Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery (13 page)

"What did you say?"

"I told him the choice of representation
would be up to my client. That she had already retained me."

"And?"

"Well, he just about blew a gasket over that.
We'll see. You gonna be at your office awhile?"

I glanced at my watch. It was close to
eleven. "I don't have any other plans," I told her.

"I should have Stacy out of here soon," she
said. "I managed a quick hearing and the judge agreed she's not a
threat. Let her out on her own recognizance." Papers shuffled in
the background. "Anyway, I thought we might stop by your office
when we leave here."

We hung up a minute later.

Ron had left on some mission and I checked
with Sally to see whether he'd be back soon. I would have liked to
have him there when Carla and Stacy came by.

"Don't think so," Sally said. "He said he had
a lunch date."

I wondered if that was date, as in female. It
had been a long time for Ron.

Stacy was a wreck when they arrived a little
before twelve. Her jogging suit was rumpled, with a dirty smudge
across one hip. Her blond hair hung limp and stringy, looking like
she hadn't even brushed it this morning. When she saw me a red rim
appeared around her mouth and her eyes became watery. Despite
everything, we reached instinctively for each other. The embrace
only brought out the tears in both of us.

"I must look horrible," she sobbed, wiping at
the tears with a dirty hand. A black smudge made a path across her
cheek.

"Yeah, you do." I smiled through a wet haze.
"Want to wash up a little?" I pointed her toward the bathroom.

"Will she be all right if she goes home?" I
asked Carla, once the bathroom door was tightly closed.

We were in my office now, Carla taking the
sofa, I behind my desk. Carla shook her dark head, indicating she
didn't know. She wore a pin-striped suit, cream colored silk blouse
and dark pumps. Her chin-length hair was breezy yet businesslike, a
confident and professional lady. If I ever needed an attorney, I'd
want her in my corner.

"I really don't know, Charlie. I was
completely taken aback by Brad North's behavior on the phone
earlier. Even now, I'm not sure whether he meant to convey concern
or anger."

I pondered that. It had been so many years
since I'd spent any time around Brad, I just didn't know how to
read him.

"What do you think about Stacy's case at this
point?" I asked.

"At this point," she responded, "I can't say.
I haven't seen any of the evidence yet. I need to talk to her some
more. See if she'll open up to me."

"I hope so. The impression I get of Stacy
these days is that she's built big thick walls around herself.
She's not the same girl I used to know."

"One of the associates in our office has a
degree in psychology. She's pretty good at getting people to open
up to her. Maybe I can find out more than we see on the surface
here."

"If Stacy doesn't dump you and take on her
husband as counsel."

Carla nodded knowingly. "That's a big
if
."

Stacy emerged from the bathroom looking a
million percent better. She must carry a full toolkit in her purse.
She had washed her face and hands, applied full makeup, brushed her
hair, and had somehow even diminished the dirty smudge on her
pants. She even smelled of freshly applied Giorgio.

"Wow, I'm impressed," I told her. I can't
seem to make that much difference in myself when I'm dressing up
for a date.

Carla patted the sofa next to her, indicating
that she'd like Stacy to sit. The two clasped hands for a second. I
was glad to see they'd hit it off.

"I'd like to review the case with Charlie
present, if you don't mind," Carla told Stacy. "Since she's been
investigating, I think she might have some valuable input for
us."

Stacy nodded.

I spent a few minutes filling them in on what
I knew. I pointed out that the police could probably easily provide
motive, via the pawn ticket on the Rolex, and opportunity because
of the time gap between the time of death and Stacy's established
time at the airport that night. Means was the missing link. As far
as I knew, they had not located the murder weapon. I asked whether
either of them knew about this.

"They didn't mention it to me during the
questioning," Stacy said.

"It seems likely they would have," Carla
added, "if they had the gun. Although they wouldn't be required to
confront you with it at this point. I'll find out about that later
when they have to disclose their evidence to us."

