The Incumbent Page 9

  Jerry listened, asking only the occasional question to clarify my sometimes murky descriptions. When I was done, he said, “Wow.”

  “Wow?”

  “I know that’s not eloquent, but it’s all I can think of to say. This place we’re going is also connected to you?”

  “The person is. Take the next off ramp.” I gazed out the window, watching the terrain zip by as we began to head inland. The 101 bifurcates Santa Rita: coastal communities and businesses to the west, the rest of the city nestled in the hills to the east. Those hills, still green from the winter rains, were lit this night by a waxing gibbous moon. “Poor Lizzy.”

  “Lizzy?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be opaque. Elizabeth Stout. She was my best friend in college.”

  “At San Diego State.”

  “Yes. Peter introduced us during my freshman year. She’s from Agora Hills originally. She moved to Santa Rita about ten years ago. Turn left on Sunset, then make a right on Grove. We’re almost there.”

  “Did the detective say . . . I mean . . . did he mention if . . .” He gave a halfhearted chuckle. “It appears I just suffered a stroke.”

  He was trying to ask a hard question delicately, but there was no subtle way to approach it. “Detective West didn’t say anything about the crime scene, so I don’t know if there’s blood.”

  “Isn’t it unusual for the police to ask a civilian to come to the scene of a crime?”

  “I suppose,” I admitted, “but this is all atypical. He said it involved me again, but didn’t say how. Maybe because I’m the mayor, I get cut a little extra slack.”

  “Make’s sense, I guess.”

  “That’s it,” I said. I didn’t have to say anything else. Two patrol cars and one unmarked police car rested near the curb. Jerry parked behind the last car in the queue and I exited. Outside the vehicle I paused, closed my eyes, took a deep breath of sweet night air, and wished I were far away. When I opened my eyes, I found that reality had decided to hang around.

  Lizzy’s house is a two-story structure that must hover around three thousand square feet. The stucco exterior appeared stark and uninviting in the yellow porch light. The light bar of one patrol car was still on, splashing the house with rotating red and blue splotches.

  For the second time in two days, I walked to a house that had harbored a crime.

  I’m Maddy Glenn,” I said to the officer posted by the front door. As with Lisa’s house, the door was wide open. “Detective West asked to see me.”

  “Who are you?” he asked Jerry.

  “He’s with me,” I said.

  The officer frowned, then took one step into the house. “Detective, Maddy Glenn is here.”

  A second later West appeared, his suit looking as crisp and pressed as it did that morning. “Madam Mayor,” he said. “Thank you for coming.” He looked at Jerry.

  “Dr. Jerry Thomas,” I said, “meet Detective Judson West, Santa Rita PD.”

  They acknowledged each other, but I noticed that West was studying Jerry carefully.

  “Jerry is a family friend. He was having dinner with my parents and me when you called.”

  “Celeste?” West asked.

  “She was with us. I left her at my parents’ house. I didn’t think she needed to see any of this.”

  “Wise. Come in, but please keep your hands to yourself and watch your step.”

  We followed West into the house. It was as I remembered it. Clean in a way that only a compulsive organizer could keep it. Lizzy fit that bill. Smart, witty, and aggressive, she was the consummate real estate broker. After learning that a degree in art history was hard to convert into a livable wage, she studied and took the real estate exam, passing it the first time, unlike the bulk of other aspirants. Within five years she had earned her brokers license and opened up shop for herself. She had a knack for placing people in houses and browbeating lending institutions into loaning money to anything that breathed.

  Over the years, she and her husband, a civil engineer for the county, had earned enough money to be comfortable. Her only vice was a love for new artists, and her house proves it. Paintings hang from every wall and sculptures rest in nearly every nook.

  The foyer is small but opens onto a large living area with a cathedral ceiling. Leather furniture fills the space, which is accented with mahogany end and coffee tables. On the sofa was a man, hunched over, his head buried in his hands. He rocked back and forth like a metronome.

