Cactus Heart (David Mapstone Mystery 5)

“Why would that be? Why would he have treated them?”

Suddenly I felt like I was in an interview room with the cops, on the bad luck side of the table.

“He was a dentist,” I said. “Phoenix was smaller then. It probably had 40,000 people during the Depression, and not that many dentists. I don’t know.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m from Detroit, so it’s hard for me to have a sense of this place.”

“I found the records stored among Grandfather’s files. I immediately logged them into evidence.”

“It was pretty unusual to see dental X-rays in 1940,” she said.

“These were rich people,” I said. “And Grandfather loved gadgets.”

I was bursting with anticipation, but something told me not to rush her.

“Well,” she said, “it’s the jackpot. Based on the dental records, the skeletons you guys found are indeed the remains of Andrew and Woodrow Yarnell. Each little boy had a silver filling in a molar.”

“And the DNA profile?”

“Both tests are telling us accurate information,” Boswell said. “Deputy, you have a mystery on your hands.”

Chapter Twenty-five

I walked Gretchen to her truck, reveling in the cool, dry evening. She wore a lightweight leather jacket over a dark blouse and tight blue jeans. The leather felt soft and supple as I slipped my hand around her. She leaned into me. The Christmas lights were up in downtown Scottsdale, and tourists sauntered along window-shopping, pairs of shadows down the street.

“Do you want some company?”

She put her hand in my back pocket. “That would mean I would have to give you my address.”

“Do you trust me, Gretchen?”

“If you came to my place, you’d fuck me,” she whispered, her voice husky. “You might just fuck me crazy.”

I ran my hands down her sweet, denim-encased hips, pulled her closer.

“That would be the idea.”

She checked her watch. “Why don’t I come to your place later? Will your high-powered roomie be put out?”

For a moment I wondered if she were married. That might be one reason to not give me her address, to not ride out here with me. We stood beside her big white SUV. I caressed her face and she leaned in, kissing me deeply. As we were parting, I told her the latest news on the twins.

“It is definitely them,” I said. “Either the DNA test was inconclusive, or they had a different mother from Max and James.”

She turned her head away and I could see her eyes were full of tears. They gleamed off the streetlights like new stars.

“Gotta go, David. Thank you for a nice evening.” She gently but firmly pushed me away, and soon the Ford’s taillights disappeared around the corner. I was left alone on the street.

I drove slowly down Main Street, past the rows of tony galleries. The car was a warm haven for a man mellowed by two Negra Modelos and aroused by Gretchen’s kisses. Clots of white-haired tourists milled along the street. Then, past the traffic circle with the bronze of the bucking bronco, Main Street emptied out. I was just about to accelerate over to Goldwater Boulevard when another white head caught my eye. A man in a checked shirt and khaki pants, sitting on a bench.

It was James Yarnell.

“I’m seeing you more often than I see my wife,” he said after I stopped and got out. We had interviewed him on Sunday.

“Are you all right?”

He looked me over in an unfocused way. I could smell booze on him.

“I’m just closing up for the night.” He gestured over his shoulder to the Yarnell Gallery’s large, well-lit windows. I sat on the bench beside him, and for a long time we just listened to the night noises in a city of cars.