Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  Even for breakfast, most people needed a reservation, but Sharon did keep that one special table open. As long as you-know-who wasn't there, I got it. So, we walked in past people who'd been in line over twenty minutes to take our special seats.

  "I've got a new veggie omelet that's getting rave reviews," Sharon told us as she handed over the menus. She's really getting into this Hollywood talk. "Our chef has figured out a way to make it with absolutely no fat. It comes with hash browns and toast and the whole plate has only 5 grams!"

  Thinking back to the enchiladas at Pedro's last night, made the old fashioned way with, I'm sure, lots of lard, I decided Sharon's omelet special sounded good to me. Drake, who can apparently eat anything he wants without second thought, opted for it too.

  "Sharon looks happy," I commented after she'd taken our order to the kitchen. "You should have seen her a few months ago. A bad business partnership nearly did her in."

  Our omelets soon arrived, fragrant with onions, peppers and mushrooms. With an eye toward those at the door still waiting for tables, we ate quickly, paid our check and retrieved the Jeep from the only parking spot we'd found, more than two blocks away. The price of a popular eatery. Rusty waited patiently, expecting a reward for his efforts in guarding the car.

  Five minutes later, Drake had dropped me and Rusty at our office, promising to stop back by when he'd finished at the FAA.

  "It'll take at least half the day, maybe more," he warned. "Are you sure you won't need the car?"

  "I'll be fine. If I'm hungry by noon, I'm sure Ron or Sally can get me something." At that moment I couldn't picture being hungry ever again, but I don't entirely trust those low fat meals to stick with me very long.

  Sally had arrived early enough to start coffee, although she claims she really can't drink it much these days. I snagged a mug of it before heading upstairs to face a week's worth of mail and phone messages.

  "Ron's not here yet," Sally informed me, sticking her head in my doorway. "He said he had court this morning and then planned to start surveillance on a new case this afternoon."

  "Ooh, surveillance, his favorite part of the job."

  "Yeah. Right. He won't necessarily be a happy camper when he comes in, especially if it goes through the night." Her shaggy blond hair shook as she chuckled. "Speaking of happy campers, should I duck before you get a chance to start going through that pile of mail?"

  I looked at the small mountain on my desk. How did it pile up so fast?

  "Nah, not really your fault. It's the mailman I want to speak to." I plopped down in my chair and scooped the mess toward me.

  Sally disappeared.

  Thirty minutes later, everything was sorted into stacks. Aside from the junk mail, which I am ruthless about, the rest of it hadn't dwindled a bit. I'd only rearranged it. I quickly jumped to the important stuff, depositing money in the bank. Then I retrieved Ron's time sheets and billed our regular customers for his services. Since most of our work is done for lawyers and insurance companies, we have very few of those clandestine types who slip you a few hundred-dollar bills. Too bad.

  "Charlie, is it safe yet?" Sally's voice came over the intercom.

  I chuckled into the microphone at my end of it.

  "I'll be leaving in a few minutes," she said. "Do you want any lunch first?"

  I thought about the nearly fat-free breakfast I'd had and thought maybe I should stay on a roll with this new healthy living phase.

  "Can you order me a sliced turkey on rye, mustard and low-fat mayo?"

  "Whoa! No cheeseburger and fries? Gotta keep that body in good shape now that Drake's here, huh."

  I stuck my tongue out at the intercom, even though she was right. The phone rang just then and I jumped, like the caller might know I was making a face at him. The blinking red light came on steady as Sally picked up the call downstairs.

  "Charlie, Jim Williams with the NTSB on line one," she announced officially.

  "Jim, hi, it's Charlie."

  "I've found some more stuff for you, Charlie." His voice came through as a raspy whisper.

  "That's great. Does it answer my questions?" My stomach tightened as I anticipated his answer.

  "I can't say anything now," he whispered. "It's too much to fax and I'm not sure I'd trust the mail with this. Can you meet me somewhere?"

  "When? I don't have my car today. Maybe you could come by my office?"

  "Uh . . . I can't get out this afternoon. How about tonight? You know that western nightclub, the Caravan? How about the parking lot there at eight?" He described his car.

  "As long as you don't tell me to come alone," I answered, only half joking. "I don't meet men in parking lots unescorted."

  "As long as it's someone you absolutely trust who's not any government official."

  "Jim, what's going on here?"

  "Can't say. Just don't tell anyone about this."

  He clicked off without another word. The receiver dangled from my hand as I stared unseeing across the room. What was that all about?

  "Charlie?" Sally stood in my doorway, her purse over her shoulder. "You okay? I was just going out to get your sandwich."

  I shook myself to attention and slowly replaced the receiver. "Yeah . . . that was just a weird phone call."

  "Government employees making obscene calls?"

  "No, it's got something to do with my looking into my parents' deaths. I just wish I knew what."

  "I was gonna get your sandwich and then go home for the day. If that's okay?"

  "Sure, sure—do it."

  She looked at me skeptically.

  "Really. It wasn't a threat or anything—just weird."

  Sally backed out and I heard the back door open and close, then her four-wheel drive vehicle started up. I turned back to some correspondence that needed answering, but couldn't seem to get my mind back on it. What had Williams unearthed that he had to whisper about in his own office?

  When the phone rang again, I almost jumped out of my chair.

  "Just checking in," Ron's voice announced. "Any messages?"

  I told him about the phone call and asked whether he'd want to go along to meet Williams later in the evening.

