Stardom Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mystery #12

by Connie Shelton

  How could they just leave him here? He drummed his fingers on the cheap nightstand. His aunt Sissy, mother of String’s girlfriend, was the one who’d gotten Ollie in with the gang. Surely String didn’t want to piss her off by excluding Ollie? He chewed at the ends of his mustache as he thought about it.

  The money.

  They didn’t want to split the money four ways.

  A hot, blind rage boiled up inside Oliver Wendell Trask. Nobody was doing him out of his share, not that easy. He flung the half-empty Coke can against the cinderblock wall, missing the TV set by inches. The drink still had enough fizz in it to explode on impact, leaving sticky brown fingers running down the wall, forming a puddle on the orange carpet.

  Ollie spun around, breath hissing forcefully through his teeth, fists clenched into white-knuckled balls. Dammit! Damn it all to hell anyway! He snatched his worn duffle off the bed. He’d go after those guys. No way were they going to treat him like the dumbass high school dropout they thought he was. No way would Sissy stand for them dissing her nephew. Not Ollie Trask. No sir.

  He yanked the car keys from his jeans pocket, tossed the duffle into the back seat, and nearly caught his foot in the door as he climbed in and slammed it. Jamming the key into the ignition he shoved the gas pedal to the floor and cranked. The old Pontiac groaned like a bear waking up from hibernation but she didn’t start. Flooded. He cursed.

  Ollie took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. Tricky old tub wasn’t going anywhere unless he coaxed her along—he knew that. He rested his forehead against the steering wheel and counted to twenty.

  A gentle foot on the gas pedal and a cautious twist of the key. The car groaned again but by the third deep moan, the ignition kicked to life and the reassuring puff of black smoke shot from her tailpipe. Ollie eased the gas pedal steadily down until the engine smoothed out.

  “Nice piece a shit,” he crooned, patting her dashboard gently. Inside, his guts were still churning. He shifted into reverse, praying that the old beast wouldn’t desert him now. He’d been deserted enough for one day.

  The engine held and the car jerked away from the tacky cinderblock motel building. Ollie realized, after he’d shifted back into Drive, that he’d left the door to the room standing open. Forget it. He floored the pedal and squealed the tires as he whipped the old boat toward the highway. The slimy clerk stood in the office doorway, staring at the Pontiac, his mouth working. Well, good riddance to him!

  Twenty minutes later Ollie used his last fifteen dollars to get a burger from a drive-thru place and add gas to the tank. He wished he had enough to stop somewhere and get one of those prepaid cell phones; it would have made things easier right now but it was the story of his life—always short on money. That was another thing that twisted at Ollie’s guts—he’d spent his own cash to get this rattletrap from Tucumcari to Texas and now he was having to chase down the rest of the gang to get his rightful share. He coaxed the Pontiac into gear and rolled away from the gas pumps, perching his burger at the top of the steering wheel to unwrap it. His teeth snatched a generous bite as he roared onto the ramp to Interstate 40.

  The plan, after meeting up at the motel in Texas, was to abandon the truck somewhere and then take the Pontiac as their getaway vehicle. None of the guys had told Ollie where they would ultimately end up, but his impression was that they would divide the loot and spread out. Harder for the cops to catch up with them that way. Ollie liked that idea because he was the one guy who hadn’t been at the bank. It’d be pretty hard for some cop to pin the robbery on him.

  So, he debated as he pushed the Pontiac to its limits—crossing the New Mexico line and heading toward Albuquerque—since they didn’t come for him, where did they go?

  He spent about fifty miles thinking about it before it hit him that String would head for Melinda’s place. He’d probably already told her that he was taking her car and leaving the truck with her. Melinda was just dumb enough to take that as a compliment, the fact that her boyfriend would let her drive his truck around.

  Ollie pulled off the interstate at Santa Rosa and found a pay phone at a truck stop. He got the operator to place the collect call to Melinda’s house but the voice that answered wasn’t hers.

