High Country Nocturne

by Jon Talton

  He glowered at me but gave in. “Special Agent Edward Cartwright, Thunder Seeker.”

  “Has his family been notified?”

  Pham nodded. “He has a daughter in Southern California. She has a two-year-old, a special needs child. Money troubles. Very tragic.”

  I looked at Peralta, then back at Pham. “And the daughter is going to get survivor’s benefits, right? And Ed gets a military funeral with full honors.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  I stared at Pham, wanting to demand that he be as diligent about making that happen as he was in making the scandal of Horace Mann go away. It wouldn’t do any good.

  Peralta finally spoke. “So the public will never know what really happened.” He didn’t phrase it as a question.

  “You don’t even know everything that happened,” Pham said. He sighed. “Neither do I.”

  Peralta absently played with his tie. “So are you letting Amy Russell out, too?”

  “Of course not,” Pham said. “She’ll be tried in the murder of the…Agent Cartwright. We’re pretty sure we can make that happen…”

  “Pretty sure?” It was impossible to keep the contempt out of my voice.

  “The State Department is involved, too. She’s wanted on theft charges in Canada. Based on what you said, the Calgary police might reopen the death of the biker and his family. But we’re confident that we will be able to keep her here if the death penalty is taken off the table.”

  “What about Lindsey?”

  “This is a federal case. It takes precedence. It involves the killing of an FBI agent and the likely killing of the DEA agent, Pennington. We can put her away for life. If the state tried her, the charge would only be attempted murder.” He shook his head and returned his gaze to me. “Why on earth did she do this?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” I said. “We didn’t have time for a lengthy conversation out in the woods. Her gun was on me. I shot first.”

  “Goddamned lucky,” Peralta muttered.

  “I’m a good shot.”

  Pham shrugged. “She told us that she wanted the diamonds to finance a secure new life in the United States. Or in a country without an extradition treaty with Canada if her theft was detected. We found a counterfeit U.S. passport—best quality—driver’s license, and credit cards under the name Amy Morris. She keeps talking about wanting options. That’s the word she uses, ‘options.’ The rich have them and the rest of us don’t. Some of her testimony may be of a classified nature, so…”

  “I’m not rich and I didn’t kill people stealing diamonds.”

  “You may never get a good answer, Doctor Mapstone,” he said. “Our psychologists theorize that she snapped when her family was murdered. Not that we’re going to let her use an insanity defense. Her methods show she was sane enough, knew right from wrong…”

  “She wore Chanel Number Five.”

  “What?”

  “Expansive tastes,” I said. “Maybe she was never Amy Do-Right.”

  “Well, when we sort this out…”

  Peralta cut him off. “Whatever. I know you tried, Eric. Don’t let her get away. Let’s go, Mapstone.”

  I felt his hand cup my elbow and steer us back toward the entrance.

  “So are you going to run for sheriff again next election?” This came from a marshal. She was female, young, Anglo, and more than a little starstruck.

  “I doubt it,” Peralta said. “Arizona’s got some changing to do before I have a chance.”

  It was sad but true.

  That afternoon, the rain departed and the remaining clouds made for one of those breathtaking sunsets that seem from another planet. I was on my way back to see Lindsey but had to pull into a parking lot and gape. As I took in the vivid pallet of colors, the White Tanks revealed themselves to the west, a dark tear against the horizon.

  And I knew the job wasn’t finished.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  I called the meeting for three p.m. at my office in the old courthouse. It gave me a chance to prepare the contents of my briefcase and do a little interior decorating.

  Even so, Diane and Zephyr Whitehouse arrived ten minutes early. Diane was wearing a black pantsuit with tasteful diamond stud earrings. Zephyr had on jeans torn at the knees, a low-cut pink top, and vivid red lipstick, all probably to irritate her mother.

