Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (19 page)

The weekend rain shower had left the air
feeling clean and a little cooler. Lilac scent from a house down
the street filled the neighborhood. The afternoon sun on the west
face of the Sandias accentuated the ruggedness of the mountain. I
found myself in the mood to go home and take Rusty to the park. I'd
get the meeting over with as quickly as possible, then do just
that.

Driving east up Central, I found the coffee
shop without difficulty. It was one of those places that had been
there forever. I could remember my dad taking me there for
breakfast as a kid. In college, we had gone there when we were
broke because the prices were so cheap. When we weren't broke, we
avoided the place because it wasn't considered cool. At four in the
afternoon, only three tables were occupied. Two of them hosted
groups of students, the other a lone woman. I remembered her face
when I saw her.

She looked like the cliché of a woman waiting
to meet a private investigator—scarf covering her hair, dark
glasses. I wanted to tell her to lighten up. Suddenly I was
conscious of my own attire. I didn't want her to be put off by my
casual jeans and sweater. She didn't seem to notice.

She reached for the envelope, turned it
toward herself, and pulled the pictures out only about two inches.
Satisfied, she wrote out a check and slid it across the table to
me. Only then did she speak.

"Would you care for some coffee?" she asked.
Again, the soft cultured voice.

She really was very pretty. Skin like fine
porcelain, maybe a little too pale. Her fingers were long and
delicate, her jewelry expensive but subtle. She seemed to realize
that the scarf over the hair was a bit much, especially on a warm
sunny day, so she slipped it off her head. It rested casually
around her neck like she had purposely arranged it that way. I
could have worked thirty minutes with a scarf and not achieved that
elegance.

I declined the coffee, saying I had another
appointment shortly, mainly because I couldn't think what kind of
conversation I could possibly make with this woman. She seemed to
have a lot going for her—looks, breeding, intelligence. I couldn't
imagine why she wouldn't dump a man who treated her that way and
just get on with her life. I was afraid if I sat across the table
from her I'd feel obligated to tell her so. Since she wasn't paying
us to be candid, I figured I better go. She was still sitting at
her table, staring out the window when I pulled out of the parking
lot.

It was still early. I was no more than
fifteen minutes from Ben Murray's office. Something had been
nagging at me since the encounter with him in Sharon's office this
morning. Murray must have known what David was doing with the
books. I wondered, in fact, if Murray wasn't behind the embezzling
scheme from the start. He could easily have been taking a
percentage for himself as well, letting David take the majority of
the money so he'd be sure to take the blame if anyone ever caught
on.

No doubt, as soon as Murray received Sharon's
certified letter relieving him of his duties and asking to have all
her records returned, he'd destroy anything at all that might
implicate him. If she'd mailed the letter today, he'd probably
receive it tomorrow. I didn't have much time.

I turned west on Central. At Broadway,
graffiti decorated the walls of a boarded-up fast food place. I
turned left, trying to remember how many blocks to Murray’s office.
The building came along quicker than I expected, on my left. The
lower level pawn shop looked as secure as ever, encased in steel
and mesh. No sign on the outside indicated that Murray occupied the
upstairs.

Driving past the outside of his building
didn't yield many clues. Obviously, I wasn't going to be able to
just walk right in there and ask for what I needed. My last visit
to the place was still fairly fresh in my mind. Two upstairs
windows faced the street, which I guessed must be the room Murray
used for his private office. The drapes were open, and I didn't
want to take the chance of parking across the street and having him
spot me sitting there. I drove past, circled the block and found an
alley which ran behind his building. There were no windows facing
the alley. The only door apparently led into the downstairs pawn
shop. It had two deadbolt locks and a wrought iron grill over it.
So much for the alley. I drove on through.

Two doors down from Murray's building was a
small dirt lot. Four cars were parked there, amid smashed beer
cans, broken glass, and tumbleweeds almost the size of Volkswagens.
One of the cars was a pale yellow Lincoln Towncar with a vanity
plate BENNY. Ben Murray, you are so transparent.

