DEAD AIR
()
About this ebook
Related to DEAD AIR
Related ebooks
ALMOST Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsFrenzy Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsUntil Her Darkness Goes Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Next Time Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThirst & Perks: A Lurking In The Shadows Novella Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsFlank Street Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Scene: Dylan Hart, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsAssassin's Bite Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Sydney Thrillers Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Sydney Quartet Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Fifth Grave Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5You Can Go Home Now: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Dark Union: A Mike Angel Mystery Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDeath of a Rhinestone Cowboy: a novel Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsGreat Big Suntanned Hangover Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBehind the Wall of Sleep: A Henry Malone Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5HARD CASH: The Jack Barnett / Las Vegas Series, #2 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsLuke Rules Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsRotten in Denmark Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Touch of Noir: A Collection of Noir Short Stories Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Drink Before the War Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Mask: My Race Through the Belly of Hollywood to Self-Discovery Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Killing of the Tinkers: A Jack Taylor Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Death of a Player Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDeadly Sins II: A Dezeray Jackson Short Read, #2 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Skipworth Summer Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWolf Moon: A Werewolf Shifter Romance (Shadow of the Moon Book 1) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWolf Moon: A Werewolf Shifter Romance (Shadow of the Moon Book 1): Shadow of the Moon, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHomecoming Blues Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Cosa Nostra (The Mafia Chronicles #2) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Mystery For You
The Life We Bury Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Summit Lake Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5None of This Is True: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5False Witness: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Paris Apartment: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Pretty Girls: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Murder Your Employer: The McMasters Guide to Homicide Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Good Daughter: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Hidden Staircase: Nancy Drew #2 Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Last Flight: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The River We Remember: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Jack Reacher: A Mysterious Profile Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Kept Woman: A Will Trent Thriller Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Club: A Reese's Book Club Pick Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Finlay Donovan Is Killing It: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Dark Side: A Collection of Mysteries & Thrillers Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone: A Murdery Mystery Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Pharmacist Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Hunting Party: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Complete Short Stories Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Did I Kill You?: A Thriller Novel Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Dean Koontz: Series Reading Order - with Summaries & Checklist Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5How to Write a Mystery: A Handbook from Mystery Writers of America Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Still Life: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Murder Under a Red Moon: A 1920s Bangalore Mystery Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Woman in the Library: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Iron Lake (20th Anniversary Edition): A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The People Next Door Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Pieces of Her: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Reviews for DEAD AIR
0 ratings0 reviews
Book preview
DEAD AIR - Cliff Protzman
9781545607152
Chapter 1
Dead Air. It was the most unforgivable of sins. I was standing at the bar in Jergel’s Rhythm Grille in Warrendale, PA when the overhead sound system finished blaring In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,
the seventeen-minute, two-second version, then dove into silence… and sta yed there.
Minutes crawled past while WZOC, better known as Z-Rock to Pittsburgh-area listeners, remained silent. The long version of the Iron Butterfly song was played when DJs need extended bathroom time. Apparently, it was not enough time.
The seventeen-thousand-square-foot bar and restaurant was beginning to fill up. The stage hands scrambled over the stage in a well-orchestrated dance as they prepared the stage at the rear of the building. I was at the front bar, one of six serving the customers. The crowd noise increased due to the silent overhead system. The bartenders and service personnel went about their jobs, oblivious to the lack of music. I appeared to be the only person who noticed it. The dead air was an unexpected lapse for a normally proficient staff at Z-Rock. The station owned by my high school best friend, had been my first client, so I was always glad when the bar staff piped it in to provide background noise.
A Pittsburgh favorite, The Clarks, were scheduled to take the stage in forty-five minutes. Their classic rock style was often compared to Tom Petty. Z-Rock had introduced The Clarks to the Pittsburgh market, and it remained a strong supporter of the band. They had parlayed the station’s promotion into a broader following along the Southern Atlantic states. The quartet was almost as well-known in the city as the Pittsburgh Steelers’ starting lineup. I had had the great fortune to see many of their local performances.
