The Night Detectives (19 page)

36

The call came a little after eight p.m. Only one person had called me on the cheap phone I had bought in El Centro.

“Time's up, Doctor Mapstone.”

“For you,” I said. “You escaped once, you won't again.”

“Did you ever serve in the military? In combat?”

“No.”

“Then you don't understand anything. I gave you a chance to serve your country by giving me the list of Scarlett's clients. I appealed to your patriotism. I appealed to your intellectual side. But, no. You refused to obey my orders. You refused to negotiate.”

“I'm really sorry about that.”

“If you had served in combat, you would know that a soldier can't let his rage get the better of him. It can overwhelm discipline and training. Effectiveness. So I have to push you with some clearer incentives. I've researched you, Doctor Mapstone. I'm going to kill everyone you love. Then I'm going to kill you. And then I'm going to bring the war where it belongs, right here to America.”

“Keep talking, General,” I said. “The trace is working.”

There was no trace.

He laughed as if a private joke had been shared between friends.

“I'm going to start with your first wife, Patricia.” He read out an address in La Jolla. It was Patty's address. “I know you're in San Diego. If you come alone and bring the client list, then I'll let her live. I might even be willing to let you live. But you have to come within the next hour. You won't find her there. If I'm satisfied you're alone, I'll call and give you instructions. No cops. No bullshit. This is your last chance to negotiate.”

Then I was only holding a useless plastic object to my ear, hearing nothing.

37

But I was not in San Diego.

I was in Phoenix.

I was in the valley of decision.

Sharon and Lindsey had driven the Prelude to Ocean Beach. Find a parking place and leave it, I had told them. It would be two weeks before the police towed it away. Then they had checked into a hotel downtown.

Peralta and I went to the Hotel Clarendon in Midtown Phoenix to wait for the call I knew would come. The Clarendon was where
Arizona Republic
reporter Don Bolles had been assassinated by a mobster's bomb in 1976. After its restoration, the new owners put a memorial photo gallery in a hallway.

What I hadn't counted on was him leaving while I was in the shower. “Checking on something with Eric Pham. Back soon,” he had scrawled on the hotel stationery. He had known I wouldn't let him go without me. “I'm not an old man,” he had barked at me. He had to prove something to himself. At least he was with Pham.

Or so I had thought. In thirty minutes, I had called Pham. He had told me he was held up in a meeting and had canceled on Peralta.

So he had gone on his errand alone. My calls to him went straight to voice mail.

Now, I dressed quickly in black jeans, black running shoes, and black T-shirt. I thought about stopping by the office and unlocking the Danger Room. But, no. There was no time. I didn't even bring the Python. Instead, I carried the Airlite and two Speedloaders. That would be enough or it wouldn't matter. At last, I didn't need the toolbox, only the hammer.

Dowd had let the woman he kidnapped off at Forty-Fourth Street and Camelback. Her car had been recovered at Tatum and Lincoln, in the parking lot by the statue of Barry Goldwater. I made a guess that there was one place nearby where Edward Dowd could hole up: the house of Bob Hunter, Grace's father. Like Larry Zisman, Bob Hunter had become a loose end that needed to be snipped. It was only a few blocks away.

I called a cab. While I waited, I phoned Isabel Sanchez and asked her to check on Patty, if Patty even still lived at that address.

Then I made one more call.

It was nearly ten when the cab let me out on McDonald. I gave him a twenty-dollar tip and hiked into the desert, a ghost passing the million-dollar homes. The night was moonless, a few prominent stars claiming the indigo vault above, and I was profoundly aware of the possibility of snakes. But I didn't move with a heavy step. I walked slowly and carefully, aware of every sound, each scurrying noise of an animal that had been disturbed. The sounds of the city were far away.

I came up on the Hunter house from the south and followed the pale adobe wall toward the front. The air was still and hot. My skin was cool and all my senses were notched up high.

The form on the ground was ten feet ahead. I crouched and watched. It wasn't moving and nobody seemed near it.

Closer, I saw a man prone in the dirt and rocks a few feet off the driveway. He was on his belly and his back contained a messy exit wound the size of a dinner plate. I turned him over carefully. His breathing was shallow and rapid. It was a miracle he was still alive. A bullet had struck him just above the heart. His face looked privileged and tan, even near death: Bob Hunter. He had made his last hike up Camelback. He stared at me without seeing.

“Who's inside?” I demanded it in a whisper.

He opened his lips and mouthed something.
My wife?
Maybe that was what he said. His eyes might as well have been glass.

