High Country Nocturne - [17]
Melton beat Peralta by ten thousand votes in the Republican primary where the turnout was twenty percent. The county’s population was four million.
And now he sat across from me.
“I know this is awkward,” he said.
The server arrived and saved me from saying many unhelpful things. In addition to the campaign, I could have mentioned the Justice Department investigation of the Sheriff’s Office, brought on by Melton’s highly publicized “sweeps” to round up illegals. This had destroyed years of effort by Peralta and the Phoenix Police to build cooperation in a community that was often victimized by crime. Now it was back in the shadows.
With deputies playing immigration police, response times had risen around the county, even for priority calls. Violent crime in the areas policed by MCSO was increasing. There were allegations of failure to investigate sex crimes. Jail conditions had deteriorated and prisoners had been abused. The county had already paid out three million dollars to settle lawsuits against the department. Local wags were already calling him “Sheriff Crisis Meltdown.”
And this was only from what I had read in the struggling local paper. From a few conversations with old friends in the department, I sensed things were even worse. That the model law-enforcement organization built by Peralta had been trashed.
Melton had even changed the department’s uniforms from light-tan shirt and brown slacks to intimidating LAPD black. He had moved into the new Sheriff’s Office headquarters that was Peralta’s handiwork, the product of years of fighting the county supervisors for funding.
In the newspaper, Melton had called the building, “A sign of the positive changes I’m bringing to this department.”
The craziest part was that Melton was more popular than ever, at least among the old Anglos who voted. He probably reminded them of their favorite grandsons, in addition to being “tough on crime,” as they imagined it.
A lazy thinker would fall for it. He didn’t look like a bigoted Southern lawman from the fifties. No, he was svelte and boyish and well-spoken. It would be easy for a lazy thinker to like him.
I was pretty toasty from the martini with Lindsey but ordered a Four Peaks Hop Knot IPA.
“Make it two,” Melton said.
I wondered what his constituency in the suburban megachurches and LDS meetinghouses would think.
Looking around, downtown Phoenix seemed almost on the verge of being cool. From the rooftop bar, we had views of the Suns arena, multiple skyscrapers, and the South Mountains and Estrellas in the lingering twilight. Steps led up to an azure swimming pool. Gray columns were topped with ice-blue lighting that matched the color of the still water. Lindsey and I would have fun here.
His voice brought me back to the unpleasant business at hand.
“I’m sorry about Peralta.” He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “You probably think I’m a bad guy for the campaign. But it was politics. He understood that. Phoenix has changed and he didn’t change with it. So voters wanted a change.”
I stared at him.
He released his arms and shook his head. “But this jewel robbery. Bad stuff.”
“A person is innocent until proved guilty.”
The woman brought our beers and withdrew.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t look good and the FBI will be digging very hard into Peralta’s time as sheriff.”
“They won’t find anything but good police work.” I took a big swig and let the liquid burn my insides.
“We can hope so,” Melton said. “I wanted to talk about you.”
I put the glass down and said nothing.
“I was sorry you left. I could have used you. Your ability to employ the historian’s techniques to solve cold cases is very valuable.”
“It was time for me to move on.”
“Maybe not.” He reached into the messenger bag and pulled out a book. I recognized it instantly because I had written it. Desert Star: A History of the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office.
“This is a fabulous book,” Melton said. “Really great. I had no idea there was so much history here. Would you sign it?”
He slid it across and handed me a pen.
Play to the author’s shameless vanity. I opened to the title page and wrote, “To Sheriff Chris Melton, making new history. David Mapstone.”
He thanked me. Then, “Maybe you’d write a new preface. We could re-release it.”
I didn’t answer. As a historian, I had written only two books, thirty articles for historical journals. Not enough to gain tenure.
He put the book away and pulled out a file. It was about an inch thick.
“I’d like you to look into this for me.”
My eyes lingered on the folder. It looked worn. I told him no, that I already had a job, and slid it back to his side of the table.
He smiled sadly. “I don’t think there will be much private investigator work coming your way with your partner as a wanted fugitive in a violent crime. It wouldn’t surprise me if the DPS revoked your license, as well as his.”
“But you’re here to help me…” I drained the glass halfway.
“Exactly.”
So I gave it to him, exactly, “I don’t like you, Sheriff. I don’t like your politics. You and your people lied about Mike Peralta’s record. You set people against each other.”
In this "prequel" to the popular David Mapstone mysteries, author Jon Talton takes us back to 1999, when everything dot-com was making money, the Y2K bug was the greatest danger facing the world, and the good times seemed as if they would never end.It was a time before David and Lindsey were together, before Mike Peralta was sherriff, and before David had rid himself of the sexy and mysterious Gretchen.In Phoenix, it's the sweet season and Christmas and the new millennium are only weeks away. But history professor David Mapstone, just hired by the Sheriff's Office, still finds trouble, chasing a robber into an abandoned warehouse and discovering a gruesome crime from six decades ago.Mapstone begins an investigation into a Depression-era kidnapping that transfixed Arizona and the nation: the disappearance of a cattle baron's grandsons, their bodies never found.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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