Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  "Nope. The whole thing was snatched out of our hands as soon as we said the word explosion."

  "Snatched? By whom?"

  "Someone pretty high up at Sandia Corporation, I assume. They don't tell me stuff like that. All I knew was, one day we were working on the case, the next day I was told `Wrap up your findings, do up a short conclusive report, and file the thing away.' Usually at that point, some law enforcement authority will take over, you know, the FBI or somebody, and follow it through to make arrests and see it through. I don't think that ever happened here."

  "Did you ask about that?"

  "Tried to. I got called in to the administrator's office, stood there on the carpet, and was told to forget the whole business."

  I leaned forward conspiratorially. "What do you think happened?"

  "I don't get paid to think." A touch of sarcasm in his voice. "I surmised that maybe someone on board was carrying top secret documents and the corporation wanted to have their own people retrieve them. That was laughable because everything from that crash was scattered for miles."

  Including bodies. He seemed to read my thoughts and he covered quickly. "There were papers all over the place, and with the wind up on those mountain tops, that stuff would have been carried for miles."

  "So, even though you were chief investigator on the case, no one would let you follow through."

  He nodded, the sharp blue eyes staying firmly with mine.

  "Who would make that kind of call?" I mused, thinking aloud.

  "Sandia Corporation was a major government contractor in those years," he hinted. "Major enough to call a lot of shots."

  "So I guess I need to figure out who wanted to be rid of someone aboard that plane. And I have to assume that the person on board who knew the most, who was most important in the scheme of things at Sandia, was my father."

  Voices out in the hall reminded Williams of his second meeting.

  "All I can say is, this file was about two inches thick with my reports and findings." He held up the few sheets of paper. "Now look at it. Everything else was taken away so the official report would never hold more than this."

  "Can you remember much of the detail that's missing now?" I asked. "Would you be able to reconstruct some of it, some of the pertinent facts that might tell me where this leads?"

  He rose, moving toward the door. "I can try. It's been so long, I'd hate to promise how much I can come up with."

  "Can I call you next week?"

  "Yeah, do that. I'll let you know." Already his attention had fast-forwarded to the meeting he was supposed to attend. I left, feeling unsure whether he'd even remember my request by five o'clock that afternoon.

  I rode the elevator to the lobby and found a padded bench where I could wait for Drake. I jotted a few notes in my spiral while Williams's conversation was relatively fresh. The Federal Building lobby was a constant traffic area and I ignored most of it until I heard someone call out, "Congressman Cudahy!"

  An entourage crowded past me with Cudahy somewhere in the middle of the group. His familiar face with the publicly practiced smile beamed above the heads of those surrounding him, eyes scanning constantly, deciding where to bestow politically correct acknowledgements. I, being non-disabled, non-challenged, and of no particular color other than plain vanilla, did not receive such acknowledgement. I stood up and quietly followed the select few who apparently followed the Congressman's every move.

  Someone near the front of the group pushed an elevator button. They all paused, as one, waiting and staring up at the spot where a green `up' arrow should appear. I snuggled in close enough to be assured of a spot on the car.

  The elevator deposited us at the top floor and I exited along with the rest of the fan club. The Congressman was no longer quite as concerned with his smile as we entered his suite of offices. He began barking orders to one aide after the other until he and I were the only ones left standing in the reception area. It was almost comical to see the nonplussed look that crossed his face just before he remembered that I could be a voter.

  "Yes, ma'am, and what can I do for you today?" The smile was slick as ever.

  I felt as though people were aging me prematurely today, as this was the second man in the last thirty minutes that had called me ma'am. "I'm Bill Parker's daughter," was all I said.

  "Yes, ma'am." His smile stayed fixed, but I could see him struggling internally to place me in some context.

  "You worked with my father years ago at Sandia Corporation. Bill Parker? He was one of their top scientists."

  "Oh yes, I remember Bill quite well."

  Liar.

  "Could I talk with you for just a few minutes, Congressman?"

