Someone whispered, “Hell, drunk Indian.”
Another voice: “Call security now, please.”
I walked to the L in the corridor, turned, and saw Ed Cartwright.
“Not goin’ anywhere. Trying to keep the red man down. Stole our land. Sons of bitches. But the Apache were never defeated! You needed Apache scouts to beat the other Indians!”
He was weaving among three nurses and aides, putting on a great show. He wore a red ballcap and a blue sling, neatly pressed Western shirt and new blue jeans, tooled cowboy boots. His right hand held a pint of cheap whiskey.
“I’m a deputy sheriff.” I flashed the blood-caked badge. “I’ll take care of this man.”
“Hey, watch the shoulder, po-po!”
“Come with me, sir,” I said, steering him by the uninjured right arm toward the elevators.
“Racist!” he shouted toward the audience, his face a mask of tragedy. “You heard what he called me! I’m gonna get rich off this! Sue the Sheriff. Sue the County. Sue this pale face! You’re all witnesses. Racist po-po! Oh, feel like I’m gonna throw up.”
He weaved and bent over.
I whispered, “If you puke on me, I’m going to break your good arm.”
The car arrived empty and I pushed him inside. Instantly, he stood in a posture suggesting authority.
“You make a subtle entrance,” I said.
He smiled.
“It’s a good thing the Phoenix cop guarding Lindsey didn’t get involved.”
“Where’d you get that deputy’s badge?” he said.
“Long story.” I pointed to his cap. “Redskins” was emblazoned across the front. “Political statement?”
“Huh? I’m a Washington fan. Have been since I was assigned to FBI headquarters in D.C. I can’t find any love for the Cardinals. Who beat the crap out of you?”
“The same woman who shot Lindsey.”
He assessed me in silence. Cartwright must have been very handsome when he was younger, with his high cheekbones, black oval eyes, dark sandstone complexion, and rugged look. Now, in his sixties, his face was cut into hundreds of rivulets and the eyes were bordered by puffy skin that left him with a permanent and intimidating squint. His hair was the color of lead, tied back in a ponytail.
“How is she?” he said.
“Bad.”
He patted my jacket.
“Still carrying that wheel-gun artillery?”
I nodded.
“You have a backup?”
“On my ankle. The woman who shot Lindsey had one, too. That’s what she used.”
My mind was back on Cypress Street, Saturday night-why didn’t I take the shot?
When we reached the first floor, he dropped the whiskey bottle into a recycling container and I followed him outside into the perfect day. We moved at the fast stride that I remembered from the first time I had met him, when he had showed me his survivalist bunker built into the side of a hill. Back at his house, he had a formidable library. I liked him instantly.
“Wait,” I said. “I can’t leave Lindsey.”
“This is why I had to put on the act to get you out of there. You love her. Family is everything. I get that. But I need you to walk with me. Give me ten minutes and then you can go back. There’s nothing you can do for her now.”
“What if she dies and I’m not there?”
“She’s not going to die.” Any passerby would think he was looking at me, but I saw his eyes subtly scanning the street, something I should have been doing. Then he spoke again. “Have you heard from Peralta since Friday?”
“Not exactly.” I told him about the business card in Ash Fork, the disguised voice on Sharon’s landline, and the message on the dictaphone.
I asked if Peralta had made contact with him.
“No.” He spat on the sidewalk and watched it evaporate in the ten-percent humidity. “Three days now and no contact. This has turned into a real goat fuck.”
I stopped. “This? There’s a this?”
“Walk with me.”
I reluctantly complied. When Third Avenue was clear of cars, we crossed without speaking. Stepping off the curb seemed like a betrayal of Lindsey. Her skin was so hot. I stared at my feet moving through the crosswalk across the asphalt. So damned hot.
Now my eyes were scanning the street and buildings, too. I felt jumpy. I was seething, too. That Cartwright had been a part of this scheme with Peralta and I was left in the closet like a discarded garment. That Strawberry Death had disappeared and Kate Vare had, too. Where was my update on Lindsey’s assailant? Let her come for me. Give me another chance…
On the other side of the street, Cartwright broke through my brooding.
“Three weeks ago, the Russian mafia contacts me. Fifteen million in gem-quality rough coming through town. Could I steal it?”
“Rough?”
“Uncut diamonds,” he said. “What you see on an engagement ring or in a woman’s earlobes has been cut and polished. Rough is the way they come out of the mines. You probably wouldn’t recognize it.”
I was hardly shocked to hear about the Russian mafia. Phoenix was a mob town going all the way back to Al Capone’s organization during Prohibition. It was a convenient back office to tally Las Vegas casino skimmings after World War II. With so many people coming and going, Phoenix was an easy place to reinvent yourself and remain hidden.
Today, in addition to the cartels, it was hard to imagine a gang that didn’t have an outpost in the metropolitan area. Crips, Bloods, outlaw bikers, Mexican mafia, tongs, and other Asian criminal organizations. We were so diverse. All this and Phoenix had a lower violent-crime rate than most other large cities, despite the occasional hysteria from some politicians. Maybe it was because of this. Too much killing was bad for business.
Cartwright seemed to read my thoughts.
“Things are getting worse,” he said. “Budget cuts. Cops laid off. The aviation unit cut back. Phoenix PD disbanded the old Organized Crime unit for the flavor of the month. Violent Crimes. Homeland Security. Organized crime investigations pretty much died.”
I sighed. “So much for the people who voted in Melton because they were afraid of their Mexican gardener.”
“Don’t even get me started on Crisis Meltdown. He disbanded Peralta’s OC unit.”
“He’s one of yours. Retired FBI.”
“Not mine,” Cartwright said firmly. “Younger generation and different Bureau. When he was running for sheriff, he made such a big deal about being a decorated FBI agent. I had never heard of him. Turned out he never did shit as a field agent but he was quick to claim the spotlight for small busts. They called him D.Q. Melton.”
“D.Q.?”
“Drama queen. He couldn’t find a real collar in a shirt factory.”
I laughed but he spat again and continued: “Russians. You drive to the right places in this town and it’s like out of that movie, Eastern Promises, I shit you not. They own barbershops, nail salons, and other fronts, taking in all kinds of stolen goods, but mostly precious gems, diamonds, gold. They steal credit card and debit card numbers. The younger ones stake out public Wi-Fi locations and grab user information. We have a ton of other ethnic mafia crime, including the traditional Italian gangsters, and nobody is doing anything about it. Makes me fucking disgusted.”
“What about the FBI? Why don’t you do something?”
“Terrorism sucks most of the manpower. And most of that turns out to be a BFWAT.” He pronounced it as BEE-fwat.
I cocked my head.
“Big Fucking Waste of an Agent’s Time.”
“They have you.”
“Doing what? Domestic terror cases, mostly.” The three wrinkle-ravines deepened. “Nobody here knows I’m FBI-except Pham, Peralta, and you. Sharon doesn’t know, right?”
“She doesn’t.”
The ravines disappeared. “Make sure it stays that way.”