by Nancy Warren
Honestly, she’d never make it in a life of crime.
Flipping through Patrick’s Rolodex, she found the card for his dentist. And there was the code, scribbled under the dentist’s phone number.
Please, don’t let Patrick have changed his access code, she thought as she pulled up the police department’s internal Web site. She typed in Patrick’s name and his user code, which she’d used often enough. So far, so good.
It took her a few false starts, but she finally got to an area of old arrest files.
Obviously, these weren’t used often, so they’d been archived. When she clicked on the file, it asked for her password, and she began to type in the access code on the dentist’s file.
Briana got four of the ten digits entered when the phone rang. She was so tense that she jumped a mile and almost screamed. The phone would automatically be routed to the main reception desk at city hall, so she ignored the ringing and took a shaky breath.
Her fingers had hit a wrong key when she’d jumped, so she deleted what she’d typed and reentered the password. She swallowed. There was a risk that this transaction was being monitored somewhere, and that it could come back to Patrick as part of a report, though she’d never seen it happen yet. Still, if the password was outdated and someone noticed…
Well, Patrick had talked often enough about firing her. This would give him cause. She pushed the Enter key.
The file opened.
Since she had both her uncle’s name and that of the woman, it didn’t take more than five minutes for the particulars of the case to come up. The arresting officer was Joseph Z. Carlton.
Briana felt queasy at the thought of what her aunt and uncle had been subjected to over this. The incident had occurred more than twenty years ago. According to the scant details, which included a file number that probably corresponded to a moth-eaten manila folder filed in an old archive box somewhere, the charges were later dropped.
Or had there ever been any charges in the first place?
Did Joseph Z. Carlton even exist?
Briana knew how close Patrick and Max were. The police chief had been one of Patrick’s major supporters. But would either of them have stooped to anything so low as falsifying a police record in order to win a municipal election?
It seemed inconceivable to Briana, but obviously her uncle believed the two men had conspired against him.
She noted all the details, then logged out and carefully returned Patrick’s Rolodex to its original position. Grabbing her purse, she left the office, this time for real.
As bad luck would have it, she bumped into Lorna Sinke in the hallway.
“Oh, Briana,” the older woman said, looking puzzled. “I thought you’d gone for lunch.”
“I forgot something and had to come back,” she said, striving for a calm tone. “Is there something you need?”
“No. That’s fine. It’ll keep.”
Briana left the building, knowing she had the first piece of the puzzle-the name of the arresting officer and the police file number. She wanted to know what was in that arrest file and needed to see the original photo.
Once she was in her car, she headed for a mall and found a public pay phone. After calling the police administration office, she asked to speak to Officer Carlton.”
“Officer Carson? Susan Carson?”
“No. Carlton. Officer Joseph Z. Carlton.”
“There’s no officer with that name here, ma’am. What’s it regarding?”
She’d had a few minutes on her drive over to come up with a plausible explanation to that very question.
“I’m doing some research on policing methods in the nineteen-eighties,” she replied, hoping her voice sounded young. “I’m taking criminology in college, and this is my research project. I went through some old newspaper archives and found Officer Carlton’s name in several articles.”
“Oh, well, if it was in the eighties, he might have moved on or retired. We’ve got some officers here who’ve been on the beat a good long time, though. Want me to put you through to one of them?”
“Okay. Thank you.” She decided to wing it and hoped to hell that whoever answered had never spoken to the mayor’s administrative assistant.
A click sounded and a few minutes passed. She was starting to lose her nerve and considered hanging up when a gruff voice said, “Brady.”
“Officer Brady? I’m a university student…”
She asked Officer Brady a few perfectly useless questions about policing in the eighties, then inquired about the police archives. Although the archives weren’t open to the public, she would be able to obtain the name, description and occupation of the persons arrested.
“What if the information has previously been released?” Briana asked. “Like a mug shot.” She thought of the celebrity mug shots she saw far too often in the papers and on TV.
“Once it’s been released, then that information would be considered in the public domain,” the policeman told her.
Briana took a deep breath. “I’m interested in a story that was covered in the Sentinel about Councilor Cecil Thomson. A photo taken during the arrest was printed in the paper. I’d like access to that photo.”
“Sure,” Officer Brady said. “I remember that being in the paper. It caused a scandal at the time. I have to get permission before you can see the picture. Give me your number.”
“I’m on the road and don’t have a cell phone,” she said. “Could I call you back later?”
“Sure. Call around four o’clock. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you. Um, the arresting officer was Joseph Z. Carlton.”
“Joe Carlton. Sure. I remember him. He’s been off the force a couple years. He retired to Acadia Springs.”
“Thank you very much for your time, Officer Brady.”
“Anytime. I’ll talk to you later.”
Her stomach felt a little jumpy, so she picked up a deli sandwich, which she didn’t really want, and forced herself to eat it before returning to the office.
At two forty-five, Briana received a phone call from Patrick telling her that he was on his way to Max’s. At the sound of his voice, her heart picked up speed.
“Did the media show?” she asked.
