“Huh, you agree, don’t you, kid?”
He rolled his eyes then sat back with ears perked in that I-want-a-treat mode.
“Later.”
Rachael walked out with a steaming mug in hand. “Wow, I hadn’t realized how completely fatigued I’d become over the past couple of weeks,” she said, setting the package of muffins on the table between us and lowering herself into a chair.
“I’ll bet.” I briefly filled her in on my conversation with Ron this morning, including the plan about attending the barbeque this evening but leaving out the parts about her brother.
“If I can just stay home all morning, catch up on a few bills and a bit of paperwork this afternoon, and relax, I’ll be ready to socialize again this evening,” she said. “You and Ron will both be there?”
“If you have two extra tickets.” I took one of the muffins and bit into it.
“I put them on the dining table,” she said.
I excused myself to take a potty break and to put the tickets in my purse.
Ron had told me he had a few more things to finish up at the office then he’d come spend the rest of the day at Rachael’s so I could get to Santa Fe. I returned to the patio to find Rachael nursing another cup of coffee and soaking up the morning rays. Rusty sat at her side, eyes on the horizon, head positioned in alignment with the hand that dangled over the arm of her chair as she massaged his ears.
“Well, you two look comfy,” I said.
Rusty craned his neck to look back at me but didn’t give up the special treatment.
Rachael smiled lazily. “Everything okay at the office?”
“Fine. Ron’s doing some more computer checks and keeping an eye on your father. He’s assigned me to a task in Santa Fe.” I didn’t elaborate. “I’ll leave Rusty here with you. Unless your brother spread the word, most anyone would assume that you were out at the balloon field, somewhere in that crowd. You should be safe enough at home, but I’d like you to be inside with everything locked up tight. Take the dog in with you and don’t answer the door. He’ll alert you to any odd noises.”
“We’ll be fine,” she said. “Much as I’m enjoying this sun, I’ve probably had enough for the day anyhow.”
Thus assured, I tossed my duffle into the car once again. The way things were going, I had no idea where I’d be sleeping tonight. I ruffled Rusty’s fur and assured him I’d be back for him later. I had this brief fantasy that we would somehow find Rachael’s stalker, get the police to pay attention and lock him up, and I’d have my own life back pretty soon. But I didn’t see that happening.
Aside from a snarl of traffic around the exit for Balloon Fiesta Park at the northern edge of Albuquerque, the drive to Santa Fe went smoothly. It was after eleven when I arrived, so the first thing I did was to satisfy my fast-food craving with a Big Mac and Coke. Back in the car I found my note with Hank’s address on it and studied my map of Santa Fe to figure it out. No wonder they called this place The City Different. Whoever laid out these streets had to have been under the influence of something pretty strong. I’d been here hundreds of times and never managed to master more than the basic main roads.
Ron’s groundwork had netted Hank’s parole officer’s phone number, the address of an apartment building, and place of employment with a landscaping contractor. I pulled out my phone and called them first. A perky sounding receptionist answered.
Yes, Henry Tamsin was employed there. He was out on a job right now, could she take a message? I faked my way through the call by saying I was an assistant to his parole officer and it was my job to find out about his attendance record. Had he missed any days of work? No. Had there been any problems with coworkers? Not that she knew of. Did Mr. Tamsin have his own car or use of a company vehicle? She hesitated at that one, finally letting me know that he came to work on a motorcycle. If he drove the company trucks it was only during work hours. He certainly wasn’t allowed to take one overnight. I thanked her and quickly disconnected before she put together that these weren’t exactly normal parole officer questions.
The apartment complex wasn’t difficult to locate. It was one of those cinderblock structures that dated back to the sixties and rented cubicle-sized apartments by the week or the month, the kind that avoids the tag ‘slum’ only because it’s not located among hundreds of other such buildings in a mass of dark, inner city alleyways. This one sat on a decent-sized piece of real estate with a parking lot that only held a couple dozen cars this time of day. The complex consisted of four buildings, set at ninety-degree angles to each other so they formed a square. A huge letter on the side of each labeled them, appropriately, A, B, C and D. I parked outside B and followed the scent of frying onions to a narrow walkway that gained me access to the inner courtyard.
