The Incumbent (34 page)

“What?” I asked her.

“I didn’t say anything,” Randi said.

“Me neither,” Celeste chimed.

“You don’t need to. I know that cute did-you-see-that look.” I shifted my stiff body on the sofa. Each hour seemed to lock up another joint.

“I think he’s sweet on you,” Celeste said with a grin that only young women can manage.

“Who? Jerry? There’s nothing between us.”

“That’s not what she said,” Randi countered. “She said he was sweet on you, not that you were sweet on him.”

“Are you?” Celeste asked.

“Are I what—I mean, am I what?”

“You have her flustered,” Randi said. “I’ve never seen her flustered.”

“I am not flustered,” I insisted. “Jerry and I are friends. He had an interest at one time, but things have changed over the years.”

Randi gave me a smug look. “Things have changed,” she parroted. “We understand.”

“All right, you two, you’re taking advantage of a battered woman.”

“And then there’s the yummy Detective Judson West.” Randi wasn’t letting up. Celeste allowed a smile to settle where only a frown had been. “Don’t you just love the name? Judson.”

“He is so totally sweet on you,” Celeste said.

“Oh, stop,” I said. “I’m starting to regret inviting you to stay the night.”

“I can see it,” Celeste pressed.

“Me too,” Randi added. “That’s two against one. Or maybe it’s unanimous and you’re just playing dumb.”

“We don’t know each other well enough for him to be interested in me.”

Randi guffawed. “Oh, come on. You think men sit down and reason this through? Male hormones and brain cells don’t work at the same time. It’s one or the other, like a light switch: on or off; off or on.”

“Definitely on,” Celeste said.

“Definitely on,” Randi repeated. “Tell us, if dashing and debonair Detective Judson West were to ask out the powerful, influential, knockdown-gorgeous Mayor Maddy Glenn, would she go?”

“No,” I said quickly.

“And why not?” Randi asked.

“It would be unprofessional. He’s working a case in which I am involved. It wouldn’t look right.”

“Uh-huh, and if there weren’t a case, what then?” Randi pressed.

“Not much sense in answering hypothetical questions.”

Randi and Celeste looked at each other. “She’d go,” they said in unison, then laughed. I couldn’t help joining them. The laughter stemmed less from the comment than from too many days of oppressive thoughts and fears. To have a break, even a momentary one, was welcome. The fears weren’t gone. All was not well. Lisa Truccoli and Allen Dayton were still missing, Lizzy was still dead, and we were no closer to finding an answer than when it all began. Randi and I had endured injury. Celeste was still a hollow shell, gutted by fear and imaginations of the worst. Her half-crazed father was in jail. But for a few seconds there was laughter, cleansing and cathartic laughter.

Then it stopped. Reality began to settle in once again, poisoning our moment.

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Celeste said, “I think I’ll go to bed.”

We said good night and watched as she made her way up the stairs. I heard the door to the guest room open and close.

“My heart breaks for her,” I admitted.

“She’s a trooper,” Randi said. “I don’t know if I could be that strong.”

“If anyone could, you could.”

“I don’t know.” Her gaze went distant. “Things bother me more than I let on. I’ve been worried about you and everything else.”

“And I’ve been worried about you. You’ve been a rock through all this, but I can tell it’s getting to you.”

She nodded. “It shows that much, huh?”

“Not to others, but it does to me.” I stared at the dark fireplace and wished a flame were blazing there. A fire brings more than heat; it brings a place of quiet reflection. My mind ran back to when Celeste and I sat before a roaring fire the day someone abducted her mother. “We’re closer than most. We know each other better than most in our working relationship.”

“Perhaps,” Randi whispered. She too was gazing into the empty fireplace.

“What’s wrong?” There was darkness, a sadness, veiling her face. “Did I say something?”

Her head snapped around. “No. You’ve done everything right. As always, you surprise me with your insight and courage. It’s almost frightening.”

“Frightening? How so?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Sometimes . . . sometimes it seems that the best course of action is to step back and let things happen. Things have a way of working themselves out.”

“Not in my experience. Horses don’t break themselves; someone has to tame them. Life is that way.”

