“Don’t be so quick to judge, Mapstone.” Bite, chew, swallow, steer with one hand. “And don’t get grease on that arm rest. As I recall, you did a little selective application of the law after Robin was murdered.”
That was true, but I wasn’t going to let him get me into that dark alley.
“I’m talking about now. We don’t owe this guy anything.”
“You wanted to break the law yesterday by tampering with evidence.”
He was right. I wanted to see the number Felix had called from our parking lot. I was a long way from being a Boy Scout.
Peralta shrugged his big shoulders. “He put us on retainer for ten grand. Our obligation is to the client, and that includes privacy.”
Sand dunes loomed up on the south. I knew that a plank road was built here in 1915. I didn’t know anything about being a private investigator. Listening to our conversation made me question myself again about joining him in the rough little building on Grand Avenue. Robin had suggested it. She expected to live to see it. I violently shook my head.
“You have a headache?”
“No.” I ate the Big Mac and daintily wiped my fingers to protect his fake leather or whatever the hell it was on the armrest. “What would you as sheriff have done to a PI who pulled the stunt you did?”
“Probably prosecute him.”
“But now you’re applying situational ethics.”
“Don’t be using your fancy academic language on me, Mapstone.” The burger was gone and now his right hand was grabbing French fries. Peralta always ate one fast-food course at a time. “I’m just a simple boy from the barrio.”
I cut him off. “You went to Harvard.” He knew very well what I meant. I gave up for the moment.
We were now in the Colorado Desert, a very different place from the lush Sonoran Desert that surrounded Phoenix and Tucson: no saguaros or any of the other hundreds of plant and animal species of my home country. It was sun-blasted moonscape, a sea of tranquility: long vistas, distant mountain ranges, few colors beyond off-white, ochre, and brown-and in this spot it declined into a sink that was below sea level.
We finished lunch at eighty-five miles per hour. I policed all the containers and napkins, and then the flat, green fields of the Imperial Valley surrounded us, all irrigated, quite irrationally, by a canal running from the Colorado River. If not for the geology of the Colorado’s delta, the Sea of Cortez would go all the way north to Indio. It was an amazing thing to contemplate. North of us was the Salton Sea, accidentally created in 1905 when the Colorado, as it would do before being nearly killed by dams, flooded into crude irrigation canals dug to divert water into what had been the dry Salton Sink. The “sea” became a major bird destination, created its own ecosystem. Now it was dying, helped by the Imperial Valley’s toxic runoff. I read the other day that the noxious air from a massive fish kill drifted as far as Los Angeles.
We stopped to relieve ourselves in El Centro. No offense to the local chamber of commerce, but that seemed all it was good for, even though the town now had a Starbucks. The air was hot and hazy and smelled of agricultural chemicals.
Ahead were Plaster City and the startling escarpment of the Laguna Mountains. San Diego had one of the finest natural harbors in the world, but the railroads couldn’t easily get there in the nineteenth century because of that mountain range. Instead, they went to Los Angeles and that was that. We passed over one track at Plaster City and it reminded me of the railroad that was finally built to San Diego from the east. If memory served, the sugar baron John Spreckles underwrote it, and the San Diego and Arizona line was one of the most ambitious engineering accomplishments of its day. But it never made money and the land it traversed was so harsh, including a perilous crawl through Carrizo Gorge, that maintaining the railroad was prohibitive.
The wall of mountains and its forbidding canyons beyond did not intimidate Dwight Eisenhower’s Interstate Highway System. So I-8 was built in the mid-1960s and San Diego finally had its connection to the east. Every year it brought more Phoenicians to the coast in search of relief from the summer heat.
None of this would have interested Peralta.
We started the serious grind uphill and then we were climbing through terrain strewn with giant boulders, the marble game of the gods. Behind us, the Imperial Valley spread below like a dry seabed. The Interstate twisted and curved, an unwelcome intruder. The sun was on his side, glinting off his thick hair and bringing out the aristocratic profile. I knew this highway well, but the majestic land never ceased its ability to move me.
“So we’re going to San Diego,” I said. “Do we know if anything this guy told us is correct? He lied about who he was. How do we know this Grace Hunter even existed or killed herself?”
“We don’t. We’ll find out.”
Robert Caro writes about how Lyndon Johnson was a reader of men. Nobody could read Peralta, not even LBJ, and certainly not me. Only occasionally did a “word” reveal itself to a careful observer of his professional mask. As I studied him, I could see an unusual determination in the set of his thick jaw. To be sure, “determination” with Peralta was like saying “deep” about the Grand Canyon. It was always there and spectacular to behold, much less try to hinder. Now, however, the canyon of his tenacity was unusually on display. But I saw something else, too, another word. Concern.
I said, “What if we’re being set up?”
“Then it’s better to take the initiative.”
“What if we’re being set up by going to San Diego?”
“I told you, you’re not going to see Patty.”
When I lapsed into silence and he realized his effort to piss me off had failed, he spoke again.
“Whoever did this would expect us to give a full report to the police and lay low in Phoenix. That would be logical. So we’ll do what they don’t expect. All you have to do is your history thing.”
This was what he used to say when he would barge into my office in the old Court House. It became a longstanding joke. But I blew. “What history?!” It was amazing how his luxurious cab absorbed the sound of my tantrum. “The dead man in front of our office didn’t have any history! This isn’t a historical case.”
As usual, my outburst failed to move him. In as soft a voice as he could manage, “Mapstone, everybody has a history. You need to find it. ‘The only new thing in the world is the history you don’t know.’ Saint Paul said that.”
“Harry Truman said that.”
“Same difference.”
I resisted the familiar urge to reach over and try to strangle him, even if I would lose the fight and he would never even swerve out of his lane.
He said, “We have a name, D.O.B., Social Security Number and photo…”
“Right, and she’s a sweet girl who went to Chaparral High in Scottsdale, was a student at San Diego State, worked part-time at the Nordstrom perfume counter at Horton Plaza. She had a boyfriend and somehow she ended up at Larry Zisman’s condo on the night of April twenty-second.”
“See how much you know?” He lazily draped his arms over the steering wheel despite the tangled road we climbed.
I slumped in my seat. “If any of it is true.”
“David.” He never called me David. “You have a gift for history. I never thought you’d be happy as a professor. You’re a cop down in your bones. But you’re a historian, too. You look at a case the same way a historian studies the secondary sources and published material on a subject. You talk to the primary sources, read their recollections. Then you apply a historian’s skepticism and diligence, come up with new interpretations, dig out fresh facts, add context, shine the light in a different direction seeking the truth. It’s what you do.”
It shut me up. Even made me feel better about myself for the moment.