Part 16 (1/2)

Peralta took Lindsey and Sharon outside while I called Artie Dominguez at the Sheriff's Office.

”How's the best detective in the department?”

His usual ebullient laugh was subdued. ”David. Long time, long time. What's it like working one-on-one with the Big Man every day?”

”You can imagine.” I asked him how he was. He snorted.

”He's missed,” he said. ”I might come be a private d.i.c.k myself soon. You won't believe how f.u.c.ked up things are. Let's say command these days isn't very friendly if you have a last name like Dominguez. I used to get the best homicides. Lately, I've been on auto theft.”

”No s.h.i.+t.”

”Real s.h.i.+t, man. Twenty-five years and this is what I get. They're out there playing Border Patrol and everything else has gone to h.e.l.l. Response times are way down. Serious cases are going untouched. The jail's a mess. Wait until you read about the El Mirage s.e.x cases we're not investigating. But rounding up the campesinos standing outside Home Depot makes the old farts in Sun City and the East Valley feel safer. Sucks.”

”Can you run a couple of names through NCIC and ViCAP for me?”

”Sure. It'll take a couple of days so I can do it without my new boss asking questions.”

I gave him Larry Zisman and Bob Hunter. He was aggravated with me that I didn't have Social Security numbers and dates of birth. That would mean more work.

”If it makes you feel any better, I have a list of about sixty names with SS numbers that I'd like to email you at home and have you check, too. I know it'll take time.”

”d.a.m.n, Mapstone. We ought to set you up down here with a desk.”

”You know how that would go over with the new guy.”

He sighed like a martyr.

”I'll owe you,” I added.

”I'll add it to your tab. That it?”

Not quite. I wanted him to check ViCAP-the ma.s.sive FBI database-for suspicious deaths involving young women falling bound from high places. Extra points if they were high-priced prost.i.tutes. And Claymore mine explosions.

After a pause. ”Was that you in San Diego?”

”Yep.”

”f.u.c.k me,” he said. ”I thought you guys were going to be peeping on unfaithful husbands.”

”You know Peralta would get bored with that in an hour or less.”

”True,” he said. ”Watch your a.s.s, David.”

Then I went into the Danger Room to review the footage of the outside security cameras. I backed it up until it showed a new sedan pull in the dirt beside the south fence. It was a white Chevy Impala. A man got out and looked around. He was young and Anglo with a high-and-tight haircut, shaved on the sides with a weed-like tuft on top. Put him in a military uniform and give him a stolen Claymore and things started to come together. He was no vagrant.

I watched as he climbed on the Impala's roof and expertly vaulted the fence, then walked to the carport. Switching to that camera, I saw him open the Prelude driver's door and lean inside. He popped the seatback forward and climbed into the back. Next, he popped the trunk b.u.t.ton and went back there. He was searching for the flash drive. He repeated the move on the pa.s.senger side, and then returned to the Impala, looked around again, and got inside.

Switching to the first camera, I saw him back out to leave and expose the license plate. Nevada. I zoomed in, made a screen shot, and printed it out. It was probably a rental car.

Sharon was standing behind me.

”I'm worried about you.”

”Me, too.” Why deny it?

”You've changed, David. Lindsey feels it, too.”

”That's nice. Another excuse for her to leave me.”

She's not going to leave you. It would have been nice to hear that, but Sharon didn't say it.

”Mike told me what you went through with the cartels and the old gangster in Chandler,” she said. ”n.o.body could go through that without being changed.”

”And Robin being murdered.”

Sharon watched me with those big empathetic eyes.

Yes, there was that. And the trial would soon begin. It was another reason I didn't want to read the local newspaper. It wouldn't be covered because the defendant was a drug addict who killed someone. But because the victim was a blond, middle-cla.s.s woman who lived in a historic district and was the sister-in-law of a former deputy sheriff-that was news. I would have to testify. I dreaded the effect this would have on Lindsey.

”And losing your child,” she said. ”You two have gone through so much loss in such a short time. But I don't want to see this destroy two people I love. Your child wouldn't want that. Robin wouldn't want that.”

I realized my fists were balled up and forced my hands to relax. ”We'll never know, now will we?”

”Mike told me how you chose not to kill the woman who shot Robin,” she said. ”The David I know would have made that choice.”

I didn't answer. It was true: I stalked her, found her, but turned her over to the cops. What Sharon didn't know was that I had the woman on her knees with a dishrag in her mouth, and in my hands I held the a.s.sa.s.sin's .22 caliber pistol with a silencer. I was about to pull the trigger when my cell phone rang and the readout said, ”Lindsey.” So I didn't pull the trigger. Part of me still regretted it. Nor did Sharon know that the better angels of my nature watched helplessly as I wrapped duct tape around the gangster's mouth and let the Zetas crew carry him out of his Witness Protection Program-funded suburban Chandler house. Or how I rolled the pieces into place for his. .h.i.t man to be on the receiving end of a hit himself in jail.

I didn't regret those things.

Sharon said, ”You have to be willing to give it time. Lindsey loves you. That's why she's here.”

Time again. As if I had it.

I said, ”I'm really trying.”

Sharon hugged me and whispered for me to be good to myself. I didn't know how. We walked back into the office to greet Lindsey and Peralta.

”There's a tracker on his truck, too,” Lindsey said.

”She has a very cool scanner.” Peralta was like a little kid. He was enamored with gadgets. He was enamored with Lindsey. Who wasn't?

He went on: ”It picked the tracker right up. Might be a good idea to check the whole office.” He added, ”If you don't mind.”

Lindsey smiled politely. ”This tracking device is identical to the one on the Honda. It's not a logger, the thing people use to follow the movements of a cheating lover. The logger maps out their movements and then you can see where they've been. These are real-time trackers that feed right into a Google map display in a following car. They want to be able to follow at a safe distance and not be detected.”