Dead Air - By Robin Caroll Page 0,2
willing to break the uncomfortable silence. Each apparently lost in their own grief and thoughts.
What had he gotten himself into?
Clark studied the people around him. While the men paced or worried the carpet with their toes, Clark’s attention was drawn to the woman deejay…Gabby. Such a take-charge attitude, yet looking very soft and vulnerable. Something about her drew him in.
With the nine-o’clock hour approaching, the other employees trickled in.
“Hey, y’all,” a brunette college-age girl hollered out.
Gabby turned and rushed toward her. “Oh, Ellen. We’ve been hit with a horrible tragedy.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “What kind of tragedy?”
Gabby wrapped an arm around the young part-time receptionist’s waist and quietly explained. She kept her voice soft and tone low…so sensitive to the young girl’s horror. Just when Gabby got Ellen a cup of coffee and dabbed her tears, a tall, graying-haired man looped down the hall.
“Gabby, what’s going on?”
She turned. “David,” she all but whispered. Gabby disengaged herself from the girl and gave the man a quick hug, whispering in his ear what had occurred.
He mumbled under his breath as Gabby leaned toward him, her hand lying on his forearm. After she finished talking with him, he excused himself to the studio, taking charge of the on-air segments.
When Mitch Brown, introduced as the part-time studio technician, arrived moments later, she again broke the news with softness and genuine concern.
The gentle manner in which she informed her coworkers of what had transpired sparked flames of admiration in Clark’s chest. He barely had met the woman, and already she’d snagged his attention.
The back door opened with a creak.
“I need to ask some questions.” The local sheriff stood just inside the doorway, whipping out his little notebook. He licked the tip of his pencil, then shot his gaze around the hall. “Who found this door open?”
“Gabby did,” Kevin volunteered.
“Well, only because I heard the banging.” She squared her shoulders as she spoke. Her long, dark hair hung over her shoulders, cascading like a waterfall, contrasting with her pale skin. She was certainly striking, but she’d definitely gone into the right line of work. Her husky voice seeped under his skin, warm and hypnotic.
“Uh-huh. Did you see the door open, too?” The sheriff stared at Kevin, pencil poised over the notebook.
“Yeah. When I came in.” Kevin shifted his weight from one foot to the next.
“Which was what time?”
“I report at eight.”
“You were late.” Gabby crossed her arms over her chest.
“How late were you?” the sheriff asked.
“Only about ten minutes or so.” Kevin tossed Gabby a stare that would freeze flames. “I had to meet Mr. McKay.”
“Right. I’ll get to you in a minute.” The sheriff gave Clark a glance that traveled up and down his length. Clark fought hard not to squirm under the scrutiny. Why would the sheriff question them together? Back in Philly, people were separated and questioned. Maybe they did it different in small towns down South.
Or maybe they weren’t accustomed to dealing with a murder.
The lawman focused his attention back on Kevin. “Did you see anything when you drove up? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Not that I noticed.” He ducked his head, his freckled face turning pink. “I was rushing to meet Mr. McKay. I was running late, remember?”
“Uh-huh.” The sheriff tapped the pencil’s eraser against his chin. “And just why were you running late?”
Kevin’s already ruddy complexion reddened. “I was out late last night and overslept.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
His face turned a deeper shade of crimson. “Yes. My girlfriend, Mona. She’s still at my apartment.”
“Mona who?”
“Kingston.”
The sheriff scribbled in his notebook, then asked for Kevin’s address and home phone number, as well as that of Mona.
Kevin hung his head as he gave the information.
The sheriff turned to the station manager. “What about you?”
“What about me?” Eric shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I didn’t know anything until I got here and Gabby told me, after she’d already called you.”
“Where were you this morning?”
“Home. Having breakfast and getting ready for work.”
“Can anyone verify that you were at home?” The sheriff glanced up from his notebook.
Eric tightened his jaw. “No. I live alone.”
“Did you stop anywhere on the way in? Talk to anyone on the phone?”
“No.”
“I see.” The sheriff flipped a page in his notebook and nodded at Gabby. “You were apparently here—did you hear anything?”
“No, I was in the studio.”
“You didn’t hear a gunshot mere yards away? And the marks in the gravel out there indicates there was a struggle of some sort.”
She clenched and unclenched her hands. “The