Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  "Charlie, what does this mean to me?"

  "Well, you just keep running your restaurant for now. Try to keep as much money coming in as possible. I'll go over these bills, and try to give you a better picture by this afternoon."

  Some of her color had come back, although she still slumped in her chair. She understood that it wasn't going to be an easy mess to clean up. Even if we could get the insurance money for her, much of the settlement might have to go toward clearing up her tax obligations. But I didn't want to tell her that just yet.

  I hadn't planned on spending the morning at Nouvelle Mexicano, but it was turning out that way. Somehow, I just couldn't leave Sharon to face the entire mess herself. After she went back into the dining room, I sat in the swivel chair and began to sort through everything on the desk.

  Aside from a few new pieces of mail, I was already fairly familiar with it. I quickly sorted everything into stacks: bills, letters, and filing—urgent and 'can wait'. The check register hadn't been balanced in almost a month, but David's entries were neat and readable, so it didn't take long to get a total. Next, I totaled the bills. They were more than the cash balance, so I resorted them by due dates and totaled them again. I could pay everything that was over thirty days old, and pay Ben Murray in full, although Sharon wouldn't get a salary this month. I wondered if she could handle that. If not, we might have to let some of the thirty day bills slip into the sixty day category. I might have to do some rejuggling.

  By two o'clock I had written the checks, Sharon had signed them, and I had filed away much of the extraneous clutter that had littered the office. I took an extra fifteen minutes to dust all the furniture and neaten up the bookshelves. The difference was remarkable. I told Sharon she would have to handle the correspondence, but seeing the organized office brightened her spirits enough that she didn't seem to mind.

  She thanked me several times and had Ralph make me a chicken salad. I insisted on paying for it, telling her she needed all the cash she could get at this point. Feeling full and somewhat accomplished, I headed back to my own office.

  Chapter 23

  Sally was finishing a letter when I walked in. Her shaggy blond hair had been freshly trimmed and she seemed perkier than in recent days. Flexible Sally had probably already counted her cycle days and bought another home pregnancy test kit.

  Rusty had heard my car, and came bounding down the stairs with such force that he almost knocked me over. After getting a pat on the head and finding that I didn’t bring anything edible, the red-brown whirlwind settled at my feet.

  "Ron's not here," Sally said, "but he left you a note. Wants you to set up an appointment with Lorraine Boyd to show her the pictures." She handed me a brown nine-by-twelve envelope.

  The wife whose husband was cheating. I really didn't want to do it, but I guess Ron just couldn't handle that kind of thing quite yet.

  "I told him we shouldn't take these kinds of cases," I told Sally.

  She nodded understanding. "I guess it's your baby now."

  My upper lip curled. "Anything else?"

  "Nope."

  Rusty followed closely as I went upstairs. My office felt warm and stuffy, and smelled of sleeping dog. I opened a couple of windows. I tried to think of a way out of calling Lorraine Boyd. Maybe I could just mail the pictures to her. Decided it wouldn't be cool though, if her husband were to get the mail first.

  As luck would have it, she answered on the first ring. I had only met the lady once, and tried to remember the face I was speaking to. The voice was soft and cultured, with perhaps a trace of a British accent. She suggested that we meet at four o'clock at a little coffee shop near the university.

  Mail was stacked in the center of my desk. I spent the next hour opening and sorting it. I wondered what kind of woman would spend perfectly good money to have someone take pictures of her husband with a lover. Since she knew he was cheating, why not just kick him out? These were prominent people, though. Maybe she felt she'd get a better settlement if she could threaten exposure. Maybe she wanted to keep the jerk. Threatening to expose him publicly might make him drop the lover and become an attentive husband again. Who could say?

  Ron had charged her for two days time, plus expenses. He'd had to drive to Santa Fe to catch the wayward husband going at it in a friend's condominium. All in all, I supposed it was fair compensation for what she'd gotten out of the deal.

