South Phoenix Rules (15 page)

Part 3: South Phoenix Rules

22

I don't remember much of the next five days. The cops interviewed me and I described the shooter: an Anglo woman, short and slight build, with pale skin and stringy, long dark hair. She wore no makeup and her features were hard and life-beaten. I went through the PPD electronic mug book and found no one who looked like her. A police artist put together a composite sketch that was a reasonable likeness. Had I ever seen her before? No.

Lindsey flew home. We were careful with each other, as if handling delicate and explosive cargos. I said more than once, “I did my best.” Every time I said it, I heard in my head a quotation attributed to Churchill: “Sometimes doing your best is not enough. You must do what is required.”

Lindsey brought me two books from the Politics and Prose bookstore and didn't ask many questions. She didn't cry. Neither of us slept much. We both drank a great deal. She drank straight vodka as opposed to her old standby, a Beefeater gin martini. I avoided the newspaper. The day she flew out I drove back home to find a notice from the bank: Justin Lee's five-thousand-dollar check had bounced.

The telephone number on Justin Lee's business card had been disconnected. When I called Peralta, he said he didn't know the man aside from the day he came by specifically asking for me. I had let this snake into our garden. I noticed an unfinished pack of Gauloises left by Lindsey. I opened it, pulled out a cigarette and for the first time in my life lit one for myself. I smoked a second until I began to feel ill, and thought and thought.

In my old office, I had a white board on wheels. It was helpful in diagramming cases. Now I took a sheet of paper and tried to do the same thing.

I drew boxes and in them wrote “Sinaloa cartel” and “Gulf cartel” with a line linking them to the “Jesus Is Lord Pawn Shop.” Another line branched off from the Gulf cartel to hold “Los Zetas.” I set a separate “La Familia” box to the side, with no connecting line yet. Other boxes: “Jax,” “ATF,” “Barney,” “hit woman.” And at the top I drew a box and wrote “Judson Lee” until the pen nearly broke through the paper. I would have to find the connecting lines for all of them.

***

Peralta wanted to meet for breakfast, which was a problem. Our favorite, Susan's Diner, was closed, another victim of the recession. Peralta didn't want to go to the Good Egg at Park Central or Tom's Tavern downtown, where he would have to see all the politicos and make small talk. The line at Matt's Big Breakfast was too long. Linda's on Osborn didn't open that early. So we ended up at the Coco's on Seventh Street, where the place was almost empty and nobody noticed us.

“I'm going down to Casa Grande on a case,” he said once we had placed our orders. “I want you to come with me.”

“No.”

He drank his coffee and we sat in silence until the food showed up.

“It's an interesting case. It could use your skills.”

I had no skills.

He said, “You look like hell.”

I didn't deny it. The omelet tasted vile, but that was no fault of the cook. I tried the Diet Coke, which tasted vile. Peralta reached into his suit-coat pocket and produced a leather wallet. He slid it over.

“Open it.”

From years of following his commands, I involuntarily opened the thin wallet, revealing credentials for a licensed private investigator in the state of Arizona, issued by the Department of Public Safety. My photo and signature were on the card.

“Where did this come from?” Another forkful of the foul eggs and cheese. “No, no, don't tell me. It was in those papers I signed when I turned in my badge.” I started to say he'd also made a claim on my firstborn, but stopped myself in time.

I left the wallet open on the table. Peralta munched scrambled eggs and bacon contentedly. “That other desk at the office? It's for you, Mapstone. I'll even buy you a bookshelf.” He finished a piece of toast and let his coffee mug be refilled. “You have to let the police handle Robin's murder.”

I stabbed at the omelet. The hash browns were no better. Everything tasted the same.

“The worst thing,” he said, “is a hotdog. You were never a hotdog, Mapstone. Don't start now.”

“What does PPD have?”

“Nothing. But they have a top team on it.”

