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  “We’re paid to be bothered.” Boyd Fletcher eased a lean hip down on the table. “So, this where you work?”

  There was just enough insolence in his eyes to raise her hackles. “I bet you’re a hell of a detective.”

  “Cilla.” Tired and wishing he was home with his wife, Mark scowled at her. “Let’s cooperate.” Ignoring her, he turned to the detectives again. “The calls started during last Tuesday’s show. None of us paid much attention, but they continued. The last one came in tonight, at 12:35.”

  “Do you have tapes?” Althea Grayson had already pulled out her notebook.

  “I started making copies of them after the third call.” At Cilla’s startled look, Mark merely shrugged. “A precaution. I have them in my office.”

  Boyd nodded to Althea. “Go ahead. I’ll take Ms. O’Roarke’s statement.”

  “Cooperate,” Mark said to Cilla, and led Althea out.

  In the ensuing silence, Cilla tapped a cigarette out of her dwindling pack and lit it with quick, jerky movements. Boyd drew in the scent longingly. He’d quit only six weeks, three days and twelve hours ago.

  “Slow death,” he commented.

  Cilla studied him through the haze of smoke. “You wanted a statement.”

  “Yeah.” Curious, he reached over to toy with a switch. Automatically she batted his fingers aside.

  “Hands off.”

  Boyd grinned. He had the distinct feeling that she was speaking of herself, as well as her equipment.

  She cued up an established hit. After opening her mike, she did a backsell on the song just fading—the title, the artist, the station’s call letters and her name. In an easy rhythm, she segued into the next selection. “Let’s make it quick,” she told him. “I don’t like company during my shift.”

  “You’re not exactly what I expected.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  No, indeed, he thought. She was a hell of a lot more than he’d expected. “I’ve caught your show,” he said easily. “A few times.” More than a few. He’d lost more than a few hours’ sleep listening to that voice. Liquid sex. “I got this image, you know. Five-seven.” He took a casual glance from the top of her head, down her body, to the toe of her boots. “I guess I was close there. But I took you for a blonde, hair down to your waist, blue eyes, lots of … personality.” He grinned again, enjoying the annoyance in her eyes. Big brown eyes, he noted. Definitely different, and more appealing than his fantasy.

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Didn’t say I was disappointed.”

  She took a long, careful drag, then deliberately blew the smoke in his direction. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was how to discourage an obnoxious male.

  “Do you want a statement or not, Slick?”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” He took a pad and the stub of a pencil out of his jacket pocket. “Shoot.”

  In clipped, dispassionate terms, she ran through every call, the times, the phrasing. She continued to work as she spoke, pushing in recorded tapes of commercials, cuing up a CD, replacing and selecting albums.

  Boyd’s brow rose as he wrote. He would check the tapes, of course, but he had the feeling that she was giving him word-for-word. In his job he respected a good memory.

  “You’ve been in town, what? Six months?”

  “More or less.”

  “Make any enemies?”

  “A salesman trying to hawk encyclopedias. I slammed the door on his foot.”

  Boyd spared her a glance. She was trying to make light of it, but she had crushed out her cigarette and was now gnawing on her thumbnail. “Dump any lovers?”

  “No.”

  “Have any?”

  Temper flashed in her eyes again. “You’re the detective. You find out.”

  “I would—if it was personal.” His eyes lifted again in a look that was so direct, so completely personal, that her palms began to sweat. “Right now I’m just doing my job. Jealousy and rejection are powerful motivators. According to your statements, most of the comments he made to you had to do with your sexual habits.”

  Bluntness might be her strong suit, but she wasn’t about to tell him that her only sexual habit was abstinence. “I’m not involved with anyone at the moment,” she said evenly.

  “Good.” Without glancing up, he made another note. “That was a personal observation.”

  “Look, Detective—”

  “Cool your jets, O’Roarke,” he said mildly. “It was an observation, not a proposition.” His dark, patient eyes took her measure. “I’m on duty. I need a list of the men you’ve had contact with on a personal level. We’ll keep it to the past six months for now. You can leave out the door-to-door salesman.”

  “I’m not involved.” Her hands clenched as she rose. “I haven’t been involved. I’ve had no desire to be involved.”

  “No one ever said desire couldn’t be one-sided.” At the moment he was damn sure his was.

