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“All my career, I saw the worst of people every day. It was hard to see the good, to trust anyone. So here I am. Taking the undercover job…Well, when I decided to go that way, I didn’t feel like I had anything to lose.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
“No, actually. You hear a lot about how deep undercover people lose their way. Some do. They become what they set out to fight. Doing this has actually grounded me in a way that wearing the suit and tie every day never did. I have to keep myself tethered to reality, to the mission. So that’s my advice for you.”
“Point taken.”
He said, “You reading about the Great War?”
“It’s all that’s on my bedside table.”
“Be sure to read The Sleepwalkers. It’s the best book on the causes of the war that I’ve ever seen. It will completely change your perspective.”
“It’s waiting for me at home.”
Then he asked me why I was still wearing the deputy’s badge and I told him about my meeting with Melton on Saturday night. I felt such a deep shame that my face burned.
“He manipulated you.”
“I know. That’s what Lindsey said.”
“Smart woman. Keep her. Look, I can make some discreet inquiries about what Melton told you. See if it’s real.”
I thanked him. Then, “Is that really a Soviet scalp in there?”
“Naw.” He smiled. “It’s an old chamois I used to polish my car. I stuck it in my compost barrel for a few days and then put it in a plastic bag to preserve the gamey smell. Figured it might come in handy someday. Remember what I said about playing to stereotypes giving you an advantage?”
I wondered what mine was now, my wife shot, my partner missing, me carrying a star issued by Chris Melton. Stereotypical fool, sounded accurate.
“What are you going to do with him?”
He pulled the cap down, shading his eyes. “Drive him out to some Walmart lot, take off the handcuffs, and tell him to slowly walk a hundred paces before he removes the blindfold. By that time, I’ll be gone.”
“They can find you.”
He didn’t answer.
“Do you believe what Bogdan told us?”
“No reason not to.” His shaded eyes scanned the lot. “This confirms the diamonds are the ones we were looking for, stolen FBI evidence. It doesn’t tell us where they came from in the first place, how the Russians knew the diamonds were coming here, or who was the intended recipient.”
“It also doesn’t explain why Peralta left me the note to find Matt Pennington. According to Bogdan, Pennington wasn’t part of the heist…”
Cartwright saw the expression on my face. “What?”
I suddenly remembered the matchbook in Pennington’s pack of cigarettes and the telephone number written inside it. I called up the note on my iPhone and read the number to him.
“Doesn’t sound familiar,” he said. “Call it.”
I hesitated. Then I pressed the number and held the phone to my ear.
On the second ring, a man’s voice answered.
Peralta.
Several dozen exclamations fought for attention in my brain, relief, joy, anger, anticipation. I pushed them away and said, “It’s Matt Pennington.”
“You have the wrong number,” he said and hung up. It sounded like the same old blunt Peralta. I didn’t detect fear or coercion in his tone.
