“Yes ma’am, that’s what it looks like.”
“Why?”
“That’s the big question, isn’t it? Why abduct Ms. Truccoli? Why leave a calling card on a . . . well, calling card? Why was your card chosen and the others tossed aside?”
I started to tell him that a calling card was not the same as a business card but let it go. In light of things, nothing could be less important. His questions sank deep in my heart. Why indeed? “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What did Ms. Truccoli do for your campaign?” West lifted his coffee cup to his lips, set it down on the napkin again, then leaned back in his chair as if expecting a lengthy ballad.
“She was the campaign’s treasurer—and a good one, I might add.”
“She dealt with the money?”
“That’s what treasurers do, deal with money.”
“How does that work?” His words were soft and smooth, like those of an old-time gentleman feigning interest in his guest’s stories, except West’s interest was genuine. It was his job to learn as much as possible. I couldn’t slight him for that.
I took a moment to formulate my thoughts, then began a quick lesson in campaign funding. “Political campaigns are generally funded by contributions from supporters. These can range from five dollars from the neighbor down the street to corporate contributions which can be upwards of several thousand dollars. Campaign laws control all this. Candidates file reports that become part of public record. The more money that comes in, the more there is to spend on ads, brochures, office expenses, and the like. California campaign regulations require that every campaign committee have a treasurer. That person’s name must appear on all advertisements and publicity. Pick up any piece of literature produced by a candidate and you’ll see the treasurer’s name in the fine print.”
“So the money would go to Ms. Truccoli?”
“Actually, it goes into an account, but she was the one who signed the checks.”
“Who decides how the money gets spent?”
“I do. In bigger campaigns, that decision is made in consultation with the campaign manager. In some elections, specialists are hired, but that’s for the big boys, not small-city politicians like me.”
“Who was your campaign manager?”
“Me. This isn’t Los Angeles. Campaigns here are small and usually run by volunteers.”
West leaned forward, dropping his gaze to the table. I could tell something was on his mind. “I don’t mean to imply anything but I must ask this.” He glanced at Celeste and then at me. “Is there still money in the bank account, and did Ms. Truccoli still have access to it?”
At first I didn’t understand what he was getting at, and then it hit me like a hard slap. “Wait a minute. You’re not suggesting she stole money from the war chest?”
“What?” Celeste piped up. “Stole? War chest?”
I turned to her. “War chest is term politicians use to describe money saved for the next campaign.”
“My mother wouldn’t steal anything!” Her voice had jumped an octave, taking on a shrill tone.
Again West raised a hand. “Miss—”
“She wouldn’t! You should be trying to find her, not sitting here drinking coffee and accusing her of being a thief.”
“Miss Truccoli, as I said—”
“Don’t you ever call my mother a thief!” She stood up, pushing her chair back so hard that it toppled over with a crash. “She’s not a thief.” She made a move toward the living room, then turned on West again. “My mom may be lying in a ditch somewhere, and you don’t care—”
“Miss Truccoli!” West snapped with authority, rising to his feet. Just two words, but they were sharp enough to stop Celeste in her tracks.
“What?” Her face was red, her eyes redder, and her mouth pulled into a tight line. The fear and uncertainty had reached volcanic proportions. Outside she was fierce, determined, furious. I knew that inside she was a china doll, cracked by the knowledge that someone had accosted, abducted, and maybe killed her mother.
He set her chair upright and motioned to it. “Sit down.” His voice was concrete firm but untainted by anger.
Celeste eyed him hard but he didn’t flinch. I was certain he had received a lot of hard looks in his career.
“Please, Celeste,” I said. “Sit down.”
She plopped down, crossing her arms and clenching her jaw. Tears were seconds away.
West resumed his seat, then leaned forward and spoke with gentleness and the strength of determination. “Right now, as we speak, a great many people are looking for your mother. We’ve notified other Police Departments, Sheriff Departments, and the Highway Patrol. We are doing a lot of things you’re not seeing. It’s important for you to know that.”
He paused. Celeste said nothing. A lone tear ran down her right cheek. That said plenty to me.
“I have to ask questions. I have to cover all the bases. For me to determine what happened, I have to look down every dark alley, even if it doesn’t lead anywhere. That’s what I must do. Here’s what you must do. . . . Are you listening, Celeste?”
Celeste? He had switched to first names.
“Yeah.”
“Look at me.”
Celeste turned. I followed her gaze and saw that the detective’s dispassionate, professional face now wore an expression of concern. “There are some things you must do,” he said again. “First, don’t give up. I don’t know what happened and I don’t know how this will turn out, but I do know that hope is helpful. You also have to stop jumping to conclusions when I ask a question. Not every question is an accusation. At this point, a question is just a question. Is that clear?”
Celeste nodded.
“Good.” He directed his attention my way. “That goes for you too, Mayor.”
I found myself nodding like Celeste. I had to admire the way he handled himself and two edgy women.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Celeste murmured.
“It’s not a problem; just remember that I’m not the bad guy. I will figure this out.” Turning back to me, he repeated his earlier question about Lisa and the bank account.
