The Incumbent (6 page)

I walked through the front doors, heavy golden oak slabs, and into the wide lobby. To my left was the city clerk’s office, and to my right the city’s building department. My office is down a wide white hall that leads to the back of the building. I moved down the corridor, my shoes tapping on the terrazzo tile. The hallway leads to a reception area, which is split by a low wood rail. On the near side are several chairs and companion end tables upon which rest magazines and the city’s latest newsletter. On the other side is a single desk that was manned by a beyond-middle-aged receptionist everyone called Fritzy. Her real name was Judith Fritz, and she had worked for the city almost as long as I’d been alive.

“Hi, Fritzy,” I said with a smile. Approaching the half door in the dividing wall, I heard a buzz as she released the lock. Nonemployees require permission to enter the council office area. Politics can bring out the worst in some people. It’s best to have at least a token barrier.

“Good morning, Madam Mayor. Right on time as usual, I see.” Fritzy’s hair was pure gray but her eyebrows indicated she had once been a brunette. A little color from a bottle would have made her look ten years younger, but that never seemed to be an issue with her. I hoped to age with that high level of grace and confidence. She wore a red dress and a wide smile.

“I try. You look good in red.”

“Darling, I look great in everything.” She winked and I laughed. Fritzy’s optimism and humor were legendary.

“Is Randi in?”

“Your darling assistant was in at eight. She came in the back.” Fritzy was referring to the back hallway that leads from the rear parking lot to the offices. It allows workers and council members to avoid the front lobby. I frequently make use of it myself, but this morning I parked in the space marked, “Mayor” in the front lot. There is a reserved spot for each person on the council and for the support executives like the city manager and the city attorney. Most prefer to park in the back. Parking out front, they think, is a billboard that says, “Hi, I’m here; come interrupt me.”

“Great,” I said.

“I just made coffee. Would you like some?”

I said I would and made my way back to my daytime home.

Randi Portman was my personal assistant and a good one. She was sharp, dedicated, and loved public service. There was no doubt she would run for office herself someday, although she always denied it. She seemed content to help me keep my head above the civic waters. I found her at her desk, which is located in a twelve-by-twelve office just outside my more spacious room. She was holding a cup of coffee, cradling the ceramic cup and letting the heat of it warm her hands.

“Cold?” I asked as I crossed the threshold.

“You know me, I’m always cold. They keep the air conditioner on all day and night. Someone should tell maintenance it’s February. You could hang meat in here.”

It felt fine to me.

Randi was in her mid-twenties, with short red hair parted on the left. Her blue eyes revealed a keen intelligence. She was a whiz with computers, with spelling—which is my weak suit—and with names. She lived and worked with an efficiency that would shame most people and occasionally intimidated me.

Rising from her chair, she set her cup on the desk. “I put several things on your to-do pile. There are also notes about calls you need to make. Councilman Adler left a message on your voice mail. He’s upset about last night’s meeting. Councilwoman Lawrence left a similar message. Apparently, I missed something. That’s what I get for going to a birthday party instead of the council meeting.”

“Bring your coffee in here, and I’ll explain it to you.”

We walked into my office and sat down. Fritzy delivered my coffee, and when she left, I relayed the whole story. Randi absorbed each word. “That’s terrible. And the police have no clue as to what happened?”

“None. At least not yet.”

I watched Randi’s eyes dart around. It was something she did when deep in thought. The cogs were spinning in her head. I let her think.

Randi had been working with me for four years. She was a part-time student at a private college in Westmont, a few miles north of Santa Rita. Like me, she majored in political science.

She was a bundle of high hopes and big dreams and had been encouraging me to run for higher office. I’ve always maintained that I’m more effective in city government, but will admit that the idea appeals to me. I knew that; I also knew she knew it.

Campaigns could be long. A run for small-town mayor should be well under way a year before the election. A candidate for any higher seat should be running hot and hard at least eighteen months before the primaries. It was not unusual to begin the background work on a campaign two years before election day.

“Is there more?” Randi asked.

I told her about Detective West’s visit and his request for fingerprints. Her face remained neutral but her eyes closed, and I knew an atomic bomb had just detonated somewhere in her head.

