Valley of Shadows

by Cooper, Steven

  Update 5/1: DP says he’ll meet with VC

  Mills has what he needs for now. He closes out of the thumb drive and dials David Patrick. The phone rings and rings before the automated message finally kicks in. It’s the universal message that just won’t quit. “Please leave your message after the tone. When you are finished you may hang up or dial 1 for more options. To send a fax, press 7.” Like, who the fuck needs instructions on how to leave a voice mail these days? He puts the phone down without following instructions, without leaving a message. This is classic Mills, he knows, getting impatient with what he calls the “mediocre condition.”

  And who the fuck sends a fax?

  “What’s wrong, babe?” his wife asks.

  “Nothing,” he says, clenching.

  She looks at him, nodding slyly, as if to say “yeah, right.”

  “I’m just stressed, that’s all,” he says.

  “That’s enough,” she says. “How about a nice hot shower?”

  “With you?”

  “No, with Mary Finkelstein, head of paralegals at the firm . . .”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you’re being funny again. And sexy.”

  “I was always sexy,” she reminds him.

  He can’t believe she’s in the mood. “I’ll go run the water. Meet me in there.”

  The hot shower, as a setting, is not what it’s cracked up to be. At least not for Mills. There are only so many positions to assume without falling over or getting a nozzle up your ass. And while that might feel pleasurable to some, it does not to him. Nor does bracing his ass against the cold tile. And then there’s all that steam. They laugh because this used to be romantic when they were a lot younger. But now they’re older and it’s not as romantic or sexy or even steamy, despite the steam. It’s satisfying, yes, but a lot of work and a lot of mechanics.

  He dries off, puts on his drawstrings, and returns to the dining table, where he puts another call into David Patrick. The man answers on the second ring. He’s tentative, at first, can’t understand why a detective would be calling him. Mills tries to explain, but David Patrick gets defensive, says he spoke to Aaliyah Jones on the condition of anonymity, that his name, as a source, would not be revealed.

  Mills needs something from this guy. And he needs it badly. So he’s congenial and understanding, apologetic even. “Under the circumstances, I was hoping you’d help us out, sir.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “Uh, Ms. Jones, you know, has gone missing . . .”

  “What?”

  “She’s been missing for about a week,” Mills tells him. “We have a Missing Persons Detail on her, but so far nothing.”

  “Jesus,” he whispers. “I don’t watch the news. I had no idea.” “That’s OK,” Mills assures him. “But she didn’t betray your confidence or reveal your name to us. We found your name when we were reviewing her work files. You know, we were hoping someone or something would lead us to her.”

  “Well, I don’t know nothing ‘bout that,” he insists. “I wouldn’t have a clue where she is.”

  “Right. But I’m calling you about your conversations with Aaliyah Jones and Viveca Canning about the C-ARC,” Mills explains. “I know this is all confusing to you, but I’d like to know more about those conversations and about your work at the cathedral. Would you be willing?”

  The man scoffs. “Do I have a choice?”

  “At the moment you do,” Mills replies. “But if we gather information that indicates your cooperation is critical, you might not really have an option. That’s not a threat. That’s just an explanation. I think we can have a very enlightening discussion, you and I.”

  He hears hesitation on the other end of the line, a kid or kids in the background. But that’s OK. Silence and consideration is OK. In the meantime, Mills sees a text come in. It’s from Kelly. In the bedroom. He laughs to himself, and then David Patrick says, “When would you want to meet with me?”

  “At your earliest possible convenience.”

  “OK, well, then why don’t you give me a call midmorning tomorrow, and I’ll see what my afternoon looks like.”

  That’s risky, not to confirm something. Too much latitude for the construction guy to change his mind or think of the perfect blow off. But, fuck it, it’s better than nothing. “Sure. I’ll call around ten,” he tells him, then hangs up and joins Kelly in bed. They don’t say a word.

  A thin layer of moisture from the recent shower lingers. They lay close, absorbing it from each other’s skin.

