Dead Air

by Mary Kennedy

  I caught a glimpse of tall young man in a tailored suit zipping into a room marked SANJAY GINGII. PRIVATE. NO ADMITTANCE. I pulled a wrinkled publicity photo of Travis Carter out of my purse. I had ripped it out of Sanjay’s conference brochure. “I think so,” I said. “But how can we go in there? It says no admittance.”

  “And you think that’s going to stop us? Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to wait thirty seconds and then storm the inner sanctum.”

  I took a deep breath. “Why thirty seconds?”

  “To give him enough time to get into trouble. Who knows what he’s he doing, poking around Sanjay’s private office? Mark my words: He’s up to no good.” I had to smile. Mom seemed to forget that we were the intruders here and could be arrested for trespassing. She checked her watch, and then we remained absolutely still, huddling in the alcove. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Okay, time to roll, Maggie!”

  Mom pushed opened the door marked PRIVATE, and we found a very surprised-looking Travis Carter scowling at us.

  “Hey, what are you two doing in here? This is a private office!” I saw him glance toward the phone on the gleaming rosewood desk and wondered whether he was going to call Security.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Mom said, pretending to be a dotty Miss Marple. She kept one hand on the doorknob while taking a quick look around the room. “We’re looking for Media Relations. We must have taken a wrong turn.”

  “Media Relations?” His tone softened, but his brows were still knotted with suspicion.

  “Yes, that lovely girl with the blond hair told us to come up here. I forget her name, but she was wearing a black suit, quite stylish. She’s pretty enough to be a fashion model.”

  “That would be Marissa.” Travis relaxed a little and leaned against the desk. His eyes were watchful, though, and I knew he was still wary.

  “Yes, Marissa,” Mom said, brightening. “Such a helpful young woman. Quite an asset to your organization, I’d say.”

  “So you’re here to do an interview? I didn’t see anything scheduled on the calendar. I’m Travis Carter, by the way.” He didn’t offer to shake hands; instead he flipped open his BlackBerry. Again, his eyes darted to the phone. My heart was doing a quickstep and my palms felt sweaty. Before we knew it, we’d be deposited outside, next to the flamingos lounging in the lily pond. I just knew it.

  “It looks like you’re packing up to leave,” Mom said sweetly. She pointed to some large cardboard boxes filled with Sanjay memorabilia, plaques, trophies, and giant-size photos of Sanjay with politicians and heads of state. There was even a photo of Sanjay with Mother Teresa, feeding small children in India. The man was shameless!

  Mom picked up a framed photograph and glanced at it. “Very nice,” she said politely before Travis yanked it out of her hands and stuffed it back in the box. He closed the lid on the box to discourage further snooping.

  “I’m taking a position somewhere else.” His tone was flat and his expression gave away nothing. He stood in front of the desk, arms crossed in front of him, eyes shuttered. Defensive body language, I noticed. The man was clearly hiding something, but what?

  “So you’re leaving the organization for good? That’s very interesting.” She looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “We won’t quote you on that, if you don’t want us to.”

  “Who are you exactly?” Travis eased himself into a leather swivel chair and motioned us to a couple of lavender upholstered armchairs. Mom settled herself in as if she was ready for a long chat. I perched on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt if Travis went for the phone.

  “I’m with WYME,” I said slowly. “I’m a radio talk show host. Sanjay visited my show the day he . . . uh . . . transitioned.”

  “The radio shrink! I knew you looked familiar.” He turned to Mom. “And you are—”

  “Her assistant,” Mom said quickly. She flashed a bright smile. “I’m a little puzzled about something. You’re leaving the organization, but you’re taking Sanjay’s personal belongings with you? Are you planning to sell them on eBay?” She shook her head in mock bewilderment and gave a little chuckle. Travis wasn’t amused.

  “Is it really any of your business what I do?”

  “Oh, it’s the journalist in me,” she said, touching her hand to her heart. “We just love a good mystery. And of course, Maggie is a psychologist, and so naturally she’s fascinated by human behavior.”

