Before Another Dies

by Alton L. Gansky

  I smiled back, returning the favor. “Thanks, Tess. Look, about earlier in your office—”

  “Don’t.” She stood. “I want to be mayor, but I don’t want it because it suddenly becomes vacant. If you know what I mean.”

  I knew.

  chapter 29

  I dragged myself back to my office feeling I had done a week’s work in the last few hours. The meeting had started promptly at two o’clock and let out just ten minutes later. It doesn’t take long to deliver disturbing news. I formulated a short agenda on my walk from the conference room to my office. It included just two things for the next hour: one, have Floyd cancel any appointments I had on the calendar; and two, close my door and spend a solid hour in silence.

  Floyd wasn’t at his desk. Not too surprising. He was probably in the little aide’s room. I slipped into my office, pushed aside the lined paper in the middle of my desk, and set my notebook down. Melting into my chair, I leaned my head back and ran a hand through my hair. First thing I would do when Floyd got back was send him to the cafeteria for an iced tea, extra sugar. Today was not a day to count calories.

  Thoughts of what I should be doing floated like balloons. Not bright birthday balloons but black and gray and misshapen. I should call Fritzy to see if she needed any more help with the funeral and to be sure she had heard that Jim’s body had been released. Surely she had, but the phrase “your husband’s body” is overwhelming. I could still hear the words from nearly a decade before. I should alert the private security company that provided guards to city hall. I had never received a satisfactory answer about where they were the night Jose Lopez was killed in our front lot. That was a bone that needed more picking, but it would have to wait.

  I should contact Nat and see what she’d learned about Wentworth and Rutger Howard. I should . . . I should . . . There had been no paper on my desk when I left for the meeting. I remembered seeing it clean and clear. I moved the notebook and pulled the lined paper close. It was the same paper Floyd liked to use when taking notes. It was printed. Floyd seldom wrote in cursive:

  Things out of control.

  Need answers.

  Have gone to see Robby Hood.

  I punched a button on the phone, the one that connected me to Fritzy’s desk in the lobby. Celeste answered.

  “Celeste, it’s Maddy. Did you see Floyd go out?”

  “Yes, he left about five minutes ago. He seemed to be in a hurry.”

  I couldn’t believe he would do this. Then again, I could. His brain was easily derailed, but his heart was never off course. He was trying, in his own way, to save me. “Celeste, have you ever been in Floyd’s car?”

  “Um, why?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. What kind of car does he drive?”

  “He has a Volkswagen bug. He told me his father owned it and then gave it to him when he started college. I guess it’s an antique or something.”

  “What color, Celeste?”

  “Brown, brownish. Something like that. Why? Is something wrong?”

  “I doubt it but I want to find him. What else can you tell me about the car?”

  There was a pause. “It has a sunroof-moonroof thing—except it’s not like cars today, it’s made of canvas or something.”

  “A ragtop,” I said. I was pretty sure that was what they called it.

  “Yeah, that’s what he called it.”

  “Do you know the license number?”

  “No. You’re scaring me.” I was. I could hear it her voice.

  “Nothing to be frightened about, kiddo. Thanks.” I switched off the phone and hoped I hadn’t just lied. My next move was to call West. I punched in the number for the police station, identified myself, and asked to speak to Detective West. I learned that he was out of the office but that he had called and said he was returning to the station. “I need to see him. Could you call his cell phone or ask dispatch to radio him to stop by my office first?”

  I struggled with what to do next. I didn’t know where Robby Hood lived, and judging by his Web site, he wasn’t inclined to give out that kind of information. I went to Floyd’s desk. Maybe he left an address or something else to help me find him. I doubted he was in danger. At least I told myself that. While there was no solid reason to believe that Robby Hood was involved in the murders, his show certainly was, and whoever was intent on breaking necks might take exception to Floyd asking questions. Another thought, one I had tried to ignore, elbowed its way to the front. Floyd was a city employee. If the killer was intent on adding me or a council member to his list of murders, he might find Floyd a more convenient target. Granted it was still daylight; granted it had yet to be proven that there was a direct correlation between Robby Hood’s program and the murders; granted . . . granted nothing. I’m not comfortable rolling dice for anything.

