Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  I parked in front of the house next to Burke's. I wanted a clear view of his driveway, but didn't want him getting a clear view of me first. This is tricky. A large juniper at the corner of his property would, I hoped, do the job.

  Rusty wolfed down his breakfast treat in approximately five seconds but I knew we ought to ration our provisions. I nibbled at mine, thinking this would make the time pass more quickly. It didn't, but at least I had something to do while I was bored out of my head. Rusty eyed my sandwich and drooled, but I ignored him.

  Finally, about seven-thirty a light appeared in what I supposed to be the Burke kitchen. Behind closed mini-blinds I could see a shape move back and forth occasionally, but couldn't tell who it was. At five minutes before eight, Larry emerged, perfectly coifed as usual, spiffy checked jacket hanging just right from his small frame. I sincerely hoped he didn't have to be at work by eight, because he was about to be late.

  I met him at the door to his sports car. It was unfortunate that I'd left my camera at home, because the look on his face would have made an interesting shot.

  "Hello, Larry."

  He was able to close his jaw with some effort. His hands seemed to be oddly restless, reaching first for the car door, then into his pockets, clasping together, then back to the pockets.

  "I'm wondering why you're so surprised to see me," I told him.

  More fidgeting.

  "Could it be that someone was supposed to chase me down Friday night? Maybe I'm not supposed to be walking and talking right now."

  His eyes darted toward the front door, then up and down the street. He noticed my car for the first time, where Rusty was quite visibly pressing against the window. A dozen stories flitted through his list of possibilities, but finally he slumped.

  "Willie, down at Penguin's, he told me you were trouble," he said. "He wanted to know if he could teach you a lesson."

  "What did I ever do to him?" I asked incredulously.

  Burke shrugged, like he just realized he didn't know. "Well, not him really—the guy he works for. Somehow you've pi— ticked that guy off."

  "What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?"

  "Some rich dude. Willie works for him, as a security guard, I think. I don't know his name. I've seen him around the club." He was uncomfortable with this. I got the idea that he didn't really know, and that he'd opened his mouth to Willie without knowing enough of the story.

  "At least tell me Willie's last name," I insisted.

  "I, umm, I don't know it." He stared at his toes while mumbling the words.

  "You don't know Willie. You don't know who he works for. Yet you gave him permission to chase me down, to scare the hell out of me!" I spat the words at him. "You are something else, Burke. I just wish I could find a way to pin Gary's murder on you." I spun and stalked toward my car, leaving him standing in the driveway.

  Sitting in my car, I gripped the wheel with both hands. My heart was thumping audibly and my face felt curiously flushed. I breathed deeply while I watched Burke start his own car, race the engine, and zip out of the driveway. I seldom lose my temper. When I do, I hate the physical effects. I reached for my Styrofoam cup of coffee. The lid was still tightly in place and the coffee was reasonably warm. The long drag I took soothed my insides.

  What next? I was only a couple of blocks from the Detweiller house. Maybe I could catch Josh before he left for school, assuming he was still going to school these days.

  Chapter 21

  The sun had finally cleared Sandia Crest, throwing long shadows across the yards. Josh's house faced west, its front yard completely in shadow this early. His primer gray car was alone in the driveway. I pulled in behind it.

  The place was quiet. No rock music blasted forth, no sign of activity. I opened the rickety screen and knocked on the door. No response. Once again, a bit firmer. This time Josh answered. He wore only a pair of boxer shorts, dark blue and green tartan plaid. His dark hair was sleep-mussed and his angular face showed a dark shadow at the jaw. His smooth well-muscled body had a disquieting effect on me.

  "Sorry, I thought you'd be leaving for school about now," I said.

  He said something but since he was rubbing both hands over his sleepy face at the same time the words only mumbled out. He turned away, leaving the front door standing wide open, which I took to mean "Come on in." I stepped into the dim living room.

