South Phoenix Rules (David Mapstone Mystery 6)

“Did he have drugs?”

“Of course not. I hate drugs.”

“Not even a little pot between friends? C’mon.” Even my first wife, Patty, had a fondness for the occasional toke—and the marijuana she procured was much more potent than the stuff I tried in college. It was another life; I shelved the thought away.

Robin glared at me. Of course that information meant nothing. The high-end people in the cartels usually don’t use their products. They don’t want to get careless.

I stopped talking, stood, and fetched a clear plastic bag from the drawer, then dropped the dog tags inside. She gave them to me, as he had asked. I knew what they meant in a historical sense. But that did nothing to solve the murder, or answer why the man’s head was delivered to my sister-in-law. That act spoke for itself: just as Peralta had said, the killers had connected her to Jax, and not in a casual way, and they knew where she lived.

In the study, I removed a sheaf of file folders from the deep desk drawer, and then replaced them on top of the bag. Concealing evidence. Add it to my rap sheet.

The phone rang. I let it go to the answering machine and heard a woman’s voice. She was a news producer for Channel Five, wanting to send a crew over to interview us. I was sure she wouldn’t be the last to call. Kate Vare had probably personally talked to some media people, to put more of a squeeze on Robin—and on me.

I wished my friend Lori Pope still worked at the Republic. She was a real cops reporter, the kind that dug into cases and built sources inside law enforcement. I had been one of those sources. She would give information back, and I needed it now. But Lori had been laid off with many of the most experienced reporters and now the newspaper mostly rewrote the press releases from the police public information officers. Most of the paper was that way now. I continued to subscribe out of some misplaced belief in the written word and the free press.

Phoenix was increasingly a freak show. Ted Williams’ head was frozen in Scottsdale, waiting for the day the slugger could be regenerated. Unfortunately some employees decided to use his noggin for batting practice. The richest man in town didn’t support the arts, but he spent money to try cloning his dead dog. A disgraced former governor remade himself as a pastry chef. It was a city where a man left his wife by killing her and his children and then blowing up his suburban house, where a woman cut up her lover and left him in a dumpster. The “Torso Murderess.”

What a town. A top city official climbed on top of his Mercedes at high speed and went surfing on Camelback Road, until he and the car hit a wall. It was where retirees sold pot to support their gambling habits and Jenna Jameson, the porn star, was a local businesswoman. Up in Sedona, a self-help guru baked his clients to death in a sweat lodge. Now, a severed head delivered via FedEx. Just another day in paradise and we were part of the freak show. My hometown. The machine clicked off, its red light merrily blinking.

Robin stood before me, watching.

“We’re not answering the phone or the door. We have some decisions to make.”

“Are we going to Peralta’s?”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“No.” Her hands were fists. “I know you don’t believe me, but I never meant to bring this onto you, especially not after what you’ve been through. I can’t go to Lindsey Faith, I know that…”

“How?”

“I just know her, David. So maybe I should just go. I have some friends in San Francisco.”

I stopped her, mindful of Lindsey’s charge. “Please. Stay.”

“Can we make a stand here, at the house?”

I thought about it. Maybe we could. Much would depend on what happened next.

“We can try. We have some work to do.”

We went back to the garage and lugged out a six-by-four-foot plate of one-eighth-inch thick sheet steel. It had been back there as long as I could remember and it was a miracle it wasn’t hiding a black widow nest. The deadly spiders, as well as scorpions, had made a big comeback in the years since DDT had been outlawed. The steel plate was just dusty and edged with rust. I wiped it down and we slowly moved it into the house, working up a sweat trying not to gouge the hardwood floors. I directed Robin to help me situate it inside the guest-room closet. Houses built in the 1920s lacked the giant closets of today. This one was maybe five feet deep. But it was wide enough that I could lean the steel plate up against the outer wall. The plate stuck out past the doorjamb maybe two feet, with enough room to slide around it and close the door.

“What’s that all about?”

“It’s your safe space,” I said. “If something goes down, get in that closet, and hide behind the steel plate. Take your cell. You’ll have enough time to call the police. The plate should protect you if they start shooting through the closet door.” At least I hoped it would.

She listened with her tough-girl face on, but her eyes were anxious. “And if they open the door?”

I walked her into my bedroom and showed her the .38 Chief’s Special. “Do you know how to shoot?”

She opened the cylinder, saw its five chambers were empty, clicked it back into place, and pointed the compact revolver toward the wall, dry-firing it several times. “Yes.”

Full of surprises, my sister-in-law.

“When Kate Vare comes back, she’s going to go at you harder than ever. You can’t tell her about taking the dog tags. Ever. Understand?”

She said she did, and asked if I had .38 ammunition.