Dry Heat (David Mapstone Mystery 3)

“Maybe a small suicide attempt?” Markowitz said.

“Long time ago,” Peralta said, unsmiling, sliding the arms back into the body bag.

Peralta studied the FBI badge intently, holding it up to the sun. I retold the story of John Pilgrim, the only FBI agent to be murdered in Arizona, an unsolved crime. Markowitz offered a briefing on what little the neighbors could tell. Peralta was complimentary. Peralta was grateful. Jurisdictional niceties must be observed. He slipped off the latex gloves and took back his Stetson.

He put a meaty hand on Pham’s shoulder. “So tell us what you have in mind, Eric?”

“A cross-jurisdictional, multidisciplinary task force,” he said, “Dr. Mapstone, Sgt. Vare, some of our people, of course. They say alliances are the way to get things done in the New Economy.”

This was not the G-man talk I expected. Peralta said, “And you can push some of the costs onto us local peace officers.” He smiled.

Pham smiled. “Well, Sheriff, it’s no secret that we’re stretched with the war on terrorism. I know you folks are, too. That’s why I thought we could be more effective together. This may be connected to the murder of an FBI agent, so we’re definitely serious players. But we need your help.”

Peralta’s handsome features changed subtly. “I’ve got my problems, too. The state fiscal crisis keeps running downhill to the county. We’re humping it just to keep shifts covered. Got a major war between the Hell’s Angels and the Mongols. My jail system is over capacity…”

“Of course, of course.”

“But,” Peralta sighed, “we’re always happy to help. Mapstone will be assigned to this for as long as it takes.” He shook hands again and swept out, this time with his arm around me. Past the gate, he said, “He’s the nicest damned fed I’ve ever met.”

I said, “How the hell do you know about John Pilgrim?”

“I know history and stuff, Mapstone. You keep teaching me, remember.”

“Despite your best efforts,” I said. We walked past TV cameras and TV questions, which Peralta ignored. He motioned to a uniform, who corralled a handful of TV reporters in the side yard. Peralta was already striding to the street.

“Sheriff Peralta with his media coterie,” I said, making a gesture to take in the reporters, the helicopters, the world.

“What the hell is a coterie? You sound like my wife the Famous Shrink.”

“Wait.” I caught him at the curb. “What the hell good am I supposed to do in an investigation that should be the feds’ business?”

“Why are you in such a foul mood?” he asked mildly. “You got to get out of this place for a few days. I thought you liked Portland.”

I was about to say something I’d probably regret, but he was talking to the neighbors in a patois of Spanish and English. They crowded around him as if he were a star. An ice cream vendor pushed his cart up the street, and the children abandoned Peralta for the sweet stuff.

In a few moments, he took my arm again and led me down the sidewalk, but not far enough to find shade. A huge river of sweat was running down my back. He looked as cool as a November morning.

“You look miserable, Mapstone,” he said.

“How the hell do you stay so cool? It’s a hundred degrees on the first of April.”

“It’s a dry heat,” he said.

I said, “Hell is a dry heat.”

Peralta glanced back toward the house. “All those reporters are going to be disappointed. To them, it will just be a story about a homeless man who died in a green pool.”

“The badge?”

Peralta shook his head. “Pham doesn’t want to release that information yet.”

“But,” I said, “a homeless man doesn’t fall in a pool without the Maricopa County sheriff noticing.”

A carload of young men drove slowly up the street, slowing more as they passed us. It was a Cadillac Escalade, big as a starship, and emitting enormous pulses of sound. It made my heart beat funny. The noise almost concealed a few hissed profanities concerning our parentage and relationship to swine. Peralta ignored it, except for a subtle gesture-he slid his hand around his waist, pulling back his suit coat just enough that they could see the large.40-caliber Glock semiautomatic in a shoulder rig. They couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. Tough young stupid guys with nearly shaved heads. Just past us, they kicked in the hydraulics and the Escalade hopped along, slowly thrusting itself into the asphalt and coming back up. We could hear the sonic thuds long after the car made a languid turn and exited the neighborhood.

“Aren’t you curious about how an FBI badge missing for more than a half century turned up on a homeless guy in a swimming pool in Maryvale?” he demanded, his voice freed of the constraints of public attention.

“Sure, but ‘cross-jurisdictional’ is another word for cluster fuck.”