The Incumbent

by Alton L. Gansky

  I stepped to the area designated as the front and readied myself for the presentation. Just as I did, Doug Turner walked in. I tried not to frown but was only partially successful. He made eye contact with me, then raised his hands as if surrendering. He mouthed the word relax. I hoped he was as good as his unspoken word.

  I spent ten minutes discussing the importance of city government and how I became interested in politics. I followed with five minutes on the issues our city faced. That left fifteen minutes for questions before a bell would ring, sending them all back to classes. Fortunately, the questions were benign. My greatest fear was that someone would ask about Truccoli’s attack and the abductions of Lisa and Lizzy. Lizzy’s death and Dayton’s disappearance had yet to make the papers, but I suspected they would be in the morning issue.

  I fielded about fifteen questions, then turned it over to the instructor. The kids were nice enough to applaud and only one fell asleep. Not bad. True to his word, Turner had made no inquiries. A few moments later the room was nearly empty. I exchanged pleasantries with the teacher.

  Randi stepped next to me and we watched Turner approach. He had spent a few minutes with a young man, one of the students who had been listening to my impromptu presentation. He was the only one taking notes.

  “I thought our meeting was for twelve-thirty at the Brewed Bean.” I was trying to sound sweet but professional.

  “It is,” he said with a slight smile. “I should have mentioned when you called that I was going to be here.”

  “You’re not obligated to tell me your schedule.” But it would have been nice.

  “I had two other calls going when your office called. I just forgot to mention it. I don’t want you thinking I was trying to ambush you—not that I’m above that.” He laughed. “My nephew attends here. That’s who you saw me talking to. He works for the school paper and I serve as a consultant.” He scratched quotation marks in the air as he said consultant. Turner looked at his watch. “Is it all right if we go ahead and meet? By the time we get to the coffee shop, we’ll only be about ten minutes early.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  Randi and I made our way back to the car. The day was bright, the sky a silky blue and the air warm as a blanket. Freshly cut grass sweetened the breeze. Looking up, I saw a distant airplane sailing through the air, destined for some unknown location. I wished I were on it.

  The Brewed Bean is a Starbucks knockoff. They even use the same green color scheme. While their decor is far from original, they make great coffee. Randi and I arrived a few seconds before Turner. “Why do you suppose he didn’t ask you any questions?” she wondered.

  “I don’t know. He could have really put me on the spot and made himself look good in the eyes of his nephew. Maybe he’s saving it all up to unload on me now.”

  We got in line. The place was hopping and the line long but it moved quickly. Turner took his place behind us. To make small talk, I asked about his nephew. He sang the boy’s praises but I remember little of what he said. My mind was trying to anticipate the questions he would ask and the answers I would give.

  I reached the front of the line and offered to buy the reporter’s coffee. “No, thanks,” he said. “I don’t want it said that I was bought off by a double latte. I’m scrupulous about such things.”

  “Scrupulous?” I placed my order, buying myself a chai tea and Randi a blended coffee. “Not a word you hear every day.”

  “Not from a reporter’s mouth, anyway,” Turner said.

  “The same could be said for most politicians.”

  The place was crowded but we found a round table on the patio in front of the shop. We settled in. I was glad to be outside. Lately I had been breathing only the air found in my car, house, or office. Sparrows hopped around on the concrete, hoping for crumbs from some pastry.

  “That was a good speech,” Turner said.

  “Thank you.” I decided to take the offensive. “How did you know about the file?”

  “I’m an investigative reporter; I investigate.” He saw that the answer didn’t appease me. “I’ve been following the police radio traffic. I was at the scene where Allen Dayton was abducted. I must have broken fifteen speed laws getting to Santa Barbara, and you know how the traffic bottlenecks as you get into town.”

  “One of the police officers told you about the file?”

  Turner sipped his coffee. “Yes, but not one of yours. It was a Santa Barbara guy. A uniformed cop. He was the first one on the scene and saw the file.”

  “And he opened it?” Randi asked.

