The weather had turned nasty again, our few days of spring sunshine gone. A bitter wind drilled through my jeans, making my legs feel like they were encased in ice tubing. Clouds hung low, shrouding the Sandias in gray, obscuring their jagged face. The air smelled moist and the ground was faintly damp from a five-minute sprinkle that had passed through. I zipped up my jacket and jogged toward the Jeep. Inside, the air felt heavy and warm, a nice contrast to the cutting wind outside. I let the engine idle while I thought about what to do next.
My thoughts kept flitting back to the papers I'd looked at this morning, Gary's betting notes. And the name that kept coming back to me was Charles Tompkins. The man had been extremely nervous when I'd approached him the last time. Then he'd brushed off his twenty thousand dollar loss like it was nothing. From Gary's notes it appeared Tompkins had lost a great deal more than twenty grand. The next thing I knew, my Jeep was on I-25, heading north for the San Mateo exit.
The Tanoan guard didn't question me when I said I was going to the Tompkins residence. I wove my way through the winding streets. A tumbleweed that had somehow found its way into the neighborhood rolled across the road in front of me. I felt pretty sure that weeds weren't allowed here but I slowed down for it anyway.
Charles Tompkins' house showed no signs of life. I pulled up to the curb and stared at it for a couple of minutes. All three garage doors were closed and all the windows wore a blank look, hidden behind white sheer drapes. It wasn't even four o'clock yet, I realized, a little early for the over-achievers to be home from the office. I debated whether to wait around or try again later. Curiosity got the better of me. Watching how the rich folks conduct themselves might prove entertaining.
I cruised past Stacy's house. It, too, stood like a large empty-faced mammoth. Brad's Mercedes waited in the driveway though, so I decided not to stop for a chat. Whatever was going on behind their closed doors right now wasn't something I wanted to get involved in. Around the neighborhood, cars were beginning to arrive—executives who allowed themselves to come home early, teens out of school who drove better cars than mine. I wondered what these kids would strive for in their lifetimes. They already had so much, all handed to them by virtue of the fact that they were born when and where they were. Would they grow up to want even more, or would they languish into do-nothingness, never having done anything for themselves. I pictured a lot of lost souls here.
Back at Tompkins' place a car now stood in the drive, almost a junker by these standards, a Ford Thunderbird that must have been at least three years old. Charles Tompkins himself was just stepping out of the car. He wore a dark business suit and conservative tie. He balanced a briefcase and cellular telephone while reaching for a plastic sheathed garment from the cleaners and trying to lock the car door at the same time. I parked by the curb and walked toward him. I'd reached the rear of the car before he noticed me.
"Hi. Charlie Parker," I reminded him.
He gave me a puzzled look over the top of the briefcase.
"I'm investigating the Gary Detweiller case."
"Oh, yes." His tone was noncommittal, his face closed and guarded.
"Could I talk to you again for a minute?"
I could tell he didn't want to talk, and he especially didn't want to invite me inside. But the wind was ferocious now, even stronger here near the foothills than it had been in the valley. His cleaning bag was whipping around like an unruly pet trying to get away. He hesitated a minute, then ungraciously invited me in.
It was almost comical to watch him juggle his many burdens while trying to open the front door and disarm the alarm system. He positioned his body between me and the keypad so I couldn't see what code numbers he punched in. Having a lot of possessions certainly breeds paranoia.
"Excuse me a minute," he said. He disappeared into a room off the den, leaving me standing in the white entry hall.
The white and chrome living room waited, silent and unoccupied. Undisturbed vacuum cleaner tracks made neat white paths in a perfectly symmetrical pattern. On my right, a formal dining room had the same freshly cleaned look. The almost invisible table had chrome legs and a heavy glass top. In the exact center stood a glossy black bowl filled with spiky black twigs. Some decorator had probably charged him a fortune for the thing. Beyond the table, an all-glass hutch held a set of shiny black dishes. They stood out like large bullseyes in contrast to the white walls, white carpet, and non-color of the rest of the house. I wondered what it would feel like to pull out a slingshot and ping them from their colorless perch.
