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“And,” she said, “true personality boys don’t have lines. They have stories.”
“That unmarked car is still behind us,” I said, as we exited to the Seventh Street ramp and paused at the light. Two homeless men, with clothes, beards, and skin the same color as a paper bag, stared at us from behind hand-lettered cardboard signs. Several car lengths back, the Ford had also taken the exit and now prepared to shepherd us home.
“Kimbrough is nothing if not efficient,” Lindsey said. “I guess they don’t trust me to be your bodyguard.”
“Should we stop at Good Sam?”
She stroked my arm. “You know they won’t let us up at this hour, Dave.”
“He’s the only one with the answers.”
“I know,” she said, as the light turned green and the traffic surged onto Seventh. “I’ve started a database for you.”
“You are so good to me.”
“Seriously, personality boy.” She poked me gently in the ribs. “I took a month out of Nixon’s logbook, May 1979, when the Guadalupe shooting happened. I also scanned in the duty rosters and beat lists for the East County patrol district for the same time period.”
“So that we can see if any interesting patterns emerge when we compare everything?” I said.
“Exactly. That may give you a few more answers, at least.”
The stucco houses on Cypress Street gave off a happy, Friday night glow. I drove around the block once, just to make sure everything looked right at home. It did, and I was really ready for a drink, a book, Duke Ellington on the stereo, and a warm bed with my woman, who is definitely no prude.
***
Kimbrough brought bagels and bad news to the doorstep next morning. We all migrated into the kitchen, which was bathed in sun before noon, where I fixed coffee for Kimbrough and Lindsey.
“The Justice Department is on our backs,” he said, settling into one of the white straight-backed chairs at the kitchen table, and setting a file folder before him like a place mat. It was Saturday, but he was wearing a blue blazer, and a subdued burgundy tie with a crisp white shirt.
“About?”
“The logbook.”
“So they won’t even give us time to complete our own Internal Affairs investigation?”
“I’m just telling you what I heard from a friend at the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”
I opened up the Republic, half expecting to see giant headlines about a scandal in the Sheriff’s Office. But the front page was full of idiot consumer news. Plus a prominent smog story. The Phoenix Open promoters must be getting worried.
“It’s obvious to me,” I said, “that Peralta was already looking into the Guadalupe shooting and whatever Nixon was involved with.” I told Kimbrough about Camelback Falls, the file in Peralta’s desk drawer,
and the conversation with Lisa Cardiff Sommers.
“Jesus,” he said. “You’re supposed to be holding together a department that’s about to come apart. Instead, you’re running your own little private investigation here.”
Irritation was wired all through his body language. I poured coffee, trying not to let a defensive little tremor show in my hand.
“I had some hunches, that’s all.”
“Well, let me give you another interpretation,” he said. “Peralta’s dirty.”
“What?” Lindsey jerked her shoulders back.
Kimbrough knotted his brow and plowed ahead. “I know the man is lying in a coma, and I care about him, too. But I can’t just wish away his badge number in that log book, entered next to sizable amounts of money. And we’re running out of time.”
He sampled the coffee, then sipped deeper. “Maybe Nixon was blackmailing Peralta? Maybe Nixon raised the stakes too high and Peralta killed him, I got the lab work back yesterday, and Nixon was dead at least twelve hours before Peralta was shot.”
I felt blood rushing into my face. “This is nuts.”
