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If I were still in the history business, I could write a grand and impenetrable paper on the way organizational cultures write themselves upon the individuals in charge. But I’ve always been a believer in individuals as movers of history, something that got me into trouble with the gasbags of conventional wisdom at the faculty club. No, I was protecting Peralta, plain and simple. That’s why I wanted to keep this mess in the Sheriff’s Office until we were sure what it was. But I was running out of time-she agreed to give me a week before her investigators intervened.
My meetings with the county attorney, county commissioners, and Chief Wilson of the Phoenix Police were just as stressful. I’m sure they were full of nuance and comedy. But I wasn’t really paying attention. I was going through the motions, carrying information. And I was still trying to understand what the discoveries of the past few days really meant. How the hell had Abernathy learned about the logbook? Why was Peralta so concerned with reports from the Guadalupe shooting? What did O’Keefe mean when he said Peralta was shot because “they can’t let any of this come out”? Was that why Nixon was murdered, too, and why someone took a crack at me? Who were “they”?
A week ago, I occupied a sweet little sinecure. Now, what a mess.
***
The western sky was putting on its nightly show-tonight narrow bands of clouds were inventing new colors, somewhere on the spectrum between purple and pink-as we crossed through the saguaro-spiked arroyos and hills of Dreamy Draw and dropped down into the Paradise Valley section of Phoenix. This had been desert when I was a kid. Now, the white lights of suburban safety stretched north and east for miles until they jammed up and faded into the base of the McDowell Mountains. At the Cactus Road exit, I wheeled the car off the freeway, then passed a couple of miles of identical strip shopping centers until Lindsey spotted the sports bar. Inside, just as she had promised, was a woman wearing a blowsy long dress and a red sweater with a needlepoint cat design.
Life is complicated, as Sharon said. Lisa Cardiff-it was Lisa Cardiff Sommers now-had readily agreed to meet us anywhere but her home. I would have preferred a place like Tarbell’s down on Camelback Road, or even Tom’s Tavern downtown. But it quickly became clear that Lisa, like many north Phoenicians, rarely came down into the “old” part of the city. Anyway, we were on duty and, with my new job, I had a damned example to set. Now, at the entrance to the sports bar and dressed to blend in with chinos and sweatshirts, we greeted her and discreetly showed our IDs, which she studied at some length. After we were shown to a table, we absurdly ordered coffees and Diet Cokes while SportsCenter blared on half a dozen TVs.
Franklin Roosevelt had a mistress, despite his heavy leg braces and a world war to run. So did LBJ, and Kennedy and Clinton had racked up impressive body counts. Before us, if Sharon was to be believed, was a woman who had been involved with Peralta. It was a side of him that had utterly hidden itself from me for a quarter century.
Lisa Cardiff Sommers hardly looked like a saucy home-wrecker. But the journey from nineteen years old to the edge of forty was unpredictable. Lisa was shorter than Lindsey, and comfortably filled out, though not fat. She wore flat shoes with ill-fitting footlets. Her brown hair was short. Her face, tanned and pleasant in an unremarkable way, looked like it was comfortable smiling and laughing. Which she wasn’t doing now.
“I hope you understand how impossible this is for me,” she started out. “Whatever happened when I was a kid is so far in the past. I’m married and have two children, and there’s no way I should even be talking to you.”
My Diet Coke was flat and I was bone-tired. I said, “Do you understand Sheriff Peralta is in a coma and his assailant is loose? We don’t have time to ass around. We could have just shown up at your front door.”
“Screw you,” she said with vehemence, her lips suddenly draining of any color. “I don’t even have to talk to you!”
She started to rise, but Lindsey lightly touched her hand. “Please, Lisa, we need your help.”
Maybe it was classic good cop, bad cop, or maybe it was the way Lindsey could disarm and soothe people. Lisa Cardiff Sommers sat back down and took a long swig of coffee. I could have calmed her down with a martini at Tarbell’s.
She said, “Deputy, I can’t imagine anything I could tell you-”
“Call me Lindsey.”
“That’s my daughter’s name!” She softened, melted. I felt like such a heel. Lisa said, “It’s spelled L-y-n-n-s-y.”
“That’s nice,” Lindsey said warmly, although I knew she would hate the spelling.
Lisa ignored me and went on. “Lynnsy just turned six, and her brother Chance is eight. Do you have children, Lindsey? No? Oh, but I see you’re engaged.” Lindsey gave her a warm, single-family-detached-home smile. Lisa looked back at me and said, in a tone of motherly correction, “I hope she picked someone more sensitive and empathetic than you.”
“He’s a great guy,” I said. “I hate him.”
Lindsey tried to steer Lisa back on course, but she just started crying and talking, like some cheaply constructed dam had given way under pressure of a sudden storm.
“I love my husband and he’s a good man. Jim’s the southwest regional sales manager for Qwest Wireless. We have a good life. He’s a wonderful provider. But Jim couldn’t handle knowing about this. He just couldn’t. And I’m entitled to my privacy.” She sipped coffee and wiped her eyes with a paper napkin.
My God, I thought, she must think we’re here on some morals charge. But nobody thinks straight when the subject of old lovers comes up.
“I was nineteen years old when we became involved,” she said, a croupy whisper. “I was a kid, for God’s sake. I was just having fun. Didn’t you do things like that, Lindsey?”
“Sure,” Lindsey said. “It’s OK.” She held Lisa’s hand.
“How do you think it’s been since he became chief deputy and such a celebrity…,” She never said the words “Mike Peralta,” as if they had dangerous conjuring power. “People don’t usually get to be reminded on TV and in the newspapers about their youthful indiscretions. And that wife of his, on the radio!” She sniffled again. “Of course, I was sick when I heard he had been shot.” She looked at me, and drew herself up straighter. “But I just feel so dirty and violated that you’ve come here. I had to lie to my husband, tell him I had a girlfriend that was having trouble.”
Lindsey said, “Lisa, we’re not here to invade your privacy. We really just need your help remembering. It may be that some things going on in Sheriff Peralta’s life twenty years ago have something to do with the shooting.”
Lisa’s face softened again and she blew her nose loudly. She had green eyes that seemed speckled with other colors.
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“Of course, I’ll try to help,” she said.
Lindsey tiptoed in. “Did Peralta ever seem like he was having trouble, back when you knew him? Anything at all?”
