Camelback Falls (David Mapstone Mystery 2)

“Maricopa County deputies?”

He nodded.

“And this was, what, a pinochle club?”

Bobby shook his head, lightly jostling his movie-star hair. It was starting to go gray, which made him look even better.

“That was a long time ago,” he said. “But one heard things. And they were not good. The River Hogs offered protection to certain kinds of businesses, in exchange for certain kinds of, let us say, reciprocity.”

I reached for my drink too fast. “This is absurd. I worked in the East County patrol district.”

“David, you asked me,” he said. He paused, then added, “Now you know why my relationship with the police has always been so-what is the right word? — textured.”

“Then why didn’t I ever hear about these rogue deputies?” I demanded.

He said, “Maybe we moved in different circles.”

I realized my shoulders were rigid bars against the banquette. I made myself lower them, relax. “Are these people, these deputies, still in business?”

“I would not know that,” he said. “And, because I know you will ask, let me emphasize that I heard things, only that, I made it a point never to know more, and never to know the identity of individuals. It seemed like the way to maintain a healthy lifestyle.”

After dinner, I just had to drive. I launched the BMW into the river of headlights flowing east on Camelback Road, and we passed 7th Street, 16th, 24th, headed in the direction of Scottsdale. It was definitely high season, the streets crowded with tags from Ohio, Ontario, Minnesota, New York, and Massachusetts, and Arizona tags on the kinds of cars so bland that they could only exist in the fleets of rental-car companies. Lindsey held my hand and we took comfort in the alchemy of silence and city lights.

“I turned the log over to Internal Affairs,” I said as we missed the signal at 44th Street.

“What else could you do, Dave?”

I just shook my head. “I didn’t even want to know who else was in the book. There’s such a thing as due process. Even if this

stopped twenty years ago, we’ve got evidence that could tarnish good cops. Who the hell was Dean Nixon? A bad cop. I owe it to everybody to make sure we do this right.”

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

“Maybe it’s not badge numbers,” I said, not believing it. “Maybe it’s something else.”

“Partial zip codes?”

I took a left at Arcadia Drive. The oleanders and citrus trees gave way to the arched mass of Camelback Mountain, sitting blacker than the night sky, directly ahead. The road began to rise.

“I need to stay out of this and let IA do its job. The feds might get involved, too. I just need to stand aside.”

“But you won’t,” Lindsey said quietly, proudly.

Arcadia made a hard right, turning into a street called Valle Vista Road. Off behind us you could see why. The city lights expanded grandly behind us, an electric empire flowing out to the far mountains.

“Oh, I love this view,” she said, turning in her seat to take it in. Her hair glowed darkly in the reflected light.

I came to a closed gate, immersed in rock and hedges. The car sighed into park. “This should be it.”

“What is it, Dave? Your old college make-out spot?”

“Look.” I pointed through the landscaping to a modish adobe house perched out on a crag. “It’s Camelback Falls.”

“Wow. Pretty cool spot. Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.” The house was as dark as the street was deserted. “Do you know who owns it now?”

“No. I just wanted to see it. In a way, this is the last message I have from Peralta.”

The city twinkled back at us. Across the Valley, the TV towers on South Mountain beat a tempo in red lights. Airplanes, two abreast, floated into Sky Harbor at a regular tempo. The BMW’s engine idled gently. I turned and cupped Lindsey’s face in my hands, caressing her cheek, the slope of her neck. She turned her lips up to meet my kiss. I ran a hand across her knee, around the edge of her holster, up the silky tension of her stockings, into the taut, loamy warmth of her inner thigh. She sighed happily.