Stardom Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mystery #12

by Connie Shelton

  “I’ll check for a number for the daughter. As chatty as she is, Melinda probably gave her real location on Facebook, too.” He moved his computer mouse and began clicking.

  Drake’s cell phone vibrated and he nearly jumped out of his shirt. He snatched it out of his pocket, hoping the unfamiliar readout number meant good news.

  “Charlie?”

  “Sorry, Drake, it’s not.” Cliff Kingston’s voice sounded tired, as if the FBI man was another who’d not gotten much sleep last night.

  “Is there any news?” Drake knew he sounded desperate. Hoped the cop picked up on it. If only they had pulled off a miracle during the night and had Charlie safely with them.

  “Not much, I’m afraid. The detectives are still working on leads.”

  “We may have a few,” Drake said, “but I still have a hard time grasping all the connections.”

  Ron wiggled his fingers, wanting Drake to let him talk to Kingston. He handed over the phone and listened as Ron put the story together concisely, telling about the links between Stringer, Mohler and the two Davies women. Kingston began to talk and Ron clicked to put the phone on speaker so Drake could hear.

  “—agree that it’s suspicious for Melinda to quit posting, given her history. I’ll get someone out to the Davies place at Romeroville right away.”

  Ron asked a couple more questions of the FBI man but didn’t learn anything new.

  “Stay in touch,” Kingston said as he ended the call. There seemed a grudging respect in his voice for Ron’s investigative abilities, but at least the man was working with them rather than pulling rank and trying to cut them out.

  “Ron, you said that Mohler had a Facebook page? Does it show an address for him, anything we could use?”

  “Nah, checked it already. I’m guessing somebody set it up for him. There’s no personal information beyond listing Albuquerque as his hometown.”

  Drake bit his lip, feeling stumped.

  Ron had already helped himself to a couple of the Oreos but apparently they weren’t hitting the spot. He suggested that they grab some breakfast at a diner he knew, over by the university. Without a better plan, Drake agreed.

  The place was crowded despite the hour, full of students who looked bleary-eyed and a handful of business people, probably either traveling salesmen or local corporate types on their way to early office meetings. Drake didn’t really care. He searched for Charlie’s face everywhere he turned and was glad when they were shown to a booth near the windows so he had somewhere else to direct his attention.

  “Good thing we had coffee at the office,” Ron commented.

  Drake had to agree. It took nearly a half-hour before someone came to take their order, even longer for the kitchen to produce the meals.

  They’d no sooner received their food than Drake’s phone rang. Once again his heart went into overdrive, but this time he recognized the number on the readout.

  “State Police located the truck,” Kingston said immediately. “In a barn on the Davies property.” He paused, but there was more, Drake could tell. “Also found the bodies of Melinda and Sissy Davies.”

  “Oh, no.”

  Ron almost leaped over the table at Drake’s tone, so he took a second to repeat Kingston’s information.

  “What about Charlie? Is there any—?”

  “No sign. We’re sending an FBI team up there and forensics people are crawling all over the place. But so far we can’t tell that she was ever there.” He cleared his throat. “We think that the robbers got out of Albuquerque quickly, drove up to the Davies place, hid the truck and may have switched vehicles with Melinda Davies. We’re tracking down that registration so we’ll soon know what we’re looking for.”

  “Should we come—?”

  “Won’t do any good,” Kingston said. “We’re doing all we can. And don’t fly out to Romeroville. You wouldn’t be allowed to land or set foot on the property.”

  Damn. It was as if Kingston had read his intentions.

  “Drake, just sit tight. We’re doing all we can. You’re already getting more information than most families do in these situations.”

  He sighed and forced himself not to come back with an angry comment. It would do more harm than good at this point.

  “Thanks, Cliff. Just, please, keep me posted. We’re worried here.”

  “I know. I will.” The call clicked off.

