Cactus Heart by Jon Talton

a passable Mona Lisa impersonation. “Are you jealous, Dave?”
    â€œNo,” I lied. “Hell, I thought he and that partner of his—what’s his name? Tony Snyder—were gay. They both look like they stepped out of
GQ
. Remember they’re in that calendar the sheriff is selling?
Beefcakes with Badges
, or something like that.”
    â€œI thought it was cute,” Lindsey said. “Anyway, Tony has a nice wife and two babies in Peoria. He’s on leave to finish his master’s thesis. I think you’re jealous, Dave.”
    I felt a hotness moving across my face and knew I was busted. She gave a delighted giggle.
    â€œSo why are they teaming you with Patrick Blair? He seems about as interested in database research as he’d be in studying history.”
    â€œThey think this dirtbag gets his victims over the Internet.”
    â€œSerial killers keeping up with the times.”
    â€œIf you tell Peralta I told you that, he’ll murder me. It’s the biggest clue we’ve held back from the media.” She gave me a mischievous smile. “And no leaking it to that old girlfriend of yours, Lauren.”
    â€œLorie.”
    â€œWhatever.”
    â€œI think you’re jealous, Lindsey.”
    We made love again, a slow, wordless, carnal thing that was the basis of us, as much as the books and the dry humor and the cynicism that hid some shocking hopefulness. Like home: that’s how it felt.
    Then she was up and sliding back into her clothes, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. I was half asleep and reached out a hand.
    â€œStay with me, Lindsey.”
    â€œI can’t, Dave,” she said. “I’ve got to go to work.”
    â€œYou always worked bankers’ hours.”
    â€œNew job, new hours.”
    I stood and cinched up the robe. “Peralta’s degrading my quality of life. I can’t believe he’s making you do this.”
    â€œI volunteered, Dave.” She pulled me toward her for a kiss. “No lectures, History Shamus. I don’t want to just be seen as some propellerhead nerd girl doing computer systems.”
    â€œI think you proved that Monday night.”
    â€œDave, don’t worry. I’m a deputy sheriff, too. And this murderer is out there, right now.”
    And then she was gone, the front door echoing hard after her.
    I wanted to say, “Please be careful.”
    ***
    I fell into a deep sleep, and I was hiking across huge grassy hills strewn here and there with piñon and scrub oak. A California landscape, not like Arizona. I was acutely aware of the carpet of rough grass beneath my feet and the nervous sense of height, the world falling off in every direction down hillside and arroyo. It was getting dark and a few lights were visible far down the valley, but I felt compelled to walk. I fell, grabbed a scrubby branch, pulled myself back up, set out again. I wasn’t afraid. Then there was a banging and jangling that didn’t go with the dream, and finally I realized it was the doorbell. I swung off the sofa, slipped on my old, dark-blue Nordstrom robe and walked unsteadily toward the door. I noticed it was two in the morning, and something made me go to the bedroom and get the Colt Python .357 magnum.
    I opened the little wrought-iron peephole in the door, saw Peralta, and wondered if I was still dreaming.
    â€œMike?”
    â€œIt’s not the fucking Girl Scouts.”
    I opened the heavy door and he walked in. He was wearing a rumpled suit and carrying a gym bag.
    I had seen Peralta in meetings and interrogations and even gun fights. But I had never seen him with the bare hint of vulnerability that surrounded him this moment. He seemed to read me and merely held out a finger, commanding silence, as he moved into the living room and sat heavily in Grandfather’s old green leather chair.
    â€œI need a place to stay,” he said. “I don’t want to