“Like you and Antonio?” I dropped the fork. “Nice job there. Los Zetas assassination team in jail. No problem, huh? Robin killed by an Anglo woman who looked like she stepped out of a trailer park. You guys deserve medals. I don't even believe these Mexicans you're holding killed Jax Delgado.”

“You know this takes time.”

“I don't have any more time.”

“Come with me to Casa Grande. This is an interesting case.”

“May I ask a question?”

He nodded.

“Is that Five-Seven licensed or registered?”

“Yes.” He watched me evenly, which meant nothing with him. His dark eyes were angry, then alarmed.

I said, “That's too bad.” I pulled it out and handed it back to him, no one noticing. I added the extra magazines of ammo to the tabletop, right by the ketchup and then I stood.

“Don't.” That was all he said.

I started to leave. But I turned around and took the credentials, then walked out.

***

For the next two days I had lunches that I couldn't afford at the Phoenician. The lush surroundings and spectacular view eluded me. I hated these people, the sharpies and phonies and wealthy vagrants that had ruined my city, that cared nothing for it except as a place to use up and throw away. The resort had been built by one of the archetypes: Charlie Keating. At least Harley Talbott had been home-grown trash.

No, I was there looking for the server who had called Lee such a charmer. If I was lucky, maybe I could charm her, even as I wondered if I was capable of a smile. She was off the first day, and I didn't even know her name. But she was my only potential link to him.

The second day was better.

She was not only working, but I was seated in her section without asking. I had trimmed up my beard and was wearing my best suit with a burgundy Canali tie.

“It's Mr. Lee's friend,” she said, standing over me with a grin but no order book, this being a classy joint where the servers were expected to handle things from memory. “Where's your colleague?” Meaning Robin. I just let my internal bleeding go and smiled at her.

“He certainly likes you.”

She raised her eyebrows and bobbed her head ironically.

I pushed a little deeper. “It looked like he'd been a regular for years.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “He's only been coming here for a few months. But he just has that way about him.”

I agreed that he did and ordered lunch. That way about him: the harmless old guy, quick with a compliment and always wanting to know about her. As I waited for the food, I tried to figure out a shrewd way forward and kept coming up dry. Kept falling down into the places I was trying very hard to lay a thick concrete slab over just so I could move into the next sixty seconds of my life. I watched her graceful walk back toward the kitchen and wondered about her stake in this place. She was too old to be a high-school girl, and probably wasn't in college, either. If she were trolling for rich men the better job would be working the counters at Nordstrom in Scottsdale. Maybe she was a professional server in this tourist economy. Maybe she was an ATF agent.

Judson Lee. Attorney at law. Except that a call to a friend at Snell & Wilmer that morning taught me a few things. This veteran lawyer at the city's most prestigious firm had never heard of Lee. Nor was he listed in the Martindale-Hubbell directory going back more than twenty years. Just a charming old killer who had played me like a green rookie.

When it came time to pay the bill, I saw the server's name—Lisa—and told her it was beautiful. She smiled at me, but I was a few decades shy of being able to come off as the harmless old guy and my flirting skills were rusty. Oh, I wished that I still had my badge, which made it easy to ask questions, especially of citizens who want to do the right thing.

“Well, you tell Mr. Lee I said hello when you see him,” she said. “I don't see him anymore.”

“He's a busy man, Lisa. I'm sure he'll be in soon with another group of friends.”

“Oh, you were special,” she said. “He almost always dined alone.” She paused, decided my Canali tie made me trustworthy, and went on. “I get the sense he's kind of lonely. Once he had a woman guest, but she seemed uncomfortable here, if you know what I mean.”

“I do. Was this her?” I opened up the composite police sketch and slid it over so she could get a good look.

“Yes.” Her voice was faint. “Am I in trouble?”

It was interesting to live in such an insecure-feeling America, where a man in a suit in possession of a piece of paper with official Phoenix Police logos on it had instant credibility. I asked her if she knew where I could find Judson Lee. Her eyes processed a response: Go get the manager? Say nothing? Risk losing my job if I don't cooperate?

