The Incumbent (23 page)

“Yes.”

“Is there anything in the van I should know about?”

The man hedged. “I know how this works, you know. If I say no, you’ll say, ‘Then you don’t mind if I take a look.’ If I say yes, you’ll have grounds to search it anyway.”

“Very perceptive. Now answer the question.”

“There’s a 9mm Glock in the glove compartment,” Horn admitted. “There’s also a .25 caliber handgun under the driver’s seat. I’m licensed to carry a weapon.”

“You had better hope so. How about drugs? Any controlled substances in the vehicle?”

“No, and you’re free to search.”

“I’ll let the officers do that. Just in case you don’t know, there’s a restraining order against your client. You might want to make sure he knows that.”

“He has a right to see his daughter,” Horn objected.

“Not when that daughter is an adult and refuses to see him. Your client is digging a hole for himself, and he may just pull you down with him.” West removed a business card from the wallet. “This yours?”

“You can see my name on it.”

“So I can, so I can. Mind if I have it?”

Horn lowered his head and sighed. “No. Take it.”

“Thanks.” West handed the wallet to one of the officers. “Make sure his licenses are up to date, both the PI and the weapons. Check for wants and warrants. Oh, if you find anything worth booking him for, let me know. I might want to talk to him again.”

West took me by the arm and led me back to the car. “I thought I told you to stay put.”

“I want to know who’s hunting me. Besides, you had the cuffs on him.” He opened my door and I took my seat. Then he got in, started the car, and pulled back onto the freeway.

“This case is bad enough without Truccoli messing things up,” West said. “I can’t figure his sudden interest in his daughter. From what I’ve learned, he’s shown no concern for her since he bailed on the family. Why does he care now?”

“I don’t know. Guilt, maybe.” I shook my head. “I’m not sure he’s all that balanced.”

“He’s not crazy. He’s driven, but by what?”

“Maybe it’s not what but whom. His new wife could be pushing him.”

“I don’t think he pushes all that easy. I put the pressure to him and it hasn’t slowed him down much.”

“Will you let me know what the medical examiner says about the blood work?” I asked, changing the subject. I’d had all the talk of Truccoli I wanted.

“I will. It’ll probably be tomorrow. For now, I’m taking you back to your office.”

“It seems there should be more than what we’re doing. I know you’re doing your best; I just wish there were something else. Can’t the FBI help?”

“Not unless we have evidence that one of the abductees was moved across state lines. You should know that there is more going on than you see. In fact, I left the autopsy early to make it back in time for a task force meeting . . .” He had the look of a man who realized he had just made a big mistake.

“A task force?”

“With cases like this, it’s customary to bring in other law enforcement agencies: Sheriff’s Department, Highway Patrol, other municipal agencies, even parole officers who might pick up something from their charges.”

“When is this meeting?”

He let a few seconds tick by before answering. “Eleven o’clock.”

“At your office.”

He nodded. “In the conference room.”

“I see.”

He saw, too.

I
t was barely 10:30 when I set my fanny down in my office chair. My stomach was a mess from my stint in the autopsy room and then churned up even more by the confrontation with Horn. This day had started off badly and I feared that darker clouds were on the horizon.

I placed my elbows on the desk and rested my head in my hands. I had not slept well in two days, and the emotional toll was building. I felt like an earthen dam ready to give way. I wanted answers and the more I searched for them, the more questions I found.

“How’d it go?”

I looked up and saw Randi standing in the doorway. Her office had been empty when I first entered. I’d assumed she was in the rest room. “Hard. I don’t want to talk about it.” My words were harsher than I intended. I was still angry about her sending the file to Dayton.

Her head drooped a little. “Here are your messages.” She set several pieces of pink paper on my desk. I looked them over. My depression deepened.

“Doug Turner wants to talk to you again,” Randi said. “He knows about Lizzy.”

“There’s nothing I can tell him. I don’t want to meet with him.”

“He . . .”

“What?”

“Don’t kill me. I don’t know how, but he knows about the file.”

“The congressional campaign file that you prepared? How is that possible?”

