Free The Shadow Killer by Gail Bowen

CHAPTER ONE
    W hen the sun goes down, the only people on the streets of the neighborhood where I work are people who have something to sell. The women who stroll in skimpy outf its and platform shoes with five-inch heels sell love. Or what passes for love in the dark. The tattooed men in wife-beater shirts, ripped jeans and scuffed black combat boots sell drugs that take their clients up, down or out. Wherever they need to go to dull the pain of being alive.
    I’m in the pain-dulling business too. What I offer is a voice that helps people get through the dark hours. My name is Charlie Dowhanuik. I host “The World According to Charlie D”—the late-night call-in show on CVOX radio (“ALL TALK/ ALL THE TIME”).
    I started out as the midnight deejay. When people began phoning in to talk about their lives, my producer and I decided to cut down on the tunes and focus on the voices.
    It was a solid decision. Now we just use tunes to fill the gap between stories. I’m not a shrink or a social worker. The only special skill I have is that I know how to listen. People are hungry for that.
    Most nights I ride my bike to work. But the city is in the middle of a heat wave, so tonight I’m on foot. The pavement beneath my feet is soft with heat. The stench of rotting garbage hangs heavy in the air. It’s not a pleasant walk, but this is my neighborhood. And as I pass by, the hookers and drug dealers mumble greetings. I mumble back.
    One of the girls calls out, “Happy Father’s Day, Charlie.”
    â€œI’m not a father,” I say.
    â€œIf you ever decide you want to make a little Charlie junior, I’m available,” she says. Her laugh is a bray.
    The first fingers of a headache reach up from the back of my neck into my skull. Aspirin time.
    Our local drugstore is grim. Its windows are crisscrossed with protective bars. Several signs announce security cameras and warn that there is minimal cash on the premises.
    Tonight there’s something new: a sign with a picture of a fancy set of golf clubs and a reminder that says Don’t forget Dad on His Special Day . Ours is not a neighborhood where people have reason to remember Dad on his special day. Or on any other day. Most people in this part of town would be hard-pressed to identify their dads in a police lineup.
    But inside the store, the greeting-card racks are bright with images of fathers and sons doing what fathers and sons are supposed to do together—play baseball, shoot hoops, catch fish, golf. When I try to remember if I ever did any of those things with my own father, I come up empty. My eyes move to the metal security mirror overhead and I see myself. For thirty-three years, I’ve lived with the wine-dark birthmark that covers half my face. Mirrors have never been my friends, but my image, distorted by the shiny convex curve of metal, stuns me. I look as if I’m wearing a blood mask. My reflection has caught the attention of a child whose mother is checking out the greeting cards.
    The boy is perhaps four years old. He stares at the security mirror for a few seconds, and then his gaze shifts to me. His eyes widen, and he draws near to get a better look. His mother is a dishy redhead with a tennis tan, very brief white shorts and a white T-shirt that showcases her considerable assets. Everything about her shouts money and privilege. What she’s doing in this store is a mystery.
    When she notices her son staring at me, she hisses, “Don’t stare at the man. It’s not appropriate.”
    â€œHe’s got blood all over his face,” the boy shouts—his voice is high and piercing.
    Quick as the flick of a snake’s tongue, the mother reaches out a perfect hand and slaps her son’s cheek. He howls.
    I meet her gaze.
    â€œ That wasn’t appropriate,” I say. As I walk over to the cashier and take my place in line, I feel the perfect redhead’s eyes boring a hole in