Cactus Heart (David Mapstone Mystery 5)

“I have a few phrases in Spanish for you, Bobby,” I said.

He ignored me. “Have you ever read Cervantes in his native language, Dr. Mapstone? It is a true epiphany. Rather like the difference between learning Shakespeare in Farsi, and then learning him in English. Or discovering for the first time the real Dante in Italian…”

I set aside my burrito. “Why are you here?”

“It is a public park. I actually bring my children here sometimes. They love riding the little train.” He pointed across the lagoon.

He studied me carefully. “Does it surprise you that I have children, David? Make it a little harder to see me as evil incarnate, as Chief Peralta believes?”

“Stalin had children,” I said. “Anybody can reproduce.”

“Not you, apparently,” he said. “You and Patty had no children, as I recall. Maybe she instinctively knew something.” For a moment I felt strangely stung by this man who mattered nothing to me at all, except as a threat to the community.

He sat next to me on the bench. His gray slacks draped perfectly. I wished I knew his tailor, or maybe not.

“You had an adventure last night,” Bobby said.

“Have your goons been monitoring the police radio?” I looked around for hired muscle with automatic weapons, but only saw the light fading on the greenish water. I wished that would just make him disappear, too.

“Businessmen do have to think about security nowadays, David,” he said. “Anyway, I get my news off the Internet.” Just two guys talking in the park.

“Do you think this murder of Max Yarnell and the attempted murder of his brother are related to the skeletons you found?”

“You know I can’t discuss that.”

“So you don’t know.”

“Do you know? Are you the man who killed Max Yarnell, Bobby?”

He smiled indulgently, then said, “All over the world there is violence. The violence of the murdered. The death squad. The secret wars. The violence against people who merely vanish. Political prisoners. Refugees from wars. My parents disappeared in the revolution, back in 1979. My sister, too. None of us is safe in the world, I suppose.”

I had heard one of Bobby’s favorite methods for dealing with informants

was to stuff them in oil drums and toss them overboard into the Sea of Cortez. But when I said that to him, he just gazed away and sighed.

“I hope you find your answers,” he said finally. Then, “I also read that you failed to positively identify the bodies found in the old warehouse. A frustrating week for my friends at the sheriff’s department.”

“The DNA profiling was no help,” I admitted. It would be interesting to see how current his intelligence was.

“And what do you think that means?”

I suddenly wanted to strangle him. I understood Peralta’s Ahab-like obsession. “Bobby, this is none of your goddamned business.”

“You don’t have to shout and use profanity, Dr. Mapstone,” he said. “Actually, as I told you, buying that warehouse is my business. Do you realize the costs that even a week’s fluctuations in interest rates can add to the bridge loans?”

“So, sell more cocaine,” I said, and went back to the burrito.

“Have you looked at the will of Hayden Winthrop Yarnell?”

The chorizo became a tasteless lump in my mouth. I was tempted to lie, but I said nothing. I could feel my facing turning red. Damn it.

“It is actually in the probate records,” he said. “You might find it interesting.”

So much for David Mapstone, expert researcher of historical mysteries.

I said, “And tell me again why this case interests you?”

“Just as I said, Dr. Mapstone, I have an interest in purchasing the building. I hope I can save our city’s vanishing warehouse district before it is too late. Surely you won’t begrudge me a desire for historical preservation.”