I drove slowly past the front of the pawn
shop again, and noticed that they were open until six. Once they
closed, I assumed that the wrought iron door would be locked, the
burglar alarm set. There just didn't appear to be any way into the
building after hours.

This wasn't a neighborhood where I relished
the idea of sitting in my parked car on surveillance. Even with
Rusty beside me, I didn't like the looks of the gang members
clustered under the awning of the Circle K at the corner. I circled
the block once more. I had to get into that building tonight, and
still hadn't a clue how I could do it.

It occurred to me that it might be smart to
let someone know where I was. Especially if I planned a lengthy
stake-out of Murray or his office. Right now, I couldn't think of
any other way to get the papers I needed. Avoiding the Circle K, I
decided to backtrack and look for a pay phone. In the five o'clock
traffic, it wasn't easy. I had to go back up Central three blocks
before I found one.

I dialed Ron's number and got the machine. I
left the message that if I didn't make it home before midnight, to
come looking for me, and I gave Murray's office address. I didn't
realize how it might sound to Ron, thinking I was hanging around on
South Broadway late at night, until I'd already hung up. Decided to
call back and revise the message but I'd used my last quarter. I
cruised slowly back to South Broadway.

There was a small wooden building across the
street and about three doors down from Murray's building. It
apparently housed a dental clinic of some sort. My Jeep looked
decidedly out of place next to a primer painted Monte Carlo and an
Impala with the front fender gone, but there weren't many other
choices. I parked and rolled all four windows down a couple of
inches so Rusty and I would have some air. I kept all the doors
locked. I hoped no one would hassle me once they saw a large
reddish dog in the car.

Thus settled, I looked back toward Murray's
building. The upstairs drapes were drawn now. In the parking area,
the yellow Towncar was gone. Shit! When had that happened?

My heart rate picked up. How had I missed him
leaving? I was sure the Lincoln had not passed me. He must have
left while I went to make my phone call. Now what? I looked at my
watch. It was a little after five. He must have gone for the day.
At six, that building would be sealed up like Fort Knox. Right now
would probably be my only chance.

Adrenaline rushed through my veins like a
drug. Rusty waited, eyes fixated on the window, as I locked him in
the Jeep. I felt conspicuous crossing the street, trying to look
casual yet purposeful. Feeling like a dozen eyes were upon me, I
opened the street-level door next to the pawn shop. Through their
inner glass door I could see a long-haired blond man behind the
counter and one customer, a young girl, talking to him. Neither of
them looked in my direction.

The secret to successfully doing something
wrong is not to act like you're doing anything wrong. I walked
purposefully up the stairs as if I were on my way to a meeting with
my favorite accountant. No one accosted me.

At the top, I took a deep breath. What if
Murray hadn't really gone? What if he merely enjoyed sitting in his
office with the drapes drawn in the afternoons? What if his car had
been stolen, not taken by him? Charlie, don't be ridiculous.
Tentatively, I tried the door. It was no big surprise to find it
locked. The knob, however, was every bit as chintzy as I
remembered. And no deadbolt. He must have thought the armor plating
downstairs was enough.

I took a thin plastic card from my purse, and
was inside within about ten seconds. I locked the door behind me.
The air in the office almost gagged me. Cigarette butts now
overflowed both ashtrays in the reception area, and the entire room
gave off an odor of stale smoke, grease, and sweat. I glanced into
Murray's private office to assure that I was alone. The smell here
was worse. The heavy fragrance of recently applied cologne mingled
with the rest in a stomach churning medley. Breathing through my
mouth helped some.

Since I hadn't left home this morning with
any gloves in my purse, I settled for a Kleenex over my hand to
help minimize any fingerprints I might leave. The drawers in the
reception area yielded nothing at all of importance. After only a
quick glance at them, I went into Murray's office.