  She was suddenly excruciatingly tired. Dragging a hand through her hair, she struggled for patience. “Anyone should be able to see that this guy is hung up on a voice over the radio. He doesn’t even know me. He’s probably never seen me. An image,” she said, tossing his own words back at him. “That’s all I am to him. In this business it happens all the time. I haven’t done anything.”

  “I didn’t say you had.”

  There was no teasing note in his voice now. The sudden gentleness in it had her spinning around, blinking furiously at threatening tears. Overworked, she told herself. Overstressed. Overeverything. With her back to him, she fought for control.

  Tough, he thought. She was a tough lady. The way her hands balled at her sides as she fought with her emotions was much more appealing, much sexier, than broken sighs or helpless gestures could ever be.

  He would have liked to go to her, to speak some word of comfort or reassurance, to stroke a hand down her hair. She’d probably bite it off at the wrist.

  “I want you to think about the past few months, see if you can come up with anything, however small and unimportant, that might have led to this.” His tone had changed again. It was brisk now, brisk and dispassionate. “We can’t bring every man in the greater Denver area in for questioning. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “I know how cops work.”

  The bitterness in her voice had his brows drawing together. There was something else here, but this wasn’t the time to dig into it.

  “You’d recognize the voice if you heard it again.”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything familiar about it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you think it was disguised?”

  She moved her shoulders restlessly, but when she turned back to him she had herself under control. “He keeps it muffled and low. It’s, ah … like a hiss.”

  “Any objections to me sitting in on tomorrow night’s show?”

  Cilla took another long look at him. “Barrels of them.”

  He inclined his head. “I’ll just go to your boss.”

  Disgusted, she reached for her cigarettes. He closed his firm hard-palmed hand over hers. She stared down at the tangled fingers, shocked to realize that her pulse had doubled at the contact.

  “Let me do my job, Cilla. It’ll be easier all around if you let Detective Grayson and me take over.”

  “Nobody takes over my life.” She jerked her hand away, then jammed it into her pocket.

  “Just this small part of it, then.” Before she could stop him, he reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Go home and get some sleep. You look beat.”

  She stepped back, made herself smile. “Thanks, Slick. I feel a lot better now.”

  Though she grumbled, she couldn’t prevent his waiting until she signed off and turned the studio over to the all-night man. Nor did her lack of enthusiasm discourage him from walking her out to her car, reminding her to lock her door and waiting until she’d driven away. Disturbed by the way he’d look
ed at her—and the way she’d reacted—she watched him in the rearview mirror until he was out of sight.

  “Just what I needed,” she muttered to herself. “A cowboy cop.”

  Moments later, Althea joined Boyd in the parking lot. She had the tapes in her bag, along with Mark’s statement. “Well, Fletcher”—she dropped a friendly hand on his shoulder—“what’s the verdict?”

  “She’s tough as nails, hardheaded, prickly as a briar patch.” With his hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels. “I guess it must be love.”

  Chapter 2

  She was good, Boyd thought as he downed his bitter coffee and watched Cilla work. She handled the control board with an automatic ease that spoke of long experience—switching to music, to recorded announcements, to her own mike. Her timing was perfect, her delivery smooth. And her fingernails were bitten to the quick.

  She was a package full of nerves and hostility. The nerves she tried to hide. She didn’t bother with the hostility. In the two hours they’d been in the booth together, she had barely spoken a word to him. A neat trick, since the room was barely ten by ten.

  That was fine. As a cop, he was used to being where he wasn’t wanted. And he was just contrary enough to enjoy it.

  He liked his job. Things like annoyance, animosity and belligerence didn’t concern him. The simple fact was that negative emotions were a whole lot easier to deal with than a .45 slug. He’d had the opportunity to be hit with both.

  Though he would have been uncomfortable with the term philosopher, he had a habit of analyzing everything down to its most basic terms. At the root of this was an elemental belief in right and wrong. Or—though he would have hesitated to use the phrase—good and evil.

  He was savvy enough to know that crime often did pay, and pay well. Satisfaction came from playing a part in seeing that it didn’t pay for long. He was a patient man. If a perpetrator took six hours or six months to bring down, the results were exactly the same. The good guys won.

