Arizona Dreams (12 page)

23

It was a little after five p.m. on Friday when there was a tap on the pebbled glass of my office door. I invited the knocker in, and it was Robin. She was wearing a calf-length skirt with a blue paisley pattern and a white knit top. It was the most feminine I had seen her dress, but the change didn't end there. She was wearing makeup. The transformation was remarkable. I won't say it made her beautiful, but she looked very attractive, and I told her so.

“Thank you,” she said, and sat down facing me. “I'm under orders from Lindsey to take both us out—me because I'm mending from a broken heart, although I never had my heart that involved with Edward. And you, because Lindsey told me the bad news.”

It was true. Lindsey would be in Washington for another two weeks. The computer security breach had become big news, affected dozens of companies, and another penetration had happened the night before. She had been assigned to a task force, and she couldn't tell me much more. They would also be monitoring her phone calls, and I wouldn't even be able to come up and visit her—she would be working every day and night. If the feds had been listening, they would know our call hadn't gone well. Her delay would mean we couldn't leave on our long-anticipated vacation. I knew she was as disappointed as me, maybe more so. But I had been looking forward to time away from Phoenix, away from the heat and the endless lookalike subdivisions and crackpot politicians and their wives. I had been short with Lindsey, and after we hung up I was instantly remorseful.

“You're really dependent on her, aren't you?” Robin asked, looking at me with an intense expression, as if trying to read my thoughts.

“I think it's mutual,” I said. “I hope so. What are you in the mood for?”

I took her for drinks to Tom's Tavern, where Peralta joined us after making the rounds with some politicians at other tables. They seemed pleased to see each other. The conversation was light, and, as usual, Robin could talk a lot. But she talked about interesting things, in this case eight months she had spent in Paris, and I was content to listen. Then Peralta left to give a speech. Robin vetoed my suggestion that we go to the galleries over on Roosevelt Row—“I go there all the time”—although I think the real reason was she thought it was too young a crowd for me. So, after being told the wait for a table at Pizzeria Bianco was four hours, we went to dinner at Lombardi's at Arizona Center and then saw a movie. A few days later, I couldn't have told you the title. Afterward, Robin wanted a nightcap, so we swung by Portland's.

I noticed she had drunk bourbon when Peralta was around, but maybe the two were not connected. At Portland's, she drank red wine, and I ordered a snifter of cognac. She held her liquor and was full of stories and opinions. But she also seemed genuinely interested when I talked about history and culture. I found myself liking her and setting aside my earlier misgivings.

She asked, “So how's your case going, David?”

“Well, it's not really my case. Peralta doesn't want me nosing around it.”

“Oh, he seemed nice enough when we saw him.”

I said, “That's because you were around.” Her lips made a small secret smile, and I talked about “my” case. It did feel that way to me, and it had since Dana deposited her bogus letter on my desk months before. Since my trip to the Bell trailer, I had called the doctor who signed the death certificate. He had said Harry Bell suffered from emphysema, a bad heart, high blood pressure, and bleeding ulcers. Harry wouldn't take medicine or take care of himself. To the doc, the death had all the signs of a stroke. Then I had read the case file on Louie Bell's accused killer, Jesus Esparza. Even the county attorney agreed the man had the mind of an eight-year-old. His rap sheet had no indication of violence. His prints were not found on the ice pick. Together, the evidence didn't conjure the image of a killer who could dispatch someone in a crowded casino with an ice pick, and never even knock the victim's body off its stool before the slot machine. I believed what the kid's public defender said: he picked up the wallet from the floor, and never knew Bell was dead.

“So it sounds like they got the wrong guy,” Robin said, patting my hand. “You rock, David.”

“That isn't the way the sheriff sees it,” I said. Not only that, but I still hadn't heard from Dana Earley. Not so much as a “Sorry we missed each other that night in Carefree. Hope you didn't get a concussion.”

“You and the sheriff act like brothers, do you know that?”

“No,” I said. I would think about that one later. I went on, “Maybe I can talk to Patrick Blair about the case. He was the detective who investigated it.”

“Yes, the pretty one,” Robin said. “He has an eye for Lindsey. I bet it really sucks that he's in Washington right now, too, for that police convention. Lindsey told me he was going to be there, and she was looking forward…”

She saw my face and put a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, David. I'm sorry. Shit. I thought she would have told you.”

“Whatever,” I said, and ordered another cognac. I encouraged Robin to tell me more about her time in Paris, and she talked. It was shaping up to be a really bad day. I guess I had given my wife reason to censor herself. But had I? It's not as if I flew into a rage at the mention of the man's name. I had occasionally lampooned him, although the last time I had done that it brought Lindsey's rebuke. I had never been given a reason to mistrust Lindsey. Why hadn't she simply told me about Blair? Robin, meanwhile, segued into talking about her lovers. She said Edward had never been a serious relationship. Her most passionate lover had been a polo player from Argentina; they had continued to see each other intermittently after he had married an heiress in Charleston. “I couldn't compete on the money front,” she said. I half listened.

