Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  The small living room was jammed with people, and the overflow had already gone over into the dining room, and presumably the kitchen as well. It was like a sauna inside. English and Spanish phrases floated through the air, blending until I had a hard time distinguishing either. I spotted the old grandmother in a narrow wooden rocking chair beside a vintage 60s Danish modern TV set. She had a paper plate balanced precariously on her lap, and was picking the last bits of crispy off a chicken bone. Her lace mantilla was now draped around her shoulders, and I could see that her hair was steel gray. Her deeply lined face suggested a life spent working outside in the sun.

  A knot of people who had been standing just inside the doorway pushed past us to get outside. Their departure cleared the room considerably. The small room was over-furnished as it was. Two couches faced each other from opposite walls. Both were covered with crocheted yarn afghans in brilliant rainbow colors. The lower edges of the couches exposed peeling orange vinyl. Cone-shaped metal legs, tipped with flat metal feet, showed underneath. The vinyl arms were cracked, with small bits of stuffing poking out randomly. A hard-looking recliner chair covered in brown vinyl the color of old beef jerky stood in an awkward spot in the middle of the room. Apparently, no one wanted to sit there because of constant jostling by anyone who tried to get around it. A small plastic Jesus stood next to the rabbit ears antenna on the TV set, and a large gilt-framed portrait of the Savior took up most of one wall above the gaudier of the two couches. I tried to imagine the person who, somewhere back in history, would have walked into a furniture store and said, "I love this furniture," and plunked down hard-earned money to buy it.

  I thought the woman seated in the center of the nearest afghan-covered couch was Mrs. Ruiz, but I couldn't be sure, since I'd only seen the back of her head during the service.

  Three men stood in the wide arched opening to the dining room, and Sharon steered me toward them.

  "Charlie, I'd like you to meet Mr. Ruiz," she said, indicating the eldest of the three. "And, this is Michael Mann, and David’s brother, Bobby Ruiz."

  David's father looked like a man who had spent his life in the sun. A small man at about five foot six, he had broad shoulders and tan forearms. His dark face was deeply lined, his black eyes had permanent squint marks that radiated clear to his hairline at the sides. His forehead had a flat strip across it where his hatband had shaped it for life. He had removed his jacket and tie, but even with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, he seemed overdressed. I imagined him in faded Levis and plaid work shirt.

  I made polite sounds, along with an appropriately sympathetic face.

  "Charlie is the woman I've hired to investigate David's death," she told the men.

  "Good, good." Mr. Ruiz was the first to speak up. "My David would never have killed himself. He knew suicide is a mortal sin. He would never do it." He patted my arm. "You will find out."

  I smiled and assured him I would try. "I know you don't want to answer questions now," I said, "but I'd like to talk further with you. Could I plan to come back tomorrow?"

  He nodded. "You will want to speak with Bernice, also. Maybe tomorrow she will be feeling better."

  I turned to speak to Michael Mann, but he had left the group.

  Sharon touched my arm. "Want some food? There's plenty."

  I felt funny joining in the social aspects of what was meant to be a family time of sorrow, but Sharon propelled me toward the dining table without another word. She was right about the quantity of food. Pans and covered dishes had been set out, heaped with about three times as much as it would take to feed the crowd. I helped myself to guacamole dip, homemade tamales, enchilada casserole, and three different salads. I was scanning the area, looking for flatware and a napkin, when I happened to glance toward the kitchen.

  Through the open kitchen door, I saw a man and woman standing near the stove. They stood not more than six inches apart, and were having a rather intense-looking conversation. She reached up a couple of times and touched the side of his face lovingly. The conversation came to an end just then, and they embraced, exchanging a kiss capable of causing tonsilar damage. She turned to leave by the back door. The woman was Vicky.

  Chapter 9

  "Here, Charlie." Sharon handed me a paper napkin wrapped around a plastic fork and knife.

  When I glanced back up, Vicky was gone.

