Concrete Desert (David Mapstone Mystery 1)

“Uh, writing about the effect of the Great Depression on the Rocky Mountain states?”

“Close,” I said. “I’m watching the majority leader of the state senate talking to the man who tried to blow me away at Metrocenter the other night.” I read her the license plate of the Mustang and heard her emphatically typing it in.

“Hang on,” she said. “The system’s been down all day. Are you safe? They can’t see you?”

“I’m across the street.”

“You want backup? I can roll PD.”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Okay, we have liftoff,” she said, then read me the information. I wrote it down and then watched them inside the BMW. Brent McConnico was gesturing violently as the small, muscular man sat impassively.

“Thanks. You’re my hero again.”

“I’m speaking in cliches,” Lindsey said. “But be careful.”

“I will. We’ve got plans tomorrow night.” I hung up.

Across the street, the muscular man, whose name was apparently Dennis Copeland, got out of the BMW and closed the door. Then McConnico waved him back to the driver’s side, rolled down the window, and spoke again. Dennis Copeland dismissed him with a wave, climbed into the Mustang, and roared off. I pulled in behind him and got on the cell phone.

Chapter Twenty-three

We descended back into the Valley on the Squaw Peak Parkway and exited at Indian School Road, going the speed limit. I held steady about half a block behind the Mustang. We were headed toward Central when my cell phone squealed.

“Deputy Mapstone, look behind you.” A Phoenix cop was on my tail. “I’m Officer Brenda Jackson. Chief Peralta tells us you need some help.”

“It’s the black Mustang just ahead of me,” I said, pushing it to make the light at Sixteenth Street. She was still with me. “He’s the guy from the Metrocenter shooting.”

“How long has it been since you’ve done a felony traffic stop?” Brenda Jackson wanted to know.

“A little while,” I said, lying. It had been fifteen years. “But it’s like riding a bicycle.”

She laughed. “We’ll pick up another unit at Central and then we’ll box him. I want you to be on his outside as we rope him in. By that time, other units should be with us. If he starts to run, let him go at a distance.”

“Ten-four,” I said.

He continued westbound on Indian School Road and crossed Central almost leisurely. Just as Brenda Jackson had said, I saw another PPD cruiser in the rearview mirror. He came up very quickly and passed us all, positioning himself ahead of the Mustang. Traffic was fairly thin. The sidewalks were deserted and few buildings were close to the street. It wouldn’t get any better than this.

“Let’s do it,” Jackson said.

I pulled into the outside lane and punched the accelerator to close the gap with the Mustang. Jackson came right up on his tail and hit the emergency lights. Then the cruiser ahead slowed suddenly. I pulled up beside the Mustang and the trap was closed. All I could see through the dark tint of the windows was the outline of a man.

Jackson hit her siren and he was forced to slow again by the cruiser right ahead of him. Then he slammed on the brakes, and we were all out of our cars, facing him with pistols drawn and automobiles between us and him.

“Driver of the Mustang,” Jackson announced on the PA system. “Roll down your windows so we can see you. If you have any weapons, throw them out on the driver’s side. Keep your hands where we can see them. Slide across and get out on the passenger side-repeat, the passenger side. Keep your hands in plain sight.”

A long time seemed to pass as cars whizzed by behind me. She repeated the order. The driver just sat there behind his dark windows. A thought crept into my head: What if it’s the wrong guy? The cop from the lead car edged in toward the Mustang, semiautomatic pistol drawn. He was tall, skinny, blond, and very young.

Then his face just disappeared in a mist of blood and smoke and the splinters of his sunglasses, followed by a massive boom and echo. His body snapped backward and fell heavily to the pavement.

I squeezed off a round, the big Python jumped in my hand, and the window on the driver’s side of the Mustang exploded from the impact of the.357. But Copeland was already moving fast, kicking open the passenger door and rolling out onto the sidewalk. I couldn’t see him.

“He’s going east on foot!” Jackson yelled. I could see her talking into her walkie-talkie, calling for assistance. I scuttled low around the Blazer and the police cruiser in front of the Mustang. The young cop was flat on his back and his face was gone. I felt for a carotid pulse in the gore. Nothing. I was shaking, and I thought very clearly, Copeland must have shot through the windshield of the Mustang.

Then the side windows of the police cruiser came apart and bullets were whizzing past me. I fell to the asphalt and immediately got burned from the heat. I rolled and rose to a crouch. I could see his feet. Then I didn’t know where he was. Somewhere on the other side of the police car, maybe. Or maybe coming toward me.

I heard Brenda Jackson on the other side of the cars, ordering him to freeze. I rose, still separated by two vehicles, and watched him turn toward her, a long-barreled.44 Magnum in one hand and my old friend the machine gun in the other, both traveling upward. Three quick cracks. She was firing.