Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  Inside, the building was almost frigid in comparison to the June heat outside. In light summer clothing, it was like walking into a refrigerator. The Maxwell Company was located on the third floor, according to the directory of white plastic letters on the wall. I pressed the up arrow next to the elevator.

  William Maxwell had built his company on the wow-them-with-your-success theory. Nothing was done second rate. The real estate mega-firm was the largest in Albuquerque, and they showed it. The elevator doors opened to reveal the Maxwell name and logo in thick gold lettering covering the entire wall in front of me. Carpet that felt like marshmallows and looked like the ocean on an overcast day spread out before me in a seamless expanse of blue-gray calm. Upholstered furniture of burgundy and cream stripes and patterns stood in intimate groupings, while a variety of plants and antique porcelain pieces gave the place an air of elegant hominess. Classical music unobtrusively filled the air.

  The only human in sight was a receptionist seated at an antique table, which looked to me to be of French origin. The woman was about twenty-five, dressed in a pale apricot suit with just the right number of gold jewelry accents decorating her person. She had deep chestnut hair, worn to her shoulders, in a style which managed to tread a very fine line between businesslike and sexy.

  She glanced up at me, but didn't speak until I approached her desk. Clearly, people in jeans were not often seen in here. The very air in the place would discourage the riff-raff.

  "May I help you?" A barely disguised what-do-you-want.

  I drew myself up, willing my voice to come out low and cultured.

  "I'm here to see Michael Mann," I told her.

  We went through a short session of b.s. about whether I had an appointment; no I didn't; she'd have to see whether he was available; what was my name. Tiresome.

  I was told to take a chair. Eventually, Michael appeared from somewhere deep and mysterious, apparently surprised to see me. He faked cordiality well, though.

  "Could we talk privately?" I asked, looking pointedly toward Miss Apricot Perfect.

  "Certainly." He guided my elbow gently down a wide hallway.

  There was more hustle going on back here than was evident from the reception area. Several of the brokers sat at their desks, their doors open. Most had their jackets off, shirt sleeves rolled up. Phone conversations tended to be lively.

  The decor in the broker's offices was only slightly less formal than the reception area. Michael's door had his name in gold letters. His furniture was not antique, but it was the best you could find in a standard office furniture store. The art consisted of R.C. Gorman lithographs, signed and numbered. An eight by ten of Vicky, lips pursed, eyelids half lowered, stood on the credenza behind his desk.

  He indicated the chair across the desk from himself. I let myself sink back, adopting the most relaxed posture I could manage under the circumstances. Staring at Vicky's sexy pose irritated me, so I angled myself away from her. Now that I was here, I wasn't sure whether I wanted to discuss Vicky or David. Both problems bothered me.

  Michael wasn't helping. He didn't say a word, but rested his elbow on the arm of his chair while feeding his lower lip between his teeth with his index finger. His steady brown eyes never left my face.

  I'm not one who feels comfortable with long silences. If Michael knew about Ron and Vicky, he was waiting for me to broach the subject. I decided to stick to safer ground.

  "How is David's family doing?"

  "They'll make it."

  "His mother is lucky to have good friends like the Padillas standing by her."

  "Yeah."

  Obviously, my visit here was unwanted, and my little attempts at chit-chat weren't breaking the ice. Michael's helpful attitude the day of the funeral had vanished. I had the very uncomfortable feeling that he knew about Ron.

  "The police seem to think David might have had something going with the mob," I said. "I hadn't turned up that connection myself. Did he ever say anything to you?"

  "My cousin apparently had a lot of things going on that no one knew about," he said. The brown eyes had begun to bore into me.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Never mind. I'm sure you've turned up the important stuff."

  What was he getting at? Why wouldn't he just say what he thought David had been into? He'd approached Kent Taylor with this supposed hot flash of information. Why not elaborate?

  "Well, I guess this is a bad time," I said.

  Obviously, he wasn't going to open up as he had before. I picked up my purse and stood up. The intercom buzzer startled me.

