Stardom Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mystery #12

by Connie Shelton

  He pushed himself away from the Pontiac and headed toward the barn. The tall door creaked open. In the gloom sat String’s red pickup truck beside Sissy’s Jeep. It all began to make sense. He tried to remember what Melinda’s car looked like—some little foreign four-door thing. Silver or gray or something like that. If it wasn’t a muscle car or a truck, Ollie usually didn’t notice details.

  He chewed at the tips of his mustache, thinking. Where would they go?

  He discarded the idea of their going back to Albuquerque. Once they’d gotten this far away they wouldn’t take the chance.

  How well did he know the other gang members? Mole, pretty well. They’d been neighbors in Albuquerque for a few years, hooked up when he discovered Mole was a pretty good source for pot. Whenever Ollie had a little money he could count on Mole to supply him. They’d had some pretty intense conversations, stretched out on plastic lounge chairs in Mole’s backyard, taking a few hits, staring at the stars and contemplating the universe. As far as Ollie knew, all of Mole’s relatives lived in Albuquerque; he couldn’t think of anyone Mole would turn to this far north.

  String—Ollie had only met him this spring, through Melinda. She was one of those girls who’d been in and out of Ollie’s life since they were kids. Sometimes she lived with Sissy—that’s when they would usually cross paths—other times she went off with her dad. Ollie didn’t even know who that was.

  But this spring she’d been back in New Mexico and this older guy, String, was with her. He was one of those scary men who wore all black and talked like he’d killed people. Short and wiry, which might have been the reason for his nickname, but he let Ollie believe it came about because he’d been known to string up his enemies, choking them until they did what he wanted—or until they died. Ollie left the myth intact. What did he know anyway?

  Domino—he knew nothing about that guy. He was twenty-three; Ollie’d heard him tell Mole that. Worked at a pizza place. Had that soft look—like he ate way too many pizzas. Or like his mama still coddled him a lot. He’d just turned up one day and started doing things with the group. Somehow got invited along to do the bank job.

  Ollie stared at the red truck, no closer to an answer. String was the leader, though, and wherever they went it would be his choice. So it would be somewhere String felt safe. A relative or a pretty close friend. He closed the barn door and slowly turned back toward the house, debating what to do next.

  He couldn’t go anywhere without some money. Sissy wouldn’t mind.

  The stench from the house was becoming noticeable in the afternoon heat. Must be over ninety outside. And the flies were swarming in a thick black cloud around the door. He batted them aside and pulled the neck of his T-shirt up over his nose and mouth before he stepped inside.

  The sight of Sissy, lying on her back with her eyes wide open, tugged at him. She’d always been good to him as a kid. Brought him little Hot Wheels cars and stuff. Took him out for a burger now and then, just the two of them. He squeezed his eyes shut. She shouldn’t end up like this.

  He knelt beside her and ran a hand over her eyelids, easing them closed. Glanced over at Melinda. She lay on her side, half turned, like she’d belatedly decided to run. But she’d never had a chance. The bullet to her head had stopped her in her tracks.

  Ollie stood up. Gotta get out of here, he thought. There’s always the chance that somebody called the cops about this. He turned and surveyed the room.

  A purse sat on the sofa and he grabbed it up and rummaged inside. Came up with a cell phone and a wallet. Pulled all the cash and Melinda’s debit card from the wallet, pocketing them in a quick move. Stuck the cell phone in the other front pocket of his jeans.

  Glancing around the room he spotted Sissy’s purse on the kitchen counter. Retrieved more money. Debated about searching the house for more cash—surely she kept a little handy—but decided it was too risky to hang around.

  Outside, he took a deep breath and cleared his lungs. Man, that was awful in there. He stared at the Pontiac for a full minute. Should he switch vehicles here, hot wire the truck or take Sissy’s keys? Decided not. The truck was too identifiable with the robbery, and once Sissy’s body was discovered the last place you’d want to be was driving her Jeep. The old white junker was the most anonymous.