  “Well, you’ll have to figure out another mystery, because there’s nothing out of order going on here. I’m only taking what belongs to me.” There was a granite edge in his voice, and he stood up. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll have to ask you to excuse me. The Media Relations office is the second corridor on the right. I can call Marissa to accompany you, if you like.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary.” I leapt of my seat like a performing otter at Sea World. “We can find it. So sorry for taking up your time. Good luck with your next move, whatever it is.”

  Travis gave me a curt nod and walked to the door. He opened it wide and stood there watching as we passed through. Mom couldn’t resist giving him a flirty little wave, and we found ourselves alone in the corridor. I figured they might have video surveillance, so we headed for the media relations office, just as he had instructed.

  “Now what?” I whispered.

  Just then the goon from downstairs rounded the corner and spotted us.

  “You’re still here!” He hurried toward us, practically oozing testosterone from every pore in his beefy body. “I knew you two were up to something!”

  I looked at Mom. “Now what?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Uh-oh. Now we make tracks. Let’s hit it, Maggie!”

  With that, she slipped off her Ferragamos and we raced down the wide staircase all the way to the front door. We didn’t even break stride as we galloped down the front steps and made a beeline to my car. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a vintage Phantom Rolls leaving the compound. It was nosing up to the front gate, the engine giving a satisfied purr, pale lemon paintwork dazzling in the bright sunlight.

  I quickly unlocked my Honda with the remote and we threw ourselves inside.

  Did we dare try our luck again? I slipped in right behind the fabulous car, admiring the gleaming chrome on the bumper. I gunned the motor just before the gate closed. Success!

  I drove like a maniac for several minutes until I knew we were clear of Sanjay’s goons. Finally, I stopped at a water-ice joint, ordered two lime slushies at the drive-through window, and turned to Mom.

  “What in the world were you doing with a FedEx envelope? You must be a magician. It appeared like a rabbit out of a hat.”

  “Not exactly, dear,” she said, patting her straw bag. “I had an extra mailing envelope with me. I needed to overnight a contract to Edgar, and I was going to mail it from one of those FedEx drop boxes.”

  “Amazing,” I said.

  A flash of a wry smile was followed by a happy sigh. “Yes, dear. I really am, aren’t I?”

  No one can accuse Lola of false modesty.

  Chapter 27

  Half an hour later we were heading back to Cypress Grove. I needed to check in with Lark to find out the latest on the case. And I wanted to call Nick and tell him Travis was getting ready to fly the coop and ask him to do a deep background check on him.

  What else? I wanted to touch base with the ever-elusive Rafe Martino. I felt a little tingle of anticipation at the idea of picking up the phone and hearing that sexy voice. I gave myself a stern reminder that my interest in him was purely professional. It had to be.

  But was it? The rational side of my brain, my prefrontal cortex, told me that it made perfect sense to check in with him. How else would I discover what leads he had and whether any new suspects had emerged during the course of the investigation? But the emotional center of my brain, the amyg dala, was doing the happy dance at the thought of seeing him again. A dilemma.

  I had no idea how to resolve it, but I kn
ew I needed to get my emotions under control before calling Rafe.

  Mom was silent for most of the ride, but she broke into my thoughts as we pulled up in front of my condo.

  “That meeting with Travis Carter. It was all very interesting, you know.” She was speaking in a stagey way that reminded me of Joan Hickson playing Miss Marple. I waited for her to say that it reminded her of another case, or maybe someone back in Saint Mary Mead. It was obvious that she wanted me to go along with the game, so I took the bait.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What was interesting about it?”

  “The fact that Sanjay and Travis went deep-sea fishing together.”

  That was interesting? Who cares? And anyway, how did she know that?

  “I missed that.”

  “It was the photo, of course, that tipped me off to the fishing expedition. You know, the one that Travis slapped back into the box.”

  The photo? “I didn’t get a look at it.”