  I invited them to sit down. Even though Zephyr was taller than Diane, the resemblance was clear, especially in the large, lovely eyes and the perfect noses. I thought about the photos I had seen of Lindsey’s mother, Linda, as a young woman. They were almost identical. Robin didn’t look like either of them.

  “What’s this about, David?” Diane sounded almost as familiar with me as she had been in the closet, or that was her act.

  “David will tell us, Diane.” Zephyr gave a wide smile.

  “I need a few minutes,” I said. “One more person will be coming.”

  Neither spoke for a long time.

  Finally, Zephyr asked about the large black-and-white photo I had hung behind me, next to the portrait of Chris Melton.

  “That’s Carl Hayden when he was Maricopa County sheriff,” I said. “He went on to become one of the longest-serving senators in American history. After JFK was assassinated, Hayden was second in line for the presidency. He spent his career fighting to ensure the Central Arizona Project. But he started out as sheriff. In 1910, he formed a posse to run down some train robbers. The ‘Beardless Boy Bandits.’ Usually, he didn’t carry a gun.”

  Diane stifled a look of boredom. Zephyr winked at me. I didn’t care if they were interested. I was interested. This photo had hung in my office for years when I worked for Peralta. Now, with Hayden in Stetson, straight serious mouth, and expressive dark eyes looking down, I felt reassured.

  The women turned when two knocks came on the pebbled glass. Chris Melton walked in. He was actually wearing a suit.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Damned federal racial profiling case. Had to testify. It’s all trumped up by the media.”

  He looked around, found no place to sit, and leaned against the wall.

  “Who’s that?” His eyes quickly found his competition on the wall behind me. I told a shorter version of the lesson I had given to the Whitehouse women.

  Melton said, “Of course.”

  He had no idea who Carl Hayden was.

  I said, “I asked you to come here today to discuss what I’ve found concerning the wallet that Mrs. Whitehouse discovered in her husband’s closet.”

  Melton shot me an icy glance. Why are you surprising me?

  Zephyr said, “This is very sexy. Like one of those Masterpiece Mysteries on PBS. But that might make us potential suspects!”

  “Settle down, dear,” her mother said. “And call me Diane, David. You know that.”

  Zephyr ran her hand in front of her face, turning her amused look into one of mock seriousness.

  Several files were laid out on the desk. Screw the paperless office.

  I laid down a photo of the wallet.

  “This is it. It’s been logged in as evidence so the photo will have to do. When Diane found it, she was curious enough to do some research. She said she discovered it went with a man who died in 1982. At that point, she contacted the sheriff.”

  I opened another folder and started laying out photos of men, some quite explicit.

  “When I interviewed Diane, she showed me where the wallet was found. These are some of the photos that were also in the drawer…”

  Diane turned toward Melton. “Chris, I didn’t think these were relevant.”

  I continued. “I thought they might be, so I also placed the originals in evidence. These are copies.”

  “And they say size doesn’t matter.” Zephyr eyed the photographs and clicked her tongue against the roof of he
r mouth, smiled, and fiddled with the factory torn fabric of her jeans.

  Melton folded his arms. “How is this relevant, David?”

  “Among these photos was a smaller snapshot,” I said, placing another picture on the desk. “This is the young man who died, Tom Frazier.”

  “He has clothes on,” Zephyr said.

  I nodded. “That’s one curiosity. Another is that the snapshot is torn in half. Someone else was in this photo, but that part was discarded. Then there’s the problem that none of these other photographs fit.”

  Diane started to twirl her hair but put her hands back in her lap. “What do you mean?”

  “Every other photo can be found on the Internet, from gay porn sites to Flickr. They could have been downloaded and turned into physical photographs, even aged to look as if they had been sitting in that closet for decades. So if Elliott Whitehouse was gay or bisexual, and these were meant to be keepsakes from former lovers, it doesn’t fit.”

  “Mother!” Zephyr stood, angry enough to dispense with using her mom’s given name. “Daddy wasn’t gay! He hated gay people. How could you have said such a thing?”

