The Crown Plaza Hotel sat at Adams and Central, a big, tan box with half-moon windows, another homely remnant from Phoenix’s 1970s building boom. When the Hotel Adams sat on this block, it was a lovely Spanish Mediterranean landmark where the state legislature met informally in the coffee shop, and its awnings shaded Central Avenue from the summer heat. It was built after the first Hotel Adams burned in 1910, the most famous blaze of frontier Phoenix. When I was a little boy-this was 1964-I sat in a car with Grandmother and watched a bank robber chased down by the cops in the alley right beside the hotel. But by the early 1970s, the old Adams was a fleabag, its rooftop neon sign struggling in red letters to say HOT ADA S. It sounded like a whorehouse. The block had history.
Tonight it was so deserted it was as if everyone in the city had silently evacuated, that only Lindsey and I hadn’t gotten the word. Spending time in the hospital only added to the sense of oppressive isolation. The doctors were worried about Peralta’s lungs. It didn’t take a medical degree to know that being flat on your back with a machine doing your breathing was not exactly the way the human body was built to run. Tests showed the beginning of pneumonia in one lung. We sat with Sharon while three doctors gave her a grim catechism of the limitations they were up against with Peralta in a coma. She didn’t cry anymore. Her face had taken on the quality of a latex mask atop dangerous emotions. She didn’t need to know what I knew. I didn’t even know what I knew, if Bobby Hamid was to be believed.
After the hospital, we drove home, drank martinis with olives, and ate baked potatoes with cheese and salsa while we talked about the day. Lindsey wondered about Peralta and his father, how hard it must have been to measure up to a father of such accomplishment and yet such exacting expectations. I wondered about the Peralta stubbornness and fear of showing emotion, keeping both men apart for years I really wanted to go to bed and have her read to me; then I would read to her. But we locked up the house at 8:45, switched to the BMW-I needed to fill up at the 24-hour gas station down on Roosevelt-and drove slowly back downtown.
We drove around the block taking stock of our paranoia.
“I don’t want to be afraid to show my face,” I said. “I won’t do that.”
Lindsey scanned the empty sidewalk on Central. “Dave, somebody tried to kill you the other night. You just heard from Bobby Hamid that your life is in danger. Now we’re just going to walk into a creepy parking garage at night? And you haven’t been able to reach Kimbrough.”
It was true. I had tried Kimbrough’s cell phone twice since we left the hospital, just to be sure I got the message right about the meeting. But each time I was routed directly to voice mail.
“But what if he needs us?” I said. “He left the message and said it was important. I think the risk is manageable.”
“Manageable,” she said, her voice flat, assessing not really resisting.
“It’s a big hotel right in the middle of the city, video cameras, guards.” The light at Adams was red, so I turned in my seat to face her, took her hand. “Lindsey, if I just hide, the bad guys succeed. I didn’t want to take this job, but now I’ve got to do it. Whatever this thing is-they’ve tried to kill Peralta and now me-it thrives because nobody wanted to touch it, nobody wanted to go there.” She just looked at me, her eyes huge and nearly violet. The light turned and I added, “We can always flag down a couple of Phoenix cops on the bike patrol and ask them to escort us.”
She wrinkled her nose. “OK, you win.” She patted her backpack absently. It looked reassuringly bulky.
I rolled slowly around the block. The old art deco Valley Bank tower on Monroe was still vacant, an embarrassing eyesore for the umpteenth downtown revitalization attempt. A street person sat in the shadows of the dingy entrance, his shopping cart overflowing with black plastic bags, and dingy comforters. I thought again about Leo O’Keefe, about what Gutierrez said about being caught in the thresher.
At the parking garage entrance, I took a ticket and watched the yellow arm of the gate pop up obediently. A white-haired man watched us impassively from the parking attendant’s booth. The BMW climbed up the ramp into the bowels of the building, the engine noise echoing off the colorless prefab concrete walls. Then we leveled out in the long, low garage. The floor had been restriped so many times it was difficult to find the right way to go up. The ceiling was more concrete-too cramped to even allow a minivan beneath it. The decorative half-moon arches facing outside had long ago been fenced off with what looked like wooden pickets painted brown. And even though the streets were deserted, the garage was full of vehicles, parked tightly together, even bumper-to-bumper.
The sardine feeling let up a bit as we wound up to level four, which looked about half full. I scanned the space for any sign of life. Nothing. I swung around the length of the floor, patrolling slowly past empty cars. Then I pointed the BMW back in the direction of the down ramp, just to be safe.
The brightly lit area by the elevators was empty, too. I held my foot on the brake and rolled down the window, listening. The soft, precise timing of the BMW. A low moaning intake fan somewhere. A siren far away, fading. My mind slipped back to Peralta’s office, the man’s voice: “Did you find it?” What was “it”? Peralta had been looking at the evidence logged in after the Guadalupe shooting. Bobby Hamid had asked, “What happened after the shooting?” How was Jonathan Ledger, the world-famous sex therapist, involved with the girl who was arrested at that shooting?
