Stardom Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mystery #12

by Connie Shelton

  Kingston paused that tape and activated another. It showed the bank’s door, with the customary markings on the doorjamb. He paused the tape long enough to point out that the leader was about the same height as Charlie at five foot, seven inches, while the chubbier man, the more passive one, was closer to six feet. He started the tape again. In the brilliant glare of sunshine, a crew cab truck waited with both passenger side doors open.

  “That tape becomes unclear once the suspects are beyond the outer door.” Kingston started a tape on a third machine. “This cam is outside.”

  The view showed a section of parking lot, the sidewalk in front of the bank, and the driveway to the street.

  “We went back and looked at the vehicles arriving. The red truck drove in like anyone else, parked in a slot near the door. There’s some vague movement inside the vehicle, the men talking, maybe slipping on their masks. There’s glare on the windshield so we never do see their faces. Two guys get out and leave their doors standing open. While the two men are inside, the driver backs around and positions the truck so that the open doors are ready for the getaway.”

  He hit the Play button and the video picked up as the men rushed to the truck. The leader flung the money bags into the back seat and then jumped into the front and slammed the door. The second guy forced Charlie into the back, crawled in after her and the truck sped out with the back door closing as they hit the ramp of the driveway.

  Drake’s chest tightened as he watched his Charlie being taken away.

  “Notice that there were no plates on the truck,” Kingston was saying. “No bumper stickers or other identifying marks.”

  “What about running a DMV check, narrowing the results to red Ford trucks?” Ron asked.

  “We’re doing that but there will be hundreds.”

  “It’s a 1982,” Drake said.

  “You sure about that?”

  “I had one. Same model, exactly. Mine was black.”

  Kingston gave him a thoughtful look. “That’s going to help a lot.” He raised an index finger. “Just a second.”

  The paunchy FBI man rushed over to another agent who was sitting at a bank of phones on a large worktable. They exchanged a few words and then Kingston came back.

  “We’re getting right on it.”

  Drake felt marginally better, mainly because the lawman seemed more confident.

  “You guys want some coffee?” Kingston gestured toward an urn on a side table.

  Drake shook his head. He felt too wired already. Ron made his way toward the table and began shaking sugar from a glass container with a little hole in the top into his Styrofoam cup.

  Kingston’s cell phone rang and he excused himself to take the call. Drake gazed around the room. Everyone was busy doing something—none of that laid-back ambiance you saw in cop shows, where they seemed to have time to laugh and joke. In addition to the uniformed officer who was presumably on the phone with the Motor Vehicle Department right now, a couple others were speaking intently at other phones, taking notes. He meandered out into the hall and back, mainly to keep moving. He felt that time was slipping away.

  One of the FBI men stood before the big bulletin board, drawing lines and scratching notes with the scant information they had. Drake’s breath caught when the guy stuck Charlie’s photo up there—the photo Drake had given them this morning at the bank. Never one for having studio portraits done, she’d culled this one from their honeymoon pictures near Taos and had given it to him for his wallet. She was wearing a heavy green parka and her cheeks were pink with the cold. She’d removed her sunglasses while he snapped the photo and the sudden brightness made her squint more than usual. He swallowed and turned to see that Cliff Kingston was headed his direction.

  “This could be a real break,” the FBI man said. “Knowing the year of the truck’s first registration has brought us up a list of only about a dozen. Tracking the VINs we’ll see how many are red—assuming someone along the line didn’t repaint it a different color.”

  What was it with this guy? Gives you a tiny scrap of good news, only to qualify it with some reason it might not be valuable. Drake shook off the thought—any news was good news at this point.

  “Then we can track registrations, see if any of those owners are in—”

  One of the uniformed men grabbed Kingston’s attention with an exclamation. He clicked a few keys at the computer where he sat and then stretched sideways to pull pages off a printer. He waved the sheets toward Kingston, who practically sprinted over to get them. Maybe the old federal agent wasn’t so tired and burned out after all.

