High Country Nocturne (15 page)

In a low voice I asked for the man's name, even though somewhere inside I knew the answer.

She assessed me. “I shouldn't, but what the hell. You're a deputy again. His name is Edward Cartwright.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Ed Cartwright.

FBI Special Agent Ed Cartwright, deep undercover.

Valid PI license. Native American gentleman. Fade into the background.

It had been a setup from the start. But for what?

There were too many FBI agents, I knew that much.

I took the elevator up to the ICU swimming in anger.

But when I stepped out, I saw Sharon. The expression on her face turned me to ice. I started to speak, but no words came out.

“Where have you been?” she said.

“Looking for your husband. What's going on? How is Lindsey?”

She simply hugged me and I felt my body go numb. I felt her warm breath on my ear as she whispered, “David, I am so sorry.”

Lindsey was dead.

The obscene ease with which the thought came surprised me, as if I had earlier decided to take the stairway in the office tower as high as it would go, break open the locked door, walk across the roof, and step into the air. Lindsey and I had been twinned for so many years, the only surprise was that I hadn't felt something, an extrasensory squeeze of the heart, something, as I was prattling on with the red-haired detective downstairs.

I didn't hug Sharon back. My body was slack.
Widower
, my God. Yes, I would find the strawberry blond assassin and kill her. For that matter, I would find and kill Mike Peralta, too, for thoughtlessly precipitating this catastrophe like the diplomats and generals and plumed emperors had done with the Great War a century before.

Sharon led me into a consultation room where an older woman in blue scrubs was waiting. She had a face that was both kind and had seen it all. Her identification tag read “RN.” I heard the door close.

Then I was sitting there with no memory of my body having moved from the elevator to this chair.

The woman said, “Your wife has a serious fever.”

I let out a heavy breath of relief. Lindsey was alive. How bad could a fever be?

I said, “I want to see her.”

“Talk to me for a minute, Mister Mapstone.”

I regained my fear and stammered, “She's felt cold to me.”

“I know,” the nurse said. “That's normal because of the shock and the blood loss.”

When she paused, I forced myself to take out a notebook and a pen. I wrote what she had told me, my shaky hand leaving the first few sentences looking as if they had been written in some strange, ancient alphabet.

“In general, fever is not altogether a bad thing,” she said. 

“Is Lindsey okay?” What a foolish, immature question. I asked it anyway.

“No.”

“Sorry,” I said. “So, ‘not altogether a bad thing'…”

“Right. So far as fighting infection goes, it's better for the body to run a little hot because the ‘bugs' can't survive above a certain internal temperature. So maintaining ninety-nine to a hundred-and-one degrees Fahrenheit is considered not out of the question.”

Her voice was calm and businesslike and I was screaming inside with impatience. If it wasn't out of the question, what was the problem? But there was a problem, of course.

“She had a dirty wound,” the nurse said. “For the past hour, her temperature has been one-hundred-four. That's dangerously high for an adult.”

I made my hand write. My letters became more intelligible.

“We're using antibiotics and taking other steps to knock it down.”

I stopped writing and rested my hands on the table. “What if you can't?”

“I'd rather think that we can. She's a fighter and we're helping her. She was healthy and is fairly young. It's a much better scenario than if she had been elderly or in poor health.”

I wrote again like a dutiful student, which was ironic because as a professor I was suspicious of the ones that wrote down every word I spoke. I was pretty sure they weren't getting the broader themes and most important points of the lecture, wrestling with them, thinking critically.

I put the pen down. Sharon took my other hand.

The nurse looked at me straight on. “You deserve to know that a very high temperature could be extremely serious, even critical, depending on whether the organism she has is, or is not, susceptible to the antibiotics.”

The hits kept on coming.

“Organism?” I asked.

“Some are resistant big-time.” She shot out some acronyms, some of which I had heard of, some not, none sounding good: MRSA, MERS, VRSA. “We have to rule those out.”

“I want to see her.”

“Not yet. Give us some time. We need to get the cultures back from the lab so we know what's causing the infection. I'll come and get you.”

Back in the ICU waiting room, Sharon asked me what she could do. I shook my head.

“Go home and get some rest,” I said.

“Let me stay.”

I didn't answer.

After a few minutes, she stood, told me she would return in a few hours, and made me promise to call her if Lindsey's condition changed. She didn't ask about Mike and I was in no condition to debrief about what I had learned.

After Sharon left, I sat among four other bereft souls in the room, all as incapacitated with worry as me. The room was turbulent with a blaring television and the nearness of death. I thought of Kafka's words, “The meaning of life is that it stops,” and I hated him for writing them.

After two aimless walks down the hall, I settled back in and slid low in the chair.

It was so wrong not to be totally concentrated on Lindsey. But I couldn't even get in her room.

I felt like I was drowning.

