The Incumbent (4 page)
T
he morning crept in, the sun oozing through the few residual rain clouds. The normal marine layer of clouds that blankets most evenings and mornings was missing. The sky was azure near the horizon and a deep cobalt blue overhead. The rainstorm had washed the air clean of Southern California pollutants, leaving the sky crisp, as if just created. I had come down from my bedroom, where I spent a restless night fighting the covers and unwanted dreams. When I wasn’t asleep, I lay in the dark listening to sounds I was certain were prowlers, ghosts, or some incomprehensible beastie. Several times I awoke to hear Celeste’s quiet sobbing in the adjoining guest room.
I stood in the kitchen inhaling the thick, rich aroma of coffee as it trickled from the drip coffeemaker. The smell infused the air, and I found a measure of comfort in the familiar morning perfume. While I waited for the last of the brew to make its way through the basket and into the carafe, I studied the ocean outside my window. It was calm, sending to the shore small rollers that caressed the sand with frothy fingers. The water was blue and gray, reflecting the sky above it.
It was a beautiful sight and promised a gorgeous day. I would have relished it more had there not been so much reality to deal with. The sky had changed, the air had cleared, and another day had been born, as had so many millions before. That was all the same, but the world was different. A woman was gone—a mother, a friend. The new day had not changed that. I had spent the night in a soft, warm bed; I shuddered to think where Lisa Truccoli had spent hers.
A faint padding sound came from behind me. I turned to see Celeste. She wore a pair of my flannel pajamas. Her feet were bare and her face was puffy, eyes swollen and red, betraying the unsettled night she had endured.
“Good morning.” I immediately felt stupid. What was good about it?
“Good morning.” It was a reflex response and I doubted she even knew she had uttered the words.
“Do you drink coffee?”
She nodded and went to the breakfast nook that adjoined the kitchen, and sat at the small rectangular table in the center of the room.
“Are you hungry? I have some croissants or I could fix some eggs.”
“No, thank you.”
She needed to eat. Grief was hard work. “I’m going to put some on the table anyway, and some fruit. You can eat whenever you want.”
“Okay.”
Celeste was a sad figure, the empty shell of a person. At her age she should have been vibrant, filled with energy and unbounded enthusiasm. Someone, by an act of cruelty, had drained her of that, had pirated away her youthful zeal for life. There was a special place in hell for people who did such things. I felt sure of that.
I poured two cups of coffee and placed them on the table, along with evaporated milk, which I use as a substitute for cream. “There’s sugar there, too.” Returning to the kitchen to retrieve the pastries and fruit, I found some grapes and two oranges. A minute later I sat next to Celeste, stirring my coffee.
“I’d suggest sitting on the deck, but the rain has left all the outdoor furniture wet.”
“That’s okay.” She sipped her coffee. It was black. She screwed up her face at its strong taste.
“You better put something in that. I tend to make coffee strong. Peter liked it that way.”
“How did you do it?”
I was puzzled. “You mean the coffee?”
She turned to face me as if I had just asked a profoundly stupid question. “No. Your husband. Mom said he was killed.”
“Ah. It wasn’t easy. No sense in lying about that.”
“How did it happen?”
I told her about the carjacking, trying to remain detached. Detachment was impossible. She was attentive, shifting her gaze from the ocean beyond the French doors to her coffee, which she had now whitened with the Carnation milk.
“Didn’t you just want to up and die?”
“Yes, I suppose I did. In my darkest moments I still do. I push on anyway.”
“Why?”
“It does no good not to. Besides, Peter would want me to live out my life, just as I would have expected him to if it had been me that day. Sometimes we live for our loved ones whether they’re alive . . .”
“Or dead.”
“We don’t know that your mother is dead, Celeste.”
“We don’t know that she’s alive, either.”
She had me there.
“Did they get the guy who shot your husband?”
I nodded. “They got him and his partner. There were several witnesses, and my husband’s car was distinctive—a yellow BMW Z3 roadster. Are you familiar with the car?”
“It’s a fancy sports car, right?”