"Speaking of which," I broke in, "I'm not
sure how to bring this up, but is there an
us
? I mean,
Stacy, this is up to you but have you officially retained Carla? Or
is there a chance you might turn to Brad?"

Stacy turned her eyes first to Carla, then
back to me. She looked confused.

Carla spoke first. "Stacy, whether you choose
me or not, I'd highly recommend that you seek outside counsel.
Having family members represent each other gets very sticky."

"And," I reminded her, "you'd have to tell
Brad
everything
. I remember the way you looked the first day
you came in here, and I don't think you want to do that. With
someone else representing you, all that can be kept in confidence
unless absolutely necessary."

That seemed to convince her. She reached into
her purse and took out her checkbook. Apparently, this time there
would be no hiding from Brad that she was spending the money. She
quickly wrote out a check and passed it to Carla without another
word.

"There's another difficult question I need to
ask." I posed the question to Stacy. "Are you all right going home?
I mean, would you feel safer somewhere else?"

She looked puzzled. I looked at Carla.

"I didn't tell you about my conversation with
your husband this morning," she told Stacy.

She related the story, leaving out a few of
the choicer words. Stacy seemed to fill in the blanks herself. She
leaned against the arm of the sofa, propping her elbow there and
gently resting her chin on her hand. She stared out the window for
a full minute. A dozen emotions flickered across her fine
features.

"No," she said finally, "I'll be okay. Brad
won't hurt me."

I wished I believed it but truthfully, I felt
that Brad had already hurt her. Somewhere down inside, Stacy was
hiding a whole lot of hurts.

"How about lunch, you two?" I suggested,
trying to lighten the mood a little. "I can put it on my expenses."
I winked at Stacy.

"It sounds fun, but I've already left two
clients hanging this morning. I better get back to my office. You
two go. Charlie can take you home later," she told Stacy.

I'd forgotten that Stacy had been escorted
from home in a police cruiser this morning. That had probably given
the Tanoan gossip mill plenty of fuel. My stomach clenched a little
at the thought that we might encounter Brad there, but I smiled
encouragement at Stacy. She'd chosen to face him on her own. Maybe
I could stay low-key.

Chapter 12

We lunched at McDougal's Pub, a boisterous
place where I thought Stacy might feel free to talk because there
was no chance of our conversation being overheard by others, and
little chance we'd run into anyone we knew. The place was meant to
replicate an old-time Irish Pub, with hardwood floors, a long
wooden bar with brass rail, and framed prints of the Irish
countryside hanging on the dark paneled walls. Visually, it came
off cute. Audibly, it was something else. With no sound absorbing
surfaces in the entire place, the voices and laughter bounced off
the walls and echoed through one's eardrums. The effect was like
being locked inside a pre-school at recess time, only the voices
were several octaves lower.

Stacy was quiet through the meal, picking at
her Reuben sandwich, occasionally swirling a french fry through a
puddle of catsup but not eating it. Her mouth stayed set in a
straight line but her eyes looked weary.

"Stace," I finally broke in, "do you want to
talk about it?"

She shook her head, not meeting my eyes.

"What is it? Are you worried about the case,
or is it about going home?"

She busied herself with a large bite of her
sandwich, shaking her head as if to say neither. It was obviously
my cue to butt out. I changed the subject and we finished the meal
reminiscing about high school.

The Tanoan community was as dead looking as
ever when we pulled through the gates an hour later. The tan stucco
giants shouldered side-by-side, their curtained eyes pointed
straight ahead, as if to ignore each other's presence despite the
fact that they were almost touching. We drove three blocks before
seeing another living being. A yard service truck was parked in
front of one of the tan mammoths. Three men bustled about like
servants, manicuring and trimming. They would be gone in fifteen
minutes, leaving the giant trimmed and pretty, if unloved. I
pictured my mother planting and tending her rose bushes with love.
I supposed that just wasn't done here.

Brad's Mercedes sat in the circular drive.
Stacy tensed visibly as we pulled up. I stopped short, in front of
a neighbor's house.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked.
"You're welcome to come home with me if you need a few days to get
yourself together."

