Arizona Dreams (4 page)

7

I leaned against the fender of the Crown Vic and watched a county jail inmate walk past with a shovel. Except for the orange jumpsuit, he looked nice enough. Those are the ones who will bash in your brains with the shovel and drive away with your county-issue vehicle. This guy only wanted to use the latrine. He set his shovel on the ground and climbed into the porta-john with all the gravity of an astronaut preparing to leave the moon. The porta-john had a sheriff's star on it, was painted in sheriff's office colors, and towed by a sheriff's cruiser. It went with the chain gang that was five hundred feet away removing the cairn-shaped boulders that might be the grave of a man known only as “Z.”

Once again the lush desert spread out in every direction, with our view drawn to the misshapen butte, the result of a lava flow that was way outside my expertise to discuss. Sweeping up toward the butte, the ground seemed planed smooth, as if carved by some desert glacier that had left behind all manner of geological debris. I kicked the heel of my boot into the soil: too hard to bury anything without heavy equipment or more time and patience with hand implements than murder usually allows. The inmate retrieved his shovel and went back to where the desert floor suddenly collapsed into the hidden arroyo. Coming from that direction was Sheriff's Detective Patrick Blair.

“Dr. Mapstone,” he said in his annoying sportscaster voice. “I should have known you'd be to blame for this adventure.”

In his mid-thirties, Patrick Blair bore a vague resemblance to any number of dark-haired male movie stars of the moment: Jude Law, Ethan Hawke, Orlando Bloom, Matt Damon. They all ran together for me. He had definitely fallen into the deep end of the gene pool. For several years, he'd been a star of the homicide bureau. He'd worked with Lindsey on the Harquahala Strangler case, one of those cases you'd call notorious. This was when Lindsey and I were dating on and off, and then we were off for a few months. All while she was working with Patrick Blair. This left me with an irrational, childish, but unshakable dislike of the man. Seeing him, my ribs and back began to ache worse. When he got close enough, he held out the letter from Dana's father, now enclosed in an evidence bag.

“Where did you get this?”

“I told you on the phone, Blair. A woman came to my office, said she was a former student. After her father died, she found this letter. It contained a confession for a murder in 1966 and directions to the body.”

“But you don't know who the victim is?”

“No.”

“And you don't know the dead father's name?”

I shook my head. He was enjoying this too damned much.

“And now you can't find her.”

“Right,” I said, feeling more foolish. Maybe I should have said nothing, thrown Dana's letter in the trash, ignored the odd coincidence of getting my ass kicked in the location to which Dana—or whatever her name was—had led me. It didn't seem like the right thing to do. “What has your chain gang found?”

“They're just the brute labor, Mapstone,” he said. “We've got detectives and evidence technicians standing by if we find anything. Which seems like a hell of a long shot. Lot of county resources being diverted out here…”

“I'm sure they'd call you if you needed to go back to the city for a facial or something.”

He touched his cheek briefly. He said, “You're an asshole. You find a lot of trouble for an egghead. I was talking to the Phoenix detectives about the murder down in the 'hood, by your house. Ice pick into the brain. That'll do you.” I fantasized about setting his youthful face on fire and putting it out with an ice pick. He went on. “These guys said the pick had been filed down so it was about three inches, and really sharpened. Just long enough to go through the ear into the brain, stir quickly and remove. That's cold blooded. Did you know the guy?”

I shook my head.

“He owned some check-cashing outlets,” Blair said. “You ask me, they're bloodsuckers, taking the money of these poor Mexicans. And some of 'em are used by smugglers to launder money. So there's your case. He pissed somebody off, and they did him.” Blair made a jab with his right hand into an imaginary head cradled in his left hand. So much for Peralta's straight eye for the gay crime.

“Sounds like something Bobby Hamid would do,” Blair continued. “If we could ever make a charge stick against him.”

“I thought he'd become a venture capitalist,” I said. “That's what he says.”

“Yeah, sure.” Blair made an unhandsome snorting sound. I looked to see if snot had emerged from his perfect nose. “He's just as dirty as Sheriff Peralta has always said.”

“More than you would know…” I said.

He looked at me sharply, then asked, “How's Lindsey?”

