Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (12 page)

Chapter 14

I wanted to get my paycheck deposited, and
discovered there was a branch office of my bank nearby. I decided
it would be just as convenient here as to try and catch the branch
near home before closing time.

It was a perfect spring day, as only
Albuquerque can have them. The sky was solid deep blue, bright
enough to almost be painful to look at. Mimosa and ash trees grew
out of dirt squares left periodically open in the sidewalks around
the parking lot. The trees had leafed out within the past few
weeks, and sparrows had already found perches in them. The sun was
warm, possibly too warm if not for a tiny whiff of breeze
meandering up the street.

I had filled out my deposit slip and joined
the line waiting for the next available teller when I felt a small
tap on my shoulder.

"Charlie?"

It was Michael Mann. He wore a dark power
suit of summer wool, and looked as if he'd just stepped out of the
barber shop. He smelled of Aramis and money. His dark eyes held
mine for several seconds. I could see why he'd managed to make a
name for himself in the real estate market.

"Any more progress in David's case?" he
asked.

"A few clues here and there," I said
noncommittally. "Nothing I can take to the bank yet." As soon as I
said it I realized where we were standing, and we both had a little
chuckle over it.

He glanced at the slim Piaget on his wrist.
"Look," he said, "I've got to get going. I have to be in Cleveland
this weekend, so I better get with it."

"Oh? Business or pleasure?" As soon as the
words were out, I realized I was imitating his flirtatious
manner.

"Business. This is the second weekend in a
row, I'm afraid. I'd rather be with my family, but my wife hates
business trips, so she and our little girl are staying home." He
turned to leave, reaching out once more to touch my forearm. "If
anything new comes up in the case, I'd like to hear from you."

I watched his back, as he walked with smooth
confidence toward the door. The woman in line behind me nudged me
to say it was my turn.

Ron was on the phone when I got back to the
office. I could tell that the conversation concerned the cheating
wife case, and I really wasn't interested in hearing the details.
He glanced up at me as I passed his doorway, and our eyes met for a
minute.

"You look nice," he mouthed, pushing the
receiver aside for a second.

I wanted to throw something at him. Since
when does dressing nicely for one day rate so much attention? I
went across the hall to my own office. Rusty lay stretched out
asleep in the corner.

"What do you think, pal? Maybe I need to
class up my act more often."

He raised his eyebrows, but didn't
comment.

That's when I noticed the bouquet on my desk.
Anthuriums. Shades of red, from crimson to pale pink, fell in a
cascade interrupted by a few touches of greenery. Hawaiian
anthuriums. My heart tightened up as I reached for the card. The
message made my eyes sting a little. Sally caught me holding the
card to my chest and sniffing.

"He's pretty special, huh?" she said.

Embarrassed, I tossed the card on the desk
and busied myself setting the flowers aside. Sally remained firmly
in the doorway, one eyebrow raised. She knows me too well.

"Yeah," I admitted, "pretty special." What
was I feeling here? Getting mushy all of a sudden? I grinned at
her, but my mouth felt tight and funny. "Now get back to work!"

She wiggled her eyebrows at me twice as she
turned.

I re-read the card and stared at the flowers
for a couple more minutes. Placed a call to Hawaii, although I knew
he’d be at work, and left a thank-you message on his machine.

Back to business.

I stuck the Ruiz file in my lower desk
drawer, and began work on some correspondence that I'd been putting
off. Somehow, I manage to get letters written more efficiently when
I wait until I have lots. Pressure stimulates action, I suppose. I
had finished three and started on the fourth when Ron stuck his
head in my doorway.

"Busy?"

I typed two more lines to let him know that I
was. "What's up, Ron?"

"Nothing much. I just wanted to let you know
that Vicky and I enjoyed your company last night."

One of them probably did; the other I wasn't
so sure about.

"That's quite a place she has, isn't it?" he
said.

"She must be quite a successful decorator. I
was hoping I'd get to see the rest of the place. Is it just as nice
as the living room?"

He looked faintly embarrassed. "Actually,
I've never seen beyond the living room either," he said.

