K Is for Killer

  I found a public phone at the nearest gas station and looked up the number for the Colgate Water District. It was way past working hours, but the message on the answering machine gave details about the meeting, which was scheduled at seven in the conference room at the district offices. I hopped in the car, fired up the engine again, and hit the highway, heading north.

  Fourteen minutes later I pulled into the parking lot behind the building, uncomfortably aware of a steady stream of cars both ahead of me and behind. Like some kind of car rally, we nosed into parking slots one after the other. I shut my engine clown and got out, locking the car behind me. It was easy enough to determine where the meeting was being held simply by following the other attendees. At the back end of the building, I could see lights on, and I trotted in that direction, starting to feel competitive about the available seating spaces.

  The entrance to the conference room was tucked into a small enclosed patio. Through the plate-glass window, I could see the water board members already in place. I went in, anxious to get settled while there were still seats left. The meeting room was drab and functional: brown carpet, walls paneled in dark wood veneer, an L of folding tables up front, and thirty-five folding chairs for the audience. There was a big coffee urn on a table to one side, a stack of cups, sugar packets, and a big jar of Cremora. The lighting was fluorescent and made all of us look yellow.

  The Colgate Water Board consisted of seven members, each with an engraved plate indicating name and title: counsel for the water district, the general manager and chief engineer, the president, and four directors, one of whom was Clark Esselmann. The board member named Ned, whom he'd talked to by phone, was apparently Theodore Ramsey, now seated two chairs away. The "Bob" and "Druscilla" he'd mentioned in passing were Robert Ennisbrook and Druscilla Chatham respectively.

  Appropriately enough, the water board members had been provided big pitchers of iced water, and they poured and drank water lustily while discussing its scarcity. Some of the members I knew by name or reputation, but with the exception of Esselmann, I didn't recognize any of their faces. Serena was in the front row, fussing with her belongings and trying to act as if she weren't worried about her father. Esselmann, in a suit and tie, looked frail but determined. He was already engaged in conversation with Mrs. Chatham, the woman to his left.

  Many people had already assembled, and most of the available folding chairs were filled. I spotted an empty chair and claimed it, wondering what I was doing here. Some attendees had briefcases or legal pads. The man next to me had written out a commentary in longhand, which he seemed to be refining while we waited for the meeting to begin. I turned and checked the rows behind me, all of which were occupied. Through the plate-glass window, I could see additional people seated at the picnic table or lounging against the ornamental fence. Speakers on the patio allowed the overflow crowd to hear the proceedings.

  Copies of the agenda were stacked up front, and I left my seat briefly so that I could snag one for myself. I gathered that members of the audience would be free to address the board. To that end, requests were filled out and submitted. There were many consultations back and forth, people who seemed to know one another, some in small groups representing a particular petition. I wasn't even sure what the issues were, and the agenda I scanned made it all sound so tedious, I wasn't sure I cared. I wondered if I'd be able to identify Stubby Stockton on sight. A lot of us look short and fat while seated.

  At 7:03 the meeting was called to order, with a roll call of board members present. Minutes of the previous meeting were read and approved without modification. Various items on the consent agenda were approved without discussion. Much rustling and coughing and throat clearing throughout. Everyone seemed to speak in a monotone, so that every subject was reduced to its most boring components. Service policies were discussed among the board members in the sort of dry style reserved for congressional filibusters. If anything was actually being accomplished, it was lost on me. What struck me as curious was that Clark Esselmann, in his telephone conversation with Ned at the house, had seemed quite passionate. Behind the scenes, feelings apparently ran high. Here, every effort was made to neutralize emotion in the interest of public service.

  One by one members of the audience were able to approach the podium, addressing the board members with prepared statements. These they read aloud in their best singsong public speaking voices, managing somehow to deliver their comments without any spontaneity, humor, or warmth. As in church, the combination of body heat and hot air was bringing the surrounding air temperature up to anesthetic levels. For someone as sleep-deprived as I'd been for the last five days, it was hard to keep from toppling off my chair sideways.

  I'm ashamed to confess I actually nodded off once, a sort of dip in consciousness that I became aware of only because my head dropped. It must have happened again, because just as I began to enjoy a much needed snooze, I was jerked upright by a heated verbal exchange. Belatedly, I realized I'd missed the opening round. '

  Clark Esselmann was on his feet, stabbing a finger at the man at the podium. "It's people like you who're ruining this county."

  The man he was addressing had to be John "Stubby" Stockton. He was maybe five feet tall and very heavyset, with a round baby face and dark thinning hair. He was a man who perspired heavily, and throughout the interchange he mopped at his face with his handkerchief. "People like me? Oh, really, sir. Let's leave personalities out of this. This is not about me. This is not about you. This is about jobs for this community. This is about growth and progress for the citizens of this county, the –"

  "Hogwash! This is about you making money, you damn son of a bitch. What do you care about the citizens of this county? By the time this... this abomination comes to pass, you'll be well out of it. Counting your profits while the rest of us are stuck with this eyesore for centuries to come."

