Obsessions Can Be Murder: The Tenth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  “Do you always go around asking for trouble?” she said. “Is this an intentional thing with you?”

  I felt a flush of anger well up in me, but held back a sharp retort. Properly chastised, I strove for a calm voice. “He’s the one who came after me, if you’ll recall. He’s the one who ran Amanda off the road, held up the Handy Mart, and has done who-knows-how-many other crimes. I’m just wondering at the chance of his actually being kept off the streets.”

  “All depends on the judge’s mood today and whether the prosecutor made any kind of convincing argument.”

  I told her about my subsequent visit at that office.

  “Anyway, I’m wondering whether I’m safe to hang around here a few more days or if I better be getting myself out of town by tonight.”

  Her mouth quirked into a shape that was meant to look like a smile but held a sharp edge of disgust. “Let’s make a call. Easier to do it now than to come out to your motel and find your dead body sometime during the night.”

  I found that so reassuring. But I trotted along behind her as she unlocked the building and then her own office. She fingered through a Rolodex and dialed a number. Apparently prosecutors work later than cops because she actually got an answer. After some terse questions and a hold of at least ten minutes, she uh-huh’d a couple of times and hung up.

  “Bond was set at half a million—each. It would take a miracle greater than the second coming for those guys to raise anything near enough. I think you’re safe.”

  I told her about my Beretta and showed her my carry permit. “I’m going to have it with me,” I said. “I’ve never drawn it on a person, and I won’t unless it’s life or death.” The statement was at least fifty-percent true.

  She grumbled a little but probably decided that it was easier to let me shoot Rocko than for him to shoot me. There’d be less paperwork in the long run.

  I followed her back outside and thanked her as she locked up.

  “There just better not be any trouble at that motel tonight,” she said. “I’m not going to be very happy if I miss my episode of CSI. And I’ll be real mad if I have to get out of my nice warm bed to come down there.” She started to get into the cruiser. “Oh, by the way, that tire iron? No way to narrow it to a specific vehicle, and the size would fit about two dozen different light truck or SUV models between 1987 and 2002. Not much help, I’m afraid. If the crime lab can get some kind of latent prints from it, they’ll give it their best shot.

  “Now you behave yourself,” she said as she closed her door.

  I gave her a little cross-my-heart gesture and got into my Jeep.

  Back in Cabin 2, I kicked off my shoes, pottied, and washed my hands. Ron probably wouldn’t still be at the office so I called his cell. When he answered I could hear music in the background.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Out. I just met Victoria for a drink at Barney’s.”

  “Ah. I was hoping to catch you at the office, but if I give you some information could you check it out first thing tomorrow?”

  “Sure. Go.” I heard a faint shuffling as he pulled out a pen and paper.

  “I found out that Franklin was David’s mother’s maiden name. I’m wondering if we could fake our way into his brokerage accounts with that information. The copies of the fake ID’s and Social Security numbers are in the file I set up for him, in the bottom drawer of my desk.”

  “And what am I looking for once I’m into the accounts?” he asked.

  “I’d like to know what the current balances are now, for one thing. They’ve probably grown since the last statement we saw. Also, what would it take to move money out of those accounts and get it to Amanda?”

  “You don’t think you’re getting into huge IRS shit by doing that?”

  “I didn’t say we’d actually move any money. I just want to know what’s possible. If the feds have put some kind of freeze on the money, I’d like to know that. Amanda should get that money, eventually, but she could run into all kinds of problems if the money gets into the court system. Lawyers shouldn’t end up with it, she should. There’ve also been hints of problems between her and Jake and I want to be sure she has a say over where the cash eventually ends up.”

  “Will do.” He seemed antsy about getting back to Victoria so we hung up.

