High Country Nocturne

Chapter Twenty-five

Cartwright followed me outside, closed the door.

Whatever the particulate matter counted by the weather service today, the air around us smelled as sweet as Eden compared to the prison cell-like odor of the RV.

We walked a few paces, close enough to the door for security’s sake and far enough away to speak in low voices and not be heard by Bogdan.

The sun was high now, the intense glare spooling down on us, the asphalt magnifying the heat. It was a reminder of what was to come starting in May.

I slipped off my jacket, exposing my holster. Sure, Arizona had a national reputation as a land of gun nuts, but you rarely saw someone open-carrying in the central city. So I slid my badge onto my belt. If it didn’t keep a cop from drawing down on me, at least it might make civilians less nervous-or less reckless.

“Thanks for not killing my Russian,” Cartwright said.

“You were going to blow his testicles off.”

“That was a planned interrogation technique. You were running on emotion when you need to run frosty.”

“That’s what Peralta says.”

He looked down. “It’s good advice. Emotion won’t help you. You know that.”

I did. I still wanted to strangle the Russian or anybody else who could lead me to Strawberry Death.

He kicked the asphalt with his expensive boot. “You know, even with all the bullshit I went through in the war, when I joined the FBI I was so starry-eyed that I thought I’d become the first American Indian director. I was that naïve.”

“You would have made a good one.”

He ignored the praise. “I was more interested in putting away criminals than kissing ass. They were never going to let me in their country club. But I was so committed to the Bureau that my wife left me. My children are grown but for years they wouldn’t talk to me. Who can blame them? I was on the job. I wasn’t there for them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I made my choices. The last five years, my daughter and I have rebuilt something. She had a baby last year. I’m a grandpa, can you believe that?”

I smiled and nodded.

“All my career, I saw the worst of people every day. It was hard to see the good, to trust anyone. So here I am. Taking the undercover job…Well, when I decided to go that way, I didn’t feel like I had anything to lose.”

“Do you still feel that way?”

“No, actually. You hear a lot about how deep undercover people lose their way. Some do. They become what they set out to fight. Doing this has actually grounded me in a way that wearing the suit and tie every day never did. I have to keep myself tethered to reality, to the mission. So that’s my advice for you.”

“Point taken.”

He said, “You reading about the Great War?”

“It’s all that’s on my bedside table.”

“Be sure to read The Sleepwalkers. It’s the best book on the causes of the war that I’ve ever seen. It will completely change your perspective.”

“It’s waiting for me at home.”

Then he asked me why I was still wearing the deputy’s badge and I told him about my meeting with Melton on Saturday night. I felt such a deep shame that my face burned.

“He manipulated you.”

“I know. That’s what Lindsey said.”

“Smart woman. Keep her. Look, I can make some discreet inquiries about what Melton told you. See if it’s real.”

I thanked him. Then, “Is that really a Soviet scalp in there?”

“Naw.” He smiled. “It’s an old chamois I used to polish my car. I stuck it in my compost barrel for a few days and then put it in a plastic bag to preserve the gamey smell. Figured it might come in handy someday. Remember what I said about playing to stereotypes giving you an advantage?”

I wondered what mine was now, my wife shot, my partner missing, me carrying a star issued by Chris Melton. Stereotypical fool, sounded accurate.

“What are you going to do with him?”

He pulled the cap down, shading his eyes. “Drive him out to some Walmart lot, take off the handcuffs, and tell him to slowly walk a hundred paces before he removes the blindfold. By that time, I’ll be gone.”

“They can find you.”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you believe what Bogdan told us?”

“No reason not to.” His shaded eyes scanned the lot. “This confirms the diamonds are the ones we were looking for, stolen FBI evidence. It doesn’t tell us where they came from in the first place, how the Russians knew the diamonds were coming here, or who was the intended recipient.”

“It also doesn’t explain why Peralta left me the note to find Matt Pennington. According to Bogdan, Pennington wasn’t part of the heist…”

Cartwright saw the expression on my face. “What?”

I suddenly remembered the matchbook in Pennington’s pack of cigarettes and the telephone number written inside it. I called up the note on my iPhone and read the number to him.

“Doesn’t sound familiar,” he said. “Call it.”

I hesitated. Then I pressed the number and held the phone to my ear.

On the second ring, a man’s voice answered.

Peralta.

Several dozen exclamations fought for attention in my brain, relief, joy, anger, anticipation. I pushed them away and said, “It’s Matt Pennington.”

“You have the wrong number,” he said and hung up. It sounded like the same old blunt Peralta. I didn’t detect fear or coercion in his tone.

I had finished telling Cartwright about the brief exchange when my phone rang. Not Abba. An old-fashioned phone ring. It was the number I had just dialed.

“Wait,” Cartwright held out a hand. “Give it to me.”

“Apache Mortgage,” he said in a happy sales voice. It was a radical change from his normal tone. “May I have your account number, please?”

He handed it to me.

“Whoever called back hung up.”

“He’s alive!”

He nodded slowly. “But he’s with somebody. Not the Russians. Not Pamela Grayson. And whoever it was, he couldn’t talk around them. The woman who shot Lindsey?”

I shook my head. “She confronted me demanding the diamonds. She said she had made Peralta a promise, whatever that means. But it didn’t seem like a pleasant one. I don’t think he’d be alive if he was with her.”

He kicked the asphalt again.

“Then there’s another player. The man who called Pennington’s office. Maybe the original owner of the diamonds who somehow tracked them here.”

I was eager to get moving, out of the sun, back to the hospital, and, as soon as I could, send the badge back to Chris Melton with my resignation letter.

Cartwright stopped me after I had taken two steps.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, David. If your wife hadn’t gone for that walk, you might both be dead. This woman might have come in while you were sleeping. End of story.” He slid his left arm back in the sling, wincing. “Oh, I’m getting too old for this.”

The pain-creases in his face relaxed and he spoke again. “Don’t cut your ties with Sheriff Meltdown yet. They might be useful to us.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

He stared at me for a long minute.

“You know, David, it ain’t what you don’t know that gets you in trouble. It’s what you know for sure but just ain’t so.” He winked. “Mark Twain.”

I reluctantly nodded and walked away. By the time I was across Third Avenue, the RV was gone. All that remained was a blue cloud of carbon monoxide.