“Somebody paid me a visit yesterday, looking for something. They went through every drawer and cabinet and closet, even looked under mattresses and in the crawl space of the attic. I’ve also learned the Rebecca Stokes case is still wide open.”
She took my hand and led me into the kitchen, where she pulled out bottles of champagne and orange juice. “You put the nova lox spread on the bagels, and I’ll make mimosas,” she said. “Where were your case files?”
“Safe. I had my briefcase and PowerBook in the Blazer.”
Lindsey tossed her dark hair a little and popped the cork. “You are jumpy, Dave,” she said, putting a hand on my wrist. I told her about the conversation with Julie and the warning phone call-and the encounter in the carport a few weeks ago.
“Cheers,” she said, handing me a mimosa. “You’ve landed in some bad shit somehow. Who is this Julie?”
“We went together back in college.”
“Did you, like, disco dance and wear platform shoes?”
She made me smile. “I didn’t hear from her for twenty years. Then she turns up on my doorstep a few weeks ago, asking me to find her sister.”
“Phaedra? I read your report. How did Julie even know you were back in the city?”
“She ran into Peralta one day, and he told her. My bad luck.” I explained about Julie and the cocaine, the behavior swings and now the disappearance.
Lindsey sat demurely on the butcher-block table and sipped thoughtfully, the bubbles tickling her nose. “Dames is trouble, History Shamus,” she said in a lower voice.
“I’ve been doing some checking on my own into some things,” she went on. “I started running this Greg Townsend through some databases, and, surprise, there’s a DEA file on him.”
“You can get into the DEA?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Confidential informants say he was flying in drugs from Mexico for Bobby Hamid.”
“Julie said he had his own plane,” I said. “Tell me about this Bobby Hamid.”
“Whoa, Dave, you have been gone from Phoenix for a while. Let me see, Ruhollah Hamid, son of a wealthy Iranian family, came here to study at Arizona State; then the revolution changed things and he stayed. Opened a Dunkin’ Donuts franchise with family money, did reasonably well. Then he opened a topless club. But in the late 1980s, intelligence reports start linking him to drug running, mostly small shit back then. But over five years or so, he becomes a real player: drugs, prostitution, guns. He has some major alliances with the Crips to run methamphetamines, the Mexican Mafia for heroin. Some people believe Bobby Hamid is the godfather now.”
“Jeez,” I said. “You miss a little, you miss a lot. Has he done time?”
“He’s been arrested about a dozen times-he’s one of Chief Peralta’s pet obsessions-but no convictions. Can’t find anybody to narc on him. He keeps his distance from the operating side of the business. He’s also got three fast-food franchises that are totally legitimate; he gives away lots of money, even serves on boards and charities. Whenever he gets busted, he claims he’s a victim of anti-Iranian prejudice.”
“Lindsey, how do you keep all this in your head?”
“Same way you do, Dave. We’re both weird. By the way, do you know what Julie’s married name was? I want to run her.” I gave it to her.
“Understand about Bobby Hamid: He wears two-thousand-dollar suits and has a pretty blond beach bunny wife, but he’s a killer. He wouldn’t have risen this fast without being one.”
“And Townsend was flying for him?” I asked.
“Apparently. You know these CI reports can be unreliable. But when he ends up dead, that gives it credence. Bobby Hamid would have a guy shotgunned in his bed, five rounds of double-ought buckshot, including one in the mouth. That’s his style.”
“So if Townsend got on the wrong side of this guy, maybe Phaedra did, too. And that’s what Julie knows but never told me.”
Lindsey bit her lip thoughtfully. “Maybe. Maybe, but it doesn’t quite add up. Phaedra looks like she was quite a beautiful girl. If she pissed off Bobby, he would have just sold her into slavery.”
She saw my look.
“Oh, yeah, there’s quite a market in the Middle East and Asia for pretty young American redheads. A sheik or the boss of a drug cartel would have paid thousands of dollars for her. And we strongly suspect Bobby has been behind some of that.”
My stomach felt very cold. “Don’t be squeamish, Dave. It’s the new millennium. This is the world we’re left with.” She gave me that sardonic smile. “God is dead, remember?”
“Another thing people kept telling me was that Phaedra hated drugs,” I said. “So it doesn’t add up, if I was being told the truth, which would be a first.”
“Oh, poor Dave,” Lindsey said, teasing me. “He’s back with the cops, and everybody lies to him.”
“So that leaves us-where?” I asked. “Is Bobby Hamid the one behind these threats or not?”
“If he’s not, he’d probably know who is,” Lindsey said. “What, are you going to walk in and ask him?”
“I might want a couple of chocolate doughnuts.” I smiled.
“Be very careful, Dave. I think the city has changed a lot more than you realize. But for your professional perusal…” She handed me a sheaf of files on Townsend and Bobby Hamid.
“Now,” she said, “tell me about the Stokes case still being open.”
Chapter Sixteen
John Rogers was dozing in his hospital bed when we walked up, but he quickly roused himself and took Lindsey in.
“The deputies look a hell of a lot better than when I used to see ’em,” he muttered. I guess I was surprised he remembered me. He was still looking Lindsey over. “What the hell’s that gold thing in your nose?”
“This is Deputy Adams,” I said.
“Lindsey.”
“Sit, sit.” The big man waved his hands. “They told me yesterday this cancer in my prostate has gone too far. Sorry, miss. Anyway, they tell me there’s nothing they can do that won’t just kill me outright. I say, just keep me from the damned pain.”
“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t even realize-”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Wish I could see my son and daughter. Wish we hadn’t all gotten so far away from the old ways. Never mattered to me when I was younger. Hell, it’s all over. Red folks, white folks, black folks. The whole goddamned thing is falling apart.”
“John, we hate to bother you, but we had some more questions about the Creeper cases.”
“I saw the newspaper. You did okay.”
“I talked to Harrison Wolfe.”
John Rogers visibly stiffened. “My God, Mr. Wolfe is still alive?” I nodded. “I always wondered if he was really human.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah, don’t matter. Mr. Wolfe always respected Indians. He was a friend of mine, as much as anybody ever was his friend.”
“He said the women killed by the Creeper were mutilated. True?”
Rogers looked at Lindsey and back at me. He nodded slowly.
“But Rebecca Stokes wasn’t?”
“As I remember it, she wasn’t. It wasn’t my call, but you know how the guys talk about cases.”
“So her murder wasn’t related?”
He sighed and splayed his big hands.
“Cops always talk, Officer Rogers,” Lindsey said softly. “What did you guys think?”
Rogers smiled a toothless smile at her. “My first sergeant said, ‘You ain’t paid to think here, chief.’ Let me put it to you this way. It was an embarrassment to the Phoenix Police that the Stokes case was never solved. But we wasn’t exactly beating the bushes. All my snitches on the street were totally dry. There was no talk about it on the street.”
“Wolfe said her luggage was found inside the apartment door. So she wasn’t snatched between the taxi and the front door, even though that’s what had always assumed.”
“Don’t know that.”
“Wolfe said the county attorney took the reports.”
Rogers stared at me a long time, his eyelids steadily drooping. “You’re a smart fella,” he said finally. “Why would that happen?”