  He glanced around, trying vainly to find some way to tell me no, but his receptionist had disappeared and none of the other underlings came along to rescue him.

  "Uh, sure. Certainly. Come right on into my office." The invitation wasn't quite sincere, but it would at least give me a shot at asking a few questions. Whether or not I liked the man personally, he might be able to use his influence to get me some answers. He had connections in both Washington and at Sandia Corporation.

  He led the way into a large corner office. The spartan government look was entirely missing here. Plush green carpet stretched out before me like a lawn made of currency. A heavy, cherry desk with matching credenza and side chairs gleamed in front of the windows that somehow, despite the other high rise buildings downtown, managed to showcase a spectacular view of the Sandia mountains to the east.

  "Sit down," he invited. "Would you care for some coffee? I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name." His three piece suit perfectly matched his salt-and-pepper hair with the hundred dollar haircut.

  He was attempting to be a good host while still trying to figure out who I was. I declined the coffee.

  "Charlie Parker. I'll try not to take too much of your time, Congressman. I'd just like to see if I can find some answers about my father's death. I just recently learned that the plane crash that killed him was chartered by Sandia and that it doesn't look like the crash was an accident."

  His lips pursed in a concentrated pose of deliberation as he made a few notes on a yellow pad. I told him the date of the crash and the location. He acknowledged occasionally with a nod or an "Um-hmm."

  The phone rang at just the same time that an aide tapped at the door then entered. Cudahy raised an index finger while he picked up the phone. He um-hmm'd a couple of times into the receiver. As soon as he hung up, the aide spoke up.

  "Your finance committee is waiting in the conference room, sir," the young man in the perfectly tailored three-piece suit told him.

  "Fine, Brad, tell them I'll be right there." He stood, holding his hand out to me and making firm eye contact. "Charlie, I'm so sorry to hear this news about Bill. Of course, at the time we were all stunned by the crash, but I never realized there were still unanswered questions." He circled the desk with my hand still clasped in his.

  "Charlie, I'll certainly look into this for you, and I'll do my best to get some answers for you and your brothers. Now, if you don't hear from me within a couple of weeks, you be sure to call this office. I may be back in Washington by then but my secretary will have the information for you."

  He had placed an almost imperceptible hand on my back as he steered me out the door and down the hall.

  "Now Charlie, again, I'm so sorry about your loss and you just rest assured that I'm here to help." Again the suave smile as he turned away.

  I wiped my right hand against my pants leg and wondered how long it would be before I got onto his campaign mailing list. Would he really try to help me? I supposed anything was possible in an election year. Maybe I needed to be more politically saavy and learn how to use these guys when I needed them.

  The elevator took forever to make it up to this floor and I belatedly remembered that Drake would probably be waiting downstairs, worried that my initial fifteen minute appointment with Jim Williams had now taken cl
ose to an hour.

  I tucked the business card I'd taken from Cudahy's secretary's desk into my purse and pressed the button for the lobby. Drake sat on the same padded bench I'd occupied earlier. He didn't see me approach because he was looking at something in his hand.

  "Hi, handsome, wanna take a pretty girl home with you?"

  "Sure baby, what'd you have in mind?" he replied without even looking up.

  "You! What if that hadn't been me making that offer?"

  He reached out and wrapped his arm around my waist. "I knew it was you, baby. Felt your vibes from the minute you got off that elevator."

  I flopped down beside him on the bench. "What'cha got there?" I nodded toward his hand.

  "A good start," he replied, revealing several business cards. "Talked to a couple of people that would be real interested in using a helicopter based in the northern part of the state. I was just making a couple of notes of things I'd have to do first."

  I was pleased to see his enthusiasm.

  "I'll have to get on the state bid list. Here's the phone number I have to call to get the paperwork. And the guy with the Forest Service told me what equipment they require for most of their work."

  "Can I buy you a beer?" I asked. "Let's walk down the street and find a comfortable place to sit."

