The Incumbent Page 14

  The morning had been rough and I needed this moment of heaven. After two or three minutes of dipping, eating, and moaning, I was starting to unwind. “Can we stay here forever?” I asked.

  “Fine by me, but we might get bored. Or they might make us do the dishes.”

  “Party pooper.”

  “You feel like talking about Chief Webb?”

  “No, but I will.” I filled her in on the meeting, leaving nothing out.

  “You really said that to him? You said he was rubbing the budget issue in your face?”

  “I’m afraid I did. I think I hurt his feelings. In retrospect, I may have been overreacting.”

  “I don’t think Webb has feelings to hurt.”

  “Everyone has feelings; some people are just hard to figure out.”

  “Don’t go soft on him now,” Randi said, shoveling another guacamole- laden chip into her mouth. “He’s not your friend and I doubt he ever will be.”

  “He’s still a good cop, one who takes his job seriously. He doesn’t have to be my friend to do that. I expect him to respect my office even if he can’t wring out any respect for me. I suppose I owe him the same courtesy.”

  “You’re far more generous than I. So are you going to follow his advice about your parents?”

  I nodded and sipped my tea. “I called them as soon as he left. They balked at the idea. They tend to be a little stubborn. Maybe that’s where I get it. Anyway, I talked, cajoled, and finally pleaded. They’re going to my place this afternoon.”

  “So you whined them into submission.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way. They’re doing it as a favor for me. That was the only approach that worked. I told them I’d sleep better with them and Celeste in the house.”

  “Speaking of Celeste, what are you going to do with her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Randi paused, as if sorting through her words. “Is she going to stay with you? If so, how long?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t mind her staying with me. I kind of like it. It makes me feel like I’m doing something to help Lisa. As for how long—I don’t know. Certainly until we know something about her mother. One thing is for sure: she shouldn’t go with that mental-case father of hers.”

  “Amen to that. That man has a temper and too few brains to control it.”

  The waiter returned and we ordered our meals. I chose two ground-beef enchiladas, one in green sauce and the other in red. It was going to be more than I usually eat, but I didn’t care. Randi went with a wet burrito—basically an enchilada on steroids.

  “Getting back to your parents, do you think they’re in danger?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it. Webb’s contention is that Lisa and Lizzy were part of my campaign. Since my parents were also involved, they might be targets. I’m still not convinced that my campaign is the common factor.”

  “You think it’s just coincidence?”

  “I’m having trouble seeing it any other way.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “What?”

  She shrugged but said nothing.

  “Spill it, girl.”

  Randi pursed her lips. “I think you don’t see it because you don’t want to see it. Personally, I can’t see it any other way.”

  “Why?” I knew where she was going and I dreaded it.

  “Could all this be a coincidence? Perhaps, but I sure wouldn’t bet money on it. I certainly wouldn’t bet my life. I think you know this. You’ve taken some precautions, including insisting that your parents spend the next few days at your house. Two women, both associated with you, have been abducted. And not abducted off the streets but from their homes—homes which are across town from each other. You’re not dealing with a neighborhood nut case. Everything you’ve told me says this guy is methodical. He works with a plan. If he were a rapist, then . . . well, you know. If he were a murderer, there would be bodies. If he were just a burglar, he wouldn’t take hostages.”

  “Still—”

  “Hang on. There’s more. Did you tell me your card was found with four drops of blood on it and that the drops formed a square?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that in Lizzy Stout’s case, there was a picture with three drops of blood on it?”

  “Yes, one over each eye and one over the mouth.”

  Randi shook her head. “That is not random behavior. You don’t break into someone’s house, subdue the occupant, then say, ‘Gee, what else can I do? I know; I’ll put four drops of blood on a business card.’ It’s too premeditated, too rational in an irrational way, if you know what I mean.”

  “I get it.” None of this was new. Those very thoughts had bounced around in my brain like Ping-Pong balls, but hearing them voiced by Randi gave me the chills. “I just don’t know what it means.”

  “It means you need to do what you do best: be proactive. Sitting around waiting for this guy to make his next move isn’t going to cut it.”

  “If there is a next move.” It was a weak rebuttal. “The bad guy has to know that the police are on the case. That should scare him off.”

  Again Randi shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, Mayor, but you’re avoiding the hard truth. The abductor doesn’t care about the police. He’s baiting them. He’s leaving a message.”

  “What message?”

  “I have no idea, but the sooner that gets figured out, the sooner the clown will be caught.”

  One reason Randi worked for me was her honesty. Somewhere between being brutally blunt and being insipidly diplomatic was a realm of honest expression untainted by selfish motive. Randi lived in that land.

  She had addressed issues that had already occurred to me, but she put them into perspective. More importantly, she forced me to see the urgency. My history professor father had once opined, “The problem with politicians, Maddy, is that they surround themselves with smart people, then are too stupid to listen to them.” It was now my turn to decide if I would listen.

  The waiter brought our meals on too-hot-to-touch plates, and we set ourselves to the delicious business of consuming our orders. The food was a treat to my mouth but it sat heavy in my stomach, perhaps because my belly was full of fear. Randi was right. It was time to face the truth.

