The Incumbent (2 page)

“But the house was empty? I mean . . .” The words remained lodged in my throat.

“No corpse was found, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

It was exactly what I meant.

He paused, as if wondering whether to let the next sentence loose. “There was, however, blood.”

The acid in my stomach roiled. “Blood?” The word came out as a choked whisper.

“Not much. Very little. Just four drops.”

I looked at Chief Webb. He was a stern man whom I had never seen smile. He was fit for a gentleman of fifty-five, with just a slight middle-age paunch over his belt. He stood four inches taller than my own five foot six, and his gray-streaked black hair was combed straight back and held in place by some ancient hair tonic. He was not the kind of man who would use gel. The skin of his face was starting to droop, as if it had grown weary of hanging on to the muscles beneath. The scowl was there. It was always there. I’m convinced he was born with that pinched look: blue eyes narrowed, mouth turned down as if he were in chronic pain. He seemed to be in a perpetual state of emotional constipation. Red highlighted the end of his nose and his cheeks, like a man well acquainted with alcohol, except I had never seen him drink.

Chief Webb and I had history. I was not on his Christmas list and he certainly wasn’t on mine.

“Four drops? You found
exactly
four drops of blood?”

“That’s right.”

“That seems strange.”

“It’s much stranger than you think.” He turned to the window and looked out, staring into the distance. I was just about to ask him for details when he continued. “The drops of blood weren’t discovered on the floor or furniture, like you’d expect to find after a struggle. These were on a card—a white card—and they were evenly spaced.”

“I don’t get it. Could you be less cryptic?”

That made him turn. He eyed me for a moment, as if determining whether I was capable of understanding what he was about to say. “Blood from a fight is never evenly spaced, Madam Mayor. Nor is it perfectly round, as these drops were. Blood splatters and blood streaks, but it never falls in precise drops. These were four perfectly round, evenly spaced spots of blood on a white card . . . like the four corners of a square.”

“A card? What kind of card?”

“A business card, Mayor. Your business card.”

The phone on my desk buzzed. I jumped. Webb stood like a rock. I snatched up the receiver and barked, “Hello.” Dana Thayer, the city clerk, was on the other end.

“It’s been fifteen minutes, Mayor. The council is wondering when you’ll be returning.”

I was five minutes beyond the announced recess time. I was late. “This is going to take some time, Dana. Please inform the council that I won’t be in attendance.” I hung up before she could respond.

“This is an awkward time,” Webb said. I couldn’t tell if he was apologizing for the interruption or reveling in it.

“Larry Wu can handle the meeting. That’s what deputy mayors are for.” I paused, then added, “I suppose you have questions for me.”

He nodded. Then—I could hardly believe my eyes—he smiled.

B
eing mayor—even mayor of a small city like Santa Rita—has certain privileges. Technically, all the powerful people work for you. This means I can stretch the envelope of social courtesy more than most. I was sure Webb would have loved to walk me out of my office, his hand clamped on my elbow, and escort me across the back parking lot and right into the Police Station. What a sight that would have been. Even the dozing reporter from the
Register
would have sat up for that one. “Mayor Taken to Police Station for Questioning,” the headline would have read. That would have sold a few extra papers.

I took a seat behind my desk. “Ask your questions.” My desk is a wide, cherry wood affair given to me by my husband before his death. It dominates my small and orderly office. Any interview Chief Webb wished to conduct was going to take place on my turf, where I would gain the advantage. The desk is an extension of me, but more importantly, it is an extension of the mayor’s office. “Sit down,” I said, motioning to a burgundy leather chair opposite the desk. He remained on his feet.

“You knew Ms. Truccoli?”

“I still do know her.”

“How do you know her?”

I sighed. “You know the answer to that, Chief. She worked on my campaign.”

“This last campaign?” He slipped his hands into the pockets of his pants. Webb dressed with impeccable taste but always in gray. This night he wore a charcoal gray suit, white shirt, and steel-colored tie.

“Yes, and my second city council run. She was treasurer in the last campaign.”

“Important position.”

