South Phoenix Rules (David Mapstone Mystery 6)

“What are you doing?” Peralta took it from my hand.

“Calling 911. What else should we do?”

We had always been the law. Our obligation, once the civilian was secure, was to pursue the shooter. Peralta just looked at me as if it was a stupid question.

“We get the fuck out of here.”

He dropped the truck into gear and roared out, turned west, and picked up the 101 beltway that would take us back to the center city.

16

“They had a chance to kill all of us and they didn’t.” I spoke into the dark, cigar-perfumed cab of Peralta’s truck. The speedometer needle rested on a lawful sixty-five and we pirouetted through an interchange and went east again on the wide freeway.

“We were exposed all that time. How many minutes? The shooter could have taken all of us out. He could have shot Robin. Why were we spared?”

“I need you to be quiet now, Mapstone.”

And that was all Peralta said. His face was set except for the subtle tension in his jaw. I put my arm around Robin to ease her trembling, then I fully embraced her the rest of the way into the city. Peralta glanced at us, then focused ahead, and kept his own counsel. The sound of the rifle still sounded in my head.

We came off the Papago Freeway at Seventh Avenue, just before it entered the tunnel under the deck park. The light was green and I got only a quick glance at my old grade school, built in the1920s with grand columns and palm trees out front, the alma mater of Barry Goldwater. And me. How did I get into this life, where I was competent at several things but brilliant at none? How many bad choices had I made since I was a student there, terrified by the duck-and-cover-drills, learning to fight against the school bullies, and impatiently watching the clock. At that age you don’t realize how quickly the clock runs out. Robin gently pulled away and sat up.

“What happened back there?” she asked, her voice wavering.

“I don’t know,” Peralta said.

“Where are we going?”

“To find Antonio.”

This made my passive-aggressive side, never one of my prime movers, shift into aggressive-aggressive. “No, fuck no. You pull over and give us some answers, or we’re out of this.”

To my astonishment, he complied.

He reached into the glove box and removed a portable police radio, switching channels until he found the one he wanted. Civilians couldn’t get this at Radio Shack, since so many police bands were encrypted now to prevent criminals from monitoring calls—and many routine ones were transmitted to cruiser laptops, anyway. It didn’t surprise me that Peralta had one. The radio was busy with units responding to the shooting on the west side. On the sidewalk, a man shambled north with his belongings in two large, black plastic bags.

Peralta pulled a seven-inch cigar out of his jacket pocket, clipped it, and struck a match to light the end in a circle, ensuring it would burn evenly. The electric motor of the window whirred and he puffed out into the cool, dry air.

“Bill’s been clean for years,” he said. “But from time-to-time, he’s been a valuable go-between for me. He has friends and relatives in the life. Because he did his time and never gave up his friends, he has respect. I’ve worked to never put him at risk, never make him seem like he’s a snoflon, a snitch. So that meant I had to give something up sometimes to get something better. Understand?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to understand. Peralta’s wings spread far beyond my little cold-case boutique. I said, “So that was the deal tonight? Meet with La Fam and make a deal to save Robin?”

He took another puff and nodded.

“What did you have to give in return?”

“All sorts of things.”

I let that alone. But I asked how he even knew if these now-dead bangers could speak for La Fam.

“Mero Mero? His real name is Carlos Mendoza. He’s one of the top dogs of La Fam in the United States. Check out his sheet. The gold medals start with homicide and go from there. This is not just another street gang in Phoenix.”

“And he said he spoke with authority,” Robin said, hope in her voice. “He didn’t know me. He said he didn’t have anything against me.”

“That’s what he said.” Peralta studied the bright orange tip of the cigar. Cars zipped by benignly on Seventh Avenue.

Now Mero Mero and his crew were dead, taken out as accurately as bad guys in the sights of Marine scout snipers in Iraq. I asked what that meant.

“Maybe the theory has been wrong.”