  A crisp breeze funneled between the buildings. With no sunshine reaching the street, it sent a chill through my light jacket. Drake slipped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close to him. I matched my stride to his and drew warmth from his body.

  "So, what did you find out from that investigator?" he asked, once we were seated in a corner booth in a dark little bar. "He must have been interested; he gave you a lot more than your allotted fifteen minutes."

  I filled him in on the visit with Williams and my chance encounter with Congressman Jack Cudahy.

  "Cudahy promises to help track down some information for me, but we'll see. He's really your typical politician."

  The waitress set our drinks down and Drake squeezed my hand across the table.

  "You'll find out what you need to know," he assured me. "I know you. Charlie The Undaunted always gets her man."

  "I got you, didn't I?"

  "See what I mean?"

  He sipped from his beer, then licked the foam off his upper lip.

  "So tell me more about your helicopter plans," I invited. "What kinds of work will you plan on doing?"

  "The guy I talked to at the Forest Service was really encouraging. He said they have quite a bit of work they can hire me for if I get a machine equipped according to OAS standards."

  "OAS?"

  "Office of Aircraft Services. They certify private aircraft for government use—everything from the seat belts to the radio systems. It can be pretty expensive to equip a machine the way they want, so I'm hoping to find one with most everything in place already."

  "And once you get all that equipment?"

  "Well, then I can fight fires, do wildlife counts, maybe move some heavy equipment . . . I'll get a water bucket and a couple of long lines for sling work. I love doing that kind of work, the variety is so much greater than I ever had by flying tours."

  I chuckled at the childlike enthusiasm in his voice.

  "So, you want to come with me to Pueblo later this week? We can take a look at that machine, test fly it . . ."

  Ooh, yes. I agreed without a second thought.

  Chapter 7

  Thursday morning we got up early, piled the three of us into the Jeep and headed north on I-25. Clouds had moved in during the night and hovered now, low across the face of the Sandia Mountains. Drake had switched on the weather report about six o'clock and was convinced that it wasn't a long lasting storm. It should move through by this afternoon. We'd stay over in Pueblo tonight and have a nice clear day tomorrow for test flying the helicopter.

  Rusty settled into the back seat, using my duffle bag for a pillow. I leaned back in the passenger seat and let Drake do the driving.

  "Do you know how long it's been since I could just hop in a car and drive all day and be in a different city by nighttime?" he asked.

  "I guess island life does have its limits, huh?"

  He breathed deeply, taking in the wide open spaces as we left Albuquerque behind. I poured coffee from the thermos I'd brought and handed him a Styrofoam cup. I felt like we were honeymooners, taking off together in the middle of the week.

  Traffic was light and the miles peeled away. By noon we'd reached Raton and decided to stop for a quick lunch. Rusty helped finish off the last of the fries. We ordered him his own cup of water, which he gulped eagerly, crunching down the ice cubes like candy.

  When we reached Pueblo about mid-afternoon, Drake pulled a small note from his pocket.

  "Here, read me the instructions on how to get to this place," he told me.

  I looked at the scrap, turned it around, squinted again. "I think you're going to have to decipher this," I laughed.

  "Are you saying I have messy writing?"

  "Okay. `234 2L, blue bl R planes red truck.' Does that make sense to you?" I handed the note over to him.

  "Sure. Take exit 234, turn at the second left, watch for a blue building, turn right, look for airplanes on a ramp. They have a red fuel truck parked out in front of their place."

  "Oh. Wow, you are good at this."

  "Years of navigational experience, my dear."

  I stuck my tongue out at him.

  He followed the cryptic note's instructions and sure enough, within about ten minutes we'd arrived at High Mountain Helicopter Service. Drake's energy level visibly picked up.

  "This flying really is in your blood, isn't it?" I teased.

  "Irrevocably. Old pilots never quit."

  He took my hand as we walked toward the metal building. "I hope you don't mind," he said.

  "I think it's great," I replied, kissing his earlobe.

