The Night Detectives (David Mapstone Mystery 7)

After the third ring, I activated the iPhone.

Peralta’s voice came across: “don’t follow him.”

“Are you nuts? This is the guy who was casing our office.”

“The plan is working, Mapstone. Let the plan work.”

All I knew was that I had spent several hours I could never get back driving around Phoenix and had nothing to show for it. Still, I reluctantly swung around the other way, back north through the alley, and turned on my headlights.

As I came around the other side of the motel, two Phoenix Police cruisers were sitting driver’s door to driver’s door. They might have been talking shop or sports or flirting with each other. Or they were watching me. By this time, however, I was only another law-abiding citizen driving through the night.

The Impala driver was long gone.

I muttered profanities.

“Glad you didn’t use the hammer, Mapstone?” I could feel the gloat carried across the cell towers. “Sharon left the briefcase when she rented the room. Earlier today she sewed a small tracking device into it. Two can play this game with electronics and ours are better.”

I spoke low and slowly, in a rage. “So explain the next move to me, Sheriff.”

“Come down to the Whataburger at Bethany Home. Go through the drive-thru. We’re in the silver convertible. But don’t come over to us.”

I did as told, merging into the concrete river of lights that was the freeway and speeding south two miles. After taking the Bethany Home Road exit, I crossed over and made a quick jog up the northbound access road to the restaurant. The building was separated from the traffic by a faux desert berm with a couple of palo verde trees and some creosote bushes. And the drive through, which ran around it like a letter “C.” The entrance was at the top of the “C,” so I went that way, noticing Sharon’s Infiniti parked in one of the spaces to my left, across a gravel-covered berm.

The bad guys knew his pickup, thought they had it rigged with a tracker. In its place, he was driving a silver two-door convertible, starting price sixty grand.

“You’re very inconspicuous in that ride,” I told Peralta, “especially in this part of town.”

“Check it out, Mapstone.”

On the left, immediately in front of the restaurant, a black Dodge Ram was parked near the door. Sure enough, his frame hearted Rancho Bernardo. The windows were tinted dark and I couldn’t tell if the engine was running.

Better to not linger: I pulled into the drive-thru, anxiously tapping the steering wheel and wondering about the truck’s occupant. His partner had probably told him that he had broken into the motel room and taken the briefcase. Now, what would he think if he saw me pulling in? Maybe he was inside, but I doubted it—he would be tracking me from the cab of the truck.

I didn’t understand why Peralta was taking the risk of having me drive here. I hoped he believed in coincidences.

“So what’s the plan again?”

“Get your order,” Peralta ordered. “Pull around to the front, pull in a couple of spaces apart, and eat it where he can see you. Pretend to be dumb.”

That part was easy.

By this time, I was actually hungry. So I got a burger, fries, and Diet Coke. Then I parked three spaces south of the Dodge Ram. The tinted windows made it impossible to see if anyone was inside.

Take small bites in case you get in a gunfight, like your grandma taught you.

I was two bites into the cheeseburger when Lindsey stepped out of the convertible and walked toward the restaurant. She was wearing a short khaki skirt and a tight sleeveless top that accentuated her small, pert breasts and very erect nipples. Her ability to look ten years younger than her real age was not diminished by the harsh lights of the parking lot.

She strutted within inches of the Ram driver’s door and went inside.

My head throbbed. Over the phone, I demanded, “Are you crazy?”

“No.” Peralta was fully in his Zen master mode. I almost preferred the volcano. He was taking a hell of a chance, assuming that my presence would distract the driver. I prayed he hadn’t checked me out in enough detail to realize that the woman with the legs that went on for days was Lindsey Faith Mapstone.

Five minutes later, she walked back the way she had come. She paused in front of the Ram’s grille and sipped sensually from a drink, paying no attention to me. She turned back as if she were going to return to the restaurant, and then faced forward again, fellating the straw for the occupants of the truck. If they had missed her the first time, they sure didn’t now. She stepped off the curb and walked to the convertible, her skirt swinging saucily.

If the truck door opened on the way to grabbing her and hauling her off for rape and ransom, I was going to control and dominate the situation immediately, badge or no badge.

“Fuck!” Lindsey yelled it.