  I flopped back on the bed and dozed. When I regained consciousness, it was dark outside and the only light filtering into the room came from the vapor light on the common. The layout of this cabin was opposite from the one I’d had before and I felt a little disoriented as I sat up. Although it was early for bedtime, I didn’t much want to go out for food and aside from making a quick call to Drake I really didn’t want to talk to anyone else tonight. I pulled all the drapes tightly closed, brushed my teeth, and checked the pistol. With it under the second pillow, I relaxed and fell back to sleep within minutes.

  The penalty for going to sleep by eight p.m. is that you wake up eight hours later. And there’s not much to do in a town this size at four in the morning. I brewed a cup of tea and read my book until daylight, then took a walk around the Horseshoe compound and extended it until I’d covered a good stretch of Main Street in the process. About the time I was considering popping into Jo’s for coffee, I remembered that I’d left the Beretta under my pillow. It would not be a good thing if the maid came across it. I increased my speed to a slow jog and saw no sign of her.

  With the Do Not Disturb sign out, I showered and tidied things up, including putting the gun into my purse. It didn’t do much good to have a carry permit if I didn’t actually carry the thing.

  At Jo’s, I pondered my next move. It felt like things were happening, just not to me. The crime lab was doing its best with the tire iron and David’s car; Ron would get something going on the brokerage accounts today; with luck, Rocko would be in jail until his trial and maybe there’d be a backlog that would delay him until October or November. I might get lucky enough to piece together enough clues to pin David’s murder on him in the meantime. Or not.

  I decided I owed it to Amanda to give her a bit of a heads-up on the secret stash of money that David had hidden away. I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to mention numbers yet; I’d just play that by ear. I finished my omelet and coffee and headed toward the Zellingers.

  No car in the driveway when I arrived. But that could mean anything. One of them could be here, or they could be out together. I rang the bell and listened for sounds from inside the house. No answer but I thought I heard voices, something like a radio or TV set. I pressed my ear to the door but it didn’t make a difference. The knob turned easily in my hand. It felt weird going into the house, even though I called out to see who might respond. Nothing.

  A radio on the kitchen counter was tuned to a talk station, accounting for the voices, but it was strange that they’d both leave with it turned on and the front door unlocked. I walked out the back and hello’d around the back yard for a minute. Lights were on in the lab, so that probably explained it. I followed the brick walk, entered the airlock and switched my shoes for paper booties, as per protocol.

  “Jake?” I called out.

  The main room appeared empty as I glanced around. He must be in the clean room. I called his name again, but something caught my eye. A file drawer stood partly open and one folder was cocked slightly out of kilter with the rest of them. Files tend to be my specialty and I couldn’t resist.

  The tab on the folder said Patent Info. I tiptoed to it, as much as one can in paper booties that tend to swish against the floor, and eased the file out of its slot. With one finger to mark the place I opened the folder and glanced over the top sheet. Forms for a patent application, blank ones, seemed to be all that was in the folder. I stuck it back in place. Another, thicker, folder held completed forms and a sheaf of pages that looked like blueprints. I didn’t take the time to look at many of them; I wouldn’t have understood them anyway. An unmarked folder, seemingly empty, had come out with this one and wh
en I started to put the thick file back the skinny one slid to the floor.

  Two computer disks and a newspaper clipping slipped partway out and I dashed to retrieve it. As I picked up the article, I couldn’t resist a peek. I froze when I saw the headline: “Fire Takes Life of Sacramento Woman.”

  I’d seen this article, the one describing Samantha Simmons’s death. My fingers went numb. What—

  A sound from the other room jolted me back to the present. I jammed the article into the file and the file into the drawer. The computer disks, cupped in the palm of my hand, dropped quietly into my jacket pocket.

  “Charlie?” Jake stepped from the clean room, unzipping a white jumpsuit. “What are you doing?”

  I wanted so badly to look down at the file drawer, to be sure it had closed completely, but didn’t dare.

  “I, uh, came out to talk to Amanda but she wasn’t in the house.”

  “Well, she’s not out here.” His dark eyes became sharp.