  Jean's housekeeping skills might not have been much, but the absence of a woman was becoming obvious here. The vinyl recliner was piled high with clothes, worn and discarded at random. Plates with dried on food and cutlery stuck to the surfaces waited in odd places around the room—on the sofa, the end tables, the TV set. A heap of school books sat at one end of the sofa, with a pillow and two coats thrown on top. Obviously, the books had not been used in days.

  Josh emerged from his room, zipping on a pair of jeans. He hadn't got around to finding a shirt yet. He combed his hair by running all ten fingers through it, front to back in one swipe.

  "Can I get you some breakfast?" I asked.

  "Uh, sure, if there's anything in the house." He glanced around like a bowl of cereal might show up just about anywhere.

  I shed my jacket and purse behind the recliner and gathered up the crusty remains of previous meals on my way to the kitchen. Obviously, Josh had not spent lots of time in here. The kitchen was far neater than the living room. The plate I'd used on my last visit here was still in the sink, soaking with the same water I'd run there. The trash can overflowed with sacks and wrappers from fast food places.

  "You got any cereal, milk, stuff like that?" I called toward the other room.

  He appeared in the doorway, shrugging.

  "Well, let's look." The date on the milk carton had expired two days ago but it smelled passable. I found a box of Froot Loops and a clean bowl. Clearing a spot at the kitchen table, I set the cereal down for him. He grinned as I poured the milk for him.

  "So, what's going on?" I asked.

  "Not much," he mumbled with red and yellow loops poking out between his lips.

  "You talked to your aunt?"

  He nodded. Despite my attempt to sit with him and carry on conversation, I couldn't look at the dirty dishes while doing nothing. He didn't strike me as the type who would be touchy about someone else stepping in and cleaning up. I set the stopper, squirted dish soap into the sink and started the hot water spraying over the dishes. Josh crunched down the cereal quickly and refilled the bowl.

  "So, are you going to be moving in with her?" I asked as I poked around under the sink, looking for trash bags.

  "She wants me to come Saturday." His eyes narrowed belligerently. "I ain't going, man."

  "What did you find out about school?"

  "She's checking on that. Says she thinks I can probably stay at Highland."

  I dumped the contents of the trash can into a plastic bag and tied the top in a knot. "Have you been attending?"

  "Some."

  "At the risk of sounding like a social worker, Josh, you can't afford to let your work fall behind. You've always been a good student, haven't you?"

  "I guess." He shrugged again and turned back to his cereal.

  I cruised through the house, finding several more dishes and a few glasses tucked away in odd spots. I returned them to the kitchen, adding them to the sudsy water in the sink. The dish sponge had dried to a disk about the thickness of cardboard but it sprang to life again when it hit the hot water. I began the routine of washing, rinsing and stacking.

  Josh tipped his bowl up to his mouth and drank the milk from it. He started to leave the kitchen but remembered to pick up the dishes he'd just used and slip them into the sink for me.

  "Look," he said, "you don't have to do that. I was going to clean up today."

  "It's okay. It'll go faster if I pitch in."

  He gave me one of those lopsided Elvis grins.

  "Why don't you take that trash out, then maybe get another bag and gather up all those ol
d newspapers and stuff in the other room," I suggested after he'd stood uncertainly in the doorway for several minutes.

  He grinned again and went willingly to the tasks. He might look grownup, but there was still a kid inside. I finished the dishes, wiped the counter and table, and tidied up the rest of the kitchen. When I went into the living room, Josh was stuffing newspapers and junk mail, one piece at a time, into a trash bag.

  "Make sure you check that mail before you toss it," I reminded. "There might be bills and important things in there."

  He looked up at me, like he'd never considered the possibility. I circled the room, gathering castoff clothing in my arms.

  "Do you have a washer and dryer?" I asked.

  "I think Mom just went to the Laundromat," he said, as if he weren't quite certain.

  "Okay, where's the clothes basket?" At his blank look, I told him I'd find it myself.

  No sign of a basket in the bathroom, but while in there I couldn't resist wiping off the sink and straightening the shampoo bottles in the tub. I wasn't going to scrub toilets for this kid but I do have this tidy streak that can't abide clutter. I put away the toothpaste tube and his toothbrush almost without thinking.