  Colorado. For some reason the word jumped into his head. But he felt a headache coming on when he pushed to think about it.

  Ollie sat in the car for a minute, taking stock. He counted the cash. A little over two hundred—plenty for gas and some more food. He put it all in his wallet. Left Melinda’s cell phone on the passenger seat.

  Taking the debit card was a stupid move. Almost anywhere he used it, he’d be on some security camera. He held it out the window, tempted to fling it aside. But you never knew. Might be good for a one-time use, if he really got desperate before he found the guys and got his share of the bank money. He put the card in the glove box.

  Heat radiated off the hood of the Pontiac and Ollie suddenly felt a panicky need to get out of there quick. He forced himself to calm down and take it easy as he started the car, holding his breath until he heard the reassuring clack of her pistons. He eased away from the house and down the sandy lane, careful not to kick up a dust cloud.

  At the paved road he paused and debated. Santa Fe or Las Vegas? He knew this part of the state pretty well from one summer of driving a soda delivery truck. Colorado. Again, he thought of it. What was the connection?

  Okay, he thought. Turning right, heading toward Vegas, he’d end up passing through Raton, into Trinidad, eventually Denver. Taking a left, through Santa Fe, up to Española . . . you could end up due north in Alamosa or farther west, maybe Durango. The rural roads, smaller towns—that felt more like what String would choose. He took the left.

  Driving along, he ran the names of towns through his head. There was some connection, if only he could think of it. Somebody String knew in Colorado. No, somebody he used to know there. A relative . . . an aunt? No, a grandmother. He’d once mentioned a family farm. This was back in the early planning stages of the bank job. Ollie struggled to remember the conversation.

  All four guys sitting around Mole’s dining table, they’d decided which branch of the bank, a smaller one in a pretty quiet part of the city. Talking about what to do next, where to go. String almost reminiscing about his grandma’s farm, saying it was out in the country, away from town, isolated from neighbors. Then he’d quickly changed the subject. String wasn’t the kind of guy who revealed himself, talked about his past or his family. In the blink of an eye the plan changed to one where they would head for Texas, get lost in the maze of farm roads and little bitty towns out there.

  And now the plan had changed again.

  Back to what String originally talked about?

  Ollie got a strong feeling about it. String would choose a place he knew well, a place where he could take charge. Get rid of his partners—hell, he’d already cut Ollie out as far as he knew—take all the money for himself. And this place was . . . Ollie closed his eyes for a few seconds, studying the map in his mind, thinking of the roads. His tires hit the rumble strip at the edge of the road and he over-steered, drawing the wrath of a black BMW that roared by with its horn blaring.

  Alamosa. It came to him in that way a memory will do in a moment when you’re not concentrating too hard.

  The sun dipped low in the sky, blasting the left side of his face as he headed into Española. He’d stayed to the back roads, forced himself to mind the speed limit. No law enforcement types knew about this car, but it wouldn’t be smart to draw their attention. He couldn’t be sure that someone hadn’t seen him entering or leaving Sissy’s property, and eventually someone would discover the bodies.

  Lights beckoned from the row of fast food places along the town’s main drag. Ollie’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that his cheeseburger and fries were long gone. With money in his pocket and a healthy eighteen-year-old’s appetite, he pulled into the drive-th
rough at the Taco Bell and ordered the family dinner special.

  Parked among hundreds of vehicles in the nearby Wal-Mart parking lot, he wolfed down seven tacos and two burritos before it occurred to him that there were no more food places for a long way. Maybe he should conserve. He put the other two burritos and the single remaining taco back into the sack and folded the top closed.

  The map of the area ran through his head and he chose the route of least traffic that would get him to Alamosa, Colorado. As he wound through the mountains and the quiet villages along the way he let himself dream again about the bank money and a future with Rena Lynn.

  It was completely dark now, blacker than a witch’s underwear, aside from the occasional isolated house. The big meal and his lusty thoughts about Rena Lynn put Ollie into a mellow mood and he caught himself nearly dozing. He blinked awake. The short catnap he’d caught at the motel in Texas did nothing to offset the pre-dawn rising. Didn’t even feel like the same day. He couldn’t remember a time he’d been awake before dawn in his whole life. He nodded again.

