The Incumbent Page 8

  “That’s not my decision to make, Detective. You know that.”

  “I do know that and I agree with you. I just thought I’d let you know that he demanded to see the chief. Fortunately, he was gone. Mr. Truccoli demanded Webb’s home phone. Well, that didn’t fly. Then he wanted to know where the city’s offices were.”

  My heart sank. “And you had to tell him.”

  “I had to. That’s public info. He could have gotten that from the phone book.”

  “Tell me he’s not on his way over here.”

  “I wish I could. He just charged from the office. You’ll be able to recognize him; he’s the one with the beet red face.”

  “Swell.”

  “I suggest you leave a few minutes early—like right now. Also, I alerted security and sent over a uniformed officer. A security guard should be at your door any moment. Let him walk you to your car.”

  As if on cue, Randi poked her head through the door, a concerned look on her face. “Security is here,” she said softly so as not to be heard over the phone. I nodded and waved her in. A man who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five followed her. He wore a white uniform shirt and navy blue slacks. A gold badge hung on his shirt, as did a nametag that read, “Bobby Wallace.”

  “Security just showed up. Thanks for the heads-up, Detective. I owe you one.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Is there anything new on Lisa?”

  “Nothing.”

  I said thanks again and hung up. I looked at Randi and said, “Gather your stuff, kiddo. Mr. Truccoli is on his way over and he doesn’t want to talk about zoning laws.”

  I didn’t have to ask her twice.

  “I can take care of this guy,” the young security guard said.

  “No doubt you can, Bobby, but let’s try to avoid a confrontation if possible. Our cars are in the back lot. Let’s take the private corridor.” I grabbed my briefcase, crossed into Randi’s room, then stopped. “If he comes to the offices, then poor Fritzy is going to get an earful. She doesn’t need that.”

  “There’s another guard at the front,” the security man said. “Detective West demanded it.”

  “Good for him. Let’s go.”

  We exited the offices, the guard leading the way. We had made it no more than five steps when we heard a loud, angry voice bouncing off the walls. Truccoli had landed. There was no wonder why Celeste didn’t want to talk to this guy.

  “Go help your partner,” I said to the guard.

  “I’m supposed to escort you to your car.”

  “You’re supposed to keep Truccoli away from me, at least until he learns to be civil. Since we know he’s in the lobby, he can’t be in the parking lot. Go help your buddy. That will give us time to get to our cars.”

  “But—”

  “It’s a good strategy. Do it.”

  I started back down the hall, Randi by my side. The guard mumbled something, then marched toward the lobby.

  “You gotta love public life,” Randi said.

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  I pulled into the driveway of my home, firing two conflicting emotions: relief and worry. I was glad to be home and away from the office, especially away from any chance of bumping into Celeste’s father, but I also felt a strong sense of anxiety. I now had to inform Celeste that Daddy Dearest had arrived.

  I found the girls sitting on lounge chairs on the deck at the back of the house; each had a glass of tea resting beside her. Michele’s glass was nearly drained, Celeste’s nearly full. The weather had warmed up nicely after last night’s rain, but with the sun now dropping, the air had turned cool. A breeze rolled off the ocean, carrying the sea’s salty perfume. The water reflected the golden light of the sun in a long band that looked like a road to the distant horizon. A gull moved past in a slow glide.

  “You guys look rested.”

  Celeste and Michele jumped and let slip gasps of surprise. “Geez,” Michele said, “you scared me.” She pressed a hand to her chest.

  “Me too.”

  “Sorry. I thought I was noisy enough coming through the front door.” Both girls wore two-piece swimsuits. Michele’s was a blue-and- white print and far less encumbered with material. Celeste’s more modest suit was a satiny green. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “A little,” Celeste replied.

  “Well, come on in and let’s talk about this evening.”

  They picked up their glasses and followed me into the dining area. Celeste was last in and closed the door behind her. We sat at the table and I told Celeste I had no new information about her mother, but that I had been in regular contact with the police. She seemed discouraged and I couldn’t blame her. I then hit her with the other news. “Your father is in town.”

