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I pressed the remote in the car to open the gate, let it close behind me, then got out of the car and went in, unlocking two heavy deadbolts and disarming the alarm.
Inside, the front office held its usual smell of dust and old linoleum. I turned on the banker’s lamp atop my desk and for a long time merely listened. Everything sounded and looked much the same as when the FBI had arrived with a search warrant Friday afternoon.
Why was the FBI investigating this case? For that matter, why did they arrive so soon after Peralta’s robbery?
The walls stubbornly refused to give me answers.
Next I went into the Danger Room, unlocking the steel door. I compared the assault rifles, sniper rifle, machine guns, shotguns, and pistols in their neat racks and drawers with the firearms inventory from the files. Over time, the bookish David Mapstone had learned all the details and capabilities of each weapon. Nothing was missing.
Peralta had gone on the diamond run carrying only his .40-caliber Glock sidearm. Not only that, but he had emptied out the weapons locker in his truck.
I retrieved a shortened M-4 carbine—the technical term was close quarter battle receiver—and extra magazines. Don’t forget a Remington pump shotgun with a belt of shells. No party is complete without one. Rounding out my kit were two pairs of binoculars, one with night-vision capability. I zipped them up in a black duffle bag and set it aside.
Next, I sat at the small desk in the far end of the small room. It held a laptop connected to the video cameras.
I quickly spun through forty-eight hours worth of digital information, learning nothing new. At 8:15 a.m. Friday, Peralta came in the gate, parked his pickup, and walked inside. Unfortunately in this case, we lacked cameras watching the interior of the building. Thirty minutes later, he left. At 3:12 p.m., the cameras showed the FBI arriving and, two hours later, leaving. Images of me appeared, walking out and driving away. Otherwise, not a single car pulled to the gate even to turn around.
Back in the main room, I pulled out Peralta’s plush chair and sank into it, studying his desk. The top was as usual immaculately empty. The FBI had gone through the credenza behind his desk, taking his laptop and the files in the credenza cabinet as evidence.
“Good luck with that computer,” I said out loud, thinking of how little he used it.
Then my eyes settled on the dictaphone, still sitting atop the credenza. It was at least twenty years old, the same one he had used when he was sheriff. I suppose the county had so little need for it they let him take it when he left office.
The feds probably thought it was an objet d’art and left it alone. They were wrong. He used it almost daily, despite Lindsey’s efforts to match him with a voice-recognition app.
She had considered it a breakthrough when she successfully walked him through setting up a Gmail account. On the other hand, she had also taught him about GPS tracking of cell phones, and how to remove the battery and SIM card to avoid it. That, he had immediately absorbed and put to use on Friday after leaving the mall.
I pressed the “play” button but immediately stopped the machine. Who knew, the agents who searched the office might have been givers as well as takers, and now were listening on the bug they had left behind. Putting on the spindly headphones, I started the dictaphone again and his deep voice immediately echoed out only for me.
“Mapstone, it’s Friday morning and I need this letter to go out today.”
I thought again, Jeez, we need to hire an administrative assistant. If we live through this.
Over the headphones, I heard, “Date today. To, Mister Dan Patterson, Three-fifty East Encanto Boulevard, Phoenix.
Look up the ZIP Code. Dear Mister Patterson. Thank you for your inquiry about our services. However, we do not handle marital disputes or surveillance. I would recommend these firms that might be of assistance…”
I listened as he droned on, sounding routine and even bored, not like someone about to steal a million dollars in diamonds. But there was nothing routine about this dictation. My stomach tightened the moment I heard the address. Encanto Boulevard only runs west of Central. On the east side, it becomes Oak Street.
He finished the letter with “and that’s all for today. Aren’t you happy?” and the machine was silent except for a subtle scratching every fifteen seconds or so.
I let it run.
“Mapstone.” Now his voice was different, dead serious. “By the time you find this, things will be pretty crazy. You’re going to hear a lot of things about me. Don’t believe them. The FBI has probably questioned you. I kept you out of this so you wouldn’t have anything to tell them. Also, you and Lindsey would be safer.”
The machine scratched and seemed to hesitate. I hit it, the universal fix for all things mechanical, and Peralta continued.
“Don’t trust anyone. If things go according to plan, I’ll be back in the office Monday morning. If they don’t…” After a pause, the voice said, “If they don’t, find a man named Matt Pennington and he’ll know how to contact me.” He gave Pennington’s number and address. “There’s no time to tell you more and it’s better that you don’t know. Run frosty, Mapstone.”
After more silence, I whispered. “Easy for you to say.”
Things had obviously gone wrong as early as Friday evening, hence he had left the note to me on the business card in Flagstaff.
I would find Matt Pennington. First, I decided to play a hunch.
Ready to leave, I thought about turning off the neon sign, but didn’t. Robin had insisted that Peralta restore this little remnant of old Phoenix, when the blue highways ran past miles of neon-lighted motels. We could keep paying the electric bill for this little bit of whimsy on what was now an otherwise dismal stretch of roadway.
With the extra firepower now inside the Prelude, I drove out Grand. It was the only major street that cut at a southeast-northwest angle through the monotonous grid of Phoenix.
