I remembered the mysterious sounding message I'd left on Ron's answering machine, and decided I better clarify it. I was hoping to get the machine again, so I wouldn't have to fully explain myself, but no such luck. Ron picked up on the first ring.
"Charlie, where the hell are you?" he demanded.
"At Pedro's, having enchiladas. Want to join me?"
He grumbled something about a frozen dinner in the oven. I imagined his empty apartment with the ratty furniture and the rude neighbors clumping around overhead. I felt badly for him.
"Come over for a drink later, if you like," I offered. "Meanwhile, I guess I better free up the phone here."
His goodbye came out rather mumbled, and I got the idea I wouldn't be seeing him later. It was just as well. I wanted the chance to go through the papers in my purse and see if I could find a clue. There must be some link between David Ruiz and Ben Murray that would make it to Ben's advantage to get rid of David. Mere tax evasion probably wouldn't be enough. It looked like Murray had a lot bigger fish in his little pond than David Ruiz.
My enchilada plate was empty, and I still hadn't come up with any brilliant ideas. I paid my check and chit-chatted with Pedro and Concha for a couple of minutes before heading home.
The spring evening was still and warm. It was that magic time of evening when the sun has gone down but it isn't dark yet. It's a time of day you'd like to freeze and keep somewhere for when you need a good dose of tranquility.
I pulled my mail out of the box and let Rusty romp around the back yard while I sat on the patio and opened it. Bills and catalogs, mostly.
I thought about the police and wondered whether they had any new leads on the case. Somehow, I didn't get the feeling they'd made the Ben Murray connection yet, although I couldn't be sure. What other leads were there? David's life seemed to consist of his business and his women, and having lots of nice things to impress those women. Maybe I ought to do a bit more asking around about his personal life.
Sharon had said she didn't know that much about the women he dated. If she didn't know, who would? Not his parents. They seemed to believe he was serious about that girl from the church. Not likely, given the pictures I'd seen in his office of the beautiful model types he usually escorted around. A male friend might know. Tomorrow I'd do some more checking.
The light was gone, and Rusty lay at my side, panting. I took him inside and gave him a scoop of his food. I had taken all the Nouvelle Mexicano financials to the office with me, so I'd have to wait until the following day to compare them with the papers I'd stolen from Murray.
When I arrived at the office the next morning, though, all thoughts of financial statements were shoved aside. Kent Taylor from Homicide was waiting for me.
"Where's Ron?" He tried to act casual, but somehow I knew it was an official visit.
"I don't know, Kent. I just got here." Wasn't that obvious? We were standing in the reception area, and I turned to Sally, my eyebrows up.
She shrugged. "He hasn't checked in yet."
I steered Kent upstairs to my office. He took a place on the couch. He started to lean back, but couldn't hold the pose. He ended up sitting on the edge of the cushion, his forearms resting on his knees.
"Kent, what's happened?" He was shuffling around so much, I began to worry.
"Is Ron dating a girl named Vicky Padilla-Mann?"
"Why?"
"I had a visit last night from her husband."
"You guys take philandering wives cases now?"
He shot me a get-real kind of look. The silence began to get uncomfortable.
"He didn't know she was married, Kent. He just found out, and took it really hard. It's over now."
"Good. She's bad news. And her husband is worse."
"Michael Mann? He's a successful real estate broker. He may not be a very attentive husband, but he's no Jack the Ripper, is he? He certainly provides well for her."
"You knew he was David Ruiz's cousin, didn't you?" he asked.
"Yes, in fact I first met him at the funeral."
"He told me David was messing around with some Mafia types. That he'd gotten into some money troubles with them."
"Mafia? In Albuquerque?"
"We're not talking East Coast mob families, Charlie, but yes, that kind of thing goes on here. With our drug connection to Mexico, we've managed to attract some pretty heavy hitters."
"What does this have to do with Ron and Vicky?"
