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COMBS SHOVED THROUGH the radio studio’s glass door so hard it rebounded off the wall, and he felt vague disappointment when it didn’t break. He jogged down the hall and stopped below the red “on air” light above another door. The organ-rich tones of Humphrey Fish recited a litany of area work and event closings, as the live broadcast was piped through office speakers.
The studio walls—glass—formed a soundproof enclosure where a pale, skinny kid with headphones sat before a computer bank of dials and switches. When Combs opened the door, the kid rose halfway out of his seat, and made frantic shushing motions. Combs ignored him. “Where’s Fish?”
The recitation abruptly stopped. “Well, well, well, look what the storm blew in.” Humphrey sat on the far side of the room on a padded rolling bar stool. A football-size fuzzy mic hung above his head. “We’ll be right back with a surprise guest, right after a word from our sponsors.” He made a hand motion to the engineer.
The engineer twiddled dials, sat back and chugged Red Bull. “You got ninety seconds,” he told Humphrey. He pulled off his headphones and stuck out his jaw at Combs. It didn’t improve his weak chin.
“You’re Fish?”
“In the flesh. Who’re you?” Humphrey hopped off the chair.
A poor man’s Leprechaun, Fish stood just over five feet, and was nearly as wide as he was tall. “Officer Jeffery Combs.” He shook the man’s hand, and tried to mask his surprise.
“Yeah, I know, I know, you’re shocked. I’m even more handsome than you expected, right? I got a face for radio, what can I say?” He scratched his bright red poof of chin whiskers.
“We spoke before.”
Humphrey smoothed the freckles on his billiard-smooth head, and pushed the microphone away. “What the hell are you doing, breaking into a broadcast? Didn’t your momma teach you any manners?” But his hazel eyes twinkled. “Makes for good radio, though.”
Combs clenched and unclenched his fists. “My mom is dead and I’m here to find out who killed her.” He’d like to grab the man by his silly chin whiskers, or some equally short hairs, and see how he liked that joke.
“Frog on a stick.” Fish produced a green paisley kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Sorry, Officer, thought this was about traffic tickets.” His innocent expression failed to hide the calculation. “It’s about September? I already told you everything I know.”
“You’ve told me diddly.”
Fish hoisted himself back onto the booster chair. “Maybe I do know more than I think.” He eyeballed the clock. “We’ve got some wiggle room before we go back on air, right, Craig?” Fish waggled his fingers at the boy-engineer’s puzzlement until the kid’s scowl cleared and he nodded sudden understanding. Fish swiveled in the chair to face Combs. “The power of radio could get us some leads from the citizenry out in listener land. Am I right?”
Combs shook his head. “I ask you the questions, Fish. This isn’t quid pro quo or some reality media circus. Real people are involved. A woman is dead, a child is missing.” He wouldn’t be able to stop the DJ from flapping his jaws once he left the radio station, but while he was here, he’d stay in control.
“Fine, you ask the questions.” Fish folded his hands over his tummy and smiled benignly. “What’s your name again? Have a seat.”
“Officer Jeffrey Combs, Heartland Police Department.” He settled into the indicated chair, and bumped his head into another overhead microphone. He pushed it away. “What time was September—”
Fish grinned and interrupted. “We’re back, friends and neighbors, and I’ve got a treat to warm the cockles of your heart.” He paused, and pushed his own mic away momentarily. “Play along, it’ll be painless. And you might learn something.”
Combs’s ears felt hot. He looked around and caught the knowing grin of the boy-engineer.
Back in carnival barker mode, Fish cleared his throat and continued. “On this bitter cold November day, we’re gonna play “Clue” in a real-live murder investigation with our in-studio guest, Officer Jeffrey Combs, of the Heartland Police Department.” His mocking tone set Combs’s teeth on edge.
Combs stood abruptly.
“Sit down, sit down, Officer Combs.” Fish shook his finger at Combs like a garden gnome chastising a Doberman. “I’m afraid I’ve taken the good policeman by surprise, since he planned to ask me some questions first. Or maybe he’s been stricken with stage fright.” He was in his element. “You can sit there like a lump, answer my questions or ask your own, officer. Since you’re already here, why not make the best of it?”
Combs glared, but took his seat. He crossed his arms, lips tight.
Fish reacted like a car intent on beating a red light. “When I called earlier to check up on WZPP’s very own Pet Peeves guru, you answered the phone. It appears, gentle listeners, that September Day got her tail caught in mayhem.” He pushed the mic to one side. “Say something already.” he whispered, “They can’t see your gloomy face.”
Combs glared but said nothing. He’d not agreed to be part of this orchestrated fiasco. Let Fish find his own way out of the maze.
“Speak into the microphone, Officer, so our listeners can hear.” Fish beamed when phone lines lit up. “There’s been a death, right? And it happened at September’s house? Wait no, she’d gone to her sister April’s house to hunt for the missing kid. Am I on track so far?”
