Before Another Dies (4 page)

“Wow,” Floyd said. “This is amazing.”

“I want you to mind your p's and q's,” I said. “Let's try and remember that someone has died.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Floyd said. His eyes were wide. It never ceases to amaze me what people find interesting.

I glanced over the scene. The Gremlin was still where I found it and even from twenty feet away I could see the lifeless driver.

“This is so cool,” Floyd said. “Maybe I should be a cop.”

“Is there anything you don't want to be?”

“Yeah, a butcher. I don't want to be a butcher. Too much blood and guts.”

“But you think being a police officer . . . never mind. I'm sure you'll settle on a career someday—maybe several careers.”

“You're back,” a familiar voice said. My stomach went soft. I ignored it and smiled.

“Detective West, this is Floyd Grecian, my new aide. Floyd, this is Detective Judson West.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you.” Floyd extended his hand. West took it.

“Mr. Grecian,” West said with a nod. He turned to me. “I didn't expect to see you back so soon.”

“Floyd's curiosity was swelling. What's with the ambulance?”

“Routine. We need someone to pronounce our victim dead, even if it's obvious.”

“Ah. I hadn't thought of that,” I said.

“Couldn't the coroner have done that?” Floyd asked.

West shook his head. “The position of coroner is an elected office in this county. He's an administrator, not a medical professional. The coroner's office hires medical examiners to do autopsies. Sometimes they come to the scene and declare the deceased . . . well, deceased. In this case it was quicker to call in the paramedics.”

“Oh,” Floyd said. “So the guys by the van aren't coroners?”

“No, they work for the coroner. When we tell them it's okay, they'll take the body and turn it over to a medical examiner for autopsy. Then we'll have the car towed to the county forensics lab.”

“Forensics?” I said. There was something he wasn't saying.

West looked at me, his expression set like concrete. “I was going to come and see you as soon as we had the body moved. You should know—our victim was murdered.”

That chilled me. It was unsettling enough to find someone dead, but to find a murder victim. Old emotions that I kept chained in the dungeon of my mind broke free. “How—”

“The only details I can give you must stay with you. This is an active investigation. I want to control how information is released. Understood?” I said I understood. West shifted his eyes from me to Floyd.

“What?” He looked at West, then me, then West again.

I sighed. “He wants to know if you can keep your mouth shut, Floyd. No talking to the media, no talking to friends, no talking to anyone until Detective West says it's okay. Got it?”

“Yeah sure. I understand.”

“I'll release a statement this morning. The media can do what they want with it.” He looked back at the car. “I found bruising on his jaw. The bruises are consistent with fingers. It looks like someone broke the man's neck.”

“Wow!” Floyd said again.

“You can tell that from some bruises on his jaw?”

“I can't be dogmatic about it. That's for the medical examiner, but a closer look at the head and neck has convinced me.”

I didn't ask what he meant by that. I was afraid he'd tell me. “So this guy—”

“His name is Jose Lopez. He lives in Camarillo. I ran a wants and warrants on him but it came back clean. No real trouble with the law, one DUI about three years ago.” I must have looked confused because West explained, “We found his driver's license in his wallet. The name matches the car's registration.”

Of course. I chastised myself. “So this guy pulls into this lot, parks in my space, shuts off the engine, but leaves the key turned so he can listen to the radio, then someone attacks and kills him.”

“That's what we have so far, but there are a dozen permutations and lots of questions.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“The car for one. It's a two door.”

“So?”

“It's hard to break a man's neck when you're seated next to him.” West turned back to the car. “I'm not saying it's impossible, but it is unlikely. Usually such things are done from behind and since there's no sign of a struggle, it appears that the deed was done quickly, professionally.”

“What radio station?” Floyd asked.

“What?” West furrowed his brow.

“The mayor said the dead man was sitting in his car listening to the radio. What station was he listening to?”

“I think the dial was set around 640, but I'd have to double-check. The car only has an AM radio. Why?”

Floyd shrugged. His mind often seemed to orbit a different star than most of us, and at times that had been useful to me. “Just curious. Maybe it was 620, that's close to 640. What time was he listening?”

“We think he died sometime after two this morning.”

“Robby Hood,” Floyd said. “Probably Robby Hood.”

West shook his head. “Who is Robby Hood?”

“You're kidding, right?” Floyd said. “You know who he is, don't you, Mayor?”

Just what I love, a direct question certain to embarrass me. “I've heard of him. He does late-night talk radio, right?”

Floyd nodded. “Robby Hood is an institution in late-night radio, and he's right here in Santa Rita.”

“Wait a minute,” West said. “Is he the guy that does all the UFO and Bigfoot stuff?”

“He does a whole lot more than that. He explores remote viewing, government conspiracies, transdimensional beings, Mars fossils . . . His show starts at eleven at night and goes to three in the morning. I listen to him a lot.”

“Which explains why you're late to work so often,” I added.

He blushed. “Robby Hood rivals Art Bell, George Noory, Whitley Strieber, Jeff Rense—”

“We get the idea, Floyd,” West said. “What bearing would this have on the murder?”

He shrugged. “I don't know.”

West shrugged. “I'll check the station, but I don't think it really matters if he was listening to country-western music or some guy talking about leprechauns.” He walked away.

“I think I upset him,” Floyd said. “I didn't mean to, I was just trying to be helpful.”

“You didn't upset him. Detective West is a man of singular thought. While most of the world goes around with flashlight thinking, he's a laser beam. Most of the time, that's a good thing.”

“Most of the time?”

“Forget it. I'm just mumbling. Let's get back to work.” I started up the gentle grade and back to my office. I left the murder scene behind, but I had a feeling it wasn't going to leave me.

chapter 4

R
eturning to work after New Year's is always a challenge. This was the second week of January, and most of the employees were still weary from the joy of Christmas shopping and the fun of having distant families in their homes. Little work gets done. People in other agencies are difficult to contact, mail service slows to a crawl, and the minds of city employees are elsewhere. Coming back to reality is always a bit of a shock, one from which I am not immune.

