"They didn't mention it to me during the questioning," Stacy said.
"It seems likely they would have," Carla added, "if they had the gun. Although they wouldn't be required to confront you with it at this point. I'll find out about that later when they have to disclose their evidence to us."
"Speaking of which," I broke in, "I'm not sure how to bring this up, but is there an us? I mean, Stacy, this is up to you but have you officially retained Carla? Or is there a chance you might turn to Brad?"
Stacy turned her eyes first to Carla, then back to me. She looked confused.
Carla spoke first. "Stacy, whether you choose me or not, I'd highly recommend that you seek outside counsel. Having family members represent each other gets very sticky."
"And," I reminded her, "you'd have to tell Brad everything. I remember the way you looked the first day you came in here, and I don't think you want to do that. With someone else representing you, all that can be kept in confidence unless absolutely necessary."
That seemed to convince her. She reached into her purse and took out her checkbook. Apparently, this time there would be no hiding from Brad that she was spending the money. She quickly wrote out a check and passed it to Carla without another word.
"There's another difficult question I need to ask." I posed the question to Stacy. "Are you all right going home? I mean, would you feel safer somewhere else?"
She looked puzzled. I looked at Carla.
"I didn't tell you about my conversation with your husband this morning," she told Stacy.
She related the story, leaving out a few of the choicer words. Stacy seemed to fill in the blanks herself. She leaned against the arm of the sofa, propping her elbow there and gently resting her chin on her hand. She stared out the window for a full minute. A dozen emotions flickered across her fine features.
"No," she said finally, "I'll be okay. Brad won't hurt me."
I wished I believed it but truthfully, I felt that Brad had already hurt her. Somewhere down inside, Stacy was hiding a whole lot of hurts.
"How about lunch, you two?" I suggested, trying to lighten the mood a little. "I can put it on my expenses." I winked at Stacy.
"It sounds fun, but I've already left two clients hanging this morning. I better get back to my office. You two go. Charlie can take you home later," she told Stacy.
I'd forgotten that Stacy had been escorted from home in a police cruiser this morning. That had probably given the Tanoan gossip mill plenty of fuel. My stomach clenched a little at the thought that we might encounter Brad there, but I smiled encouragement at Stacy. She'd chosen to face him on her own. Maybe I could stay low-key.
Chapter 12
We lunched at McDougal's Pub, a boisterous place where I thought Stacy might feel free to talk because there was no chance of our conversation being overheard by others, and little chance we'd run into anyone we knew. The place was meant to replicate an old-time Irish Pub, with hardwood floors, a long wooden bar with brass rail, and framed prints of the Irish countryside hanging on the dark paneled walls. Visually, it came off cute. Audibly, it was something else. With no sound absorbing surfaces in the entire place, the voices and laughter bounced off the walls and echoed through one's eardrums. The effect was like being locked inside a pre-school at recess time, only the voices were several octaves lower.
Stacy was quiet through the meal, picking at her Reuben sandwich, occasionally swirling a french fry through a puddle of catsup but not eating it. Her mouth stayed set in a straight line but her eyes looked weary.
"Stace," I finally broke in, "do you want to talk about it?"
She shook her head, not meeting my eyes.
"What is it? Are you worried about the case, or is it about going home?"
She busied herself with a large bite of her sandwich, shaking her head as if to say neither. It was obviously my cue to butt out. I changed the subject and we finished the meal reminiscing about high school.
The Tanoan community was as dead looking as ever when we pulled through the gates an hour later. The tan stucco giants shouldered side-by-side, their curtained eyes pointed straight ahead, as if to ignore each other's presence despite the fact that they were almost touching. We drove three blocks before seeing another living being. A yard service truck was parked in front of one of the tan mammoths. Three men bustled about like servants, manicuring and trimming. They would be gone in fifteen minutes, leaving the giant trimmed and pretty, if unloved. I pictured my mother planting and tending her rose bushes with love. I supposed that just wasn't done here.
Brad's Mercedes sat in the circular drive. Stacy tensed visibly as we pulled up. I stopped short, in front of a neighbor's house.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked. "You're welcome to come home with me if you need a few days to get yourself together."
She sucked in a deep breath and let it out again slowly. Her eyes remained riveted to the front of the house. I followed her gaze. A front curtain stirred.
"No," she said, "I'll be fine." She darted a quick, tense smile my way. "I better get in now."
I edged the Jeep slowly forward, stopping in front of Stacy's house. I squeezed her hand.
"Do you want me to go in with you?"
"No, no, don't be silly." She forced her voice to be breezy. "Really, Charlie, I'll be fine."
Secretly, I was glad she'd turned down the offer. I watched her walk away from me, squaring her shoulders as she approached the front door. A person's home should be her refuge, her safe haven from the pressures of the world. Somehow, I knew this wasn't the case with Stacy.
Thoughtfully, I drove slowly through the lifeless streets. What did it matter if a person had shitpots of money, I thought, if there was no joy in their lives? What joy could there be in working oneself to death in a high pressure career, just to come home to a house that looked like it had been cloned from that of a neighbor you didn't even know? My heart went out to Stacy but I didn't know how I could tell her so. After all, she'd made her choice.
