The Incumbent (17 page)

“A brother and a sister.”

“You and your parents could move in with one of them.”

I shook my head. “I can’t do that. They live too far away for me to commute to the office. I doubt my parents would even consider it. My brother and sister have small children in the home. My parents won’t take danger to their grandkids.”

“Then you’re back to your house. Have your folks move in for a bit and hire some private security.”

I nodded. There was wisdom in his words. I didn’t like it, my parents would hate it, but Webb was right. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Webb rose. “Good. I’m sorry my visit upset you.” He started to leave.

“Chief?” He stopped and turned. “Thanks.”

He nodded once and left, closing the door behind him. In the silent, empty office, I felt alone, adrift in rising seas. I picked up the phone and dialed my parents’ number.

I
couldn’t take the office anymore. The morning had been emotionally grueling as well as physically taxing. I had been untouched by Christopher Truccoli, but the stress and tension were beating me up in their own way. Dealing with Doug Turner early that morning, being accosted by Truccoli, then meeting with Webb, had left me feeling as if I were in the eleventh round of a ten-round fight.

I buzzed Randi. “Let’s get out of here.” She agreed without hesitation.

A few minutes later we were riding in Randi’s yellow Volkswagen Beetle. When I left for college, my father bought me a VW bug. It was old but in great condition and I loved it more than any car I’ve ever owned. Other than a similarity in shape, Randi’s Beetle was nothing like what I drove two decades before. Hers was heavier, solid, and far more comfortable. The engine was larger and the suspension rivaled that of luxury cars. “Corners on rails,” she had bragged the day she got it. She’d insisted on popping the hood and showing me how the large engine was crammed into the front of the car. The front! Could it be a true Beetle?

Hers was a convertible and she had the top down before she pulled from the parking stall. The day had warmed and the sun had evicted any remaining clouds. The air was sweet, perfumed with salt from the sea and with Southern California desert plants. I leaned my head back and let the breeze knot my hair and the sun toast my face. It felt wonderful, California catharsis. For me sunshine cures everything.

Randi, normally cautious in everything she did, especially driving, took corners faster than she should have and left stoplights as if in a drag race. I said nothing. I didn’t care. I was out of the office and that was all that mattered.

“I suggest we go eat things that will make us fat,” Randi said. “Indulgence is the vice of the noble.”

“I’m impressed. What great philosopher said that?”

“Me. I just made it up.”

“And here I’m wasting your talents making you work in an office when you could be writing greeting cards.”

Randi laughed and turned onto the freeway. “The sacrifices I make for our city. I want Mexican. So do you.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you do. You want two ground-beef enchiladas, chips, salsa, and the biggest bowl of guacamole they make.”

“Do you have a place in mind?” I asked, my eyes still closed and my face still turned skyward. “Or were you planning on driving until we bumped into a restaurant?”

“I know a great place in San Diego.”

“Me too, but that’s two hours away. How about something closer?”

“San Diego is nice this time of year.”

“I know. I went to college there, remember? Closer.”

“Okay, Tiny Titos it is. I’ll take the next exit. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“It’s just what we need.”

“You weren’t really thinking of driving to San Diego, were you?” I sat up and looked at her. Her short red hair snapped in the breeze and her blue eyes sparkled. Gone was the red that had foretold the coming tears. She smiled and beaming white teeth that I had more than once wished were mine shone in the bright sunlight. She said nothing.

Ten minutes later we were walking into an out-of-the-way Mexican restaurant. Thick white plaster covered the walls, which proudly showed off their cracks as if they were battle scars. We had a choice of eating in a courtyard festooned with cheap plastic tables and green and red picnic umbrellas with the names of Mexican beers emblazoned on them or dining in the dark interior of the restaurant. We chose the former. I’d had all the confining rooms I wanted for the day.

A young Hispanic man with what was obviously his first mustache seated us next to a bubbling fountain. A naked plaster cherub held a small pot out of which water poured into the fountain’s basin. The sound was soothing. Exterior speakers released soft recorded music from a mariachi band.