I had spent the morning reviewing year-end reports from city agencies, memos complaining about the final changes in the budget, new regulations and laws that affected Santa Rita, and a dozen phone calls from people determined to be more efficient this year than last. Other people's New Year resolutions can be annoying. I know, I've pressed enough of mine on others to see the effects.

I had expected a call from the
Register
about the murder in the parking lot, but it never came. Maybe Doug Turner was still recovering from his holidays. Doug covers politics and crime for the
Register
. Big-city papers had different reporters assigned to such things, but the
Register
was too small for such luxuries. Doug, as the senior reporter, got to choose most of his assignments. If it involved city hall, he was sure to be the reporter on the scene. Today, he was missing in action. That was fine with me. I had nothing to offer anyway, although I had silently practiced my line: “We at city hall have every confidence in Chief Webb and his professional staff of officers. We are all wounded when such a horrible crime has been committed in our city and we are certain that justice will prevail.” It was a good line. I was almost sad I hadn't been able to use it. But then the day was still young.

I left my office at twelve forty-five and wriggled my way north through traffic and the inevitable bottleneck just south of Santa Barbara and finally pulled into the parking lot of the White Gull restaurant. My meeting was set for one fifteen, and I was going to make it just in time. The White Gull is a trendy place nestled between two low-lying hills and facing a wide ribbon of sand that hemmed this edge of the ocean. Natalie and I were to dine outside, and the day was cooperating. The breeze was light and perfumed with salt from the ocean and juniper from the hillsides. A white medallion sun hovered in a cerulean sky, now free of the marbled layer of clouds that crept in almost every night and slinked away every morning by ten. The temperature was perfect for outdoor dining.

The White Gull boasts the best sushi bar in the area, but that means nothing to me. Sushi is just another word for bait. I have friends who have tried to correct my misguided conclusion, but I just can't get by the word “raw.” I entered the lobby and was greeted by Victoria. I didn't know her last name—the name tag she wore revealed only a first name. I had seen her almost every Monday for the last two months.

“Good afternoon, Mayor,” Victoria said. She was a short black woman with dark eyes and an infectious smile. “She's already here.”

“Usual spot, I assume?”

“Yes. Allow me to seat you.” Victoria was as efficient as they come. Bright, articulate, and the heart of a servant, she led me through the crowded dining room, weaving between tables and chairs with the grace of a ballerina. I was convinced she could do this blindfolded. Like many restaurants on the beachfront, the dining area was used to its fullest, with artificially distressed wood tables popping up from the tile floor like toadstools on a spring lawn. Only the minimum of space necessary was left for walking. More than once I had to turn sideways to scoot past diners. It was one reason we met outside. That, and our conversation could be kept private.

“There she is.” Victoria strolled to a table in the corner farthest away from the noisy restaurant. “Shall I bring your usual drink?”

“If you're still making raspberry tea, then I'm still drinking it.”

“We're still making it.”

I said thank you and sat at what had become “our” table. I noticed that the other tables around us were empty. Victoria was conscientious—she was seating her other outdoor patrons at the far end of the concrete patio.

“For a moment I thought you were going to be late,” Natalie said. “I was getting ready to call the papers.”

“I'm never late. Well, almost never late.”

Across the table from me sat a woman of stunning beauty: blond, brilliant blue eyes, round lips lightly touched with lipstick, and skin the color of cream. She wore a butterscotch Shaker sweater and simple pendant necklace that dangled down a single pearl. Her hair reached to her shoulders, covering ears that had not sported earrings for several years. I knew this because I knew Natalie Sanders well. We met last year under unusual circumstances and have become fast friends.

I shifted my chair in place which caused me to think of Natalie's chair. Her seat was different from mine. Hers had wheels and a powerful electric motor. While Natalie could maneuver her chair better than I could walk, the interior of the White Gull was not wheelchair friendly. Although it was legal, meeting all the California laws regarding handicapped access, it was nonetheless awkward. There was more open space on the patio so Natalie preferred it.

My tea arrived and Victoria—who always insisted on serving us herself—took our orders. I chose a shrimp salad and Natalie opted for New England clam chowder served in a bowl made of sourdough bread.

As soon as Victoria trotted off, Nat asked, “So, you getting back into the humdrum of civic life?” She raised a glass of Boston tea—tea and cranberry juice—to her lips. She used her right hand. Her left hand hadn't held anything for seven years.

“Not so humdrum today. A little more excitement than I care for.”

“Really?” Her arched eyebrows elevated an inch. “Dish it, sister. You know I live vicariously through you.”

I laughed at the last remark. People who didn't know Nat looked at her with pity. “Such a beautiful woman stuck in a wheelchair,” they thought. I thought the same thing. But Nat was as smart as she was beautiful. She possessed the keen kind of thinking that intimidates we lesser mortals. A former television news anchor, she had garnered ratings that made news directors weak in the knees. And she was more than a talking head. She knew her stuff and stored it all away in a computerlike memory. The auto accident that left her legs little more than vestigial appendages and her left arm a badge of tragedy had done nothing to her mind. She left the news business to found a research company—a company of one employee—that services writers and the news media. Need a fact, call Nat. She was doing well for herself.

Nat had been a help to me last year. In fact, several people owe her their lives—me included. She had become my friend, my confidante, and my campaign manager. It was the last reason we had been meeting every Monday and talking on the phone several times a day. Over the next few months, that would increase.

“I'm waiting,” she said.

“I found a dead man at city hall today.” I said it as if it happened every week. “He was in my parking place.”