To save myself, I called a criminal defense lawyer at Gallagher & Kennedy where we'd done work as private investigators. Before I got too far into my problem, Lindsey and national security, she stopped me.

“This is not something to discuss on the phone,” she said, and then sent me to her assistant to make an appointment.

I should have told Melton to go to hell and made this call instead of taking the badge. But maybe Strawberry Death would have broken into the house after we were asleep and killed us both. I was drowning in contingency.

It would be next Monday before I could see the lawyer.

Then I tried to sort other things out, the ones that didn't involve secrets to the Chinese, dirty wounds, and deadly acronyms. Were she awake, Lindsey would save me from such situations.

What would she say now?

She might say, “What's it all about, Dave?”

It was about…

Peralta and Cartwright, pulling off the diamond robbery and making it look oh-so-convincing by Ed being winged. They were both in on…what?

Horace Mann of the FBI taking the investigation from Chandler PD with no explanation.

Whoever was in the car in Ash Fork, picking up Peralta and returning to the Interstate.

It was about Amy Morris, the hitwoman who shot you, my love, with her “promise” to Peralta.

Matt Pennington in his anonymous office, a safe hidden behind fake filing cabinets, “suicided” in his bathroom.

The man who had phoned Pennington's office, who was now expecting me to call him back.

Who was working together and at lethal cross-purposes?

And all this for a million dollars in gaudy diamond jewelry that was now in the Chandler Police evidence room, safe in the rolling bag they arrived in. Except this bag was special, rigged with a hidden compartment.

My understanding of this case is coming in slivers, a sliver at a time, and every time they seem to make a whole, another sliver is taken away.

Except…

Except the value of the jewelry stolen and recovered didn't jibe with the information from the caller to Pennington's office, who promised that Matt was getting a million-dollar cut for participating in their heist.

Of a bag with a hidden compartment.

Even this liberal arts major realized that was one hundred percent of the stated value of the stolen property.

In other words, Peralta was involved in a job valued at much more than a million. And that meant that Strawberry Death's stones weren't the ones stuck in the trunk of Catalina Ramos' Toyota. Those diamonds had been left in the rolling suitcase with the GPS tracker, easily found.

The real stones worth killing for were still out there.

“Lord have mercy.”

Out loud, I involuntarily channeled my grandmother again. No one else in the room looked at me.

Chapter Twenty-two

After an hour, they let me in to see Lindsey. Her police guard had been cut to one officer. Inside the intensive care unit, I had to wear a gown, gloves, booties, and a mask. “Nothing from the outside goes in except to stay,” I was told. “Nothing from the inside leaves.” I packed my jacket and guns in a locker.

Tubes were still running in and out of her, connected to IV and plasma bags, and she was still on the respirator. A couple of additional machines kept watch. Her catheter bag was half-full of urine and I thought how horrified my immaculate Virgo wife would be to know this.

The medicos explained the plastic blanket that shrouded her body: it had water running through it to help her cool down. I could feel the heat of her hand even through the gloves.

Her beautiful hand was different, palm clenched inward, digits at odd angles. I tried to keep my voice from shaking when I asked about this and they told me it was normal. What about this was normal?

I rubbed her thumb, squeezed her misshapen hand. She didn't squeeze back. No miracles today.

Through the mask, I whispered, “Please come back to me.”

To the nurses, I said, “Does she dream?”

“Probably.”

I stared at the floor and prayed for her to enjoy sweet dreams.

God doesn't owe me anything.

But maybe for her…

I stayed as long as I could. Unfortunately, they were very punctual monitoring the time. After I retrieved my stuff from the locker and left the ICU, I stepped into the hall and had walked twenty steps when I heard the ruckus coming from around the corner.

Several people kept saying, “Sir!”

As I got closer…

“Sir, you're going to have to leave. You can't be up here.”

My pulse jacked up and I reached inside my jacket for the Python but kept it in the holster as I heard slurred profanities.

Someone whispered, “Hell, drunk Indian.”

Another voice: “Call security now, please.”

I walked to the L in the corridor, turned, and saw Ed Cartwright.

“Not goin' anywhere. Trying to keep the red man down. Stole our land. Sons of bitches. But the Apache were never defeated! You needed Apache scouts to beat the other Indians!”

He was weaving among three nurses and aides, putting on a great show. He wore a red ballcap and a blue sling, neatly pressed Western shirt and new blue jeans, tooled cowboy boots. His right hand held a pint of cheap whiskey.

“I'm a deputy sheriff.” I flashed the blood-caked badge. “I'll take care of this man.”

“Hey, watch the shoulder, po-po!”

“Come with me, sir,” I said, steering him by the uninjured right arm toward the elevators.

“Racist!” he shouted toward the audience, his face a mask of tragedy. “You heard what he called me! I'm gonna get rich off this! Sue the Sheriff. Sue the County. Sue this pale face! You're all witnesses. Racist po-po! Oh, feel like I'm gonna throw up.”

