High Country Nocturne

Chapter Six

The Westin was the one of the new swanky hotels in downtown Phoenix, occupying the lower floors of the bland Freeport-McMoRan building. The glass-sheeted box had been finished as the Great Recession blew up.

In the go-go years before the crash, one in three jobs had been connected to real estate. It was the only conversation at my gym in the basement of Central Park Square. Even the woman who cut my hair was flipping houses. For me, it was like Joe Kennedy’s anecdote about shoeshine boys trading stock tips in 1929. Anybody could see it coming if they cared to look.

The result in Phoenix had been a straight-up Depression. Now it had mellowed into a prolonged recession, whatever the boosters said. Phoenix had seen nothing like it since the bad years of the 1890s. The perpetual-motion growth machine had broken down.

Thousands of people were still underwater on their mortgages, owing more than the houses were worth. Thousands more had simply walked away. Entire subdivisions within the “master planned communities” of suburbia had been empty. Then Wall Street had moved in and bought the houses as rentals. Even this didn’t stop the economy’s bleeding and many of the rental houses, already built on the cheap, turned shabby fast. Wall Street flipped the properties to new slumlords. Talented young people and empty-nest baby boomers with means were moving to cities with real downtowns, places like Seattle and Portland. Fewer retirees had the money to move to Phoenix and brag about not having to shovel sunshine.

Phoenix embodied Eric Hoffer’s remark, “Every great cause begins as a movement, becomes a business, and eventually degenerates into a racket.”

But the Westin’s lobby looked modishly elegant, if empty, when I walked in at six a.m. The friendly young woman at the registration desk said hello and I responded as if I belonged there and went to the elevators.

When I stepped out on the eighth floor, the hallway was empty. The space was quiet. Not even a sound of a couple making early-morning love. I walked to the room number Lindsey had texted and knocked.

The door opened two inches, the security latch in place.

“House gigolo,” I said.

“Please come in. I called hours ago.”

Then she was in my arms and for that moment the world was right and safe. I felt the contours of her body through the plush white robe she wore.

I felt the hard plastic inside one part of the robe, “Is that a baby Glock in your pocket or are you glad to see me?”

“Both.”

I kissed her and un-mussed her pin-straight dark hair. My eyes stayed on the simple diamond of her wedding ring.

Diamonds.

So much trouble.

“You look exhausted, History Shamus.”

“Staying up all night doesn’t have the appeal that it did when I was fourteen years old.”

She led me into the room. It was a good deal nicer than a Holiday Inn, with expensive furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows looking north onto Central Avenue.

Phoenix is on the farther edge of the Mountain Time zone, so it was still dark outside. The view showed tired city lights but one of the first light-rail trains of the day was heading up the street. It was a view we didn’t get from our house in the historic districts.

Neither of the queen-sized beds had been slept in. I slid off my jacket and collapsed onto one of the beds. Lindsey curled up next to me and I told her everything that had happened.

She was skeptical about my traffic-stop reaction, which irritated me.

“I’m not making it up.”

“I know. But your tale…I’m sorry. Your description of the night has a dream quality to it. You were under tremendous strain. You were tired.”

“That woman was going to shoot me.”

“Strawberry Death.” She gave me that ironic half-smile. My testiness evaporated. Lindsey had the ability to tease without hurting.

“She had strawberry blond hair, yes.” I thought about it. Had I overreacted? “So you’re pissed that I made you leave home?”

She propped herself on her elbow and swung a long, naked leg over me. Her skin was not quite porcelain, but very fair, a beautiful contrast with her nearly black hair.

“I’m never mad when you’re concerned about me, Dave. This is a pretty nice safe-house, too.”

“But you didn’t sleep…”

“Could you have slept? You were a long way away and I didn’t hear a word from you.”

“I was afraid they were listening in.”

“Dave, I altered your cell to make it a totally dark device. The data are encrypted and your conversations are scrambled. Nobody can listen in. Not even the feds.”

She was right. She was put out with me. But she didn’t move her leg. She was five feet eight and I was six two and we had the same inseam. I stroked the soft, perfect skin of her thigh.

She said, “Peralta obviously ditched his cell so they couldn’t track him. He shot a guy in one of the most crowded malls in town and made a clean getaway. Mike Peralta, international jewel thief. Kinda sexy.”

“Lindsey, this is serious.”

“You have to smile or you’ll cry, Dave. I don’t think you have to worry about Strawberry Death. She was only a scared rookie on a traffic stop facing my dark dangerous lover. You’re very intimidating, you know. You don’t realize it.”

She sat up on her haunches. “Take a shower and let’s go home.”

It sounded like a good idea.

