The Incumbent (29 page)
Turner. He finally ran the article.
T
he brief comfort I felt from being in the office had been sucked out of me by Jon and Tess. I tried to put them out of my mind but my brain wouldn’t let go. Their words buzzed around my head like black flies. I was angry and I hate being angry. It’s a self-destructive emotion.
“You look ready to chew nails.”
I turned my attention from the road ahead and gave Randi a quick glance. She raised an eyebrow. We were five minutes from the hospital and on the freeway to her home.
“It shows?”
“Not much—okay, I’m lying.”
“Sorry. I drifted back to something that happened this morning.”
“And that was . . .”
“Nothing, really.” I gave her another glance. She wasn’t buying it.
“Dish it. I’ve just spent the night and most of the morning in the hospital and am bored out of my skull.” She shifted in the car seat, her face twisting with the pain.
“How’s the foot?”
“It hurts. My back hurts. My head hurts, and you’re trying to change the subject.”
I laughed, then launched into a recounting of Jon and Tess’s visit. Randi listened in silence but I could tell she was beginning to fume.
“That’s it. We’re going to the office. I’m gonna beat someone with my crutches.”
“Tell her about what happened before,” Celeste said. She was sitting in the back.
Randi looked at me. “Before?”
I didn’t want to relive that too, but resistance was futile, so I gave the
Reader’s Digest
version of Christopher Truccoli’s actions.
Randi shook her head and then shifted again in her seat. Sitting in the car was making her discomfort worse. “I’ll say one thing: hangin’ with you ain’t dull.”
I pulled off the freeway and made my way up the hill to the Paseo Grande district. Randi rented a one-bedroom condo with an “almost view” of the ocean.
“So you’ve taken over my job, Celeste. Moving in on me, are you?”
Celeste snickered. It was the first sign of humor I had seen from her since her mother disappeared. “Not really. I just sit at the desk and wait for the phone to ring. There’s not much else for me to do. I don’t know the files and stuff.”
“Well, hang around, kid. I’ll show you the ropes. Sometimes I need the help. My boss is a slave driver.”
“Are you asking to walk the rest of the way home?” I joked.
“I meant it in the kindest way possible.”
I parked in one of the handicapped spaces close to the front entrance, then came around to help Randi out. Although not seriously hurt, she had enough pain to last her for a good long while. Celeste exited and carried the crutches that had been with her in the backseat. I wished I had borrowed a wheelchair from the hospital.
“Should I throw you over my shoulder?”
“Lovely as that would be, I had better stick with the sticks.”
Randi’s condo was on the third floor of the four-story building. We entered the foyer and made our way to the elevator. Each step was slow and painful for Randi. The crutches kept her from putting weight on her ankle, but they aggravated her sore muscles.
“I suppose I deserve this,” she said in the elevator. “It was my mouth that got me in trouble. It does that more times than I care to admit.”
“No need to apologize,” I said. “It’s been a rough week for everyone.”
“Yeah, but I made it worse. Now I can’t even do my job. The doctor wants me to take a week off. I’ll give it a day, maybe two.”
“You’ll give it whatever it takes. Take the time off. Your job isn’t going anywhere.”
“Maybe,” Celeste said.
“Step closer, kid. I want to hit you.”
We laughed lightly, like people at a funeral. A quip spoken, a joke told, a funny remembrance recalled and mourners share a pressure- relieving chuckle, but it is nothing more than a lone beam of light in a sky of dark clouds.
Randi lived two doors down from the elevator and she led the way. “The key is in my purse.” I was carrying both her bag and mine. I fumbled for a moment, then handed her the key chain, a small ring with only four keys on it. I recognized one as the key to our offices.
Inside, Randi worked her way to a sofa that was out of style by ten years, and eased herself onto the well-worn cushions. Setting the crutches on the floor, she struggled to lie down and raise her foot to rest it on the arm of the sofa. I helped her get as comfortable as possible.
“This is my first time here,” I said, looking around. There was no art on the pale white walls; the furnishings were few and dated. A few books and magazines rested on a battered coffee table.
“You’ll have to forgive the mess. The maid doesn’t come till Friday.”
