The Incumbent Read online

  He’d studied me for seconds that seemed like hours, then nodded. He didn’t believe me. Why should he? I didn’t believe myself. West asked a few questions, praised Larry and Titus, then started for the door.

  “What are you going to do with Truccoli?” I asked. It was a shallow question with a deep need. What I wanted to hear was that he would be locked in some dark, rat-infested jail, but the small part of my mind that was still acquainted with logic knew better.

  “I’m going to have a long, long talk with him.”

  That had been thirty minutes before and my heart still flipped and fluttered, ricocheting off my rib cage. No matter how I tried to ignore the fear, it refused to be denied. Tears kept rising in my eyes and I kept forcing them back. Just when I thought I had won the battle, the image of Christopher Truccoli marching toward me rose in my mind like a demon summoned by some ancient necromancer. I could see his red face and hear his spittle-laced demands. My ears were filled with the sound of air punched from Titus’s lungs.

  I had to shake this. I had to quench the fire before it fanned into a blaze beyond anyone’s control. I had been through a worse conflagration, I told myself. I had endured the tragic loss of my husband. Truccoli’s antics were nothing in comparison. All I had to do was keep it in perspective.

  The tears attempted another getaway.

  “I brought you some coffee,” Randi said as she strode into the office. She was carrying a mug with the city’s seal on it. Smoothly she set it on my desk.

  “I didn’t ask for coffee.”

  “I know. I brought it anyway.” She sat in one of the guest chairs.

  I took a sip. “Yuck! It’s cold. You brought me a cup of cold coffee?”

  “Yeah. You’re too upset to have caffeine right now.”

  “Then why bother bringing it?”

  “I had to bring something.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Small red veins tinted her eyes. Like me, she was teetering on the edge of tears. “I was feeling alone out there. I can’t concentrate.”

  She began to shake. I’d known Randi for years and she had always struck me as unflappable, but at this moment she was as frail as an old china cup.

  “Randi, you never need an excuse to come talk to me. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m just not thinking straight. That chump has shaken me and I hate myself for allowing him to.”

  “I’m a little off myself—okay, I’ve been shaking like a leaf for the last fifteen minutes. At least I don’t feel like I’m going to hurl my breakfast anymore.”

  She nodded and stared at the floor. “If I went over to the jail and shot him, do you think the police would mind?”

  “Yeah, they might,” I said with a tiny laugh. “They’re kinda fussy about such things.”

  Randi buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook and my heart broke. I got up and closed the door. Stepping to her side, I placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her to her feet. She kept her head down.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I hate crying.”

  “I know,” I said, then took her in my arms.

  I lost the battle with my tears.

  What followed was five minutes of wet therapy, a psychological scrubbing that came by shedding a river of tears. I wasn’t sure who was holding whom, nor did I care. “Tears are like vomiting,” my mother used to say. “The process isn’t much fun but things seem better when it’s all over.”

  She was right; crude but right. While I didn’t feel good, I felt as if something nasty had passed from me.

  I released Randi and handed her a tissue from the box on my desk. We began the ritual nose-blowing and eye-dabbing that follows every communal cry.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “It’s a small price to pay for cold coffee.”

  “Starbucks has made millions off it.” She laughed. I joined her. It was a laughter that came from relief, not from joy.

  A soft knocking came from the door. We looked at each other, then hurriedly tried to pull ourselves together. I quickstepped to my place behind the desk and Randi opened the door. I wasn’t sure who I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the man who stood across the threshold.

  “Chief Webb,” I croaked. Crying was hard on the voice. I cleared my throat. “Please come in.”

  “Thank you. Am I interrupting?”

  “No. We’re just a little traumatized by what happened. Please have a seat. Can Randi get you something, water, coffee—” I glanced at Randi—“hot coffee?”

  Webb’s eyes narrowed. I assumed he knew he was on the outside of an inside joke. “No, thank you. I won’t be here long.” He sat down.

  Randi removed the mug from my desk, then excused herself.

  “West tells me you’re unharmed,” Webb said the moment she was gone. “True?”

  “No physical harm. Thanks to Titus . . . Councilmen Overstreet and Wu. They really came through.”

  “So I hear.” He fidgeted, something I had never seen him do. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  A quivering silence filled the void between us.

  Something needed saying. “Your officers were great. They got here fast and took charge, especially Detective West. The whole thing seemed old hat to him.”

  “He’s been around the block a few times. I imagine he’s seen it all. Big-city cops usually have.”

  “Well, I’m thankful for his work and that of the other officers. I should send cookies.”

  “No need,” Webb said, holding up his hand. “It’s their job.”

  “Perhaps, but knights in shinning badges deserve something, even if it’s just baked goods.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  More silence. More fidgeting.

  “How can I help you, Chief?”

  “I’m here . . . to apologize.” He shuffled his feet. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

  “You’re not responsible for Truccoli’s actions.”

  He tilted his head and frowned. “Truccoli was pretty hot when he first got into town. West tells me he called you from the plane while flying in. When you refused to tell him where his daughter was, he got really steamed. He must have saved it all up on the flight, because he bent West’s ear but good, and when he didn’t get any satisfaction, he insisted on seeing me. I was gone at the time, but he came back.”