It was a little after two by the time I reached the intersection of Academy and Wyoming. I remembered that I'd promised Josh Detweiller to meet him after school one day. My timing might be just about right if I headed across town right now.
At the next red light, I pulled my phone book from the back seat. Video Madness, Josh had called their hangout. It was listed on Coal, I guessed about two or three blocks from the school. I hit San Mateo southbound. The weather was beautiful and it seemed to put people in an aggressive mood. I got the one-finger wave from a guy after he abruptly changed lanes in front of me. After nearly taking off my front bumper, he sped ahead and I watched him pull the same maneuver on someone else.
Video Madness was just that, I discovered, when I finally found the place twenty minutes later. The small parking area overflowed with cars of the same vintage as Josh's primer-coated muscle car. A few newer ones dotted the area but not many. For the most part, these kids were from families like Josh's, hard working, many with single parents. Most of the parents didn't drive new cars, much less their teens. Opposite of the neighborhood I'd just come from.
I could hear the dinging, whizzing, boinging of electronic video games even before I opened the door. The windows had been painted over with black paint. I stepped in, my eyes adjusting slowly to the dimness. The jangling cacophony would drive me crazy in about fifteen minutes. A middle-aged man manned the counter, dispensing quarters, soft drinks, and slices of pizza, which were kept warm under two red light bulbs in a glass case. Clumps of teens gathered around two small booths, Formica tables with Formica benches running along each side. Apparently food was the first priority after school, although the games were getting a fair amount of attention, too.
I spotted Josh alone at one of the games. His eyes darted around the screen following some dreaded aliens. Both hands were busy at the controls, shooting the monsters with deadly precision. His concentration was total. There might not have been another person within miles as far as Jo
sh was concerned.
I circled, trying to stay out of his line of sight, allowing him to finish his game without distraction. It probably didn't matter—a bomb explosion probably wouldn't have distracted him. I parked myself behind and to his left, watching the game, waiting for a break when I might speak to him. It took about fifteen minutes before one of the aliens got him.
"You're pretty good at this," I commented.
His head snapped toward me. "Oh! I didn't even see you there."
"You were pretty intent all right. You must play a lot."
"Yeah, I guess so. Every day." When he smiled, his face became angelic. "Wanna play a game?"
"Well, I've never really tried these much," I admitted. My eye-hand coordination skills are pretty much limited to the computer keyboard and sometimes even that is iffy.
"Come on," he coaxed. He was already dropping quarters into the slot. "Okay, get over here. You've got the red controls."
My mouth opened to protest but he had scooped me toward him by my shoulder.
"Now, I'm player number one, so you just watch what I do." His eyes were again intent on the screen. I tried to watch his hand moves but, truthfully, I hadn't much idea of what he was doing. His turn took about five minutes, then he was finally shot down.
"Okay, you go."
I felt like a spotlight had just been turned toward me. Surely everyone in the room was about to witness me making a fool of myself. I braced my feet the way Josh had done. Suddenly, red bursting lights were screaming toward my man. I grabbed the controls. I fired. I dodged. I got shot down within a minute.
"That's okay. You're just racking up points right now. You'll get two more turns."
Goody.
Josh was back at it—firing, dodging, ducking. His body emulated the moves his video icon made. Maybe that was the secret—really putting your whole self into it. When I finally got a turn again, five minutes later, I tried the same thing. This time my turn lasted a good two minutes. We each had another turn before the game quit. Josh's score was more than triple mine but he was gracious about it.
"C'mon," I said, "loser buys the Cokes."
The tables had cleared out now. Stomachs filled, the other kids had turned to the games.
"I hold a record for that game," Josh told me proudly as we carried our Cokes to a table. "Really. It lists the high scores, and my initials are right there at the top. You can check if you want to."
"That's great," I told him. "I believe you."
Peeling the paper off my straw, I tried to figure out the best way to broach the real questions.
"I guess you didn't really come here to play video games with me," Josh said.
"Did you hear that they arrested a woman for your father's murder today?"
His straw stopped in mid-air. The color drained from his lips. "No!" He seemed frozen, like an actor in a stop-action scene. Our eyes caught for a minute, until he moved again. "Who was it?" he asked.
"Her name is Stacy North. You might have heard of her husband, Brad North."
"Uh, I don't think so." He jabbed the straw down through the little X in the lid on his cup. He took a long drag on the straw before he looked back up and smiled at me.
"Then it's over, huh? They caught her."
"I don't think she did it, Josh. I know this woman—she was a friend a long time ago. She did know your father, but very briefly. People don't usually kill someone they hardly know."
"Well, then why'd they arrest her? The police aren't stupid. They know more about it than you do, I bet."
"I'm sure they do, Josh. But they don't know Stacy personally." We were both getting a little hot under the collar, so I steered the conversation another way. Obviously, Josh wanted very badly to believe that the killer had been caught. I let it go.
"Look," I said, "I didn't mean to get you all upset. How's your mom doing?"
He blew out a deep breath, then took a sip of his drink before answering. "She is doing great. She's acting . . . I don't know."
He fixed his mouth around his straw again. I waited.
