Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery (7 page)

"Now what about this man, what was the
name?"

"Detweiller." Don't play ignorant with me,
bud.

"Yes, now who was he?"

I stared at his face for a full minute, while
his eyes darted around the room.

"How much did Detweiller take you for?" I
finally asked.

"What makes you think. . ." He drew himself
up defensively.

"I think Detweiller was a schemer and a con
man. He worked his way into his victim's confidence, then took
whatever he could. With the women, he used sex, with the men, I
imagine there was some kind of money scheme. He played the horses a
lot. Maybe that was it with you."

"Horse racing? I hardly think so," Tompkins
tone was scathing.

"What, then?" I stayed patient, letting him
think about it. Two or three plans crossed his mind. I watched them
play out rapidly.

"Okay," he finally said. "You're right. It
was an investment scheme. And oddly enough it did involve horses."
He chuckled dryly. "I met Detweiller in the Card Room at the club.
He wasn't a member. I was pretty sure of that. I assumed he was
there as a guest. We got to talking. I've always been fascinated by
horse racing. Not so much as a bettor. I was interested in the
horses themselves, the breeding, the bloodlines. Gary picked up on
that and told me he'd done a lot of investing in race horses. Said
he could get me into this consortium that had already bought into
some of the finest champions in the country. He knew all the names,
their records."

"Because he hung around the tracks all the
time."

"I found that out later. This guy was
smooth."

I thought of the picture I'd seen of
Detweiller. I couldn't see how a well-off man like this wouldn't
have seen right through the facade. Then again, why hadn't Stacy
seen through it either? Maybe Detweiller was a chameleon.

"And you ended up losing your money," I
suggested.

"Twenty thousand. He had me thinking I was
one of the small investors, too—that most of them were putting in
hundreds."

"So, when did you find out the whole thing
was a sham?"

"Just now, really. I'd been calling Gary for
a week, wondering when I would get some word about the investment.
I was supposed to get reports, statements, and so forth. It had
been over a month since I'd given him the money and I was getting
concerned. I'd called for several days in a row, and was really
starting to get mad."

Mad enough to kill? I wondered.

"Now wait a minute," he protested, reading my
thoughts. "Yeah, I was mad that he was ignoring my calls. But
twenty thousand dollars is not enough to kill for. An
embarrassment, maybe, but not worth risking my neck over."

I believed him. Twenty thou was a new
decorating job for the living room to this guy. He wasn't going to
risk this lifestyle over a man of Detweiller's caliber.

Back in the car, I considered visiting the
other names I had whose addresses were in this area. But I had the
feeling I'd get the same story. Whatever scheme Gary had used with
each of them, the bottom line was not financial ruin. Poor Gary
Detweiller, for all his illusions of importance, was nothing more
than an embarrassment to these people.

Which brought me to consider the other half
of the list. What about those working class slobs who might have
sunk all they had into one of Detweiller's schemes?

Chapter 7

"Gary? Sure, Gary Detweiller was a friend of
mine. Do anything for ya, he would." A grease-encrusted hand
reached out from under the hood of the sixty-three Chevy, groping
for an open end wrench.

I'd driven across town to one of the other
addresses on my list. Zack Taylor lived little more than a dozen
blocks from Detweiller's home. The house was an average sized ranch
style home with a gray shingled pitched roof and red brick front.
The double wide garage door stood open, so I'd walked on in.

Taylor was bent over the engine of the old
car, like a surgeon in the midst of a delicate operation. The hood
had been removed, leaving the patient's innards exposed. A hundred
watt drop light hung from the rafters. Tools waited like surgical
instruments, lined up on a towel which also served to protect the
fender on which they rested. The remainder of the garage was filled
with tires, boxes, bicycles, and the other assorted stuff that
usually preempt a car from occupying the second space.

Zack Taylor was probably in his late
twenties, old enough to have a family, judging by the junk in the
garage, but not old enough to have given up his stock race car. A
hole in the garage where you pour money, my father had once called
them. Ron had been into that for awhile, but luckily he outgrew
it.

"So, where did you meet Gary?" I asked.

