Beyond a Doubt

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  It was Detective Browne.

  My first thought was to share with him what had happened with Cate last night, but I didn’t get a chance. He launched into conversation.

  “Carol, sorry to call you on a Sunday morning, but I wanted to let you know.” He sounded enthusiastic, and for a moment I thought he was calling with news about Gabi, but instead, he said, “I spoke with Bessie Bixby, Leticia Johnson’s grandmother, at church this morning. I suppose I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but, since I figured you’d call her anyway, I did. Long story short, I told her you’re planning on doing an interview, maybe even getting her on the air.”

  “Miss Bixby,” I said. “Not a problem.” I hadn’t spoken to Tyler yet, but I couldn’t imagine there would any reason I couldn’t get an interview on the air. I told him with any luck I’d call tomorrow with good news. “Speaking of which, anything on Gabi Garrison?”

  “We’re continuing to talk to the boyfriend.”

  “You still don’t think there’s a connection to Monica or the other missing girls?”

  “Neighbors say they heard a lot of arguing right before Gabi disappeared.”

  I was disappointed, and I knew my voice reflected as much. After Cate’s close call last night, I didn’t believe Dr. Ericson had anything to do with Gabi’s disappearance.

  “Couples argue, Detective. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  “No, but it might interest you to know that Dr. Ericson was recently reassigned to the transplant team at UCLA, rather suddenly.”

  “Why’s that important?”

  “It’s a pretty prestigious position. Applicants usually have to apply several years in advance, and it appears he was tapped.”

  “So? He’s talented.”

  “Maybe. But the head of the unit just happens to be a very attractive female doctor. Supposedly they’ve been seen spending a lot of time together.”

  I wanted to laugh out loud. Why is it any time an attractive woman spends time with a man, there’s talk?

  “So you think because Gabi’s boyfriend suddenly gets tapped to join UCLA’s transplant team—by a very attractive female doctor—that he’s done something to get rid of his girlfriend?”

  “We are starting to run out of leads on this one.”

  “Well, he doesn’t strike me as the type to hide her body in the desert—or maybe you’re thinking he’s chopped her up and is now shopping her body parts.”

  “Always a possibility.”

  “Not funny, Detective.”

  I hung up the phone and put my coffee down simultaneously, perhaps harder than I intended. At first I thought I’d caused the table to shake. Then I noticed the windows started to rattle. The glasses above the bar clattered like a New Year’s Eve toast in Times Square and the entire house started to rock. Outside, sprinklers were going off, and car sirens and house alarms began to blare.

  “Earthquake!” Sheri screamed, grabbed the basket of cinnamon rolls, and ducked under the table.

  I grabbed Cate and shielded her with my arm above her head as we huddled in the doorway. We hugged each other until the rumbling stopped and the shaking, at least of the walls, certainly not my heart, ceased to move around us.

  “You okay?” Sheri poked her head out from beneath the table. Her pale skin looked like a ghost beneath a mop of dark hair. In her lap she was hugging the basket of rolls like a security blanket. We laughed nervously. I offered her a hand up.

  “What do you think? Three point? Maybe four?” she asked.

  I looked around at the mess. I couldn’t be sure. Earthquakes happen every day in Los Angeles, but this was bigger, and I suspected today’s tumbler was going to have big repercussions. On the floor, dishes from inside my cabinets lay broken in bits and pieces as though they’d been hurled by some invisible monster. Other than that, I could see no major structural damage to my condo. No broken windows or water mains. But for the next few days, I knew KCHC’s airwaves would be full of talk about the earthquake, and the story about Hollywood’s missing girls would be bumped for news of broken glasses and the tumble of china cabinets.

  CHAPTER 15

  After the earthquake, I tried to call Tyler. It’s standard practice for reporters to call in and report where they are and what’s happened after a quake, but I was getting no answer. I tuned to the station and could hear our Sunday morning team, Jan and Dean, as they fielded calls from nervous listeners. The husband and wife duo, known for their light-hearted reviews of news and entertainment, had been on the air, sipping coffee and chatting casually when the quake hit. Amidst the clatter of coffee cups and well wishes, listeners were calling in to report their own version of shaking walls and broken dishes.