I stripped down, stepped into the commodious shower, and let the hot water sluice off my aching body. In a few minutes, Lindsey joined me, and we got friendly.

Afterwards, we got in bed long enough to watch the sun come up. It was worth it. Light revealed Camelback Mountain, Piestawa Peak-formerly Squaw Peak-and the North Mountains. Sunrise draped a coppery glow over the Viad Tower, the only interesting skyscraper in the city. The air was clean enough that we could see the Bradshaws, the muscular blue mountain range where the High Country began. It made me think of my travels last night. Dreamlike, yes.

Once the sun was higher, it showed off the emerald carpet of trees running north to the bare mountains and Phoenix didn’t seem so bad.

Lindsey had taken a cab to the hotel and Sharon had dropped me off. So we rode the light rail up to Park Central and ate breakfast at The Good Egg. While Lindsey waited at our table, content with the house coffee, I walked next door to Starbucks for a venti mocha. I smiled involuntarily at all the times Peralta had made fun of me for ordering the drink, wondering where he was now and whether he was safe.

Then I saw the stacks of Arizona Republics and the top headline on page one, “Peralta Linked to Gem Heist.”

I was angry before I read the subhead, “Former sheriff shoots diamond courier at crowded Chandler mall.” I bought a paper and got my mocha.

Lindsey read it on my face before she saw the newspaper. I tossed it into an empty chair. “I can’t stand to read it.”

She read the article. “Ah, they’re calling it the ‘crime of the century.’ Don’t we have a few more decades to go? Hey, doesn’t your old girlfriend work at the Republic?”

“They pushed her out in a reorganization years ago,” I said. “You know that.”

“You know the drill, Dave. Keep asking the same question and try to trip up the suspect. Don’t be so serious. An omelet will do you good.”

“Showering with you did me good.”

She smiled, then her brow furrowed. “Did you try to convince Sharon to leave town for awhile? She could be with her daughters in San Francisco.”

“I did. She won’t go. Said she wants to take care of you and me. Anyway, the FBI is staked out in front of their house.”

“The media are going to be camped out for her, too.”

“She’ll be all right.” I sampled the mocha. It had exactly the right amount of chocolate. I hoped Sharon would be all right. Even if the feds weren’t there, the Peraltas’ house, perched on a bluff overlooking Dreamy Draw in north Phoenix, was like a fortress and Sharon was a decent shot.

We were at a table on the front patio with the heaters going. It was in the fifties, nippy for Phoenix. I would have been comfortable taking my jacket off but I needed it to conceal the Python.

Birds sat expectantly on nearby bushes and light poles. The bird issue was large enough that the restaurant had resorted to putting sugar and other condiments in plastic containers to keep them from being carried off.

The other tables were occupied and the conversations loud. They were talking real estate at one table. At another, I heard a man say, “The bankers got away with the crime of the century and my family lost almost everything. I don’t blame Peralta if he decided to cash in.”

I didn’t know any of the other diners, a good thing that day. My partner was front-page news. I was nobody. We were also the only diners reading a newspaper. It was unsettling…say, if you hoped to sustain a civilization or democracy.

Lindsey asked if I could stand talking about the “gem heist.” I nodded.

“You’re convinced Peralta is working deep cover.”

“Yes.”

She studied me. “Even though this new SAC you met said it’s not true.”

“He wouldn’t tell me. He might not know himself.”

The server brought our food with the place’s customary efficiency. Lindsey had soft-scrambled eggs, bacon, and tomatoes in place of an English muffin. I had my usual Sun Devil omelet.

Lindsey ran her finger along another headline: “Texting While Driving, Woman Impaled Through Buttocks.”

She said, “So, History Shamus, if Peralta really is on a case, wouldn’t he have let you know beforehand? Somehow?”

I hadn’t thought this through last night. Now I was glad she was encouraging it.

After a bite and some reflection, I said, “Not if it came up suddenly. He went into the office early yesterday, same as always. He texted me at nine to say he was going on a diamond run. By the time I got there, he was gone.”

“Peralta texted?”

“Old dog, new tricks.”

“Had he texted you before?”

I stopped with the fork in midair, then set it back on the plate. No, he had never texted before. I hadn’t thought much of it because I was getting ready for the day and he had done half-a-dozen of these diamond jobs since we had become private detectives.

“So all you know is that the text came from his phone.”

“True.” I chewed eggs and second thoughts.

She ate and talked at the same time without it ever seeming unladylike. But I was partial.

“So if it was him, and this new undercover case came up suddenly, and all he could do was text you…” She paused. “That doesn’t make sense for him. Not somebody who has never texted before. Somebody like that will stick with habit and call. The next you know, the FBI shows up at the office with a search warrant. That’s the first you heard of the robbery.”

