Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery (11 page)

"Okay, maybe tomorrow." I watched him walk
into the classroom, where he slapped hands with a couple of other
guys in a teen male greeting ritual.

A bell jangled with loud heart-stopping
ferocity, effectively silencing all other sound. Walking back to
the parking lot, I thought back to my own school days, before
gangs, blatant drug use, and almost obligatory teen sex. Although
I'd been a teen in the seventies, those things were still not the
norm for my generation. Life had been much easier then.

Not knowing any other way to avoid getting
back to work on my tax returns, it looked like I had no other
choice but to go to the office. There were still a couple of people
I'd like to talk to in the Detweiller case, but they could wait.
Plus, I'd really like to know how the police investigation was
coming along, but didn't think I'd get a lot of information from
Kent Taylor in homicide. Maybe I could hit Ron up to talk to
him.

"Wow, you look like something fresh from high
school," Sally commented when I walked into the kitchen.

"I am. Just got back from talking to Josh
Detweiller."

"Are you still on that tangent?" Ron asked,
coming into the room.

I poured myself a mug of coffee and offered
him some. He let me fill his mug, too, and proceeded to add three
spoons of sugar.

"I'm learning quite a lot about the victim,"
I told him. "But I still haven't found anyone who seems to have
hated the man. Why would someone want to kill a guy that nobody
disliked?"

He chuckled. "If it were that easy, don't you
think the police would already have the answer? Charlie, did it
ever occur to you that someone you've talked to is lying? I mean,
people aren't always straight with us."

I resisted the urge to pop him one. Of course
I wasn't naive enough to think that everyone was going to tell the
truth. But, in fact, isn't that what I'd been doing? Taking all my
suspects at face value? I returned thoughtfully to my desk.

The rest of the morning seemed to fly.
Getting into tax returns is an all-consuming task, with one
schedule leading to the next form, leading to the next worksheet. I
had preliminary numbers penciled in before I realized a fundamental
mistake in my depreciation schedules. I'd have to go back to the
computer and do a couple of adjusting entries before I would have
any real figures to go by.

Sally stopped in to ask whether I'd want
lunch. I couldn't believe it, but it was already twelve-thirty. I
asked if she'd mind getting me a sandwich. Sometime later she
appeared with turkey on whole wheat, which I held in my left hand
while my right hand skipped over the keys on my calculator. I took
bites between calculating and penciling in new numbers.

Sally left for the day, and Ron seemed intent
on his own work. He'd been on the phone most of the morning, making
routine calls on a skip trace. I switched on the answering machine
after the phone interrupted me for the second time in fifteen
minutes. Tax returns are something I don't do well with
interruptions.

"Why don't we take a dinner break?" Ron's
voice startled me, so intent had I been on Form 4562.

I glanced at my watch. It was already six
o'clock. I set my pencil down and rubbed at my burning eyes. Most
of the schedules were done, and hopefully correct. It was time to
let them rest a few days, then I'd review them to see if any
mistakes stuck out.

"Pedro's?" I asked.

"Where else?" He crossed the room and closed
the blinds for me. "I've already checked the front door, returned
all the calls that came in on the machine, and turned out the
lights everywhere but here," he said.

"Wow, you must be hungry. One car or two?" I
asked.

"Two. We're probably both gonna want to go
straight home afterward."

Pedro's is a tiny Mexican restaurant, just
six blocks from my house. It's a couple of streets off the main
plaza in Old Town, so most of the tourists miss it. We've been
coming here since we were children, and Pedro and his wife Concha
have practically adopted us. Tonight, there were two other vehicles
out front when we pulled up.

One was a dusty pickup truck of indeterminate
color belonging to another regular, Manny. The other was local but
I didn't recognize it. Rusty began to get excited as soon as he saw
where we were. Pawing at the side window, he whimpered
impatiently.

"Hold on, hold on," I told him. "We'll be
there in a minute."

Pedro relaxes the city health code regularly
for us, keeping a corner table for us where Rusty can lie in the
shadows, keeping watch for fallen tortilla chips. None of the other
regulars seem to mind, but I usually take the precaution of
checking the room first before letting Rusty in.

