South Phoenix Rules (David Mapstone Mystery 6)

He wiped his mouth, sucked at his teeth, and thought about it.

“All right.”

“There’s one other thing. When you get him in custody, I want you to have him make a call to the old man before he gets to jail.” I told him what Holden should say, word for word. “Can you persuade him to do that?”

He nodded. “I’m a persuasive kind of guy.”

He reached in his pocket and produced a silver business-card case, handed me a card. Demetrius Smith, fugitive recovery agent. I pulled one of my old MCSO cards out and gave it to him. “Call me on my cell when you’re ready to make a move.” I wasn’t really worried about him calling the landlines. With the way the county worked, it would be another three months before they were disconnected or reassigned.

***

I dreaded the house but there was finally no other place to go. The house that held so much of my past and had been our sanctuary amid all the troubles of the misbegotten city was now cursed. Why hadn’t I taken Robin to Peralta’s—maybe they could have tracked her there, too, but maybe not. Why didn’t I get in the car with Robin and just drive. Drive east and show up in D.C. and let Lindsey deal with us. Drive west and find whatever it was that had propelled people to go west for centuries and did still. My god, the bed was huge and cursed. All around me, dark house, slamming heartbeat, the sensations of the edge of death, but no release.

Then the gunshots started and the bedroom glass shattered. I swear I could feel the bullets zipping just above the top of my body, which seemed to want to levitate up until a round found me. I slid sideways and dropped painfully off onto the floor, then took the chance of reaching up to get the Python. How many shots? I lost count at ten. A framed poster from the Willo Home Tour shattered as the far wall absorbed the bullets. I knew the next move: come through the front door. It was a shame I was on the near-side of the mattress, closest to entry to the bedroom, and with nothing to shield me. Then the shooting stopped. In the silence, I heard something hit the windowsill and clatter away. It sounded like a full can of soda.

The explosion put me flat on the floor.

I stayed there, smelling the sulfurous chemicals. I was a little dizzy and couldn’t hear. The pistol stayed in my hand, my aim at the interior of the house. Then the ringing in my ears slowly receded and I heard the sirens.

25

Kate Vare had been to the hairdresser, who had given her tint an even more lurid red. It looked like the interior of an active volcano. Her temperament was similar.

“You’re holding back, Mapstone. I’ve been doing this for twenty-five years and I can tell. And you’re a lousy liar.”

“I’m the victim here.”

“Sure.”

We sat in an interrogation room of Phoenix Police Headquarters. The room smelled of urine and disinfectant. I had been taken there after the Fire Department had put out the small blaze in front of the bedroom window and a dozen police vehicles had sat along the street, lights reflecting off the houses. The responding uniforms and the initial detective team had been courteous. When Vare showed up, she ordered them to put me in handcuffs and take me out to a squad car. My rights were read to me.

“Do you want a lawyer?” Her lips suppressed a smile. Her leather portfolio was open but she hadn’t made any notes on the empty yellow legal pad.

“Maybe I can use yours.” Now uncuffed, I folded my arms.

“That goddamned blog.” She muttered, then she leaned into me. “Let’s go through it again. Your movements over the past twenty-four hours.” So I did, giving the same sanitized version that I had used for the past two hours.

“You’re holding back. You’re a lying sack of shit. Your house was shot-up with an automatic weapon and a hand-grenade almost made it through the window. That’s a gang hit. It makes me wonder what you’ve been doing to provoke it.”

“Like the ‘gang hit’ that killed Robin? How’d that theory work out for you? I never heard of La Familia using an Anglo hit woman.”

In this case, however, I wondered if she must be right. After all, I had survived the assassination of four top La Fam guys. We hadn’t even been shot at. Word gets around. Now somebody was coming for me. I wished that I had the Five-Seven.

“Are you depressed, David?” Her eyes aimed toward the wall and I swear she started to tear up. “Lost your job. Your wife has left you. Your sister-in-law has been killed. Must be a lot to bear…”

I’d seen the view from the other side of the table enough times that I didn’t give her so much as a blink of the eye. My facial muscles remained relaxed.

“Maybe you should get help,” Vare said. “I hear Pristiq is effective.”

It was amazing to live in our therapeutic and pharmaceutical society. How many great works of art seeking to transcend the tragic nature of life, how many majestic, melancholy personalities would have been lost to civilization if cave men had invented antidepressants and self-help books.

“Are you depressed, Kate?”

“You depress me.” Her eyes met mine and her tone was harder. “You’re a wuss. Weak. You always thought you could use that Ph.D to be some kind of United

Nations observer of police work instead of getting your hands dirty. You got the publicity when cases were solved but I never bought it. You never fooled me.”

Why did she hate me with such virulence? It was something I would have to answer another day. I said, “Then you know I’m telling the truth now.”