Zack replaced one wrench, reached for
another, and scratched at the side of his face with a greasy
finger.

"Penguin's. It's like this little
neighborhood place where guys go to have a beer and watch the ball
game. Gary was there all the time."

"The guys liked him, huh?"

"Oh, yeah. When Gary had money, he was your
best friend. Not like a lotta guys. He'd buy rounds for the whole
place."

"He do any betting?"

"Oh, hell, yes. Uh, pardon my French. Yeah,
we all did. Bet on the playoffs, Superbowl, stuff like that."

"How about the horses?"

"That too. Gary'd take all our bets, then go
to the track. He sure loved that track. When we picked a winner,
he'd bring us our money."

"Minus his take."

"Well, yeah. Guy's not gonna spend that much
effort without making a little somethin'." He traded wrenches
again, then lifted some contraption out of the engine.

"But nobody minded that."

"Why? Gary was always fair with us."

"Did you ever hear where the money came from
when he hit it big? Like the times he'd buy drinks for
everyone?"

"Naw, not really. Gary was a real smart guy.
Always had these big business deals going. He prob'ly got these big
commission checks all at once, or somethin'."

Yeah, like the commission on a Rolex
watch.

"Can you think of any reason somebody would
kill him?" I asked.

He raised up and looked straight at me for
the first time. His face was probably very good looking under all
the grease. He was about six feet tall, slim build, with dark eyes
and a nice smile.

"I sure can't," he said. "Down at Penguin's,
anyway, he didn't have an enemy in the world."

I thanked him and left a business card in
case he thought of anything else. He stuck it into his shirt
pocket, where I imagined it staying right through the wash cycle
and coming out as a little white wad.

Two other visits yielded about the same
information. It was a bit early to catch the bartender at
Penguin's. Besides, I was getting tired. Talking to people can
really wear you down. I decided to head for home in case Paul and
his brood had returned early. The drive across town gave me a
chance to think some more about Gary Detweiller. Who was this,
Robin Hood? Robbing from the rich to give to the poor? If so, who
would be mad enough to do him in? Maybe tomorrow I'd head back to
the rich side of town.

As it turned out I didn't get a chance. I
walked in my front door to find Paul and Lorraine stretched out on
the couch with the TV blasting. Annie and Joe sprinted through the
living room just then chasing Rusty, who dashed for cover behind my
legs as soon as he saw me. I put my hands out to fend off the
attackers. Paul noticed me then and mouthed some words in my
direction. Lorraine mouthed something at him, he nodded, then
directed more words at me. It felt like stepping into a Hitchcock
movie where the background music jangles so loudly that the actual
dialog is meaningless.

I told the kids Rusty needed to go out
now—alone. They set off toward the kitchen door. Making my way over
to the couch I picked up the remote control and adjusted the
television to a reasonable level where human conversation could
take place.

"How was your day?" I removed two empty
glasses from my Queen Anne coffee table and wiped at wet rings with
my sleeve.

"It was nice," Lorraine said. "We got a
chance . . . " Joe plopped in her lap with enough force to knock
the air out of her.

"Mom, when're we gonna eat?" he whined.

Lorraine turned to offer him some
explanation, apparently forgetting that she'd been talking to me.
Annie was tugging at Paul simultaneously, so I carried the dirty
glasses and a crushed potato chip bag to the kitchen.

Yes, let's eat, I thought. I hated to do this
to Pedro, but I had to get these guys out of my house.

"I'd rather go to McDonald's," Annie
whined.

"But sweetheart, we can go to McDonald's at
home. Pedro's is a place Daddy and Aunt Charlie and I really like."
Lorraine's voice was kind and patient. Personally, I'd have told
the kid to shut up and get in the car. Guess that's why I don't
have kids.

"McDonald's." Annie kept her little voice
firm, and Joe joined in. Soon it became a chant. Paul looked up at
me helplessly. I shrugged. Anyone who's powerless at the mercy of a
ten-year-old probably deserves it. We went to McDonald's.

