High Country Nocturne Read Free Page A

truth. The reason they wanted me was for the key to the truck’s weapons locker.
    And perhaps to see if I made any suspicious stops on the way that might lead them to Peralta.
    Behind the front seats, rising from the floor of the cab extension, was the steel case that held Peralta’s armory for the road. I handed Mann the key.
    â€œStand here.” He placed me ten feet away from the action, but I could see him reach inside, turn the key, and raise the lid. He spoke quietly to other agents standing nearby but the frustration cutting into his expression was easy to read.
    â€œCome here.”
    I obeyed. The gun cabinet was completely empty. Closer up, I inspected the cab. It looked showroom new. Peralta always had at least a stainless-steel coffee mug in the console cup holder. That was gone, too.
    â€œThis is Peralta’s truck, correct?”
    â€œDidn’t you run the tag and VIN?”
    He threw me an acid look.
    â€œYes,” I said, “it’s Peralta’s truck. Who reported that it was here?”
    He ignored my question. “What did he usually have in this thing?” He tapped the heavy edge of the gun compartment with a boxy finger.
    It depended on the case we were working—and on Peralta’s mood. I ran down a few of the essentials: a Remington pump-action 12-gauge shotgun, at least one assault rifle, usually an M4, and a Kel-Tec RFB Bullpup rifle—short, homely and highly effective. Plenty of ammunition. One of the FBI minions took notes.
    â€œWhy would a private citizen carry that much firepower?”
    â€œThis is Arizona.”
    â€œAre you trying to be clever?”
    Behind me, someone muttered, “Can’t fuckin’ believe it. We’ve been all over it and not a goddamned thing…”
    I tucked that information away.
    Mann nodded at an agent. “Put him in my unit.”
    That wasn’t good. At least I wasn’t in handcuffs…yet.
    This agent was wearing a parka, same FBI emblems. Somebody from the Flagstaff field office, prepared for the cold. He walked me over to a black SUV and I climbed in the passenger side. The engine was running and it was warm inside. The door closed and I resisted the temptation to examine Mann’s paperwork. That was another thing missing from the cab of Peralta’s truck: the files and other job-related documents he always toted around.
    Peralta was a techno-Luddite and proud of it. I could barely get him to use a laptop. He did use a dictaphone. Without a secretary, I was left to transcribe his words to the computer and print them out for him.
    The driver’s door opened, Mann slid in with surprising grace for his size, shut the door, and faced me.
    â€œI’ll share a little dirty laundry,” he said. “Since your friend did his thing, Eric Pham is on his way to a new posting in Anchorage. You ask me? He should have been fired.”
    That was fast retribution. Very fast.
    Eric Pham and Peralta went back a number of years. Each respected the other and they had collaborated without the friction common between local law enforcement and the feds. After we opened our private detective business, Pham had tossed some cases our way. Who was I kidding? Tossed them Peralta’s way. As I had spent hours on Friday being interviewed by the FBI, I kept wondering if Peralta was working a new case. If he had gone undercover without even telling me.
    On the other hand, the bureau was very conscious of its image. If Peralta had really gone rogue, of course Pham would be shipped out as punishment.
    â€œDave.” Mann rubbed his heavy hands together and rested them on the steering wheel. “We know all about you. Ph.D. in history. You were a professor at Miami University and San Diego State. Then you came back to Phoenix and went to work for the Sheriff’s Office, clearing cold cases.”
    That was the shorthand, yes.
    â€œWe know you are Mike Peralta’s partner as a private