  "Michael, your wife is on the phone," the brunette voice informed him.

  "Tell her I've left for the day." His voice was sharper than expected.

  My eyes strayed to the photo on the credenza.

  "My wife. Vicky," he said. "A beautiful, lying, cheating little slut." The last words came out through clenched teeth.

  My expression must have amused him. The corners of his mouth turned upward in a sarcastic imitation of a smile.

  I felt my heart rate quicken, my breathing becoming shallow. I consciously worked at making my face neutral. I had no way of knowing how much he knew.

  "Her latest fling had taken to sending letters. Sickening stuff. Very foolish, putting ones feelings in writing like that." His eyes had become hard points of obsidian. The voice was steely.

  I could almost feel heat emanating from the hidden letter in the side pocket of my purse.

  "He paid the price. Now it's her turn. Dear little Vicky is going to be out so fast she won't know what hit her." He wasn't really talking to me any more; his words were more reflection than conversation. He ran his fingers through his hair, gripping at the sides of his head as if in pain.

  The office seemed too secluded now. I edged my way to the door, opening it, and positioning myself for a quick break.

  "I really should be going, Michael."

  He gave me the oddest look, as if he weren't sure when I'd gotten there. He came around the desk toward me. I was aware that the hallway and other offices had become dark and quiet. Not just quiet. Deserted.

  Chapter 27

  Michael's phrases kept spinning around in my head. Somehow I had to make sense of it. I wanted to explain to him that the letters weren't Vicky's, that she'd only been keeping them for her sister. But Michael wasn't listening.

  The man coming toward me didn't even resemble the composed businessman I had known as Michael Mann. His hair stuck out at wild angles where he'd run his fingers through it. His eyes were distant, as though he had somehow retreated inside himself.

  "Michael," I said. My voice sounded loud and shaky to me. It echoed through the hall, and I knew the rest of the staff had gone home.

  He didn't look at me. His eyes, and apparently his thoughts, were elsewhere.

  I edged my way out into the hall. Walking half sideways, always keeping an eye on his door, I headed for the elevator and pressed the button. The lights were turned out now, except for a table lamp in the reception area. Dim gray light from the outside windows filtered through the open doorways of the associate's offices. Shadows, deep and eerie, filled all the corners. I could hear Michael's voice, almost chanting, the words unintelligible. The elevator wasn't coming nearly fast enough.

  Michael still had not left his office when the doors behind me silently slid open. I wasn't sure I had ever been so glad to find myself alone as I was when those doors enclosed me.

  My hand was shaking when I aimed my key at the door lock on my Jeep. Inside, I switched on the air conditioning, so I wouldn't have to slide the windows down. A glance back toward the building revealed nothing behind its reflective windows.

  Coronado shopping center was only a block away. I pulled in, looking for a pay phone. Michael's words he paid the price haunted me. Had he found out about Ron, and believed that Ron sent the letters? I had to find out if my brother was all right.

  There were pay phones right outside Mervyn's, and I stopped
in the red zone, despite the honking horn of a yellow Toyota behind me. I had thrown the change from lunch into the bottom of my purse; now I pawed through the top layers of junk looking for a quarter.

  I dialed the number for our second line, our after-hours code that it was one of us calling. Ron answered on the third ring.

  "Ron, thank God!" Religion comes to me usually only under duress.

  "What's the matter, Charlie?"

  It took a minute for my breathing to slow down enough to talk coherently.

  "Is everything okay, Ron? Are you alone?"

  "Yeah... Charlie, what is wrong?"

  I knew I sounded completely overwrought, and was beginning to feel a little foolish.

  "Nothing, I guess. I just... well, I'll tell you later. I'm on my way there. Will you be around?"

  "For another hour or so, I guess," he said. "You sure everything's okay?"

  "Yeah, fine." I took a deep breath of warm summer air. Out here in the late afternoon sunshine, my experience in Michael's office seemed like a weird dream.

