High Country Nocturne - [52]

“The same woman who shot Lindsey.”

He assessed me in silence. Cartwright must have been very handsome when he was younger, with his high cheekbones, black oval eyes, dark sandstone complexion, and rugged look. Now, in his sixties, his face was cut into hundreds of rivulets and the eyes were bordered by puffy skin that left him with a permanent and intimidating squint. His hair was the color of lead, tied back in a ponytail.

“How is she?” he said.

“Bad.”

He patted my jacket.

“Still carrying that wheel-gun artillery?”

I nodded.

“You have a backup?”

“On my ankle. The woman who shot Lindsey had one, too. That’s what she used.”

My mind was back on Cypress Street, Saturday night-why didn’t I take the shot?

When we reached the first floor, he dropped the whiskey bottle into a recycling container and I followed him outside into the perfect day. We moved at the fast stride that I remembered from the first time I had met him, when he had showed me his survivalist bunker built into the side of a hill. Back at his house, he had a formidable library. I liked him instantly.

“Wait,” I said. “I can’t leave Lindsey.”

“This is why I had to put on the act to get you out of there. You love her. Family is everything. I get that. But I need you to walk with me. Give me ten minutes and then you can go back. There’s nothing you can do for her now.”

“What if she dies and I’m not there?”

“She’s not going to die.” Any passerby would think he was looking at me, but I saw his eyes subtly scanning the street, something I should have been doing. Then he spoke again. “Have you heard from Peralta since Friday?”

“Not exactly.” I told him about the business card in Ash Fork, the disguised voice on Sharon’s landline, and the message on the dictaphone.

I asked if Peralta had made contact with him.

“No.” He spat on the sidewalk and watched it evaporate in the ten-percent humidity. “Three days now and no contact. This has turned into a real goat fuck.”

I stopped. “This? There’s a this?”

“Walk with me.”

I reluctantly complied. When Third Avenue was clear of cars, we crossed without speaking. Stepping off the curb seemed like a betrayal of Lindsey. Her skin was so hot. I stared at my feet moving through the crosswalk across the asphalt. So damned hot.

Now my eyes were scanning the street and buildings, too. I felt jumpy. I was seething, too. That Cartwright had been a part of this scheme with Peralta and I was left in the closet like a discarded garment. That Strawberry Death had disappeared and Kate Vare had, too. Where was my update on Lindsey’s assailant? Let her come for me. Give me another chance…

On the other side of the street, Cartwright broke through my brooding.

“Three weeks ago, the Russian mafia contacts me. Fifteen million in gem-quality rough coming through town. Could I steal it?”

“Rough?”

“Uncut diamonds,” he said. “What you see on an engagement ring or in a woman’s earlobes has been cut and polished. Rough is the way they come out of the mines. You probably wouldn’t recognize it.”

I was hardly shocked to hear about the Russian mafia. Phoenix was a mob town going all the way back to Al Capone’s organization during Prohibition. It was a convenient back office to tally Las Vegas casino skimmings after World War II. With so many people coming and going, Phoenix was an easy place to reinvent yourself and remain hidden.

Today, in addition to the cartels, it was hard to imagine a gang that didn’t have an outpost in the metropolitan area. Crips, Bloods, outlaw bikers, Mexican mafia, tongs, and other Asian criminal organizations. We were so diverse. All this and Phoenix had a lower violent-crime rate than most other large cities, despite the occasional hysteria from some politicians. Maybe it was because of this. Too much killing was bad for business.

Cartwright seemed to read my thoughts.

“Things are getting worse,” he said. “Budget cuts. Cops laid off. The aviation unit cut back. Phoenix PD disbanded the old Organized Crime unit for the flavor of the month. Violent Crimes. Homeland Security. Organized crime investigations pretty much died.”

I sighed. “So much for the people who voted in Melton because they were afraid of their Mexican gardener.”

“Don’t even get me started on Crisis Meltdown. He disbanded Peralta’s OC unit.”

“He’s one of yours. Retired FBI.”

“Not mine,” Cartwright said firmly. “Younger generation and different Bureau. When he was running for sheriff, he made such a big deal about being a decorated FBI agent. I had never heard of him. Turned out he never did shit as a field agent but he was quick to claim the spotlight for small busts. They called him D.Q. Melton.”

“D.Q.?”

“Drama queen. He couldn’t find a real collar in a shirt factory.”

I laughed but he spat again and continued: “Russians. You drive to the right places in this town and it’s like out of that movie, Eastern Promises, I shit you not. They own barbershops, nail salons, and other fronts, taking in all kinds of stolen goods, but mostly precious gems, diamonds, gold. They steal credit card and debit card numbers. The younger ones stake out public Wi-Fi locations and grab user information. We have a ton of other ethnic mafia crime, including the traditional Italian gangsters, and nobody is doing anything about it. Makes me fucking disgusted.”