Concrete Desert (David Mapstone Mystery 1)

“Talk about secrets,” Susan said. “She’s an old girlfriend, right?” I nodded. “Men have a way of referring to their old girlfriends. Something in their voices. I’ve been referred to that way before.”

I laughed unhappily. “Julie showed up at my door one night and asked me to see what I could do. I thought I was going to make a phone call and be done with it.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.” I sighed. “No, I stayed with it.”

“Why?”

“I can’t really say. Something about Phaedra got under my skin. Something mysterious, maybe. Something tragic.”

“I think she had that effect on people. She did on me.

“Look,” she said, pushing back her hair, “I’ve been working since I was fourteen years old. Otherwise, God knows what kind of a mess I could have gotten into. I remember when I was Phaedra’s age. There’s no end to the trouble that can find you…especially where men are concerned.”

“And you think it was her boyfriend Greg Townsend who got her into the trouble?”

“I never met the man,” Susan said. “And Phaedra was afraid to tell me much. But once she got drunk with me and said she had dated a man who flew in cocaine from Mexico. She said she felt like a fool because she didn’t even realize it at first; she just thought they were flying to Mexico every other weekend to have a good time.”

“But?”

“But something happened. She never told me what. But somehow it became clear to her what Mr. Wonderful was doing. So she told him adios and came back to Phoenix. That’s when she went to work for me.”

“Did she ever mention somebody named Bobby Hamid?”

She shook her head.

“So what went wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Susan said. “After she’d been working for me a couple of months, she said one Friday that she was going to Sedona for the weekend. I must have looked at her like, Are you nuts? because she said, ‘Susan, don’t worry.’ That f

ollowing Monday, she was late, and when she finally came in, she looked like hell. She never seemed the same. About a week after that, she said she had to go away to take care of some business.

“After that, she might call me once a week. I saw her twice. She told me she had overheard something she shouldn’t have. She said she was afraid she was going to be killed.”

“By whom?” I asked. “By Greg Townsend?”

“She wouldn’t say. It was never clear. But as I told you at the mall, she was convinced the cops were paid off and that nobody could be trusted.”

“And now Greg’s dead, too,” I said. “So where does that leave us?”

Susan was silent for a long moment and then said, “I want to show you something.”

The sun was nearly gone when I pulled off Grand Avenue into a vast ministorage facility, a rat’s maze of low concrete buildings and orange doors. Gang graffiti was splayed across some of the white walls. I drove slowly through the passages until I found two white Ford Crown Victorias sitting bumper-to-bumper, their engines idling. Four detectives got out when I parked and stepped out into the heat.

“John Ford, Glendale Police,” said a tall blond man in jeans and work shirt. He nodded to his partner, a short, beefy woman with a sour expression. “Sgt. Carol Quarrels,” she said. I showed them my star and ID. All jurisdictional courtesies would be followed.

“You’re Mapstone?” This from a member of the second pair, a salt-and-pepper team of sheriff’s detectives. I nodded. “We’re Kimbrough and Krugell, Sheriff’s Homicide, Harquahala task force,” the black deputy said. “Got the warrant?”

I pulled out the paper and handed it around. We were in a section of large storage units, accessible through roll-up metal doors. I stared for a moment at the unit I wanted. It had a strong-looking padlock on the door.

“Excuse us for a moment.” Kimbrough nodded to me and we walked maybe a dozen paces away from the group. He was tall and handsome, with a shaved head and skin the color of expensive coffee. He looked me over and obviously found me wanting.

“Look,” he said. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but this is our case. If the sheriff hadn’t taken a liking to you for some fucked-up reason, I’d arrest you for interfering in a police investigation. Posse members like you are supposed to ride in parades and help raise money for the sheriff’s reelection, and leave the police work to professionals.”

“Well, if we find any professionals around here, I’ll let you know,” I said. He stuck a finger in my chest and gave me a warning look. “And take your goddamned hand off me. I’ve had a really bad month.” I turned away and walked back to the group.

“Let’s execute this,” I said. “It’s hot out here.”