  Files covered Floyd’s desk and were kept company by papers and notes. I pushed a few around and found the file he had begun on Rutger Howard before I shifted that responsibility to Nat. I set it aside and noticed that the file drawer in his desk was partially opened. A file folder had been stuffed in at an awkward angle, preventing the drawer from closing. I removed it and found “Robby Hood” on the tab. I sat at the desk, laid the file on top of the other scattered papers, and opened it. Inside were printouts of pages from Hood’s Web site but little more. Words were scribbled on the inside surface of the file. I read through them. It was a checklist.

  Floyd’s thinking could drift and scatter but when he was on his game, he was as methodical as they came. Apparently, this assignment had triggered the best of his administrative abilities. The list read:

  √ Start file.

  √ Visit Web site.

  √ Google “Robby Hood” for more Internet info. Check for blogs.

  √ Does Hood need bus. lic. to operate in S.R.? Ck with Thayer.

  √ Does Hood need bus. lic. to operate in S.R.? Ck with Thayer.

  √ What network handles Hood?

  Make list of advertisers?

  Make timeline of Hood?

  Several of the items had check marks by them. I was holding the file that Floyd had started, and it held information from his Internet research. I scanned those pages but found nothing that would help me locate Floyd. He must have found something, must have come up with an address somewhere.

  I looked at the list again.

  √ Does Hood need bus. lic. to operate in S.R.? Ck with Thayer.

  It was easy work to decipher Floyd’s abbreviations. S.R. was Santa Rita. Ck with Thayer had to mean check with Dana Thayer, our city clerk. Bus. lic. was business license. And that was it! Monday Floyd had said that Hood was in Santa Rita. I didn’t push for more information. I wished I had. If Hood operated a business within the city limits, then he’d need a license and that license would be on record with the city clerk.

  I snatched up the phone and dialed the necessary extension. “Dana Thayer.”

  The image of Dana flashed on the screen of my mind. She was a woman enamored with detail and organization. She was a great clerk because, best I could tell, nothing mattered more than everything having a place and everything being in its place. She was a severe-looking woman, black hair pulled back over her ears. Reading glasses were always present, either hanging from her neck or stuck to the end of her nose as if someone had welded them there.

  “It’s Maddy, Dana. I need to ask a question.”

  “Good afternoon, Mayor. How can I help you?”

  “Did my aide ask you to check for a business license?”

  “He did. He’s an insistent young man, almost to the point of being rude.” I heard papers shuffling. “He did, and I gave him an answer.”

  I waited. “Dana, he’s not here right now. Could I trouble you for that address?”

  “There is no address because there is no business under the name of Robby Hood. You know, someone from the police called and asked the same question this morning. They were unhappy with my answer. It’s not my fault. If someone fi
les for a business license, then we have it here. If they don’t, then we don’t.”

  “No one’s blaming you, Dana. I’m just trying to find out where Robby Hood lives.”

  “He’s a radio personality, right?” I said he was. “I imagine Robby Hood is a pseudonym.”

  I started to say thank-you and hang up, but then had an idea. “Dana, if you wanted to find where this man worked and lived, how would you do it?”

  “I’m not a private detective, Mayor.”

  “No, but you are an administrative genius who has helped keep this city on track for over twenty years. I bet you could find Robby Hood if you wanted to.”

  “Now you’re just trying to flatter me into helping you.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Yes.” She paused, and I gave her a few moments to think. “The key is to find the man’s legal name. Learn that, then we could check with the county tax assessor. Of course, I’m assuming that he owns property in or near Santa Rita. If he’s a voter, there would also be a record of his registration. Of course, you could ask the police to pull strings with the Department of Motor Vehicles and get an address that way.”

