Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  A personal computer sat to one side of the desk. The remaining space was cluttered with calculator, stapler, and a shallow dish of paper clips just waiting to be tipped over. A mug, half full of oily looking coffee, sat perilously near the computer keyboard. On the side of the mug was a picture of a haggard looking office worker receiving a pink slip, and the saying "Go Ahead, Make My Day."

  Scattered across the top of several layers of file folders, and ripped-open envelopes were a handful of phone messages, the kind written on pink forms.

  "I take it these came in before Saturday," I commented to Sharon.

  Her brows pulled together in the center as she looked them over.

  "Heavens, yes," she said. "Look at the dates on some of them. Looks like they've been here for weeks."

  "I wonder if that means David never returned the calls."

  "I really couldn't say, but as you can see, he was a real pack-rat. It's very possible that he returned the calls, but kept the messages anyway." She looked at me and shrugged. "I just don't know."

  "Has anyone else been in here since Friday?"

  "No. I half expected the police to stop by, but they haven't."

  "Do you mind if I spend a little time in here? I won't take anything with me unless I check it out with you first."

  "Go right ahead, Charlie. Do whatever you need to. I just want answers." She picked up the coffee mug, and took it with her.

  I began by sorting the phone messages. Some of them were almost two months old. A couple had notes scribbled in the margins in straight masculine looking writing. I assumed David had returned those, and had made the notes. Three of the messages were from a Mr. Tom McDonald with the IRS. None of those had notes in David's writing.

  I pulled out the small spiral notebook I always keep in my purse, and copied the names, phone numbers, and all notes from the phone messages. If the police discarded the suicide theory, and opened this as a murder investigation, they would certainly search this office. I didn't want to face obstruction of justice charges by removing anything that could potentially be important. But, that didn't mean I wasn't ready to glean any and all information I could.

  Systematically, I went through each of the drawers, which turned out to be about as organized as the desktop. The further I dug, the more I began to wonder about David's competence as the financial wizard of the business. Accountants are people, and as in every other walk of life, they are all different. But, one thing I've noticed almost universally (at least among the ones I know) is that their records are organized. Without organization, without being able to put one's hands on any certain piece of paper at any time, an accountant would be hopelessly lost. David's desk looked pretty hopeless.

  I had to resist the temptation to straighten the files and move things around. After all, I was here to find clues, if any existed, to prove that David had not committed suicide, not to revamp his office procedures. On the surface anyway, there was nothing to indicate that David hadn't left here on Friday night with every intention of being back at this desk Monday morning.

  I switched on the PC, wondering if the files there might yield some new clues. Checking the root directory, I saw that the most recent entries to his accounting program had been made just after the first of the month, more than two weeks ago. His word processor, though, had been updated just last Friday. I changed to that directory, and opened the program. Its sub-directory showed that two files had been worked on that day. I pulled up the first one. It was a letter to one of their food suppliers regarding a past due bill. David was asking the supplier to extend credit an extra month past their usual terms. The second document was a similar letter to the bank. Sounded like David was having to do some sweet-talking to shuffle money where it was needed.

  I riffled again through the papers covering the top of the desk. Quite a few of them were bills, some with past due notices. None had yet reached the Final stage, and for the most part, the messages were courteous but firm. It was obvious David was getting some pressure, but enough to drive him to suicide? I wouldn't think so.

  Nothing else on the computer looked urgent or even especially timely, so I switched it off. I pulled open the center lap drawer on the desk. Its contents were almost in worse shape than the rest of the little office. He had one of those little divided trays that is supposed to provide a place for everything, but the drawer was so jammed that the tray couldn't even rest flat on the bottom. Papers, pens, clips, little notepads, and a variety of junk, including a wadded up hamburger wrapper, all came at me as I pulled at the drawer. This was unbearable.

  I began to pull handfuls of stuff out, attempting to locate the bottom of the mess. Finally, I had it down to one layer. The heaviest objects had settled to the bottom, among them a keyring. I picked it up. There were only four keys on it. Three were obviously for doors -- his home, his office, and something else. I could ask Sharon. The fourth was a safe deposit box key.

  Setting the keyring aside, I replaced the papers I had pulled out, one at a time. I glanced over each one as I went, in case one would prove to be a suicide note. Nothing there. The drawer closed a little easier than it had opened. I picked up the keys, and tried them one at a time, until I ascertained that one fit the door to the office, and another fit the restaurant's back door to the alley. Presumably, the front door would be keyed the same. That left one more door key, which was most likely his home, and the safe deposit key.

  I felt like I'd checked what I could here. Without delving into the books, or searching each of his files page by page, I couldn't find anything that I thought would drive a man to kill himself.

  Sharon was at the cash register, closing out the sales for the day. She brightened a bit when she saw me.

  "We did better than I expected today," she said. "How about you? Find anything?"

  "No, not really," I said. I showed her the keyring. "Was this a spare set of keys David kept?"

  She looked at them. "I guess so. His regular keyring had a little plastic thing attached that said 'I heart NM'. You know the kind. His little sister had given it to him." She took the keys from me, and flipped through them. "These two are for the restaurant," she said, confirming what I'd already tested. "I don't know about the others."

