Concrete Desert (David Mapstone Mystery 1)

“Ah yes, good old Paul,” he said. “A great Arizonan.”

I made some apologies and got to the point, explaining why his cousin’s murder might not be a closed case. His face changed subtly, and he listened intently.

“Oh, come, come, David,” he said. “Surely you don’t believe this man, this retired detective? Sounds like he’s doing some overdue ass covering.”

“I might think so, too, Senator, if it weren’t for some new evidence we’ve run across.”

“Call me Brent,” he said quickly. “What evidence? What are you talking about?”

“We’ve interviewed a neighbor who knew Rebecca, and she said Rebecca had a secret lover.”

“A secret lover?” He laughed a little too loudly. “Where on earth did that c

ome from? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

I just looked at him earnestly.

“And even if it were true,” he said, “what does that have to do with anything?”

“The lover might have killed her. We know now her murder didn’t fit the Creeper pattern.”

“Oh, David, that’s quite a stretch, I think. You’re a little obsessed with this, don’t you think?”

“Brent, your cousin was about two months pregnant when she was murdered.”

The blood ran out of his fine bronze tan. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. I shouldn’t have tried to tell him this in between meetings. He walked a couple of feet to a marble bench and sat, staring out into the rotunda. A babble of voices traveled upward.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know it must be a shock.”

He stood and walked away. “I can’t discuss this anymore today,” he said.

“I just need to know-”

He turned violently, his face red. “You need?” his voice was strident; then he lowered it. “You need?” he hissed. “You’ve caused my family quite enough pain with this…this ego-aggrandizing fishing expedition, Deputy!”

He turned and strode angrily off. I guess we weren’t on first-name basis any longer.

I walked the two blocks through the lushly landscaped capitol grounds to the visitors’ parking lot, wondering how I might have handled that better. The case wasn’t merely a historical inquiry; it was a real murder, with real family members left behind, people who’d been hurt. I climbed into the Blazer, took the sunshade out of the windshield and the towel off the steering wheel, and started the engine. That was when I saw a man in a charcoal gray suit walk quickly out of one of the side entrances and head toward a parking area. It was Brent McConnico.

He climbed into a silver BMW convertible and sped out of the lot, a cellular phone stuck to his face. I was already moving, and I fell in behind him about half a block back. I can’t say why, but something in his movements wasn’t right. And a BMW was a strange place to be holding an appropriations committee meeting.

He drove up Seventh Avenue to the on-ramp of the Papago Freeway, blowing past the homeless person selling papers at the light, heading east. I had to speed up to avoid losing him. He was moving, doing at least eighty. I closed the gap, so I was maybe six car lengths behind him in moderately heavy traffic. His Arizona personalized plate said YALE N 3.

At the Squaw Peak Parkway, he turned north. I followed behind, maintaining a steady ninety-five as we left behind the mere mortals in the slow lanes. I hoped the Blazer’s engine, emasculated for California smog regulations, would hold together. The sun glinted off the BMW as we entered nicer and nicer neighborhoods, then rolled past expansive houses sitting on the sides of cliffs and mountains.

He turned east again on Shea Boulevard and pulled into a little strip mall. I drove on past about a block and doubled back, parking at a Carl’s Jr. restaurant across the street. He didn’t have a clue what I drove, anyway. He was sitting in the parking lot with the engine going. He sat like that for maybe ten minutes. Then a black Mustang with dark-tinted windows pulled in beside him and a man I’d seen before got out and climbed into the passenger side of the BMW.

The last time I’d seen that short, muscular man, he was pointing a machine gun at me.

My heart was pounding. I could unholster the Python and walk across the street, Dirty Harry-style. Or I could call for backup.

I did neither. This was all just too damned strange. I picked up the cell phone and called Lindsey.

“Hi, beautiful.”

“Dave, you made me day.”

“Guess what I’m doing?”