Before Another Dies (6 page)

chapter 5

T
he front parking lot was empty of police cars, and the green Gremlin was gone, towed to the county forensics lab I assumed. The yellow tape with the emblazoned words “Crime Scene—Do Not Cross” was still in place, a reminder that something inhuman had happened in the wee hours of the morning.

I wondered about Mr. Jose Lopez, the dead man in my parking stall. Did he have family? Were their children waiting for a father who hadn't come home the night before? For most, violence on television and in the movies was entertainment; it is something far different when it leaves the idiot box and camps on your doorstep. Jose Lopez was somebody's son, perhaps somebody's brother, and maybe someone's husband and father. The world had lost one more of its six billion people but went on as if nothing had happened.

After Peter was killed, I was amazed how little changed. My life was different, of course, as was his side of the family, but the rest of the world chugged on. Stoplights did their job, surgeries went on, baseball games were played, marriages took place, meals were served, and naps were taken. Except for those of us stitched to his existence, the rest of the world paid no attention.

When I was a kid and still living at home, I looked out our front window one Saturday afternoon. The house across the way was bustling with quiet activity. Cars I had never seen before were parked along the curb; people with faces I didn't recognize stood on the front lawn; people came and went. Of all the folks I saw, I noticed that I didn't see the woman who lived in the house. I assumed they were having a party, but it was unlike any party I had seen. My mother is a sensitive soul, looking worried when I mentioned what was going on out our window. She said, “Oh no,” then told me to stay put. She exchanged a look with Dad, who looked puzzled but said nothing. Mom left the house and returned fifteen minutes later, pale and shaken. “It's Nick Gentry, Jennifer's husband. He was killed at work on Monday. The funeral was today. I didn't know. I didn't know.” Mom shed silent tears.

None of us knew. Later I would learn Nick had fallen under his bulldozer in a freak accident. It was a horrible thought that kept me awake for several nights. When Monday came, I went to school just like the Monday Mr. Gentry died. It was the same school, the same teacher, the same classes, and the same lunchtime. Nothing was any different because Nick Gentry had died. Nothing for me anyway. That has always bothered me, so when I drove by the lot, I wondered whose life had been changed because of someone's cruelty twelve or fourteen hours before.

I parked in the rear lot and glanced at the police station, which shared parking with us. A sea of asphalt separated city hall from “crime central,” as a friend of mine used to call it. I wondered if Judson West was seated at his desk, working on the case. I entered the office through the back door and worked my way down the hall and slipped into my office. Floyd was waiting for me.

“There's a man in the lobby waiting for you,” he said.

I waited for more but nothing was forthcoming. “What kind of man?”

“What kind of . . . I don't get it.”

“Who is he and what does he want, Floyd?”

“Oh, I see what you mean.” He smiled. “I mean, there's only one kind of man, right? Your question confused me.”

“Trust me, Floyd, there are many different kinds of men. What is he? Constituent? Salesman? What?”

“He said he was a reporter.”

“From where?” I pressed.

“I . . . I didn't ask. Sorry.”

I sighed. “Don't worry about it, Floyd. In the future, take his name, his business, and what he wants to see me about. Write it down so I can have it in front of me if I need it.”

“I'll go ask him now.”

“Wait. You said he was a reporter, right? Show him in but tell him I have only ten minutes.”

Floyd was out the door a second later. He was a good kid with lots of promise, if I could only get him to focus. Pastor Lenny was going to owe me big time for hiring his kid. I walked into my office and found six phone messages written on pink While You Were Out forms. The notes were lined up in a neat little row, straight enough to please the most demanding obsessive-compulsive. I rifled through them quickly, putting each one aside for later. There was nothing pressing and for that I was thankful. Today already had enough stress.

I had just dropped my purse in the desk drawer when Floyd reappeared with a thick, tall man with cropped light brown hair. He wore a white T-shirt and faded jeans. He also wore a khaki photographer's vest, lined with pockets. I know most of the media reporters in the county, and I was sure I had never met this man.

“Madam Mayor,” Floyd said, “this is Barry Harper, the reporter I mentioned.”

“Come in, Mr. Harper.” I stood and waved them in. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Soda?”

“No, thanks.” His voice had an uncomfortable rasp that made me want to clear my throat. I judged him to be in his early thirties. He eyed me. I don't like to be eyed. He strode in like it was his office and took a seat before I had a chance to offer it. So much for courtesy. I continued to stand to see if he'd catch the hint. He didn't. I'm not formal by nature, but I think that certain social protocols should be observed when in a business or social setting. Inviting a guest to sit might be outdated, but it was something I valued. Much can be determined about a person's character by the manners they show. So far, I hadn't seen any manners.

“If you'll sit down we can start,” he said.

My blood temperature rose. I sat. Slowly. “Floyd, I want you to join us.”

“Really?”

I stuffed a sigh. “Yes, really.”

“That's okay,” Harper said. He pulled a small notepad from his rear pocket. “I won't need him.”

I began to wonder how many votes I'd lose if I strangled him right where he sat. My patience thinned. “I wasn't asking for your benefit, Mr. Harper. What media did you say you were with?” Floyd started in, stopped, returned to his desk, and reappeared with a notepad of his own.

“I didn't.” He shifted his weight. “This morning a dead body was found on your property. Do you have any comment?”

“The tape recorder,” I said softly.

He shifted his weight again. “What?”

“Take the tape recorder out of your vest pocket and turn it off.”

“Can't you see that I'm using a notepad—”

“Floyd, call security.”

Floyd was on his feet before I could finish the sentence. At times, Floyd had concentration problems, but he was paying attention now. He reached for my phone.

“Okay, okay, ooookaaay,” Harper said. “No need to get nasty about it.” He reached into one of the front pockets of the vest and removed a small tape recorder. He turned it off. “I don't know why you're so touchy about a little thing like that. Reporters use them all the time.”