  Ham and eggs had never tasted so bland. Drake knew they were probably fine; it was just that his taste buds, along with every other part of him, had gone dead. He and Ron sat across from each other, hardly talking. The only subject on their minds was something they really couldn’t discuss at length in such a public place. Not that either of them felt like talking anyway. So, he chewed his food and kept his thoughts bottled inside.

  Ron got the check and they walked back out to Drake’s truck.

  “So, now what?” he asked as Ron opened the passenger door.

  “Sitting around the office is going to drive me crazy,” Ron admitted. “And Kingston was right—if we head into the midst of their crime scene we’ll cause trouble.”

  “I’d rather see if we can wait around at APD than to just sit home,” Drake said. “Think they’d let us in?”

  “Worth a try. Worst they can do is say no, send us home and we’re back where we are now.”

  Drake drove the route that was beginning to feel too familiar and parked close to the same spot he’d taken last night. They rode up in the same elevator and went through the same security procedure before stopping at the same reception desk to ask if Detective Gonzales was in.

  Gonzales’s golden brown skin seemed unreasonably fresh when he stepped out to greet them. He gave pretty much the identical advice as Kingston and he showed obvious reluctance to let them come back to the squad room. Ron was about to turn around, and Drake was about to argue when a man came rushing in.

  He was a thirty-something guy with curly dark hair that looked a little like a floor-mop, handsome in that California way, smooth skinned, purposely dressed-down in scruffy jeans and a ripped T-shirt. Drake had seen a dozen just like him on various movie jobs. The guy looked around, obviously trying to figure out if he was in the right place. The officer at the desk asked how he might help, and Drake noticed that Gonzales was listening. Gonzales’s awareness of the newcomer had the effect of drawing everyone’s attention that direction.

  “—ransom demand,” the man was saying.

  Gonzales stepped over and asked the guy to repeat.

  “I’m a producer. We’re doing the new Cristina Cross film.” He paused as if he either wanted an oohh out of them or just to be sure they were up with him so far. “I got a call awhile ago from some nut job who says he’s holding Cristina hostage and wants a five million dollar ransom for me to get her back. It’s so weird that I thought you guys should know about it.”

  Dave Gonzales raised an index finger to get the producer to hold on. “Just a second.” He directed the desk officer to page Cliff Kingston, who came hustling out of the squad room a few seconds later.

  Kingston pulled out his FBI badge. “Kidnappings are usually our department.”

  “Good, FBI . . . See, that’s the thing. Cristina has not been kidnapped. I just talked to her, like ten minutes ago.”

  Chapter 14

  “Domino! You dumbass!” String’s greeting woke me from the restless sleep I’d finally allowed myself.

  I muttered a little and rolled to my back, the better to observe through nearly-closed eyelids. I still wanted the gang to think that the sleeping pill had worked.

  String batted Billy on the side of the head, bringing the younger man out of his sound sleep. Billy leaped to his feet, as if that would prove he hadn’t really been asleep on the job, but he swayed unsteadily for a second.

  “Get in the kitchen and whip us up some eggs or somethin’.”

  Billy found his footing and followed along silently. The rest of them treated him like a short-order cook, placing
their orders. I heard pans clattering and got a whiff of the gas range being lit again. Soon, I could smell bacon and coffee. My stomach growled.

  What to do? I needed strength but couldn’t risk eating anything they gave me. I stayed still for the moment, a good thing because String and Kid came into the living room, nearly catching me with my eyes open. I slammed them shut and listened.

  “Put the batteries in this thing,” String said.

  I heard the crisp sounds of plastic packaging materials. A sly peek revealed Kid kneeling at the coffee table, not four feet from me, fiddling with a package that appeared to contain a small radio.

  String, sitting in the armchair where Billy had slept, was slicing open one of those deadly-tough plastic packs, attempting to get a pair of flashlights out of it. A bulk pack of D-cell batteries rested on his lap.

  “Breakfast!” Billy called out.

  “Bring it in here,” String ordered. “Think I got time to drop what I’m doing for you?”