  At the operator’s query about accepting the call, the girl said, “Mel’s gone to her mom’s. Prob’ly be back later.”

  The operator offered to call another number for him but Ollie declined. He’d gotten the information he wanted. He’d rather go to Sissy’s anyway. He could bum some money from his aunt if the guys weren’t there and she would probably send him off with something more to eat.

  He’d never been quite clear on how, exactly, Sissy was related. She wasn’t his mother’s sister, he knew that. Someplace back in the fuzzy reaches of time, he had the impression that she’d been the sister of one of his mother’s long-gone boyfriends. Didn’t really matter. Sissy was always nice to him as a kid.

  Sissy lived north of Santa Fe, out on some acreage at the far ass-end of a dirt road that didn’t go anywhere important. Ollie climbed back into the car. His gas gauge was registering less than half a tank—quite a bit less—and he had no cash left. At the very least String could have given him one of those prepaid credit cards but no—he hadn’t even been polite enough to do that. He forced himself to calm down. Being angry and ready to lash out wasn’t going to get him what he wanted here. He glanced around the truck stop, spotting his mark.

  “Ma’am?” he said, approaching a middle-aged woman who’d just started pumping gas into her mid-sized sedan. She wore a flowered dress with a lace collar that screamed church-lady. “I’m wondering if you might help me out, ma’am? I have to get to El Paso by this afternoon, cause my baby sister is having an operation.” He sniffed. “They aren’t sure she’ll make it.”

  He glanced at the Pontiac, which he’d left near the pumps on the next island over. “My car’s nearly out of gas and”—he patted his pockets—“I’m all out of cash. Is there any way you could top off my tank for me?”

  She finished her own fill-up and looked at him, torn between doing the polite thing and the smart thing. He could practically read the thoughts racing through her head. At least he wasn’t asking for cash. And he really did look broken up about his little sister. He sniffled again and thought of the time his dog had been hit by a car, bringing up just enough of a sad memory that his eyes brimmed.

  “Sure, son. Pull over to this pump and we’ll just add it to my purchase.”

  Ollie had hoped for cash but hey, at least this would give him plenty of gas to get where he needed to go. He coaxed the Pontiac to life, noticing that the woman flinched at the racket it made, but happy that the old tub started on the first try.

  He took the gas hose from her and pumped his tank full, then thanked her profusely. She stood with one hand on the driver’s door of her car, looking ready to lock herself inside. Don’t overdo it, dude, he reminded himself.

  Minutes later he was on the Interstate again, stayed there until he came to the turnoff for Las Vegas. Sissy’s place was somewhere between Vegas and Santa Fe. He never could figure out why New Mexico had a Las Vegas, when there was the famous one in Nevada, but vaguely remembered a history teacher in middle school saying this one had been there for a couple hundred years before the famous one was started. Something about the railroads or the Santa Fe Trail or something . . . he never kept track of that kind of stuff.

  It took another couple of hours but Ollie relaxed into the drive. At least he didn’t have to worry about running out of gas out here in the middle of nowhere. He came to Interstate 25, went west and recognized the exit for Sissy’s just in the nick of time. He slammed on the brakes and left tread marks as he wheeled onto the narrow frontage road. A few more turns and he’d come to her little sandy lane. Several sets of tracks showed in the powder-dry dirt; maybe the rest of them were here now, waiting and laying low from the law. At least they wouldn’t get past him on this road without him seeing them. He began to
breathe easier.

  Even though Sissy’s house was out in the middle of nothing, Ollie had always liked it. Tan stucco, white trim which kind of needed a touchup, a huge weathered barn where he remembered playing a few times as a kid, even a couple of big elm trees. Other than that, the land around here was plain old tan earth dotted with a lot of piñon and juniper trees. They were too short for much climbing, even for a kid, and you had to be careful this time of year because the heat brought out the rattlesnakes.

  He cruised up the dirt track that made a loop which Sissy called the driveway. Not another car in sight. Weird. Melinda’s car should have been here. Or Sissy’s Jeep. Or the red truck. He brought the clattery Pontiac to a stop but no one came out. Sissy always greeted him at the porch.

