Director's Cut (28 page)

“What do we do?”

“Hang on to each other,” I said. “Hang on to friends and family. Follow Dr. Thomas's advice and don't give up hope. I'm praying for your son, and I will continue to do so.” I opened my purse and removed a business card. “Call me anytime. Even if it's just to talk. I know what it is to lose someone you love. I can't make it easier, but at least you can talk to someone who understands.”

Kay took the card. “Thank you, Mayor.”

I excused myself and walked with Webb to his car. Once inside, he said, “Sometimes you amaze me, Mayor. Not many people could have handled that as well as you did.”

I burst into tears.

Chapter 27

W
ebb drove around the city until I had pulled myself together. To his credit, he didn't try to comfort me. He let the relief valve that had been holding my emotions in check flow freely without comment, complaint, or intrusion. It felt like I had wept for an hour but it had been less than five minutes, followed by another five minutes of the obligatory sniffing and nose blowing.

“I'm sorry,” I said, feeling like a high school girl.

“Don't be,” Webb said. “Honest emotion is a good thing.”

I chuckled. “Isn't this where you tell me that even big strong men like you cry from time to time?”

“Not likely,” he said. A moment later he asked, “Back to the office?”

“Yes. I'm better now. I haven't lost it like that in a long time.” More sniffing. “I don't know what brought that on.”

“Sure you do, Madam Mayor. It's part of your affliction.”

“My affliction? What affliction?”

He shifted his gaze to me for a moment, then back to the road. “You have a terminal case of caring. It's gotten worse since your conversion, but you had it bad long before that.”

“I didn't know caring was an affliction.”

“It's probably a good disease to have but it comes with a price. You're the strongest woman I know. You have courage, determination, and a commitment to make wrong things right. You annoy me beyond words, but I do admire those qualities. By the way, if you repeat this in public, I'll deny it.”

“I'll keep it a secret.” I dabbed at my eyes.

“What I'm getting at is that you not only involve yourself in the problems of others, but you
invest
yourself. Investment is pricey. Take what just happened at the hospital. I walk in your office angrier than a bee in a bottle and slap my resignation on the desk. What do you do? You read it like it was a column in the entertainment section of the newspaper, then drag my fanny down to Pacific Horizon and march me into ICU to see Doug and the Slater boy. Now how am I supposed to feel sorry for myself when I'm looking at them?”

“It wasn't a scheme on my part,” I said.

“That's the point. That kind of behavior is second nature to you. I have been a thorn in your side for years. A big thorn. I gave you a golden opportunity to be free of me, and you take steps only to shame me into staying.”

“Chief—”

“I'm not finished, Mayor. Then what happens? You end up speaking to the family of a boy who is probably going to die. They threaten to sue the city and what do you do? You encourage them to do so. What kind of mayor does that?” He paused. “I tell you what kind of mayor—a caring mayor. Not a politician. No sir, a politician would try to deflect attention away from themselves. You give the parents your business card. And that's just this one situation. There are two murders at your cousin's home. You're running for congress. That kind of publicity is the last thing you need, but what do you do? You take her in, and dive headfirst into the process of making her life easier, no matter how much more burdensome it makes yours.”

“I'm not hearing the downside to this.”

“Yeah, I didn't think you would. I'm not sure you can hear the downside. One of the first things we learn as cops is not to invest ourselves in the lives of the victims. Oh sure, we take up offerings around Christmastime or collect food for needy families during Thanksgiving, but we don't stitch our hearts to the people we serve. We can't. If we did, we'd all go crazy by the end of the month. You have forgotten how to weigh the price of involvement. And . . .” He took a deep breath and let it slide past his lips. “And I admire you for it.”

“Thank you, Chief.” In his awkward way, he had made me feel better.

“Yeah, well, you still annoy me.”

“That's sweet. And you annoy me too.”

The granite-faced Chief Bill Webb smiled.

