Part 19 (2/2)

He left the engine and air conditioning running and approached the black Suburbans. Out of one stepped a slender man in khakis and an open-collar s.h.i.+rt. Eric Pham, special agent in charge of the Phoenix FBI. Even the head fed wasn't wearing a suit. The New Conformity. They shook hands and talked, and then they walked a ways talking more. Pham was gesticulating, as if laying out a map. Peralta nodded and pointed. Pham nodded.

I asked Lindsey for her iPad and switched the map to a satellite image. The dots had converged at a house at the end of Dunlap, about a mile away. From the photo, it looked like a mid-century modern house. Maybe it was on a little b.u.t.te; it was hard to tell, but Dunlap rose as it went east before dead-ending at the mountain preserve. That could provide some easy escape routes if they didn't do this right.

Now a couple of Phoenix PD units arrived, along with the huge mobile command post. My stomach was wis.h.i.+ng it didn't have breakfast getting in the way of contracting into itself. How long before the news vans and choppers arrived, too?

”Why aren't we doing this ourselves?”

Lindsey put a hand on my shoulder.

”We have to trust him, Dave.”

I leaned my face against her hand, hoping she was right. I knew Peralta still had chits to call in and back channels. But I had a local lawman's mistrust of the feds. I had seen how these quasi-military operations could go very wrong.

The door opened and his bulk filled the seat.

”Phoenix PD is closing off streets,” he said. ”The FBI is preparing to deploy a SWAT team.”

”And you explained to Eric Pham that we developed a break in this case...how?”

He took off his sungla.s.ses and rubbed his eyes. ”I have my ways, Mapstone.”

”I bet.”

He slipped the s.h.i.+ft into drive and rolled back to Seventh Street.

”Wait!” It was an inane blurt, but it came out anyway. Anything to stop this circus. I knew it was too late, even though I had a bad feeling about going in with so many cops, so much firepower.

”Exactly, Mapstone. Wait. There's a baby in that house. The SWAT boys can't send an undercover to the front door with pizza, toss in a flash-bang grenade, and go in blazing. This is going to take time. They'll have to negotiate these guys to come out. We've got other stuff to do in the meantime.”

I looked back with mixed emotions at the gathering army, hoping he was making the right call.

32.

The afternoon sun was cooking toward one-hundred by the time I was waiting for Peralta at the Deer Valley Airport in far north Phoenix, on the other side of the mountains. Since the city had turned Sky Harbor exclusively into a commercial aviation hub, this had become the major general aviation airport. It lacked the cachet of the Scottsdale Airpark, but it was one of the largest general aviation airports in the country. It was also probably the place where UNKNOWN had taken off and landed on his mission to drop the b.l.o.o.d.y baby doll on me.

But he wasn't unknown now. I had met Artie Dominguez for lunch downtown at Sing Hi. I left the Prelude on Cypress and took light rail downtown. No reason for all my movements to be known. The train was packed as usual. The light-rail system was one of the few elements of progress to arrive in recent years and its popularity made its critics more hysterical in their opposition. I liked it.

It only hurt a little to get out at the stop by the old courthouse. The building was as handsome as ever, although I wouldn't let myself look up to my office. It was a crime that they had ripped out the old palm trees, gra.s.s, and shade trees years ago. Downtown needed more shade. And they had added more parking on the south side, more concrete to help make the summers hotter and last longer. For all this, it was the best-looking building downtown. Across Was.h.i.+ngton Street, a little band protested against the new sheriff.

Sing Hi was two blocks south. Dominguez wasn't worried about being seen with me because the venerable Chinese restaurant had lost a good part of its clientele of deputies and prosecutors to the new restaurants at CityScape, the boring mix-used development to the north. I still liked Sing Hi's chow mein.

He played at being aggrieved over my hurry-up request, but he was clearly interested.

Bob Hunter and Larry Zisman came up pretty clean. Each had acc.u.mulated a few speeding tickets. The same was not true of Zisman's son, Andrew. The son had two juvenile arrests for a.s.sault and weapons at ages sixteen and seventeen. His father had paid a top criminal lawyer to get him out of both. He joined the Army but was discharged for being part of a white supremacist cell at Fort Hood, Texas, that was blamed for the beating of a black non-com and the rape of a female soldier. Three of his buddies had gone to military prison. Andrew Zisman had been sent back into the civilian population. His last known address was his father's condominium in San Diego but over the past year, he had racked up two moving violations in metro Phoenix.

ViCAP was no help on either anti-personnel mines or women being pushed from balconies.

But I had also emailed Artie the list of Grace Hunter's clients.

”It's like the Forbes 400,” he commented.

The list contained chief executives, investment bankers, a venture capitalist, doctors, lawyers, and one Indian chief.

The one exception was named Edward Kevin Dowd, age thirty-six.

Yes, Edward.

”This one has an outstanding federal warrant.” Dominguez showed me the intelligence report. ”He's suspected of involvement in the theft of anti-personnel mines from Fort Huachuca.”

A sheet of paper had never felt so heavy.

”Dowd left the Army six years ago after serving for a decade in Special Forces. He had seen multiple deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. Then Obama became president and Dowd started recruiting what he called the White Citizens Brigade among other disaffected soldiers. He was no redneck, but a trust-fund baby from back east, attended Andover and Yale. He was a captain. It was two years before the military got a hint of what he was doing on the side and brought him up on charges. But the investigators didn't find any laws broken, yet. So the Army quietly pushed him out.”

Dominguez slid a photo across the table. Dowd had a lean face, a full head of reddish-brown hair, a narrow soul patch that looked like a Hitler mustache that had fallen to his chin, and small, mean eyes.

”This guy is a killing machine,” Dominguez said. ”He's also a licensed pilot.”

Killing machine. I thought about what Ed Cartwright had told me.

”I need those back.”

I reluctantly slid the material back across the table.

”Did Dowd know Andrew Zisman?”

Dominguez shook his head. ”Unknown.”

What was known was that Dowd had been a client of Grace's, meeting her a dozen times.

”So Artie, where was Dowd last operating?”

He smiled crookedly. ”Phoenix and San Diego. What the h.e.l.l have you gotten yourself into?”

It was a lethally pertinent question, but when Peralta arrived at the airport terminal we had no time to talk. Two tough, big men in suits came inside and called our names. They led us outside where an imposing Gulfstream jet was waiting on the tarmac.

”I'm going to have to ask for your weapons,” one said.

”No,” I said. It was one of Peralta's cardinal rules: you never give up your sidearm.

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