Before Another Dies (17 page)

“Or in the wallet. Tell me there's good news in this story.”

“In this case, yes. The neighborhood fought back and the mayor and some council members were voted out of office.”

“Good.”

“I think so, but there have been other cases that didn't go so well. No happy ending in those.”

Nat chewed her lower lip. “If I have this right, Wentworth wants the council to declare a single piece of property blighted so the city can claim eminent domain. Pass it off to Rutger Howard's organization so they can build their restaurant.”

“Yes. That's my take on it. He said he already has a supporter on the council. I've got that narrowed down to two people.”

“Jon Adler and Tess Lawrence.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, the good news is two people don't make a majority on the council. Assuming he has both. If he doesn't, he will.”

Someone turned up the heat in my belly.

“Uh-oh. I don't like that look.” She stopped drumming her fingers and gave me a long stare.

“Titus Overstreet has cancer. He has surgery in a few days.” I could see two emotions fighting in Nat. As someone who had spent more hours in a hospital than most, she could empathize with Titus. The no-nonsense, steel trap mind of Nat also did the simple math.

“He'll be out for a couple of months leaving just four on the council. Still, at worse, that's a tie vote.” She eyed me again. “Why am I seeing that same look?”

I told her about my meeting with Larry and Titus.

A few more terms escaped her lips—the kind of terms that get omitted in congressional records. “Tess Lawrence, deputy mayor.” She shook her head. “That means if you miss a council meeting only three people will be there, and two are connected at the hip.”

“I suppose I'll just have to make every meeting. I haven't missed one yet.” I knew it was a stupid thing to say.

“You've never run for congress before. Your schedule is full now, it will soon be overflowing. When you win the primary, then the real work begins.”

“We meet one night a week. I'll have to keep that night free.”

“I have a feeling there is more going on here, but I can't put my finger on it.”

I felt the same way and said so. I also had a question. “What do you think that photo was about?”

“I don't know yet but it unsettles me. A rumor campaign, perhaps. Maybe he's arrogant enough to think he's already won and that was his trophy shot.”

That burned me. I don't like being manipulated. In fact, it makes me crazy. “When you came up to us in the conversation, you seemed to know Wentworth.”

“I've seen his picture a few times. I was doing research for a couple of business magazines. It was just basic background stuff, but I touched on Rutger Howard's business. Howard is a bit of a recluse. He's extremely wealthy and oversees several businesses. The Bennie's restaurant chain is just one. If I remember correctly, he has fingers in pharmaceuticals, real estate, and several other areas.”

“You have information tucked away on these guys, don't you?”

“Not much, but you can bet your panty hose I will by this time tomorrow.”

Paul insisted on walking us to our cars. I stayed with Nat until she was situated in her uniquely equipped van. It was a new acquisition that allowed her to drive despite her paralysis and limited use of one arm and hand. Paul escorted me to my car, and I made my way home. My mind was buzzing like bees in a jar, and if I didn't quiet them I knew I wouldn't see more than an hour's sleep. To distract myself, I turned on the radio and found the sonorous voice of Robby Hood. Tonight's topic: a security guard with a ghost story.

chapter 22

T
he night passed slowly. I slept, but not well. I fought with the bed, the pillow, the sheets, and the comforter. I lost every round. When I'm upset or stressed I dream—bizarre, nonsensical dreams. H. Dean Wentworth kept popping up. In one dream we were back on the pier arguing. In a rage, he picked up Nat, wheelchair and all, and tossed her over the edge into the water where she sank like a stone. That sat me up in bed. Later I dreamed H. Dean and I traveled back in time. I was driving a covered wagon and chasing him across the prairie. When I woke up, I promised myself not to listen to Robby Hood again.