  Not wanting to taint our meal, we shifted our conversation from abductions to other topics. We covered the weather, movies, books, and men. Since neither of us was involved in a relationship, the last topic was short-lived. To my surprise, Randi didn’t bring up the research she had done on the congressional run. I was glad.

  Thirty minutes later we were leaning back in our chairs and making the well-known noises of the stuffed. The waiter cleared our plates. We left the courtyard of Tiny Titos just as it was beginning to fill with hungry lunch-goers. The early meal had been perfect; I was feeling revived and my nerves had returned to their normal functions.

  “To the office, James,” I said with a flourish, “and don’t spare the horses.”

  “James? Do I look like a James?”

  “Okay, how about Jamie. Don’t spare the horses, Jamie. Nah, it doesn’t sound right.”

  “Just fasten your seat belt,” Randi said with a crooked smile.

  “I’ll have to let it out. I’m bigger now than I was.”

  “I have an extension in the backseat.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who ate the monster burrito. That thing was huge.”

  “If I eat many more of those, I’ll need my own zip code.”

  She checked for traffic, then pulled away from the curb. I leaned back and soaked up more sun and enjoyed the caress of the wind that flowed through the convertible. “That was great. Thanks for being up front with me.”

  “No problem. You’ve always been a straight shooter with me. I figure I owe you that much, and . . .”

  “And what?” I prompted, my head against the headrest, my eyes closed.

  She didn’t answer.

  I turned to her and saw that she was shifting her eyes b
etween the rearview mirror and the road ahead. He face was drawn.

  “What?” I sat up straight in the seat and started to turn to see what had captured Randi’s attention.

  “Don’t,” she snapped. “Use the mirror on your door. Do you see that van? The blue one?”

  I cut my eyes to the passenger-side mirror. “Yeah, I see it.”

  “It looks familiar. I think I saw it when we were driving up here.” Her voice was strained.

  “You think it’s following us?”

  “Maybe, or maybe I’m just getting paranoid.”

  “Paranoid people face danger, too,” I said, trying to sound philosophical. “Take the next right.”

  “That’s not the way to the freeway.”

  “Exactly. Let’s see if he follows. If he does, make another turn, then another. If he’s following us, we’ll know.”

  Randi did as I instructed, making a slow right turn onto a residential street. Manicured lawns dressed up small but immaculate houses. She drove on, glancing in her rearview mirror. I fixed my eyes on the side mirror. I saw the van slow at the corner and then continue on.

  She sighed. “I must be getting jumpy. I was sure that guy was following us.”

  “He might be. If he is and if he knows the town, then our turn would have been unexpected. He slowed down for a moment. If he had turned with us, he would have given himself away. I don’t suppose you got his license number.”

  “No, I was too busy watching him.”

  “I didn’t, either.” Looking at the mirror again, I added, “These passenger-side mirrors are designed to give a wide-angle view. I could see the van easily enough but not the license plate.”

  “I’m not sure there was a front plate.” Randi frowned, then shook her head. “I just don’t know. What do we do now?”

  “Take a different way to the freeway. If we see him again, I’ll call the cops on my cell phone.”

  “This has been one wacky day,” Randi said.

  She had that right.

  chapter 12

  Back in the office, I spent the afternoon trying to focus on work. It was an uphill battle. There were things to do, people to call, decisions to make, and none of it was happening. Christopher Truccoli’s mad-dog attack kept playing through my mind.

  I rang Larry Wu to see how he was feeling. His aide informed me that he had left for the day. I couldn’t blame him. A quick call to Titus’s office revealed the same thing.

  I had much to thank these men for, but words seemed inadequate. After a little thought, I composed a letter to each, promising to treat them and their wives to a steak-and-lobster dinner. It was the least I could do.

  I studied my calendar, doing my best to forget about Truccoli. My job is normally the most effective therapy available. Usually I can lose myself in zoning considerations, speaking engagements, and the general business of running the city. Usually.

  The phone rang and Randi answered it. She put the caller on hold, leaned back in her chair so she could see through the doorway. “It’s Fred Markham.”

  I snapped up the receiver. “Good afternoon, Mr. City Attorney.”

  “Hi. I wanted to give you an update on the restraining order. I was able to pull a few strings, and a restraining order will be issued before day’s end. I’ve informed Detective West that it’s coming, and he said he’d pass the information on to Mr. Truccoli.”

  “I appreciate this, Fred,” I said, telling myself I should feel relieved.

  “That’s the good news. I was able to get the order for you but I can’t get one for Celeste. As you know, I represent the city but I can’t represent you as an individual. Since the attack took place on city property and was directed against city employees, I was able to get the order without any conflict of interest. You might want to talk to your young charge about getting a similar order. The best way to do that is for her to hire an attorney, but I have to tell you, it’s going to be a bit of a fight.”

  “Why is that?”

  He sighed and a moment passed before he replied. He was choosing his words carefully. “Maddy, her mother is missing. Truccoli is her closest relative. A judge is going to take that into consideration.”

  “But she’s nineteen, an adult, and she has made it clear that she doesn’t want to see him.”