  I located the laundry basket on the floor of Jean's closet. Two bras and panties lay in the bottom of it. I took them out, thinking to spare Josh the vivid reminders. I carried the empty basket back to the living room and dumped the heap of dirties into it. The place was beginning to look almost habitable.

  "You'll have quite a job here, moving all this stuff," I commented. "Does your aunt have room for all of it?"

  "I don't know," he said shortly. "Guess it'll have to go in storage. The furniture came with the house. But there's all my stuff."

  "You want some help packing? I could come by this afternoon," I suggested. "Help you pack boxes. It would be less work for your aunt when she comes."

  "Yeah. Whatever." He probably had not considered the work involved in moving. He was still acting like the move wouldn't happen.

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost nine.

  "Look, Josh, I really think you ought to be in school. Here, take this laundry basket with you. You can stop at the Laundromat after school and do these."

  He didn't look thrilled, but he didn't argue. We walked out together, he with his arms loaded with books, me carrying the laundry. I set the basket on the front passenger seat of his car so he couldn't ignore it.

  Rusty had sacked out on the back seat of the Jeep and he barely raised his head to acknowledge that I'd returned. I backed out of the driveway so Josh could leave, but I hung back slightly to make sure he did.

  As I drove across town toward the office, I thought back to Larry Burke's odd admission this morning. Why would Willie, his friend from Penguin's, want to frighten me off this case? I felt certain that Willie had also been responsible for my slashed tire the first time I'd been there. But, why? Larry had mentioned that Willie worked for a man Larry had seen a few times around the club. Did he mean Tanoan Country Club? I thought of Charles Tompkins. He was the only Tanoan person I could think of who'd been deeply involved with Detweiller. Other than Stacy.

  I spent the rest of the day at the office, tending to small undone tasks, mostly brooding over the deadlock I felt about the case. Ron was out for the day, leaving me no one to bounce ideas off. For some reason, I felt a certain sense of dread, like something was about to happen but I couldn't figure out what.

  At five o'clock I dialed Josh Detweiller's number. He answered on the second ring.

  "Hey, Josh. It's Charlie. You ready for some help with the packing?"

  "Sure." I ignored the sullen tone. Who could blame him? His whole life was changing rapidly.

  "I'll bring dinner," I offered. "McDonald's or Burger King?"

  He wanted a Whopper with cheese, leave off the "salad," as he called all the trimmings, large fries, large Dr. Pepper. I felt like an employee by the time I finished taking his order.

  It was getting dark when I arrived at Josh's. I had taken Rusty home and fed him. Figuring it might be late by the time I got back home, I left lights on for myself. I stopped for the burgers and pulled into Josh's driveway soon after.

  We put first things first, heading for the kitchen table to eat. Josh was uncommunicative through dinner, shoving the burger and fries into his mouth almost non-stop. I couldn't think of a lot to say, either. He finished his dinner first and went into his room. I threw away the wrappers from the food, then went out to the Jeep to get the packing boxes I'd rounded up earlier.

  Josh's room looked like what I imagined every teenager's room must look like. Clothing was strewn on nearly every surface. Clean or dirty, I couldn't tell. The basket of laundry from this morning was in the living room, presumably clean although everything had been mashed down into permanent wrinkles. I assumed the articles I saw here were dirty—I just couldn't figure out how a person could manage so much in one short day. The walls had been painted black (the landlord would love this) and the windows were covered in heavy blackout shades. A blue neon fixture, twisted into words of some unknown language, cast extremely dim light in one corner. Another, red neon this time, gave the rest of the room a purple cast and made our faces look sickly. Black sheets on the bed were twisted into knotted heaps. This is probably an admission of age, but I have to confess that I don't remember being this messy myself. Given my present penchant for obsessive neatness, I'm sure my room never looked this way.

  "Is there another light in here?" I asked, flipping the wall switch futilely.

  "Nah, I took the bulbs out of that one," he said, lifting his chin upward to indicate the empty ceiling fixture. "Couldn't stand my mom blasting me with bright light every time she walked in the room."

