“May I keep these copies?”
“Please,” she said.
County corruption didn’t figure into the wallet Diane had found in Elliott Whitehouse’s closet. I did come down here to write up the report for Melton, so I decided to turn the conversation to my needs.
I said, “Why would I despise your father?”
She nodded to the photo. “He’s one of the developers who took all this away. I’m a serious environmentalist and it’s hard for me to reconcile.”
I thought about that issue, not for the first time.
“Historians might call that ‘presentism’ and it gets in the way of understanding,” I said. “Men like your father were part of a moment in history.”
“Meaning?”
“The mass-produced subdivisions that started with Levittown back East were in vogue. Gasoline was cheap and driving was pleasant. Phoenix had a serious housing shortage after World War II and plenty of land.”
I paused to see if she was bored. Her eyes were engaged and bright. Or she was a good actress. Either way, I continued, “It was growing, and men like Elliott Whitehouse and John F. Long provided good housing for the former GIs who were starting families. Not only that, but Arizona was rife with land swindles. These men operated honestly.”
“So they didn’t know what it would become, or the external economic and social costs of sprawl.”
“That’s the objective way to approach it.” I said. “What’s happened in recent years is more unforgivable. Now we know the consequences. It became a Ponzi scheme.”
“The American Dream.” Sarcasm tinted her voice. “And look at all that’s lost. I wish I could have seen it the way you must have when you were young. The Japanese flower gardens. Superstition Mountain without all the houses.”
“It was a beautiful place.”
She gave an exaggerated shiver. “I would never live in the Valley again. Once I graduate, I’m staying in the Bay Area. None of my friends are coming back, either. Why do you stay?”
I didn’t answer.
Her lips made a sad smile. “You’re a sucker for lost causes, David Mapstone.
I asked Zephyr what her father was like.
“He doted on me.” The smile widened, showing perfect teeth. “I was a daddy’s girl. Diane was jealous of me. But what was he like?” She stared at the high ceiling. “He was sixty when I was born, so I get the sense he had mellowed. He was very kind. I got a very different father than Chip and Tanker grew up with. He would get down on the floor and play with me. This big man playing like he was six again. He built me a very elaborate dollhouse. I still have it.”
“Was he faithful to your mother?”
She nodded to my ring finger. “Have you always been faithful to your wife, David? Don’t worry. I won’t put you on the spot. I know he and Diane fought about one woman she was sure he was having an affair with.”
I wrote down the woman’s name.
“What about men?” I asked.
“Men?” She laughed and stroked her knees. “Are you kidding me? Daddy was a terrible homophobe. Racist. Anti-Semitic. He was a privileged white man of his generation. My half brothers aren’t much different and they don’t have any excuses. They support the ‘Papers Please’ law, think all our problems are because of illegal aliens, even though they employ them and pay them dirt. Hypocrites. You probably think I’m a hypocrite, too, growing up in the big house, copping to environmentalism from privilege.” She paused. Then, “What’s Daddy got to do with this?”
A shadow appeared behind the pebbled glass and I tensed. Then Kate Vare burst in without knocking. I made introductions.
“Is she leaving?” Vare said.
“Yes,” Zephyr said, standing. She was a head taller than Vare. “It was very nice to meet you, Sergeant Vare. Thanks for all that you do, David. I’ll text you my number.”
When the door closed, Vare put her hands on her hips and smiled with malice.
“Your next girlfriend? She’s too young for you.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. But she’s Elliott Whitehouse’s daughter.”
“Well, enjoy it before she kicks you to the curb.”
“She’s not…!”
Vare held out a hand. “It’s your business, David.” She imitated Zephyr, with an extra dollop of sweet sexuality, no mean accomplishment for Kate Vare. Her voice sounded like a completely different person. Back in her normal tone, she continued, “Walk right into the propeller. I won’t stop you.”
Before I could say more, she changed the subject. “So the boys pick up a suicide in Midtown, an office in the old United Bank tower on Central. Subject named Matt Pennington. He hanged himself from a doorknob with two neckties.”
My middle wound in a knot but I kept my face neutral. “Did he?”
“They were willing to buy it. I called it bullshit. No note. His computer is missing. No cellphone. Who doesn’t have a cellphone attached to them at all times now? I thought about your girl, Miss ‘Suicided.’ Then I found the fake file cabinets. I pulled them open with a pry bar. It wasn’t easy. But there’s a very elaborate safe behind them. We’ve got techs working to open it right now. What do you want to bet we find some diamonds?”
I said, “Who’s Matt Pennington?”
“You tell me.” She sat and leaned forward on her elbows.
“The name hasn’t come up.”
“Liar.”
I kept my eyes straight on her and repeated the sentence.
“Well, you’re not making enough trouble, Mapstone. Pennington was a Navy SEAL assigned to the Mexican marines on drug interdiction. Five years ago they tried to nab Chapo Guzman, the head of the Sinaloa Cartel…”
“I know who he is.”
“Intel said that he was staying at a mansion on the Gulf of California. They went in from the ocean and immediately came under fire. Two Mexican marines were killed. Chapo got away. The bad guys had advanced information about the raid. The marines are the best agency in Mexico. I don’t know what went wrong, but Pennington was assigned to a desk job and then left the service.”
“So he was blamed.”
She nodded. “I called in a favor from an old boyfriend in the DEA. Don’t look at me that way, you jerk. Lots of men find me attractive. I wouldn’t sleep with you if we were the only two humans left on a dying planet. If I hadn’t had sex for a hundred years and you showed up at my doorstep naked with a rose in your teeth. If you had Old Glory draped over your face…”
“I get it,” I said. “Your DEA buddy.”
“He said Pennington was in the cartel’s pocket. Specifically Sinaloa. But they could never prove it.”
“So why did he end up here?”
“His mother was sick. Get this, he worked in a call center. The turnover rate at most of those places is one hundred percent. But he drove a new BMW every year and he had this secret office in Midtown. No name on the door.”
“Now a dead man inside.”
She leaned back.
“I showed you mine. You show me yours.”
So I did, with only a few omissions.
When I was finished, she liked me a little better.
“That explains a lot,” she said.
“Such as?”
“Such as the call I got this afternoon from Horace Mann. He wanted to know the whereabouts of a man named Matt Pennington.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said we’d check.”
I asked her why she didn’t tell him that Pennington was dead.
“Because I don’t trust feds. Everything you told me shows why I’m right.”
After she left, I made some phone calls, used the badge, and took a drive.
Chapter Thirty-eight
When I went in Lindsey’s room after seven the next morning, she was breathing on her own. The ventilator was still there, but the tube was out of her mouth. The gauze patches were off her eyes.