Cactus Heart

41

Saturday the sun returned to a sky scrubbed flawlessly blue by the rain. It would take Phoenix at least a day to dirty up the air again. Downtown was deserted as usual on a non-sports weekend. I was sitting on the old broken curb in front of the Triple A Storage Warehouse when a gleaming new silver Mercedes drove past, parked and disgorged a tall, snowy-haired driver.

James Yarnell walked up. “I could be through nine holes by now, Mapstone. On the other hand, it’s good to know I can be out in the world and nobody’s trying to kill me. What’s this all about?”

“I think you’ll agree it’s worth your time,” I said. “Let’s go inside.”

I led him through the side door into the old building. It smelled different after the rain: dust stirred on bricks, ashes tamped into mud, a vague scent of rot and disuse. Our footsteps echoed in outsized sounds. Inside, the big room was once again visible thanks to bare bulbs, far overhead. A strand of temporary lighting followed a heavy orange cord down into the elevator shaft.

“This is where you found them?” Yarnell said, putting his hands on the hips of his tan chinos and looking around. His eyes followed the orange cord to the frame of the freight elevator and to the square hole in the concrete.

“Come down,” I said.

He hesitated.

“It’s not far,” I said, walking to the ladder. I started down, and after a minute James Yarnell followed me.

Then we were down in the passages. It was noticeably colder, the cold of a violated grave. Every six feet, a small fluorescent light attached to a spindly aluminum stand beat back the blackness. We tramped down the main tunnel, made the now-familiar turn, came to where the bricks had fallen away. Yarnell stepped around me and just stared at the opening. The only sound was a slight hum from the lights.

“Is this how you spend your weekends, Mapstone?”

“Actually, I’ve been spending my time trying to figure out this case.”

“I didn’t think that was in doubt. The handyman was tried and convicted.”

“That’s what everybody keeps telling me,” I said. “But the more I looked, the less made sense. Talbott couldn’t have kidnapped the twins. He was in jail that night.”

“He was? How do you know that?”

I told him about the booking and release records. “I’m not saying he wasn’t involved somehow. He just couldn’t have been the initial kidnapper. Then I heard about Bravo Juan, who ran the numbers in the Deuce. It seems your uncle Win was in debt to him.”

“My God, do you think he was the one?” Yarnell was absently scratching his forearm. “Let’s get out of here. You can tell me more upstairs.”

I just let the dusty creepiness of the place be. “Bravo Juan’s real name was Juan Alvarez. I spent a lot of time finding out about him. You see, Mr. Yarnell, there weren’t a lot of records left about this case. So I’ve had to run a lot of stuff down. And I thought I had hit a brick wall.” I said it without irony. “I thought I’d never get the information I needed.”

“So? Did this Juan kidnap my brothers?”

“No. There was a very good Phoenix detective on this case named Joe Fisher. He ran down several suspects, including Juan Alvarez, who had an alibi and was also a good police informer. I didn’t know that.”

“Can we leave now?”

“Just a sec,” I said. “You see, Fisher’s notes had disappeared from the case files. But I learned that detectives in his era dictated their notes to a stenographer, and they were sent to the old I Bureau.” Yarnell sighed impatiently, rested his hand against the bricks and drew it back. He stared into the burial chamber as I continued. “The point is, there was a duplicate set. Fisher was running down other suspects because he never believed Talbott acted alone. He didn’t believe Frances Richie was involved at all.”

Yarnell turned back to me, a stream of sweat dropping down onto his fine temple. He started back out but I barred the way.

“What?”

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you, Mr. Yarnell?”

“What are you talking about?” He pushed around me and walked quickly back to the main passage, where he could stand up straight again.

“Thanksgiving night didn’t happen the way you told me,” I said, following him.

“Joe Fisher didn’t believe you, either. In his notes of your interview, he wrote that you seemed to be covering up something, that you made contradictory statements about your whereabouts that night. That’s because you were here. After the house had turned in, you and Uncle Win took the twins out to the car and drove away and brought them here.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Jack Talbott took those boys! Your dead detective didn’t know anything but that.”

“What did you tell your brothers? That they were going on an adventure with you and Uncle Win?”

“Jack Talbott!”

“Jack Talbott was in the city jail sleeping off a drunk. He was nowhere near the house that night. The boys were taken out by you and your Uncle Win.”

“That was more than fifty years ago,” Yarnell spat.

“And the man who saw it is still alive,” I said, watching the words register on his face. “He’s already signed a statement.”

Yarnell’s mouth opened, a dry paste clinging to his lips. He said, “Paz.”

“Paz saw you and your uncle carry Andrew and Woodrow out to a car and drive away that night.”

“I…”

“How did it go down?” My voice was quiet but still echoed off the walls.

Yarnell found his poise again, folded his arms and looked at me contemptuously. All the Scottsdale charm was gone. I wouldn’t be invited back to the gallery.

“You’re the history professor,” he said. “Tell me a story. I bet it will be a good one. Then I’m going to get the best law firm in Phoenix to sue Maricopa County and you personally for harassment.”

