Before Another Dies (19 page)

Another slap, but I was beginning to feel like I deserved it. I fumbled for something to say. I wanted to strike out, wanted to give Tess a verbal beating that would leave her bruised for the next decade, but I couldn't come up with the words, or the reason. I had drawn conclusions based on no facts whatsoever. I was mute, but Tess wasn't.

“Do you know what property Wentworth wants declared blighted?” I didn't, and I confessed it. She frowned at my ignorance. “It's the corner of Ventura Boulevard and Barker Road.”

That was on the fringes of old town Santa Rita. I tried to imagine that area. It was close enough to one of the larger residential areas but still near to the freeway. Location, location, location was the realtor's motto. That corner had it. If memory served, one could see the ocean from that lot. “Johnny Jake's Tires?”

Tess nodded. “After I showed Wentworth the outside of my door, I did some research and took a drive. The tire store has been there since 1946. John Jake founded it after he returned home from fighting in World War II. He passed it on to his son in 1980. His grandson took over five years ago. It's been a family business all along. Did Wentworth tell you that he had made an offer on the property?”

“Yes.”

“He didn't. At least according to Tony Jake, the grandson. He told me he's never heard of Wentworth or Rutger Howard. Wentworth never made an offer. The property is too expensive, and the Jake family knows it. What Wentworth wants is for us to declare it blighted, seize it through eminent domain, and then sell it on the cheap to Howard's company on the promise of improved business and a greater tax base. I'm smelling serious stink here.”

I had come to Tess's office to set her straight, but she had turned the tables on me. Not only had she not agreed to help Wentworth and cronies but had given him the figurative back of her hand. Then she did what I should have done: she got the information and details.

A hot silence settled between us. I had been declawed. Like a child trying to catch bubbles in the wind, I was snatching at words. I needed to apologize. I really did. “You think he's trying to work us with smoke and mirrors?”

She nodded. Her jaw was clamped like a vise. “He lied to me the first five minutes we were together. I will assume he's lying about everything else.”

“Let me ask you something, Tess.” I cleared my throat. It didn't need clearing but my mind did. “Do you think his telling me he had help on the council was just to get us at each other's throats?”

“Since I can't read his mind, I can't say, but I know how guys like him work. He's the front guard, the guy who scouts out the terrain, and sows seeds of doubt. Rutger Howard is going to be the real problem. If the messenger is evil there's little doubt the message sender is worse.” Then she shrugged. “Of course, I don't know that he doesn't have someone in his pocket. I can tell you, I'm not there. Maybe he got to Jon, but I doubt it. Jon's a criminal defense lawyer; he knows what such deals can lead to. Jon can be selfish, we all can, but I don't think he'd do anything that will ultimately end with the words ‘five to ten years.'”

Tess always struck me as a cold woman, frosty in mind and heart. She was brutally blunt, impossible to intimidate, annoyingly persistent, and had several personal agendas. She was not a nice person. Not around me anyway. At the moment, I felt like I had become her clone.

“You said there were two things,” she prompted. “Was there some other crime you wanted to accuse me of?”

“Larry and Titus came to me and convinced me that I was wrong in my resisting your desire to be deputy mayor.”

“Well, at least you're consistent, Mayor.”

“I want to say that I won't stand in the way. Even without my vote you'll be a shoo-in.”

“Four to one, eh.” She frowned. “No thanks. I don't know what brought about this change of heart, but I'm no longer interested. You and I are too far apart on some of the issues and personally. Especially personally, now. Work out some other deal.”

Titus was depending on her saying yes. I had just torpedoed my biggest supporter. “Don't say no yet. We vote next Tuesday. Perhaps you'll change your mind.”

“I won't.” Her phone rang, and she answered. “It's your detective friend. He says your aide told him you were here.”

I leaned forward and took the phone. I listened for a moment then said a thank-you and handed the receiver back to Tess. Standing, I looked at the painting. I never imagined she had that kind of talent. The painting was . . . sensitive. Returning my attention to Tess I asked, “Will you be in this afternoon?” She nodded. “I'm calling us into a closed-door session at two. Can you make that?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if Jon will be available?”

