Heart of the Night (14 page)

Taking a deep breath, she looked up at the ceiling. From there, she looked at the walls, on which were tacked an assortment of posters, photographs, calendars, and notes. Then she looked at the telephone and thought of calls that came into the station. In the next breath she thought of Megan.

A small shudder of frustration and fear shook her. She told herself that Megan was a survivor, that she would be all right. But she had been gone for two days. Savannah didn't want to guess at how she was being treated, but in idle moments like these, she couldn't help but wonder.

Sensing the beginnings of a quaking inside, she turned anxiously back to Jared. The sight of him helped. He was calm and confident. Looking at him, she felt the same comfort that came with the sound of his voice on the radio.

But another voice spoke now. It was the news.

Jared met her gaze. Taking in her troubled expression, he went to the door. “Want to come in?”

She wanted that more than anything just then. Nodding, she joined him before he could change his mind. When the door to the booth was securely closed behind her, he took a seat at the control board, put the headphones around his neck, and faced her.

“We have three minutes before I'm on,” he warned, but he didn't seem annoyed that she was there. Rather, he looked curious, even a little concerned.

She started talking. “Yesterday morning, the wife of a prominent Providence businessman was kidnapped. A ransom note was left, but there's been no follow-up and we've been over a good part of the county, looking.” She wrapped her arms around her middle. “Right about now, we're stymied. So we're stretching our imagination.”

“Do you want to sit down?” he asked.

She guessed that she looked pale. But she shook her head. “I'm okay.”

“What can I do to help?”

His gentle tone was a help in itself, but she had more to ask. “The ransom note was strangely worded. It said, ‘Kick in a cool three million.' I couldn't help but think of WCIC. The sound is the same.”

“It's our thing. Country in the city. CIC. Kickin' in this, kickin' up that, kickin' back to something else.”

“I know,” she said, then stopped short.

“All my DJs use it, and I can personally vouch for each and every one. None of them would even remotely be involved in a kidnapping.”

Though she said nothing, she looked awkward.

“But you were wondering whether we've gotten calls from any weirdos lately?”

She released a soft breath. She hadn't mentioned a word about the station to Paul or Sammy or Hank for fear they would think she was nuts to check it out. But Jared's face held no ridicule.

“I keep telling myself,” she confessed, “that the similarity of the wording is coincidence, but since we haven't found anything else, I'm desperate.
Have
you gotten any calls from weirdos lately?”

“We get them all the time.”

“Oh.”

“All stations do. You'd be amazed at the calls that come in. Some people are bored, so they call. Others are lonely or depressed. Then there are those who are either ornery or just plain crazy. Those are the ugly calls.”

“Like…?”

“Like the guy who calls Melissa and threatens rape in all kinds of explicit terms. Or the one who calls Joe with the same threat. Or the one who tells you he's got his girlfriend wired and he'll blow her to pieces if you play a certain song one more time. Some of the calls are more of a nuisance than anything else—like the lady who calls each day at eleven-thirty in the morning to complain about something or other she just bought at the supermarket that was spoiled.”

“Your DJs don't take those calls, do they?”

“Sometimes. None of us takes calls on the air, but the daytime DJs push our phone number for the sake of requests, and if the music's on, they're not averse to speaking with a caller. It's great PR, and sometimes it's fun. The ladies who answer the main phone and switch calls in here are pretty good about sifting out the legits from the crazies.” He shrugged. “Sometimes they miss.” Holding up a finger, he swiveled to face the control panel and put the headphones on. Simultaneously sliding a vertical fader up and flipping the mike button, he began to speak.

“Welcome to cool country,” he drawled in a voice that was low and husky, “95.3 FM, WCIC Providence. I'm Jared Snow, keepin' the home fires warm with you all the way to six in the morning. I'll be playing the best of contemporary country, kickin' off the overnight with a string of six from superstars like Randy Travis, Rosanne Cash, and Alabama.

“If you're worried about the weather,” he glanced at a monitor to his left, “don't be. The CIC forecast calls for clearing skies by morning, with temps climbin' into the forties. It's a chilly thirty-five degrees outside our studios at twelve-oh-four in the
A.M
,” he punched a button on the console, “but we'll warm you up till dawn.”

With each hand on a slide, he went on. “So keep it right here at 95.3 FM”—his eye was on a small clock counting the seconds as the introductory beat of the music began—“WCIC Providence, for a little country in the city. This is Jared Snow in the heart of the night, listen in.…”

With the shift of the slides, the sound rose to catch the first of Lee Greenwood's lyrics. Jared switched off the mike, slid the headphones to his neck, and turned to Savannah.

“That's incredible,” she remarked. “You do it so easily.”

He shrugged. “I've been doing it awhile.”

“Two years here. Where before that?”

“Midwest. Northwest. I started in college.” He snorted. “I really have been doing it a while.”

Savannah estimated that he was in his late thirties, which would give him eighteen or nineteen years' experience. “Do you own the station?”

For a minute he said nothing. Then he shrugged, which was as good as a yes.

“And others?”

His brow lowered. “Does the AG's office keep files?”

She smiled. “No. It's just gossip. Back home in Newport, gossip is big business.” She pictured Newport, her father, then Susan, then Megan. Her smile faded, and she said quietly, almost apologetically, “That's all pretty petty, I guess.”

Her tone seemed to soothe him. “I don't mind your questions. But they don't relate much to your case.”

She inhaled a loud breath. “Right.” Leaning back, she propped her hip on the edge of a slanted panel. Almost immediately, she jumped back up and, placing a hand on her chest in alarm, looked at the array of switches and buttons she feared she had disturbed.

“It's okay,” Jared said, smiling. “You won't hurt anything there.”

Curling her fingers into a fist against her chest, she lowered herself to the panel again.