The elaborate porch sconces were turned off but the door was cracked open, as if Hunter had left it that way and gone for a stroll. Or tried to make an escape. Once again, I scanned the terrain. The desert landscaping was done so well, too well.

I pushed the door open and entered with the snubnosed revolver out and up.

High-and-tight stood a few feet away, facing toward me and holding a black semi-automatic pistol in his right hand pointed down. This was the same man who had searched the Prelude at the office, the same man who filched the briefcase from the cheap motel on Black Canyon. He looked younger close up. His eyes narrowed as I kept walking.

“Who am I negotiating with? You?”

His gun arm started up and I made the smooth trigger pull of the Airlite. The walls echoed with the gun's quick
boom
as a dime-sized red hole appeared between his eyes and his head snapped back hard. In nanoseconds, the wadcutter bullet fragmented inside his skull and sent a wide shower of red and gray onto the wall. His body lurched back against an expensive floor lamp and both crashed to the floor.

And I was alone in the large living room. Cowboy paintings hung on taupe walls. But there was little time for art criticism. I swept the dining room and the kitchen, finding each deserted.

“Back here, Doctor Mapstone.”

I stepped up into a hallway and followed the voice. It sounded unconcerned.

Edward Dowd was standing in the master suite, unarmed. He appeared ordinary except for the soul patch: medium height, average build, shaved head. The mastermind wore a loose, white Tommy Bahama shirt, shorts, and sandals. The hauteur of his military pretentions didn't extend to his wardrobe tonight. His calves were well defined by muscles.

Close to him on the white comforter of the king bed was an AK-47. I couldn't let even my peripheral vision linger, but the rifle looked lovingly cared-for, its wood stock highly polished. The distinctive curved magazine reminded me of its purpose, which was not to be an objet d'art. Anyway, my view was drawn a little farther. On the other side of the mattress a woman was lying nude as if on a snow bank. She was young and pretty and her lips were dead blue. She was the woman smiling next to Bob Hunter in a photograph in a silver frame on the bedside table.

I moved sideways from the door so I had a clean field of fire in case another bad guy came into the room. Measuring the distance between us, I was careful to make sure Dowd couldn't reach for my gun.

He said, “I wouldn't be quick to shoot again, professor. I'm not quite unarmed.”

He slowly raised a hand that clutched a stainless steel cylinder with two small lights, a green one that was dark, and a second burning bright red. It had a button on the top. His thumb was holding down the button.

“You're shrewder than I thought,” he said. “I didn't expect you here for some time. I've been trying to extract some information while you're in San Diego protecting your first wife.”

“She'll be fine.” My tongue felt as if it were covered with sandpaper.

“Well, no plan survives first contact with the enemy.” His eyes narrowed.

I kept my voice steady. Dowd was right about one thing: anger would only get in the way of the training and experience that would give me an edge.

I ordered, “Put your arms out and get on your knees, very slowly.”

He made no move to comply. “Aren't you going to thank me for my service to our country like every other civilian parasite did?”

“On your knees.”

He shifted his weight, nothing more. “I want to show you something.”

“Don't move!”

“I'll do it slowly.”

I kept the gun on him as he stepped back toward a closet door, continuing to face me. Then he reached behind him and opened it slowly.

Inside, Peralta sat handcuffed to a chair. He'd been beaten badly. Blood was caked around his left eye. The last Claymore was strapped around his middle, with the front of the mine pointed inward.

“Kill him, Mapstone.” He sounded groggy.

Dowd held out his other hand, the one with the cylinder. “He'll be dead in one second. This is a panic room, built for the family to hide in if there was a break-in. The walls are thick.” He closed the door.

“And this,” he indicated the device, “is a detonator for the Claymore. The walls aren't thick enough to block the signal. Right now, the only thing keeping your friend alive is the pressure my thumb is exerting on this detonator. So if you shoot me, the green light goes on and your friend dies. I told you I'd kill every one you love.”

I kept the gun on him.

He cocked his head. “All I wanted was the list of Scarlett's clients. You thought you were cute, the expensive case in the motel room, the fake flash drive inside. I should have realized two can play the tracker game. Tonight, when your friend the sheriff showed up to check on her old man, I could have hidden, made daddy pretend everything is fine. But I thought maybe Peralta might have the list. So far, no list. This is really pissing me off. All I want is the list of johns. Why was that so hard for you?”

“I don't care.” I didn't recognize my own voice.

His cheek twitched.

