The Incumbent Page 6

  “Thank you. Did you gather those . . . documents?” I could see several pages of letter-sized paper on her desk. They were facedown. Randi was a cautious one.

  “Yes, I’m just sorting them now and will bind them for you. How did your appointment go?”

  The last statement was for Adler’s benefit. “Fine. I’ll fill you in later.” I took a deep breath and plunged into my office with a determination I didn’t feel.

  Adler was sitting cross-legged in one of the guest chairs in front of my desk. He remained seated as I entered. He seemed calm, his thin hands folded in his lap. He said nothing but I knew why he was there. Adler was a short, thin man who compensated for his lack of physical stature with a self-serving, aggressive, mean spirit. He reminded me of one of those dust-mop dogs that yap and growl as if they can whip a pit bull. Adler was a heel-biter.

  I sat behind my desk and leaned back in my chair. “What can I do for you this morning, Councilman?”

  “Last night was very unprofessional of you.” Straight to the point. He offered the slightest of smiles, as if he felt a sudden pride in what he had just said.

  I stared at the little man for a moment, showing no emotion. His hair was a weak brown made weaker by an infusion of gray. His eyes were dark and narrow and his skin was pale, as if he had just come over from Siberia. I’ve heard he is a tiger in the courtroom, but I was pretty sure I could beat him in a fight, and at that moment I was willing to give it a try.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  I was on edge. I had received the shocking news of a crime against an acquaintance, had taken in an unexpected houseguest, had slept poorly, had endured an early-morning interview by a police detective, and had submitted to fingerprinting. My mood was dark and volatile. I gazed at the weasel for another moment, then asked a question of my own: “Why did I leave?”

  “What?”

  “Why did I leave?”

  “How would I know? You just got up and left, and a quarter hour later the clerk tells us you’re not coming back. No explanation. No apology.”

  “Is that what you want, Jon? An apology?”

  “One seems due.”

  “You’re not getting one, but I will accept an apology from you.”

  He uncrossed his legs. “I don’t owe you anything.”

  I locked eyes with him. “Chief Webb walks in, whispers in my ear, and I have to leave. Did something happen to my parents? My brother? My sister? Was there some pressing police business that I might be able to help with? What was it, Jon?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “Thank you for your concern.”

  “Did something happen to your—”

  “You went to college, didn’t you?”

  The change of subject took him off guard. “Of course.”

  “You spent at least three years in law school, Western School of Law, right?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with our topic of conversation.”

  “It means that you’re probably smart enough to be able to haul your fanny out of my chair and make your way through the doors without help.”

  He blinked several times.

  “That’s right, Councilman. I’m kicking you out. Beat it. Now.” He didn’t move, not from belligerence but from the shock of it. “Maybe I was wrong. Randi!” She was at the door in half a second, with a face as innocent as a newborn’s. I would bet a month’s salary she had been standing by the door, just out of sight. “Councilman Adler is having trouble finding the door. Would you help him, please?”

  “Certainly.”

  Adler sprang to his feet. “I don’t need help. I can’t believe you would be this unprofessional.”

  “You have no idea what professionalism is, Jon. Now leave or I’ll ask Randi to slap you around in front of your staff.”

  His face went white, then reddened like a beefsteak tomato. Spinning on his heels, he bolted from the office, his fists clenched and body rigid, as if he were a walking seizure.

  After he was clear of Randi’s office, she raised her hands and applauded. “I don’t think you know how much I love you,” she said, laughing. “What do you think he’ll do now?”

  “Is Tess in?”

  “I think so.”

  “He’ll go there and unload. She’ll listen, commiserate, then tell him to leave.” I took a deep breath. My heart was thumping. “Were you able to get reservations at the Fish Kettle?”

  “You’re all set. I told them you’d be there a little before noon. That you gives you time to pick up Celeste. I assume you may have to pick up her friend too.”

  “You’re still coming, right?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Great, I could use the support.”

  “Did they treat you right over at Crime Central?”

  I told her the story, then asked about the bank reports.

  “They’re clean. No withdrawals and only a few deposits, all of which you know about.”

  “I figured that’s how it would be. Package them up and run them over to Detective West. Give them to West and West only. He was there when I left, but I’d give him a call first, just to be sure.”

  “Will do. Is there anything else?”

  “No, I just need a few minutes to cool down. Jon annoys me more than I can say.”

  “He annoys everyone. You know what his aide calls him?”

  “Jane?”

  “That’s right. She’s from the South, you know, and they have a bug down there called a chigger.”

  “That’s like a sand flea or something, right . . . wait, she calls her boss Chigger?”

  “Not to his face, but she’s been known to use the term around us.”

  At first I was astonished; then the humor of it landed squarely on my head. A little, annoying, biting bug. That was perfect. I voiced the words: “Councilman Chigger.” My indignation washed away with laughter. Randi joined in, raising a hand to her mouth as if she were embarrassed to have shared the story.

  The laughter refreshed me.

  “Now that you’re in a good mood . . .” I noticed she was looking at the files on my desk. I glanced down. The file Randi had given me, the file about a congressional run, was missing.

