Jon Talton - South Phoenix Rules

In the study now, Robin joined us. Judson Lee stood and introduced himself, holding her hand in a courtly way. “What a beautiful name, Robin,” he said. I thought he was going to kiss her hand.

He sat back down and resumed. “This isn’t about Harley Talbott, directly. My client is Nick DeSimone, the restaurant owner. He’s a great guy. Have you been to his place?” His hands gesticulated in his small lap.

“When I can afford Scottsdale prices.”

“Ah.” One of the black slashes of eyebrows arched. In the light, his face bore the signs of Scottsdale or Paradise Valley privilege-or rather lack of signs: in spite of its sun-leathered color, it was barely wrinkled. “Well, Mr. DeSimone’s grandfather Paolo worked for Harley Talbott when he was young. He was an impressionable kid. Harley was a big personality. Paolo went to prison for Harley Talbott.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m out of the cold-case business.”

“This was a miscarriage of justice,” he said. “Paolo was no angel at times, that’s true. But he had cleaned himself up, started a family. Then this incident happened and he was made to take the fall. His family deserves to have his name cleared.”

I told him I could recommend some good private investigators.

“But you’re a historian, no? What I’m proposing, Dr. Mapstone, and what my client is willing to pay for, is what you might call family history.”

“A family history that clears his grandfather?”

“I can’t think of a better person to do it. You solved the murder of the FBI agent, after how many decades? And the Yarnell kidnapping. I know your reputation.”

Out of the lawyer’s vision, Robin smiled and winked at me.

I told him I appreciated it, but no. I would have my hands full teaching at ASU. I hoped so: I kept waiting to get the final sign-on. Things moved so slowly in academia. Or maybe we would sell the house and move to Washington-I had offered that to Lindsey and she had said no. That was another example where she calmly made a hard pronouncement and ended the conversation, another reason to lie awake. Was she really trying out this job for a few months, as we had discussed? Now the round brown face in front of me kept talking.

“He’d be willing to pay five thousand dollars.”

“I can’t. But thanks for stopping by. I’m sorry I gave you a scare. We’ve had some trouble in the neighborhood lately.”

“Ah.” He stood and shook my hand. “I totally understand. I don’t even know anyone who would live down here.”

I kept my neighborhood pride tamped down. I didn’t tell him you couldn’t pay me enough to live in his gated property or mountainside mansion.

He said, “I hope you’ll keep my card in case you change your mind. If what I hear about you is correct, this story might really intrigue you.”

I walked him to the door, eager to get him out-eager, desperate really, to make drinks.

For the first time in weeks, I put on jazz. Bill Evans, Stan Getz, McCoy Tyner. Coltrane, of course. I drank two martinis and Robin had one. I was drinking too much. It was the least of my problems. Robin opened our last cans of chili, used up the box of crackers, and made me eat something.

When the music stopped, Robin said, “This isn’t your fault.” There was no question what this was. “There’s nothing you could have done differently.”

“I wonder about that every day,” I said.

“I know you do.” It wasn’t a reproach. Just a gentle commiseration. “There’s nothing anybody could have done. Nobody is to blame.”

“That may not be what Lindsey thinks.”

She didn’t respond.

Her face brightened. “If you’ll go running with me tomorrow, I’ll take you to a bookstore.”

“Will you wear the vest?”

“Hell, no.” She tried unsuccessfully to pull her hair behind her ears. It fell back, gently framing her smile.

“You are a pain in the ass.” I said it fondly.

We sat a long while in the dark living room, until she asked, “Do you want your space tonight?”

I closed my eyes, remembering the previous night, after Lindsey and I had strolled together along the Mall, the monuments grandly lit, the cold sharp. It felt important to try again to make a connection, to find my way back to her. It was a bad idea. I talked and she met me with silence. Until we came back to the Washington Monument, and then she spoke for all of ten seconds.

Lindsey’s words were still burning inside me like white phosphorous. The compartments had shattered and now I was carrying the shrapnel. But my body was giving in to alcohol and east-coast time.

I looked at Robin and shook my head. “Come be with me.”

The bedraggled, single-story building on Grand Avenue looked somewhere between sixty and eighty years old, with a single door and a square window on each side. All were covered by bars that might once have been painted. The square structure itself was bleached brown, done in cracking stucco to resemble adobe, and it sat atop the remains of an asphalt lot. It had once been the office to a motel in the golden age of driving, and this was the highway west out of town.

A battered sign on a pole near the street read, very faintly, Easy 8 Auto Court and beneath that, Air Conditioned-It’s Cool Inside!, but all the cottages were long gone. Now the office sat by itself, surrounded by barren lots on either side that held dirt and rocks the same color as the building. The only signs of newness were a twelve-foot-high security fence, a couple of halogen lights aimed from the roof, and Peralta’s silver Dodge Ram pickup parked in front. The Prelude bumped across the perimeter of the open gate. We got out, went inside, and found Peralta.

“I can’t believe this.” Those were my first words.

“What, Mapstone? You don’t believe in entrepreneurialism? It’s the American dream.”

He stood from behind an ancient metal desk, came around, and hugged Robin.

To me, he said, “What’s that growing on your face?”

A second desk sat at an angle across the room. Two institutional armchairs with green-cushioned seats that might have been new during the Eisenhower administration flanked both, and tall gray metal filing cabinets took up one wall. The floor was old linoleum, the color of coffee with three creams. The sheriff’s cigars had augmented the musty smell. Behind Peralta’s desk was a framed poster that proclaimed “Diversity.” It was meant to look exactly like one of those insipid motivational placards, but the image was of a dozen mean-looking assault rifles laid out neatly on white sand.

“Why are you not in some luxury suite in north Scottsdale?”

“Fake tits on a stick, not my style,” he grunted as he sat. To Robin, “Sorry about my language.”

She smiled at him.

“And you turned down how many high-powered offers to be corporate chief of security or a national consultant?”

“Thirteen,” he said. “But it’s a slow job market. I wanted to be on my own.”

“You must be crazy. You have a law degree, for god’s sake.”

He actually smiled. “Res ipsa loquitur.” The thing speaks for itself.

We sat in the chairs. He didn’t look much different. He wore a starched white shirt, red tie, and black slacks, with his usual firearms accessory.

“I’m a private investigator now, Mapstone. It’ll be fun. I don’t need to make much money. My ex has been very indulgent with her book royalties. But business comes anyway. I just got back from Douglas. Client wasn’t satisfied with how the police handled her brother’s murder. So I put some fresh eyes on it. Got out and saw a beautiful part of the state.”