  “I know this, but Truccoli’s violence was directed toward you, not his daughter. She will need to show some viable need for a restraining order.”

  “She’s at my house. The restraining order you obtained for me will keep Truccoli away from my house, right?”

  “Theoretically. He could defy the order. People do it all the time. All it does is give the police a ready excuse to arrest him.”

  “But he can’t come near me or my house.”

  “Right.”

  “So if Celeste is in my house, the order protects her.”

  “No, it protects you, but since Truccoli is forbidden to approach you, the function is the same. Once she leaves the house, it’s a whole different matter.”

  “So you think she should get her own restraining order, but it may be difficult to do. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s pretty much it.”

  “How long will Truccoli be locked up?” I asked, hoping to hear the word weeks in the answer.

  “Not long, Maddy. I spoke to West about it and he confirmed what I assumed to be the case. He’s entitled to appear before a judge within forty-eight hours of his arrest, but he’ll be out long before that. Police are charging him with two counts of assault. He has no prior arrests, no outstanding warrants; he doesn’t even have a parking ticket. He’ll go before a local bail officer, who will set bail: something between seven thousand and ten thousand dollars. Since there are no prior aggravating factors, he could be out as soon as he comes up with the money.”

  “Meaning what? He could be out in a few hours?” That thought made me sick.

  “Exactly. West said he’d hold him as long as is reasonable but his hands are tied. My guess is that he’ll be out by suppertime.”

  “Swell.”

  “Do you know if he has money?” Fred asked. “Will he be able to come up with the bail?”

  “As I understand it, he’s an exec in one of the major oil companies. I don’t think a few grand is going to hurt him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s carrying several credit cards with limits over that.”

  “Pity. I’d like to have seen him spend a couple nights in jail.”

  “I’d like to see him just disappear.”

  Fred grunted his agreement, said goodbye, and hung up.

  I glanced up and saw Randi at the door.

  “You look like you swallowed a lemon,” she noted.

  “I wish. It would be a whole lot easier to stomach. Christopher Truccoli will probably be out of jail by early evening.” I filled her in on the rest of the conversation.

  “You gonna call about private security, like Webb suggested?”

  I thought about it. It seemed unfair. I had done nothing wrong but take in a young woman whose mother was the victim of a crime. Now a man who could be the poster child for anger management was hounding me. “Yes. It’s the wisest thing to do.”

  “It’s also the expensive thing to do. They’re not going to come cheap.”

  “Can’t be helped,” I said, then quipped, “I’m sure it’s tax deductible.”

  “I have an idea. Why don’t I call the company that provides security guards for the city? Once they find out it’s for you, I bet they’ll give you a good rate.”

  It was a good idea but a politically dangerous one. “Be careful. If they give away too much, it can come back and haunt me during an election. You know, ‘Mayor Receives Personal Favors from City Contractors.’ That sort of thing. In fact, we’d better run the contract by the city attorney to determine possible conflict of interest.”

  “Will do,” Randi said cheerfully and disappeared.

  I leaned back in my chair and wondered why the righteous suffere
d.

  It was ten minutes past five when I lowered the automatic garage door and stepped into the house. Heavenly smells greeted me, aromas that reminded me of my childhood. I didn’t need to ask to know that Mom was in the kitchen making plain ingredients into something memorable, like an alchemist turning lead into gold. I inhaled deeply and immediately knew everything that was going on in the kitchen. A meat loaf was simmering in a Crock-Pot filled with hunks of carrots and potatoes. The oven was hosting homemade rolls and the stovetop was warming gravy. This was the meal Mom made to cheer me up. A thick slice of dense meat loaf covered in catsup, potatoes awash in thick brown gravy, and butter-laden rolls could cure anything. Since my teenage years, I’d been convinced that our country could convert any enemy into an ally if we could just get them to try my mother’s cooking.

  Mixing with the aroma of food was the sound of MTV music. Celeste sat on the leather sofa, her eyes fixed on my Panasonic television. She seemed frozen in place, not by the images and music, I suspected, but by stress, that Gorgonian monster which can suck the life out of the heartiest people and turn them to stone. Next to her was Michele. I assumed that my parents had picked her up.

  I set my purse on the small table next to the door, kicked off my shoes, and walked to Celeste. “How are you doing?” She looked pale.

  “Okay, I guess.” She shrugged. I put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I asked your mom if Michele could come over. She said it was all right.”

  “It is. Hi, Michele.”

  Her head moved in beat with the music, her ponytail swaying in rhythm. “Hey.”

  “Who’s that on the television?”

  “Tinkertown,” Michele said. “They’re new. The lead guitarist is a solid-gold babe.”

  I smiled, glad they hadn’t settled for admiring mere sterling-silver babes. “I’m going to say hi to my parents, then change clothes. These pantyhose are cutting me in half.”

  “Okay,” Celeste said. “I don’t suppose . . .”

  I shook my head. “No news, yet.” Choosing not to discuss her father until after I changed, I strode through the living room and into the dining area, where I found my father seated at the table drinking tea and reading. He rose and gave me a hug. It felt good. No matter how old I got, a hug from Dad seemed to imbue me with strength and the sense that all is right with the world.