We fussed with our hair, trying to force the knots out and make our manes hang as they were supposed to. I gave up. Randi, whose hair is half the length of mine, made a better job of it.

A few minutes later a waiter showed up. He was an older man and much more adept at mustache growing. He took our drink orders, called us “amigas,” and disappeared.

We filled the next few minutes with small talk but I knew it wouldn’t last. I couldn’t pretend that all was well with the world. I doubted Randi could, either. Sooner or later the conversation would swing around to the very thing we were trying to avoid.

The waiter was back. It was just 11:30 and the lunch crowd had not arrived. At the moment we were the only two customers in the courtyard. As the waiter set up a small folding table, the young man who seated us joined him. He brought a stone bowl, two large avocados, salt, cilantro, lime, and a large knife, and then disappeared into the bowels of the restaurant.

Wordlessly the waiter cut the first avocado in half and removed the large pit by smacking the sharp edge of the knife into it and twisting. The golf ball–sized seed popped free. What followed was high drama. He scooped out the green, pasty contents of the avocados and plopped it down in the stone bowl, mashed it and mixed in the other ingredients, bathed it in a shower of lime juice, sprinkled on some salt, and then set the dish before us. Instant guacamole, and my stomach immediately became impatient. A basket of chips was set on the table and I had a scoop of glorious green goop before the waiter had picked up his little table.

The morning had been rough and I needed this moment of heaven. After two or three minutes of dipping, eating, and moaning, I was starting to unwind. “Can we stay here forever?” I asked.

“Fine by me, but we might get bored. Or they might make us do the dishes.”

“Party pooper.”

“You feel like talking about Chief Webb?”

“No, but I will.” I filled her in on the meeting, leaving nothing out.

“You really said that to him? You said he was rubbing the budget issue in your face?”

“I’m afraid I did. I think I hurt his feelings. In retrospect, I may have been overreacting.”

“I don’t think Webb has feelings to hurt.”

“Everyone has feelings; some people are just hard to figure out.”

“Don’t go soft on him now,” Randi said, shoveling another guacamole- laden chip into her mouth. “He’s not your friend and I doubt he ever will be.”

“He’s still a good cop, one who takes his job seriously. He doesn’t have to be my friend to do that. I expect him to respect my office even if he can’t wring out any respect for me. I suppose I owe him the same courtesy.”

“You’re far more generous than I. So are you going to follow his advice about your parents?”

I nodded and sipped my tea. “I called them as soon as he left. They balked at the idea. They tend to be a little stubborn. Maybe that’s where I get it. Anyway, I talked, cajoled, and finally pleaded. They’re going to my place this afternoon.”

“So you whined them into submission.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. They’re doing it as a favor for me. That was the only approach that worked. I told them I’d sleep better with them and Celeste in the house.”

“Speaking of Celeste, what are you going to do with her?”

“What do you mean?”

Randi paused, as if sorting through her words. “Is she going to stay with you? If so, how long?”

I shrugged. “I don’t mind her staying with me. I kind of like it. It makes me feel like I’m doing something to help Lisa. As for how long—I don’t know. Certainly until we know something about her mother. One thing is for sure: she shouldn’t go with that mental-case father of hers.”

“Amen to that. That man has a temper and too few brains to control it.”

The waiter returned and we ordered our meals. I chose two ground-beef enchiladas, one in green sauce and the other in red. It was going to be more than I usually eat, but I didn’t care. Randi went with a wet burrito—basically an enchilada on steroids.

“Getting back to your parents, do you think they’re in danger?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. Webb’s contention is that Lisa and Lizzy were part of my campaign. Since my parents were also involved, they might be targets. I’m still not convinced that my campaign is the common factor.”

“You think it’s just coincidence?”

“I’m having trouble seeing it any other way.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

She shrugged but said nothing.

“Spill it, girl.”

Randi pursed her lips. “I think you don’t see it because you don’t want to see it. Personally, I can’t see it any other way.”

“Why?” I knew where she was going and I dreaded it.