  Billy showed up in the doorway with two paper plates loaded with eggs, bacon and toast. He placed one on the arm of String’s chair and set the other on the coffee table. “There you go, Ollie.”

  My stomach growled again. I covered by rolling to my side once more. “Think I should make some eggs for her?” Billy asked, nodding my direction.

  String studied me for a few seconds. “Nah, ain’t worth waking her up for.”

  Now I had to pretend to be asleep while the smells of freshly cooked food wafted around me. If I can bluff my way through this, I’ll have your Oscar, Cristina Cross!

  “Besides, we got stuff to talk about that’s best kept just between us. You sure she’s sound asleep?”

  “Oh yeah, String. You shoulda seen her conk out just a few minutes after she took that pill.”

  “Okay, good. Get Mole and come in here to eat.”

  I gave a soft little snore, just to make it convincing. I love eavesdropping.

  Once Billy and Mole had found places to sit, String started talking. “I figure we better give the guy at least until Monday morning to get the money. He’ll have to call a bank or somethin’ to come up with five mil.”

  Whoa. Nice that they thought I was worth five million. But I made sure no hint of a smile appeared on my face. I wondered if these jokers had any clue that it would take a good-sized truck to deliver five million dollars in cash. Well, I wasn’t going to be the one to burst their bubble.

  “What’d you tell him?” Billy asked.

  “You shoulda seen me. Just like in the movies. I didn’t let him talk, just spelled out what we wanted and hung up before anybody could run a trace on the phone.”

  As if this producer could possibly be expecting the need to trace the call. I peered through my lashes but kept my mouth shut.

  “I just told him to get the money together and wait for my instructions.” His lip curled, even more than normal. “I thought I handled it pretty well.”

  “Yeah, except for using your own cell phone,” Mole said.

  String glared at him. Bad move, spoiling the boss’s story.

  “I took care of that,” String said.

  Billy was looking at him curiously. Ollie piped up. “No big deal. Bought another, one of them throwaways.”

  “Did you ditch the old one?” Billy asked. “Cause I saw on CSI how they can track you with a GPS from your cell phone’s card.”

  “I thought of that,” Mole said. “We dumped it in the trash, right there at the Wal-mart.”

  “When will we get our shares?” Ollie asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” String said. “I’ve got a place we can go, divide it up. Then we split off in different directions.”

  “Your house in Albuquerque?” Billy asked.

  “No, stupid. This place can’t be traced to me. And, trust me, the cops don’t want to get near it. I can send the whole joint sky high if I want.”

  Mole’s eyes glittered dangerously at this news but the younger guys went quiet. I kept my eyes shut while they cleared the remains of the meal. The whole group went into the kitchen, convinced that I was indeed out of it, enough that they didn’t need to keep a guard posted beside me. Someone went out the back door and came back. Chairs scraped as they repositioned themselves around the table.

  With breakfast finished, I wondered how they planned to keep occupied for a day and a half, until they could call the producer again. Of course, only I knew that they had the wrong hostage and there would be no five million coming. I had to work on a means of escape, quickly, before they learned that the real Cristina was not the woman in this room.

  As it turned out, quibbling over the bank money occupied most of the afternoon, with the four of them gathered at the kitchen table. The counting process had been so confusing last night that no one had a clue how much each robber was supposed to have. And now that Ollie had turned up, they had to appease him, or at least make all the right noises to let him think he was getting a share.

  I still didn’t put it past String and Mole to get rid of the other two and keep it all. For that matter, if it came down to a shoot-out between those two bad guys I wouldn’t be at all sure where to place my bet, especially since a bottle of whiskey had been added to the mix somewhere around mid-afternoon.

  At some point String called out for dinner, which by the sounds of things was going to be baloney sandwiches. Billy was pressed into service once again to provide the food—a job at a pizza place apparently gave him a lot more in the way of credentials than I ever would have imagined. I heard him grumble a little bit about having to wait on them, but by the noises coming from the kitchen it sounded like he complied anyway.

