Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (14 page)

I spent the next hour going through every
file in every drawer and every notebook and printout on the
shelves. The results were no different than last time. The only
thing I could figure was that David had turned everything over to
Ben Murray for review. It seemed like the only logical answer,
although I still had a hard time reconciling David's choice of
accountants, given their very different styles.

Sharon came in just as I was switching on the
computer, and I told her what I intended to do. She didn't know
anything about the software either, but told me to go for it.

"Now I want to hear what else you've come up
with," she said.

She had brought two mugs of coffee with her,
so we both sat back a few minutes while I told her about my visit
to the car lot, and my talk with Kent Taylor this morning. I left
out the part about the attack last night. The case was beginning to
be an obsession with me, I knew, but I didn't want her to pull me
off it because she thought it was dangerous.

"I don't know what this means as far as your
insurance is concerned," I said, "but I'd think you have a much
better chance of getting something out of them now that the police
are investigating again."

The relief on her face was tangible. She
still had difficult times ahead of her, but some cash could make
all the difference.

"I'm going to leave you to your work," she
said. "If you want more coffee, something to eat, hugs, kisses,
anything—you just let me know."

It took me a couple of hours to work my way
through their software. Luckily, David had the user's guide on the
shelf, and I was able to glean enough to find out that I could
reprint all the reports dating back to January. Five months worth
wouldn't give me the whole picture, but it was a good start. There
were also some historical reports available that, while they
wouldn't give a lot of detail, might help fill in the rest of the
missing pieces for last year as well. I wanted to be able to look
back to the time the restaurant first opened, and hoped this would
do it. I explored the program's menus, and was soon able to start
the financial statements printing.

Their printer was ancient by computer
standards, at least four or five years old, and it ran slower than
Christmas. The software only allowed me to start one print job at a
time, so it was pretty much a full-time babysitting chore for me.
Unable to leave the room for more than a couple of minutes between
pages, I used my confinement time in David's office to snoop. There
wasn't much I hadn't already browsed, but I did take a nice long
gander at the restaurant's checkbook.

Sharon had been making deposits of the daily
cash intake, and with no money going out the situation didn't look
too dire. However, the stack of incoming bills was quite a bit
larger than it had been at the beginning of the week. I felt like I
ought to run some totals and let Sharon know which ones were most
urgent. On the other hand, she might resent the intrusion. I was
here to find David's killer, not to give financial advice. I
decided I'd casually offer to help her out. If she wanted the help,
fine. If not, she could gracefully decline.

It was after noon by the time the old printer
finished chattering. A stack of paper almost three inches high
awaited my perusal. I could see where my weekend would be
spent.

There was a tap at the door just before the
knob turned and the door swung inward. Sharon was balancing a food
tray on one shoulder.

"Make some space on that desk," she said,
obviously needing to get rid of the tray quickly.

I swept the stacks of papers and mail to one
side, and she deftly lowered the tray to the clear space. She had
brought two salads, heaped high with greens and topped with sauteed
strips of chicken, shreds of cheese, avocado slices, and sliced
olives and tomatoes. A small dollop of sour cream decorated the
center of each. Two glasses of iced tea glistened with a thin film
of moisture. She had included place settings, napkins, and a small
dish of after-dinner mints.

"I coerced Angeline into doing both hostess
and waitress duty so I could take a few minutes to eat with you,"
she said.

She pulled up a chair across the desk from
me, and distributed the food. Dark circles showed under her eyes
and a thin film of perspiration shone on her upper lip. Tendrils of
hair had escaped their pins, and she looked like she'd been on her
feet constantly since early this morning.

"Sharon, this looks wonderful," I said. "You
look like you needed the break."

"I've been here since five," she said. She
took a deep breath and closed her eyes a few seconds before picking
up her fork.

Neither of us said anything for about five
minutes; we were thoroughly occupied attacking the food. Finally,
during a breather, she eyed the stack of printouts I had run.

"Did you find what you needed?" she
asked.

"Well, I've got a starting place," I told
her. "I still don't know what information they contain. Thought I'd
take them home over the weekend and study them."

