There was a collective chair shuffling and coffee slurping, then a Scottsdale detective, a blond, lanky woman named Carrie somebody, gave the report on the James Yarnell attack. No suspects, no arrests. There were no witnesses in the area that night. The bullets recovered looked like.357 rounds, but they were badly deformed. No shell casings found. It appeared the shots came from some bushes across the street.
“I’m not seeing any connections,” Hawkins sing-songed.
Kimbrough sighed. “Well, you’ve got the report on Max Yarnell, what we know so far.”
“Roust some burglars,” Hawkins said. “It was probably a burglary gone wrong.” He pointed at me. “The professor over here has got everybody paranoid. We just need to do some basic police work.”
“Nothing appears missing from the home,” Kimbrough said.
“So the burglar got scared and ran!” Hawkins shouted.
“Look, Gus,” I said, “the alarm was disengaged. What if Max let somebody in, somebody he knew? He called me that night and said he needed to talk to me, in person, about something urgent. Before that, the guy didn’t want to give me the time of day.”
Hawkins’ mouth became a lipless line of exasperation.
“And what about the attempt on James Yarnell?” I said. “That wasn’t a burglar.”
“So maybe it was unrelated, Mapstone. A husband of some woman this Yarnell is banging. Maybe some artist he screwed over. I dunno. Hell, you don’t have one scrap of evidence these are related.”
“We’re checking out Yarnell’s business acquaintances and old girlfriends,” said one of the Scottsdale detectives.
“The dolls!” I was shouting by this time.
“There was no doll at the Yarnell Gallery,” Hawkins said. “There was one at Max Yarnell’s house, and one delivered to your office. Maybe we ought to consider you a suspect, Mapstone.” If it was meant as a joke, nobody laughed. Then the cops started arguing over resources with two other high-profile crimes going on. It continued until Kimbrough got up to refill his coffee.
“I’m inclined to very here-and-now theories,” said Carrie, the Scottsdale detective. “We have threats from an environmental terrorist group over this mine in Superior. That’s a profitable avenue. It could explain the attacks on both Yarnells. The FBI is getting very interested in eco-terrorism.”
She flipped through a spiral notebook and went on, “You also need to be aware that Yarneco is having major trouble right now. We talked at length with their chief financial officer. Their real estate holdings are in trouble. They made some bad bets on developments up in Colorado. And the banks were about a month away from pulling the plug on the mining venture.”
“Jesus Christ!” Hawkins said. “You’re making everything too complicated. I gotta go.” He sidled his way out of the room, taking a pair of minions with him.
“What if it’s a family member?” a Phoenix cop asked. The room erupted with opinions. “No, I mean it,” he went on. “If this crime happened in an ordinary neighborhood, we’d arrest a wife or a brother-in-law before sundown.”
“I’d do it,” Kimbrough said, “if we had a scrap of evidence.”
“We don’t have any fingerprints? Nothing?” demanded a voice from off to the left.
“Not on the petrified wood,” Kimbrough said. “It was wiped clean. Family fingerprints in a family member’s house don’t mean squat. Can you say ‘reasonable doubt’? Ask the county attorney.”
We were getting nowhere. I wondered if Bobby Hamid would solve the case before three police agencies.
“Look,” Carrie said, a new edge to her voice. “We have one of the most prominent men in the state murdered. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling major heat to get some damned results, and soon. And I’m also feeling heat to treat the Yarnell family with tender loving care.”
Everybody stared at Kimbrough. He adjusted his bow tie and looked at me.
“Hawkins may be getting at one thing,” I said. “There’s something simple and straightforward in all this. We’re just not seeing it yet.”
That night, Peralta came home and announced we were going to get a Christmas tree. So we drove over to a little lot on Seventh Street and wrestled a six-foot-tall spruce into the back of his Blazer. Back at home, Peralta cooked steaks-I avoided the urge to fuss over him about his diet-while I dug out old Christmas lights and ornaments from the garage. We put the tree in the center of the picture window, just where the trees stood when I was growing up. And we trimmed it while the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sang carols-Peralta vetoed my Blues Christmas CD. He restrained his bossiness. I restrained my guilt, and my memories of Sharon’s lips, fingers and lustrous black hair. I had allowed something secret and scary into my life.
After dinner, we lit the tree and, armed with scotch and cigars, we carried lawn chairs out by the street so we could sit and enjoy our handiwork. The night was suitably cool, almost crisp.
Peralta luxuriated in the lawn chair. “Want to come on a raid of a skinhead organization tomorrow? You haven’t been in a good gunfight for a few hours.”
“I’ll pass.” I lit the cigar and watched the tip glow festively in the night.
“C’mon, Mapstone. Drop your socks and grab your Glock.”
“I saw Sharon today.”
“How is she?”
“She’s okay. She’s worried about you.”
I am the most loathsome man on the planet.
“Well, that was nice of her.”
“I think she was reaching out to you.”
I am unworthy of any friendship.
“Well, she could try picking up the phone. That would be a first.”
“I know it’s not my business…”
Your wife kissed me. Your wife, who I have tried for 20 years to view like a sister and a friend, kissed me. And I kissed her back. And I liked it. I am lower than a worm.
“Mapstone,” Peralta said mildly, “you’re right. It’s not your business. Hell, she probably just came to see you.”
I started to say something but he held up a finger. Shhh.
Up and down Cypress Street, we could see Christmas lights coming on, festive little reds, blues, and greens from windows, self-conscious whites wrapping the orange tree two houses down. Our tree was traditional and comforting, filling the picture window with a poignant magic. The year had gone by too fast. There were too many people I was missing.
31
The address Gretchen gave me went to a four-story, red-brick apartment building on the corner of Twelfth Avenue and Adams. The place was eighty years old if it was a day-big windows closely spaced together, sleeping porches on the upper floors. She surprised me every time. At first, I imagined her in a single-family house in Ahwatukee, then maybe in a condo up around the Biltmore. It was that pleasant sensibility she carried around with no urban edge.
But her real home was in one of the toughest parts of the inner city-or it would have been if much were left. These old buildings from Phoenix’s early days once decorated the neighborhoods between downtown and the capitol. Brick replaced adobe as a sign of the frontier town’s progress. Now adobe was the sign of progress and Gretchen’s building was alone on the block, with a row of thick-trunk palm trees at the curb, half of them lacking tops. I parked, set the car alarm and went inside.
Her place was on the top floor, and she met me as I stepped onto the old hardwood of the hallway. She was wearing a white robe and maybe nothing else underneath.
“This is an amazing building. Something in Phoenix older than 1975.”
“An architect bought it and she’s restoring it floor by floor,” Gretchen said, coming into my arms and giving me a gentle, brush-across-the-lips kiss, then something deep, wet and lingering. “I love it here. Come in.”