  Stretching out his long legs, he continued to page through his book while Cilla’s voice washed over him. Her voice made him think of porch swings, hot summer nights and the sound of a slow-moving river. In direct contrast was the tension and restless energy that vibrated from her. He was content to enjoy the first and wonder about the second.

  He was driving her crazy. Just being there. Cilla switched to a commercial, checked her playlist and deliberately ignored him. Or tried to. She didn’t like company in the booth. It didn’t matter that when she had coolly discouraged conversation he had settled back with his book—not the Western or men’s adventure she had expected, but a dog-eared copy of Steinbeck’s East of Eden. It didn’t matter that he had been patiently quiet for nearly two hours.

  He was there. And that was enough.

  She couldn’t pretend that the calls had stopped, that they meant nothing, that her life was back on its normal track. Not with this lanky cowboy reading the great American novel in the corner of the booth, so that she had to all but climb over him to get to the albums stored on the back wall. He brought all her nerves swimming to the surface.

  She resented him for that, for his intrusion, and for the simple fact that he was a cop.

  But that was personal, she reminded herself. She had a job to do.

  “That was INXS taking you to midnight. It’s a new day, Denver. March 28, but we’re not going out like a lamb. It’s eighteen degrees out there at 12:02, so tune in and heat up. You’re listening to KHIP, where you get more hits per hour. We’ve got the news coming up, then the request line. Light up those phones and we’ll rock and roll.”

  Boyd waited until she’d run through the news and moved to a commercial before he marked his place in his book and rose. He could feel the tension thicken as he sat in the chair next to Cilla.

  “I don’t want you to cut him off.”

  She stiffened and struggled to keep her voice carelessly sarcastic. “My listeners don’t tune in for that kind of show, Slick.”

  “You can keep him on the line, on the studio speakers, without sending it on air, right?”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to—”

  “Cut to a commercial or some music,” Boyd said mildly, “but keep him on the line. We might get lucky and trace the call. And if you can, keep the request line open until the end of shift, to give him enough time to make his move.”

  Her hands were balled into fists in her lap as she stared at the lights that were already blinking on the phone. He was right. She knew he was right. And she hated it.

  “This is an awful lot of trouble for one loose screw.”

  “Don’t worry.” He smiled a little. “I get paid the same whether the screws are loose or tight.”

  She glanced down at the clock, cleared her throat, then switched on her mike. “Hello, Denver, this is Cilla O’Roarke for KHIP. You’re listening to the hottest station in the Rockies. This is your chance to make it even hotter. Our request lines are open. I’ll be playing what you want to hear, so give me a call at 555-KHIP. That’s 555–5447.”

  Her finger trembled slightly as she punched the first lit button.

  “This is Cilla O’Roarke. You’re on the air.”

  “Hi, Cilla, this is Bob down in Englewood.”

  She closed her eyes on a shudder of relief. He was a regular. “Hey, Bob. How’s it going?”

  “Going great. My wife and I are celebrating our fifteenth anniversary tonight.”

  “And they said it wouldn’t last. What can I play for you, Bob?”

  “How about ‘Cherish’ for Nancy from Bob.”

  “Nice choice. Here’s to fifteen more, Bob.”

  With her pen in one hand, she took the second call, then the third. Boyd watched her tighten up after each one. She chatted and joked. And grew paler. At the first break, she pulled a cigarette out of the pack, then fumbled with a match. Silently Boyd took the matches from her and lit one for her.

  “You’re doing fine.”

  She took a quick, jerky puff. Patient, he waited in silence for her to respond. “Do you have to watch me?”

  “No.” Then he smiled. It was a long, lazy smile that had her responding in spite of herself. “A man’s entitled to some fringe benefits.”

  “If this is the best you can do, Slick, you ought to look for another line of work.”

  “I like this one.” He rested the ankle of his boot on his knee. “I like it fine.”

  It was easier, Cilla decided, to talk to him than to stare at the blinking lights on the phone and worry. “Have you been a cop long?”

  “Going on ten years.”

  She looked at him then, struggling to relax by concentrating on his face. He had calm eyes, she thought. Dark and calm. Eyes that had seen a lot and learned to live with it. There was a quiet kind of strength there, the kind women—some women—were drawn to. He would protect and defend. He wouldn’t start a fight. But he would finish one.

