The Incumbent (20 page)
“It’s a countdown.” The coal in my belly fanned to flame. “The abductor is counting backward: four, three, and now two.”
“You’re very perceptive.” The compliment was wasted. I felt no pride in the realization.
“I’m next. Four, three, two, me.”
“We don’t know that. We’re just guessing that the blood drops are a countdown. It could be something else.”
“Like what?” I jumped to my feet and began to pace the floor.
West said nothing.
“You don’t have another suggestion, do you? Of course not. The countdown thing makes the most sense.”
“You may not be the one he’s after.”
“Of course I am. Lisa was my treasurer, Lizzy did fund-raising, and Allen was my consultant. They’re all associated with me. We can flush the coincidence idea.”
“I’m not flushing anything. You need to sit down.”
“I’m too agitated to sit.” I continued pacing. “No wonder you wanted to talk to me privately.”
“That is only one reason,” West said softly. “Please sit down.”
I didn’t like the tone in his voice, and liked even less the look on his face. I took my seat.
He pursed his lips, studied his hands, and lowered the leg he had crossed a few moments before. Then he leaned forward and spoke in firm but gentle tones. “There’s no easy way to do this—”
“Just say it!”
“We found Elizabeth Stout.”
“That’s great. Right? I mean . . .” I began to shake. “What do you mean, you found her?”
“She’s dead, Mayor. Her husband identified her body thirty minutes ago.”
I
wasn’t sure I could tolerate hearing more. Everything—my strength, my resolve—drained from me. I was Jell-O in the summer sun. I couldn’t look at West, couldn’t raise my eyes from the spot on the rug to which they had attached themselves. My skin felt cold and damp, my palms slick with perspiration. My heart didn’t thump; it fluttered like a drummer trying to find the beat to strange music. My mind began to barricade itself from the truth I had just heard. I could almost hear heavy doors slamming shut in its desperate effort to deny access to the penetrating, burning reality.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you,” West said. “I spent a half hour trying to find some way of breaking it to you that would have made the news easier to hear. I couldn’t think of anything.”
I nodded and started to speak. Nothing came out.
West put a hand on my knee. “This doesn’t mean the others are dead. We’re still investigating. There’s a good chance Lisa Truccoli is still alive.”
“Do you really believe that?”
His brief pause said more than his words. “It’s a reasonable belief.”
“But the reverse may be true.”
“Yes. We have to consider that possibility.”
The phone rang. Before it could ring again, a distant voice from the first floor shouted, “I’ll get it.” Mom was on the job.
“Where?”
“Where what?”
I found the strength to lift my head and stare into the eyes of the man who brought the news of death into my house. “Where did you find Lizzy’s body?”
“Perhaps we should save the details until you’ve had time to adjust to the news.”
“No,” I insisted. “My imagination can come up with things worse than reality. Let’s just get it over with.”
He broke eye contact and stared over my shoulder for a moment. He had been around the police business long enough to anticipate the question, but I doubted that made it any easier. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “The pier—under the pier, actually. A jogger caught a glimpse of her as he was running by. That was close to sunset.”
“No one saw anything earlier? How can that be?”
He cleared his throat, then let loose with the facts. “She was tied to the pier during low tide. She wouldn’t have been visible until the tide went out again.”
The image was awful. I could see poor Lizzy strapped to the rough wood supports, trying to free herself before the water drowned the life from her. “You mean . . . you mean he strapped her to a pylon and left her there to drown?”
I was surprised to see West shake his head. “We think she was dead before the tide came in.”
“How can you tell that?”
“I can’t with certainty, but . . .” I could see him considering his words. “The wood supports for the pier are covered with mollusks—the California mussel, to be exact. They attach themselves to objects like the posts of a pier. Colonies of them cluster from the sea bottom to the high-tide mark. As you probably know, they have a hard, blue-black shell.”
“I know what a mussel is,” I said. “What does that have to do with Lizzy?”
“Mrs. Stout was tied with her back to the column. If she were alive and struggling when the water rose, there should be bruises and cuts where she rubbed against the sharp edges of the mussel shells. I didn’t see that. Most likely, she was dead before she was tied up.”