"Now, what can I do for you?"
Tompkins' voice startled me, caught in the act of mentally vandalizing his dining room. He had loosened the knot in his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his gray-striped white shirt. He had dumped all the excess baggage he'd carried in with him. His fingers combed through his mass of curly blond hair, trying to restore order to the mess the wind had made.
"I just wondered whether there was anything more to your association with Gary Detweiller that you might not have mentioned to me the other day."
Something flickered in his eyes, something so fleeting that it was gone in a fraction of a second. A tiny pucker showed on his upper lip but that, too, disappeared instantly.
"I don't believe I've thought of any other information," he said.
"Not even the name of a race horse you lost heavily on," I prodded. "A horse named Bet The Farm."
His thin lips pursed together noticeably this time. "I'm not sure what business this is of yours," he said tersely.
"Truthfully, it probably isn't any of my business, except that you grossly underestimated your losses to Detweiller. Except that a hundred thousand dollars might be a lot stronger motive for murder than a mere twenty. And except that our client is still on the hook for something she didn't do." I stopped, realizing that I'd said a lot more than I intended, a lot more than was probably smart.
Suddenly the house felt very lonely and very quiet. I realized that, although these homes might be packed together like sardines, the neighbors probably weren't home. I felt a hollow sensation low in my stomach.
Tompkins' mouth twitched in a half-smile.
"How'd you find out about the other losses?" he asked.
"Gary kept very thorough records," I told him, keeping my voice flat.
"He did, hunh?" he said. He turned toward the den, pulling off his tie as he went. I followed without speaking. He chose a glass off the shelf above the bar and reached below for ice cubes from an ice maker built into the cabinets.
"I should have known this would come down to some kind of blackmail scheme." He filled the glass half full of whiskey and took a long swallow before speaking again.
"Blackmail? Excuse me?"
"Just come out with it. What is it you want?"
"I just want some answers. I don't personally care whether you lost a million bucks to the guy. Your finances are your own problem. I'm just trying to find out who killed Gary Detweiller."
"Well, I sure as hell didn't." He downed the rest of the drink and poured another.
"Where were you Wednesday night a week ago?"
He chuckled. "You sound like a little skinny Perry Mason."
I stood my ground. Skinny?
"Actually, I was out of town all week. At a banking convention in Atlanta. You can have that verified through my office, the hotel, and about two hundred other people who heard me give the keynote speech."
"Blackmail? I don't get it."
He set the glass down and leaned against the bar, perching his butt against the edge of the counter top, arms folded across his chest.
"My ex-wife. Or I should say, soon-to-be-ex. She's got people practically digging into my underwear drawer to find hidden assets. I assumed you were working for them."
"I told you what I was looking for, right up front," I said.
He gave me a look that basically said, Get real. "Do you think her investigators are going to come out with the real questions?"
&n
bsp; Well, okay, probably not. I didn't say it. I left a couple of minutes later, feeling a little sheepish. Until I got into the car and thought about it. Tompkins was a cool one. He had been careful to steer the conversation away from Gary, away from their dealings. I didn't care what he said, though. A hundred thousand dollar loss doesn't come easy to anyone. And a hundred thousand is plenty of reason for murder.
Chapter 20
I cruised past Stacy's house once more on my way out of the neighborhood. Brad's car was still in the driveway so I didn't stop. Three blocks away, I spotted a pizza place on the corner. I realized I was famished. It was still early enough that I found a parking place right by the door. Almost ordained, it seemed.
They sold pizza by the slice. I ordered one with mushrooms and black olives and a Greek salad. I found a table in a deserted corner and waited there, crunching on the salad. Out of curiosity I pulled the sheaf of papers from my purse again. I hadn't organized them, and it took a few minutes to locate Charles Tompkins' name among the scraps of scrawlings.