The man was an unbelievable slob. Another
ashtray, full to the top, sat at the edge of the desk. A file
folder had gotten pushed against it, shoving the ashtray so close
to the edge that breathing on it might send it to the floor. Three
styrofoam cups, each about half full of cold, oily coffee occupied
various positions around the desk. A Coke bottle held about an inch
of brown liquid and three or four cigarette butts. About two
hundred slips of paper, in miscellaneous sizes like they had been
ripped from the corners of other documents, lay littered about.
They were all covered with the same indecipherable handwriting.

Aside from a couple of framed certificates,
the walls were bare of decoration. A plant that had died months
before still hung from a macramé hanger in one corner. Probably a
gift from a female, as there was nothing else in the office to
suggest a concern for decor. There was a chipped black four drawer
file cabinet in one corner. I made it my first target.

The drawers were not labeled, so I started at
the top, trying to be as quiet as possible opening and closing
them. The top one held nothing of interest—a credit card imprinting
machine, credit card slips in an unopened dusty cellophane wrapper,
a package of pencils, a ruler, and several ledger covers with no
pages inside. The second drawer held client files.

The manila folders were bent and floppy, with
the thinner ones trying to slip down between the heavy ones. I had
a heck of a time trying to find labels on most of them. Once I
figured out that part, I was amazed to find some well-known names
among them. Ben Murray, sleaze king of Albuquerque, appeared to
have some influential clients. I noted a couple of state senators,
a car dealer, and a frequently-heard-from spokesperson from the
mayor's office. Hmm... Now what would these important people want
with Ben Murray? Almost made me want to steal the whole drawerful.
Thinking about it made me remember why I was really here.

About two-thirds of the way through the
drawer, I came across a file titled "Ruiz." Inside were financials
from Nouvelle Mexicano. I skimmed through them briefly, just long
enough to realize that Murray had been keeping a duplicate set of
books for David. That was all I needed to know.

The copier on the opposite side of the room
looked like an ancient job that might make a lot of noise. I
debated. I'd spent about all the time I cared to in the place. If
the guy downstairs was aware that Murray had left for the day, he
could very well be placing a phone call right now. If the call was
to Murray, I was probably taking my life in my hands already.

I looked at the file I was holding. The
minute Murray realized it was missing, he'd know exactly where to
come. I pulled all the papers out of the file and set them on top
of the cabinet. One of the senator's files was pretty thick. I
grabbed some of the contents, roughly the equivalent of what I'd
taken, and jammed them into David's file. I stuck David's file back
where I'd found it, and stuffed the stolen contents into my purse.
Using my Kleenex, I closed the file drawer.

I gave the office a final glance, hoping I
hadn't moved anything. The place was as disheveled as ever. Murray
couldn't possibly notice that he'd had an intruder.

I used the Kleenex again to close the outer
door, and turned to head down the steep stairs. The long-haired
blond clerk from the pawn shop was standing at the foot of the
stairs, staring up at me.

Chapter 24

"I thought Ben had left for the day," he
said. His hands were on his hips, his voice none too friendly.

Had he heard my footsteps overhead? Had he
seen me close the door just now? How big a lie could I get away
with?

"I guess he has," I said, rattling the locked
doorknob in my hand. "I don't seem to get an answer."

His eyes were steely as I started down the
stairs. With each step I tried to think what I would do next. I
didn't want to have to hurt the guy. I was two steps from the
bottom before his gaze wavered. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders
and went back inside his own shop.

Wanting to break into an all-out run, I tried
to walk away casually. I made sure I was well beyond the pawn shop
windows before I crossed the street to my Jeep. It was parked far
enough down the street that I didn't think he could see me unless
he was standing right at the windows. I made sure he wasn't before
I unlocked the door.

Rusty and I decided to treat ourselves to
Pedro's enchiladas for dinner. We were early enough that Pedro had
a pretty good dinner crowd. Four of the six tables were occupied,
meaning that Rusty had to wait outside. Within fifteen minutes,
though, two of them had left, and the remaining two were regulars,
so Pedro told me to bring Rusty in. He sat quietly in his corner,
minding his own business and catching tortilla chips that happened
to fall his direction.