"Nothing, directly. After Mann visited me last night, I decided to do some checking into his background. Found out that he had a wife named Vicky, and I remembered something Ron had said about his girl named Vicky. I just wanted to warn him away from her. Glad to know he's already broken it off."
"Do you think Michael had some other reason for visiting you, Kent?"
This was the first clue I'd had about any drug connection, but the more I thought about the names in Murray's files, the more it made sense.
"Not that I could find out," Kent replied. "He isn't involved with the drug guys, if that's what you mean."
I debated whether to tell Kent what I knew about David's embezzling. I decided he'd been pretty candid with me, and maybe I owed it to him. Not to mention that obstruction of justice charges later on could prove rather embarrassing. Briefly, I outlined for him what I'd found in going through Nouvelle Mexicano's books. I made it clear to him that Sharon had known nothing about what was going on. I left out the part about Ben Murray. He could figure out that connection for himself, if there was one. Meantime, if he rushed right over to Murray's, it would be pretty obvious who had been into the files last night. I wanted to have a some more evidence under my belt before that little tidbit came out.
Taylor left before Ron came in, which was just as well. Ron didn't need his wounds opened again quite so soon.
I sat at my desk for quite some time, pondering everything. David involved with the mob? It could be, but somehow it just didn't fit. Everything I'd seen so far made it look like David was just a small time guy doing a little personal white collar crime. Murray might have coached him on the procedure, but even with the accountant's help, he hadn't covered his tracks too well. He was nowhere near smooth enough to satisfy the mob.
And, why on earth would Michael Mann go to the police with that kind of information on his own cousin? Michael and David had been close. I remembered the pictures I'd seen at the Ruiz home. Closer than brothers.
I pulled the sheaf of stolen papers from my purse. David's file was in the cabinet in Ron's office, and I brought it to my desk. Page by page, I compared the two. Definitely two sets of books. I was surprised that David had kept the real figures in his computer at the restaurant. Murray's records showed the official set that went to the IRS, the banks, and to Sharon. David's big mistake had been in depositing so much money to his own account. When his personal return was audited, the natural place for the feds to look would be the business. No wonder he didn't want to return those phone calls.
It was after noon, and Ron still hadn't come in. My stomach was telling me something, so I decided to go out for a burger. Sally said Ron had called. He had been in a meeting with the insurance company all morning in connection with his fraud case. Would probably be in around two. She was about caught up with her work, and wondered if she should wait for Ron or just leave. I told her to leave. We could handle the afternoon by ourselves. I offered to bring back a burger for her, but she said no. She and Ross were going shopping for new backpacks.
I was at the kitchen table, the burger and fries almost gone, when I heard Ron's car pull in. He looked about a million percent better today. At least he had shaved, and his shirt was pressed.
"Thanks for delivering those pictures yesterday," he said. "I got tied up later than I thought I would."
"No problem. Hungry?" I held out the cardboard folder of french fries. He waved them away. "You doing okay?" I asked.
His gaze scooted across the floor. "Yeah. Fine."
It wasn't the t
ime to mention Kent Taylor's visit. Ron was having enough difficulty dealing with his pain. Nothing in the David Ruiz case was relevant to him, anyway. I watched him go upstairs. I crushed my hamburger wrapper, gathered the other remains of lunch, and threw it all in the trash. I couldn't stop thinking about the many facets of David Ruiz. What had happened that night in the parking lot? What had turned on him? Which of the many people in his world had wanted him dead?
The phone began ringing when I was halfway up the stairs. I dashed for it, not counting on Ron to be aware of it. I was breathless when I picked it up. It was Sharon.
"Charlie? You okay?"
I assured her I was.
"I just wanted to check on you," she said. "I got the funniest feeling last night that you might have gone back to confront Ben Murray."
"You haven't heard from him again, have you?" I asked, my stomach tightening.
"Oh, no," she assured me.
"I did go on a little fact-finding mission," I said. "But there was no confrontation."
