High Country Nocturne (David Mapstone Mystery 8)

“Strawberry Death.” She gave me that ironic half-smile. My testiness evaporated. Lindsey had the ability to tease without hurting.

“She had strawberry blond hair, yes.” I thought about it. Had I overreacted? “So you’re pissed that I made you leave home?”

She propped herself on her elbow and swung a long, naked leg over me. Her skin was not quite porcelain, but very fair, a beautiful contrast with her nearly black hair.

“I’m never mad when you’re concerned about me, Dave. This is a pretty nice safe-house, too.”

“But you didn’t sleep…”

“Could you have slept? You were a long way away and I didn’t hear a word from you.”

“I was afraid they were listening in.”

“Dave, I altered your cell to make it a totally dark device. The data are encrypted and your conversations are scrambled. Nobody can listen in. Not even the feds.”

She was right. She was put out with me. But she didn’t move her leg. She was five feet eight and I was six two and we had the same inseam. I stroked the soft, perfect skin of her thigh.

She said, “Peralta obviously ditched his cell so they couldn’t track him. He shot a guy in one of the most crowded malls in town and made a clean getaway. Mike Peralta, international jewel thief. Kinda sexy.”

“Lindsey, this is serious.”

“You have to smile or you’ll cry, Dave. I don’t think you have to worry about Strawberry Death. She was only a scared rookie on a traffic stop facing my dark dangerous lover. You’re very intimidating, you know. You don’t realize it.”

She sat up on her haunches. “Take a shower and let’s go home.”

It sounded like a good idea.

I stripped down, stepped into the commodious shower, and let the hot water sluice off my aching body. In a few minutes, Lindsey joined me, and we got friendly.

Afterwards, we got in bed long enough to watch the sun come up. It was worth it. Light revealed Camelback Mountain, Piestawa Peak—formerly Squaw Peak—and the North Mountains. Sunrise draped a coppery glow over the Viad Tower, the only interesting skyscraper in the city. The air was clean enough that we could see the Bradshaws, the muscular blue mountain range where the High Country began. It made me think of my travels last night. Dreamlike, yes.

Once the sun was higher, it showed off the emerald carpet of trees running north to the bare mountains and Phoenix didn’t seem so bad.

Lindsey had taken a cab to the hotel and Sharon had dropped me off. So we rode the light rail up to Park Central and ate breakfast at The Good Egg. While Lindsey waited at our table, content with the house coffee, I walked next door to Starbucks for a venti mocha. I smiled involuntarily at all the times Peralta had made fun of me for ordering the drink, wondering where he was now and whether he was safe.

Then I saw the stacks of Arizona Republics and the top headline on page one, “Peralta Linked to Gem Heist.”

I was angry before I read the subhead, “Former sheriff shoots diamond courier at crowded Chandler mall.” I bought a paper and got my mocha.

Lindsey read it on my face before she saw the newspaper. I tossed it into an empty chair. “I can’t stand to read it.”

She read the article. “Ah, they’re calling it the ‘crime of the century.’ Don’t we have a few more decades to go? Hey, doesn’t your old girlfriend work at the Republic?”

“They pushed her out in a reorganization years ago,” I said. “You know that.”

“You know the drill, Dave. Keep asking the same question and try to trip up the suspect. Don’t be so serious. An omelet will do you good.”

“Showering with you did me good.”

She smiled, then her brow furrowed. “Did you try to convince Sharon to leave town for awhile? She could be with her daughters in San Francisco.”

“I did. She won’t go. Said she wants to take care of you and me. Anyway, the FBI is staked out in front of their house.”

“The media are going to be camped out for her, too.”

“She’ll be all right.” I sampled the mocha. It had exactly the right amount of chocolate. I hoped Sharon would be all right. Even if the feds weren’t there, the Peraltas’ house, perched on a bluff overlooking Dreamy Draw in north Phoenix, was like a fortress and Sharon was a decent shot.

We were at a table on the front patio with the heaters going. It was in the fifties, nippy for Phoenix. I would have been comfortable taking my jacket off but I needed it to conceal the Python.