Final Warning. Sandra Robbins
snort of disgust came from Gwen’s throat. “Sure he does. That’s why he’s been so quick to recommend me for a raise.”
“Now, Gwen. You know that’s Mr. Cunningham’s decision. Harley’s just our producer.”
C.J. leaned back in her chair. “I know you don’t like him, but he’s really been good to me. This new show is just what I needed.”
Darkness the color of storm clouds flashed in Gwen’s eyes. “Don’t be taken in by him. He thinks he’s the most important person around here. Can’t get along with any department. He calls the engineering guys idiots, and they take it out on us. I can’t get anything repaired—not even my printer.”
This wasn’t the first time C.J. had heard employees complaining about Harley. Every few days someone asked her to intervene in a conflict with him. Gwen was just the latest in a long line. “I’ll talk to Matt in engineering.”
Gwen crossed her arms and frowned. “While you’re at it, ask him about the WLMT sign. Ever since I was a child I’ve loved driving by here at night and seeing those tall letters standing on the flat roof of the building. They used to light up the sky, but not anymore. Have you seen it lately?”
The sign had been the trademark of their station for years, but like a lot of things around the building, it had fallen into disrepair. “Yeah, I noticed the other night the T was the only letter lit.”
Gwen nodded. “Right. You never know which letters will be illuminated. I came by here last night, and the sign was completely out. Now this morning it’s fine. How do you explain that?”
“Harley said there’s a short in it, but the company that’s supposed to fix it keeps putting us off.”
“Good morning, lovely ladies. Did I hear my name mentioned?” Harley Martin, his wire-rimmed glasses propped on his head, stuck his hands in the pockets of his wrinkled pants and stepped into the room. His potbelly hung over the waist-band and his belt looped underneath the bulging girth. He stopped next to Gwen’s chair and grinned down at her.
Gwen rose slowly and turned to face Harley. “Well, if it isn’t the genius behind the success of C.J.’s Journal. We were just talking about you.”
The mischievous gleam in Harley’s eyes contradicted the serious expression on his face. “I thought I heard you telling C.J. how lucky you are to work for such a great guy.”
Gwen glared and took a step toward Harley. “You’re impossible. I don’t know why I stay here.”
He winked at C.J. “’Cause you know you’re never gonna find another boss who takes such good care of you.”
Gwen’s face flushed. She headed toward the door. “I give up. See what you can do with him.”
Harley watched until Gwen left the room, then smiled at C.J. “You gotta love that girl. Best researcher we’ve ever had here.”
C.J. stood up, her gaze taking in Harley’s white shirt with the gravy stain that had been there the day before. One thing about her producer—he never would make the top ten best-dressed list. “Maybe it’s time to show your gratitude and ask Mr. Cunningham to give her a raise.”
Harley held up his hands and backed away. “Whoa, there, girl. We gotta hit the top of the ratings first. Then we’ll see who gets a raise.”
She shook her head. “Gwen’s right. You are impossible.”
He winked and headed for the door. “Maybe. But I’m making you a household name around Oxford. Before I’m through with you, C.J.’s Journal will be the most listened to show in our area. And after that, who knows?” He flipped a little salute in her direction. “Catch you later. We need to talk about tonight’s show. I have a feeling it’s gonna be quite a broadcast.”
For some reason his words, which on the surface seemed innocent enough, stirred the uneasiness she’d felt all morning. The stories she’d covered in the past few weeks flashed through her mind. Most of them were concerned with the dark side of life in Oxford, not what she’d intended when she began her program. For a moment she wished she’d never gotten caught up in the world of crime and drug dealers like Jimmy Carpenter. But there was no turning back.
A soft chime sounded from the direction of her computer. Another e-mail. She glanced at the screen and stared with wide eyes at the sender’s name—Fala. Her heart pounded at the subject line. Ready to play, C.J.?
With shaking fingers she clicked the mouse and stared at the message before her:
Four there are await your play,
One won’t see the break of day,
From East to West they all will cry,
Who will be the first to die?
Fala
TWO
The words gyrated on the computer screen in rhythm with the drumbeat of C.J.’s heart. She grasped the edge of the desk, the message sending chills down her spine.
“Who will be the first to die?” she whispered.
If this was a joke, Fala had gone too far. She wrapped her shaking fingers around the phone handset to call Gwen. She hesitated, her eyes growing wider by the moment. What was it Harley had said? He had a feeling that tonight’s show was going to be quite a broadcast.
Harley! Of course! She should have guessed.
This had to be one of his publicity stunts. He wanted to scare her into thinking someone was about to commit a crime in Oxford. If she went on the air and mentioned a menacing e-mail, they’d probably get a flood of calls.
Oh, the gall of that man to scare her so. With clenched fists she strode toward the office door and flung it open. Harley stood just down the hall talking to Michael Grayson, head of the sales department. “Harley! I need to see you now.”
Michael pivoted and glared at her. “Wait your turn, C.J. He’s mine right now.”
C.J. stopped, her stomach roiling. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen Harley and Michael arguing. Splotches of red covered Michael’s craggy face, and a muscle twitched in his jaw.
Michael pushed his glasses up on his hawklike nose, the French cuffs of his Prada shirt slipping up to reveal a diamond-studded watch with an alligator band, and pointed his finger at Harley. “Now you listen to me, hotshot. If it wasn’t for my staff, you wouldn’t have any sponsors for C.J.’s Journal, or any of your other shows. You’d better watch your step or you’ll find yourself without any financial backing, and you’ll be off the air. Got it?”
Harley chuckled. “Sure, Mike. But from where I sit, your guys wouldn’t have anything to sell if it wasn’t for the interest my programs generate. Now get out there and do your job, and leave mine to me.”
Harley turned away, but Michael grabbed his arm. “Just remember that you’ve been warned.”
Harley pulled away from the restraining hand and swaggered down the hall toward C.J. “Now, doll. What can I do for you?”
C.J. couldn’t take her eyes off Michael’s angry face. He’d intimidated her since the first day she’d walked into the radio station, and now he was threatening her program. She couldn’t let Harley’s cocky attitude ruin what she’d worked so hard to achieve.
She glanced in Michael’s direction. “Are you having trouble with the salespeople again?”
Harley waved his hand in dismissal. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
The e-mail flashed into her mind. “How could you do that to me?”
His eyebrows arched. “What are you talking about?”
“That e-mail! What are you trying to do—scare me to death?”
Harley