  By a quarter to four, Sally had left and Ron still wasn't back. Not much way I was going to get out of the appointment, so I gathered my stuff and my dog, closed the office, and headed for the Jeep.

  The weekend rain shower had left the air feeling clean and a little cooler. Lilac scent from a house down the street filled the neighborhood. The afternoon sun on the west face of the Sandias accentuated the ruggedness of the mountain. I found myself in the mood to go home and take Rusty to the park. I'd get the meeting over with as quickly as possible, then do just that.

  Driving east up Central, I found the coffee shop without difficulty. It was one of those places that had been there forever. I could remember my dad taking me there for breakfast as a kid. In college, we had gone there when we were broke because the prices were so cheap. When we weren't broke, we avoided the place because it wasn't considered cool. At four in the afternoon, only three tables were occupied. Two of them hosted groups of students, the other a lone woman. I remembered her face when I saw her.

  She looked like the cliché of a woman waiting to meet a private investigator—scarf covering her hair, dark glasses. I wanted to tell her to lighten up. Suddenly I was conscious of my own attire. I didn't want her to be put off by my casual jeans and sweater. She didn't seem to notice.

  She reached for the envelope, turned it toward herself, and pulled the pictures out only about two inches. Satisfied, she wrote out a check and slid it across the table to me. Only then did she speak.

  "Would you care for some coffee?" she asked. Again, the soft cultured voice.

  She really was very pretty. Skin like fine porcelain, maybe a little too pale. Her fingers were long and delicate, her jewelry expensive but subtle. She seemed to realize that the scarf over the hair was a bit much, especially on a warm sunny day, so she slipped it off her head. It rested casually around her neck like she had purposely arranged it that way. I could have worked thirty minutes with a scarf and not achieved that elegance.

  I declined the coffee, saying I had another appointment shortly, mainly because I couldn't think what kind of conversation I could possibly make with this woman. She seemed to have a lot going for her—looks, breeding, intelligence. I couldn't imagine why she wouldn't dump a man who treated her that way and just get on with her life. I was afraid if I sat across the table from her I'd feel obligated to tell her so. Since she wasn't paying us to be candid, I figured I better go. She was still sitting at her table, staring out the window when I pulled out of the parking lot.

  It was still early. I was no more than fifteen minutes from Ben Murray's office. Something had been nagging at me since the encounter with him in Sharon's office this morning. Murray must have known what David was doing with the books. I wondered, in fact, if Murray wasn't behind the embezzling scheme from the start. He could easily have been taking a percentage for himself as well, letting David take the majority of the money so he'd be sure to take the blame if anyone ever caught on.

  No doubt, as soon as Murray received Sharon's certified letter relieving him of his duties and asking to have all her records returned, he'd destroy anything at all that might implicate him. If she'd mailed the letter today, he'd probably receive it tomorrow. I didn't have much time.

  I turned west on Central. At Broadway, graffiti decorated the walls of a boarded-up fast food place. I turned left, trying to remember how many blocks to Murray’s office. The building came along quicker than I expected, on my left. The lower level pawn shop looked as secure as ever, encased in steel and mesh. No sign on the outside indicated that Murray occupied the upstairs.


  Driving past the outside of his building didn't yield many clues. Obviously, I wasn't going to be able to just walk right in there and ask for what I needed. My last visit to the place was still fairly fresh in my mind. Two upstairs windows faced the street, which I guessed must be the room Murray used for his private office. The drapes were open, and I didn't want to take the chance of parking across the street and having him spot me sitting there. I drove past, circled the block and found an alley which ran behind his building. There were no windows facing the alley. The only door apparently led into the downstairs pawn shop. It had two deadbolt locks and a wrought iron grill over it. So much for the alley. I drove on through.

  Two doors down from Murray's building was a small dirt lot. Four cars were parked there, amid smashed beer cans, broken glass, and tumbleweeds almost the size of Volkswagens. One of the cars was a pale yellow Lincoln Towncar with a vanity plate BENNY. Ben Murray, you are so transparent.

