The Incumbent (18 page)

“Don’t,” she snapped. “Use the mirror on your door. Do you see that van? The blue one?”

I cut my eyes to the passenger-side mirror. “Yeah, I see it.”

“It looks familiar. I think I saw it when we were driving up here.” Her voice was strained.

“You think it’s following us?”

“Maybe, or maybe I’m just getting paranoid.”

“Paranoid people face danger, too,” I said, trying to sound philosophical. “Take the next right.”

“That’s not the way to the freeway.”

“Exactly. Let’s see if he follows. If he does, make another turn, then another. If he’s following us, we’ll know.”

Randi did as I instructed, making a slow right turn onto a residential street. Manicured lawns dressed up small but immaculate houses. She drove on, glancing in her rearview mirror. I fixed my eyes on the side mirror. I saw the van slow at the corner and then continue on.

She sighed. “I must be getting jumpy. I was sure that guy was following us.”

“He might be. If he is and if he knows the town, then our turn would have been unexpected. He slowed down for a moment. If he had turned with us, he would have given himself away. I don’t suppose you got his license number.”

“No, I was too busy watching him.”

“I didn’t, either.” Looking at the mirror again, I added, “These passenger-side mirrors are designed to give a wide-angle view. I could see the van easily enough but not the license plate.”

“I’m not sure there was a front plate.” Randi frowned, then shook her head. “I just don’t know. What do we do now?”

“Take a different way to the freeway. If we see him again, I’ll call the cops on my cell phone.”

“This has been one wacky day,” Randi said.

She had that right.

chapter 12

B
ack in the office, I spent the afternoon trying to focus on work. It was an uphill battle. There were things to do, people to call, decisions to make, and none of it was happening. Christopher Truccoli’s mad-dog attack kept playing through my mind.

I rang Larry Wu to see how he was feeling. His aide informed me that he had left for the day. I couldn’t blame him. A quick call to Titus’s office revealed the same thing.

I had much to thank these men for, but words seemed inadequate. After a little thought, I composed a letter to each, promising to treat them and their wives to a steak-and-lobster dinner. It was the least I could do.

I studied my calendar, doing my best to forget about Truccoli. My job is normally the most effective therapy available. Usually I can lose myself in zoning considerations, speaking engagements, and the general business of running the city. Usually.

The phone rang and Randi answered it. She put the caller on hold, leaned back in her chair so she could see through the doorway. “It’s Fred Markham.”

I snapped up the receiver. “Good afternoon, Mr. City Attorney.”

“Hi. I wanted to give you an update on the restraining order. I was able to pull a few strings, and a restraining order will be issued before day’s end. I’ve informed Detective West that it’s coming, and he said he’d pass the information on to Mr. Truccoli.”

“I appreciate this, Fred,” I said, telling myself I should feel relieved.

“That’s the good news. I was able to get the order for you but I can’t get one for Celeste. As you know, I represent the city but I can’t represent you as an individual. Since the attack took place on city property and was directed against city employees, I was able to get the order without any conflict of interest. You might want to talk to your young charge about getting a similar order. The best way to do that is for her to hire an attorney, but I have to tell you, it’s going to be a bit of a fight.”

“Why is that?”

He sighed and a moment passed before he replied. He was choosing his words carefully. “Maddy, her mother is missing. Truccoli is her closest relative. A judge is going to take that into consideration.”

“But she’s nineteen, an adult, and she has made it clear that she doesn’t want to see him.”

“I know this, but Truccoli’s violence was directed toward you, not his daughter. She will need to show some viable need for a restraining order.”

“She’s at my house. The restraining order you obtained for me will keep Truccoli away from my house, right?”

“Theoretically. He could defy the order. People do it all the time. All it does is give the police a ready excuse to arrest him.”

“But he can’t come near me or my house.”

“Right.”

“So if Celeste is in my house, the order protects her.”

“No, it protects you, but since Truccoli is forbidden to approach you, the function is the same. Once she leaves the house, it’s a whole different matter.”

“So you think she should get her own restraining order, but it may be difficult to do. Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s pretty much it.”

“How long will Truccoli be locked up?” I asked, hoping to hear the word
weeks
in the answer.

