The Night Detectives - [2]

“Who is she to you?” It was the first time I had spoken besides the introductions after he walked in the door.

The cat’s eyes focused on me. After a pause: “my sister.”

“Why not Grace Smith?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed and he assessed me, finding me wanting. “She had a different last name.”

I suppose it made sense. Lindsey and Robin had different last names, different fathers. Maybe Felix and Grace’s mother remarried. Maybe Grace had been married. I persuaded myself I was being overly suspicious.

I said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

His gaze would have cut me down if it had been a gun.

He produced a photo from his portfolio and slid it across Peralta’s immaculate desktop. It was five-by-seven and glossy. The young woman had butterscotch hair with blond streaks, stylishly cut to hang slightly above her shoulders, large brown eyes, very pretty. She didn’t look anything like him. Great smile and something more, something magnetic. The camera liked her. She liked the camera.

When the suit sleeve and French cuff rode up with his reach, I saw a multi-colored tattoo on his lower arm and almost unstrapped the gun on my belt. I had recently made enemies in the drug cartels and didn’t know if our business was settled.

“This condo.” I studied his face. “Was it hers?”

The skin around his eyes tensed. “No.”

I waited and after a full two minutes he talked again.

“It belongs to a man named Larry Zisman.”

It sounded vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place it. Smith sensed it, and continued.

“He was an All-American quarterback for the Sun Devils back in the seventies, then he played pro for ten years before his knees were wrecked.”

“Now I remember,” I said. “I never read about this in the newspaper.”

“Funny about that,” Felix replied. “Larry Zisman is a celebrity with a lot of powerful friends.”

“Is he married?” I asked.

“Very.” Felix adjusted one leg and very slightly winced. It was the first time his face had given away an expression beyond tough.

The next question was logical enough, but Peralta didn’t ask it.

“Note?” Peralta could be more taciturn and economical in his language than anyone I had ever met.

“No. She didn’t leave a note. Nothing. That’s one of the things I don’t like.”

“What else makes you doubt the police?”

“She was naked and her hands were bound.”

Now he had my attention for reasons beyond his appearance. Peralta grunted and I heard his pen scratch along the paper.

“It’s a good department,” Peralta said. “San Diego. You need to understand that these things are usually what they seem, however much the loved ones want it to be otherwise.”

I wasn’t sure about that. I had seen botched death investigations, even by good departments.

“I have confidence in you, Sheriff. That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m the former sheriff.” Peralta said it without any emotion, then pulled out the sheet with our fee schedule and handed it across to Felix with his meaty hand.

That was another thing that didn’t feel right: “former sheriff.”

Until four months ago, Peralta had been the sheriff of Maricopa County for what seemed like forever. Everybody I knew thought he would be sheriff as long as he wanted it, unless he decided to run for governor. I was one of his deputies and the Sheriff’s Office historian. It was good work for somebody with a Ph.D. in history in this or any job market.

But those assumptions had been based on another Arizona, before millions of retirees and Midwesterners had collided with the huge wave of illegal immigration before the big housing crash. It was a bad time to be a Hispanic running for office and Peralta lost, even though he was a life-long Republican. There would be no Governor Peralta in today’s Arizona. He took the defeat stoically. Instead of moving on to any of the lucrative consulting offers that had come his way, or encouraging the feeler to become San Antonio police chief, he set up shop as a private investigator. And here I was, too, as his partner. He was my oldest friend.

Our office was shabby compared with the places Felix Smith must have been accustomed to, based on his suit. We were on Grand Avenue, the bleakest thoroughfare in a city with abundant competition for the title, in what had once been a little motel, an “auto court.” Most of the motel had been bulldozed long ago-Phoenix loved clearing land and leaving it that way. The new mayor was trying to encourage art projects and gardens on vacant lots, but I wondered if the effort would do much good.

Robin had found a 1948 post card of the motel: a charming affair with half a dozen buildings, each with two rooms, a swimming pool, lawns, and palm trees. All that was left was the former front office-a small, square adobe with enough room for our two desks, some file cabinets, and places for clients to sit. Except for our comfortable chairs, the décor was spare. Recently, Peralta had added a black leather sofa.

We were barely moved in. Peralta had sprung for a bookcase for me, but I hadn’t put a single volume in it. Boxes of correspondence, all for Peralta, sat behind my desk. Speaking requests for him came almost every day. We really needed a secretary. Behind the office were a bathroom and a storeroom, the latter having been remodeled and fortified by Peralta for gun storage. Robin had named it the Danger Room. We each had a key to it, but it was mostly Peralta’s playroom. A super-sized Trane air conditioning system had been installed.