Before Another Dies (32 page)

“As I said before, it's being abused in many cities.”

“I know. I've been able to locate six occurrences in the last year where they've tried to obtain property through a municipality by orchestrating an eminent domain situation. In two cases allegations of under-the-table payments to elected officials were leveled. Both cases were dropped. In all six attempts at eminent domain it was granted and Howard Enterprises got a deal on the property—usually less than half what the fair market value would be.”

“In all six cases?”

“All six. What are the odds of that?”

“Not good. Do they have that much influence, or are there too few honest city officials?”

“It gets worse,” Nat said. “I found a report that alleges as many as 10,000 pieces of private property have been seized by cities for private developers in recent years. In Atlantic City a middle-class neighborhood was condemned to allow a tunnel to be built to a new casino. A man lost four commercial buildings he owned in New York because the city wanted to set up a parking structure. In Washington, a city took the home of a woman well into her eighties. It had been her home for over fifty years. Why did they take it? They said they wanted to expand a sewer plan, but when it was all over, her home went to an auto dealership. There's one horror story after another.”

“What about legal challenges? Surely the property owners can sue.”

“Sure they can and they win—40 percent of the time.”

“That means they lose 60 percent.”

Nat nodded. “That's right, and that only counts those that had the financial means to launch a lawsuit.”

“You know this is not new,” I said. “Eminent domain is derived from the Constitution. The Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments are supposed to limit how the government can use the power. The Fifth Amendment states—” I had to think, and my thinking was a little muddled. “That no person shall be deprived of life, liberty, or property without due process of law. That applies to the federal government. The Fourteenth Amendment says the state cannot deprive any person of life, liberty, or property without due process of law.”

My mind was chugging but at least it was moving. I called for my father. He stepped from the kitchen and looked glad for it. “Okay, Professor, didn't you tell me that the railroads used eminent domain to gain the rights they needed to build the tracks?”

“You always were a good student. The railroads would come to town, have property condemned, and the owners given a dollar with the advice, ‘If you want fair and just compensation, take us to court.' Of course, not many people could afford to sue the railroads. It happened with the highway system, too.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You going to tell me why you ask?”

“Not now. I don't want to get you into trouble with Mom.” He looked disappointed and went back to the kitchen. I felt badly for him, but if he knew I was talking shop, then Mom would know, and if she knew . . .

“What's happening, Maddy, is this,” Nat said. “Businesses are learning that they can acquire property without going through the bidding process and that they can obtain the property for less money. Assuming they can get the city council to go with them on it. If they do, then they can force themselves into neighborhoods that don't want them.”

“So Rutger Howard sends his man to pave the way. He tries to buy me off with a big contribution, and when that doesn't work, he starts to play dirty. He has his photo taken with me to imply I'm already on board. He works behind my back to try and influence council members and has some luck—although I was wrong about whom he had won over.” I explained about my debacle with Tess and what I had learned this morning about Titus.

“From everything you've told me about Titus, it seems so out of character. Why would he do that?”

I handed the folder back to Nat. I was too tired to read.

“Maybe he genuinely believes that having that new restaurant would be good for the city.” It was Jerry.

“Have you been pretending to sleep?” I asked. “You were eavesdropping.”

“I've dropped no eaves. I was just resting my eyes, at least for the last few minutes. I may have blacked out for a while. Don't be jumping to conclusions.”

“You looked asleep,” I said.

“Not about me, about Titus. His wife didn't say anything about eminent domain, only that he had been working on—how did she put it?—the restaurant thing. She didn't say anything about eminent domain. Maybe he just likes Bennie's. Some people do.”

Now I was feeling rotten inside as well as out. First I drew a wrong and hasty conclusion about Tess's role in the matter, and now I may have repeated the error with Titus.

“So Howard Enterprises is doing all this to gain property at a reduced price,” I said.

“We don't know everything they're up to,” Nat added, “but that's how it appears on the surface, and there's sufficient history to back it up.”

