Dry Heat (David Mapstone Mystery 3)

“He must have been a character,” she said. “I wish I could have had a chance to meet him.” She put a hand on my leg. “But your scrapes with the wild side of Phoenix scare the hell out of me. You need to stick to the library; History Shamus.”

I could still feel a stranger’s rough fingers digging into my neck. Rolling my head from side to side only exaggerated the soreness. Lindsey was right, of course. We had been lucky as hell. The confrontation beneath the overpass could have turned out very differently, very unhappily. Somehow I had a gene in me that let me remember my training, and fight back when I was scared-even though most people living comfortable, middle-class lives would have been terrified into paralysis. And I had been lucky.

I sat back high above home plate, surrounded by 30,000 friendly strangers, and felt glad to be alive. Phoenix had come a long way from the dusty little farm town that my great-grandparents discovered when they came to Arizona before statehood. In good ways, with big-city amenities like the beautiful downtown ballpark, with its retractable roof, air-conditioning, and right-field swimming pool. And bad: with the rough characters like the kind Kate Vare and I encountered the day before.

They were in Peralta’s jail now, wearing stripes and eating green baloney. But a fleeting hope that they might somehow be connected to the old FBI badge-what with the one scumbag’s comment about taking and selling Kate’s badge-had led to nothing. They were ordinary drug dealers and low-life generalists seeking whatever criminal opportunity presented itself. So we were still nowhere on the investigation. The medical examiner was behind on autopsies and cranky, so we didn’t even know if the old guy in the pool was a homicide. My request to see the FBI file on John Pilgrim’s death was somewhere in the outer rings of bureaucratic perdition. There was nothing to do but turn off our pagers and cell phones and go to a baseball game.

When the game ended in triumph, we spilled out with the crowd, down the big escalators, past the murals with scenes of Arizona, past the dedication to the People of Maricopa County. That was when two burly uniformed deputies intercepted us.

“You David and Lindsey Mapstone?”

I asked what the problem was.

“Sheriff Peralta needs you in Scottsdale immediately.”

I started to protest, but they were already hustling us into a service elevator. “We’ll drive you,” one said.

“We couldn’t reach you on pager, sir,” his partner said.

“Can’t I just call Peralta

on the phone?” I asked.

“No, sir. He was very specific. He wants us to bring you.”

“What’s in Scottsdale?”

“I don’t know, sir. We were just told to bring you.”

I tried to imagine what was on Peralta’s mind. The sheriff’s personal security detail cost the taxpayers of Maricopa County more than a quarter of a million dollars a year. So much for the High Noon sheriff making a lonely stand. So I could see him going to extravagant lengths to lasso me, if I had given fresh cause for annoyance. But I had duly updated him on the nowhere status of the Pilgrim case, and endured his amusement and critique of the fight with the drug dealers beneath the overpass. This errand was surpassing strange.

As we drove east on the Red Mountain Freeway using emergency lights, I knew this was no Peralta highjinks. Lindsey knew before me. She had fallen into a watchful silence that was so Lindsey. We sat on the slick vinyl of the backseat, closed in behind the prisoner screen, behind two silent deputies. She held my hand tightly. The city slipped by, the lights of three million people. The lights of airliners taking off and landing from Sky Harbor. The lights of the squad car reflecting off the freeway underpasses. City of lights. In the hot and smoggy ugly seasons, when we were short of spectacular sunsets and clear mountain views, nighttime favored Phoenix. Exit signs to the Piestewa Freeway north, the Chinese Cultural Center, Papago Park, and downtown Tempe. The Papago Buttes looming in the twilight. We rejoined the street grid at Rural Road, kicked in the siren, and headed north into Scottsdale.

“Dave, I have a bad feeling,” Lindsey said.

Her premonition hardened as we came up Scottsdale Road and turned east on Fifth Avenue, winding around the Galleria. A ribbon of flashing red, orange, and blue lights waited at the end of the street. The deputies cut out the siren and coasted past the bland single-story buildings that contained, among other establishments, a bar called the Martini Ranch.

Lindsey said quietly, “Oh, no.” She checked her ankle holster, which discreetly held her baby Glock semiautomatic. Her blue eyes seemed to have turned an intense black. I felt a deep dread in my middle. Peralta’s face loomed in the window.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he demanded. He was wearing black jeans and a long Guayabera shirt, supernaturally white.

“We went to the D-Backs,” I said as we emerged from the backseat. “I didn’t know I had to clear my movements with you.” The night was warm and dry. Crime scene tape was festooned along the street. Peralta lasered me with his expression.

“I got two cops dead here, smart-ass,” he said. “From here on, your movements belong to me.”

We followed him past a row of parked cars and SUVs, through a cordon of khaki-clad Scottsdale cops. Bright TV lights flooded us from across the street.

I heard Lindsey’s voice catch in her throat. Beyond the car bumpers, a couple of tarps barely concealed two bodies and a lot of blood, congealed on the hot sidewalk. One of the bodies was wearing cowboy boots, the other sneakers. The feet of the dead were splayed at strange, sudden angles. Lindsey bent down and examined both bodies. They were men in their thirties. One had a flamboyant red beard. The other was clean-cut, bald-headed, and boyish. Both were marred with multiple wounds and blood. Lindsey gave me a stricken look. I was not the cop. I was the husband. I came up behind her, put my hands on her shoulders, and pulled her back to me.

“What…?” she began.

She lunged toward Peralta. “Why aren’t the paramedics here!” she demanded, her hands outstretched. “Why aren’t you doing CPR?”

He shook his head. She looked over the bodies again and then sagged against me. I walked her a little ways down the sidewalk. Peralta followed us.

“Talk to me, Lindsey,” he said.

She stared out at the night, the streetlights gleaming in her tears. “The guy with the beard is named Jim Britton. He’s with Treasury. The other one is Gary Reece, Department of Justice.” She looked at me. “They worked with me on the credit card case. They were part of the task force.”