“That means the killer would have had to carry her body to the spot where you found her.”
“Not necessarily. It’s possible that he made her walk to the spot, then killed her there.”
“This is sickening.”
“Hopefully, we’ll know more when the autopsy is done.”
“Hopefully?”
West frowned. “Our killer is a smart one. Evidence is going to be hard to come by at the crime scene. He or they walked through sand, so footprints are out of the question. The body was submerged for hours, compromising evidence. Since her body was covered in cool salt water, determining time of death by body temperature is going to be difficult.”
The nightmare was getting darker and more lurid. “What am I supposed to tell Celeste? She’s a smart kid. Just because it was Lizzy’s body that was found and not her mother’s doesn’t mean Lisa won’t be next. Celeste will know that. This is going to tear her apart.”
“She may be stronger than you realize. There’s no way to control what she will think or imagine. The best you can do is be honest and be there for her.”
“I suppose.”
“Do you want me to tell her?”
It was a nice gesture and I wanted more than anything to say yes. “No. I’ll do it.” I rose from the chair again, wobbled, then found my footing.
West stood also. “Before you go, I need to ask: Do you have any idea why someone would have it in for you?”
“It really is about me, isn’t it? I’ve been trying so hard to convince myself otherwise.” I tried to come up with a reason why somebody would go to such an extent to hurt me. “I can’t think of a single thing. You don’t work in politics without ticking off a lot of people. There are always those who think you’re a crook because you’re a politician—perhaps not without reason—but I can’t think of any cause so pressing that someone would abduct and kill over it.”
I led West back down the stairs. My steps were slow as I tried to think of what I would say. I knew that my parents, Celeste, and Michele were waiting and would expect some explanation. Dread dogged me.
Voices came through the front door. I couldn’t make out the conversation but it didn’t sound all that pleasant.
“Oh, that must be Dr. Thomas.” I looked over the banister and saw my mother scurrying toward the front door.
“Wait!” West demanded. Mom stopped midstep and turned toward him. West pushed by me. “Stay here,” he said and trotted down the steps.
“You called Jerry?” I asked my mother.
“Of course not, dear. He called here. That was him a few minutes ago. I think he called from his car.”
West placed a hand on the door and peered through the peephole. He then unlatched the door and flung it open. I was far enough down the stairs to see the security guard planted on the front stoop, his hand pressed against Jerry’s chest. Jerry’s face was red and his jaw tight; his hands were balled into fists.
“Is there a problem here?” West snapped as he stepped beside the security guard.
“Who are you . . .” Jerry’s eyes traced West’s form, lingering on his gun and badge. “Oh . . . it’s you. I’m here to see Maddy. I called.”
“It’s my fault,” Mom said. “I forgot to tell the guard. I’m sorry, Jerry.”
“It’s all right,” I said to the guard, finishing my descent. “He’s a family friend.” The guard lowered his hand and West turned toward me. The tension had yet to leave his face. He stepped aside to let Jerry through, then followed him in.
“It really is my fault, officer,” Mom said. “I didn’t think to tell the guard. I should have let you know, too, Maddy, but you were upstairs with the detective and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Jerry tossed a glance at West. West just nodded. Turning his attention to me, he said, “I’ll be on my way. It’s going to be a long night and I need to get back to it.”
“Thank you,” I said and shook his hand.
“I wish—”
“I know. I’ll be in touch.”
He walked through the open door and gave the guard a pat on the shoulder. “Good job, pal. Keep up the good work.”
I then apologized to the security guard and promised better communication. Shutting the door, I walked back to the dining area.
“What was he doing here?” Jerry asked as he followed a step behind.
I ignored the question. My mind stumbled under the Herculean task before me. There was no good way to deliver bad news.
I
arrived at City Hall thirty minutes late and parked in the back lot. It was full, just the way I wanted it. I had also taken a different route to work, adding a good ten miles to the trip.
My eyes skittered around the property and the building. I saw no one. I didn’t feel any more comfortable.