“Yep. I gave them your numbers, and a few sound bites Archie dreamed up. Is the phone still ringing?”
“More phone calls, more faxes, more e-mails. About the same ratio of pro and con.”
“Fantastic. No sign of Thomson waving the white flag?”
“Not yet.”
“All right. I’ll be a while with Max.” He paused. “Sure you don’t want me to put in a good word for you?”
She smiled wistfully. “You gave me a month,” she reminded him.
“Yeah? I don’t know who’s the bigger idiot. Me or you.”
She didn’t know either, but she sure hoped it was her.
“I’m not sure if I’ll make it back before the end of the day. I’ll call you.”
“Okay.”
At four o’clock, Briana left the building and found a pay phone. If the photo was public property, then she was going to find a way to see it. If it wasn’t, she’d have to go to plan B and talk to Officer Carlton himself.
She had no trouble getting through to Officer Brady and he was as helpful as before. “There’s no photograph in the arrest file,” he told her.
“But…but that’s impossible. It was printed in the paper.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“But…” Her head was whirling. “Could the paper have forgotten to return it?”
“I don’t think the picture in the paper came from here.”
“But where…?”
“Sorry, honey. I shouldn’t tell you this much. Why don’t you ask the reporter who printed the story?”
“But he could have made the whole thing up!”
“No. Here’s what I can tell you.” And he furnished her with the details she’d already found in the police database. Office
r Brady offered one extra piece of information, which she’d already read in the paper. Cecil Thomson was arrested for lewd conduct in a public place.
Something was wrong here. Very wrong.
She walked back to her office with a heavy heart, but it was considerably lightened when she received another call from an O’Shea male.
“Briana?” a young voice asked when she answered the phone.
“Yes.”
“It’s Dylan O’Shea.”
“Hello, Dylan.” She smiled and glanced at the flying dragon. “Thank you for the picture and your nice note. I have it hanging on my wall so I can see it whenever I turn around.”
“Oh. Good. I’m glad you like it.”
“I do. Are you looking for your father? He’s in a meeting right now with the police chief.”
“Oh. No. I was kind of calling to talk to you.”
Panic immediately filled her. She was half out of her chair as she said, “Are you alone again? Did something happen?”
“No. We’re fine. Mrs. Simpson’s still sick, and Grandma couldn’t come today, so Dad got this other lady just for today.” Dylan dropped his voice. “We don’t like her so much. She’s kind of grumpy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. But you know it’s only for today.”
“Yeah. I guess.” He didn’t sound thrilled.
“How’s Fiona?”
“She’s fine. She’s watching cartoons.”
“Oh. What’s the baby-sitter doing?”
“She’s watching cartoons, too. They’re baby cartoons.”
She smiled into the phone, picturing him in his room, bored. “Oh, dear. And you don’t have anything to do.”
“Yeah. I guess. I can’t have a friend over, because this sitter’s new. I can’t watch a video because of the cartoons. I can’t make a noise, even.”
“Well, why don’t you draw another picture? Your pictures are beautiful.”
“What should I draw?” He sounded bored and lonely and she felt for him with all her heart.
“Why don’t you draw a get-well picture for Mrs. Simpson? I bet she’d love to have it while she’s at home recovering. She’d be happy to know you miss her.”
“I don’t really miss her that much. But I guess I could draw her a picture. Dad says he’s sending her some flowers. He can take the picture over.”
“I’m sure she’d like that.”
“Yeah. I guess. Well, it was nice talking to you.”
Such manners. She had a feeling there was going to be another politician in the family. “It was nice talking to you, too, Dylan.”
“Bye.”
“Goodbye.”
When she got home that night, she went straight to her own computer and pulled up an Internet mapping site. Acadia Springs was disappointingly far away. A three-hour drive, according to her Internet map. It would be a pretty drive-a couple of hours north up the coast and then an hour inland. She confirmed through online white pages that a Joseph Z. Carlton lived there, but decided not to call ahead first. She wanted to surprise the man with a personal visit-judge his reaction to her questions.
She’d drive up there this weekend.
Almost the minute she’d made the decision, the phone rang again. “Mayor’s office,” she answered, forgetting she was at home. “Hello?”
“It’s your uncle Cecil.” But it didn’t sound like her uncle. There was anger, frustration and a coldness in his voice that he’d never used with her before.
Briana fought down a pang of guilt. It wasn’t her fault that Patrick had gone to the people. Although she supported his stand, she hadn’t encouraged him to take it. In fact, she hadn’t known what he was planning until the day of the broadcast. But still, because she did support Patrick’s position, she felt guilty. Her uncle clearly held her in some way culpable.
“What can I do for you, Uncle Cecil?” she said in a conciliatory tone.
“Come on out to our place for lunch on Saturday,” he said.
“Saturday?” She’d intended to go up to Acadia Springs on Saturday, but she’d decided not to tell Uncle Cecil about her plans until she’d interviewed Officer Carlton and had all the facts. Now she’d have to go Sunday.
