High Country Nocturne

by Jon Talton

The server arrived and saved me from saying many unhelpful things. In addition to the campaign, I could have mentioned the Justice Department investigation of the Sheriff’s Office, brought on by Melton’s highly publicized “sweeps” to round up illegals. This had destroyed years of effort by Peralta and the Phoenix Police to build cooperation in a community that was often victimized by crime. Now it was back in the shadows.

  With deputies playing immigration police, response times had risen around the county, even for priority calls. Violent crime in the areas policed by MCSO was increasing. There were allegations of failure to investigate sex crimes. Jail conditions had deteriorated and prisoners had been abused. The county had already paid out three million dollars to settle lawsuits against the department. Local wags were already calling him “Sheriff Crisis Meltdown.”

  And this was only from what I had read in the struggling local paper. From a few conversations with old friends in the department, I sensed things were even worse. That the model law-enforcement organization built by Peralta had been trashed.

  Melton had even changed the department’s uniforms from light-tan shirt and brown slacks to intimidating LAPD black. He had moved into the new Sheriff’s Office headquarters that was Peralta’s handiwork, the product of years of fighting the county supervisors for funding.

  In the newspaper, Melton had called the building, “A sign of the positive changes I’m bringing to this department.”

  The craziest part was that Melton was more popular than ever, at least among the old Anglos who voted. He probably reminded them of their favorite grandsons, in addition to being “tough on crime,” as they imagined it.

  A lazy thinker would fall for it. He didn’t look like a bigoted Southern lawman from the fifties. No, he was svelte and boyish and well-spoken. It would be easy for a lazy thinker to like him.

  I was pretty toasty from the martini with Lindsey but ordered a Four Peaks Hop Knot IPA.

  “Make it two,” Melton said.

  I wondered what his constituency in the suburban megachurches and LDS meetinghouses would think.

  Looking around, downtown Phoenix seemed almost on the verge of being cool. From the rooftop bar, we had views of the Suns arena, multiple skyscrapers, and the South Mountains and Estrellas in the lingering twilight. Steps led up to an azure swimming pool. Gray columns were topped with ice-blue lighting that matched the color of the still water. Lindsey and I would have fun here.

  His voice brought me back to the unpleasant business at hand.

  “I’m sorry about Peralta.” He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “You probably think I’m a bad guy for the campaign. But it was politics. He understood that. Phoenix has changed and he didn’t change with it. So voters wanted a change.”

  I stared at him.

  He released his arms and shook his head. “But this jewel robbery. Bad stuff.”

  “A person is innocent until proved guilty.”

  The woman brought our beers and withdrew.

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t look good and the FBI will be digging very hard into Peralta’s time as sheriff.”

  “They won’t find anything but good police work.” I took a big swig and let the liquid burn my insides.

  “We can hope so,” Melton said. “I wanted to talk about you.”

  I put the glass down and said nothing.

  “I was sorry you left. I could have used you. Your ability to employ the historian’s techniques to solve cold cases is very valuable.”

  “It was time for me to move on.”

  “Maybe not.” He reached into the messenger bag and pulled out a book. I recognized it instantly because I had written it. Desert Star: A History of the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office.

  “This is a fabulous book,” Melton said. “Really great. I had no idea there was so much history here. Would you sign it?”

  He slid it across and handed me a pen.

  Play to the author’s shameless vanity. I opened to the title page and wrote, “To Sheriff Chris Melton, making new history. David Mapstone.”

  He thanked me. Then, “Maybe you’d write a new preface. We could re-release it.”

  I didn’t answer. As a historian, I had written only two books, thirty articles for historical journals. Not enough to gain tenure.

  He put the book away and pulled out a file. It was about an inch thick.

  “I’d like you to look into this for me.”

  My eyes lingered on the folder. It looked worn. I told him no, that I already had a job, and slid it back to his side of the table.

  He smiled sadly. “I don’t think there will be much private investigator work coming your way with your partner as a wanted fugitive in a violent crime. It wouldn’t surprise me if the DPS revoked your license, as well as his.”

  “But you’re here to help me…” I drained the glass halfway.

  “Exactly.”

  So I gave it to him, exactly, “I don’t like you, Sheriff. I don’t like your politics. You and your people lied about Mike Peralta’s record. You set people against each other.”

  Remembering the thugs that had shouted Peralta down at one debate, the vicious online comments about him from Melton supporters and all the “dark money” from anonymous out-of-state donors, I started to get wound up.

  I forced my voice to stay even. “I don’t approve of the way you won the election or how you run the department. And I don’t take clients that I don’t like and trust.” I thought about it and added, “No disrespect.”

  “Call me Chris.”

  “If I did take your case, it would be a five thousand-dollar retainer up front, then five hundred dollars an hour after that. I would want total control of the case. No second-guessing.”

  He laughed from below his diaphragm and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. His beer was still untouched.

  “That’s not what I had in mind.”

  His hand went back into the bag and pulled out what looked like a wallet. I realized what it really was only when he placed it on the table atop the file and opened it: a star and identification card. My old badge and credentials.

