Before Another Dies Read online

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that he pulled into your space, switched off the car, but left the key turned enough so the radio would still work.”

  “What else have you got?” Webb didn’t say it, but even I knew what he was asking.

  “Body indicates that death is recent, maybe six hours or so. The coroner will have to tell us that.” West squinted at the corpse. “He certainly hasn’t been sitting here over the weekend. The city hires private security for city buildings; don’t they patrol the parking lots?” He looked to me for the answer.

  “They’re supposed to, but I don’t oversee their work, the city manager does.”

  “I’d check into that.”

  “I plan to. Any clue as to why he died? I assume he died of natural causes—stroke, heart attack, something like that.”

  “Why would you assume that, Mayor?” Webb asked.

  “The car was locked,” I said. “It’s a two-door hatchback. Only three ways in or out. It’s like a locked-room mystery.”

  “Ever lock your car without realizing it?” Webb asked.

  I felt stupid. It wasn’t hard to lock and close a door. If someone had murdered the poor man in the Gremlin, the murderer could easily have locked the door after exiting. I looked to West for help, but he only offered a raised eyebrow.

  “Do you need me for anything else?” I asked. It was time to get out of Dodge before I said anything else stupid.

  “Not now,” West said, “but I’m sure I’ll have questions. I just don’t know what they are yet.”

  I pursed my lips and tried to act unflappable in front of the boys. “I need you to keep me apprised, Detective. Everyone in city hall is going to have questions. I need information if I’m going to sound intelligent.” I caught Webb grinning. He was enjoying an unspoken joke.

  chapter 2

  My prophecy had been correct. As the morning wore on, employees who worked in the city hall building stopped by to say hi. Some were coy, not asking directly but hoping I’d offer information about the police hubbub in the front lot. Others, especially council members, were more direct. I told them what I knew, which wasn’t enough to make more than a column inch in the Santa Rita Register. We had only one local newspaper and at times I thought it was one too many. I admire the press. I think they do a great job—usually. Politicians like me need the members of the Third Estate, but it is an uneasy marriage. What sells papers isn’t what gets people elected, and what brings in the votes seldom sells papers or ad space.

  My office has two compartments: an outer office for my aide who was missing in action at the moment, and my inner sanctum, the place where I spend my days trying to pilot the good ship Santa Rita. I sat behind my wide cherry desk. It had been a gift from my husband before his death. It was big enough to serve as a bomb shelter and at times I’ve been tempted to use it as such. Behind me was a matching credenza which doubled as my computer workstation.

  Seated opposite me in a burgundy leather chair was Councilman Larry Wu. He was one of my favorite people. In a world that could no longer define gentleman, Larry personified the definition. He was a man of moral courage, integrity, and simple speech. The difficulty with Larry was reconciling his round Chinese face with his mild Texas accent. Larry had spent his childhood years in Texas, moving to Santa Rita when his father’s firm transferred him. He’s been here ever since, building a well-respected accounting firm and serving the city as one of its representatives. Larry was one of my opponents when I ran for mayor. He came in third but has never uttered a disparaging word in my presence. He gives politicians a good name.

  Seated with him was the best-dressed man in city hall, Titus Overstreet. I couldn’t call Titus a friend—we never saw each other outside the office—but I admired him. He was the kind of man who showed strength through quiet words and concrete resolve. He was six foot two, trim and fit. I knew the last part because I saw him play basketball at a fund-raiser for the family of one of our firemen who died on duty. Titus loved basketball and had been a high school star. Good as he was, he wasn’t good enough for the major universities and he knew it. He traded his dream of pounding the boards with the Lakers to get an MBA in marketing. He ran a public relations business when not handling city business. This day, he was dressed in a dark blue blazer, gray pants, ivory dress shirt with a red power tie. He also wore his trademark bright smile that beamed from his ebony face.