Her jaw muscles began to swell in strain again. “You'll have to ask him. I don't keep his calendar.” A moment later, she relented. “He said something about being in court today but that he would swing by around one.”

“Thanks. I'll leave a message with his service.” I headed for the door and opened it.

“By the way, Mayor,” Tess said. “I take offense at you calling this
your
city. The city belongs to all of us, and I don't mean just the council.”

A dark part of me wanted to take another verbal swing at my antagonist but I squelched it. We had knocked heads many times, and I believed that I had won every battle. But I had just gone ten rounds with her, and it had left me winded and bleeding in the corner. I looked at the painting again. “It really is a lovely piece of art, Tess.”

I left and walked back to my office, head down like a dog too well-acquainted with a rolled-up newspaper. I would have spent the rest of the morning licking my wounds if I hadn't had other things on my mind.

I had one foot in the office when I said, “Floyd, I'm calling an emergency closed-door session with the members of the council. Make calls. It will be at two in the conference room. I want the city attorney there as well. Councilman Adler may be in court so leave a message at his office.”

He stood. “Is there something wrong?”

“Just make the calls, Floyd, and be prepared to take notes at two. Oh, and Fred Markham. We were to meet at ten thirty. Tell him hold it until two.”

“Yes, ma'am. Don't forget you have a meeting with Doug Turner.”

My stomach took an elevator ride. I had forgotten. My confrontation with Tess had wiped my mental slate clean. “Is he here?” I looked in my office. Empty.

“No, but he called and said he was on his way.”

“The day just gets better and better.”

chapter 24

I
had had enough of the office, and it wasn't even noon. Claustrophobia settled on me like a fog, which was unusual. I'm an office person. I like the security of four walls and the ability to control temperature and mood. While waiting for Doug Turner to show up, my office began to shrink and the air became stale. I knew nothing in the building had changed but things in me had. My emotional stew had come to a boil, and I didn't like it. What I wanted to do was ponder West's words about dating, but the heated exchange between Tess and me, and West's latest call forced all that to the back of the train.

I pulled Floyd off the Rutger Howard research I had asked him to do the day before and put him to work on the two o'clock meeting. Since Nat made her living researching events and people and she had committed herself to learning what she could, it was redundant to have Floyd do the same work, work he wouldn't be able to do as well.

I left the office, walked to the cafeteria at the north end of the building, and grabbed an orange juice. The cafeteria served not only city hall but the police station and courthouse, half a block down. It's about the size of what you'd find in a medium-size hospital and could seat about 125 indoors and an additional thirty or so in the outdoor courtyard. For privacy and to lessen noise from the street, a wood fence enclosed the courtyard. Several patio tables and benches sat like mushrooms on the stamped concrete patio. I was alone. Lunch wouldn't begin for another half hour or so. From about eleven thirty to one thirty it would be buzzing. For now it was empty inside and out.

I took a seat and let the late morning sun bathe my back. I could feel my dark hair absorbing the sunlight and clinging miserly to the heat. January could be cool in Santa Rita, but it was seldom cold this close to the ocean. A gentle breeze massaged my face. I had brought no notepaper, no tape recorder, not even my handheld computer. I was carrying enough luggage in my mind.

Tess had dressed me up one side and down another, and I found myself agreeing with her. That galled me. For years we had battled, for years I had tolerated her nonsense, but today she had been right. I had rushed to judgment rather than gather facts. In the process, I offended her, nipped Titus's plan in the bud, and made myself a guilt cocktail, all in one meeting. Man, I was good. I frowned at my orange juice, glad that I couldn't make it feel bad.

Tess had even been helpful, in her own awkward, prickly way. When she said she was smelling “some serious stink” I knew what she meant. Something was happening, and we didn't know what it was. The question before me—one of a dozen—was, had someone on the council crawled into bed with H. Dean Wentworth? If so, then who? How much trouble could he cause?