"She's acting all weird, Charlie." He drummed all ten fingers on the table rapidly. "It's kind of like. . . kind of. . like she's happy." His voice broke slightly on the last word. He got busy with his drink again, keeping his head tilted downward so I couldn't see his eyes.
I glanced around the room, giving him a minute to compose himself. Noise from the video games clanged from every surface. No way anyone else could hear us. The gurgling sound of an empty straw came from across the table.
"Look, I gotta go," Josh said. He was on his feet already. He slapped his hand down gently on the table in front of me. "Thanks for the game and the Coke."
He headed for the door. I watched his slim back as he affected his teenage boy walk across the narrow parking area. Seconds later, he was out of sight. I remained where I was, sipping slowly at my drink. Our conversation and Josh's reactions kept playing through my mind. He'd been shocked when I first told him of Stacy's arrest. Why? It was almost like he expected it to be someone he knew. He'd been visibly relieved when he found out who it was.
Chapter 13
My head was jangling in time with the constant ping-ping-ping of the video games. Fresh air was in order. I stepped out into the bright sunlight, squinting as my eyes adjusted. I'd parked down the block. Now I walked the distance briskly, shaking the noises from my ears and the lethargy from my limbs. It had been a long day but it was only about three o'clock. Perhaps I could find out a little more about Jean Detweiller.
The phone book listed Archie's Diner on Central Avenue, I guessed somewhere around the old Albuquerque High School area. I started west and picked up the next cross street, which took me to Central. Passing the old high school was sad. Both my parents had attended school there but sometime in the early seventies it had fallen on hard times. Now a high chain link fence surrounded the grounds and building. Graffiti scarred the dark brick facade and most of the broken-out windows were boarded up. For years the city had discussed various ways to rekindle life in the place, everything from boutique shops to sleeping quarters for homeless people. But, as yet, nothing had come of any of the political talk. So, she sat there, a sad old lady—dead really, but no one quite had the heart to bury her.
I passed Archie's before I realized it and had to circle the block. Three-fifteen. Jean shouldn't be at work until four, which would give me a chance to ask a few questions without her presence.
The building was probably built in the fifties, when crowds of kids in bobby socks and poodle skirts flocked here after school. The front was mostly glass, huge panes of it, separated by aluminum dividers. The glass rose a story and a half, forming a sharp peak at the top. At the back, the roof dropped away sharply in a dramatic scoop, like some inner-city ski jump. The front of the building sat right at the sidewalk, and access to the rear parking lot was gained through a narrow driveway on the eastern perimeter. I pulled in to find one other car in the lot. Two other vehicles, a sagging twenty-year-old Cadillac and a Volkswagen bug with the front fenders missing, were parked near a greasy back door. The employees.
Inside, the decor was original fifties. A counter ran the length of the place, fronted by chrome and red-vinyl stools. An aisleway just wide enough for a waitress with a loaded food tray separated the stools from a series of booths that lined the windows. An angular chrome jukebox stood in one corner, a yellowed Out-of-Order sign taped to its front. A thin man in a shapeless brown coat sat at one end of the counter, hugging a coffee cup between the palms of his hands. A long tendril of smoke from an ashtray beside him trailed purposefully toward the high ceiling, where it joined a bunch of other smoke, forming its own pollution zone. I took a stool at the opposite end.
"Yes, ma'am, what can I get for you?" The man must be Archie. He was sixty-something, round all over, about my height, five-six or so. He wore a white t-shirt, white pants, and white apron, all of which were spotted with grease and food stains that looked several days old. His h
ead was shiny on top, rimmed by closely trimmed white hair. His jowly face was clean-shaven. I became aware of his thick index finger tapping on the counter, waiting for my answer.
"Oh." I had to think a minute. The Coke I'd just finished with Josh had pretty well killed off my appetite. "I'll just have coffee," I told him.
"How about a piece of pie with that? Homemade this morning. Best in town." When he smiled, he looked much friendlier, like an un-bearded Santa.
"What kind?" I felt myself weakening. Maybe I could call this dinner.
"Cherry, peach, or Dutch apple." He waved toward the glassed-in pie case behind him.
"Dutch apple."
"Excellent choice." He turned and picked up a small plate. I watched him dish up the largest piece of Dutch apple. "Little scoop of vanilla on that?" he asked.
"No, thanks. Just the pie."
He laid a fork beside the hunk of pie and set it down in front of me. While he turned to get my coffee, I asked, "Jean Detweiller works here, doesn't she?"
"Yeah, she'll be here in . . . oh, fifteen, twenty minutes."
"How's she doing these days?"
"You mean after her husband got killed?"
"Yeah. She pretty broken up?"
"Jean's a strong woman," he replied. "You know, she didn't miss a day of work."
"Really." I forked another bite of the pie. It was wonderful. "Look, a friend of mine has been implicated in that case. I'm looking into it on her behalf."
Archie wiped the counter, not saying anything.
"I'm trying to get a feel for what happened. Gary had been out of town, hadn't he?"
"I think so. Jean didn't always tell me stuff like that. The other girl on her shift, Sarah, might know."
Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery Page 10