  Her eyes widened. “You didn’t tell him I was here, did you?”

  I shook my head. “He called me from the plane and demanded my home number. I’m not good with demands. I told him you were a big girl and capable of making your own decisions.”

  She seemed relieved. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “I know, but he sure wants to talk to you.” I told her about his visit to the Police Department and his arrival at the city offices.

  “He’s a pain. I don’t know what he wants. It’s not like he loves Mom or me.”

  “Was the breakup bitter?”

  “He ran off with another woman. That’s pretty bitter.”

  “What a jerk,” Michele added.

  “He may still be concerned about you. I can’t stick up for him. I wouldn’t even try. My phone conversation with him is enough to put me off for a good long while. However, he is your father, and maybe your mother’s disappearance has brought that home.”

  “No way. He has never cared about me. Why begin now? Did the police question him?”

  I hadn’t thought to ask that and said so. “I’m sure they asked a few questions, but with your dad in Galveston and your mother here, I’m not sure there is much of a connection.”

  “He could have, like, arranged it or something.”

  That also hadn’t occurred to me. “I’m sure the police have thought of that. Anyway, I didn’t think you wanted to speak to him, but I needed to let you know he’s in town.”

  “Can he get your number or find out where you live?” Michele asked.

  “It’s possible but doubtful. My phone number is unlisted. The last thing a mayor needs is a number anyone can call at any time. I suppose he could find out where I live if he is smart enough and persistent enough. I’m not listed in the phone book, but there are ways around that.”

  “So he could find us here.”

  “Unlikely but possible.”

  Celeste’s lips tightened and her eyes narrowed.

  “On a more positive note, we’ve been invited over to my parents’ house for dinner. How about it?”

  “I’m still not hungry,” Celeste said.

  “I know, but it will get you out for a while and you’ll love my parents. Mom is a great cook.” I turned to Michele. “You’re welcome to come along if you’d like.”

  “I can’t. I promised my mom I’d go someplace with her tonight.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you two change, and we’ll drop Michele off on our way to Mom and Dad’s.”

  “What if the police come up with something? How will they get ahold of us?” Celeste asked.

  “Detective West has my cell number. He can call that.”

  She nodded, rose, and moved toward the stairs. Events were moving her against her will. Her mother was missing, she was in a stranger’s home, and a father she hated had just touched down in town.

  Michele followed Celeste up the stairs. A few minutes later both descended, dressed as they were at lunch. We were out the door and on the road five minutes later.

  chapter 7

  Mom must’ve heard us arrive, because she was standing at the front door waiting for us, her face alight with anticipation. She wore a black tunic V-neck sweater a
nd tan slacks. A simple pair of white deck shoes clad her feet. She looked good. Mom always looked good. “Welcome,” she said, more to Celeste than to me. “Come in, come in.” She kissed us both on the cheek.

  We walked to the house, a simple bungalow-style home in one of the older but nicer neighborhoods. Inside we were awash in the thick, hunger-inducing aroma of enchilada casserole. My stomach did a happy flip. The moment we entered, my father rose from his recliner, cast us a wide smile, and approached.

  Closing the door behind me, I said, “Celeste, this is my mother, Agnes Anderson, and my father, Greg.”

  “Hello,” Celeste said timidly.

  “Hello,” my father bellowed. As a college professor, he had been speaking loudly most of his adult life. He saw no reason to change things at home. Dad was just over six feet tall, still slim but carrying more weight than he did five years ago. He sported a close, neatly trimmed white beard that matched his hair. His eyes sparkled ocean blue and his grin was contagious. A firm man, he was above all else jovial. Laughter was his drink of choice.

  “I’m so glad you could join us,” Mom said. “Have a seat. Dinner is almost ready. I hope you like Mexican. Maddy sure does. I’ve seen her out-eat—”

  “Mom, you’re rambling.” I was hoping to avoid any stories from my childhood. Celeste and I walked to the sofa and Dad went back to his easy chair.