She sucked in a deep breath and let it out
again slowly. Her eyes remained riveted to the front of the house.
I followed her gaze. A front curtain stirred.

"No," she said, "I'll be fine." She darted a
quick, tense smile my way. "I better get in now."

I edged the Jeep slowly forward, stopping in
front of Stacy's house. I squeezed her hand.

"Do you want me to go in with you?"

"No, no, don't be silly." She forced her
voice to be breezy. "Really, Charlie, I'll be fine."

Secretly, I was glad she'd turned down the
offer. I watched her walk away from me, squaring her shoulders as
she approached the front door. A person's home should be her
refuge, her safe haven from the pressures of the world. Somehow, I
knew this wasn't the case with Stacy.

Thoughtfully, I drove slowly through the
lifeless streets. What did it matter if a person had shitpots of
money, I thought, if there was no joy in their lives? What joy
could there be in working oneself to death in a high pressure
career, just to come home to a house that looked like it had been
cloned from that of a neighbor you didn't even know? My heart went
out to Stacy but I didn't know how I could tell her so. After all,
she'd made her choice.

It was a little after two by the time I
reached the intersection of Academy and Wyoming. I remembered that
I'd promised Josh Detweiller to meet him after school one day. My
timing might be just about right if I headed across town right
now.

At the next red light, I pulled my phone book
from the back seat. Video Madness, Josh had called their hangout.
It was listed on Coal, I guessed about two or three blocks from the
school. I hit San Mateo southbound. The weather was beautiful and
it seemed to put people in an aggressive mood. I got the one-finger
wave from a guy after he abruptly changed lanes in front of me.
After nearly taking off my front bumper, he sped ahead and I
watched him pull the same maneuver on someone else.

Video Madness was just that, I discovered,
when I finally found the place twenty minutes later. The small
parking area overflowed with cars of the same vintage as Josh's
primer-coated muscle car. A few newer ones dotted the area but not
many. For the most part, these kids were from families like Josh's,
hard working, many with single parents. Most of the parents didn't
drive new cars, much less their teens. Opposite of the neighborhood
I'd just come from.

I could hear the dinging, whizzing, boinging
of electronic video games even before I opened the door. The
windows had been painted over with black paint. I stepped in, my
eyes adjusting slowly to the dimness. The jangling cacophony would
drive me crazy in about fifteen minutes. A middle-aged man manned
the counter, dispensing quarters, soft drinks, and slices of pizza,
which were kept warm under two red light bulbs in a glass case.
Clumps of teens gathered around two small booths, Formica tables
with Formica benches running along each side. Apparently food was
the first priority after school, although the games were getting a
fair amount of attention, too.

I spotted Josh alone at one of the games. His
eyes darted around the screen following some dreaded aliens. Both
hands were busy at the controls, shooting the monsters with deadly
precision. His concentration was total. There might not have been
another person within miles as far as Josh was concerned.

I circled, trying to stay out of his line of
sight, allowing him to finish his game without distraction. It
probably didn't matter—a bomb explosion probably wouldn't have
distracted him. I parked myself behind and to his left, watching
the game, waiting for a break when I might speak to him. It took
about fifteen minutes before one of the aliens got him.

"You're pretty good at this," I
commented.

His head snapped toward me. "Oh! I didn't
even see you there."

"You were pretty intent all right. You must
play a lot."

"Yeah, I guess so. Every day." When he
smiled, his face became angelic. "Wanna play a game?"

"Well, I've never really tried these much," I
admitted. My eye-hand coordination skills are pretty much limited
to the computer keyboard and sometimes even that is iffy.

"Come on," he coaxed. He was already dropping
quarters into the slot. "Okay, get over here. You've got the red
controls."

My mouth opened to protest but he had scooped
me toward him by my shoulder.

"Now, I'm player number one, so you just
watch what I do." His eyes were again intent on the screen. I tried
to watch his hand moves but, truthfully, I hadn't much idea of what
he was doing. His turn took about five minutes, then he was finally
shot down.