“They shouldn’t ask for that,” Randi said through tight lips. “You’re the mayor; they should know the effects that might have on your administration.”

“They’re just doing their job. West said he’d be sensitive to my special circumstances.”

“It’s Chief Webb I’m worried about. He’s still ticked about that funding fiasco of his. You didn’t cave to his pressure and now he’s got it in for you.”

“Maybe, but that changes nothing. I’ve got to do this.”

“I suppose.”

“No supposing about it. For me to refuse would be worse than submitting. Imagine what an opponent could do with that. ‘Mayor Refuses to Aid Police in Criminal Case.’”

“You’re right, of course. Crime and safety are big issues in this district.”

“District? You mean the city, don’t you?” I paused. “Have you been making plans again?”

Randi blushed. “It’s on your desk under the messages and other files, but wait to comment on it until you have time to study it in detail. Okay?”

I eyed her. I trusted Randi but she could be devious. “Okay, but I’m not running for president.”

She laughed. “Not yet, anyway. What you just told me explains something.” She pointed at my desk. “One of the messages is from Doug Turner.”

I groaned. Doug Turner was the crime reporter for the
Register.

“How could he know?” Randi asked.

I shrugged. “The paper had someone at the meeting last night. Chief Webb walked in and spoke to me. That would arouse suspicion.”

“Moron.”

“I assume you mean Webb. He could have handled it in a less conspicuous way, but subtlety isn’t one of his strong suits. Of course, Turner could have figured it out himself. During the last election, he doubled as a political reporter—one of the benefits of working for a small-city newspaper. He might have remembered Lisa’s name.”

Randi grunted. She was more than a little peeved.

“It’s going to be all right, Randi. Let’s not lose sight of who the real victims are: Lisa and Celeste.”

“Yes, you’re right.” She paused, her eyes darting. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t want to deal with the press today. Give Mr. Turner a call and tell him I’m booked. Put him off until tomorrow. On second thought, don’t use the word
booked.
Also, I promised to take Celeste and a friend to the Fish Kettle. You could make reservations.”

“For three, then?”

“Why don’t you come along? I could use some help. I remember being that age; it wasn’t an easy road.”

“Okay. I’ll make reservations for four.” Randi rose and exited my office, closing the door behind her. A moment later an unladylike word wafted through the closed door. I smiled and glanced at my messages. Since I had returned all my calls before the council meeting the previous night, there were only three demanding a response: one from Councilman Adler, one from Councilwoman Lawrence, and the one I dreaded most, from Doug Turner.

I pushed them all aside. It was still early, and I doubted that any of them would be in their offices. Letting curiosity get the best of me, I put aside a folder on the city budget, the one from the Planning Commission, and the one from the city attorney’s office. All could wait until I discovered what Randi had been up to.

A purple file was at the bottom of the stack. Randi and I have a system of colored file folders. Purple meant private or personal. I opened it and read the title page. I was looking at a neatly typeset document with words centered on the page.

MADISON GLENN FOR CONGRESS
A Preliminary Review
by Ms. Randi Portman

I picked up the phone and buzzed her desk. When she answered, I said, “You can’t be serious!”

S
erious as a heart attack.” She begged me again to withhold judgment until I had read everything. I promised and set it aside. I wanted to dig right in, but I knew myself well enough to know that whatever was in that file would overwhelm anything else that needed my attention. I would have to be patient for at least a couple of hours.

I took a few moments to read over the other, more mundane files and made a few notes to myself. This day’s schedule was light, as was the rest of the week. No ribbon cuttings, no speaking to senior groups, no personal requests for meetings. It was a relief, considering all that had already happened. The demand on my time varies, like that of an emergency room doctor. Things can be slow one moment, the waiting room jam-packed the next.

I decided to take advantage of the extra time and complete a few unpleasant tasks. It was a personal management technique I learned from my father: Do first the things you least want to do. It was similar to eating one’s vegetables before moving on to the fried chicken.

Rising from my desk, I grabbed my handbag and stepped into Randi’s office. “See if you can get the minutes of last night’s meeting from the clerk. I also need recent bank records on the campaign account.”