  Maybe she and Melinda had gone off on some kind of girly shopping trip to the city.

  Maybe the gang had never made contact with Melinda.

  Maybe Ollie’s butt was about to be in a sling because they expected him to stay at that motel in Texas. His gut clenched a little at the thought of String’s wrath.

  But no, String’d said that there was a change of plans. And they sure couldn’t get mad at him because he was trying to find out what the new plan was, right?

  He slowly turned off the ignition. String would do any damn thing he wanted, and taking it out on Ollie would fit right in with his normal way of handling things. He sat there a minute, debating what to do next, when he noticed that Sissy’s front door wasn’t completely closed. Now that just wasn’t right.

  Ollie got out of the car and walked toward the small porch. The door was standing open several inches and flies were buzzing around. Sissy wasn’t a picky housekeeper but she hated flies. On a day like this, that door would be closed.

  “Sissy!” he called out.

  Not a sound.

  “Sissy! You home?” He didn’t even hear a radio or TV set. He fidgeted from one foot to the other. Maybe when the girls went shopping they’d forgotten to be sure the door latched. He walked up to it and tapped lightly, sending it swinging open.

  When he spotted the bodies he suddenly understood. Then he ran for the nearest patch of cactus and retched.

  Chapter 7

  Feeling dazed, Drake walked into the empty house. His footsteps echoed through the rooms where the rumpled linens on the guest bed reminded him of their recent company and how badly he and Charlie wanted a little time to themselves now. He bundled up the sheets and tossed them beside the washer, listening for the phone.

  In his office he called Charlie’s brother, Ron, to let him know about the morning’s events. Having a private investigator in the family gave them a slight edge, or he hoped it would. Drake heard horns in the background.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have sprung this on you while you’re in the car. Call me back when you get to a safe spot,” he said.

  Remembering that he had a customer depending on him, he looked up the number and called the music video producer to let them know he would have to put their filming job on hold. The woman grumbled but finally agreed to reschedule when she heard from him again.

  The world felt surreal. What was he doing, sitting at his desk conducting business when life was crashing down around him? When his cell phone rang inside his pocket, he nearly jumped out of his seat.

  “Charlie?”

  “Sorry, Drake, just me.” Ron’s voice was heavy with concern. “I just got back to the office. Had a thought. A way we might get some info out of APD.”

  “Anything.”

  “Kent Taylor. He’s one of my few contacts there. He might get us something.”

  “Homicide?”

  “I know, it’s not his case and I don’t know how much he could find out. But it’s worth a try.”

  “Make the call.”

  Drake fidgeted as the minutes ticked by. If he could just be airborne . . . if only— But that kind of thinking was useless. He could burn thousands of gallons of fuel and not make a bit of difference. More than two hours were gone now and the robbers could be just about anywhere in the state of New Mexico. This wasn’t going to be one of those chases caught on video from a police helicopter—or his own, for that matter. He threw down the pen he’d been tapping relentlessly against a notepad, got up and paced the length of his office.

  His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d never eaten breakfast but he couldn’t imagine wanting food. Charlie was out there, probably scared and hungry. He paced to the kitchen and stared at the cupboards but nothing appealed. The empty spot near the fridge, where the dog’s bowl used to sit, tugged at him. Since they’d lost their old red-brown retriever two months ago the routine of their days just wasn’t the same. Charlie had gone into a deep funk for awhile, but pulled herself away from it by reasoning that the dog’s time had simply come. Everyone gets old and leaves us eventually, she’d said.

  Drake caught the tightness in his throat at the thought. What if Charlie didn’t live long enough to grow old? What if—? He yanked his mind off that track. He could not start thinking that way.

