The Incumbent

by Alton L. Gansky

  She took a sip from her glass, then laughed lightly. “I just realized. I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Natalie Sanders. You can call me Nat. That was my professional name.”

  Suddenly I remembered. She was familiar and now I knew why.

  “It’s coming back to you, isn’t it? I’ve changed in many ways since the accident, but my face remains the same. It confuses people all the time.”

  “Channel 3 News. You were the anchor for the News 3 team. You were on the air for a long time. I used to watch you every evening.”

  “Ah, so you were the one.” She gave another flash of that winning smile.

  “If memory serves, you were the most watched anchor in the LA market.”

  “That’s what the Nielsens said, but I never put much stock in such things.”

  Details began to trickle back into my mind. Four or five years ago there had been an accident: a news van had lost control and rolled down an embankment.

  “You’re trying to remember the particulars.” I wondered if she were psychic. “I can see it in people’s face. It’s been long enough since the event that most folks have trouble remembering what they heard.”

  “Auto accident, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded and her eyes shifted, as if she no longer saw the present but the distant past. “Ironic in a way—I mean, you being here and all. We were on our way to do a remote broadcast at Election Central in downtown LA. It was something new for us. Usually we just sent reporters and cut away to them as election results came in. That was six years ago. You, if I recall correctly, won your second term to council.”

  I was amazed. “That’s right. Why would a famous news anchor in one of the largest markets in the country know about a smalltime politician like me?”

  “I cut my reporter’s teeth on local elections,” she said, using her good arm to raise the glass to her lips. “I got to where I could remember details and names quickly. It’s mandatory in the news biz. And as I said, talk has been that you’re an up-and-comer.”

  I wanted to press that comment more but she continued with her story.

  “My car was in the shop, so I chose to ride with the camera crew. It was early afternoon—results wouldn’t start coming in until after eight—but we needed to set up and I had interviews to arrange. Broadcasting from a makeshift set isn’t easy and the details can trip you up. I’m a detail person and hands-on, so I went in early. One of the crew left his lunch at home and wanted to swing by and get it. No problem, really; we had lots of time. He lived up one of the canyon streets in LA. Coming back down the hill, the passenger-side front tire blew. My driver overcorrected, and the van flipped a couple of times and went over the guardrail. They tell me it was a hundred-and- fifty-foot roll down the hill. When I came to, I was in the ER. I don’t remember much of the next few hours, but when all was said and done, my back was broken, much of my spinal cord was severed, and I became the lovely creature you see before you today.”

  “You’re still lovely.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not what I once was.” She paused. “I wasn’t married. Lots of dates, but I loved my career too much to get involved in a relationship. My parents died a few years before the accident. So it was just me—is just me.”

  “No other family?”

  “I was an only child, something I enjoyed.” She looked at me. “No need to feel sorry for me. I have always been a loner. I like living alone. I like what I do. A nurse comes in every day to check on me and I have a housecleaner to tidy up. The insurance money was substantial. I get by.”

  “You mentioned that you like what you do. May I ask what that is?”

  “I’m a researcher. I provide a service to reporters and others who have a need for quick information. I do a lot online and through connections I’ve made over the years.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Okay, let’s say you work for a newspaper and you need some background information on, say, a new biotech firm. More specifically, on the firm’s CEO and her past. I find that information using the Internet, several databases I subscribe to, and a lot of hard work. There’s more to it than that but you get the idea. I also do research for novelists and nonfiction writers. It keeps me busy.”

  “You might be a good person to know.”

  “I’m a great person to know. Would you like more lemonade?”

  “No, thank you. But I wonder if I might ask you a question.”

  “Sure. You want to know about the video cameras. Right?”

  “It’s nosy of me, I know.”

  “Ease up on yourself. I have been, and at heart remain, a reporter. Curiosity is part of my nature. I admire it in people.”

  “I wish others did.” My mind shot back to my confrontation with Chief Webb.

  “The cameras are my way of keeping track of the outside world. I don’t go out much. I’m uncomfortable in crowds and, to be truthful, a little paranoid. I haven’t always been, but something else was injured in the accident—my confidence. In my home I feel safe. Outside I feel vulnerable. So I experience the world vicariously. The television, newsmagazines, radio, and newspaper bring me the world. My video system brings me my neighborhood.”

  “So you can see everything that goes on in front of your house?”

  “In front, around the sides, out in back. I can see pretty much three hundred and sixty degrees.” She paused and studied me. “I’m not a voyeur, mind you. I don’t and can’t peek into people’s windows. It’s a convenience, really. Answering the door takes me from my work and it also takes more effort for me than most. Besides, I’ve grown weary of the shocked and pitied look I see every time I open the door.”

  I felt awash in guilt. “I imagine it’s difficult.”

  “Not difficult, awkward. And yes, you had that look, but it’s okay. I just don’t want to put up with it every time the Jehovah’s Witnesses want me to read the latest issue of Watchtower or the Mormons want to lead me in a Bible study.”

  I nodded.