“That’s right. It was a flashy thing and Peter loved it dearly. I sold it after the funeral. I couldn’t drive it . . . too many memories. Anyway, the LAPD spotted the car and gave chase. After a high-speed pursuit through city streets, the carjackers finally gave up. Two junkies, both in their early twenties. One struck a deal with the DA. The prosecution charged him with murder-two in exchange for testimony against the man who pulled the trigger. Both are in jail.”
“So they’re alive and your husband is dead. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“It’s not, Celeste. There are many things in life that are not fair.”
“So we just have to accept it? I’m not going to just accept it.”
I searched for the right words but found none. I was out of my element. I had no children of my own and I had no experience as a grief counselor.
There was a ring at the front door. My first thought was relief: saved by the proverbial bell. But I was puzzled about who could be on my stoop this early. I had checked the clock when Celeste came downstairs. It said 7:10. Not more than ten minutes could have passed since then. I put a hand on her shoulder, indicating she should stay put. Her face was hopeful as I rose and headed for the door.
The bell rang again.
My hope was that Maria had come early. Maria Rodriquez cleaned house for me once a week. She was a whiz, the best there was. I was glad that this was her day, because she could stay with Celeste while I went into the office for a few hours. I planned to pump Webb for more information.
My front door has a peephole and I made use of it. On the other side was a man, a stranger. He wore a tie and a suit. I turned the dead bolt, unlocking the door, then put my hand on the doorknob. I paused. Was this Lisa’s last action the night before? Did she open the door to a stranger? I removed my hand.
“Who is it?” I called, pulling my terry cloth robe tighter.
“Detective Judson West, Santa Rita police.”
I looked back through the peephole. He was holding up a badge in a leather case. Reassured, I opened the door. The man before me was tall, maybe six foot two. His hair was anthracite black with no sign of gray, an enviable trait. Dark eyes peered back at me from his narrow face, and a smile of Hollywood teeth spread above a chiseled chin. His cheeks bore a tan, in usual Southern California fashion. He wore a cerulean-colored shirt with a striped gold tie. On his shoulders hung a sport coat that was a shade darker than the blue of his shirt. His beige pants looked as if they had just come from the tailors, pressed and new.
“Mrs. Glenn?” He corrected himself. “I mean, Mayor Glenn?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.”
Good-looking and polite.
I invited him in. “I wasn’t expecting anyone this early. You’ve caught me . . .” I looked down at my robe and slippers.
“I apologize.” If the awkward moment made him uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. “I’m an early riser and I have a busy day. If you want to change, I’d be happy to wait.”
“I think I’ll do that. First I want to know if you’ve discovered anything about Lisa.”
“Me too,” I heard from behind me. Celeste was standing a few feet from the staircase. I started to introduce them but remembered that they must have met the previous night at Lisa’s house.
“Miss Truccoli.” West nodded.
“Hi.” Celeste gave a polite smile, but it was clear there was no happiness there, just eager anticipation. “Do you have any news about my mother?”
The detective’s countenance darkened and he shook his head. “I’m afraid not, but we’re working hard on the case.”
“It will only take me a minute to change,” I said. “Can I pour you some coffee?”
“You go ahead. I can wait.”
“Well, why don’t you wait in the nook? The coffee pot is there if you want to help yourself.” I motioned toward the back of the house.
“That sounds good,” he said and walked to the eating area.
Celeste started up the stairs and I followed. “What do you feel like wearing today?” I asked as I caught up with her.
She just shrugged and continued taking one step after another. I put an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll have Maria wash what you were wearing yesterday. In the meantime I think we can find something comfortable for you.”
“That’s okay. I’ll just wear what I wore last night.” She plodded up the steps as if concrete weighted her feet, her brief moment of hope torpedoed.
Ten minutes later we emerged from our respective bedrooms. Celeste was wearing the jeans and Yale sweatshirt she had changed into the night before. I had showered earlier and, not wanting to dress twice, I donned my clothes for the office.
We found West standing in front of the French doors, staring at the gentle surf.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” I said.
“No problem.” He turned. There was a cup of coffee in his hand, black like his hair. He had taken me up on my offer. “It’s my fault for stopping by without calling. I wanted to catch you before you left for the office.”
“Have a seat.” I motioned to one of the chairs around the table. He did, setting his cup on the glass top, but he first removed a napkin from a holder I keep on the table and put it beneath the cup. A house-trained man; I was amazed. Celeste lowered herself into a chair.
“I wanted to bring you up to date and ask a few questions, if I may.”
If I may?
He was a police detective; I wasn’t sure we had much choice.
“You don’t have any news about my mom?” Celeste asked again. “None at all?”
“I’m sorry. Not yet.” He looked at her with sad, empathetic eyes. “The good news is that there’s no . . . What I mean to say is . . .”
“Body,” Celeste blurted.
“Exactly. That gives us a little more hope that she’s still alive. Unfortunately, we have very little to go on. Crime techs are dusting the house for fingerprints; we’ve done a blood scan, and that came up negative. We also—”
“Excuse me,” I said. “A blood scan?”
“It’s a technique investigators use to find blood that someone may have cleaned up. It’s close to impossible to remove all traces of blood. The process involves a chemical spray called Luminol. It glows greenish blue when it contacts blood—even if the blood has been there for years.” He offered no more explanation.
I nodded. “I’ve seen it on television. And you say you found no indication of blood?”
“Just the four drops on the card.” He paused, studying me through those dark eyes. “Chief Webb said he told you about that. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know about it,” Celeste said. Her eyes were wide and there was alarm in her voice. The word
blood
could have that effect.
“I’m sorry, I assumed you knew, since you were in the house,” I explained.
“They didn’t let me go past the foyer. They made me stand just inside the door.”
“We have to be careful with the crime scene,” West said. “I know it must have been hard.”
“What about the blood? You found blood?”
“Just a little,” I said.
“Four drops.” West shifted in his seat. He told her about how the drops of blood were arranged on my business card.
“I don’t get it,” Celeste said.
“Neither do we.” He turned to me. “Do you have any idea why someone would put blood on your business card?”
“As I told Chief Webb, many people have my card. Lisa worked on my last two campaigns. I imagine she had several. Whoever did this probably just grabbed what was at hand and that happened to be my card.”
West shook his head. “It’s a little more complex than that . . . a little more premeditated. We found several other cards on the table where we found yours. There was one for her attorney, one from her business, and a few other miscellaneous cards. They were set to the side, as if someone had dropped them there . . . as if someone had gone through a stack of cards, looking for one in particular.”
“My mother kept those kinds of things in the drawer of the china cabinet,” Celeste said. “It’s near the phone.”
“The drawer to the cabinet was partially open when we got there. The cards lay on the dining room table. Have you been in the house, Mayor?”
“Once, but it’s been quite a while.”
“Then you might remember that the living room opens to the dining area. The table and china hutch are in the dining room. How long has it been since you’ve visited Ms. Truccoli?”
“It was for a fund-raiser for my mayoral race, so it has to be over two years ago.”
He pursed his lips and nodded.
“What’s that nod mean?” I was suddenly feeling suspicious.
“It means that we shouldn’t find any of your fingerprints.”
“What! My fingerprints?”
West raised a steady hand. “We have to follow up on all possibilities, Mayor. That’s all. No one is saying you’re involved, but if we don’t do a complete job, we might overlook something. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
“Of course not.”
“Have you ever been fingerprinted?”
“No.” I didn’t like where this was going. The rational part of my brain understood the need for thoroughness, but another part of me was insulted by the implication. “Well, just my finger for the DMV.”
“Just so we can say we did our job, we’ll need to take some impressions. It won’t take long and you can do it while you’re down at City Hall. You are going to your office today, right?”
No, I dressed up for you!
I chastised myself. This wasn’t personal; it was an investigation. If we had been talking about someone else, I would have been in hearty agreement. “I’ll do it this morning.”
