Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  Now that I knew he was out of danger, watching him come awake was almost comical. He had a stupid look on his face like a drunk who isn't quite sure where he is. He almost landed on his face the first time he tried to jump into the Jeep. He took the second try much more cautiously, and finally dragged his back half upward with a little boost from me.

  The office was still completely unlocked, I realized belatedly. I headed back there while Rusty began to snore on the back seat. In my earlier frantic search for the dog, I'd turned on every light in the place; the sight reassured me as I returned. Still, I carried my little mace canister when I went back inside. The place seemed clear. When I got to the bathroom, I noticed once again, the smear of blood on my cheek.

  I stepped closer to the mirror to examine it. I rinsed it off, but could not find a wound that it could have come from. It must have come off the attacker's gloves. In the kitchen I found a square of gauze on the floor where I'd fallen. It was fairly dry now, but still held the faint scent of the chloroform. I found a sandwich bag in a kitchen drawer and dropped it in. The rest of the room was pretty much unscathed. There was one smeared muddy footprint near the back door, barely visible on the wood floor. I looked at the bottoms of my own shoes. Since I had trampled right through a flower bed, it didn't surprise me to find traces of mud there. The footprint could be my own.

  I knew I should probably report the attack to the police, but right now I just wanted to take my dog and go home. What could the police do anyway? The evidence was skimpy at best; a smeared footprint and a gauze square. I'd be surprised if there were any decent footprints outside. The person had run down the concrete driveway, straight to the waiting car. I couldn't give much description of the car. It had been dark and low, and without lights I'd had no hope of seeing the license plate.

  I knew from past experience that a call like this would be low priority. I'd probably sit around an hour or more before they even came, then be asked questions which I couldn't answer for another thirty minutes. I decided I'd just report it to Kent Taylor when I saw him in the morning.

  Rechecking all the doors and windows twice, I finally locked the office and headed home. Rusty slept, sprawled out across the back seat like a lumpy fur rug. I turned the radio off and listened to his light snoring for reassurance. I hoped I'd be able to put the whole evening behind me that easily, but I knew it wouldn't happen. If the attacker had intended to kill me or rob me, he'd had the perfect chance with Rusty out of the way, and me supposedly unconscious. Why hadn't he? I had to believe the attack was meant as a warning.

  Less than three hours ago I'd sat in the Porsche and come to the conclusion that David Ruiz's death had been murder. Two hours ago I'd reported that conclusion to Kent Taylor. Within an hour after that, I'd been jumped in my own office and my dog had been abducted. My internal antennae hummed like electric wires at the thought of someone watching my moves that closely. What else did they know? What else did they think I knew?

  I drove past my house casually, then cruised a three block area around the neighborhood, alert for any sign of an unknown dark car. Most of the residents in my area are about Elsa Higgins’s age, old enough to be my grandparents. They tuck in pretty early. Many of them don't drive at all anymore, and those who do come from an age where they learned to care for the few possessions they have. Their cars are normally parked in their meticulously organized garages at night. A car parked on the street is a rarity around here. My attacker had either decided that one scare per night is enough, or he had realized how obvious he would be coming into this neighborhood. Either way, I had soon satisfied myself that no strange cars were nearby.

  Even so, I carried my flashlight and mace canister with me as I got out of the Jeep and approached my house. Rusty stayed close to me as we went inside and I did a thorough check of all doors and windows. Call me paranoid.

  I microwaved water for tea, then remembered I hadn't had dinner yet. Somehow nothing sounded very good. I put Rusty's food in his bowl but he let it lie there untouched. We settled for a couple of Oreos each. I took off the slacks and sweater I'd worn all day, and slipped on a lightweight summer robe. The house was too quiet, so I put a couple of classical CDs into the player, keeping the volume low. It was peaceful, snuggling into the corner of my cushiony sofa with soft music and a cup of tea. Peaceful surroundings for a turbulent mind.

  Kent Taylor clearly hoped I would have abandoned my quest by the next morning when I showed up at his desk at 7:05. He drew long pulls on his coffee mug, obviously forcing himself to stay polite as I began my narrative. By the time I finished, he was sitting up straight and taking notes.

  "So, you think someone shot David through the open car window?" he asked.

  "It had to be that way, Kent. The killer shot through the open window, then opened the door and rolled the window up." He stared at me as I took a quick breath. "I can show you. I sat in that car and pretended to point a gun at my head. David would have had to aim at a completely crazy angle, causing the bullet to end up either in the roof or the passenger seat of the car. For that bullet to go where it did, someone else had to have been behind it."

  Taylor stood up and walked to his file cabinet. He pulled out his file on the case, and spread the pictures out on the desk's surface.

  "See?" I indicated one of the exterior shots of the car. "Imagine a line of fire from the driver's head to the inside door panel just below the window on the passenger side." I laid a pencil across the photo to illustrate my point. I knew I sounded like an eager little kid, but couldn't help myself.

  Kent rubbed his chin as he studied the picture. I could tell he was considering my argument, but professional pride wouldn't let him admit that he hadn't figured it out first.