An empty swimming pool surrounded by a metal fence with padlocked gate filled most of the open space. Apartment doors on three stories faced it. No doubt the developers in the early days had used this feature to sell the tiny abodes as “poolside” or “garden view” or some other such hype. I climbed a clanking set of stairs to the second floor and found B-210 without too much trouble.
Knowing that Hank was on the job made me bolder than usual. After a quick tap on his door, I slipped it open with a thin strip of plastic I just happen to carry in my purse. I won’t admit to owning it specifically for this purpose, but let’s just say it’s come in handy more than once.
I stepped into an all purpose living-bedroom about the size of a decent walk-in closet. A daybed stood against one wall, a metal chair with fourteen inch TV opposite. Biker magazines littered the floor near one end of the bed, with a scummy mug of cold coffee stuck to the top one. Yes, I did pick up the magazines and flip through them looking for missing words and letters. No, I didn’t find any. I gingerly placed the cold mug back where I’d found it.
Beyond the main room a narrow doorway led to a kitchen with half-sized appliances and four more mugs in the sink. Mold had begun to grow in a couple of them. A large plastic trash bag on the floor overflowed with fast food wrappers. The fridge contained three beers of an open six-pack and a hunk of cheddar cheese. The freezer compartment above it held a partial bag of store-bought ice and a mysterious foil wrapped package. It held five hundred dollars in twenties, a small plastic bag of white powder and a wrapped condom. I didn’t even want to think what that was about. I gently folded the foil again and put the whole packet back. Surely this guy had learned some more original methods in the slammer. I’d have to give him a failing grade on home security if even I could find his money and stash this quickly.
I stepped out of the kitchen and discovered that the rest of the apartment consisted of a tiny bathroom, which I couldn’t bring myself to walk into, and a five foot stretch of closet rod. Two pair of jeans and two shirts with the landscaper’s logo embroidered on the chest hung there. On the shelf above, a black Harley-logo T-shirt, neatly folded, sat all alone.
No generic white paper or envelopes, no traces of dead cat hair, no picture of Rachael tacked to a dart board. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected to find, but it wasn’t here.
The rumble of a Harley grabbed my attention. The kitchen window faced out to the parking lot and I caught a glimpse of a larger version of Ryan Tamsin. He swung his leg over the bike and hitched up his jeans, pulling a bag from Taco Bell out of his jacket. Shit! Why had I assumed that all landscapers ate sack lunches from home while sitting in the shade of a tree on the job?
I dashed to the door and popped through it, pulling it shut behind me just micro-seconds before Hank rounded the corner. I did a quick side-step, hoping it would appear that I’d just walked out of the apartment next door. Luckily, his attention had focused on a man coming out of the laundry room on his right. I made myself stroll leisurely away from him and prayed that I blended in.
I made it to the corner of the building, where another flight of stairs led to another narrow corridor going to another section of the parking lot. I risked a peek and saw Hank apply his
key to his lock. I ducked around the corner until I heard his door close firmly.
“You hidin from that guy?” A kid of about six stood in the first doorway of the row of apartments that were ninety degrees from Hank’s. His high pitched kid-voice echoed along the cement pathways.
“Shh,” I cautioned.
“Is it a secret?” he whispered.
“Yeah, something like that. You won’t tell, will you?”
“I’m home cause I got the chicken pox,” he bragged. He wore pajamas with Spiderman on them and his bare feet danced on the concrete sidewalk.
“Does your mom know you’re outside?”
“Nah, she’s at work. She calls me when I’m home, but she can’t miss work, else we’ll run out of money and we’ll lose this apartment. That’s what she says. I’m not supposed to open the door to strangers.”
“How do you know I’m not a stranger?”
“Cause you’re a girl. And I saw you go in that guy’s place.”