“Like I said, I don’t know. I certainly didn’t give it to him.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“Yeah, well, I still feel guilty. I have more bad news. You agreed to speak to the Young Republicans at Santa Rita High.”

“What?” I looked at my calendar. There it was. I had forgotten. “When?” I asked even as I read the time.

“Eleven-thirty. I should have reminded you yesterday, but with everything—”

“No, it’s not your fault; I can read my own calendar. I should have checked it.”
There goes the task force meeting, Swell.
I explained about wanting to go to the meeting with West.

“You want me to cancel?”

“No. It’s important that I fulfill my duties. This has been in the works for some time and it’s too late for them to get a replacement.”

“What about Turner?”

“I suppose I should speak to him, if for no other reason than to find out how he came to know about the file.” I slammed my hand down on the desk. “The harder I try to get control, the more chaotic things become!”

“I wish I could do more for you.” Randi looked crestfallen.

“Close the door.” She did. I motioned for her to have a seat. It was time to mend fences. I began by bringing her up to date. I told her about the autopsy and about the private investigator hired to track my movements. I also filled her in on all that West had said.

She shook her head slowly. “We go through life hearing and reading about crimes against people we don’t know but give it little thought. When it’s this close to home, I can’t think of anything else.”

“Me either. I don’t sleep well and I’ve lost my concentration, today’s speech being evidence of that. I can’t believe how completely I forgot it.” I paused to gather my thoughts. “Okay, what are we going to do about Turner? You said he knows about the file. That doesn’t mean he’s actually seen it, right?”

“I can’t say for sure, but there are only three copies of that file. You have one, I have another, and Allen Dayton had the third.”

“Two drops of blood were found on the file cover. That would render it evidence. The cops wouldn’t turn that over to Turner. At best, he merely knows of the file’s existence.”

“That’s my guess. I suppose he could have found out about it by interviewing some of the police.”

“Perhaps. Maybe I should agree to an interview.” It was an idea, although I doubted it would lead anywhere. Perhaps I could persuade Turner to keep quiet about the whole thing. “Call him and tell him my schedule is full, but that I could meet him at the coffee shop near the high school.”

“The Brewed Bean?”

“That’s the one. I’ll meet him at twelve-thirty. Don’t tell him about the Young Republican thing. I’d rather he not be there. He might want to ask some of his questions publicly.”

“He may already know about it. The school sometimes publishes these things.”

“If so, then there’s nothing I can do about it, but I don’t see any reason why we should be the ones to inform him.”

“Got it.”

“Go with me, Randi. After we meet with Turner, we can grab some lunch.”

She smiled. “I’d love to.”

Fences mended.

“Okay, now get out of here; I have to come up with a speech in the next twenty minutes.”

T
he speech went well, although I had to wing it. In front of me had been the fresh faces of the high school’s Young Republicans. The office of mayor was technically a nonpartisan position, but everyone knew of my affiliation.

I strode into the meeting place as if I owned it, and had thirty seconds to spare. Randi was close behind. The club met in the cafeteria. Folding doors on tracks in the ceiling were pulled shut, separating us from the rest of the large, sterile-looking room. Despite the sound-dampening doors, I could hear the bang of pots and pans, and the constant chatter of workers. Lunch had begun, and several of the students in our meeting had trays with plates of hamburgers and potato chips.

Only twenty students had shown and I felt disappointment. Government and politics is my passion; I expect others to share it. It’s an unrealistic expectation. A teacher who served as the club’s sponsor called everyone to order, then introduced me. He was a tall, thin man with dwindling hair.

I stepped to the area designated as the front and readied myself for the presentation. Just as I did, Doug Turner walked in. I tried not to frown but was only partially successful. He made eye contact with me, then raised his hands as if surrendering. He mouthed the word
relax.
I hoped he was as good as his unspoken word.