  “Leo?” The man didn’t look up. I glanced at West.

  The detective nodded. “He’s taking it hard.”

  “How else could he take it?” I scurried to Leo’s side, sat down on the sofa, and put my arm over his shoulders. He seemed to melt under my touch. I wanted to say something but nothing came to mind, so I just sat there with him for a moment. He never lifted his head.

  “Mayor, if you have a moment, please,” West whispered.

  I rose and Jerry and I followed him to the kitchen. Like the living room, the kitchen was spotless. The tile glowed, it was so clean.

  “Here’s what we know so far,” West said. “Mrs. Stout was alone in her home this afternoon. Sometime after three and before five-thirty, one or more people entered the house, struggled briefly with her, and then removed her from the premises.”

  “How do you know the time?” Jerry asked.

  “Mr. Stout spoke to her on the phone at three. They planned a dinner engagement. He arrived home at five-thirty. He found her missing and he found this.” He pointed to a photograph sitting on the counter, just in front of a drip coffeemaker. “Do you recognize the picture?”

  I was standing ten or twelve feet from the photo but I could see it clearly enough. It showed Lizzy with her short styled hair framing her round face. We were standing shoulder-to-shoulder next to a wood podium. There was something odd about the picture. “Yes. Lizzy was president of the Santa Rita Chamber of Commerce last year. I spoke at one of their luncheons. That picture was taken then.”

  I took two steps closer. An empty wood frame sat to the side. At first I thought something had been spilled on the picture, but then I realized how wrong I was. Mustering courage I didn’t feel, I stepped closer. Drops. Rust red drops. Tiny little mounds of viscous fluid had been carefully and strategically placed on the image of Lizzy’s face: one drop on each eye and one on her mouth. Three drops. Three tiny drops that hit me like atomic bombs.

  I felt sick. Clutching my stomach, I turned away.

  Jerry said, “What kind of sick person does this?”

  “Good question,” West asked. “If we knew that, we could put an end to it all.”

  My stomach cramped and a burning filled my gut. For a moment I felt as if my knees would buckle. I sucked air, hoping to quell the volcano in my belly.

  “You all right, Mayor?” West asked.

  “Uh, yeah. Give me a minute.”

  “Perhaps we should go outside,” he suggested, taking my arm. “I can’t have you tossing your dinner in here. No offense meant.”

  “None taken,” I squeaked and allowed him to lead me out of the house. I felt like an old lady.

  The cool air washed over me in sweet relief. I was angry for being weak, but the picture was the last straw on my camel’s aching back.

  “Take a few deep breaths,” Jerry said. I could feel his hand on my shoulder. “In fact, you better sit down.” He guided West and me to his SUV and opened the passenger door. I sat. I breathed. I tried to regain my pride.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t normally respond this way.”

  “How often have you faced a situation like this?” West asked. “There’s no need to apologize.” He and Jerry were standing next to me on the curb.

  “I’ll take you home,” Jerry said.

  “Hang on a sec,” West countered. “I need to ask a few questions.”

  “Can’t you see she’s not up to it?”

  West paused before replying. He eyed Jerry hard, then said in a calm but cold
voice, “There are two women missing, Doctor. While it may be an uncomfortable inconvenience for the mayor, it is a necessary one. Or would you like to go tell Mr. Stout that we need to hold up the investigation?”

  “Of course not,” Jerry shot back. “I just think you should show more compassion.”

  I had to put an end to this. “I’m fine, Jerry. Thanks. Detective West is right. Ask your questions, Detective.”

  “How do you know Mrs. Stout?”

  I explained about being school chums and maintaining a friendship over the years.

  “Do you know if she has any enemies?”

  “Not Lizzy. She can charm a bear out of its honey. Everyone likes her.”

  “Has she spoken to you recently about any problems in her life?”

  “Problems?”

  “Family, business, that sort of thing.”