  He pushed aside a metal door that groaned like an old man doing pushups. Inside, a large room served as customer lounge, radio center, and flight planning room. A scarred metal desk served as the reception area. Four or five pieces of radio equipment were stacked across one end of it. Static crackled from them relentlessly. Two sagging couches draped with grimy Mexican blankets stood against one wall. Above them, a three-dimensional topographic map filled the entire wall. Pins and red ribbons decorated it with flight routes and job sites. I took all this in within a couple of minutes, noticing the absence of people.

  A man's voice drifted from a back room. From the pauses and increasing volume of his voice, he was apparently on a phone call in which a dispute was not being resolved. I glanced at Drake.

  "Should we wait outside?" I mouthed.

  He shook his head and cleared his throat loudly. "If that creaky door didn't alert him, maybe this will."

  He wandered over to the wall map and studied it intently. I followed, not sure what we were looking at, but curiosity is one of my virtues. The map covered southern Colorado and northern New Mexico. I found my eyes wandering down to the area where Jim Williams had pinpointed my parents' plane crash.

  Baldy Peak stood near Eagle Nest, New Mexico, with an elevation of 12,441 feet. My eyes followed a straight line from Pueblo to the top of Baldy. It didn't look very far in air miles. Hmm. . .

  "Hi, folks, can I help you?" The voice was the one we'd heard on the phone. The man was tall, thin, fortyish. He wore a red plaid shirt, jeans, work boots and a black down vest. His dark hair was mostly covered by a black ball cap that sported his company's logo on the front.

  "Bill Whitaker?"

  The man nodded with a sideways tilt to his head as if his neck hurt.

  "Drake Langston. Remember me?"

  "Hey, Drake—hell yes, how are ya?" He extended a hand with black-rimmed nails.

  "And this is my fiancée, Charlie Parker."

  My hands were in my jacket pockets and I settled for a nod and smile in lieu of one of those grimy handshakes.

  "Well, I guess
you want to see the machine," Bill offered.

  He led the way through another metal door at the far end of the reception room into a cavernous hangar. Three helicopters stood side by side like soldiers in their ranks.

  "It's the B-3," Whitaker said.

  Drake headed for the machine at the far end of the row. I tagged along, wondering how on earth he knew which one Bill had referred to. I'm still dumb enough about these things I need someone to say `the blue one' or `the green one.'

  I wanted to comment on how beautiful the ship was, but I noticed Drake eyeing it critically. I'd better keep my mouth shut and become a cagey buyer. He climbed up on the skid and opened a panel, exposing the mechanics beneath.

  "You go ahead and look her over," Bill called up to Drake. "I gotta return some phone calls. Holler if you have any questions."

  "Okay, Bill." Drake's concentration on the innards of the machine was so total that he didn't notice Whitaker leaving. He didn't notice me either and I quickly ran out of things to check on the aircraft, being that I had no clue as to what I was looking at.

  I wandered around the hangar, glancing at what I perceived as unbelievable clutter. The back wall was lined with a long work bench, piled high with boxes, metal parts, tools, and wadded up grease-encrusted rags. In one corner stood two large conical gadgets held up by black metal frames. Each had a small motor attached at the side and coils of cable and wire draped around it. I tried to come up with a guess as to what their purpose was, but was completely at a loss.

  I glanced back up at Drake. He'd removed a side panel from the blue and white helicopter and was peering inside intently, occasionally wiggling one little part or another. I kicked a dirty rag aside and continued my inspection of the room.

  One of the other helicopters was in the midst of maintenance. The rotor blades and doors were off and a red tool chest stood beside it, the tools haphazardly dumped into the drawers. The third machine looked ready to go. Presumably, if Bill got a call he could crank this one up and be on the job right away.

  "That one's a beauty, isn't it?" Drake called to me.

  "This one?" I pointed to the one I'd just been looking at. "Yeah it sure is." I was admiring the sleek silver and burgundy paint job, but I felt sure that wasn't what he was talking about.