  I drove slowly past the front of the pawn shop again, and noticed that they were open until six. Once they closed, I assumed that the wrought iron door would be locked, the burglar alarm set. There just didn't appear to be any way into the building after hours.

  This wasn't a neighborhood where I relished the idea of sitting in my parked car on surveillance. Even with Rusty beside me, I didn't like the looks of the gang members clustered under the awning of the Circle K at the corner. I circled the block once more. I had to get into that building tonight, and still hadn't a clue how I could do it.

  It occurred to me that it might be smart to let someone know where I was. Especially if I planned a lengthy stake-out of Murray or his office. Right now, I couldn't think of any other way to get the papers I needed. Avoiding the Circle K, I decided to backtrack and look for a pay phone. In the five o'clock traffic, it wasn't easy. I had to go back up Central three blocks before I found one.

  I dialed Ron's number and got the machine. I left the message that if I didn't make it home before midnight, to come looking for me, and I gave Murray's office address. I didn't realize how it might sound to Ron, thinking I was hanging around on South Broadway late at night, until I'd already hung up. Decided to call back and revise the message but I'd used my last quarter. I cruised slowly back to South Broadway.

  There was a small wooden building across the street and about three doors down from Murray's building. It apparently housed a dental clinic of some sort. My Jeep looked decidedly out of place next to a primer painted Monte Carlo and an Impala with the front fender gone, but there weren't many other choices. I parked and rolled all four windows down a couple of inches so Rusty and I would have some air. I kept all the doors locked. I hoped no one would hassle me once they saw a large reddish dog in the car.

  Thus settled, I looked back toward Murray's building. The upstairs drapes were drawn now. In the parking area, the yellow Towncar was gone. Shit! When had that happened?

  My heart rate picked up. How had I missed him leaving? I was sure the Lincoln had not passed me. He must have left while I went to make my phone call. Now what? I looked at my watch. It was a little after five. He must have gone for the day. At six, that building would be sealed up like Fort Knox. Right now would probably be my only chance.

  Adrenaline rushed through my veins like a drug. Rusty waited, eyes fixated on the window, as I locked him in the Jeep. I felt conspicuous crossing the street, trying to look casual yet purposeful. Feeling like a dozen eyes were upon me, I opened the street-level door next to the pawn shop. Through their inner glass door I could see a long-haired blond man behind the counter and one customer, a young girl, talking to him. Neither of them looked in my direction.

  The secret to successfully doing something wrong is not to act like you're doing anything wrong. I walked purposefully up the stairs as if I were on my way to a meeting with my favorite accountant. No one accosted me.

  At the top, I took a deep breath. What if Murray hadn't really gone? What if he merely enjoyed sitting in his office with the drapes drawn in the afternoons? What if his car had been stolen, not taken by him? Charlie, don't be ridiculous. Tentatively, I tried the door. It was no big surprise to find it locked. The knob, however, was every bit as chintzy as I remembered. And no deadbolt. He must have thought the armor plating downstairs was enough.

  I took a thin plastic card from my purse, and was inside within about ten seconds. I locked the door behind me. The air in the office almost gagged me. Cigarette butts now overflowed both ashtrays in the reception area, and the entire room gave off an odor of stale smoke, grease, and sweat. I glanced into Murray's private office to assure that I was alone. The smell here was worse. The heavy fragrance of recently applied cologne mingled with the rest in a stomach churning medley. Breathing through my mouth helped some.

  Since I hadn't left home this morning with any gloves in my purse, I settled for a Kleenex over my hand to help minimize any fingerprints I might leave. The drawers in the reception area yielded nothing at all of importance. After only a quick glance at them, I went into Murray's office.

