I said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
His gaze would have cut me down if it had been a gun.
He produced a photo from his portfolio and slid it across Peralta’s immaculate desktop. It was five-by-seven and glossy. The young woman had butterscotch hair with blond streaks, stylishly cut to hang slightly above her shoulders, large brown eyes, very pretty. She didn’t look anything like him. Great smile and something more, something magnetic. The camera liked her. She liked the camera.
When the suit sleeve and French cuff rode up with his reach, I saw a multi-colored tattoo on his lower arm and almost unstrapped the gun on my belt. I had recently made enemies in the drug cartels and didn’t know if our business was settled.
“This condo.” I studied his face. “Was it hers?”
The skin around his eyes tensed. “No.”
I waited and after a full two minutes he talked again.
“It belongs to a man named Larry Zisman.”
It sounded vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place it. Smith sensed it, and continued.
“He was an All-American quarterback for the Sun Devils back in the seventies, then he played pro for ten years before his knees were wrecked.”
“Now I remember,” I said. “I never read about this in the newspaper.”
“Funny about that,” Felix replied. “Larry Zisman is a celebrity with a lot of powerful friends.”
“Is he married?” I asked.
“Very.” Felix adjusted one leg and very slightly winced. It was the first time his face had given away an expression beyond tough.
The next question was logical enough, but Peralta didn’t ask it.
“Note?” Peralta could be more taciturn and economical in his language than anyone I had ever met.
“No. She didn’t leave a note. Nothing. That’s one of the things I don’t like.”
“What else makes you doubt the police?”
“She was naked and her hands were bound.”
Now he had my attention for reasons beyond his appearance. Peralta grunted and I heard his pen scratch along the paper.
“It’s a good department,” Peralta said. “San Diego. You need to understand that these things are usually what they seem, however much the loved ones want it to be otherwise.”
I wasn’t sure about that. I had seen botched death investigations, even by good departments.
“I have confidence in you, Sheriff. That’s why I’m here.”
“I’m the former sheriff.” Peralta said it without any emotion, then pulled out the sheet with our fee schedule and handed it across to Felix with his meaty hand.
That was another thing that didn’t feel right: “former sheriff.”
Until four months ago, Peralta had been the sheriff of Maricopa County for what seemed like forever. Everybody I knew thought he would be sheriff as long as he wanted it, unless he decided to run for governor. I was one of his deputies and the Sheriff’s Office historian. It was good work for somebody with a Ph.D. in history in this or any job market.