Combs shifted in the chair, glanced at the door and debated leaving Fish to swing in the wind. But the show would go on whether he remained silent, left, or sang a solo and if he could get control of the conversation, perhaps he’d salvage something. “We are speaking with family, friends and neighbors to locate the whereabouts of Ms. Childress and her son.”
“Steven, his name’s Steven,” prompted Fish. “What about September?”
“Certainly we’d like to speak with Ms. Day about her sister and nephew.”
“So d’ya think April is the killer or what?”
Combs recoiled from the mic. “You damn prick.”
“Okay, hold your britches there, champ. I was out of line. Sorry,” Fish said, clearly anything but remorseful. “As a journalist I have to ask. You don’t have to answer.”
More phone lines winked. Combs stood to leave.
The little man rode his chair like a jockey. “Everyone out there in radio-land, I must confess that I ambushed Officer Combs into a live interview with the promise of some answers. So fire away, Mr. Policeman, ask me anything.” He waggled his fingers at the boy-engineer. “And in a bit we’ll take some calls.”
Combs breathed deeply, gathering his thoughts, and eyed the mic as if it was a snake. “Turn it off.” He might already be dead but he’d be damned if he’d let Fish shovel more dirt on his grave. “Shut off the show, go to commercial and I’ll talk. Or I’ll walk.”
Fish sighed. “Fair enough. Listeners, we’ll be right back after these messages.”
Combs waited until Fish nodded at the engineer. He stared over his shoulder at the “on air” light over the door, and once it went dark, he breathed more easily. Combs swiveled his chair to face Fish. “You said that September, uh, Ms. Day rushed out of the station after her sister called.”
“Oh, she wasn’t here. She called in from a land-line.” He wiggled his eyebrows, enjoying the gossip. “Takes a lot to get her out of the house even without a blizzard. She called in late and left early, but we heated up the airwaves while she was here.”
“What exactly did April Childress say?” Combs couldn’t imagine either sister as the shooter. But they could have both called from April’s house to alibi each other since neither was at the station during the show.
“She said—wait, I’ve got a better idea.” He waved at the engineer. “We’ve got the show recorded. Craig, cue that up for us, will ya?” The engineer held up two fingers. “Okay, in two minutes we’ll have a re-run of that gripping call.”
Sweat tickled the back of Combs’s neck, and he loosened his jacket. Fish kept the station shirtsleeve warm. “Can you tell where September called from? Her house, or somewhere else, a cell phone maybe?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Long as she phoned in on time, we ran with it. Not a cell phone, though. Reception sucks with those things.” He swigged brown, vile liquid from a puce-colored coffee mug that must have been purchased from a yard sale and washed last during the great flood. “By the way, April mentioned a dog, too.”
“Dog? What about it?” They’d found kibble all over the kitchen floor, but no sign of the pet. “Must have taken the dog with them.”
“Taken? You think April and September are on the run with Steven? And the pooch? And you’re dogging their trail, eh?” The round man forced a laugh.
What a piece of work. Combs finally sat in the chair beneath the guest microphone, trying to keep a civil tone. “What car does Ms. Day drive?”
“Volvo.” Fish didn’t hesitate. “It’s a running joke between us but—um—not appropriate on-air.” The engineer snickered. “Hey Craig, how you doing on that recording?”
The engineer gave a thumb’s up and flipped a switch. Combs listened with interest. Fish’s voice began the recording.
Caller, you’re on the air with Humphrey Fish and Pet Peeves. What’s your question?
Long pause. Is September there? Please, I need to talk to September.
Must be April, Combs thought, and leaned forward.
I’m here. What’s your name? And do you have a pet question?
September? Oh my God, September you’ve got to help me. Please, oh no oh no—
Calm down, I can barely understand you. Stop crying and speak clearly. I’ll try to help if I can. September sounded cool as a cucumber. She was either a great actress or she wasn’t part of the setup.
I tried and tried to call you, but your line was busy. April spoke so fast she was hard to understand. The babysitter fell asleep, I could just kill her, and Steven went out like he does and I’ve looked and looked, but he’s nowhere around the house. You’ve got to track him.
April, is that you? September sounded guilty, and Combs wondered why.
Steven’s gone. My baby’s out in the storm, him and the dog both are gone!
I’m on my way, I’ll . . . September paused. Fish? Are we still live? Shut the damn radio off, for God’s sake, shut it down. She softened. April, sweetie, I’m on my way. We’ll find Steven. I’ll see about tracking, if we need to. But you need to call the police. Another pause. Fish, will you freakin’ shut it down? A click and a dial tone ended the segment.
Combs didn’t say anything for a long moment. It didn’t seem staged. April sounded frantic, and September no less concerned. So if the boy and dog—“What kind of dog?”
“German Shepherd.” Fish spoke with a bad German accent, and then reverted to Midwest twang. “Puppy was a gift from September to the kid, and I think she was training it to help the kid out.” He mopped his brow with the kerchief again. “Steven’s disabled or something. I never got the details. Hell, I’ve only known September for a few months, so it’s not like I can quote chapter and verse on her life. She’s sorta private for a radio personality.”
