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 files 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 numberâ”
“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 âhelpful' and on the other I write âhindrance.' 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 ofâ”
“Robby Hood?”
“Yes.”
“Don't sound surprised, Detective. You said you were in Santa Rita and that can mean only one thingâRobby Hood. I can't give you any information about him.”
“I don't think you understand, Mr. Lubbockâ”
“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 youâor 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 specialâat 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 going 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.
T
he measure of a manâor a woman for that matterâis 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.
At first we could only see a portion of the house through the wrought-iron gate. An intercom box firmly attached to a pole was stationed a few feet from the gate. West pulled his car close and depressed the Page button.
“Talk.” It was Hood's voice.
“It's Detective West and Mayor Glenn,” West said.
“Ah, you're here to pick up the lost puppy.” The gate began to move, sliding sideways along its track. West pulled through. Once beyond the wall and gate, we could see a large lot with a finely trimmed lawn and professionally landscaped grounds. Apparently, Hood had a preference for purple.
We turned down the drive that curved until it reached the front of the home. West pulled behind a beige, ragtop Volkswagen. Celeste had done a good job describing Floyd's car. We exited and walked up the three steps that led to the porch. West reached forward to knock but the door opened before knuckle met wood.
Before us stood a woman of singular beauty. Her hair was short and curled in such a way that I flashed on pictures I had seen of 1920s' flappers. She was an inch taller than me and had skin so smooth that I wondered where she bought itâit couldn't be real. She was dressed in a red almost-bikini that must have shrunk in the wash. A gossamer robe hung open on her shoulders. I looked at West and felt a sudden sense of jealousy and an urge to violence. I reminded myself who I was. It did no good, but it gave me something to do.
“I'm Detective Judson West,” my police escort said as he showed his identification. “This is Mayor Madison Glenn.”
“I don't have a badge,” I said and forced a smile.
“Please come in,” she said. Her words were almost lyrical.
Great
. We crossed from Eden into Camelot. A suit of armor stood to one side of the lobby and an arrangement of swords mounted to a thick panel of wood hung on the opposite wall. The almost-dressed doorwoman led us from the lobby past a formal dining room, a set of heavily carpeted stairs, and into a great room that wasâgreat. I judged it to be twenty-five feet by forty if it were an inch. Thick pile carpet, white as snow, cushioned our footfalls. To our left and right were walls that ran to a paneled, barrel ceiling trimmed out in ornate crown molding. We had crossed from Eden into Camelot and now into a forest. The walls were white but difficult to see. Trees in planters lined north and south walls, and a few were scattered around the floor.
“Sherwood Forest?” I asked West softly.
“What else? Look at that view.”
The west-facing wall was all glass, from the floor to the ceiling fifteen feet overhead. Through the massive panes I could see the city below and the ocean beyond. I couldn't imagine a better view was available in Santa Rita.