I sensed that she wanted to hear more, but it was probably best that I keep my larcenous little escapade to myself. I told her I felt close to finding some answers, and would keep her posted. I managed to end the call without giving away more than that.
I had picked up the phone while standing in front of my desk, and during the conversation had walked around to my chair, stretching the phone cord as I went. Now, seated in my chair, I realized that my foot had connected with something on the floor under the desk. I reached down to pick it up. It was the letter I'd pilfered from Vicky's house. It must have fallen out of my purse earlier when I'd pulled out Murray's reports.
The paper had become somewhat dog-eared. I opened it again, and reread the brief note. Suddenly, I knew who one of the key players was. To confirm it, I'd have to pay a visit.
Chapter 25
Veronica's house was a modest one in an area of town the old timers still called "the hill." Albuquerque began in the valley near the Rio Grande river, the Old Town area. As the town spread to the east, the terrain rose. My father used to say, "I'm going up the hill." Meaning he was driving from the valley up Central to the newer area. Now days, of course, the city has spread in every direction, including well into the foothills of the Sandia mountains, so "the hill" really isn't so very high after all.
It was a flat-roofed square little box, probably two bedrooms and one bath, as were most of its neighbors. The yard had been landscaped in gray river rock and hardy evergreens, probably because the place was now a rental, and there was less maintenance involved. Many of the neighboring homes looked more inviting with tall deciduous trees, colorful flower beds, and neatly trimmed lawns. The block hadn't gone completely over to rentals yet, as many others in the area had.
There were two cars in the driveway, a gray Honda and a five- or six-year old Volkswagen. The kind driven by college students whose parents had a little spare money.
I rang the bell and waited. It was mid-afternoon—late enough, I hoped, that Veronica would be here. She answered after a long four minutes. She was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, tied in a knot at the waist. Her long hair was pulled into a ponytail, and even through the screen door I could see beads of perspiration on her forehead.
"Yes?" she said, breathlessly.
"Hi, I'm Charlie Parker. Remember me? I ran into you at the University Bakery the other day?"
"Oh, yes! Goodness, what are you doing here?" She wiped her hands on the thighs of her jeans. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to be rude. Come on in."
She held the screen open to me. "I'm just moving in," she explained. "My folks helped me move my furniture this past weekend, but I'm still putting the little stuff away."
"Want something to drink? I think we have some Cokes, maybe an open bottle of white wine..."
"No, that's all right. I didn't mean to interrupt."
"I needed a break anyway. I'm having a Coke, how about you?"
"Well, if you're getting one anyway."
I waited in the living room while she went to the kitchen. It looked like a college student's place. The furniture appeared to be the cast-offs from several parent's homes—everything at least ten years old, nothing matching. I remembered a lot of good times in friend's homes just like this.
Veronica came back with two frigid-looking red cans, the store brand, not the real thing. I pulled the top on mine, and sat in an upholstered chair that had been slipcovered with a geometric-patterned sheet. It was surprisingly comfortable. Veronica took the sofa, planting her rear in one corner, and stretching her legs out across the cushions.
"Oh, that feels good," she said, arching her back slightly and taking a long pull on the soft drink. "I've been unpacking boxes since I got back from class at noon. I had no idea I owned so much junk."
"You have a roommate? I noticed two cars outside."
"Two, Tammy and Jennifer. Tammy's the red VW. I think she's in her room asleep. They're sisters, and they share one room. I've got the other to myself. Their parents own the house, but made them get a roommate to help with expenses."
She took another drink from her soda. "But that's not why you came, is it?"
"Actually, no," I said. I hadn't gone to the trouble of calling her parents on the pretense of being a school friend for this, exactly, but every tidbit of information helped. I pulled the letter out of my purse.
"Do you recognize this?"
She took it from me, her face draining of color.
"Where did you get this?"
"Where did you lose it?" I didn't think this would be the appropriate time to admit to breaking and entering her sister's house.
