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Before I left, I had asked a retired cop in the neighborhood to keep an eye on the house. He didn’t ask questions. A former Marine with a gruff exterior and a great sense of humor, he was now an artist living off his cop’s pension. He liked to walk around the neighborhood and keep an eye on things, talk to people. I dubbed him “the Mayor of Willo.” As we drove home, I hoped his walks had been uneventful.
On the flight I tried to make sense of things. Some things. Robin’s boyfriend had been murdered in the signature style of one of the most notorious gangs anywhere. His identity was a fraud and if the ring was his, it meant he might be a hit man for the Sinaloa Cartel. So far the criminal calculus worked fine. The hit man had gotten crosswise with his employer, who outsourced his assassination to La Fam. The thug watching our house that night had La Familia connections, too. So far, so good.
But why Robin? They sent her an emphatic message via FedEx. Then they tried to ambush us outside the Sonic. What had she seen or heard? We had talked about it so much that I was convinced she really didn’t know. And Kate Vare’s behavior was strange, too—the case going from priority to back-burner in days. Then there was Deadeye and his gun shop, with Mexican cops, the feds, and my La Fam watcher all drawn to the store up on Bell Road. Maybe the feds had backed Vare off—but if so, why hadn’t they tried to contact and interview Robin?
I could make more sense of this jumble than anything that had happened in Washington, where Lindsey was not wearing her wedding rings.
Now we were back under the big sky in time for a spectacular sunset and seventy degrees. People paid the big bucks at resorts for this. We lived here. Of course they were gone by the time summer hell arrived, and most of them weren’t targets of a drug cartel. The car flowed into the maze of ramps where Interstate 10, Loop 202, and State Route 51 all came together, then we turned due west as the incandescent pink that rippled across the sky merged into the intense copper glow directly ahead of us.
Robin said, “It’s going to be okay, David.” And that was the only sound besides the rush of the freeway.
The person was sitting in one of the rocking chairs in front of the big picture window. I could only see the dark silhouette and make out the motion of the chair. I didn’t turn on Cypress but instead drove north on Third, my body taut.
I thought about calling the cops. A suspicious person. Let the uniforms handle it. But where would that get us? At best, he’d be a scumbag with warrants out on him, and another scumbag would replace him tomorrow. At worse, he’d show them I.D., get a warning, and go away without me ever knowing who he was.
“If he wanted to kill us, I’m not sure he’d just be rocking on the front patio,” Robin said.
“Unless he’s a hit man with real sang froid.”
I turned and crossed Windsor Street to Fifth Avenue and turned south again. I parked a little past Encanto and gave Robin instructions. The Python was already on my belt—I had retrieved it from the trunk first thing when we got to the car at the airport. Now I walked slowly toward home, keeping close to the fronts of the houses on the north side of Cypress Street. The sun was gone, replaced by the long, deep-blue twilight that was peculiar to the desert. I hoped it would provide enough cover for me. The sounds and glow of televisions intruded on my senses as I wondered if a neighbor would call the cops on me. But by then I was two houses away. I pulled the Python and carried it straight down, concealed by my leg.
“Howdy.”
The silhouette in the chair started. “You…” That was all he got out.
“I want to see your hands.” I dropped into a combat shooting stance. My finger was on the trigger and I knew exactly how much pressure the Colt gunsmiths had required to make the hammer and firing pin do their jobs. “Now.”
The form didn’t hesitate. Two hands shot up straight like in an old Western. It was a small, older man.
“Just take my wallet. I’ll get it out for you!” A quavering voice.
“Keep those hands up,” I said. “Are you armed?”
“No!”
The house looked fine and the guy didn’t seem to have any backup. I moved in closer.
The man in the rocking chair could have been anywhere between sixty and eighty. He was completely bald and clean-shaven. His face looked like a walnut with eyebrows. The walnut was dressed in a loud golf shirt and khaki slacks. His shoes looked expensive. I put my finger on the trigger guard, cocked my arm to raise the gun away, and gave him a quick pat-down. His bones felt brittle. Now I placed him closer to eighty.
“I said you can have the wallet.” This time his voice was testy.
“I don’t want your wallet. Who the hell are you and why are you sitting in my rocking chair?”
Without taking my eyes off him, I gave a signal to Robin, who had been following me at a distance.
He said, “You’re Dr. David Mapstone? I have a business proposition for you.”
I let him lower his hands. I holstered the Python and sat in the other chair.
He went on, “You have a funny way of greeting people.”
“What’s your name and why are you here?” I was not in a hospitable mood.
“Can we go inside?”
“No.”
Robin pulled in the car and started bringing luggage into the house. I heard the alarm’s warning beep until she disarmed it.
