by Alton Gansky
I thought about the screenplay being used for the next movie. West was right when he noticed that the story revolved around a model being stalked by a killer who murders to get her attention. Was that what was happening here? Was some soulless, love-crazed killer showing off to get Catherine’s attention?
The thought made the strength flow from my body. I had been telling myself that Catherine was safe, hiding of her own accord, but I could be wrong. I could be very wrong.
I paged Floyd. He was in my office five seconds later.
“Did you find anything on the Internet?”
“I did a search for A LONG WAY FROM NOWHERE but came up empty. The only thing I found was a database of movies in production. It’s mentioned there, but that’s all. Sorry.”
“Do another search. This time look for a script called BODY COUNT.”
“Okay. How did you like the movie?”
“I don’t know. I was looking for something, but I don’t know what. Every time Catherine appeared, I felt frightened for her.”
“I’m worried,” he said.
“Me too.”
He started to leave, then he stopped. “Remember, you have that press conference in twenty minutes.”
“I remember.” I rose and stretched my back. “I’m going over to see Tess now. Give her a call and let her know I’ll be there soon.”
Leaving the office behind, I stepped into the ladies’ room. I stood before the mirror and began to touch up my makeup. I moved slowly, waiting for the surge of excitement and nerves that course through me before every speech. It wasn’t there. My emotions were shutting down, having been overworked the last few days.
Where was Catherine? All of my consoling words to her mother were not working on me. I assumed she left to hide, but I was losing confidence in that position. Maybe I was lying to myself.
I finished the touch-up and exchanged the restroom for the office area, moving through the cubicle forest to Tess’s office on the other end of the building.
Tess and I walked down the hall to the council chambers exchanging last-minute details which were few. In large cities, a press conference could bring twenty or thirty media representatives. An afternoon conference not laced with scandal in a city the size of Santa Rita would be a small affair.
As we walked into the chamber I saw a small but active crowd. There were two camera crews, Vincent Branch of the Register, two from local radio stations, and a stringer from the Times. I recognized a reporter from a Ventura newspaper and one from his counterpart in Santa Barbara. All in all, as good a group as I could expect.
As we walked in, Tess and I avoided the large, wide, curving council bench. It had room for each council member and a smaller extension had seats for the city attorney, city manager, and the city clerk. It was familiar territory. Council met in this room most Tuesdays. We avoided the council bench because two women standing behind the elevated bench would have been showy. Instead, Tess had requested maintenance to turn the public lectern, normally used by citizens to address the council during meetings, to face the chamber seats. The dark wood of the room gave the place a somber feel.
I stepped to the podium. “Good afternoon,” I began and gave a practiced smile. “Thank you for coming. As some of you may know our city has been experiencing an elevated period of vandalism. Unlike most vandalism, like spray painting buildings or breaking school windows, these crimes have taken a dangerous turn. In the last few days, two individuals—one a child—have been injured and hospitalized. Both are in grave condition. We at the city take public safety seriously and have been actively seeking to end these offenses and bring the perpetrators to justice.”
The room was silent. The two cameras were rolling, the radio reporters held out tape recorders, and others took notes.
I continued. “Deputy Mayor Tess Lawrence has taken the lead in the matter and will now brief you about the nature and extent of the problem and what is being done.” I stepped to the side and Tess took my place.
She was smooth. From the moment she stepped behind the podium she was in charge. Her tone was pleasant but seasoned with just the right amount of indignation at what was happening. Over the next five minutes she gave a detailed account of the missing signs, the police investigation, and the promise that she and the city would not quit until those responsible were arrested. My admiration for her grew. I regretted the years of animosity between us. That being acknowledged, I knew her feelings about me had not changed. We had reached a workable relationship but little more.
“We are asking for the help of the citizens of Santa Rita. First, we ask that you be aware of the problem. If a sign that was there earlier is now missing, please report it as soon as possible. Also, please be alert to the activities in your own neighborhood. If you see any suspicious person or group, call the police immediately. By working together, we can solve this problem in short order.” She looked over the crowd, then said, “The mayor and I will take a few questions.”
“What are the police doing about the matter?” one of the radio reporters asked.
Tess fielded the question. “A detective has been assigned and is hard at work on the matter, patrols have been increased, on-duty and off-duty officers have been instructed to look for and report any missing signs, guardrails, or anything else that has gone missing.”
“Any ideas who is doing this?” the Ventura reporter asked.
“It looks like something done by high school or early college age people.”
“Building on that,” a television reporter asked, “why would anyone do this?”
Tess hesitated before answering. The police had found a camera and transmitter, but they had asked us not to mention the find. It was best to keep some things secret for a time. “We won’t truly know why until those responsible are caught.”
“Mayor Glenn,” the radio reporter began, “there’s been two murders at Catherine Anderson’s home in the Oak Crest Knolls area. You were at the home after each murder. Why is that?”