  Drake stepped over to his side, trying to get a glimpse of the printed pages the man was scanning so intently. Dave Gonzales, the detective who’d spoken to Drake at the bank, walked in and joined them.

  “Any names jump out at you?” Kingston asked, handing over the sheets.

  Gonzales read through them carefully. “A couple.” He started at the top and looked again, making Drake feel like shaking him.

  “Let’s sit,” Gonzales said.

  They flowed over to the long worktable, Drake and Kingston taking seats on either side of Gonzales, Ron coming along and sitting opposite. The detective pulled out a pen and made marks beside a couple of names.

  “I remember some possession charges associated with this one, Joey Baca. They call him Jo-Jo. Mainly into moving small amounts of marijuana and coke. Never seems to have enough that we can really put him away for a long time.”

  “We’re after bank robbers here,” Kingston reminded.

  Thank you, Drake thought, impatient at wasting time with the unimportant.

  “We’ll have to go to the computer to be sure,” Gonzales said. “It’s a big enough city that I don’t hear about everything.” He realized that his tone had become snippy. “Sorry. Look, let’s just wait for the searches to finish.”

  Luckily, the man who’d come up with the registration list seemed to be having some positive results. He brought Kingston another list. “Vehicle registrations that match your criteria, narrowed to owners with at least one arrest.”

  “There are only three. Don’t know yet if the trucks are red, but we’ve got addresses.”

  Chapter 8

  I’m swimming up from some gray, hazy place. Semi-conscious, drifting, moving. Belted into the back seat of a car . . . winding road . . . voices.

  “. . . she’s making noises in her sleep.” The guy with the shaky voice, the one guarding me.

  I drift away again.

  “. . . awake yet?” Some more words, can’t understand them. The hard guy with the black hair. String. Why would a person be called String? My mind can’t work it out, just wants to sleep.

  I want to snuggle into the far corner of the car and rest, but bumps in the road keep jostling me awake. Can’t get comfortable. Those voices.

  “Alamosa, pretty soon.” The driver, I think. Not sure.

  My head starts to feel a little clearer. Alamosa? Colorado. They’re taking me across the state line. I can’t quite decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Stiffer penalties for them, I imagine. Harder for the Albuquerque authorities to find me. I allow myself to slip away once more.

  * * *

  When I came back to consciousness, fully, it was nearly dark outside. It felt like the car was slowing. A pleasant dream vanished—I’d been with Drake looking at puppies, cute little guys. I eased my eyes open, peering through nearly-closed lashes, aware of male voices, finally remembering the bank and how I’d been taped up inside a red truck. But we weren’t in the truck any more. Fragmented memories came back. Switching to a sedan, two gunshots, the leader of the group—String—coming out of a house somewhere, handing out sandwiches and telling the driver which direction to take.

  The sandwich. I’d been drugged.

  My nerve endings suddenly went on alert. What had happened while I was out? How many hours were gone now?

  “At least a million for each of us,” String said. “She’s
famous. Melinda said she was in the middle of shooting a movie somewhere in New Mexico. Musta been why she happened to be in that bank.”

  Oh, god. I’d forgotten that part, the part where these guys thought I was some famous movie star. Thought they could get a huge ransom for me.

  “Well, well, looks like the little lady is waking up.” String turned in his seat and stared at me.

  Part of me wanted to go back to faking sleep, just to hear what they would say. Part of me wanted to really go back to sleep, wanted to wake up in my own bed and find out this whole day had been a nightmare.

  “Have a good nap?” he asked.

  A chill crept up my spine. If we hadn’t been in a moving car . . . if he weren’t more concerned with how much money this Cristina person was worth . . . I had a sick feeling about this guy String. And under the influence of whatever he’d put into my sandwich . . . he could have done anything at all.

  I glared at him, not answering.

  “Umm, she’s a spunky one,” Mole said. “Might have to get me some of that.”