I stuck my straw in the orange juice. It was partially frozen. I began to work the straw up and down, mixing the ice with the rest of the drink.

“Churn that all you want, you're not going to get butter out of orange juice.” Doug Turner crossed the patio and took a seat opposite me. He had a folder in his hand. I looked down at what I had been mindlessly doing and thought of Nat and her cracker abuse at the Fish Kettle.

“Hey, Doug.” I forced a polite smile and extended my hand. He shook it and set the folder on the table. “Sorry, I was daydreaming. Can I get you anything?”

“Nah.” He looked me over. “Cat eat your canary?”

“Never had a canary. Never had a cat.” I took a sip of sweet fruit juice. “Just have a few things on my mind.”

“I imagine.” He folded his hands over the file. “I may be the blemish on your day.”

I had to laugh at that. I didn't bother explaining. “You made this sound urgent.” I was prompting.

“Important, if not urgent. First, let me say that everything is off the record. I'm not here; we're not having this discussion.” I agreed but did nothing to conceal my puzzlement. “You remember that Harper character? The guy who was supposed to be filling in for me?”

“Barry Harper. I remember. I doubt I'll forget anytime soon.”

“He was annoying, all right. I went back to the paper and dropped the boom on my editor for sending someone like him out. I vented, then he told me that he hadn't sent Harper out. That Harper had come to him wanting work as a stringer. My editor said, ‘Well, bring me something, and we'll talk.'”

“You didn't get fired?”

“No way. I've been there long enough that I can bruise a few egos and still show up the next day. Anyway, Harper strolls in this morning, with this.” He pushed the file my direction. I set my orange juice aside and opened the folder. It was what I feared: A picture of me with Wentworth's arm around me. I had been surprised by the photo and my eyes were partly closed, giving me that lovely, I'm-too-drunk-to-stand-up-by-myself look. Nat was in the picture too, looking aghast at me, not the camera.

“It's from last night,” I admitted. “This guy came up and started a conversation. Next thing I know I'm getting my picture taken. I didn't approve. What does Harper want done with this?”

“He said he wanted it printed, and he wanted us to pay for it.”

There were a few sheets of paper held together with a paper clip on the upper left corner. I read the double-space type. “This is awful.”

“On more than one count.”

“You're not going to publish this, are you?” I pushed the photo and article back to Doug like it smelled of rotten fruit. “He didn't even spell my name right.”

“Of course not. This is some of the worst writing I've ever seen. I volunteer as a consultant for the journalism class at the high school, and those kids write a dozen times better.” He closed the folder and held it up. “This isn't anything more than what my neighbor's dog leaves on my front lawn.”

“There's an unpleasant image.”

“Trust me, I'm being polite. You should have heard what my editor called it.”

“No thanks. So is Harper just a nitwit who has delusion of journalistic fame?”

“I thought so at first, but that conclusion doesn't feel right. There's something going on backstage, and I want to know what it is.”

He leaned forward. I did the same. “Mayor, my instincts tell me someone is up to something. We reporters live for such things, but when someone tries to make me a player in a game I didn't know was going on, it gets my hackles up.”

“I still don't—”

“Hang on. There's more. You know that when I first met him in your office I was less than kind.”

“He had it coming.”

“That and more, but here's my point. He brought a copy of the picture and the article to give to my editor, but he also made sure I got a copy by giving it to our receptionist. I found it on my desk. Why would Harper, whom I gave a tongue-lashing to, want me to see his work?”

“Because he's arrogant or stupid or both.”

“He's not stupid. He knows how the journalistic mind works. The picture and the story aren't what's up. In the article he says you were seen in deep discussions with H. Dean Wentworth, associate of Rut-ger Howard. I looked at the photo, I read the article, and dismissed both out of hand, but I can't dismiss Wentworth. Why is he at your fund-raiser? So I do a little research—and so did my editor—and we learn that he lives in Atlanta. It's a long way from Atlanta to Santa Rita. He might be vacationing, but why would he be giving you a here's-my-best-buddy hug?”