  Both men had come to the office to ask about the police action out front. I asked them to stay for a few minutes for no other reason than to keep others from poking their heads in the door. Perhaps if we looked like we were in a meeting I might not have to answer the same questions.

  “You want me to prepare something?” Titus asked.

  “Something?”

  “A press release. The man did die on city property.”

  “And not just any city property,” Larry added, “city hall property.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Titus,” I said. “I’d appreciate you writing something up for the media. I assume you’ll do the usual, ‘We have every confidence in the police . . .’”

  “We don’t know that it’s a crime yet,” Larry observed. “It could be a death by natural causes. Still, you’re right, we should be prepared.”

  “What’s going on out front?” A new voice added to the mix. Jon Adler hovered at my door. He looked at Larry and Titus. “I didn’t know we were having a meeting. Why wasn’t I invited?”

  A thousand responses began to buzz in my brain. I have a smart mouth. It’s been my burden for as long as I can remember. For most of my life, I didn’t care. I considered it just quick wit, but lately I’ve been trying to rein in my tongue and failing more times than not.

  “Because it’s hard to talk behind your back when you’re in our face,” Titus snipped.

  Councilman Jon Adler was a pain. He caused his mother pain in childbirth and apparently found he had a gift for it. He was never happy unless he was unhappy and could find a reason for disagreeing with anyone about anything. He was as welcome as the flu. A thin, pinched-face man, he wore his emotions like a threadbare coat. An attorney, he too had run for mayor and almost won the seat. The thought chilled me. He had outspent me two-to-one but paid little attention to the only woman in the race. He attacked the other candidates with flourish and gusto. He was pit bull on the outside but easily backed down with a decent slap on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.

  “We’re not meeting, Jon,” I said, stuffing away the more cutting remarks that came to mind. “People have been trailing through my office for the last twenty minutes. Larry and Titus are serving as buffers.”

  “I’m not sure I believe that,” Adler said.

  Titus’s wide smile tightened like a guitar string. There was no love lost between those two. “I suppose we should tell him. We’re planning to overthrow the city and make Mayor Glenn queen. You get to be the court jester.”

  “Still trying to be funny, Titus,” Adler shot back. “Keep trying. You’ll manage to crack a joke someday.”

  “I know something I’d like to crack—”

  “All right, gentlemen,” I said. “As much as I’m enjoying this, I think I’d better get back to work.”

  “I’m sorry, Mayor . . . I’m sorry . . . Excuse me, please.” I squashed a smile as Floyd Grecian, my aide for the last six months, finally arrived with his usual dramatic flare. “I was reading this morning and lost track of the time. I know I’m late. It won’t happen again.”

  Floyd is a mixed bag of nuts. One moment he’s brilliant and insightful, the next he’s as lost as a puppy in the woods. Just twenty-two, he had graduated from California Baptist University in Riverside with a degree in business. A conflicted young man, he was trying to find himself and his place in the world. Right now, he was somewhere between entering the real estate market or being an actor in dinner theater. I hired him after I lost Randi Portman, something still too painful to dwell on. Floyd wasn’t that interested in politic
s, but his father insisted that he get a job until he could figure out who he was going to be and what he was going to do. His father is the senior pastor of the church I started attending a few months ago. Hiring his son was a favor I was glad to do. Most of the time.

  He pushed past Jon Adler who frowned so deeply I thought the corners of his mouth would touch his shoes. “Did you know that the police are out front and there’s an ambulance and—” Floyd caught his foot on the leg of Titus’s chair as he approached my desk. “Ouch! Sorry.”

  “Easy, kid,” Titus said.

  Floyd is a klutz. A lovable, efficient, and loyal klutz.

  “Yes, I know,” I said. “I found a dead man in his car.”

  “Wow,” Floyd said. “Did you know he was in your parking spot?”

  I looked past Floyd and saw Larry bite his lip in order to stifle the explosion of laughter that bubbled just behind his teeth.