  “Forget it!” String’s order echoed through the car. He turned toward me again. “No, we’re gonna take real good care of this lady. She’s gonna be my ticket to an early retirement.”

  Sounded benevolent enough, but any trust on my part was quashed by the expression on his face—pure evil.

  He turned back to Mole and gave terse directions that took us off the paved road and onto a long, straight stretch, some kind of farm road.

  I did a quick assessment. Hands still bound with duct tape, legs free. No blindfold or gag—but that could change as soon as we got near other people. They wouldn’t take the chance of my screaming for help. As long as they thought I was worth a decent amount of ransom I was probably safe, so even though I had to tamp down my inclination to protest the mistaken identity I’d be smarter to play along with them. And I couldn’t take a chance on being drugged again. Had to come up with some kind of plan to get around that. They obviously didn’t want me knowing where we were, but that was the most important information I could possess if I could somehow get a call out to the authorities or to Drake.

  “That’s the place,” String said. “Pull around back.”

  The headlights flashed across the façade of a house, wavering away as we hit a dip in the dirt lane. From my backseat position I caught the merest impression of a two-story wood structure, a yard overgrown with weeds, a few large trees. Not a single light came from its interior. As Mole steered the car around the right side of the building I got a glimpse of a broken-out window.

  I tried to think like a kidnapped movie star might—without a clue how that might go—make them think they really had the person they wanted.

  “What the hell is this place?” I whined. “I expected at least a decent hotel.” Would I be pushing it to request a poolside room and a plush robe? It was getting pretty chilly out for the light cotton shirt I’d put on this morning.

  Beside me, Billy looked stumped, unsure whether he should answer.

  String turned in his seat and shot me a hard stare. I dropped the spoiled-starlet routine and shut my mouth.

  Mole whipped the car around to an open area at the back of the house and hit the brakes with a little more force than necessary. I didn’t brace myself quickly enough and slammed against the shoulder harness. The breath left my lungs with a grunt.

  “Listen, little bitch,” said String. “First, you were our ticket out of the bank but now I’m only treatin’ you nice for the money. I don’t even have to deliver you in one piece. So you stay quiet. I got plenty of tape left if I get sick of hearing your voice.”

  Okay. Guess that put me in my place.

  “Got it?” His eyes had narrowed to slits again.

  I nodded slowly but my thoughts went something like this: You are so going to regret this, Mr. String. I’ll get away and you’ll be in prison. Or worse. Then I went off on a mental tangent in which I had the pleasure of shooting him in that part of his anatomy which would hurt the worst.

  He’d turned around before a tiny grin touched my lips.

  Billy caught it though and I worked at turning my expression into something resembling fright. Better not to let any of them get the idea that I had plans.

  “Okay, get her inside,” String ordered. He’d already opened his door and was standing up to stretch.

  While Billy escorted me up a set of rickety wooden steps, String ordered Mole to toss him the car keys. He grabbed the bank bags from the trunk. Mole tried the back door, found it locked.

  “No big deal,” said String, picking up a baseball-sized rock from the yard and using it to bash out a pane of glass near the doorknob. “Instant house key. Grandma wouldn’t have minded.”

  Which answered my question about how he knew where this place was and how he knew it would be empty.

  String led the way inside, with Billy ushering me in next, Mole taking up the rear. So far, they weren’t taking any chances on my tagging along behind and making a run for it. String flipped a light switch several times before he believed it wasn’t going to work. From the looks of the place, I’d guess that it had been empty and the power cut off years ago.

  We were in a celery-green kitchen, which still contained a white stove and round-shouldered refrigerator along with a chrome and linoleum table and four chairs padded in red vinyl, vintage 1950s. He dumped the money bags on the table and then walked over to the stove and found matches, striking one and holding it to a burner. It actually lit. Apparently the propane tank wasn’t entirely empty. He used the bluish light to see while he rummaged through drawers until he came up with some candles. He lit two of them from the gas flame.

