“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.Haveyou 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 theA.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.”