  “It was a picture someone took of Travis deep-sea fishing with the guru. And you notice he tucked it away as fast as he could. Either he didn’t want me prying through Sanjay’s things or there was something significant about that photo. It has to be one or the other, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. The idea that Sanjay occasionally went deep-sea fishing with Travis Carter didn’t surprise me. They worked closely together, and maybe Sanjay made it a habit to socialize with his employees. He was always harping on the idea that Team Sanjay was one big happy family. So what was the significance of a fishing trip? I didn’t think Mom was going to give me any more hints, so I decided to call Nick as soon as we walked into the kitchen.

  Lark was out, but Pugsley greeted me with doggie devotion, winding himself around my legs, begging to be picked up. I gave him a liver treat while he licked my face, delirious with joy at my return. I called Nick and he picked up on the first ring.

  “Maggie? What have you got?” he said. I heard Rage Against the Machine blaring in the background. I briefly filled him in on our visit to Travis. “He’s hiding something. I know he is. You can check him out for me, right?”

  I heard keyboard noises in the background. Nick has an uncanny ability to find out people’s secrets. If information exists anywhere on paper or online, he’ll find it. The clicking stopped and I heard Nick muttering to himself. I could just see him hunched over the keyboard, chin jutting forward, as he pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Okay, nothing is coming up on him.”

  “Nothing?” I was dismayed.

  “Nothing incriminating. He won an award for sports fishing.” A pause. “Actually, he won a few awards for sports fishing. But that’s not the kind of thing you’re looking for, right?”

  “Unfortunately not.” I put Pugsley down on the sofa. “Anything new from the cops?”

  Nick’s tone thumped up a notch. “Yeah, I was gonna call you tonight. The tox screen came back.”

  “You’re kidding! What’s the verdict?

  “Sanjay was poisoned. It’s conclusive.”

  Mom glanced over at me, and I raised my eyebrows. Was this good news for Lark, or was this adding to the case against her? I didn’t think it was good news.

  “What kind of poison?” I pulled out a writing pad, ready to jot down notes.

  “They’re keeping quiet on that, at least for the moment. I couldn’t even get them to tell me the name of the poison or what class it belonged to. Rafe told me off the record that it was fast acting, but that’s all he’d say.” Nick hesitated. “There’s something else I need to tell you, Maggie.”

  Uh-oh. I steeled myself. This was bad news coming—I felt it. “Go ahead.”

  “There are only two sets of fingerprints on the bottle of Calming Essence. The fingerprints belong to Sanjay and to Lark. I’m afraid it’s not looking good for her.”

  “The Calming Essence bottle—is that what you’re talking about?”

  “You got it.” I heard more clicking as Nick was checking out something else.

  “Nick, she’s innocent!” I wailed. “What can we do?”

  “Nothing for the moment.” He sounded preoccupied, as if he was hot on the trail of another investigation. “Maggie, all you can do is hang in there with her and ride this out. Got another call coming in. Talk to you later.”

  I sank onto the sofa next to Pugsley and flipped on the local news. I blinked in surprise when I channel surfed for a few minutes and spotted Lenore Cooper on a talk show. She looked younger and more attractive than the last time I’d seen her, and I wondered whether she’d had a makeover. I suspected she’d had her teeth bleached, and her hair was cut in a sleek bob, taking years off her face. She was looking almost telegenic.

  Mom wandered out into the kitchen and returned with a dish of maple walnut ice cream, Pugsley’s favorite. He immediately abandoned me and crawled into her lap, looking up at her with adoring puppy eyes. She pointed to the TV. “Isn’t that Sanjay’s wife?”

  “Ex-wife. She’s the one who got him started in his career, and then he dumped her.”

  “Ouch.”

  I turned up the volume. Lenore Cooper was being interviewed about a new series of seminars and book-signing events she was doing. She’d just signed with a new agency, she said gushingly, and she was happy her career was back on track. Happy? That didn’t surprise me. Success is the best revenge.

  Ironic. Maybe Sanjay’s death had given her the visibility she needed. Her book had made both the USA Today list and the New York Times list, and it looked like she was back in the game.

  At one time, she’d been my number-one suspect, but now everything had changed. Sanjay’s death may have revived her flagging career, but I didn’t think that was enough of a motive for murder. It was just a lucky outcome for her.