“I swear, I don't know.” She bit her lip, eyes heavily lidded. “I will tell you that he told me a story once. Kind of creeped me out, you know? How he had visited a strip club the night before. ‘Gentleman's club,' he called it, but it was clear what he meant. Said he went there all the time. And he had to tell me the name, the Stuffed Beaver. Ick.”

I folded up the composite and put it away, thanked Lisa, and signed the receipt. I gave her a big tip.

The Stuffed Beaver. It was the same place on Indian School Road where Barney the gun dealer had lost his glass eye in the stripper's stomach. At home, I drew a line from Judson Lee to the new box, the strip club, and another line that connected to Barney.

23

The Stuffed Beaver sat in a building facing north on Indian School Road a little before 24th Street. It had been built recently as a Washington Mutual office, a typical ugly freestanding structure, then shut down by the mortgage bust and remodeled as a strip club. The name was proclaimed with a blazing blue-and-red sign, accompanied by a smiling cartoon creature that took up the entire street-facing facade. I wondered how it got past the city code. In smaller letters: “18 to cum, 21 to swallow.” Wednesday was amateur's night. This was not amateur's night. The parking lot sat on the west side and extended behind the structure. Entry was through the back. That made surveillance problematic.

I couldn't go inside and hang around—both Barney and Lee knew me. While the parking lot was spacious, a man sitting alone in a car for hours might attract the attention of club security. Fortunately for me, the biggest beneficiary of Phoenix's bust was an outfit named “Available.” Its signs were everywhere, including on the vacated older building directly west of the club. Behind it were five covered parking places with a direct view of the parking lot. I backed into one and waited.

My days were monsters, shooting me full of panic attacks that were only alleviated by trips to the shooting range. The nights saved me. The darkness covered me and made the city look less hideous, made me less aware of all that had been lost, the losses I carried around inside and ones that never occurred to the people who moved into a new “master planned community” on the fringes, only wanting the sunshine and cheap housing. Fewer were coming now. I had seen a story in the newspaper a few months ago that population growth might have even reversed. For seven decades, all Phoenix had to do was build houses and people came. Now the reliable old growth machine was flat busted. The “available” signs proliferated everywhere. The promising downtown condo towers were in foreclosure. The million-dollar faux Victorian condos on Central Avenue near my house were unfinished. Subdivisions rotted and were stripped of their building materials from Maricopa to Surprise.

For three nights I sat in my covered parking space, watching the men come and go. I had never understood the appeal: for me, sex was not a spectator sport. I saw the otherwise unremarkable young women walk through the parking lot wearing normal street clothes, carrying gym bags, heading to another night of work. Which one was named Destiny? I slowly worked my way through Lindsey's blue pack of Gauloises Blondes, trying not to see Robin's face hovering before my eyes. The club was open twenty-four hours, beyond my ability to cover. Considering the Jesus Is Lord Pawn Shop closed at six p.m., I decided to watch from six-thirty to eleven.

On the first night, I got a call back from Nick DeSimone, the Scottsdale chef. He told me things that didn't surprise me. He had never heard of Judson Lee. He had no roots in Phoenix and both his grandfathers had died peacefully in Chicago. I thanked him, hung up, and for the thousandth time cursed my naiveté.

All that time Barney never appeared, but after ten on the third night a familiar cream Caddy zipped into the back lot and parked in a handicapped space. Judson Lee got out and strode inside. Following him, quick-stepping to keep up, was a tall Anglo man, young, muscled, military haircut. He had a hawk's nose, as if begging for a pair of glasses, but there were no glasses. He was long-limbed and wide-hipped. The night was warm but he wore an oversized black windbreaker, just the kind of garment that might conceal a firearm.

I sat up straight in the car seat, a blend of rage and fear sending prickly signals through my legs. I unconsciously touched the butt of the Colt Python on my belt and ran my hand over the towel that covered the TEK 9, taken from the gang member who had been sitting on my street, resting on the passenger's seat. Its thirty-two-round magazine was full of nine-millimeter ammunition. I cursed Judson Lee aloud, my voice a strange companion in the silence of the dark parking nook. Another ten minutes passed before a Dodge Ram truck glided into the lot and Barney got out.

