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“Open it.”
From years of following his commands, I involuntarily opened the thin wallet, revealing credentials for a licensed private investigator in the state of Arizona, issued by the Department of Public Safety. My photo and signature were on the card.
“Where did this come from?” Another forkful of the foul eggs and cheese. “No, no, don’t tell me. It was in those papers I signed when I turned in my badge.” I started to say he’d also made a claim on my firstborn, but stopped myself in time.
I left the wallet open on the table. Peralta munched scrambled eggs and bacon contentedly. “That other desk at the office? It’s for you, Mapstone. I’ll even buy you a bookshelf.” He finished a piece of toast and let his coffee mug be refilled. “You have to let the police handle Robin’s murder.”
I stabbed at the omelet. The hash browns were no better. Everything tasted the same.
“The worst thing,” he said, “is a hotdog. You were never a hotdog, Mapstone. Don’t start now.”
“What does PPD have?”
“Nothing. But they have a top team on it.”
“Like you and Antonio?” I dropped the fork. “Nice job there. Los Zetas assassination team in jail. No problem, huh? Robin killed by an Anglo woman who looked like she stepped out of a trailer park. You guys deserve medals. I don’t even believe these Mexicans you’re holding killed Jax Delgado.”
“You know this takes time.”
“I don’t have any more time.”
“Come with me to Casa Grande. This is an interesting case.”
“May I ask a question?”
He nodded.
“Is that Five-Seven licensed or registered?”
“Yes.” He watched me evenly, which meant nothing with him. His dark eyes were angry, then alarmed.
I said, “That’s too bad.” I pulled it out and handed it back to him, no one noticing. I added the extra magazines of ammo to the tabletop, right by the ketchup and then I stood.
“Don’t.” That was all he said.
I started to leave. But I turned around and took the credentials, then walked out.
***
For the next two days I had lunches that I couldn’t afford at the Phoenician. The lush surroundings and spectacular view eluded me. I hated these people, the sharpies and phonies and wealthy vagrants that had ruined my city, that cared nothing for it except as a place to use up and throw away. The resort had been built by one of the archetypes: Charlie Keating. At least Harley Talbott had been home-grown trash.
No, I was there looking for the server who had called Lee such a charmer. If I was lucky, maybe I could charm her, even as I wondered if I was capable of a smile. She was off the first day, and I didn’t even know her name. But she was my only potential link to him.
The second day was better.
She was not only working, but I was seated in her section without asking. I had trimmed up my beard and was wearing my best suit with a burgundy Canali tie.
“It’s Mr. Lee’s friend,” she said, standing over me with a grin but no order book, this being a classy joint where the servers were expected to handle things from memory. “Where’s your colleague?” Meaning Robin. I just let my internal bleeding go and smiled at her.
“He certainly likes you.”
She raised her eyebrows and bobbed her head ironically.
I pushed a little deeper. “It looked like he’d been a regular for years.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “He’s only been coming here for a few months. But he just has that way about him.”
I agreed that he did and ordered lunch. That way about him: the harmless old guy, quick with a compliment and always wanting to know about her. As I waited for the food, I tried to figure out a shrewd way forward and kept coming up dry. Kept falling down into the places I was trying very hard to lay a thick concrete slab over just so I could move into the next sixty seconds of my life. I watched her graceful walk back toward the kitchen and wondered about her stake in this place. She was too old to be a high-school girl, and probably wasn’t in college, either. If she were trolling for rich men the better job would be working the counters at Nordstrom in Scottsdale. Maybe she was a professional server in this tourist economy. Maybe she was an ATF agent.
