First Time Killer by Alan Orloff, Zak Allen Read Free Book Online Page B

like two dozen interns—they thought it was a grand joke, by the way—and your boss, Ms. Perez. All came by to check out the scene. Did the station hire a shuttle bus or something?”
    Rick didn’t respond, feeling like his privacy had been invaded. “Anything else, Detective?”
    “Don’t worry, we’ll get this guy.”
    Rick nodded, relieved at the detective’s confidence. “The sooner, the better.”
    “Right.” A knowing grin from Adams. “I realize Detective Bergman asked you this the other night, but have you remembered anyone who might have something against you? That might want to drag you into this? It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility for some crazy stalker or obsessive listener to try to bond with you like this, would it?”
    Rick closed his eyes. Tried to shake the nasty thoughts from his mind. When he opened his eyes, the detective was still there, staring at him, waiting for a response. “Not that I know of. I’ll admit there are plenty of jock-sniffing listeners who’d pull all sorts of stunts to get close to a radio personality. But murder?”

C HAPTER 9
    E VER SINCE HE ’ D read an old Batman comic book as a child, he’d thought of himself as a modern version of the arch-villain Two-Face. While Batman’s foe had a horribly disfigured face, his face was unremarkable. His two faces were on the inside. One face he’d show to the public. Law-abiding. Responsible. The other face dwelled deeper. In the murky cesspools of his id. Where morality and virtue and decency were fleeting concepts.
    As Two-Face, he’d weathered every storm that battered his shores. The cruel parents, the crueler foster parents, the uncaring bosses. He always figured out a way to get what he wanted. This time would be no different.
    Yet now they wanted to call him something else. They wanted to call him First Time.
    First Time. First Time. He rolled the name around in his mouth, felt the words gambol over his teeth, melt under his tongue, rebound off his gums. Nuzzle in his cheeks. He rubbed his naked arm with his hand. Patted his shoulder. Felt his smooth skin. First Time. He hated to admit it, but that vile toad Tin Man was right. First Time fit.
    First Time got comfortable in his kitchen chair and picked up a dog-eared section of newspaper. Re-read the article in the Post for the twentieth time. He loved the attention, loved knowing thousands of other people read about him. About his deeds. About his life. He’d even looked up the circulation of the Post : 665,531. If only one out of every three subscribers read it, more than 221,000 people had admired his achievement. Not bad, but a mere drop in the Potomac. He was a radio celebrity. A phenomenon. The best thing to hit the airwaves since Howard Stern.
    Rick Jennings. For a radio guy, he was okay. Down-to-earth. Thoughtful. A little aloof at times, but he had a job to do. On the other hand, Tin Man was a bunghole-licker. Phony blowhard, only interested in his own puny problems. He’d show ’em. First Time knew how to entertain, how to capture an audience. He knew what the fans wanted; he’d been around enough listeners to know exactly what they needed. Since his teenage days, everyone had told him he had a voice for radio. And listening to a tape of the conversation he’d had with Rick, he’d have to agree with them. Even with the black box distortion, he was a natural.
    The Afternoon Circus boasted more than a million listeners. In more than forty cities across the country. All over the United States of Fucking America. He’d be able to go into a 7-Eleven in Topeka and hear people discussing his latest exploits as they filled their Big Gulps. He could wait in line at the dry cleaners in L.A. and hear people voicing their opinions about his adventures. Or he could sit at a sidewalk café in Boston, drinking in the adulation of the listeners right along with his latte. And no one would know who he was.
    He was Two-Face.
    He was First Time.

C HAPTER