Cactus Heart - [7]

“The trained egghead, to the rescue.”

We settled up and walked to the parking lot in silence, my ankle shooting pain bullets into my brain with every step. Peralta’s shiny black Ford sat officiously next to my silver BMW convertible, the flotsam of a failed marriage.

“This car, Mapstone.”

“Don’t start…”

“No deputy can drive a BMW. People will think you’re dirty.”

“Patty bought it for me. You know that.”

“No way would I let a woman buy me a car!” Peralta snorted.

“Your wife makes ten times what you make, and she’s bought you everything but your guns.”

“That’s different,” he sniffed. “Anyway, Patty’s your ex now. And it’s…” He waved his hand at the car. “It’s just not what we drive in this family.”

“I need a good beat-up jeep, huh? With a gun rack and a ‘Peace Through Superior Firepower’ bumper sticker?”

“Exactly. You know, you could have gotten killed last night, being unarmed. It’s department policy for deputies to carry a piece at all times.”

“Even consultants?”

“Well, you’re kind of in a gray area.” He took off his suit coat, exposing the nine-millimeter Glock automatic in a shoulder holster. He tossed the coat into the Ford.

Finally, he said, “That woman died.”

I looked at him blankly.

“The doctor’s wife. She never came out of her coma. Died of massive head trauma. So now it’s a murder rap.”

“Oh, no.”

Peralta said, “When you and I started out in this business, the world was still safe enough that there were some places where you had to carry heat and most places where you didn’t. And you could tell the difference, know what I mean? Nowdays, hell, nobody knows when you’ll meet some sociopath who doesn’t even know enough to be afraid. Carry a gun, Mapstone. I don’t want to have to save your ass over and over. It was hard enough when you were twenty-one.”

4

I climbed into the BMW, slid in Coltrane’s Blue Train CD and took Seventh Avenue downtown. Dammit, I liked the car. Somewhere, the cold autumn wind was whipping leaves down streets scented with chimney smoke: the genuine fall of our movie-and-TV-seeded collective memory. But in Phoenix, it was seventy-five degrees and intensely sunny. The desert did change with the seasons, but the transformation was very gradual: autumn was a sweet mildness in the late afternoon, a change in the quality of light, a wistful abbreviation of the day. You had to pay attention.

When I hit Indian School, the cell phone rang.

“So, David,” a woman’s voice said, “I hear you got into some trouble last night.”

“I didn’t think Pulitzer Prize winners got up this early,” I said to Lorie Pope of the Arizona Republic.

She laughed without humor. “Yeah, well, the fad-du-jour over here is re-engineering the newsroom into ‘teams,’ where we all get to rotate into the cops beat. It’s supposed to make everyone feel equal. I feel like I’m twenty-one years old again.”

“I remember when you were twenty-one.”

“And I remember you, my love,” she sighed in her husky alto. “But I digress. So what about it? A robbery downtown last night? The heroic Chief Peralta saving the distressed damsels in a dramatic showdown. Then something about a chase and a couple of skeletons being found? A certain history-professor-turned-deputy involved. Something tells me it isn’t just another body drop here in sunny Phoenix. Tell me something I can put in the paper.”

Idling at a red light, I flipped down the sun visor and used the mirror to check the damage to my face. Not too bad: a cut on my left cheek, ugly bruise under my left eye, a little swelling. Hurt like hell. The light changed and I said, “You know how Peralta is. Go through the public information officer.”

“They’d just send me to that damned sheriff’s Web site for a press release.”

“Or buy me a drink off the record.”

“That interesting, huh?” she said. “So how about tonight? Or do you have plans with that X-er girlfriend, whatshername, Ashley?”

“Lindsey.”

“Whatever.”

“You ever hear about the Yarnell kidnapping?”

“Sure,” she said.

“What do you know about it?”

“You’re the historian, David. Weren’t they grandsons of Hayden Yarnell? Twin brothers, right? I think a guy was finally caught.”

“Jack Talbott,” I said. “He was a handyman, who did work at the Yarnell place. He was arrested for some minor thing down on the border and they found some of the ransom money on him. But he never admitted to the kidnapping and they never found either the bulk of the ransom money or the twins.”

“So, why are you telling me this?”

“I am preparing your mind,” I said. “I’ll call later.”

Ten minutes later, I parked outside Phoenix Police Headquarters, a sterile monstrosity of the 1970s that uglies up the corner of Seventh Avenue and Washington Street. On the Washington side, about thirty protesters walked in a long circle, carrying signs: “Stop killing us!” and “NO Police War on Minorities.” In a vacant lot off Van Buren Street last night a sixteen-year-old Hispanic kid decided to get in a gun battle with the cops. Nobody knew why. The newspaper said he was hit by sixteen bullets. Sixteen years and sixteen bullets. I limped around the corner, feeling the Advil I had taken for my ankle wear off, took the side entrance and checked in with the desk cop.