I tried not to frown. “Catherine Anderson is my cousin. I gave her a ride home. But let’s remember, this press conference is about the dangerous vandalism in our city.”
“Do you think these murders will affect your campaign?” the television man asked.
“No, I don’t. The tragedies have drawn my attention from campaigning, but I see no reason why my campaign would be adversely affected.”
“Is that why the deputy mayor is in charge of this investigation?” someone asked. It was Vincent Branch and his words were bitter.
Tess elbowed in front of me. “Let me answer that, Mr. Branch. The mayor is fully apprised of all elements of the problem and investigation. She has been instrumental in putting an end to the crime.”
I had a sudden urge to buy Tess lunch. My first impression was that she was playing the party line well, showing a unified front before the media, but something in her voice rang with sincerity. She looked at Branch and I expected one of her patented withering stares, but her expression was soft. “We are aware, Mr. Branch, that Doug Turner is one of the victims and that he is one of your prized employees.”
“He’s a friend, not just an employee.” Branch looked in pain. “When the responsible people are found, what charges will be brought against them?”
I took that one. “That will be up to the district attorney. I plan to ask for a very aggressive prosecution.”
“Injured parties also will be able to bring suit of injury and damages,” Tess added.
More questions were asked, but soon petered out. We fielded each one, then thanked them all. As the gathering began to break up, I called out to Vincent Branch and motioned him over. He frowned, lowered his head, and started in our direction.
“What are you doing?” Tess asked.
“Stay with me,” I said, avoiding her question.
Branch approached and gave a polite nod. “You wanted to see me, Mayor?”
I studied him for a moment. He looked drawn and worn and near em
pty. “Are we okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is there a problem between us?”
He lowered his eyes for a moment. “Look, Mayor. I probably could have asked that question a little better, I know that. I just think it’s odd that someone else seems in charge of the problem.”
“The police are in charge,” I said. “What’s the real problem?”
He worked his lips before speaking. “I spoke to the doctors this morning. Doug has no family to speak of. His mother died earlier this year.”
“I remember. She was up in Oregon, right?”
“Yes. Doug was married for a while but that didn’t last. I don’t know why. He seemed to enjoy the lone life. Because no family is available the doctors have been a little more forthcoming with me.”
“I visited yesterday,” I said. “There was no change.”
“No change today either,” Branch said. “It doesn’t look good.” He seemed to shrink before my eyes.
“You two are close?”
“Yeah, we’ve been buds since college. He was my chief competition for editor at the Register. He pulled out of the running. When I asked him why, he said he’d rather write stories than assign them. I think he gave it up for me.”
“That sounds like Doug,” I said. “We knocked heads more times than I can number. I’m sure I aged him more than time itself.”
Branch looked at me. “He would never tell you this. It goes against a reporter’s instinct. If he were here, he’d beat me to keep from saying it, but he is one of your biggest supporters. When you chose to run for congress, he was thrilled. His words were, ‘It’s about time.’ He was right.”
“Thank you,” I said. “What can I do to help?”
“Catch these guys. Catch them soon and parade them in front of city hall. Hang them by their thumbs if the law will allow it.”
I smiled. “It won’t, but you do have my promise—our promise, that we will do everything we can to put an end to it.”
“I can’t ask for more,” he stated, then added, “I’m sorry if I came off too brusque.”
“I can overlook it.”
Chapter 29
I had just returned to the office when Judson West walked in.
“Need some air?” he asked.
I said I did and we walked from the building, making use of the front doors instead of the private entry at the back. Anyone approaching city hall would walk by a long rectangular fountain and reflecting pool. The burbling fountain, a warm October sun, clear blue sky, and a fresh breeze made me glad to be out of the building.
“You’ve had a rough week.” He reached in his suit coat pocket and removed a small plastic bag. Cashews. He ripped open the top and offered me one. It would have been rude to have declined.
“I’ve had rough weeks before.”
“And that makes it easier?”
I chuckled. “Not even close. Just because I’ve had a migraine before doesn’t mean the next one will hurt any less. It only means that I know that it will end sometime.”
“I didn’t know you suffered from migraines.” He poured a couple of cashews in his palm.
“I don’t. It was an illustration. However, I have worked with a few migraines.”
“Haven’t we all? I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Catherine.”
“No. I called her mother in case she phoned.”
“That had to be difficult. I hate calls like that.”
“There are more enjoyable things.” He handed me the bag. I took it and fished out another cashew.
“I promised to keep you posted. I just left the autopsy of Andy Buchanan. He was killed by a .38 Glaser blue-tip just as we suspected. He also had defensive wounds on his arms. It looks like he took a couple of blows to the belly and jaw.”
“He was in a fight?”
“It looks that way. I went back to the house and reexamined the site. There are several places in the soft dirt that indicate a struggle. Since landscapers had been there several times over the last few weeks, I hadn’t made the connection. Some tools they left behind were moved. Crime photos show that they were neatly stacked before.”