  “No, I’m not. I’m talking about you.”

  “That’s my point. Can I help you in the kitchen?”

  “No, the casserole just needs another ten minutes. Jerry should be here by then.” Stunned, I watched her walk into the small kitchen. The house is a forties-style bungalow, which means every area is compartmentalized. The kitchen is enclosed, open to the dining room only by a passageway.

  I sighed. Celeste gave me a questioning glance. “Jerry Thomas,” I explained. “Dr. Jerry Thomas, actually. I went to high school with him.”

  “Nice guy,” Dad added.

  “Mom thinks we’re made for each other.”

  “I never said that,” she shouted from the kitchen. “He’s a family friend. He and your father play chess. You know that.”

  I looked at Dad. “Are you planning on playing chess tonight?”

  He shrugged and tried to look innocent.

  “A doctor, huh?” Celeste said.

  “A pediatrician. He has an office on Castillo Avenue.”

  “Oh.”

  I had a feeling that had her situation not been so grave, she would have given me a good ribbing.

  “He likes to talk history with Greg,” Mom said from the kitchen. I remained amazed at how she could carry on a conversation from a different room.

  “I wish you had told me, Mom.”

  “Why? Would you not have come?”

  She had me there. It made no difference, really. I also knew that everything she had said was true. Jerry was a friend of the family, he did play chess with my father, and more than once I had endured their long conversation about some historical point. History was Jerry’s hobby; it was my father’s life.

  My parents’ living room is small, in keeping with the house. The place where I shared my childhood with my brother and sister is sixteen hundred square feet personalized by nearly four decades of family life. I couldn’t imagine my mom and dad living anyplace else.

  The doorbell rang. “Get that, will you, Maddy?” Mom directed. “That must be him. Punctual as usual.”

  I pulled the door open and found Jerry standing there. “Maddy! They didn’t tell me you were going to be here.”

  “That surprises you?” I asked with a smile. Jerry was forty, with sandy blond hair, brown eyes, and wide grin. Like Dad, he had somehow avoided the middle-age spread that was the bane of most men, but I suspected that could change at any time.

  “No, not really. I think we’ve been set up again.”

  “It’s not a setup,” Mother shouted.

  I laughed a little and then invited him in. Jerry and I dated in high school. There had never been the magic that teenage girls long for. He was polite, fun, and intelligent. The years had been kind to him. His smile was still stunning and genuine, and his character had not dulled with adulthood. He had married after medical school but divorced some years later. His wife apparently demanded more time than her doctor husband could give.

  “Come on in,” I said, stepping aside. He did and started for the love seat next to the sofa. I took a chance and peeked in the kitchen. “You sure you don’t need any help?”

  Mother shooed me out. “Go visit with our guests before your father launches into a lecture.”

  I went back to the living room. “Jerry, this is Celeste Truccoli. Celeste, Dr. Jerry Thomas.”

  “Hello,” Celeste said.

  “Hi, it’s a pleasure—” He stopped short. I could almost see his neurons sparking as his brain started to make connections. Mom said she had read about the abduction in the newspaper; Jerry must have done the same.

  “Truccoli?”

  Celeste squirmed. I answered for her. “Yes. It’s her mother who is missing. Celeste is staying with me for a while.”

  “I’m so very sorry. I don’t know what to say.” I watched as he switched from plain ol’ Jerry to Jerry the physician. “How are you holding up?”

  It was an honest and heartfelt question. It was also impossible for Celeste to answer. How does one hold up in such situations? She answered with a shrug. Tears were starting to well up again. The poor girl was living on the precipice. Anything and everything pushed her over the edge. Again I answered for her. “Celeste is strong. She’s doing everything right. We’re remaining hopeful.”

  “Is there anything I can do? I’ll help any way I can.”

