High Country Nocturne (David Mapstone Mystery 8)

“You okay, David?”

It was the bartender. I nodded and realized my shoulders and head had dangerously slumped.

“Yes.”

Better to channel Lindsey’s uncommon blend of wit, intelligence, and street sense. What would she tell me now?

Stay safe.

Come home to me. (Back at you, baby).

Don’t wait for Strawberry Death to find you.

Find her first.

The only way to do that, lacking Kate Vare’s cooperation, was to lay a trap. So after relieving Sharon at Mister Joe’s, I stayed only thirty minutes and left for home. I parked the Prelude prominently in front of the house, went inside, and took another nap.

Strawberry Death liked to work under cover of darkness. The night before, she had visited our office on Grand Avenue. Maybe tonight she would come here. As Vare said, I had something she wanted.

At a quarter to two, I dressed all in black and set up my sniper’s position. It was down in the forties, cold for Phoenix. A wind was coming from the north, fresh and enchanting. I had always loved these winds from the High Country, but there was no time to dream.

The bougainvillea was more than three feet tall and lush. I smelled the dirt beneath me. This had been farmland a century ago, with the closest houses being the bungalows that still stood, beautifully restored, two blocks away. My spot was only a few feet from our carport. If all went according to plan, I could claim I was in the carport. No Maricopa County jury would convict me. Kate Vare could suck it.

The neighbors were long asleep and had no dogs. The street was empty except for the Prelude and the comforting yellow glow of two streetlights. No FBI watchers. Maybe Horace Mann had a tracking device on the car and didn’t think he had to worry about me. That was fine.

It was 2:42 by my watch when headlights swung off Third Avenue and a car crept down the street. It was another dark Chevy four-door, the kind of car you got at a rental outfit. Passing our house, it sped up, crossed Fifth Avenue with a rolling stop, and continued another block to Seventh where it signaled a right turn.

The night-vision binoculars allowed me to get a tag number.

I was about to relax for a long night when headlights came from the west, from Seventh Avenue. The driver approached very slowly, stopping for a full minute at Fifth Avenue even though there was no cross traffic. Then the car crossed Fifth and coasted through our block. A person could walk faster.

Arizona was a cheapskate state with no front tag. But the car looked the same. My heart was thudding against my breastbone even though I was sure my position was hidden. The car came to the stop sign at Third Avenue, signaled, and turned north.

Five minutes, no more, and headlights again painted Cypress Street from the east. Same Chevy, same tag. It pulled to the curb two houses beyond our place and the lights switched off.

I watched through the binoculars, which were little help against the darkened glass of the vehicle. Nobody got out. This was not a neighbor getting home from a party in Scottsdale or late-arriving guests.

The muted sound of a car door opening. A head emerged and looked directly at me. Beneath the watch cap, was the wholesome pretty face of the assassin. There was no uncertainty. It was her.

The sensible response was to call the police. Surely I wasn’t going to start a firefight on Cypress Street. Instead, I set down the binoculars, picked up the carbine, and steadied it for a good aim and to prevent it from kicking up once I opened fire. My back was against the neighbor’s wall and my knees were raised to support my hands gripping the weapon.

Strawberry Death was forty feet away, all in black, moving in my direction. She walked down the sidewalk toward our house as if she were taking a very early morning stroll. I could have taken her down right then but waited. I was in the bushes of the house to the east; she was coming from the west. Then I realized my mistake.

Our Spanish-Colonial Revival style house faced Cypress Street in a backward L shape, with the short leg of the L being the master bedroom sticking out beyond the living room. It was closest to me and would block my view of her at the front door.

I could have set up at the house to the west, but the shrubbery was not as full. I could have set up across the street, but they had a dog. I was stuck.

Sure enough, when she made a ninety-degree turn and walked up our front walk, I lost contact.

I made myself stay. The front door was solid wood from 1928. Even if she were successful in prying it open, the alarm would go off. So what would she do? What would I do? Knock to see if anyone was home. If they were there and answered, shoot them, and call it a night. But that wasn’t her style. Too much potential noise. Not enough fun.

She had promises to keep.

So she would look through the picture window, see the darkened house, and make her way to the backyard to disable the alarm and come through the back door. To intercept her, I would have to leave my shooting position and go through the carport on my side of the house. But that was only if she went on the far side of the house, which would require climbing a higher wall that was close to the neighboring windows.

Suddenly, she reappeared, coming across our lawn toward me. She crouched and moved under our bedroom window, careful not to step in the flowerbed and leave tread marks from her shoes. She briefly rose up and peered inside. I had left the lights off and the blinds drawn, so she would see noth

ing but darkness.