I was pretty toasty from the martini with Lindsey but ordered a Four Peaks Hop Knot IPA.
“Make it two,” Melton said.
I wondered what his constituency in the suburban megachurches and LDS meetinghouses would think.
Looking around, downtown Phoenix seemed almost on the verge of being cool. From the rooftop bar, we had views of the Suns arena, multiple skyscrapers, and the South Mountains and Estrellas in the lingering twilight. Steps led up to an azure swimming pool. Gray columns were topped with ice-blue lighting that matched the color of the still water. Lindsey and I would have fun here.
His voice brought me back to the unpleasant business at hand.
“I’m sorry about Peralta.” He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “You probably think I’m a bad guy for the campaign. But it was politics. He understood that. Phoenix has changed and he didn’t change with it. So voters wanted a change.”
I stared at him.
He released his arms and shook his head. “But this jewel robbery. Bad stuff.”
“A person is innocent until proved guilty.”
The woman brought our beers and withdrew.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t look good and the FBI will be digging very hard into Peralta’s time as sheriff.”
“They won’t find anything but good police work.” I took a big swig and let the liquid burn my insides.
“We can hope so,” Melton said. “I wanted to talk about you.”
I put the glass down and said nothing.
“I was sorry you left. I could have used you. Your ability to employ the historian’s techniques to solve cold cases is very valuable.”
“It was time for me to move on.”
“Maybe not.” He reached into the messenger bag and pulled out a book. I recognized it instantly because I had written it. Desert Star: A History of the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office.
“This is a fabulous book,” Melton said. “Really great. I had no idea there was so much history here. Would you sign it?”
He slid it across and handed me a pen.
Play to the author’s shameless vanity. I opened to the title page and wrote, “To Sheriff Chris Melton, making new history. David Mapstone.”
He thanked me. Then, “Maybe you’d write a new preface. We could re-release it.”
I didn’t answer. As a historian, I had written only two books, thirty articles for historical journals. Not enough to gain tenure.
He put the book away and pulled out a file. It was about an inch thick.
“I’d like you to look into this for me.”
My eyes lingered on the folder. It looked worn. I told him no, that I already had a job, and slid it back to his side of the table.
He smiled sadly. “I don’t think there will be much private investigator work coming your way with your partner as a wanted fugitive in a violent crime. It wouldn’t surprise me if the DPS revoked your license, as well as his.”
“But you’re here to help me…” I drained the glass halfway.
“Exactly.”
So I gave it to him, exactly, “I don’t like you, Sheriff. I don’t like your politics. You and your people lied about Mike Peralta’s record. You set people against each other.”
Remembering the thugs that had shouted Peralta down at one debate, the vicious online comments about him from Melton supporters and all the “dark money” from anonymous out-of-state donors, I started to get wound up.
I forced my voice to stay even. “I don’t approve of the way you won the election or how you run the department. And I don’t take clients that I don’t like and trust.” I thought about it and added, “No disrespect.”
“Call me Chris.”
“If I did take your case, it would be a five thousand-dollar retainer up front, then five hundred dollars an hour after that. I would want total control of the case. No second-guessing.”
He laughed from below his diaphragm and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. His beer was still untouched.
“That’s not what I had in mind.”
His hand went back into the bag and pulled out what looked like a wallet. I realized what it really was only when he placed it on the table atop the file and opened it: a star and identification card. My old badge and credentials.
“You’re coming back to the Sheriff’s Office, David.”
I sat back, feeling the little revolver against my shirt, and marveling at his chutzpah.
“And I would want to do this, why?”
“Open the file.”
He slid the folder toward me again.
I swept the badge case aside and flipped to the first page. It was an incident report dated July 24th, 1984. It looked like a museum artifact. At the bottom was my signature and badge number.
He tapped the paper. “Do you remember this?”
I nodded. A body of a twenty-something male had been found in the desert not far from the Caterpillar tractor proving grounds in the White Tank Mountains west of the city. Today the area is overrun with subdivisions, but then it was empty. The dead man had parked his car and walked on foot without water before he had collapsed.
I had been the first deputy to respond to the call, the one who had secured the scene and written the incident report. There was no obvious evidence of a crime. People did strange things in the desert. And then the desert did unmerciful things to their remains. Then the case had been turned over to the detectives and I had lost track of it. This was when I was finishing my master’s degree and preparing to leave the department and Phoenix.
Now, under the enchanted metropolitan sky with blessed ice water sitting next to the beers, I shrugged. “So?”
“There’s been a new development in the case.”
“Turn it over to your cold-case unit. I’m sure they’re quite capable.”
He shook his head. “I want you to investigate this. It requires your special skills.” He leaned in and touched my arm. “David, this is your home, your hometown. You belong with us at the Sheriff’s Office. I’ll warn you, the county is going paperless. I should have given you the documents digitally. But I thought the paper files might be easier.”
I drained the glass and stood. “Thanks for the beer, Sheriff.”
I was halfway out when his voice stopped me.
“Lindsey.”
I turned to face him. My feet felt heavy.
He beckoned me back with a flipping of his fingers, as if he were summoning a child. “Call me Chris. And you forgot your star, Deputy.”
I walked back and stood over him. “Why did you mention my wife?”
“Sit down, David.”
I did.
“Your wife is a hacker. She has been all her teenage and adult life.”
“You’re being cute with words,” I said. “Lindsey was a sworn deputy in the Sheriff’s Office cybercrimes unit and then she was recruited by Homeland Security. What made her so valuable is that she’s a ‘good hacker,’ if you want to use the word. A knuckle-dragger going by some manual from Microsoft isn’t going to have that expertise.”
“That’s what made her so effective. She’s one of the best hackers we ever encountered.”
A coldness spread in my limbs as I wondered who this “we” was.
“Your wife’s time in Washington, D.C., was not what you believe, David. I hate to put it this way, but sometimes it’s better get the truth out there. She wasn’t faithful.”
“My marriage is not your business.”
“There were several instances where she strayed. I know it hurts, but my sources are golden. You need to know this.”
“Good-bye,” I said, but made no effort to leave the chair.
I knew Lindsey had played and strayed, knew it because I had found a confessional letter she intended to mail to me but never did-and then I had tucked it back in her things and never spoke of it. It had been a mad time for both of us. Her sister Robin had been alive then. If the sheriff was trying to mind-fuck me to do his bidding, this wouldn’t work.