  "His house, maybe?"

  "Probably. He lived in those apartments on Academy Road -- I can't think of the name, but they're just up the street from the Food City grocery store."

  "Mind if I take those?" I asked.

  She handed the keys back. "Like I said, I just want to find out the truth."

  Back on the road, I contemplated what I was doing. I wasn't sure how the police would feel about me snooping around in David's apartment. But, if I didn't remove anything... Besides that, I justified, they had probably already searched the place themselves. If there was a suicide note, I felt sure the police or David's family would have recovered it by now. If not, then what harm would I be doing?

  Chapter 7

  The Jeep headed back across town for the second time this afternoon. A hot pale blue sky reflected heat waves off the freeway. Bright chrome shining off other cars struck my eyes. The traffic became a clog at the Big I, where Interstate 40 bisects Interstate 25. I slowed to twenty-five miles an hour, thinking about the weekend I'd just spent in the cool deserted mountains. Slowly, the pace picked up a little. I worked my way over to the right, watching for the San Mateo exit.

  I found the apartment complex Sharon had mentioned. The place consisted of five or six frame stucco buildings styled and colored to look like adobe. According to the mailboxes, D. Ruiz was in apartment A48. It took me a few minutes of wandering around to figure out the numbering system and locate the right one.

  The key slid into the well-worn lock with hardly a whisper. I used a scarf over my hand to turn the knob, just in case the police would come by later for fingerprints. The apartment looked like David had just stepped out to do a quick errand. The drapes were drawn; a lamp in the living room still burned. A TV schedule was open on th
e coffee table to Saturday's date, with the remote control lying on top of it. The furniture all looked new, and expensive. David's taste ran to the modern—leather, chrome, and glass. His stereo system was the latest, with enough controls and buttons to operate a space shuttle. Nothing in the room looked more than six months old.

  A sack from Burger King lay on its side on the breakfast bar, a hamburger wrapper spread flat beside it. The remains of the hamburger, a sprinkling of sesame seeds and a few shreds of dried up lettuce, were scattered about the paper surface. A puddle of ketchup, dried now to the color of blood, held one corner of the paper down, and three shriveled french fries lay in their cardboard container. A Coors can, which proved to be about two-thirds empty, stood nearby. The wooden bar chair in front of the food remains was swiveled toward the living room, like David had just gotten up to go to the bathroom and would be right back.

  It was an eerie feeling, walking into the just-vacated place. It wouldn't have surprised me a bit if David had emerged that minute from the bedroom. I found myself tip-toeing around. The apartment was relatively neat, compared to David's office. There was a dirty coffee mug in the kitchen sink, and the refrigerator revealed three cold cans of Coors and a cardboard box from Pizza Hut. David's grocery bill must have been very reasonable.

  In the bathroom, the light was still on. A shirt tail trailed out from under the clothes hamper lid, and his towel had been stuffed over the towel bar in a wad. The medicine cabinet held an assortment of shaving paraphernalia and dental care products. A pack of twenty-four condoms was open. There were only two left. I didn't see any drugs, prescription or the other kind. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  The bedroom was dim with the drapes closed. I hit the wall switch, which turned on a bedside lamp. The bed was unmade, a pair of dress shoes sat on the floor, and a suit jacket lay draped over a chair. A small desk stood in the corner, obviously not as heavily used as his desk at the restaurant. In the top drawer I found a coupon book for car payments. Glancing into it made me glad I hadn't purchased that Porsche earlier. He had also racked up a sizeable bill at one of the priciest mens clothing stores in town.

  I hadn't seen a trace of a suicide note, and I was beginning to feel nervous about being here. For all I knew, the police or David's family members could come traipsing in just any time now. In fact, it surprised me that I was apparently the first on the scene. Still using my scarf, I made sure I left everything as I'd found it, then slipped out the front door.

  It was getting close to five o'clock, and the traffic was picking up. I wasn't eager to get into the mess on the freeway, but I didn't have much choice. I pulled into a convenience store, and bought a copy of the evening paper before heading south. By the time I got back to the office, everyone else was long gone, and Rusty looked anxious. I reassured him that I had intended all along to come back for him.

  I checked the answering machine and my desk. No messages either place. I dialed Ron's number, but there was no answer. Rusty and I headed for home. He got a scoop of dry food, and I had a can of chicken noodle soup for dinner. I felt let down that day one of my investigating hadn't netted much for Sharon. I thought about calling her at home, but didn't know what I'd say, so I didn't. Rusty and I both were ready for the sack by nine.

  At six a.m. my eyes were suddenly wide open. The penalty, I guess, for going to bed so early. I got up, made coffee, and read last night's paper while chewing on a bowl of granola and dried fruit. In the obituaries, I noticed that David's funeral would be this morning at ten.

  I should probably go, although I absolutely detest funerals. It's an old phobia, traceable to the fact that I had to attend both my parent's when I was only sixteen. As if the shock of someone's death isn't bad enough, just about the time we're coming to grips with it, society demands that we hold this ceremony to rip the painful wound open again. The only reason I even considered going this morning was because I didn't really know David, and could, therefore, stay emotionally detached. That's what I told myself, anyway.