  “No. As far as I know, she and Leo have a perfect marriage . . . as perfect as marriage can be, anyway.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

  I had to think about that. “About two weeks ago, give or take.” My stomach settled and I could feel the blood circulating in my head again. I was beginning to feel like I might survive.

  “When you spoke to her, did she seem abnormal . . . by that I mean, did she seem stressed, fearful, irritated, or depressed?”

  “No.” I thought it was time to cut to the chase. “Detective, I know you’re trying to cover all the bases, and maybe you’re trying to spare me any more shock, but I think I know the real questions you want to ask. Perhaps we should get right to it.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Did Mrs. Stout have any connection to your office or campaigns?”

  “Yes. Like Lisa, she worked in my campaigns.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “Lizzy is well connected in the business community and active in the Chamber. As I said earlier, she was president last year. With her connections, we thought it best that she serve as fund-raising chairwoman.”

  “And that’s what she did?”

  “Yes, excelled at it. Her people skills are beyond match. She jump-started the campaign with several key fund-raising events.”

  “So she worked with the money.”

  “Not like Lisa. Lizzy couldn’t write checks and didn’t have access to bank records. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her; she just had no need to work in those areas.”

  “Still, it is an interesting tie-in.”

  “What’s it mean?” Jerry asked.

  “I have no idea,” West replied. “It’s a flimsy connection, but it is a connection nonetheless.” He paused. “I need to ask another question.”

  I had anticipated this. “I was at my office until a few minutes before five, which you know, since we spoke on the phone. From there I drove home. Celeste can tell you I arrived at about five-ten or five-fifteen. A little while later we left to drop off Michele and then go to my parents’ house for dinner. I arrived there around twenty after six.”

  “Michele?”

  “That’s Celeste’s friend. They go to college together. She spent the day with Celeste while I was at work.”

  In the dim moonlight I could see West’s eyes narrow. “You arrived home sometime after five but didn’t reach your parents’ house until nearly six-thirty. What did you do in the meantime?”

  “I talked with Celeste and Michele, waited for them to change clothes, drove Michele home, and then drove to my parents’.”

  “This is insulting,” Jerry said. “Maddy is the mayor. That makes her your boss. How can you even think that she might be a party to all this?”

  “It’s fine, Jerry,” I said, cutting West off. “He wouldn’t be much of a detective if he didn’t ask these questions.”

  “It’s just that—”

  “I know, I know. I appreciate it, but I’m not offended.”

  West showed no sign that Jerry’s objections irritated him. I imagined West had seen and heard it all.

  “I’m concerned about you,” West said to me.

  “Why?” Jerry asked. Good ol’ Jerry, always eager to help. There was no reining him in.

  West said what had already crossed my mind. “Two people closely associated with Mayor Glenn have disappeared. We discovered blood at both sites. Small amount that it is, it is still blood. In each case, at the scene we found something associated with Mayor Glenn. In Lisa Truccoli’s case, it was the mayor’s business card; here it’s a picture of her. This isn’t a simple string of break-ins; someone is delivering a message and they don’t want it overlooked.”

  “What message?” Jerry asked.

  “That’s what we need to find out—and soon.” West turned to me. “Do you use an alarm service for your home?” I said I did. “Be sure and turn it on. I’m going to talk to the watch commanders and request that officers patrol your street more often. It’s important that you be as careful as possible.”

  “I will.”

  “I’m serious. As I said before, you need to develop a healthy paranoia for a while.”

  A motion behind West caught my eye. I looked over his shoulder and noticed someone walking from the house. It took a moment in the dim light to see that it was Leo. He had something in his hand. He walked stiffly, in a way that made me think of old zombie movies. I motioned toward him and West turned around.

  “Mr. Stout,” West said. “That’s evidence; you can’t be carrying it around.”

  Leo ignored him and held up the picture from the kitchen. Streetlights helped me see the three drops of blood smeared across the photo. Leo must have been rubbing the image of his wife’s face. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  “Are you responsible for this?” Leo shouted. He shook the picture at me. “Are you, Maddy? Are you responsible for my wife being taken from our home?” His voice was loud and his words hot.