I exited my car as if it were on fire. I kept my head up and my eyes moving. Only after I was in the building and the steel security door shut behind me did I relax. After two deep breaths I started for my office.
Last night seemed like a dream—a horrible nightmare that not even the passing of years could erase. West had left, Jerry had entered, his face chiseled with concern. I led him into the dining area, where the others still sat at the table, in front of them crumbs of peach cobbler and melting vanilla bean ice cream.
Dad was staring at me. He was reading me like he read his biographies. I stood erect, wearing a pasted-on mask of confidence, having approached with my patented “I’m still in charge” gait. My father wasn’t buying it. “What happened?”
“Detective West brought some news. Some bad news.” I took a deep breath. “It seems . . . it seems . . . they, um . . .” The tears broke through like Huns attacking a village. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t move. All I could manage was standing, weeping, and wiping mucus from my nose.
It took nearly five minutes to compose myself. I looked up from the Kleenex my mother had given me and found five pairs of tear-filled eyes staring back at me. I inhaled deeply and then spilled the news as fast as I could. I knew of no other way to do it. My guts were a Gordian knot so tightly tied that I was sure I would live with it for the rest of my life. When I was done, there were more tears.
Celeste had been my biggest concern. Surely she would assume that Lizzy’s death meant her mother was dead or soon to be so. To my astonishment, she held up better than I thought possible. Her eyes were red, her face was puffy, and her lips were pulled back against her teeth. I searched for words to say to her. I considered, “Honey, this doesn’t mean your mother is dead.” It was true; it was also unrealistic. I percolated a few other statements and tossed them all. Instead I reached across the table and took her hand. It was all I could think to do.
The night was lousy. I slept poorly and I know everyone else did, too. Jerry refused to leave, inviting himself to stay the night, arguing that one guard outside and one inside made more sense. I wanted to dispute the point, but he was right, and I was glad to have another man in the house.
I rose at five a.m., skipped my treadmill torture, and went downstairs. Surprisingly, Dad and Mom were sitting around the table having coffee with Jerry. We exchanged greetings, then discussed the day. Dad said he would cancel his classes and stay with the girls. Jerry suggested I stay home from work, but I laid down the law. There were things I wanted to do; I wasn’t going to be put off. After I finished my coffee, I told them, “I’m going to go shower and steal all the hot water.” I did just that, then headed for City Hall.
“Good morning, Mayor,” Randi said as I approached her desk. “I was starting to get a little worried.”
“We need to talk,” I snapped. “Please come into my office.” I didn’t wait to see the expression on her face. I dropped my purse in the large desk drawer and took my seat. Randi showed up a second later, a pad of paper in her hand. “Please close the door.”
She did, then asked if something was wrong. I made her sit. “The file you prepared in anticipation of my running for Congress—did you show that to anyone else?”
“No,” she shot back, and then hedged. “I mean, no one around here.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I made a copy and gave it to Allen Dayton, but I swore him to secrecy. I just wanted a professional opinion of my work, and he was willing to give it pro bono.”
I felt a frown. “Pro bono means for the public good, Randi, not the private good.”
“You get my point. It didn’t cost us anything.”
“He’s missing.”
She sat like a stone. “Missing?”
“Detective West came by the house last night. That was just one bombshell he dropped on me.”
“What’s that have to do with the file I gave him?”
I told her. She swallowed hard. “Oh, that’s horrible.”
“It gets worse.” I filled her in about Lizzy. My emotions were raw and just a millimeter below the surface. I had to fight hard not to fall back into a weeping mass of mayor.
Randi raised a hand to her mouth. I gave her a few moments, then asked, “Do I have any appointments today?”
“A few. Two this morning, three this afternoon.”
“Cancel them all. I have other plans. First, I need the number for the county coroner. I would like to have that right away. Then I plan on making a visit to the Police Station.”
“Why do you need the coroner’s number?”
“I’m inviting myself to an autopsy.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Please get the number.”
She rose and started to exit. “Just a second,” I said. She turned. “Randi, you are the best assistant anyone could ever ask for. Beyond that, you’re my friend. This thing about the file isn’t going to change that, but I want your word that you will never do anything like this behind my back again.”