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“Nope,’ I said. “Nixon was single when I knew him.”
“Well, she’s wife number two out of three,” Kimbrough said. “We tracked her down this morning on a next-of-kin notification. She said he left this envelope with her years ago. When I saw what she had, I figured you’d want to see it.”
It felt light and unremarkable in my hand. I set it back on the table.
“Have you opened it?”
He shook his head.
“Got any gloves?”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out some latex gloves. I slipped them on and opened the evidence container.
“Everyone will witness the chain of custody is secure,” I said. “I don’t want to be lectured by some Phoenix PD asshole twice in the same day.”
I undid the clasp and the flap opened with no resistance. I slid in a finger and dilated the envelope so we could see inside. It was another envelope, slightly smaller. I gently slid it out. On the front, written in a firmer hand, it said: “For the U.S. Attorney Only.”
Kimbrough and Lindsey looked at each other.
/> “Dean Nixon reaches out from the grave,” I said. “But why wouldn’t that information be on the cover envelope?”
“Maybe Nixon assumed his ex would be the one to open the outside envelope if he died,” Lindsey said.
I paused and weighed it in my hand. The gloves made my fingers sweat.
“What should we do?” Lindsey said. Our breakfasts sat unattended, getting cold.
“I guess let the feds know,” I said. But now I was feeling awake and curious. “But we can examine the evidence, of course.”
Kimbrough smiled broadly. “Of course.”
“We don’t suspect a federal crime has occurred, do we?” I asked.
“Not us,” they said in unison.
“But this does pertain to an active murder investigation,” I said.
“Very active,” Lindsey said.
“Then let’s see what Dean was afraid of all those years ago.”
I undid the clasp, but the envelope was also sealed. I worked the flap open as gently as I could, and the aging glue gave way with reluctance. Inside was a thick wad of paper. It was stuck inside so tightly that it resisted being pulled out. I could make out colors, lines, grids.
It was a map.
Chapter Eleven
We didn’t have far to go. The map, a detailed plat from the U.S. Geological Survey, showed the area around Shaw Butte in the North Mountain Preserve. It highlighted a trail in yellow marker, then diverged to what the map said was an abandoned mine shaft. Next to that, in a precise hand, were instructions on how to find Dean Nixon’s buried treasure.
We walked up the trail armed with a shovel, crime-scene tape, and more evidence containers from the trunk of Kimbrough’s unmarked Crown Victoria. Ahead of us were bare sunbaked mountains that once cradled the northern edge of the city, marking the beginning of the desert wilderness. Now the city had run around them. But somehow Phoenix had mustered the momentary courage to save the mountains themselves from development. Today we passed a handful of hikers, but the preserve was mostly deserted on a weekday.
As we walked, Kimbrough talked about his family. One child, a boy, was six now, and another was on the way in June. His wife had left the County Attorney’s Office-they met when she was a prosecutor-and she was going to set up her own family law practice. This was Kimbrough’s fifteenth year with the Sheriff’s Office. He was five years younger than me, and came here from the Drug Enforcement Administration when the former sheriff, also a DEA man, won election.
“Now I know why I like you,” I said. “You’re an outsider in this department like me.”
“That and we have great taste in clothes.” He laughed.
We walked up a well prepared trail, but it was still work. The hard desert ground was defined by loose rocks, sand, and outcroppings of jumping cactus. I felt every foot of elevation in my knees and calves. But as we kept walking, the pain lessened, as did the immediate memory of the gunshot that made me dive for the sidewalk just a few hours before.
