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I held her away from me just enough to look at her and nod. I spoke her name and started to pull her close again. The next sounds were barely audible, more of an odd annoyance.
Thup…thup…
She bobbed sideways in my arms. Turning, I looked straight at a woman standing five feet away, no more. She held a pistol with a long silencer.
“Robin!”
She went heavy in my arms and I laid her gently on the grass. Her hair fell out around her face, which was already unnaturally pale. She stared at me, her eyes wide with shock. Her mouth was working words and nothing was coming out. Her left arm was bloody. More blood was coming out of her left side.
“Stay awake!” I yelled, barely conscious that the woman with the gun was gone. I screamed for help, kept calling her name, and held my hands behind her head, as if they could keep her from the ground. “Stay with me, Robin.” I cried for help again.
She locked her eyes on me. I bent closer to see if she was breathing.
“David…” It was a hoarse whisper. Her eyelids fluttered and closed.
***
The dispatch logs would show that the police and fire response times were within three minutes of the first neighbor’s calls.
The first cops that came through the gate later told Peralta that they found me over Robin trying to resuscitate her, holding her, crying, and screaming. I don’t remember the last part.
They told him that I was screaming, over and over, “Kill me!…Why didn’t you kill me?!…” until they forcibly pulled me away from her body.
Part 3: South Phoenix Rules
22
I don’t remember much of the next five days. The cops interviewed me and I described the shooter: an Anglo woman, short and slight build, with pale skin and stringy, long dark hair. She wore no makeup and her features were hard and life-beaten. I went through the PPD electronic mug book and found no one who looked like her. A police artist put together a composite sketch that was a reasonable likeness. Had I ever seen her before? No.
Lindsey flew home. We were careful with each other, as if handling delicate and explosive cargos. I said more than once, “I did my best.” Every time I said it, I heard in my head a quotation attributed to Churchill: “Sometimes doing your best is not enough. You must do what is required.”
Lindsey brought me two books from the Politics and Prose bookstore and didn’t ask many questions. She didn’t cry. Neither of us slept much. We both drank a great deal. She drank straight vodka as opposed to her old standby, a Beefeater gin martini. I avoided the newspaper. The day she flew out I drove back home to find a notice from the bank: Justin Lee’s five-thousand-dollar check had bounced.
The telephone number on Justin Lee’s business card had been disconnected. When I called Peralta, he said he didn’t know the man aside from the day he came by specifically asking for me. I had let this snake into our garden. I noticed an unfinished pack of Gauloises left by Lindsey. I opened it, pulled out a cigarette and for the first time in my life lit one for myself. I smoked a second until I began to feel ill, and thought and thought.
In my old office, I had a white board on wheels. It was helpful in diagramming cases. Now I took a sheet of paper and tried to do the same thing.
I drew boxes and in them wrote “Sinaloa cartel” and “Gulf cartel” with a line linking them to the “Jesus Is Lord Pawn Shop.” Another line branched off from the Gulf cartel to hold “Los Zetas.” I set a separate “La Familia” box to the side, with no connecting line yet. Other boxes: “Jax,” “ATF,” “Barney,” “hit woman.” And at the top I drew a box an
d wrote “Judson Lee” until the pen nearly broke through the paper. I would have to find the connecting lines for all of them.
***
Peralta wanted to meet for breakfast, which was a problem. Our favorite, Susan’s Diner, was closed, another victim of the recession. Peralta didn’t want to go to the Good Egg at Park Central or Tom’s Tavern downtown, where he would have to see all the politicos and make small talk. The line at Matt’s Big Breakfast was too long. Linda’s on Osborn didn’t open that early. So we ended up at the Coco’s on Seventh Street, where the place was almost empty and nobody noticed us.
“I’m going down to Casa Grande on a case,” he said once we had placed our orders. “I want you to come with me.”
“No.”
He drank his coffee and we sat in silence until the food showed up.
“It’s an interesting case. It could use your skills.”
I had no skills.
He said, “You look like hell.”
I didn’t deny it. The omelet tasted vile, but that was no fault of the cook. I tried the Diet Coke, which tasted vile. Peralta reached into his suit-coat pocket and produced a leather wallet. He slid it over.
