Camelback Falls by Jon Talton

Author:Jon Talton [Talton, Jon]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery, Fiction / Mystery & Detective / General, C429, Kat, Extratorrents
ISBN: 9781615952076
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2003-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Driving home, Lindsey and I had a short, sharp fight about the ’70s. I found myself in that worst of debating positions, defending an argument I didn’t really believe. Resolved: The decade of the 1970s was a pretty good time, after all.

“How can you be saying that?” Lindsey shot back, and not quietly. “Are you envious of Peralta for having a chick on the side?”

“Of course not,” I said. “That’s not what we’re talking about. Infidelity has occurred in every decade.” Ah, the debater’s half-Nelson. It only made things worse.

“That doesn’t make it right,” she said firmly. Then, “Dave, you’re making me sound like some kind of prude. That’s not fair.”

“I just get tired of the X-ers blaming everything on the Boomers,” I said. “And ten years of complicated events and social forces can’t be reduced to one or two clichés.”

“I didn’t say that,” she said. Like all fights between people who love each other, this one was full of ciphers and code strings, and not at all about what it appeared to be. In a softer voice, she added, “You know, I had to raise myself because of all those good times and complicated social forces.”

“I know.” It was all I could say. She spoke the truth. “I didn’t have much fun back then myself,” I said. “I could barely get a date. The young women didn’t seem interested in me. I never had the great lines that the personality boys have.”

“Oh, you’re a personality boy, Dave,” Lindsey said. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see her luminous smile. “A thinking woman’s personality boy.” She put her hand on my neck and rubbed—oh, that felt good!

“Now you’re flattering me. Don’t stop rubbing.”

“And,” she said, “true personality boys don’t have lines. They have stories.”

“That unmarked car is still behind us,” I said, as we exited to the Seventh Street ramp and paused at the light. Two homeless men, with clothes, beards, and skin the same color as a paper bag, stared at us from behind hand-lettered cardboard signs. Several car lengths back, the Ford had also taken the exit and now prepared to shepherd us home.

“Kimbrough is nothing if not efficient,” Lindsey said. “I guess they don’t trust me to be your bodyguard.”

“Should we stop at Good Sam?”

She stroked my arm. “You know they won’t let us up at this hour, Dave.”

“He’s the only one with the answers.”

“I know,” she said, as the light turned green and the traffic surged onto Seventh. “I’ve started a database for you.”

“You are so good to me.”

“Seriously, personality boy.” She poked me gently in the ribs. “I took a month out of Nixon’s logbook, May 1979, when the Guadalupe shooting happened. I also scanned in the duty rosters and beat lists for the East County patrol district for the same time period.”

“So that we can see if any interesting patterns emerge when we compare everything?” I said.

“Exactly. That may give you a few more answers, at least.”

The stucco houses on Cypress Street gave off a happy, Friday night glow.

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