“Not covertly. You're being deceptive. I don't like deception.” He started to return the recorder to his pocket. “Let's just leave that on the desk for a while, shall we?” He frowned then set the device down.

“You're being unreasonable. Can we get started now?”

“Who do you represent?”

“I told you, I'm a reporter.”

I held my words and waited.

“I'm with the
Register.
”

I almost laughed out loud. The
Register
wasn't always my friend, but it was always professional. I had never known them to play games when it came to the news they reported. “You're with the
Register
? The Santa Rita
Register
?”

He blinked, and there was a hitch in his answer. “Yeah.”

“How long have you been with them?”

“I'm . . . I'm new.”

“So if Floyd calls over there, they'll know who you are?” I pressed.

“They should . . . they might. I'm a stringer.”

That explained it. He wasn't an employee but a freelancer trying to find a scoop. “Let me guess, you've been monitoring police transmissions on a scanner and thought you might beat everyone to the punch.”

“Something like that.” He squirmed. I shouldn't, but I get a small thrill watching reporters fidget. They had put me in that position often enough.

“Okay, Mr. Harper. I'm all for the entrepreneurial spirit so I'll let you stay, but know this: If you ever want to interview me again, you will do it as a professional, and you will be aboveboard with me at all times. Understood?”

He didn't answer. His expression told me he was not used to being on the receiving end of such conversations. Maybe he didn't like being told off by a woman.

“Don't press me, Mr. Harper. I am a woman of patience but the meter is reading close to empty. Do you want to continue or not?”

Just as I thought he was about to blow his second chance, his face softened. “Yes, please.”

Please! There was courtesy hidden in the young man after all. “You had a question for me.”

“A body was found on your property today. Do you have a comment?”

I sighed for dramatic effect but refrained from shaking my head in disgust. “You're asking about the dead man in the car?”

“Of course.”

“First, Mr. Harper, he was found on city property, not
my
property. The citizens of Santa Rita own city hall and every other piece of city property including parks, the pier, police station, fire stations, and much more. So no, I didn't find a body on my property, I discovered a body in a car parked in the front lot of city hall.”

“But you are the one who found it?”

“I discovered
him,
Mr. Harper, when I came to work this morning. I came in a little early and was the first in the lot. Most of our employees park in the rear lot.”

“What can you tell me about the man?” He wrote a note in his book.

“Nothing.”

“You won't tell me anything about the deceased?”

This had just moved beyond the ridiculous. “I can tell you that I didn't know him, had never seen him to my recollection, and I have no idea how he came to be parked in the front lot.”

“What about his name?”

“I think you're confused, Mr. Harper. Maybe it's just your inexperience showing. I'm the mayor of Santa Rita, not a detective. Those questions should be asked of the detective in charge, not of me. Go ask them.”

“I did. They kicked me out.”

“Really. Imagine that.”

“All right then, maybe you could tell me what you plan to do about the spike in crime we're seeing in Santa Rita.”

“To what spike do you refer?” The crime rate in our city had been the same for the last ten years. Considering what other cities were going through, that was a remarkable thing.

“Murder for one. Here is yet another murder, and it happens right on your doorstep.”

“How do you know it was murder?”

“Detective West told me.”

“Before he threw you out?” He nodded. “How many murders have there been in our city over the last twelve months, Mr. Harper?” He said nothing. This time I did shake my head. “Santa Rita is one of the safest cities in California. On average there are two murders per year within city limits. That's two murders in a city of 125,000. Escondido had five murders last year, Corona eight, Lancaster eighteen. All cities of roughly the same size as ours. The number of violent crimes in Santa Rita was just 160 for the last twelve months. Other cities our size number seven or eight times that. So I ask again, what spike in crime?”

“You seem to know your numbers, Ms. Glenn—”

“That's Mayor Glenn, pal.” A new voice spoke, one with an edge to it.

I looked up to see Doug Turner standing in the doorway. He was dressed in black slacks and a striped dress shirt punctuated with a gold tie. Every time I had seen the
Register
's star reporter he was dressed nicely but always seemed as if he had just stepped off a grueling transcontinental flight. There was always something amiss with his attire. Today, his tie hung to the right of midline.

“She's the mayor; it's her job to know facts about the city.”

Harper jumped at Turner's words.

“I don't appreciate you horning in on my job.”

“I'm . . . I'm freelance. I can interview anyone I like.”

“Yes, you can,” Turner said, turning up the heat in his voice, “but you need a place to publish it, and I can make sure the door to the
Register
stays locked to you.” He looked at me. “Is that his?” He pointed at the tape recorder. I nodded. Turner picked it up and tossed it at Harper. “Take a hike. And don't use the name
Register
again unless you are on the payroll.”

Harper rose. “You're just jealous that I got here first.”

“Jealousy is the fear of losing what you have. Trust me, there's nothing about you that makes me jealous.”

Harper started to speak, but thought better of it. Turner was a gentleman—most of the time. He did have his limits. Apparently he and Harper had some previous tension between them. Harper walked from the room and Turner turned to me. “I apologize, Mayor. Guys like him crawl out of the woodwork every now and again.”

“You don't know him?”

“Never met him before, but the paper occasionally uses stringers.”

“Just how long have you been listening?” I asked.

He looked chagrined. “Just a few minutes. Long enough to pick up on his attitude. I know I've been a pain in your side a few times, but I like to think I've been a professional pain.”

“You have always been that,” I said. “You know Floyd, right?”

“We've talked a couple of times over the last few months.” He did the male head-nod thing, and Floyd returned it. Unlike Harper, Turner remained on his feet until I offered him a seat.

“I just heard about your mother. I'm sorry,” I said.