“Don't you get it? We'd been robbing banks, but that was too risky. Eventually the illegal government in Washington would have gotten us before we were ready.”

He seemed eager to be understood.

I said, “You were going to blackmail Grace's clients.”

“Exactly. I could have raised millions to fund the Brigade. Then the fun would have started. By the time we're done, this country will be under martial law, and every target we strike will have evidence that it was done by the hajis and the niggers and the spics who shouldn't be in this country. The Chicano Liberation Army. Al-Qaeda in America. The African Struggle.”

“But the groups don't exist, right?”

“People will think they do. I've already got the Web sites reserved, so we can let these groups take credit when a shopping mall blows up. You don't know how savage the American can be. We'll make this a white man's country again.”

“I think we're better than that.” I nodded to the dead woman on the bed. “Anyway, she looks white to me.”

“Collateral damage.” He smiled. “Hunter said his slut-nugget daughter didn't have a computer here. If she had, it might have had the client list. Too bad for him she didn't. He had to watch while I humped his young wife a few times. She didn't like it at first, but I won her over. It was awhile since she'd had a real man. Must hurt like a son of a bitch to see another man screw your wife. It'd make me want to kill the motherfucker doing it, but ol' Bob just cried. ‘Course, I had him handcuffed. Then I strangled her slowly while he watched. At least he didn't change his story.”

He liked the sound of his own voice. I said, “So you knew who Scarlett was.”

“I checked her out. She didn't check me out well enough, I guess.”

“You had to kill her.”

“It didn't start out that way. Look, she was a sweet little lay and I was happy to pay for it. It took me awhile to realize this magnificent piece of ass must have a very affluent group of men she was screwing, and this was going to be our funding source. By that time, she was gone. It took me a long time to find her again.”

“But you did find her.”

“We had a hero who tried to save her,” he said. “It didn't take long to put him down. After that, we drove her around for a long time. I didn't want to hurt her, tried to reason with her just like I did with you. I wanted the list.”

“You raped and tortured her,” I said. “You waterboarded her in the toilet, right? That's why there was water on the bathroom floor.”

“Very good. My thumb is getting tired.”

I needed more time. I said, “Then you pushed her off the balcony.”

“Young Zisman fucked up,” he said. “That's who you shot in the living room. Andrew was supposed to hang her over the edge until she gave it up, but he lost his grip. Every unit has its FUBARs.”

I almost pulled the trigger right then.

“Why that condo?”

“It belongs to Andrew's dad. Andrew had the fob to the front entry and the keys to the door. We didn't know his dad would be there, but it didn't take much persuading to get us some privacy. Old man Zisman knew what would happen if he didn't play along.” He laughed as if we had shared an arch joke.

“But you eventually killed him, too.”

“Not me. Andrew killed his father. Call it a test of loyalty. The unit always comes first. I couldn't take the chance his father would keep silent. Enough of your curiosity, professor. Give me your gun.”

“No.”

“Just so you know,” he said, “whatever happens next, you won't make it out alive. I've got a sniper with a night scope positioned outside. He saw you come onto the property and told me. I let you get this far. Otherwise, you'd be dead. My man was trained as a Marine scout-sniper.” He smiled. “I didn't realize you'd shoot Andrew straight off, but he was careless. So you can kill me, and I frag your friend, but you'll be dead, too. Just like Grace's daddy, who thought he could get away. If you do succeed in killing me, another commander will take my place. You can't stop us.”

“We can make a start. After I kill you, I'll just call the cops.”

His face flushed with anger. “Then you're gonna have a bunch of dead cops from my sniper. He's willing to die to take back his country and he'll take as many enemy with him as he can…”

“So far, all you've killed are white people.”

He forced himself to speak in a reasonable tone. “You can give me your gun, I'll put the detonator on safe. We can do it at the exact same time. Then we'll take a ride to get that flash drive. The real goddamned flash drive. If it has the information I want, then I'll let you live…”

Dowd's cheek ticked in surprise. Ed Cartwright spoke behind me and then he was standing beside me.

“Your sniper is incapacitated,” he said, cradling a pump shotgun on one arm.

“You killed him?” Dowd's voice shook.

“I just used the Apache Persuasion Hold and handcuffed him. He'll live. Probably.”

Cartwright held up a black object that looked like a video-game joystick. He said, “I just made your detonator go limp, asshole. So why don't you slowly get on your knees.”

Dowd stared at each of us, mouthed a profanity, lifted his thumb from the detonator in his hand.