The Night Detectives (David Mapstone Mystery 7)

I used the silence to fold and refold my napkin. I reached in my pocket and slid out my iPhone, slid it back. Then: “So you don’t think it’s a suicide?”

“I want you to read the reports and give me your opinion, Mapstone. But, based on what you’ve told me, what she was into, and the cops didn’t know about it…” His voice trailed off, his meaning obvious. He ate and chewed, thinking.

He said, “I don’t know why SDPD wouldn’t have had Grace in its computer when her boyfriend filed the missing person’s report. Maybe a lag. Maybe a system glitch.”

“Maybe somebody paid off.”

He poked his fork at me. “Why do you keep checking your phone? If you want to call Lindsey, call her.”

“Like you called Sharon?”

He smiled slyly. A rare, actual smile.

But my phone-checking wasn’t about Lindsey, to the extent that anything I did wasn’t about Lindsey.

“It’s past nine now,” I said. “Grace’s boyfriend ought to be in Riverside. He ought to have been there hours ago, even with the worst traffic jam in California. I told him to call me, and I’ve heard nothing.”

He stared past me in thought.

“Maybe a careless kid. He’s there and safe.”

“At first he was afraid I was going to kill him,” I said. “I don’t think he would space this.”

I told him I wanted to go back to O.B. and check.

“Want me to go with you?”

I told him no. “Sauve qui peut.” Every man for himself.

“Why are you speaking French, Mapstone?”

I smiled. “Memories.” To be a show-off, I added: “Pourquoi pas?” Why not?

“Bonne chance,” said the simple boy from the barrio.

With that, I walked out front where I gave the U.S. Grant Hotel doorman five bucks to hail me a cab.

14

The cab let me out in front of the apartment building at a quarter of ten. All the street parking was taken, probably all the way down to the business district, if not beyond. Your own parking space was a precious thing in O.B. I stood there as a black Dodge Ram truck slid by on Santa Cruz. The truck had a tag frame that read, “I (heart) Rancho Bernardo.”

I shook my head. “Good luck finding a parking spot this time of night, suburban boy.”

Then I was alone. When I lived here, O.B. had been dimly lit by yellow streetlights, a program the city had begun to cut the light pollution and protect the Palomar Observatory. Now the streetlights looked new and were definitely brighter, reflecting off the gray ceiling of the returning clouds. It was probably bad for the astronomers but good for me. I could see that the sidewalks were deserted, a good thing because I felt itchy with anxiety.

With all the windows open, I could hear televisions, a couple making love, and the subtle resonance of the surf a block and a half west. It brought back memories of the rare nights when there was fog and I would hear the foghorn coming from down by the pier. Tonight, it was so still I could hear my steps on the concrete.

It was ten degrees cooler than downtown. For a few minutes, I let the temperature help me feel normal again instead of breathless from the Phoenix heat. Then I walked to the gate and stared up at the apartment. The windows were closed, curtains open, and lights off. The tension that had been swelling for hours in my middle relaxed. The kid was gone and had forgotten to call me. He was mourning. He had a baby to take care of.

I thought about walking down to Newport and taking the bus downtown, but it was better to be sure. The vocal passion coming from the southeast apartment had subsided, so the gate loudly protested against me pulling 1950s metal hinges against each other. It put me on guard, but no curtains parted to see who was coming in. The pool was deserted and the water sat perfectly still and inviting.

When I looked up this time, I could see Tim’s door was partly ajar.

The dread wouldn’t let me go. Sure, there was a chance he was sitting inside, enjoying the breeze through the cracked door, playing a video game on headphones while the baby slept.

But only a fool would believe that.

I took the stairs two at a time, careful to keep my footfall quiet.