“Well, I won’t tell your secret if you don’t tell mine. Okay?”
He shrugged. “Sure, I guess.” He scratched at a red bump on his arm.
“Want to tell me another secret?” I asked. His eyes sparkled. “That guy, he rides a big motorcycle.”
“A Harley, the Wide Glide.”
“Wow, you’re pretty smart.”
“My daddy has one. I’ve seen pictures of it and my mom says that’s what my daddy rides. I kind of remember it. My daddy doesn’t live here though.”
“Ah. But this guy,” I tilted my head toward Hank’s place. “Do you know if he went someplace yesterday or the night before that, someplace after work, I mean.”
He scratched again and stared skyward. “I watched SpongeBob last night. But I got sleepy. I heard the Harley right before I went to sleep.”
“Was he coming in or going out? I bet you can tell the difference.”
“Sure, I can. He went out.”
“Did you hear him come back?”
The blond head shook ruefully. When kids sleep, it’s true and deep. My dad used to say a bomb could go off in the room with me. I began to worry that Hank would wolf his food and come right back out, and I didn’t want him to see me quizzing his neighbor. I thanked the kid—he said his name was Adam—and reminded him about keeping secrets.
Once he was safely inside I trekked down the stairs and took up a vigil in my Jeep. Within minutes Hank strolled out and climbed aboard the Harley again. I followed his slow rumble through town and watched him glide into the parking lot of his employer. From another parking lot across the road I saw him get off the bike and climb into the passenger seat of a company pickup truck. The driver acted impatient as he wheeled the vehicle toward the street and made a left turn. Hmm.
On a whim, more than anything else, I drove back to Hank’s building and once again used my key. The Taco Bell wrappers lay in a wad on the daybed and the top of the TV set felt faintly warm, but I didn’t think Hank had come home for lunch merely to catch his favorite soaps. A glance into the freezer told me I was right. The foil packet was gone.
Chapter 18
So, a few weeks out of prison and Hank was clearly in violation of his parole. I made a note to have Ron check his past again and find out if drugs were part of it, but I’d bet money they were. I sat in my Jeep for awhile, wondering if it would be worth my time to stick around and see what he did after work. My phone rang before I’d come to any definite conclusions.
“Where are you?” Ron asked.
“Santa Fe, just like you ordered.” It came out sounding snottier than I’d intended.
“Anything happening there?”
I filled him in on the little I’d learned so far and he confirmed that Hank’s long rap sheet had included drug charges--coke and pills mostly. He didn’t seem surprised when I told him Hank was back at it.
“We might get him off the streets again with a discreet call to his parole officer,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Other than the five hundred in cash, I didn’t find anything that could remotely tie him to Bill Fairfield or Rachael. I’d kind of pictured him as the muscle behind Bill’s revenge plot, but there’s no evidence.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m sitting out in front of Bill’s apartment right now and there hasn’t been a peep out of him all day.” He crunched on something and I envisioned his usual surveillance companion, a bag of Oreos, at his side.
“Well, he works nights. Probably sleeps all day.”
He muttered something about what a waste it was to watch a guy sleep, with which I privately agreed. “Why can’t you leave until this evening, right before he goes to work?” I suggested.
“I’m just wondering whether this whole line is off track,” he said. “I’ve been watching the guy for days now and haven’t seen him make a wrong move yet. He just looks like your average clean-cut guy who goes to work and comes home. Put a suit on him and stick him in a fancier house and he could still be a banker.”
I agreed with him but was careful not to let my personal reaction to Fairfield play a part in my opinion.
“Have we actually matched up anybody’s movements with the times when the threats came?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“None of these leads seem to be panning out. Can I make a suggestion?” I didn’t wait for permission. “Why don’t we switch tactics and watch Rachael. My guess is that whoever is threatening her is also watching her. They know when she’s home and when she’s not. They can leave all the notes they want but if they don’t get close to her they can’t actually do anything.”
