Concrete Desert (David Mapstone Mystery 1)

The phone rang at three o’clock, and I thought it might be Brent McConnico. Instead it was an impossibly young voice identifying himself as Noah Hunter. He sounded harried and apprehensive. When I asked about Phaedra, he was silent a long time. Then he said I could meet him on his work break that night at Planet Hollywood, where he was employed as a waiter.

It must have been 115 degrees outside, but the sun had disappeared behind the White Tank Mountains and a long line had gathered outside Planet Hollywood. The restaurant sat at one end of the Biltmore Fashion Park, an outdoor shopping mall in tony northeast Phoenix. I bypassed the line and heard some grumbling. The blond goddess at the front

counter, backed by a life-size poster of Arnold, Bruce, and Demi, started to admonish me, but I discreetly showed my badge and asked for Noah Hunter. I was feeling too goddamned old to be waiting in lines in the heat when I didn’t even want to be there.

In a moment, Noah Hunter appeared and steered me outside. We walked in silence toward a Coffee Plantation in the middle of the mall. He looked about twenty, tall and good-looking, with close-cropped light brown hair, a sensual mouth, and bad posture.

“They’re gonna think I’m in trouble,” he said sulkily.

“You can explain to them,” I said.

We went inside and ordered iced mochas, then went back out to the sidewalk tables, which were cooled somewhat by the ever-present misters in the roof. He sprawled out across one of the chairs and casually regarded a young brunette walking past. She gave him a dazzling smile and tossed her head.

“So what do you want?”

“I want to talk about Phaedra Riding.”

“It was that goddamned Josh, wasn’t it?” He shook his head. “Cop wanna-be. Jesus.”

“Do you know where Phaedra is?”

He looked me over and thought about copping an attitude. “No,” he said.

“She’s dead,” I said, watching him carefully. “Murdered.”

He sat up in a hurry. Then he rolled his head around violently. Tears welled up in his eyes. “What are you talking about, man? What are you talking about?”

I gave him the details and watched his eyes while he ignored his coffee and absently rubbed his neck with a large tanned hand.

“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked. I should have read him his rights, but I knew he didn’t do it. I didn’t tell him that.

“Shit, you think I killed her? Is that what you think?”

“If I thought that, I’d be here with lots of help,” I said. “But your behavior is telling me I might have been wrong.”

He stared at me.

“I’m listening.”

He sighed and slumped into his chair. “Phaedra.” He shook his head. “Such a cool, sexy name. She would come into this coffee place on Mill Avenue and just sit at the back and read. One day, I walk back there and she’s reading John Stuart Mill. How do you start a conversation based on that?”

I could, I thought absently.

“But I got her talking and we hit it off, you know? So I asked her out, and we had a good time.”

“When was that?”

“I don’t remember exactly. School was still in session. Maybe late April.”

“So you dated?”

He nodded.

“She was way too smart for me. Read about a book a day, seemed like. She also played the cello. Not your typical party chick. But she wasn’t looking for anything heavy. I think she’d just come out of a relationship. We just had fun.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

He was silent and stared down at his hands.