The badge did have benefits.
Within an hour, I was still sitting in the ICU waiting room but video camera footage from Friday was streaming on my MacBook Air as I talked to the security chief at Rio Salado.
We started with the camera trained on the entrance to the multi-story parking garage. It faced outward, so we saw the entrance to the parking and beyond it the street and front doors of the college.
At precisely 11:37 a.m., Peralta’s truck turned into the garage.
“Freeze that, please.”
He did and I studied the image. It was definitely Peralta. He had put on a Phoenix Suns ballcap.
I said, “Do you have cameras inside the garage?”
“On every floor.”
He flipped through several cameras and let them run. Peralta appeared on the third floor, drove halfway up, and backed into a parking space. I asked that he slow down the speed and watched as Peralta stepped out and went to the back of the pickup.
“Can you zoom in?”
He could. The light was bad and the image grainy, but Peralta stooped down behind the truck. Here he was changing the tag.
The footage continued to run. A shadow slipped under the camera and became a Chevy Impala. My stomach tightened.
“Slow it more,” I said.
The Chevy stopped directly in front of Peralta’s truck, blocking it. Strawberry Death stepped out. She was wearing a white top and blue jeans, her hair was down, falling below her shoulders.
She walked around the car and ran her hand on top of the truck’s hood. Checking to see if it was still warm from the engine.
She didn’t know he was there.
And then he popped up with his Glock drawn.
It was 11:42.
She had followed him, keeping enough distance not to be suspicious. I wished I could go back and study the tape from the FBI drone. It might have shown her tailing him from the mall.
Through the grainy footage I could see mouths moving. Her hands were empty. He had the drop on her.
“Rookie mistake…”
“Come again?” the security officer said.
“I’m talking to myself.”
She reluctantly turned around and walked to the front of the Chevy, Peralta behind her. Then she spread her feet and bent far forward on the hood, empty hands straight out. This was on his commands, no doubt, even though there was no sound. It put her at a disadvantage, being so off balance. If she tried to fight, he could kick one leg out and send her to the ground.
Something flashed. He produced handcuffs. And like thousands of times in his career, he cuffed her. Next he did a quick search and pulled something out of her back waistband. Some kind of pistol. He slid it into his own waistband and roughly pushed her to the passenger door, opened it, and tossed her in.
Then he crossed to the driver’s side and got in. The Chevy slid forward into a parking space.
They sat there as the clock ran. Maybe she was making him a promise.
Finally, Peralta’s head appeared. He walked over to his truck and retrieved the old license tag from the garage floor by the back bumper. Then he was inside the cab and pulling out.
The digital readout on the camera feed said 11:58.
Afterward, I put on my earbuds, leaned back, and listened to Susie Arioli, Billie Holliday, and Frank Sinatra…