"Could you identify him? Look around. See him anywhere in the crowd?"
We strolled casually down the sidewalk, keeping up the appearance of conversation while I scanned the crowd. The night had become chilly and the people bunched together. Yellow police tape cordoned off the street thirty or forty feet fore and aft of Williams's car. The medical examiner's car had arrived and men in latex gloves crowded around the car gathering evidence. Half of Albuquerque's population were jammed behind the yellow tape, gawking and trying to get a glimpse of some blood and guts.
"I don't know, Kent. Half those guys have on black cowboy hats. I never really looked at his face. He was tall and slim, I know. Had on black jeans and black boots. His shirt was dark—maybe blue or black or red?"
We dipped under the tape and mingled through the crowd, but I didn't see anyone I could pinpoint as being the guy. He'd have to be pretty bold to hang around the scene with three witnesses still here, but then-if he was the shooter-he was pretty bold to fire the shots in front of us too. And there was the strong possibility that Black Hat wasn't the killer at all. He could have just been some guy who'd run like hell when the commotion started.
I looked across the street. There was a small cinderblock building that housed some little businesses, an empty parking area behind it roped off to keep the Caravan's customers out, and the street itself lined with parked cars. A sniper could have been waiting in about a hundred different dark nooks and crannies.
Most of the initial police presence had left to other duties, leaving only two cars with lights flashing, one at either end of the blocked street. The remaining officers attempted to break up the crowd, but the club manager's shouted offer of a free drink if they'd come back inside was what got most of them to vacate the scene.
An ambulance backed in close to the car, the attendants were already placing Jim Williams's body on a gurney. A wrecker had arrived to take the car. Within a few minutes, there'd be no sign that a man had lost his life here tonight. By the time the dancers left the Caravan in a few hours' time, most of them would have forgotten all about it. I wished I could be so lucky.
Who could have possibly known about my meeting with Williams? I couldn't believe this was a random shooting, although Albuquerque certainly had its fair share of those anymore. The file was gone and that told me that the shooter had been close by, he'd known about the meeting, and he'd removed the evidence. Evidence of what? Now I wished desperately that Williams had told me more about the contents of that file.
I thought back to his call this afternoon. His whispered secrecy made me think that he was afraid of someone within his own office. It could also explain how someone may have known about our meeting. But killing Williams was a pretty desperate measure. They could have just stolen the file, but didn't. That meant they had to get rid of Williams. And if they had to get rid of Williams, they might have to get rid of me too. After all, they had no way of knowing how much I already knew.
Chapter 14
"Guess that wraps it up here," Kent Taylor said as the wrecker pulled away.
"Can I have my gun back?" I suddenly felt vulnerable.
"Not just yet," Taylor said. "They've taken it to the lab for some ballistics tests."
"You can't seriously be thinking I'm a suspect."
"Unofficially, no I don't think so. But officially, it was a weapon found at the scene of a murder, on a person whose prints were all over the victim's car."
"You'll find the gun's been fired," I told him. "It's Drake's weapon. He and Ron went to the shooting range yesterday and, well, I borrowed it before he had a chance to clean it."
He shrugged again. "Well, you can see how all of it looks. I'm going to put in my report that we questioned you at the scene. I'll want you to come in and sign a statement tomorrow."
Wonderful. A police record.
"You're not under arrest, Charlie," he said, reading my mind. "You can go on home tonight. Just don't forget to give us a statement tomorrow."
Like I should feel lucky about this. I shuffled back to my Jeep where Rusty waited anxiously. Poor thing—I'd forgotten all about him in the craziness. I slipped into the driver's seat and took his big head in my two hands, stroking his ears and sounding a lot more reassuring to him than I did to myself. He licked at my wrists, trying to make everything all better with doggie kisses.
My eyes stayed glued to the rearview mirror all the way home. I used all the diversionary tactics I'd ever read in detective novels and was finally convinced that no one followed me. I pulled into my own driveway feeling jittery as a high tension line.
