“Do you keep records of all the calls you receive?”
My hackles rose, a stiffening across my shoulders. If I could have growled, I would have. I steadied myself, remaining cautious. “Why do you want to know?”
“If you got a suspicious call from a stalker, someone making threats. . .we know you’ve received threats on the air. You keep some kind of record of that to pass to the police, don’t you?”
I was afraid to say yes. I didn’t want to say yes. That would open a door. “Look, it’s literally the middle of the night. I think you should be having this conversation with the station manager.”
Ivers said, “You meet a lot of people doing your show, don’t you? You’ve met a lot of people—creatures—that don’t necessarily go through the station’s records. Is that right?”
“If you’re asking if I have a life outside my job—”
“You know people, Ms. Norville,” he continued. “People. Other things. That’s what we’re interested in.”
I had one of them on each side of me now. They might not have had guns, but what else did they have stashed in their jackets? My phone was on the desk, plugged in, and not in my hand. I maybe hadn’t thought this through.
“How many vampires do you personally know?” Martin asked. “I don’t know—”
“Just a guess. I imagine it’s quite a lot.”
Ivers, tag-teaming: “If I were to list cities, would you be able to tell me who the Masters of those cities are?”
“What a minute,” I said. “You want me to name names. You’re asking me to name names. Like some kind of HUAC shit?”
“We’re just asking for your help on a matter of national security,” Ivers said.
“What national security? What’s the danger here?”
“This is just for informational purposes.”
The saxophone riff was still going, over and over. “I think . . . I think I’m going to refer you to my attorney.” My heart was racing. Claws pressed against the inside of my fingertips. Calm, calm. Slow breaths.
Martin tilted her head. “Ms. Norville, are you all right?”
“You do know that I’m a werewolf, right? You’ve seen the video. You know it’s not a good idea to stress us out.”
They exchanged a concerned glance, then both of them looked away from me. Turned aside, non-confrontational. Body language meant to de-escalate a confrontation. They’d had some training in dealing with stressed-out werewolves. Somehow that made me more worried, not less. Who else had they been harassing?
Martin sounded like she was trying to be soothing, but instead came across as condescending. “You’re not under investigation here. You’re under no suspicion yourself. We know that you’ll be happy to help, should the need ever arise. I’m sure you have nothing to hide—”
“Then I have nothing to fear? Is that what you’re about to say?”
Glancing down the barest little bit, Martin said, “It’s hard to say that line without sounding just a little ironic.”
“And they say satire is dead,” I muttered. We could keep going in circles all night. “How about I pull the plug on George Michael over there and broadcast this conversation to everybody, hm?”
Martin said, “I don’t recommend—”
Her partner jumped in. “The saxophonist on that track is Steve Gregory.”
“Well. Score one for precision. But seriously, I need to get back to the show. I can’t help you. Come back during office hours.”
Ivers glanced out the door. “Your sound guy, Matt—he’s been with you a long time, hasn’t he?”
A chill passed over me. “Yeah, from the start. Where is he? Where did you take him?”
“Our colleague is just having a few words with him. Kind of like we’re doing with you. Nothing to worry about.”
I sank into the chair at my desk. I had tried to imagine this moment. Reading the history, I had to wonder if I would have named names in front of the HUAC during the Red Scare, or if I would have stood firm and suffered blacklisting. Of course I liked to think I would stand firm, but who could say? Who really knew, until the moment was upon you, what you would do? If I had a choice between collaboration or standing for actual principles despite the risk, what would I do?