  “No, Leo. Of course not. I’m as concerned as you—”

  “Why Lizzy?” His voice was breaking. “Why my Lizzy?”

  “Let me have the picture, Mr. Stout,” West said. He stepped between me and Leo, blocking the grieving husband’s advance. “Give it to me.” The words were soft but firm.

  “I want my wife back. I want her back, do you hear?”

  I heard. My heart ached and my eyes were awash in tears. “Leo . . .” It was a sentence with no destination. I didn’t know what to say. He was a frightened, sorrowful man, helpless in the face of the horrible facts. I felt sick again.

  “Come with me, sir.” West took him by the elbow and turned him around. “Let’s you and me talk.” He walked Leo away from us, and then a few steps later turned. “Take her home, Doc.”

  Jerry did, but a big part of me stayed behind.

  chapter 8

  He didn’t mean it, you know.” Jerry’s words found me gazing out the side window of the Excursion, not seeing anything, wishing I didn’t feel anything.

  “What?” I asked, reeling in my attention from the dark distance.

  “Your friend, Mr. Stint. He didn’t mean what he said.” We were back on the 101, headed south.

  “Stout,” I corrected. “Leo Stout. And I know he didn’t mean it.”

  “He’s hurt and scared. A man is likely to say anything in that state of mind. I see it all the time.”

  Jerry was trying to take the sting out of the confrontation, short as it was. I looked at him, his face lit by the dashboard lights. “Pediatrics is a rewarding profession but it isn’t all colds and flu. Occasionally, too often for my liking, I have to deliver bad news. Last week I told the parents of a six-year-old boy that he has leukemia. In med school they teach us not to get emotionally involved. Death is the irreducible part of life. It comes to everyone sometime; to some it comes early, and some live a century.”

  “Leukemia? That’s horrible.”

  “There are treatments that will probably help, but that’s not my point. When I sat the parents down in my office and gave them the news, they got mad at me, as if I had given the child the disease. It�
�s called transference and it’s common; kill the messenger and all that. The father ripped me up one side and down the other.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I let him vent.” He was driving slower than the rest of traffic, something I appreciated. I was in no hurry to get anywhere. “He uttered a lot of nonsense, then broke down. I let him cry for a few moments, and then I discussed the referrals I would need to make and what they needed to do next. Your friend was doing the same thing as that father. He doesn’t really blame you, but you’re the closest one at hand.”

  “I know. Still, it was hard to hear.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Run over—run over by something big.”

  “That’s how I usually feel when I get chewed out like that.” He glanced at me. “You look pale.”

  That didn’t surprise me. I struggled with my next step. I didn’t want to go back to my folks’ home. Mom was already worried. She would have lots of questions and then would begin to worry more. She was an Olympic-class worrier. If they gave gold medals for anxiety, she would have a drawer full. But there was Celeste to think about. I had promised to pick her up.

  “I’m going to make a call.” I pulled my cell phone from my purse and punched “memory dial,” selected my parents’ number, and pushed “send.” Two rings later Mom answered. I asked about Celeste.

  “She’s sleeping on the couch. We turned the television on for her. I did the dishes and came out to find her fast asleep. Poor thing is exhausted. Worry is hard work.”

  I agreed with her, then asked, “Since she’s already asleep, can she spend the night there?”

  “Of course. Are you all right?”

  “I’m feeling a little worn out myself. Maybe you should put a note on the coffee table for Celeste. That way if she wakes up in the middle of the night, she’ll know what happened.” Then I switched gears. “Can I talk to Dad?” I had a few things to explain and I wanted to say them to him. He would worry but not to the degree Mom would. A moment later Dad was on the phone. I told him about Lizzy and then said I had decided to go home for the evening. “I’ll arrange to pick up my car tomorrow.”