“Who would he be fighting? Not Catherine. You can’t be serious.”
“No, not Catherine. Whoever he fought with had a good punch. Besides, when I examined her hands and tested for gunpowder residue, I didn’t see any bruising. I would expect to see some evidence. Her dress didn’t look like it had been through a struggle—despite the fake blood.”
“So you’re taking her off your suspect list,” I said. “She never should have been on it.”
“She may still be involved somehow. She has skipped town.” He reached for the cashews. I pulled them out of his reach.
“You call my cousin a criminal, then want my cashews?”
“Your cashews? I brought those and shared them out of the goodness of my heart. You’re stealing food from a cop.”
“I’m not stealing. It’s . . . eminent domain,” I said. “Seriously, she’s the victim, not the criminal.”
“I will agree that she didn’t pull the trigger, but there are other ways to be involved. Both murders are closely tied to her. I take nothing for granted and dismiss nothing.”
“Whatever happened to a person being innocent until proven guilty?”
“That’s court thinking. In my world, everyone’s guilty until I know they’re innocent.” He snatched the bag out of my hands. “Eminent domain. Clever, but possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“Now that you know the bullets are the same, what do you conclude?”
“There’s still ballistic tests to do. The DRUGFIRE search came up negative on the first bullet. What I really need is the gun. The bullets are only half the equation.”
There was another matter on my mind, and I weighed the wisdom of bringing it up. There was already so much to occupy my mind, so many things demanding West’s attention, I didn’t want to add to the burden. It was best to let it go. I didn’t.
“I hear you’ve been offered a position in Denver,” I said without preamble.
“Really. I didn’t know it was public information. You have spies following me?”
“Not this week.” The comment was light, the opposite of how I felt. “A little birdie told me.”
“Did the little birdie have a badge?”
“Maybe. I don’t want to get anyone on your bad side.” I looked at the concrete beneath my feet. There was nothing to see, but it was easier than looking at West.
“I don’t have a bad side. I’m patient and pure through and through. Did Chief Webb tell you?”
“The chief doesn’t tell me much of anything. He didn’t let your secret slip.”
“Then it must have been Detective Scott. He’s the only other cop you’ve dealt with lately.”
“I see why they made you a detective. It was Scott. When were you going to tell me?”
“There’s nothing to tell. A friend from San Diego moved to the Denver PD. He learned they were looking to recruit a detective or two who could also train the young guys. It’s a pretty good deal.”
“Sounds like you’re considering it. I think I have a right to know.” I sounded more testy than I intended. I was feeling more hurt than I expected.
“You do?” West smiled. “Did we get married recently and I missed it? I think I would remember something like that.”
“You know what I mean,” I countered.
“I don’t have a clue what you mean. I’ve made no decision. Truth is, I’ve barely had time to think about it. I talked it over with Chief Webb and a couple of other detectives. Wisdom can be found in the opinions of others. I read that in a fortune cookie.”
“I meant I have a right to know because we’re friends.”
“Okay, Maddy, what’s the problem? You’re put out because someone has shown interest in me, and I didn’t immediately send you an email?”
What am I put out over? It was a fair question but that didn’t mean I
had to like it.
“I just would hate to see you leave.”
“There are many detectives who can do what I do. Or did you mean something else? I was under the impression that our relationship would never be more than professional and friendly.”
I had no idea where to go from there. West had tried to ratchet up our relationship several times, but it never felt right. “I’m meddling and I shouldn’t be. Denver is a long way away.”
“How far is Washington, D.C.? If I remember my geography right, it’s a lot farther to the East Coast than to Colorado.”
He had me. I watched people move in and out of the building. City hall always had something going on. It was then that I saw a familiar form burst from the front doors. He stopped and searched the grounds. Floyd saw me and scampered my way. Adrenaline began to flow.
I stood, waiting for Floyd to close the distance. He stopped a foot away and looked as if he had run a mile instead of fifty feet. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” He fell silent and looked at West, then me.
“Start talking, Floyd,” I said.
“It’s . . . Catherine.”
“What about her? Did she call?”
West stood.
“No, no,” Floyd said. “She’s in your office. Right now. In your office. I’ve been looking all over for you. I called your cell phone and everything.”
My cell phone was in my purse, which was still in a drawer in my office.
I started moving.
I walked at a deliberate pace. Seeing the mayor and a police detective running through city hall might cause concern among some of the employees, so I moved at a quick but steady pace. West was to my right, Floyd to my left. On the way, Floyd filled us in.
“I was sitting at my desk when the phone rang. It was Catherine. She was calling on her cell phone. She said she and Mr. Zambonelli were in the parking lot and wanted to talk to you. You were gone. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I told them how to come in the back way and unlocked the door for them. I put them in your office and went looking for you.”