  I wanted to run after her, confront her, and scream out what a lousy little slut I thought she was. Charlie Parker to the rescue, saving her brother from the clutches of a scheming vixen. "Charlie?" Sharon was staring at me. "Shall we find a spot to sit down?"

  I nodded numbly. We walked through the dining room to the back, where a large room had caught the crowd overflow. The den had missed out on the good furniture. A ping-pong table filled the center of the room. The perimeter had been lined with metal folding chairs, the kind you might borrow for such an occasion from the church recreation hall. Sharon and I found two, and took them, perching our paper plates on our knees. I hoped this was not the brand they showed on television where greasy food leaked through as an example of which kind not to buy.

  Chewing on tamales, and listening to Sharon talk gave me time to cool down over seeing Vicky. It really was none of my business anyway. As far as I knew, she and Ron hadn't made any type of exclusivity promises to each other. I wouldn't say anything to her, but I wrestled with whether or not I should drop a hint to Ron. I decided not.

  "Hello, I am Mrs. Padilla." The middle-aged woman sitting next to me turned to introduce herself. "Esther. Richard and I live next door," she said. "We have known David since he was born."

  I wiped my hand on my napkin, ready to shake hers, but she kept her hands busy with her plate. She looked much like Mrs. Ruiz, two Hispanic women, wives of farmers, who had raised their children side by side. I asked her if they were possibly related.

  "No, we aren't," she said, "but, our daughters are all the same age. They act like sisters."

  I was through with my food, and ready to get out of there. I made what I hoped were polite sounding excuses to Mrs. Padilla, and to Sharon, before I bolted for the door. Michael Mann stood just outside the front door, almost like he was waiting for me.

  "Ms. Parker? Could we talk for a minute?"

  "Sure." We stepped around the far side of the house, where a carport created a welcome shady spot. It was also out of earshot of the open windows.

  "I wanted to speak with you inside," he said, "but with Uncle Ralph right there, well... I couldn't speak very freely."

  I waited, remembering that he had disagreed with the Ruiz's during the police interview. For the first time, I really noticed him. Michael was a little younger than David, about twenty-four, I'd guess. He was right at six feet tall, slim, with Eric Estrada-like handsomeness. His face was smooth, with a couple of dimples in just the right places. His dark, slightly wavy hair was trim and neat. He had removed the jacket he'd worn to the funeral, and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. Fine dark hair grew thick on his forearms. He had a gold band on his left ring finger.

  "My wife says I should leave this alone," he told me. "Said the family is already upset enough as it is. But, something bothers me about David's death. Sharon told me you are investigating it, so I think you should know this. Uncle Ralph closes his eyes to a lot of things. I think David had been upset about something recently."

  "Depressed?"

  He thought about it for a few seconds, searching for the right word. "No, I'd say more like scared. Nervous. Something was really worrying him."

  "When was the last time you saw David?" I asked.

  "Friday night after work. We stopped off and had a couple of beers."

  "Did he talk about it?"

  "Nothing specific. I thought it might be money. He said something about the bills really piling up."

  I thought about the payment book I'd seen for his Porsche. And, I knew the rent on his apartment couldn't have been one of the cheapest in town. And then there were
the past-dues I'd seen in his office. Maybe Michael was right.

  "Anything else you can think of?"

  "Not really," he said. "I just wanted you to know that all this 'mortal sin' stuff wouldn't have meant shit to David. I mean, his parents are all religious and everything, but not David. No matter what his mother and father say, he just wasn't into that stuff."

  I dug around through my purse, and handed him my card. "I appreciate the information. If you think of something later, could you call me?"

  He stared at the card for a minute, as though something about it was familiar to him, but he said nothing. Stuck the card in his wallet and pulled out a card of his own.

  He was a commercial real estate specialist with one of the largest firms in town, I noticed. Now I knew where I'd heard the name before. There had been a recent article in the paper about how he'd closed the deal on a new twenty million dollar shopping center project. I said goodbye and thanked him.