  "There's more," I told him. "Within a couple of hours after I'd left the car lot, I was attacked in the kitchen at my office."

  I dropped the plastic bag with the piece of gauze in it on his desk. He sniffed at the gauze, and listened as I quickly recapped the events, including the abduction of Rusty.

  "It has to be related," I told him. "The Ruiz case is the only one I'm directly involved in right now. And, the only one that might send someone up for murder. It was a warning, I'm sure; if they'd wanted to kill again, they had every chance."

  "I don't have enough personnel to give you protection," he warned. "Based on what you've told me, we'll reopen our investigation. You better drop back and stick with your little bookkeeper duties. Let us handle the Ruiz case."

  It was all I could do to maintain my cool. I felt my "little bookkeeper" temper rising, and just managed to get out of his earshot before I began muttering loudly under my breath. By the time I reached my car, I'd graduated to all-out swearing. I knew Ron had worked hard to establish a good rapport with Taylor, but that didn't stop me from wanting to punch him in his smug little nose.

  Unfortunately for Taylor, he'd chosen precisely the wrong tactic to use with me. His condescension made me all the more determined to solve the case before he did. This was war.

  Chapter 17

  Still fuming, I decided to visit Nouvelle Mexicano. I hoped Sharon would be free for a few minutes. It was about eight-thirty, the hour when the junior executive types were usually power-breakfasting before showing up at their offices around nine-fifteen. Sharon's share of the crowd didn't look so hot. The brief burst of business they'd enjoyed after David's death had dwindled. It was another reason I wanted to get the case solved as quickly as possible. Sharon needed that insurance money.

  I walked in to find her waiting tables.

  "I wish you'd been here about two hours ago," she said. We walked together toward David's office at the back. "Another of my nineteen-year-old reliables quit on me."

  "I've never waited tables," I told her. "You'd probably end up having to fire me."

  "Oh, I didn't mean that." She laughed as she pulled out her keys. "I could have used your accounting expertise. I had to write a final paycheck for her, and didn't know how to figure the tax
es. I had to call that nasty Ben Murray. If you think he's a grouch in the middle of the day, you should hear him at six in the morning."

  I didn't envy her one little bit.

  "If you don't mind, I'll poke around in here a bit," I told her. "When you finish your breakfast shift, I'll fill you in on the case. There've been some interesting developments."

  She looked like she wanted to ask about them right then, but duty called. She tucked a stray blond lock back into its bobby-pin, and headed back to the dining room.

  David's office felt a little more abandoned each time I visited. The clutter had taken on a layer of dust now, and an industrious spider family had claimed one corner for their own. The only change I saw was the gradually increasing stack of mail forming in the center of the desk. Bills. I had the feeling Sharon was putting them here because she wasn't sure where to turn. She'd given the impression that she didn't even know their checking account balance. She was probably afraid to write checks, not knowing whether they had any money. Maybe I ought to volunteer a little accounting time to help get things back on track.

  During the night, between restless dreams and bouts of anxiety where I'd get up and check to be sure Rusty was breathing, one thing had hit me with crystal clarity. If I couldn't find David's copies of the restaurant's financial statements, I might be able to retrieve them off the computer. The more I thought about it, the dumber I felt for not having figured it out sooner. I might only be able to reprint those for the last month—I wasn't sure. Some accounting programs allow the user to keep more than one month open, others require that the previous month be closed out before it will accept any entries for the current month. At the very least, I should be able to run some kind of historical reports that would point out trends. It wouldn't be the same as having David's files, which would probably contain his notes and monthly adjustment figures, but it was better than nothing.

  I spent the next hour going through every file in every drawer and every notebook and printout on the shelves. The results were no different than last time. The only thing I could figure was that David had turned everything over to Ben Murray for review. It seemed like the only logical answer, although I still had a hard time reconciling David's choice of accountants, given their very different styles.

  Sharon came in just as I was switching on the computer, and I told her what I intended to do. She didn't know anything about the software either, but told me to go for it.

  "Now I want to hear what else you've come up with," she said.

  She had brought two mugs of coffee with her, so we both sat back a few minutes while I told her about my visit to the car lot, and my talk with Kent Taylor this morning. I left out the part about the attack last night. The case was beginning to be an obsession with me, I knew, but I didn't want her to pull me off it because she thought it was dangerous.

  "I don't know what this means as far as your insurance is concerned," I said, "but I'd think you have a much better chance of getting something out of them now that the police are investigating again."

  The relief on her face was tangible. She still had difficult times ahead of her, but some cash could make all the difference.

  "I'm going to leave you to your work," she said. "If you want more coffee, something to eat, hugs, kisses, anything—you just let me know."

  It took me a couple of hours to work my way through their software. Luckily, David had the user's guide on the shelf, and I was able to glean enough to find out that I could reprint all the reports dating back to January. Five months worth wouldn't give me the whole picture, but it was a good start. There were also some historical reports available that, while they wouldn't give a lot of detail, might help fill in the rest of the missing pieces for last year as well. I wanted to be able to look back to the time the restaurant first opened, and hoped this would do it. I explored the program's menus, and was soon able to start the financial statements printing.