I looked out the window to see if the sky was falling.

Webb walked me to my office and snatched up his letter of resignation. I offered to shred it for him but he said he might need it in the future. Then he did a favor for me: he called Detective West and got an update on the search for Catherine. There was no news and another piece of me died.

“You know,” Webb said, “this makes her look pretty guilty. Fleeing after being interviewed about the second homicide at her home.”

“Guilty? Detective West said that no gunpowder residue was found on her hands or clothing. She didn't shoot Andy Buchanan.”

“I didn't say she pulled the trigger, but two murders at her home, both people she knew, both connected to her work, is more than a little suspicious. Then she lied about having a key to your place. Why do that?”

“I don't know. I just know she's not a killer.”

He looked at me hard. “Terminal caring.” He walked away.

No sooner than Webb had left, Floyd appeared at my door. “Do I want to know what all that was about?”

“You don't want to hear it, and I don't want to tell it. Bottom line is that everything is as it was—at least with the chief.” I waved him in.

“Has there been . . . I mean, is there any word?”

“About Catherine? No. I wish there was. Sit down, I'll bring you up-to-date.” Floyd did, looking like a lost puppy. I shared what I knew about Catherine and her disappearance. He took in every word, looking more worried by the moment.

“Do you think that someone abducted her?” he asked.

“I don't think so. She purposely led Detective West to believe that she had a key to my home, knowing that she didn't. If she couldn't get in and knew it, then she must have had some other plan. I had hoped she intended to wait for me to show up, but I don't think that's what she had in mind.”

“But why? Why would she run away?”

“Fear,” I suggested.

“What could Catherine be afraid of? Arrest?”

“Perhaps, but I doubt it. I think she may know something we don't. Two people associated with her have died. Maybe she left to protect others, to protect me. The question remains, what does she know that we don't?”

“And who helped her get away? I mean, she didn't just walk from your house.”

“Floyd, I want you to do a few things for me. Detective West mentioned a director's cut of Catherine's movie is out on DVD. I'd like to see it.”

“That's easy. I bought a copy the night you let me join you and the others for dinner at your home. I have it in my desk. I was hoping that you could get Catherine to autograph it for me. I can set it up so you can watch it on your computer. It has a DVD player, you know—”

“I know that. Just bring me the DVD. I need your computer skills for something else. Search the Internet and see if the script A LONG WAY FROM NOWHERE has been posted. Maybe someone leaked it. Catherine told me that that happens a lot.

“Also,” I continued, “run over to the police station and pick up a copy of the script that was dropped off at the theater last night. West said he made a copy of the first one, I'm sure he made a copy of the second. I'll call ahead and pave the way for you. In fact, I'm going to ask for copies of both scripts.”

“Do you think he'll give you any trouble about the scripts?”

“Of course he will. I just have to be more insistent and since I'm not asking for actual evidence, just photocopies, he'll relent. He'll complain, but he'll give in.”
I hope
.

Floyd wasted no time in retrieving the DVD for me. I set it aside and called West. He relented faster and easier than I expected. Truth was, he sounded preoccupied. I used that to my advantage. City employees seldom hang up on their mayor.

I was eager to start the DVD but decided to wait until Floyd was back. I wanted to give it my full attention and answering the phone would break my concentration. West had said that the first movie had scenes showing the loading of a gun with Glaser blue-tip ammunition but those scenes had later been cut. I doubted I'd see anything important but it was better than sitting in one spot worrying.

A motion at the door caught my attention. I expected to see Floyd, but I saw someone else, someone I never expected to see. He was standing at the threshold watching me. Fritzy stood by his side. She had escorted him from the lobby to my office. I rose from my chair and cleared my throat.

“Mr. Buchanan.” The words crawled out, far weaker than I intended. He wore a button-down patterned sweater, a polo shirt, and tan slacks. He looked twenty pounds lighter than when I saw him a short time ago. I knew it was an illusion. He was carrying himself like a man who bore the weight of several planets on his back.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you. I should have called.”

