The Night Detectives (David Mapstone Mystery 7)

But watching his face now, I could see the flickering of the old anger and impatience. Cartwright spotted the launch signal, too, and knew it wasn’t a glitch. Still, he tried to escape.

“You know I’m not in the game anymore. Give an old man a break. I’m tired now. I need to rest.”

“You were up to your ears in Fast and Furious,” Peralta said, referring to the federal operation meant to disrupt the flow of guns to Mexico that had gone horribly wrong. It had cost the U.S. Attorney his job, brought hearings in Congress, and even become an issue in the presidential campaign.

“My part worked.” Cartwright glared back at him.

The two dark stone faces faced off. Cartwright’s was cut with gullies in geometric precision, while Peralta’s aging congregated around the crow’s feet beside his eyes. His hair was still naturally jet black. He was actually better looking than he’d been at thirty-five. He wore distinguished well.

Neither seemed willing to give. I tried to imagine them as young infantrymen, fighting for a country with a poor record of treatment for Apaches or Mexican-Americans and yet there they were, brothers in arms, in Southeast Asia. That bond showed in their expressions, too.

Finally, Cartwright stood and walked slowly at first, as if his hip hurt. Then he strode out of the room. In five minutes, I heard his tread and something landed in my lap. It wasn’t as heavy as I imagined.

“Your boy’s pretty cool,” Cartwright said.

Peralta watched me. I can’t tell you why I didn’t make the jump of the startled or run screaming from the house once I saw he had dropped a Claymore on me. Instead, I carefully studied it: “FRONT TOWARD ENEMY” the same as the one in Tim and Grace’s apartment, two sets of extendable legs, and a small housing on top where wires, or another kind of detonation mechanism, could go.

Cartwright eased himself into a chair across from me. “You’re lucky to be alive, son.”

He hefted an AK-47 in his hands. “Mikhail Kalashnikov’s baby. Cheap to make, easy to use. One of the first true, mass-produced assault rifles. Seventy-five million of ’em all around the world.” He quickly field stripped it and put it back together, his pudgy fingers working expertly. Anybody who watched television had seen AKs in the hands of freedom fighters or terrorists, take your pick.

“How do you know your guy was killed with an AK? Was the weapon recovered?”

“No,” Peralta said. “I heard it.”

Cartwright nodded. He understood.

“Anybody can buy an AK. You know that. Using it with such precision is another matter. And why would you want to? There’s too many good, modern weapons available. Maybe your suspect has a thing for the gun? Maybe it’s his bad-ass signature. You should run that through ViCAP.” The FBI’s violent criminal database. “It’s probably not some disgruntled ‘Nam vet. We’re getting too damned old. But the older we get, the tougher we were.”

He chuckled. Peralta didn’t.

I was half-listening to the ordnance talk. The Claymore sat a few millimeters from my genitals. I kept looking at the instructions stamped on the front. Such a funny thing. So you don’t forget and aim it wrong. I shouldn’t even be here right now. Why did I get over that apartment railing and into the pool with only seconds to spare, when Robin hadn’t been safe in our back yard? Contingency was the god damndest thing. Robin would have made the better mark on the world if she had lived and I had died.

Peralta tapped an inch of ash into an amber glass ashtray. “I’ve thought about all that, Ed. Quit stalling.”

“The Claymore is a different matter entirely.” He cocked his head. “Is this connected to the explosion in San Diego on Friday night?”

So much for being cut off from the world.

Peralta said, “You know it is, so quit playing games.”

To me, he said, “How far did you get into that apartment before you realized you were in the danger zone?”

I told him.

He let out a long whistle.

“So you see,” Peralta said, “This is personal and it might get a hell of a lot more personal.”

Cartwright set the rifle in his lap.

“Do you know how far my ass is already in a sling even by talking to you?” he said. “Even by you being here?”

“I don’t care.” Peralta swiveled his head.

“So give me something to work with?” Cartwright folded his hands over the assault rifle. “Who was killed with the AK?”

“Anglo, thirty-five or so,” Peralta said and went on to describe our first client including the expensive prosthetic leg and the multiple names and identifications.