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Robin asked what became of Paolo.
“That’s the tragedy. He got out of prison and lived just three more years. Cancer. He died broken, almost penniless, his family destitute. Harley Talbott lived to be ninety-two.”
“How awful.” When Robin said it, Lee reached out his old leather hand and tapped her comfortingly.
My heart was not in this. That morning’s Republic had the west-side killings inside the Valley & State section. “Four men found shot in parking lot.” The editors just couldn’t bring themselves to bump the latest health news or feel-good story about 100 jobs at a solar-panel factory off page one. They probably all lived in Ahwatukee or Chandler and had no idea of what was really happening in the city. If a white person had been killed in Scottsdale, it would have been Page One news. Why did I care about this case? But watching Lee’s friendly, imploring face, I agreed to take it on. I warned him that I might not be able to find any new evidence, with virtually every player in the case dead by now, and the condition of records uncertain. I also said the facts would speak for themselves.
“It might be that Paolo was guilty. Families have secrets, and Nick might find out things he really doesn’t want to know.”
“If that’s the case, so be it.” He said it without pause and went back to telling the server what pretty eyes she had. She rubbed his tanned, bald head and he smiled and flicked out his tongue like a contented lizard.
“Mr. Lee is such a charmer,” she said.
***
My cell rang as we were getting the car from the resort’s valet. It was Peralta. Come to his office. It wasn’t a request.
So I drove out of the surreal green expanse of the Phoenician: designed, manicured, beloved, flowers and bright green grass under perfect palm trees. Then through the comfortable old wealth of the lush Arcadia district, past Biltmore Fashion Park, now hideously “modernized,” west on Camelback Road as the real estate became seedier and seedier, land not beloved, places not built to be cared about. Poor people waited in large clusters at bus stops for the city’s evermore diminished transit. The sun beat on them with an intensity that belied the eighty degrees on the thermometer. In thirty minutes, we turned on the broad diagonal of Grand Avenue and then bumped into what passed for Peralta’s parking lot.
“It would be really cool if he restored the neon,” Robin said, indicating the Easy 8 Auto Court sign. I studied its odd shape and realized it had once shown a cowboy throwing a rope.
“I’ll let you tell him that.”
I held the door for Robin and walked in talking, telling Peralta that I was taking on the work for Judson Lee, even though it was probably a waste of time. Then I noticed Antonio, the Mexican cop, sitting on the other desk, slowly swinging his leg, smoking a thin cigar. He had on the same jeans and blue blazer. Expensive lizard-skin boots had been added to the ensemble. I shut up.
“It’s been a productive morning,” Peralta said after we were seated. “A joint agency task force raided a house in a gated com
munity in Mesa this morning.”
I waited, suddenly pulled out of corrupt 1940s Phoenix. But I couldn’t resist. “How many Mormons did you nab?”
“We arrested three men. All Mexican nationals. All heavily armed.”
“Did they…Last night?” Robin let it hang.
“It’s a good probability. One is a former Mexican Army airborne sniper. Now he’s working for the Sinaloa cartel. This was an assassination squad.”
“Did you find a rifle?”
“Not yet,” Peralta said. “We will.”
“So they were avenging La Fam’s hit on El Verdugo?” I said.
Neither man spoke.
I could see Robin’s expression cloud over. She had taken comfort in Mero Mero saying he had nothing against her, didn’t know her.
She said, “He wasn’t El Verdugo.” I gave her points for loyalty.
The room smelled of mildew, no easy thing in Phoenix. It was a smell that mingled with cigar smoke and congregated in my senses as nobody spoke for several minutes. Peralta and Antonio exchanged glances.
Then Antonio said, “That’s true.”
“What?” Robin sat up straight.
“He wasn’t El Verdugo.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