  35

  God, or whoever controls the weather, has blessed the valley with a milder morning. Ninety-seven degrees. Dry. Doable. Window down, even, if he wishes. He doesn’t wish, but he appreciates the relief. Gus calls as Mills exits the Squaw Peak.

  “Some mornings you just want to throw your arms around Mother Nature and give her a big, fat kiss,” Gus tells him.

  “Oh, so that’s who controls the weather?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Well, you better be sure it’s okay with Mother Nature. Unwanted advances can backfire big time. Just ask Cosby.”

  “That’s not funny, Alex.”

  Gus tells him about some strange vibes he’s been getting again about those tunnels. Gus is insistent. He keeps repeating their names. Aaliyah. Viveca. And he jumps back, now, to the visit to Viveca’s home in Copper Palace, when Mills let him stand in front of the blank wall where the Dali had hung. Gus says there’s a message either in the wall or behind the painting itself. He’s not sure. But he’s sure there’s a message, or a code, or something they’re missing.

  Mills smiles. It’s a strange collective effort. A camaraderie he can’t put a price on.

  “I know this a little confusing,” Gus says. “But that’s what I get.” “That’s fine,” Mills tells him. “Your confusing vibes, mixed with a little old-fashioned police work, usually gets the job done.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a compliment.”

  “It’s not an insult.”

  This red light is as stubborn as a toothache. He’s going to be late, but fuck it. He rolls down the window and lets the fresh morning air circulate. It’s a soothing kind of warm, and Mills is tempted to cut the A/C. But he doesn’t. He lets the warm stir with the cool, and the capricious mix reminds him of those first few months dating Kelly. He was unsure, unsteady all of the time. He had never been so enchanted or so mowed down by desire for another. He confesses to Gus how scared he is for her, though he doesn’t say scared.

  “Of course you’re freaking out,” Gus says.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to make it through Friday.”

  “You will, dude. Anything I can do?”

  “Nothing I can think of.”

  “I’m on standby.”

  “Good to know.”

  The light finally turns green. Mills takes this as a cue to let Gus go. Gus says, “It’s another day for constructing theories, dude. Good luck.” Mills shakes his head with a smile. Constructing. Pure Gus.

  Once he’s off the phone he realizes how good it was to be on the phone, for distraction, if nothing else. Now, the rest of the way, he can’t shake it. The image hovers, a dark, spidery mass of tissue and fibers on the horizon, like a web waiting to ensnare. And it does ensnare. He drives right toward it, right into it, to prove what? That he has no fear? He has fear. That he’s not to be fucked with? It fucks with him. It settles on his shoulders. He carries it into headquarters, into the elevator, into his office, and then it lands on his desk and sits there like an ornament: his business cards, a paperweight, a framed picture of Trevor in his football gear, and Kelly’s tumor. He takes a sip of coffee.

  As planned, Mills calls David Patrick promptly at ten o’clock. Mills would not be surprised if the guy had decided not to answer his phone. Some people play like that. They won’t cooperate but they don’t have the balls to tell you they won’t cooperate. They just go dark. Unfortunately for those uncooperative types, Alex Mi
lls and the Phoenix Police Department have some very bright, insistent lights. Turns out he won’t be needing the incandescent muscle quite yet. Patrick answers on the third ring.

  “Mr. Patrick, it’s Alex Mills from Phoenix PD.”

  “You can drop the formalities. My name’s David. Call me David.” “So, David, you asked me to call this morning. Have you thought about meeting with me?”

  The guy’s outside. There’s noise in the background, the maddening backup beeps of a truck, then a whistle, then a horn. “I’ve been too busy to really think about it, Detective,” the man says. “But yeah, it’s fine. You free around one, one-thirty?”

  “I can be.”

  “I’m at a work site. I’ll text you the address. You’ll find me in the trailer. OK?”