“Could all this be a coincidence? Perhaps, but I sure wouldn’t bet money on it. I certainly wouldn’t bet my life. I think you know this. You’ve taken some precautions, including insisting that your parents spend the next few days at your house. Two women, both associated with you, have been abducted. And not abducted off the streets but from their homes—homes which are across town from each other. You’re not dealing with a neighborhood nut case. Everything you’ve told me says this guy is methodical. He works with a plan. If he were a rapist, then . . . well, you know. If he were a murderer, there would be bodies. If he were just a burglar, he wouldn’t take hostages.”

“Still—”

“Hang on. There’s more. Did you tell me your card was found with four drops of blood on it and that the drops formed a square?”

“Yes.”

“And that in Lizzy Stout’s case, there was a picture with three drops of blood on it?”

“Yes, one over each eye and one over the mouth.”

Randi shook her head. “That is not random behavior. You don’t break into someone’s house, subdue the occupant, then say, ‘Gee, what else can I do? I know; I’ll put four drops of blood on a business card.’ It’s too premeditated, too rational in an irrational way, if you know what I mean.”

“I get it.” None of this was new. Those very thoughts had bounced around in my brain like Ping-Pong balls, but hearing them voiced by Randi gave me the chills. “I just don’t know what it means.”

“It means you need to do what you do best: be proactive. Sitting around waiting for this guy to make his next move isn’t going to cut it.”

“If there is a next move.” It was a weak rebuttal. “The bad guy has to know that the police are on the case. That should scare him off.”

Again Randi shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, Mayor, but you’re avoiding the hard truth. The abductor doesn’t care about the police. He’s baiting them. He’s leaving a message.”

“What message?”

“I have no idea, but the sooner that gets figured out, the sooner the clown will be caught.”

One reason Randi worked for me was her honesty. Somewhere between being brutally blunt and being insipidly diplomatic was a realm of honest expression untainted by selfish motive. Randi lived in that land.

She had addressed issues that had already occurred to me, but she put them into perspective. More importantly, she forced me to see the urgency. My history professor father had once opined, “The problem with politicians, Maddy, is that they surround themselves with smart people, then are too stupid to listen to them.” It was now my turn to decide if I would listen.

The waiter brought our meals on too-hot-to-touch plates, and we set ourselves to the delicious business of consuming our orders. The food was a treat to my mouth but it sat heavy in my stomach, perhaps because my belly was full of fear. Randi was right. It was time to face the truth.

Not wanting to taint our meal, we shifted our conversation from abductions to other topics. We covered the weather, movies, books, and men. Since neither of us was involved in a relationship, the last topic was short-lived. To my surprise, Randi didn’t bring up the research she had done on the congressional run. I was glad.

Thirty minutes later we were leaning back in our chairs and making the well-known noises of the stuffed. The waiter cleared our plates. We left the courtyard of Tiny Titos just as it was beginning to fill with hungry lunch-goers. The early meal had been perfect; I was feeling revived and my nerves had returned to their normal functions.

“To the office, James,” I said with a flourish, “and don’t spare the horses.”

“James? Do I look like a James?”

“Okay, how about Jamie. Don’t spare the horses, Jamie. Nah, it doesn’t sound right.”

“Just fasten your seat belt,” Randi said with a crooked smile.

“I’ll have to let it out. I’m bigger now than I was.”

“I have an extension in the backseat.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who ate the monster burrito. That thing was huge.”

“If I eat many more of those, I’ll need my own zip code.”

She checked for traffic, then pulled away from the curb. I leaned back and soaked up more sun and enjoyed the caress of the wind that flowed through the convertible. “That was great. Thanks for being up front with me.”

“No problem. You’ve always been a straight shooter with me. I figure I owe you that much, and . . .”

“And what?” I prompted, my head against the headrest, my eyes closed.

She didn’t answer.

I turned to her and saw that she was shifting her eyes between the rearview mirror and the road ahead. He face was drawn.

“What?” I sat up straight in the seat and started to turn to see what had captured Randi’s attention.