“No one ever said this job would be easy.” I leaned my head back. Weariness was starting to win. “I need to make a call.”

“You need to rest,” Jerry said. “There's no one who needs to hear from you today.”

“Yes, there is.” I started to reach for the phone next to the sofa but Jerry beat me to it.

He handed it to me, and I dialed information. A few minutes later I was talking to Jim Lynch, president of Atlas Security. It was time for me to offer my condolences for the man who died on my deck.

The next five minutes were rough.

chapter 38

D
inner had been wonderful. Mom's taco casserole was as good as it had ever been, and I wished I felt well enough for seconds. It was the first food I had since turning my nose up at the hospital breakfast. I had slept through lunch. My parents reminded me that they were moving in for the next few days. I insisted that they didn't need to, but was glad that they overruled me. I was also glad that Nat and Jerry had stayed for dinner.

Mom served pound cake, replete with a scoop of vanilla-bean ice cream and chocolate syrup. I managed to force that down. We moved outside through the new sliding glass door for decaf coffee and to watch the sun set. The yellow ball had turned orange as it neared the horizon, and the band of light it painted on the undulating ocean glistened gold. The air smelled sweet, and the gulls and terns performed airborne gymnastics.

Still, it was hard to forget that a dead man had breathed his last on this same deck. I went back into the house. The thought was too much for me. Besides, something was nagging me. I lay down on the sofa and closed my eyes. Thoughts bounded and rebounded like ping-pong balls. I thought of the eminent domain problem. Money and expediency were the motives. Greed was a motive. At least I understood that. People always did things for a motive. The motive might not be logical or reasonable to anyone else, but it made sense to the possessor.

Then I thought of Robby Hood and Katie Lysgaard. What an odd pair. He was not an ugly man, but he was hardly a trophy. On the other hand, Katie was knock-dead gorgeous. What did she see in him, the man who spent his nights in an upstairs room in his house talking about ghosts, goblins, monsters, UFOs, conspiracies, and who knows what else? Maybe it was his intelligence. Maybe it was his wealth. Maybe West was right, and she was nothing more than a bodyguard.

Why would a killer go to such lengths to kill people somehow related to the Robby Hood show? I was no expert, but serial killers usually had some internal, dark motivation. They killed women because they hated their mothers; they killed young men because they were homophobic; some killed for pleasure. But these murders were tied to one man and his radio program. Each killing connected to a topic on Hood's show. What did that achieve?

The newspaper ran articles about each death, and although I hadn't had time to see it, I imagine the events had made the radio and television news. To my knowledge, no one was making the connection to the show. Four people had died and an attempt was made on my life, but the killer's fascination with Hood's show was still too dim for others to see.

If the killings weren't for public attention, then they must be for some private reason. What? The joy of killing? There have been those who loved the hunt and the act of extinguishing a life, but why bother with Hood at all? Why not pick a target at a bar, or in the park, or a store perhaps? That didn't seem right.

I sat up. Something was stirring in my mind. Maybe the killer didn't want public attention. He wanted Hood's attention. But what could Hood have done to make someone so angry as to kill on four consecutive nights? Had it been a business deal gone bad? Perhaps Hood ridiculed the man on air, and he was seeking revenge. How sensitive an ego would a man need to be pushed off the edge of rationality—to start breaking necks? And who would know the identity of the one being ridiculed? Hood didn't allow last names on the air. I had heard that myself. Only on-air guests used their full names.

At first, I thought Hood was paranoid, hiding as he did in that big house, behind the tall wall, but I wasn't much different. My phone number was unlisted; my address a secret. I began to wonder if Hood had been threatened at one time. That could make a person paranoid. I know my own paranoia had climbed a few notches since last night.

The doorbell rang and I rose to get it. By the time I rounded the sofa, Jerry and my father had shot through the dining area and into the living room.

