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“This is all too complicated,” he said.
“It’s pretty simple, Jack. Two old desert rats who didn’t want to sell their land. One of them was so cantankerous he had himself buried out there. The other wouldn’t accept any price for the land. Imagine that, in Arizona. But somebody wouldn’t take no for an answer. So when Louie Bell is killed, and it looks at first like it was the work of some street punk, the bureaucratic wheels turn and the county gets its back taxes, and the Bell property is finally sold. Winners and losers. The quick and the dead. It’s pretty simple.”
“So, ask this Trinity whatever,” he said weakly. “Ask ‘em.”
“The agent who’s on the registration form is just some guy sitting in an office in Chandler, and he doesn’t know anything. I’m learning that’s how a lot of business is done around here. We’ve got to protect the privacy of these swells. But I bet you can tell me who really owns Tonopah Trinity.”
He stared out into the empty restaurant and blew a long plume of smoke in the direction of the front window.
I said, “Tonopah Trinity LLC.”
Fife stabbed out the cigarette, instantly picked out another and lit it. He was fighting hiccups. A bright mariachi tune belted out of the jukebox, but I could hear his voice.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going down for Tom Earley,” he said.
34
By three o’clock I was back downtown, and for the first time in days I was sitting alone in my office on the fourth floor of the old county courthouse. The lock had been replaced, but the room was still musty with my suspicions. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Kate Vare had broken in. But, no, that wasn’t her style. So who? The tattooed man? Dana Earley, perhaps? She certainly knew where my office was located. So much had happened since the break-in that it seemed like ancient history. Aside from the low growl of traffic outside, the room was still. My Hollinger boxes and folders of research for the book looked foreign and unkempt. Somewhere, real historians were working. Just a few years ago, one found a trove of letters written by St. Augustine, launching a hundred academic conferences and a shelf of new books.
Me? In my desk, I had a fake letter confessing to a murder that never happened. Washington’s Crossing was still on the desk top. I started reading it for distraction, but my mind heard the ghosts of the old jail on the top floor. I put on my headphones, put a Sinatra CD in the player, and put my feet on the desk. I imagined Lindsey as a teenage mother, Robin succumbing to drugs and the street, and their lives of chaos. Sinatra’s lonely message was the perfect mixer, and my throat caught. So much loss.
The door swung open violently and slammed into the doorstop. It was a wonder the pebbled glass in the door didn’t shatter—and I knew it would take months if ever for the county to pay for its replacement. Standing before me was a short man with news anchor hair, a blue suit and red tie. He was sweating like a leaky pipe. His face was dyed with the scarlet of embarrassment or rage. But I didn’t think he was embarrassed. His name was County Supervisor Tom Earley. I removed the headphones.
“You little son of a bitch!” he yelled and stormed toward the desk. I was never good in workplace confrontations, which can be especially vicious in universities. So I just stood up and watched him as he advanced stiff-legged across the room. For a “little son of a bitch,” I was more than a head taller than my accuser.
“You’re done here!” he said, slamming his fist on the old desk. One of the Hollinger boxes tipped over, depositing files on the wood floor. “Pack up your things…no, don’t you touch anything! You are to give me your badge and gun, and leave this building immediately.”
Later, I would imagine the fun from pulling out the Colt Python—in response to his command, of course—just to see his expression. I just stood my ground and glanced at the 1905 photo of Carl Hayden, when he was Maricopa County Sheriff. He’d know how to deal with the likes of Earley. I tried to mimic Hayden’s straight-lipped stoicism. Only a few layers of my stomach wall were burned off by stress.
“Now!” he shrieked, sticking a stubby finger in my face. I didn’t see what Dana saw in him, or rather I did, and better understood her desire to play with Jerry von Shaft, er, Jared Malkin.
I sat down and said, “I’ll leave when the sheriff tells me.”
“You little son of a bitch,” he said. “How dare you snoop and spy on me.”
There was nothing to say yet, so I just sat in silence. Working as partner for the Sphinx-like Peralta has taught me to even enjoy silence. After only a few seconds, Earley resumed his tirade. “Arizona Dreams is the most important development in this state’s history. I did nothing wrong as an investor. There was no significant county vote where I had a conflict of interest.” I made note of that interesting locution. He ranted on: “Do you have any idea of who you are dealing with? Not just me. Some of the most powerful men in the state!”
“Was it a good deal for you?” I asked.
“You stay out of my life! Out of my family’s life!” He was so short that we were about eye-level when he was standing and I was sitting. He seemed taller in television headshots.
“I’m not going to fire you!” he said suddenly. “I’ve just decided that…”
“Gee, I thought there were five county supervisors, and all this time I was wrong. There’s only you.” What the hell. If I was a goner, may as well go out in style.
“Shut up!” he shouted. “I’m going to ruin you. You’ll never even teach Mexican kids in some public school, much less be a professor again, when I’m done with you. You’ll never work in law enforcement. I know your kind. Liberals. Professors. The filth you teach our kids…”
“I was considered a fascist at the faculty club,” I said.
“You are! A fascist socialist communist atheist liberal, just like all your kind.” Tom Earley’s discount political science theory. He theorized on: “You’re the kind that probably disapproves of Arizona Dreams. You want to save the desert.” This in a sing-songy voice. “Look, this is private property. We’ll never let you liberals take away private property rights. Why, this is America!”
“What are you talking about?”
He looked at me oddly, as if I had snapped him out of something. Then the rage returned to his eyes. “I’ll ruin you, Mapstone. I’ll bring you up at every supervisors meeting. I’ll find out what you’re really doing here. I’ll get that wife of yours…”
“Leave Lindsey out of this, or we’re not going to be so friendly.” I said it in a normal voice, but he stepped back.
“I’ll use you to ruin Peralta,” he hissed. “We’ll see what your tune is then.”