  “You actually met with him?” I was astonished. Webb was chief of police. He didn’t have to meet with any citizen just because the person demanded it. Truccoli didn’t even live in the state.

  “I was hoping to calm him. We don’t need someone kicking up dust while we’re trying to run an investigation. Besides, it was his wife—ex-wife—who was taken. I owed him that much.”

  “Why do I have this feeling that things didn’t go smoothly?”

  “It could have gone better. He started soft and easy. Maybe he was trying a different approach. I told him what we knew about the case and he asked a few questions. Then he turned the conversation to his daughter. He wanted to know what you had done to her.”

  “Done to her?”

  “That’s how he put it. I said as far as I knew, you hadn’t done anything to her. I then reminded him that his daughter is a legal adult. That set him off. He went ballistic. The man has a real temper.”

  “You think? Then what happened? I assume you ripped him but good.”

  He shook his head. “Nah. I just removed my handcuffs from my belt. He sorta calmed down, then stormed from my office. That was yesterday. One of our officers caught him at Ms. Truccoli’s home. The officer didn’t know who he was, so he put a few questions to him. After all, the man was at a crime scene. We had released the scene, so he wasn’t tampering with evidence, and he claimed to be on the deed. I had someone check on that today. He lied.”

  “He’s a real piece of work.” My stomach soured again. “I still don’t see the need for an apology.”

  “You and I don’t get along very well, Mayor. We don’t see eye to
eye, and I doubt we ever will. I didn’t vote for you and I won’t vote for you next time. But you are mayor and that fact alone demands some respect from me. I should have seen this coming. It’s only natural that someone in Truccoli’s state of mind would come to the city building looking for you. I didn’t see it. Maybe I didn’t want to see it. Whatever the reason, I let him slip through the cracks. For that I am sorry.”

  I didn’t know how to feel or what to think. In one way the chief of police had just insulted me; in another way he had paid me a compliment. Not knowing what else to say, I uttered, “Thank you, Chief.”

  “There’s something else. West told me that Mrs. Stout, like Lisa Truccoli, has a connection to your campaign. He also thinks you might be in some danger.”

  “He mentioned that.”

  “Did he mention your parents?”

  My spine chilled. “What about my parents?”

  “When you won the election two years ago, the paper carried an article about what made your campaign so successful. In the article you thanked several workers, including Truccoli and Stout and—”

  “And my parents,” I murmured. That must have been where Doug Turner made the connection. For all I knew, he may have written the article. I couldn’t remember. My nerves were already on edge; this pushed me to the brink. “Do you really think . . .”

  “There’s no way to know, but I would suggest that they take some precautions. I don’t have the manpower to assign an officer to everyone who worked on your campaign. I wish I did.”

  The ice water that had chilled my spine suddenly turned hot. Webb and I had knocked heads on several issues since I came to the city council, but the real wedge between us was the city budget. I’m tightfisted with other people’s money, especially when that money is taxed out of their wallets and purses. Webb had asked for a substantial bump in his budget. He wanted more squad cars, better computers, and enough money to hire ten more officers. If he had gotten his way, his budget would have swollen by forty percent, and those dollars would have had to come from some other department. I fought against it. In the end he got a three percent increase and I got a political enemy.

  Hornets of angry thoughts swarmed in my mind and apparently it showed. Webb raised his hands. “This has nothing to do with our problems, Mayor. I’m just telling you the facts. I have only so many men and too many square miles to protect.”

  “And so you thought you’d come over and rub that in my face.” My jaw tightened like a vise. “You’re here instead of Detective West so you can see my reaction. Is that it? You’re here to make a point and you’re using my fear and family to do it.”

  “No.” He snapped the word loud and hard. His eyes flashed and his face grew red. “You’re wrong. That is not why I’m here. I’m here because the chief of police owes his mayor the truth, no matter how much she dislikes him. I am not an evil man, Mayor. I am not nearly as low as you think I am.”

  His words stung me. Webb had always been a good cop. He was opinionated and at times blunt to the point of rudeness, but I had never known him to be mean-spirited. I worked my lips in frustration and drummed my fingers on my desk. Misplaced anger filled me and it wanted a new target. None was in sight. Words stayed just out of reach, too ethereal to grasp. I felt like a cat chasing reflections on a wall. I pawed at the words but they just kept moving away from me.

  Webb bailed me out. He cleared his throat, then said in much softer tones, “I’ve approved of Detective West’s decision to have patrols stepped up in the area around your house. That will continue, but you should think about taking a couple safety measures yourself.”

  “Like what?” I finally managed to say.

  “If it were me, I’d move my parents into my home for a few days, until we get a solid lead of some kind. It’s no guarantee of safety, but at least you’ll know where everyone is. Better yet, you have siblings, don’t you?”

  “A brother and a sister.”

  “You and your parents could move in with one of them.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t do that. They live too far away for me to commute to the office. I doubt my parents would even consider it. My brother and sister have small children in the home. My parents won’t take danger to their grandkids.”