  Finally, after getting no answer from the newsroom, I tried to call in via the listener line. But the screener put me on hold, and I decided my time was best spent cleaning up my own mess. I needed to help Cate pack up for her return trip to San Diego, and after last night I was feeling overly protective about letting her go. It wasn’t until both Sheri and Cate left, after Cate assured me she was fine and would call when she arrived at school, that I was alone. It was then I noticed the message light blinking on my home phone.

  At first when I listened I thought it was just a series of random bleeps and was about to delete it, but then I stopped and realized it was a message. It must have been there since Friday morning and I’d missed it until just now. I hit rewind and listened again. Using the keystrokes on the phone to emulate Morse code, Eric had sent a birthday message. Happy Birthday. Miss those LSCs. Long, slow curves. I replayed it again, several times, to make certain I had it right, then laughed out loud. After Saturday night’s scare with Cate, his message provided exactly the relief I needed. I felt renewed, and grateful I knew Morse code. Several years ago when Charlie was still in Cub Scouts we’d learned it together. I never thought it’d be useful, but Eric seemed to think it was cool, and quickly it became a thing between us. It put a smile on my face, and for the first time I thought I’d actually be able to sleep through the night. I waited up for Cate’s call, wished her a good night, and then fell asleep.

  Monday morning I came into the station and found a Post-it note taped to my computer. See me ASAP.

  The note was from Tyler, and I had no doubt in my mind, based upon the haste in which the note appeared to have been written, that he was dealing with his own personal upheaval and would explain why he hadn’t called me back.

  “What’s up?” I walked into Tyler’s office and plunked myself down in the chair in front of his desk.

  Tyler sat facing his computer, acknowledging my presence with the mere nod of his head. Whatever was on the screen had his attention. In the background, the sound of the station’s broadcast droned like white noise from the speaker overhead. Yesterday’s earthquake was dominating the news.

  “You’re in luck.” Tyler continued to stare at his computer, his voice flat like he was reading the telephone book. “Cupid’s taking over the afternoon show. I’m going to need your help to fill in.”

  It took me a moment to grasp the meaning of Tyler’s statement. Cupid was the FM jock on KCHC’s sister station, KSTR, a rock-and-roll DJ who had clearly aged out from his role as the silky, romantic voice of the younger set. After twenty some odd years in the business, he no longer fit the mold.

  “Cupid?” I nearly choked on his name. “You’ve got to be kidding. What happened to T&T, Tom and Teri, our regular afternoon drive team?”

  Tyler shook his head and looked at me. He bit his tongue, then said, “Let’s just say KCHC has had its own little earthquake this weekend. T&T are out. Temporarily anyway, and corporate’s demanding we make a home for Cupid. ‘Until further notice.’ It appears someone above us all has decided the station needs to go in another direction. They’d like us to have a lighter, friendlier, more chick-lite format.”

  Chick-lite? I
shuddered to think what that might be.

  Six months ago KCHC had been bought by a midsized group of broadcasters out of the Midwest. They already owned KSTR, a fairly decent FM station in the market, and had been looking for an AM sister station to round out their holding. They liked KCHC’S format: Chick Radio: Talk a Woman Can Really Dig Her Heels Into. This, despite the fact we had more men on the air than we did women, or that Tyler Hunt, our news and programing director, had about as much interest in women’s issues as a fish has in flying.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Does Cupid have any interest in anything that’s not on a Billboard chart?” I regretted the words the minute I said them.

  Tyler glared at me.

  “Cupid’s used to spinning records, Carol, and he’s been doing it for forty years, back when the cool crowd referred to them as licorice pizzas. You want him to talk about Hollywood’s Missing Girls? Then you’re going to have to hand feed him everything.” He turned his head back to the computer screen. I was obviously on my own. There was nothing more to say.