  Like lovers, Clark Esselmann and John Stockton, having once engaged, seemed to have eyes only for each other. The room was electrified, a ripple of excitement undulating through the audience.

  Stockton's voice was syrupy with loathing. "Sir, at the risk of offending, let me ask you this. What have you done to generate employment or housing or financial security for the citizens of Santa Teresa County? Would you care to answer that?"

  "Don't change the subject –"

  "Because the answer is nothing. You haven't contributed a stick, not a nickel or a brick to the fiscal health and well-being of the community you live in."

  "That is untrue... that is untrue!" Esselmann shouted.

  Stockton forged on. "You've blocked economic growth, you've obstructed employment opportunities. You've denounced development, impeded all progress. And why not? You've got yours. What do you care what happens to the rest of us? We can all go jump in the ocean as far as you're concerned."

  "You're damn right you can jump in the ocean! Go jump in the ocean."

  "Gentlemen!" The president had risen.

  "Well, let me tell you something. You'll be long gone and the opportunity for growth will be long gone, and who's going to pay the price for your failure of imagination?"

  "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!''

  The president was banging his gavel on the table without any particular effectiveness. Serena was on her feet, but her father was waving her aside with the kind of peremptory motion that had probably intimidated her from childhood. I saw her sink back down while he shouted, trembling, "Save your speeches for the Rotary, young man. I'm sick of listening to this self-serving poppycock. The truth is, you're in this for the almighty buck, and you know it. If you're so interested in growth and economic opportunity, then donate the land and all the profits you stand to make. Don't hide behind rhetoric –"

  "You donate. Why don't you give something? You've got more than the rest of us put together. And don't talk to me about hiding behind rhetoric, you pompous ass...."

  A uniformed security guard materialized at Stockton's side and took him by the elbow. Stockton shook
him off, enraged, but a business associate appeared on the other side of him, and between the two of them he was eased out of the room. Esselmann remained on his feet, his eyes glittering with anger.

  In the general swell of side conversations that followed, I leaned over to the man next to me. "I hate to seem ignorant, but what was that about?"

  "John Stockton's trying to get water permits for a big parcel of land he wants to turn around and sell to Marcus Petroleum."

  "I thought stuff like that had to go through the county board of supervisors," I said.

  "It does. It was approved last month by a five-oh vote on the condition that they use reclaimed water from the Colgate Water District. It looked like it was going to pass without opposition, but now Esselmann is mounting a counterattack."

  "But why all the heat?"

  "Stockton's got some land the oil companies would love to have. All worthless without water. Esselmann supported him at first, but now he's suddenly opposed. Stubby feels betrayed."

  I thought back to the phone call I'd overheard. Esselmann had mentioned the board's being sweet-talked into some kind of deal while he was in the hospital. "Was Stockton working on this while Esselmann was out ill?"

  "You bet. Damn near succeeded, too. Now that he's back, he's using every ounce of influence to get the application turned down."

  The woman in front of us turned and gave us a look of reproach. "There's still business going on here, if you don't mind."

  "Sorry."

  The president of the board was trying desperately to establish order, though the audience didn't seem particularly interested.

  I put my hand across my mouth. "Have they voted on this?" I said in a lower tone.

  The guy shook his head. "This issue came up a year ago, and the water board set up a blue-ribbon panel to investigate and make recommendations. They had environmental impact studies done. You know how it is. Mostly a stalling technique in hopes the whole thing would go away. The matter won't actually come to a vote until next month. That's why they're still hearing testimony on the subject."

  The woman in front of us raised a finger to her lips, and our conversation dwindled.

  In the meantime, Esselmann sat down abruptly, his color high. Serena went around the end of the table and joined him on his side, much to his displeasure. Stubby Stockton was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear him on the patio, his voice still raised in anger. Someone was trying to calm him, but without much success. The meeting picked up again, the president moving adroitly to the next item on the agenda, a fire sprinkler system agreement that didn't upset anyone. By the time I slipped out, Stockton was gone and the patio was empty.

  Chapter 18

  * * *

  I drove over to St. Terry's, stopping to fill my car with gas on the way. I knew I'd reached the hospital after visiting hours had ended, but ICU had its own set of rules and regulations. Family members were allowed one five-minute visit out of every hour. The hospital was as brightly lit as a resort hotel, and I was forced to circle the block, looking for a parking space. I moved through the lobby and took a right turn, heading for the elevators to the intensive care unit upstairs. Once I reached the floor, I used the wall-mounted phone to call into the ward. The night shift nurse who answered was polite but didn't recognize my name. She put me on hold without actually verifying Danielle's presence on the ward. I studied the pastel seascape hanging on the wall. Moments later she was back on the phone with me, this time using a friendlier tone. Cheney had apparently left word that I was to be admitted. She probably thought I was a cop.