“I'm kind of surprised you and Lindsey ended up together,” she said. That brought me out of my reverie. Robin looked at me with an expression I can only describe as kindly. She went on, “I mean, Lindsey always liked the bad-boy type.”

“Maybe I'm a bad boy,” I said gamely. She raised an eyebrow and toasted me. I clinked her glass with my snifter, and watched the light play off the dark amber hue of the liquor. The conversation made me feel uncomfortable and vulnerable. A man of the world shouldn't feel that way, should he?

“Anyway,” I said, “however it happened, it's the best thing that ever happened to me.”

We were both at least a little tipsy when we left. She put her hand through my arm and I let her. I couldn't drink the volume I once could. We drove the short distance to Cypress Street, where most of the houses had turned in for the night. Inside the door, I thanked her for her company.

“I'm sorry if I brought you down, David.”

“You didn't.”

“I think she made a good choice,” Robin said. “A good catch. Even if you will be her first husband.”

She said it without smiling. I just looked at her.

“Even if you two stay together, men die early. And she's several years younger. It's just the actuarial tables.”

“OK,” I said. “On that cheery note, we'll say goodnight.” I could hear the harshness in my voice.

Robin cocked her head and put a hand on her hip. For a long moment, she looked at me. She said, “You know, David, I can't decide if you're threatened by me, or if you're attracted to me and don't know what to do about it.”

She instantly had me against the wall and was kissing me, her tongue warm and agile inside my mouth, her body connecting on all points. I took her shoulders and held her back.

“Robin! Are you crazy? This can't happen.”

She evaded my hands and was against me again. Her mouth applied gentle suction as she kissed. She said, “That's not what your body is saying, I can feel it.” She held my head in her hands, and she was very strong.

I managed to turn my head aside.

I said, “Robin, I'm sorry if you got the wrong message from me. I'm not interested.”

“I got the right message,” she said. She was rubbing my groin, which wasn't supporting the decision I was trying to make. She said, “We'll have some fun, and then it will be over. If you want it to be. I don't want to be married and settled down like big sister, if she wants to be.” I grabbed her hand, and she pinned me again, kissing me deeply.

This time I pushed her away with some force. Her eyes bored into me.

She said, “Let it happen, David. You want it more than anything right now. You don't even know where Lindsey is. You don't even know if she's alone. We could have a mutual grudge fuck, me against Edward and you…”

“No.”

She added, a playful lilt to her voice, “I won't tell. I won't stain your precious honor.”

“I won't hurt Lindsey,” I said. An interior voice said,
You overestimate my honor. There was a time when I would have already had you down on the floor
. I moved sideways and away from the wall.

“Every man wants to do sisters,” she said, following me with a buccaneer's smile on her face. “I did a pair of brothers once. It was fun as hell. Later you can tell me how I'm different from her, and how we're the same.”

She advanced on me again, and I started to push her away. She batted away one arm, then the other, and pinned me against the edge of the bookshelves. “You're too slow, David. I took kickboxing for four years,” she laughed. “Maybe I'll just rape reluctant David. Give him the ultimate excuse.” She pressed her breasts against me and ran her hands over me. “Not all of you is reluctant.”

“We're both drunk,” I said, pushing against her. “I won't hurt Lindsey, and I know you wouldn't want that, either. She really loves you…”

Robin kissed me, her tongue burrowing past my teeth, and she started unbuttoning my shirt. When I moved my head, she whispered in my ear, “David is reasoning with Robin. David is trying to give himself lots of excuses for when this finally happens, when it happens and he really loves it, that he did everything he could to stop it.”

“It's not going to happen,” I said. “You're drunk. Lindsey would be ashamed of both of us.”

“You don't know Lindsey as well as you think you do,” Robin whispered, her breath hot on my neck. “I bet you don't know she has a kid.”

The edge of the tall bookshelves was digging into my back. I said, “Lindsey doesn't want to have children.”

“Well it's too late for that,” she whispered insistently. “When she was 16, she had a baby.”

“That's not true. She never told me that.”

