media spotlight. But I didn’t really know the tensions or alliances that marked the sheriff’s relationship with his chief deputy. Peralta introduced me, and the next morning I found myself on the
Republic
’s front page, in a sidebar headlined HISTORY PROFESSOR CRACKS OLD CASES . That made me a little uncomfortable, since we hadn’t exactly “cracked” a case. And I remember catching the date of the newspaper: July 23—it had been exactly a month since Phaedra had disappeared. But these were momentary misgivings. Lindsey even sent me a
Disco Inferno
CD as a reminder of how listening to it had inspired us, or so she said. All in all, I was feeling good about myself. Too good.
A little before noon on Friday, the phone rang.
“Deputy Mapstone?”
It was a fine, radio-quality voice.
“This is Brent McConnico. I was wondering if I could buy you lunch and thank you for the work you did on my cousin’s case?”
I was a little taken aback. I had seen Brent McConnico’s classically handsome face on TV many times since I’d gotten back to town. He was the young majority leader of the state senate, a favorite of Republican politicos and the scion of one of the state’s oldest political families. But I had never met him or spoken to him before.
“Well, you don’t owe me any thanks, Mr. McConnico,” I said.
“Oh, please call me Brent,” he said. “My father was Mr. McConnico.” Without even a pause, he went on. “How about the Pointe at Tapatio Cliffs? Really stunning view of the city. Say Monday?”
“Sure,” I said. “Brent.”
I hung up and called Julie at work, but her voice mail answered and I hung up. I hadn’t talked to her since the night we ended up in each other’s arms. I didn’t know what to say to her about us, if there was an “us.” And I didn’t have anything fresh to report about Phaedra. No young woman. No blue Nissan Sentra. Neither the computer nor phone calls to the numbers in her address book had yielded any information. I was stuck.
***
The Pointe at Tapatio Cliffs is a resort hotel perched in the Phoenix Mountain Preserve in the north part of the city. I walked past the spotless tennis courts, deserted in the midday heat, and made my way into the main restaurant and the blessed air-conditioning. I was wearing my best suit, navy blue with a thin pinstripe, and a Frank Sinatra tie that had been Patty’s last Christmas gift to me. I looked good, but this wasn’t the weather for suits. I sat for twenty minutes in the dim coolness near the hostess’s stand before Brent McConnico strode briskly in, spotted me, and held out his hand.
“You’re taller than you seemed on TV,” he said.
He had a firm grip, and his light blue eyes gazed at me with an easy directness. “Well, anybody would look smaller compared to Mike Peralta,” I said.
“Yes, dear Mike,” he said. “He’ll probably be governor someday.”
McConnico was shorter than I, maybe a little under six feet. But he obviously worked out, his body neatly turned out in a gray sack suit. He had politician’s hair, perfectly blow-dried. Light brown, it fell just over his ears. He turned me toward the restaurant, where the breathtakingly beautiful blond hostess greeted him by name and breezily led us to “his usual” table. He ordered a club soda. I ordered a Bombay Sapphire martini. Before us, as promised, was a stunning view of the city, looking toward downtown and the South Mountains.
“When our families first came to the Valley, all this was farmland, David,” he said. “It just amazes me every day how much it’s changed. How much it’s changed even from when I was a boy.”
I agreed with him. He’d obviously done a little homework to say that “our families” had been among the pioneers. It’s natural in Phoenix to assume that everyone is from somewhere else. The joke says if you’re here for five years, you’re a native.
“But I know you can tell me much more history than I can tell you.” He
Republic
’s front page, in a sidebar headlined HISTORY PROFESSOR CRACKS OLD CASES . That made me a little uncomfortable, since we hadn’t exactly “cracked” a case. And I remember catching the date of the newspaper: July 23—it had been exactly a month since Phaedra had disappeared. But these were momentary misgivings. Lindsey even sent me a
Disco Inferno
CD as a reminder of how listening to it had inspired us, or so she said. All in all, I was feeling good about myself. Too good.
A little before noon on Friday, the phone rang.
“Deputy Mapstone?”
It was a fine, radio-quality voice.
“This is Brent McConnico. I was wondering if I could buy you lunch and thank you for the work you did on my cousin’s case?”
I was a little taken aback. I had seen Brent McConnico’s classically handsome face on TV many times since I’d gotten back to town. He was the young majority leader of the state senate, a favorite of Republican politicos and the scion of one of the state’s oldest political families. But I had never met him or spoken to him before.
“Well, you don’t owe me any thanks, Mr. McConnico,” I said.
“Oh, please call me Brent,” he said. “My father was Mr. McConnico.” Without even a pause, he went on. “How about the Pointe at Tapatio Cliffs? Really stunning view of the city. Say Monday?”
“Sure,” I said. “Brent.”
I hung up and called Julie at work, but her voice mail answered and I hung up. I hadn’t talked to her since the night we ended up in each other’s arms. I didn’t know what to say to her about us, if there was an “us.” And I didn’t have anything fresh to report about Phaedra. No young woman. No blue Nissan Sentra. Neither the computer nor phone calls to the numbers in her address book had yielded any information. I was stuck.
***
The Pointe at Tapatio Cliffs is a resort hotel perched in the Phoenix Mountain Preserve in the north part of the city. I walked past the spotless tennis courts, deserted in the midday heat, and made my way into the main restaurant and the blessed air-conditioning. I was wearing my best suit, navy blue with a thin pinstripe, and a Frank Sinatra tie that had been Patty’s last Christmas gift to me. I looked good, but this wasn’t the weather for suits. I sat for twenty minutes in the dim coolness near the hostess’s stand before Brent McConnico strode briskly in, spotted me, and held out his hand.
“You’re taller than you seemed on TV,” he said.
He had a firm grip, and his light blue eyes gazed at me with an easy directness. “Well, anybody would look smaller compared to Mike Peralta,” I said.
“Yes, dear Mike,” he said. “He’ll probably be governor someday.”
McConnico was shorter than I, maybe a little under six feet. But he obviously worked out, his body neatly turned out in a gray sack suit. He had politician’s hair, perfectly blow-dried. Light brown, it fell just over his ears. He turned me toward the restaurant, where the breathtakingly beautiful blond hostess greeted him by name and breezily led us to “his usual” table. He ordered a club soda. I ordered a Bombay Sapphire martini. Before us, as promised, was a stunning view of the city, looking toward downtown and the South Mountains.
“When our families first came to the Valley, all this was farmland, David,” he said. “It just amazes me every day how much it’s changed. How much it’s changed even from when I was a boy.”
I agreed with him. He’d obviously done a little homework to say that “our families” had been among the pioneers. It’s natural in Phoenix to assume that everyone is from somewhere else. The joke says if you’re here for five years, you’re a native.
“But I know you can tell me much more history than I can tell you.” He
Similar Books
