Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery (22 page)

He chuckled. "You sound like a little skinny
Perry Mason."

I stood my ground. Skinny?

"Actually, I was out of town all week. At a
banking convention in Atlanta. You can have that verified through
my office, the hotel, and about two hundred other people who heard
me give the keynote speech."

"Blackmail? I don't get it."

He set the glass down and leaned against the
bar, perching his butt against the edge of the counter top, arms
folded across his chest.

"My ex-wife. Or I should say, soon-to-be-ex.
She's got people practically digging into my underwear drawer to
find hidden assets. I assumed you were working for them."

"I told you what I was looking for, right up
front," I said.

He gave me a look that basically said, Get
real. "Do you think her investigators are going to come out with
the real questions?"

Well, okay, probably not. I didn't say it. I
left a couple of minutes later, feeling a little sheepish. Until I
got into the car and thought about it. Tompkins was a cool one. He
had been careful to steer the conversation away from Gary, away
from their dealings. I didn't care what he said, though. A hundred
thousand dollar loss doesn't come easy to anyone. And a hundred
thousand is plenty of reason for murder.

Chapter 20

I cruised past Stacy's house once more on my
way out of the neighborhood. Brad's car was still in the driveway
so I didn't stop. Three blocks away, I spotted a pizza place on the
corner. I realized I was famished. It was still early enough that I
found a parking place right by the door. Almost ordained, it
seemed.

They sold pizza by the slice. I ordered one
with mushrooms and black olives and a Greek salad. I found a table
in a deserted corner and waited there, crunching on the salad. Out
of curiosity I pulled the sheaf of papers from my purse again. I
hadn't organized them, and it took a few minutes to locate Charles
Tompkins' name among the scraps of scrawlings.

I heard my name being called so I got up to
collect my pizza slice. Back at the table, one of the racing forms
almost jumped out at me. Why hadn't I noticed this before? Tompkins
hadn't lost money on Bet The Farm. The horse had won. I remembered
Tompkins' comment about hidden assets.

The horse had won, and maybe Gary hadn't paid
off. Gary had written dates beside some of his handwritten entries,
including Tompkins' big bet on Bet The Farm. I pulled out my
checkbook calendar to verify the date. He'd placed the bet two days
before Stacy had hired me to locate her missing watch. Could it be
pure coincidence, or did Gary have an urgent reason to get out of
town? Like maybe a hundred thousand reasons that someone might be
angry with him?

Tompkins wouldn't have pulled the trigger.
How stupid could I be? The way he'd done it was perfect. Out of
town at a week-long convention, hundreds of witnesses as to his
whereabouts, a hired assassin to get rid of Detweiller. The sheet
of paper suddenly felt hot in my hand. I laid it down, staring at
Gary's long, slanted writing as I finished my pizza. I remembered
Ron's caution to me about withholding evidence. The police needed
to know about this. I still couldn't figure out the connection
between Tompkins and Jean Detweiller. That puzzle would take some
work. But I didn't see how Kent Taylor could ignore this new
finding. Surely, he would have to admit that Stacy was no longer
the only suspect. I stuffed the last bite of pizza into my mouth
and walked out of the place, still chewing.

It was one minute to five when I pulled into
the only parking spot I could find within three blocks of the
downtown police station. I had a feeling Taylor worked from eight
to five and might already be gone by now. I locked my car and
pushed my way up the crowded sidewalk.

Taylor sat at his desk with stacks of file
folders surrounding him. He was making notes in one, resting his
forehead on the other hand. Gone was the freshly pressed look he
usually wore in the mornings. The precisely knotted tie hung over
his chair and his hair looked like it had been the victim of an
eggbeater attack.

He seemed completely unaware of my presence.
I ahummed a couple of times before he looked up.

"Charlie."

I ignored the unspoken, What do you want? He
went back to his writing. Helping myself to an extra chair, I
pulled it to the front of his desk and sat still with my hands in
my lap like a nice, polite little girl. It almost killed me.

He made a few more notes in his file, then
closed the cover.

