The Shadow Killer by Gail Bowen Page A

to tell him it’s okay to have a cyberskin love doll as his fantasy date. There’s a murderer out there. A real murderer—not one of your Goth death groupies. We can’t 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.”

RAPID READS
    The following is an excerpt from One Fine Day You’re Gonna Die, another exciting Rapid Reads novel by Gail Bowen.

    978-1-55469-337-5 $9.95 pb
    It will take all of Charlie D’s skills to keep this Halloween from being another “Day of the Dead.”
    Charlie D is back doing his late-night radio call-in show. It’s Halloween—The Day of the Dead. His studio guest this evening is Dr. Robin Harris, an arrogant and ambitious “expert in the arts of dying and grieving.” Charlie and Dr. Harris do not hit it off. Things go from bad to worse when the doctor’s ex-lover goes on air to announce that he’s about to end his life.

CHAPTER ONE
    T onight as I was riding my bike to the radio station where I do the late-night call-in show, a hearse ran a light and plowed into me. I swerved. The vehicle clipped my back wheel, and I flew through the air to safety. My Schwinn was not so lucky. The hearse skidded to a stop. The driver jumped out, sprinted over and knelt beside me on the wet pavement. “Are you all right?” he asked.
    I checked my essentials.
    â€œAs all right as I’ll ever be,” I said.
    The man bent closer. The streetlight illuminated both our faces. He looked like the actor who played Hawkeye on the old tv show M * A * S * H . His brow furrowed with concern when he saw my cheek.
    â€œYou’re bleeding,” he said.
    â€œIt’s a birthmark,” I said.
    As birthmarks go, mine is a standout. It covers half my face, like a blood mask. Nine out of ten strangers turn away when they see it. This man moved in closer.
    â€œThe doctors weren’t able to do anything?” he asked.
    â€œNope.”
    â€œBut you’ve learned to live with it.”
    â€œMost of the time,” I said.
    â€œThat’s all any of us can do,” the man said, and he grinned. His smile was like Hawkeye’s—open and reassuring. He offered his hand and pulled me to my feet. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” he said.
    He picked up my twisted Schwinn and stowed it in the back of the hearse. I slid into the passenger seat. The air inside was cool, flower-scented and oddly soothing. After we’d buckled our seat belts, the man turned the keys in the ignition.
    â€œWhere to?” he asked.
    â€œCVOX Radio,” I said. “728 Shuter.”
    â€œIt’s in a strip mall,” he said. “Between a store that sells discount wedding dresses and a place that rents x-rated movies.”
    â€œI’m impressed,” I said. “This is a big city.”
    â€œIt is,” he agreed. “But my business involves pick up and delivery. I need to know where people are.”
    Perhaps because the night was foggy and he’d already had one accident, the driver didn’t talk as he threaded his way through the busy downtown streets. When we turned on to Shuter, I saw the neon call letters on the roof of our building. The O in CVOX (“ALL TALK/ALL THE TIME”) is an open mouth with red lips and a tongue that looks like Mick Jagger’s. Fog had fuzzed the brilliant scarlet neon of Mick’s tongue to a soft pink. It looked like the kiss a woman leaves on a tissue when she blots her lipstick.
    â€œI’ll pick you up when your show’s over,” the man said.
    â€œI’ll take a cab,” I said. “But thanks for the offer.”
    He shrugged and handed me a