Her eyes continued to scan the desk's messy
surface. I sensed some beneath-the-surface fidgeting when she saw
the stack of bills.

"Sharon, you look like you're swamped here.
If there's anything I could do..."

"I'm not sure I could afford to pay you," she
sighed. "I'll have to think about it. I should probably just make
the time to get in here and do it myself."

Angeline, the young hostess, burst through
the door just then. "Sharon, I need your help," she said. She was
wringing her hands and bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet,
obviously wanting Sharon's attention right this minute.

Sharon pushed her chair back abandoning her
half-eaten salad. If all her meals were eaten this way, I could
certainly understand her thinness.

I dawdled over my own lunch, thinking she
might be back any time, but it didn't happen. I still hadn't seen
her by the time I picked the last lettuce leaf off my plate. There
wasn't much else I could do here at the moment, so I gathered the
stack of paper and my purse, and left, closing David's door behind
me. Sharon managed a quick wave from across the room as I headed
for the front door.

At the office, Sally had left already and Ron
was on the phone.

"I don't see why I can't just swing by your
place and pick you up," he said. There was a pause while he
listened to the corresponding explanation.

"Yeah, but I've got the car all packed, and I
can be out of here in ten minutes." His voice was tight.

Didn't sound like his and Vicky's weekend at
the lake was getting off to a real congenial start. I passed his
door without sticking my head in, anxious to unload the stack of
computer printouts from my arms. I dumped them on my desk just as I
heard him end the conversation.

"Okay," he said with a deep huff, "I'll wait
until you can get here." He appeared in my doorway a minute
later.

"Problems?"

"Sometimes I just don't understand women," he
said. "We have it all planned to be out of town by noon. Now it's
one thing and another."

He looked at his watch. "Almost two o'clock.
And instead of having me go by and pick her up, she wants to come
here. Says something's wrong with her car, so she'll have to call a
cab, and now it might be another hour before she gets here."

If there's one thing I've learned in life,
it's not to get involved in a lover's spat. Taking a side will
always
come back to haunt you after the lovers have made up.
I pasted a sympathetic look on my face and nodded, hoping I looked
sincere. He sulked back to his own office.

Vicky's story about something wrong with her
car so she'd have to take a cab just didn't gel with me. Unless you
are going from the airport to one of the major hotels, cabs in
Albuquerque are not a practical means of transportation. They don't
hang around on street corners here like they do in New York. No,
that girl was hiding something. I'd bet on it. I couldn't believe
Ron didn't see it, though. Even trained investigators turn blind
when they fall in love, I guess.

The day's mail sat on my desk waiting to be
opened. I picked up my phone and letter opener at the same time.
Elsa Higgins answered on the second ring.

"Everything okay there, Gram?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, Charlie. Your little boy seems to
be feeling just fine."

I've always found it ridiculous the way
people talk about their pets as though they are children, but I
couldn't fight it this time. After almost losing Rusty last night,
I was feeling protective.

"He's out in the back yard right now," she
continued.

"Outside?" A small granule of fear edged
upward in my throat.

"Can you see him?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. He's at the door now, in fact. I'll
let him in and give him some water."

"Good idea," I said, my voice only slightly
shaky, "he's ... used to having lots of water."

What was the matter with me, I wondered,
hanging up the phone. Gram had sounded absolutely normal, nothing
appeared to be wrong. I kept thinking of the dark car. Suddenly, I
wasn't too eager to be alone in the office after Ron left. I
finished opening the mail and sorting it into stacks, just as I
heard Vicky's cab pull up at the front.

I spied from behind my shutters as she got
out and proceeded to unload enough gear for a month in the Caymans.
It was only a weekend at the lake, for chrissakes. Ron, meanwhile,
had clomped down the stairs and out the front door, sounding none
too patient by this time. He paid the cab driver and began grabbing
up Vicky's bags, carrying them to his car. I watched him cram the
small trunk as full as he could get it, then toss the rest into the
back seat.