Before I could answer, or even feel a rush of male jealousy, there was a commotion off through the creosote bushes. A uniformed deputy emerged and gestured for us to come. I followed Blair, my hands instinctively pulling in, even though I was steering well clear of the numerous cholla and prickly pear. My arm was still red from cactus needles. We walked up the trail and turned at the lone, rusting metal fence post. Once again I could see the edge of the hidden drop. Now a deputy was starting to string yellow crime-scene tape, and another burly uniform with a shotgun was leading the inmates out. Seeming to follow them was a foul, telltale odor. A man who looked like Patrick Blair's twin brother met us.

“Hello, Mapstone,” Detective Tony Snyder said, then, “Patrick, we got a body. Mapstone, you can leave. No way has he been there forty years.”

I ignored him and followed them. Approaching the dead is just another cop task, even if you're the guy who works on forty-year-old homicides. And I'd seen some nasty scenes in the five years I spent as a patrol deputy, what now seems so many years ago. But I guess I never got used to it. My legs seemed heavier as we walked the final fifteen feet. About a third of the rocks had been removed. Most of the grave was still covered, but I guessed that Snyder had stopped the inmate labor for fear of contaminating what was now a crime scene. The excavated rocks sat lined up like deformed eggs. Beyond them, something had been uncovered. Blair was snapping on latex gloves and bending to look into a shallow pit.

I could see a head and the top of a torso, lying face up. The stones had done some damage, but enough was recognizable. It was a man with a small white moustache. Just lying there staring up at the flawless Arizona sky on a perfect winter day. Just like he was lying by the pool at the Sanctuary, waiting for a drink with an umbrella in it. Except his eyes were gone, replaced by things I didn't want to think about too much. And his ears were well chewed. The Sonoran Desert was full of critters small enough to skitter through rocks just as if they were weaving through rush-hour traffic on the way to dinner. And his skin was green, and the consistency of a dried tortilla, something the resorts definitely frown upon. And his view was spoiled by the boyish, handsome features of Patrick Blair and Tony Snyder studying him. It was all wrong.

8

Napoleon said he wanted lucky generals. I couldn't tell if my luck was getting better or worse. A likely homicide victim had been discovered in Maricopa County—that was a plus. The sheriff was distracted elsewhere, so he wouldn't be bothered with more concern about my writing habits—definite plus. But then there was the missing Dana, no phone number, no address. That was my carelessness. Big minus. And the timetable. This was no historic crime; the body had been there for no more than a few weeks. I could just walk away. That was good, right? I had other things to do. It seemed smart not to push my luck. I walked back to the car and started out to the highway.

About a mile down the dusty road, the desert started to roll and the vegetation became nothing but spindly creosote bush. I was thinking about Dana. This pleasant nobody woman. I could run her name through the Miami University alumni association. Maybe I also should check the NCIC—maybe she had a record beyond a college transcript. But I had a gut feeling, the part of my gut that wasn't still aching from the impact of a large boot, that I wasn't going to find her. So the question was why she put on the pose. We'd find easily enough who really owned the land. No, I corrected myself. Blair and Snyder would find it. I was free.

That's when I saw something bobbing above the brush. Something moving. I slowed the car so I wasn't making a dust trail, and rolled down the window. That buzz again of ATVs. My body kicked up the panic juice. It's amazing how one beating can make you feel more afraid. Make you feel vulnerable and old. Funny old Mapstone, it was probably just some kids out for a harmless ride. I was about to roll the window back up and get going when there was a break in the creosote brush, and I saw them. They were about five hundred yards away, and moving on an angle toward the road. Somehow I thought I would pick out the giant if he had been five miles away. I looked at the police radio hanging from the dashboard. Reached for the microphone, heard it scrape out of its metal clip. Then I put it back. My mouth was suddenly dry. It had been years since I'd had a drop of water. I made myself slow my breathing and make a plan.

This time I made sure to make dust. I drove about half a mile, keeping an eye on the pair, then stopped in the middle of the road. There wasn't much time. I stepped out of the car and grabbed the three-cell black Maglite from the passenger seat. By then, the two ATVs muscled into the road, leaving behind four tracks indelible in the ancient desert soil. They stopped on the other side of the car and slowly dismounted. Gunfighters dropping from their horses—although a quick scan showed no shooting irons. This time I had a better look at them. Not being face down in the dirt getting kicked will allow that. The younger one still had on a white football jersey with
ghetto
in blue letters. Obviously no time for laundry out here. He looked about twenty, had a sandy buzz cut and a mouth that looked prone to drooling, and probably thought the girls adored him. The big one didn't look so big on second viewing. He wouldn't stand out in a big-city skyline. He had that pumped up look you get courtesy of the state prison system. Besides the black mullet, the other thing I noticed was his eyes. Worlds could be lost in those eyes.

