Dry Heat (David Mapstone Mystery 3)

The garage was several stories tall, meant to handle the apartments, Trinity Cathedral, and some retail shops. I swung into the first level and stopped. This was church and retail parking, and at this time of day it was nearly deserted. The Olds engine echoed off the concrete and I kept watch in the rearview. Maybe fifteen seconds later the SUV crept by, but didn’t turn in. It was huge and black, a Hummer H2. The windows were tinted so dark I couldn’t see anything inside. Then it was gone. I had a decision to make: drive around some more, or turn right up the ramp and swap cars.

Just then the Hummer reappeared in the alley to the south, heading into the other side of the garage. My hand was ahead of my brain. I slammed the gearshift into reverse and backed out onto Portland. I was being too careful, but I felt an irrational fear. Surely the product of two weeks spent in hiding, two weeks to contemplate the bloody work done to Lindsey’s colleagues on the sidewalk in downtown Scottsdale. I laughed out loud at myself and the laughter dissipated into the noise of the air-conditioning. The blonde smiled at me and tossed the ball for her dog. I put the car into drive and slowly moved toward Central. The Hummer would be driving up the garage to park and disgorge its passengers. I would drive around the block and laugh at myself again. Then I would go home and teach myself to relax.

Only the Hummer came out of the driveway. Just enough for the driver to keep an eye on me. The big convertible was built for pleasure, not security. I felt a sudden rush of vulnerability.

I pressed the accelerator and the 442 engine responded instantly. A gray Honda was bearing down on me on Central but I slid in front of him and sped away. I blew through the yellow light at Roosevelt and followed the road as it swung over to a one-way on First Avenue. A block farther on I wheeled left and sped through downtown streets, crossing Central, First, Second, and Third Streets, then left and back across Roosevelt heading north. When I could refocus on the rearview mirror, the Hummer was a block behind me. When it crossed Roosevelt against the red light, I felt a stake of dread in my stomach.

What the hell was going on? I was half tempted to pull over and step out. Wait for the SOB to pull up behind me. He’d probably go around. It was probably some kids playing. At worst, it was some dumb carjackers scoping out my automotive relic. Pull over-why play games? And yet, something elemental stopped me. It said, Stay in the car. Keep moving. I thought about the blond man, improbably out of place at the park with his tie and shirt. Did I just imagine that his face appeared different, something Slavic in his features?

In a block I took the on-ramp to the Papago Freeway. The rush-hour mess was starting, but the big engine quickly had me up to seventy, sailing out onto six lanes of eastbound concrete. Overhead the wind became a gale rattling the ragtop. I crossed lane after lane, swerving past the thickening clots of cars, SUVs, minivans, and pickups. The Twelfth Street overpass swooped above me. Then we passed Sixteenth and bore into the Short Stack, where the Red Mountain Freeway hove off to the East Valley. Traffic was stopped, backing up. I slid over to the shoulder and ran around it, provoking a chorus of honking. Then I was past the jam-up, heading east. The speedometer said eighty-five, but the big car felt as if it were doing about forty. Behind me, I could see the Hummer trying to catch up. I fumbled for my cell phone.

Lindsey answered on the first ring.

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah, Dave. Are you?”

I told her what I knew. She promised to call the deputy down at the front desk. I promised her I’d alert the communications center and get some backup. I assured her I had the Python and some Speed-loaders holding extra ammo. It wouldn’t come to that. It was probably just a coincidence and a case of nerves. Still, I was glad that every second we moved farther away from the Central Corridor and the hideaway condo. I told her I loved her.

It was a beautiful day for a drive. One of the sad ironies of the urbanization of Phoenix was that the best place for average folks to see the mountains now was from the freeway. Camelback sat spectacularly off to the north, the afternoon sun making it glow in a rich red. The smog was light enough to see the gentle undulations of the McDowell range off to the northeast, and beyond them, Four Peaks soared through the haze. At the Fortieth Street exit, I raised the Sheriff’s Office communications center and, after a long wait on hold, explained things to the watch commander. It looked like a hundred thousand other SUVs on the streets of Phoenix. No, I didn’t have a license tag. By that time downtown Tempe was flying by on my right, and the black Hummer was a half dozen car lengths behind me.

