Arizona Dreams Series, Book 4

by Jon Talton

  “You have the right to an attorney…”

  “Oh, you’re a hard ass cop, huh? You don’t do it well.”

  “You have the right to an attorney.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, giving a dismissive wave of his napkin, “and if I can’t afford one, the county will appoint one for me. Quit dicking with me. I was on the Mesa force for twenty years. I think I know the bit. Why the hell you trying to come after me now, for something that happened six months ago and has all been settled.” He scooped a huge piece of enchilada in his mouth. Through bites he said, “My lawyer’s gonna love this false arrest case.”

  “Your guys weren’t protecting the other property,” I said. “I talked to the landowner this morning. He didn’t know anything about it. He’s never heard of you.”

  Fife put his fork down and picked out a pack of Camels. He lit one. His hand shook.

  “So,” I said, “the sheriff would naturally wonder why your employees were out there. When they attacked me, they were nowhere near the other land anyway. They were on the Bell property.”

  “So maybe Bell hired us to do that?” Fife muttered.

  “Why didn’t you say that in the first place,” I said.

  “Well…”

  “Why didn’t Louie Bell tell that to the deputies when they were talking to him?” I said. “He said he didn’t know anything about them.”

  “I do a lot of security,” Fife said. “I don’t even remember the particulars of that. Look, it was a couple of bad apples…”

  “It was almost as if they were out there looking for trouble,” I said. “I didn’t see any environmental terrorists out there, Jack. There wasn’t anything to steal, either. It was like they were looking to teach somebody a lesson.”

  “Look, Mapstone…”

  He stared at me, little eyes imploring. I went on, “We know that Tom and Dana Earley were trying to buy that thousand acres from Louie Bell, and Louie was balking.”

  “I don’t know anything about this,” he said. “Tom Earley, the county supervisor?”

  “Tom Earley was sending letters demanding that the sale go through. Somebody else was doing more than writing letters. A little muscle to encourage the old coot. Then he ends up dead, in a casino, with an ice pick in his ear.”

  “What’re you telling me this for?” he said, rolling his head around his fat neck, taking a drag on the Camel.

  “You sent muscle out to the property, Jack. I met them.”

  “The Earleys are good, God-fearing people,” he pleaded. He was sweating profusely now, matting down his comb-over and soiling his short-sleeved shirt.

  I just sat and watched him. Then, “Maybe you had Louie Bell killed. There was a lawyer working with the Earleys named Alan Cordesman. He was killed with an ice pick, too. Pretty high body count for a land deal, Jack.”

  “I don’t know any Cordesman.” He suppressed a violent belch and made a face. He stubbed out what was left of the Camel and lit another, sucking on it greedily.

  “You like to hire out muscle, Jack,” I went on. “I’ve had a run-in with a big man who has a tattoo that covers his entire upper arm. The same man was seen at Louie Bell’s trailer, and trailing Cordesman. Does he work for you?”

  “No!”

  “What about blackmail, Jack. Did Dana Earley hire you because she said she was being blackmailed?”

  “She never said anything!” He pounded the table. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He stared at me. He had small dark reptilian eyes. The effect was completed with his tongue darting in and out after each puff on the cigarette. He said, “You don’t know anything. You’re bluffing.”

  A bus girl came and took away the plate of food. Fife had barely touched it. I said, “We have documents.”

  “You…you can’t.”

  “We have the documents,” I repeated. “Now we also know that after Louie Bell died, somebody came in and paid the taxes on the property and bought it. The new owner is called Tonopah Trinity LLC.”

  “This is all too complicated,” he said.

  “It’s pretty simple, Jack. Two old desert rats who didn’t want to sell their land. One of them was so cantankerous he had himself buried out there. The other wouldn’t accept any price for the land. Imagine that, in Arizona. But somebody wouldn’t take no for an answer. So when Louie Bell is killed, and it looks at first like it was the work of some street punk, the bureaucratic wheels turn and the county gets its back taxes, and the Bell property is finally sold. Winners and losers. The quick and the dead. It’s pretty simple.”

  “So, ask this Trinity whatever,” he said weakly. “Ask ‘em.”