  “I might have a partner with me,” Alex tells him. “See you then.” After the call, Mills wanders down to the Missing Persons folks. He briefs them on the contents of Aaliyah Jones’s thumb drive.

  “Thanks for sharing, Alex,” one of them says. Mills can’t discern whether there’s sarcasm in the woman’s inflection.

  “It’s in evidence,” he tells them. “Sign it out if you want.” “Thanks,” the woman says. He’s never met her. Her desk is such a cluttered train wreck he can’t even read her nameplate.

  “We got the warrant for her phones,” the other one says. Mills knows him, peripherally. Nate Sharpe.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. We’re still going through them,” Nate says. “That woman didn’t destroy a voice mail.”

  “That’s probably a good thing,” Mills says.

  “There’s a bit of crossover,” Nate adds. “Some of the same people calling her on both phones.”

  Mills shrugs. It’s a classic detective shrug, an in-house shrug. “That doesn’t necessarily surprise me,” he tells them.

  “Sources,” Nate specifies. “Some of her sources were calling her on her personal phone as well as her work line.”

  Mills offers a more affable nod. “They trusted her. She trusted them.”

  “Viveca Canning was increasingly calling her on her personal phone, like she was avoiding Aaliyah’s work phone on purpose.”

  “Scared of it being traced, maybe, or not entirely in Aaliyah’s control. That’s my guess,” Mills tells them. “Do me a favor. Send me over whatever you log when you have a chance.”

  “Of course,” the nameless woman says. “Give us another day or two.”

  Mills says that’ll be fine and heads back to his office. He calls Kelly, gets her voice mail. There’s another call he has to make, but he’s been dreading making it. He reaches for the phone again, but the dread overcomes him. Not yet. He pictures his son, Trevor, equal parts jockish and studious, equal parts sensitive and brutish, a child of dichotomies, a twisted helix of Kelly and Alex and the remnants of ancestry. Trevor settled so well into college life it caught Mills by surprise. How had the kid taken the detachment so seamlessly? And why had he taken it so enthusiastically? They had been good parents. Trevor had had a good upbringing. There were bumps in the road, but the road is bumpy. All roads are bumpy. Children and parents alike make stupid choices. Trevor is only down the road at U of A, and he comes home to visit every other month or so, for birthdays and holidays, but the kid decided to stay in Tucson for the summer and work at a local bookstore. At least he’ll be around books. Maybe some part of Alex rubbed off on his son. He needs to tell Trevor about his mother’s illness. No one prepares you to make this kind of call.

  So he doesn’t make it. He’ll do it later. He’ll meet with the squad instead. Get some updates. Then he’ll grab Preston and go meet with David Patrick.

  Don’t get him started on development in Phoenix. It’s out of control. The growth. The sprawl. Today’s valley is not the valley of Mills’s youth. And while he doesn’t begrudge the modernization of the skyline and the infrastructure, and while he does, in fact, enjoy living in a more cosmopolitan city, he thinks the growth is unsustainable. If there is an inch of land, there’s a developer waiting to build. It will be a “mixed-use” project. Which means whatever they can shove in there to make the most profit. Every inch of available land. Politicians turn a blind eye as the desert disappears, and it’s easy for them to do that as the developers line their pockets. Mills gets mad about this, because once you destroy the desert, you can’t get it back. It’s gone, along with the beauty of isolation. Soon there will be no place left to build but the medians of the highways, and Mills suspects that the vampires of the valley are already taking bids. He’s trapped in this mental riff because, as it happens, he’s approaching the work site of DP Construction. It’s a small lot near the corner of East McDowell and 52nd, but there are backhoes and excavators and bulldozers. And it’s too damn close to the neighboring buttes. He drives past a sign that says “Magic Creek Townhomes, Coming Soon!”

  Preston is riding shotgun.

  They park, approach the trailer, and Mills raps hard at the door. “Hey there,” comes a voice from behind them. “You Mills?”

  “I am.”