  I left him standing there under the carport. I was one of the first to leave, I guess, because the rows of cars on the road hadn't thinned out at all. After much maneuvering and backing up, I managed to get headed back toward the interstate and my office.

  Sally was getting ready to leave for the day. Ron looked relieved that I had arrived to take over the phones. I half-jokingly asked what was the matter with his arm. He didn't bother me the rest of the afternoon, while I caught up on my billing. I remembered to put a call in to Dr. Casper. Linda was with a patient, but her receptionist told me to come by the next afternoon, anytime. That's what I like about going to a doctor who isn't well known yet.

  About four o'clock, Ron peeked into my office.

  "Did you bill your friend anything in the David Ruiz case?" he asked.

  "One day, so far."

  "I talked to Kent Taylor this afternoon," he said, leaning on the doorjamb. "He's about to meet with the D.A. and medical examiner on this. Says he's pretty sure they'll rule suicide."

  I thought about the funeral this morning and felt myself slump. "I don't know, Ron. A lot of people who knew this guy swear he wouldn't have done it."

  "Like his parents."

  "Well, yeah." I had to remember his own cousin seemed to feel it was possible.

  "We're always blind about those we love," he said.

  I was reminded of what I'd seen in the Ruiz's kitchen.

  "Yeah. Well, I'll talk to Sharon about it, and see if she wants us to continue."

  "We won't get much police cooperation."

  "Do we ever? I went to David's apartment yesterday. The place looked like he'd just stepped out for a few minutes. Does a guy pay for a hamburger, sit down and eat it, then go out and shoot himself? And, why at the grocery store? He could have done it at home in the comfort of his own bed, for chrissakes."

  "Why would anyone else kill him in such a public place, though," Ron said. "If somebody lured him out to meet them in the parking lot, why wouldn't they choose a quieter place? Somewhere out on the west mesa, or some little mountain road in the canyon?"

  "Maybe it was someone David was afraid of, someone he would only agree to meet in a very public place."

  He shuffled a little to concede that I might have a point. "Look, Charlie, I just don't have the time to work on it," he said. "These other two cases are keeping me hopping. Mrs. Boyd wants me to wrap up her evidence soon, and I just don't have it yet. Surveillance work just drives me nuts."

  I knew what he meant, and didn't offer to trade places with him.

  "I think I'll do a little more snooping around," I said, "with or without Sharon's okay, just to learn a bit more. Right now, I'm going home to get out of these shoes."

  Ron went back to his desk while I signed off my computer and quickly updated my backup disk.

  At home, Rusty was overjoyed to see me. I let him out in the backyard while I changed into jeans, a t-shirt, and tennies. I didn't have to ask twice if he'd like to go for a ride. I hoped I could catch some of the night crew at Food City who might have been working Saturday night.

  The sun, fiery orange, was low in the sky by the time we headed out. The temperature was still well over ninety but it’s a dry heat. I switched on the Jeep's air conditioning anyway. Rusty's tongue was hanging out to one side after his romp in the back yard, and he gratefully collapsed in front of the cold air vents. The freeway traffic was light now, the go-home rush all gone home, and we had reached the San Mateo off-ramp within fifteen minutes.

  I parked at the side of the large grocery store, where the shadows had already lengthened. With the windows rolled most of the way down, a cool breeze came through. It wasn't unpleasant, despite the outside temperature. I focused my attention toward the front of the store, watching the traffic patterns, trying to get a feel for the place. The small strip center was shaped like an L, which took up two sides of the square property, the other two sides being major streets. The grocery store anchored the long end of the L, while a small four-screen movie theater served the same function at the opposite end. In between, a neighborhood bar and an exercise club drew most of the traffic. The few other stores, an office supply, a beauty shop, and a book store among them, had already closed. Three fast food places, neatly staked out along the two streets, enjoyed a steady flow of traffic through their drive-up lanes.

