Concrete Desert (David Mapstone Mystery 1)

“So Eddie wasn’t the Creeper? Or the Creeper didn’t kill Stokes, either?”

“Eddie may have been the Creeper,” Wolfe said. “I think he was. But neither one killed Rebecca.

“You see”-he polished off the food and wiped his face roughly with a napkin-“the worst thing an investigator can do is confuse his instincts with his prejudices. You work a hundred murder cases and they’re all the same. So you’re tempted to think murder one hundred and one is the same, too. That’s where you screw up. Because there’re a million reasons why people end up dead. A million secrets behind those dead eyes. And nothing keeps secrets better than the desert.

“No.” He shook his head. “Rebecca Stokes was killed by somebody she knew.”

I drove with no destination, just to be moving. Out to the Squaw Peak Parkway and north toward the mountains in the clot of rush-hour traffic. I called Peralta on the cellular phone, but his secretary said he had gone to a Mounted Posse awards dinner. I tried Julie at my house and at her home, but there was no answer. Lindsey’s voice answered her phone, but it was only her answering machine. I didn’t leave a message.

Harry Truman said the only thing new in the world is the history you don’t know. Harrison Wolfe had lived some of that history. And I was drowning in what I didn’t know. I didn’t know who had killed Rebecca Stokes. I didn’t know who had killed Phaedra Riding or where she had been for the month since she disappeared. I didn’t know why Phaedra’s killer would want to copy what he thought was the MO of the Stokes case. I didn’t know why Greg Townsend was dead or how that was related to Phaedra. And I didn’t know the secrets that the desert was hiding from me.

Chapter Fourteen

The phone rang at 1:45 the next morning. It was Julie.

“David,” she said. “Do you know I really love you? I’ve always loved you.”

“I-”

“You are so kind, David. You turned into such a fine man. I never doubted it. I just haven’t had much experience with men like you in my life.” She laughed unhappily.

“Where are you, Julie?”

“I have to go away, my love. Please don’t ask questions. I think we’re in great danger. I have to do this, David.”

There was something in her voice-a peculiar trill.

“Do what, Julie?”

“David, please don’t ask right now. We’re in danger.”

I asked her why we were in danger.

“Phaedra’s dead.” Her voice went up a notch. “Greg is dead. I can’t talk now.”

“Julie, Peralta is not going to like this. You could be a material witness in a capital murder case.”

“Fuck him.” She laughed. “I’ll be in touch.”

The line went dead.

I replaced the receiver as if it were a live bomb. My heart was beating hard. The dread of the early-morning phone call. I walked through the darkened house and checked the doors and windows. I tried to laugh aloud about the Creeper-what a silly, melodramatic name-but the house swallowed up the sound. Outside, the street was silent and deserted. Back in bed, the sheets smelled of Julie. Maybe around 5:00 A.M., I fell asleep.

I got downtown around 4:00 P.M. Peralta was on the phone when I reached his office, but he waved me in. I scanned the Republic on his desk: lots of crime news, but nothing about Phaedra or Greg Townsend. A few minutes later, he hung up.

His jaw clenched and unclenched as I told him about Julie.

“I’m going to get a warrant.” He snatched up the phone.

“Mike, she was at work. It would have been a neat trick if she could have driven to Sedona, murdered Townsend-with a twelve-gauge shotgun, no less-and gotten back to work, but I don’t see it.”

He twirled the receiver in his massive hands. “Did you check?”

“No,” I said. “I thought I was off the case, or ‘never on it,’ as you put it.”

“Check,” he said. Then, into the receiver: “Melinda, I want you to find Judge Garcia-I know he flew to Crested Butte to gamble this weekend-and draw up a warrant for him to sign on Julie Riding.” He gave her the file number so she could find Julie’s address and Social Security number. “If you don’t hear from me in the next two hours, get the warrant signed and BOLO her. Murder one.”

“Mike, I’ve been sleeping with her,” I said.