  The man in the hardhat steps up to the trailer and offers a handshake to both of them. “David,” he says. “Why don’t we do this inside so you don’t have to wear the hats?”

  Inside, blueprints hang from the walls, as do other mechanical drawings and engineering renditions that Mills doesn’t understand. The place is also strewn with OSHA posters warning of work site hazards. Otherwise, the trailer is neat for a temporary office, more upscale in décor than Mills would have imagined. David Patrick sits in a smart, black chair behind a glass and steel desk, while Mills and Preston sit opposite him in matching seats. The pendant lighting above is shaped like Saturn, and Mills is taking mental notes for some home renovation projects of his own that might never happen. Odds are fifty-fifty. “Thanks for meeting with us,” he tells David.

  “Like I said, I have no clue what happened to Aaliyah Jones, but I can tell you about my work at the cathedral. Just don’t use my name. I don’t want, you know, bad publicity.”

  “Right now, we’ll keep it off the record,” Mills assures him. “But you should know that if you provide information the county deems material, you might end up as part of the official proceeding.”

  “Shit,” the man says.

  “Why don’t we cross that bridge when we get there?” Mills says. Then Preston leans forward and says, “So, what are you building here? Townhomes, is that right?”

  Uncle Ken to the rescue. Just the perfect pitch to put the man at ease.

  “Yeah,” David replies. “It’s a small project. Only twenty-two units. The lot is only zoned for eighteen, but the developer got a variance for an extra four. It’ll be a tight squeeze.”

  “But ain’t that the story of the valley,” Preston says.

  “Guess so.”

  Okay, enough warm, fuzzy, avuncular lubrication. “While we understand you don’t know anything about the missing reporter,” Mills intervenes, “we do want to know why she was asking you about construction of the C-ARC in the first place. Can you help us understand that?”

  The man tosses his head back and forth and says, “I suppose. She said she found me through LinkedIn because she searched Mulroney Construction, the company I used to work for.”

  “Yes, we know that,” Mills tells him. “But why? Why was she looking for construction workers or contractors?”

  “Oh. Okay, I understand,” David says. “She told me she was looking for people who had built the cathedral, because some of her sources told her about hidden rooms and vaults and, like, stairways to nowhere. That sort of thing. It sounded like fantasy to her. And she wanted to confirm. She said her sources, some ex church members, were telling her about rumors of a secret underground.”

  “Were you able to confirm any of this for her?” Mills asks.

  “I was.”

  That familiar wave of affirmation rises in Mills’s chest. It floods him with anticipation. “How much of the building did you work
on?”

  “I did framing mostly. But there were dozens of us. The place is huge, you know.”

  “We know,” Preston says. “But did you get a good sense of the whole project?”

  “Of course,” David replies. “There were zones, and different workers were assigned different zones, but we were free to be wherever we wanted to be. Though, I will say, that preacher guy and his wife liked to stop by and watch us like hawks.”

  The guy laughs, then shrugs.

  “And what were you able to confirm to Aaliyah about those rumors?” Mills asks. “Do you have firsthand knowledge of any unusual deviations from normal construction and why that would have alarmed anyone?”

  Another shrug from David Patrick. “All I can tell you is that there is an underground beneath the cathedral. It doesn’t fill the entire acreage of the structure above it, but it’s a large underground area. Kind of like a crawl space, but you mostly don’t have to crawl.”

  “Did you work on it?” Preston asks.

  “Yes. Mostly.”

  “Did you see it finished?” Mills asks.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?” Mills persists.

  “Well, we did some of the finishing, but then we were told that church members would come in and do most of the painting and flooring themselves . . .”

  “An underground in Phoenix sounds like a big effort,” Mills observes. “I mean, with the rocky soil, mostly rock, you know. Most people don’t have basements for that reason.”

  The guy leans back in his chair, suddenly relaxed, self-assured, in control. “Well, Detectives, this is the same desert where Mexican traffickers dig tunnels to move their drugs. They build complete underground operations. This can’t be news to you.”