  “Nah, at least I doubt it. The file had a label on it with the mayor’s name and the word Congress. Since our mayor is, well, our mayor, I have to ask why that word would appear on a folder. Why is that, Mayor? Thinking of moving up in the world?”

  Here’s where I had to be careful. “I have not filed to run for any other office. My job keeps me plenty busy.”

  Turner laughed. “Why is it that every time politicians are thinking of running for higher office, they deny it when asked? It’s like they’re ashamed of wanting to do more for the community. Are you planning on running, Mayor?”

  “I have no such plans at the moment.” I was sounding evasive and I hated it.

  “But there is a file, and Allen Dayton is . . . was . . . a political consultant, right?”

  “There is a file but I didn’t prepare it. I only recently became aware of it.” Keep the answers short, I reminded myself. Politicians get into trouble by saying too much.

  “If you didn’t prepare it, then who did?”

  “It is not unusual for concerned citizens to encourage someone to run for office.”

  “You’re being evasive.”

  “And you’re being invasive. All I am willing to tell you is that I neither prepared the file nor called for its preparation. Its existence came as a surprise to me.”

  “Could Dayton have made it?”

  “I suppose. That’s what he does for a living.” The word living struck me hard. Was he still living? “I’m not saying that he did.”

  “Do you have knowledge that he didn’t prepare it?”

  I sipped my tea to buy a few seconds. “What is the point of all this?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” He paused. “I’m worried about you, Mayor, and you know why. Congress or no congress, something is happening around you, and I’m afraid it’s all going to fall down around your ears.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but we have good people on it.”

  “I’m sure you do, but I’m still worried. It doesn’t take a savant to know you’re right in the middle of this and you don’t know why. Do you know why?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Neither do I. I’m betting the police don’t, either. I want you to know that I’ll help any way I can. I have to report the news—that’s my job and my passion—but that doesn’t mean I write off the people who matter.” He set down his cup. “Do you have a comment to make about Allen Dayton’s abduction?”

  “Only that I hope he is well and returned home soon.”

  “Does Dayton have family?”

  “Not that I know of. He once told me that his wife died a few years before. I think she died of Lupus. He said they had no children.”

  Turner rose. “Thanks for the meeting, Madam Mayor. Be careful.” He started to leave, then stopped and returned his attention to me. “For what it’s worth, if you run for Congress, I’ll vote for you.”

  He walked away.

  chapter 16

  That was far less painful than I thought it would be.” Randi raised the straw of her iced drink to her lips. “I thought you handled him well.”

  “I think he handled me, Randi.” I watched Turner enter his car and drive off. My eyes tracked to another man seated in a truck. His red Ford pickup faced us. It looked new. The man’s features were narrow and drawn. When our eyes met, he quickly looked away. An alarm began to sound in my brain.

  “.
. . in the paper?”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I asked if you thought you might be reading about your congressional campaign in tomorrow’s paper. You think he’ll write something?”

  “I don’t know—and there is no congressional campaign. I’ve made no decisions.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him I was the one who prepared the report? It wouldn’t have bothered me.”

  “Because then he would have started pressing you for information. He has a job to do and I don’t fault him for doing it, but his work is making things more difficult for me, for us. The less he knows right now, the better.”

  A movement caught my attention. The man was exiting his truck. He did so leisurely—too leisurely, it seemed to me. He was thin and wore jeans that covered his cowboy boots. His hair was light and short. An unzipped LA Dodgers windbreaker covered his dark-blue shirt.

  “Let’s move inside,” I said, then rose.

  “Why? It’s nice here.”

  I didn’t answer; I just went back into the shop, knowing Randi would be close behind. Inside there was still a crowd of people. Some stood in line waiting to order, some waited impatiently for their coffee, and some sat in light wood chairs at matching round tables. I was hoping there was safety in numbers.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Randi whispered in my ear. She was standing just behind me and to my right.

