Cactus Heart

30

At nine o’clock Friday morning, twenty cops from three law enforcement agencies sardined themselves into a conference room at the sheriff’s office to compare notes on the Yarnell case: Phoenix cops, Scottsdale cops, sheriff’s detectives, and me. Being here made me uneasy for a lot of reasons. For one thing, I didn’t want to run into Lindsey and Patrick Blair. I had a big mocha from Starbucks; they all had plain joe in Styrofoam from the museum-vintage coffee machine down the hall. I sat in the back, committed to keeping my mouth shut.

“Our part of this can be short and sweet,” said Hawkins. He leaned against a wall, wearing a rumpled, short-sleeved dress shirt and a tie that looked like it came from Sears in the 1970s. “The dental records identify the Yarnell twins. The case is closed. We’re prepared to hold a news conference and go public with that fact.”

“We wish you’d hold off,” said one of the Scottsdale detectives, an older guy in a polo shirt and black jeans. He had a droopy mustache like an old West gunfighter and had slung one leg up on an unoccupied chair.

“Why?” Hawkins asked. “The Yarnell kidnapper was executed in 1942. We now have the bodies. The case is closed.”

I tried to focus, but my mind kept wandering to my increasingly chaotic personal life. It wasn’t like me, none of it. I had never considered myself any kind of babe magnet, had gone for years without a date in my twenties. My God, the chief’s wife had kissed me.

“What if the kidnapping is related to the murder of Max Yarnell and the attack this week on James Yarnell?” This from Kimbrough, the sheriff’s detective. He was a thirty-three-year-old buppie on the department’s fast track. Peralta expected him to make captain soon and then go into politics. He dressed the part: stylish three-button coat, worsted wool slacks, bow tie, all in colors that complemented the rich cocoa color of his skin.

Hawkins sighed and sat down. “Whatever. I’m just telling you we’re done looking at this unless something new comes along.”

Kimbrough said, “What about it, Mapstone?” Hard cop eyes all bored into me-and I was dressed more like Kimbrough than Hawkins. I needed the comfort of nice clothes: Brooks Brothers blazer, J. Crew white dress shirt, rep tie from Ben Silver, and pleated chinos from Banana Republic. A brand slut. All those cops knew was that I was the outsider.

“Hayden Yarnell believed someone in the family was involved in the kidnapping,” I said. “He put a covenant in his will that’s still binding.”

I passed around copies of the relevant page from Yarnell’s will.

“It’s like a doomsday bomb for the Yarnell heirs if any new evidence ever implicates the family. As he was being led to the gas chamber, Jack Talbott said that the boys’ uncle put him up to the kidnapping. This uncle was in debt from his gambling, and the Yarnell company wasn’t doing great, either. So there are lots of questions.”

“But no evidence we can take to court,” Hawkins said.

“Right,” I admitted. “But this whole thing is hinky. The man charged in the kidnapping was booked into the city jail the day of the crime.” I wished I could find a record of his release, but I kept running into the chaos of old files. “He claimed he was set up. A reporter witnessed this before he was executed.”

“They all say that,” said Hawkins.

“Nice job saving James Yarnell the other night,” Kimbrough said, and the cops looked at me again, curious now.

“There is one other thing,” I said. “We know Andrew and Woodrow Yarnell didn’t have the same mother as James and Max. Maybe they were adopted. Maybe Morgan Yarnell had them with another woman. We don’t know yet. It just makes me wonder…”

“The kidnapper was convicted and executed,” Hawkins said in a low monotone. “This isn’t complicated.”

One detective said, “My parents are getting very old. And it’s not like they’re rich or anything. But you can already see the children lining up to influence their cut of the will. I just wonder if something like that was at work here. If these twins were a factor…”

There was a collective chair shuffling and coffee slurping, then a Scottsdale detective, a blond, lanky woman named Carrie somebody, gave the report on the James Yarnell attack. No suspects, no arrests. There were no witnesses in the area that night. The bullets recovered looked like.357 rounds, but they were badly deformed. No shell casings found. It appeared the shots came from some bushes across the street.

“I’m not seeing any connections,” Hawkins sing-songed.

Kimbrough sighed. “Well, you’ve got the report on Max Yarnell, what we know so far.”

“Roust some burglars,” Hawkins said. “It was probably a burglary gone wrong.” He pointed at me. “The professor over here has got everybody paranoid. We just need to do some basic police work.”

“Nothing appears missing from the home,” Kimbrough said.

“So the burglar got scared and ran!” Hawkins shouted.

“Look, Gus,” I said, “the alarm was disengaged. What if Max let somebody in, somebody he knew? He called me that night and said he needed to talk to me, in person, about something urgent. Before that, the guy didn’t want to give me the time of day.”