The living room lamps were on and the porch light spilled a golden puddle down the steps. Leaves had begun to collect in the flower beds and around the sidewalk. A couple more weeks and we'd see the last of our gorgeous fall weather. Rusty bounded for the door while I trailed along more slowly, scanning the street for any sign of strange cars.
"Everything okay, hon?" Drake's voice trailed up over the back of the sofa as we came through the front door.
"What are you doing up? You should be resting." I walked around to the front of the couch so he wouldn't have to get up.
"I thought I'd try a little 7-UP and maybe . . . What happened to you!"
"What?" I hadn't seen myself in a mirror yet.
He stood up. "Look at this!" He reached out to touch a flapping square of cloth hanging from the shoulder of my jacket. "And sweetheart, your face!"
What had happened to my face? I turned to look in the mirrored back wall of the china cabinet. My reflection came back at me as a series of squares interrupted by goblets and candlesticks.
"Guess I better clean up." I pulled the jacket off and draped it over a hook on the coat rack near the door. My favorite jacket, and now it had a six-inch rip.
"I thought you were going to get a file folder from somebody." Drake followed me into the bathroom like an anxious terrier. "You didn't say anything about this being dangerous."
"Well, I didn't have a clue that it would be dangerous," I snapped back. "It started out simple, but got complicated along the way. I thought I'd be fine—I even took protection with me . . . " I'd also have to explain why the police now had his pistol. "Just let me get cleaned up and I'll tell you all about it." I held my hands up in a "halt" gesture.
"Honey, look at these," he exclaimed, taking my battered hands in his. "You're all scraped up."
My mouth opened to snap back at him again, but he caught the message before a word came. He backed off like he'd been slapped and turned away like a whipped puppy. I felt like a big shit.
In the mirror, my long hair was in tangles and a two-inch swath of road burn crossed my left cheek. My palms were crusty with dried blood and asphalt crumbs. A black streak of oil swiped the heel of my left hand, ending abruptly where the cuff of my jacket had probably picked up the rest of it. I ran the tap water until it was just-bearably hot and shoved my battered hands under the flow.
The pain shot upward to my shoulders, reminding me of that other injury. Luckily the jacket had taken the brunt of the fall, but the shoulder muscle was speaking—loudly. I finished washing out the scrapes, coated them with an antibiotic ointment, and popped three ibuprofen tablets before returning to the living room. Drake stood by the fireplace and I approached him tentatively.
"I'm sorry, Drake . . ." The apology had not fully come out when I looked down at the coffee table. He'd made me a cup of tea and brought out a plate of my favorite Pepperidge Farm cookies. He came toward me and enveloped me into his bathrobe. I couldn't help it—the tears just gushed.
"Shh, shh," he consoled.
"I don't know . . . why I . . . do this," I blubbered. "I was fine . . . at the time."
He stroked my hair until I began breathing normally again. "Here," he said, "have your tea before it gets cold."
I sank gratefully into the sofa and held the hot mug cautiously, not wanting it to touch my wounded palms. The tea was delicious—he'd put in a shot of amaretto—and the w
onderful almondy smell soothed me. Several sips of it and a couple of cookies definitely helped.
"Want some?" I offered the plate.
"No thanks. I'm feeling better now, but I'll just take it easy with this." He held up his 7-UP.
"I really feel like a jerk, getting into this mess with you home sick and all," I told him. "And now I've lost your gun, too, well not really lost but it might take a few days to get it back."
"What? You better start at the beginning, hon. I'm not getting any of this."
I told him how I'd borrowed his pistol for protection and ended up having the police take it away.
"Police? What were the police doing there?"
So then I told him the rest of it, making light of the fact that I'd been within ten feet of Williams when the shot was fired. For the first time all evening, I began to feel the high tension line inside me relax just a little. I didn't tell Drake of my fear that I might also be a target.
No sense in ruining a perfect night.