  I saw an empty table in the back of the room. “Over there.” The place had only one exit. If someone was going to nab me, they were going to have to do it in front of other people and drag me across the shop. But that didn’t make sense: a public kidnapping? Still, I was in no mood to take chances.

  “You’re freakin’ me out.”

  We sat down and rested our drinks on the table. I turned to see the man in cowboy boots saunter in. “I think that man has been watching us.”

  “The skinny-faced wrangler?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  He looked around, spied us, and moved our way.

  “Brazen, isn’t he,” Randi said.

  As he approached, I could see a day’s growth of stubble on his chin. “You’re Madison Glenn, aren’t you?”

  “Who wants to know?” Randi demanded.

  The man reached inside his windbreaker and I tensed, waiting for the gun to appear. Instead of shiny steel a leather case emerged. He opened it to reveal a picture ID. “My name is Ned Blair; I’m a private detective.”

  I looked at the identification. It appeared to be real. Two encounters with PIs in one day. It was more than I could fathom. “What do you want?”

  “May I sit down?” He reached for a chair.

  “No,” Randi snapped. “This is a private meeting.” She surprised me.

  “Fine,” Blair shot back. “I’m trying to be decent about this.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  “I was retained to deliver a message.” He looked tired. “Mr. Christopher Truccoli wants to speak to his daughter. He wants you to arrange it.”

  “I already know what he wants. The decision is not mine and he knows it. I’ve explained it to him, the police explained it to him, now you can explain it. There’s a restraining order leveled against Mr. Truccoli. I don’t want to see him.”

  “He made me aware of the restraining order. That’s why I’m here and he is not.”

  “The message has been delivered; now take off,” Randi said.

  “Aren’t you a testy one.” He turned back to me. “Mrs. Glenn—”

  “Mayor Glenn,” Randi corrected.

  Blair sighed. “Mayor Glenn, a man has a right to speak to his daughter. You stand in the way of a simple, well-understood privilege.”

  “I’ve already told you, the decision is not mine. The girl is nineteen. She has the legal right to see or not see whomever she likes.”

  “Got it, pal?” Randi said. “Now buzz off.”

  His eyes narrowed. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “I hate guys like you,” Randi snapped. “You stroll up to two women and think you can intimidate us. Well, you can’t. We’re not buying it. Bullying women is out, Galahad, now take a hike. And find a razor. The stubble look died in the eighties.”

  “I don’t know who you are, lady, but I’ve had my fill of you.”

  “You know where the door is. Don’t let it hit you in the butt on the way out.”

  I stole a glance at Randi. Her jaw was set like a vice and there was a red tint to her face. She was hot, really hot, something I had never seen. I was afraid she would explode and that if she did, it wouldn’t be pretty.

  “Why don’t you shut your pretty yap—”

  “Is there a problem here?” It was a new voice, deep and resonant, as if someone had turned up the bass in the room. I snapped my head around and saw a thick-necked man in paint-splattered coveralls approaching. He was six inches shorter than Blair and pudgy around the middle, but something in his eyes told me there was more behind the soft exterior. He stepped to within inches of the now red-faced PI, his head tilted back to make eye contact.

  “Mind your own business,” Blair said.

  “I’d rather mind yours.” The painter smiled and I felt a chill. Behind him, I saw a frightened-looking employee at the counter pick up the phone. Good girl. Call the police.

  “You’re interfering with my work,” Blair growled. “I’m a private detective—”

  “And you’re interfering with my coffee break.” I didn’t think it was possible but the painter moved forward. “You wanna pick on someone? Pick on me, Sherlock. Or do you prefer frightening women?”

  “What? You wanna go?” Blair’s hands tightened into fists. They seemed to be familiar with the position.

  “Um, guys . . .” I stood, backing to the wall. This wasn’t going well, and I didn’t want to be in the middle of it. “Everyone take a deep breath and—”

  Blair struck the painter on the chin, spinning him around, but he didn’t go down. Instead he staggered back, touched his chin, then grinned. The smile lowered the temperature in the room. He spoke in an icy tone. “There are only three things in the world I love: my wife, my work, and a good fight.” He sprang forward with surprising agility. Blair raised a fist, but before he could launch it, he had a bellyful of the painter’s head, driving him backward as if he had been hit by a speeding car.

