“What’s this?”
She pointed to a post card showing long red, pink, and white rows of flowers, framed by palm trees and the South Mountains. I told her about the Japanese flower gardens that once ran for miles along both sides of Baseline Road. The way the north side of the flower fields swept down toward the city, interrupted by citrus groves and ranches in what was then a largely rural south Phoenix. How my grandparents took me down there most Saturdays, were we would buy cut flowers for the house from one of the simple tin, open-faced buildings facing what was then a two-lane highway.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said. “And they plowed it all under to build houses and apartments. I can’t believe it.”
Neither could I.
The pictures and the postcards entranced Robin. I left her and she spent two hours with the scrapbook.
As the evening advanced to ten, I told her I was going for a walk and to stay in her room. I set the newly installed alarm and didn’t want her to come out and trip the motion detectors. She said to be careful. It was midnight in Washington and Lindsey hadn’t called. She had never gone three days without calling.
I dressed in black and had the Python on my hip. I took the alley west to Fifth Avenue to avoid rousing the dog. The night was chill and the air tasted dusty. It was so quiet I could hear a train whistle from the yards over at Nineteenth Avenue, nearly two miles away. Instead of walking around the block as I had done before, I walked to Vernon, two blocks north, then moved fast back to the east, popping out of the pedestrian entrance in the wall that closed off the street near Central. The bell and whoosh of a light-rail train went by. I cut back down to Cypress and came in from First Avenue, moving toward the house from the block to the east. I had made a wide circle around our house, the better to see the perimeter.
The pickup truck sat against the north curb, near the far corner. It was a compact job, dark paint, and it was occupied. As I got closer, I could see an arm dropping out of the driver’s side with a glowing cigarette. Closer, near the house where the state appeals court judge lived-he and his wife had a musical group on the side-I made out the tag and memorized it. It was not law enforcement. Whoever was in the truck had a perfect view down Cypress to our house, and could see if we drove out the alley onto Third Avenue. It was also parked in front of the two corner houses that were for sale and unoccupied-a great spot if you didn’t want to attract attention. This was how they had picked us up last night.
