Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (7 page)

"My wife says I should leave this alone," he
told me. "Said the family is already upset enough as it is. But,
something bothers me about David's death. Sharon told me you are
investigating it, so I think you should know this. Uncle Ralph
closes his eyes to a lot of things. I think David had been upset
about something recently."

"Depressed?"

He thought about it for a few seconds,
searching for the right word. "No, I'd say more like scared.
Nervous. Something was really worrying him."

"When was the last time you saw David?" I
asked.

"Friday night after work. We stopped off and
had a couple of beers."

"Did he talk about it?"

"Nothing specific. I thought it might be
money. He said something about the bills really piling up."

I thought about the payment book I'd seen for
his Porsche. And, I knew the rent on his apartment couldn't have
been one of the cheapest in town. And then there were the past-dues
I'd seen in his office. Maybe Michael was right.

"Anything else you can think of?"

"Not really," he said. "I just wanted you to
know that all this 'mortal sin' stuff wouldn't have meant shit to
David. I mean, his parents are all religious and everything, but
not David. No matter what his mother and father say, he just wasn't
into that stuff."

I dug around through my purse, and handed him
my card. "I appreciate the information. If you think of something
later, could you call me?"

He stared at the card for a minute, as though
something about it was familiar to him, but he said nothing. Stuck
the card in his wallet and pulled out a card of his own.

He was a commercial real estate specialist
with one of the largest firms in town, I noticed. Now I knew where
I'd heard the name before. There had been a recent article in the
paper about how he'd closed the deal on a new twenty million dollar
shopping center project. I said goodbye and thanked him.

I left him standing there under the carport.
I was one of the first to leave, I guess, because the rows of cars
on the road hadn't thinned out at all. After much maneuvering and
backing up, I managed to get headed back toward the interstate and
my office.

Sally was getting ready to leave for the day.
Ron looked relieved that I had arrived to take over the phones. I
half-jokingly asked what was the matter with
his
arm. He
didn't bother me the rest of the afternoon, while I caught up on my
billing. I remembered to put a call in to Dr. Casper. Linda was
with a patient, but her receptionist told me to come by the next
afternoon, anytime. That's what I like about going to a doctor who
isn't well known yet.

About four o'clock, Ron peeked into my
office.

"Did you bill your friend anything in the
David Ruiz case?" he asked.

"One day, so far."

"I talked to Kent Taylor this afternoon," he
said, leaning on the doorjamb. "He's about to meet with the D.A.
and medical examiner on this. Says he's pretty sure they'll rule
suicide."

I thought about the funeral this morning and
felt myself slump. "I don't know, Ron. A lot of people who knew
this guy swear he wouldn't have done it."

"Like his parents."

"Well, yeah." I had to remember his own
cousin seemed to feel it was possible.

"We're always blind about those we love," he
said.

I was reminded of what I'd seen in the Ruiz's
kitchen.

"Yeah. Well, I'll talk to Sharon about it,
and see if she wants us to continue."

"We won't get much police cooperation."

"Do we ever? I went to David's apartment
yesterday. The place looked like he'd just stepped out for a few
minutes. Does a guy pay for a hamburger, sit down and eat it, then
go out and shoot himself? And, why at the grocery store? He could
have done it at home in the comfort of his own bed, for
chrissakes."

"Why would anyone else kill him in such a
public place, though," Ron said. "If somebody lured him out to meet
them in the parking lot, why wouldn't they choose a quieter place?
Somewhere out on the west mesa, or some little mountain road in the
canyon?"

"Maybe it was someone David was afraid of,
someone he would only agree to meet in a very public place."

He shuffled a little to concede that I might
have a point. "Look, Charlie, I just don't have the time to work on
it," he said. "These other two cases are keeping me hopping. Mrs.
Boyd wants me to wrap up her evidence soon, and I just don't have
it yet. Surveillance work just drives me nuts."

I knew what he meant, and didn't offer to
trade places with him.

"I think I'll do a little more snooping
around," I said, "with or without Sharon's okay, just to learn a
bit more. Right now, I'm going home to get out of these shoes."