Before heading to the front door, I finished my IC Light, a low-calorie brew from Pittsburgh Brewing. The bartender grabbed my empty bottle and asked, Another one, Beck?
No thanks; probably later.
I headed toward the entrance, featuring solid wood double doors, the left side closed to restrain the incoming crowd. The line stretched outside beyond my view.
My firm was in charge of crowd control for the event. Even though I was on duty tonight, my plan was to be more of a spectator.
In my earpiece, I heard my site manager of Jergel’s security, Lance Parisi. Beck, we have a problem at the front door. This patron is drunk and belligerent. He may be armed. I’m trying to get him to leave.
I replied, On my way.
As the owner of Blue Water Security, I was always glad to help with situations like these. I tried to hire only the best, so backing them with my support was always a pleasure.
An obviously intoxicated man was pointing a finger at Lance who had to be at least six inches taller than the swaying man. You fucking asshole! I have a ticket! You can’t keep me out!
I heard the word motherfucker and that was that. This wasn’t going to end well for the drunken ticket holder.
In my mouthpiece, I said, Stay cool, Lance. He’s all talk,
but before I could arrive, the man took a swing at Lance. So much for my expert analysis. In one quick movement, Lance had the man’s right arm twisted behind his back, Lance’s left arm firmly around his neck in a choke hold.
I rushed to Lance’s side. The man’s open coat displayed the butt of a gun in his waistband. I jerked the .38 Special from his belt holster and turned to look him in the eyes. The combined stink of beer and whiskey oozed from him.
Adrenaline was pumping through my body as if facing a three-two pitch. I regained my composure before speaking in a calm, determined voice. Sir, even with a concealed carry permit, it is illegal to bring a gun into a bar, especially when you are intoxicated.
The other patrons waiting to enter had backed away when they saw the gun. The man with his arm around your neck is going to escort you to the office. The police will be called. I hope you have your permit with you. You can walk to the office quietly. If not, I’m certain Lance will find a way to get you there. Is that clear?
The man nodded as best he could with Lance’s muscular arm wrapped around his neck. Lance released his stranglehold, keeping a firm grip on the man’s arm. I handed the gun to my employee. The drunk remained calm and allowed Lance to lead him away. Using my mic, I paged Jason Weaver, who had been assigned to dance floor security for the night, to come to the front door.
I remained at the door, checking tickets for the anxious concert fans, until Jason appeared. It was then I realized there was still silence coming from the sound system. The normal professionalism of Z-Rock’s staff made me wonder about the cause of the extended silence. I could imagine engineers scrambling to locate and repair whatever technical problems had occurred.
Jason arrived, assuming Lance’s position at the door. I turned back to the bar as my cell phone rang. Glenn Beckert,
I answered.
This is John Waner at Z-Rock.
He paused and I wondered if I was truly surprised to be hearing from my security guard at the station. His voice was high-pitched, his words rushed as he said, There’s a big problem here.
John, what’s the problem?
Beck… H-He’s… I don’t know what to do. R-Richie’s been murdered.
CHAPTER 2
Back in my 35th anniversary edition T-Top Camaro, the curving path of I-279 propelled me through the North Hills of Pittsburgh. The driver’s window was cracked open, allowing the cool spring air of late March to cool my tense perspiration of fear. My only exposure to murder had been from television or newspaper accounts, the occasional murder myst ery novel.
I was wearing a zip-front warm-up jacket with the Blue Water logo over a pale blue golf shirt concealing the Beretta 9mm worn on my belt holster. Black jeans and dark athletic shoes completed the outfit. In order to hide male pattern baldness, I had chosen to shave my head. Combined with steely blue eyes, I’m told I paint a good picture of a man who owns a security firm – no one to fuck with but someone you’d like to invite out for a beer.