“The place looks fine,” I said. Randi tried to reposition herself. “Can I get you something?”
“A pillow for my foot. There’s one at the end of the couch.”
I found the small throw pillow and gently raised Randi’s foot. The plaster cast covered the ankle, leaving her toes exposed. As easily as I could, I lowered her leg to the center of the pillow. Something caught my eye.
“What’s this?”
Randi drew her head up to see what I was looking at. “The red spots on my big toe? It’s a bite. An ant bit me. Three times, to be exact. Hurt like crazy. I crushed the little bugger.”
I caught the look on Celeste’s face.
“I don’t recall you mentioning it,” I said.
“That’s because I’m embarrassed about it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It happened when I took the file to Allen Dayton. He has a nice porch off his home office. We met out there over iced tea. I was wearing sandals. That’s when the little monster got me. That man has a real ant problem. You should see his backyard.”
A
fter dropping Celeste off at home, I made another trip to Police Headquarters. Randi’s revelation about her ant bite probably meant nothing. There had to be billions of ants in our region—red, black, and otherwise. Still, Randi had described the bites as extremely painful, and hadn’t West said that red imported fire ants were known for their vicious bites and stings? It was the stinging. That’s what he said; the ants had a stinger in their abdomen. He also said they could sting more than once, and Randi had three marks on her toe.
It could be coincidence but it nagged at me like a dripping faucet. Bells were going off.
I parked and marched into the building. The desk officer recognized me. “Good morning, Mayor.” He looked at his watch. “Yup, still morning, but not for long. Almost lunchtime and I’m—”
“I’d like to see Detective West, please.”
“I’m sorry, Mayor, but he left about half an hour ago.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“No ma’am. Is there a problem I can help with?”
I let slip a frown. “No. Thanks.” I had turned to leave when an idea hit me. “How about Chief Webb? Is he in?”
“Yes ma’am. Let me tell him you’re here.”
A few moments later I was shown to Webb’s office. My uniformed escort left and I approached the large desk.
“Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Chief.”
He nodded slightly, studied me for a moment, then offered me a seat. Two leather chairs sit opposite his desk. I took the one on the right. His office is wide, too wide for its depth. I felt as if I were sitting in a bowling lane. On the walls are photos of Webb in his younger days: a shot of him when he graduated from the academy, a formal photo of him in uniform, and a large image of him with right hand raised as he took the oath of office.
“You’re the city’s mayor; you don’t need an appointment. I hear you’ve had a busy couple of days—a coffee shop brawl and another run-in with Truccoli. You seem to be courting danger.”
“Not courting, Chief, pursued.” I wasn’t sure I liked his tone or his implication. “I was minding my own business in the coffee shop. It was Truccoli’s thug who started things.”
“And the conference room today. What happened there?”
“Truccoli went ballistic and charged me.” Webb frowned. “What? What’s that look for?”
“It means nothing, Mayor. How can I help you?”
“No, no, wait a minute. You’ve got something on your mind. What is it?”
“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t come here to see what was on my mind.”
“Spill it, Chief. You may not like me all that much but we do serve the same city.”
He frowned again, sighed, and raised his beefy hands. “You’re too involved in this case. You’re making things hard on us and endangering others.”
That was sharp. “I’ve done nothing to interfere with the investigation and I have done nothing to endanger anyone.”
His face reddened. “Where did your assistant spend last night? I’ll tell you where—in the hospital. Where was Lisa Truccoli’s daughter today? In a room with a man who has shown signs of instability and violence. Truccoli already attacked you once in that room, and then you allow him to do it again.”
“That was not my choice. Celeste insisted on seeing her father. I did my best to talk her out of it but it was her choice. She’s an adult.”
“And you’re a more experienced adult. You being there in that room was the match in the powder keg. You should have handled it differently—better, with planning and foresight. You showed none of those qualities.”
“You’re out of line, Chief.”
“You asked; I didn’t offer.”
“I’ve done everything I can to keep Truccoli away from me and those with me—including Celeste.”
I was surprised to see him laugh. The guffaw came from nowhere and returned there a moment later. “You set up the meeting and then stood in the room with him. It’s hard to enforce a restraining order when the complainant invites the abuser over for tea.”