I heard my name being called so I got up to collect my pizza slice. Back at the table, one of the racing forms almost jumped out at me. Why hadn't I noticed this before? Tompkins hadn't lost money on Bet The Farm. The horse had won. I remembered Tompkins' comment about hidden assets.
The horse had won, and maybe Gary hadn't paid off. Gary had written dates beside some of his handwritten entries, including Tompkins' big bet on Bet The Farm. I pulled out my checkbook calendar to verify the date. He'd placed the bet two days before Stacy had hired me to locate her missing watch. Could it be pure coincidence, or did Gary have an urgent reason to get out of town? Like maybe a hundred thousand reasons that someone might be angry with him?
Tompkins wouldn't have pulled the trigger. How stupid could I be? The way he'd done it was perfect. Out of town at a week-long convention, hundreds of witnesses as to his whereabouts, a hired assassin to get rid of Detweiller. The sheet of paper suddenly felt hot in my hand. I laid it down, staring at Gary's long, slanted writing as I finished my pizza. I remembered Ron's caution to me about withholding evidence. The police needed to know about this. I still couldn't figure out the connection between Tompkins and Jean Detweiller. That puzzle would take some work. But I didn't see how Kent Taylor could ignore this new finding. Surely, he would have to admit that Stacy was no longer the only suspect. I stuffed the last bite of pizza into my mouth and walked out of the place, still chewing.
It was one minute to five when I pulled into the only parking spot I could find within three blocks of the downtown police station. I had a feeling Taylor worked from eight to five and might already be gone by now. I locked my car and pushed my way up the crowded sidewalk.
Taylor sat at his desk with stacks of file folders surrounding him. He was making notes in one, resting his forehead on the other hand. Gone was the freshly pressed look he usually wore in the mornings. The precisely knotted tie hung over his chair and his hair looked like it had been the victim of an eggbeater attack.
He seemed completely unaware of my presence. I ahummed a couple of times before he looked up.
"Charlie."
I ignored the unspoken, What do you want? He went back to his writing. Helping myself to an extra chair, I pulled it to the front of his desk and sat still with my hands in my lap like a nice, polite little girl. It almost killed me.
He made a few more notes in his file, then closed the cover.
"Now, I assume by the way you're twitching in your chair that you came here to tell me something urgent," he said.
"I've found another suspect in the Detweiller case that had as much reason to kill Detweiller as anyone. More reason than Stacy did." I outlined the basics for him.
"That's crazy, Charlie. A guy bets on a horse and wins, he doesn't kill the bookie."
"He might if the bookie left town with the guy's winnings. Picture this—Tompkins places a large bet on Friday. Gets the word Saturday that he'd won. He's ready to collect, but Gary's gone. Out of town, can't be located. Tompkins spends the next three days getting madder and madder, until finally he's ready to kill Gary. He's also had time to think about it and decides he shouldn't do it himself. So he hires help."
"Or maybe he just couldn't take time out of his busy schedule to sit for an evening in Detweiller's driveway," he replied sarcastically.
"Come on, Kent, you have to admit this is at least as strong a motive as Stacy's."
He cocked his head to one side, almost but not quite agreeing.
"At least look into it," I asked.
I could tell by the look on his face that he had really wanted to close this file with Stacy's name on the bottom line. I had managed to complicate his life once again in the last ten minutes and he wasn't crazy about it. I left the station without knowing what, if anything, he'd do with the information.
Traffic was heavy as I left the downtown area. I managed to catch every red light. There was nothing to do but fall in with the slow pace of all the other vehicles. It was nearly six when I reached the office, but Ron's light was still on.
Rusty greeted me at the door like I'd been gone for days. After quite a bit of hand licking and sniffing my pockets for misplaced cheeseburgers, he let me go upstairs.
Ron was at his desk still, phone in hand. I thought the wrinkles were a little more noticeable around his eyes, and his thin hair was stuck to the top of his bald spot.
