Murder in the Air (8 page)

“No. I'll announce myself,” said Alfred curtly. “Just tell me where to go.” He returned his attention to Bram. “I've seen your ratings. They're good.”

“Thanks.”

“But you surprise me. You're the suave, sophisticated type. Nice, expensive threads.” He brushed a hairy paw across Bram's lapel. “Not what I expected.”

“I prefer the term ‘gritty’ myself.”

“I usually don't get along with suave types. Anybody ever tell you you look like Cary Grant?”

“Just my mother.”

The whiskers around Alfred's mouth moved. Bram couldn't tell if it was a smile or a snarl.

Alfred returned his glare to the receptionist. “So which office is it?”

“Right down the hall, Mr. Bloom. Third door on your left.”

“Call me Alfred. And find me a bottle of Evian water. I'm thirsty.”

“Of course, Mr. Bloo—I mean, Alfred.”

Fascinating, thought Bram. He looked more like the type of bear that foraged for his food-and-beverage needs in garbage cans.

As Alfred Bloom lumbered off down the hallway Bram turned to the receptionist, raised an eyebrow, and whispered, “Remember. Only you can prevent forest fires.”

By four-thirty, Bram had finished his program and was preparing to leave. As he stuffed a copy of the
Christian Science Monitor
into his briefcase, he heard a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called, quickly brushing the cookie crumbs off his desk. If Alfred Bloom was about to enter, he didn't want to damage his sophisticated image. Grabbing a pen, he pretended to be deep in thought as he pored over some important papers.

The door opened.

Bram lifted his head with great solemnity. “Oh hell, it's just you.” He tossed his pen down.

“Not a very nice welcome,” said a police officer ambling into the room. “Cops usually command a little more respect.” The man lowered himself into a chair on the other side of the desk.

“Sorry,” said Bram. “I was expecting someone else.”

Al Lundquist was a sergeant with the St. Paul police. He and Bram had gone to high school together in Chicago, and had stayed friends ever since. Every now and then, Bram would pass him some tickets to a local sporting event in return for all it of inside police information.

Glancing contemptuously around the messy office, Al cracked his knuckles and said, “This place is a firetrap. You got more books and magazines in here than most libraries.”

“How long has it been since you were in a library?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Want a cookie?” Al was easily placated by food.

“Don't mind if I do.”

Bram lifted a sack from his top drawer and pushed it across.

“Thanks. Hey, these look great. You always get the gourmet kind. I should swing by here more often. By the way, I got that stuff you asked for.”

“Tell me the truth, Al,” said Bram, leaning back in his chair. “Do you think I'm suave?”

“I think you're a smart-ass.”

“That's what I figured. What've you got?”

“This.” He dumped a manila envelope on the desk. “It's a copy of the entire police file on the Kay Collins murder. It took me quite a while to dig it up.”

“You have my undying devotion.”

“Just keep your promise abut the Vikings tickets and we'll call it even. Oh, and if you've got any questions on the file, direct them to me.”

“Will do.” Bram slipped the material out and paged through the top few documents.

As Al munched on a cookie he continued, “The file included some of the newspaper clippings from the
St. Paul Daily News & Examiner
back in fifty-nine. They covered the story pretty straight. Well, as straight as any two-bit newspaper can ever do. I thought you might find it interesting.”

“I do.” said Bram. His attention was completely captured by the information in front of him. This was just what he'd been looking for.

“Hey, buddy, you gotta answer me a couple of questions before I go.” Al twisted his head around and cracked his neck.

“Sure.” Bram flipped to another page.

“No, asshole. Look at me when I'm talkin' to you.”

He glanced up. “You have such a delicate verbal touch, Al. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Save the charm for your radio audience. First, I want to know what caused this interest in Justin Bloom.”

And wasn't that the question of the hour? How could Bram have failed to miss the significance of the story line in the newest
Dallas Lane
mystery? The names might've been
changed to protect the innocent—if there were any—but the fictionalized account was a dead ringer for the real one.

The story concerned a young newspaper reporter wrongly accused of the murder of his girlfriend. While the kid rotted in jail, Dallas Lane was hired to prove his innocence. Not only could Bram see the similarity to the Justin Bloom case, but as soon as it aired on Sunday night, so would most of the listening audience, at least those who were old enough to remember.

Bram assumed that Heda was setting up the story to retell the events surrounding the murder, but from a different point of view. This would be Justin's account. Bram didn't know what specific knowledge Heda had, but figured that she'd been in contact with her son after he'd left the country. Since he was now dead, clearing his name fell to her. The case had never gone to trial, so technically it was still an unsolved murder.

“So give,” said Al, stuffing the last cookie into his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds and then said, “You got any coffee?”

Bram pointed toa coffeemaker on a table in the corner. “I turned it off a few minutes ago, but it's still warm.”

“Great.” He got up and poured himself a cup. “So, answer the question.”

“Well,” said Bram, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his neck, “Heda Bloom, the mother of Justin Bloom, just bought the radio station.”

“No kidding.” Al sipped his Colombian Supremo as he stood next to the window overlooking the parking lot. “So what?”

“So, you should listen to our new radio mystery. It debuts this Sunday night at six-thirty.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No, I'm serious. I may be wrong, but I think it's going to be a new take on the Kay Collins murder.”

Al screwed up his face in thought. “You mean, that's how you're advertising it?”

“Of course not, lunkhead.”

Al cracked another couple of knuckles. “Well, maybe I'll give it a listen. If I'm not too busy.”

“You do that.”

“You part of this program?”

“I'm the announcer.”

“You mean like Ed McMahon?”