“How far back?”

“Let’s look at the last six months. Better to appear cautious and forthcoming. Go online and download any activity since the last bank statement came in.”

“Will do. You headed to Crime Central?” That was Randi’s pet phrase for the Police Department.

“Yeah.” With a wink I added, “You want me to pick anything up for you?”

“Hmm.” She raised a finger to her chin. “They have a nice selection of motorcycle cops. . . . A tall, strapping blond would be nice.”

“I didn’t know you were into the motorcycle types.”

“You’d be surprised at what you don’t know about me.”

I laughed, said I’d be right back, and headed out the back hall.

The Police Station, a wide affair with an exterior matching that of City Hall, is positioned behind our building. It took only a few minutes to walk across our rear parking area and into the station. One difference between our building and theirs is their employee parking lot, a sea of macadam surrounded by a tall chain-link fence with razor wire on top. The barricade isn’t a device to keep people in but to keep thieves out. Five years ago there were several embarrassing auto burglaries from the lot. Nothing gets cops angrier than having a thief trespass on their property, steal things from their cars, and stroll off into the night. Jokes still fly around town.

Inside the Police Station, all similarities with City Hall end. The Planning Commission insisted that the exterior comply with the design regulations, but it had no authority over what happened inside the walls. I always have the feeling I’ve crossed a time warp when I step through the glass doors of the lobby, leaving behind the architectural style of old Mexico and walking into the twenty-first century.

Stark white tile covers the floor; the ceiling is comprised of narrow bands of polished aluminum interrupted by the occasional recessed incandescent light. White enamel coats the walls. It takes a while to adjust to the brightness. On one wall is a large, framed display of police arm patches from around the country. On the other wall is a plaque bearing the names of the officers of the month. On the same wall is a substantial color photo of Chief Webb, reminiscent of a photo I’ve seen of a very angry Winston Churchill. As I approached the chief’s gruff image, Churchill’s words, “Some chicken, some neck” rang in my ears. Webb was Churchill without the humor.

“May I help you?”

A middle-aged male officer was standing behind the counter that divides the lobby from the office area behind. He had gray in his hair and a large belly straining his Sam Browne belt. Three yellow chevrons adorned his sleeve just below the shoulder. Behind him were several desks, most occupied by uniformed women.

“Yes, Sergeant, you can.” I gave him my best professional smile.

“Oh, Mayor! I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first. I was doing . . .”

“That’s all right, Sergeant. I saw that you were busy. Is Detective West in?”

“Yes ma’am. Do you have an appointment to see him?”

My first inclination was to remind him that I didn’t need an appointment, but instead I said, “Yes, we have a meeting.”

He walked back to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed a two-digit number. I heard him tell West I was out front. Coming back to the counter, he said, “He’ll be right out.” Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. I stepped forward to hear the message he didn’t want overhead by others.

“I know the Police Officer’s Association backed Adler, which is crazy, since he’s a criminal law attorney, but I want you to know I voted for you.”

“I appreciate that, Sergeant—” I looked at his nametag—“Sergeant Collins. I’ll take all the help I can get.”

“My pleasure. My wife was right; you’re doing a good job.”

“Well, give your wife a hug for me.”

“Campaigning, Madam Mayor?”

I turned my eyes to the trim, dark-haired man who had been in my home a little over an hour ago. “Detective West. I hope this is not too early.”

He surrendered a little smile. “Touché. Pop the door, Collins. Let’s not keep the mayor waiting.” The door to my right buzzed. I went to it, turned the knob, and left the civilian area behind. I was now in cop country.

West guided me through the outer office area and through a set of doors that lead to the back of the station. This place is less glitzy, more utilitarian. Gray metal desks fill a large open space. Beige carpet blankets the floor. The air smells of old coffee. To one side of the room is a glass wall, beyond which I could see three people, two women and one man, seated at a U-shaped console. It is the communication room. All 911 calls come here: fire, ambulance, and police. The dispatchers then take over. Detectives and officers use the rest of the room to write reports, interview people, or simply take a break.