  Annoyed with herself, she looked away again, busying herself with her notes. She didn’t need to be protected or defended. She certainly didn’t need anyone to fight for her. She had always taken care of herself. And she always would.

  “It’s a lousy job,” she said. “Being a cop.”

  He shifted. His knee brushed her thigh. “Mostly.”

  Instinctively she jiggled her chair for another inch of distance. “It’s hard to figure why anyone would stick with a lousy job for ten years.”

  He just grinned. “I guess I’m in a rut.”

  She shrugged, then turned to her mike. “That was for Bill and Maxine. Our request lines are still open. That’s 555–5447.” After one quick breath, she punched a button. “KHIP. You’re on the air.”

  It went smoothly, so smoothly that she began to relax. She took call after call, falling into her old, established rhythm. Gradually she began to enjoy the music again, the flow of it. The pulsing lights on the phone no longer seemed threatening. By 1:45 she was sure she was going to make it through.

>   Just one night, she told herself. If he didn’t call tonight, it would be over. She looked at the clock, watched the seconds tick by. Eight more minutes to go and she would turn the airwaves over to Jackson. She would go home, take a long, hot bath and sleep like a baby.

  “KHIP, you’re on the air.”

  “Cilla.”

  The hissing whisper shot ice through her veins. She reached over reflexively to disconnect, but Boyd clamped a hand over her wrist and shook his head. For a moment she struggled, biting back panic. His hand remained firm on hers, his eyes calm and steady.

  Boyd watched as she fought for control, until she jammed in a cassette of commercials. The bright, bouncy jingles transmitted as she put the call on the studio speaker.

  “Yes.” Pride made her keep her eyes on Boyd’s. “This is Cilla. What do you want?”

  “Justice. I only want justice.”

  “For what?”

  “I want you to think about that. I want you to think and wonder and sweat until I come for you.”

  “Why?” Her hand flexed under Boyd’s. In an instinctive gesture of reassurance, he linked his fingers with hers. “Who are you?”

  “Who am I?” There was a laugh that skidded along her skin. “I’m your shadow, your conscience. Your executioner. You have to die. When you understand, only when you understand, I’ll end it. But it won’t be quick. It won’t be easy. You’re going to pay for what you’ve done.”

  “What have I done?” she shouted. “For God’s sake, what have I done?”

  He spit out a stream of obscenities that left her dazed and nauseated before he broke the connection. With one hand still covering hers, Boyd punched out a number on the phone.

  “You get the trace?” he demanded, then bit off an oath. “Yeah. Right.” Disgusted, he replaced the receiver. “Not long enough.” He reached up to touch Cilla’s pale cheek. “You okay?”

  She could hardly hear him for the buzzing in her ears, but she nodded. Mechanically she turned to her mike, waiting until the commercial jingle faded.

  “That about wraps it up for this morning. It’s 1:57. Tina Turner’s going to rock you through until two. My man Jackson’s coming in to keep all you insomniacs company until 6:00 a.m. This is Cilla O’Roarke for KHIP. Remember, darling, when you dream of me, dream good.”

  Light-headed, she pushed away from the console. She only had to stand up, she told herself. Walk to her car, drive home. It was simple enough. She did it every morning of her life. But she sat where she was, afraid her legs would buckle.

  Jackson pushed through the door and stood there, hesitating. He was wearing a baseball cap to cover his healing hair transplant. “Hey, Cilla.” He glanced from her to Boyd and back again. “Rough night, huh?”

  Cilla braced herself, pasted on a careless smile. “I’ve had better.” With every muscle tensed, she shoved herself to her feet. “I’ve got them warmed up for you, Jackson.”

  “Take it easy, kid.”

  “Sure.” The buzzing in her ears was louder as she walked from the booth to snatch her coat from the rack. The corridors were dark, catching only a faint glow from the lobby, where the security lights burned. Disoriented, she blinked. She didn’t even notice when Boyd took her arm and led her outside.

  The cold air helped. She took big, thirsty gulps of it, releasing it again in thin plumes of white smoke. “My car’s over there,” she said when Boyd began to pull her toward the opposite end of the lot.

  “You’re in no shape to drive.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Great. Then we’ll go dancing.”