“I've got it,” Jerry snapped. His tone removed any possibility of debate. Apparently paranoia was contagious. My mother stopped at the threshold of the deck. She was holding a coffee cup like it was a shield. Behind her was Nat. It was just a doorbell, but the sound of it conjured up all manners of evil.

Jerry bent over and peered through the peephole. He stood straight again and frowned. Unlocking the door, he opened it. “Good evening, Detective West.”

A chilly, “Dr. Thomas,” wafted through the opening.

“Ask him in, Jerry,” I prompted.

He did and West entered. He wore a tan coat and black slacks. The ever-present tie was still missing. In his hand were a dozen long-stem roses. They were beautiful. I was certain he didn't get them at the supermarket.

“You're looking better,” he said and brought the flowers to me. Jerry closed the door.

I laughed. “I'm pretty sure that's a lie. Only a paper bag would make me look better today. Have a seat.” I motioned to the love seat and took my place on the end of the sofa closest to where West sat. Conversation was easier that way. I could face him, and he could face me. If we both sat on the sofa, I would have to turn to speak to him and I was too stiff to want to do that for very long.

“Mom?” I held out the flowers. “Do you mind?”

“Oh, they're lovely,” she said. “How sweet. I'll put them in a vase.”

I thanked him for the roses. He waved it off. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I'm alive and kicking, not very high, but I'm kicking. I don't suppose you ever—”

“No. Nothing has changed since this morning. We've scoured the area, but he's long gone. I imagine he's ditched his black outfit.”

“What about the murders? Any progress on that front?” I noticed Jerry hovering. “Sit down, Jerry. This concerns you, too.” That invitation was interpreted as open to everyone in the house. Moments later, my living room furniture had people perched in every available spot. Nat was the last to arrive.

West seemed uncomfortable. Detectives seldom talked about ongoing cases openly. They played their cards close to their chest, but this was a different situation. “I've just returned from the medical examiner's. He's getting pretty tired of doing these. No unexpected news on that front. The guard was killed in the same fashion as the others, and the marks on the jaw match. I showed him the pictures I had taken of you and Dr. Thomas. He agreed that they matched also, at least as far as he could tell from the photos.” West had taken photos of our injuries while we were in the ER. It was one of the most embarrassing things I've endured. There was no need for embarrassment, but it reared its head anyway.

“I've also done some background research on Robin Hoddle, aka Robby Hood, and Katie Lysgaard. There are a few interesting things, but nothing earth shattering. Hood's program has been on the air for several years. Last year he moved his side of the operation to his home. Before that, he worked out of an LA station. He started doing late-night news soon after college. Someplace along the line he gained an interest in the wacky stuff. I spoke to one of his former station managers who had nothing but nice things to say. It seems Hood is a natural. About seven years ago the station let him have his own show. It was only late-night weekends at first, and no one thought it would go anyplace. Two years later his show was on seven days a week.”

“The guy works seven days a week?” Jerry asked. “He doesn't take any time off?”

“I questioned several of the station managers for affiliate stations that carry the show. They tell me Hood is live Sunday through Friday. Saturday night is usually a repeat of an earlier show, or the stations run some other programming. I got the same word from Terminal Radio Network. Those guys are real close-lipped, but since that info was public knowledge, they let me have it. They clammed up when I asked anything personal about Hood. He has them under some kind of contract.”

“What about Lysgaard?” I wondered. “Is she really Hood's wife?”

“Yes, as of two weeks ago.” West paused and waited for our reaction. He got one.

“Two weeks?” I said. “They're newlyweds? You'd think he would have mentioned that when we were there.”

“He wasn't very forthcoming. The man wants his privacy. If you ask me, he's beyond paranoid.”

“You'd expect that from someone like him,” Jerry said. “It's certainly part of his on-air persona. Sometimes the actor evolves into the character he plays. The few times I've listened to him, I assumed he was playing his audience's desire for such things.”