Concrete Desert

I lay back and did just that.

Chapter Twenty-five

In a small street-side building in the shadow of Camelback Mountain is Vincent Guerithault, one of the best restaurants in a city that has finally developed a reputation for world-class dining. They say Vincent’s is classy, not snobby. I guess so. On Sunday night, a twenty something, goateed maitre d’ floated ahead of me through the restaurant’s small rooms, leading me to a nearly empty nook in the rear. Brent McConnico rose gracefully and extended his hand.

“David, it was so good of you to come,” he said. “Please, sit.”

A waiter hovered silently, unfurling my napkin for me.

“I believe Dr. Mapstone will have a martini, Bombay Sapphire, as I recall. Very dry, right? One olive.”

I nodded and the waiter went away. McConnico was drinking what looked like bourbon on the rocks.

“David, you must forgive me,” he said. “I very much lost my head last Tuesday. I said some things I didn’t mean. I want to make amends.”

I made an apology, too. I hadn’t meant to upset him about his cousin’s murder. But that might be the least of his problems after tonight. Over the past four days, I’d learned a lot about Brent McConnico-things that started as rumors and legends, recalled by Lorie Pope over drinks at Durant’s, then hardened into evidence with the help of Lindsey and hours spent gleaning obscure documents. For the moment, though, cordiality reigned.

“All can be forgiven,” he said. I thought it was an interesting choice of words. “We all lose our heads. But you and I, we have a lot in common. We’re both real Arizonans, for one thing.”

“There aren’t too many of us, I guess.”

“No, there aren’t,” McConnico said. “I was reading a story in the Republic today about the professional sports teams. Do you realize Phoenix is one of eleven cities around the country that has all four major professional sports represented? God, I remember when the Suns first came to town, and that was all we had for years.”

“I do, too. We went to a lot of games that first season. At the old coliseum.…”

Brent McConnico smiled past me. “Anyway, this article quoted some academic type-no offense-sneering about Phoenix’s inferiority complex, and about how we’re a city of Jed Clampetts building ‘ce-ment ponds.’ No culture. No philanthropy. No history. People like that don’t understand this city, this state.”

The waiter reappeared with the martini. Brent McConnico looked at him, annoyed, and he retreated.

“You and me, David, our families. They mortgaged their land to build the first dam so we’d have water in this Valley. People today, they don’t even know where our water comes from, they take it so for granted. In our parents’ lifetimes, this city was built. It’s a miracle.”

He was fairly drunk. He hid it well, until he got on a roll like this.

“David, I hope you don’t mind, but I made some inquiries about you.”

“I guess not.”

“I felt so bad about what happened. I wondered what I might do to make things better between us.”

“Senator, you don’t owe me anything.”

“Brent, please call me Brent.”

“Brent.”

“Anyway, David, you’ve got quite an interesting history, no pun intended. Raised by your grandparents after your parents were killed. A sheriff’s deputy for four years in the early 1980s. Then you got your master’s and Ph.D. in history and left Phoenix to teach. You went to Miami of Ohio for eight years, right? Then to San Diego State. What a beautiful city San Diego is.”

The waiter took our orders. I ordered the lobster quesadilla. McConnico asked for another drink and the duck tamale with Anaheim chile and raisins.

“You wrote a modestly successful book on a history of American railroads. You were a popular teacher,” he went on. “You didn’t get on as well with some of your faculty colleagues, I understand. The politically correct types. God, I hate that kind of institutionalized intolerance.” He started on the new drink. “Married for five years to an heiress to a beer fortune. Patricia? Divorced, no children. And now you’re back in Phoenix, having turned forty. When most people are well settled down and connected, you’re very alone.”

I picked apart a roll and ate a piece. “I guess you did your homework, Brent,” I said.

“I did that to help, David,” he said. “You see, I have an interest in our university system, in the quality of education. It’s been one of the centerpieces of my career. I would love nothing better than to see a native Arizonan come back home and do what he does best. You know, that’s always been a problem in this state. We look outside for everything. We don’t look after our own. We don’t appreciate our homegrown talent.”

He watched as a slender redhead walked past in a short black cocktail dress. She looked us over and smiled. I thought of Phaedra.

“Anyway, David, I’ve been talking to my good friend Charles Harrington, who, as you know, is the dean of the college of liberal arts at ASU. He tells me they’d love to talk to you about a tenured position in the History Department.”

“That’s interesting, Brent, considering that a month ago my alma mater wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

He waved it away with a wave of his elegant Yale-in-3 hand. “David, it’s all who you know. This is a relationship-based world. You have to get the door opened, so people can see how smart and talented you are. It’s in the bag, David. The job is yours. Just take it.” He smiled warmly.

I sipped the martini, a truly sublime creation. I thought about what McConnico was saying. It brought to mind the line in Dante’s Inferno: “For the straight path was lost.” Or as an old cop used to say to me, “Who knows what happens to people?”

“Brent,” I said. “Tell me about the Rico Verde Cattle Company.”

His mouth tightened imperceptibly.

“Come again?”

“The Rico Verde Cattle Company.”

“You’re babbling now, David. Didn’t you just hear what I’m offering you?”

“Rico Verde was a land swindle back in the mid-1980s, substantial even by Arizona standards. The profits were never found. A couple of people went to prison. But a newspaper reporter I know says the real kingpin of Rico Verde was a man named Sam Larkin.”

Brent McConnico stared at me. His hand trembled and upset the bourbon. A puddle of liquor rolled across the tablecloth. The waiter silently cleared away the spill and brought another drink along with our food.

“Sam Larkin was your political mentor, if my history’s correct. And the year Rico Verde went down, you were in need of money, so the scuttlebutt down at the newspaper goes. Something about a rape allegation involving a legislative page? It must have cost dearly to make her go away.”

“You’d better stop right there, Mapstone,” he said. His finely sculpted cheekbones were flushed.

“See, I couldn’t understand the link between Rebecca’s murder and you. I mean, you were just a kid when she was killed. But there had to be something. Something big enough to make you hire a goon named Dennis Copeland to warn me off, and, when I didn’t take the hint, to kill me.”

I leaned in toward him. “And I didn’t understand why the things I said to you Tuesday upset you so badly that you got careless and drove straight from the capitol to meet the man in the black Mustang.”

He stared at me, suddenly ashen. “You followed me?” he said.

“You drive fast.”

“You little bastard,” he said.

He was actually indignant, as if I’d shown up at his country club or tried to date his perfect WASP daughter.

“That man Copeland murdered a police officer after he left you. That makes you an accessory.”

He shook his head deliberately. “I had nothing to do with that.” He lowered his voice and spoke more calmly. “No one will believe you anyway. One phone call to Mike Peralta will end your little law-enforcement adventure,