High Country Nocturne - [34]

“My nerd girl look,” she would say.

Unfortunately for me, Lindsey’s computer was password-protected.

I tried every word and number combination I could think of and got through with “Dave” and the date and year of the first time we had sex. That delightful memory, and the fact that she recalled it, was followed by anxiety that I should call Sharon to check on her. I resisted the temptation. I had only been gone for forty-five minutes.

The computer screen was neither sentimental nor anxious. It brought me to a gray backdrop with a red box demanding “Keystroke Authentication Pattern.”

She was too clever for me. I gave up. I could at least Google Pennington later. Hell, I might even Bing him. But I needed answers no search engine was going to supply.

I went outside, the Colt Python in my hand. The air was magically dry and pleasant.

The darkened carport was clear of assassins, so I climbed in Lindsey’s old Honda Prelude, and drove west.

Our office on Grand Avenue, a squat adobe that was about all that remained of a once-charming 1920s auto court, looked quiet. The neon sign of a cowboy throwing a lasso, the other survivor of the motel, blinked benignly. Otherwise, the place was surrounded by a twelve-foot steel fence and watched by surveillance cameras.

I pressed the remote in the car to open the gate, let it close behind me, then got out of the car and went in, unlocking two heavy deadbolts and disarming the alarm.

Inside, the front office held its usual smell of dust and old linoleum. I turned on the banker’s lamp atop my desk and for a long time merely listened. Everything sounded and looked much the same as when the FBI had arrived with a search warrant Friday afternoon.

Why was the FBI investigating this case? For that matter, why did they arrive so soon after Peralta’s robbery?

The walls stubbornly refused to give me answers.

Next I went into the Danger Room, unlocking the steel door. I compared the assault rifles, sniper rifle, machine guns, shotguns, and pistols in their neat racks and drawers with the firearms inventory from the files. Over time, the bookish David Mapstone had learned all the details and capabilities of each weapon. Nothing was missing.

Peralta had gone on the diamond run carrying only his.40-caliber Glock sidearm. Not only that, but he had emptied out the weapons locker in his truck.

I retrieved a shortened M-4 carbine-the technical term was close quarter battle receiver-and extra magazines. Don’t forget a Remington pump shotgun with a belt of shells. No party is complete without one. Rounding out my kit were two pairs of binoculars, one with night-vision capability. I zipped them up in a black duffle bag and set it aside.

Next, I sat at the small desk in the far end of the small room. It held a laptop connected to the video cameras.

I quickly spun through forty-eight hours worth of digital information, learning nothing new. At 8:15 a.m. Friday, Peralta came in the gate, parked his pickup, and walked inside. Unfortunately in this case, we lacked cameras watching the interior of the building. Thirty minutes later, he left. At 3:12 p.m., the cameras showed the FBI arriving and, two hours later, leaving. Images of me appeared, walking out and driving away. Otherwise, not a single car pulled to the gate even to turn around.

Back in the main room, I pulled out Peralta’s plush chair and sank into it, studying his desk. The top was as usual immaculately empty. The FBI had gone through the credenza behind his desk, taking his laptop and the files in the credenza cabinet as evidence.

“Good luck with that computer,” I said out loud, thinking of how little he used it.

Then my eyes settled on the dictaphone, still sitting atop the credenza. It was at least twenty years old, the same one he had used when he was sheriff. I suppose the county had so little need for it they let him take it when he left office.

The feds probably thought it was an objet d’art and left it alone. They were wrong. He used it almost daily, despite Lindsey’s efforts to match him with a voice-recognition app.

She had considered it a breakthrough when she successfully walked him through setting up a Gmail account. On the other hand, she had also taught him about GPS tracking of cell phones, and how to remove the battery and SIM card to avoid it. That, he had immediately absorbed and put to use on Friday after leaving the mall.

I pressed the “play” button but immediately stopped the machine. Who knew, the agents who searched the office might have been givers as well as takers, and now were listening on the bug they had left behind. Putting on the spindly headphones, I started the dictaphone again and his deep voice immediately echoed out only for me.

“Mapstone, it’s Friday morning and I need this letter to go out today.”

I thought again, Jeez, we need to hire an administrative assistant. If we live through this.

Over the headphones, I heard, “Date today. To, Mister Dan Patterson, Three-fifty East Encanto Boulevard, Phoenix. Look up the ZIP Code. Dear Mister Patterson. Thank you for your inquiry about our services. However, we do not handle marital disputes or surveillance. I would recommend these firms that might be of assistance…”