“They pushed her out in a reorganization years ago,” I said. “You know that.”
“You know the drill, Dave. Keep asking the same question and try to trip up the suspect. Don’t be so serious. An omelet will do you good.”
“Showering with you did me good.”
She smiled, then her brow furrowed. “Did you try to convince Sharon to leave town for awhile? She could be with her daughters in San Francisco.”
“I did. She won’t go. Said she wants to take care of you and me. Anyway, the FBI is staked out in front of their house.”
“The media are going to be camped out for her, too.”
“She’ll be all right.” I sampled the mocha. It had exactly the right amount of chocolate. I hoped Sharon would be all right. Even if the feds weren’t there, the Peraltas’ house, perched on a bluff overlooking Dreamy Draw in north Phoenix, was like a fortress and Sharon was a decent shot.
We were at a table on the front patio with the heaters going. It was in the fifties, nippy for Phoenix. I would have been comfortable taking my jacket off but I needed it to conceal the Python.
Birds sat expectantly on nearby bushes and light poles. The bird issue was large enough that the restaurant had resorted to putting sugar and other condiments in plastic containers to keep them from being carried off.
The other tables were occupied and the conversations loud. They were talking real estate at one table. At another, I heard a man say, “The bankers got away with the crime of the century and my family lost almost everything. I don’t blame Peralta if he decided to cash in.”
I didn’t know any of the other diners, a good thing that day. My partner was front-page news. I was nobody. We were also the only diners reading a newspaper. It was unsettling…say, if you hoped to sustain a civilization or democracy.
Lindsey asked if I could stand talking about the “gem heist.” I nodded.
“You’re convinced Peralta is working deep cover.”
“Yes.”
She studied me. “Even though this new SAC you met said it’s not true.”
“He wouldn’t tell me. He might not know himself.”
The server brought our food with the place’s customary efficiency. Lindsey had soft-scrambled eggs, bacon, and tomatoes in place of an English muffin. I had my usual Sun Devil omelet.
Lindsey ran her finger along another headline: “Texting While Driving, Woman Impaled Through Buttocks.”
She said, “So, History Shamus, if Peralta really is on a case, wouldn’t he have let you know beforehand? Somehow?”
I hadn’t thought this through last night. Now I was glad she was encouraging it.
After a bite and some reflection, I said, “Not if it came up suddenly. He went into the office early yesterday, same as always. He texted me at nine to say he was going on a diamond run. By the time I got there, he was gone.”
“Peralta texted?”
“Old dog, new tricks.”
“Had he texted you before?”
I stopped with the fork in midair, then set it back on the plate. No, he had never texted before. I hadn’t thought much of it because I was getting ready for the day and he had done half-a-dozen of these diamond jobs since we had become private detectives.
“So all you know is that the text came from his phone.”
“True.” I chewed eggs and second thoughts.
She ate and talked at the same time without it ever seeming unladylike. But I was partial.
“So if it was him, and this new undercover case came up suddenly, and all he could do was text you…” She paused. “That doesn’t make sense for him. Not somebody who has never texted before. Somebody like that will stick with habit and call. The next you know, the FBI shows up at the office with a search warrant. That’s the first you heard of the robbery.”
“Yes.”
“They interviewed you there, right?”
“Two hours worth, while they went through the files. Some nerd spent time with Peralta’s computer before taking it.”
“We nerds are useful, History Shamus. It’s curious they didn’t take your computer.”
“That made me think this was all for show.” I glanced at the newspaper. Maybe releasing his name to the press was for show, too. They didn’t release Peralta’s involvement yesterday when someone might have identified him driving to Ash Fork.
“So he leaves you a message on the first business card. Don’t try to find him.”
I nodded.
She put her hand lightly on mine. “I know you’re tired, love, but if he really is undercover, shouldn’t you leave this alone? If you muck around digging into the case, you might put it at risk and endanger him.”
“You mean, be a hotdog.”
I ate in silence. She was right. Perhaps. One of my many character flaws was getting into target-acquisition mode and immediately going to afterburners. Sometimes I needed to slow down.
I said, “But he left the second card. He knows I love trains. He knows I love the Flagstaff depot. He called Sharon from a pay phone there, made sure she heard the railroad in the background. Sure enough, he had left a message where I would find it. That would indicate he wants me to be involved.”
“Why?”
“Maybe something went wrong. Or, he is not undercover but being coerced into this robbery.”
She pointed to the newspaper. “Nothing subtle about it. If he wanted the diamonds, he could have overpowered the other guard before they got to the mall. Instead, he shot him there and did it on camera.”
“That gives him more credibility going deep undercover.”
“And ruins his good name.”
“For now.”
“But something went wrong and now he needs you?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know. The more I ate, the more my body wanted to sleep.
She applied a dainty napkin to her mouth. Then she swigged the coffee like a truck driver. “What if he really did it?”
“Lindsey!” I lowered my voice. “How can you even think that?”
“The man gave his life to serving the people of Maricopa County.” She looked around at the breakfast crowd. “And they kicked him to the curb because suddenly it’s unAmerican to be Hispanic in Arizona. It’d make me want to get a little revenge.”
“That’s not him. He was philosophical about losing the election. We were the ones who were angry.”
“We have to look at this dispassionately,” she said. “That’s the way you would approach any other case.”
I nodded.
She leaned toward me. “Maybe he wanted to prove something.”
“Prove?”
“The white supremacist took his gun, remember? You had to rescue him. That had never happened during his career.”
Peralta and I had never discussed that incident, but what Lindsey said was true. Mike Peralta’s credo was never give up your weapon. But in that situation, he had been blindsided, disarmed, and strapped to a chair in a room with explosives. By the time Peralta was unstrapped, two bad guys were dead. But all through it, he had been, for probably the first time in his life, helpless.
“He may be feeling old,” she continued. “Feeling as if…”
After a few minutes, I finished her sentence, “Feeling as if he needed to prove he was still capable. So maybe that drove him to accept a dangerous assignment.”
“Or,” she sipped her coffee, “become a jewel thief.”
We finished breakfast in silence. I knew what she was thinking: nobody really knows anybody else.
Afterward, we boarded the train and rode down Central to the Encanto station, we walked two-and-a-half blocks to the 1928 Spanish Revival house on Cypress Street. The street was blessedly free of satellite trucks, black SUVs, and strawberry blond DPS troopers.
The temperature had warmed into the high sixties and the air was dry and magical. It would be the kind of day when you could say, yes, this is paradise. When I was young, it had been a flawed Eden, a garden city surrounded by citrus groves, farms, and the Japanese flower gardens, and beyond that the empty majesty of the Sonoran Desert.