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you left. I could have used you. Your ability to employ the historian’s techniques to solve cold cases is very valuable.”
    â€œIt was time for me to move on.”
    â€œMaybe not.” He reached into the messenger bag and pulled out a book. I recognized it instantly because I had written it. Desert Star: A History of the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office .
    â€œThis is a fabulous book,” Melton said. “Really great. I had no idea there was so much history here. Would you sign it?”
    He slid it across and handed me a pen.
    Play to the author’s shameless vanity. I opened to the title page and wrote, “To Sheriff Chris Melton, making new history. David Mapstone.”
    He thanked me. Then, “Maybe you’d write a new preface. We could re-release it.”
    I didn’t answer. As a historian, I had written only two books, thirty articles for historical journals. Not enough to gain tenure.
    He put the book away and pulled out a file. It was about an inch thick.
    â€œI’d like you to look into this for me.”
    My eyes lingered on the folder. It looked worn. I told him no, that I already had a job, and slid it back to his side of the table.
    He smiled sadly. “I don’t think there will be much private investigator work coming your way with your partner as a wanted fugitive in a violent crime. It wouldn’t surprise me if the DPS revoked your license, as well as his.”
    â€œBut you’re here to help me…” I drained the glass halfway.
    â€œExactly.”
    So I gave it to him, exactly, “I don’t like you, Sheriff. I don’t like your politics. You and your people lied about Mike Peralta’s record. You set people against each other.”
    Remembering the thugs that had shouted Peralta down at one debate, the vicious online comments about him from Melton supporters and all the “dark money” from anonymous out-of-state donors, I started to get wound up.
    I forced my voice to stay even. “I don’t approve of the way you won the election or how you run the department. And I don’t take clients that I don’t like and trust.” I thought about it and added, “No disrespect.”
    â€œCall me Chris.”
    â€œIf I did take your case, it would be a five thousand-dollar retainer up front, then five hundred dollars an hour after that. I would want total control of the case. No second-guessing.”
    He laughed from below his diaphragm and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. His beer was still untouched.
    â€œThat’s not what I had in mind.”
    His hand went back into the bag and pulled out what looked like a wallet. I realized what it really was only when he placed it on the table atop the file and opened it: a star and identification card. My old badge and credentials.
    â€œYou’re coming back to the Sheriff’s Office, David.”
    I sat back, feeling the little revolver against my shirt, and marveling at his chutzpah.
    â€œAnd I would want to do this, why?”
    â€œOpen the file.”
    He slid the folder toward me again.
    I swept the badge case aside and flipped to the first page. It was an incident report dated July 24th, 1984. It looked like a museum artifact. At the bottom was my signature and badge number.
    He tapped the paper. “Do you remember this?”
    I nodded. A body of a twenty-something male had been found in the desert not far from the Caterpillar tractor proving grounds in the White Tank Mountains west of the city. Today the area is overrun with subdivisions, but then it was empty. The dead man had parked his car and walked on foot without water before he had collapsed.
    I had been the first deputy to respond to the call, the one who had secured the scene and written the incident report. There was no obvious evidence of a crime. People did strange things in the desert. And then the desert did unmerciful things to their remains. Then the case had been