  In my glove compartment I located my small pair of binoculars. With them I could read the marquee and see that the movies were timed so that something was beginning or ending about every fifteen minutes all evening long. There would be a steady stream of traffic in and out of there until nearly midnight. On Saturday night I imagined the flow would be even heavier.

  Generally, the entire center was constant motion. A car sitting out in the middle somewhere, even occupied, would draw little, if any, attention. Amidst the constant din of traffic, horns, shouts, not to mention the interruptions of boom-box radios and the occasional siren from the fire station three blocks away, a single gunshot might well go unnoticed. In many ways, if someone wanted to blow David Ruiz away, this was a very good place to do it.

  I left Rusty in the Jeep, promising to not stay away too long.

  I was in a not-too-hopeful mood as I approached the night manager of Food City. He was a slight man with pale brown hair and many freckles. His name tag said he was J. Sanders. I found him sacking groceries for a customer while telling the checker to page somebody named Jason to the front immediately.

  I waited at the side until a sullen looking sixteen year old appeared, dragging his feet. Mr. Sanders flashed him a look that he probably wouldn't have wanted the customers to see. I lagged a discreet distance behind until he had settled into his booth. When I approached, he still looked a bit irritated. I took my chances.

  "Mr. Sanders? I wonder if I might ask you a couple of questions?"

  He appeared relieved that I wasn't one of his employees. He told me that most of tonight's crew were the same ones working Saturday night. They had already been questioned by the police, and as far as he knew, no one had seen anything. He pointed out that, from inside the store, it was nearly impossible to monitor the parking lot. Just a month ago, he told me, a woman's purse had been snatched right on the sidewalk outside, and no one inside had noticed a thing until she ran through the door screaming.

  "Do the sackers carry groceries out to the customer's cars?" I asked.

  "If we're not short handed, they do. If the customer wants it."

  "Do you mind if I ask that young man a question or two?" I asked, indicating Jason.

  He didn't look too pleased. "Make them quick. That kid likes any excuse to duck out on a little work."

  I figured a sixteen year old boy would have been the most likely one to spot a brand new Porsche in the parking lot. If he was in and out of the store throughout the evening, he might have noticed something funny going on.

  I waited discreetly until Jason had carried out a customer's groceries before I approached him. He was over six feet tall, height he had probably attained in the last six m
onths. He didn't look entirely comfortable with it yet. He wore baggy pants, a touch too short, and his camouflage t-shirt hung below his fingertips.

  "Jason?"

  He looked up immediately, but took his time sizing me up before he acknowledged me. He had straight blond hair, cut in a popular style that would have gotten him laughed off campus in my day.

  "Yeah?"

  "Mr. Sanders said it would be okay if I asked you a couple more questions about Saturday night."

  He glanced nervously at the manager's booth.

  "Did you notice a red Porsche in the parking lot that night?"

  "Yeah, it was cool. A 944 Turbo."

  "Did you walk out to it, to check it out?"

  He shook his head. "Naw, it was way the hell out there."

  "See a guy in it?"

  "Uh, yeah, there was some dude in it at first. After awhile I didn't see him though. You know, I just thought he went in the movies or somethin'."

  "What about when you got off work?"

  "Uh, yeah, the car was still there."

  "And you weren't tempted to walk over and get a better look at it as you left?"

  "I didn't get the chance," he said. He shuffled a little, looking discomfited. "My dad picked me up right outside the front door here."

  Ah, the ultimate embarrassment. Sixteen years old, and no wheels of his own. Being chauffeured around by Dad is second only in humiliation to being driven by Mom. A boy's worst nightmare.

  I thanked him, and went back out to the Jeep. Rusty was panting heavily, poor thing. I pulled through the drive-up lane of one of the fast food places where they charged me sixty-five cents for a cup of ice. Steep, but Rusty was grateful. He chomped on the cubes while I headed back home.

  I pictured David sitting in his car in the parking lot. What had been going through his mind? I remembered the messages on his desk from the IRS. Perhaps Michael was right about his cousin. Maybe David's money problems had become serious.