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COMBS LEANED THROUGH the glass window to push his identification closer to the receptionist. “I spoke with Mr. Fish earlier. He expects me. I appreciate your cooperation. Anita, is it?” The nameplate spelled her name in tiny rhinestones that matched the accents on her glasses.
Anita sneezed and dabbed her nose with a soiled tissue. “Sweet talk all you want.” Her voice was a Lauren Bacall baritone. “I already told you Humphrey’s on-air.” She punched a button on the phone, careful not to mess up the fresh magenta nail polish that perfumed the air. “I got a cold, got a headache, probably got strep throat, and got the crankies over a double shift. I got the don’t-care-and-cain’t-hep-it, so don’t push me.”
“The bluebird of happiness shit all over my day, too, lady.” God, he didn’t need attitude.
She batted red-rimmed eyes behind blue cat-eye glasses. “Quite the charmer, aren’t ya?” She shuffled paper and ignored him.
He wished for a breath mint, or a cigarette. Hell, a shot of rum wouldn’t be bad either. It might shave the fuzz off his tongue. He spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “Anita, I’ll take responsibility. You won’t get into trouble. But I need to talk to Fish. Now.” He underlined the word. Controlling access into the studio, Anita had to push the button to open the glass door. “Please.” He’d kiss receptionist butt if it helped. Couldn’t be worse than puckering up to Doty.
She covered her mouth, coughed, and grimaced. “Me and Humphrey and the engineer are the only ones still here. Others got out before all this weather. Should have hitched a ride with them.”
“You’re stranded?”
“For the night, looks like.” She shrugged. “I can be sick here as easy as at home. The kitchenette has instant soup. I’ll survive without my flannel jammies.” Anita resumed busy work.
Combs paced the tiny reception area. He dreaded Uncle Stanley’s call. His sister Naomi had already used him as a verbal punching bag when he told her. After her sobs quieted, his sister agreed to inform the rest of the family. He couldn’t be distracted, had to step up the search to find Mom’s killer or he’d shoot somebody. Maybe even a receptionist.
“I’m grateful for the company.” Anita sniffled. “Humphrey’s a one-man show ‘til somebody else shows up. That’s a lot of fish stories.” She lifted an eyebrow, expecting him to chuckle. At his stony glare, she adjusted her glasses. “He’ll need a potty break before long, ‘cuz he’s been drinking coffee for hours.” She laughed. “But he’d rather hear himself than take a break—heck, wouldn’t surprise me if he just whizzed in a cup.”
Whizzed in a cup, sheesh. And she called him less than charming? No matter how satisfying, it would do no good to piss off the gate keeper. “I need a few minutes. Just tell him I’m here. If he needs a break, it won’t get in the way of his program.”
Anita held up one finger and turned away to sneeze into a wad of tissue, honking and wiping her Rudolph-bright appendage. She winced, reaching for the half roll of toilet paper stashed in the inbox on her desk when the first wad of tissue didn’t suffice. “This storm, it’s a dream come true for Humphrey. He’s wanted to break into the prime radio time for years. Humphrey’s making points keeping the station on air.”
A headache gathered behind Combs’s ears. Anita’s voice irritated like new shoes on a blister.
“He’s taking lots of call-ins.” Arm wave. “Everyone’s stuck at home, nothing to do but listen to the radio and jabber on the phone.” Finger fling. “This could make things happen for Humphrey.” She sighed and her hands settled in her ample lap, two fluttery birds grounded. “The man just doesn’t take care of himself, though. That falls to me. Not that he ever notices,” she said softly.
Aha. So Anita had designs on the radio king. And Fish didn’t know she was alive. “He just doesn’t appreciate what you do for him. That’s a shame.” Combs hoped she’d come around quicker if he showed a bit of empathy.
“Oh, I don’t mind. He’s got a lot to offer, such an undiscovered talent. And besides, I need the overtime.”
“He’s taking call-ins? I don’t hear the phone ringing.”
As if on cue, Anita’s phone jangled. “It’s a different number. He’s got half a dozen phone lines in there.” Her phone rang again, followed by a second line. Her shoulders clenched. “I can’t get away from morons calling for school and church and who-cares closings. Humphrey’s been making those announcements every fifteen minutes.” She wiped her nose. “Why don’t they freaking listen, huh?”
Everyone in radio must be nuts.
She punched a button, speaking into her headset, and transformed into a syrup-voiced sex kitten. “WZPP, you’ve reached ZAP105 FM Radio, giving you the best easy-listening 24/7, how may I direct your call?”
He reached through the window, and disconnected the phone.
“Hey!” She batted his hand.
“I’m not asking. This is a murder investigation. I’ll run your ass down to the station, too, Anita, because I don’t have time to wait until Fish’s piss-cup runneth over.”
“Murder? Lord, why didn’t you say so, I thought it was another unpaid traffic ticket.” She pulled off her glasses, and continued in her crow-rasp voice. “He doesn’t pay me enough to run interference for murder. I’ll page him, but he still probably won’t reply till there’s a pre-recorded station break.”
“When’s that?” Combs checked the time.
“Quarter hours usually, but today all bets are off. Knowing him, he got all the breaks in at one time to give himself more running-at-the-mouth room.”
That could be another fifteen minutes. Maybe he should have gone with Gonzales to the Januarys’ house to interview September’s parents. Doty didn’t want him there, though, and figured his follow up with the radio guy wouldn’t get back to the brass. Hell, if this Fish character had just answered his questions when he called April’s house, he wouldn’t be here.
“So who got murdered?” Anita winced, and reached for a lozenge. Cellophane wrappers littered the floor next to the wastebasket that overflowed with used tissues.
“You don’t know the victim.” Victim. Not a victim, it was his mom. He coughed and turned away.
“Careful, honey.” Anita tore off several squares from a roll of toilet paper and offered them through the window. “This weather, you could catch what I got.” When he waved the tissue away, she folded it and honked. “Damn, it would just be easier to unscrew my nose for the duration.” She tossed the used clump toward the wastebasket as the phone rang again.
This time he reached through the window and yanked the headset off her head. “I’m sorry you feel like shit. I’m sorry he treats you like dirt. But if you don’t get Fish out here in the next thirty seconds, I promise you’ll feel even worse.” He didn’t smile, didn’t yell, and didn’t need to.
Anita started to say something and hesitated. “Screw it,” she murmured, pressing the buzzer to release the door lock.