  I stood in the hallway and watched Danielle through the window to her room. Her hospital bed had been elevated to a slight incline. She seemed to cloze. Her long dark hair fanned out across the pillow and trailed over the side of the bed. The bruising on her face seemed more pronounced tonight, the white tape across her nose a stark contrast to the swollen, sooty-looking black-and-blue eye sockets. Her mouth was dark and puffy. Her jaw had probably been wired shut because there was none of the slack-jawed look of someone sleeping. Her IV was still in place, as was her catheter.

  "You need to talk to her?"

  I turned to find the nurse from the night before. "I don't want to bother her," I said.

  "I have to wake her up anyway to take her vital signs. You might as well come in. Just don't upset her."

  "I won't. How's she doing?"

  "She's doing pretty well. She's on a lot of pain medication, but she's been awake off and on. In another day or two we could probably move her down to medical, but we think she's safer up here."

  I stood quietly beside the bed while the nurse took Danielle's blood pressure and her pulse, adjusting the drip on her IV. Danielle's eyes came open in that groggy, confused fashion of someone who can't quite remember where she is or why. The nurse made a note in the chart and left the room. Danielle's green eyes shone stark in the cloudy mass of bruises around her eyes.

  I said, "Hi. How are you?"

  "I been better," she said through her teeth. "Got my jaw wired shut. That's why I'm talkin' like this."

  "I figured as much. Are you in pain?"

  "Naw, I'm high." She smiled briefly, not moving her head. "I never saw the guy, in case you're wondering. All I remember is opening the door."

  "Not surprising," I said. "It may come back in time."

  "Hope not."

  "Yeah. Tell me if you get tired. I don't want to wear you down."

  "I'm okay. I like the company. What've you been up to?"

  "Not much. I'm on my way home from a meeting at the water board. What a zoo. The old guy Lorna used to sit for got into a big shouting match with a developer named Stubby Stockton. The rest of the meeting was such a bore until then, it nearly put me to sleep."

  Danielle made a murmuring sound to show she was listening. Her lids seemed heavy, and I thought she was close to nodding off herself. I'd hoped Stubby's name would spark some recognition, but maybe Danielle didn't have a lot of spark to spare. "Did Lorna ever mention Stubby Stockton to you?" I wasn't sure she even heard me. There was quiet in the room, and then she seemed to rouse herself.

  "Client," she said.

  "He was a client?" I said, startled. I thought about that for a moment, trying to process the information. "That surprises me somehow. He didn't seem like her type. When was this?"

  "Long time. I think she only saw him once. Other guy's the one."

  "What other guy?"

  "Old guy."

  "The one what?"

  "Lorna screwed."

  "Oh, I don't think so. You must have him mixed up with somebody else. Clark Esselmann is Serena Bonney's father. He's the old guy she baby-sat..."

  She moved her good hand, plucking at the bedclothes.

  "You need something?"

  "Water."

  I looked over at the rolling bed table. On it was a Styrofoam pitcher full of water, a plastic cup, and a plastic straw with an accordion section that created a joint about halfway down. "You're okay to drink this? I don't want you cheating because I don't know any better."

  She smiled. "Wouldn't cheat... here."

  I filled the plastic cup and bent the straw, then held the cup near her head, turning the straw at an angle until it touched her lips. She took three small sips, sucking lightly. "Thanks."

  "You were talking about someone Lorna was involved with."

  "Esselmann."

  "You're sure we're talking about the same guy?"

  "Boss's father-in-law, right?"

  "Well, yeah, but why didn't you tell me before? This could be important."

  "Thought I did. What difference does it make?"

  "Fill me in and we'll see what difference."

  "He was into kinky." She winced, trying to rearrange herself slightly in the bed. A spasm of pain seemed to cross her face.

  "You okay? You don't have to talk about this right now."

  " 'm fine. Ribs feel like shit, is all. Rest a minute."

  I waited, th
inking, "Kinky"? I pictured Esselmann getting his fanny spanked while he cavorted around in a garter belt.

  I could see Danielle struggle to pull herself together. "She went there after his heart attack, but he came on to her. Said she about fell over. Not that she gave a shit. Buck's a buck, and he paid her a fortune, but she didn't expect it when he seemed so... proper."

  "I'll bet. And his daughter never knew?"

  "No one did. Then later, Lorna let the information slip. She said word got back and that's the last she saw of him. She felt bad. Daughter wanted to hire her, but old guy wouldn't have it."

  "What do you mean, word got back? Who'd she let the information slip to?"

  "Don't know. After that she was tight-lipped. Said you only have to learn that lesson once."

  Behind me someone said, "Excuse me."

  Danielle's ICU nurse was back. "I don't mean to seem rude about this, but could you wrap it up? The doctors really don't want her having more than five-minute visits."

  "I understand. That's fine." I looked back at Danielle. "We can talk about this later. You get some rest."

  "Right." Danielle's eyes closed again. I stayed with her for another minute, more for my sake than hers, and then I eased out of the room. The aide at the nurses' station watched my departure.

  I found myself uncomfortably trying to conjure up an image of Lorna Kepler with Clark Esselmann. And kinky? What a thought.