  He caught a glimpse of their neighbor, Elsa Higgins, through the kitchen window. An avid gardener, even though she was close to ninety, she spent a few hours nearly every day with her flowers and vegetables. She didn’t know yet that Charlie was missing, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. Luckily, the media hadn’t gotten hold of the story yet. Another reason he wanted to speak with the police and federal agents—it was crucial that they not give out Charlie’s name. Hearing it on the news would send their elderly neighbor over the edge. Surely Charlie would be home again before it became necessary to tell everyone about this.

  His cell phone vibrated once more and he grabbed for it.

  “Me again,” Ron said. “Kent Taylor agreed to check with the guys in Robbery and see where things stand.”

  “So, what does that mean? More waiting?”

  “Taylor is in his office right now. I’m willing to go down there, barge in and see what we can learn.”

  “I’m with you. Give me ten minutes.”

  He hung up the phone, his thoughts flitting everywhere. Charlie would call his cell before trying their home phone anyway. And, he remembered belatedly, he could forward any calls. He quickly punched the series of numbers to set the land line to send everything to his cell, then raced out the door.

  It was all he could do to stay close to the speed limit and when he pulled up in front of the gray and white Victorian that housed RJP Investigations, he screeched to a stop and honked the horn. Ron’s face appeared at an upstairs window and he signaled that he’d be right down.

  It took ten minutes to get to the main police station downtown, another fifteen to park and make their way through the security that surrounded the inner workings of the department. Kent Taylor greeted them. Drake noticed that he seemed genuinely concerned for Charlie, even though he knew she’d been a pain in the man’s neck on several occasions.

  “All I’ve been told is that the suspects were masked and unidentifiable. The truck was a red Ford pickup truck without plates. Since it’s not my department I’m only getting the basics.”

  “I want to talk with Dave Gonzales and Cliff Kingston,” Drake said. “Where are they?”

  “Upstairs—Robbery Division. They’ve set up a communications room where all the data is being processed and both agencies can work together.”

  “Take us there.” It wasn’t a request.

  Taylor’s gaze traveled from Drake to Ron and back. “I doubt they’ll tell you anything.”

  “Just take us there.” Drake’s voice had a determined edge.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Drake.” Taylor shifted posture, displaying the holster strapped over his white dress shirt.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not armed. I just need information.”

  Ron stepped between them. “Kent, he’ll be fine.”

  The hastily set up communications center buzzed with voices and Drake could see a cluster of men around a phone
bank, with another group standing before a huge bulletin board on the wall. Taylor walked them in and introduced them.

  The FBI man, Kingston, stepped over and shook hands. “Drake, sorry we don’t have better news yet.” He indicated a bank of video monitors on a table. The screens were solid blue. “We’ve been reviewing the security tapes from the bank.”

  “Can we see them?” Ron asked.

  Kingston backed up the tape and hit a button. “This camera is behind the tellers, facing the customer area of the lobby.”

  Drake could see Charlie speaking to Gina, smiling at something the young teller had said. Something caused her to turn her head, her features twisted with concern. Gina’s right hand slid under her cash drawer.

  “She’s the teller who hit the silent alarm,” Kingston said. “Here’s where the men come into view. Two of them.”

  Both wore ski masks. The chubbier one rushed in and took a stance at the north end of the row of teller stations. His body conveyed tension as he held a pistol stiff-armed in front of himself. The gun was aimed at Charlie. The other man—lean and of medium height—seemed to be shouting orders, although the video had no sound. He waved a gun toward the tellers and tossed canvas bags over the counter, toward them. His movements were quick—get in, get out, scare the hell out of everyone in the room.

  A woman came out of a side office, from behind a closed door, her face registering shock when she realized what was happening. “Manager,” Kingston said. She lowered herself to the floor the moment the hyper gunman turned on her. He kept shouting, making hand motions to hurry up the tellers.

  Just when it seemed that the two men might dash out the door and the whole scary event would end, the hyper one said something to the stockier one and he grabbed Charlie by the arm.

  The whole scene became unreal for Drake. With a gun jammed against her cheek, Charlie had no choice but to stumble along with the men. They moved out of range of the camera.