“She wouldn't tell you. She had a boy. She didn't want to give him up for adoption, but Linda made her. Then Linda made her join the Air Force, to get away from Ryan. That was the father. Now he was a bad boy. Nice try, Linda, but the barn door was already open, don't ya know. Lindsey had a real thing for him, a real addiction. They got back together a few years later. She found him. They lived together until he killed himself on his motorcycle. But I know Lindsey still wants to find that baby she had with Ryan. I know it. I know the truth hurts, David. I know you want to be Lindsey's true love. It just didn't work out that way. Let Robin make things better…”

I was dully aware that Robin was holding me like a drunken dance partner. When I felt her kiss me again, I shoved her away. She shrugged and smiled and mounted the stairs that led to the garage apartment. She said, “I'll leave the door unlocked for you, baby.”

24

It's wisdom as common as a child's saying: two's company and three's a crowd. My personal paradise with Lindsey had become badly crowded by Robin. It was enough overpopulation to make old Malthus turn over in his grave. I'd been mind-fucked by some pros—but Robin was setting a new standard. If she had her way, the congress wouldn't have stopped with my mind. I knew Lindsey could sense something wrong in my voice from 2,000 miles away. As we talked, I could hear a beep every few seconds—her federal minder—sounding like a supervisor monitoring a sales call. We couldn't talk about anything real. Was she really working all the time in a highly secure environment? Or was there time off to see Patrick Blair? Could what Robin told me possibly be true? “I'll be back soon, Dave,” she said, “so don't fall in love with my sister.” And she laughed her fine, crystal laugh. For just a second, I thought about telling her that Robin had made a pass at me. But then I would want to say more, ask more.

I spent the weekend with my Khrushchev biography, mostly sitting in the study, sometimes with Lester Young and Sinatra on my headphones. How the world had changed—I found myself feeling a little sorry for the Soviet leader. Of course that was hindsight sweetened by the way the Cold War had ended. When K was in power and I was a child, I had lived in mortal fear of nuclear war. There were missile silos around Tucson back then. Reflecting on all that from the safety of my leather chair made the mortal information given me by Robin seem small in comparison.

If I were drafting a biography, I would write, “Mapstone's family situation became complicated that summer.” I tried to sift this new information at a cool remove: that Patrick Blair was also in Washington with Lindsey; and that Lindsey had a baby, and now would be the mother of a grown man. It might have no more truth than any number of myths that historians are paid to debunk. But I had about the same cool distance as the SUVs tailgating on Central that Monday as I rode the bus downtown. On the sidewalk, a man wearing nothing but dirty cargo shorts walked north with a hand-lettered cardboard sign. It said, “Jesus is Coming.” The weekend had been all anti-climax. I saw Robin as she was coming and going, and both of us acted as if nothing had happened. But the house seemed to lack oxygen, and I was happy to go back to work. I stopped for a mocha at the Starbucks on Adams Street, then walked in the shade of the buildings over to the courthouse. Somehow I wasn't sweating yet—it was only in the high nineties. So I took the winding steps up to the fourth floor.

Even though the county was chronically short on office space, my end of the building was deserted. It involved some ancient dispute between this and that department over the offices, with neither winning. It was a shame because the renovation had restored the 1929 beauty to the place, with dark wooden doors and transoms, pebbled glass, and dignified light globes. Many days the custodians don't even turn on the hall lights and today was no exception. That's why the light at the end of the corridor made me slow my pace. My door was standing open. It was probably a lazy cleaning crew. But given my luck lately, I pulled out the Python. My footsteps suddenly sounded horrendously loud. Another five steps and I came in the door with the revolver in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other. I swept the room until the barrel rested on the compact form of Kate Vare.

“You look ridiculous,” she said. “Put that away. They shouldn't even let you be armed. You could be like Barney Fife, and Peralta could keep one bullet for you in his pocket.”

I tended to like cops, but in Vare's case it was easy to make an exception. As Phoenix PD's top cold-case expert, she was convinced I was always on her turf. It didn't help that she had the personality of my vinegar-faced fourth-grade teacher, who, come to think of it, she rather dressed like today. She wore a dark plaid skirt and high-necked blouse. Unlike Mrs. Mulcahey of the fourth grade, Kate had ash blond hair in a Martha Stewart style, and carried a 9-mm Glock on her hip. She sat on my desk, absently twirling her black pump on her right toe.

“Why are you here?” I demanded. “Why don't you ever knock? Did you just break in?”

“Somebody did,” she said.

I turned back to the door. The lock had been completely removed, as if some tunneling device had bored right through it. I noticed it lying in pieces on the wood floor.

“Very professional job, too,” she said.

I looked around, and the office looked much like I had left it on Friday. If someone had been inside, he had been very careful, or been interrupted before he could ransack it.

“What are you working on?” Vare asked coyly.

“What business is it of yours?” I walked around, inspecting shelves, opening file drawers, feeling the vague shock and violation of the burglarized.

“You are such a bastard, Mapstone,” she said. Her bony lower jaw worked silently. “I know you were down at headquarters last week.”

