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“Very good,” Cartwright said.
His slid the cellphone into his pocket with difficulty.
The Russian’s voice came beneath the cold pack. “What kind of deal are you prepared to make with me?”
“That depends,” Cartwright said. “You’re handcuffed and blindfolded. That’s a pretty weak hand.”
“I play blackjack,” Bogdan said. “Out at Talking Stick and Fort McDowell. I count cards. They never catch me. Stupid Indians. No disrespect. The trick is knowing when to leave.”
Cartwright shrugged. “You’ve still got a weak hand and you can’t leave.”
“You let me live,” he said. “You never tell what happened here. And I’ll give you information.”
I felt Cartwright’s hand touch my leg. Don’t answer. So we sat in silence. Whatever resort temperature was outside, here it was getting stifling.
Finally, Cartwright said, “If your information checks out
, we have a deal.”
He was about to say more but Bogdan started laughing. It began as a muffled giggle completely out of proportion to his powerful build. It turned into a mix of hilarity and hysteria that filled the dim interior.
“You are fools.” He pulled away the cold pack. “That rough was taken from the FBI. That’s right, genius. FBI diamonds. So when they catch you, they’ll send you off to be tortured in the American gulag. Unless this woman you are afraid of catches you first.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Cartwright followed me outside, closed the door.
Whatever the particulate matter counted by the weather service today, the air around us smelled as sweet as Eden compared to the prison cell-like odor of the RV.
We walked a few paces, close enough to the door for security’s sake and far enough away to speak in low voices and not be heard by Bogdan.
The sun was high now, the intense glare spooling down on us, the asphalt magnifying the heat. It was a reminder of what was to come starting in May.
I slipped off my jacket, exposing my holster. Sure, Arizona had a national reputation as a land of gun nuts, but you rarely saw someone open-carrying in the central city. So I slid my badge onto my belt. If it didn’t keep a cop from drawing down on me, at least it might make civilians less nervous—or less reckless.
“Thanks for not killing my Russian,” Cartwright said.
“You were going to blow his testicles off.”
“That was a planned interrogation technique. You were running on emotion when you need to run frosty.”
“That’s what Peralta says.”
He looked down. “It’s good advice. Emotion won’t help you. You know that.”
I did. I still wanted to strangle the Russian or anybody else who could lead me to Strawberry Death.
He kicked the asphalt with his expensive boot. “You know, even with all the bullshit I went through in the war, when I joined the FBI I was so starry-eyed that I thought I’d become the first American Indian director. I was that naïve.”
“You would have made a good one.”
He ignored the praise. “I was more interested in putting away criminals than kissing ass. They were never going to let me in their country club. But I was so committed to the Bureau that my wife left me. My children are grown but for years they wouldn’t talk to me. Who can blame them? I was on the job. I wasn’t there for them.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I made my choices. The last five years, my daughter and I have rebuilt something. She had a baby last year. I’m a grandpa, can you believe that?”
I smiled and nodded.