  I held out a hand and lowered it. Zephyr sat.

  “I never said any such thing,” Diane said.

  “You did imply it,” I said. “Your husband wasn’t interested in sex. He always had very handsome male assistants. ‘Real hunks,’ in your words. I’ll be happy to read the report I wrote of our discussion to refresh your memory.”

  “I think it’s very tragic he had to live a double life,” she said.

  “This is such bullshit!” Zephyr said.

  “Let’s set that aside for now,” I said. “As I investigated this case, I did run across a woman named Stephanie Webb. She told me that she had a ten-year love affair with your husband, Diane. It went right up to the time of his death. In fact, when he had his fatal heart attack, he was at her condo in Scottsdale. She told me you forbade her to attend his funeral. She also told me she had found no evidence of him being interested in men. Quite the contrary…”

  “You motherfucker!” Diane rose out of her chair and looked about ready to climb over the desk. She had dropped the mask of Arcadia gentility with ease. Melton put a restraining hand on her shoulder.

  He said, “Is there a point here, Deputy?”

  I was relieved we were beyond the forced casual first names. “I didn’t ask for this case, Sheriff. In fact, you brought me into it under false pretenses, but that’s another conversation. Diane started this by bringing you the wallet. As it turns out, that’s a good thing.”

  “My private life is none of your goddamned business!” Her shout echoed into the high ceiling. Zephyr lost her tan.

  “As a matter of fact, it is.” I let that sink in for a few seconds. She stared at me, then looked down. “I was the deputy who found Tom Frazier’s remains in 1982.”

  Diane’s sharp intake of breath was noticeable.

  I continued, “He was in the desert at the foot of the White Tank Mountains. That area was completely isolated back then. The death was ruled a suicide. The medical examiner found a fatal dose of heroin in his system. And that’s where the case sat until you found this wallet.”

  “I don’t understand.” She attempted a laugh, about as droll as a Gila monster. “I was only trying to help. What on earth does this have to do with us?”

  “I kept trying to figure that out myself,” I said. “You see, the problem is that there was no drug paraphernalia found at the scene. Not in the desert and not in his car. We performed a grid search that day of the area between where the car was parked and where the body was found. No needle, no spoon, nothing. When I found the body, I followed his tracks through the desert. I assumed he was alone. But the soil was hard and it hadn’t rained. So another person might have been with him. Someone petite who wouldn’t leave obvious footprints.”

  “Who was Tom Frazier?” This came from Zephyr, in a small and tentative voice.

  “He was about your age,” I said. “An EMT who worked on the ambulance. He wanted to go to college.” I pushed forward another folder. “These are interviews I did with six of his colleagues. Facebook has a page for Phoenix EMS veterans. It’s an amazing resource. I was able to find people who actually knew Tom.”

  “What are you getting at, David?” Diane had regained her poise. “I think we’ve been very patient. I have things to do. If there’s something you want to tell us about Elliott, we can find a way to handle it.”

  “Good,” I said. “Tom was an excellent medic. Skilled, good under pressure, never missed a day of work. That isn’t the behavior of an addict. In fact, they told me he wouldn’t even smoke pot. Put all this together and we have a suspicious death at the least, a homicide more likely. That’s why Sheriff Melton had me make this into a murder book.”

  I let those words settle over the room before continuing.

  “Tom was also straight. He was awkward with women. Who wasn’t at that age? He had an affair with a nurse who was ten years older. She broke it off. He was really hurt. You can read the statements here.” I tapped the folder.

  Diane looked at me, then at Melton. “So are we done? I don’t really understand the point but I appreciate David’s diligence in this, Chris. Really, I do.”

  She hastily stood. “Come on, Zephyr.”

  “I’m not done.”

  I might as well have pulled out the Colt Python and fired it. All the color drained from Diane’s face. She slowly lowered herself into the chair.

