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The craziest part was that Melton was more popular than ever, at least among the old Anglos who voted. He probably reminded them of their favorite grandsons, in addition to being “tough on crime,” as they imagined it.
A lazy thinker would fall for it. He didn’t look like a bigoted Southern lawman from the fifties. No, he was svelte and boyish and well-spoken. It would be easy for a lazy thinker to like him.
I was pretty toasty from the martini with Lindsey but ordered a Four Peaks Hop Knot IPA.
“Make it two,” Melton said.
I wondered what his constituency in the suburban megachurches and LDS meetinghouses would think.
Looking around, downtown Phoenix seemed almost on the verge of being cool. From the rooftop bar, we had views of the Suns arena, multiple skyscrapers, and the South Mountains and Estrellas in the lingering twilight. Steps led up to an azure swimming pool. Gray columns were topped with ice-blue lighting that matched the color of the still water. Lindsey and I would have fun here.
His voice brought me back to the unpleasant business at hand.
“I’m sorry about Peralta.” He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “You probably think I’m a bad guy for the campaign. But it was politics. He understood that. Phoenix has changed and he didn’t change with it. So voters wanted a change.”
I stared at him.
He released his arms and shook his head. “But this jewel robbery. Bad stuff.”
“A person is innocent until proved guilty.”
The woman brought our beers and withdrew.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t look good and the FBI will be digging very hard into Peralta’s time as sheriff.”
“They won’t find anything but good police work.” I took a big swig and let the liquid burn my insides.
“We can hope so,” Melton said. “I wanted to talk about you.”
I put the glass down and said nothing.
“I was sorry you left. I could have used you. Your ability to employ the historian’s techniques to solve cold cases is very valuable.”
“It was time for me to move on.”
“Maybe not.” He reached into the messenger bag and pulled out a book. I recognized it instantly because I had written it. Desert Star: A History of the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office.
“This is a fabulous book,” Melton said. “Really great. I had no idea there was so much history here. Would you sign it?”
He slid it across and handed me a pen.
Play to the author’s shameless vanity. I opened to the title page and wrote, “To Sheriff Chris Melton, making new history. David Mapstone.”
He thanked me. Then, “Maybe you’d write a new preface. We could re-release it.”
I didn’t answer. As a historian, I had written only two books, thirty articles for historical journals. Not enough to gain tenure.
He put the book away and pulled out a file. It was about an inch thick.
“I’d like you to look into this for me.”
My eyes lingered on the folder. It looked worn. I told him no, that I already had a job, and slid it back to his side of the table.
He smiled sadly. “I don’t think there will be much private investigator work coming your way with your partner as a wanted fugitive in a violent crime. It wouldn’t surprise me if the DPS revoked your license, as well as his.”
“But you’re here to help me…” I drained the glass halfway.
“Exactly.”
