“Jonathan Ledger-Camelback Falls.”
I let out a long breath. For the first time, Camelback Falls was linked to the Guadalupe shooting. But how?
I was jolted by the soft trill of the telephone. Who in the state of Arizona could think Peralta would be here to answer his telephone? But suddenly the room felt close and breathless. The phone kept trilling. I checked the digital readout: an extension in the building.
I picked it up. “Yeah.”
“What’s taking you so long? Did you find it?” a man’s voice came back. I felt a second of disorientation and exposure. But I pulled my wits back together.
“Yeah,” I said. “Where should I meet you?”
There was the briefest pause on the other end of the line. Then, “Who the hell is this? Who is this?”
“This is Sheriff Mapstone. Who are you?”
He hung up before. I got the last sentence out.
I dialed the operator, asked about the extension. “It’s an unassigned number in the custody bureau,” she said. “Do you want me to ring that number?”
I said no. It was time to go. Past time to go. I closed the file folder, thought about taking it with me. But I locked it back up in the desk drawer. The rear hallway was deserted as I stepped out and secured the door to Peralta’s office.
In the lobby, I ran into Lindsey. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I figured I’d be safe in a police station.” I smiled. “Did you find what I needed?”
She nodded. “No Social Security number, no date of birth, but that doesn’t stop your intrepid cyber- searcher.”
As we walked out into the midmorning sun, Lindsey handed me the address of Lisa Cardiff.
Chapter Fifteen
Outside, we had barely crossed the arid plaza of the county courts building when we were intercepted by Jack Abernathy.
“Give us a minute, Deputy,” he said to Lindsey. The way he said “deputy” made me think he really wanted to say “missy” or “girl,” but maybe I was judging the man harshly based on surface impressions. That had gotten me in trouble before.
But there it was. Abernathy, a high-ranking law enforcement official in the nation’s sixth-largest city, looked like a Southern sheriff who had stepped out of a sequel to
In a way, I felt sorry for him. He must have been an embarrassment to the former sheriff, who turned the department into a trendy place of mission statements, media events, and master’s-degreed deputies. And he sure didn’t fit Peralta’s mold. But somehow he hung on. Abernathy was a head shorter than I was. His jowly face was a patchwork of reddened skin, as if he constantly scratched himself. His hair was close-cropped like a dry lawn and going white. All his weight congealed into his belly, which stretched impatiently against the fabric of his uniform shirt. And that Texas in his accent. I half expected him to address me as “boy.”
“Sheriff, we got a problem at the jail.” He nodded toward the massive brown fortress of the Madison Street Jail complex. I waited and he went on. One inmate had attacked another last night, nearly cutting his head off with a homemade knife. Both were leaders in respective African American and Latino (“Mescan” in Abernathy’s butchered language) gangs. Everyone expected reprisals and tensions were high.
“What do you think we should do?” I asked. He pulled his chin back into his heavy neck, seeming surprised someone, even the greenhorn acting sheriff, had asked his opinion.
“Move some of ’em out,” he said. “Disperse ’em to other facilities.”
“Well, let’s do that, and find out how this moron got a knife into our main jail.”
Abernathy pursed his lips and nodded. It went on a long time. A cool breeze was blowing down Jefferson Street from the west. Maybe it would push some of the smog away. Over Abernathy’s shoulder, I watched workers finishing the new Federal Building. It was a massive glass objet d’art. I guess the famous architect intended it to convey openness in a democratic society, rather than the respect and awe inspired by government buildings even into the 1930s. But to me it just looked insignificant and ugly, like a credit-card call center in the suburbs.
Finally, Abernathy said, “How are you feeling after that dude took a shot at you?” It came out harsh and confrontational. I said I was OK.
“I can’t believe Phoenix PD and Davidson’s people, and all Kimbrough’s detectives, can’t find this little scumbag,” he said. I didn’t want to take the time to explain, again, why I didn’t think Leo O’Keefe had shot at me.
“How is Chief Peralta?” he demanded.
“The sheriff is the same,” I said. “In a coma.”
“I ought to go by,” he said, thrusting his hands into his pants pockets. “You know, he and I go way back.”
I let that one sit on the concrete between us. Lindsey was across the street smelling flowers by the old municipal building. She gave me a little wave.
“This logbook from Nixon,” he said. “This is not good.”
I felt the balls of my feet tense. “That’s confidential information, Jack.”
“Word gets around the department,” he said, working his jaw like he was chewing tobacco. “You know, Dean Nixon was trouble. Long time before we finally got him out. You check his file. I know he was a friend of yours.”
“I don’t know if he was a friend…,” I stammered. “We knew each other in high school.”
“He recommended you,” Abernathy said. “I sat on your review board for the academy, remember?”
Actually, I didn’t remember.
“I voted against you,” Abernathy said, not unkindly. “I thought you were some egghead who would get bored with law enforcement. Those kind of people don’t like rules, don’t like routines. They’re a pain in the ass for the supervisors…”
“They probably can even read the little card that has the Miranda warning.”
He laughed once, high and breathy and alien. “You’re a clever one.”
“Well,” I said, “Lucky for you I don’t hold a grudge.”
“Nixon would go crazy, you know.” Abernathy didn’t meet my eyes. He stared over my shoulder, at the early lunch congregants at Patriot’s Park. “One time I saw him nearly beat a suspect to death. Would have, if I hadn’t stopped him. He was drinking all the time. Probably taking drugs, too. Then he fell in with those bounty hunters…”
“Jack, what do you think this logbook means?”
He kept his gaze over my shoulder. “How the hell would I know that?”
“You brought it up, Jack.”
“Shit.” His face reddened, evening out the patches of red and white. “I don’t have a clue what it means. I don’t know what you’re getting at.” He fixed me with his little eyes. They were liquid gray. “Don’t you know what this kind of thing can do to this department? Look what’s happened over in L.A. with the Rampart scandal. Months and months of allegations, careers ruined. Politicians make hay over this. And in the end nothin’ changes. I tell you one thing, the only people it helps is the politicians and the bad guys.”
I started to speak but he cut me off. “You ain’t never gonna get cops to roll over on each other.” His voice had changed. Never polished, it had dropped into a rougher clone of itself. I could almost imagine him interrogating a suspect back when he was on the streets. “There’s a code of silence, Professor. You think anybody’s going to talk about this log, even if it’s true?”
I said, “I guess if we have badge numbers, that might lubricate some memories.” He worked his heavy jaw again. Maybe he didn’t know that detail. I went on. “This isn’t some petty-ass IA investigation, like over in Mesa where the male and female officers were taking breaks on duty to go off and fuck. We’re talking about murder and