“No,” he said, deeply annoyed by the comparison. “Like Orson Welles.”

Al pushed his hat back on his head with one finger. “This isn't going to be another W#r
of the Worlds
fiasco, is it? We don't want any of our good citizens frightened for their lives.”

“You've got a twisted mind, pal.”

“Since
you're
involved, I had to ask.”

Bram couldn't imagine how it could escalate into something quite so morbid. “I have every confidence that Heda Bloom knows what she's doing. In a way, it's her son's last hurrah, posthumously speaking. And I, for one, am curious how it's going to play out.”

“Curious,
huh?”

“Aren't you the least bit interested in what really happened to Kay Collins?”

“I know what happened to her. It's right there in that police report.” He nodded to the manila envelope.

Bram sighed. “You have no drama in your soul, Al. No drama at all.”

8

“More coffee?” asked the waiter, the pot poised next to Sophie's cup.

She glanced up at him with a weary smile. “Sure.” This was round number three.

“We could switch to decaf.”

“No, we couldn't.”

“Would you like to order now?”

She could feel her stomach growl. “I better wait until my husband gets here.”

For the past half hour Sophie had been sitting at a table in Manderbach's ninth-floor restaurant, studying some menu notes she'd made earlier in the week for a party she was throwing for her son.

Rudy and his companion, John Jacoby, had planned a commitment ceremony the week before Christmas. Sophie had suggested that once the service was over at the church, everyone come back to the Maxfield for a champagne buffet. Rudy and John had been so touched by her enthusiasm that they'd accepted immediately.

Sophie was truly happy for the two of them, and she eagerly looked forward to the event. And yet, with everything already on her plate, the added responsibility of organizing a large party had turned out to be far more stressful than she'd imagined. At this time of year the Maxfield's banquet facilities were booked solid. The kitchen was always in a state of frenzied chaos and staff hours were pushed to the maximum. But Sophie knew what an important step it was for Rudy and John, and to show her love and support, everything had to be perfect. Disappointing her son was out of the question.

Rudy would finish his degree in theatre arts at the University of Minnesota next winter. John was an artist whose drawings had appeared in several local galleries. To support himself, he worked a day job at a brewery in St. Paul. They'd met shortly after Rudy had come to Minnesota. As Sophie recalled it now, it had been a hard time for everyone.

Sophie's ex-husband, Norman Greenway, had raised Rudy since he was a boy. Much to her great pain and regret, Sophie hadn't been allowed to see him much while he was growing up. For the past twenty-four years Norm had been a minister in a cultlike fundamentalist Christian church in Montana. He'd sued for custody as part of the divorce proceedings. With the unlimited funds of the church behind him, the ensuing custody battle had been
a. fait accompli
from the outset.

Sophie had left the church as a result of a conflict over the doctrine of healing. As a young child, Rudy had become
ill—so ill, in fact, that Sophie had feared for his life. Defying her husband's wishes and the church's moral teachings, she'd taken him to a doctor. She'd never had any doubt about her actions. She knew Rudy wouldn't be alive today if he hadn't received medical treatment. Yet she also knew that as soon as she set foot inside the hospital door, her marriage was over. Even if Norm had been willing to take her back, she was finished—with him
and
the church.

After the divorce, Norm, in his infinite wisdom, had cut Rudy off from his mother's influence. And yet once Rudy was old enough, he'd left Montana. Sophie wished she could say he'd turned up on her doorstep because he missed his mother and wanted to mend an important relationship in his life, but the truth was, he was running—from his father and the church.

Rudy was gay. He knew that as long as he stayed with the Church of the Firstborn, he would have to hide that part of himself. In the end, it was too much. Sophie was glad that he'd come to stay with her, even if his reasons had been simple expediency. He was a confused young man, in most ways a stranger to her, in need of a safe place to stay while he figured out what to do next. It had been a hard road back to each other, but they'd finally made it.

Checking her watch with growing impatience, she saw that it was almost six. Bram had called around five to say he'd come across some important information he needed to discuss with her right away. He'd suggested that they meet at Manderbach's for a quick dinner. Sophie had tried to beg off, explaining that she had a ton of work to do before she could call it a night, but Bram had insisted, and reluctantly, she'd agreed. Since he was now half an hour late, she was beginning to regret her decision.

Sophie did have to admit that she was curious about what this important information might be. Bram wouldn't discuss it on the phone. He relished life's little dramas, wherever he could find—or create—them. It could be just about anything. His afternoon radio show had become a kind of gossip central for all the hot dish in the Twin Cities. Callers phoned in from all over the state with tidbits of this and that new
rumor. As a matter of fact,
The Bram Baldric Show
had been instrumental in breaking the Prostitution-gate scandal at the state legislature last year. All in all, Bram liked his status as the guru of Minnesota gossip. It certainly kept his radio show at the top of the ratings.

By six-thirty, Sophie was completely out of patience. As she was about to call for the check, she saw Bram breeze through the front entrance and snake his way through the dark, oak-paneled room toward her. He approached the table with a harried look on his face, tossed his coat on an empty chair, and sat down with a sigh.

“Sorry I'm late. The driving's getting nasty out there. I'll bet we got three inches of snow this afternoon. The roads are a mess.”

“Five, according to the weather report.”

“Really. Well, it's coming down again. And the wind's picked up.” He smoothed back his hair. “But I still look pretty as a picture, right?”

Her smile was thin. “Right.”

He eyed her a moment, then glanced down at the menu. “I meant that. Soph—about being sorry.”

“I know. It's just … I'm really under the gun right now, Bram. This was kind of a bad night for me to go out to dinner.”