by Jon Talton
While Lindsey and Beth shopped, I stood at a pay phone by the mall entrance and called Kimbrough. It was a short conversation: I told him I was coming back to the Valley with a material witness, who would only agree to talk under the protection of the feds, and I told him about the encounter at the gallery where the tough guy had identified himself as a bounty hunter.
“That makes sense,” Kimbrough said. “We found a report of a guy who came into St. Joseph’s ER on Saturday night with a gunshot. He said it was self-inflicted. But they called Phoenix PD, and they arrested the guy. Name of Jim Caldwell, and he’s a licensed bounty hunter. Get this, he worked with Dean Nixon, running down bail jumpers. They had a long record of violent situations.”
“So where is he?”
“The lockup at County Hospital,” Kimbrough said proudly. “He’s not talking, but he will. His left ankle was shattered by a.357 round, and his foot was nearly blown off.”
“That’s nothing compared to what he would have done to us,” I said. “So tell me this guy was never a deputy sheriff.”
“I can do that,” Kimbrough said. “This guy’s just some loser. But you need to know, I talked to Internal Affairs today.”
“OK.” A laughing flock of teenage girls flew by, giggling and talking. I switched the receiver to the other ear, sending my left shoulder into a spasm of agony.
Kimbrough said, “They interviewed a retired deputy named Collins, lives out in Sun City. He’s scared he’s going to lose his pension if he doesn’t cooperate. So he starts telling this story of how twenty pounds of cocaine disappeared from the evidence room the week before the shootout in Guadalupe. He says it was checked out for a court appearance by Deputy Virgil Bullock, and never returned.”
“We need to revisit the records of Bullock and Matson,” I said. “Maybe they weren’t the heroes everybody thought.”
“You’ll have their families go crazy,” he said, “but we’ve already started. Their badge numbers are in Nixon’s little book. Petty amounts of money. But this cocaine theft is very troubling I’m going back to look through the evidence logs from that time period.”
I just listened. So at least part of what Beth had been saying might be true. I thought about Bobby Hamid’s question: What happened after the shooting?
“Sheriff,” Kimbrough said, “You need to know people are asking about you. The brass. Davidson and Abernathy, IA. The feds. And Sharon.…”
“How…?”
“It’s not good,” he said. “He’s still got brain activity, but he’s in a deep coma. He might wake up tomorrow, and he might never…”
“I’ll be back in Phoenix tomorrow,” I said.
“What’s this witness all about?”
“It’s about Guadalupe,” I said. I didn’t tell him she was a lethal witness, lethal to Peralta, maybe even to me-the “tall Anglo partner” who was there when the big Hispanic deputy took the cocaine. There would be time enough for that.
“You could try trusting me,” he said quickly.
“I do,” I said. “That’s why I risked making this call.”
***
We drove west, scaling the Front Range on US 285. It seemed safer to take secondary roads, and a few inches of snow were nothing for Colorado snowplow crews. The highway was clear. It was also nearly deserted. When I lived in Denver, I had seen summer weekend traffic stacked up for miles heading back into the city from the Rockies. But on this weeknight, we had the two wide lanes nearly to ourselves as the elevation rose and my ears popped, and popped again.
Beth was a talker, especially once she was warm in a coat again. She sat in the front seat beside me, but turned to face Lindsey.
“Why do you have that?” she touched her nostril, to indicate Lindsey’s nose stud.
“Because I want it,” Lindsey said.
“I’m an artist,” Beth said. “I like the idea of art on the human body. It just doesn’t seem like a cop thing to do. I guess you do it so you can work undercover.”
“No,” Lindsey said simply, and looked back out at the black mountainsides and forest flying by. I remembered the first time I saw Lindsey, brainy and leggy and quietly intense, with that tiny gold stud in her nostril. She asked why I didn’t smile. “I’m smiling inside,” I said. She smiled at me and said, “There are no ironic deputies.” It was the start of a fine romance. I could have told the story of the nose stud, how Lindsey had gone out and done it as a teenager the weekend after her father died, how she told me she needed to feel something amid the crushing numbness. But Beth didn’t need to know any of that.