It's a small place, with a long hand-carved
bar from Mexico dominating the entire back wall. Six tables fill
the tiny room to capacity. Manny sat at his usual table in the far
right corner. His clothes were as dusty as his truck, nothing
unusual, and he sat with his back to the wall as he watched the
room and silently tossed back tequila shooters. I've seen him do
five or six during the time it takes me to eat a meal, and he'll
still be going at them when I leave. Pedro says Manny has the
insides of a teenager.

Another table, this one on the right hand
side of the room near the windows, was occupied by a couple who
seemed far more wrapped up in each other than anything else.
Otherwise, the place was empty. Pedro stood behind the bar. He
caught my eye and nodded. Rusty was overjoyed when I let him out of
the Jeep.

The three of us took our usual table in the
front left corner. By the time we were seated Pedro had appeared
with a basket of chips, a small bowl of salsa, and two foamy
margaritas. Just the right amount of salt on the rim, the right
amount of tangy lime, the drink was what I needed at the moment to
unknot my cramped neck muscles. We munched on the chips while he
delivered a check to the couple's table. Manny raised his grizzled
gray and black whiskered chin to us, the only show of recognition
we ever get from him.

"Here you go, move those glasses please,"
Concha bustled toward us carrying two plates so hot she had to
carry them with potholders. Pedro had apparently signaled our usual
order to her even before we were seated.

The smells of meat, cheese, and chile
assailed the senses, making me eager to dig right in. Concha patted
me on the shoulder as she walked away, leaving us to do just that.
I tossed Rusty an extra tortilla chip to pacify him while I cut
into my chicken enchiladas, smothered in green chile and sour
cream. It was a good ten minutes before either Ron or I stopped to
say a word.

"How was everything?" Concha came back to
check on us, wiping her hands on her apron. She and Pedro are
almost like Latino caricatures of the old Jack Sprat nursery rhyme.
She is short and round, obviously having sampled much of her own
cooking. Pedro is not much taller than his wife but skinny as a
pole, probably attributable to his constantly being in motion. He
flits around like a hummingbird, serving drinks, rinsing glasses,
wiping the tables and the bar. You rarely see him sit.

"Umm, wonderful as always," I assured
Concha.

"Good. You finish now, we'll visit later."
She waddled back toward the kitchen. She and Pedro live here, too,
in a small apartment they've made for themselves at the back.

"So, how's the case coming?" Ron asked,
wiping red chile from the corners of his mouth.

"I feel kind of stumped," I admitted. "I've
talked to so many people, but I just don't feel like I'm getting
any answers."

"Remember -- motive, means, and opportunity,"
he reminded. "Listen to what people tell you, but read between the
lines. Listen to your gut instincts about people."

"I think I've found several who might have
had motive. Maybe I just need to ask more questions to find out
about the other two factors."

"The rest of this week looks pretty loaded
for me," he said, "but maybe by the first of next week I can free
up some time to help you."

"Thanks, but don't worry about it just yet.
I'd like to work on it a little longer myself."

"Just remember, there is still an active
police investigation going on here," he said. "If you uncover any
evidence at all, you better turn it in or you're looking at
trouble."

I shot him a look. I'm not that stupid, Ron.
"Oh, that reminds me, do you think you could get any information
out of Kent Taylor? I'd love to know what angles they're working
on."

He chuckled. "I seriously doubt it, Charlie.
What do you think? I just walk in there and request a copy of the
file, and I get it? Not hardly."

"Okay, okay. Be patient with me. I'm just
learning how these things work." Maybe I
am
that stupid.

He didn't mention it. We finished our drinks
and visited a couple of minutes with Pedro and Concha before saying
goodnight. I started home but found I really wasn't in the mood for
a quiet evening in front of the TV. The case still nagged at me and
I'd sat still enough hours today already. Pulling over under a
street lamp, I reached for the city map I keep in the glove box.
Carla Delvecchio's address was not in the Tanoan community but just
outside it. I wondered if it would be worth a drive across town. If
she wasn't home or didn't answer her door after dark, I'd have
wasted the time. On the other hand calling in advance probably
wouldn't net me anything either.

