Before Another Dies Read Online Free Page A

desks, most empty. At one time, all the secretarial work was done by employees seated at these ugly gray desks. We remodeled the office wing of city hall a few years ago, expanding the council members’ offices to include an additional office for one primary staff member. It increased privacy and made communications easier. Part-time and temp help used these desks. One of my greatest challenges was keeping down the cost of doing city business. It won me no awards and made a few enemies, but such things came with this job.
    The open area bordered the lobby and was separated by a short pony wall. The wall was the demarcation line between the public world and the realm of civil servants. To one side of the large lobby was the city clerk’s office; on the other side was the building department. These offices need direct public access. Council members’ offices were off limits to the public unless they had appointments. Politics brings out the anger in some people. It is good to have at least a symbolic barrier between them and us.
    A wide desk sat just inside the pony wall and seated behind it like a sentry in a castle tower was Fritzy, a gray-haired woman who had left middle age in her wake. Her real name was Judith Fritz and a sweeter woman never walked the earth. Her smile was wide, as were her hips and everything connected to them. In a world where magazine covers and movie screens dictated beauty, Fritzy was comfortable with who she was and how she appeared. A little dye from a box would have matched her hair to her dark eyebrows, but such things never seemed to cross her mind. Her beauty was self-generated and poured out of her like light streaming from a lighthouse. Two or three years ago, Jon Adler had the audacity to suggest that the city “might benefit from a younger, more attractive receptionist.” The silence that filled the conference room was as cold as arctic water. No one spoke but a message was delivered so clearly that Jon never brought it up again. I hope Fritzy never changes.
    â€œGood morning, Madam Mayor,” Fritzy said as we approached the lobby. “Did I miss you when you came in?”
    â€œGood morning, Fritzy. I came in the back way. Had to park in the back lot this morning.” Members of the council and key staff can enter the building through a private entrance, allowing us to avoid whoever might be sitting in the lobby.
    â€œThere’s a dead guy in the front lot,” Floyd said with enthusiasm.
    Fritz cringed, then looked at me. I rolled my eyes. Floyd’s mouth often worked without the encumbrance of premeditation.
    â€œA man passed away in his car last night,” I said. “The police are investigating.”
    â€œYeah, he parked in the mayor’s spot, too,” Floyd added.
    â€œI didn’t know,” Fritzy admitted. “I thought I heard a lot of whispering around here.”
    Fritzy lives in an older part of the city and the shortest route to city hall brings her in over the back streets. She wouldn’t have seen the front lot.
    â€œI’m going out for a few moments, and I’m taking Floyd with me. Will you take messages for me?” It was an unneeded question—that was part of her job—but courtesy never hurts, or so my mother has told me many times.
    â€œOf course. Be careful.”
    I smiled. I wasn’t sure what I should be careful of, but it was always good to know someone cared.
    The sun had climbed a few more degrees along its course when we pushed through the large golden oak doors and into the outdoors. The air smelled of ocean salt, and a gentle breeze was picking up from the west. It would have been another picture-postcard day in Santa Rita had it not been for the blight of death parked in my space.
    We moved from the front of city hall along the meandering concrete walk that split the carpet of lawn that lay between the black asphalt of the parking lot and the arched mission-style building that