“California election law requires every campaign to have a treasurer and demands frequent reports from them. A good campaign must have a great treasurer.”

“So she handled the money?”

“She did.” I leaned forward. “She was exceptional, organized, focused, and a clear communicator.”

“So you had no reason to be unhappy with her?”

“None at all, and let me save you some time, Chief. The books balance perfectly. Nothing missing. Nothing extra. Are you assuming that because my business card was found in her home, I had something to do with her disappearance?”

“These are questions I have to ask, Madam Mayor.”

“She would naturally have my card; she worked on the campaign. All my key people had them. There’s nothing unusual about that.” I was getting defensive and reigned myself in.

Webb stared at me for a moment, his eyes narrowing to slits. I could almost hear his brain chugging. “It’s not the card that interests me, Mayor; it’s the fact that blood—which for the moment we must assume is Ms. Truccoli’s—was found on your card and on your card only.”

“You’re not suggesting—”

“No, I’m not. It’s too contrived . . . too obvious.”

“So why question me?”

“Because it needs to be done, and I thought better me than Detective West. It’s not unusual for the chief of police to talk to the mayor. A homicide detective is another matter.”

“You’re trying to spare me embarrassment?”

“I’m trying to spare the office embarrassment.”

“That’s decent of you,” I said, making no effort to conceal the sarcasm. “Who is Detective West? I don’t think I’ve met him.”

“He’s a new man. We got him from San Diego PD. He did homicide work for them.”

“He left the big city for us?”

Webb nodded but offered nothing more. As he started to ask another question, his cell phone rang. He removed it from his inside coat pocket. “Webb.” He listened, his face a plastic mask of indifference. I would get no information that way. “Give me the name again.” More listening. “Hang on.” He turned to me. “You know Ms. Truccoli’s daughter, Celeste?”

My heart stuttering, I rose to my feet. “Yes. Where is she?”

“At the house. She’s upset.”

“You think?” I rounded my desk and stepped quickly to a coa-track I kept in the corner, removed my coat, and slung it over my shoulders.

“Where are you going?”

“To Lisa’s house. Celeste must be beside herself—she needs a friend.”

“We’re not done here.”

“Wanna bet?” I started for the door.

“I’m going with you. I don’t want you contaminating the crime scene.”

“Suit yourself.”

I turned to see Webb raise the phone to his ear again. “Keep her there.” The phone went back in his pocket. “I’ll drive,” he said. It wasn’t a suggestion. “I’ll arrange to have your car delivered to your home.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I do.”

He didn’t explain.

L
isa Truccoli lived in the Shadow Hills area of the city, a community of older but upscale homes on the gentle slope of Shadow Hill. Her house, like all homes in that neighborhood, overlooked the ocean. The sea, under its heavy gray shroud, was dark as India ink.

Rain fell in cold sheets, pelting Webb’s city-issued Lincoln Continental. The air was chilly and the breeze stiff. California gets its rain from two sources, depending on the time of year. During the summer months, the rare rainstorm crawls up from the south, first showering Baja Mexico before working its way up the coast. In the winter, storms drop down from Alaska like brakeless freight trains. Those have a sour and chilling impact. This February day a monster was visiting us from the north.

The drive had been easier than expected. The rain had driven most people indoors to warm themselves in the glow of the television. Webb piloted the car over the slick streets with confidence. He said nothing. The chief was puzzled and I couldn’t blame him. Our city is large enough to have its share of crime, but abductions and murders are rare, at least when compared with bigger cities.

This crime was an enigma for Webb. It didn’t take a psychologist to realize that. While I found him to be annoying and egotistical, he was a good chief of police. I had to hand that to him. I’d never found his work wanting or improper. What he thought of me I could only guess, and I never wasted time worrying about it.

Light from street lamps spilled in through the windshield at regular intervals, like a strobe light in slow motion. With each influx I could see my reflection in the passenger-side window. Staring back was a thirty-eight-year-old woman with shoulder-length brown hair, narrow nose, and weary hazel eyes. My complexion looked pale but that was to be expected. The window was a poor mirror, its impromptu image unintentional. Still, I
felt
pale.