  Lark came in later that evening, looking pale and distracted. She slumped with exhaustion but brightened when she saw us in the living room. “You’re back!” She enveloped each of us in a hug. I could tell she had dropped a few pounds from her already-thin frame.

  “How are you?” I pulled back to look at her, taking in the gaunt expression and dark circles under her eyes. “You haven’t been sleeping, have you?”

  She shook her head. “Not really.” She put on the kettle and reached for a canister of chamomile tea, which she claims has soothing properties. “I’ve been going over and over what happened that night.”

  “The night Sanjay—”

  “Yes, that night,” she said quickly. She gave a helpless little shrug. I had the feeling she couldn’t even bring herself to say the word “murder.” Or “death.”

  “Have the police contacted you again?”

  “They’ve tried to. Nick put me in touch with a lawyer, Sebastian Martin. He won’t let me talk to the cops unless he’s there with me.” She carefully measured out the shredded chamomile into a little silver tea ball. It looked like catnip. “I’m a person of interest. But he said the cops are putting together a mountain of evidence, and depending on how they spin the facts, it could get a lot worse for me.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  I nodded. “I know. What did he tell you to do? Did he have any suggestions?”

  “Just to try to remember everything I could about that night. I told him I’ve gone over it a hundred times, but I think I have a mental block.”

  “A mental block?” I immediately thought of suppressed memories—one of Freud’s classic defense mechanisms. Had something happened that night, something so traumatic that Lark had unconsciously pushed it deep into her psyche? Of course, she had been blindsided by Sanjay’s clumsy attempt at seduction, but was there more to the story? Was there some key detail we had all overlooked?

  Apparently Mom’s mind was running along the same track. Mom loves pop psychology and buys every self-help book on the market. “A mental block? I know how to fix that.” She arranged some Lorna Doones on a plate to go with the tea.

  I stared at her, trying not to smile. “You know how to fix a mental block?”


  “Yes, dear, I do. Perhaps you’re forgetting that I played Dr. Ivana Romanoff on Whispers. My character was an expert at hypnosis, and she used it quite successfully on her patients.”

  I remembered Whispers, all right. It was an afternoon soap that ran on a cable channel. It had overwritten dialogue and improbable plots and lasted only fifteen episodes.

  “Mom, that was a soap opera character. You’re an actress, not a shrink. You don’t have any training in how to induce a trance.”

  “I think you’re forgetting something. My character was a Russian psychoanalyst.” She sat down at the kitchen table, her expression serious. “We had a psychologist as an adviser on the set. She told me how to play the character believably, and she even taught me the art of self-hypnosis.” She looked aggrieved. “I know more about psychoanalysis than you think I do.”

  Lark and I exchanged a look. “We could give it a try.” Her voice was tentative.

  “You’re kidding. Are you sure you really want to do this?”

  “If it will help me remember some important detail about that night, why not?” She turned to Mom. “Where do you want me to sit? Or do I have to lie down?”

  “No, sitting up is fine, but we have to get you in a comfortable chair.” Mom was bustling around, pleased to be reprising her role as the intrepid Dr. Romanoff. “How about the Barcalounger? That looks comfy.”

  Lark nodded and, taking her mug of tea with her, sat down in the plush lounge chair. Mom pulled up a kitchen chair very close to her. “I want you to close your eyes,” Mom said in a stagey monotone. “I want you to completely relax, and feel all the tension in your body drain away. Take three big breaths and let them out slowly.”

  “Okay,” Lark murmured. She set her cup of tea on the end table and closed her eyes. She sank back into the cushion and wriggled until she was comfortable.

  “Are you feeling relaxed? Or do we need to do a visualization exercise?”

  “No, I’m relaxed,” Lark assured her. I remembered that Lark was into mediation and relaxation techniques.

  “Okay, Lark, I want you to tune out any distractions and just listen to the sound of my voice. Do you think you can do that?” Mom’s voice was slow and languid, the words dropping softly, like cherry blossoms in the spring.