  Dammit—can’t fall asleep at the wheel. He took a huge slug from the soda that came with his meal, swished it around so the fizz filled his mouth, swallowed it too fast and started coughing. By the time he got over feeling like he would choke to death at least he wasn’t sleepy.

  The Pontiac was getting low on gas again by the time he crossed into Colorado and he’d not noticed it at the first little town, Antonito. He crossed his fingers and edged toward Alamosa, the night getting darker and the gauge pointing lower.

  At the first lit-up gas station he coasted in on fumes, breathing a sigh of relief. It was one of those outdated places where you had to go inside and pay first—no credit cards at the pumps—but since Ollie was paying in cash that was fine with him. An old guy sat on a stool behind the counter, looking like he was happy for the chance to take the load off.

  “Gotta fill up,” Ollie said. “Not sure how much she’ll take.” He peeled off forty dollars and the old guy gave him a skeptical look. He added another twenty.

  The tank swallowed fifty-four dollars and eight cents and he’d be damned if he would leave the old coot that much as a tip. He went back inside for his change.

  “Hey, I’m looking for an old friend.” It had just occurred to him that prowling around in hopes of finding String’s grandmother’s place was probably pushing his luck too far.

  The old man counted out Ollie’s change the old fashioned way. “Yeah?”

  “Guy named String—uh, Stringer. Said his family had a place here.”

  “Yeah, the Stringer Farm. Potato growers. Like ever’body here.” The man closed the cash drawer. “But they ain’t here no more. Elvira Stringer was the last one and she died three years ago. Place is all run down. Nobody livin’ there.”

  Ollie wanted to ask a bunch more questions but thought better of it. The gas guy might be old but he looked pretty sharp.

  “Oh, sorry to hear that. Well, thanks anyway.”

  He walked back to the Pontiac, feeling the old man’s eyes on his back the whole way. He coaxed the car to life and pulled out slowly. Now what? Couldn’t very well find the place if he couldn’t ask around. And somebody who died three years ago wouldn’t be in the phone book. He cruised into town, debated getting a room at one of those motels along the highway. They looked pretty new, fancy compared to the Shady Rest.

  What am I thinking, he chided himself. String’s around here someplace. I gotta find him before he decides to take off again. He scanned each of the motel parking lots, watching for a sign of Melinda’s faded silver sedan but didn’t spot it. He’d hit the far western edge of town and was debating turning around to scout out what the north end and the east end might hold, when he spotted the sign.

  STRINGER FARM

  The Best Colorado Potatoes

  1.2 mi.

  The blue lettering was faded and chipped against its white background, and the sign hung a little crookedly. Looked like one of its four bolts had come out and another was pretty loose. A red arrow aimed down a road to Ollie’s left.

  Ollie drove as far as the first bend in the road so the car would be out of sight from the highway. Turned off the lights and ignition and listened to the overwhelming quiet. He had no idea whether the 1.2 miles meant the edge of the farm’s acreage or if that would take him straight to the house, but he didn’t dare drive the noisy Pontiac any closer. He fortified himself with a very long drink from the giant soda cup, stepped to the side of the road and relieved himself of what he’d drunk earlier, then set off on foot.

  He followed the dirt lane, sticking to the edge just in case, but it was a long one and he heard nothing but crickets. He was almost upon the house before he saw it, a gray old ghost rising out of the fields in front of a cluster of tall trees. He halted and cocked his head to listen. Voices. They rose and fell faintly on the night air.

  Scanning the black mass of trees and the slightly lighter bulk of the house, he spotted a flickering light from a side window. He stepped to the grassy verge of the road and took his time approaching.

  String wouldn’t be happy to see him but at that moment Ollie Trask didn’t give a damn.

  Chapter 10

  Drake chafed, knowing the information was right there, just outside his reach. He wanted so badly to snatch the page from the FBI man, knew that wouldn’t gain him anything. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

  “People!” Kingston called out. “Over here! Time to put our heads together.”