Z-Rock was the crown jewel for Open Air Communications and owned by Richie Zito, my best friend in high school and best man at my wedding. The station was by far the ratings leader in the Western PA market. Richie was not only the owner, but also the Saturday night DJ for Z-Rock. Richie believed that he had to spend time on the air to keep in touch with his audience and business.
I tuned the car stereo to Z-Rock, hearing nothing but dead air. I was on my way to a murder scene. My thoughts were jumbled. I needed to behave like a professional; detached and analytical. On the other hand, the murder victim was a long-time friend. We had a history of shared experiences that were part of our life story. Now he was dead. Maybe it was a mistake, just some accident, and Waner had gotten it wrong.
I approached the Fort Pitt Bridge, passing between PNC Park and Heinz Field. Suddenly, Phil Collins burst out In The Air Tonight
over the car stereo, Z-Rock was back on the air. My dashboard clock showed 9:12. I crossed the bridge, through the tunnels, and up Greentree Hill. You couldn’t drive in this city without crossing a bridge or going through a tunnel.
At the top of the hill, I pulled into the parking lot at the Z-Rock studios and noticed three cars in the lot, a police cruiser entering from the opposite side. The cruiser’s emergency lights were flashing; the siren was silent. I parked beside a silver Jeep Liberty.
Bernie Allen exited the police car. Bernie had worked for me while he attended the police academy. He’d been a dependable worker, always on time and conscientious. He was still young, mid-twenties, with a stocky, muscular build, reddish-brown hair, and a round face that gave him a perpetually boyish look.
I headed to the back door. This was the employee entrance, accessible only with a swipe card. The door wasn’t alarmed, though there was a surveillance camera. I looked up to make sure it was in place. The red light showed it was operating.
When he spotted me, Bernie seemed a little surprised. Beck, what are you doing here? You never come out to my sites when I had a problem.
You never had a murder on site.
Bernie stopped abruptly and he looked startled. No one said anything about murder. I was there when the dispatcher took the call. The call was for a possible suicide.
Suicide. The thought had never occurred to me. Richie wasn’t a suicide candidate. Surely the guy I knew in high school wasn’t capable of that. I felt a numbness creeping through my body.
Bernie began to pace in front of the door in short steps, shaking his head. As far as I knew, he’d never been involved in a homicide, but then again, I was such an expert.
I said to Bernie, Waner called me and said that Zito had been murdered. You remember John, he was always a nervous wreck. I told him to call the police. What exactly did he say?
Bernie blinked, still trying to shake off his shock, but managed to speak in a professional tone. The caller reported a shooting. It looked like suicide. An ambulance is on the way.
He reached for his shoulder mic. Dispatch, this is unit 4. I am at Z-Rock with Glenn Beckert from Blue Water Security. His people are reporting a possible murder.
Bernie waited for a reply, staring at the door like he expected a murderer to come charging out any second.
Bernie’s shoulder mic crackled. Unit 4, backup is on the way. Secure the scene.
The voice continued in a sterner tone, Beckert may be in charge of security but you’re in charge of the scene. Keep him on a leash.
Bernie cringed but quickly regained his self-control. He put his hand on my chest and I immediately flinched, reminding myself he was an on-duty cop. Beck, I see you have a gun, so leave it in your holster and keep your hands in your pockets.
Waner buzzed the door open after I used the intercom to call him. Bernie pulled the door open with his left hand, right hand on his weapon. The rear door was aluminum with no window.
We walked a fifty-foot hallway that led to the main entrance. There was a hallway to the left of the lobby, leading to the production studios. To the right were the on-air studios. There were two stairways on either side of the reception area going to the offices on the second floor. The lobby contained the security desk in the middle, the front entrance facing out to Greentree Road.
John Waner was at the desk. His strong cologne let you know from about three blocks away that here was a ladies’ man. He wore his dirty blonde hair high on top, similar to an Elvis impersonator. He had been hired for my original team assigned to Z-Rock when I got the security contract eight years ago. In spite of his experience, he was very unsure of himself. He would regularly call with questions or reports of the smallest nature. He looked like he was pacing even when he was standing still.