  I hung up the phone, and got back in my Jeep, just about the time I noticed a shopping center security patrol eyeing it. I was out of the red zone and moving toward the exit before he had a chance to say anything.

  The shortest way back to the office would be to take I-40 all the way to Twelfth Street, but at this time of day, it wouldn't necessarily be the quickest. I debated the options a moment too long, and missed the on-ramp. Now it would have to be either Lomas or Central. I opted for Lomas after making a last-second lane change. It was after making this foolishly quick maneuver that I thought I spotted a green Jaguar behind me.

  Traffic was too heavy for me to keep looking at my rearview mirror. I slowed down, letting a number of cars pass me, and infuriating those directly behind me who had no hope of changing lanes. A couple of times I thought I glimpsed that distinctive dark green again, but I couldn't be sure. If he was back there it was no accident. He was purposely staying far enough behind that I couldn't know for sure.

  At San Mateo I decided to change course. I turned south, and one block later made a quick left. By the time I circled the block and emerged again on Lomas I was behind the group of traffic I'd been a part of. My eyes scanned the cars ahead of me, but no sight of a Jaguar. I was certain he hadn't followed my little detour, but where was he? I sped up, weaving my way through the group. No green car. Perhaps I'd been mistaken all along.

  For the rest of the trip, though, I couldn't help being on alert. Ahead, behind, around me— no green car appeared.

  By the time I reached the office I was feeling somewhat foolish, like a skittish old lady seeing ghosts. I decided not to tell Ron what a baby I'd been. His car was in its regular spot out back, and I parked beside it.

  The knob to the back door turned easily in my hand. Ron, as usual, had left it unlocked. How many times had I told him that it wasn't smart to be there alone after hours without locking the door.

  "Ron!"

  "In my office." His voice drifted down the stairs faintly.

  Rusty was a little more enthusiastic to see me. At the sound of my voice he came bounding down. Amazingly, he didn't trip over himself on the stairs.

  "Hey, boy." I rubbed his ears, and he smiled up at me.

  I walked toward Ron's office, Rusty close at my heels. Ron was at his desk, files spread out in front of him when I poked my head in.

  "Everything going okay?" I asked.

  "Just finishing up the paperwork on that insurance case," he said. He looked up at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What was that phone call all about?" he asked.

  I debated how much to tell him. I didn't want to sound like the huge chicken I was beginning to feel like. But, then again, it really wasn't fair to keep him in the dark. Painful as it might be, his involvement with Vicky was trouble. Whether Michael actually knew Ron was the other man yet, I couldn't be sure. But I was sure he planned to confront Vicky, and if, in a fit of confession, she named names, Ron had the right to know he might be in danger.

  "Let me put my stuff down first," I told him.

  I carried my purse and briefcase into my own office across the hall, and slipped Rusty a biscuit from the canister. The late afternoon sun cast a golden tint through the windows. I stalled a couple of minutes, unsure how to begin telling Ron what I had figured out.

  Back in his office I took the chair across from him. Might as well come right out with it.

  "Vicky's husband has figured out that she was cheating." I filled him in on my visit to Michael, mentioning the way Michael had started acting strangely. I didn't elaborate on my reaction to it.

  "He's going to confront her?" Ron asked.

  "That's what he said. He said something about the guy paying the price, too. I don't know if he knows it was you, but it has me worried."

  Ron leaned back in his chair, his hands rubbing at his face. He let out a long deep breath. He didn't say anything for a couple of minutes, but I know my brother well enough to know that he was worried, too.

  "I could use a glass of water," he said, abruptly standing up. "Want one?" He headed toward the stairs.

  "Uh, okay."

  His boots made hollow thuds on each step as he went down to the kitchen. The light was fading fast now, the windows darkening. I decided to close the blinds. I went across the hall to my own office first.