  My eyes had been wide open for some time now and when it became impossible to lie in the same position for another minute, I twisted myself around on the saggy sofa until I was sitting up. My head felt fuzzy from all the inactivity and I chided myself about becoming too complacent. The one thing I could not rely on was this bunch letting their guard down. If I were to escape I needed a more specific plan.

  I was sitting there with my thick head in my hands when I sensed motion.

  “You hungry, Miss Cross?” It was Billy.

  I shrugged a ‘not really’ signal. I was so famished that even a baloney sandwich sounded good, but I couldn’t take the chance that String wouldn’t grind up another pill and sprinkle it into the mayo.

  “I need to move around. Couldn’t I have my legs free for awhile?”

  String had moved into the doorway, staring at me, watching to see if Billy slipped me an unauthorized sandwich or something.

  Billy glanced at the boss.

  String eyed me.

  “You try a move like last night, I’ll make you sorry.” He tilted his head toward Billy. “Cut her legs loose. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  That order resulted in another really embarrassing trip to the bathroom, but I figured if I lived through the weekend I could live through a little embarrassment.

  In the kitchen the men sat around the table with a card game in progress; the radio on the countertop blasted away with country music. The whiskey bottle was more than half empty—or less than half full, if that made me sound more optimistic. I stood to the side, with Billy’s eyes never leaving me. Guess the guy took String’s orders seriously.

  On the counter sat the remains of a loaf of bread and what was left of the baloney. My stomach growled ferociously.

  “Mind if I make myself a sandwich?” I asked. I kind of said it quietly and directed the request to Billy, hoping not to make an issue of it.

  He glanced at String and the older guy gave the nod. With my awkward, duct-taped grip, I pulled two slices of bread from the wrapper and two slices of meat from the plastic package. No spread, even though I doubted they’d tainted it. Even plain, it tasted good to me. That sandwich went down so well that I helped myself to a second one during a moment when the poker play got especially heated.

  My energy began to return and I reminded
myself not to get so run down again. I needed physical strength as well as mental acuity when it came time to make my break. The four-against-one odds weren’t good, and I had no idea what I faced once I got outside the house.

  From the windows I only got glimpses of wide fields that had once been under cultivation but were now fallow. The short weeds wouldn’t really count as protective foliage if I made a run for it.

  The men were so wrapped up in their game that they paid little attention to me, but I remembered my experience from last night and this time I was clear across the room from the door. Realistically, there was no way I could make a dash for it. The living room had a door leading outside, but String had moved a heavy cabinet against it on the chance that I might try that while I was supposedly asleep on the couch. I might give the thing a shove, but not quietly. As long as they were in the house, I was stuck here too.

  I became more fully aware of the radio when the music stopped and a news broadcast began. It started with national news, something about tax protests in Washington, but I envisioned the announcer switching to regional happenings and realized it was entirely possible that the bank robbery and my kidnapping might be a story.

  A story that would name me for who I really was.

  And that just couldn’t happen right now.

  I edged toward the sink, as if I were going to wash up, but my hands, big and clumsy with all that duct tape, swung around at the wrong moment and the poor little radio went soaring. It crashed against the stove with bits of plastic flying everywhere. And it went blessedly silent.

  In fact, the whole room went silent. Four sets of unfriendly eyes stared at me.

  Oscar time again. “Oh! My god!! I’m so sorry!” I raised my hands to my face, worked up a couple of tears. Repeated the ‘so sorry’ part about a dozen more times.

  Mole let loose with some choice words. String looked ready to punch something. The two younger guys seemed stunned. Eventually, though, Ollie stood up for me.

  “Hey, it wasn’t her fault,” he said. “It was sittin’ kinda near the edge.”

  This resulted in a shouted version of the blame-game, where no one wanted to take the rap for setting the radio too near the edge of the counter. At least the attention was no longer on me.