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The woman stood there smiling. It brought all her features together, and her face was suddenly more attractive. She looked me over and smiled more.
“So are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Lindsey bit her lip, then said, “This is my husband, David Mapstone. Dave, this is my sister, Robin.”
3
“I didn’t know Lindsey had a sister,” Peralta said.
“Nor did I.”
“‘Nor did I.’ You talk weird, Mapstone. Like some college professor. No wonder Tom Earley doesn’t like you.” He didn’t smile. He inclined his head to one side, as if a weight had attached itself to his ear. “Is she good looking?”
I stared at him.
“No,” I said. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. Jeez, she’s my sister-in-law.” The words still sounded strange. The lost sister that I’d never heard of. Robin and Lindsey. Our encounter lasted all of five minutes. No sisterly embrace. No invitation back to our house. I had never seen Lindsey so uncomfortable, or, later that evening, so quietly withdrawn.
“What does she do for a living?” Peralta demanded.
“She says she’s an art curator.”
“You mean like in a museum?”
“No,” I said. “For some rich person out in Paradise Valley. And, no, I didn’t know there were jobs like that, either.”
Peralta made a dissatisfied grunt. I knew what he meant. We were sitting in my office on the fourth floor of the old county courthouse. Behind the county-issue nameplate that read Deputy David Mapstone, Sheriff’s Office Historian. I was behind the old walnut desk. But he had his feet on it, propped from the straight-back chair in front, in a proprietary way. My desktop was hosting highly polished black cowboy boots, attached to a big man in a dark suit. He still had a full head of hair, and it was as lustrously black as the first day I met him, so many years before. He was one of those men who grew handsome as they aged, and his face was distinguished with strong cheekbones, a powerful jaw and large black eyes that could intimidate with a half-second glance.
He went on. “So did you meet her before or after the murder?”
I told him the timetable.
“Ice pick, huh,” he said, his fingers entwining across his big chest. “I bet it was a fruit salad thing.”
“Fruit salad?”
“Sure,” he said, making an obscene gesture. “Lover’s spat that got out of hand. Maybe some new sex toy experiment.”
“You are such an automatic reactionary,” I said. “I dare you to say those things to your voters. What have I said that makes you think gay?”
“Man living alone in the Willo District. A lawyer, no less. In bed. Strange device. What more do I need to say?” He glared at me smugly.
“I’m not gay, and Lindsey’s not gay, and we live in Willo. It’s a city neighborhood with diversity and tolerance. Unlike your mansion on the Phoenix Mountain Preserve.”
“‘Reactionary.’ ‘Diversity.’ You sound like my ex-wife.” His eyes refused to meet mine.
I didn’t let the silence gather. “You might be interested to know that an ice pick into the brain was one of the methods used by Murder Inc. You know, the organized crime outfit back in the 1950s?”
“That’s why I pay you, Mapstone. For all the history lessons.” He gave an exaggerated yawn.
“Of course, Murder Inc. took the ice pick with them. The idea was to make it look like a cerebral hemorrhage,” I said halfway to myself. “This one was done so we’d see it and pay attention. Nothing appeared to be taken. The house wasn’t in disarray, no sign of a fight or struggle. The door was standing open. The alarm had not been tripped.”
“That makes my point,” the sheriff said, leaning back farther in the chair, daring gravity.
“Might be a psycho killer.”
“You watch too much TV,” he said. “Actually, you don’t watch TV—that’s your problem. Look, it’s a gay thing, and you know it.” His eyes locked onto mine. “Now, don’t go being a nosy neighbor or acting like a hotdog rookie. This is a city case and you have plenty to do here. How is our book coming?”
“Our” book was supposed to be about the big cases I’d worked on since coming back to Phoenix and taking the job at the Sheriff’s Depa