Then it was gone. I swerved to avoid a slow-moving junk truck. Then I slowed to around sixty. I checked both mirrors and the Hummer had disappeared. As I updated the watch commander, I pulled off on McClintock and headed south into Tempe. She told me to keep the line open. So I set the phone on the seat and drove slowly across the Salt River, then turned west on University. My heart was still beating too hard. But the road behind me was devoid of anything that looked like my pursuer.

I cruised past the Arizona State campus, slow enough that cars sped around me angrily. Now I regretted not bagging the guy. He was gone and we didn’t know what the hell he wanted with me. Another voice in me said it was just as well. The street behind me remained safe. I made a loop and retraced my route. How did he just disappear? I could have sworn he was still with me past the exit to Priest and downtown Tempe…Could he have exited at Rural? I cursed myself for not finding a way to get behind him, get his license number.

Then I took a sharp, involuntary breath. I told the watch commander I’d call her back, and hung up even as she was protesting. I speed-dialed Lindsey’s cell.

The phone rang five times, and her voice mail picked up. I dialed again, irrationally checking the display to make sure it was, indeed, Lindsey’s number. Still nothing. I pulled over into a parking lot, forgetting to signal or check my mirrors. I dialed the landline into the condo. It rang fifteen times. Next I tried the line to the concierge desk. Again, no answer.

I cursed under my breath. I almost mumbled aloud something about how this couldn’t be happening. The car was already moving. I sped out of the parking lot and went north to the freeway. In a couple of minutes I was headed back toward the city, the sun in my eyes, my foot jamming the accelerator into the floor.

“There’s no answer,” I was yelling into the pho

ne, trying to make the dispatcher understand me. I gave my badge number for the second time, gave the address. She put me on hold. I wanted to throw the damned phone out of the window.

The siren could be heard even above the wind coursing over the top of the car. Behind me, a DPS cruiser was closing fast. The highway patrol.

“Goddamnit!”

The speedometer read one hundred and twenty-five. The speedometer stopped at one hundred and twenty-five.

I flew low-altitude across the Short Stack and descended into the center city, staying in the HOV lane, heading to the Third Street exit. Now the trooper was right on me. I could see sunglasses and a grim expression. Another DPS cruiser was behind him. A buddy. Everybody ought to have a buddy. I held up my badge like a fool. I didn’t slow down.

The Olds surged off the freeway doing a responsible eighty miles per hour, as I tried to raise the communications center on the cell phone. Behind me, the trooper’s siren insisted I pull over. I gunned it through the yellow light at McDowell and heard screeching tires off to the left. I didn’t want to look. Somewhere in my mind the moving violations were adding up: speeding, reckless driving, refusing to stop. I was half a mile from Lindsey.

Then I was at Central, heading north. A couple of Phoenix PD cars had joined the chase now, and I led a festive little procession up the northbound fast lane, past the Phoenix Art Museum, the Viad Tower, and the church where we had been married. Sure, something inside told me I wasn’t thinking straight. I was thinking only of Lindsey right at that moment. And I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach when I could see emergency lights outside the condo tower.

Something wrong.

Something bad.

The palm trees hurtled past. Then I was slowing, stopping suddenly, slamming the gearshift into park, running toward the entrance to the building. Men were milling about. Men with guns. They noticed me and started out the door.

“Lindsey!” I yelled. “Where’s Lindsey?”

Behind me I heard voices, commands.

Then a great weight fell on me from behind. The ground came up fast. I felt sharp pain, sudden force. I was losing altitude. Then I wasn’t really there. It was only in a little closet of my consciousness that I noticed my arms being pulled in an unnatural direction, and I heard a sound that reminded me of handcuffs locking.