They started around the car from different directions. I walked to the rear, toward the giant. I had no time for David and Goliath musings, although as I recalled, David had superior technology. By the time we met at the back bumper, I had my right side away from him, just the way I wanted it. He started, “You don't…” But by that time I had made an uppercut into his crotch and the Maglite was attached to my hand. He let out a massive burst of breath, foul enough for me to smell it. Next I jammed the heavy steel flashlight into his ribs, a pain center they teach you at the academy, if not in academia. And he was on the way down to the blond desert dirt.

I wheeled on the kid and had the Colt Python .357 Magnum in my hands.

“Get on the fucking ground!” I commanded, trying to lower and steady my voice. My blood was up and I was barely containing my own terror. So I was careful to keep my finger outside the trigger guard, unless he gave me a reason to shoot him. He was about one second from giving me a reason, but he immediately stopped, and pissed his pants. I could actually hear it, then see a large dark stain spread down the leg of his khaki cargo pants. He stuttered something. I backed away so I could keep an eye on both of them.

“Reach in that car and get the handcuffs that are in the glove box. If you take more than five seconds, I'll shoot you.”

“Yessssir…” Ghetto stammered, and did as I asked him.

“Now, get down on the ground, facing me, face down. Do it now.”

When he was face down in the road, I moved closer to the heap that had been Goliath. He was on his knees, in a kind of face-down fetal-position, moaning. I kicked him in the side as hard as I could.

“Were you going to say I don't listen too good? My boss says that all the time.” I would face the police brutality charge later. I needed him to stay down. And my foot felt broken from the impact with his tree-trunk of a body. I walked over and retrieved the handcuffs from Ghetto.

“If you stand up I'll shoot you. If you roll over I'll shoot you. If you look up I'll shoot you.”

“Yesssssir.”

“Keep your goddamned face down in the dirt. Shut up.”

I holstered the Python and cuffed the giant, barely. I double-locked the handcuffs. As a young deputy, I had seen big guys break out of handcuffs. But he didn't seem to be going anywhere. Then I popped the trunk, found another set of cuffs and did the kid.

“Stand up, get your feet under you.” I leaned him against the car, facing me. After I read him his rights, he was wide-eyed.

“You're a cop? We didn't know.”

“Well now you know.”

“We'd a never…”

“Oh, you just beat up civilians?”

“It's private property…” He was starting to blubber. My heart was hard.

“What are you doing out here?”

“We're supposed to keep people away, that's all…”

“It's a hell of a way to do it.” I searched for enough saliva to speak. My mouth was a dry wash bed.

“I didn't want to hurt you. It was Nelson.” He nodded toward the giant.

“Why are you supposed to keep people away?”

He gave a great sniffle and said, “I can't tell you, dude. I can't…”

I watched him for a minute, then said. “Everything you've heard about prison rape is true.” I watched his eyes. “Good-looking kid like you. They're going to have a field day. Assaulting a police officer—you're going to be in prison until you're an old man…”

I opened the car door and started to push him into the back seat.

“No,” the kid sobbed. His head was so far down on his chest it looked like it might just roll off into the road. I leaned him against the car, also keeping an eye on Nelson.

“If I help you, can I get off easier?”

Amazing the influence of television; everybody knew their roles when the police came calling. Unless the kid had done this before. “Maybe. Depends on your record.”

“I'm clean. I swear to God.” He sniffled and gulped, a sickening sound. Then he said, “We were hired by Jack Fife.”

“Who is that?”

“He's some kind of private security dude who works for a land company. Has this big office in North Scottsdale. He told us to keep this land clear. Said it was private property.”

“Why was he so worried? It's miles from anything.”

“I don't know, dude. I swear to God.”

By that time a sheriff's cruiser was pulling in behind me. I had something I wanted hauled downtown. Later I would have time to be afraid, to sit alone and feel the point of panic in my middle, to wonder why the hell I hadn't just sat and called for backup. But even then, I would feel good about my luck.