by Sandra Brown
In the main room was a bed and nightstand, a four-drawer bureau, an easy chair with a floor lamp beside it, and a folding table long enough to accommodate an elaborate computer setup. The furnishings were garage-sale quality, but everything was neat.
She went over to the table. The computer was already booted up. With only a few clicks of the mouse, she found what she anticipated finding. She smiled at him over her shoulder and said, “So you weren’t out there tonight by accident.”
“I was out there tonight looking for you.”
“Specifically?”
He nodded.
She liked that. A lot.
The Formica bar separating the kitchen from the living area was used as shelving for photographic equipment. He had a 35-millimeter camera, several lenses, and various attachments including a portable tripod. It all looked intricate and expensive, out of place in the crummy apartment. She picked up the camera and looked at him through the viewfinder. “Are you a professional?”
“It’s only a hobby. Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure.”
He went into the kitchen and returned with two glasses of red wine. Cool. Wine showed that he had refined tastes and class. It didn’t jibe with the apartment either, but she figured that his explanation for it was a lie. This probably wasn’t his main residence, only his playground. Away from the wife.
Sipping her wine, she glanced around. “So where are your pictures?”
“I don’t display them.”
“How come?”
“They’re for my private collection.”
“ ‘Private collection’?” Grinning at him slyly, she twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “I like the sound of that. Show me.”
“I don’t think I should.”
“Why not?”
“They’re . . . artistic.”
He was looking at her in that straightforward way again, as though measuring her reaction. His stare caused her toes to tingle, her pulse to race, and that hadn’t happened in a long time in the company of a guy. It was usually she who created tingles and racing hearts. It was rare and wonderful to be the one unsure of exactly what was about to take place. Exciting as shit.
Boldly she declared, “I want to see your private collection.”
He hesitated for several seconds, then knelt down beside the bed and pulled a box from beneath it. He removed the top and took out a standard photo album bound in faux black leather. As he came to his feet, he hugged it close to his chest. “How old are you?”
The question was an affront because she prided herself on looking much older than she was. She hadn’t been carded in years—but a glimpse of the butterfly tattoo on her right breast usually made a bouncer too stupid to ask for an ID. “What the hell difference does it make how old I am? I want to see the pictures. And anyway, I’m twenty-two.”
Clearly he didn’t believe her. He even tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile. Nevertheless, he set the album on the table and stepped away from it. Trying to appear nonchalant, she walked over to it and flipped open the cover.
The first photo was graphic and startling. From the angle at which the close-up had been taken, she assumed—correctly, she discovered later—that it was a self-portrait.
“Are you offended?” he asked.
“Of course not. Do you think I’ve never seen one erect?” Her response wasn’t nearly as blasé as she made it sound. She wondered if he could hear her pounding heartbeat.
She turned the page to the next shot and then to the next, until she had gone through the entire album. She studied each photograph, pretending to be as analytical as an art critic. Some were in color, some in black and white, but all except the first one were of naked young women provocatively posed. Anyone else might have considered them obscene, but she was too sophisticated to get uptight over exposed genitalia.
But by no stretch were they “artistic” studies of nudes. They were nasty pictures.
“Do you like them?” He was standing so close behind her now she could feel his breath in her hair.
“They’re okay.”
Reaching around her, he flipped back through several of the pages until he came to a particular shot. “This one’s my favorite.”
She didn’t see anything that made this girl so special. Her nipples looked like mosquito bites against a flat, bony chest. You could count every rib and her hair had split ends. She had zits on her shoulders. A veil obscured her face, probably for good reason.
She closed the album, then turned to him and gave him her most seductive smile. Slowly she pulled her tank top over her head and dropped it to the floor. “You mean it’s been your favorite up till now.”
He caught his breath, then released it on a staggering exhalation. Moving slowly, he took her hand and placed it beneath her breast so that she was cupping it in her palm as though offering it to him.
He gave her the sweetest, most tender smile she’d ever seen. “You’re perfect. I knew you would be.”
Her ego soared. “We’re wasting time.” She unzipped her shorts and was about to remove them when he stopped her. “No, leave them there, low on your hips. Just like that.” Quickly he reached for his camera. Apparently it was loaded with film and ready to fire, because he put his eye to the viewfinder.
“This is going to be great.” He moved her closer to the floor lamp near the easy chair and adjusted the dingy shade, then backed away and looked through the camera again. “Lower the shorts just a little more. There. Right there.”
He clicked off several shots in rapid succession. “Oh, lady, you’re killing me.” He lowered the camera and looked at her with pure delight. “You’re a natural. You must’ve done this before.”
“I’ve never posed professionally.”
“Amazing,” he said. “Now go sit on the edge of the bed.”
He knelt on the floor in front of her and positioned her the way he wanted her. Legs. Hands. Head. Before he picked up the camera again, he kissed her inner thigh, sucking her skin against his teeth and leaving a mark.