  “The agent who’s on the registration form is just some guy sitting in an office in Chandler, and he doesn’t know anything. I’m learning that’s how a lot of business is done around here. We’ve got to protect the privacy of these swells. But I bet you can tell me who really owns Tonopah Trinity.”

  He stared out into the empty restaurant and blew a long plume of smoke in the direction of the front window.

  I said, “Tonopah Trinity LLC.”

  Fife stabbed out the cigarette, instantly picked out another and lit it. He was fighting hiccups. A bright mariachi tune belted out of the jukebox, but I could hear his voice.

  “I’ll be damned if I’m going down for Tom Earley,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  By three o’clock I was back downtown, and for the first time in days I was sitting alone in my office on the fourth floor of the old county courthouse. The lock had been replaced, but the room was still musty with my suspicions. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Kate Vare had broken in. But, no, that wasn’t her style. So who? The tattooed man? Dana Earley, perhaps? She certainly knew where my office was located. So much had happened since the break-in that it seemed like ancient history. Aside from the low growl of traffic outside, the room was still. My Hollinger boxes and folders of research for the book looked foreign and unkempt. Somewhere, real historians were working. Just a few years ago, one found a trove of letters written by St. Augustine, launching a hundred academic conferences and a shelf of new books.

  Me? In my desk, I had a fake letter confessing to a murder that never happened. Washington’s Crossing was still on the desk top. I started reading it for distraction, but my mind heard the ghosts of the old jail on the top floor. I put on my headphones, put a Sinatra CD in the player, and put my feet on the desk. I imagined Lindsey as a teenage mother, Robin succumbing to drugs and the street, and their lives of chaos. Sinatra’s lonely message was the perfect mixer, and my throat caught. So much loss.

  The door swung open violently and slammed into the doorstop. It was a wonder the pebbled glass in the door didn’t shatter—and I knew it would take months if ever for the county to pay for its replacement. Standing before me was a short man with news anchor hair, a blue suit and red tie. He was sweating like a leaky pipe. His face was dyed with the scarlet of embarrassment or rage. But I didn’t think he was embarrassed. His name was County Supervisor Tom Earley. I removed the headphones.

  “You little son of a bitch!” he yelled and stormed toward the desk. I was never good in workplace confrontations, which can be especially vicious in universities. So I just stood up and watched him as he advanced stiff-legged across the room. For a “little son of a bitch,” I was more than a head taller than my accuser.

  “You’re done here!” he said, slamming his fist on the old desk. One of the Hollinger boxes tipped over, depositing files on the wood floor. “Pack up your things…no, don’t you touch anything! You are to give me your badge and gun, and leave this building immediately.”

  Later, I would imagine the fun from pulling out the Colt Python—in response to his command, of course—just to see his expression. I just stood my ground and glanced at the 1905 photo of Carl Hayden, when he was Maricopa County Sheriff. He’d know how to deal with the likes of Earley. I tried to mimic Hayden’s straight-lipped stoicism. Only a fe
w layers of my stomach wall were burned off by stress.

  “Now!” he shrieked, sticking a stubby finger in my face. I didn’t see what Dana saw in him, or rather I did, and better understood her desire to play with Jerry von Shaft, er, Jared Malkin.

  I sat down and said, “I’ll leave when the sheriff tells me.”

  “You little son of a bitch,” he said. “How dare you snoop and spy on me.”

  There was nothing to say yet, so I just sat in silence. Working as partner for the Sphinx-like Peralta has taught me to even enjoy silence. After only a few seconds, Earley resumed his tirade. “Arizona Dreams is the most important development in this state’s history. I did nothing wrong as an investor. There was no significant county vote where I had a conflict of interest.” I made note of that interesting locution. He ranted on: “Do you have any idea of who you are dealing with? Not just me. Some of the most powerful men in the state!”

  “Was it a good deal for you?” I asked.

  “You stay out of my life! Out of my family’s life!” He was so short that we were about eye-level when he was standing and I was sitting. He seemed taller in television headshots.

  “I’m not going to fire you!” he said suddenly. “I’ve just decided that…”

  “Gee, I thought there were five county supervisors, and all this time I was wrong. There’s only you.” What the hell. If I was a goner, may as well go out in style.