“Why Lisa?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“Don’t know. If it’s a murder, then it could be many reasons: passion, greed, anger. If it’s a kidnapping, it could be profit-motivated. Did . . . does she have money?”

“Some, I suppose. Her ex-husband is an executive in one of the oil companies. He used to work on the offshore drilling rigs. Years ago he started taking night classes in business. He worked his way up.”

“So she’s divorced.”

“He grew tired of family life and went off to find himself; took a twenty-four-year-old receptionist with him so he wouldn’t lose his way.”

“Conscientious, eh?”

“That would require a conscience. He left Lisa and Celeste . . .” I paused to think. “About four years ago, or so.”

“So she was supporting herself?”

“She works as an accountant for a construction company, but I remember her saying that she gets a large alimony payment. I don’t think she needs the money; probably just wants to stay busy. I imagine she spends much of her time alone.”

“Why’s that?”

“Celeste is nineteen and attending the University of Santa Barbara. She’s gone a lot. Maybe that’s why she works, to pay for her daughter’s college.”

“Do Ms. Truccoli and her daughter get along?”

“Oh, come on. You can’t be implying—”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m asking questions, that’s it.”

I took a deep breath. I was taking this harder than I realized. “I’m sorry. This has me on edge.”

“Do they get along?”

“As far as I know, but I’m not her confidant. We meet for lunch about once a month. I take my key volunteers out from time to time. Good helpers are hard to come by and I want to keep them on my team. A few lunches throughout my term keeps everyone in touch. Last time we met, she was saying how proud she was of Celeste. Still, if there had been problems, I wouldn’t have known.”

“And the husband?”

“Never met him. They were still married during my last council race but divorced sometime during my term. I’m guessing here, but I think they were at odds long before I met her.”

“Do you know where the husband is now?”

“Not specifically. Lisa said something about Texas, along the Gulf, I think.”

Webb grunted.

“He might be worth investigating,” I said.

“I’ll leave that up to Detective West. He’s the investigator; I’m just lending a hand.” He turned down a street that I recognized as Lisa’s. “Ever been here?”

“Once. Lisa held a fund-raiser. I haven’t been back since.” My stomach knotted and my breath shortened. I had never been to a crime scene before. Worse, I’d never spoken to a young woman whose mother had been abducted—or worse.

Webb directed the car down the narrow residential lane: Dove Street. All the streets in the Shadow Mountain subdivision bore bird names. It fit the quaint houses that lined the roads. Unlike many similar streets in other cities, these had very few trees. Tress block the ocean view, which lowers property value. In Santa Rita the sea is everything.

Built in the mid-sixties, the houses were the developer’s idea of a tribute to Frank Lloyd Wright’s prairie style. Flat roofs topped every home, with overhangs that extended from the exterior walls farther than seemed right. Unlike Wright’s designs, these homes were small and were much less expensive to build. Still, any one of them would have sold for over half a million. A cottage with a view is worth as much as a mansion stuck at the end of an alley.

The community was too pricey for most newcomers, so there was little turnover in the neighborhood. The Truccolis, Lisa had told me, were numbered among the newbies. Her husband, Christopher, had made a good salary on the rigs, and she brought home decent money as an accountant. Through disciplined saving and help from both sets of parents, they had managed to pull off the purchase. I imagine keeping up payments had been a chore, at least until his career took off.

The car came to rest at the west curb. Lights, pushing past gossamer curtains, shone from the few street-side windows, but I could imagine the glow pouring from the much larger ocean-facing panes. A band of yellow tape surrounded the property like a gaudy belt, telling the world that here a peaceful life had been disrupted.

The front door was open and warm light decanted from it, splashing like paint on the small concrete porch. A thin, shallow silhouette appeared between the jambs. Even from the street I could tell it was Celeste. As she walked from the house, raindrops showered her.

I sprang from the car and started down the narrow concrete walk. “Celeste?”

“Go away,” she shot back, continuing her march.

“Celeste, it’s Maddy, Maddy Glenn. Where are you going?” I met her halfway down the walk. Rain fell in drops the size of raisins, cold raisins that stung the skin.