Traffic was light; we were on the opposite
side of town in about twenty minutes. Carla Delvecchio's home was
impressive. Not quite up to Tanoan specs but otherwise a good-sized
piece of southwestern architecture. Soft perimeter lighting cast a
friendly glow into otherwise dark corners. The reason, surely, was
security but the effect was soothing not harsh. Two large arches
formed the most dramatic feature of the house, each with an ornate
wrought iron light fixture draped into its center. Soft golden
light emanated through the colored glass. A single muted chime
sounded when I pressed the doorbell.

I could hear faint shuffling sounds as
someone approached the door, no doubt checking me out through the
peephole before opening it. Carla Delvecchio wore a loose caftan of
some velvety looking material in a large pattern of ruby, emerald
and sapphire. Her dark chin-length hair looked unsettled, like
she'd probably worn it up all day and brushed it loose when she got
home. It formed a cloudlike frame for her heart shaped face. The
effect was attractive. She was in her early forties with the air of
someone who has achieved her desired place in life and is now
enjoying it.

"May I help you?" The voice was firm, full of
authority and not so concerned with helping me as with getting rid
of me. Politely, of course.

"Hi, my name's Charlie Parker." I produced a
business card. "I've been asked to look into the death of Gary
Detweiller."

"RJP Investigations," she read. "I believe my
law firm has used your services. Come in, please."

Now that she mentioned it, I recognized the
name. Sloan and Delvecchio. I couldn't remember what services we'd
performed. I was sure it had been over a year ago. I stepped into a
marble foyer. Her taste in furnishings ran to the classic, with
quality wood pieces and rich upholstered fabrics.

"I was just having a glass of wine," she
said, "would you like one?"

"No thanks." One margarita was plenty for one
evening. "But you go ahead." I followed her into a spotless kitchen
of pale peach.

She finished uncorking a bottle that sat on
the counter, and poured a single glass. Her movements were
confident. She wiped the side of the bottle with a sponge and
recorked it. Next she wiped at an imaginary spot on the counter,
then replaced the sponge near the sink and returned the bottle to
the refrigerator. "Let's take this somewhere a little more
comfortable," she suggested. "I spent most of my day on a hard
wooden chair in court."

She led the way to the living room, where a
fire sprang to life the second she turned the gas key. Instant
coziness. We sat at opposite ends of a peach colored satin couch
and stared at the flames.

"Now, you said this was about Gary
Detweiller?" she prompted.

"Yes, I understand he had begun hanging
around the country club and had hit on some of the female
members."

"Including me." She met my eyes with a firm
gaze as she said it.

"Well, yes."

"Otherwise, why would you be here,
right?"

"Well, yes." I found her forthrightness a
little disconcerting.

"Gary seemed determined to make me one of his
conquests the minute he saw me," she said. "It was at one of those
Friday night dinner dances. I rarely go to them, but that night I
had an out of town client to entertain and the club seemed more his
style than bar hopping." She paused to sip her wine. "Anyway, I saw
this sleazy-looking guy in a cheap suit across the room. My first
thought was to wonder what he was doing there. I guess he caught me
staring and misinterpreted. The next thing I knew he sidled across
the room—pardon me, but that's the only word I can think of for
that walk of his."

"I gathered you two got kind of
friendly."

"I'd had a few drinks, and I guess I figured
what the hell. I laughed at his jokes, but I don't think he figured
out I was really laughing at
him
. You know, the whole
picture, the moves he made, the image he gave off. He was just so
phony." She chuckled slightly as she remembered. "He was obviously
there to hit on the rich women. I mean, it was so obvious it was
comical."

"Some of them fell for it, though, didn't
they?"

"I guess so. Like I said, I don't hang around
the club much. It's an image place. Unless there's a business
benefit in it for me, I'm really not into projecting an image. I
put a lot of myself into my practice, and what little time is left
I like to spend alone, recharging my batteries." She took a deep
breath and watched the fire dance.