“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.
T
hat 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—”
“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.
Pacific Horizon Hospital is a four-story building on the east side of the freeway, nestled in the side of a gentle hill. It has a fine reputation, is well staffed, and sticks out like a sore thumb. In a city where most of the buildings pay homage to mission-style architecture, PHH is a glass-and-concrete monstrosity with all the character of a cardboard box. That is the exterior. Inside, bright colors decorate the walls and artwork hangs everywhere. Despite the joyful interior design, however, it is still a hospital. The smell, the intense activity, the rooms, the doors—everything says medical institution.
I parked in the visitor lot, walked briskly through the automated glass doors that opened into the emergency room, and marched to a window in one of the interior walls. A sign hung over it: “Emergency Check-In.”
“My name is Maddy Glenn,” I said to a well-padded middle-aged woman in green scrubs. “My assistant was just brought in by ambulance. I would like to see her.”
“Her name?” the woman asked without making eye contact. I wondered how many times a day she went through this routine.
“Randi Portman—that’s Randi with an
i.”
She turned to her computer and typed in a name, then nodded. “Yes, I see her name. She’s in the back.”
“Do I go through this door?” I asked, motioning to a large metal door to the left of the window.