“You two are together,” Beth said.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“It’s the way she looks at you, and the way you look at her. It’s not hard to see.”
I said, “You never told us why you knew Leo was in Phoenix last week. We didn’t tell you that.”
That shut her up, and the miles clicked by. The sky glowed a dull white against the tent poles of pine trees. The speedometer needle stayed steady on 60. No need to take a chance with black ice. I was taking enough chances. On the lam from my own department. Transporting a witness across state lines under a shaky justification. Unable even to arrest the person who shot Peralta. Unwilling to go back to Beth’s recollection of the cocaine and the Hispanic deputy. Who the hell was I? Just the idiot they got to be acting sheriff.
We’d just passed the sign for Como when Beth spoke again.
“I knew Leo was going to Phoenix because he told me he was going to,” she said, “When I told you I hadn’t communicated with him since December, that was a lie. He called me. It was a Sunday night, a week ago.”
Before Peralta was shot, but maybe not before Nixon’s murder.
“He said he was out of prison. He didn’t say he had escaped, and I didn’t want to know, OK? But he said he was going to the Valley.”
“Did he say why?” Lindsey said.
“He said he needed to talk to someone who could help him clear his name. That’s all he said.”
“And the next thing, we show up at your door yesterday asking about him?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I got a call last week. It was Wednesday. From your office. Somebody from the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, asking if I knew where Leo was. That’s all he asked. That’s why I said ‘You guys never give up’ when you two showed up. And because I knew who your sheriff was, it scared me.”
I watched the road ahead. I knew it was too much to ask if she had gotten a name from this MCSO voice who called. And she hadn’t.
Beth was slowly getting her story straight. Or some kind of story straight. So I decided to push my luck.
“Beth, remember when you told us you didn’t know what Camelback Falls is?”
“Yeah,” she said, guilelessly. “What is it?”
“It’s a house, on Camelback Mountain,” I said. “And you would have to know that, considering we have some photos of you in the house, in some interesting circumstances.”
Out of my peripheral vision I watched for a reaction. She just stared into the windshield, her face sheltered by the darkness of the road.
I went on. “I also assume you would know the name Camelback Falls because I was reading one of Jonathan Ledger’s books today, and the book lists Beth Proudfoot as the copyright holder.”
She said, very quietly in a glassy, precise voice, “You fucker.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
She was Marybeth when they met. Just a kid, saying she was eighteen. Men looked at her, they had since she was eleven. She knew she had that power; sometimes it bored her and sometimes it repulsed her. Most of the time she liked it, when it didn’t scare her, what she could do to men, what they were willing to do for her. Still, her only boyfriend had been Leo, awkward, skinny Leo, who rescued her from Tulsa and her father. But that was all prologue to Phoenix and Jonathan and Camelback Falls.
She was Marybeth, and she had an accent. It didn’t stand out in Tulsa, but she felt like a
hick every time she opened her mouth in Phoenix. There are lovely Southern accents, especially attached to pretty girls, but the Oklahoma twang is not one of them. Jonathan picked it out that day, when he walked into the toy store at Scottsdale Fashion Square, a job she had taken to help pay the rent. He said he liked her voice.
He had a voice as rich as his brown, ruddy skin. Man’s skin, used to the sun. As rich as the onyx brown eyes that looked at her so intensely. He wanted a teddy bear. He bought a big one with a red vest and the softest fur in the store. His hands were very large. Then he asked her to go for a drink when she got off work, and she said yes. She was living with Leo. “But I just felt like this whole world was about to open up to me,” she recalled. “So I rolled the dice.”
She slept with Ledger that night. They went up to his big house overlooking the city. She had never seen such a sight before. She didn’t know he was a best-selling author, or a controversial researcher of human sexuality. She didn’t know he was nearly forty years older than her, and she certainly didn’t know about the parties. All she knew was that a world had been opened to her, adult, free, intoxicating.