Ron went back to his desk while I signed off
my computer and quickly updated my backup disk.

At home, Rusty was overjoyed to see me. I let
him out in the backyard while I changed into jeans, a t-shirt, and
tennies. I didn't have to ask twice if he'd like to go for a ride.
I hoped I could catch some of the night crew at Food City who might
have been working Saturday night.

The sun, fiery orange, was low in the sky by
the time we headed out. The temperature was still well over ninety
but it’s a dry heat. I switched on the Jeep's air conditioning
anyway. Rusty's tongue was hanging out to one side after his romp
in the back yard, and he gratefully collapsed in front of the cold
air vents. The freeway traffic was light now, the go-home rush all
gone home, and we had reached the San Mateo off-ramp within fifteen
minutes.

I parked at the side of the large grocery
store, where the shadows had already lengthened. With the windows
rolled most of the way down, a cool breeze came through. It wasn't
unpleasant, despite the outside temperature. I focused my attention
toward the front of the store, watching the traffic patterns,
trying to get a feel for the place. The small strip center was
shaped like an L, which took up two sides of the square property,
the other two sides being major streets. The grocery store anchored
the long end of the L, while a small four-screen movie theater
served the same function at the opposite end. In between, a
neighborhood bar and an exercise club drew most of the traffic. The
few other stores, an office supply, a beauty shop, and a book store
among them, had already closed. Three fast food places, neatly
staked out along the two streets, enjoyed a steady flow of traffic
through their drive-up lanes.

In my glove compartment I located my small
pair of binoculars. With them I could read the marquee and see that
the movies were timed so that something was beginning or ending
about every fifteen minutes all evening long. There would be a
steady stream of traffic in and out of there until nearly midnight.
On Saturday night I imagined the flow would be even heavier.

Generally, the entire center was constant
motion. A car sitting out in the middle somewhere, even occupied,
would draw little, if any, attention. Amidst the constant din of
traffic, horns, shouts, not to mention the interruptions of
boom-box radios and the occasional siren from the fire station
three blocks away, a single gunshot might well go unnoticed. In
many ways, if someone wanted to blow David Ruiz away, this was a
very good place to do it.

I left Rusty in the Jeep, promising to not
stay away too long.

I was in a not-too-hopeful mood as I
approached the night manager of Food City. He was a slight man with
pale brown hair and many freckles. His name tag said he was J.
Sanders. I found him sacking groceries for a customer while telling
the checker to page somebody named Jason to the front
immediately.

I waited at the side until a sullen looking
sixteen year old appeared, dragging his feet. Mr. Sanders flashed
him a look that he probably wouldn't have wanted the customers to
see. I lagged a discreet distance behind until he had settled into
his booth. When I approached, he still looked a bit irritated. I
took my chances.

"Mr. Sanders? I wonder if I might ask you a
couple of questions?"

He appeared relieved that I wasn't one of his
employees. He told me that most of tonight's crew were the same
ones working Saturday night. They had already been questioned by
the police, and as far as he knew, no one had seen anything. He
pointed out that, from inside the store, it was nearly impossible
to monitor the parking lot. Just a month ago, he told me, a woman's
purse had been snatched right on the sidewalk outside, and no one
inside had noticed a thing until she ran through the door
screaming.

"Do the sackers carry groceries out to the
customer's cars?" I asked.

"If we're not short handed, they do. If the
customer wants it."

"Do you mind if I ask that young man a
question or two?" I asked, indicating Jason.

He didn't look too pleased. "Make them quick.
That kid likes any excuse to duck out on a little work."

I figured a sixteen year old boy would have
been the most likely one to spot a brand new Porsche in the parking
lot. If he was in and out of the store throughout the evening, he
might have noticed something funny going on.

I waited discreetly until Jason had carried
out a customer's groceries before I approached him. He was over six
feet tall, height he had probably attained in the last six months.
He didn't look entirely comfortable with it yet. He wore baggy
pants, a touch too short, and his camouflage t-shirt hung below his
fingertips.