We snuggled into each other under the covers, each taking comfort from the other's warmth. The painkiller began to take the edge off my aching shoulder and I willed myself to put Jim Williams's face out of my mind. I fell into an uneasy sleep sometime around two.
Gray light began to filter in around the window edges around six and I finally gave up the attempt to fall back to sleep one more time. Drake's breathing was deep and peaceful. He'd had a better night of it than I had. I rolled groggily from under the covers, taking care to avoid my bruised shoulder while creating minimum disturbance for Drake.
Rusty raised his head from his rug at the foot of our bed then set it back down on his front paws when he saw that I was only heading for the bathroom. I stepped under the steaming hot water, letting it pelt my sore muscles relentlessly while I slicked shampoo over my tussled hair. I treated myself to a full five minutes of scalp massage, the kind you normally only get in a salon where someone takes the time to really pamper you.
Thirty minutes later I emerged from the foggy room, wrapped in my thick terry robe. Feeling a little spacey in the head, but with relaxed muscles and a lot better attitude. Rusty followed me toward the kitchen. I let him out the back door, then dumped coffee grounds into a filter and switched on the machine.
Tuesday. I should spend some time at the office today, but couldn't forget how the quest I'd thought so innocent had now cost a man his life. Because, no matter what else I tried to tell myself, I knew that Williams had been killed for the contents of that file he'd planned to deliver to me.
Rusty scratched at the door, eager now for the breakfast of nuggets I'd dumped into his bowl. He gobbled them down as if he might never eat again. I went to the fridge for some ideas on what Drake and I might gobble down.
Nothing looked too exciting to me, and I doubted he'd want anything very exotic after his bout of upset stomach last night, so I pulled out a couple of choices of cold cereal and the bread and butter. By the time the coffee finished sputtering, I'd toasted one slice of bread and decided that I'd wait and have a real breakfast with Drake.
The morning Journal lay in a fat roll on the front porch. What would they have made over Williams' death, I wondered. I carried it inside and took a lot of time pulling off the rubber band that bound it. I ate half my slice of toast and took two good deep sips of coffee before I trusted myself to read.
A triple murder at a convenience store and the indictment of a Santa Fe politician claimed the front page. A single murder just isn't that dramatic any more—Williams merited only about four column inches on page three. I scanned the story, didn't find my name, then went back and read the whole thing.
It was your basic who, what, where, when just-the-facts-ma'am story. Nothing was mentioned about motivation; none was expected anymore, I guess. A dark kernel of anger began to grow in me; this was wrong-why did a man have to die for some papers in a folder? The killer could have demanded the folder at gunpoint and gotten it, surely. But stealing the papers wouldn't erase Jim Williams's memory and that was the whole point.
Chapter 15
The office phone rang, pulling Sally's attention away from my recount of the shooting. The scabby place on my face was the only reason I'd starting telling her about it anyway. I went upstairs and turned my attention back to the letters I hadn't finished yesterday.
"Hannah Simmons on line one," Sally announced.
Dad's secretary.
"Hannah, how are you?" I greeted.
"I'm just fine, Charlie. Well, my arthritis has been acting up a bit lately, you know, with the colder nights and all. And then the neighbor's dog barked half the night and I don't guess I slept more than five minutes."
Why did I ask?
"Is there something I can do for you, Hannah?" I tried to sound busy without being rude.
"Oh, yes of course, dear. I didn't call to tell you about my neighbor's dog."
Thank God.
"You remember you were asking me about some of the men your father worked with? Well, you'll never guess who I bumped into yesterday at the grocery store."
A long pause. I suppose she really wanted me to take a guess. "Someone Dad worked with?"
"Heaven's yes, it was Wendel Patterson and his wife. You know she was always the prettiest thing. Kind of snooty around us secretaries, but I guess that could have just been 'cause she was shy."
Patience, Charlie.
"And you saw them yesterday?" I prompted.
"Yes, at the Smith's over on Montgomery."