The show aired before the shooting, but April never called the police about Steven. Neither had September. Partnered with April’s threats, it was enough to raise the hairs on the back of Combs’s neck.
Fish pulled his mic close. “This is ZAPP 105 Radio, with Humphrey Fish tap-dancing as fast as he can on this icy, blustery day. For those just tuned in, we’re making history. My special surprise guest, Officer Jeffrey Combs of the Heartland PD, has been giving us an insider’s view of a murder investigation. You hear it first, you hear it best, you hear it LIVE on WZPP Easy Listening.” He slurped coffee, and sludge painted a nasty shine on his upper lip. He grinned and nodded at Combs.
With a muffled curse, Combs glanced over his shoulder to see the “on air” sign brightly lit once again. Sonofabitch! How long had they been broadcasting?
“To recap for you listeners-come-lately, our own Pet Peeves maven, September Day, bailed on the broadcast when her sister April Childress sent out a howl for help over the airwaves. That’s the recording you just heard. We’ll replay that again in the next half hour.”
Shit. Must have gone live when the engineer cued up the recording. No going back now, dammit. “I need a copy of that.” It wasn’t a request.
“Sure, Officer, whatever you want.” Fish’s sarcasm was clear. “That’s Officer Jeff being detective-like and official. The poor man’s intimately involved because, you see, his mom—what’s her name, Officer?”
Combs smoldered as he stood. He’d got what he came for. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.
Undaunted, Fish blustered on. “This defender of the public safety discovered his mother had been killed—in fact, murdered—at April’s house.” He faked a sympathetic tone. “And I am assisting the good officer any way that I can to help bring the perpetrator to justice.”
Grabbing the microphone, Combs interrupted. “We would very much like to speak with September Day and April Childress. Anyone with information on the whereabouts of these individuals should call—”
Fish’s bass voice rode roughshod over Combs. “Call the studio line here at the station, that’s 800-555-ZAPP. Speaking of that, our phone lines have lit up. Sorry to keep y’all waiting, let’s take some calls.” Without waiting for Combs’s approval, Fish pushed a button. “You’re on the air with Humphrey Fish. Do you have a question or comment for Officer Combs?”
“Sounds to me like that April woman did it. Mark my words, when you find her, you’ll see she done something to your mother. Maybe even to her kid.”
“Thanks for calling.” Fish stabbed another button, cutting off the call. “Folks, this is a trying time for Officer Combs. He’s lost his mother, the murderer is out there, and two women and a child are missing, possibly accompanied by a German Shepherd, or the child may be alone with the dog. This ain’t a good day to be out for man or beast so if you’ve got tips for us call 800-555-ZAPP.”
He’d had enough. Combs strode to the door, and put his hand on the knob as Fish pushed another button. “Caller, you’re on the air with Humphrey Fish—covering the biggest Fish-story of them all. What do you have for me?”
“Mr. Fish? Uh, this is Lucy, and I listen to that Pet Peeves show all the time. You really make me laugh.” She hesitated. “Am I on the radio?”
“Lucy? Lucy, dear, I’m delighted you’re such a fan. What do you want to tell Officer Jeff?”
Combs pulled open the door and took three steps down the hall back to the front waiting area. If he hurried, he could rendezvous with Gonzales. He could hear the broadcast continue over the hallway speakers as he neared Anita’s desk.
“Oh. Well, I live over by Gentry Park, and I see a young boy out there every day, him and a big black doggy. They was here today, too.”
Combs stopped. He half turned, attention focused on the overhead speaker. He willed Lucy to say more, anything that would make the radio station visit more than a waste of hot air.
“You think you saw Steven and his dog today? What time?” Fish gestured with one urgent hand toward Combs, beckoning him through the glass wall to return to the studio.
“I had to let my own Cleo inside, she was barking so loud. Cleo’s a French Poodle, and she just hates this icy weather. Anyways, I seen the little boy with his yellow coat leave the park with his doggy. That was a little after one o’clock.”
That’s about the right timeline, Combs thought. He bounded back down the hall to the studio and banged open the door, ignoring the engineer’s winced reaction to the noise. Combs grabbed the fuzzy mic as if throttling a snake, and drew it close to speak. “Lucy, was the child with an adult? Or did you see a car anywhere around?”
“He was all by his lonesome. That’s not all, though. The real reason I called was there’s somebody over in the park right now, with another dog.”
Combs inhaled sharply. “Another dog? But people go to the dog park all the time.”
The caller snort-laughed. “Not in this weather, they don’t, and not at night in the middle of a blizzard. And besides, this is different. It’s one of them tracker-type dogs.”
Despite his excitement, Fish sounded calm. “A tracking dog. Maybe it’s September trying to find Steven?”
“That’s what I thought, after hearing y’all.” Lucy’s voice grew more agitated. “I looked out the back window again, and September—or whoever it is—fell down in the snow. I called 911 but they’re taking forever to get here. I’ve been watching since you had me on hold. She ain’t got up, and the dog’s started to holler. You have to send somebody, make the 911 people speed up. The noise is making my Cleo awful nervous.”