  “Shut up!” he shouted. “I’m going to ruin you. You’ll never even teach Mexican kids in some public school, much less be a professor again, when I’m done with you. You’ll never work in law enforcement. I know your kind. Liberals. Professors. The filth you teach our kids…”

  “I was considered a fascist at the faculty club,” I said.

  “You are! A fascist socialist communist atheist liberal, just like all your kind.” Tom Earley’s discount political science theory. He theorized on: “You’re the kind that probably disapproves of Arizona Dreams. You want to save the desert.” This in a sing-songy voice. “Look, this is private property. We’ll never let you liberals take away private property rights. Why, this is America!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He looked at me oddly, as if I had snapped him out of something. Then the rage returned to his eyes. “I’ll ruin you, Mapstone. I’ll bring you up at every supervisors meeting. I’ll find out what you’re really doing here. I’ll get that wife of yours…”

  “Leave Lindsey out of this, or we’re not going to be so friendly.” I said it in a normal voice, but he stepped back.

  “I’ll use you to ruin Peralta,” he hissed. “We’ll see what your tune is then.”

  I picked up Washington’s Crossing and opened the book. I did it to piss him off. I could almost hear his internal boiler start to go critical. “It’s a good book,” I said. Then: “Why did your wife come to see me last February, Supervisor?”

  “She didn’t. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “She claimed she had been one of my students at Miami University.”

  “You’re insane. She attended Mesa Community College. She’s never even been to Florida.”

  “Ohio.”

  “She’s never been!” He was shouting again. It made me glad my end of the building was deserted except for my office.

  “First Dana said she had discovered a letter from her late father, and he was admitting to murdering a man and burying him out in the desert. Then Dana claimed she was being blackmailed, and she was trying to protect you.”

  “Her father is still alive,” he said, in a softer, hoarse voice. He was watching me closely.

  “That makes sense,” I said. “Because that desert land belonged to a pair of brothers named Bell. One of them was buried out there. We wasted a lot of taxpayer money clearing that one up. But it was a chance to see some pretty desert at least. Valuable, too, I’d guess.”

  Earley had drifted back toward the big windows facing First Avenue. His color had gone from scarlet to ashen even before I said, “I’m sure you know about that property, Supervisor.”

  Earley started to walk toward me when there was a blur in the hallway, and then we weren’t alone anymore. The tall man with the shaved head was wearing a long-sleeved work shirt, and then I realized why he might want to conceal his prized tattoo: to make an easy escape, with no identifying characteristic. Funny the trivia your mind cooks up when facing oblivion. He had a black pistol in his hand. It looked like what you’d get if you mated a semiautomatic pistol with a machine gun, producing an unwieldy long magazine and a thick barrel with holes like Swiss cheese. In other words, it was a Tek-9, and it could easily be converted from semi- to fully automatic.

  “No sap this time?” I asked.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he said, indicating the Python on my belt. The nasty-looking Tek-9 was in a clean line with my heart, which was now thumping like a washing machine on imbalance. “Pull it out slow, with your left hand, and put it on the desk, with the butt facing me.”

  He’d obviously done this before. Right then I had a lot of wishes. I wished I were in my wife’s arms in a safe place where it rained. I wished I wasn’t sitting down, and that the damned history book was not still in my right hand. I said, “I’m not giving up my weapon. Be a bad habit to get into.” I didn’t recognize my own voice, but my body obeyed the first rule of Peralta’s training.

  The thick barrel came up toward my face. I think the tattooed man would have killed me right then, but Earley spoke and said, “Adam, what are you doing?”