  Actually, I hoped to get a clearer picture of David's family situation. Seeing them all together might give me some further insights into the man himself. Plus, I could see Sharon again, and let her know what I had, or rather, hadn't found. She could tell me whether she wanted me to keep trying.

  Staring into my closet proved to be an unsatisfying venture. The temperatures were still above normal for late May, and I didn't seem to own anything in a subdued color that wasn't also heavy. I finally settled on a navy blue linen suit and white blouse. If the funeral home was air conditioned, I'd be okay. If we went to the cemetery, the jacket would probably have to go.

  My hair felt heavy and hot against my neck. It's thick and just below shoulder length, and every summer I swear I'll get it all cut off. I thought about wearing it up today, but remembered that I still had a centipede-like adornment of stitches at the base of the hairline. I'd need to get an appointment to have them taken out.

  Meanwhile the house was hot and I was getting irritable. I really needed to get my air conditioner at the house hooked up. I should have made arrangements for that before I ever left on vacation. I pulled the yellow pages out of my nightstand drawer, and looked for the name of the guy who'd done it last year. The secretary who answered said that he was solidly booked until next week. Would that be soon enough? I told her I guessed it would; what choice did I have?

  I also dialed the office, and told Sally my plans for the morning. If there were any calls for me, I could be reached at home until nine-thirty, or I'd be in the office by noon.

  I showered, put on the suit, and did a quick makeup job. All this took about fifteen minutes, but still, it's major primping for me. I'm usually a jeans and t-shirt/sweatshirt/wool sweater kind of person, depending on the season. I do minimal makeup, and the dressy version varies from the everyday version only with the addition of a few extra swipes of blusher, and maybe eyeshadow. Not today. I didn't want any weird colors caking up in the sweaty places I could already feel forming on my face.

  Rusty wasn't thrilled about staying home alone, but hey, we can't always have our way. I was wearing a suit and high heels, so I figured he could give a little, too.

  I drove north on Rio Grande Boulevard to I-40, heading toward the same funeral home where I'd last seen my parents.

  Chapter 8

  Nothing had changed. Somber men in dark suits stood near the doors, speaking in their same low tones, ushering people to the proper places. The flowers still smelled overly sweet, and the organ played the same music it had almost fifteen years ago. The casket at the front became fuzzy as I stared at it, the image splitting and becoming two, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to make the memory go away.

  Sharon was seated alone in the fourth row, and I slipped into the pew beside her. Her eyes were red when she glanced up at me. She took my hand and clutched it briefly. I felt my eyes begin to sting, not so much for the passing of David, whom I'd barely met, but for the loss it represented to her.

  As the priest finished his ceremonial ministerings, and one of David's brothers stood up to deliver the eulogy, I found myself getting caught up in the family's grief. I didn't want that to happen. I forced myself to tune out the words. Instead, I concentrated on assessing the players in the sad drama.

  David's parents sat beside each other in the front row, huddling together, locking out the rest of the world in their grief. A small elderly woman hunched next to Mrs. Ruiz, her face hidden by a black lace mantilla. Her gnarled fingers worked systematically at a set of rosary beads. Behind the three of them, was a row apparently comprised of the brothers and sisters—three women and two men, all in their twenties and thirties.

  Across the aisle from the immediate family, were three rows set aside for other family. Judging by their assorted ages, I guessed them to be the aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews.

  Sharon had caught my line of sight. "The good-looking man on the end is David's cousin, Michael Mann. I've met some of the
others, but can't remember who's who."

  Michael Mann was the one who had given his statement to the police. I would be interested in talking to him later, if I got the chance.

  Outside, the sun was hotter than before, or perhaps it was the contrast with the overly air-conditioned room that I noticed. My fingers were frigid. The dry desert air had a cleansing effect as I breathed deeply, getting the cloying scent of the flowers out of my nostrils.

  "There will be a short graveside service," Sharon said, "then we're invited to the Ruiz's home. You want to come?"

  "I'd like to meet the family," I told her. "I know this isn't the time for questions, but I might be able to pick up something."

  I hung back at the fringes during the graveside service, partly out of distaste for the whole ceremony, and partly to watch the others participate. Sharon had offered to let me ride with her, but I didn't want to be stuck without an escape hatch. I followed her in my car to the Ruiz home.

  The place was way down in the south valley, in an area where a man's riches are apparently judged by the land he holds and the number of children he produces. The homes aren't anything to get excited about. The Ruiz place had started out as a small flat-roofed cinderblock house, stuccoed pinkish-tan. Subsequent additions had been stuccoed separately, each job getting pinker and pinker, until the most recent, an angular affair sticking out the back, was almost strawberry—like a child's birthday cake gone wrong.

  Cars already lined both sides of the narrow dirt road by the time Sharon and I arrived. I pulled into a spot far back in the line, leaving myself plenty of room. Groups of teens clustered in the narrow band of shade at the front of the house, eating off paper plates, and balancing Coke cans. Younger children, freed from the heavy religious atmosphere, shrieked and ran across the front lawn. Sharon and I walked inside together.