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“Actually, we were there. I got a call to meet you there.”
“What?” His voice jacked up a half octave. “I never…”
“I got a call on my cell phone from the communications center. They said you left a message to meet you on the fourth floor of the Crown Plaza parking garage, at nine P.M. last night. The message said it was urgent that we meet.”
“Who told you this?” he demanded. “I never left any message like that.”
“Somebody named Deputy Stevens. It sounded authentic. The caller-ID on my cell phone showed a prefix at sheriff’s headquarters, just like it was the communications center.”
I heard him exhale a long, apprehensive blast of air.
I went on. “When we got there, the garage was deserted. But it was only a minute before two guys drove up in a white Crown Vic. They tried to ram us, and we would have been in the car when it hit the street if we hadn’t jumped out and run for our lives.”
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, sounding surprised as hell. “Why would you go up there alone?”
“I had Lindsey.”
“Did she kill anybody with that H amp;K she checked out from the armory?”
“No,” I said. “But I got one of the guys in the foot. Check the ERs for
reports of ‘accidental’ gunshots involving white males last night. Anyway, why would I need backup? The message supposedly came from you. I couldn’t reach you on your cell phone or home phone to check it out in advance.”
“Yeah, well, we had a sick kid last night. I had it turned off,” he said. He sounded sheepish. It sounded genuine. “So where are you now? Why didn’t you wait around for backup?”
I waited at least a minute, listening to the microwave stations buzz, thinking. Finally, “The two guys in the Crown Vic looked like cops. I guess I don’t feel safe in my own department right now.”
“I’ve always believed we had rogue cops involved…” he started.
“Up to two days ago you thought it was Leo O’Keefe,” I challenged him.
“OK, OK,” he said. “Tell me where you are. I’ll send a team of handpicked detectives to guard you.”
I ignored him. “How’s Peralta?” I asked.
My stomach tightened when he hesitated. He said, “Not good. There’s fluid in his right lung. They’re worried about pneumonia. He’s not responding to antibiotics. I just got back from the hospital.”
“There’s got to be something that can be done,” I said.
“There’s something else you should know, Sheriff,” he said. “We got back the ballistics report on Nixon. He was murdered with a nine-millimeter pistol.”
“So?”
“I asked Mrs. Peralta’s permission to test Sheriff Peralta’s service weapon.”
I almost made an angry bite through my lip. “Did you get a warrant, Captain?”
“I didn’t need one,” he said simply.
“Even the sheriff is entitled to due process,” I snarled. Underneath, I thought about the other pistol in Peralta’s desk drawer. Had it been fired? What did I really know? Who did I really trust? Lisa Cardiff was talking in my ear. She wouldn’t shut up. Peralta’s friend Dean Nixon. What the hell was that? I never knew they were friends.
Kimbrough went on. “We also got the report on the bullets fired at Peralta, and at you the other night at Kenilworth. They are both fifty-caliber rounds, fired by the same weapon. That’s heavy-duty sniper stuff. It looks like a hand-load, the shooter going for more power. Lucky for Peralta, the extra powder in the round may have caused the bullet to fragment before it hit him.”
“I don’t know how lucky he is,” I said quietly. My leg muscles burned from exhaustion. But I couldn’t sleep.
“Sheriff,” Kimbrough said. “Let’s talk in person.”
“Not now,” I said. “I’m going to take a couple of days off, just to have some time to myself.”