The phone across the hall in his office
signaled. He ran for it, effectively ducking any further questions.
My fingers lay inert on the keyboard. What a strange relationship
these two had. I couldn't imagine becoming intimate with someone
who wouldn't let you see beyond their living room. Vicky apparently
had something to hide. I thought of the man I'd seen kissing her in
the Ruiz's kitchen. Another boyfriend? A husband? And what about
the dark-haired child with the stuffed rabbit? There could be any
number of explanations, but my mind only gravitated toward one.

My letters finished, I was putting stamps on
the envelopes by the time Ron got off the phone.

"Vicky and I are going down to the lake this
weekend," he said. "You and Rusty want to come?"

New Mexico is not exactly known for its
abundance of water recreation areas, and the few places we have are
always jammed to the max on holiday weekends. Not my idea of fun.
Half the population of Albuquerque leaves town on Memorial Day
weekend, so I figure the quiet deserted city is the place to be.
Besides, no matter how badly Ron wanted it, an easy friendship
between Vicky and me was highly unlikely.

"No thanks," was all I said.

"We're going to get an early start, so if you
change your mind before noon tomorrow, you're still welcome."

I'd rather schedule myself for dental
surgery.

Sally had gone for the day, leaving outgoing
mail beside her stapler. I gathered her envelopes and mine, and
told Ron I'd drop them at the post office on my way out. I had
decided to make one more trip across town to visit the Porsche
dealer again.

The persistent blond salesman was nowhere in
evidence when I arrived at the dealership, for which I was
thankful. This trip required less daydreaming and more hard
research. A few pieces had begun to click into place after my visit
to the police garage, and I wanted to test the theory. I parked my
Jeep at the side of the car showroom, hopefully out of direct line
of sight of the hungry sales people's desks. Besides, it was a
shady spot, where Rusty would be more comfortable while I
experimented.

I walked over to the car I had sat in the
other day, and slid into the driver's seat. The .357 Kent Taylor
had showed me had about a six inch long barrel. I raised my left
hand to my temple, aiming my index finger plus a few inches to
approximate the length of the gun barrel. As I had suspected, with
the car door closed and the window rolled up, I had to lean way to
the right to make the "gun" fit. If David had leaned over as far as
I did, the bullet would have ended up embedded in the passenger
seat, not near the base of the passenger window, as it did. If
David had tried to remain sitting upright, tucking his left elbow
close to his side, the barrel would have been aimed sharply upward,
causing the bullet to end up in the roof of the car.

My findings could mean only one thing: David
was murdered.

Chapter 15

I felt I should see Kent Taylor right away.
He wasn't going to take kindly to the news that his department
hadn't done a thorough job, but that's life. On the other hand, if
I kept what I knew to myself for just a few more days, I might be
able to not only come up with the how, but the who. A
macho-sounding little voice inside me urged me to go for it. My
good-girl little voice warned me that withholding evidence means
big trouble.

"Evidence?" said the macho voice. "The police
have already closed the case."

"You know damn well what evidence," said the
sometimes dirty-mouthed good girl. "And you know damn well that
they'll re-open the case when they hear about this.
And
, you
know that chasing down a murderer on your own could get you damn
well killed!"

Okay, okay, I agreed grudgingly, you win.

Rusty's head was hanging out the window, his
tongue lolling, as I approached the Jeep. I turned the air
conditioning on for him, and backed out of the parking space. There
was a pay phone at the gas station next door to the car dealership,
and I swung in their driveway to use it.

Kent Taylor was off-duty, his office informed
me. No, they would not give me his home number; I could leave a
message if it was urgent. I decided to use my own resources
instead. It was after six, with plenty of daylight left, as I
headed back across town. I was pretty sure I'd seen Kent's home
number in Ron's Rolodex at the office, so I made that my
destination.

Rusty was happy to have the run of the back
yard while I went inside to make my call. The back and sides of the
property are fenced, separating us from the neighbors, and Rusty's
pretty good about hanging around without wandering off. Besides, he
hadn't had his dinner yet, so I knew he'd soon be ready to go
home.

