Jon Talton - The Night Detectives

I walked around the house and returned to the chair, spending two hours reading in more detail. This didn’t change my initial impression. The man with the prosthetic leg had been right.

This was not a suicide.

Back at the desk in the study, I wrote a report for Peralta. This was my element, as it was back in the days at the Sheriff’s Office, where I was his in-house egghead clearing cold cases. In thirty minutes, I had shot all the holes I could find in the shoddy and rushed work of the San Diego cops, and then I printed out the report.

A few seconds later, the house phone rang. We had cordless phones in other rooms, but the phone on the desk had belonged to Grandfather, with a real dial, now a retro amenity, and the old-fashioned ring that could put a nail of dread into your brain. As in the old days at the Sheriff’s Office, I would answer and he would announce one word, “Progress?”

Only it wasn’t Peralta.

“Doctor Mapstone.” It was an average voice, neither young nor old, lacking any accent, be it from the Midwest or from the heart of Mexico. An unfamiliar voice. And he was using Doctor Mapstone, exactly as Felix did-the inflection even reminded me of Bobby Hamid, the gangster that Peralta sent to prison for life. I was easy to find. I was in the phone book of whatever company currently owned the former Mountain Bell. I switched on the recording device that Lindsey had added.

“Yes.”

“How could anyone fail to get tenure at San Diego State University?”

“I always surprise. Are you calling to offer me a job?”

“Perhaps. In a way.”

“Go on. I need options.”

A fine laugh followed, not villainous at all. The kind of laugh you could have a beer with. “I bet you do. You have something that I want.”

“What would that be?”

“Don’t fuck with me.” No emphasis or emotion entered his voice. He might as well have said, “Excuse me.”

He went on, “You have something I want, and I am willing to give you something in return.”

“Did you make that same offer to Tim Lewis when you were breaking his fingers one by one?”

“Yes, I did.”

At least that was settled. I wasn’t talking to the tenure committee, calling to say they had made a mistake and wanted me back as a professor. I was talking to a stone-cold killer. Caution flooded my nervous system: he had the baby. I had to be careful not to bait him into further death. I wasn’t sure one could negotiate with a man who would slit Tim Lewis’ throat and paint the wall with blood, but I had to try.

“He claimed that he didn’t have it. So I can only assume that you do. But you present a bigger challenge because of your law-enforcement connections. I have to take a different approach.”

“I bet. You’re a murderer and I’m coming for you.”

So much for David the Negotiator.

The voice remained steady and calm. I hadn’t gotten under his skin. He sure as hell was under mine. Smooth and calm and very sure that I wasn’t tracing him. He seemed in no hurry to hang up.

“I know you want to come for me, Doctor Mapstone. I learned how you settled your Mexican trouble. Impressive. I don’t underestimate you.”

“I didn’t have Mexican trouble. I had criminal trouble. You’re no different.”

“You’re wrong there. We might even be on the same side, using different methods.”

“I don’t think so.”

He cleared his throat. “If I told you we were in a battle for this country, for whether it can remain a white nation, you’ll dismiss me as a racist nut. You work for a Mexican. And you’re an academic. You’ve been brainwashed. Samuel Huntington has it right about the clash of civilizations, but it’s happening in America. In fact, it’s killing this country. You don’t want to face the facts.”

He was mighty chatty and had done some reading. I said, “I’m not sure Professor Huntington would agree with you.” God, I wish I were tracing the call.

“David,” he switched to the familiar, “I don’t want to kill you. I had a chance already. I didn’t take it.”

I wondered if he even had the ability to change baby David’s diaper and feed him. I asked him about that chance to kill me that he didn’t take.

“The apartment. You’re very physically impressive for a man your age, getting out the way you did. But I helped you by waiting to detonate the Claymore. Do you have a new cell number since your old phone went with you into the pool?”

A man my age? Fuck you.

I said, “So you were watching.”

“How do you think I gave you time to get out of the apartment? Now answer my question because I won’t give you time ever again.”

I gave him the number of the temporary phone I had bought at the truck stop in El Centro.

“Drive to the Park Central parking lot. Be on the south side of the lot in five minutes. Come unarmed. Wait and I’ll call. Stay in your car. If any police are with you or near you or I even suspect you’re fucking with me, you won’t get what you want.”

Even the profanity was said with a businesslike calm.

Then the line went dead.

I switched off the recorder, checked my watch, and called Peralta. After I gave him a quick update, he told me to get moving, follow the caller’s instructions.

“Where are you?”

“Camelback Mountain.”

“It’d be nice to have some backup.”

“Get moving, Mapstone. I’ll get there when I can.”

Wondering what he was up to, I pulled the heavy Python and its holster out of my belt and set them on the desk. The freshly cleaned Airlite.357 magnum slid into my pants pocket and was barely noticeable. I added a small Ka-Bar “last option” knife, with a serrated blade, inside my waistband. As the name implies, it is for use if you get in a fight for your weapon and are afraid you’ll lose. I further armed myself with a bottle of frozen water.

Halfway to the car, I stopped, turned around, and went back in the house. In the office, I rooted around in Lindsey’s tech drawer and found a blank flash drive. If I had to trade, at least this might buy me some time to assess the situation. If the mystery caller actually made contact with me, I could show it. Then he would have to show the baby. Then things would get interesting.

Less than three minutes later, I pulled into the bland assortment of low-slung buildings that was Park Central.

When I was a child, it had been the first shopping mall in Phoenix, a sweet, modest, open-air affair on the site of an old dairy. For the past two decades, since the Midtown skyscraper boom collapsed with the 1990 real-estate crash and retail fled toward Scottsdale, it had been mostly offices. Most were medical-related, tied to gigantic St. Joseph’s Hospital and Medical Center to the west.

Local wags were calling St. Joe’s “Mr. Joe’s” now, after the bishop had withdrawn its Catholic affiliation because an abortion was performed to save a woman’s life. It was a mere kerfuffle in the many local rows of the moment. Even without reading the newspaper, I knew Peralta’s successor was doing “sweeps” to pick up illegal immigrants and holding news conferences to trumpet this as a huge triumph of justice. The Legislature was an insane asylum. Nobody in power was talking about anything real or important.

Like almost everything in Phoenix, Park Central was surrounded by a large surface parking lot. In Phoenix, the word “park” often doesn’t mean a recreational space but an asphalt place to leave your vehicle. Those were among the reasons why the weather kept changing for the worse. Today the lot was nearly empty, except for cars near the popular Starbucks on the southeast corner of the former mall. All of Midtown Phoenix was virtually deserted on Sunday. I eased the Prelude in that direction, hoping to find some shade from the skyscrapers lining Central Avenue.