  “You’re coming back to the Sheriff’s Office, David.”

  I sat back, feeling the little revolver against my shirt, and marveling at his chutzpah.

  “And I would want to do this, why?”

  “Open the file.”

  He slid the folder toward me again.

  I swept the badge case aside and flipped to the first page. It was an incident report dated July 24th, 1984. It looked like a museum artifact. At the bottom was my signature and badge number.

  He tapped the paper. “Do you remember this?”

  I nodded. A body of a twenty-something male had been found in the desert not far from the Caterpillar tractor proving grounds in the White Tank Mountains west of the city. Today the area is overrun with subdivisions, but then it was empty. The dead man had parked his car and walked on foot without water before he had collapsed.

  I had been the first deputy to respond to the call, the one who had secured the scene and written the incident report. There was no obvious evidence of a crime. People did strange things in the desert. And then the desert did unmerciful things to their remains. Then the case had been turned over to the detectives and I had lost track of it. This was when I was finishing my master’s degree and preparing to leave the department and Phoenix.

  Now, under the enchanted metropolitan sky with blessed ice water sitting next to the beers, I shrugged. “So?”

  “There’s been a new development in the case.”

  “Turn it over to your cold-case unit. I’m sure they’re quite capable.”

  He shook his head. “I want you to investigate this. It requires your special skills.” He leaned in and touched my arm. “David, this is your home, your hometown. You belong with us at the
Sheriff’s Office. I’ll warn you, the county is going paperless. I should have given you the documents digitally. But I thought the paper files might be easier.”

  I drained the glass and stood. “Thanks for the beer, Sheriff.”

  I was halfway out when his voice stopped me.

  “Lindsey.”

  I turned to face him. My feet felt heavy.

  He beckoned me back with a flipping of his fingers, as if he were summoning a child. “Call me Chris. And you forgot your star, Deputy.”

  I walked back and stood over him. “Why did you mention my wife?”

  “Sit down, David.”

  I did.

  “Your wife is a hacker. She has been all her teenage and adult life.”

  “You’re being cute with words,” I said. “Lindsey was a sworn deputy in the Sheriff’s Office cybercrimes unit and then she was recruited by Homeland Security. What made her so valuable is that she’s a ‘good hacker,’ if you want to use the word. A knuckle-dragger going by some manual from Microsoft isn’t going to have that expertise.”

  “That’s what made her so effective. She’s one of the best hackers we ever encountered.”

  A coldness spread in my limbs as I wondered who this “we” was.

  “Your wife’s time in Washington, D.C., was not what you believe, David. I hate to put it this way, but sometimes it’s better get the truth out there. She wasn’t faithful.”

  “My marriage is not your business.”

  “There were several instances where she strayed. I know it hurts, but my sources are golden. You need to know this.”

  “Good-bye,” I said, but made no effort to leave the chair.

  I knew Lindsey had played and strayed, knew it because I had found a confessional letter she intended to mail to me but never did—and then I had tucked it back in her things and never spoke of it. It had been a mad time for both of us. Her sister Robin had been alive then. If the sheriff was trying to mind-fuck me to do his bidding, this wouldn’t work.

  He lowered his head. “She was unfaithful to the country, too.”

  “What the hell are you saying?”

  “You know about the F-35 fighter? It’s our most advanced jet. We’re fortunate that Luke Air Force Base was chosen as the primary training base.”

  I looked him in the eyes.

  “You’re giving me a chamber of commerce pitch,” I said.

  “Unfortunately not.” He leaned in a few inches. “You may also know that China stole important information about it. An airplane we thought would give us a twenty-year advantage. Now the Chinese are incorporating its features into their advanced fighters, especially the Shenyang J-23. Try explaining that to the young men and women who will die in combat if push comes to shove in the South China Sea or over Taiwan…”

  “This is a long damned way from being Maricopa County sheriff.” I tried to throttle down the anger in my voice and failed. “Running the jails humanely. Serving warrants. Dull job, but necessary.”

  “Listen to what I’m telling you, David. The feds have reason to believe Lindsey actually helped the Chinese gain access to the F-35 designs. They know a man she was sleeping with did it and he is about to be indicted. They think she was involved, too.”

  “She was working for Homeland Security!”

  His voice was calm, the eyes sympathetic. “There’s so much you don’t know.”

  “You’re accusing my wife of treason.” I couldn’t stop the heat from burning my cheeks. I tried to center myself by staring at the empty swimming pool, the water as flat as glass.

  Melton said, “You can help her…”

  “By working for you? I’ve said too much already. You’re probably wearing a wire. What I need to do is get the best lawyer in town and go to the papers.”

  His shoulders hunched in tension.

  I said, “If Lindsey did these things, why isn’t she in prison already?”

  “Because federal investigations take time. There are open questions. But the White House is putting on pressure to go after leakers and spies, especially involving China. Listen to me, David. I can help you if you’ll help me.”