“Yes. Come for lunch. O’Shea’s playing hardball. It’s time for our team to start playing to win also. I want a full report on how you’re doing, young lady. I want him publicly humiliated-he’s got to drop this nonsense.”
Briana felt herself bristle on Patrick’s behalf and her own. She was over thirty, surely beyond being termed a young lady. However, she knew her uncle was clearly upset, so she didn’t call him on it. The best thing she could do was go over on the weekend and try and convince him that the wisest course of action would be to acquiesce to the wishes of the people with what grace he could muster.
“Are you getting calls from constituents?” she asked.
“The phone’s ringing off the damn hook,” he said, and then added some very unflattering things about her boss before hanging up.
The battle lines had obviously been drawn, and neither man was willing to make a conciliatory move.
PATRICK WAS obviously confused and disappointed the following morning that the three councilmen who’d opposed him wouldn’t change their positions. He began to talk about putting together a plebiscite.
“The trouble is that a plebiscite takes time to set up and will cost money-money we desperately need to go to our emergency services,” he said, pacing her office in frustration.
“Do you want me to set up another emergency council meeting?”
He shook his head. “No point. If those three were planning to change their minds and vote to free up that money, they’d have contacted me by now. No,” he said heavily. “I think we’re on our own.”
“I thought they’d have called by now,” she admitted. “They must be receiving almost as many calls as we are.”
“Damn that Cecil Thomson. How can he not see that this isn’t about petty politics anymore? People are dying unnecessarily because we can’t get to them in time. We need more police, more firefighters on call. More manpower, more resources.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “More money.”
Briana had listened to Uncle Cecil’s advice many times during her career. Maybe it was time he listened to some of hers.
“Patrick, don’t start the plebiscite quite yet.” She hesitated, searching for a plausible reason not to. “Let’s wait one more council meeting. I bet you the gallery will be packed with people demanding answers. Council will be shamed into backing you.”
One thing she could say for Patrick was that he did listen to her. He didn’t always follow her recommendations, but he did listen and she knew he respected her opinions. This time, he nodded. “You’re right as always, Ms. Bliss. Let’s give the three holdouts one last chance. But under the terms of the bond, if we can’t get council to agree unanimously, a plebiscite can be called. One way or another, we are going to get that money.”
CHAPTER TEN
NOON SATURDAY found Briana in a whispered conversation with her aunt while they waited for Uncle Cecil to finish a call in his study.
“Your poor uncle,” Aunt Irene whispered. “I’m seriously worried about him. Goodness knows what this fight he’s in with the mayor will do to his blood pressure.” She shot a glance over at Briana. “And his cholesterol.”
Briana could well understand that stress affected blood pressure, but cholesterol?
“He’s not sleeping well, and I hear him muttering to himself all the time. It’s not right. That mayor had no right to upset your uncle this way.”
Briana was about to explain the mayor’s rationale, when she realized she’d only upset her aunt further. Briana suspected Uncle Cecil was not a fun man to live with when he was in a temper.
So she held her peace and let her aunt rant on about how dreadful her life had been when that awful photo was first leaked to the press. She couldn’t even face going to the supermarket for days. “It wasn�
�t until we were almost completely out of supplies that I realized I was going to have to face the ridicule of our neighbors or starve.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt.” And she was. “It can’t have been easy.”
“No. It was terrible. Just terrible.” Her lip quivered. “Of course it was a lie. Your uncle has barely looked at another woman since we’ve been married. He’d never do a thing like…what was in that picture. They’d blanked out part of it, of course, to put it in the newspaper, but it was still just awful. And the man didn’t even look like your uncle.”
“I’m so sorry, Aunt Irene. I can’t believe anyone could hurt you and Uncle Cecil this way.”
Still, she wanted proof that Patrick was behind the awful smear campaign.
Interestingly enough, that was exactly what was on her uncle’s mind when he emerged from his study.
“You two go out on the back porch and have a nice chat,” her aunt said. “I’ve got the chicken salad all made. I’ll just fix the rest of lunch and put it out on the dining room table.” She smiled at Briana and added a conspirator’s wink. “It’s very private out back. No one will see or hear you talking to your uncle.”
Briana went through the kitchen and out to the porch. When they were sitting, glasses of lemonade in their hands, she took a moment to study Uncle Cecil. She could see why her aunt was worried about his health. His face was a mottled red, and it wasn’t from exertion or too much sun. She suspected it was from high blood pressure and stress.
“Are you all right, Uncle Cecil?” she asked softly.
“Of course I’m not all right.” He managed to smile at her. “I’m better for seeing you, though.”
She shifted in one of the deck chairs her aunt had reupholstered recently in white cotton with strawberries printed all over it. The print was cheerful, even if the atmosphere was anything but.
Uncle Cecil didn’t waste time getting to the point. “Well? What’s O’Shea up to?”
Briana felt tugged by loyalty to two men she cared for deeply. If they pulled much harder, she was going to split in two. “You know what he’s up to as well as I do, Uncle Cecil. He’s determined to access that money, and more than ninety percent of the city’s voters agree with him.”