Vicky stood by the curb, looking half afraid
to say anything. Ron is normally such a mellow kind of guy, it was
probably the first time she'd seen him get a bit testy. As he
deposited the last of her junk into the back seat of his car, she
approached him and turned on the charm. Even from the second story
window, I could tell it was make-up time. By the time she had run
one knee up and down the length of his thigh a couple of times, and
tickled the back of his hair with a fuchsia fingertip, I had to sit
down. I wanted to be disgusted with them, but truthfully, I missed
Drake.

Ron's voice drifted up the stairwell. "We're
leaving now, Charlie," he shouted.

I had to clear my throat. "Okay. Go ahead and
lock the front door. I'm leaving pretty soon myself." The door
clicked behind him before I remembered that I should have told them
to have a good time. Oh, well.

I gathered Sharon's printouts and my purse,
leaving the sorted mail to be handled on Monday. Thoughts of Ron
and Vicky humping away all weekend in one of those cheap little
one-story strip motels down at the lake kept nagging at me. It was
more than mere horniness on my part, too. Ever since I'd met that
girl, something about her would not leave me alone. I locked the
back door and laid the computer papers on the passenger seat of my
Jeep, as I pondered what it was about Vicky that I didn't trust.
Aside from everything.

It was a little after four, and I was ready
to pick up my dog, take off my shoes, and have a nice cool glass of
wine. But when I reached Central the Jeep turned right, heading
uptown instead. It was dumb, I knew. I wasn't even sure what I
hoped to find out, but something was driving me toward Vicky's
house.

The Friday holiday weekend traffic on I-25
north was bumper to bumper. I seriously questioned my sanity as I
joined it. It took close to an hour to reach Academy Road, and
another fifteen minutes to make my way through the stop-and-go
crush before I turned off the major street. There, at the
intersection, waiting to pull out into the throng I had just left
behind, sat a green Jag. Behind the wheel, Michael Mann stared
straight through me, intent on watching the oncoming traffic.

Vicky's was the third house on the next
block, and I cruised past it once without stopping. Turning around
in the cul-de-sac, I pulled to a stop in front of another equally
imposing structure three doors down. Vicky's place looked
inscrutable. The garage doors were down—no cars out front—sheer
drapes covered all the windows. I walked up to it with a clipboard
in hand, trying like hell to look like a census taker. The door
chimes echoed faintly, the sound fading away into empty space.
Nonchalantly, I turned my back to the door and watched the
neighboring houses. Nothing moved in the hot, quiet air. The
traffic on Academy made a continuous dull roaring background sound,
and a lone cicada chirped somewhere to my right. I walked around
the side of the house, unsure what my explanation would be if I was
questioned.

The back of the house was slightly less
battened down than the front. Here in back, the place was three
stories high, with only the two upper floors visible from the
street. I followed concrete steps down to a wide covered patio.
Uncurtained french doors led to a family room, large enough to
accommodate a pool table, a wet bar, and a five-part sectional
sofa. The doors were securely locked.

Just beyond that another set of french doors
revealed a small bedroom, too pretty to have experienced regular
use. Probably a guest room. The next door I came to led into the
laundry room. The glass panels in the upper half of it were freshly
washed, and not covered. Inside, I could see new-looking
appliances, washer, dryer, and ironing table. Here, I got lucky.
Some careless person, probably an unlucky housekeeper, had left the
door unlocked. I twisted the knob gingerly, holding my breath, and
getting ready to run should an alarm go off. It didn't.

I stepped inside and closed the door softly
behind me. The place was quiet as a church. The smells of furniture
polish and fabric softener were prevalent. I found myself walking
on tiptoe, although the place had a distinct feeling of emptiness.
A narrow staircase led from the laundry room to a spacious kitchen
on the main level. A bit of poking around showed me the living room
and dining room I'd seen on my previous visit. Every knick-knack
was precisely in place, and fresh vacuum cleaner paths showed that
no one had entered the living room recently. Seeing them caused me
to glance around to see what kind of incriminating tracks I might
be leaving, but the halls and stairs had obviously already been
used, probably by Vicky and the maid, hurrying to leave for the
weekend.