I got up and went back to the concierge desk and asked where the Tohono Nation Police Station was. I was told it was about a quarter mile down the road in New Town. The concierge offered to have the casino host drive me.
Graham met me outside, his permanent smile in place.
We climbed into his golf cart and headed down the road. The electric cart buzzed as the headlights sawed through the early-morning darkness.
New Town was a grouping of recently constructed homes, stores, and warehouses. It was located inside the nine-foot wall that protected the casino from the Mexican criminals and endless gunfights outside.
From the architecture, I estimated it had been constructed about the same time as the resort. There were several blocks of efficient but uninteresting boxy-looking one-story dwellings, which I guessed served as housing for the hotel and casino employees and their families.
The police station was a concrete-block building with microwave transmitters on the roof and four blue and white Tohono police cruisers parked out front. It was good equipment, well maintained.
I went inside, showed my creds to a desk sergeant, and asked to speak with Captain Thomas Ironwood, who, as Sally had said, was on duty, working nights. An overweight deputy led me to a small, neat office and told me to wait. After he left, I studied the room filled with pictures of a tall, lean sergeant in a marine uniform posed with a squad of soldiers in Iraq. There were at least half a dozen law-enforcement awards and plaques presented to Thomas Mitchell Ironwood from the Phoenix Rotary, PD, and city council.
A few minutes later a tall, well-built man about thirty-five years old with black, close-cropped hair and a neatly pressed uniform walked in.
Tm Tom Ironwood,' he said. 'How can I help you?' He had a military bearing and command presence.
I showed him my police credentials.
'LAPD?' He looked up and cocked an eyebrow. He was dark skinned with black eyes. Not quite handsome, but close.
I told him I had an arrest warrant for Rick O'Shea and about Diamond Peterson and how I thought she might be in some danger.
'You have the O'Shea warrant on you?' he asked.
I handed it to him. 'I think he's scheduled to be one of the MMA fighters at that 'Rage in the Cage' thing at the event center tomorrow night. He's not on the poster, but I think that's because he knows he's hot. I'm betting because of the size of the purse he'll show up anyway. If he does, I'd like your help serving this.'
'I can already tell you that nobody named Rick O'Shea is on the reservation,' Tom Ironwood said. 'You're the second guy's come in here tonight asking about him. The other one didn't have a warrant, so there wasn't much we could do but take a look on the computer. Check the gate sign-ins.'
'Another guy?'
'Mexican named Vargas.' He looked at me carefully. 'A lawyer. According to his gate log-in he's staying over at the old Blue Mountain Lodge on the northeast edge of the res. It's about four miles down the road outside the wall, off Highway Seven, across from the new waste dump in Old Town.'
'Can you check and see if you have a record of Diamond Peterson arriving yesterday?' I asked.
He scanned his computer. 'No,' he said. 'That means she's not here. With that wall and all our perimeter security there's no way in or out except through the main gate. If she was on the property, it would be listed here.'
I didn't want to get into it with him, but according to jack he was wrong about both Diamond and O'Shea. They were both in the casino earlier this evening.
I thanked him for his help. I wanted to ask him about E. C. Mesa. But some survival instinct told me not to. I went to the reception area and called Desert Taxi, then went outside to wait.
The sun was just breaking the horizon in the east. I watched as it rose slowly, its red and gold beams casting long fingers of light across the desert sand, just as it always had at dawn on Seal Beach thirty years ago.
The cab arrived, and I told the driver where I wanted to go.
Then I was traveling toward that red-gold ball of light with the ghost of Walter Dix right behind me. I could almost feel him on that big old cigar box, paddling hard, breathing through his mouth, hurrying to catch the curl.
Paddle fasta. Dis is our poundah, bra.
Chapter 53
The Blue Mountain Lodge was a concrete-block, one-story motel situated near a garbage-disposal pit.
The motel sat outside the resort security wall and, as a result, had paid a high price in broken windows, litter, and spray-can graffiti. It was about a half a mile down the road from Old Town, which, as I drove past, gave off the tired look of despair. The structures in Old Town were ramshackle with broken equipment advertising broken lives.
When we pulled into the parking lot, it was only a little past five, but as I got out of the cab, I was immediately hit by the toxic smell of garbage coming from the clump across the street.
I went to the front desk and showed my credentials to a tired-looking, overweight Indian woman with a lined face and rat-nest hair who was perched on a high-backed stool behind the desk. I gave her a twenty and asked her if Sabas Vargas was registered here. She never got up, but told me that Vargas was in room six. I reached over her shoulder and plucked the room key off a peg.
'Do not call and announce me,' I told her, then flashed my creds again to make the order stick.
I walked down the cracked cement walkway, past scarred wood doors, until I found room six. I unlocked without knocking and stepped inside. The room was threadbare and smelled of cooking grease and cigarette smoke.
Vargas was sprawled on the bed in his underwear. When he heard the door open he reared up on his elbows and squinted at me with unfocused eyes.
'What the fuck?' he growled.
I crossed the room, pulled his pants off the chair, and handed them to him. 'Get dressed,' I said.
'I'm through taking orders from you, Scully.'
'Let's go. I'm buying breakfast.'
He blinked a few times, then stood and put on his pants. He grabbed a denim shirt off another chair, then went into the bathroom and closed the door. I heard water running. When he returned to the bedroom he was wide awake but still trying to figure out what was going on.
'You have a rental car?' I asked.
'Yeah, the red Mustang out front.'
'You're driving. Come on.'
We exited the room and walked to his car. I waited while he fished around for his keys and unlocked the door. We got in and pulled out onto the highway.
'I saw a coffee shop a mile back,' I said. 'We gotta get away from this smell.'
'Yeah… I didn't see the dump cause it was dark when I checked in and the wind was blowing the other way.'
We drove to a small wood-sided restaurant on the highway that advertised a farm breakfast special: Eggs, potatoes, choice of chicken or fried steak.
We climbed the steps, went inside the half-full diner, and sat at an empty booth at the front window. An Indian waitress came over, poured our coffee, and left two menus. When she was gone, I leaned forward.
'Okay, Sabas. I'm only gonna say this once.'
'I don't wanta hear it.'
'Yes you do. Its an apology.'
He sat back, not sure how to react.
'You were right,' I said. 'I was trying to shut you guys out. I wanted this to be just between Walt and me. All those years since I graduated Huntington House, I've been running away from him, Sabas. It was such a bad time in