  Their printer was ancient by computer standards, at least four or five years old, and it ran slower than Christmas. The software only allowed me to start one print job at a time, so it was pretty much a full-time babysitting chore for me. Unable to leave the room for more than a couple of minutes between pages, I used my confinement time in David's office to snoop. There wasn't much I hadn't already browsed, but I did take a nice long gander at the restaurant's checkbook.

  Sharon had been making deposits of the daily cash intake, and with no money going out the situation didn't look too dire. However, the stack of incoming bills was quite a bit larger than it had been at the beginning of the week. I felt like I ought to run some totals and let Sharon know which ones were most urgent. On the other hand, she might resent the intrusion. I was here to find David's killer, not to give financial advice. I decided I'd casually offer to help her out. If she wanted the help, fine. If not, she could gracefully decline.

  It was after noon by the time the old printer finished chattering. A stack of paper almost three inches high awaited my perusal. I could see where my weekend would be spent.

  There was a tap at the door just before the knob turned and the door swung inward. Sharon was balancing a food tray on one shoulder.

  "Make some space on that desk," she said, obviously needing to get rid of the tray quickly.

  I swept the stacks of papers and mail to one side, and she deftly lowered the tray to the clear space. She had brought two salads, heaped high with greens and topped with sauteed strips of chicken, shreds of cheese, avocado slices, and sliced olives and tomatoes. A small dollop of sour cream decorated the center of each. Two glasses of iced tea glistened with a thin film of moisture. She had included place settings, napkins, and a small dish of after-dinner mints.

  "I coerced Angeline into doing both hostess and waitress duty so I could take a few minutes to eat with you," she said.

  She pulled up a chair across the desk from me, and distributed the food. Dark circles showed under her eyes and a thin film of perspiration shone on her upper lip. Tendrils of hair had escaped their pins, and she looked like she'd been on her feet constantly since early this morning.

  "Sharon, this looks wonderful," I said. "You look like you needed the break."

  "I've been here since five," she said. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes a few seconds before picking up her fork.

  Neither of us said anything for about five minutes; we were thoroughly occupied attacking the food. Finally, during a breather, she eyed the stack of printouts I had run.

  "Did you find what you needed?" she asked.

  "Well, I've got a starting place," I told her. "I still don't know what information they contain. Thought I'd take them home over the weekend and study them."

  Her eyes continued to scan the desk's messy surface. I sensed some beneath-the-surface fidgeting when she saw the stack of bills.

  "Sharon, you look like you're swamped here. If there's anything I could do..."

  "I'm not sure I could afford to pay you," she sighed. "I'll have to think about it. I should probably just make the time to get in here and do it myself."

  Angeline, the young hostess, burst through the door just then. "Sharon, I need your help," she said. She was wringing her hands and bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, obviously wanting Sharon's attention right this minute.

  Sharon pushed her chair back abandoning her half-eaten salad. If all her meals were eaten this way, I could certainly understand her thinness.

  I dawdled over my own lunch, thinking she might be back any time, but it didn't happen. I still hadn't seen her by the time I picked the last lettuce leaf off my plate. There wasn't much else I could do here at the moment, so I gathered the stack of paper and my purse, and left, closing David's door behind me. Sharon managed a quick wave from across the room as I headed for the front door.

  At the office, Sally had left already and Ron was on the phone.

  "I don't see why I can't just swing by your place and pick you up," he said. There was a pause while he listened to th
e corresponding explanation.

  "Yeah, but I've got the car all packed, and I can be out of here in ten minutes." His voice was tight.

  Didn't sound like his and Vicky's weekend at the lake was getting off to a real congenial start. I passed his door without sticking my head in, anxious to unload the stack of computer printouts from my arms. I dumped them on my desk just as I heard him end the conversation.

  "Okay," he said with a deep huff, "I'll wait until you can get here." He appeared in my doorway a minute later.

  "Problems?"

  "Sometimes I just don't understand women," he said. "We have it all planned to be out of town by noon. Now it's one thing and another."

  He looked at his watch. "Almost two o'clock. And instead of having me go by and pick her up, she wants to come here. Says something's wrong with her car, so she'll have to call a cab, and now it might be another hour before she gets here."

  If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's not to get involved in a lover's spat. Taking a side will always come back to haunt you after the lovers have made up. I pasted a sympathetic look on my face and nodded, hoping I looked sincere. He sulked back to his own office.

  Vicky's story about something wrong with her car so she'd have to take a cab just didn't gel with me. Unless you are going from the airport to one of the major hotels, cabs in Albuquerque are not a practical means of transportation. They don't hang around on street corners here like they do in New York. No, that girl was hiding something. I'd bet on it. I couldn't believe Ron didn't see it, though. Even trained investigators turn blind when they fall in love, I guess.