For another hour, the picture taking continued along with the foreplay. By the time they actually did it, she was past ready. Afterward he refilled their wineglasses and lay beside her, stroking her gently all over and telling her how beautiful she was.
She had thought, Now, here’s a guy who knows how to treat a woman.
When they finished their wine, he asked if he could take more pictures. “I want to capture your afterglow.”
“So you’ll have the before and after?”
He laughed and kissed her quickly and with affection. “Something like that.”
He dressed her—yes, he had personally dressed her as she used to dress her dolls. He returned her to the park on the lake where they’d met and saw that she got safely into her car. As he closed the door, he kissed her lips softly. “I love you.”
Whoa! That had taken her aback. A hundred guys had told her they loved her, but usually as they were fumbling to get a rubber on. More often than not these professions of love took place within the steamy interior of their cars or pickups.
But love had never been proclaimed softly, tenderly, and meaningfully. He’d even kissed the back of her hand before he let her go. She’d thought that was awfully sweet and gentlemanly.
They’d been together several times since that first night, and it was always good kicks. But soon, and predictably, he’d started whining. Where were you last night? Who were you with? I waited for hours, but you never showed up. When can I see you again?
His possessiveness took the fun out of being with him. Besides, the newness and novelty had begun to wear off. His photography didn’t seem exotic anymore, just weird and often creepy. It was time to bring this to a halt.
Maybe he sensed that she’d decided to break it off tonight, because it had started off badly. They’d quarreled immediately after he picked her up. From there things had grown progressively worse.
He’d gone bizarre and sc
ary on her with this bondage shit. Leaving her tied up for what was going on hours now. What if this dump caught on fire? What if there was a tornado or something?
She didn’t like it. She wanted out of here. The sooner the better.
Before he left, he had at least turned on the radio and tuned it to Paris Gibson’s program. That provided her with some company. She didn’t feel quite as abandoned as she would have felt in a total silence that accompanied the total darkness.
So she lay there listening to Paris Gibson’s voice and wondering when the hell he was coming back and what other fun and games he had in mind.
chapter 3
The red light on the control board went out. Valentino had hung up.
It was several seconds before Paris realized that the only sound she heard was that of her own heartbeat. The music had stopped. On the log monitor she saw a series of zeros where descending numbers should be counting down the time remaining on a song. How long had she been broadcasting dead air?
With twenty-three seconds left in her program, she depressed her microphone button. She tried to speak. Couldn’t. Tried again.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed this evening of classic love songs. Please join me again tomorrow night. I’ll be looking forward to it. Until then, this is Paris Gibson on FM 101.3. Good night.”
By depressing two control buttons, she was off the air. Then she was off her tall swivel stool like a shot, yanking open the heavy studio door, racing down the dark hallway, and barreling into the engineering room.
Except for a box of take-out fried chicken on Stan’s desk, the room was empty. She continued running down the hall, turning right at the first intersection of corridors and literally slamming into Marvin, who was dragging a dirty rag along an interior windowsill.
She gasped, “Have you seen Stan?”
“No.” One thing you could say about Marvin—he was a man of few words. If he spoke at all, it was in monosyllables.
“Has he already left?”
This time, he didn’t even give her a verbal reply, only a shrug.
Leaving the janitor, she ran to the men’s restroom and pushed open the door. Stan was at the urinal. “Stan, come here.”
Stunned by the interruption, he whipped his head around. “What—I’m sorta busy here, Paris.”
“Hurry up. This is important.”
She rushed back to the studio and wheeled her stool over to the Vox Pro. It recorded each incoming call for optional playback. There was also a mandatory recording made of everything that went out over the air. But that was another machine and another matter. Right now, she was interested only in the telephone call.
“What’s going on?” Stan strolled in, looking at his wristwatch. “I’ve got plans.”
“Listen to this.”
“Remember, my shift ends when you sign off.”
“Shut up, Stan, and listen.”
He leaned against the edge of the control board. “Okay, but I really need to be leaving soon.”
“Shh.” Valentino had just identified himself. “This is a repeat caller.”
Stan appeared more interested in the crease of his linen trousers. But when Valentino told her she would be very sorry, her coworker’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s that mean?”
“Listen.”
He was quiet through the remainder of the recording. When it ended, Paris looked at him expectantly. He raised his narrow shoulders in a quick shrug. “He’s a kook.”
“That’s it? That’s your assessment? He’s a kook?”
He snuffled. “What? You don’t think he’s serious?”
“I don’t know.” Turning, she punched the hotline button on the board. That was the telephone line provided for the deejays’ personal use.
“Who’re you calling?” Stan asked. “The cops?”
“I think I should.”
“Why? Nutcases call you all the time. Wasn’t there one just last week who wanted you to be a pallbearer at his mother’s funeral?”
“This is different. I talk to a lot of people every night. This one . . . I don’t know,” she added uneasily.
When her 911 call was answered, she identified herself and gave the operator a brief description of what had happened. “It’s probably nothing. But I thought someone should hear this conversation.”