  I heard a grunt from the painter, a curse from the PI, and a scream from Randi.

  The two men crash-landed on her. The chair she was sitting on shattered and the three fell to the floor.

  “Stop it!” I shouted.

  They paid no attention. Fists flew, elbows jabbed, and scorching epithets filled the air.

  “Get off me!” Randi pleaded.

  I grabbed the painter and pulled with all my strength, but it was like trying to move a sack of bricks. The two were intertwined. The painter fired a fist at the face of Blair, who moved his head out of the way. The blow caught Randi in the sternum; she coughed out a hard breath.

  “You’re hurting her!” I cried as loudly as I could. I looked at the other patrons. They were backing away. A mother hurried her children out of the shop. Two young men smiled and seemed to be enjoying the show.

  “Someone help us!”

  No one did. I stepped around the grappling men and tried to pull Randi from beneath their bulk. She was grimacing.

  “Move!” a voice shouted.

  I turned to see two men in uniforms pressing through the crowd.

  “I said move!” An officer pushed one of the patrons aside.

  More fists flew, more punches landed. Randi writhed in agony.

  “Break it up,” the first officer said. He didn’t wait for compliance. Seizing the painter by the collar, he did what I couldn’t; he not only pulled him off Blair, he yanked the shorter man upright. The painter raised a fist, ready to send it into the officer’s face, then stopped short.

  “Whoa.” He dropped his arm. “Sorry, Officer. I thought—”

&
nbsp; “Shut up.” The officer spun him around and pulled him to the front of the coffee shop. “Hands on the counter—spread ’em.”

  “But I’m the good guy.” A moment later he was in handcuffs.

  “On your belly,” the second officer ordered Blair, still struggling with him. “Stop resisting.”

  “You ain’t got no right. I was just doing my job.”

  “Roll over, pal, or the pepper spray comes out.”

  The struggle ended.

  I dropped to my knees and bent over Randi. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her breath came in ragged sobs. “My ankle. I think it’s broken.”

  Turning to the first officer, I said, “We need an ambulance.”

  “I’ll decide that,” he replied, then looked at me. His expression said he recognized me. “Yes ma’am.” He raised his radio to his mouth.

  “Try to lie still,” I told Randi. “Help is on the way.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” I said, but I knew what she was getting at. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I didn’t do anything right. . . . I was just . . . just trying . . .” Sobs swallowed her words. I sat on the floor and stroked her hair. I felt helpless.

  I was feeling that way a lot.

  I arrived at the hospital an hour after Randi. The police needed a report and I was the one to give it to them. I explained about Blair and the painter who came to our “rescue.” They asked me a thousand questions and I answered as fast as I could, wanting to get to the hospital. I referred them to Detective West. “He can give you all the background that led to this.”

  “In some ways you’re lucky, Mayor,” the lead officer said. “I’ve arrested Blair before. He’s got a real bad temper. He’s been in the slammer for assault several times.”

  “It’s a wonder he has a PI license,” I replied.

  “That was revoked some time ago. He keeps working anyway. Some people don’t worry about credentials, if you know what I mean.”

  I did know. Christopher Truccoli was one such person.

  The drive to the hospital was agonizing. I felt guilty because Randi had been hurt, and I didn’t understand why. I was as much a victim as she, but she was the one injured. I was feeling like the reincarnation of Typhoid Mary. People I counted as friends were being damaged and destroyed. My own family had to move in with me for security reasons. Lizzy Stout was dead, Lisa Truccoli was still missing, and her distraught daughter was living with me and being hounded by her estranged father. Allen Dayton was gone and now Randi was in the hospital. Being associated with Mayor Maddy Glenn was becoming a dangerous occupation.