"Rough day?" I asked.
"Just a long one," he replied. "The usual."
"How about an enchilada dinner? My treat."
He pulled himself out of his chair, groaning slightly as he stood. He's only six years older than I, making me wonder if this was the kind of shape I'd be in before long. He reached for his Stetson on the wall rack. We checked the doors and windows and boarded our respective cars for the drive to Pedro's. Somehow, tonight I was eager for that margarita.
Pedro had the drinks plus a bowl of salsa and a basket of chips on the table almost before we sat down. If it weren't for Concha, I could probably fall in love with this man.
"How's your case going?" Ron asked after the first salty sip from his glass.
I told him of today's discoveries.
"At least I think the police will have to investigate the possibility that Stacy isn't the only suspect in this case," I told him. "I just wish I had a better idea of how Jean's murder tied in to all this. I still haven't figured out why anyone would have killed her. And it has to be related. She was shot with the same gun."
"You think Tompkins paid a hit man to do Gary? Well, the same guy could have killed Jean, not knowing about the relationship."
"Just for the fun of it, you mean? I doubt that." The conversation was becoming ridiculous. "I guess I'll leave that part to the police. At least I can tell Stacy that there is another suspect."
The enchiladas arrived just then and we stayed busy shoveling steaming tortilla, chicken, cheese, and green chile into ourselves. Rusty helped with the fallen chips. Twenty minutes later I was full, but managed to put away a honey-filled yeasty sopapilla for dessert.
We visited with Pedro and Concha for a few minutes before leaving. At home, I felt restless. I wanted to call Stacy but found myself putting it off, telling myself that it was already getting late. The truth was, I didn't want to talk to Brad or to have him around when I spoke with her. And I really wasn't sure why. Just that contact with him was something I dreaded a little more each time it happened.
I puttered around the house, finding little things to keep myself busy until eleven. I went to bed then, more out of habit than from tiredness. Despite efforts to get comfortable, my eyes stared wide awake at the ceiling for a long time. I couldn't rid myself of the feeling that there was more to the story than I'd discovered so far.
I fell into an uneasy sleep, where I dreamed that someone slashed all four of my tires while the Jeep was parked at the Tanoan Country Club. Tangled images of jacks and tow trucks and a maitre d' who feigned concern over my plight filled the
night. I awoke abruptly, relieved that I no longer had to deal with the problem.
It was early morning, the room defined in colorless shades of gray and black. I rolled toward the night table. The red numerals on my clock radio provided the only spot of color in the room. Five-fourteen, they said. I groaned and rolled away from them, but my adrenaline was already pumping too hard for sleep to return.
Ideas boinged around inside my skull, giving me no peace. The dream of more flat tires only reminded me that here was another aspect of the mystery that I had yet failed to solve. In my mind, I had linked Larry Burke with that incident as well as with the dark truck that followed me home. But I had no proof. And the only way I'd get proof was either to confront him or to return to Penguin's and try to get some evidence. Neither option appealed to me at the moment.
Thirty minutes later, I was still staring at the clock, still no closer to drifting back to sleep. I was also mentally kicking myself in the butt because I couldn't seem to get motivated to do what I needed to do—visit Larry Burke again.
Mental butt-kicking usually serves to get me in motion, and this time was no exception. By six o'clock I had forced myself into the shower and by six-thirty I was in the predawn traffic, headed across town. I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually used my headlights in the morning.
Judging by the absolute blackness at the Burke house, they weren't much for early mornings either. Fortunately, McDonalds didn't have any such prejudices and I was able to fortify myself with a breakfast thing that combined eggs, sausage and biscuit in a way I'd never seen it done before. This wonderful concoction and a cup of really black coffee would keep me alive until Larry Burke finally showed his face. In the back seat, Rusty just about went into seizures over the egg and sausage smell, so I ordered him one, too. We'd both be watching our cholesterol for days.
Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery Page 16
