Arizona Dreams (David Mapstone Mystery 4)

I put her around fifty, with honey-colored hair worn swept back and good features, as angular as an ironing board. The sun, of course, had done its work. Her hair was as dried as hay. Her tan was the texture and color of a saddlebag. But her face looked frozen into a perpetual look of happy curiosity—and people pay big money for these face-lifts. Maybe she was really pushing seventy, and I shouldn’t be so critical. I told her there wasn’t much I could tell her. Her business card had been found at a crime scene, a homicide. I told her where. Nothing registered on her taut skin.

“I’ve never even been there,” she said. “People can get business cards anywhere.”

Lindsey said, “Your card didn’t say what you do for the company.”

“I’m the general counsel,” she said.

“So your card might not be available to just anybody trying to buy a house,” I said.

“That’s kind of argumentative, Deputy…”

“Mapstone,” I said. She noted it on a legal pad in front of her, and when her eyes settled on me again they were paying attention.

I thought about Davey Crockett, abandoned in the desert by his sleazebag contractor father, only to be beaten to death. Lindsey could sense my anger, and gave me a subtle look. It said, Be calm, Dave. So I swallowed hard and asked Baker for information on the owners of Arizona Dreams.

“It’s an LLC, a limited liability company. We’re not required to disclose our partners. Unless, of course, you have something from the court. Do you?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“I didn’t think so,” she said. “This kind of an entity is established in part for the privacy of the corporate structure and ownership. But you wouldn’t be disappointed. These are big names, respected people. We’re capitalized as well as any master-planned community in the West. And every major homebuilder has signed on, all national names. This is big business, deputies.”

“It does sound impressive,” Lindsey said.

“It is,” Baker said. “You really ought to consider buying at Arizona Dreams. There are special communities there for professionals like law enforcement and teachers…”

“Who are paid badly,” Lindsey said.

“But who deserve the best in a community,” Baker came right back. It was startling to see the sales pitch kick in, even for the general counsel. “My husband and I have been out, and seen the sweet spot of the development, right in the foothills where the Sierra Montana clubhouse will be. We decided right then to buy out there. What part of town do you live in?”

Lindsey volunteered, “We both live in the Willo Historic District, north of downtown.”

Baker drew in a breath. “I don’t know anyone who would live there.”

I was tempted to say the same about her suburban sprawl. I asked, “Who do you work for, Ms. Baker?”

“I work for Jared Malkin. He’s our managing partner.” The face still looked happy to see me. The eyes definitely weren’t.

“Is Mr. Malkin in?”

“No,” she said. “He’s at a business meeting in Malibu. But I can speak for the entire company on this matter. Lots of people have literature from Arizona Dreams. Even, apparently, your unfortunate victim. But dreaming about a great master-planned community is no crime, Deputy Mapstone.”

I watched her in silence to see if she really believed the sales jargon she was spouting. That damned frozen face again. It was stuck open like a garage door. I said, “The crime is a young man beaten to death. Have you ever seen anyone beaten to death, Ms. Baker?”

She stared at me sternly, but her face drained of its saddlebag tan.

“I don’t see…” she started.

“Your card was at this crime scene, Ma’am,” I said, in my best patrol deputy voice. “Not the card of a Realtor, or subcontractor, but you, the general counsel of Arizona Dreams. Why was your card there?”

I expected her to lash back at me. But she just sat there. Her right index finger tapped quietly on the dark wood of the conference table. I was tempted to look at the beauty of the mountains out the windows. But I kept staring at her.

I asked, in a quiet, even voice, “Ever hear of Louis or Harry Bell?”

“No,” she said.

“They were landowners west of Tonopah,” I shot back.

“I don’t know them.” She was speaking through gritted teeth, like someone impersonating a Clint Eastwood character. “We would have had no interest in property that far out.”