Arizona Dreams (David Mapstone Mystery 4)

I didn’t mention Dana Earley. No need to tip our hand yet. I let things fall into silence. Let him fill it. Only the refrigerator motor whirred in the background. More sardine carcasses disappeared in Malkin’s fast-moving maw. He had large dark pores on top of his cheekbones.

“Ha!” he said.

Ha, what? I glanced at Lindsey and waited.

“I knew you recognized me,” he said to me. “It’s true. I used to be Jerry von Shaft. That was my stage name.”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

Lindsey asked what he was talking about.

“You’re too young to remember, Miss,” he said to Lindsey. “But those were great days. In 1978, I was one of the top-paid actors in adult films. Almost up there with John Holmes and Harry Rheems. You can still find me in DVD, films like Revenge of the Horny Cheerleaders. I play a detective, just like you guys. See, there was plot and acting. Great days, before I got too old and video rentals ruined the old adult entertainment business. Great way to pick up women, too. At least it used to be. After paying out for three marriages I can’t even afford to get an erection in this town.” He leered at Lindsey. “No offense, ma’am.”

He ran an index finger around the empty sardine tin and then sucked the juice. “What was your favorite movie that I did?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I could name all the presidents, but here I was at a loss.

“Don’t be shy.” A wide smile expanded the bushy mustache. “Your pretty partner here won’t tell your wife. Don’t expect us to believe you spent the seventies in some library studying.”

Lindsey said, “So you ended up in real estate in Phoenix?”

“Life’s funny,” he said. “Phoenix is a hick town. But it’s sunny almost every day. I can play golf anytime I want. I get to live out here with the gazillionaires, and I’m paying about the same as I would for a sha

ck in L.A. Guy can come over here, throw up a few houses, make a killing. You ought to try it.”

“Why all the LLCs?” Lindsey asked.

Malkin smiled at her and shook his head.

“Arizona Dreams LLC also does business as AZD2 LLC, Sierra Montana LLC, and Camino Vista LLC. The land for your development changed hands with about two dozen limited liability corporations, by my count. And you secured a loan from Tonopah Trinity LLC. A lot of these LLCs have the same address.”

He blinked several times, showing long lashes.

“You’re very bright,” he said, “and very beautiful.”

“About the real killing,” I said. “What about your trip to Malibu?”

His nostrils flared. “How the hell did you…? That goddamned Shelley loudmouth bitch. I was on a business trip. To meet one of my investors. I’ve been patient with you two until now, but you’re starting to piss me off. Do you have any idea of the powerful people I have as partners in Arizona Dreams?”

“Ms. Baker made sure not to tell us,” Lindsey said in her calm alto.

He looked at her a while, then smacked his lips and stood. I tried not to imagine him as Jerry von Shaft. He said, “Look, I wish I could help you. But I can’t and I’m really in a hurry. Something’s come up. Always a bad day in the development business.”

We walked toward the door, back through the anonymous living room to the anonymous foyer.

“I read somewhere that you destroyed Hohokam ruins,” I said. This came from Lindsey’s research on Malkin.

“Those weren’t protected,” he snapped. “I made sure. My lawyers checked and double-checked everything. I paid good money for that land. Do you have any idea how much it would have cost to bring in a bunch of archeologists, that kind of shit? The project wouldn’t have been doable. And for what? A bunch of old mud walls, some pieces of pots? Give me a break.”

“No value to history, huh?” I asked.

“You want history, Deputy,” he said, “visit a fucking museum. Now, I really gotta go.”

32

In Maricopa County, a suspect’s first hearing is called, logically, the initial appearance, or IA. Robin’s came a little after eleven on Wednesday morning, in a small, sterile courtroom downtown. Lindsey had been strangely detached from her sister’s fate, or perhaps still numb from the arrest the night before. She had done nothing, hadn’t even tried to visit Robin. But already I could sense Peralta’s hidden hand: When Robin was brought in wearing an orange jumpsuit, a tall, classically handsome man in a blue pinstripe suit announced he was representing her. This was James H. Goldstein, one of the top defense lawyers in town and one of Peralta’s close friends and political supporters. Robin looked haggard and pale, her healthy tan seemingly confiscated at booking. I felt strange, being at an IA for a family member, and I saw Lindsey suppress a shiver.

But an hour later Robin was free, back in her civilian clothes and sitting in the back seat of the Prelude, headed home. Goldstein had made a meal of the assistant county attorney, who looked about 12 years old and was ill-prepared. The judge denied the state’s request to hold Robin as a material witness and ordered her released, provided she stayed in the custody of her sister, the deputy sheriff. Kate Vare looked back at me from the prosecutor’s table, and it wasn’t a friendly look. Even though Robin was out of jail, I knew Vare would set aside her entire caseload to prepare a murder rap against Robin.