The Incumbent Page 15

  “Welcome home, kiddo.”

  “Hi, Dad. Whatcha reading?”

  “A biography of Chester Alan Arthur.”

  One more biography I’m grateful he wasn’t reading when I was born. Mayor Chesty Glenn. I shuddered.

  “Your mother has moved into the kitchen, as you can tell.” He took his seat again. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “She thinks you’re stressed out, and that means I get to eat things she won’t let me eat otherwise. Act depressed; maybe we’ll get ice cream with our peach cobbler.”

  I went into the kitchen. Mom was bent over, her face staring into the oven and her fanny directed at me.

  “That’s a fine way to greet your daughter,” I said. “Point that thing in a different direction.” She quickly closed the door and turned. I gave her a swift buss on the cheek. She was wearing the only apron I own, a birthday gift from Randi. The words “That’s Mayor Cook to You” adorned the front.

  “Daughters are not allowed to talk about their mothers’ rear ends.” She gave me hug. “How was your day?”

  “You’ve probably already guessed. I’ll fill you in after I change. Just tell me dinner is going to be on the table soon.”

  “Fifteen minutes. Didn’t you eat lunch?”

  “Oh, I ate lunch, all right. I ate too much. I have no right to be hungry, but I’m sure I’ll manage to get a few bites down.” I studied the kitchen. It gleamed. My mother was fastidious in many ways. She cleaned as she cooked. On the stove a pot simmered. I lifted the lid. Asparagus. It was just getting better and better.

  “Put that down,” Mom snapped. “And get out of the kitchen. You’re throwing my rhythm off.”

  “Surely there’s something I can do to help.”

  “Go get comfortable. Leave the rest to me.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” I snapped a salute and turned to leave. At the edge of the kitchen I paused. “You’re the best, Mom. You know that, don’t you?”

  “That’s what I keep telling people.”

  I smiled and went upstairs.

  Changing into a denim jumpsuit, I hung up my office clothes and slung my evil pantyhose onto the floor of the closet. My mother’s tidiness gene had skipped a generation. I’d just reached the top of the stairs when the phone rang. “I’ve got it up here,” I called to the others. Trotting down the hall and into my office, I snapped up the receiver. It was the owner of Atlas Security, Jim Lynch. I gazed at the ocean through the large windows. The sun was starting its slow descent to the blue horizon. The thick layer of clouds was late for its nightly appointment with the shore. The setting sun painted a gilded strip on the undulating sea.

  Lynch had called to inform me that a man from his office would be on site at seven o’clock and that another guard would relieve him by one a.m.

  “The first guard is Tom Wilson,” Lynch said. “He’s big, he’s black, and he’s the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet. He’s also one of the sharpest employees on my payroll. I hope to keep him for a long time. He will come to the door and introduce himself. He’ll be wearing the same-style uniform our people wear at City Hall, and he’ll show his ID.

  “Since Tom’s relief won’t arrive until the wee hours, he won’t be checking in with you, unless you really want him to.” I said I didn’t. “Just so you know, his name is Allen Rodriguez. He’s about four inches shorter than Tom and about twenty-five pounds lighter. He’s also one of our best. You know why I’m telling you this?”

  “Because if anyone else shows up in a uniform but doesn’t match your description, I’ll know he’s not from you. Right?”

  “Exactly. Your aide seemed . . . concerned.”

  “Actually, I feel a little silly. This was Chief Webb’s idea.”

  “It’s a good one. I have enough details to know that I want my best men on the job. There’s something else you should know. The guards will be obvious. That’s the goal. They will stand out front and walk around the house, and they’ll be driving our patrol cars with our company name and emblem on the door. We want it known that the grounds are guarded.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope this all works out for you,” Lynch said. “I’ll have a courier bring a contract to your office tomorrow.”

  “Remember, the city isn’t hiring you; I am. So put my name on the contract.”

  “I think the city should pay for it, but I’m no politician. Tom Wilson will bring a private contract. Just sign it and let me do the rest.”

  I agreed and hung up.

  Placing my hands behind my back, I began to pace the large room, my bare feet cushioned by the plush carpet. How quickly things can change. In just a few days I had gone from my organized, day-to-day routine, loving my job, to being attacked at work and having guards placed outside my house. The world is a nutty place.

  I took a deep breath and walked to the narrow street-side windows. The house cast a long, dark shadow as the sun set behind it. The street on which I live is a quiet lane, narrow and well maintained. Little traffic passes down it. I wondered where the guard would park.

  Dinner was every bit as good as I expected. Even Celeste ate more than she had in the last two days. That’s the way it was with my mother’s cooking. It was food therapy, pure and simple. It couldn’t solve a problem, but for a short time it could make you forget it.

  At my mother’s prompting, I related the day’s events. I tried to downplay the incident with Truccoli in the conference room, but there was no way to dilute it completely. My preference would have been to avoid the topic completely, but that would have been irresponsible. My parents had a right to know and more importantly, so did Celeste. The mood at the table darkened as I told the story. My father’s face hardened and he chewed his food as if punishing it. I expected that. Like most fathers, he was extremely protective of his children.

