Cactus Heart - [31]
“She wanted this job,” he said. “And she’s getting along really well with Patrick Blair. Not my business, Mapstone, but she really likes him. He really likes her.” My stomach manufactured a tidal wave of bile.
He looked at me mildly. “Mapstone, you used to have such a good attitude, when you were a young deputy.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“That was before you got your mind pickled in shit working around all those eggheads,” he said. “Your case doesn’t seem that hard to me.”
Everything I wanted to say would have just made him angry, meaning even more determined to keep me where I was.
“We’ve got the skeletons, right? The DNA test proves they’re twins. How many other twins went missing back then?”
“None that I know of. I could check newspaper clips and missing person’s records.”
“See, you’re already moving ahead. And you’ve got that watch, right? Is that the Yarnell brand on it?” I nodded. “See, it has to be the twins.”
I thought so, too. But I didn’t know how to get the case off dead center if the Yarnells wouldn’t cooperate. And I had been ordered away by Hawkins. None of this made any impression on Peralta.
“Hawkins doesn’t matter.” He was back to swinging his chair back and forth, drinking the Diet Coke. “Chief Wilson and I agreed that you will take this case alone, now. They have plenty to keep them busy, and you have special expertise for this kind of thing.”
“Max Yarnell?”
“Try to be more charming, Mapstone. And go see his brother. Sharon and I met him once, at his art gallery. Seemed like a nice guy.”
“I give up.” I stood to go. “I’ll give you some theater. Distract the media. America’s Toughest Sheriff. Blah, blah, blah.”
“No.” His voice was like a shot. “I want you to investigate this case.” He was standing and his onyx eyes were wide in his immobile face. “I want you to gather evidence. I really want it closed. Those two little boys died an awful death, and this sheriff’s office will never forget the victims.”
If you didn’t know Peralta the way I did, you’d have thought he was just making a speech.
19
The Scottsdale night was scented with ease and pleasure, the perfect camouflage for wealth, privilege and grasping madness. Across the vast ballroom, I saw the straw-colored hair of the war-hero senator’s younger wife. She was in an animated dialogue with a squadron of forty-something Republican women while her husband trolled out of state for presidential IOUs. Her mouth smiled but her eyes didn’t. There in the tailored Hugo Boss suit was the chief executive of the Mayo Clinic, out checking on the highly profitable desert outpost of his empire. Beside the ice-sculpture of a saguaro cactus, the famous Indian artist, in polished silver bola tie and black jeans, nestled in a soul-talk with the skeletal Newport Beach socialite who now kept a modest, million-dollar casita on Camelback Mountain. Laughing by the bar, the owner of this season’s hottest gallery in town, recently separated from wife No. Four-yes, the department store heiress-but apparently finding solace with a teenage-looking redhead in a paper-thin black minidress.
They all knew their roles in the whirl of resort-life that was just beginning a new season: the older men with their square jaws and squash-court athleticism; the newly affluent younger women on their arms, who practiced a kind of prostitution we might all do if given the chance and the beauty; the pleasant older couples with complicated lives back East, being slowly mummified by the desert sun; the aging ingénues hoping for a new meal ticket. There was the occasional oddball, like that pot-bellied Anglo with the loud voice and the greasy, gray ponytail, nursing a cause or a fading reputation. The elite from Silicon Valley and Hollywood sprinkled the crowd with celebrity. Someone said Spielberg was here tonight.
James Yarnell made his way toward me, shaking hands here and there, homing in like a handsome, benign torpedo. We’d never met, but I obviously looked out of place enough to be the deputy who called him. He owned one of the top art galleries in Scottsdale, and was the oldest of the four Yarnell brothers. It was Monday night, and he had to attend a charity event at the Hyatt Regency at Gainey Ranch, one of the new megabucks resorts off Doubletree Road.
Finally across the sea of wealthy humanity, he steered me outside, where we sat by a bonfire pit. Past the railing, Camelback Mountain brooded darkly in the perfect Arizona sunset, competing for our attention with the thousands of city lights starting to shimmer to the horizon. Yarnell wore a charcoal suit and open-collared shirt, quality but not ostentation. He looked fifteen years younger than I knew he was, and his smile was effortless, inviting you to join in the good life taking place all around. It was a game I could play, to a point.
“I’m glad to meet you, David Mapstone,” he said. “I’m sorry it couldn’t be under better circumstances. Are you related to Philip Mapstone?”
“He was my grandfather.”
“Well, it’s a small world.” He sighed and clapped me warmly on the arm. “Doc Mapstone was our dentist back when I was a kid. I assume he’s gone?”
