Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  Visiting Ron's digs always depresses me. I hate seeing my brother live like this, when it's so unnecessary. When our parents died, they each had sizeable life insurance policies. Ron, our brother Paul, and I each ended up with about a hundred grand in cash after taxes and bills were paid. I got the family home in addition—because I was the only one still living there at the time, I guess. Our trusted family attorney managed to bilk me out of about half of mine before I wised up, but that's another story altogether. Anyway, Ron and Paul both bought homes when they married, and the cash gave them a nice boost at a time most newlyweds are struggling.

  About eight years ago Ron's wife, Bernadette, decided she wanted out of the marriage. She managed to take the three kids, and the house and furnishings, which had all been paid for with his inheritance. Ron got his clothes and a few pieces of their old cast-off furniture. New Mexico is a community property state, but don't believe for a minute that it insures fair treatment. If one party is easy-going enough, and the other party is selfish enough, anything is possible.

  About that time Ron and I decided to start the agency. I put up the money, and he did most of the legwork. To this day, I have a hard time keeping a civil tongue when I have to face Bernadette. This flat-roofed brick apartment building with the paint peeling off its trim, the parking lot full of junker cars, and the perpetual noise of screaming kids is too vivid a reminder.

  Ron answered his door on the first knock, jacket in hand, ready to go. I couldn't help but wonder if he didn't want me to see inside the place. He's not much of a housekeeper.

  "Let's take my car," I suggested. Two boys, about seven or eight, were throwing a baseball back and forth. Neither was a very good catcher, and the ball bounced off the roof of someone's old Ford while I watched.

  Ron gave directions to Vicky's place, glancing nervously at his watch.

  "She got another date if you don't show on time?" I teased.

  "Oh, no," he said a little too brightly. "I was just checking the time."

  I gave him a sidelong glance.

  "Well, she made a real point of asking me to be there by seven-forty-five."

  "No problem, I can step on it a little." Already I was becoming leery about the evening. I had not seen my brother quite so entwined around a female's digits since Bernadette. I really didn't want to see him start that scenario over again.

  Vicky's house was just off Eubank and Academy Road, in a new subdivision jokingly called "poor Tanoan." The Tanoan Country Club is just across the road, and within its walls reside the elite of Albuquerque society. Albuquerque doesn't have a wealth of tycoons. No Gettys, Perots, or DuPonts live here. But, the next best thing, the successful surgeons, lawyers, businessmen, and those who have come here from California where high property values have left them searching for expensive homes, have settled into Tanoan. We're talking homes in the four- to ten-thousand square foot range. Not truly mansions, but not shabby, either. My former fiancé, Brad North and my ex-best friend Stacy, live there.

  “Poor Tanoan,” on the other hand, has sprung up just outside the walls for the wannabees. Lacking in sufficient status, not to mention the bucks it takes to get inside, they've settled into the grouping of impressive, albeit smaller homes on the fringes. These little places run to about three thousand square feet, and boast lots of bevelled glass front doors and landscaping that looks like it's been trimmed with nail scissors—just like the rich neighbors. Vicky's house was such a place. I felt bad about not washing the Jeep before parking it here.

  "Wow, what does this girl do for a living?" I spurted out the words before I realized how it sounded.

  "She's an interior designer, remember? Impressive, huh? Wait'll you see inside."

  Ron pressed the doorbell. A long churchlike pealing of chimes went off somewhere far inside. Vicky opened the door almost immediately. This time she wore a pair of those stretchy black pants that look like hell on anyone over a hundred pounds. Her stomach, I noticed, was flat as a board. A stretch top that looked like it had been made out of an old pair of tights hit her just below the breasts, leaving three or four inches of well-tanned tummy showing. She started to take a step out, ready to leave immediately.

  "Hey, we have a minute, don't we?" Ron said. "I wanted Charlie to see how nice you've done your place."

  She glanced at her watch, making it very obvious that she didn't want to linger. Ron was unaware, though. He stepped right past her, leaving Vicky and me no alternative but to follow.

  Pale shades of cream and apricot dominated the impeccable entry and living room. The latter was large enough to hold two furniture groupings, arranged to make the big room look cozier. The sofas wore an elegant cream colored silk, the side chairs were apricot velvet with a Southwestern pattern subtly woven into it. A baby grand piano in the corner had been finished in the same delicate apricot. Arrangements of silk flowers accented specific places around the room. It literally looked like a page out of House Beautiful. I had to admit, her taste in furnishings beat her taste in clothes all to heck.

  A bookcase, floor to ceiling, filled one short section of wall. Behind its glass doors stood an assortment of all the right books, looking like they had never once been opened. A few items of personal memorabilia were arranged between them, among them a picture of a smiling baby propped up among a collection of stuffed toys. It was a nice photo, eight-by-ten in an expensive decorator frame. Somehow it looked familiar to me, but I couldn't imagine how.

  The room's pile carpeting showed vacuum cleaner tracks, and I imagined that Vicky flinched as Ron trekked across to the far side. He pointed out the city lights view from the room's wall of glass on the west side. That was about as far as we got. Vicky hovered like a nervous mother cat, obviously eager to have us on our way. She hit a couple of light switches, plainly indicating that this was as far as the house tour would go. For an interior designer she wasn't very eager to show off her work. How did she know that I wasn't ready to do a makeover on my old place?