  Celeste was angry, too. “You see? You see? That’s why I don’t want to see him. He’s nuts. He left us. He left Mom. He left me, and now he comes back to make things worse. I won’t see him. I won’t.” She started to rise but I placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “You don’t have to,” I reminded her. “You’re no longer a minor. You make your own decisions.”

  “But what if he causes more trouble for you?”

  “Then he’ll end up in jail again. I’ve taken some extra precautions.” I explained about the restraining order and the guards.

  “Wise,” Dad said, “but irritating. One shouldn’t have to have security guards posted on the front doorstep.” He stabbed another piece of meat loaf as if it were about to attack him.

  “So when does Celeste’s dad get out of the joint?” Michele asked.

  “As soon as he posts bail. He may be out already.”

  Her face darkened. “Will he, like, come here or anything?”

  “I doubt he knows where I live. Besides, we’ll have a guard out front, the police have stepped up patrols in the area, and the house has a great alarm system.”

  “So we’re going to be okay?” Celeste asked.

  “Yeah,” I replied with a smile. “We’re going to be okay. We’re as safe as we can be anyplace.”

  Mom stood. “Well, I think it’s time for peach cobbler. Anyone want ice cream with it?”

  Dad cast me a quick glance, then winked. “I’d love some, dear,” he said sweetly.

  The doorbell rang. Mom turned to answer it.

  “No, Mom. Let me get it,” I said, springing from my seat. “I was told the guard would check in once he arrived. It’s probably him.”

  At the door, I peeked through the peephole. A large man with a black face stood on the other side. He held up a leather folder with what looked like an identification card. The curved lens of the peephole made it impossible to read. I could see that he wore the same white shirt and dark pants as the private guards at City Hall.

  Just to be safe, I asked, “Who is it?”

  “Mayor Glenn?” His voice was deep and resonant. It seemed
to vibrate the door. “My name is Tom Wilson. I’m with Atlas Security. Mr. Lynch should have called to tell you of my posting.”

  I turned off the alarm and undid the locks on the door. Before I could turn the handle, my father was by my side. He said nothing, but he wasn’t going to let his darling daughter open the door by herself.

  “Ma’am,” Wilson said. He seemed even larger when not seen through the peephole. His face was round and smooth. He smiled, showing a straight row of white teeth. His eyes shone with intelligence. “I just wanted you to know I was here. I parked my car in your driveway. Did Mr. Lynch explain everything?”

  I said he had and thanked him for coming. I then asked if he had eaten. He said yes but thanked me for the offer. Just as I was ready to close the door, a car pulled up and parked in front of the house. Wilson saw my gaze shift and he turned. A man exited a dark sedan.

  “You know him?” I could see the big guard tense.

  “Yes. It’s Detective West.”

  “He doesn’t look very happy,” Wilson observed.

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  Someone dropped a hot coal in my belly.

  chapter 13

  I ushered West in and introduced him to everyone. He was polite, even offering a slight bow when he shook my mother’s hand. This evening West had exchanged his suit for a black T-shirt and gray slacks. A gold, shield-shaped badge, nestled snugly in a black leather holder just to the left of his belt buckle, gleamed in the dining room light. A smooth, padded holster rode high on his right hip.

  My eyes lingered on him and for a moment I was certain everyone in the room had noticed my fixation. Without the suit coat, I could see the round muscles of his arms. The shirt lay against a table-flat stomach. The room warmed and I wondered if the heater had kicked on.

  Pulling my eyes away from West, I let them drift to Celeste, who still sat at the dining room table. Her face was white as marble and her eyes red and wide.

  “I’m sorry to break in on dinner,” the detective said. His voice was casual and his face relaxed, but I felt there was news pressing against his resolve like water against an earthen dam.

  “Have you eaten?” my mother asked. “We have plenty. I could fix you a plate.”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Glenn.”

  “How about a plate to go? I do make a mean meat loaf, even if I do say so—”

  “Mom,” I said gently, touching her arm. “I think Detective West has brought us some news.”

  “It’s about my mother, isn’t it?” Celeste blurted. Fear was a pressure cooker. It worked fast and hot. I was surprised she had held out for the three minutes West had been in my home.

  “No,” he said with a slow shake of his head. He stared at her for a moment. “We’re still working very hard to find her. I’m afraid the only good news I have on that front is from SI.”

  “SI?” Dad asked.

  “Scientific Investigations,” West explained. “They’re the people who come in and examine the scene for evidence.”

  “Like the TV shows,” Mom said.

  “Exactly,” West replied. “Different police organizations call them by different names. Crime Scene Investigation is a popular one. They all reduce down to some alphabet soup. Bottom line is, they do the same work.”

  “What did they find?” I asked.

  “It’s what they didn’t find. They examined the house top to bottom and found no signs of blood—other than what we found on your business card. Nor did they find any evidence for . . .” He lowered his head in thought. “There was no evidence that would make us think the attack was sexual in nature.”

  Body fluids.

