I waited for Tess's response. It was slow in coming. She had glued her eyes to the conference table, her arms crossing her chest as if she felt the cold she normally inflicted on others. Eternity lasted five or ten silent seconds, then she lifted her head. Her eyes had softened. She made eye contact and gave the slightest of nods. Apology accepted. It was as gracious an act as I had ever seen from her.
“Sweet as this isâ” Jon began.
“Tess was nominated for deputy mayor. Larry and Titus have informed me that they support the nomination. Even if I voted against the suggestion it would pass by four votes. I plan to make it unanimous.” I looked back at Tess. Earlier she had all but told me what I could do with the nomination. The ball was now in her court.
This time she didn't shift her gaze. She stared at me, and I could tell the gears were grinding in her brain. I was certain she was calculating the ramifications of her decision. No doubt she knew that there was more to the issue than we had discussed. She looked at Larry, then Titus, as if she could read their minds. Tess was nothing if not politically astute. It didn't take a prodigy to know that she would be unable to hold the position two years from now and would lose the advantage of having the title deputy Mayor on the ballotâassuming she wanted to run for my office or some state office.
My nerves threatened to get the best of me. It took all my willpower to sit silently, allowing Tess as much as time as she needed. Frankly, it didn't seem all that important to me at the moment. I had thoughts of a serial murderer on my mind.
“Yes,” Tess finally said. “Thank you.”
There. It was done. My life had just become more complicated. Being mayor and running for congress was enough work for three people. Now Tess would stand in my place should I be absent from council meetings or unable to attend certain public functions. If I knew Tess, and I did know Tess, she would be in my face every week with some unsolicited advice or trumped-up emergency business. If I hadn't had more pressing issues I would have dismissed the meeting and drowned my sorrows in a double-chocolate sundae.
“Thank you, Tess.”
“Is that all there is?” Jon asked. He made no attempt to hide his smugness. In his eyes, he had just won.
Fred Markham cut him a look but said nothing. Jon was an elected official, Fred as city attorney was an employee.
“The mayor said she had four items,” Titus said. “I've only counted two. Larry's the accountant, but I'm pretty sure that leaves two more.”
“That's how I figure it,” Larry said.
Jon sneered. “Very funny. Our own Laurel and Hardy.”
“Let's focus, folks,” I said, standing. I wanted everyone's attention. “We have a problem that affects all of us and our city. As you know, the body of a man was found in a car parked in our front lot. You also know that Fritzy's husband was murdered. Both men were killed in the same fashion. Detective West tells me that . . .” Here I paused, not for effect but to steady my voice. “That each had his neck broken. This morning a third victim was found at the marina. He had been killed in like manner.”
A word erupted from Larry that I hadn't heard him use before.
Tess leaned forward, her head tilted to one side as if she were trying to determine the punch line to a joke. Her eyes darted back and forth for a moment. “Each murder occurred on city property.”
“That's right.” I filled them in on the rest. I passed around the charts and let them study them for a few moments.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Jon said, holding up his hands. “You're saying these killings are related to this Robby Hood character?”
“It appears that the killings are somehow related to the topics of his program.” I explained those connections. Then I got to the fourth point, the point I didn't know existed until less than two hours ago. “I did a little research on Mr. Hood's topics for tonight. In his second hour he's interviewing the author of a book titled
America's Secret
Police, Past and Present.”
“That's stupid,” Jon said.
“That doesn't matter if it's stupid, Jon. It doesn't matter if we don't take the subjects seriously, the killer is, and that's where our concerns should be. My fear is that the murderer will target a police officer.”
“Does Chief Webb know this?” Larry wondered.
“I don't know. Since Detective West is the lead detective I shared this information with him. I'm sure he's passed it along to the chief.”
Titus cleared his throat. “There's more, isn't there?”
“Yes. So far, each murder has been tied to the topic in the second hour of Hood's four-hour show. Still, the third-hour topic is . . . troublesome.” I recited the topic from memory. I hadn't needed to memorize it; it was branded on my brain. “âMayor Judy Morrison discusses strange aircraft seen over her city.'”
“There haven't been any strange . . .” Jon began, then trailed off. The point had found its mark.
“
Mayor
Judy Morrison.” Fred said. “Or should we be more concerned about the word
city
. I mean, the elements that tie the murders to the show's topics are tenuous at best: planes and chemtrails, mythical creatures and a model of car called a Gremlin, a security guard who thinks he sees a ghost and a security guard at the marina.”
“It could be either, Fred. I think it's best that we all be on our guard. Please, folks, take no chances. Lock your doors; be careful whom you meet with.”
“I hope you're taking your own advice,” Titus said.
I dismissed the meeting, and aides and council members filed out like mourners passing a casket. I gathered my papers and put them in my notebook. Floyd excused himself. I fixed my eyes on the notebook, and then I slumped back into the chair. My clothing felt lined with lead, and my knees threatened to quit their job. I was a washrag wrung out and tossed to the side. Lack of meaningful sleep, stress from campaigning, tension caused by Dean Wentworth, the murder of Fritzy's husband, and everything else that had happened since I pulled in the parking lot last Monday began to press me down like a gigantic hand.
I lowered my face into my hands and wished for a few moments of blissful oblivion. I should have mentioned Wentworth's assertion about having support on the council for an eminent-domain action, but I didn't. I was done accusing people. If he had someone in his pocket, it would be known soon enough. I should have allowed time for Fred to share his findings about Rutger Howard and lawsuits brought against cities, but that too seemed inappropriate for the moment.
The chair next to me moved and someone sat down.
“I'll be there in a few moments, Floyd.”
“No need to be insulting.” The words were soft.
I lowered my hands and opened my eyes. Tess sat next to me. Her eyes were moist. She laid one of her hands on mine. To my surprise it was warm and soft. “You take care.” She paused and gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “There are things more important than politics. Don't tell anyone I said that. If you do, I'll deny it.” She smiled, and I wondered when I last saw a genuine smile on her face and not the one that came whenever a camera was present.
I smiled back, returning the favor. “Thanks, Tess. Look, about earlier in your officeâ”
“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.
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 thingâexcept 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:
â
Start file.
â
Visit Web site.
â
Google “Robby Hood” for more Internet info. Check for blogs.
â
Does Hood need bus. lic. to operate in S.R.? Ck with Thayer.
â
Does Hood need bus. lic. to operate in S.R.? Ck with Thayer.
â
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.
â
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.