  “You’re wondering about my next-door neighbor, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I imagine the police have talked to you—”

  “No one has spoken to me.”

  I was aghast. “I would have thought they’d have come by. I mean, you live next door. You might have witnessed something.”

  “I wasn’t here when Dayton disappeared. I found out about it while I was in the hospital. I had been there a week. I just got home this morning.”

  “I hope it wasn’t serious.”

  “It’s always serious with me,” she stated without emotion. “My plumbing doesn’t work like it used to, if you get my meaning. The catheter led to an infection. I waited longer than I should have to deal with it. I was on a project. Long story short, I was admitted for a weeklong treatment of antibiotics.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m fine now.”

  “So you weren’t around when Allen was abducted?”

  “No, but I may still have what you want.” I gave her a quizzical look. She smiled. “Let me show you something.”

  Nat activated the wheelchair, backed away from the table, then started down a hall off the foyer. The hall seemed narrow when filled with the wheelchair, but it was wide enough to allow her to move without scraping the walls. Photos lined the hall, as in many homes, except these were not of family, vacations, and graduations; they were images of Nat seated behind a desk looking at a television camera, or holding a mic in the face of someone famous. I recognized California’s senators, several congressmen, and a few athletes.

  She turned left through a wide doorway. It was the master bedroom, or what would be the master bedroom in most homes. This room had no bed. What it did have was a host of electronics. Near a wide set of French doors was a long rosewood table upon which sat a laptop computer. Next to it was a flat-screen monitor hooked up to another computer. Both were running. The rest of the work center contained neatly stacked editions of newspapers and newsmagazines.
A large mahogany desk sat center in the room, underneath a futuristic-looking ceiling fan.

  On the opposite wall was a media center that looked as if it had been pulled intact from a television studio. I counted six small TV monitors. Two were tuned to television news networks: CNN and MSNBC. Through the others I could see both side yards and the back and front yards. The monitors flickered from one image to the next.

  “This is where I spend my waking hours. Everything I need is here. Well, almost everything. My computers are hooked up to the Internet through a satellite system, and to the other computers in the house.”

  “You have more computers?”

  “Almost every room has at least one computer. I have them networked. There’s even one in the kitchen—attached to the refrigerator. I just wish I could teach it to cook.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “What you’re interested in is over here.” She moved to the media center. As I stepped closer, I could see that below the monitors were several wide but thin black electronic devices that reminded me of VCRs. “I record everything. The images from the cameras play on these monitors. As you can see, every five seconds the system switches between cameras. The system records the day onto hard drives, the kind you get in entertainment systems that allow you to pause live programs. Such devices don’t really pause the action; they just record in real time until you return. With a push of a button, the image begins to play again right from the stopped position. What they’re really doing is playing back what was just recorded, while continuing to record the live feed.”

  “I see,” I said, not certain I did.

  “When I went into the hospital, I set up the system to record what happened while I was gone. I have a dog. She’s in the backyard.”

  “We’ve met.”

  “I know. I was watching you.” That gave me the chills. “I had someone come in and check on Lucy and feed her. The kid I hired was supposed to play with her at least a half hour a day. I’m glad to say that he did. Lucky for him. In a sense, I used the system like a ‘nanny camera.’”

  “You mean, like parents who secretly tape-record their babysitters.”

  “Exactly. Lucy is important to me.”

  “So you got back from the hospital today—”

  “About nine this morning. They sprang me early. I think they needed the bed.”

  “But you watched a week’s worth of video since this morning? How is that possible?”

  “I don’t watch it in real time,” she explained. “I watch it in fast forward. It’s something you learn in the television business. I don’t need to see the grass grow. I just need to know if the boy I hired came over and fed and watered Lucy. I did the same for the other views. You learn to look for what doesn’t fit. I was getting ready to clear the hard drives when you showed up. I watched you instead.”

  “So you have a week’s worth of neighborhood goings-on.”

  “Not much going on, though. It’s a pretty boring place.”

  I gave that some thought. “Can you find a particular date?”

  “I know where you’re headed. When do the police think Mr. Dayton disappeared?”

  I told her and we scanned the video. A moment later I said, “I need to make a call.”

  It was there on the tape: Allen Dayton leaving his home—alone.

  chapter 21

  Nat and I watched it several times while we waited for Detective West to make his way north to join us. He arrived forty-five minutes later, apparently having had less trouble with traffic than I did. He pulled up in front of Nat’s house and I greeted him at the door. We exchanged pleasantries, to which he added, “You’re getting around today. I understand you paid the chief a visit.”

  “I was looking for you. Is he still mad?”

  “You could say that. Don’t expect any flowers.”

  “Maybe this will put me back on his good side.” Not that I cared. I showed West to the back room and introduced him to Nat. It took five minutes to lay out why I was there, what I was doing at Dayton’s, how I came to knock on Nat’s door, and what we had seen on the video. Then we showed the footage.