A handsome young New York professor comes to Phoenix to research his new book. But when he's brutally murdered, police connect him to one of the world's most deadly drug cartels. This shouldn't be a case for historian-turned-deputy David Mapstone – except the victim has been dating David's sister-in-law Robin and now she's a target, too. David's wife Lindsey is in Washington with an elite anti-cyber terror unit and she makes one demand of him: protect Robin.This won't be an easy job with the city police suspicious of Robin and trying to pressure her.
A cache of diamonds is stolen in Phoenix. The prime suspect is former Maricopa County Sheriff Mike Peralta, now a private investigator. Disappearing into Arizona's mountainous High Country, Peralta leaves his business partner and longtime friend David Mapstone with a stark choice. He can cooperate with the FBI, or strike out on his own to find Peralta and what really happened. Mapstone knows he can count on his wife Lindsey, one of the top "good hackers" in law enforcement. But what if they've both been betrayed? Mapstone is tested further when the new sheriff wants him back as a deputy, putting to use his historian's expertise to solve a very special cold case.
Cincinnati homicide Detective Will Borders now walks with a cane and lives alone with constant discomfort. He's lucky to be alive. He's lucky to have a job, as public information officer for the department. But when a star cop is brutally murdered, he's assigned to find her killer. The crime bears a chilling similarity to killings on the peaceful college campus nearby, where his friend Cheryl Beth Wilson is teaching nursing. The two young victims were her students. Most homicides are routine, the suspects readily apparent.
Cheryl Beth Wilson is an elite nurse at Cincinnati Memorial Hospital who finds a doctor brutally murdered in a secluded office. Wilson had been having an affair with the doctoras husband, a surgeon, and this makes her a aperson of interesta to the police, if not at outright suspect. But someone other than the cops is watching Cheryl Beth.The killing comes as former homicide detective Will Borders is just hours out of surgery. But as his stretcher is wheeled past the crime scene, he knows this is no random act of violence.
The private-detective business starts out badly for former Phoenix Deputy David Mapstone, who has teamed up with his old friend and boss, Sheriff Mike Peralta. Their first client is gunned down just after hiring them. The case: A suspicious death investigation involving a young Arizona woman who fell from a condo tower in San Diego. The police call Grace Hunter's death a suicide, but the client doesn't buy it. He's her brother. Or is he? After his murder, police find multiple driver's licenses and his real identity is a mystery.
В порыве гнева гражданин Щегодубцев мог нанести смертельную рану собственной жене, но он вряд ли бы поднял руку на трёхлетнего сына и тем самым подверг его мучительной смерти. Никто не мог и предположить, что расследование данного преступления приведёт к весьма неожиданному результату.
Предать жену и детей ради любовницы, конечно, несложно. Проблема заключается в том, как жить дальше? Да и можно ли дальнейшее существование назвать полноценной, нормальной жизнью?…
Будущее Джимми Кьюсака, талантливого молодого финансиста и основателя преуспевающего хедж-фонда «Кьюсак Кэпитал», рисовалось безоблачным. Однако грянул финансовый кризис 2008 года, и его дело потерпело крах. Дошло до того, что Джимми нечем стало выплачивать ипотеку за свою нью-йоркскую квартиру. Чтобы вылезти из долговой ямы и обеспечить более-менее приличную жизнь своей семье, Кьюсак пошел на работу в хедж-фонд «ЛиУэлл Кэпитал». Поговаривали, что благодаря финансовому гению его управляющего клиенты фонда «никогда не теряют свои деньги».
Очнувшись на полу в луже крови, Роузи Руссо из Бронкса никак не могла вспомнить — как она оказалась на полу номера мотеля в Нью-Джерси в обнимку с мертвецом?
Действие романа происходит в нулевых или конце девяностых годов. В книге рассказывается о расследовании убийства известного московского ювелира и его жены. В связи с вступлением наследника в права наследства активизируются люди, считающие себя обделенными. Совершено еще два убийства. В центре всех событий каким-то образом оказывается соседка покойных – молодой врач Наталья Голицына. Расследование всех убийств – дело чести майора Пронина, который считает Наталью не причастной к преступлению. Параллельно в романе прослеживается несколько линий – быт отделения реанимации, ювелирное дело, воспоминания о прошедших годах и, конечно, любовь.
Егор Кремнев — специальный агент российской разведки. Во время секретного боевого задания в Аргентине, которое обещало быть простым и безопасным, он потерял всех своих товарищей.Но в его руках оказался секретарь беглого олигарха Соркина — Михаил Шеринг. У Шеринга есть секретные бумаги, за которыми охотится не только российская разведка, но и могущественный преступный синдикат Запада. Теперь Кремневу предстоит сложная задача — доставить Шеринга в Россию. Он намерен сделать это в одиночку, не прибегая к помощи коллег.