Dead Air Book Tour & Giveaway

Dead Air signals trouble at the radio station. Glenn Beckert discovers his

high school best friend is shot in the head while on the air. Beck,
the owner of Blue Water Security, is employed to provide security for
the station.

He becomes willingly embroiled in the investigation by the
not-so-innocent widow. The list of potential suspects is long,
gleaned from the numerous extramarital affairs of the victim and
widow. The pending sale of the radio station has created friction
between his now dead friend, Richie Zito and the major stockholders.
Motives for murder becomes increasingly murky after the search
reveals an encrypted file on Zito’s laptop.

Beck enlists the help of an old flame, Irene Schade, to break the code,
revealing a money laundering network leading to the financial and
political powers of his beloved city of Pittsburgh. Their
collaboration ignites the flames of passion each had considered
extinguished.

A former college teammate, police Lieutenant Paglironi delivers a
message to back off. Arrogantly, he ignores his friend’s advice.
The threats from less friendly sources are more ominous, forcing Beck
to move in an unfamiliar world. A startling revelation from his
client forces Beck to deal with his inner conviction of right and
wrong, challenging the gray areas of his ethical principles.
Betraying his client’s confidence could expose the killer. Thealternative is to confront the suspect and take matters into his own
hands. Either way his life is in jeopardy.

 

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Chapter 1

Dead Air. It was the most unforgivable of sins. I was standing at the
bar in Jergel’s Rhythm Grille in Warrendale, PA when the overhead
sound system finished blaring “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” the seventeen-
minute, two-second version, then dove into silence… and stayed there.
Minutes crawled past while WZOC, better known as Z-Rock to
Pittsburgh-area listeners, remained silent. The long version of the Iron
Butterfly song was played when DJs need extended bathroom time.
Apparently, it was not enough time.
The seventeen-thousand-square-foot bar and restaurant was
beginning to fill up. The stage hands scrambled over the stage in a well-
orchestrated dance as they prepared the stage at the rear of the building.
I was at the front bar, one of six serving the customers. The crowd noise
increased due to the silent overhead system. The bartenders and service
personnel went about their jobs, oblivious to the lack of music. I
appeared to be the only person who noticed it. The dead air was an
unexpected lapse for a normally proficient staff at Z-Rock. The station
owned by my high school best friend, had been my first client, so I was
always glad when the bar staff piped it in to provide background noise.
A Pittsburgh favorite, The Clarks, were scheduled to take the stage
in forty-five minutes. Their classic rock style was often compared to
Tom Petty. Z-Rock had introduced The Clarks to the Pittsburgh market,
and it remained a strong supporter of the band. They had parlayed the
station’s promotion into a broader following along the Southern Atlantic
states. The quartet was almost as well-known in the city as the
Pittsburgh Steelers’ starting lineup. I had had the great fortune to see
many of their local performances.
Before heading to the front door, I finished my IC Light, a low-
calorie brew from Pittsburgh Brewing. The bartender grabbed my empty
bottle and asked, “Another one, Beck?”

“No thanks; probably later.” I headed toward the entrance,
featuring solid wood double doors, the left side closed to restrain the
incoming crowd. The line stretched outside beyond my view.
My firm was in charge of crowd control for the event. Even though
I was on duty tonight, my plan was to be more of a spectator.
In my earpiece, I heard my site manager of Jergel’s security, Lance
Parisi. “Beck, we have a problem at the front door. This patron is drunk
and belligerent. He may be armed. I’m trying to get him to leave.”
I replied, “On my way.” As the owner of Blue Water Security, I
was always glad to help with situations like these. I tried to hire only the
best, so backing them with my support was always a pleasure.
An obviously intoxicated man was pointing a finger at Lance who
had to be at least six inches taller than the swaying man. “You fucking
asshole! I have a ticket! You can’t keep me out!” I heard the word
motherfucker and that was that. This wasn’t going to end well for the
drunken ticket holder.
In my mouthpiece, I said, “Stay cool, Lance. He’s all talk,” but
before I could arrive, the man took a swing at Lance. So much for my
expert analysis. In one quick movement, Lance had the man’s right arm
twisted behind his back, Lance’s left arm firmly around his neck in a
choke hold.
I rushed to Lance’s side. The man’s open coat displayed the butt of
a gun in his waistband. I jerked the .38 Special from his belt holster and
turned to look him in the eyes. The combined stink of beer and whiskey
oozed from him.
Adrenaline was pumping through my body as if facing a 3-2 pitch.
I regained my composure before speaking in a calm, determined voice.
“Sir, even with a concealed carry permit, it is illegal to bring a gun into a
bar, especially when you are intoxicated.” The other patrons waiting to

enter had backed away when they saw the gun. “The man with his arm
around your neck is going to escort you to the office. The police will be
called. I hope you have your permit with you. You can walk to the office
quietly. If not, I’m certain Lance will find a way to get you there. Is that
clear?”
The man nodded as best he could with Lance’s muscular arm
wrapped around his neck. Lance released his stranglehold, keeping a
firm grip on the man’s arm. I handed the gun to my employee. The drunk
remained calm and allowed Lance to lead him away. Using my mic, I
paged Jason Weaver, who had been assigned to dance floor security for
the night, to come to the front door.
I remained at the door, checking tickets for the anxious concert
fans, until Jason appeared. It was then I realized there was still silence
coming from the sound system. The normal professionalism of Z-Rock’s
staff made me wonder about the cause of the extended silence. I could
imagine engineers scrambling to locate and repair whatever technical
problems had occurred.
Jason arrived, assuming Lance’s position at the door. I turned back
to the bar as my cell phone rang. “Glenn Beckert,” I answered.
“This is John Waner at Z-Rock.” He paused and I wondered if I
was truly surprised to be hearing from my security guard at the station.
His voice was high-pitched, his words rushed as he said, “There’s a big
problem here.”
“John, what’s the problem?”
“Beck… H-He’s… I don’t know what to do. R-Richie’s been
murdered.”

 

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