  “Yeah, I just figured that out. It’s just that the front door was unlocked, and I heard these voices. Turned out to be the radio.” I knew I was talking way too fast and explaining way too much. I forced myself to move at a normal pace as I walked back to the airlock. “I’ll give her a call later and figure out a better time.”

  “Shall I tell her you stopped by?” He stood less than two feet away now, staring intently at me. I tried to keep his eyes engaged so he wouldn’t look back at the file drawer and figure out that I’d been snooping.

  “Sure, that’d be fine. What time do you expect her back?” I pulled off the paper booties and forced myself to sit down and tie the laces on my sneakers, rather than racing out the door in my socks.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have her call you.” His voice sounded distracted, like he wanted to get back to something.

  “Thanks. I’ll just—” I waved toward the door.

  I don’t know how fast I got out of there but I sure didn’t linger. I went around the side of the house, rather than going back inside, and jammed the Jeep into gear almost the minute it started. I ventured a glance over my shoulder and saw Jake round the corner of the house. In his hand, a manila folder. He started running toward me, stumbling on the uneven terrain. I gunned the Jeep.

  I skidded on a curve in the gravel road and forced myself to concentrate on my driving. I’d be in big trouble if I went over an embankment now.

  Chapter 25

  Pieces tried to click into place as I steered carefully on the winding curves. By the time I got to the highway I was shaking so badly I pulled to the side. My head pounded with the implications. Amanda had known nothing about the fire that killed her mother, nothing about the explosion. But Jake did. I searched for an innocent explanation. Maybe David had kept the clipping for years, and wanting to protect his daughter from the knowledge, had hidden it in the unmarked file in a place she’d be unlikely to ever look. But that didn’t quite ring true.

  Down in my denim pocket the computer disks clacked together. I reached down and touched them. What secrets did they contain? I had no doubt Jake had hidden them away for a reason, and it couldn’t be mere coincidence that they’d been in the folder with the article about the fire. There’s no way I could let this go unheeded.

  Sending them to Albuquerque and waiting for Ron to take a look would be out of the question. This whole thing was about to come to a head. I racked my brain for an answer. The library. They usually had public computers. I wondered whether Watson’s Lake’s small facility, which I’d noticed on my walk with Rusty one day, could accommodate me.

  I jammed the disks deeper into my pocket and put the Jeep in gear again. As I made the left turn onto the highway I gave one more look backward but there was no sign of Jake.

  Entering the town limits, I cruised slowly, forcing myself to calm down, trying to remember on which side street I’d seen the library. I was getting impatient with myself for not spotting it, and finally pulled off Main Street at Cowboy Drive and took a left on Quarter Horse Road. Two blocks later, on a narrow lane with no street sign, I saw it. The small building matched the overall rustic style of everything else in town, and it was only the undersized sign with its burnt-wood lettering that told what the building housed. I pulled into the three-slot parking area where someone had valiantly planted an attractive garden of wildflowers at the edges. One other car sat in the lot, the librarian I assumed.

  I tugged at the warped wooden door, which didn’t want to yield, and felt my irritation rise. By the time I burst into the room, the noises from the squeaky door caused all heads to turn my way. A gentle-looking woman behind the desk sent a quizzical look toward me and two others—a man and a teenage girl—gave me quick glances and turned back to their computer screens. At least the presence of the computers answered my first question. The fact that there were only two machines and both were occupied drove my frustration up a notch.

  “Help you?” The librarian asked.

  “I was hoping to use a computer.” It came out as a faint question at the end.

  “There’s a thirty minute limit,” she said. “Someone should be done soon.”

  I sent her a tight smile and nodded before shuffling toward the stacks to waste a little time. Wasting time isn’t something I do well and I must admit that I cleared my throat a few times and probably sighed deeply at least once. Finally, the man gathered his papers, tamped them together and got up. He gave me an apologetic look and that made me feel bad about being such a whiner. But not bad enough not to rush to the vacant chair.