John said, Beck, how ya doing? I can’t believe this happened.
He even spoke in a deep baritone, reminding me of Elvis saying, Thank you. Thank you very much.
Not exactly a quiet night, huh?
I said to him. Tell me what you saw from the beginning.
He acknowledged Bernie. Good to see you, Bern.
John turned to face me and continued, I just came back from rounds. When I reached the desk, there was dead air. I went back to the studio, and there was Richie. He was leaning to the left in his chair and there was blood everywhere.
Bernie interrupted, Did you touch anything?
John shifted his weight from side to side. He said, No, the door was locked; I didn’t go in. I looked through the studio window and saw Richie.
There’s another car in the lot. Who does it belong to?
I asked.
Ron’s. He’s on the emergency call list.
Ron was Richie’s younger brother and a shareholder of the radio station. He functioned as the Operations Manager for Z-Rock, I had worked with him in the past, sometimes more often than I worked with Richie.
Is he in the building?
John hesitated. Well, yes. He’s setting up programming for the rest of the night in Studio Y.
Bernie looked at me as if I knew what the next move should be. I looked at John and asked, Where is Richie?
John seemed to flinch and replied, In Studio Z.
Okay. Stay at your post; we’ll check things out.
I turned to Bernie, indicated the right hallway, and said, Let’s go.
CHAPTER 3
My head felt like a Nerf ball, no substance to it, just squishy. Here I was, leading a policeman to the scene of my oldest friend’s death. Bernie acted like I was his boss, which was fine with me. I was sure he’d receive a reprimand from his superiors afte r tonight.
As we approached the door to Studio Z, my conflicting emotions were uncontrollable. I was ecstatic about being involved in the investigation. My adrenaline flowing, I couldn’t remain detached. Richie was someone I knew and had shared the carefree time of our lives. But it sucked that I had to be involved in this way. I wished anyone else was the victim. Anyone but my old friend.
Bernie tried the doorknob and found it locked, as John had mentioned. We stepped to the dingy window to look into the studio. A few spots of blood splatter had managed to reach the glass, which surprised me. As John had said, Richie was in his chair, slumped to the left. The calmness I had been struggling for left my body. I was dazed by the sight of the blood and brains splattered throughout the studio.
Bernie stepped back and kicked the door near the knob. The door flew open. I said, Was that necessary?
Surely, he’d have a lot of explaining to do to his superiors about destroying evidence at a homicide scene. Trying to lighten the moment, I said, Nice job, but we could’ve gotten the key from John.
Shit. It’s what we do. Break down locked doors.
Stepping to the doorway, I could smell the undeniable stench of excrement and cordite. My stomach lurched and something tried to rise. Richie leaned back in his chair as if he was taking a nap, except the top of his head was missing. His left hand was on the control panel, fingers spread into a V as if he were reaching for a button. His right hand hung over the arm of the chair, underneath on the floor was a .45 caliber pistol, a lot of firepower for a suicide.
I examined the overwhelming blood splatter on the back wall and the carpeting. The spray pattern suggested the shot originated from Richie’s right side. The outline on the carpet seemed odd. The copper smell of fresh blood reached the back of my throat. I swallowed hard, but the taste stayed put.
Over the station speakers, I heard Mick Jagger moaning, "I can’t get no satisfaction. Did Richie feel he had no satisfaction in his lifetime? Bernie pushed me back out of the way and closed the door. Through the fog in my head, I heard him say,
It looks like suicide. Any idea why he would do it?"
My head was still spinning and another wave of nausea washed over me. The growing rage in my gut overtook the nausea. There was no way Richie would commit suicide. I said, Why would you say that?