  “Me, working an old DB case can somehow balance the scales of an active investigation of treason? Involving my wife?” I spat the words. It was not my best moment.

  “This ‘dead body’ case, as you put it, is important to me. As for your wife, I can buy you some time. I know people, more than you realize, and they can work in her favor. That’s a guarantee. And maybe with that time and influence, Lindsey can…well, do whatever she needs to do.”

  What the hell did he mean? Clear her name? Leave the country? Meet up with Peralta to split the diamonds?

  “I want to know more about the accusations against Lindsey.”

  “I can’t do that, David. I’m already out on a limb for you. Washington could come in with a National Security Letter. Do you know what that is?”

  I nodded, not exactly sure but it wouldn’t be good. It would prevent us from discussing the case, perhaps even deny Lindsey counsel.

  “Don’t think it can’t happen. So you need to be very careful. The country changed after 9/11 and nothing got softer with the election and re-election of Obama. These are dangerous times and the government holds enormous power to protect us.”

  For a few moments it was silent enough to hear glasses clinking behind the bar.

  Melton shrugged. “Me, I tell my wife everything that happens in my day. You’d better not say a word of this to Lindsey.”

  “So how can she help herself?”

  “She can tell who she was working with inside the government…”

  “Flip,” I said. “Become a snitch.”

  “She might be able to work for the government again.”

  I wondered if he was wearing a wire. “She did nothing wrong. But if a person did what you claim, I don’t think he’d get off so easy.”

  “Provide help and the charges could be reduced or dropped,” he said. “I’ve seen it happen. She might have to work at the Genius Bar at the Apple Store for awhile but it beats thirty years in prison for espionage.”

  “And the sheriff of Maricopa County knows all this, how?”

  He slapped the table. “I’ve said too much already. Are you in?”

  “Goddamnit, slow down! I need to talk to Lindsey first…”

  And then I was aware of the murmur twenty feet behind me. Turning, I saw dozens of people, young, beautiful, stylishly dressed, waiting to get into the bar.

  “No time, David.” His eyes bore into me. “Are you in?”

  Thucydides, the father of historians, said that men are motivated by fear and then by honor and self-interest. And here I was.

  But I was not beyond churlishness.

  “I want my old office back.”

  He made an amused face. “The historic courthouse has been remodeled. I’m afraid your old space is now a courtroom.” He smiled. “But there’s another office on the fourth floor you’ll find to your liking.”

  He fished a key out of his pocket and placed it on top of the file.

  I signed papers from the Sheriff’s Office and a certification document from the Arizona Peace Officers Standards and Training Board. Next came a Bible out of that damned messenger bag. We stood up and he swore me in at the rooftop bar. So help me, God.

  He fished out a business card and scribbled numbers on the back. He held it up and I took it.

  “You’ll report directly to me. Read the case file and call me in the morning. We’ll get started.” He paused and then put his hand on my shoulder like we were good buddies. “It gets better, David. Trust me. You’re from Maricopa County. This is your hometown. You owe, don’t you think? To leave it a better place for our kids than we found it?”

  I wanted to break his hand.

  “Do y
ou want a ride home?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll take light rail.”

  “Glad somebody uses it. I hear it runs empty all the time.”

  I picked up the file, slid the badge case in my blazer pocket, and walked away.

  As I reached the elevators, the crowd was surging into the bar, and Call-Me-Chris Melton had disappeared.

  Chapter Nine

  I walked out of the hotel in a trance, oblivious to the perfection of the evening, crossing First Avenue mid-block. I was about to step over the light-rail tracks, across the low concrete barrier where it was stenciled DO NOT CROSS, when the horn shook me into the moment.

  The train was no more than half a block to my right, the operator flashing his lights and laying on the horn. I stepped back and let the train come into the station, walking around it.

  The majestic old county courthouse was as lovely, dignified, and enduring as when it opened in 1929, an art deco interpretation of Spanish architecture. It had been built as a combined city-county building. So, here, facing Washington Street, was the courthouse. On the west side, guarded by carved Phoenix birds, was the entrance to old city hall. With such attributes, it amazed me that Phoenix had not torn it down.

  Enough damage had been done. When I was a boy, lush grass and shrubs, shaded by queen palms, surrounded the building. Now all that was gone, replaced by dirt and the skeletons of palo verde trees. Somebody thought they were saving water, even though it was being misused to fill artificial lakes in subdivisions thirty miles away.

  I wondered about the workers that had ripped out those noble trees back in the 1980s and whether they had realized the damage they were doing.

  Then I made the mistake of looking back at the graceless, sterile cube of CityScape and how it overpowered the flawless art deco Luhrs Tower in the next block, its fourteen stories with elegant setbacks built for a low-rise city that held 48,000 people. CityScape, heavily subsidized by the taxpayers, was doing fairly well for now. It had a comedy club and a bowling alley. The bottom of the Luhrs Tower was empty except for a Subway shop. This was Phoenix.

  At the front of the courthouse, the old fountain was still there. A plaque read: