Before Another Dies (2 page)

“I'm sorry to disturb you so early, but this is important.” I took a deep breath. “I just pulled into the front lot, and there is a car in my parking space—”

“You didn't just pull me out of an officer review meeting to evict some guy from your parking space, did you? Unbelievable. Call security. That's their job. Call a tow truck.”

“You don't understand, the driver is in the car—”

“Then tell him who you are and tell him to beat feet.”

“I would, but he's dead.” Silence. I could hear people talking in the background and the chief breathing. “You there?”

“I'm here. You sure he's dead?”

I sighed. “Head tilted to one side, cloudy eyes open and unblinking, mouth agape . . . Oh, did I mention that he doesn't appear to be breathing?”

“I'll be right there.” He hung up.

I closed my flip phone and forced myself to the Gremlin again. The man hadn't budged, but then I hadn't expected him to. I've seen dead people before and he looked like a classic case. Once, out of some sense of misplaced loyalty, I attended a friend's autopsy—well, most of it. There are some blurry spots, and the crystal-clear images I kept locked in a mental dungeon.

The man in the car looked to be in his mid-thirties, maybe a couple years younger than my thirty-nine. He wore a white dress shirt that I doubted had ever been touched by an iron and blue jeans. His hair was sandy brown and curly. I didn't get close enough to see the color of his eyes. That was more information than I wanted.

I could see my reflection in the driver-side window. I saw the same shoulder-length brown hair, narrow nose, and hazel eyes that were several degrees wider than they were in my bathroom mirror this morning—perhaps because there wasn't a corpse on the other side of the mirror.

The sound of rubber tires on asphalt caused me to turn. A patrol car with a uniformed officer stopped a few feet away. A moment later, a city-issued Lincoln Continental—the chief's car—arrived. The Santa Rita police station sits less than fifty yards across the back parking lot that separates it from city hall. At best, it was a sixty-second drive. The uniformed officer stepped from his car and walked slowly in my direction. He took a moment to nod and offer a friendly, “Mayor,” before returning his gaze to the macadam. It took me a second to realize that he was making sure he wasn't about to step on some piece of key evidence. I wondered what I had stepped in.

Satisfied that no shell casing or other evidence littered the lot, the officer walked to the Gremlin. Webb was two steps behind him as was another man I knew, Detective Judson West. When I saw Webb, my stomach soured. When I saw West, my heart stuttered.

“Madam Mayor,” West said, with a wan smile. He stood a well-proportioned six foot two, had hair black enough to shame coal and teeth that were whiter and straighter than piano keys. His dark eyes twinkled. At least I think I saw a twinkle. West is our lead robbery-homicide detective. He came to the city from the San Diego PD a little over six months ago. He's never talked about why he left the big city.

“Did you touch anything?” Chief Webb asked.

“I knocked on the window with my knuckle.”

“That's it? You didn't try to open the car door?”

“It's locked. Besides, I know better than to put my fingerprints where they don't belong.”

“How do you know the door is . . . ?” I saw his gaze shift to the lock button on the door—it was down. Webb leaned over and peered through the side window to the door on the other side. I had done the same. He frowned.

West gave me a knowing smile. He knew of the tension between the chief and me and always seemed to find it entertaining. He turned to the officer. “All right, Bob, let's get the area taped off. In fact, I want the whole parking lot secured. No one in or out until we've searched the place and taken photos. You'd better call for some help. In the meantime, block the entrance with your car. The lot should start filling up any time now.”

“Got it.” Officer Bob reached for the microphone attached to the shoulder of his uniform and starting talking as he walked away.

“Not the way I planned to start the day,” I said.

“You okay?” West asked.

“Fine. Just wasn't expecting a dead man in my parking spot.”

I caught Webb looking our way and scowling. He was shorter than West, and his mane had grown comfortable with gray. He kept his hair combed back and held in place with some magical hair tonic. His eyes were an unhappy blue, and his face seemed frozen in disgust, as if he were on a castor oil diet. Red tinted his cheeks and the end of his nose.

Detective Judson West gave me one of his now famous smiles and inched his way over to his boss. I was still close enough to hear, but far enough away that I didn't have to see the dead man's face. I had seen enough of that.

“I don't suppose you've seen him before,” Webb grumbled.

“No, and I'm pretty sure I'd remember.”

“Not even during council meetings?”

The city council met every Tuesday evening at seven. It was a public meeting held in the chambers of city hall. Attendance was usually sparse with only a handful of citizens interested enough to pull themselves away from the television. Occasionally, a city measure would come up that would pack the place, but I could count those times on one hand. “Still no. I don't recall seeing the car either. I
know
I would remember that.”

Even the chief nodded at that. He studied the car a little longer, then turned to West. “It's all yours, Detective.”

“Gee, thanks,” West said. He smiled for a moment, then the grin disappeared. He was slipping into professional mode. I had seen it before. Half a year ago, I was embroiled in a mess of abductions and a murder. It ended badly, and I was still having nightmares. West had just started with our department, and I was his first case. I had seen what he could become when a mystery loomed before him.

Webb took a step back and watched West. The chief's chest seemed to swell as if watching his only son show up the neighbor's kid on the Little League field. West walked around the car, examining the paving, tires, door handles, windows, and everything else his eyes could fall upon. Then he stepped to the front of the car and placed his hand near the radiator grille. “Cold,” he said. “It's been here for a while.” He tilted his head to the side. “Anyone else hear that?”

“Hear what?” I asked.

He paused before answering. “Music. I hear music.”

I shook my head. I didn't hear anything. I stepped closer and picked up the hint of a tune. It was low, just loud enough to hear that something was there, but not enough to make out words. West walked to the passenger side of the car and looked in. “The keys are in the ‘on' position. The music is coming from the radio.” He straightened and turned at the sound of another police car arriving on the street. He waved the officer over. “Hey, Mitch, you got a Slim Jim in your patrol car, right? Bring it to me. Bring some gloves, too.”

A moment later, the officer was by West's side. He was holding a long, flat piece of metal and a box of disposable latex gloves. West donned the gloves, then took the flat tool. “Call the coroner, tell him we have some work for him, and then give Bob a hand with the crime-scene tape.”

He studied the Gremlin again and then returned to the passenger-side door. Without a word, he slipped the metal strip down between the window and rubber trim. He pushed, pulled, wiggled, and twisted the tool. “This is why I had to become a cop; I never could break into a car.”

“It was a good choice,” Webb said. “Benefits are better.”

“Got it.” He pulled up, and the door unlocked. He looked at me. “You want to guess why it is illegal for regular folk to own these?”

“I think I know.”

“Yeah, but did you know there's an urban legend about police officers being killed while using them?” I admitted that I didn't. “The story goes that cars with side-collision air bags have shoved these devices into officers' heads. It's not true, of course. It makes a good story at a party.”

“But you're still glad that a car this old doesn't have side air bags.”

“I'll never admit it in public.” He removed the tool and set it on the roof of the car. Using just one gloved finger, he pulled the handle and opened the door. I don't know what I was expecting, but I steeled myself for whatever came my way. The only difference I noticed was that I could now hear the music. The volume was weak.

“He must have had good ears,” I said.

Webb looked at me and fought back a frown.

“I think the battery is dying,” West said. He leaned in the car. I took a step back and shuddered. I couldn't see what he was doing. Seconds chugged by like hours and finally West came up for air. “I was wrong when I said the key was in the ‘on' position; it's turned to ‘accessories.'”

“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

M
y 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.”