Lindsey seemed distracted, the woman who had once been so moved when I talked history. She walked alongside us, but she didn’t really seem to be with us. The National Portrait Gallery entranced Robin; we spent an afternoon there while Lindsey was working. She said little about her new job. Maybe she told Robin more when they had sister time. We ate in restaurants we couldn’t afford. The bad economy seemed far away and to a casual observer I was fortunate to be in the company of two attractive women. Lindsey was luminous. Robin, I saw with new eyes. “I’m glad you two are getting along,” Lindsey said. I had assigned a guilty cryptic message, of course. But I kept myself tamped down. Mostly.
“Now I have a client who needs your help.” The little man paused. “Your special combination of skills, the historian and the deputy.”
“I’m not with the Sheriff’s Office any longer.”
“I know this, Dr. Mapstone. That’s why it’s a business proposition.” He looked at me as if he expected to be offered a refreshment. I sat back and said nothing.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the name Harley Talbott?”
Of course I had. He was one of the most controversial of Arizonans. Some said he was a great philanthropist. He had his name on a building at the University of Arizona. Others claimed he was a gangster who had been behind the murder of an Arizona Republic reporter in the 1970s. Nobody argued that he initially made his money as the biggest liquor dealer in Phoenix.
Lindsey had rented an apartment in the District. She furnished it from Ikea, getting an allowance from the government. Robin slept on the sofa while Lindsey and I shared her new bed. It felt strange, of course. Late at night, I tried to tunnel into Lindsey with compliments-she had cut her hair again, into something called an angled bob; I liked her hair longer but I told her how looked lovely she looked, which was the truth. Her blue eyes were still so stunning against the darkness of her hair. She had new glasses. I told her people in Phoenix thought she was such a star in the new cyber war. Little neighborhood gossip was another light topic, such as whose house had been on the market for two years now, or how the new sheriff was training deputies to be immigration enforcers. My tunneling attempts failed. She said matter-of-factly, “You have a beard.”
She wanted to know how Robin was doing. Inside, I wanted to rage “what the hell about us?” I didn’t. The crisis back home kept me oddly in control during this visit. I gave her the details of the case but she didn’t react much. I felt as if we were back home over the past year, when her silences had grown to terrify me. The closest we came to a fight was when Lindsey once again refused to let Robin stay with her in D.C. The job was too all-consuming right now. She didn’t have time to entertain Robin, much less look out for her.
