High Country Nocturne (David Mapstone Mystery 8)

I leaned toward the steering wheel and let out a long sigh. It was not theater. My best hope for catching Strawberry Death had failed and she was on the loose again.

“Did you shoot her, Mapstone?”

I pulled out the Colt Python and held it up. “If I had shot her, she’d be dead, blown six feet back from the point of impact. Anyway, you told me that if I worked this case, you’d…”

“Yeah, yeah.” She shook her head dismissively. “I’ve changed my mind. This woman is dangerous as hell. I know Lindsey’s in the hospital and for some reason you’ve got this special from Meltdown. But I need your help.”

“You? Need my help?”

Her sharp features tightened. “Don’t fucking congratulate yourself, Professor. Help me.”

I could give her real help, but that would compromise the operation that Peralta and Cartwright were running. Too many secrets, too many compartments.

She said, “Why are you working for Meltdown?”

I told her the truth.

“You’re an idiot, Mapstone.”

“I know.” It started to sprinkle. I watched the drops heal my dry hand.

“Lindsey wouldn’t betray the country.”

“I know.” My voice was louder this time. “It was Saturday night and he was leaning on me. I needed to buy time.”

Vare shook her head. “And you went home, told Lindsey, had a fight, and she left to take a walk and cool down.”

“That’s pretty much it.”

“You asshole,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me this to begin with?”

“It didn’t seem relevant.”

“Let me tell you about relevant. Twenty minutes after we made entry to the house on Biltmore Estates Drive and secured it, Horace Mann showed up with a dozen agents. He ordered me to turn over control of the scene. My fucking scene! When I refused, he called the chief and…” She punched the steering wheel. “That was that. Why?”

“The woman must be connected to the diamonds.”

“Exactly. And she thinks you’re connected, too. I checked the logs and we did impound the car you described. It was a rental, made with a credit card to a woman named Amy Morris. Have you heard that name before?”

“No.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m trying.” Actually, I was lying again. Amy Morris was the name I first heard from the man who called Matt Pennington’s office. That man was still waiting for me, as Pennington, to call him back.

Vare said, “I ran her and nothing. Nothing! The credit card had only been used once to rent that car. She used a North Dakota driver’s license that was fake.”

“She’s a professional assassin. She’s got the tradecraft.”

“But who the hell is she and why is she here?”

“I think she’s here to kill Mike Peralta and everybody close to him.”

“Sharon’s okay…”

“She has FBI agents all over her. But when did the woman first show up? On the road to Ash Fork Friday night. I was driving Sharon’s car and she was with me. This Morris woman was dressed like DPS, pulled out her gun and was ready to shoot me. She would have killed us both if the FBI unit following us hadn’t pulled off the freeway at that moment. Morris gets in her car and leaves. The next time I see her is Saturday night outside our house. By that time, Sharon had a protective cordon outside her house. We didn’t.”

Vare actually let me complete several sentences. She drummed her right fingers on the steering wheel, stared ahead. I could see the gears turning and that made me uncomfortable. Kate Vare had good gears.