“That’s even better,” Peralta said.
I was losing my appetite. “This is a city case, and the only thing they want less than a sheriff’s deputy sticking his nose into it is a sheriff’s consultant.”
Peralta shook the ketchup bottle violently and doused his concoction of eggs, ham, peppers, and potatoes. “Let me see your wallet.” I played along and handed it over. “I see a star-a good-looking badge, if I may say so-that says ‘Maricopa County Deputy Sheriff.’ I see a deputy sheriff’s ID card with your name on it.” He tossed it back at me. “As I recall, you graduated from the academy and worked on the streets for five years before thinking you wanted to go off and teach college.”
“Four and a half years.”
“Any teaching jobs out there you want?”
“I got a call from a Bible college in Houston,” I said. He almost smiled.
“Anyway, your help on the case has been requested by Chief Wilson himself.” The big enchilada of Phoenix PD. Peralta added, “After I volunteered you. He liked the work you did on the Phaedra Riding case.”
Peralta was just being himself, but I couldn’t hide my annoyance. “You are the master of the hidden agenda. I should have known we weren’t just having breakfast to raise our cholesterol levels and gossip.”
“We work for America’s Toughest Sheriff, remember? So theater is important.”
“I’m so glad I bring something useful to the department,” I said sourly.
“You do!” he said, stuffing another forkful into his mouth. “We’ve got the chain gang, the tent jail, the women’s chain gang. And we’ve got the nation’s only cold-case expert who’s a history professor and a sworn deputy-just to show we’re gentle and intellectual, too.”
“Oh, Christ!” I dreaded the hostility of the city cops to an outsider.
“Just do that history thing you do.” He waved a meaty hand. “Write the local and national stuff going on at the time of the case, give a nice timeline, list of characters, new evidence, what it all probably meant, blah, blah, blah. The media eat that shit up. Your buddy Lindsey can make it a PowerPoint presentation and we can do color handouts.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” I mocked him.
“David.” Peralta hardly ever called me by my first name. He sighed deep within himself and his broad, expressive face seemed instantly old. He rapped his knuckle on the newspaper. “We’re taking serious heat on this serial killer. Harquahala Strangler. The media’s even given the cocksucker a name. It’s a sheriff’s investigation and we’re sucking wind.”