"I don't know," she said slowly. "With the moving and all... My parents haven't seen this, have they?"
"Not yet. Do you want to explain?"
"Steve sent me these letters. I asked Vicky to keep them for me so Mother and Dad wouldn't find them. I went over to get them from Vicky's house on Friday."
"Veronica, don't your parents know about Steve? Why would you have to hide his letters?"
She set down her drink can, and leaned back. She unconsciously stroked the letter as she talked.
"My parents are very, very Catholic. They have very, very Catholic ideas about me someday marrying a very, very Catholic boy. Steve happens to be somewhat Jewish."
"Somewhat?"
"He's not real religious, and I guess his family is just so-so about it. They aren't the problem. I guess I'm the problem. I haven't found the nerve to stand up to my parents yet."
She turned and sat up straight now, her feet on the floor. A bitter little laugh came out. "Look at me, twenty-four years old, working in a law firm—that's where I met Steve—almost through college, living at home until this week, and still under my mother's thumb."
She had the situation pretty well pegged, I thought.
"Don't worry, Veronica, you're getting there. You'll tell them when the time is right."
I drained the last of my drink and set the can on the table, giving her a few more moments to put her thoughts together.
"So, Vicky was keeping the letters for you?" I asked. "Did she ever say anything about them? Did Michael know she had them?"
"I don't think so. Vicky doesn't tell Michael everything."
Well, that was understating it a bit.
"You and Vicky seem so different," I commented. "All the twins I've ever known were so identical it was uncanny."
"We're mirror image twins," she said. "I'm right handed, she's left. I have this mole on the right side of my mouth, Vicky's is on the left. Those are the physical differences. Emotionally, though, we might not even be related at all."
She glanced around the room, like she didn't want to look directly at me. Her voice was sad when she resumed. "I don't know why we're so different. It's like Vicky has something missing inside, something like ... I don't know ... compassion? She doesn't seem to consider others before she acts, you know."
I knew.
"When w
e were little she always took whatever she wanted. She got the softer bed, the prettier dresses, the bigger cookie. My parents never seemed to notice. When we got out of high school, Vicky decided she didn't want to bother with college. She was working in a real estate office that summer, and she met Michael. He was engaged at the time, but she wanted him. No one was going to stop her. She set up a compromising situation where his fiancé couldn't help but catch them. Once the engagement was broken, she had him."
"Did she love him?"
"She thought she did." Veronica paused and stared again at the rug. "It's sad, but I don't think Vicky loves anyone but herself."
Chapter 26
Veronica was still sitting on the sofa when I left. I didn't think she'd gained any truly new insights into her sister's personality during the course of our conversation, but perhaps it was the first time she'd put words to her thoughts. It must be hard to face the reality of a loved one's true nature, especially in someone as close as a twin. Especially when the picture you get is not particularly flattering.
I drove down the street a couple of blocks before stopping. I didn't want Veronica to see me sitting in my car in front of her house. Pulling the phone book from behind the seat, I shuffled the pages until I found the listing for the real estate office where Michael worked. I didn't relish the idea of facing him, particularly if the truth about Vicky and Ron had come out. Somehow, I didn't picture Vicky telling him, and I was sure Ron hadn't. He'd seen enough results of these love triangle situations to know that he'd be better off keeping his mouth shut.
The Maxwell Company had offices all over town. I tried to remember, from Michael's business card, which one he worked in. I thought it was the Uptown Plaza office. It was about twenty minutes away, so I headed that direction.
Traffic was beginning to thicken, slowing in direct proportion to people's eagerness to get home. Getting to Uptown Plaza took close to thirty minutes. Finding a parking space, at least, did not prove difficult. Obviously, the real estate crowd thinned out even earlier than most. I wondered whether Michael would still be in. The answer came when I spotted his green Jag parked at the far edge of the lot, taking two spaces, shaded by one of the few trees which dotted the parking lot.
Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery Page 15