Annie and Joe each ate about thirty cents
worth of the burger from their kid meal boxes that I'd paid two
dollars apiece for. The rest lay scattered over the table. They
scampered off to the play yard where they crawled around through a
series of hamster trails sized for kids.

Paul and Lorraine kept a conversation going
of sorts, interrupted by one or the other going to check on their
offspring about every three minutes. I ate my Big Mac and fries and
nodded at the right times, while my mind darted back and forth
thinking about the people I'd talked to in the past few days. Who
killed Gary Detweiller?

By three o'clock the next afternoon I was
wondering who would kill Annie and Joe. I might be a good
candidate. The sleeping bags were neatly rolled, the bags packed,
and it was all I could do to resist carrying the stuff to the car
myself. When the front doorbell rang I jumped.

"Anybody home?" Ron stuck his head in.

"Ron! You're back. Look who's here," I said
taking him by the arm. Paul and Lorraine were in the kitchen. Annie
and Joe stood off to the side eyeing Ron suspiciously. "Want to
take the houseguests from hell back to your place for awhile?" I
muttered under my breath.

"Not a bit," he smiled.

Paul had emerged from the kitchen just then.
He and Ron clasped hands in a hearty shake. Lorraine got scooped up
in one of Ron's giant hugs. I stood back and watched my brothers'
contrasting interaction. Paul is tall and thin with dark hair and
eyes, technically the better looking of the two. Ron is about
five-ten and heftier. His dark hair is thin on top and shows
touches of gray at the temples. Paul is the slacks and polo shirt
type, while Ron chooses Levi's, western shirt, Stetson, and boots.
When he wants to look a little more dressed up, he'll add a bolo
tie. Paul is quiet in a diffident sort of way, while Ron's
soft-spoken manner suggests thoughtfulness. Not to say that we
don't butt heads now and then. But I really am glad he's my
partner.

I let Ron have the visitors all to himself
for awhile. I offered drinks but no one was interested. I busied
myself cleaning up the kitchen and gathering the guest towels and
sheets into the washer. When Ron stood up to leave an hour later,
the others did, too. It was a long drive back to Phoenix, they
said.

I spent the rest of the evening gathering my
sanity, cleaning up all traces of visitors, enjoying the
peacefulness of my home without anyone else in it. Rusty lay
sprawled out on his side near me, apparently exhausted. It wasn't
until I was getting ready for bed that night that I remembered I
hadn't even mentioned the case to Ron.

I dreamed that I was sitting in the living
room holding a baby that was obviously mine. It screamed constantly
despite everything I tried to calm it. Two other children, who
looked suspiciously like Annie and Joe, romped through the house
knocking over a porcelain figurine I'd had since I was a child. A
nameless, faceless man in the picture was stretched out on the
sofa, watching a ball game on TV and reaching occasionally for his
beer can which left a huge wet ring on the coffee table. I awoke
perspiring and breathing hard.

The bedside clock said it was almost six. No
point in trying to get back to sleep now. I put on a robe and
slippers and went to the kitchen. The winter sky was faintly gray,
the air cold. I started the coffee maker and let Rusty out to the
back yard. By the time I'd gone to the bathroom and brushed my
teeth, Rusty was waiting at the door, nose to the crack, shivering.
The coffee was ready, so I poured a mug and curled up on the couch
watching the morning news on TV while the hot liquid gradually woke
me up.

By eight I had showered, dressed in gray wool
slacks and a thick sweater, and was on my way to the office. I had
to figure out a way to tell Ron that I'd taken a case in his
absence and that I'd actually started to work on it. I didn't have
long to plan my speech, either. He was already at his desk when I
arrived.

"For who!" His brown eyes were
incredulous.

"Whom, Ron."

He shot me a look. "You
know
what I
mean. Why on earth would you want to get mixed up with Stacy
North?"

"I didn't really want to," I tried to
explain. "Well, she just looked so pitiful when she came in here
that day. I thought I'd just be finding a stolen watch, which I did
quite well, I believe."

"And now it's a murder case. You know I can't
legally step into that," he reminded me.

"And you haven't," I reminded him. "I'm not
the investigator here. I'm just an interested party asking a few
questions."