High Country Nocturne - [51]

Horace Mann of the FBI taking the investigation from Chandler PD with no explanation.

Whoever was in the car in Ash Fork, picking up Peralta and returning to the Interstate.

It was about Amy Morris, the hitwoman who shot you, my love, with her “promise” to Peralta.

Matt Pennington in his anonymous office, a safe hidden behind fake filing cabinets, “suicided” in his bathroom.

The man who had phoned Pennington’s office, who was now expecting me to call him back.

Who was working together and at lethal cross-purposes?

And all this for a million dollars in gaudy diamond jewelry that was now in the Chandler Police evidence room, safe in the rolling bag they arrived in. Except this bag was special, rigged with a hidden compartment.

My understanding of this case is coming in slivers, a sliver at a time, and every time they seem to make a whole, another sliver is taken away.

Except…

Except the value of the jewelry stolen and recovered didn’t jibe with the information from the caller to Pennington’s office, who promised that Matt was getting a million-dollar cut for participating in their heist.

Of a bag with a hidden compartment.

Even this liberal arts major realized that was one hundred percent of the stated value of the stolen property.

In other words, Peralta was involved in a job valued at much more than a million. And that meant that Strawberry Death’s stones weren’t the ones stuck in the trunk of Catalina Ramos’ Toyota. Those diamonds had been left in the rolling suitcase with the GPS tracker, easily found.

The real stones worth killing for were still out there.

“Lord have mercy.”

Out loud, I involuntarily channeled my grandmother again. No one else in the room looked at me.

Chapter Twenty-two

After an hour, they let me in to see Lindsey. Her police guard had been cut to one officer. Inside the intensive care unit, I had to wear a gown, gloves, booties, and a mask. “Nothing from the outside goes in except to stay,” I was told. “Nothing from the inside leaves.” I packed my jacket and guns in a locker.

Tubes were still running in and out of her, connected to IV and plasma bags, and she was still on the respirator. A couple of additional machines kept watch. Her catheter bag was half-full of urine and I thought how horrified my immaculate Virgo wife would be to know this.

The medicos explained the plastic blanket that shrouded her body: it had water running through it to help her cool down. I could feel the heat of her hand even through the gloves.

Her beautiful hand was different, palm clenched inward, digits at odd angles. I tried to keep my voice from shaking when I asked about this and they told me it was normal. What about this was normal?

I rubbed her thumb, squeezed her misshapen hand. She didn’t squeeze back. No miracles today.

Through the mask, I whispered, “Please come back to me.”

To the nurses, I said, “Does she dream?”

“Probably.”

I stared at the floor and prayed for her to enjoy sweet dreams.

God doesn’t owe me anything.

But maybe for her…

I stayed as long as I could. Unfortunately, they were very punctual monitoring the time. After I retrieved my stuff from the locker and left the ICU, I stepped into the hall and had walked twenty steps when I heard the ruckus coming from around the corner.

Several people kept saying, “Sir!”

As I got closer…

“Sir, you’re going to have to leave. You can’t be up here.”

My pulse jacked up and I reached inside my jacket for the Python but kept it in the holster as I heard slurred profanities.

Someone whispered, “Hell, drunk Indian.”

Another voice: “Call security now, please.”

I walked to the L in the corridor, turned, and saw Ed Cartwright.

“Not goin’ anywhere. Trying to keep the red man down. Stole our land. Sons of bitches. But the Apache were never defeated! You needed Apache scouts to beat the other Indians!”

He was weaving among three nurses and aides, putting on a great show. He wore a red ballcap and a blue sling, neatly pressed Western shirt and new blue jeans, tooled cowboy boots. His right hand held a pint of cheap whiskey.

“I’m a deputy sheriff.” I flashed the blood-caked badge. “I’ll take care of this man.”

“Hey, watch the shoulder, po-po!”

“Come with me, sir,” I said, steering him by the uninjured right arm toward the elevators.

“Racist!” he shouted toward the audience, his face a mask of tragedy. “You heard what he called me! I’m gonna get rich off this! Sue the Sheriff. Sue the County. Sue this pale face! You’re all witnesses. Racist po-po! Oh, feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

He weaved and bent over.

I whispered, “If you puke on me, I’m going to break your good arm.”

The car arrived empty and I pushed him inside. Instantly, he stood in a posture suggesting authority.

“You make a subtle entrance,” I said.

He smiled.

“It’s a good thing the Phoenix cop guarding Lindsey didn’t get involved.”

“Where’d you get that deputy’s badge?” he said.

“Long story.” I pointed to his cap. “Redskins” was emblazoned across the front. “Political statement?”

“Huh? I’m a Washington fan. Have been since I was assigned to FBI headquarters in D.C. I can’t find any love for the Cardinals. Who beat the crap out of you?”