  The man he called Adam said simply, “You” and turned the pistol toward Earley’s head. Earley let out a whimpered “Wait!” but it was enough time for me to fling Washington’s Crossing at Adam. I hit him right between the eyes and his head and shoulders lurched back like a puppet whose limbs were attached to rubber bands. Instantly there was a sharp explosion from the Tek-9, but I was diving under the desk and drawing out the Python. When I came up, Tom Earley was still standing, his swoosh of hair in place, and Adam was already halfway to the stairway atrium.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  By the time I got out the front door of the old courthouse, the tattooed man was halfway to Washington Street. He turned and pointed the thick barrel, which had its desired effect: I dived to the ground behind one of the columns. The heated sidewalk burned my hands. You never can find a cop when you need one. There were probably more police officers, deputies, and U.S. marshals in the few blocks surrounding me than anyplace in the entire Southwest. But I saw no uniforms on the street; heard no commands to stop. I lifted myself off the concrete and raced down the steps. He ran into the one-way street, provoking screeching tires and honking horns. Somebody rear-ended a taxi. The horns stopped abruptly when they saw the hardware he was carrying. Then he was on the north side of the street, by the front entry to the Wells Fargo Tower. But no bankers appeared. It was so hot that the sidewalk was deserted. I cut through the desert plantings and shadows in front of the courthouse. He was jogging east, concealing the gun inside his shirt, and momentarily not checking his rear. I saw a chance.

  I holstered the Python for better running and sprinted diagonally across the intersection with First Avenue, somehow avoiding a mail truck that didn’t see me. Then I was pumping my arms, beating the pavement with my feet, coming up behind him fast. He didn’t see me before I tackled him, ramming him hard into the railing at Tom’s Tavern. We went over, crashing into tables and chairs. I landed on him, and saw the Tek-9 skitter across the floor toward the restaurant door. That triumph lasted all of a few seconds before a fist smashed into my nose. Somehow he had managed to wriggle and turn and get me at a disadvantage. But there was no analyzing going on at that moment. It was all shock and pain. I fell backward into a capsized table; that brought another jolt of pain. Somehow a reflex back in my brainstem had my hand reaching for the Python. But by the time I focused, he was gone.

  “Call nine-one-one,” I said, sounding very congested, when a resta
urant employee stuck her head out the door. “Tell them a plainclothes deputy is pursuing an armed suspect.” I got to my knees, then to my feet, and wobbled off up First Avenue. I was dizzy and my shirt was dappled with blood.

  The sun went behind a skyscraper, but the heat was starting to beat me down. Now that the original adrenaline rush had worn off, I was conscious of being covered in sweat, my lungs were burning, my stomach bloated with heat nausea. It was probably only one hundred seven degrees out, magnified by the concrete. I tried to focus on the suspect, waited to hear sirens or see uniforms. Adam had been slowed down, too. I saw him a block ahead, crossing the street. His head snapped to the west: He was thinking about going into the Orpheum Lofts. Then he changed his mind, running and limping back across the street. Then we were going east on Adams Street. I’d like to say it was like Manhattan, and he couldn’t see me behind him for all the crowds on the sidewalks. But this was Phoenix, and nobody was out here with us. The sun brutally re-emerged, glaring off the storefronts, cooking the street. He kept looking back at me, but for some reason didn’t shoot. I stayed as close to the walls and alleyways as I could, so I could find cover quickly. Maybe he thought he could just outrun me.

  Then he was gone.

  A tectonic cramp cut through my middle. I leaned against the wall beside Quiznos and barfed on the sidewalk. The suave David Mapstone. I thought my guts were going to come out onto the concrete. I couldn’t catch a breath. Everything was hot. My sweat-soaked shirt hung on me. I felt out of shape. I felt old. I looked around. Nothing. I cursed the sidewalk.

  Then I saw movement across the street. It was the Central Avenue entrance to the Wyndham Hotel. Maybe the door had just finished swinging shut. It was worth a try. I did my best to jog across at the light, ignoring a voice inside that said, “wait for the cavalry.”

  Then I was in the darkened corridor of the hotel entrance. The air conditioning collided with my superheated skin. The heavy-duty hotel carpet felt like the greatest luxury my feet had ever known. But the heavy weight of the Python reminded me of the task at hand. I hastily hung my badge on my belt so some trigger-happy rookie didn’t take me out. I moved slowly toward the front desk. It was quiet and I began worrying about the dark potential of the man with the Tek-9 in downtown Phoenix. I slowed my pace, looked toward the lobby, which looked as deserted as the street outside. I knelt down ahead of where the wall opened up into the larger space of the lobby. It was an old trick, to look around a corner from a level where someone wouldn’t naturally notice. My knees hurt like hell.