  “Great ideas, but I still need to find his legal name.”

  “That’s what your aide said. I suggested he start with the radio station.”

  A figure appeared in the door to the office. I raised my eyes. West stood at the threshold looking puzzled. “You wanted to see me?”

  I raised a finger. “Thanks, Dana. If you come up with any other ideas, let me know. You’ve been a big help.”

  “You’re at the wrong desk,” West said. “Did Floyd launch a successful coup?”

  “He’s gone looking for Robby Hood. He was in a meeting where I shared about the apparent connection between Hood’s radio program and the killings.”

  “Why would he go to Hood?”

  “To protect me, I guess. The mayor connection seems pretty strong. It certainly is in the mind of Floyd.” West swore. “Ease up, Detective. He’s young and a little imprudent.”

  “A little?” He frowned, then smiled. “I guess I should admire his chutzpah. Does he know where Hood lives?”

  “I assume so, since he left a note saying that’s where he’s headed, but he didn’t leave an address.” I told him about my discussion with Dana Thayer. “Apparently the man likes his privacy.”

  West grimaced. “There’s no such thing as privacy in our society. It’s gotten to where you can’t buy groceries without leaving some bit of personal information behind. May I use the phone?” I pushed the phone across the desk and he picked up the receiver, then dialed. “Do you remember my saying that I was going to interview Hood? Well, I’ve had someone trying to track down his location.”

  The next few moments were filled with West getting an update from whomever he had on the line. “Give me the number.” He repeated it aloud and I jotted it down in the folder. A second later, West was placing a long-distance call. He looked at me. “Terminal Radio Network, Cincinnati. They have the rights to Hood’s program.”

  “Cincinnati?”

  He shrugged. “Distance means nothing anymore. You want to listen in?”

  I did and moved to my office, picked up the phone, and punched the line with the light. I covered the mouthpiece so neither I nor anyone else could hear my breathing.

  “Thank you for calling Terminal Radio Network, this is Mindy, how may I direct your call?”

  “Good afternoon,” I heard West say. “This is Detective Judson West, Santa Rita Police Department, homicide division. Who’s in charge there?”

  There was a pause. “Did you say homicide?”

  “Yes, I also asked who was in charge there.”

  “Um, well, it depends what you mean by in charge. There’s the president of the company, but he’s out of country right now, and there’s our chief operations officer.”

  “I’ll take him.”

  “I don’t normally put calls through to him. He has his own line and number—”

  “Mindy, let me stop you right there.” His tone hardened. “When I conduct a murder investigation I take a piece of paper and draw a line down the middle. On one side I right the word ‘helpful’ and on the other I write ‘hindrance.’ Now which column am I going to write your name in?”

  “One moment please.”

  “A little rough on her, weren’t you?” I said from the office.

  “I have a thing about people who hide behind titles. It’s a character flaw.”

  A new voice, male and irritable. “This is Charles Lubbock. Who am I speaking with?”

  West identified himself again and then got straight to the point. “I’m investigating a series of murders and believe one of your on-air personalities may be of assistance. I need the address of—”

  “Robby Hood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t sound surprised, Detective. You said you were in Santa Rita and that can mean only one thing—Robby Hood. I can’t give you any information about him.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Mr. Lubbock—”

  “Actually, I understand very well. Do you have a warrant? I doubt it since you can’t deliver a warrant over the phone. No warrant, no information. Hood likes his privacy.”

  “I can get a warrant in short order and have someone from the Cincinnati Police there to pull apart your files until he finds what I’m looking for.”

  “Go ahead, pal,” Lubbock said. “Hood is under contract with us, but contracts go both ways. We place him on as many radio stations in the country as we can. He’s hugely popular and has developed a persona of secrecy which he wishes to keep intact. We’re contractually bound not to release any personal information without either his permission or a duly executed warrant. A phone call out of nowhere doesn’t qualify. For all I know, you’re a slightly batty ice-cream salesman pretending to be a cop.”

