Gail Bowen - Love You To Death

The first book in the Charlie D series, 2010

A wise man once said 90 percent of life is just showing up. An hour before midnight, five nights a week, fifty weeks a year, I show up at CVOX radio. Our studios are in a concrete-and-glass box in a strip mall. The box to the left of us sells discount wedding dresses. The box to the right of us rents XXX movies. The box where I work sells talk radio-ALL TALK/ALL THE TIME. Our call letters are on the roof. The O in CVOX is an open, red-lipped mouth with a tongue that looks like Mick Jaggers.

After I walk under Mick Jaggers tongue, I pass through security, make my way down the hall and slide into a darkened booth. I slip on my headphones and adjust the microphone. I spend the next two hours trying to convince callers that life is worth living. Im good at my job- so good that sometimes I even convince myself.

My name is Charlie Dowhanuik. But on air, where we can all be who we want to be, Im known as Charlie D. I was born with my mothers sleepy hazel eyes and clever tongue, my fathers easy charm, and a winecolored birthmark that covers half my face. In a moment of intimacy, the only woman Ive ever loved, now, alas, dead, touched my cheek and said, You look as if youve been dipped in blood.

One of the very few people who dont flinch when they look at my face is Nova (Proud to Be Swiss) Langenegger. For nine years, Nova has been the producer of my show, The World According to Charlie D. She says that when she looks at me she doesnt see my birthmark-all she sees is the major pain in her ass.

Tonight when I walk into the studio, she narrows her eyes at me and taps her watch. Its a humid night and her blond hair is frizzy. She has a zit on the tip of her nose. Shes wearing a black maternity T-shirt that says Believe It or Not, I Used to Be Hot.

Dont sell yourself short, Mama Nova, I say. Youre still hot. Those hormones that have been sluicing through your body for nine months give you a very sexy glow.

Thats not a sexy glow, she says. Thats my blood pressure spiking. Were on the air in six minutes. Ive been calling and texting you for two hours. Where were you?

I open my knapsack and hand her a paper bag that glistens with grease from the onion rings inside. There was a lineup at Fat Boys, I say.

Nova shakes her head. You always know what I want. She slips her hand into the bag, extracts an onion ring and takes a bite. Usually this first taste gives her a kids pleasure, but tonight she chews on it dutifully. It might as well be broccoli. Charlie, we need to talk, she says. About Ian Blaise.

He calls in all the time, I say. Hes doing fine. Seeing a shrink. Back to work part-time. Considering that its only been six months since his wife and daughters were killed in that car accident, his recovery is a miracle.

Nova has lovely eyes. Theyre as blue as a northern sky. When she laughs, the skin around them crinkles. It isnt crinkling now. Ian jumped from the roof of his apartment building Saturday, she says. Hes dead.

I feel as if Ive been kicked in the stomach. He called me at home last week. We talked for over an hour.

Nova frowns. Weve been over this a hundred times. You shouldnt give out your home number. Its dangerous.

Not as dangerous as being without a person you can call in the small hours, I say tightly. Thats when the ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties can drive you over the edge. I remember the feeling well.

The situation may be more sinister than that, Charlie, Nova says. This morning someone sent us Ians obituary. This index card was clipped to it.

Nova hands me the card. Its the kind school kids use when they have to make a speech in class. The message is neatly printed, and I read it aloud. Ian Blaise wasnt worth your time, Charlie. None of them are. Theyre cutting off your oxygen. Im going to save you. I turn to Nova. What the hell is this?

Well, for starters, its the third in a series. Last week someone sent us Marcie Zhangs obituary.

The girl in grade nine who was being bullied, I say. You didnt tell me she was dead.

Theres a lot I dont tell you, Nova says. She sounds tired. Anyway, there was a file card attached to the obituary. The message was the same as this one-minus the part about saving you. Thats new.

I dont get it, I say. Marcie Zhang called in a couple of weeks ago. Remember? She was in great shape. Shed aced her exams. And she had an interview for a job as a junior counselor at a summer camp.

I remember. I also remember that the last time James Washington called in, he said that he was getting a lot of support from other gay athletes whod been outed, and he wished hed gone public sooner.

James is dead too?

Nova raises an eyebrow. Lucky you never read the papers, huh? James died as a result of a hit-and-run a couple of weeks ago. We got the newspaper clipping with the index card attached. Same message- word for word-as the one with Marcies obituary.

And you never told me?

I didnt connect the dots, Charlie. A fourteen-year-old girl who, until very recently has been deeply disturbed, commits suicide. A professional athlete is killed in a tragic accident. Do you have any idea how much mail we get? How many calls I handle a week? Maybe I wasnt as sharp as I should have been, because Im preoccupied with this baby. But this morning after I got Ians obituary-with the extended-play version of the note-I called the police.

I snap. You called the cops? Nova, you and I have always been on the same side of that particular issue. The police operate in a black-and-white world. Right/ wrong. Guilty/innocent. Sane/Not so much. Weve always agreed that life is more complex for our listeners. They tell us things they cant tell anybody else. They have to trust us.

Nova moves so close that her belly is touching mine. Her voice is low and grave. Charlie, this isnt about a lonely guy who wants you to tell him its okay to have a cyberskin love doll as his fantasy date. Theres a murderer out there. A real murderer-not one of your Goth death groupies. We cant handle this on our own.

I reach over and rub her neck. Okay, Mama Nova, you win. But over a hundred thousand people listen to our show every night. Where do we start?

Nova gives my hand a pat and removes it from her neck. With you, Charlie, she says. The police want to use our show to flush out the killer.

Nova walks with me from the control booth into the studio. I take my chair, and she leans against the desk. We havent got much time, she says. So Ill just give you what I know. The police psychologist thinks that whoever wrote those notes believes youre in love with them and that youre sending them a message.

Telling them to kill the other callers?

Nova shifts her body against the desk. These days its difficult for her to find a comfortable position. The police psychologist believes that your would-be lover thinks youre exhausted, and that youre crying out for help, she says.

I feel the first fingers of a headache moving from the back of my neck into my skull. And so Im sending a message to my would-be lover to murder the people who depend on me, I say.

Nova nods. Thats about it.

Erotomania, I say. Im familiar with the syndrome. Does the police psychologist have any handy hints about how I can get my beloved to show his or her face?

Novas laugh is short and dry. I dont think the police psychologist has listened to his radio in thirty years. Were going to have to play it by ear. The cops will be monitoring our calls. They want to be in the control room with me. I told them that having the boys and girls in blue hover while you do the show will freak you out, and when you freak out, everybody freaks out.