High Country Nocturne (David Mapstone Mystery 8)

So I gave it to him, exactly, “I don’t like you, Sheriff. I don’t like your politics. You and your people lied about Mike Peralta’s record. You set people against each other.”

Remembering the thugs that had shouted Peralta down at one debate, the vicious online comments about him from Melton supporters and all the “dark money” from anonymous out-of-state donors, I started to get wound up.

I forced my voice to stay even. “I don’t approve of the way you won the election or how you run the department. And I don’t take clients that I don’t like and trust.” I thought about it and added, “No disrespect.”

“Call me Chris.”

“If I did take your case, it would be a five thousand-dollar retainer up front, then five hundred dollars an hour after that. I would want total control of the case. No second-guessing.”

He laughed from below his diaphragm and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. His beer was still untouched.

“That’s not what I had in mind.”

His hand went back into the bag and pulled out what looked like a wallet. I realized what it really was only when he placed it on the table atop the file and opened it: a star and identification card. My old badge and credentials.

“You’re coming back to the Sheriff’s Office, David.”

I sat back, feeling the little revolver against my shirt, and marveling at his chutzpah.

“And I would want to do this, why?”

“Open the file.”

He slid the folder toward me again.

I swept the badge case aside and flipped to the first page. It was an incident report dated July 24th, 1984. It looked like a museum artifact. At the bottom was my signature and badge number.

He tapped the paper. “Do you remember this?”

I nodded. A body of a twenty-something male had been found in the desert not far from the Caterpillar tractor proving grounds in the White Tank Mountains west of the city. Today the area is overrun with subdivisions, but then it was empty. The dead man had parked his car and walked on foot without water before he had collapsed.

I had been the first deputy to respond to the call, the one who had secured the scene and written the incident report. There was no obvious evidence of a crime. People did strange things in the desert. And then the desert did unmerciful things to their remains. Then the case had been turned over to the detectives and I had lost track of it. This was when I was finishing my master’s degree and preparing to leave the department and Phoenix.

Now, under the enchanted metropolitan sky with blessed ice water sitting next to the beers, I shrugged. “So?”

“There’s been a new development in the case.”

“Turn it over to your cold-case unit. I’m sure they’re quite capable.”

He shook his head. “I want you to investigate this. It requires your special skills.” He leaned in and touched my arm. “David, this is your home, your hometown. You belong with us at the

Sheriff’s Office. I’ll warn you, the county is going paperless. I should have given you the documents digitally. But I thought the paper files might be easier.”

I drained the glass and stood. “Thanks for the beer, Sheriff.”

I was halfway out when his voice stopped me.

“Lindsey.”

I turned to face him. My feet felt heavy.

He beckoned me back with a flipping of his fingers, as if he were summoning a child. “Call me Chris. And you forgot your star, Deputy.”

I walked back and stood over him. “Why did you mention my wife?”

“Sit down, David.”

I did.