“Dave.”
A pair of headlights swept across the concrete wall ahead of us, and then the businesslike grillwork of a white car appeared at the head of the ramp. It was a Ford Crown Victoria, like a hundred in the Sheriff’s Office or the Phoenix PD, the kind issued to detective captains like Kimbrough. But there was no handsome black man inside. These were two white guys, beefy-looking in the glare of the garage lights. They quickly pulled directly in front of us.
“Dave,” Lindsey said.
“Call 9-1-1,” I said.
“Trying,” she said, the cell phone in her hand.
“I don’t want to accidentally shoot some civilian who’s just asking for directions,” I said. But I pulled the Python out of its holster and slid it into the seat between my legs. I scanned the mirrors. The rest of the garage remained lifeless.
They just sat there, looking us over. Their hands were hidden. I studied them. They looked like cops, maybe. Something in the brow-authority? power? — with eyes accustomed to looking wherever they pleased. Thin lips and heavy jaws, no facial hair. Cheap cop haircuts, one black-haired and the other dishwater blond. But something looked wrong, too. One of them wore a heavy chain under his polo shirt. Old cops-they were my age, at least. Former cops?
The BMW was still in drive and I kept my foot on the brake while I measured the garage like a cat measuring a mouse hole. There was no way to get around them. No way out behind. The up ramp was the down ramp. Maybe Kimbrough would suddenly step out of the elevator. Maybe pigs would fly.
“Shit,” Lindsey said, laying aside the phone. “No signal. We’re under too much concrete.”
I thought, Now what, Mr. Ph.D.? The fumes of the two idling cars made the air heavy with toxins. I said, “We can try to run for the exit stairs. Or we can shoot them.”
“I like the second suggestion,” Lindsey said, undoing her backpack while staring into the Crown Vic.
“How about the middle path,” I said. I reached into my coat and produced my star. I held it out the window and shouted at them. “Step out of your car, slowly.”
They grinned like I had just told the funniest joke in history. I put the star away and fingered the grip of the Python. I shouted again, “We’re sheriff’s deputies. Step out of your vehicle, now. Other officers are on the way.”
Instantly they flung the big Ford at us. It slammed hard into the front of the BMW, detonating the airbags. The shock of the collision kicked my heart into my throat, and my vision was nothing but white plastic.
“Lindsey!”
“I’m OK,” she yelled, off to my side.
I felt the car being pushed backward. That’s when I forced myself to inhale, and I drove the accelerator into the floor. We lurched forward, pushing the Ford now. The smell of burning tires and belts pierced my lungs. Then my sight came back. The dashboard and seat wells were draped in deflated airbags. Our antagonists looked much the same. They had obviously disconnected the airbags in the Ford.
They also had the Interceptor engine package and push bar of cop cars, which was more than a match for my fine German engineering. We suddenly lurched backward again. I poured on the power, to no avail. I was glad I couldn’t see the dash, where the tachometer needle would be buried in the red.
“They’re going to push us out of here!” Lindsey yelled, and we were moving inexorably toward the rear wall, where the flimsy brown picket fence seemed the only thing that would momentarily arrest our fall onto the street below.
I slammed the stick shift into park, and it bit back hard against my hand. Then the car gave out an awful metal-shearing-off-metal groan. Lindsey pulled the emergency brake. The car jerked sideways and we slammed hard into a concrete pillar.
I could hear the Ford snap into reverse, prepare to back off for another try at us. I didn’t wait.
“Go!” I pushed Lindsey out of the passenger door, then I climbed over and followed her, running madly toward a row of cars. I heard the Ford’s driver drop it back into drive, then tires screeching under acceleration, a bull from Motown hell running at my wounded matador. There was a second’s silence, then a sharp struck note, a cascade of rubber, metal, and composites protesting, a ghastly crash against the far wall. I had just enough time to let out a breath before my ex-wife’s BMW landed on Adams Street with a distant explosion of compressing metal and glass.
“Fuck this!” Lindsey said, pulling the H amp;K submachine gun from her backpack. She made a quick move above the hood of a Saab and squeezed a burst into the Ford. The shots came so fast they merged into a single, high-pitched thunderclap. Then the Saab’s windshield shattered behind a deeper explosion. “They’re out of the car,” Lindsey said, dropping back under cover. Another deep boom, and the metal door of the car seemed to implode by my shoulder.
“Shit,” I said. “They’ve got some real firepower.” I rolled onto the oily floor, searching for their feet. I saw a pair of boots and lined up the sights of the Python, fighting a panic that was about to swallow me up. Hold breath. Exhale. Pull trigger.
The big revolver jumped in my hand, and I heard a high-pitched screeching from the other side of the car. I didn’t take the time to check on the guy or his partner. I knew I had bought us only a few seconds. Grabbing Lindsey’s wrist, I sprang up and ran hard for the exit stairs. As we ran, she turned and unleashed another round from the submachine gun. The bullets ricocheted against the walls and cars like the devil’s calliope, and then my hands hit the blessed metal of the exit door, which opened.