Before Another Dies (20 page)

“So you think there's a story behind the story, is that it?”

“That's it. Harper—probably Wentworth through Harper—wants us to raise our radar. The question is why.”

“This doesn't make sense,” I said. “Wentworth approached me and . . . You said this was off the record, right?”

“I did but if you reveal anything too juicy, I might go mad and throw myself into the sea.”

He was doing me a favor, and I knew it. “Wentworth wants to build a restaurant in Santa Rita. It's a Bennie's. They're everywhere. Family dining and all that. He wants help in getting some property, I told him no.” I left the juicy details out. There's nothing worse than a wet reporter. “There are many people in the city opposed to franchise or corporate-owned restaurants in the city limits. They feel it takes away the small-town charm.”

“We haven't been a small town for quite a while.”

“But the charm remains. What confuses me is why someone who wants my help would try to degrade me in the papers. Do you think he took it to other newspapers and media?”

“No. I've made a few calls, and no major paper from Santa Barbara south has seen anything yet.” He paused. “I think Wentworth is firing a shot across your bow. You said you told him no.”

“Yes. Pretty clearly, too.” I thought about revealing Wentworth's offer of big money to the campaign but decided against it. I would be pushing the off-the-record agreement too far.

“You're holding back some things, aren't you?”

“It's my job.” I picked up my orange juice and took another sip. “Do you think Harper gave you a copy because he assumed you'd bring it to me?”

“And because he wants us to investigate deeper. Which, by the way, is happening. That editorial meeting I told you about was about this article and the story behind it. Terri Slater is on it. Do you know Terri?”

“Can't say that I do. Who is he?”

“She. As you know, we're not a big-city paper so we double up on our duties. I handle crime and politics—redundant as that is.”

“Cute.”

“Terri does features and business. Since Wentworth is associated with the wealthy Rutger Howard, she got the assignment. I'm supposed to follow the political element. Be careful, Terri is young and out to prove something. She may come knocking.”

“Swell. I still can't figure Wentworth's angle. It looks like he's biting the hand he wants to feed him. That doesn't make sense.”

“Do you like magic?”

That caught me off guard. “What? You going to do a card trick?”

“I was never very good at those. When I was a kid I wanted to do stage magic. I didn't have what it takes, but I did learn a few tricks and, more importantly, a few lessons. When a stage magician is doing his bit he will do his best to misdirect your attention. If he holds something up in his right hand, you can bet he's doing something with his left. This article and picture is what Wentworth wants you to see. I wonder what he's doing with the other hand. Make sense?”

I said it did and thanked him. He rose, excused himself, and started for the door that led back into the cafeteria. Through the windows I could see the first shift of lunch-hungry workers. “Doug?” He stopped and turned. “Are we still off the record?”

“Sure.”

“There's been a third murder . . . a security guard at the marina. I'm not revealing any secrets here, but I just as soon you didn't tell people you heard it from me.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Your secret is safe with me, but I already knew. I have a police scanner. I appreciate the gesture.”

He left me with my orange juice and the puzzle of H. Dean Wentworth.

chapter 25

I
fielded calls. I wrote memos. I had “hallway” meetings and did my best to put my universe in order. It wasn't working. I felt as if someone had taken half a dozen jigsaw puzzles and emptied them on my desk, then said, “There ya go. Have fun.” I wasn't having fun.

The city manager had sent me a memo notifying me that the contract for trash service on all the city's property was going to double. We had just finished our budget and allowed for a 10 percent hike, but not doubling of fees. That contract would have to be renegotiated. The problem was, we couldn't just switch contractors. There was only one such service in the city, and bringing in a firm from Santa Barbara or other nearby city would be just as expensive.

County Disposal, a privately owned firm despite the name, had been servicing the city and its citizens for twenty years. Why the sudden change? The memo cited increased cost of doing business, cost of gasoline, and hikes in minimum wage. All valid but not valid enough to justify doubling their fees. They were taking advantage of my run for congress. My guess was they thought I'd roll over on this because I didn't want negative publicity.

I was becoming paranoid.

Fred Markham had sent a note informing me of a lawsuit being leveled against the city for a fall taken by an elderly woman in one of our parks. That was no surprise. Suits are filed against cities like clockwork. We're easy targets and have the appearance of deep pockets. I put that aside. It would be a subject for our next closed-door session. Not the two o'clock one I had called for today. That one was full enough. Lawsuits moved slowly.

I pushed more paper, fiddled with a speech I was to give next week to a local veterans' organization, and jotted down a few remarks for a dinner I was giving for my campaign volunteers. Work that needed to be done washed over me like a rogue wave. Normally, I thrive on pressure and a long to-do list, but today it threatened to overwhelm me. My mind was elsewhere.

