I asked her why.
“That’s what always drove me nuts. I was assigned to do a story on the Pilgrim case years ago, just a historical feature on famous local cases that had never been solved. I’d never even heard of the case before. But I didn’t get anywhere with the FBI. Even some of my good sources wouldn’t talk. And I’m like, what’s the deal? This is a case that happened decades ago. Why do they give a shit? Well, let me tell you, David, they do. I came back five years ago and filed a FOIA, Freedom of Information Act request, for the Pilgrim files. Guess what? They blocked it.”
I sipped the mocha, trying to square Lorie’s information with Eric Pham’s willingness to share the case with the local cops.
“What about the county files?”
“The assholes tried to block that, too. The paper took them to court. I got this very redacted version. Lots of reports were missing. This was all before
you came back to Phoenix, David.”
“So why do they care so much?” I asked.
“I’d like to tell you it’s the great Phoenix murder mystery, that’s it’s got sex, betrayal, a dead body and somehow ties the FBI into the Kennedy assassination. But my theory is that Pilgrim killed himself, and that would have been an embarrassment to the FBI. But who the hell knows. Not everybody would agree.”
“Who is not everybody?” I asked.
“There was someone I spent some time with who was one of these amateur crime buffs. A.C. Hardin-how could I ever forget. A.C. was convinced that Pilgrim was killed by gangsters.”
“Where can I find Hardin?”
“Used to live down in Tubac. Hang on…” I heard her banging through drawers, and then she came back on with a phone number. I thanked her.
“Yeah, well, A.C.’s a nut,” she said. “So now it’s your turn, Deputy-Professor-Ex-Boyfriend. Talk.”
I saw a shadow at the pebbled glass of my door. “Later,” I said, and hung up. I could hear her cursing as the phone sank to its cradle.
Kate Vare opened the door without knocking. “We’ve got to canvass the shelters, find out who this guy was,” she muttered.
“Can’t the detectives do that?” I asked.
“We are the detectives, Mapstone,” she said. “Didn’t you see TV this morning? A fourteen-year-old girl kidnapped at gunpoint from her parents’ house. Everybody in my shop is busy on that. Not that we didn’t have enough to do already.”
She looked around my office. “How do you rate so much room? And this furniture?”
“This was just a storeroom when I cleaned it up,” I said. “Actually, it was the sheriff’s personal office when the courthouse was built in 1929, but it had been forgotten all these years…”
I wasn’t even going to get into how I found the 1930s hardwood chairs and bench, and the leather sofa, in county storage. Her eyes were blurry with boredom.
“I didn’t hear about the kidnapping,” I said. I was just making conversation. My stomach hurt, the ache of unpleasant people. My stomach said, Be somewhere else.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said, giving me a small, sad smile. “You read books.”
“Or the newspaper.”
“Who has time.”
She fished in her tote and held out two handfuls. “We have some photos of the guy, and his jacket in a bag. Maybe someone will remember dealing with him.”
I stayed at my desk. “Kate, I have a wonderful idea. You check out the homeless guy, and I’ll work things from the Pilgrim angle. That way we’ll stay out of each other’s way.”
“No way,” she barked, and squared her shoulders against me. “I’m not taking the shitwork while you play professor.”
“This isn’t-”
“I’ve dealt with sexism my whole career, Mapstone. So don’t think you can pat me on the head, tell me I have pretty legs, and send me on my way.”
“I-”