Dry Heat (18 page)
“Salud!”
Peralta said. “Or
vashe zdorovie!
In honor of our Russian.”
“I taught you that,” Lindsey said.
Peralta bought celebratory drinks across the street, at Tom’s Tavern. It was the oldest political hangout in the state. But unlike mere mayors and governors, who might merit one photo on the wall, Peralta was the subject of three photos and a lush portrait. Lindsey called it “the shrine.” If he was self-conscious, he hid it well.
“So how the hell did you know?” Peralta demanded, a quarter of an inch into his gibson. He nodded to Lindsey. “Did you know?”
“History Shamus rocks!” Lindsey beamed, squeezing my hand. “But I don’t know how he did it.”
“It was her wrist,” I said. “She had old scars on her wrists just like George Weed did.”
“That was a hell of a roll of the dice,” Peralta said.
“Not really. I just had to understand what I was seeing. I saw the scars when I went to her house in Tubac. I saw, but I didn’t pay attention. Has that ever happened to you?”
Lindsey nodded. Peralta said, “No.”
“But then I remembered a
Phoenix Gazette
newspaper clipping from Christmas 1948. It was about a mother who tried to kill her two children, and succeeded in killing herself. She slit their wrists.” Lindsey gasped and gulped her martini. I went on, “We think of these things as happening only today, and they probably do with more frequency. But this was 1948. The article didn’t name them. But it said the mother was despondent over a failed romance. I didn’t put it all together until she reached down for the report and I saw her wrist again.”
“Not bad, Mapstone,” Peralta said.
“Kate Vare taught me something after all,” I said.
“What? Well, I knew you two could work together.”
“What will happen to Amelia?” Lindsey asked.
“I don’t know.” Peralta started tearing his napkin into tiny strips. “I’ll turn it over to the county attorney, and see what she wants to do. But Hardin was eight years old when the crime happened. She gave us a confession without being Mirandized. What a mess. Sounds like something for my wife to fix.”
“You ought to visit her,” I said.” She misses you.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Yes, she does. You don’t know everything, as much as that might surprise you.”
We drank two rounds each and then Peralta put down his credit card.
“Well, you did OK. I’m proud of both of you. I think you should take a long weekend and get reacquainted.”
But now it was my turn to ask a question.
“You still know more about this case than you’ve told me. You knew more about it than I did the day we found the body in the pool.”
“I knew everything because of you.” He smiled.
“Now I know you’re lying.” I didn’t smile.
“What does it matter, Mapstone? We got the bad guys, and the bad girl, and everybody gets to go home safe tonight. It’s been a good day for law enforcement.”
“Except that my grandfather’s name is on that coroner’s jury report, on John Pilgrim. What the hell is really going on?”
Peralta looked longingly at his empty glass.
“There’s a guy I knew,” he said, his deep voice nearly a whisper. “He served in the Marines in World War II. But when he came home, he was still a young guy, hot-blooded. And Phoenix wanted to make sure Mexican-Americans were in their place. If they had won a Silver Star, then that was doubly true. So this guy liked to go out on the town. He could mix it up, and he didn’t take shit from the Anglos, either. So that’s the story, OK? I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t involved…”
Now it was my turn to slap the table. “Come on, Mike! What kind of story are you telling me? Some guy you knew?” I had never seen him look so surprised.
“All right,” he said. “This guy, who came back from the war, had a sister. One day she was walking by a bar downtown. Not far from here. It was a sleazy dive called the Pla-Mor Tap Room. She’s a pretty Latina, seventeen years old. One of the Anglos comes out and follows her. He’s trying to put moves on her, but he’s so drunk he can barely function. But she was scared to death. And when her brother finds out, he goes to the Pla-Mor Tap Room. When the Anglo walks out, he takes him into the alley and beats the crap out of him. He didn’t know the Anglo was an FBI agent. And a couple days later, the FBI agent disappears. I’ll never know why this guy wasn’t a suspect. So anyway, I knew the guy, and I knew the story. He turned out OK, really OK, in fact. But…”
Lindsey said, “You’re talking about your father, aren’t you?”
Peralta was very still. Finally he said, “You both did good.”
***
Sometime around midnight, with Lindsey sleeping beside me, I lay in our bed and listened to the old house around us, and beyond that, the sounds of the misbegotten big city. On the bedside table, my badge gleamed in the ambient light. Peralta refused to believe I would even consider the job in Portland. He said he knew me too well. Lindsey, who knew me best of all, reached her hand across me and sighed happily.
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