"That's great news, Hannah. I couldn't find a listing for him in the phone book. They didn't by any chance say where they live now, did they?"
"Oh yes, they have one of those fancy retirement apartments, with a maid once a week, and all their meals cooked in a big fancy dining room, and the bus picks them up and takes them anyplace they want to go in town."
"Did they mention where the apartment is?"
"Yes. It's up there on Montgomery, pretty close to that store where I saw them. Now, let me think, what did they call the place? Via . . . something. Via del . . . something."
I pulled my phone directory out as she struggled with the name. Under retirement apartments I found three starting with either Via or Villa, only one of which was on Montgomery.
"That's okay, Hannah. I think I know the place. You did a great bit of detective work there, you know."
"I told them about you coming by the house here and how you didn't know about your daddy's plane crash until just recently."
"You did?" A bolt of fear shot through me. "Hannah, be careful about this. I . . ." How could I caution her without scaring her too much? "You know how everything was top secret when you worked at Sandia? Well, I think it would be best if we still treated it that way. Can you swear me an oath?"
"Is something . . .? You're right, Charlie. If this has to do with the Lab, then it's top secret. I won't tell a soul. And you know I can keep an oath."
"Good. I may soon get to the bottom of this and I'll let you know when it's okay to talk about it. In the meantime, mum's the word." Did people really say that?
"Right, Charlie. And if you need to call me again, let's have a password. Just identify yourself as Sweetpea."
I hung up the phone, chuckling. Sweetpea? Well, I could remember it anyway. It was the nickname my parents used to call me—probably because they hoped it would turn me into a sweet delicate little girl instead of the rowdy, kick-ass little ruffian that I was.
I pulled out a notepad and jotted down the address of Wendel Patterson's apartment complex from the phone book. My pen stopped in mid-air. How many other people from Sandia might remember me as Sweetpea?
Since the Pattersons obviously had an unlisted phone number, I would just have to take my chances at reaching them directly at their place. And if they weren't in, I'd try George Myers's address, which I thought would be within a few blocks of theirs.
Sally sat at her desk, typing letters off the tape recorder. I waved a hand in front of her page to g
et her attention.
"I'm going out on a couple of errands. If Ron isn't back by the time you leave, just turn on the answering machine. If Drake calls, tell him I'm planning on being home by the time the movers arrive with his stuff this afternoon."
She acknowledged with a little salute and kept on typing.
I walked toward my Jeep into another perfect October day. Leaves on all the surrounding trees fluttered like tissue paper in the slight breeze, attached lightly to their limbs. The next halfway strong wind would send them scattering. I took a deep breath, staring, enjoying the contrast of brilliant yellow against vivid blue.
Rusty had stayed home with Drake this morning, their goal being to clear a large enough space in the living room for the boxes from the moving company. He'd offered to stack them in the garage and put them away later, but I knew how difficult that would be. As long as the cartons were in our way, we'd have to deal with them now. I didn't want Drake to feel that the move was temporary. He should be free to move in and take over as much space as he needed. And a mess in plain sight was much more likely to get put away than a hidden mess.
The late-morning traffic was light as I headed north on Rio Grande Boulevard toward I-40. At rush hour I'd avoid these sections of the freeways altogether, but right now it wasn't bad. Within fifteen minutes, I'd negotiated the interchange to I-25 and made it to the exit at Montgomery. From the address I'd found, I guessed I had two or three miles farther to go.
The building was elegant and modern, a light tan stucco with an attractive portico at the entrance and a brilliant turquoise tile roof. The front parking area contained only a dozen or so cars, while driveways to either side appeared to lead to more parking closer to the individual apartments.
Automatic sliding doors whooshed open for me, with a second set doing the same as I entered. Inside, the lobby was tastefully decorated in shades of tan, turquoise, and burgundy with cozy groupings of couches and chairs, coffee tables with silk flower arrangements, and two fireplaces—one at either end of the long room.
Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery Page 9