"Now, I assume by the way you're twitching in
your chair that you came here to tell me something urgent," he
said.

"I've found another suspect in the Detweiller
case that had as much reason to kill Detweiller as anyone. More
reason than Stacy did." I outlined the basics for him.

"That's crazy, Charlie. A guy bets on a horse
and wins, he doesn't kill the bookie."

"He might if the bookie left town with the
guy's winnings. Picture this—Tompkins places a large bet on Friday.
Gets the word Saturday that he'd won. He's ready to collect, but
Gary's gone. Out of town, can't be located. Tompkins spends the
next three days getting madder and madder, until finally he's ready
to kill Gary. He's also had time to think about it and decides he
shouldn't do it himself. So he hires help."

"Or maybe he just couldn't take time out of
his busy schedule to sit for an evening in Detweiller's driveway,"
he replied sarcastically.

"Come on, Kent, you have to admit this is at
least as strong a motive as Stacy's."

He cocked his head to one side, almost but
not quite agreeing.

"At least look into it," I asked.

I could tell by the look on his face that he
had really wanted to close this file with Stacy's name on the
bottom line. I had managed to complicate his life once again in the
last ten minutes and he wasn't crazy about it. I left the station
without knowing what, if anything, he'd do with the
information.

Traffic was heavy as I left the downtown
area. I managed to catch every red light. There was nothing to do
but fall in with the slow pace of all the other vehicles. It was
nearly six when I reached the office, but Ron's light was still
on.

Rusty greeted me at the door like I'd been
gone for days. After quite a bit of hand licking and sniffing my
pockets for misplaced cheeseburgers, he let me go upstairs.

Ron was at his desk still, phone in hand. I
thought the wrinkles were a little more noticeable around his eyes,
and his thin hair was stuck to the top of his bald spot.

"Rough day?" I asked.

"Just a long one," he replied. "The
usual."

"How about an enchilada dinner? My
treat."

He pulled himself out of his chair, groaning
slightly as he stood. He's only six years older than I, making me
wonder if this was the kind of shape I'd be in before long. He
reached for his Stetson on the wall rack. We checked the doors and
windows and boarded our respective cars for the drive to Pedro's.
Somehow, tonight I was eager for that margarita.

Pedro had the drinks plus a bowl of salsa and
a basket of chips on the table almost before we sat down. If it
weren't for Concha, I could probably fall in love with this
man.

"How's your case going?" Ron asked after the
first salty sip from his glass.

I told him of today's discoveries.

"At least I think the police will have to
investigate the possibility that Stacy isn't the only suspect in
this case," I told him. "I just wish I had a better idea of how
Jean's murder tied in to all this. I still haven't figured out why
anyone would have killed her. And it has to be related. She was
shot with the same gun."

"You think Tompkins paid a hit man to do
Gary? Well, the same guy could have killed Jean, not knowing about
the relationship."

"Just for the fun of it, you mean? I doubt
that." The conversation was becoming ridiculous. "I guess I'll
leave that part to the police. At least I can tell Stacy that there
is another suspect."

The enchiladas arrived just then and we
stayed busy shoveling steaming tortilla, chicken, cheese, and green
chile into ourselves. Rusty helped with the fallen chips. Twenty
minutes later I was full, but managed to put away a honey-filled
yeasty sopapilla for dessert.

We visited with Pedro and Concha for a few
minutes before leaving. At home, I felt restless. I wanted to call
Stacy but found myself putting it off, telling myself that it was
already getting late. The truth was, I didn't want to talk to Brad
or to have him around when I spoke with her. And I really wasn't
sure why. Just that contact with him was something I dreaded a
little more each time it happened.

I puttered around the house, finding little
things to keep myself busy until eleven. I went to bed then, more
out of habit than from tiredness. Despite efforts to get
comfortable, my eyes stared wide awake at the ceiling for a long
time. I couldn't rid myself of the feeling that there was more to
the story than I'd discovered so far.