  Vicky relaxed considerably once we reached the restaurant. We were shown to a table near the windows filled with an up-close view of Sandia Peak. The booth had seats of hunter green, with a thick brass rail separating us from the next booth. A young waiter bustled about, pouring water and taking our drink orders. I searched for a topic of conversation.

  “I really like your house, Vicky,” I said, browsing the menu and deciding on the baby back ribs.

  “Thanks,” she beamed. “I did enjoy doing it.” She ran her hand across Ron’s lap and I got the idea she wasn’t referring to her living room.

  “Uh, you know, Vicky, I’ve been thinking about getting a new conference table for the office. What do you think, Ron? That generic work table is pretty tacky.”

  “Sure,” he agreed, “whatever you think.”

  “Maybe something antique? You probably have suppliers for that kind of thin, huh Vicky?”

  “Well, uh . . . yeah sure,” she agreed slowly. “I guess I could find you something.” She gazed back and Ron and I’d swear she actually batted her eyes.

  The food arrived then, great piles of smoky meats on platters the size of hubcaps. It was more than I’d eat at three meals, but I planned to give it a darn good try.

  “Maybe later in the week,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “The conference table? We could go shopping later this week.”

  “Uh, right. Yeah.” Her long fingers pulled a slice of bread apart and fed bits of it to Ron. I thought he would actually suck her fingers right there in the restaurant. I had a vivid reminder of the scene in the Ruiz kitchen.

  "Were you and David Ruiz close, Vicky?" The bitch in me waited until she and Ron were about a half inch away from a lip-lock to ask the question.

  Ron almost spluttered, but Vicky turned to me, cool as ice.

  "Not especially," she said. "Our parents have been friends for years, but David and I didn't have much in common."

  "I wondered. I saw you at their house after the funer
al."

  She looked puzzled. "I didn't go to the funeral," she said. "My parents were there, of course. I think my sister might have been, too. I'm not sure."

  What an actress. I let it drop, but I wondered what the hell she was up to.

  Chapter 13

  The rabbit in the pin-striped vest. I awoke at two a.m. with one of those flashes of insight that comes from nowhere. The Padilla's granddaughter had carried that rabbit. Just like one of the stuffed toys in the photo on Vicky's bookshelf. An unusual rabbit. What was going on with that girl, and what was her connection with the Ruiz family?

  After forty-five minutes of pondering the question, and finding no answers, I gave up on sleep and went into the kitchen. I zapped a cup of milk in the microwave and stirred in two squirts of chocolate syrup. Rusty followed me into the living room, trying to establish eye contact, in hopes that some of the chocolate would accidentally spill into his bowl.

  I picked up my novel, but couldn't get back into the story. Eventually, my eyelids started drooping and I took advantage of the moment to crawl back into bed. I had a nightmare about Ron and Vicky getting married. She wore a skin tight white dress that hit her about an inch below the buns, and we had to serve the cake off our old worktable because she had refused to find an antique one for me. It was a relief when the alarm went off at seven.

  Usually a hot shower will wash away the ridiculous last vestiges of a dream like that, but this morning it didn't work. Perhaps because I couldn't entirely dismiss the idea as incredible. Perhaps because I still had so many questions about Vicky. Perhaps because, no matter how much the creep picked on me as a kid, I love the hell out of that shithead brother of mine.

  I could feel tears mingling with the hot shower spray. I let them come. It isn't very nineties to talk this way, but sometimes a good cry really does make it all better. I stood there until the water started to run cool.

  A few of Gram’s blueberry muffins were still in the refrigerator, and I allowed myself two. After that, I went to my closet and chose my favorite pair of pale green linen slacks and matching summer sweater. The set was a present to myself once after the breakup of a love affair. Comfort food and now comfort clothes. Rusty cocked his head to the side, definite questions in his eyes, as he watched me spritz on a shot of Giorgio. I'm sure he wondered if I were ill.

  I arrived at the office before anyone else, and bopped around doing all sorts of wifely chores, making the coffee, opening the blinds, running a dust cloth over the furniture. By the time Sally arrived, I was really hitting my stride.

  "Wow, you're all dressed up." She stopped in mid-step to stare. "What's the occasion?"

  "Sally, just because I occasionally choose not to wear my usual jeans and t-shirt, it doesn't mean there's any occasion. I just like this outfit."

  "Yeah, and you always wear it when something's wrong."

  And I thought I'd been so cool about it.

  "C'mon, what is it?" she persisted.

  With anyone else, I would have commanded them immediately to butt out, but Sally knew me too well.

  "It's her."

  "I thought so," she said. "I noticed his car isn't here yet. Is that where he is?"

  "I don't know, and I don't think I want to. I had dinner with them last night, and dropped them both off at his place. What happened after that I'd really rather not envision."

  I told Sally about the dream, and we both had a good laugh. Somehow telling it to someone else in the cold light of day brought out the ludicrous side of it. I was glad I had told her.