  "Can you see well enough to work in here?" Even as I said it, I heard echoes of my own mother's voice reminding me to turn on more light. "Never mind. I'll start packing things in the other bedroom if you want to work on this."

  He halfheartedly dropped a wadded up t-shirt into one of the packing boxes. I walked into Gary and Jean's former bedroom, unsure where to start. It felt like a severe invasion of privacy to paw through their belongings. Especially since I'd already done it once when searching for Gary's papers. I ended up leaving the dresser drawers intact, thinking the aunt could decide what to do with their clothing. I cleared the surfaces of the furniture, packing clock radio, books, and small personal items. Everything barely filled one box. I stripped and folded the bedding, placing it in a neat stack at the foot of the bed. I'd been at this for probably an hour and decided I should check on Josh's progress.

  Noise from the living room sent me in that direction, only to find Josh on the couch with the TV on and an open beer in hand.

  "Finished already?" I really tried not to sound sarcastic.

  He ignored me until I ahummed.

  "I said I ain't goin'" he reminded me.

  "Would you rather I work on the kitchen or your room?" I asked.

  His eyes went back to the television and he took a long pull on the beer. The thought went through my mind that this probably wasn't his first of the evening. The personality change from the good-natured young man I'd poured cereal for this morning was just too marked.

  The kitchen cupboards were a simple matter. The Detweiller's hadn't owned much. If they once had fancy china and wedding silver, it wasn't here now. A four-place-setting set of cheap stoneware and a few assorted cups and bowls, many of which looked like former housing for whipped cream and butter, were the main vessels. I set each item in a box, placing newspaper between, but leaving the boxes open so Josh or his aunt could find whatever they needed. I opened the refrigerator and quickly made up my mind that some things are beyond my charitable kindness. The aunt could handle this.

  My watch said it was not quite nine. I had made some progress, and wasn't too tired yet, so I glanced back at Josh's room. Maybe he'd quit because the job was too daunting. He was still in front of the television, with some shoot-em-up movi
e blasting forth, the f-word in generous use. Not network programming, I gathered. Josh had wandered into the kitchen for more beer at least twice while I worked in there, so I figured it was useless getting him into action now. Without asking, I stepped into his room once more. Maybe if I picked up the first two or three layers and made the bed, it wouldn't look so frightening. He could then finish it tomorrow.

  Josh had thrown half a dozen articles of clothing into one of the packing boxes before he gave up. I glanced at them. They lay in inert little heaps, indistinguishable lumps. Gingerly, I reached in and pulled out one of them. This was no way to pack clothes. I folded the t-shirt neatly, then the next and the next. We'd get a lot more into the box if they were flat. Making my way around the room, I soon had all the loose clothing in two boxes. The top of what I presumed to be a desk was littered with junk—pencils, loose change, a lighter, and wads of papers covered the surface. I attempted to stack the papers and decided maybe I could just push the rest of it into a drawer. This is not my usual style but this was not my room, either.

  I started to open the top drawer of the desk but it jammed. Something was wedged at an angle near the back of the drawer, keeping it from opening more than about three inches. I could have probably scooped the small junk into the opening and closed it but that went against my grain. I snaked my hand through the opening, feeling blindly for the obstacle and hoping like hell it wouldn't bite.

  Whatever the obstruction, it was wedged very well. It felt like something solid and heavy. I pushed at it a few times with no success. Finally, I got my fingers to the bottom of the cluttered drawer and pressed hard at the base of the offending object. It fell with startling suddenness, smashing my middle finger in the process.

  "Ouch!" I couldn't help it. The drawer slid open easily now, my injured finger popping straight to my mouth. It wasn't cut, at least I couldn't see any blood in the eerie purple light. I held on to the damaged part for a couple of minutes until the pain subsided. When I reached for the drawer, with my other hand this time, it slid easily open. I was just about to scoop the entire pile of junk from the top of the desk into the drawer when I realized what had hit me. About two-thirds of the way back, not hidden in any way, lay a gun.