  I took the disks from my pocket and stared at them for a minute. They were unlabeled, as I well knew, and staring at the plastic casings wasn’t giving me any additional hints about their contents. They could be documents, spread sheets, or photos for all I knew. I chose one and inserted it into the proper drive.

  A couple of clicks showed me the contents of the disk, two items which appeared to be rather short text documents. When I clicked on the first one the light blinked and the drive chattered for a few seconds then a message on the screen suggested that I use the system’s default word processor to open it. I agreed with that and let the first document open.

  It was a letter addressed to a Mr. Robert Rabini of MedSciences, Inc. The wording was pretty general, things along the lines of “our recent conversation” and “enclosed are the documents we discussed.” A quick roll to the bottom of the page indicated that the letter was signed by David Simmons. Okay.

  I read it again but didn’t get much the second time either.

  “Is there a printer connected to this computer?” I asked over my shoulder.

  The librarian pointed to a small inkjet sitting next to the machine where the teen girl sat. Apparently both computers shared it. I printed the letter, retrieved it quickly, and opened the other. It appeared to be very similar in tone, but I printed it anyway.

  The second disk proved more revealing. It contained two long documents, one text, one spreadsheet. Luckily, the computer provided me a way to open that one as well.

  Detailed projections for sales over a five year period laid themselves out before me. The numbers were impressive and I glanced around with a sudden guilty feeling that I was exposing secret information to the world. The teen girl had picked up her books and was keeping the librarian occupied at the desk. I breathed relief and quickly printed the sheets. They filled ten pages, each of which I grabbed off the printer as soon as it came out.

  The second document looked like a prospectus detailing Jake’s research on the YA-30. It gave facts and figures and made references to the spreadsheet with the backup numbers. Again, rather than leaving the document on screen for just anyone to look at, I printed it. With one eye on the others in the room, I gathered everything neatly and retrieved my disks. By the time I reached the librarian’s desk the other girl had gone and I asked how much I owed for the copies. Three dollars later I walked out to the car.

  In the privacy of my own vehicle, I paged through the sheets. Dav
id had apparently sent the detailed prospectus and financial spreadsheets to this Rabini at MedSciences roughly six months before he disappeared. If memory served, I thought it was about two months after this letter that he’d banked ten million. Millions of dollars that he hadn’t shared with Jake. Millions of reasons for his son-in-law to be angry enough to kill him.

  I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and breathed in and out slowly. Twice.

  It was time for law enforcement to take over.

  I cruised the streets until I spotted Michaela coming out of the post office. I whipped in beside her patrol SUV, and jammed my Jeep in Park at the same time I jumped out of it.

  “Charlie, what?” she said, nearly dropping the stack of envelopes she’d carried out with her.

  “I think I’ve figured out the arson. Jake Zellinger did it. He knew about David’s first wife dying in a fire. It’s something even Amanda didn’t know about. But he’s got the clipping. He knew and he set David up.”

  “Whoa, wait a second. What first wife?”

  I’d forgotten that she probably knew nothing of this, so I quickly filled in a few of the details. “I assumed you knew,” I said. “Continental Union did. That was part of the reason they assumed David set this fire. Same m.o.—gas leak and boom.”

  She made that irritated-looking little grimace with her mouth, and I imagined the thoughts running through her head. Small town cops are never kept in the loop. Should have been her case. And on, and on.

  “You’ve got to bring Jake in, question him,” I said, bouncing on the balls of my feet like a kid desperate for the bathroom.

  “And what makes you so sure he did this?”

  “Money. Follow the money. It makes sense that he’d already used up the money David got from the mortgage, so he decided to go after the life insurance. If he could catch David in the house . . .” I felt my eyes go wide. “But he didn’t catch David in the house, did he? He waited until David drove away . . .”

  “So are you saying he also killed David?”