Arizona Dreams (David Mapstone Mystery 4)

“I’ll take you under cover.”

That would have to wait. Lindsey swung the car around, also with headlights off, and followed at a distance. Back at Nineteenth Avenue, I saw the Porsche’s taillights come on, and he turned south.

“Now we know he’s afraid of being followed,” Lindsey said. “And he knows some basics of evasive driving.”

I said, “Or Dana does.”

“You’ve got a thing for that soccer mom, Dave.”

I said, “Ma Barker was a soccer mom, too.”

By now, we’d returned to Van Buren and once again were heading west. The road was crowded enough that we could follow by a few c

ar lengths and not be conspicuous. At Twenty-Seventh Avenue, the Porsche turned right. By the time we made the turn, it was gone.

“There,” I said.

They had pulled into a driveway by a gate. Lindsey drove past. After a couple of blocks she wheeled around and parked so we could watch. The car sat at the entrance to a large terminal of some sort. It stretched for what looked like a quarter of a mile, a modern warehouse with numerous doors for trucks to load and unload cargo. But it was dark and abandoned-looking. Only the white of the walls glowed out at the street. We watched as Malkin unlocked a gate, swung it open and returned to the car. They then drove across the empty parking lot and stopped the car beside a loading dock. Again, Malkin got out and disappeared inside a door. In a few minutes, one of the large loading doors came up. This time Dana left the car and entered the warehouse.

“Are they hiding the car?” Lindsey asked.

I watched it for a minute and said, “Maybe they’re using the headlights for illumination. Maybe the power’s off…”

“Let’s go over,” Lindsey said.

“What?”

“Let’s go,” she said. “I’d say this is hot pursuit. You’d rather wait all night for a warrant?”

I thought I knew what she had in mind, and I wasn’t so sure it was a good idea. We stepped out into the hot night and sprinted across Twenty-Seventh Avenue.

“You’re obviously burning off a lot of frustration from being cooped behind a computer,” I said, trying to keep up. We ran through the gate and made a dash for the side of the building. Out here we were exposed, but fortunately the vast parking lot was dark. Lindsey was wearing one of her customary black-top, black-jeans outfits, so she was mostly camouflaged, except for her fair skin. I did the best I could, wearing khakis and a black polo shirt. Once against the wall, we moved toward the open door. By this time, I was wearing what felt like an inch of sweat on the surface of my skin.

I caught Lindsey by the shoulder. “What are you going to say if they’re standing just inside that door?” I whispered.

She shrugged and nodded toward the open cavern of the warehouse. “Ninety percent of successful police work is luck.”

I pulled out my revolver and followed her. We stepped through the wide loading door, avoiding the track of the car headlights. It was instantly hotter, if that were possible, and smelled of dust and mold. Once my eyes adjusted, I could make out Dana and Malkin, illuminated across the concrete floor. They were standing maybe fifty feet away, amid a dense stand of loading pallets and other warehouse castoffs. One of them had a flashlight. They didn’t know we were here. I could hear them talking, arguing. But I couldn’t make out the words. Lindsey took my hand and pulled me into an alcove of the vast space, where we waited.

Little noises intruded from the street. Worries intruded in the dark: What if they were meeting people here, people who wouldn’t appreciate finding us and might have the firepower to prevail in an argument? Enough time passed for me to consider leaning back against the wall, and think better of it. You never knew when you might encounter a black widow in a mood. Then something clicked in my head, and I knew why they had come here. Suddenly the voices were closer, coming toward us.

“It’s there, goddammit.” This was the voice of the demure soccer mom.

“We can’t leave it here.”

“Where else are we going to put it, Jared? In your trunk? You’re such a dumb bastard sometimes.”

“Don’t be such a bitch, Dana,” Malkin said. “I wanted to make sure. I don’t trust things right now. This deputy is asking too many questions.”

“He believes me,” Dana said. “He likes me.”

Lindsey poked me in the ribs.

“We can’t just leave it here,” Malkin said.

“Why not? You said this place might be vacant for years. Don’t panic, Jerry…”

And then they were gone. I heard the door drawn down, the lights went out, and we were alone in the dusty void. Then Lindsey’s pants leg became illuminated. She had brought a small black Maglite. She played the light around the big space. You could have played several football games in it simultaneously. Instead of echoing, the warehouse seemed to swallow sound. We walked toward the pallets.