I spent ten minutes discussing the importance of city government and how I became interested in politics. I followed with five minutes on the issues our city faced. That left fifteen minutes for questions before a bell would ring, sending them all back to classes. Fortunately, the questions were benign. My greatest fear was that someone would ask about Truccoli’s attack and the abductions of Lisa and Lizzy. Lizzy’s death and Dayton’s disappearance had yet to make the papers, but I suspected they would be in the morning issue.

I fielded about fifteen questions, then turned it over to the instructor. The kids were nice enough to applaud and only one fell asleep. Not bad. True to his word, Turner had made no inquiries. A few moments later the room was nearly empty. I exchanged pleasantries with the teacher.

Randi stepped next to me and we watched Turner approach. He had spent a few minutes with a young man, one of the students who had been listening to my impromptu presentation. He was the only one taking notes.

“I thought our meeting was for twelve-thirty at the Brewed Bean.” I was trying to sound sweet but professional.

“It is,” he said with a slight smile. “I should have mentioned when you called that I was going to be here.”

“You’re not obligated to tell me your schedule.”
But it would
have been nice.

“I had two other calls going when your office called. I just forgot to mention it. I don’t want you thinking I was trying to ambush you—not that I’m above that.” He laughed. “My nephew attends here. That’s who you saw me talking to. He works for the school paper and I serve as a consultant.” He scratched quotation marks in the air as he said
consultant.
Turner looked at his watch. “Is it all right if we go ahead and meet? By the time we get to the coffee shop, we’ll only be about ten minutes early.”

“That’s fine with me.”

Randi and I made our way back to the car. The day was bright, the sky a silky blue and the air warm as a blanket. Freshly cut grass sweetened the breeze. Looking up, I saw a distant airplane sailing through the air, destined for some unknown location. I wished I were on it.

The Brewed Bean is a Starbucks knockoff. They even use the same green color scheme. While their decor is far from original, they make great coffee. Randi and I arrived a few seconds before Turner. “Why do you suppose he didn’t ask you any questions?” she wondered.

“I don’t know. He could have really put me on the spot and made himself look good in the eyes of his nephew. Maybe he’s saving it all up to unload on me now.”

We got in line. The place was hopping and the line long but it moved quickly. Turner took his place behind us. To make small talk, I asked about his nephew. He sang the boy’s praises but I remember little of what he said. My mind was trying to anticipate the questions he would ask and the answers I would give.

I reached the front of the line and offered to buy the reporter’s coffee. “No, thanks,” he said. “I don’t want it said that I was bought off by a double latte. I’m scrupulous about such things.”

“Scrupulous?” I placed my order, buying myself a chai tea and Randi a blended coffee. “Not a word you hear every day.”

“Not from a reporter’s mouth, anyway,” Turner said.

“The same could be said for most politicians.”

The place was crowded but we found a round table on the patio in front of the shop. We settled in. I was glad to be outside. Lately I had been breathing only the air found in my car, house, or office. Sparrows hopped around on the concrete, hoping for crumbs from some pastry.

“That was a good speech,” Turner said.

“Thank you.” I decided to take the offensive. “How did you know about the file?”

“I’m an investigative reporter; I investigate.” He saw that the answer didn’t appease me. “I’ve been following the police radio traffic. I was at the scene where Allen Dayton was abducted. I must have broken fifteen speed laws getting to Santa Barbara, and you know how the traffic bottlenecks as you get into town.”

“One of the police officers told you about the file?”

Turner sipped his coffee. “Yes, but not one of yours. It was a Santa Barbara guy. A uniformed cop. He was the first one on the scene and saw the file.”

“And he opened it?” Randi asked.

“Nah, at least I doubt it. The file had a label on it with the mayor’s name and the word
Congress.
Since our mayor is, well, our mayor, I have to ask why that word would appear on a folder. Why is that, Mayor? Thinking of moving up in the world?”

Here’s where I had to be careful. “I have not filed to run for any other office. My job keeps me plenty busy.”

Turner laughed. “Why is it that every time politicians are thinking of running for higher office, they deny it when asked? It’s like they’re ashamed of wanting to do more for the community. Are you planning on running, Mayor?”

“I have no such plans at the moment.” I was sounding evasive and I hated it.