  “There’s nothing any of us can do now but wait and pray that the police find her soon . . . and healthy.” I looked reassuringly at Celeste, then turned to find Mom standing nearby. She was staring at Celeste in a way only mothers could. The look said more than a library full of words.

  “Let’s gather around the table,” she said. “It’s time to eat.”

  Dinner passed with large helpings of the cheese-laden casserole topped with salsa and dollops of sour cream. Celeste ate more than I expected. I was glad to see it, but she left most of her meal on the plate. The conversation was light and covered everything from the weather to my father’s classes. The words didn’t touch on the questions festering in our minds. For Celeste’s sake, we avoided talking about the event she could not ignore. We were ballerinas dancing on eggshells. Despite our good intentions, it was a futile gesture. The shells cracked anyway.

  The harder we tried to pretend things were normal, the more obvious the truth became. I caught Celeste’s attention and whispered, “We’ll go home early.”

  She nodded and seemed appreciative.

  Cherry cobbler followed, which my mother served up in heaping portions. I declined, but she set a plateful of the gooey delight in front of me anyway. It was more than I could eat in two sittings. My mother was nothing if not compulsive. This slight affliction blossomed when she was nervous. Clearly, she was picking up Celeste’s discomfort.

  I had just put the first taste of the treat in my mouth when my cell phone chimed. Celeste’s head snapped around and she stared at me through wide eyes. I excused myself from the table, found my purse, and hurriedly glanced at the small screen on the device. Caller ID told me, “West, Judson” and the phone number. My heart did a somersault.

  “Madison Glenn,” I said, trying to look calm. Every eye was on me as I held the phone to my ear. I turned my back to those seated at the table so I could focus on West’s words. I listened as he spoke softly but firmly. I said I understood and disconnected. My chest muscles tightened and I felt the blood drain from my face. The room spun for a second, then returned to its rightful place. I was holding my breath. I forced a few inhalations. Slowly I turned and faced family and guests.

  Celeste broke the silence. “Was it about my mother?”

 
I shook my head. I was starting to feel numb, distant from reality, like a balloon released in a stiff breeze.

  “What, dear?” my mother asked. “Who was it?”

  I blinked a few times. “Detective West. There’s been another abduction, and . . .” I wasn’t sure how to put it. “And it’s someone else I know. I’m going over there.” I put the phone back in my purse. “Can Celeste stay—”

  “Of course,” Mom answered before I completed the sentence. Judging from Dad’s open mouth, she had beaten him by a slim second.

  “I’ll pick you up on my way home, Celeste. I’m afraid I have to do this.”

  She said nothing.

  “I’m going with you,” Jerry said, jumping to his feet. “I’ll drive.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “No, but I want to. Don’t bother arguing. You can let me drive or I’ll follow you over. Either way I’m going to be there.”

  I agreed with a silent nod. Why do men always have to be the ones to drive? Three minutes later I was riding shotgun in Jerry’s Ford Excursion.

  We got on the 101 and headed north for about five miles. Jerry handled the SUV with precision.

  “You going to fill me in?” he asked, his eyes fixed forward, looking beyond the black hood. “All I know is that we’re going to Canyon Rim.” Canyon Rim is a new subdivision that was built less than five years earlier. It’s a gated community with large homes and shared swimming and recreational facilities. “Canyon Rim, the Family Oasis,” it bills itself. Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars can get anyone a home with an ocean view.

  “Gillespie Street, 1344 Gillespie.”

  “You said this was another abduction?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t want to face this, didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Someone you know, you said.”

  “Yes.” I was going to have to talk about it. “How much do you know about Lisa Truccoli’s kidnapping?”

  “Just what was in the papers, and that wasn’t much.”

  I studied Jerry for a moment. He was a gentle man with a keen mind, attractive in every way. His most winsome attribute was his ability to empathize. That was what made him a good doctor, or so I heard. Having no children, I’ve never needed his services. I took a deep breath and explained all I knew. I felt as if I had recounted the story every hour of the day. I told him about Lisa’s role in my campaign, and the discovery of my bloody business card.