My thoughts cleared, allowing me to concentrate on the present. There is no blood splatter on the carpet near the right side of the body. The backlash of the bullet entry should have left blood on the floor, unless the blood spray was interrupted by something or someone before it hit the floor. There must have been a shooter.
Bernie seemed startled. He said, The gun is beside his hand and the door was locked. There’s nothing we can do now. We should leave things alone until the detectives get here.
I mumbled, Nothing more to see here. The forensic team needs to do their job.
Bernie seemed to agree, as he slowly backed away from the door and me.
We silently walked back to the reception area. John was at the front desk, pacing. Bernie was doing a zombie imitation, staring at nothing but space.
Grasping for some semblance of normalcy, I said, You two wait here for the detectives. Is Ron still in Studio Y?
John nodded. I headed toward the studio.
I found Ron sitting at the console with his head down, hands at his prematurely graying temples. Shorter and stockier than Richie, I was always startled at first by their similar facial structure. Ron had a thinner face and pointy chin.
As I held the door open, the music shifted from the Stones to Elton John’s Funeral For A Friend.
It was so eerie, I felt my eyes tearing up. I believed that like most brothers, Richie and Ron were kindred spirits. There seemed to be a bond between them that unrelated men rarely experience. Despite my history with Richie, I knew Ron had always been his best friend.
I cleared my throat to let him know I was there. Ron looked up slowly, his face haggard, looking older than his years. I had no idea what to say; the tears on his cheeks caused me to choke up. There were times when words and speech make matters worse.
His eyes were swollen from the tears. Ron took a few ragged breaths trying to fight his emotions as he said, This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. We were on top of the world, in charge of our destiny. How could he let it go wrong? Why sell the station now? We accomplished everything. It was our time to enjoy it.
I heard voices down the hallway, one in particular that I easily recognized. I heard him call out, Beck, what the fuck ya doing here?
CHAPTER 4
I turned to confront Pags, more formally known as Lieutenant James Paglironi of the Pittsburgh Police Department. He and I had been teammates on the University of Pittsburgh baseball team. We had never been the best of friends, but on the field, we had been teammates. Pags played first base, I pitched or played shortstop.
He stood six-foot-three and about two hundred twenty-five pounds, about twenty pounds above his playing weight. Pags dressed casually in khakis, a golf shirt, and a light windbreaker with the PPD emblem. He had thick black hair with the appropriate amount of coloring to keep the gray away. His face was chiseled with a sharp jawline and square chin. His dark eyes showed the early aging signs developed from his twenty years as a cop.
With the most defiant look I could muster, I said, It’s my job to be here.
This is a crime scene and I don’t need you fucking up the evidence.
His stare was equally defiant. You are nothing but a civilian and that fucking piece of paper that says you have an investigators’ license doesn’t mean shit here. Get back to your security station and your rent-a-cops.
We’d exchanged harsh word before, but now his eyes were narrowed, facial muscles taut.
I tried to calm the outburst. Look, my company has some big liability here. My employee is on site. I need to protect my company’s interests.
I added, Besides, Richie was my friend.
Pags’ face relaxed only slightly. Don’t give a damn, Beck. Stay out of the way, preferably at your security desk.
He turned and headed toward the studio.
I reluctantly proceeded as ordered to check on John. He sat at the desk, watching the monitors. Even seated, he had an air of energy about him that made me wonder if he was vibrating. The monitors covered all the exterior entrances as well as the library and marketing offices on the inside. Richie had thought there was no need to provide cameras for the studios. He hadn’t wanted to inhibit his on-air talent. I really didn’t want to know what might be inhibited by cameras, despite the rumors of what happened during the ninety-minute, commercial-free music sets.
John was the type who could infuriate the Pope, so I assumed a calm that I wasn’t really feeling. John, tell me again what you saw and heard.
He shook his head, clearing the dazed look from his face. "Well Beck, I was doing my rounds, checking the building, when I heard a bang, kind of a pop. It was like a car backfiring out on Greentree. I didn’t think much of it