  “Yes, Floyd. I noticed that, too.” I turned to the others. “Okay, you deadbeats. I enjoy a party as much as the next girl, but we’ve just started a new year and I have work to do. Come to think of it, so do you.”

  Titus and Larry rose, smiled, and exited. Jon hung around a little longer.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Jon?”

  “What are you not telling me?”

  He didn’t want to know. “You know, Jon, if paranoia was gold you’d be a wealthy man.”

  I didn’t think it was possible but he frowned even more. Since he seldom left anyplace without the final word, he turned to Floyd. “If you were my aide, I’d fire you before you could take a new breath.” “If you were my aide, I’d fire you before you could take a new breath.”

  “He’s not your aide, Jon, he’s mine. Now stop fouling my air.” The power of the tongue won out over the discipline of the mind. I wished I could feel sorry about the comment but I couldn’t see the advantage of adding hypocrisy to my sins.

  He left without a word but not before making a dismissive sigh like a parent too frustrated for words. I do my best to get along with him and his council buddy, Tess Lawrence, but I take two steps back for every one I advance. I just wish I didn’t enjoy it so much.

  “Thanks,” Floyd said. “Sometimes I think I cause you more problems than I solve.”

  “What? Jon Adler. No need to apologize for that. You’re not responsible for his attitude.”

  “I was referring to my being late—again. You’re so punctilious, and I’m so oblivious to time.”

  Punctilious. I love that word. It rolls off the tongue. It also describes me pretty well. I hate being late, I don’t like disorder on my desk, and I’m happiest when I can check things off my to-do list. “Maybe you need an assistant to assist you.”

  “Maybe I just need to grow up a little more.” His shoulders drooped.

  “Cheer up, Floyd. You’ve already done one good deed today. You annoyed Jon Adler.”

  “I don’t think he likes me.”

  “He doesn’t,” I said, “but take that as a compliment.”

  “The guy that parked in your parking spot was really dead?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Then why the ambulance? A dead guy doesn’t need an ambulance, right?”

  I had forgotten that he mentioned an ambulance was at the scene. “That’s true.” Why was there an ambulance out front? Had someone gotten hurt? I immediately thought of West. My curiosity revved up. “I don’t know, Floyd. Maybe . . .” Maybe what? “I think I’ll go see.” I stood and rounded the desk. Floyd reluctantly stepped to the side. He looked like he wanted to ask something but was weighing all the possible answers. “Sure, you can come with me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  chapter 3

  Most days I love being mayor. It adds order and purpose to my life.

  Other days, I would sell the whole thing to the first person who walked into my office with a dime in his hand. Fortunately, those days are rare. Most mornings my job compels me out of bed, draws me to the office where I deal with matters that would cure most insomniacs. Zoning laws, budgets, taxes, ten-minute meetings that last hours, documents written by state lawyers, county lawyers, and even federal lawyers pile up every week. In all the tedium, despite the infighting, I find a sense of purpose. And purpose is more than a luxury in my life.

  I live alone. Not by choice. Well, partly by choice. Nine years ago, Peter Glenn, businessman, sales executive for his father’s commercial flooring company, kissed me good-bye in the morning and drove to his death in Los Angeles. The city of Angeles was a familiar place to Peter. He was a principle in his father’s firm, a company that manufactured flooring for large commercial buildings. Much of what they made ended up adorning the concrete floors of high-rise office buildings. It sounds boring, but it was the wind in Peter’s sails. He loved the business, the travel, the sales, and the interaction with clients.

  It was after a meeting with one of those clients that two men decided they deserved Peter’s yellow BMW Z3 Roadster more than he did. In LA they call it carjacking. Peter was not inclined to give things away, especially his car. He was not brave to the point of stupidity, but intimidation was not a natural response for him. His hesitancy cost him his life.

  The call came at 10:12 that evening. To this day, I tense if the phone rings after dark.