He weaved and bent over.

I whispered, “If you puke on me, I'm going to break your good arm.”

The car arrived empty and I pushed him inside. Instantly, he stood in a posture suggesting authority.

“You make a subtle entrance,” I said.

He smiled.

“It's a good thing the Phoenix cop guarding Lindsey didn't get involved.”

“Where'd you get that deputy's badge?” he said.

“Long story.” I pointed to his cap. “Redskins” was emblazoned across the front. “Political statement?”

“Huh? I'm a Washington fan. Have been since I was assigned to FBI headquarters in D.C. I can't find any love for the Cardinals. Who beat the crap out of you?”

“The same woman who shot Lindsey.”

He assessed me in silence. Cartwright must have been very handsome when he was younger, with his high cheekbones, black oval eyes, dark sandstone complexion, and rugged look. Now, in his sixties, his face was cut into hundreds of rivulets and the eyes were bordered by puffy skin that left him with a permanent and intimidating squint. His hair was the color of lead, tied back in a ponytail.

“How is she?” he said.

“Bad.”

He patted my jacket.

“Still carrying that wheel-gun artillery?”

I nodded.

“You have a backup?”

“On my ankle. The woman who shot Lindsey had one, too. That's what she used.”

My mind was back on Cypress Street, Saturday night—why didn't I take the shot?

When we reached the first floor, he dropped the whiskey bottle into a recycling container and I followed him outside into the perfect day. We moved at the fast stride that I remembered from the first time I had met him, when he had showed me his survivalist bunker built into the side of a hill. Back at his house, he had a formidable library. I liked him instantly.

“Wait,” I said. “I can't leave Lindsey.”

“This is why I had to put on the act to get you out of there. You love her. Family is everything. I get that. But I need you to walk with me. Give me ten minutes and then you can go back. There's nothing you can do for her now.”

“What if she dies and I'm not there?”

“She's not going to die.” Any passerby would think he was looking at me, but I saw his eyes subtly scanning the street, something I should have been doing. Then he spoke again. “Have you heard from Peralta since Friday?”

“Not exactly.” I told him about the business card in Ash Fork, the disguised voice on Sharon's landline, and the message on the dictaphone.

I asked if Peralta had made contact with him.

“No.” He spat on the sidewalk and watched it evaporate in the ten-percent humidity. “Three days now and no contact. This has turned into a real goat fuck.”

I stopped. “
This?
There's a this?”

“Walk with me.”

I reluctantly complied. When Third Avenue was clear of cars, we crossed without speaking. Stepping off the curb seemed like a betrayal of Lindsey. Her skin was so hot. I stared at my feet moving through the crosswalk across the asphalt.
So damned hot.

Now my eyes were scanning the street and buildings, too. I felt jumpy. I was seething, too. That Cartwright had been a part of this scheme with Peralta and I was left in the closet like a discarded garment. That Strawberry Death had disappeared and Kate Vare had, too. Where was my update on Lindsey's assailant? Let her come for me. Give me another chance…

On the other side of the street, Cartwright broke through my brooding.

“Three weeks ago, the Russian mafia contacts me. Fifteen million in gem-quality rough coming through town. Could I steal it?”

“Rough?”

“Uncut diamonds,” he said. “What you see on an engagement ring or in a woman's earlobes has been cut and polished. Rough is the way they come out of the mines. You probably wouldn't recognize it.”

I was hardly shocked to hear about the Russian mafia. Phoenix was a mob town going all the way back to Al Capone's organization during Prohibition. It was a convenient back office to tally Las Vegas casino skimmings after World War II. With so many people coming and going, Phoenix was an easy place to reinvent yourself and remain hidden.

Today, in addition to the cartels, it was hard to imagine a gang that didn't have an outpost in the metropolitan area. Crips, Bloods, outlaw bikers, Mexican mafia, tongs, and other Asian criminal organizations. We were so diverse. All this and Phoenix had a lower violent-crime rate than most other large cities, despite the occasional hysteria from some politicians. Maybe it was because of this. Too much killing was bad for business.

Cartwright seemed to read my thoughts.

“Things are getting worse,” he said. “Budget cuts. Cops laid off. The aviation unit cut back. Phoenix PD disbanded the old Organized Crime unit for the flavor of the month. Violent Crimes. Homeland Security. Organized crime investigations pretty much died.”

I sighed. “So much for the people who voted in Melton because they were afraid of their Mexican gardener.”

“Don't even get me started on Crisis Meltdown. He disbanded Peralta's OC unit.”

“He's one of yours. Retired FBI.”

“Not mine,” Cartwright said firmly. “Younger generation and different Bureau. When he was running for sheriff, he made such a big deal about being a decorated FBI agent. I had never heard of him. Turned out he never did shit as a field agent but he was quick to claim the spotlight for small busts. They called him D.Q. Melton.”