  “He took it!” I said. “The little weasel took it!”

  “No, he didn’t. Do you think I’d let anyone sit in your office with sensitive files in reach? I have it.”

  “Whew. Don’t do that to me. I’m getting too old for such shocks.”

  “You’re not close to old. You can’t even see old from where you are. I’ll get the file. Read it. It’ll get your mind off things.”

  I agreed. I could stand to have my mind on something else.

  The rest of the morning passed quickly. I had expected a scalding phone call from Adler or Councilwoman Tess Lawrence, his political buddy. To my great relief nothing came. I spent an hour or so reviewing the notes from the meeting I skipped out on, and found only one item of concern: the zoning change requested by the church was denied. The council agreed with the Planning Commission. The vote was three to one against. I felt bad about that. I had planned to support the church, but I doubted my presence would have made a difference.

  The other items on my desk took only a few minutes to handle. That left me about ninety minutes to review Randi’s proposal. She was good—very good. Before me lay an analysis of demographics, estimated marketing expenditures, possible opponents, and more. The real kicker was something she learned that had yet to reach my ears. Congressman Martin Roth was retiring at the end of this term. There had been the occasional rumor that at the age of sixty-six, he had grown weary of campaigning and Capitol Hill. According to Randi, the rumors were true. She had inside information from a friend who worked in Roth’s district office.

  Congressman Roth would vacate the office in two years. Once word of this became official, every wannabe politico would come out of the woodwork. Randi was pushing for an early start.


  “It is imperative that essential campaign personnel be in position at the time of the congressman’s official declaration. An announcement should be made within thirty days of this declaration so as not to appear too opportunistic,” her summary read. In short she was saying, “Let’s get a jump on things.”

  I would run as a Republican, the party of which I had long been a member. My standing with various Republican groups was sound, so there was a good chance they would throw their weight, mailing lists, and volunteers my way.

  Still, the idea of Congress was hard to swallow. The work would be interesting and meaningful, but the campaign arduous and expensive. The congressional district was larger than the city limits, meaning I would be campaigning in areas where no one knew me. Not an insurmountable problem. Every candidate faced such things.

  I had often thought of running for higher office, but always saw it a decade away, and then I saw myself running for state office, like assembly or state senate, never Congress. Still . . .

  Randi appeared at my door. “It’s eleven-fifteen. If you’re going to pick Celeste up at half-past—”

  “I’d better get going.” I stood and handed her the file. “Lock this away, please.”

  She took it. “What do you think?”

  “Of the file? It’s well prepared. You still amaze me. As far as what you’re suggesting, well . . . I need time to digest the idea.”

  “Oh.” She sounded sad.

  “However, I’m willing to consider it.”

  Her eyes sparkled and a knowing smile crossed her face. “That’s great!”

  “Easy, girl. I only said I would consider it.”

  “That’s half the battle.”

  It was my turn to smile. “You don’t know me as well as you think.”

  “I know you better than you think.”

  I gathered my bag. “That’s probably true. I’ll see you at the restaurant. Don’t be late. I’m hungry.”

  “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  “Leave the bells, they distract the other diners.”

  I exited my office and made my way toward the car. My mind was churning. In less than twenty-four hours I had run the gamut of emotions. My brain had had an aerobic workout that left it weary and longing to shut down—and all this before lunch.

  When I pulled up in front of my house, Celeste was standing on the stoop—much to my relief. Seeing me, she walked quickly to the car and got in.

  I studied her for a moment. “Ready to eat?”

  “Yes. We need to pick up Michele.” She told me the address.

  “That’s not far.” I waited a moment before asking, “How are you doing?”

  She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

  The girl looked frail, a waif caught in a brutal hurricane of fear and emotion. The skin under her eyes was dark, the rim of her lids still red from crying. She wore the clothes she had on when I took her home: blue jeans, coral tunic, and a pair of white Nikes.

  “I assume Maria arrived.”

  “Yeah, she got here not long after you left. She washed my clothes so I could wear them. She’s nice.”

  I agreed, then pulled the car from the curb. “Have you known Michele long?”

  “I’m sorry.” I started to repeat myself when she added, “I was rude.”

  It took a moment for me to catch up. “You mean about this morning?”

  “Yeah, I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

  “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

  “I implied it. I mean, you came to my house, you took me in and did nothing but treat me right. When I heard that the blood was on your card, it made me think you had something to do with my mother’s disappearance, but that’s stupid. Why would you do that? It doesn’t make sense.”

  West was right; Celeste was a sharp young lady. “Thank you. I was afraid you’d leave while I was at the office.”

  “I know. Turn left here.”

  Making the turn, I said, “I went to the Police Station and let them fingerprint me. I also sent over the bank records Detective West asked for. They were in perfect order.”

  “I told him my mother wouldn’t steal anything.”

  “I think he was afraid someone might try to force her to withdraw the money. I suppose they still can.”

  “Can’t you tell the bank to stop any withdrawals?”