  Glenn Structural Materials carried a large life insurance policy on Peter. It paid off the house and gave me investment money to live on. Peter’s father still pays his son’s salary. He has for the last nine years. Twice a month an executive-size check arrives in the mail and no matter how much I protest, Peter’s father continues to send them. “Twice a month,” he once told me, “I can pretend that my son is still alive.”

  Murder kills more than one life.

  We married young, Peter and I. I was still in my senior year of college at San Diego State University. San Diego was home for Peter. I majored in political science and he in business. He was movie-poster handsome, with eyes that seemed to give more light than they received. Our years together were good, but too few. People tell me that someday, I’ll get over his murder.

  No one gets over a murder.

  So I live alone, in a three-thousand-square-foot house on the beach. It’s a beautiful place, but even places of beauty have dark corners.

  Peter was on my mind as I exited my office with Floyd following closer than my shadow. Almost a decade had passed and I’d adjusted to the solo life and to the fact that two hoods with a hand gun widowed me, but certain things launched the old memories. Seeing a dead body in a car added to the list. But, like Floyd, I was eager to know what else was going on in the front parking lot. Less than half an hour had passed since I walked into the office and less than an hour since I had called Chief Webb, but my curiosity had reached the outer limits of its patience.

  We walked down the corridor and into a larger area filled with a half-dozen desks, most empty. At one time, all the secretarial work was done by employees seated at these ugly gray desks. We remodeled the office wing of city hall a few years ago, expanding the council members’ offices to include an additional office for one primary staff member. It increased privacy and made communications easier. Part-time and temp help used these desks. One of my greatest challenges was keeping down the cost of doing city business. It won me no awards and made a few enemies, but such things came with this job.

  The open area bordered the lobby and was separated by a short pony wall. The wall was the demarcation line between the public world and the realm of civil servants. To one side of the large lobby was the city clerk’s office; on the other side was the building department. These offices need direct public access. Council members’ offices were off limits to the public unless they had appointments. Politics brings out the anger in some people. It is good to have at least a symbolic barrier between them and us.

  A wide desk sat just inside the pony wall and seated behind it like a sentry in a castle tower was Fr
itzy, a gray-haired woman who had left middle age in her wake. Her real name was Judith Fritz and a sweeter woman never walked the earth. Her smile was wide, as were her hips and everything connected to them. In a world where magazine covers and movie screens dictated beauty, Fritzy was comfortable with who she was and how she appeared. A little dye from a box would have matched her hair to her dark eyebrows, but such things never seemed to cross her mind. Her beauty was self-generated and poured out of her like light streaming from a lighthouse. Two or three years ago, Jon Adler had the audacity to suggest that the city “might benefit from a younger, more attractive receptionist.” The silence that filled the conference room was as cold as arctic water. No one spoke but a message was delivered so clearly that Jon never brought it up again. I hope Fritzy never changes.

  “Good morning, Madam Mayor,” Fritzy said as we approached the lobby. “Did I miss you when you came in?”

  “Good morning, Fritzy. I came in the back way. Had to park in the back lot this morning.” Members of the council and key staff can enter the building through a private entrance, allowing us to avoid whoever might be sitting in the lobby.

  “There’s a dead guy in the front lot,” Floyd said with enthusiasm.

  Fritz cringed, then looked at me. I rolled my eyes. Floyd’s mouth often worked without the encumbrance of premeditation.

  “A man passed away in his car last night,” I said. “The police are investigating.”

  “Yeah, he parked in the mayor’s spot, too,” Floyd added.

  “I didn’t know,” Fritzy admitted. “I thought I heard a lot of whispering around here.”

  Fritzy lives in an older part of the city and the shortest route to city hall brings her in over the back streets. She wouldn’t have seen the front lot.

  “I’m going out for a few moments, and I’m taking Floyd with me. Will you take messages for me?” It was an unneeded question—that was part of her job—but courtesy never hurts, or so my mother has told me many times.