Added to all this was the overwhelming task of education—my education. I had been in local politics for over a decade. I knew that field inside and out. The working of state government was familiar terrain also, but congress, well, congress is national policy. Some of the issues were like a foreign language. I understood the basic principles, the parts of government, the difference between a bill and a resolution. But I was now dealing with questions about the Homeland Security Act, terrorism, government-funded health care, military spending, Iraq, Iran, North Korea, Saudi Arabia, Supreme Court decisions, taxes, and a thousand other issues. A candidate could botch a question and sink a campaign with a single misspoken comment. Campaigns were hard enough to manage when things went right, but damage control was costly in time and effort and campaign contributions.

The real problem was my focus—I didn't have any. I tried to arrange my thoughts, whipping them into an orderly, manageable line, but my mind had different ideas. My thoughts were as obedient as cats in a sack.

What I really wanted to do was go to the marina. A third death. Going was out of the question. I had no business there, it would be of no help, it might look like grandstanding to my opponents, and I had work to do here.

Three murders. Three in four days. Three people died in the same fashion, and all related to the city. The gears of my brain seized. That thought had come from my subconscious. The first death was in one of the parking lots of city hall. The second, Fritzy's husband, had occurred at a small private airport—but the airport wasn't truly private. Its operation was, but the owners leased the property from the city. The same was true of the marina. Privately operated on property leased from the city. Coincidence?

The gears loosened up again. The connection to the city was there, but it was a bit of a stretch. How many people knew that the marina and airport leased our property? It was a stupid question. It was public information, and it didn't matter if thousands knew. What mattered was that one knew.

I had an itchy thought, one that stayed just out of scratching range. The city connection was interesting, but was there more? My intuition said yes, but what? I spun my chair around to face the credenza behind my desk. It was one of those that had an area for a computer and keyboard. The computer was on. It was part of Floyd's job to make sure my office was ready for me when I arrived: neat, files stacked, messages listed in order of importance, and the computer turned on. The screen was dark. I find screensavers distracting. I tapped a key and the monitor came to life. A second later I had the word processing program up and a blank page in front of me.

All my life, I've been a maker of lists. I find comfort in order, and I'm one of those weird people who feels momentary joy in crossing something off my to-do list as completed. Even if I didn't have a list on paper, I always had one in my mind. I followed my instincts.

There were things I didn't know, and I filled those in with question marks. The chart could be more detailed, but I find it best to start small. It's the way my brain works. Start basic, then move to the complex.

I studied the list, looking for the Aha! but didn't see one. One thing I hadn't considered was the time of the killings. I knew that the first two had occurred in the wee hours of the morning but was guessing about the third. I felt safe in my speculation. After all, West was in my office early this morning when he got the call. It was fair to assume that the guard was found around shift change, meaning he was working graveyard, probably something like midnight to eight in the morning. West could confirm that for me. I added another column.

Wednesday was an enigma. No murder. At least I had that to be thankful for. Still it begged the question, Why? Why no murder following the Tuesday/Wednesday show? Was the killer out of town? Busy? Maybe a murder attempt failed. Perhaps it was an effort to throw the police off. I couldn't imagine that it paid to be too predictable if you were in the killing business. Of course . . . there may have been another murder and the body is yet to be found. That thought made me sick.

I thought about what Jerry had said. He was making connections in ways I hadn't considered. There had only been two murders at that point. I chastised myself—
only two murders
. One was too many. I conjured up the discussion. He said that when I described what I knew about the crimes, he heard that both had been in vehicles, one in a car, the other in a plane; both had been “parked”; and both had wives, albeit Mr. Lopez was estranged. I couldn't speak to the security guard's marital status, but I was pretty sure the guard shack was not a mode of transportation. I didn't know the most recent victim's age, but guards were usually very young or retirement age. I'd have to leave that blank for now.

Another thing percolated to the top. I had been pushing it to the back of my mind because it made so little sense. Killing people on city property might make sense to a crazy person with a vendetta against the city, but . . . a radio station? The great thing about computers is that you can delete anything you don't like. I threw logic to the wind and filled in the chart a little more.

I felt ridiculous. What could a disembodied voice coming over the airwaves have to do with violent murders? Nonsense. A waste of time. I moved the cursor arrow to the red box with a white X in the upper right corner of the program ready to shut it down. It would ask if I wanted to save the document, and I would choose no. It had been a useless exercise. I hadn't stood a ghost of a chance . . .

If my mind had bells they would be ringing. Softly at first, but enough to get my attention. “Ghost of a chance,” I mumbled. “Ghost of a . . .” Got it! Last night, I had been angry and offended by H. Dean Wentworth—Horace. His offer, which was nothing more than a bribe to me, and his subtle threat had gotten under my skin. I spent decompression time with Nat until midnight, then drove home feeling not the least bit decompressed. I remember turning the radio on and finding the Robby Hood show. Why not? Listening to the news wasn't going to make me feel better. I needed something less than serious. Instinctively, I had chosen him.

The program began to seep to the forefront of my thinking. Ghosts. He was interviewing someone who had seen a ghost—a security guard who had seen a ghost. I spun the chair around and skipped the intercom.