At five I rose, donned my jogging shorts and shoes, and hit the treadmill. I felt sluggish, and it took fifteen minutes to feel like I was awake and moving. I forced myself to stay on the instrument of torture until six. A hot shower, some Bible study, a cup of coffee, and a Danish later, I was ready to . . . go back to bed. I didn't. I left the house at seven thirty and drove to the office. I took the long way. I needed to see that the sun still rose according to schedule and that the ocean was where I left it last night.

I used the time to think and then to pray. I'm not good at praying, I admit it. And that brings me a great deal of guilt. I know I'm new to all this stuff about faith. I've come to believe what I read in the Bible, I enjoy church, and most of all, I feel changed. But when the truth is told, I often feel out of place. I watch people at church, and prayer seems to come so easily to them. I feel like a toddler trying to connect with adults. I have never been an unbeliever. My parents took me to church on the big holidays, Easter and Christmas, but one doesn't learn much when only three or four hours of the year are spent in the church. So while I never disbelieved, I've never been prone to believe.

Perhaps that was why prayer was so difficult. I'm used to one-on-one conversations where opinions are shared clearly and sometimes pointedly, or speaking before a group of ten to five hundred. I'm comfortable with all of that. But talking to God? That seemed out of my reach. I prayed anyway. All I could think of to ask for was wisdom. I knew I needed that.

I arrived at two minutes before eight. That's late for me, but I didn't begrudge myself the decompression time I spent in driving and prayer. I was feeling close to being alive although I doubted I looked it. Celeste was at the reception desk. She greeted me, looked at me, and then offered to bring me a large cup of coffee.
Great,
Mayor-Just-Raised-from-the-Dead-and-Looks-It is in
. I told her I'd love a coffee and gave her my best smile. She gave me the it-must-be-horrible-to-be-your-age grin. It was a good thing we were close.

I plunged into my outer office, barked hello to Floyd, and then barreled into my home away from home.

“Mayor,” Floyd said as I marched through the office, “there's—”

“Not now, Floyd—” I pulled up short. Someone was seated in one of the chairs facing my desk. He rose.

“Good morning, Madam Mayor.” Judson West gave me a smile that slipped a little when he saw me.

“Yeah, rough couple of nights.” I wanted to spare him the struggle of trying to be nice. “Sit down.” I rounded my chair, dropped my purse in the drawer, and took a seat.

“Too much party last night?” He sat again. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt, tan sport coat, and black trousers. It was the first time I had seen him without a tie.

“Too much of several things, including coffee at midnight.”

“Your date should have warned you about caffeine at such a late hour.” His eyes sparkled.

“Nat did, and she hates it when people say we're dating.”

He laughed. “I imagine so. I apologize for showing up without calling, but I thought I'd catch you before you started your day. I imagine you're pretty busy now.”

“That's an understatement, and it's going to get worse.”

He nodded, fidgeted a little, then said, “I'm sorry I didn't make it to the fund-raiser. I intended to come but I got caught up in other things.”

“Don't let Chief Webb hear you say that. He might demote you if you start showing up at my campaign stops.”

“He's not that kind of guy. True, he'll probably vote for someone else.” He dusted off invisible specks from his shirt. He seemed nervous.

“I thought he might vote for me for congress just so I won't be mayor any longer. You know, a tactical vote.”

“Tactical vote. I like that.” He paused. “I have three things to run by you. The chief recognizes that finding a murder victim on city property might have ramifications for you and the council.”

“For him as well,” I added. “The police station is just around the corner from the murder scene.”

“That's been eating at him some. He's been a little grumpy lately.”

Lately? He was always grumpy around me. “What can I do for you this morning? Do you have some news about Fritzy's husband?”

“Yes.” He straightened himself in the seat as if changing posture made the conversation official. “I was able to persuade the medical examiner to push the autopsies up. They're pretty busy, but once we had a second victim things moved more quickly. I must confess that I threw your name around a lot, reminding them that Mrs. Fritz works for you.”

“Technically, she works for the city.”

“It sounds better my way and carries more currency with the folks at the coroner's office. By the way, Dr. Egan wonders why you don't come by and visit anymore.”