  “It’s better this way,” he said to Mole. “Just my luck somebody’d come around if they spotted lights. We’ll stay at the back of the house. No using the living room.”

  Mole and Billy nodded. String walked through a doorway just off the kitchen. A few seconds later I heard the distinct sound of steady stream hitting a dry toilet bowl. He moaned a sigh of happiness and returned, zipping up.

  “It don’t flush but who cares. Not gonna be here all that long.”

  Each of the other men took their turns before it occurred to anyone to ask if I needed to go. As repugnant as the idea was, using the facility right after them, I didn’t have much choice.

  “May I have my hands untied?” I asked. “It’s a little hard to . . . uh . . .”

  String flashed a look toward Billy, who drew out a knife and sliced the duct tape. Being able to lower my arms to my sides felt so good that I momentarily forgot my other need.

  “No closing the door,” String said.

  “Where would I escape to? Even if I got outside I don’t have a clue where we are.”

  He pulled his pistol from his waistband and aimed it loosely in my direction. “Fine. Close the door. But I’ll be right here. One unusual noise and I’ll blow that door down.”

  Oh, great. That was a nice image, knowing that he’d be right there listening to every sound I made. I sent him a defiant stare and closed the bathroom door firmly behind me. The small room was pitch black and I had to feel my way around. It was one of those experiences that I figured I’d either laugh about later, or I would block out as a result of post traumatic something-or-other. Even though they leered at me when I came out, I held my head high, flounced across the kitchen and sat in one of the chairs with my arms crossed over my chest as I imagined the real Cristina might do. Take that.

  “We got any food here?” Mole asked, opening cabinets and poking around.

  String looked a little put out but he obviously hadn’t planned a menu for the evening, so he didn’t answer.

  Mole found a packet of saltines, still sealed, and a small jar of peanut butter. I wasn’t having anything to do with peanut butter after that sandwich at lunch so I didn’t even watch as he pulled out a table knife and began making himself a snack.

  “When we gonna count the money?” Mole mumbled throug
h a mouthful of goo.

  “Right now,” String said.

  “What about Ollie?” Billy asked, for which he received a deadly glare from the boss. Billy shrugged. “Guess he doesn’t have to be here. We can still count out his share.”

  “Yeah. We’ll do that.” String grabbed up one of the sacks and, losing patience with the cord that ran through the top of it, slashed the side of the bag with his knife.

  I vacated my seat at the table, as the men shoved their way into position around it. Packets of banded cash plopped onto the table. String pushed it aside and sliced into the second bag. Red dye flowed over the money and coated String’s hands before he could drop it.

  “Dammit! Dammit to hell!” he shouted.

  I backed up against the far wall as he raced to the kitchen sink. But without electricity to run the pump and the pump to deliver water to the house . . . well, he was screwed. He grabbed at a rumpled old towel, wiping frantically at his hands and cursing up a storm.

  It was my chance. Mole and Billy were riveted to the scene, watching String deal with the blood-like substance. I edged toward the back door. Got one hand on the knob, turned it slowly. The old metal let out a squeal.

  Chapter 9

  Ollie backed away from Sissy’s house, reeling from the sight of his aunt and her daughter lying on the living room floor, each with a neat round bullet hole to the head. He bumped into the parked white Pontiac, slumped against it. What the hell?

  Suddenly, the surrounding high desert was way too noisy, with the screech of cicadas and the hum of the windmill out behind the house. He strained to listen for vehicles. What if the sheriff showed up? What if a neighbor saw him at the house?

  He had a strong urge to get right back in the car and get the hell out of here.

  Something held him back.

  It couldn’t be coincidence that Melinda and Sissy lay dead in the house on the same day that String and the gang robbed the bank. Ollie was no brain but he could figure out that when String said ‘change of plans’ he probably meant hooking up with Melinda. She had a decent car and the plan all along had been to abandon the red truck soon after the robbery. So where was the truck?