“Yes, if she wanted to, she could access the account. Technically, the campaign effort is ongoing. I raise money throughout the year. She gives me a report every month.”
“How much money is in the account?”
I hesitated. Talking about money with a stranger made me uncomfortable, especially campaign money. “Not much by political standards: thirty thousand or so.”
“Who else has access to the money?”
“Me.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. The fewer people with access, the safer I feel.”
“So only you and Ms. Truccoli can write checks or make withdrawals?” he pressed.
“That’s right.”
“What about debit cards? Does the account have debit card access?”
I shook my head. “I like checks. They leave a better paper trail. If anyone challenges my campaign financing, I want to be able to withstand a thorough audit.”
“But others knew of the account?”
“Yes, dozens of campaign workers. In fact, anyone can figure out that it takes money to run a campaign.”
“Yes, but who knew that Ms. Truccoli was the treasurer?”
“In the campaign, my senior volunteers would know. Of course, we sent out tens of thousands of flyers and her name’s on every one.”
West sighed.
“Do you think somebody kidnapped my mom so they could get at that money?” Celeste asked.
“It’s a thought, but I don’t know if it’s a good one. Mayor, it would be helpful if I could have a list of everyone who worked on your campaign, especially those who had contact with Ms. Truccoli.”
“I’ll make sure you have it today.”
He looked me dead in the eye. “Please don’t forget to come by the station and get those fingerprints today, too. Also, would you please check on that bank accou
nt? See if there’s been any activity. I can get a warrant to do it, but it would be faster if you made the inquiry.”
He stated his request as if I had a choice. I was pretty sure I didn’t. “I can access the information through my online banking. I’ll bring it and the campaign worker list when I come in for my fingerprints.”
“That would be great. The sooner the better. I hope to have lab results from the forensic guys soon. They should be able to tell something about the blood. We’ve gathered hair samples from her hairbrush for DNA testing.”
Detective West rose and thanked us for our time. “I may have more questions as the investigation proceeds. If you can think of anything that might be helpful, don’t hesitate to call.” He pulled a small metal case from his blazer, opened it, and removed two of his business cards, giving one to each of us. “Thank you for the coffee, Mayor.” To Celeste he said, “Don’t give up hope.”
I walked West to the door and closed it behind him. Turning, I saw Celeste standing a few feet behind me. Her expression had hardened and her eyes had narrowed.
“Why was your card chosen from all the rest?”
I was asking myself the same question.
chapter 4
The drive to the office took longer than usual. The quarter-hour trip from my house to downtown Santa Rita seemed to last hours. I was in my silver Lincoln Aviator, weaving my way through the streets. I hit every red light and found myself trapped behind sluggish delivery trucks. No one was in my hurry.
Normally, I use the time to think about what the day will hold, reports I need to read, calls I need to make, and my ever expanding calendar. This morning was different. My thoughts orbited the young woman I had left behind.
It wasn’t her question that bothered me. It was the way she asked it. There was more than a hint of suspicion in her voice—it dripped with misgiving, and that worried me. She was as fragile as crystal, emotional, fearful, and too young to have acquired the discretion and wisdom that came with experience. Considering all that had happened, she had the right to be suspicious of everyone—even me.
I thought about how difficult it must have been for her to be staying in the home of someone who was—at least distantly—connected to her mother’s disappearance. That was the real burning coal in my belly. Would Celeste be there when I returned home?
We had talked after West left, and I sensed a new wall of separation rising between us. It had ascended the moment she understood that someone had selected my business card, not at random but with forethought, to be the recipient of the morbid message. I half suspected myself.
I had offered Celeste the opportunity to come to the office with me. She declined.
I’d wanted to press the issue but decided to let it go. If she was beginning to suspect me of involvement in whatever happened to Lisa, she might be fearful to get in the car with me. That realization brought a pang of deep regret, partly because I didn’t like being the source of more fear in her life, and partly because I worried she would leave ten minutes after I drove off.
It was that last thought that compelled me to reach for my cell phone and call home. One ring. Two. Three. “Come on. Be there.” My answering machine picked up. I heard my voice speaking in the third person plural, a single woman’s trick. “You’ve reached the Glenn residence and there is no one here to take your call right now, so if you’ll leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you. . . .”
“Hello.”
“Celeste?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Maddy. I was afraid you had left.”
“I was getting into the shower.” Her tone was the same as when I left.
“Oh, okay. I just wanted to see if you’d like to do lunch later. I could pick you up around eleven-thirty and we could go to the Fish Kettle on the pier.”
“I don’t know.” I could almost see her shrugging.
“Celeste, I’m your friend, not your enemy. You need to believe that.”
“Okay.” It wasn’t okay. Her voice was somber and chilly.
“I’ll tell you what: Why don’t you invite one of your friends and we’ll all go. It’ll be my treat.”
There was a pause.
“Please. I’m going to the Police Department this morning and I’ll see if they’ve found anything else.”