“We were talking about the phones,” he prompted in a gentle voice.

“There isn't anyone answering calls for you now.”

“An answering service takes over at nine.”

“What if there's an emergency and you have to be reached?”

“There's a private line.” He gestured toward the telephone that was built into the wall within easy reach to the right of the control panel. “The light flashes. The people who have that private number know to let it ring until I've put the music on and can pick up and talk.”

She nodded. “So you don't get any of the weird calls yourself.”

“Not directly. The answering service takes note of them, though.”

“Keeps a record?”

He nodded.

“Is that true of calls that come in during the day?”

“Yes and no. Requests go into the request book. We keep score of those. We get lots of hang-ups—people calling, asking for one DJ or another, then hanging up when he can't take the phone. We don't record those.”

Savannah thought of the two calls she'd made herself and worked to keep her expression neutral. “But the others—the ugly ones?”

He nodded. “We've got them.”

She felt an inkling of hope. “Can I see them?”

“There's not much to see. The phone isn't tapped, so its not like we have a transcript of tapes. All we've got is the notes of the person who answered the phone when the call came in. And that, only for the daytime. The records from the answering service are at their office. We don't have cause to collect them regularly. If there's anything unusual or particularly deadly, they tell us, but I haven't heard anything lately. I can guarantee you that we didn't get any calls about a kidnapping. I would have been notified.”

She pushed her hands so deeply into her pockets that her arms went rigidly straight. “There has to be something.”

“You can take a look, but I don't think you'll find a thing.” His voice had an edge. “I'm sensitive to any irregularities. Believe me.”

She did. Yet she felt more helpless than ever. “I need a lead,” she cried softly, more to herself than to him. More loudly and with a hint of despair, she said, “It would be natural for someone who is in some way associated with the station to use wording like that.”

“Thank you,” Jared said, “but I don't have criminals associated with my station.” He swiveled away, but it was only to punch another button on the console. With one hand on each of two slides, he waited for just the right moment to fade Lee Greenwood out and Randy Travis in. Only then did he swivel back.

Savannah picked up where he'd left off. “Kidnappers aren't necessarily hardened criminals.”

“You said it was a clean job. You think just anyone off the street could have pulled it off?”

“No, but someone bright could have, someone who had thought everything out and could probably vanish into thin air faster than someone with a record. Has anybody here quit lately?”

He shook his head.

“Anyone been under really tight financial pressure?”

Again, he shook his head.

More meekly, she asked, “Anyone been asking for the names of good hotels in Iran?”

He didn't bother to respond to that one. Instead, he eyed her more closely. “This means a lot to you, doesn't it?”

“Of course, it does. Kidnapping is a serious crime.”

“From what you say, you deal with lots of serious crimes. Do you go at them all this intently?”

She sensed subtle criticism in his tone. “I take my job seriously.”

“Is that why you're out working in the middle of the night?”

She frowned. “When else was I supposed to reach you?”

“You might have called during the day. If you'd identified yourself, I'd have returned your call.”

“Would you have?” she asked, then hurried on. Jared Snow was fast falling from his pedestal. “Excuse me for being skeptical, but I've been in this business long enough to know that if I want answers, I don't wait for a call back.”

“And you want answers on this one.”

“Yes, I do. A woman's life is in danger.”

“Is that it? Is that what's got you so worried?”

She didn't understand. “Wouldn't you be worried if a woman's life was in your hands?”

“Come on, now,” he chided. “You're not God. You're an assistant attorney general. This is your job. You do your best, and you feel bad if your best isn't enough, but you're satisfied to know that you tried.”

“It's not enough just to try!”

“Why not? You can't run the world.” He paused long enough to take in her appalled expression. “Is that it? Is that what you want? Is this case some kind of stepping stone for you?”

“No.”

“Maybe you're aiming for a promotion. If you show your grit on a big one, the AG will move you up.”

She shook her head in an attempt to negate what he said as well as express her disbelief that he was saying it at all. Jared Snow was supposed to be compassionate, trusting, understanding. He was not supposed to be cynical.

“Maybe you're aiming to be AG yourself. Or is it the governor you're trying to impress?” he asked.

Hurt, Savannah rose from the cabinet. She put a hand to her churning stomach. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

He leaned back on one elbow. His pose was lazy, his eyes anything but. “Enlighten me.”

She did just that. “I have no political aspirations, none at all, and as far as climbing higher in the AG's office, I've already climbed as high as I want to go.” She paused for a breath. “But you're right. There's a good reason why I'm desperate when it comes to this case.” She was trembling inside, doing her best not to let it show, not quite making it. “The woman who was kidnapped happens to be a dear friend of mine. I want her back, and I want her back well.”

The echo of her words blended into the background music as they sank into Jared's consciousness. His expression lost its smug challenge and grew sober. Rising, he went to her.

The first time he touched her she pulled back. He opened both hands wide, held them near her arms, then touched her again. This time she didn't flinch.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I had to know.” The warmth of his hands penetrated two layers of navy knit. “I have a thing about politics. And about ruthlessly ambitious women. I'm sorry.”

Savannah struggled to regain her composure, but Jared's nearness seemed to coax out more words. “She's been a friend of mine since high school. On some level, I've always felt responsible for her. Maybe because she never had much and I had so much. Maybe because she met her husband through my family and if she hadn't been his wife, she wouldn't have had a ransom worth demanding.” As she looked up into his face, her throat grew tight. “I haven't seen Meggie as much as I should have lately, but I do love her.”

Lifting a hand, Jared touched her cheek. His fingers were large but gentle, his expression curious. She wanted to cry.

Taking a tremulous breath, she glanced at the ceiling. Then she stepped back, away from his touch. “I'm really stronger than this.” Averting her gaze, she looked through the glass wall to the outer room. “It must be the hour.”