“It wasn’t tea; it was a response to Celeste’s request. I was there to make sure she was safe. I took precautions. You know that.”
“If Truccoli comes by your house tonight and we arrest him for breaking the restraining order, his lawyer will argue that you waived the order by inviting him to meet with you in City Hall. We’re trying to do a job here and you’re handcuffing us.”
“West doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Detective
West is new to our force and you are, indirectly, his boss. He has extended you every courtesy you’re due and well beyond that.”
My heart began to pound. Webb had always been in the opposite camp from mine. If I told him the sky was blue, he’d argue the point. I sat in silence, choosing not to fuel the fire. Time ticked by, neither of us wanting to break the reprieve. Finally I said, “I came by to pass on some information that may be helpful. I was going to speak to Detective West but he’s not here. Do you want to hear it or should I wait?”
“I’ll relay the info.”
Don’t want me coming by again, eh?
I told him about the ant stings on Randi’s toe and where she got them.
“Ants?”
“Yes, ants. West . . . Detective West said that Lizzy died because of a reaction to an ant bite . . . or sting. Those kinds of ants sting.”
Webb closed his eyes.
“It’s not just the ant,” I insisted. “It’s where Randi was stung. She was at Dayton’s house when she was bitten. Doesn’t it strike you as odd?”
“I’ll admit it’s interesting, but that’s all. So what? So Ms. Port-man visits Dayton and she takes it on the toe from a fire ant. Later Lizzy Stout is found dead and we come to learn that she died of an extreme allergic reaction to ant venom. Does that mean Mrs. Stout was at Mr. Dayton’s home? Does it mean that some ant made the journey from Dayton’s home to wherever he and Lisa Truccoli are being held, if they are being held? Are you trying to show they are all somehow connected? We know they are. They’re all connected to you. We don’t need an ant to tell us that.”
“But . . .” I was uncertain what to say.
“But what?”
“I don’t know. It just seemed important.”
“Mayor, please, please let us run the investigation.” He stood, signaling that my welcome had worn thin. “I will, however, pass on your theory to Detective West.”
“Thank you, Chief.” I tried to feel as courteous as I sounded. I started for the door.
“Mayor.” His voice was softer but still tainted with disgust. “You should know that Mr. Truccoli posted bail. He left the jail about fifteen minutes before you arrived.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“My point is, you should be careful.”
W
ebb was a royal pain. While I could understand his concern, it was misguided. He was painting me as a nuisance, even a hindrance to the investigation, and while he maintained his formal airs, his approach was disrespectful. Politics is not for the thin-skinned. I had developed a tolerance to ridicule, innuendo, and outright attack—but it still hurt. People like Jon and Tess were easy to dismiss; they were overtly self-serving. The thing that bothered me most about Webb was ethics. He was not narcissistic. His job was his life and he was dedicated to police work. I had never known him to commit anything close to an impropriety. But he was a bulldog about things he believed in, and once he decided that something was right or wrong, there was no changing him. His thoughts and beliefs set like concrete. At times he was maddeningly unreasonable.
There was a time when such a confrontation would have put me back on my heels. That had changed over the last few years. Maybe it was dealing with my husband’s murder that steeled my spine; maybe it was the years of living on my own; maybe it was the truth that nothing gets done backing up. Whatever it was, resolve was now part and parcel of my constitution.
On occasion that was a bad thing.
This was such an occasion. I should have marched from the Police Station to my office and left it at that, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. There was something about Randi’s ant stings and Lizzy’s death from a similar sting. I didn’t know what the connection was but it bothered me. Perhaps I was fabricating the relationship; perhaps I only wanted there to be a connection. None of that mattered. If Webb wasn’t going to take it seriously, then I would.
Minutes later I was back on the freeway and headed north. Once again I settled in the far right lane to let speedier cars pass. My mind bubbled like my mother’s old coffee percolator and there was no turning it off. I knew where I was headed but wasn’t in a hurry to get there. I needed time to organize my thoughts before I arrived. I drove in silence, pushing Webb’s words to the back of my mind and trying to focus on what I was about to do.
