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The Phoenix cops weren’t impressed.
“What were you doing at the mall, Mapstone?” This from a slender detective in a Ralph Lauren shirt with sweat rings under the arms.
“I was going to the twelve-hour sale at Dillard’s,” I said. “How many times do we have to go over this? Are you out looking for the shooter? Where is Susan, Mike?”
He shook his head. “She was gone when the first units arrived.”
“Jesus.”
The fireman soaked my neck with Betadine. The gauze pads looked as if I were bleeding rusty radiator water.
“If there was a Susan,” said the deputy chief.
Peralta said, “Fuck you, Frank. I don’t question the motives of your officers.”
“My officers, Mike,” the deputy chief said, seething, “don’t get into shoot-outs involving submachine guns at crowded malls in the county’s jurisdiction.”
“If I can’t get a city APB on this woman,” Peralta said, “I’ll just get Chief Wilson out of bed to discuss the matter. We were supposed to meet for golf first thing in the morning, but I’ll be happy to wake him now.”
The deputy chief looked long and hard at Peralta. “Okay,” he said. “You are a real prick, Peralta.”
“But I’m not a city prick.”
“This guy’s not even a real deputy,” protested Ralph Lauren. He went on talking as if I were one of the IV poles on the stretcher: “I’m still not convinced this shooter wasn’t some disgruntled employee at Metrocenter, or maybe he was pissed because his wife was at one of those nightspots with another man.”
“Hello,” I said to nobody in particular. “Did IQs fall dramatically among city cops during the years I was gone from law enforcement?”
Three pairs of eyes squinted at me.
“The point, gentlemen, is that this woman came forward to give new information on the murder of Phaedra Riding.” I faced Ralph Lauren and spoke very slowly, “Mur-der, murder.
“Somebody was trying to keep Susan Knightly from talking. And he damned near succeeded. She said she didn’t trust the cops in this case, and this won’t exactly bolster her confidence. The thing we’d better be thinking is that somebody was willing to blow away damn near a whole shopping mall full of people to keep her from talking to us.” I looked at Ralph again. “I’m sorry, Detective. Talking to me.”
Afterward, Peralta walked me back to the Blazer, both of us bathed in the blue-and-red wash of emergency lights and the harsh whiteness of TV cameras kept at a distance.
“You okay?” Peralta asked.
“I suppose,” I said. “It’s been a few years since somebody pointed a gun at me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this assault in your carport?”
“I guess I was ashamed,” I said. “You were my self-defense instructor, remember?”
Peralta grunted, pulled a cigar from his tux, then smelled it and clipped it. He slowly shook his head and said, “What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Mapstone?”
We walked on, and he lit the cigar until the end flamed.
“Now do you believe me about Phaedra not being connected to the Harquahala murders?”
The cigar tip glowed. “I don’t know what I believe,” Peralta said. “I think we need to let the task force detectives do their job.”
My head ached. “God, you are a stubborn SOB.”
“Look, David, I’m feeling some heat here. The FBI’s gotten involved in these serial killings. The county attorney’s going crazy. It’s only a matter of time before the media blow this thing out. I hear what you’re saying about Phaedra and the drug angle, but she was also found in the vicinity of the other Harquahala victims. How do you know she didn’t just answer the wrong personal ad?”
I sighed and unlocked the Blazer door. “How was San Diego?”
“Sharon wants to buy a condo facing the bay,” he said glumly. “We’re never going to get out of debt.”