“Yeah, yeah, I bet you guys are still having a chuckle about that. Did Egan find anything useful?”

“Not much more than we already surmised. Both died as a result of a broken neck. The assailant is most likely a male, right-handed, and known to the victims. Mr. Lopez had been drinking but not in excess. No signs of drugs or alcohol in Mr. Fritz. The breaks were clean and apparently done in a single motion, indicating some training.”

“Wait a second. How do you know the man is right-handed?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The marks on the jaw are bruises left by the right hand of the murderer. Based on the size and placement of the bruises we think that it was a man standing between five ten and six foot tall, but we can't hang our hats on that. That assumption is based on the size of the fingers and the height of the victims, but such things vary greatly.”

“You said that the attacker was familiar to the victims?” That puzzled me.

“No defensive wounds on the body. No sign of struggle at the scene. If someone just went after the victims we would expect to see bruising on the arms or other injuries. Mr. Fritz wasn't a young man, but he was in good shape for his age. I bet he could still throw a punch but his hands showed just what you'd expect from a mechanic and nothing more. The same is true for Mr. Lopez, and he was younger and in better shape.”

“They were killed by someone they
knew
? That's unsettling.”

Celeste appeared at the door with a cup of coffee. She recognized West.

“I'm sorry. I didn't know you had someone with you. Would you like some coffee, Detective West?”

West, ever the gentleman, stood when Celeste walked in. His momma raised him right. “Hi, Celeste. No, thanks. I've already had three cups. I think I'm becoming an addict.”

They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, then Celeste went back to her desk.

“She's looking well,” West said. “It's good to see.”

“Life made her grow up faster than she should, but she has shown real resolve. I have her filling in for Fritzy.”

“I didn't see her when I came in. I must have just missed her. They may not have known the assailant, but they were not initially frightened of him, or they would have fought back. We think that the killer is on the beefy side. In both cases it would have been difficult to break the necks of our victims where we found them. Especially Mr. Fritz. For that to happen, the killer would need to have been on the plane and directly behind his victim. For that and other reasons we think that he did his killing, then placed the bodies where we found them.”

“Other reasons?”

He took a breath. “I don't want to be too graphic here, Mayor, but when a person dies suddenly, they often . . . lose control of some body functions—such as the bladder. When we found Mr. Fritz it was clear that had happened to him. We checked the area around the aircraft and found trace elements of urine. Tests aren't back yet, but we suspect that it is from Mr. Fritz, and if it is, it will identify the actual place of his killing. There was also trace evidence of dirt and oil on his face. At this point, we're assuming he acquired that when his body was lowered or fell to the floor.”

If we weren't talking about the husband of a friend of mine, this would be interesting. At the moment it was striking me as grotesque.

“What about Lopez?”

“He didn't . . . have the same response. However, there was what looks like motor oil on an otherwise clean shirt and some dirt and grime in his hair, as if he had been lying on the asphalt.”

“This doesn't make sense. Murder never does, but why move the bodies?”

He shrugged again. “Best guess is the killer moved his victims to delay their discovery. You know, to give him some extra time to escape.”

“But he's not trying to escape,” I said. “He didn't leave town. Instead, he crossed town and killed someone else.”

“I can't argue that.”

“Jerry thinks we ought to look at what they have in common.”

“Dr. Jerry Thomas?” He studied me. I saw him stiffen.

“We were talking, and I was explaining what I knew. I kept talking about what made the scenes different, and he said he kept noticing what was the same.”

“Such as both victims are men; both have wives, albeit one was estranged; both were in vehicles of transportation?”

“Exactly.” I was surprised. “Almost word for word.”

“I've done this work before.” His words had chilled a couple of degrees. I thought it best to move on.

“You said you had three things. That was one.”

He relaxed. “The other is we've released the body of Mr. Fritz. We're hanging on to Lopez for another day or two.”