Randi blinked several times. “Did you just use a ranch metaphor?”

I grinned. “I’m tired and on painkillers. I’m not at my best. I think I heard it in a movie.”

She nodded. “I understand about the meds. I’m a little fuzzy-headed myself.”

“Perhaps we should call it a night. I’ll get you a blanket.”

“No need. I’ll be fine. The sofa is comfy and the room warm. Don’t worry about me.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Her gaze returned to the fireplace. “Who do you think is doing all this?”

“I wish I knew. The more I know, the more confused I become. The whole thing is out of kilter. Why abduct people associated with me but never make contact, never ask for ransom? What kind of person does that? Why leave clues like the drops of blood on my card, a photo of me, and a file you prepared? I’m no detective, but I doubt that many criminals do those kinds of things. Then there’s Lizzy’s death—an ant bite, of all things.”

“An accidental death,” Randi mumbled.

“That’s what West thinks, not that it makes any difference. Lizzy is dead and died because of a felony. It’s murder no matter how you look at it.”

Randi nodded slowly, still staring at the cold hearth.

A light at the front window caught my attention. The light traced the window, then moved away. It was the security guard. He walked around the house from time to time, checking windows and doors. I had seen the light many times. In one way it was a comfort; in another, a reminder that a guard was needed to protect me and my own.

I turned back to Randi. She seemed thin and frail, as if half her weight had evaporated while I looked away. “Are you okay?”

She looked at me. Her eyes were red and puffy. “Yeah, I’m all right. Just a little tired and sore. I think the meds are making me sleepy.”

“I’ll leave you alone so you can sleep.” I rose to my feet, a painful effort, but at least I didn’t have a cast on my foot. “Are you sure you’ll be okay down here? I don’t mind sharing my bed for a night.”

“I don’t want to attempt the stairs. My ankle is killing me. I’ll be more comfortable on the sofa.”

“Okay. I’m going to bring the blanket down anyway. You can use it if you want.”

I went upstairs, trying to ignore each ache and pain, pulled a spare blanket from the hall closet, and returned to the living room. Randi had stretched out on the couch, lying on her back, the wounded ankle resting on the padded arm. Her eyes were closed and her face was turned to the side. She appeared to be asleep. I spread the blanket out along the back of the sofa to make it easy for her to reach.

I felt blessed to have a friend like Randi. Well over a decade separated us in age, but at heart we were the same. I studied her still form for a moment, then noticed that a small tear had trickled down her cheek. My heart broke.

Fighting back my own tears, I climbed the stairs and went to bed.

chapter 23

I
t was probably the meds. I seldom take anything more powerful than ibuprofen, so my tolerance for stronger medication is low. The doctor had given me Tylenol with codeine to take the edge off the cuts, bruises, and hip pain. I had taken my second dose and it wasn’t sitting well. The codeine was upsetting my stomach and unsettling, nonsensical dreams disrupted my sleep. I fought the bed for a while, then surrendered to the knowledge that sleep was out of reach.

I sat up and looked at the clock: 2:00 a.m. It was a miserable hour to be awake. Sitting in the dark had no appeal to me. I clicked on my bedside lamp. The light from it fell on a novel I had started two weeks before. I hadn’t touched it since. I picked the book up, then returned it to the nightstand. I had no desire to read.

Normally I sleep well, but there are nights when my mind won’t settle. In those times, I go down the hall and work for an hour or two. That usually helps. I rose, slipped into a terry cloth robe, and quietly made the short journey to my home office. I settled into my chair and turned on the desk light, leaving the overhead off. Too much light would do nothing to help me feel sleepy again.

I sat there listening to the silence for a few moments. I didn’t know what the future held, but for now there was peace and quiet. I savored it, luxuriated in it, then turned my attention to my desk. I had spent very little time in here over the last week. A thin layer of dust covered the glossy wood surface. I ran my finger through it and looked forward to the day Maria would be able to return to housecleaning. Since Mom and Dad started staying over, I gave Maria time off. Mom was compulsively clean but never came into my office. She knew I could be territorial, especially about business matters—something I picked up from my father. She never touched his home office, either.

