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She picked up her pen and made notes for at least five minutes, covering the writing from my view with her other hand. She was probably making a grocery list; that’s what I would have done. Just slow things down and make the suspect uncomfortable. Then she closed the portfolio.
“So you and Ms. Bryson were close? You were hysterical at the scene, I heard.”
I just watched her.
“Maybe you had feelings for her? Wife’s left you. Why, I don’t know. Not that I’m asking. Her sister’s right there. Wow. What were you capable of, depressed…weak? She struck me the same way. Oh, well, acts have consequences. There’s this territory called adult that not everybody can enter. Where you can throw away your vows. Lie to the police.”
I fought to keep my facial muscles neutral. “What are you doing to find out who killed Robin? She’s dead because of you.”
“Don’t you dare,” she said. “This is all your fault. Your stubbornness. Your stupidity.”
That was fair enough. I said nothing.
“I read her autopsy.”
All of my insides wanted to be outside. My temples throbbed concealing it. Vare watched me closely. The room vibrated silence for at least five minutes before she went on.
“You’ve got a concealed carry permit and a P.I license. I swear to god, Mapstone, if you’re hotdogging this case, I’ll do everything I can to see that you do time. Peralta can’t help you. Nobody can. You’re on your own.”
That was true enough, too. But I was pissed. “You’re either incompetent or you’re holding back, Kate. It’s one or the other. Which one is it?”
Her eyes betrayed surprise.
“I guess incompetent.” Two beats later. “That, plus they’re keeping you out of the loop because you’ll be facing a grand jury. Ain’t case management a bitch?”
She slapped her portfolio closed.
“God, I wish I had enough to hold you.” She stormed to the door and turned back. “It won’t take me long to get it.” Then, to someone outside, “Cut the son-of-a-bitch loose.”
***
A sympathetic uniform gave me a ride home, where I found that a neighbor had cut a piece of plywood and placed it over the bedroom window. Aside from the eighty-year-old glass lost and the bullet holes in the bedroom wall, the main casualty of the overnight mayhem had been a mature myrtle planted years ago by Lindsey, now dead by hand grenade. The area below the window was black and some of the stucco had been blown off.
My cell rang. It was Demetrius Smith.
“How fast can you be here? I think we can get him.”
I could get there in fifteen minutes, the freeways running lighter thanks to the recession. I met him in the parking lot of a shopping center near the grandly named Chandler Crossing Estates, which was just more suburban schlock no matter the moniker. I found the Mercedes and climbed inside.
“They’re in there, grocery shopping.”
“They must have good taste and lots of money.” It was an A.J.’s, the upscale food store in town. Its parent company, the last locally owned grocer in Arizona, was in bankruptcy reorganization.
I noticed he appreciated firepower: a .44 magnum Colt Anaconda with a six-inch barrel sat underneath his sport coat. It was the big brother of my Python.
“He’s only got one of these kids with him. So we ought to be able to take him. But don’t take anything for granted, Mapstone. He’s dangerous. Hell, these young ones today are dangerous.”
And here they came, thankfully macho, grocery bags in both hands, paper not plastic. They walked toward a Kia, purple with black-tinted windows. We got out and made as if we were walking toward the store. We were one parking row away and they didn’t even notice as we passed them, then we quickly cut over and came up behind them.
“Freeze.” I said it in a conversational voice, my hand on the butt of the Python but the weapon in the holster. Tom Holden turned his head, betraying high, wind-burned cheekbones and cold, light-blue eyes. He tossed a sack at me but that was the oldest move in the world, one you learn as a young deputy serving warrants. I sidestepped it, moved quickly to his side and put a foot behind his leg before I pushed him backwards. He fell hard to the pavement and expensive victuals fell all around him.
Smith stood over him with the long-barreled .44 magnum. It’s a very unpleasant view for someone on the receiving end. Holden didn’t move.
“Hello, Tom.” His voice carried an amiable lilt. “Susie’s Bail Bonds sends her greetings.” He swiveled the barrel toward the teenager, whose face was pasty with fear between two grocery sacks. “Kid, if you even move, I’ll blow your guts all over this parking lot.”
I heard a murmur behind me. A pair of elderly women was watching us. I pulled the wallet and flashed my P.I credentials. “Maricopa County sheriff’s deputy. Stand back, please.” They complied. To Smith, in a lower voice, “get moving.”
“I know my job.” He already had Holden on his stomach handcuffed. Smith removed a semi-automatic from the thug’s waistband, then painfully lifted him off the ground by his bound hands and marched him toward the Benz.