  “I assure you I’m not, and I wouldn’t have called if this weren’t important.”

  “Exactly what a batty ice-cream salesman would say. Bottom line, bring a warrant.”

  For a moment I thought I could feel heat from West pouring through the phone line. “This is no joke, Lubbock,” West said.

  “You don’t hear me laughing, do you? And one other thing, if you ever call here and intimidate my receptionist again, I’ll unleash every lawyer we have and we will fill your office with every flaming lawsuit, injunction, and whatever the law allows. You have her in tears.”

  The phone rang and the light on one of the other lines began to flash. I started to ignore it but couldn’t. After all, I had asked Dana to get back to me with any other ideas. I switched lines. “Mayor Glenn,” I said.

  “I think I have something that belongs to you.” The voice was familiar.

  “Who is this?”

  “You don’t recognize my voice? Now you’ve hurt my feelings.”

  “Robby Hood?”

  “Live and direct. And like I said, I have something that belongs to you—or should I say, someone who belongs to you. Do you know a Floyd Grecian?”

  I said I did. I must have sounded frightened, because he said, “He’s fine, Mayor. In fact, he’s sitting in my dining room eating a tuna fish sandwich. I offered him a beer, but he chose milk instead. I have trouble trusting someone who drinks milk.”

  It sounded like Floyd. “We’ve been trying to track him down.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, Detective West and I.”

  He groaned. “Oh, not the police. They make me nervous.” There was a pause. “Floyd told me about the murders. I imagine your detective wants a word with me.”

  “I know he would appreciate that.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. Your Sherlock Holmes can come up here, but you must come along with him. I’ve never met you, and I hear that you’re something special—at least according to Floyd.”

  “I’m willing to do that.”

  “Okay, I’m going to give you my home address. I don’t want it go
ing beyond you or Detective What’s-his-name. I value my privacy. In fact, I depend on it.”

  I made the promise, hung up, and walked out to see a red-faced West hanging up the phone. I held up the piece of paper with Hood’s name and address.

  chapter 30

  The measure of a man—or a woman for that matter—is how they respond when things don’t go their way. West had tried his best bluff on the phone with the COO of Terminal Radio Network and had the door resoundingly slammed in his face. When I showed him the note with Hood’s name and address on it, he just rolled his eyes and said, “News I could have used before getting my ear chewed off.” I told him that Hood called and that Floyd was noshing a sandwich in the man’s house.

  He shook his head. “Would you object if I shot your aide?”

  “Yeah, I would. Help is hard to find.”

  “How about if I just wing him a little?”

  “There will be no wounding of city employees today, Detective. Now are you going to take me to Mr. Hood’s home, or do I drive myself?”

  “I’ll take you. If you went up there alone and something happened to you, the chief would have my hide hanging on his wall.”

  “He doesn’t like me, remember? He might pin a badge on you.”

  “Great, so my hide would be sporting a badge. No thanks. I need to interview Hood anyway. You are to follow my lead. Got it?”

  “I’m a good follower.” I disappeared into my office to grab my purse. I heard him whisper a remark but couldn’t make out what it was. I chose to remain in ignorance. When I returned five seconds later, West was already in the corridor looking impatient. “Let’s go, James. I have an aide to beat up.”

  The drive to Hood’s residence seemed longer than the odometer indicated. We were there in twenty minutes, and the whole drive was done on surface streets. We found Hood’s place easily enough. It was near the top of one of our hills and tucked among the expensive houses with large lots. His home was a pseudo-Tudor style done in the way only a California builder can do it. It wasn’t a true Tudor, just Tudorish with decorative timber and stucco exterior walls. Where there wasn’t stucco, there was a stone facade. It looked considerably larger than my home and more elaborate.