High Country Nocturne (David Mapstone Mystery 8)

He appraised me more closely now. He held out a rough-skinned hand and we shook.

“Orville Grainer.”

“David Mapstone.”

“You related to Philip Mapstone, the dentist?”

“He was my grandfather.”

“I went to him a couple of times. Nice man, Doc Mapstone. He didn’t hurt me. Made me hate dentists a little less.”

This was once a very small state.

We walked a few more steps. His stride turned into a slight limp.

I asked him what he had seen tonight but he avoided the question.

“The West we knew is gone, David. Don’t you know that? They even canceled the cowboy artists’ show at the Phoenix Art Museum. That was the only reason I ever went down to that damned city.”

Looking back, I could see Sharon’s car under the streetlamp. I didn’t want to get farther away. From where we stood, the broad starry sky demanded attention. I could pick out the Little Dipper. As a Boy Scout, I had won a merit badge in astronomy, but now I couldn’t identify most of the other constellations.

Santa spoke again. “I sit at home and when I can’t sleep…my wife died ten years ago and lot of nights I can’t fall asleep…I walk around and watch. Watch the stars. Watch this dying little town.”

“Like this evening.”

“That’s right. Haven’t seen so many police in a long time and FBI, too. Knew it couldn’t have been a burglary. Must be something mighty important. That Texaco belonged to Shorty Hayes, you know. Shorty ran it forty-six years before he died. Hell of a poker player.”

“Want to tell me what happened at Shorty’s tonight?”

He stopped and looked back at the ruin of a gas station. We had gone about a block.

“Cops, cops, and cops. My boy wanted to be one, ya know? But he went off to Vietnam and didn’t come back.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me, too. Anyway, they were really interested in that Ford pickup that got towed off.”

“Did you see how it got there?”

“Oh, yeah. Man parked it there. A big man, broad shoulders, black hair. Taller than you. He was smoking a cigar.”

“Anglo?”

Grainer shook his head. “Could have been. Probably Mexican. I wasn’t close enough to be sure and he stayed in the shadows.”

Grainer was describing Mike Peralta.

I asked how far away he was when he saw the man?

“About a block away, standing behind a tree.”

He contemplated as his jaw worked the chewing tobacco, then continued.

“It was too far away to make out his face. But the fella didn’t act lost. He was careful to pull into the dark instead of sitting under the light. Got out of the truck. Lit his cigar. Walked around. I told all this to that big black G-man.”

“Did the man at the truck seem nervous?”

He squinted, exposing dozens of little ravines on his face. “You sure you ain’t the law?”