”

At first he thought she was being funny. The more he studied her perfectly composed face, the more he realized she was merely humoring him. He hated being humored. “Just leave me alone.”