“I listen to your program on my nights off, Ms. Gibson,” the operator said. “You don’t sound like the type to panic. There’ll be a squad car there shortly.”
Paris thanked her and hung up. “They’re on their way.”
Stan winced. “Do I have to hang around?”
“No, go on. I’ll be fine. Marvin’s still here.”
“Actually he’s not. He split. I saw him leaving on my way here from the men’s room, where I was rudely interrupted midstream. A surprise like that, a guy could get hurt, you know.”
She was in no mood for Stan tonight. “I doubt you’ll suffer any damage.” She waved him out. “Go on. Just lock the door behind you. I can let the police in.”
Her nervousness must have conveyed itself and made him feel like a deserter. “No, I’ll wait with you,” he said glumly. “Go brew yourself some tea or something. You look rattled.”
She was rattled. Tea sounded like a good idea. She headed for the employee kitchen, but never made it. An obnoxious buzzer sounded throughout the building, announcing that someone was at the main entrance.
Reversing her direction, she rushed toward the front of the building and was relieved to see two uniformed policemen on the other side of the glass door. Never mind that they appeared to be fresh out of the academy. One of them looked too young to shave. But they were all business and introduced themselves with stiff-lipped laconism.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“We’d been out this way and were headed back when we got the call,” one explained. He and his partner were looking at her strangely, as most people did when they first met her. The sunglasses made them instantly curious.
Without acknowledging either her glasses or their curiosity, she led Officers Griggs and Carson through the labyrinth of dark corridors. “There’s a recording of the call in the studio.”
The unremarkable exterior of the building hadn’t prepared them for the electronic sophistication of the studio. They gazed about them with curiosity and awe. She brought them back on track by introducing Stan. Their acknowledgments were clipped. No one shook hands. Paris used the mouse on the Vox Pro computer to play Valentino’s recorded call.
No one spoke while they listened. Officer Griggs stared at the ceiling, Carson at the floor. When it ended, Griggs raised his head and cleared his throat, seemingly embarrassed by Valentino’s crude language. “Do you get calls like this often, Ms. Gibson?”
“Weird and kooky sometimes. Heavy breathers and dirty propositions, but nothing like what you’ve just heard. Never anything threatening. Valentino has called before. He tells me about a wonderful new girlfriend, or a recent breakup that left him heartbroken. He’s never said anything like this. Never anything even close to this.”
“You think it’s the same guy?”
They all turned to Stan, who had ventured the idea.
He continued. “Somebody else could have borrowed the name Valentino because they’ve heard him on your show and know that he’s a regular caller.”
“I guess it’s possible,” Paris said slowly. “I’m almost positive that Valentino’s voice is disguised. It never sounds quite natural.”
“That’s not a common name either,” Griggs said. “Do you think it’s legit?”
“I have no way of knowing that. Sometimes a caller is reluctant to give even a first name, preferring to remain totally anonymous.”
“Do you have a way of tracing calls?”
“Ordinary caller ID. One of our engineers added software to the Vox Pro that would give us a readout of the number, if it was available. Each call is also date and time stamped.”
She brought up the information o
n the computer screen. There was no name, but a local telephone number, which Carson jotted down.
“This is a good start,” he said.
“Maybe,” Griggs said. “Considering what he called to say, why would he use a traceable number?”
Paris read between the lines. “You think it was a hoax?”
Neither of the policemen answered her directly. Carson said, “I’ll call the number, see if anyone answers.”
He used his cell phone, and after listening through numerous rings concluded that no one was going to pick up. “No voice mail either. Better call it in.” He punched in digits, then while he was giving Valentino’s number to whomever was on the other end, Griggs told her and Stan that the number would be traced.
“But my guess is that it was a guy using a name he’d heard on your program and just trying to get a reaction out of you.”
“Like the sickos who make obscene phone calls,” Stan said.
Griggs bobbed his cropped head. “Exactly like that. I bet we find a lonely drunk or a group of bored kids trying to have some fun by talking dirty, something like that.”
“I hope you’re right.” Paris hugged herself and rubbed her arms for warmth. “I can’t believe someone would do this as a joke, but I certainly prefer a joke to the alternative.”
Carson disconnected. “They’re on it. Shouldn’t take long.”
“You’ll let me know what they find out?”
“Sure thing, Ms. Gibson.”
Stan offered to follow her home, but it was a halfhearted offer and he seemed relieved when she declined. He bade them good night and left.
“How can we contact you when we know something?” Griggs asked as they wended their way through the building, toward the entrance.
She gave him her home telephone number, emphasizing that it was unlisted. “Of course, Ms. Gibson.”
It surprised the two policemen that she was the one to lock up the building for the night. “Are you here alone every night?” Carson asked as they walked her to her car.
“Except for Stan.”
“What does he do and how long has he worked here?”
He doesn’t do much of anything, she thought wryly. But she told them that he was an engineer. “He’s on standby if anything should go wrong with the equipment. He’s been here for a couple of years.”