  I stood up. I wasn’t quite sure how to react. The fact Tyler wanted me to step in as co-host for this afternoon’s show was a windfall. My story about Hollywood’s Missing Girls was a go. I no longer needed his approval. He was clearly too busy to care. I was on my own. On the other hand, judging from Tyler’s frown as he stared back at his computer screen, I could see Tyler was having one of those days, dealing with a management group from out of the market that left all of us at KCHC feeling rudderless. I knew better than to look too elated.

  I’d never met Cupid. Despite the fact the FM rockers had recently moved in and occupied half of KCHC’s facilities, we didn’t mingle. For all practical purposes, the Walls of Jericho existed between our two stations. The FM occupied one side of the building while we, on the AM, held steadfast to the other. Fear permeated the dark hallways between our two stations. Sooner or later, we were all convinced, one staff would inherit the duties of the other, and the rest of us would be out of work. Today’s reassignment of Cupid to the AM did nothing to put those feelings to rest.

  I returned to my desk and quickly wrote out a synopsis of what I wanted to include in this afternoon’s show with Cupid. It began with information about Monica Channing, her disappearance, the discovery of her body, and that it was believed she had been kidnapped by a group of sex traffickers operating in Hollywood.

  I included the names of Jessie Martin, Marilyn Ann Billings and April Hansen along with Leticia Johnson and Brandy White as possible victims. I then listed Gabi Garrison as also missing and highlighted that at this time LAPD did not believe Gabi’s disappearance was related to that of the other missing girls. However, she bore a remarkable resemblance to Monica and lived within blocks of Monica’s apartment.

  I then started a second section with the heading: What is Sex Trafficking? Beneath it I jotted down a series of questions: How relevant is it to the US? Who are the victims? And where do they come from? I easily had a dozen. Finally, I added a section on misconceptions and failures: why victims don’t leave, why they identify with their captors, and why I believed this to be a growing problem in Hollywood.

  Like a lot of people, before I realized what might be going on, I thought it was largely a problem that existed overseas—the exploitation of foreign nationals—but certainly not something that went on here in the good old US of A, and not with American women. What I learned was astounding. According to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, one in seven runaways in this country becomes a victim of sex trafficking, and the money to be made was astonishing. Based upon reports from eight major US cities, it ranged from $39.9 million to better than three hundred million dollars a year, per city.

  I completed my notes, checked the employee roster for Cupid’s personal contact info and tried his cell. There was no answer. I left a message, told him Tyler had explained to me that we’d be working together and that I would email him some thoughts I had for this afternoon’s show. I suggested we meet for a brief rundown of what I knew and how we might best work together.

  Then I picked up the phone and called Detective Browne and told him we had a “go” for this afternoon’s show.

  “Only thing is,” I said, “we’ve had a few changes here at the station. Our afternoon drive host is Cupid, from the FM side.”

  “Cupid, huh?” He chuckled under his breath. From the tone of his voice I got the idea Detective Browne might have been a fan, albeit from a long time ago.

  “Yes, but don’t worry. I’ll be doing the interview.” I tried to sound reassuring. I didn’t want him to think I’d be passing it off. “We’ll patch you into the studio via a phone line. I just need to make certain both you and Miss Bixby are available between three-fifteen and three-thirty.”

  “Got a better idea. How about I pick up Leticia’s grandmother and bring her down to the studio? I may have a little surprise for you or Cupid anyway.”

  I had no idea what Detective Browne had in mind concerning a surprise. I suspected either he, or perhaps Bessie Bixby, might have been fans and maybe had some memento they’d like to share from times past. Things like that frequently happened with listeners. Trouble was, I wasn’t sure how Cupid would respond. But, given the circumstances, I was willing to gamble that Detective Browne’s presence and that of Leticia’s grandmother might be a good thing, helping Cupid to transition to the AM in the presence of fans. At least that’s how I planned to position it. I gave Detective Browne directions and while I waited, Cupid’s reply to my email appeared on my computer screen.

  Sorry, babe. My contract requires I be at the studio thirty minutes before show time. Not sooner. See you then, Cupid.