“I woke up a little before dawn,” she said, “and I walked to this window overlooking the city. It was a whole wall of glass. I could see the city lights, all the way to the far mountains. It was like this enormous jewel. It just shimmered with possibilities. I realized I was totally naked, just standing there in that window, and it was the best goddamned feeling in my life.”
I couldn’t resist. “I thought you said Phoenix has no soul.”
“I was a kid,” she said. “I was beguiled by the city lights.”
That was in January 1979, five months before the shootout in Guadalupe. She stayed another day and night, and then Jonathan sent her home to Leo.
“He said he didn’t want to be tied down with one lover,” she said.
“Sounds so seventies,” Lindsey said from the back seat.
“I didn’t feel used,” Beth said, almost dreamily. “Jonathan invited me back. So I figured I passed the test. I was so inexperienced then, I wasn’t sure if I knew what do. So in a week, Jonathan called me at the toy store and we went on another date.”
That date was to San Francisco, to a book signing. Marybeth was the daughter of a millionaire, but her life had been sheltered and very middle class. Piano lessons, church, and two trips to Europe to see museums. San Francisco with Jonathan was a different level of existence. He took her to expensive restaurants, made her feel like a wined-and-dined lady. He let her stand off to the side as he gave interviews and signed books. He met with the editors of Rolling Stone and went drinking with a crowd that included San Francisco Giant players, Sports Illustrated writers, a TV anchorman, and a jazz musician whose name she couldn’t remember. Jonathan Ledger was famous. Before that, the only famous man Marybeth had met had been the governor of Oklahoma. Indeed, Jonathan was at the zenith of his fame-he embodied the age and the age rewarded him.
That was when the drugs started. At the parties, pot and cocaine were as natural as taking a drink of water. It was impolite to say no, and there was still something of the Tulsa debutante in Marybeth. But the first time she ever sniffed coke and then sneezed the line off into oblivion, she knew she had touched something she was hardwired to love.
“So Jonathan turned you on to coke?” I asked.
“Oh, no, I found that on my own. He was actually protective. He didn’t want me to rush in.”
“What a responsible adult,” Lindsey said. “He’ll sleep with a seventeen-year-old girl on the first date, but he won’t force her to snort cocaine.”
At that point, Marybeth became a regular at Camelback Falls. The parties just naturally morphed into sex parties after a few hours. It didn’t shock her. It felt good. She felt in control. Maybe too much. She took up with one of Jonathan’s rich friends, a former basketball star named Sam. Jonathan had introduced her, slowly, to sex with other men. But she started seeing Sam outside the jurisdiction of Camelback Falls. It made Jonathan jealous. “It was the first time I realized the way power shifts back and forth in a relationship. I finally had the power.”
What she meant, I realized, was the power over Jonathan. “He was very brilliant,” she said, “and very gullible and lazy. He did his best work with me.”
So she kept Jonathan on a string, and played with Sam, and was the center of the parties at Camelback Falls. “It was a beautiful time, whether you believe it or not,” she said. “The people were beautiful. It was very free. Very…noble. I guess it couldn’t last.”
“Where was Leo at this point?” I asked.
“He was still living in our shithole apartment on Roosevelt Street. Driving a cab all night long, nearly getting killed half the time.”
“Did he ever go to Camelback Falls?”
“No.” She half-smiled. “This was the elite. Not in his class.”
“So he went away.”
“I saw him sometimes. Stayed with him sometimes. I felt sorry for poor Leo.”
“Sorry enough to go riding that day in Guadalupe?”
There was a long silence, and then she said, “It didn’t happen that way. You see, Jonathan was always attracted to the dark side. He was a very spiritual man, but the itch he couldn’t scratch was very dark. There’s a connection between violence and sex, but thousands of years of civilization tries to tamp that down, keep it locked in its dungeon. It’s the opposite of romantic love, but it’s just as real. Maybe more so. Jonathan was very attracted to that, so some of the people at Camelback Falls were rough, dangerous types.”