The closeness of the underground chambers seemed to advance on us as I started talking. “How’s this story? Win Yarnell had been thrown out of his father’s company because he couldn’t keep his gambling under control. Then he was thrown out of the will. He staged the kidnapping to get enough money to repay Bravo Juan. Or maybe as leverage to get back into the will. Either way, the twins were the only assets he could grab.”

I stared hard at James Yarnell. “Where does a sixteen-year-old snot-nose kid come in?” I asked. “Maybe you liked to come down here and gamble with your uncle. It must have been very forbidden and exotic to hang out with gangsters, even the small-timers Phoenix was growing then.”

“Jack Talbott…”

“Jack Talbott was an accomplice,” I said. “Nothing more. He was your uncle’s gambling buddy. My guess is that the plan was for Talbott to hold the twins until the money was paid. Maybe he was just the bagman. Either way, somebody screwed up. Talbott implicated your uncle as he was being led to the gas chamber. Only your grandfather’s influence kept it out of the newspapers.”

Yarnell smiled with a perfect set of teeth. “Is that the best you can do?”

“Isn’t that good enough?”

“No,” he said. “To hell with you.” He started up the ladder.

I said quickly, “Maybe you didn’t care about Andy and Woodrow because they weren’t really your brothers.”

He took a hand off the rung and faced me with fury in his blue eyes.

“I have the birth certificates. It names twin boys born on Andy and Woodrow’s birthday in 1937.” A muscle in his neck started throbbing. “The mother is named as Frances Ruth Richie, age twenty. The father is listed as H.W. Yarnell. Senior. Your grandfather. Andy and Woodrow weren’t your brothers. They were your uncles.”

“Those records were sealed!” Yarnell hissed. “No one was supposed to…”

“Frances Richie was Hayden Yarnell’s mistress,” I said. “When I met her, she kept talking about this man she loved, and I assumed it was Jack Talbott. She meant your grandfather.”

“He was an old fool, a dangerous old fool.” He shook his head violently. “And that little whore.”

“Nothing new under the sun,” I said. “Families have been killing each other since Cain and Abel.”

Before he could turn to climb out, I fired my right fist at him, a nasty hook. If it had connected, it would have broken his nose, easy. I was counting on something else.

He caught my fist with his hand, a fast, graceful motion. He was strong, damned strong.

“Appearances are deceiving,” I said. “You’re a lot tougher than you look.”

He pushed my hand away, then drove the flats of his palms into my chest to push me back. “Leave me alone!” he shouted. It hurt like hell, but I wouldn’t let him see it. I cuffed his wrists away with an outward swing of my arms, then I shoved him roughly against the ladder. It clattered but stayed in place.

“You think we’re talking history here, Yarnell? You seem strong enough to drive a stake into a man’s chest. I think you killed your brother. Max started asking questions after we found the remains. You couldn’t have that, could you?”

A new expression rippled across his face, almost like a weather front changing from hot to cold. Something like fear appeared. Then he quickly pushed it down deep.

“A punk named Hector gave you up,” I said.

“You don’t…”

“Oh, I do. I was in a motel carport with him alone, just him and me with guns on each other. He told me all about you. That shooting at the art gallery was just an act.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“I checked Hector’s cell phone records. He made a dozen calls to your gallery in November. He made five in October.”

He cursed under his breath. Then: “So why the hell aren’t I under arrest?”

“Because nobody else knows yet,” I said. “The cops came bursting in and shot Hector to death, and you must have seen that on TV and thought you were home free. They think Hector did it. Or some environmental terrorist. Or both. But, see, Hector told me before they got there. Only I heard it. And if you fuck with me, everybody will know it.”

Yarnell stepped back and smiled. He shook his head and chuckled. “So this is what this is about.”

I was silent for a long time. Neither of us moved. Finally, I said, “It’s a fifteen-year bull market and the only people who haven’t gotten rich are teachers who didn’t buy Microsoft stock and honest cops.”

His face relaxed a notch. He shook his head. “You have to think about your future. You’re probably sick of shits like me living an easy life while you live paycheck-to-paycheck. You didn’t make any money as a historian, and now you can’t make any as a cop.”

I didn’t answer.

Yarnell rubbed his shoulders. “And what if I don’t go along?”

“You go down for your brother’s murder.”

“That’s bunk,” he said. “I didn’t kill Max.”

He started up the ladder and I let him go.

I heard his voice from the top. “You’re just a dirty cop who made a big mistake.” Then I heard his footsteps echo through the big room and the heavy door clanged shut.

I waited five minutes, then climbed up the ladder. The place was empty as a looted tomb. A layer of dust hung in the air at eye level. I reached down in my shirt, pulled up the little microphone and spoke into it.

“He’s gone. I don’t know if he went for it or not. I’ll meet you over at Madison Street in a few minutes.”

I unbuttoned my shirt and pulled the rig off, a little strand of fiber optic held by surgical tape and a battery down by my belt. I wrapped it up and slid it into my pocket. Then I shut down the lights, listened for a moment to the silence of the awful place, and quickly stepped outside.