After six hours that the clock said were forty-five minutes, the three men came out again. Judson Lee and Barney talked animatedly, the slightly built lawyer gesticulating, Barney nodding and nodding. They seemed like an unlikely pair. Then Lee walked to his Caddy, turned to say one more thing to Barney, and got in the car. The man who looked unmistakably like a bodyguard drove. I started the Prelude and slowly slipped down the driveway with the lights off. When the Cadillac turned east on Indian School, I followed, letting a car get between us, maintaining a quarter-mile distance.

This was the point where the old David, so valued by everyone in my life for good judgment, would have called the police. Called Peralta. But the idea never occurred to me. The prickliness was gone from my legs. I felt comfortably frosty.

They turned south on Thirty-second Street and accelerated to fifty. The speed limit was thirty-five, but nobody in Phoenix paid attention to such niceties, so I was able to keep up and still blend in with the moderate traffic. That's what I told myself.

Much of this had been groves when I was little—Phoenicians drove out the two-lane roads and bought oranges and grapefruits from little stands—then it had been remade into middle-class, single-family ranch houses. Now it was going down, miles and miles. The well-off Anglos called it the “Sonoran Biltmore” and laughed. To me it was a haunted landscape.

The Caddy made the light at Osborn. Then it turned hard red. I cursed, made a quick right, a U-turn that barely missed an oncoming Chevy, then swung south again on 32nd and soon caught up, a safe quarter mile between me and Lee's taillights.

They caught the Red Mountain Freeway and sped east, all the way across the Salt River, past downtown Tempe with its new, derelict forty-story condo tower and the In-N-Out Burger at Rural Road, then swung south onto the Price Freeway, running fast now that the four-hour rush hour was over. Of course, this, too, had once been wide-open agricultural land. Most of it was built up in the years I was away from Phoenix and I barely knew it now. Knowing it didn't take genius: wide avenues every mile lined by the entrances to newer subdivisions of curvilinear streets and houses with tile roofs. Shopping strips anchored by a Fry's or Safeway sat on the major corners, along with huge gas stations. There were far fewer payday loan stores. The tableaux passed with numbing regularity. Better-off white families, the better-funded schools; the Intel semiconductor plants that provided a dash of diversity in the region's economy. Totally car-dependent. Except for the proliferation of brand-new Mormon and evangelical churches, this land was Maryvale half a century ago and didn't know it. I wondered how many of the husbands of the East Valley had stopped at a strip club on the way home.

I was four cars behind them at the red light for Chandler Boulevard when the feeling first bobbed against me. I set it aside when the light changed. Couldn't lose them now; wishing I could get close enough to make out the license tag. We whipped across the overpass and drove east again. Then the Caddy signaled left and entered a subdivision. I slowed down and waited, then followed them in with my lights off. The place was damnably well-lit, but I risked it, staying with the red tail-lights as they went straight, made a gentle curve, then a hard right turn onto another street. I approached the street at five miles per hour, nosing just enough beyond the edge of a house to see a large garage door opening in the middle of the block and the Cadillac disappear inside. The door came down.

It was a pleasant block, if suburbia was your thing. Yet it had all the charm of an empty cereal box. Newer houses were jammed together with postage-stamp lawns, wide driveways, three-car garages, and walled-in back yards. The entrances were small because the developer expected people to come and go through the garages. Those varied little more than the two or three styles of stucco tract houses, all painted to a palette ruthlessly enforced by the homeowners association. This was a place where people were supposed to blend in. If I had looked away for a second, I couldn't have recalled which house they had entered. But I didn't lose that second. I turned on the headlights and drove by at a normal speed, noting the address. Lights were on inside. No other vehicles were visible on the street.

But the feeling was still there: that cop's sixth sense that I was proud to have acquired despite my itinerant law-enforcement career. It was the awareness of being followed.