  Standing at the bay window, I glanced out at the quiet street. The residential neighbors were tucked in behind their soft yellow windows now. A dark cat strolled up the street, intent on its own pursuits. I reached for the plastic wand to crank the blinds shut when I noticed something out of place. Two doors up, in the driveway of the only unoccupied house on the block, sat a dark Jaguar.

  I froze.

  Had it been there when I arrived? Surely I would have noticed it. I couldn't remember, though. I stepped aside, flattening myself against the window frame. It was too dark out to tell whether the driver was in the car. I had to assume he wasn't.

  I backed away from the window, careful not to let myself be silhouetted in the doorway with the hall light behind me. Where was Rusty? Usually he was right at my feet, but I couldn't remember him being in Ron's office while we talked. I hadn't seen him since he almost knocked me over in the kitchen.

  I was standing at the door to the hall, my back pressed against the wall. A tiny sound came up from the kitchen. Was it Ron getting the water, or had Michael somehow gotten into the house? Had I locked the back door behind me? My ears went on alert. The old Victorian tended to creak a lot, but now things were quiet. Almost too quiet.

  Chapter 28

  The hall practically reverberated darkness and quiet. Light from Ron's office formed a bright rectangle on the hardwood floor. I couldn't remember that we'd had lights on in there. I listened for another full minute. Nothing.

  When he isn't wearing it, Ron keeps a gun in his desk. Bottom drawer on the right. I don't like guns. A tight feeling forms inside me whenever I watch Ron handle one. He's demonstrated this one to me a couple of times, moving through the maneuvers of loading, unloading, chambering a round, and checking the safety with the lightning rapidity that familiarity brings. Now I wished I had paid attention.

  There's a creaky spot in the old floor, in the hall midway between Ron's office and mine. After a quick peek in each direction I sidestepped the squeak and pressed myself against the door frame of Ron's room. It, too, was clear.

  I switched off the desk lamp, so I wouldn't be quite such an easy target. I picked up the phone and punched 911. Dead silence greeted me. All three of our incoming lines were the same.

  The drawer slid open silently. The holstered weapon lay there on top of a lined yellow notepad. It was heavier than I expected. I unfastened the holster snap and withdrew the gun. My hands shook. I tried to remember what Ron had wanted to teach me about it. My mind went blank. The thing was as foreign to me as a missile launcher. I gripped it tightly with both hands, the way I'd seen Mel Gibson do in the movies.
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  Never taking my eyes from the door, I slipped off my shoes. Although they were soft soled, it was too easy for them to squeak on the hard floors. Barefoot, I'd have a much better chance of moving around unheard. I heard a sound from downstairs, something indefinable. A rapid scratching sound coming from far away. Leaving the relative safety of Ron's office didn't have much appeal, but I needed to.

  Working in this old building for three years, sometimes late at night, I'd become thoroughly familiar with all its little quirks. There were squeaky places throughout, and I knew where most of them were. An advantage Michael didn't have. A doubt still lingered in my mind. The place was too quiet. Was he inside? Where were Ron and Rusty? Fear shot through me as I remembered what Michael had done to Rusty the last time he'd been here. I had to get moving.

  The gun was getting heavier, and I adjusted my grip, keeping it pointed upward like TV detectives do. Careful not to silhouette myself in an open window or doorway, I edged around the room and out into the hall. Faint light from street lamps came through the windows. Otherwise, the place was in darkness. I had to relinquish one hand on the gun so I could feel for the stair railing. Third step down, I knew, had a bad creak. I avoided it. I heard the odd scratching noise again. Couldn't tell where it was coming from. For now, I had to concentrate on remembering which steps to avoid.

  At the bottom I waited, my back pressed to the wall. There was a storage closet beneath the stairs. It held some office supplies neatly arranged on shelves, a vacuum cleaner and mop. Otherwise, it was clear and would make an excellent hiding place. I wanted to be sure I didn't turn my back on it. From my vantage point I could see the front door ahead of me, the doorway into the reception area was to my left, the conference room ahead and to my right. All in shadow. Nothing out of place that I could see.