Hawkins’ mouth became a lipless line of exasperation.

“And what about the attempt on James Yarnell?” I said. “That wasn’t a burglar.”

“So maybe it was unrelated, Mapstone. A husband of some woman this Yarnell is banging. Maybe some artist he screwed over. I dunno. Hell, you don’t have one scrap of evidence these are related.”

“We’re checking out Yarnell’s business acquaintances and old girlfriends,” said one of the Scottsdale detectives.

“The dolls!” I was shouting by this time.

“There was no doll at the Yarnell Gallery,” Hawkins said. “There was one at Max Yarnell’s house, and one delivered to your office. Maybe we ought to consider you a suspect, Mapstone.” If it was meant as a joke, nobody laughed. Then the cops started arguing over resources with two other high-profile crimes going on. It continued until Kimbrough got up to refill his coffee.

“I’m inclined to very here-and-now theories,” said Carrie, the Scottsdale detective. “We have threats from an environmental terrorist group over this mine in Superior. That’s a profitable avenue. It could explain the attacks on both Yarnells. The FBI is getting very interested in eco-terrorism.”

She flipped through a spiral notebook and went on, “You also need to be aware that Yarneco is having major trouble right now. We talked at length with their chief financial officer. Their real estate holdings are in trouble. They made some bad bets on developments up in Colorado. And the banks were about a month away from pulling the plug on the mining venture.”

“Jesus Christ!” Hawkins said. “You’re making everything too complicated. I gotta go.” He sidled his way out of the room, taking a pair of minions with him.

“What if it’s a family member?” a Phoenix cop asked. The room erupted with opinions. “No, I mean it,” he went on. “If this crime happened in an ordinary neighborhood, we’d arrest a wife or a brother-in-law before sundown.”

“I’d do it,” Kimbrough said, “if we had a scrap of evidence.”

“We don’t have any fingerprints? Nothing?” demanded a voice from off to the left.

“Not on the petrified wood,” Kimbrough said. “It was wiped clean. Family fingerprints in a family member’s house don’t mean squat. Can you say ‘reasonable doubt’? Ask the county attorney.”

We were getting nowhere. I wondered if Bobby Hamid would solve the case before three police agencies.

“Look,” Carrie said, a new edge to her voice. “We have one of the most prominent men in the state murdered. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling major heat to get some damned results, and soon. And I’m also feeling heat to treat the Yarnell family with tender loving care.”

Everybody stared at Kimbrough. He adjusted his bow tie and looked at me.

“Hawkins may be getting at one thing,” I said. “There’s something simple and straightforward in all this. We’re just not seeing it yet.”

That night, Peralta came home and announced we were going to get a Christmas tree. So we drove over to a little lot on Seventh Street and wrestled a six-foot-tall spruce into the back of his Blazer. Back at home, Peralta cooked steaks-I avoided the urge to fuss over him about his diet-while I dug out old Christmas lights and ornaments from the garage. We put the tree in the center of the picture window, just where the trees stood when I was growing up. And we trimmed it while the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sang carols-Peralta vetoed my Blues Christmas CD. He restrained his bossiness. I restrained my guilt, and my memories of Sharon’s lips, fingers and lustrous black hair. I had allowed something secret and scary into my life.

After dinner, we lit the tree and, armed with scotch and cigars, we carried lawn chairs out by the street so we could sit and enjoy our handiwork. The night was suitably cool, almost crisp.

Peralta luxuriated in the lawn chair. “Want to come on a raid of a skinhead organization tomorrow? You haven’t been in a good gunfight for a few hours.”

“I’ll pass.” I lit the cigar and watched the tip glow festively in the night.

“C’mon, Mapstone. Drop your socks and grab your Glock.”

“I saw Sharon today.”

“How is she?”

“She’s okay. She’s worried about you.”

I am the most loathsome man on the planet.

“Well, that was nice of her.”

“I think she was reaching out to you.”

I am unworthy of any friendship.

“Well, she could try picking up the phone. That would be a first.”

“I know it’s not my business…”

Your wife kissed me. Your wife, who I have tried for 20 years to view like a sister and a friend, kissed me. And I kissed her back. And I liked it. I am lower than a worm.

“Mapstone,” Peralta said mildly, “you’re right. It’s not your business. Hell, she probably just came to see you.”

I started to say something but he held up a finger. Shhh.

Up and down Cypress Street, we could see Christmas lights coming on, festive little reds, blues, and greens from windows, self-conscious whites wrapping the orange tree two houses down. Our tree was traditional and comforting, filling the picture window with a poignant magic. The year had gone by too fast. There were too many people I was missing.