“I'm compiling a manuscript,” I said grudgingly. “About the historic cases. Peralta wants it.”

She laughed loudly, a surprisingly humorless sound coming from Kate. “You are such a bad liar, Mapstone. You were looking at the Alan Cordesman homicide file.”

I could feel my face flushing. David Mapstone, master of deceit. Wait until Lindsey asked me if I kissed her sister or let her massage my crotch. Yes, while I was at the PD working on the book, I had stopped by Homicide and asked to see the file.

“Why do you care?” I said, finally sitting at my desk. I sipped the mocha, which was starting to go room temperature.

“Prove to me that I shouldn't,” she said. “For all I know, Cordesman ties back to a cold case, and you're doing one of your famous end-runs. All the glory to Mapstone and the Sheriff's Office.”

“I've never…”

“What the hell are you holding out?” she demanded. “I swear to God I'll complain to Chief Wilson, get a court order, arrest your ass right this second!”

Now it was her turn to flush. I thought she was going to have a stroke right there on the desktop.

“Kate, you really need to relax. I don't have anything. The guy was killed a block away from my house. I was curious.”

“You discovered the body,” she said.

“I was called by a neighbor who discov…”

“You should have been arrested as a material witness. That's what I would have done.”

I said, “You really have this thing about handcuffs…”

“You know something,” she went on. “I don't know what the hell it is. I went through the computer, checked all my red-flag files. I can't find anything that involves an ice pick through the ear. But I obviously missed something.”

“You didn't,” I said. “There's no historic case involved.”

“Yeah, well, then without that there's no case for the state,” she said, leaning forward, her small hands on her lap. She went on, “The county attorney's not going to prosecute this. There's no physical evidence linking Esparza to the Cordesman crime scene, like there is with Louis Bell. Not one hair. Not one fiber. Not one print.”

“Well, I didn't think Esparza did either one.”

“You bastard,” she said quietly, standing. “I knew you were holding out.”

“I'm not!” I nearly shouted. “Esparza has the mind of an eight-year-old, and this is a smart crime. Sure, they caught the kid with the wallet. But none of the rest of it adds up. And why would the kid kill these two very different victims in such different places?” I didn't mention Dana or the fake letter that led me to the dead brother in the desert.

“Esparza is a burglar,” she said.

“That just makes my point. Cordesman wasn't missing anything.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not true, Mapstone. Burglary got a call from an insurance company on Friday. Their initial inventory of his possessions had been wrong. Cordesman owned a diamond ring. It belonged to his great-grandmother, and it was insured for twenty-five thousand dollars. It's missing.”

“That's it? From what I could see, he had some expensive electronics, a computer, stuff you could fence easily. Why leave all that and take the ring?”

“You tell me, Barney Fife.”

I felt my stomach aching that Kate Vare ache. I said, “Maybe he lost it. Maybe he pawned it.”

“Maybe,” she said. “I called Cordesman's brother in Reno. He's the beneficiary. Apparently Alan had a new girlfriend. But he didn't tell his brother her name or anything about her. Maybe he gave it to the girlfriend. Or maybe she took it after she shoved the ice pick in his brain.”

I sipped the mocha and said nothing. Two's company and three's a crowd. Louis Bell and Alan Cordesman murdered in the same manner. And then there was Harry Bell, apparently dead from natural causes. But he was the bait used by Dana to draw me into…what? Something important enough to make somebody toss my office.

“Earth to Mapstone!” Vare said. She was standing before me, hands on her hips. “This is not a one-way street, Barney Fife.”

“True, Thelma Lou,” I said. She squinted and turned her small mouth down. I doubted her Mayberry knowledge was that complete. “Fair is fair, but so far there's nothing about this case that should interest either of us…”

“Give it up, or I swear to God…”

“The only thing Louie Bell owned in the world besides a trailer by the railroad tracks was one thousand acres of land. He inherited it when his older brother died. It's way the hell west of Tonopah, so it's not worth that much. But the county has tax liens against it. He was way behind in paying his taxes.”

“How do you know this?”

“There was a notice from the county at his trailer. I took it when I was down there last week.” She started to speak, but I talked over her. “I talked to a neighbor kid. He told me some guy kept coming by and harassing Bell. I don't know about what. The same guy came back, after Louie Bell was killed, and went through the trailer.”

“Did he have a description?” she demanded.

“Not much,” I said. I told her about the Dodge pickup and the man with the shaved head and tattooed shoulder. I didn't tell her that he had tried to rearrange my brains in the glass gallery. We were even in the information swap.

She stared at me warily, slowly shaking her head.

“I just don't trust you,” she said. “And even if I did, it wouldn't get me anywhere. The casino case belongs to the feds. Dealing with them is even worse than dealing with you.”