  “Two people told me that Tom had started dating a girl his age. He had met her on a call. She overdosed on heroin and he helped save her life. After she got out of the hospital, he started seeing her. Seems as if he wanted to help birds with broken wings. That’s how his partner put it. The girl’s name was Diane.”

  “What are you…?” Her face was a model of incredulity. “Chris, this has really gone far enough.”

  I watched his eyes as he did the calculus. She was a big campaign donor. Did he have enough of a lawman in him to let me finish?

  He said, “You two can go. Deputy Mapstone and I will be in touch if there’s anything further.” He said it in the tone of a servant dishing out afternoon tea.

  Diane stood and clutched her Barney’s handbag close. Zephyr didn’t.

  She said, “What are you saving, David?”

  “I’m saying that I found a booking photo of your mother from 1981. She was arrested for possession of heroin but the charges were dropped. It was a small amount. I showed this photo to three of Tom Frazier’s former colleagues and they are willing to testify that Diane was his girlfriend. They described her as hot, impulsive, beautiful, but couldn’t kick the brown sugar. They said Tom was crazy about her. He’d do anything for her. They identified her from the booking photo. The photo of you, Diane.”

  “I…” She made herself stop and pursed her lips.

  After a minute of silence, I pushed Tom’s photo toward her.

  “He must have meant something to you, Diane, to have kept that wallet all these years. You were in that snapshot with Tom, weren’t you, Diane?”

  “We’re leaving, Zephyr.” Diane patted Melton on the shoulder. “Thank you, Chris.”

  Melton tried to lean in and scoop up the files but Zephyr stopped him.

  “I want to know!”

  I said, “Ask your mother what happened that night in the desert. Did they go out there to make love, and she talked him into trying the heroin, only she botched the dose? Or was it something more sinister? Maybe he was breaking up with you, Diane, and this was revenge.”

  “Is this true, Mother?” Zephyr’s eyes were wide with anger.

  “You can’t prove anything,” Diane said.

  “If I could prove it at this point, I’d be reading you your rights. But it doesn’t look good. It must have been an awful thing to wat
ch him die out there.”

  Her large eyes filled with tears and they dropped heavily down her face. She made no effort to wipe them away.

  “It’s up to the sheriff to continue this investigation,” I said. “I’ve always felt we owed it to the dead to make sure justice is done. Maybe he sees things differently.”

  He glared at me and undid his top shirt button, pulling aside his tie.

  I looked at him. “Zephyr came to me a few days ago with copies of checks her brother wrote to county officials. We used to call them bribes back when Mike Peralta was sheriff.”

  “Diane told me to bring those,” she said. “Anyway, Chip is an ass.”

  “I didn’t get it,” I said. “But I drink with lawyer friends at Durant’s and I learned that there’s a huge fight over Elliott Whitehouse’s estate. He left money to Zephyr, her brothers, and his former wife. He left nothing to Diane. Not a dime. She’s been fighting it in probate for a year.”

  Zephyr said, “I didn’t know any of this…”

  I gathered up the files. Then I brought them down between my hands with a hard smack, using the top of the desk to make them a neat stack. I slid a thick rubber band around them.

  “If the sheriff got a subpoena, he might find that your father’s will has a morals clause. I don’t have any special knowledge here. Only questions. If Whitehouse were such a homophobe, would being a closeted gay breach the clause? Homicide certainly would. Elliott being officially implicated in the death of Tom Frazier, by no less than the Sheriff’s Office historian who worked for Mike Peralta. That would have been a neat package. What if that morals clause could be invoked to invalidate the will? That might give Diane a shot at the entire…”

  “You son of a bitch.” Her voice was a whisper. “I was a good wife to him, all those years. All those slaps and punches he gave me when he was drinking.”

  I shrugged and stood, gently lifted my portrait of Carl Hayden from the wall, and pulled out my badge case.

  I looked at Melton.

  “This is yours.” I set the badge on top of the files. “And those are yours, too.”