“Not long, Maddy. I spoke to West about it and he confirmed what I assumed to be the case. He’s entitled to appear before a judge within forty-eight hours of his arrest, but he’ll be out long before that. Police are charging him with two counts of assault. He has no prior arrests, no outstanding warrants; he doesn’t even have a parking ticket. He’ll go before a local bail officer, who will set bail: something between seven thousand and ten thousand dollars. Since there are no prior aggravating factors, he could be out as soon as he comes up with the money.”

“Meaning what? He could be out in a few hours?” That thought made me sick.

“Exactly. West said he’d hold him as long as is reasonable but his hands are tied. My guess is that he’ll be out by suppertime.”

“Swell.”

“Do you know if he has money?” Fred asked. “Will he be able to come up with the bail?”

“As I understand it, he’s an exec in one of the major oil companies. I don’t think a few grand is going to hurt him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s carrying several credit cards with limits over that.”

“Pity. I’d like to have seen him spend a couple nights in jail.”

“I’d like to see him just disappear.”

Fred grunted his agreement, said goodbye, and hung up.

I glanced up and saw Randi at the door.

“You look like you swallowed a lemon,” she noted.

“I wish. It would be a whole lot easier to stomach. Christopher Truccoli will probably be out of jail by early evening.” I filled her in on the rest of the conversation.

“You gonna call about private security, like Webb suggested?”

I thought about it. It seemed unfair. I had done nothing wrong but take in a young woman whose mother was the victim of a crime. Now a man who could be the poster child for anger management was hounding me. “Yes. It’s the wisest thing to do.”

“It’s also the expensive thing to do. They’re not going to come cheap.”

“Can’t be helped,” I said, then quipped, “I’m sure it’s tax deductible.”

“I have an idea. Why don’t I call the company that provides security guards for the city? Once they find out it’s for you, I bet they’ll give you a good rate.”

It was a good idea but a politically dangerous one. “Be careful. If they give away too much, it can come back and haunt me during an election. You know, ‘Mayor Receives Personal Favors from City Contractors.’ That sort of thing. In fact, we’d better run the contract by the city attorney to determine possible conflict of interest.”

“Will do,” Randi said cheerfully and disappeared.

I leaned back in my chair and wondered why the righteous suffered.

I
t was ten minutes past five when I lowered the automatic garage door and stepped into the house. Heavenly smells greeted me, aromas that reminded me of my childhood. I didn’t need to ask to know that Mom was in the kitchen making plain ingredients into something memorable, like an alchemist turning lead into gold. I inhaled deeply and immediately knew everything that was going on in the kitchen. A meat loaf was simmering in a Crock-Pot filled with hunks of carrots and potatoes. The oven was hosting homemade rolls and the stovetop was warming gravy. This was the meal Mom made to cheer me up. A thick slice of dense meat loaf covered in catsup, potatoes awash in thick brown gravy, and butter-laden rolls could cure anything. Since my teenage years, I’d been convinced that our country could convert any enemy into an ally if we could just get them to try my mother’s cooking.

Mixing with the aroma of food was the sound of MTV music. Celeste sat on the leather sofa, her eyes fixed on my Panasonic television. She seemed frozen in place, not by the images and music, I suspected, but by stress, that Gorgonian monster which can suck the life out of the heartiest people and turn them to stone. Next to her was Michele. I assumed that my parents had picked her up.

I set my purse on the small table next to the door, kicked off my shoes, and walked to Celeste. “How are you doing?” She looked pale.

“Okay, I guess.” She shrugged. I put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I asked your mom if Michele could come over. She said it was all right.”

“It is. Hi, Michele.”

Her head moved in beat with the music, her ponytail swaying in rhythm. “Hey.”

“Who’s that on the television?”

“Tinkertown,” Michele said. “They’re new. The lead guitarist is a solid-gold babe.”

I smiled, glad they hadn’t settled for admiring mere sterling-silver babes. “I’m going to say hi to my parents, then change clothes. These pantyhose are cutting me in half.”

“Okay,” Celeste said. “I don’t suppose . . .”

