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Chapter Fifteen
I was watering the hedges and palm trees the next morning, thinking how for the first time in my life Julie Riding had said she loved me, when an old Honda Prelude pulled up. My first jumpy thought was that the gun was inside the house. But out stepped Lindsey, looking very cool in a cotton print skirt and carrying a bag and some files. She called out, “Hey, History Shamus,” and we went in out of the heat.
“I have the day off, and thought you might like a bagel,” she said, then, surveying the living room, added, “You’re kinda messy, Dave, not to be judgmental or anything. It just seems at odds with that orderly Virgo mind of yours.”
“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 u
p 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.