  This thought had occurred to me while I was in my office. “I suppose, but I don’t want to.”

  “Why?”

  “If someone took your mother to get access to that account, I want her to be able to do that. They might let her go if they get the money. It would also give the police some evidence to go on, such as where they made the withdrawal. I gave them permission to monitor the account.”

  “Oh, but you could loose all your campaign money. Turn right.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I directed the Aviator around a corner. “I can always raise more money. I’d rather have your mother back.”

  She sniffed. “Me too.”

  “There’s something else I want to talk to you about,” I said, trying not to sound too serious. “Detective West thinks I should be careful.”

  “Careful?”

  “You know, about my safety. He thinks that whatever happened to your mother may be directed at me. I don’t know if that’s true. If it is, why would anyone . . . go to your house instead of mine? But my point is this: I think you should be careful, too.”

  “I will.”

  “You know you’re welcome to stay with me as long as you like. In fact, I’d like it if you stayed a few days.”

  “Okay.”

  A couple turns more led us to a small single-story apartment building that had only eight units.

  “Honk the horn. She said she’d be right down.”

  I did and a moment later a bouncy blond appeared at one of the doors. She waved, then trotted toward us. She was tall and thin, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail that bobbed with every step. Like Celeste, she wore jeans and Nikes. Above that she wore a hooded green sweatshirt.

  Before Michele could reach the car, Celeste was out. They met and embraced, Michele taking her friend in her arms. I waited and was willing to wait a long time. Celeste needed a friend and Michele was her choice. A minute passed before either moved. Finally Celeste pulled away and ran a hand under her eyes, then under her nose. Michele was carrying a small purse with a thin leather strap. She opened it and gave Celeste a tissue. Both came to the car. Michele opened the back door, and I expected Celeste to return to the front seat. Instead she followed her friend into the back.

  “Is it okay if I sit back here?”

  “Sure, I can be chauffeur, but it’s customary to tip.”

  She laughed politely. “This is Michele. We go to college together. I’ve known her since middle school.”

  “Hi, my name is Maddy.”

  “She’s the mayor,” Celeste said.

  “No way!” Michele exclaimed. “The mayor of what?”

  “Mayor of Santa Rita,” Celeste said. “How did you get into college?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “That’s all right,” I interjected. “A lot of people don’t know who their mayor is.”

  “Where are we going?” Michele asked.

  “The Fish Kettle,” I said. “Is that okay?”

  “I love that place. I’ve only been a couple times but I love it.”

  “Great,” I said. “I know the owner. He’ll treat us right.”

  “Is it just the three of us?”

  I could tell Michele was the inquisitive type. “My aide, Randi, is joining us.”

  “Is he nice?” Michele asked.

  “He is a she,” I said. “R–A–N–D–I. You’ll like her. She’s smart and pretty.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t know about you two, but I’m hungry, so buckle up.” I pressed the pedal down and pulled away from the curb.

  The Santa Rita pier is a quarter-mile-long construction of
heavy wood planks and beams. Built in the early sixties, it has endured the decades with grace despite battles with storms and waves. On more than one occasion a storm has undermined portions of the structure, caving in a corner here and there. Each time the city and county have rebuilt it. It is one of the few landmarks of our city and a profound source of pride. The Fish Kettle sits in the middle of the pier.

  The restaurant itself looks like a ramshackle fishing shack. The owner paid the architect a lot of money to make the building look a century older than it is. Dark, ocean-stained wood covers the exterior. Streaks of rust run from nails in the siding. A careful eye can see galvanized nails holding the siding in place. The other nails, which have aged and weathered, are there for effect. The roof appears to be made of tar paper, but it too is facade, mere architectural illusion.

  The interior is a maritime experience. Walls that are not filled with expansive windows are covered in shiplap siding heavily painted with a dark-blue enamel. Woodcarvings of various species of fish hang from the ceiling and dance in the gentle breeze made by the slowly spinning ceiling fans. The smell of fish cooking hangs heavy in the air. Booths sit around the perimeter wall, and freestanding tables are scattered across the floor like mushrooms on a grass field.

  When we walked in at ten minutes to noon, the place was already half full. Soon hungry office workers, laborers, and others would pack the place. At the Fish Kettle a patron can buy a good meal at a reasonable price, but that is only part of the draw. A view of the ocean is available from every table. Atmosphere—the place is loaded with atmosphere.

  I had only taken two steps when the owner, Paul Shedd, greeted us. Paul was in his early fifties and had been owner of the restaurant for the last ten years. A former banker, he turned his ledger in for a mass of pots and pans and, according to him, has never been happier. At least his midlife crisis involved changing jobs instead of wives. He was trim and sported the kind of deep tan that made one worry about skin cancer. He kept his salt-and-pepper hair cut close to the scalp. He bounded our way, flashing a smile bright enough to light the room. I’ve known Paul since he bought the place. He was a favorite of my husband. A deeply spiritual man, he let his faith speak for itself, although on one wall he did put up a large picture of the disciples in a Galilean fishing boat. Jesus is walking on the water nearby. There are days I wish I could do that.