I shook my head. “No news, yet.” Choosing not to discuss her father until after I changed, I strode through the living room and into the dining area, where I found my father seated at the table drinking tea and reading. He rose and gave me a hug. It felt good. No matter how old I got, a hug from Dad seemed to imbue me with strength and the sense that all is right with the world.

“Welcome home, kiddo.”

“Hi, Dad. Whatcha reading?”

“A biography of Chester Alan Arthur.”

One more biography I’m grateful he wasn’t reading when I was born.
Mayor Chesty Glenn.
I shuddered.

“Your mother has moved into the kitchen, as you can tell.” He took his seat again. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“She thinks you’re stressed out, and that means I get to eat things she won’t let me eat otherwise. Act depressed; maybe we’ll get ice cream with our peach cobbler.”

I went into the kitchen. Mom was bent over, her face staring into the oven and her fanny directed at me.

“That’s a fine way to greet your daughter,” I said. “Point that thing in a different direction.” She quickly closed the door and turned. I gave her a swift buss on the cheek. She was wearing the only apron I own, a birthday gift from Randi. The words “That’s Mayor Cook to You” adorned the front.

“Daughters are not allowed to talk about their mothers’ rear ends.” She gave me hug. “How was your day?”

“You’ve probably already guessed. I’ll fill you in after I change. Just tell me dinner is going to be on the table soon.”

“Fifteen minutes. Didn’t you eat lunch?”

“Oh, I ate lunch, all right. I ate too much. I have no right to be hungry, but I’m sure I’ll manage to get a few bites down.” I studied the kitchen. It gleamed. My mother was fastidious in many ways. She cleaned as she cooked. On the stove a pot simmered. I lifted the lid. Asparagus. It was just getting better and better.

“Put that down,” Mom snapped. “And get out of the kitchen. You’re throwing my rhythm off.”

“Surely there’s something I can do to help.”

“Go get comfortable. Leave the rest to me.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” I snapped a salute and turned to leave. At the edge of the kitchen I paused. “You’re the best, Mom. You know that, don’t you?”

“That’s what I keep telling people.”

I smiled and went upstairs.

Changing into a denim jumpsuit, I hung up my office clothes and slung my evil pantyhose onto the floor of the closet. My mother’s tidiness gene had skipped a generation. I’d just reached the top of the stairs when the phone rang. “I’ve got it up here,” I called to the others. Trotting down the hall and into my office, I snapped up the receiver. It was the owner of Atlas Security, Jim Lynch. I gazed at the ocean through the large windows. The sun was starting its slow descent to the blue horizon. The thick layer of clouds was late for its nightly appointment with the shore. The setting sun painted a gilded strip on the undulating sea.

Lynch had called to inform me that a man from his office would be on site at seven o’clock and that another guard would relieve him by one a.m.

“The first guard is Tom Wilson,” Lynch said. “He’s big, he’s black, and he’s the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet. He’s also one of the sharpest employees on my payroll. I hope to keep him for a long time. He will come to the door and introduce himself. He’ll be wearing the same-style uniform our people wear at City Hall, and he’ll show his ID.

“Since Tom’s relief won’t arrive until the wee hours, he won’t be checking in with you, unless you really want him to.” I said I didn’t. “Just so you know, his name is Allen Rodriguez. He’s about four inches shorter than Tom and about twenty-five pounds lighter. He’s also one of our best. You know why I’m telling you this?”

“Because if anyone else shows up in a uniform but doesn’t match your description, I’ll know he’s not from you. Right?”

“Exactly. Your aide seemed . . . concerned.”

“Actually, I feel a little silly. This was Chief Webb’s idea.”

“It’s a good one. I have enough details to know that I want my best men on the job. There’s something else you should know. The guards will be obvious. That’s the goal. They will stand out front and walk around the house, and they’ll be driving our patrol cars with our company name and emblem on the door. We want it known that the grounds are guarded.”

“I understand.”

“I hope this all works out for you,” Lynch said. “I’ll have a courier bring a contract to your office tomorrow.”

“Remember, the city isn’t hiring you; I am. So put my name on the contract.”

“I think the city should pay for it, but I’m no politician. Tom Wilson will bring a private contract. Just sign it and let me do the rest.”