  We played it several times without comment. West was enthralled. He asked Nat to play it forward. She did, the image sped up, and the movement of plants and trees in the wind took on a jerky, surreal motion. The camera, which, Nat explained, recorded a frame every few seconds, caught a clear view of the front of Allen Dayton’s house. The shadows lengthened and the sunlight faded. No Dayton.

  “You see the problem,” I said.

  “Yeah, Dayton leaves and doesn’t return. And he leaves alone.”

  “But the blood on the file folder indicates that the abduction took place inside the house.”

  “Correct.”

  “So what does that mean?” I asked. “Did Allen somehow make his way back into the house without Nat’s cameras seeing him? If so, when did the abductor arrive? None of this makes sense.”

  “It will. In time it will. Obviously, we are missing something. When we learn what that is, the pieces will begin to fall together.” He turned to Nat. “Ms. Sanders—”

  “I know, I know. You want the videodisks.”

  “Actually, the Santa Barbara police have jurisdiction in this area. We’ll have to call them. Can you make copies?”

  “Yes. It will take some time, because video eats up a lot of disk space, but I can do it.”

  “I would appreciate it. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I’ll get started.”

  “This might be important, Mayor,” West said. “Only time will tell. Still, I think it might be best if you left. Chief Webb might not appreciate your presence.”

  “Does he have to know?”

  “He’s on his way. Your call generated some interest. He wants to know what you’ve found, but I suspect he also wants to know what you’re doing snooping around, especially right after your little confrontation.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “I agree, but you’ll never convince Chief Webb of that, and if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer not to have to separate you two. I’ve got police work to do.”

  I agreed to leave, but with reluctance I didn’t hide. Thanking Nat, I excused myself and walked from the house. My mind was an avalanche of confusion. Nothing had made sense before, and it all made even less sense now. I walked to the car with my head down. I was angry. I was baffled. I was frustrated. I know Webb thought I was an interfering nuisance, but sitting idle has never been my way.

  Swinging the SUV’s door open, I plopped down in the driver’s seat, fastened my safety belt, and pulled away. I drove faster than necessary and I caught myself chewing a fingernail. Dayton was gone. That was obvious. He had not returned to the house, and the campaign file was on his desk with the drops of blood. The pattern was consistent. But why, then, did the video show him walking leisurely from his house, never to return? If he was abducted elsewhere, how did the file come to have the two drops of blood on it? Nat’s cameras didn’t show anyone approaching or entering the house. I supposed it was possible that an intruder could have come over the back fence, crossed the rear yard, made entrance through the French doors, and then planted the file, or at least the blood.

  While possible, it didn’t seem likely, and such an act would have left signs of forced entry. It was nuts.

  I arrived at the freeway five minutes after leaving Nat’s home. The traffic was thick but flowing. At least one good thing. I pulled into the middle lane and settled into freeway speeds. It was time to get back to the office and get some work done, if I could. Concentration was becoming more difficult. It is hard to focus on the mundane when you may be the next one abducted in a string of kidnappings.

  Video images, fire ants, blood drops, a brokenhearted daughter, murder, and more tap-danced in my head. How could life be turned upside down so quickly?

  I merged with the southbound traffic, happy in the knowledge that I would have at least half an hour of
solitude. Perhaps that would be enough time for the mental maelstrom to calm to mere hurricane status.

  A chill ran up my neck and I released it with a shiver. Odd. I shook my head at my foolishness and checked the rearview mirror—

  I jumped and my lungs seized. A face was staring back—a face in the mirror. Christopher Truccoli was in my car.

  “Wha–what do you want?” I shouted, trying to sound fierce.

  “Take it easy, lady. You know what I want. I want my daughter. You’re going to take me to her.” His words were flat but hot with threat.

  “Get out of my car.”

  “That would be a little difficult on the freeway, Mayor. Just take me to Celeste and do it right now.”

  “And if I don’t?” It was all bluster.

  His eyes darkened and his face hardened. He looked like a man who had just lost touch with reality.

  “No more games, Mayor. Take me to your home.”

  “No.”

  “I think you will.” He looked behind him. Satisfied that no one was following, he said, “Your options are limited.”

  “Are they?”

  “Yes!” His voice was so loud I thought the windows would crack. “It is my right! I will not be denied! I will not be put off by a woman.”

  My heart beat with machine gun speed. I assessed my situation and it wasn’t good. I couldn’t tell if he had a weapon, but I wouldn’t put it past him. Being behind me, he had the situational advantage. He could attack and I wouldn’t see it coming. Think, think. You’re smart, use those brains.

  “This is illegal, you know.” It was a stupid thing but I wanted to keep him talking. His silence was more intimidating than his words.

  “Do you think I care? This is about my daughter, and no one is going to keep me from seeing her.”

  My cell phone! I couldn’t just make a call; Truccoli would never allow that. But if I could sneak it out of my purse, I could activate it without his knowledge—I hoped. I had to keep him preoccupied.

  “What if I don’t do as you say?”

  “That would be a bad move, Mayor. A real bad move.”

  Slowly I lowered my right hand and moved it toward my purse, which rested on the seat next to me.