  Dave Gonzales stepped up to hand out the orders. “Jones and Rodriguez, you take the first name on the list, Joey Baca. Bookman and Kess, you’ll be looking up Calvin Painter. Sanchez and I will check out Lonnie Stringer. I’m passing out pages with their last known addresses, vehicle descriptions, rap sheets. They’ve all got records. All should be considered armed and dangerous.”

  He handed a page to each set of officers. “I’ll be real surprised if the guilty guy is actually at home with the red truck sitting out front, but we’ve all heard the stupid criminal stories, so anything’s possible. Just go in with your eyes open. If your suspect isn’t home check with family, neighbors . . . well, you know the drill. We want to find that truck and the owner of it.”

  The teams headed out the door, leaving Drake feeling decidedly left out. He wanted so badly to ride along, to be there for the catch, but knew the odds of that happening soon were quickly diminishing. Bars of golden light shone long against the carpet, telling him it was getting late into the afternoon.

  “It’s a process, Drake,” Ron said, joining him by the window. “It never works like in the movies. There’s no skycam that can see every move the crooks make, no blinking red light on some map that shows where they are now.”

  Drake nodded. “I’m just not used to being so completely out of the action.”

  “I know,” said Kingston. The FBI man walked toward them. “I read about your rescue of that kid up in the mountains last month. You did a great job for the Search and Rescue team.”

  “Thanks.” His voice came out soft. He felt like he was drifting in a surreal world, that if he went to sleep he’d wake up beside Charlie in their bed.

  “If it’s any consolation, we haven’t lost a hostage in a very long time,” Kingston said. “These guys aren’t sophisticated criminals. They’ve got petty records, for the most part. A bank robbery is a new thing to them. They don’t know what they’re doing. We will catch them.”

  Drake wanted to say that telling a victim’s husband that she was in the hands of incompetent crooks rather than master criminals wasn’t a whole lot of comfort. But nothing would be gained by alienating these guys—they were doing what they could.

  “I’m gathering the rest of the team over at the table. Come join us,” Kingston said.

  Drake and Ron took seats along with the remaining APD officers and the FBI men.

  “Okay, we’ve got officers out on the streets, checking for the vehicle. I have a good feelin
g about this, that our robbers are tied to one of those three red trucks.” Kingston took a breath and straightened the edges of the pages before him on the table. “That said, I also think there’s a pretty good chance that these guys will have changed vehicles by now. If they are anywhere in this city, it would be the only smart thing to do. If they got by one of our roadblocks they had to do it in another vehicle. Every law enforcement person in this state is watching for an older, red pickup truck.”

  “Did the roadblocks go up quick enough?” one of the uniforms asked.

  Kingston’s gaze lowered. “We can’t be sure. Word got out quickly, yes. But this is an easy city to get around and that bank branch is less than four minutes to a freeway ramp. That, and fifteen minutes to reach the county line . . .”

  “Air surveillance?” someone else asked.

  “By the time helicopters were airborne, the truck could have easily been concealed. You know how that goes. Perps pull into a garage somewhere, stay put a couple hours, the helicopters haven’t spotted anything and we can’t keep them out there all day.”

  “But after a couple hours we’ve got better ground coverage, can catch them with a roadblock.” The officer looked directly at Drake as she said it, obviously trying to relieve his worry.

  “Bottom line,” said Kingston, “ they can’t have left the state. Not in that truck anyway.”

  The meeting broke up as the officers took calls and attended to other tasks.

  “Mr. Langston? Mr. Parker? How about a bite to eat? It’s been a long day and that coffee won’t hold you forever.” Kingston subtly steered them toward the door. “My treat? Grab a sandwich somewhere?”

  Drake didn’t feel like he could handle food but his feet carried him along after the others. They walked a couple of blocks in the hot summer air. He had to admit that just getting out of the building revived him somewhat. And he surprised himself by putting away a sizeable steak sandwich.