I thanked him for his time.
“This Lieutenant Hawkins said the DNA test should establish the identity. So we will finally have some closure.”
Closure. Even CEOs had learned the therapeutic language of the age. “I may need to call you again if there are other questions.”
“I can’t imagine that would happen,” he said, and saw me to the door. He didn’t offer his hand.
14
I was falling into a rotten mood on a beautiful day. Within an hour of leaving Max Yarnell, I was summoned down to police headquarters for as much of an ass chewing as a lifer bureaucrat like Hawkins could muster. “Mr. Yarnell was offended by your questions and manner,” Hawkins said.
I was getting offended, too. After had I left Hawkins, I went to the County Recorder’s Office, where I pulled the deed records on the Triple A Storage Warehouse. It had been owned by Yarneco before the company even took that name. The original paper listed “Yarnell Land and Cattle Co., 1924”-seventeen years before the kidnapping. There was more: The recorder kept a clipboard for signing out paper deed records. It wasn’t much used, what with grantor-grantee records on computer. But the occasional title company employee needed to go deeper. The records to the warehouse had been checked out just the day before, to a Megan O’Connor of Yarneco. She had to be Max Yarnell’s Megan. So why did he tell me he didn’t know the warehouse was owned by his company?
By the time it was five, I didn’t want to stay in the office and I didn’t want to go home. Earlier in the day, I sent Lindsey a dozen yellow roses, her favorites. But when I got back to the courthouse, a note was folded into my office door.
I opened it and read in Lindsey’s rat-a-tat-tat handwriting:
Dave, I am taking Linda back to Illinois for the funeral. I know you would want to go, too, and try to save me from myself. So I will remove the temptation. You can have a nice, normal Thanksgiving with El Jefe and Sharon, and I will be with my crazy family and thinking of you. If you would look in on Pasternak from time to time, I will do unspeakable things to your body when I get back. Don’t worry, History Shamus.
L
So I sat on a bench in Cesar Chavez Plaza, between the old courthouse and the municipal building, and I read and re-read the note. Then I watched the western sky gather pink and orange. The killjoys liked to say that the Phoenix sunsets were a product of smog and dust in the dry air. That was probably information that would please Lieutenant Hawkins, if he ever looked up at the sky in the first place. I didn’t care. The deepening streaks of color restored me little by little. When I started to dislike Phoenix again, the sunsets reminded me of the things I had missed so much the years I had been away.
This part of downtown was utterly deserted. The government employees raced to the suburbs early on a Friday evening, and the Suns and Coyotes were out of town tonight. So you could have lain down in the middle of the five lanes of Washington Street and been completely safe. Even the panhandlers and street people were nowhere to be seen.
Then I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and Gretchen Goodheart stepped out from between two palo verde trees. She smiled and waved and walked to me.
“I was walking up to your office when I looked out one of the stairway windows and you were out here. You looked lost in thought.”
I smiled and stood. “Come join me.”
She didn’t have the cowboy hat today, and her auburn hair fell free in a longish pageboy, brushing the tops of her shoulders. She was wearing a denim top and print cotton skirt, looking springy in the fall as you can do in Arizona. She looked me over and sat next to me.
“You clean up nicely,” she said. I still had on the blue pinstripe from my meeting with Max Yarnell.
“Thanks, I went visiting. Mr. Max Yarnell.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s a prick,” I said. “But maybe I’m in a mood to judge harshly.”
“Not everyone, I hope.”
“Not Gretchen Goodheart,” I said. My girlfriend’s mother just committed suicide and here I was flirting. I closed up that compartment and watched the sunset.
“Max Yarnell is developing five thousand acres of pristine desert north of Scottsdale,” she said. “In two years, you’ll have houses and roads where there are only saguaros and empty spaces now. As if Phoenix needed more space. Then his company is trying to build a new copper mine near Superior, and they’re doing everything they can to sidestep the environmental reviews.” She shook her head, making the red-brown hair wave gently against her collar. “So I’m no fan of Mad Max.”
“Is that what people call him?”
“I don’t know, it’s what I call him.” She held up a file folder. “I have something for you. These are copies of plans submitted to the city over the years on your warehouse. I thought they might be useful.”
We spread the sheets of paper between us.
“See, it’s actually two buildings.” She traced a ring-less finger across a floor plan. “This is from 1947, when a new water main was routed down Fourth Avenue to Harrison.” Sure enough, the paper showed a larger building abutted by a smaller one on the corner by Union Station.
“The larger one was a hotel until 1958,” Gretchen said. “Then in 1961, the new brick facade was put across both buildings and the whole thing was converted into a storage warehouse.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said. “I used to love to come down to the station to watch the trains when I was a kid. It was a bad habit my grandmother indulged. But I never really paid attention to those old buildings.”
I picked through the floor plans. “So the skeletons of the Yarnell twins were below this old hotel.”
Gretchen nodded. “The plan doesn’t show a tunnel running from the elevator shaft, see. But it’s clearly the same building.” She reached into the paperwork and pulled out a couple of dense pages. “These are out of city directories, so you can get a sense of what was around the hotel when the kidnapping happened.”
“You’re going to put me out of a job,” I said.
She smiled that dimpled extravaganza. “It was called the Sunset Route Hotel until the late 1940s. I’m not quite sure why.”
“The Southern Pacific’s premier passenger train through here was the Sunset Limited.”
“See, David. You’ve got the moves.”
“I am a storehouse of useless knowledge.”
“I think you’re a very intelligent man.” She fixed those baby browns on me, an intense connecting gaze. I invited her to have a drink at Majerle’s.
15
“Now I am entranced, David Mapstone,” she said. “A martini man? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cop drink a martini. I am shaken and stirred.”
“I picked it up in another life.”
“Ah, this was the life in the federal witness protection program?”
“How did you know?”
“So you lost the girl but kept the vice?”
I smiled. “Something like that.”
She set aside her chardonnay and caught the barmaid’s eye-not hard to do, since we were the only people in the bar. “I’ve decided I must have a martini, too.”
“Bombay Sapphire,” I instructed, and the barmaid went away, her black tennis skirt swinging saucily behind her.
Gretchen said, “When I was twenty three, I dated, well let’s say he was the youngest son of one of the richest men on the West Coast. He was a total idiot, but, oh, how I loved his toys.”
The crowd noise from the basketball game on TV drifted over our way and then the server did, too. Gretchen sampled the martini.
“Oh, my,” she said.
“So how does one get to be the city archaeologist?” I asked and heard her story.
Gretchen Goodheart grew up in Tempe, where her dad was a teacher. She was a tomboy, and excelled at track and gymnastics in high school. She went to UCLA and then worked four years as a smoke jumper, fighting forest fires around the West. “I survived,” she said. But she also loved history. “I decided archaeology was a good mix of the outdoors and the past. But it’s not like you can take that degree and open an archaeology shop on Mill Avenue.”