  "I'll be in my office working on payroll," I told her.

  "Goody, my favorite day of the week. I'll hold all your calls."

  It took hardly any time at all to enter the figures into the computer. With just three of us, it's probably overkill to even use computerized payroll. But, it sure makes figuring the taxes easy. The checks ran in no time, and I pulled them off the printer. I put Ron's on his desk—no sign of him yet. The file folder on the Ruiz case was laying on his desk, and I picked it up. I carried it back to my own office after going downstairs to hand Sally her paycheck.

  Sitting at my desk, I flipped idly through the pages and photos in the file. I was running out of threads to chase in this case. The police had ruled suicide, and so far I hadn't found anything substantive to prove otherwise. And, if it wasn't suicide, it was murder, and I sure didn't have a clue as to who could have done that.

  Somehow, some little thing must be escaping me. I had the feeling that once I found the little thing, the whole mystery might just unravel at once, like chain stitching. David's death, the IRS audit, the gun purchase, the missing financial statements, the grief-stricken relatives—all links in the chain.

  One by one I flipped through the papers in the file. The Xerox copies of the police photos were fairly good, but I had the feeling I wasn't getting certain details. One picture showed David slumped across the center console of the car. Something black, presumably blood, covered the passenger seat. There were other dark spots within the interior of the car, but in black and white I couldn't tell what they were. Seeing the original color photos might help.

  I put a call in for Ron's friend in Homicide, Kent Taylor. He came to the phone after about a minute.

  "Yeah, Charlie." Kent isn't too big on small talk. He's at that awkward career stage with the police force—too old to have those rookie stars in his eyes and too young to retire. He puts in his time, does a good job, and stays alive to go home at night. Safe and steady.

  "Hi, Kent. How ya doing?"

  "Fine." Get to the pint, his tone said

  "Now that the department has closed its files on the David Ruiz case, would there be a problem with me having a look at the photos and the car? I know you let Ron have copies of the photos already. I'd just like to see the originals."

  "Sure, Charlie. But the car, I'm not sure what's happened to it. It could be at the evidence yard."

  "Where's that?"

  He mentioned the name of a towing service that had been in business for ages. "They have the contract with the department," he told me.

  "Would they let me take a look at it?"

  "Not without a search warrant," he said.

  Hmm. This was getting awfully complicated. I just wanted a quick peek to test my theory.

  "Or, I could take you over there," he volunteered.

  "Would you? Oh, Kent, that would be great."

  "Don't get your hope up just yet. It may have been released."

  "You mean it might not still be there?"

  "Well, even with a bullet hole in it, it does belong to somebody. We might have turned it over."

  "Could you check, Kent? I'll come right down to look at the photos. In the meantime, if the car's still there, don't let it get away."

  He agreed, but didn't seem overly concerned about it. It took me ten minutes to get to the main police station downtown, another ten to find a parking space. By the time I located Taylor, he'd pulled the file and phoned around until he ascertained that the car was indeed still at the evidence lot. When he saw how jittery I was, he laughed.

  "Don't worry, kid. They won't let it go until we get there."

  I prickled at the way he called me kid. He'd picked it up from Ron, no doubt. At least, thank goodness, he didn't resort to honey, babe, sweetie, or anything else sugar-coated. I don't take that kind of talk very well. Besides, I couldn't afford to piss him off by saying anything at this point. I still needed this favor. I caught him staring at my clothes.

  "Kinda dressed up, aren't you?" he commented.

  "Just because you've never seen me in anything but jeans doesn't mean I don't own decent clothes."

  He handed over the file and an evidence bag containing the gun without another word. Looking at pictures of dead people is bad enough when they are strangers. Although I'd only met David once, after meeting his family and hearing all about him, I felt I knew him. This all had to be mentally disconnected before I could open the file. Emotions aside
, I had to look for clues, hard clues.

  In full color, this was much harder to do. I forced myself not to look at David, only at the surrounding area.

  "What's this?" I asked Kent, pointing to one of the photos. It was a black dot on the inside of the car door, passenger side, about a half inch below the window.

  "That's where the bullet ended up," he said.

  Oh. I continued to go through the photos, giving each one my full attention. Near the bottom of the stack, was one taken from several feet away. It showed the car sitting in the parking lot, looking just like any other car in any other lot. This must have been how it looked to passers by, except that it was daylight in the photo. Something about the driver's side window caught my eye. There was a distinct reflection of sunlight off it.

  "Kent, were all the windows of the car rolled up when the officers got there?"

  He stood so he could look over my shoulder. "Sure looks that way," he said.

  "Seems like it would have been really hot sitting in a parked car with all the windows up. The temperature was around ninety all last week."

  Taylor shrugged. "So, the guy put himself out of his misery."

  I shot him a look.

  "Sorry, that was a rotten thing to say." He even had the good grace to look a little embarrassed. "What are you getting at, Charlie?"

  "Oh, I don't know. He left his apartment quickly, there were food wrappers on the counter. I just had the feeling he went to meet someone. If you're waiting to meet someone, you don't do it with the windows up in ninety degree heat."

  "How do you know about the food wrappers?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.