I said thank you to Fritzy, dismissing her from the uncomfortable situation. To Buchanan I said, “Nonsense. Come in. Sit down.” He did and I started to ask,
How are you doing?
But I caught myself. How would any man be doing whose son had just been murdered? As he sat, I had the sense I was watching a hollow man cored out by violent tragedy.

“I was . . . I was just at the police station. Detective West had some questions. Your aide was over there making copies or something. That made me think of you.”

“You drove all the way out here to talk to Detective West?”

“No. I came in late last night. I had to . . . I was asked to . . .”

“Identify the body?”

He lowered his head. “Yes.”

“Mr. Buchanan, I wish I could do more than tell you how sorry I am over your loss.”

“There's nothing to say that would do any good. It's happened and no matter how many times I tell myself it's not true, I keep seeing him lying on that table looking like my son but with no life in him.” His voice choked.

“May I get you something? Water? Coffee?”

He surprised me by chortling. “Have you ever noticed in old movies and television shows, that when someone is upset another character offers them water as if it's an elixir. I don't know how many times I've had to cut a line like that from a script.”

“I suppose we do that because we don't know what else to say or do.”

“I guess you're right.” He took a deep breath and tried to square shoulders that weren't through slumping yet. “I have a favor to ask. I have no right to ask it, but I will.”

“Please, go ahead.”

“I know there are so many crimes these days that the police get overloaded, and their attention shifts to more recent crimes. I want my son's killer found. Would you . . . could you make sure that his death doesn't get stuck on the back burner?”

“Things are a little different here, Mr. Buchanan. Normally, our crime rate is very low and murder is something rare. I can guarantee that Detective West won't put this on the back burner.”

“That means a lot to me.”

“Mr. Buchanan, may I ask you a question? I don't want to add to your grief but maybe you could help me understand something.”

“You can't add to the immeasurable, Mayor. Ask your question.” He ran a hand along his shaved head.

“You know about the additions to the first script, the pages that someone added to terrify Catherine. Your son delivered that script and apparently he delivered another one last night. Do you know why he would bring another screenplay to Catherine?”

“Your Detective West wanted to know the same thing. I don't have an answer. I know I didn't send him. And where he got the script, I can't say.”

“Was he normally . . . impulsive?”

It seemed the question piled another planet on his shoulder. “He was a troubled young man. I thought maybe he had rounded the corner and left his problems behind. Maybe he didn't.” He bit his lip.

I waited, mustering all my strength not to ask the question. I didn't need to.

“My wife and I divorced when Andy was ten. I was in the middle of a project and . . . well, I was very self-absorbed. When my wife left, she went to Europe and took Andy with her. She's not a good mother, and I'm only a slightly better father. She played the field, living off the massive alimony and child support I agreed to pay. When Andy turned fifteen, he became too much for her to handle. She sent him to me. She left with a good ten-year-old and returned a drug-addicted teenager.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “It's not all her fault. I wasn't there for him when he needed me. He had no father image during those formative years. Of course, if I had been there, I wouldn't have been much of an example. I was an alcoholic—I
am
an alcoholic . . . Been dry for almost twelve years. When Andy arrived on my doorstep, I realized he had a problem. I also realized I had a similar problem. He came by his addictive personality honestly, if
honestly
is the right word. I checked us both into a rehab hospital. We kicked our problems.”

“That was a courageous thing to do. You've been off alcohol for over a decade.”

“Yeah, I've been able to stick with it. Andy, not so much.”

“I'm sorry.” I was saying that a lot lately.

“He kept falling back into the old habits. I took him out of school and had him tutored. He did well with that. I also hired him to work with me. He did a little acting; just a line here and there. I also tried to teach him the business. He was interested in directing and writing. He even surprised me with a screenplay one day. It was passable but not great.”