  The man was an unbelievable slob. Another ashtray, full to the top, sat at the edge of the desk. A file folder had gotten pushed against it, shoving the ashtray so close to the edge that breathing on it might send it to the floor. Three styrofoam cups, each about half full of cold, oily coffee occupied various positions around the desk. A Coke bottle held about an inch of brown liquid and three or four cigarette butts. About two hundred slips of paper, in miscellaneous sizes like they had been ripped from the corners of other documents, lay littered about. They were all covered with the same indecipherable handwriting.

  Aside from a couple of framed certificates, the walls were bare of decoration. A plant that had died months before still hung from a macramé hanger in one corner. Probably a gift from a female, as there was nothing else in the office to suggest a concern for decor. There was a chipped black four drawer file cabinet in one corner. I made it my first target.

  The drawers were not labeled, so I started at the top, trying to be as quiet as possible opening and closing them. The top one held nothing of interest—a credit card imprinting machine, credit card slips in an unopened dusty cellophane wrapper, a package of pencils, a ruler, and several ledger covers with no pages inside. The second drawer held client files.

  The manila folders were bent and floppy, with the thinner ones trying to slip down between the heavy ones. I had a heck of a time trying to find labels on most of them. Once I figured out that part, I was amazed to find some well-known names among them. Ben Murray, sleaze king of Albuquerque, appeared to have some influential clients. I noted a couple of state senators, a car dealer, and a frequently-heard-from spokesperson from the mayor's office. Hmm... Now what would these important people want with Ben Murray? Almost made me want to steal the whole drawerful. Thinking about it made me remember why I was really here.

  About two-thirds of the way through the drawer, I came across a file titled "Ruiz." Inside were financials from Nouvelle Mexicano. I skimmed through them briefly, just long enough to realize that Murray had been keeping a duplicate set of books for David. That was all I needed to know.

  The copier on the opposite side of the room looked like an ancient job that might make a lot of noise. I debated. I'd spent about all the time I cared to in the place. If the guy downstairs was aware that Murray had left for the day, he could very well be placing a phone call right now. If the call was to Murray, I was probably taking my life in my hands already.

  I looked at the file I was holding. The minute Murray realized it was missing, he'd know exactly where to come. I pulled all the papers out of the file and set them on top of the cabinet. One of the senator's files was pretty thick. I grabbed some of the contents, roughly the equivalent of what I'd taken, and jammed them into David's file. I stuck David's file back where I'd found it, and stuffed the stolen contents into my purse. Using my Kleenex, I closed the file drawer.

  I gave the office a final glance, hoping I hadn't moved anything. T
he place was as disheveled as ever. Murray couldn't possibly notice that he'd had an intruder.

  I used the Kleenex again to close the outer door, and turned to head down the steep stairs. The long-haired blond clerk from the pawn shop was standing at the foot of the stairs, staring up at me.

  Chapter 24

  "I thought Ben had left for the day," he said. His hands were on his hips, his voice none too friendly.

  Had he heard my footsteps overhead? Had he seen me close the door just now? How big a lie could I get away with?

  "I guess he has," I said, rattling the locked doorknob in my hand. "I don't seem to get an answer."

  His eyes were steely as I started down the stairs. With each step I tried to think what I would do next. I didn't want to have to hurt the guy. I was two steps from the bottom before his gaze wavered. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders and went back inside his own shop.

  Wanting to break into an all-out run, I tried to walk away casually. I made sure I was well beyond the pawn shop windows before I crossed the street to my Jeep. It was parked far enough down the street that I didn't think he could see me unless he was standing right at the windows. I made sure he wasn't before I unlocked the door.

  Rusty and I decided to treat ourselves to Pedro's enchiladas for dinner. We were early enough that Pedro had a pretty good dinner crowd. Four of the six tables were occupied, meaning that Rusty had to wait outside. Within fifteen minutes, though, two of them had left, and the remaining two were regulars, so Pedro told me to bring Rusty in. He sat quietly in his corner, minding his own business and catching tortilla chips that happened to fall his direction.