  “Then you’re back to your house. Have your folks move in for a bit and hire some private security.”

  I nodded. There was wisdom in his words. I didn’t like it, my parents would hate it, but Webb was right. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Webb rose. “Good. I’m sorry my visit upset you.” He started to leave.

  “Chief?” He stopped and turned. “Thanks.”

  He nodded once and left, closing the door behind him. In the silent, empty office, I felt alone, adrift in rising seas. I picked up the phone and dialed my parents’ number.

  I couldn’t take the office anymore. The morning had been emotionally grueling as well as physically taxing. I had been untouched by Christopher Truccoli, but the stress and tension were beating me up in their own way. Dealing with Doug Turner early that morning, being accosted by Truccoli, then meeting with Webb, had left me feeling as if I were in the eleventh round of a ten-round fight.

  I buzzed Randi. “Let’s get out of here.” She agreed without hesitation.

  A few minutes later we were riding in Randi’s yellow Volkswagen Beetle. When I left for college, my father bought me a VW bug. It was old but in great condition and I loved it more than any car I’ve ever owned. Other than a similarity in shape, Randi’s Beetle was nothing like what I drove two decades before. Hers was heavier, solid, and far more comfortable. The engine was larger and the suspension rivaled that of luxury cars. “Corners on rails,” she had bragged the day she got it. She’d insisted on popping the hood and showing me how the large engine was crammed into the front of the car. The front! Could it be a true Beetle?

  Hers was a convertible and she had the top down before she pulled from the parking stall. The day had warmed and the sun had evicted any remaining clouds. The air was sweet, perfumed with salt from the sea and with Southern California desert plants. I leaned my head back and let the breeze knot my hair and the sun toast my face. It felt wonderful, California catharsis. For me sunshine cures everything.

  Randi, normally cautious in everything she did, especially driving, took corners faster than she should have and left stoplights as if in a drag race. I said nothing. I didn’t care. I was out of the office and that was all that mattered.

  “I suggest we go eat things that will make us fat,” Randi said. “Indulgence is the vice of the noble.”

  “I’m impressed. What great philosopher said that?”

  “Me. I just made it up.”

  “And here I’m wasting your talents making you work in an office when you could be writing greeting cards.”

  Randi laughed and turned onto the freeway. “The sacrifices I make for our city. I want Mexican. So do you.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes, you do. You want two ground-beef enchiladas, chips, salsa, and the biggest bowl of guacamole they make.”

  “Do you have a place in mind?” I asked, my eyes still closed and my face still turned skyward. “Or were you planning on driving until we bumped into a restaurant?”

  “I know a great place in San Diego.”

  “Me too, but that’s two hours away. How about something closer?”

  “San Diego is nice this time of year.”

  “I know. I went to college there, remember? Closer.”

  “Okay, Tiny Titos it is. I’ll take the next exit. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  “It’s just what we need.”

  “You weren’t really thinking of driving to San Diego, were you?” I sat up and looked at her. Her short red hair snapped in the breeze and her blue eyes sparkled. Gone was the red that had foretold the coming tears. She smiled and beaming white teeth that I had more than once wished were mine shone in the bright sunlight.
She said nothing.

  Ten minutes later we were walking into an out-of-the-way Mexican restaurant. Thick white plaster covered the walls, which proudly showed off their cracks as if they were battle scars. We had a choice of eating in a courtyard festooned with cheap plastic tables and green and red picnic umbrellas with the names of Mexican beers emblazoned on them or dining in the dark interior of the restaurant. We chose the former. I’d had all the confining rooms I wanted for the day.

  A young Hispanic man with what was obviously his first mustache seated us next to a bubbling fountain. A naked plaster cherub held a small pot out of which water poured into the fountain’s basin. The sound was soothing. Exterior speakers released soft recorded music from a mariachi band.

  We fussed with our hair, trying to force the knots out and make our manes hang as they were supposed to. I gave up. Randi, whose hair is half the length of mine, made a better job of it.

  A few minutes later a waiter showed up. He was an older man and much more adept at mustache growing. He took our drink orders, called us “amigas,” and disappeared.

  We filled the next few minutes with small talk but I knew it wouldn’t last. I couldn’t pretend that all was well with the world. I doubted Randi could, either. Sooner or later the conversation would swing around to the very thing we were trying to avoid.

  The waiter was back. It was just 11:30 and the lunch crowd had not arrived. At the moment we were the only two customers in the courtyard. As the waiter set up a small folding table, the young man who seated us joined him. He brought a stone bowl, two large avocados, salt, cilantro, lime, and a large knife, and then disappeared into the bowels of the restaurant.

  Wordlessly the waiter cut the first avocado in half and removed the large pit by smacking the sharp edge of the knife into it and twisting. The golf ball–sized seed popped free. What followed was high drama. He scooped out the green, pasty contents of the avocados and plopped it down in the stone bowl, mashed it and mixed in the other ingredients, bathed it in a shower of lime juice, sprinkled on some salt, and then set the dish before us. Instant guacamole, and my stomach immediately became impatient. A basket of chips was set on the table and I had a scoop of glorious green goop before the waiter had picked up his little table.