More enduring pause. “Okay.”
I said thank you, hit the end button, and then tossed the phone on the passenger seat. That was a step up . . . if she was there at eleven-thirty.
Despite the slow drive, I arrived at my office at 8:28—two minutes before my usual start time. Officially, the office doesn’t open until nine, but I like to appear a half hour early. It allows me time to settle in and make the mental change from home to office.
My office is located on the first floor of our two-story civic building. The building itself is a modern affair—for the 1950s. White concrete walls make up the bulk of it, with Spanish arches everywhere one could be placed. Across the front of the building runs a colonnade of such arches. The exterior corridor separates them from the large windows of the outer wall—the architect’s desire to be faithful to California’s Mexican past and still move into the twentieth century. The result was a mixture of the Spanish with a fifties idea of contemporary. The city replaced the old windows with tinted glass, making the building look as if it were wearing sunglasses. A great deal of money went out ten years ago when we updated the structure to new earthquake codes. We are still paying on those bonds.
The grounds are my favorite part, blanketed in lush green grass and bright flowers. Unlike other City Halls, there is no statue in the courtyard. The early fathers were too frugal. Every few years someone raises the question again but receives little support. Very few take notice of their city’s government unless we assess a special property tax. That usually brings the good citizens out in force.
I walked through the front doors, heavy golden oak slabs, and into the wide lobby. To my left was the city clerk’s office, and to my right the city’s building department. My office is down a wide white hall that leads to the back of the building. I moved down the corridor, my shoes tapping on the terrazzo tile. The hallway leads to a reception area, which is split by a low wood rail. On the near side are several chairs and companion end tables upon which rest magazines and the city’s latest newsletter. On the other side is a single desk that was manned by a beyond-middle-aged receptionist everyone called Fritzy. Her real name was Judith Fritz, and she had worked for the city almost as long as I’d been alive.
“Hi, Fritzy,” I said with a smile. Approaching the half door in the dividing wall, I heard a buzz as she released the lock. Nonemployees require permission to enter the council office area. Politics can bring out the worst in some people. It’s best to have at least a token barrier.
“Good morning, Madam Mayor. Right on time as usual, I see.” Fritzy’s hair was pure gray but her eyebrows indicated she had once been a brunette. A little color from a bottle would have made her look ten years younger, but that never seemed to be an issue with her. I hoped to age with that high level of grace and confidence. She wore a red dress and a wide smile.
“I try. You look good in red.”
“Darling, I look great in everything.” She winked and I laughed. Fritzy’s optimism and humor were legendary.
“Is Randi in?”
“Your darling assistant was in at eight. She came in the back.” Fritzy was referring to the back hallway that leads from the rear parking lot to the offices. It allows workers and council members to avoid the front lobby. I frequently make use of it myself, but this morning I parked in the space marked, “Mayor” in the front lot. There is a reserved spot for each person on the council and for the support executives like the city manager and the city attorney. Most prefer to park in the back. Parking out front, they think, is a billboard that says, “Hi, I’m here; come interrupt me.”
“Great,” I said.
“I just made coffee. Would you like some?”
I said I would and made my way back to my daytime home.
Randi Portman was my personal assistant and a good one. She was sharp, dedicated, and loved public service. There was no doubt she would run for office herself someday, although she always denied it. She seemed content to help me keep my head above the civic waters. I found her at her desk, which is located in a twelve-by-twelve office just outside my more spacious room. She was holding a cup of coffee, cradling the ceramic cup and letting the heat of it warm her hands.
“Cold?” I asked as I crossed the threshold.
“You know me, I’m always cold. They keep the air conditioner on all day and night. Someone should tell maintenance it’s February. You could hang meat in here.”
It felt fine to me.
Randi was in her mid-twenties, with short red hair parted on the left. Her blue eyes revealed a keen intelligence. She was a whiz with computers, with spelling—which is my weak suit—and with names. She lived and worked with an efficiency that would shame most people and occasionally intimidated me.
Rising from her chair, she set her cup on the desk. “I put several things on your to-do pile. There are also notes about calls you need to make. Councilman Adler left a message on your voice mail. He’s upset about last night’s meeting. Councilwoman Lawrence left a similar message. Apparently, I missed something. That’s what I get for going to a birthday party instead of the council meeting.”
“Bring your coffee in here, and I’ll explain it to you.”
We walked into my office and sat down. Fritzy delivered my coffee, and when she left, I relayed the whole story. Randi absorbed each word. “That’s terrible. And the police have no clue as to what happened?”
“None. At least not yet.”
I watched Randi’s eyes dart around. It was something she did when deep in thought. The cogs were spinning in her head. I let her think.
Randi had been working with me for four years. She was a part-time student at a private college in Westmont, a few miles north of Santa Rita. Like me, she majored in political science.
She was a bundle of high hopes and big dreams and had been encouraging me to run for higher office. I’ve always maintained that I’m more effective in city government, but will admit that the idea appeals to me. I knew that; I also knew she knew it.
The Incumbent Page 4