“D.Q.?”

“Drama queen. He couldn't find a real collar in a shirt factory.”

I laughed but he spat again and continued: “Russians. You drive to the right places in this town and it's like out of that movie,
Eastern Promises,
I shit you not. They own barbershops, nail salons, and other fronts, taking in all kinds of stolen goods, but mostly precious gems, diamonds, gold. They steal credit card and debit card numbers. The younger ones stake out public Wi-Fi locations and grab user information. We have a ton of other ethnic mafia crime, including the traditional Italian gangsters, and nobody is doing anything about it. Makes me fucking disgusted.”

“What about the FBI? Why don't you do something?”

“Terrorism sucks most of the manpower. And most of that turns out to be a BFWAT.” He pronounced it as BEE-fwat.

I cocked my head.

“Big Fucking Waste of an Agent's Time.”

“They have you.”

“Doing what? Domestic terror cases, mostly.” The three wrinkle-ravines deepened. “Nobody here knows I'm FBI—except Pham, Peralta, and you. Sharon doesn't know, right?”

“She doesn't.”

The ravines disappeared. “Make sure it stays that way.”

“What about Paradise Valley?” I said. “There were two dead bad guys. You made me leave and you stayed.”

“Two bad guys
you
killed,” he corrected. “I untied Peralta and gave him the gun you handed me when I told you to get the hell out of there. I told the cops I was homeless, camping out on the property, and that was that.”

I shook my head.

“Play to people's prejudices and it gives you an advantage, David. I'm the crazy old drunk Indian living out in the desert, selling guns, and working as a private eye who can get things done.”

“And you don't care if your clients are aboveboard?”

“That's how you catch the bad guys.”

The breeze made the palo verde leaves quiver. He stopped and looked at the hulking buildings and abundance of asphalt. Half a block ahead, a young Hispanic woman in scrubs jaywalked where Third Avenue made a wide curve around Park Central.

“Look how ugly this town has become. This was a better place when the Apache ruled.”

“No doubt,” I said. “Tell me about the Russians.”

“We met at a café in Wickenburg, me and two Russians. They knew I acted as a courier for Markovitz and Sons when they brought in diamonds for shows. They'd give me a hundred fifty thousand dollars if I'd handle the shipment for Chandler Fashion Mall on Friday. All I had to do was retrieve the rough, which would be concealed in the suitcase.”

“How did it get there?”

He shook his head. “They wouldn't tell me. Markovitz is one of the top outfits in the country. Vertically integrated manufacturing, design, and distribution. But every organization has its bad apples. However it happened, the Russkies knew that rough was going to be there. They wouldn't tell me how they knew, or who it was intended for. Once a shipment is delivered to the jewelry store the salespeople lock it in a safe until it's time to set up the displays. The empty suitcase sits in the back. It's supposed to be empty, right? Grab the rough and nobody would be the wiser.”

“And give it to the Russians.”

“Right,” he said. “So I took the job. Easy money for the U.S. Treasury and the Russians would never know what hit them when they were eventually arrested.”

I asked him how Peralta got involved. Cartright steered us north, across another street and into the big parking lot that had once served Park Central when it was a shopping mall.

“After I met the Russians, I ran the deal up the chain of command and got a call from the director. Not every day I get a call from the director. He tells me fifteen million in rough had gone missing three months ago from the evidence control unit.”

“Inside job?”

“Had to be,” Cartwright said. “I don't even need to tell you the kind of bad press this would cause for the Bureau. Remember the forensics lab scandal?
The Washington Post, New York Times
…”

I said, “There were also wrongful convictions based on tainted evidence.”

“I'm trying to explain how they think at the top. They're thinking about the press, being called before congressional committees, seeing their careers implode. So, back to the evidence theft. A very quiet investigation was launched and produced a list of ten agents and technicians that had the clearance, opportunity, and skills to have done it. They were about to go after each one hard-core when my little Russian deal popped up. ”

“So they wanted to set up a sting.” I said.

He nodded. “The trouble was, the thief might have been high enough in the Bureau to know that I was deep undercover. Unlikely, but we couldn't take the chance. So we needed a distraction that took the spotlight off me.”

“Peralta.”

“Yes,” he said. “The concealed rough would only come if I was at Sky Harbor to receive it. Otherwise, the Russians would get suspicious. But if I stayed in the loop too long, the suspect within the Bureau might see red flags. So the plan was for Peralta to steal the entire shipment and get the rough. Make a big deal of it in the media. See how each suspect was reacting to the news by monitoring their phone calls, emails, and movements. Watch the Russians. Peralta would contact them, demand a cut, and set up a meet. We'd roll up the Russians, recover the evidence, and have enough to arrest the insider who stole it.”