I switched on a minimum number of lights as I
walked through the dim offices. Ron's desk top was a mess, as
usual, so I carried the Rolodex to my own. Kent's number was
listed, but it took me awhile to reason out Ron's system and figure
out that it would be under P for Police.

An inquisitive kid answered the phone, and
after questioning what exactly I wanted, held the mouthpiece about
two inches from his mouth and screamed, "Daddy!" Thankfully, I have
always been quick with my hands, and managed to jerk the receiver
away from my ear just before I was deafened.

"Yyelllo." Kent's voice sounded weary. I
could picture him getting up from the dinner table to take the
call.

"Hi, Kent. Charlie Parker. I hope I didn't
interrupt your dinner."

"That's okay, Charlie. What's up?" His words
were polite, but his tone said I'd better get this over with
quick.

"I've got some new findings in the Ruiz case.
It wasn't a suicide, Kent. David Ruiz was murdered."

I could hear him sigh at the other end of the
line. "I'm on duty again at seven in the morning. Can it wait until
then?"

"I don't know, Kent. Should it?"

The noise level in the background was
steadily rising. From the shrieks and laughter, it sounded like a
kindergarten in the midst of a bloody coup. I heard Kent put the
receiver to his shoulder and yell at them to knock it off.

"Tonight isn't good for me, Charlie," he
said. "Betty's off at some PTA meeting, and you can hear what it's
like around here. I've got one in bed with the chickenpox, and the
other two about to tear the walls down. No way I can get away."

"I could come up there," I volunteered
tentatively.

"No, tomorrow at the station would be
better," he said.

Well, I've done my civic duty, I thought as
we hung up. Truthfully, I was glad he'd turned down my offer. I
didn't really want to search out his house which, judging by the
phone prefix, must be way up in the northeast heights somewhere.
And I wasn't wild about walking into the madhouse I'd heard in the
background. It had been a long day, and I was ready for a glass of
wine and a hot bath.

Switching off my light, I walked across the
hall to Ron's office and returned his Rolodex to roughly the spot
where I'd found it. The sun had set, and his room was almost black
in the deepening gloom. I heard a car door slam nearby, and went to
the front window to check it out.

The neighborhood is one of those stuck in
transition for years, composed of a combination of residences and
small businesses. Except for the discreet shingle allowed next to
the front doors of some, anyone driving through the neighborhood
might assume it was entirely residential. It isn't unusual to hear
cars coming and going near the dinner hour, and I wasn't sure why I
even looked now. Both Ron's office and mine face the street; a
glance in that direction assured me that no one was there.

The natural light in the stairwell had dimmed
to blackness by now, but I knew it so well I didn't bother with
lights. The polished wood handrail guided me down toward the
kitchen, where I could see outlines of gray at the windows. I was
feeling around in the bottom of my shoulder bag for my keys when
the arms encircled me.

A grip like iron pinned my arms to my sides,
while some kind of cloth was pressed over my nose and mouth. I
struggled and tried to kick, but the person already had the
advantage of surprise. The cloth smelled sickly, and I realized it
had been saturated with something—probably chloroform. I held my
breath and forced my struggling to become weaker and weaker before
making myself go limp. I hoped it was a reasonable facsimile of how
a drugged person might really act. About the time I thought my
lungs would burst, my attacker dropped me to the floor.

My head bounced on the hardwood floor with
teeth-jarring agony, and it took a few seconds for the mist to
clear. I heard heavy footsteps thunder across the room, and the
back door crashed open against the bentwood coat rack behind it. I
raised my aching head just in time to see a dark figure silhouetted
against the open doorway. It vanished in less than a second.

I pulled myself up, my feet in motion well
before my eyes could adjust to the swimming action before them. I
stumbled down the back steps and veered to my left, assuming that
the person would have headed down the driveway. A low-slung car
without lights squealed on the concrete, bouncing as one back tire
hopped the curb. I ran toward it, but it was hopeless. The car was
more than a block away by the time my wobbly legs got me to the
street. I sunk down on the curb, letting my head droop between my
knees, sucking air to clear my brain.