“Like Billy McGovern and Troyce Meadows?”
“Yeah. They were the dangerous, sunburned cowboys, really gorgeous men. But you also had the sense they would kill, take what they want. Not some movie but the real deal. You could almost smell it. That was very attractive to Jonathan.”
“So how did these guys get there?” I asked. “I read somewhere that one of them was Leo’s cousin.”
She laughed. “The media. God, what morons. And you call yourself a historian? That was the story Daddy’s lawyers gave to the publishers and TV station owners. See, Billy was my cousin, not Leo’s. The black sheep of the family, you might say. Jonathan was fascinated by those two, real prison escapees. It was all very arousing, especially for the female guests. The allure of the outlaw, don’t you know.”
I let that all sink in before asking her the next question.
“Dean Nixon?” she said. “Oh, he was there. He was another one of the people Jonathan collected. He had certain attributes…well, you’ve seen photos, so you know. And then he turned out to be pretty good at supplying drugs for Jonathan’s parties out of the cops’ evidence. Jonathan could have paid for all the coke in Bolivia. But getting it that way was more fun to him.”
“So in Guadalupe,” I said, “that twenty pounds of cocaine was destined for parties at Camelback Falls.”
“I don’t think so,” Beth said. “I think Dean and Billy and Troyce had reached some understanding, and they were working together. They were going to sell the drugs on the street.”
“Until that big Hispanic deputy took them,” I said. “Did he ever show up at Camelback Falls?”
“No, never saw him before,” she said. “But most cops are dirty.” She added, “No offense.”
“What about the detective who threatened you? Did he come there?”
“No, Mapstone. You’ve got to understand the makeup of Jonathan’s circle. Dean was there only because Jonathan collected him.”
“Do you know Dean has been murdered?”
Beth was silent.
“And so all this went away after the shooting? Daddy rescued you and you went back to Tulsa?”
“I did for awhile,” she said. “I went to college at Vassar, like Mother wanted. The parole was very generous. So it was easy to drop out and come back to Phoenix.”
“Why?” Lindsey asked.
“Jonathan,” she said. “Don’t you see, Jonathan
loved me. I was with him to the end. The parties trailed off after 1980, and I never saw Dean Nixon after I came back to Phoenix. Jonathan left his estate to me, including the books. Really pissed off his ex-wives. But they didn’t sit with him as his life ended, either, did they?”
She stared out at the darkness. “He had beautiful eyes,” she said. “Paige got his eyes.”
Chapter Thirty
Lindsey took over the driving, and we crossed the Continental Divide in silence. There seemed to be nothing left to ask or say. Beth fell into an exhausted sleep. She dream-drummed her long fingers on the thigh of her leather pants. I stretched out in the back seat and tried to rest. Every position was painful, and every notch my body relaxed caused a new ache to emerge. The Suburban was dark and warm, filled with memories.
My old job is nearly obsolete. The idea that historical facts can be found and historical truths can be taught is hopelessly out of style in universities. Now they talk of poststructuralism, many voices, many truths. All that old stuff is part of the oppression of the white male patriarchy. Even the name of my great academic love is disgraced: history, as in the sexist term “his-story.”
As I pondered my story, I realized again why it’s nearly impossible to write a credible history of events you have lived. Unless you’re Churchill, and I am definitely not. Assessing and interpreting the past is not like a martini, best drunk just after it’s made, with the little ice crystals still floating amid the gin, just like they make them at Durant’s. No, real history needs time and distance. And I had neither.
Beth said she sat in a patrol car and watched Peralta remove a sack of cocaine from Matson and Bullock’s trunk. I had been there, too, and I saw no such thing. But, as any street cop can tell you, a dozen people can witness the same event and come away with a dozen different recollections. Bobby had asked what happened after the shooting as if the answer held important keys to everything that had happened over the past week.