“Yes.”

“They interviewed you there, right?”

“Two hours worth, while they went through the files. Some nerd spent time with Peralta’s computer before taking it.”

“We nerds are useful, History Shamus. It’s curious they didn’t take your computer.”

“That made me think this was all for show.” I glanced at the newspaper. Maybe releasing his name to the press was for show, too. They didn’t release Peralta’s involvement yesterday when someone might have identified him driving to Ash Fork.

“So he leaves you a message on the first business card. Don’t try to find him.”

I nodded.

She put her hand lightly on mine. “I know you’re tired, love, but if he really is undercover, shouldn’t you leave this alone? If you muck around digging into the case, you might put it at risk and endanger him.”

“You mean, be a hotdog.”

I ate in silence. She was right. Perhaps. One of my many character flaws was getting into target-acquisition mode and immediately going to afterburners. Sometimes I needed to slow down.

I said, “But he left the second card. He knows I love trains. He knows I love the Flagstaff depot. He called Sharon from a pay phone there, made sure she heard the railroad in the background. Sure enough, he had left a message where I would find it. That would indicate he wants me to be involved.”

“Why?”

“Maybe something went wrong. Or, he is not undercover but being coerced into this robbery.”

She pointed to the newspaper. “Nothing subtle about it. If he wanted the diamonds, he could have overpowered the other guard before they got to the mall. Instead, he shot him there and did it on camera.”

“That gives him more credibility going deep undercover.”

“And ruins his good name.”

“For now.”

“But something went wrong and now he needs you?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know. The more I ate, the more my body wanted to sleep.

She applied a dainty napkin to her mouth. Then she swigged the coffee like a truck driver. “What if he really did it?”

“Lindsey!” I lowered my voice. “How can you even think that?”

“The man gave his life to serving the people of Maricopa County.” She looked around at the breakfast crowd. “And they kicked him to the curb because suddenly it’s unAmerican to be Hispanic in Arizona. It’d make me want to get a little revenge.”

“That’s not him. He was philosophical about losing the election. We were the ones who were angry.”

“We have to look at this dispassionately,” she said. “That’s the way you would approach any other case.”

I nodded.

She leaned toward me. “Maybe he wanted to prove something.”

“Prove?”

“The white supremacist took his gun, remember? You had to rescue him. That had never happened during his career.”

Peralta and I had never discussed that incident, but what Lindsey said was true. Mike Peralta’s credo was never give up your weapon. But in that situation, he had been blindsided, disarmed, and strapped to a chair in a room with explosives. By the time Peralta was unstrapped, two bad guys were dead. But all through it, he had been, for probably the first time in his life, helpless.

“He may be feeling old,” she continued. “Feeling as if…”

After a few minutes, I finished her sentence, “Feeling as if he needed to prove he was still capable. So maybe that drove him to accept a dangerous assignment.”

“Or,” she sipped her coffee, “become a jewel thief.”

We finished breakfast in silence. I knew what she was thinking: nobody really knows anybody else.

Afterward, we boarded the train and rode down Central to the Encanto station, we walked two-and-a-half blocks to the 1928 Spanish Revival house on Cypress Street. The street was blessedly free of satellite trucks, black SUVs, and strawberry blond DPS troopers.

The temperature had warmed into the high sixties and the air was dry and magical. It would be the kind of day when you could say, yes, this is paradise. When I was young, it had been a flawed Eden, a garden city surrounded by citrus groves, farms, and the Japanese flower gardens, and beyond that the empty majesty of the Sonoran Desert.

That was almost all gone now that the builders had turned the Valley into fifteen hundred square miles of lookalike housing developments, shopping strips, and tilt-up offices and warehouses built on spec. Even Baker Nursery, a reminder of the days when even the most humble place was lovingly landscaped, had closed. Newcomers threw down gravel and thought they were being responsible. “We live in a desert,” they would say. They knew nothing about this wettest desert in the world and the oasis they were profaning. There was Scottsdale and Paradise Valley, if you had the money. But it wasn’t my paradise anymore.

Time was, we had seven lovely months and five hellish ones. Now it had almost flipped. It didn’t cool down until after Halloween and the heat kicked up in March. The temps had gone up ten degrees in my lifetime, and that was local warming, replacing the groves and farms with concrete and red tile roofs. Nobody wanted to talk about what climate change would do here. I kept friendships by not bringing it up

But on Cypress Street, in the historic districts, especially within this property line, here was the magnet that kept me in Phoenix.

Inside, I thought momentarily about driving into the office and going through recent cases we had worked, everything I could discover about the diamond runs. To find Matt Pennington.

But I made the mistake of going into the bedroom to change clothes and then I was on the bed. It took about two minutes for me to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.