Dry Heat (David Mapstone Mystery 3)

“David,” I said. “David Mapstone.”

“I’m Karen,” she said. “You’re a cop, right?”

“I’m a deputy.” I asked her what she could tell me about him.

“He was nice to me. I’ve been on the streets four years now. He helped me find food, a place to sleep that was safe. He’d share cigarettes. We’d talk.”

“Any idea where he was from? How long he’d been living on the streets?”

“He had family in California, I think. Somebody told me he had been in the Navy. He never said much about himself.” She kept her arms clasped tightly and tilted slowly from side to side. She asked, “What are you looking for him for?”

I looked behind her into the blue-black of the western sky. We had been deprived of spectacular fiery sunsets for months. Even so, the sky seemed supernaturally large over our heads, the dry air conducting light intensely but with none of the velvety intimacy of the sky back east. Over Karen’s shoulder, the downtown towers still glowed from the last of the sun.

“Weed is dead,” I said. “He died last week. We’re trying to find next of kin, or anybody who knew him.”

Her eyes widened for several seconds. “Shit!” she whispered, stamping the gravel. “You got a smoke”

I shook my head.

Her shoulders suddenly sagged. She stared at the ground.

“H

e never hurt anybody.” She licked her chapped lips. “Somebody finally killed him.”

“What makes you think somebody killed him?” I asked.

“What, you live on the streets and you expect to die a natural death? I don’t think so. Not in this town. I’ve been in county hospital so many times, beaten up, robbed, raped, anything they think they can do to me. You cops figure I got it coming to me because I’m homeless. People in this town will kill you for five dollars.”

I couldn’t argue the point. After a moment, I prompted, “Tell me more about Weed.”

“Did he have his jacket?” she asked suddenly.

I nodded.

“I always thought he might get robbed and killed for that jacket.”

I asked her why.

“He had something sewn inside it,” she said, her eyes wide and gray. “I never knew what the hell it was, but he was sure protective, and secretive. He wore that jacket every day, even when it was the hottest day in August. One time, I felt something in there. Something sewn into the lining. When he caught me, he just went crazy. Slapped me down.”

“What do you think was in it?” I asked.

“Maybe jewelry,” she said. She added, “From his old life maybe.”

“Which was?”

She shook her head. “He never said. I never asked.” She rubbed her eyes. “Shit,” she said. “Poor Weed. I hadn’t seen him in days, and when I heard you were looking for him…”

“Did he ever mention the name John Pilgrim?”

She shook her head.

“What’s your last name?” I asked.

“I’m Karen. I told you.”

“Just Karen.”