  Radio personalities seldom look like they sound. Cupid had a voice as smooth and sexy as a glass of amaretto on an autumn eve. But I knew better than to assume he really looked like the poster I’d seen of him—the Paul Newman lookalike—hanging in the hallway. The station had its own Hall of Fame with poster-sized prints of the FM jocks and AM personalities lining the hallways. All of the photos had been retouched and looked nothing like who they actually are, or probably ever were. The men had hair, the women were thinner and younger. Caricatures would have been better. The only thing I really knew about Cupid was that at one time he had generated enough ratings with his female audience—including my younger self—to make him a top jock in the market. But unfortunately things change, and some fool from corporate now thought that what remained of his fanbase might follow him to the world of talk radio.

  I wasn’t so sure, and when I walked into the dimly lit studio to meet with Cupid for the first time, I suddenly got why he had been reassigned to the AM. He looked like a wax figure from Madame Tussaud’s that had been left out in the sun too long. He was paunchy, his once handsome face now round and putty-like, and he was drunk. Or at least he’d been drinking. In front of him, on the console, was an empty shot glass, and a bottle of Jim Beam lay between us.

  “Wanna drink?”

  I sat down and pulled the bottle towards me. The station had no rules about drinking on the air. A lot of hosts did, either openly, or discreetly. The fact that some of the talent were known to smuggle a small flask beneath a sport coat, or inside a purse, was not anything unusual. Management had decided long ago to look the other way. As long as the on-air host was reasonably sober and coherent, nobody cared, or said anything. I glanced down at the bottle in my hands; it was half full.

  “You know, I called you once.” I put the bottle back down on console between us. “Must have been nearly ten years ago now. You were on the air, and I needed a little advice.”

  He looked at me, his blue eyes heavily hooded, his lids drooping.

  “It was a bad time in my life. And you talked to me, off the air.” I doubted he remembered any of it, but I went on to explain how my ex and I had just separated. I had started working at the radio station and fallen in love wi
th my job, while my ex had fallen in love with a younger version of me. It was a couple years after my son was born. I was lost and didn’t really know what to do. “I remember calling the radio station, and you know what you said?”

  He shook his head and reached for the bottle. I pulled it away.

  “You played me a song. You told me you were going back in history a bit but that I’d get it. You know what the song was?”

  He shook his head.

  “I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor. At the time you said you didn’t think you’d played that song in nearly twenty years, but I’ll never forget it. It was exactly what I needed, and every time I thought I was going to fall apart, I’d hear that song in my head. It saved me.”

  “So now you’re here to save me, huh?” He reached for the bottle again. I didn’t let go.

  “No, I’m here ’cause I need your help.”

  He jerked on the bottle. I held tight. “I think I’ve given you all the help you need.”

  “I don’t think so.” I put the bottle beneath the console. Then I leaned forward into his face. “Look, I know you don’t know me, and I know you don’t want to be here, because you think the FM’s kicked you to the curb. And maybe you’re right. But I’ve got a job to do, and I just happen to believe it’s important. So this is how it’s going to be.”

  He looked at me, a smug smile on his face.

  “Yesterday morning, the headlines in the paper were all about Monica Channing and the fact that LAPD’s missing persons unit believed she’d fallen victim to a sex trafficking ring. You may have been too drunk to even remember, but it’s important. ’Cause suddenly, guess what? Yesterday afternoon there’s this earthquake. Nothing major, but enough to make the news. Then, right after that, there’s a bunch of little kids celebrating a birthday party out in Manhattan Beach with a big bouncy house, and for some freaky reason, it dislodges from its bearings and everybody’s afraid it’s going to fly off into the ocean, maybe with a few kids in it. Fortunately, no kids were hurt. But the front page of today’s newspaper has a picture of this flying bouncy house and people talking about how their glasses and ceiling lights shook when the earthquake hit. So now every news operation in town is chasing stories about bouncy houses and the earthquake and, oh, yeah, the fact that Lindsay Lohan’s back in rehab. And you know what that means?”