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“They’re rehabbing the floor below. They’ll be up here by the fall. We’ll have to find you a new place.”
“You can’t kick Dave out of his office,” Lindsey said. She slid around the desk and sat demurely in one of the straight-backed wooden chairs.
“Blame the county supervisors,” Peralta said. “I’m sure we can find you something over on Madison Street.”
“Like a cell.” I said.
“You’re dreaming,” Peralta said. “We’re so overcrowded that you’d have to kill somebody to get that kind of office space.” He didn’t smile. “Anyway.” He crossed in his long stride to the other chair and fell into it. The wood moaned. “Anyway, that commie SOB Yuri is out of the way. You two lovebirds are reunited…”
“It’s nice,” I said.
“Well, don’t be too damned self-satisfied,” he said. “All you did was prove to be an adequate pursuit driver and a fair arresting officer. Otherwise…”
Lindsey smiled slyly at me, her blue eyes keeping me calm.
“We’ll just never know about that FBI badge,” Peralta continued.
“I turned in my report.”
“Oh, right,” Peralta said. “The Chicago Outfit murdered Pilgrim. Even though there’s no evidence.”
“It’s what the best evidence shows.”
“How much did the taxpayers of Maricopa County pay to send you to the Bay Area?” He folded his arms across his big chest and glowered at me. With Peralta you never knew where the theater ended and the real-life asskicking would begin.
“Admit it, Mapstone. You couldn’t solve this case.”
“I did my best.”
“You failed. I bet a rookie in patrol could have gotten further than you. All that book learning and you still failed.”
“He didn’t fail,” Lindsey said.
There was a slight tapping on the door.
“Come!” Peralta said. Every office was Peralta’s office.
A gaunt lined face appeared around the doorjamb. A.C. Hardin. Wearing a sun dress and bangles on her wrists.
“I said I’d come by for my file. Is this a good time?”
I motioned her in and made introductions. She sensed the plume of anger hanging in the room and was eager to leave. But Peralta held her with his presence, although his bulk remained folded in thirds in his seat like a deck chair.
“So you studied this case?”
She nodded,
then said, “Yes,” as if more reinforcement was needed.
“What do you think happened to Pilgrim?” Peralta asked.
Hardin looked uneasily at me. I just raised my eyebrows and smiled. I was daydreaming about Lindsey. My fingers were still happy from stroking her hand, her wrist…How could something as ordinary as a wrist tell so much?
Hardin was saying, “Like I told your deputy here, it was the mob out of Chicago, and the FBI covered it up.” Peralta gave a noncommittal, “Umm.” Then he stood and started out. Hardin came closer to my desk, her hand out for the folder. It was like guests leaving the party. I pulled out the papers she had lent me-none too helpful, frankly-and reached across the desk. She reached her slim, young-girl arm, to take it. And her bangles slid up on her forearm.
And I noticed.
It made me sit back in my chair. Hardin swiveled and walked toward the door. She was wearing high-heeled sandals that clacked against the dark wood of the floor. Peralta held the door for her. Lindsey was standing, too, closer to the bulletin board. She was watching me.
