She rolled her eyes. “If I reported all the nasty notes I got, I’d be on the phone with the police every day. The left preaches tolerance—but only as long as you agree with them. If you don’t, they consider you unenlightened and fair game for their wrath. Sorry to offend if you happen to be of a liberal bent, but that’s how I see it.”

The lady wasn’t shy about speaking her mind.

No wonder she ticked off some of her listeners.

“I’m not offended. Depending on how this plays out, we may want to see any recent malicious communication you’ve received.”

“I’ll give you the contact information for the program director at the station. He and one of the admin people monitor my snail mail and social media accounts. The volume got away from me months ago. Now they just send me any notes they think merit a direct response. They’ll be happy to provide anything you need.”

“Are there any disgruntled listeners you hear from on a regular basis?”

“Some.” She rubbed her thumb over the almost-empty bottle. “Near as I can tell, though, they prefer verbal sparring to bombs.”

“One of them could have decided actions would speak louder than words.”

She flicked a glance at the first responders in the restricted area, faint furrows denting her brow. “I suppose that’s possible.”

“Any particularly controversial programs in the past couple of weeks?”

She huffed out a small snort. “Every program is controversial to some people.”

His phone began to vibrate, and he pulled it off his belt. Sarge—wanting an update, no doubt.

“I have to take this.”

“No worries. I’m not going anywhere. But if I could borrow your cell after you finish your call, I’d appreciate it. I want to tell the station what’s going on, and I left my phone at my neighbor’s house.”

“Give me two minutes.”

He scanned the crowd for a small pocket of quiet. Spotted one behind an ambulance that was pulled up to the curb.

As he walked toward it, he gave Eve Reilly another once-over.

She was watching the activity inside the inner perimeter, clasping the empty water bottle in one hand, her neighbor’s key in the other. Given her calm demeanor, no one would suspect she’d found a possible bomb on her doorstep less than an hour ago.

But he’d felt the tremors in her fingers. Seen the taut cords in her neck when she swigged her water. Heard the slight breathlessness in her voice. Felt the waves of tension rolling off her.

She was putting up a brave front, but she was spooked.

Big time.

As she should be.

Maybe she was used to negative feedback, given the rancor she roused on her show.

But someone had risked a felony charge by putting that package on her porch.