The Incumbent Read online

  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!”

  Serious 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.

  I followed West as he negotiated the obstacle course of desks and chairs. We passed through another set of doors and entered a room that is more spartan than the last: gray-painted concrete floor, dull white walls, suspended ceiling, and recessed fluorescent lights. A pair of metal doors leads outside.

  On one side is a counter covered in simulated-wood Formica. It looks worn and tired. On the other side is a corridor. When I first came to the council, I received a tour of the facility, so I knew where the hall leads: to small rooms used as holding cells.

  “This is where we fingerprint arrestees and take their picture, Madam Mayor,” West said, taking the tone of tour guide. He indicated a man standing near the counter. “This is Officer Frank Dell, one of our fingerprint technicians and all-round nice guy. Frank, this is Mayor Madison Glenn.”

  “Maddy.” I extended my hand. His grip was strong and his skin cool.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mayor.”

  “Hey, Frank, why don’t you show the mayor what you do?”

  Officer Dell looked surprised. “You mean print her and take a mug shot?”

  “I think we can skip the mug shot. That’s no different than what happens at the DMV.” He turned to me. “How about it, Mayor? Want to see what happens to the folks we arrest?”

  I saw what he was doing and played along. “That could be interesting.”

  “After the arrest, this is the first place you’d come. The officer parks just beyond those doors and brings the arrestee in. The person would be handcuffed, of course, generally with his hands behind his back. I don’t think we need to cuff you for you to get the idea.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Now, to fingerprint a suspect, we have to bring his hands forward. If we have some concerns about his behavior, we cuff him again with his hands in front. Frank here knows how to print a man in cuffs, don’t you, Frank?”

  “Years of experience.” Dell pulled a wide white card out of a drawer and placed it in a device attached to the top of the counter. The device held the card in place. Next to it he set what looked like a large plastic compact case. Inside was a substance that looked like solidified Vaseline.

  “After fingerprinting, the officer takes a photo and the prisoner is led down that corridor and put in a holding cell. People who are going to be held longer than a day are taken to a county facility. Drunks are taken to a different place to dry out.” He took my hand. “Here, let Frank show you how it’s done.”

  I stepped up to the counter and submitted to the procedure. It made me feel dirty. Officer Dell took my right thumb and rolled it on the pad, then rolled it on the card. The card was divided in several ways. The top portion had several boxes for information like name, date, technician, arresting officer, and more. The bottom had fourteen squares: one for each digit, two larger squares for impressions of all four fingers of each hand together, and two narrow squares for additional thumbprints. Webb wanted to update to a digital system than took prints electronically, but there wasn’t room in the budget. It was another bone of contention.

  It took less than sixty seconds. Dell pulled the card from its holder and handed it to me. “There you go, Mayor, a souvenir. You want me to autograph it for you?”

  “That’s all right, Frank,” West said with a laugh. “Thanks for the demonstration.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I thanked Dell and let West lead me from the room. “Let’s go into the conference room,” he said softly as we crossed back into the office area. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “No, you’re not. You want coffee.” I started to object but he cut me off. “We don’t offer coffee to suspects. Take the coffee and people are less likely to ask questions.”

  “With cream, please.”

  A few moments later we sat at a white oak conference table. A half-dozen cheap chairs were sitting at odd angles around it. The conference room adjoins the office area.

  “I’ll take that.” West gently pulled the fingerprint card from my hand. I surrendered it without protest. “I appreciate you taking the time to do this, and doing it so quickly.”

  “I’m eager to help in any way I can. My aide will bring the bank reports you requested a little later. She’s compiling them now.”

  “As I said before, I’m trying to be thorough. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

  “It’s too late for that,” I said, more harshly than I intended.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I think Celeste is suspicious of me.”

  “Understandable. She seems like a sharp young lady.”

  “Excuse me?”

  West realized what he had said. “I don’t mean she’s right in suspecting you, only that she would naturally have to wonder why the blood was on your card, and so many others were discarded. It’s an important question. One we would all like to have answered—including you.”

  “I’m afraid she’ll leave. That’s her right, I know. Legally she is an adult. I can’t tell her what to do or not to do. I’m just worried about her.”

  “You think she’ll be gone when you get home?”

  “Maybe. I’m supposed to have lunch with her. I’ll know at eleven-thirty if she’s decided to go elsewhere.”

  West frowned. “It’s important that we know where she is.”

  “If she leaves, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What now?” I felt awkward.

  “We keep on keeping on.” West took a sip from his cup, then made a face. “Your coffee was better. Anyway, we push on. I’ll fill in the information on the card and pass it on to the lab. If
your prints don’t match those found at the scene, then you’re clear. There’s a chance a tech will recognize your name, but it’s the best I can do.”

  “Won’t you need sample prints from Celeste, too?”

  “Maybe. We took prints from other places in the house where it’s unlikely perps would go, bathrooms and the like. We should find a large number of her prints in the house, as well as her mother’s. We’re looking for those that don’t fit.”

  “Do you think you’ll find anything?”

  “No. Whoever did this was meticulous. I doubt any prints were left behind.”

  “Then why bother . . . I know, I know, you’re just being thorough.”

  “Exactly.” He lowered his eyes, then looked up. “I’ve been thinking about this whole card thing. The real question is, why you? Why your card? We don’t have an answer to that, but one thing we do know: someone wants you involved. Is it a setup? Maybe, but I think it’s more. I just don’t know what.”

  “I have no idea, either.”

  “I think you should be careful whom you trust. Two things connect you to this case: Lisa, the missing person, and your blood-decorated business card. I don’t want to alarm you, but you should take measures to assure your safety. Lock your doors, be suspicious. A little paranoia right now wouldn’t hurt.”

  “You can’t believe they’re after me.” I said the words without conviction.

  “Who knows? If they wanted you, they would have gone to your place instead of Lisa’s. My guess is, they want something from you.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m good at what I do, Mayor, but I’m not that good. We’ll know sometime but I need more info. You just be careful—very careful.”

  chapter 5

  I’m back.” I breezed by Randi’s desk and started for my office door. “You have company,” Randi said quickly. I stopped and looked at her. “Councilman Adler is here.” She made a face and motioned with her head toward my office. I felt the corner of my mouth turn down.