On the desk was the file Randi had prepared. I opened the folder and studied the material. Previously I had looked through the pages, impressed by her thoroughness and detail. I had not studied it at length, not truly studied it as it deserved. So now I carefully reviewed the proposal, the demographics, estimated expenditures, key issues, and likely opponents. The last one caught my eye. Every politician has two primary concerns when running for office: money and opponents. I had noticed the list before but had not taken in the names.

It was a short list. Congressman Martin Roth had yet to announce his retirement, so all this was based on inside information Randi had gleaned from friends who worked for the congressman. The list would grow once word was out. Roth was a Republican, and several from that party would vie for the spot. Robert Till, the county supervisor, whose district closely matched Roth’s, was a natural assumption and would be a tough challenger. He had money, name recognition, and was as ambitious as they come. I watched his last campaign, and his speaking ability and natural charisma had shredded the other three candidates. He won his seat with fifty-eight percent of the vote. In a four-person race, that was an enormous number. Randi had him at the top of the list.

Another Republican would come from the business sector. Scott Elliot was the owner of two car dealerships. He could finance a congressional campaign out of his own pocket, but he’d had some bad publicity the year before. One of his managers had been playing games with lending institutions that loaned money for car purchases. Still, the memory of voters could be short about such things.

The list of Democratic contenders was longer. Not unusual, when an office is held so long by the opposite party. I was familiar with the name Wilma Easton. She was an assemblywoman in the state legislature. Although she had high name ID, she tended to self-destruct and came across as brash. She was also extremely liberal—too liberal even for her own party. Her acidic personality might cost her in a long and more visible campaign.

I didn’t recognize the next name: Garret Kinsley. Randi listed him as an outsider but a possible dark horse. A former diplomat to Argentina, he was handsome, well spoken, and well connected. To date he had shown little interest in the seat, but that could change once Roth announced his retirement.

The next name yanked me back as if I were a dog on a leash: Tess Lawrence—the perpetual speck of dirt in my eye. I had never heard her mention an interest in seeking a congressional seat, but then why would I? We had never been pals. In fact, we had always been poles apart on just about everything. An asterisk appeared by her name. I looked to the bottom of the page and found a footnote: “Inside information from Lawrence’s aide. Ninety percent probability for a run. She’s been stashing money in her war chest and taking more speaking requests. Has contacted LA consulting firm. Most likely will announce late.”

Randi didn’t name the aide. Tess had gone through three in the last two years. Most likely, the last one fired had spilled the beans, although the current aide was still a possibility. I let the revelation percolate in my mind. I wondered why Randi hadn’t brought it up in conversation, although she had asked several times if I had read the file. Perhaps she was waiting for me to react—her way of determining if I had actually put eyeball to page.

Tess could be a problem. She was shrewd, an excellent campaigner, and ruthless. I stopped myself. I had made no decision to run for the seat; why was I worried about Tess taking a shot at it? It was her right. Any citizen of age who hadn’t committed a felony could run for office.

Who was I kidding? Tess would be a disaster in the office. The thought of having to call her Congresswoman was too much to think about. If I chose to be honest with myself, I’d run just to keep her from settling in on Capitol Hill. That was a lousy motive but it was nonetheless real. Regardless of what I told Randi and others, I’ve always wanted to make a run for Congress. Now was as good a time as any.

I had begun to imagine what it would be like to walk the hallowed halls of Congress, when my mind chose a different path. I tried to focus on the excitement of such a large campaign and to imagine myself seated in a joint session while listening to the State of the Union address, but my thoughts remained untamable. Instead of images of Capitol Hill, my brain was flooded by the dream of Peter and the cardboard box. This time the image came with an audio track of Paul Shedd’s words on the pier. Was the Bible he gave Peter in the box?

I shook my head. It didn’t matter if it was. It had been there eight years; another night, another week, another month or year would make no difference to the here-and-now. I returned my attention to the file folder but my eyes refused to suck up the words. All I could see was dream-Peter’s sad countenance. All I could hear was the sincerity in Paul Shedd’s voice. Faith was important to Paul; there was no doubt of that. It had become important to Peter in the hours before he died.