I fell into an uneasy sleep, where I dreamed
that someone slashed all four of my tires while the Jeep was parked
at the Tanoan Country Club. Tangled images of jacks and tow trucks
and a maitre d' who feigned concern over my plight filled the
night. I awoke abruptly, relieved that I no longer had to deal with
the problem.

It was early morning, the room defined in
colorless shades of gray and black. I rolled toward the night
table. The red numerals on my clock radio provided the only spot of
color in the room. Five-fourteen, they said. I groaned and rolled
away from them, but my adrenaline was already pumping too hard for
sleep to return.

Ideas boinged around inside my skull, giving
me no peace. The dream of more flat tires only reminded me that
here was another aspect of the mystery that I had yet failed to
solve. In my mind, I had linked Larry Burke with that incident as
well as with the dark truck that followed me home. But I had no
proof. And the only way I'd get proof was either to confront him or
to return to Penguin's and try to get some evidence. Neither option
appealed to me at the moment.

Thirty minutes later, I was still staring at
the clock, still no closer to drifting back to sleep. I was also
mentally kicking myself in the butt because I couldn't seem to get
motivated to do what I needed to do—visit Larry Burke again.

Mental butt-kicking usually serves to get me
in motion, and this time was no exception. By six o'clock I had
forced myself into the shower and by six-thirty I was in the
predawn traffic, headed across town. I couldn't remember the last
time I'd actually used my headlights in the morning.

Judging by the absolute blackness at the
Burke house, they weren't much for early mornings either.
Fortunately, McDonalds didn't have any such prejudices and I was
able to fortify myself with a breakfast thing that combined eggs,
sausage and biscuit in a way I'd never seen it done before. This
wonderful concoction and a cup of really black coffee would keep me
alive until Larry Burke finally showed his face. In the back seat,
Rusty just about went into seizures over the egg and sausage smell,
so I ordered him one, too. We'd both be watching our cholesterol
for days.

I parked in front of the house next to
Burke's. I wanted a clear view of his driveway, but didn't want him
getting a clear view of me first. This is tricky. A large juniper
at the corner of his property would, I hoped, do the job.

Rusty wolfed down his breakfast treat in
approximately five seconds but I knew we ought to ration our
provisions. I nibbled at mine, thinking this would make the time
pass more quickly. It didn't, but at least I had something to do
while I was bored out of my head. Rusty eyed my sandwich and
drooled, but I ignored him.

Finally, about seven-thirty a light appeared
in what I supposed to be the Burke kitchen. Behind closed
mini-blinds I could see a shape move back and forth occasionally,
but couldn't tell who it was. At five minutes before eight, Larry
emerged, perfectly coifed as usual, spiffy checked jacket hanging
just right from his small frame. I sincerely hoped he didn't have
to be at work by eight, because he was about to be late.

I met him at the door to his sports car. It
was unfortunate that I'd left my camera at home, because the look
on his face would have made an interesting shot.

"Hello, Larry."

He was able to close his jaw with some
effort. His hands seemed to be oddly restless, reaching first for
the car door, then into his pockets, clasping together, then back
to the pockets.

"I'm wondering why you're so surprised to see
me," I told him.

More fidgeting.

"Could it be that someone was supposed to
chase me down Friday night? Maybe I'm not supposed to be walking
and talking right now."

His eyes darted toward the front door, then
up and down the street. He noticed my car for the first time, where
Rusty was quite visibly pressing against the window. A dozen
stories flitted through his list of possibilities, but finally he
slumped.

"Willie, down at Penguin's, he told me you
were trouble," he said. "He wanted to know if he could teach you a
lesson."

"What did I ever do to him?" I asked
incredulously.

Burke shrugged, like he just realized he
didn't know. "Well, not him really—the guy he works for. Somehow
you've pi— ticked that guy off."

"What are you talking about?
Who
are
you talking about?"

"Some rich dude. Willie works for him, as a
security guard, I think. I don't know his name. I've seen him
around the club." He was uncomfortable with this. I got the idea
that he didn't really know, and that he'd opened his mouth to
Willie without knowing enough of the story.