South Phoenix Rules (David Mapstone Mystery 6)

“Now I remember,” I said. “I never read about this in the newspaper.”

“Funny about that,” Felix replied. “Larry Zisman is a celebrity with a lot of powerful friends.”

“Is he married?” I asked.

“Very.” Felix adjusted one leg and very slightly winced. It was the first time his face had given away an expression beyond tough.

The next question was logical enough, but Peralta didn’t ask it.

“Note?” Peralta could be more taciturn and economical in his language than anyone I had ever met.

“No. She didn’t leave a note. Nothing. That’s one of the things I don’t like.

”

“What else makes you doubt the police?”

“She was naked and her hands were bound.”

Now he had my attention for reasons beyond his appearance. Peralta grunted and I heard his pen scratch along the paper.

“It’s a good department,” Peralta said. “San Diego. You need to understand that these things are usually what they seem, however much the loved ones want it to be otherwise.”

I wasn’t sure about that. I had seen botched death investigations, even by good departments.

“I have confidence in you, Sheriff. That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m the former sheriff.” Peralta said it without any emotion, then pulled out the sheet with our fee schedule and handed it across to Felix with his meaty hand.

That was another thing that didn’t feel right: “former sheriff.”

Until four months ago, Peralta had been the sheriff of Maricopa County for what seemed like forever. Everybody I knew thought he would be sheriff as long as he wanted it, unless he decided to run for governor. I was one of his deputies and the Sheriff’s Office historian. It was good work for somebody with a Ph.D. in history in this or any job market.

But those assumptions had been based on another Arizona, before millions of retirees and Midwesterners had collided with the huge wave of illegal immigration before the big housing crash. It was a bad time to be a Hispanic running for office and Peralta lost, even though he was a life-long Republican. There would be no Governor Peralta in today’s Arizona. He took the defeat stoically. Instead of moving on to any of the lucrative consulting offers that had come his way, or encouraging the feeler to become San Antonio police chief, he set up shop as a private investigator. And here I was, too, as his partner. He was my oldest friend.

Our office was shabby compared with the places Felix Smith must have been accustomed to, based on his suit. We were on Grand Avenue, the bleakest thoroughfare in a city with abundant competition for the title, in what had once been a little motel, an “auto court.” Most of the motel had been bulldozed long ago—Phoenix loved clearing land and leaving it that way. The new mayor was trying to encourage art projects and gardens on vacant lots, but I wondered if the effort would do much good.

Robin had found a 1948 post card of the motel: a charming affair with half a dozen buildings, each with two rooms, a swimming pool, lawns, and palm trees. All that was left was the former front office—a small, square adobe with enough room for our two desks, some file cabinets, and places for clients to sit. Except for our comfortable chairs, the décor was spare. Recently, Peralta had added a black leather sofa.

We were barely moved in. Peralta had sprung for a bookcase for me, but I hadn’t put a single volume in it. Boxes of correspondence, all for Peralta, sat behind my desk. Speaking requests for him came almost every day. We really needed a secretary. Behind the office were a bathroom and a storeroom, the latter having been remodeled and fortified by Peralta for gun storage. Robin had named it the Danger Room. We each had a key to it, but it was mostly Peralta’s playroom. A super-sized Trane air conditioning system had been installed.

Outside, sixty-year-old asphalt was the best you got for parking. It was as much potholes and the crumbled remains of petroleum products melted and reformed, summer after summer, as it was a parking lot. A carport next to the office was for our vehicles. Mine barely fit thanks to the size of Peralta’s extended-cab pickup truck. The only other improvements had been a heavy-grade fence with a section that rolled across the driveway to seal things up tight when we were gone and restoring the old motel sign of a cowboy throwing a lariat. The neon was new and blinked happily into the night. And some well-concealed security cameras. We both had made enemies over the years.

Across the wide, divided avenue stretched railroad tracks and an industrial district. It was two miles and a new lifetime away from our old world: Peralta’s palatial suite of offices, and my beloved aerie on the fourth floor of the art deco 1929 county courthouse. No more badge. No more cold cases to solve. After I had left academia—or was I thrown out?—I had taken Peralta’s offer of a job in the Sheriff’s Office reluctantly. I hadn’t even intended to stay in Phoenix. I would be back long enough to sell the house. But I stayed.

It came to seem natural. Deputy David Mapstone.

Then it went away with great suddenness. Much else did, too.

“The point is,” Felix said, “I want another opinion. A deeper investigation. I couldn’t think of a better person than the former sheriff of Maricopa County. I want the best. Your reputation is very good, too, Doctor Mapstone.”

Doctor Mapstone. That had been my grandfather, a dentist. I was merely a guy with too many history degrees. Once I had been mildly proud of the honorific. Now, for reasons I didn’t fully understand, it irritated me. Like when somebody other than Lindsey called me “Dave.”

He would be getting the best with Peralta, no doubt about that. Perhaps he was pleased that neither of us was awed by Zisman. I recalled now that Zisman’s nickname had been “Larry Zip” and he had led many thrilling comebacks when he was at Arizona State. But I wasn’t a rabid sports fan or sports historian, and Peralta’s passions were golf and baseball. So we wouldn’t approach this case as hero worshippers. Still, flattery seemed very out of place coming from this rough-looking, expensively dressed man.

“Was she suicidal?” Peralta asked.

“No.”