High Country Nocturne (David Mapstone Mystery 8)

I had finished telling Cartwright about the brief exchange when my phone rang. Not Abba. An old-fashioned phone ring. It was the number I had just dialed.

“Wait,” Cartwright held out a hand. “Give it to me.”

“Apache Mortgage,” he said in a happy sales voice. It was a radical change from his normal tone. “May I have your account number, please?”

He handed it to me.

“Whoever called back hung up.”

“He’s alive!”

He nodded slowly. “But he’s with somebody. Not the Russians. Not Pamela Grayson. And whoever it was, he couldn’t talk around them. The woman who shot Lindsey?”

I shook my head. “She confronted me demanding the diamonds. She said she had made Peralta a promise, whatever that means. But it didn’t seem like a pleasant one. I don’t think he’d be alive if he was with her.”

He kicked the asphalt again.

“Then there’s another player. The man who called Pennington’s office. Maybe the original owner of the diamonds who somehow tracked them here.”

I was eager to get moving, out of the sun, back to the hospital, and, as soon as I could, send the badge back to Chris Melton with my resignation letter.

Cartwright stopped me after I had taken two steps.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, David. If your wife hadn’t gone for that walk, you might both be dead. This woman might have come in while you were sleeping. End of story.” He slid his left arm back in the sling, wincing. “Oh, I’m getting too old for this.”

The pain-creases in his face relaxed and he spoke again. “Don’t cut your ties with Sheriff Meltdown yet. They might be useful to us.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

He stared at me for a long minute.

“You know, David, it ain’t what you don’t know that gets you in trouble. It’s what you know for sure but just ain’t so.” He winked. “Mark Twain.”

I reluctantly nodded and walked away. By the time I was across Third Avenue, the RV was gone. All that remained was a blue cloud of carbon monoxide.

Chapter Twenty-six

When I reached the ICU, Sharon was back with her daughters. Lindsey’s condition hadn’t changed; none of her physicians were there; and the closest I could get was watching her through the window. So I took Sharon down to the Starbucks in the lobby and told her what I could.

“At least he’s still alive,” she said

She seemed distracted. I studied her face but could only see her struggling to keep up the strong front. I had expected her to be happier, but she looked gaunt with worry.

I said, “No calls on that landline?”

She looked at me curiously, then shook her head.

I asked if the FBI was still tailing her.

“Like white on rice,” she said. “We’ve started taking coffee and sandwiches out to the unit watching the house. I’m not worried about us. I am worried about Mike. And you, David. When was the last time you slept?”

I shrugged. “I’ve been taking catnaps.”

“You look awful. Go home and let us keep watch. I promise to call when something changes.”

“Sharon, you only left a little while ago.” I was about to protest more but the exhaustion hit me deep in the bone. I was struggling to keep my head up.

So I left and the farther away I drove, I became strangely happy to be momentarily freed from the hospital.