He didn’t say anything for a minute. “Then we’re back to the problem of not having the manpower to really guard her. She’s out there in big crowds. A well-placed bullet, a bump from someone with a knife, it wouldn’t take much to get her.”
“Then she needs to hire bodyguards, not private investigators,” I said.
“Yeah, well, we already had that conversation, too.”
“So, am I sticking by Hank the Tank in Santa Fe, or can I come home? I really need to get Sally’s paycheck done.”
He muttered again. “Yeah, come on back,” he said. “You can relieve me here at Fairfield’s place for a couple hours. I’ve got paperwork to catch up on at the office and we both need to be at that barbeque tonight. Starts at six o’clock.”
I didn’t want to be sitting in a warm car in front of Fairfield’s place any more than he did, but I kept my grumbling down and headed that way. As it was, I’d be scrambling to drive back to Albuquerque, take care of my office duties, and get out to the west side to escort Rachael to the barbeque. And I wasn’t sure what I’d do with Rusty in the meantime, leave him to guard her house or take him home. We chatted about all this as I started the car and headed toward Cerrillos Road, leaving Santa Fe behind.
The hour-long drive to Albuquerque gave me time to think about the whole situation from a distance and it occurred to me that we weren’t looking at the big picture here. There’d now been multiple notes. They’d escalated in tone, and killing the cat had taken the fear factor up a notch. But if someone truly wanted to kill Rachael they could have easily done it by now. They hadn’t approached her, they hadn’t caused physical harm—why?
If the goal was to frighten her, when would it stop? And why did a person set out to intimidate someone else? Control, power, to make them act in a certain way. No matter how much I mulled it over I kept coming back to her father. He’d used their dirty little secret to keep Rachael silent as a child. Maybe this was his only way to intimidate her now, as an adult.
Then again, Chuck clearly wanted to intimidate women; it was his entire modus operandi. But he had Nora now; he didn’t seem to be after Rachael any more. Hank or Ryan? Thugs. Thugs love to intimidate. But was that good enough motive? They hardly knew her. Or could it be something to do with her world record, the only truly new event in her life right now? I chafed at the fragmentary clues, the scraps of knowledge that really
didn’t add up to anything. Nothing seemed to be fitting into place.
Bill Fairfield’s apartment building looked exactly the same when I pulled into the lot. Ron had left fifteen minutes earlier and Fairfield’s white Nissan sat in the same spot it had been on my first visit. I settled restlessly into my seat, scanning through the radio stations until I came to one with country music. Kenny Chesney’s voice caught my attention and I relaxed a little.
After about an hour, during which I’d had all the songs about broken hearts I could handle and had switched to talk radio where my favorite guy was blasting the government for being crooked and incompetent, I noticed movement at Fairfield’s window. The drapes, which had been closed, swished open. I glanced at my watch. A little after three. He was, perhaps, just getting up and ready to start his inverted daily schedule. I waited with a little more interest now that I knew I wasn’t simply staring at a window with a sleeping body behind it.
My diligence was rewarded twenty minutes later when Fairfield came out. He was dressed again in khakis, a polo shirt and light jacket with the zipper undone. He walked toward his car, glanced up and spotted mine, and changed directions. Uh oh.
I swear, my skills as a tail really must suck. Twice now, I’d been watching him and twice he’d picked me out of the crowd. I opened my door and stepped out, keeping the door between me and the ex-con. At least I wanted the advantage of my five and a half feet, not that cowed feeling of sitting low in the car.
“We meet again,” he greeted. “Still at it, I see.” His tone was casual, almost friendly. Truthfully, I was having a hard time seeing him as a mad stalker out to kill his own daughter. But then, the events of twenty years ago didn’t quite fit the present image either.
“Still here,” I agreed.
“Is it productive use of your time?” He sent a crooked grin my way and I caught myself automatically smiling back. “I didn’t see you out here the past couple of days.”
Balloons Can Be Murder: The Ninth Charlie Parker Mystery Page 14