"Jason?"

He looked up immediately, but took his time
sizing me up before he acknowledged me. He had straight blond hair,
cut in a popular style that would have gotten him laughed off
campus in my day.

"Yeah?"

"Mr. Sanders said it would be okay if I asked
you a couple more questions about Saturday night."

He glanced nervously at the manager's
booth.

"Did you notice a red Porsche in the parking
lot that night?"

"Yeah, it was cool. A 944 Turbo."

"Did you walk out to it, to check it
out?"

He shook his head. "Naw, it was way the hell
out there."

"See a guy in it?"

"Uh, yeah, there was some dude in it at
first. After awhile I didn't see him though. You know, I just
thought he went in the movies or somethin'."

"What about when you got off work?"

"Uh, yeah, the car was still there."

"And you weren't tempted to walk over and get
a better look at it as you left?"

"I didn't get the chance," he said. He
shuffled a little, looking discomfited. "My dad picked me up right
outside the front door here."

Ah, the ultimate embarrassment. Sixteen years
old, and no wheels of his own. Being chauffeured around by Dad is
second only in humiliation to being driven by Mom. A boy's worst
nightmare.

I thanked him, and went back out to the Jeep.
Rusty was panting heavily, poor thing. I pulled through the
drive-up lane of one of the fast food places where they charged me
sixty-five cents for a cup of ice. Steep, but Rusty was grateful.
He chomped on the cubes while I headed back home.

I pictured David sitting in his car in the
parking lot. What had been going through his mind? I remembered the
messages on his desk from the IRS. Perhaps Michael was right about
his cousin. Maybe David's money problems had become serious.

Chapter 10

My mainstay dinner at least two or three
nights a week is usually Pedro's sour cream chicken enchiladas. I'd
been home five whole days without having them. Something was
seriously wrong.

The small adobe building on the fringes of
Old Town manages to avoid most of the tourist trade. Probably
because it just doesn't look like much. The small wooden sign,
painted blue, with the single word, Pedro's, might mislead some
into thinking the place is a private house. Indeed, except for the
five parking spaces out front, it probably could be. I pulled into
a space just outside the door.

There was only one other vehicle in evidence,
a dust-covered pickup truck belonging to an old-timer named Manny.
Manny is there even more often than I, and he boasts being able to
take his chile as hot as it comes. Once in awhile an unfamiliar
gringo will wander in, and actually be stupid enough to get caught
up in a bet with Manny. Manny may not have become exactly rich this
way, but his little diversion has managed to keep him well supplied
with tequila shooters. Pedro once told me that Manny is somewhere
around sixty, with the insides of a teenager.

When Rusty saw where we were, he jumped
across my lap and out the open door on my side. By the time I had
rolled up the windows and checked the locks, he had nosed open
Pedro's warped screen door, and walked right on in. Pedro was
scratching Rusty's ears and fussing over him by the time I got
inside.

"Concha!" he called. "Concha, you better come
here. There is some stranger walking in our door."

Concha came out of the kitchen, wiping her
hands on a towel, and looked me up and down. "Eee, I think you're
right. Who is this girl? Have we seen this one before?"

I felt guilty that I hadn't brought them
anything from Hawaii. I could have picked up an extra tin of
macadamia nuts or something, although Pedro is usually suspicious
of all foods that don't come from his own kitchen.

They teased me about staying away too long,
but they both hugged me at the same time. Manny sat at his usual
table in the corner, watching the little reunion, his dark brown
face with its perpetual sprinkling of white whiskers remaining
placid. I gave a little wave in his direction. He kept on chewing,
raising his chin briefly toward me in the way of a greeting.

"You look good, little girl," Concha said,
holding me at arm's length.

She's always called me "little girl," ever
since I really was a little girl, coming here with my dad. It seems
a bit silly now, since she stands all of four feet ten inches. At
five-six, I feel like I tower over her. She makes up for it in the
width department, though, her roundness giving her the overall
shape of a penguin. Her smooth flat face remains unwrinkled,
belying the fact that she must be in her mid-fifties.