  I looked at Celeste. She was motionless but I got the impression she was a balloon stretched to bursting. One more puff of air and her thin, taut membrane would rend.

  “If you’re not here about Lisa, then you must be here about Lizzy.”

  A cloud passed over his face. “I wonder if I might have a minute of your time—alone.”

  I had to try twice before I could force the word “Certainly” out of my throat.

  “Why can’t we hear?” Celeste asked.

  West didn’t answer; he just turned and walked to the living room. “Let’s use my office,” I said and started for the stairs. I walked up the treads quickly. I could hear West behind me. I moved with a confidence I didn’t feel, as if we were going upstairs to chat about some real estate deal. Inside I was melting like a candle in a forest fire. I hoped I had enough steel in my spine to hear whatever West had to say without morphing into a quivering jellyfish.

  “This is nice,” he said as he stepped into the room. “The whole house is nice.”

  Small talk before the hammer fell. Like the dentist saying, “This might pinch a little,” before he plunged the big-bore needle into sensitive pink gums.

  “It was my husband’s favorite room,” I replied, helping shoulder the illusion of professionalism a few minutes longer. “There used to be a pool table up here.”

  “I bet that was a bear to carry up the stairs.”

  “I don’t think the delivery men voted for me.”

  He chuckled politely, just enough to meet the need. Then he took a deep breath, narrowed his eyes, and donned whatever psychological armor policemen have for times like this. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

  I didn’t like that. “I’m better on my feet.”

  He frowned. “There’s been another abduction. I checked the campaign information you gave me. You know him.”

  “Him?”

  “Him,” West reiterated. “Allen Dayton. On the campaign papers you provided me, you had him listed as a consultant.”

  I decided West was right: I did need to sit down. I moved to my office chair and motioned for him to sit in a side chair I use for reading. “He’s one of the principals of Dayton, Holliman, and Associates. They’re out of Santa Barbara, although they work all over the country.”

  “What do they do?”

  “They advise. They, um . . .” I forced myself to focus before I completely lost my ability to speak. “Campaigning can be tricky. To do it right, you need a good candidate and great information. Dayton, Holliman, and Associates provides full-scale campaign support. They’ll run the whole thing if you want them to.”

  “Is that what you did?”

  I shook my head. “I’m too hands-on. The idea of releasing my campaign to someone else didn’t sit well. I wanted to call my own shots.”

  “So . . .”

  “I retained them to coordinate my direct mail, polling—although at this level there isn’t much polling—and demographics.”

  “By demographics you mean who lives where and what their income is?”

  “It’s more than that. It’s important to know where the voters are, what precincts have the higher voter turnout, and how they vote. That way, a campaign with limited funds can target phone banks, direct mail, and such things to areas where people are likely to vote. Allen’s company keeps a huge database on these facts. They have all the western states covered and can get information on any district in the country. But they do more than gather information; they process it. It helps the candidate know what issues are hot and what to stay away from.”

  “And they did this for you?”

  “Yes. I retained them six months before the election. They did the basic work, then consulted throughout my campaign.”

  “Pretty pricey?”

  “It can be,” I admitted. “Since I ran my own campaign, it wasn’t too bad. I think I paid them ten thousand dollars over the six months they worked with me.”

  “How well did you know Mr. Dayton?”

  “Where?”

  The sudden change of direction confused him.

  “From where was Allen abducted?”

  “He has a home just north of Santa Barbara. He disappeared from there. We don’t know when. The Santa Barbara police have jurisdiction, but they called us since it so closely matched our two situations. All the surrou
nding Police Departments are kept appraised of our investigation.”

  “When you say closely matched, you mean what?”

  West knew what I was getting at. He inhaled deeply. “We found a folder. It had your name on it.”

  “What kind of folder?”

  “It was taken into evidence, so I wasn’t able to look at everything it contained. Once the forensic boys are done working their magic, I’ll be able to go through it in detail.”

  “But you saw enough to link it to me. Right?”

  He nodded, then crossed his legs. “True. It was a standard manila folder, letter size. A label with your name was pasted to the tab. At first I thought it might be from the kidnapper, but the top page and the one that followed it indicated it was from your office.”

  “I haven’t sent Allen anything in over a year, maybe eighteen months. It must have been an old file.”

  “I don’t think so,” West said. “It was dated last week. Actually, the title sheet surprised me. I didn’t know you were thinking of running for Congress.”

  A wrecking ball crashed into the walls of my mind. How did Allen Dayton get that file? I spun in my chair and yanked open the lower file drawer. I keep my active files in two drawers in my desk. The right-hand drawer is where I keep the miscellaneous ones. It was there, the file Randi had given me two days before. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or worried. I decided on relieved. At least no one had broken into the house and stolen the file. If that had been the case, my sense of security would have dissolved like a sugar cube in hot water.

  “Did it look like this?” I handed him the folder.

  He studied its exterior, opened it, and examined the first few pages. “Best I can tell, it was identical. How many of these files exist?”

  “Until tonight I thought that was the only one. My assistant, Randi, gave it to me just a few days ago. The whole Congress thing is her idea.”