head in hand. He looked ready to doze. Hard day at the computer, I assumed.
I let my eyes drift to the back wall of the chamber. It faces the concrete plaza and fountain that greets any of the public who make their way to the seat of their city government. The lights of the chamber reflected off the glass, making it difficult to see outside, but I could tell the drizzle had turned to rain. I could also see a man enter the lobby. He paused and brushed the rain from his suit coat as if he could sweep the water away like dust.
I forced my thoughts to the task before me. I am punctilious when it comes to time. Any meeting that starts late is off to a bad start. We were all present and accounted for and thus there was no reason for delay. In one minute, at precisely 7:00, I would call the meeting to order. The agenda for our session was light, and with a little luck we could be done in less than sixty minutes. That was fine with me. I had a double-chocolate brownie waiting on the kitchen counter at home. It had been a demanding day. A double-chocolate brownie was my due.
On the counter before me was a small digital clock with bright red numerals: 6:59 turned to 7:00. As I raised my gavel, the man in the lobby stepped through the back doors of the chamber. In full light I could see it was Bill Webb. He took two steps and raised a hand, mouthing the words, “Hold it.” I lowered the small oak mallet.
This had better be important.
Bill Webb was our chief of police and a fixture in the city. He marched to the platform, then sprinted up the few steps to the bench. This was unusual. You don’t just dash up the steps to where the council sits—even if you’re the police chief.
He leaned over my right shoulder. “I need to speak to you.” His breath smelled of peppermint. He had quit smoking the year before and had replaced one oral fixation with another.
“I was about to start the meeting; can’t it wait?”
“No.”
“What can be so important that it can’t—”
“There’s been a crime. It involves Lisa Truccoli.”
My stomach sank. “What? How?”
“I want to talk to you. Privately. Now.”
“Of course.” I turned my attention back to the chamber. “The meeting will stand in recess for ten minutes.”
“Wait a minute,” Jon Adler said. “You can’t recess a meeting that hasn’t been called to order.”
He was being his usual tedious self. I picked up the gavel and smacked it down. “This meeting of the Santa Rita City Council is called to order.” I brought the gavel down again. “This meeting will stand in recess for ten minutes.”
“But—”
I stood and exited the chamber, Bill Webb on my heels.
The news was disturbing and Webb was blunt. We were in my office, which is just down the corridor from the chamber. The rain was falling hard, splashing against the window like pebbles.
“We got a call from one of Ms. Truccoli’s neighbors, a Mrs. Ramirez, who had returned home from grocery shopping. As she passed the Truccoli residence, she noted the door was open. She thought it odd, especially since it remained open the entire time it took for her to unload the car. When she finished carrying her purchases in, she walked over and knocked on the open door. There was no answer. She went in and found the house empty. That’s when she called us.”
“And?”
“Just what you’d expect: Dispatch sent a patrol car. The officer investigated and noticed that several things looked out of place, as if there had been a struggle.”
“But the house was empty? I mean . . .” The words remained lodged in my throat.
“No corpse was found, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
It was exactly what I meant.
He paused, as if wondering whether to let the next sentence loose. “There was, however, blood.”
The acid in my stomach roiled. “Blood?” The word came out as a choked whisper.
“Not much. Very little. Just four drops.”
I looked at Chief Webb. He was a stern man whom I had never seen smile. He was fit for a gentleman of fifty-five, with just a slight middle-age paunch over his belt. He stood four inches taller than my own five foot six, and his gray-streaked black hair was combed straight back and held in place by some ancient hair tonic. He was not the kind of man