Jon Talton - The Night Detectives

“Let us go first.” By this, Lindsey meant Sharon and her.

Peralta and I were well-armed, but I didn’t think we would need firepower today. He nodded, and we watched the two women walk to the door directly in front of the Toyota and knock. They talked to the person who opened it, and after a couple minutes they went inside.

Peralta and I found some shade and waited, saying nothing.

Lindsey had followed her hunch and it pointed true.

Addison Conway’s car was not in Oklahoma. It was sitting a few paces from us under the mid-day California sun. Thanks to Lindsey’s black magic, the Chinese had hacked the phone company again and tracked Addison’s cell phone. Last Friday, it had been in Ocean Beach, at Tim’s apartment, an hour after I had left. Then it had taken the same route we had just driven and stayed here.

Sharon stepped out and smiled at us: come on in.

Lindsey sat on one of two double beds cradling little David Lewis in her lap. A young woman sat on the other bed. She turned her face to greet us. She was attractive in a girl-next-door way, no Southern California glamour, none of Grace Hunter’s looks hot enough to warm your hands by. She was crying. Lindsey was crying.

“This is Sheriff Peralta,” Sharon said, her voice so soothing. “And his partner David Mapstone. You’re going to be safe now, Addison.” She put an arm on the girl, who leaned into her as if she were a surrogate mother.

Sharon looked at us. “She’s been out here with nothing but her fears.”

I thought my insides were going to drop out on the floor. I tightened my diaphragm just to make sure it was still there. Lindsey’s hunch had been more than rewarded.

Addison Conway spoke with a slight twang and no one would mistake her for a Rhodes Scholar. She had been operating on primal fear these past days, not logic or reason.

“I went to see Tim and Grace,” she said. “I hadn’t heard a word from Grace and I was worried. I knew about her… You know. I was always afraid it would get her killed. When I got to the apartment, Tim was packing up to leave. He was very scared. He told me what had happened to Grace and I just…”

Sobs took her over and Sharon lightly stroked her hair until she could speak again.

“Tim was getting out, going to hide with his parents.” Her voice rose. “It wasn’t my fault!”

The baby started crying, and Lindsey expertly rocked him into happy little murmurs.

Sharon told her nobody was blaming her. We just wanted to understand what had happened.

“It happened so fast. Tim told me to take the baby and go down to the car, you know, it was in the covered spaces in back? So I did. He said he was going to pack up a suitcase and come right behind me. Only…”

We waited beneath the sound of the air conditioning and the baby gurgling contentedly.

I spoke for the first time. “What happened next, Addison?”

“They came for him!” She looked at me with a red face, puffy eyes. “Two men. They called out at the door that they were cops, and then they barged in. I heard Tim yell. Something broke inside.”

She shivered. Sharon coaxed her to continue.

“Tim yelled, ‘Go!’ I knew he meant me. I didn’t want to leave him. And then David started crying and one of the cops looked out the window.”

It was still jarring to hear the baby’s name.

She said, “I ducked behind a wall and I got lucky. Right then, a garbage truck turned into the alley and stopped right there. It was making a racket and I went behind it and ran for my car. I was parked a block away and I’ve never run so fast. I was afraid to look back, but they weren’t chasing me. Thank god for that trash truck. I left the city and I drove to the desert. I thought we’d be safe here. Then I saw the television, the explosion at the apartment and Tim dead. They called it terrorism. I didn’t know who to call or how I could explain what happened, why I just ran…” Her voice trailed into a pitiful whisper: “How did you find me?”

Nobody answered.

“The next day, I was going to call the FBI, but I got a call. He said he was a San Diego detective but he didn’t sound right. He wanted to know where I was. I freaked. I told him I was in Oklahoma…”

I thought: Good old Detective Jones .

Peralta showed her photos of Edward Dowd and Andrew Zisman. “Are these the men you saw going into Tim’s apartment?”

“Yes!”

“They’re not police. And they’ll never bother you again.”

I realized that Dowd never had the baby. He thought we did. The baby was gone when he got to Tim’s apartment. Dowd’s elaborate air show, dropping the baby doll and the blood, had indeed been a threat. But he had never been in a position to carry it out.

She sniffled loudly. “The baby was my priority. I had to keep him safe. I didn’t have the phone number for Tim’s parents. You’ve got to believe me.”

“We do,” Sharon said. “It’s going to be all right.”

And it would, I supposed. Peralta pulled out his cell phone and slipped outside. I watched my wife cradle the baby with such natural love and wondered what might have been, wondered how she could ever doubt she would make a good mother.

The next morning, Mike and Sharon drove us to the ornate Santa Fe railroad station in downtown San Diego. He was healing quickly from the beating he had received in Paradise Valley. He made sure that I knew he had been ambushed and fought through two Taser shocks before he passed out and they got his gun. Beyond that, I was certain that we would never discuss it. I already knew that no bad guys would ever get his firearms without a hell of a fight.

Lindsey and I had tickets to Los Angeles, where we would catch the Coast Starlight to Seattle. We had a sleeping compartment reserved. I carried a bag full of books.

“You two have fun in the cool weather,” Sharon said. After she hugged us, Peralta shook my hand and I saw the gratitude in his eyes. Nothing more needed to be said. Then he slipped his hand into Sharon’s and, if even for a moment, everything seemed right with the world.

“When you get back,” he said, “we’ve got work to do.”

I had no doubt. I offered my arm, and Lindsey stepped up into the train car. I followed her and we found seats. From inside, we watched our friends wave one more time as the locomotive whistle sounded and we started to move.

I turned to Lindsey.

“Have you ever had sex on a train?”

“Not yet, Dave.”

That night, as the train rolled through northern California, I made love with my wife and slept without dreams.

My editor Barbara Peters saw the possibilities in this series from the start. I owe her for encouraging me to keep it going, and especially for the skills, intellect, and inspiration that make her America’s top editor of mysteries. She styles herself the Evil Editor, but I have only received the good. The Poisoned Pen Press is a treasure, and I am particularly grateful to Rob Rosenwald, Jessica Tribble, Nan Beams, Annette Rogers and Suzan Baroni.

Cal Lash, retired Phoenix Police detective and a private investigator, once again was exceptionally helpful and patient with my questions. Maricopa County Deputy County Attorney David R. Foster likewise provided valuable assistance.

Even before I finished my previous book, Powers of Arrest, A Cincinnati Casebook , readers wanted to know when the next David Mapstone Mystery would be coming. So I owe you all my biggest debt, whether you started the series at its outset in 2001 or recently got hooked. It’s humbling to see how many people are moved by the lives of these characters, including the biggest of all, Phoenix. Thank you.