  "Can't. I'm supposed to be surveilling some deadbeat dad. The ex wants proof in pictures of his extravagant lifestyle so she can go back to court for more money."

  "That's okay, Drake can go with me."

  "Unless you want to switch places and trail the deadbeat."

  "Uh-uh. No way. Besides, I'm not sure Williams would hand over the information to someone he hasn't met. He acted really skittish on the phone."

  I'd nearly finished paying the bills, around three o'clock, when I heard a car door slam out back.

  "It's me," Drake called out.

  Rusty leapt up from his post on my oriental carpet and zoomed down the stairs. I could hear Drake teasing him as they came up together.

  "Good day?" I asked.

  "Ugh, you won't believe the pile of records I have to go through," he said. "I swear, you can trace every nut and bolt on an aircraft back to the year one."

  He flopped onto the sofa across the room from me. His face looked pale under his tan.

  "You feeling okay?" I asked.

  "Yeah, I'll be fine. I ate some kind of ham sandwich from one of those little lunch trucks that came around out there at the FAA. It never quite settled too well."

  "You want to go home and lie down? I can quit here any time," I told him.

  "Yeah, whatever's convenient." He stretched out the full length of the sofa and dangled one hand to scratch Rusty's ears. "Oh, I came across something interesting for you while I was there," he added as I gathered folders and started backing up my files.

  "There's a guy at the FAA who was on the investigation of your parent's plane crash. I've got his card here somewhere . . ." He scrunched a thumb and forefinger into his jeans pocket digging for it. "Here. Neil Kirkpatrick."

  I reached for the card and looked at it closely.

/>   "He's an old timer around the FAA," Drake continued. "Told me he'd worked lots of accidents before he settled into being an office jockey. So, I mentioned that you were trying to find out more about this one and he remembered it. Isn't that amazing? Well, anyway, he couldn't remember keeping any files on it, but said he'd look. And said you could call him any time."

  I filled him in on the call from Jim Williams.

  "Are you sure you'll feel like going out later?" I asked.

  "For you, dear, anything," he replied gallantly. But I could tell he wasn't feeling great.

  By seven-thirty, it was clear that Drake wasn't going anywhere. He'd tried to sleep for the rest of the afternoon, but after two trips to the bathroom, he'd only fallen into a restful sleep sometime around six-thirty. No way was I going to make him get up and dressed for what would probably be a thirty minute errand. I wrote him a quick note and left it on the bathroom sink, probably the first place he'd go when he woke up.

  Rusty was clearly torn. He knew a man in distress when he saw one, and obviously thought he should stay with Drake. But when he saw me pick up my purse and car keys, the desire to go won out over everything else. Drake's Beretta lay on the dresser, waiting to be cleaned after yesterday's range workout. I picked it up and made sure the magazine was full, then stuffed it in an inside pocket of my jacket.

  The night was clear and dark, with a few stars visible from the front yard. Once we emerged onto the city thoroughfares they would disappear into the wash of overwhelming manmade light. The temperature had dropped, probably twenty-five degrees from the afternoon high, common enough here, but something people from more humid climates never seem prepared for. I slipped on the light down jacket I'd brought along.

  Although I had to traverse nearly the whole city, traffic was light enough this Monday night that I made good time up Central Avenue. College kids with backpacks casually slung over a shoulder crossed the street anywhere they pleased around the university, all heading somewhere—dorms, the bookstore, or more likely, the Frontier Restaurant.

  The usual assortment of hookers strutted their stuff in the midtown area near the old Route 66 motels. I spotted Bubba Mabry's bright red Dodge Ram pickup truck in the parking lot of a 7-11. Bubba's another Albuquerque PI, whose main claim to fame is the fact that he once had Elvis Presley as a client. The only hitch was that Elvis had been dead for years at the time. The fame part came about when some tabloid reporters got involved. I don't care what they said, Bubba really is one of the good guys.

  The congestion thinned again as I stayed eastbound past the dark silent fairgrounds and a section of has-been night clubs that change owners every year or two.

  The Caravan is one of the few night spots along this stretch with seemingly endless staying power. Even on a Monday night, the parking lot was at least three-quarters full. I pulled onto the side street to the west, where Williams and I had agreed that it would be easier to find each other.

  His pale blue generic government issue mid-size car waited beside the curb, away from the nearest street lamp. I passed it slowly, nodding acknowledgement to him as I found a place to pull over two car lengths ahead of him.

  "Stay here, kid, I'll be right back," I told Rusty, who looked like he wanted to jump out and share the adventure. I stuffed my purse behind the front seat, locked the doors, and slipped my keys into my jacket pocket. The night air nipped at me and I zipped the jacket.

  A couple who had obviously gotten an early start on happy hour, swaggered around the corner of the building with their arms around each other. A lone man, decked out for a night of dancing and flirting in tight jeans, western boots, and wide-brimmed black felt hat, crossed the side street, heading for the nightclub's entrance. I walked the curb back toward the blue car.

  Williams had his eyes on me and he leaned over to unlock the passenger door for me to slip in beside him. I was almost even with the front fender when the windshield exploded in a shower of glass.

  Chapter 13

  I hit the ground unevenly, scuffing my palms on the curb and rolling to land with a thud on the pavement in front of the blue car. My ribs cried out and my lungs wouldn't take in any air. Sparks dangled before my eyes for several seconds. I blinked a couple of times before I realized that I was staring up into the underside of Williams's car bumper. Someone was screaming but I didn't think it was me. My lungs couldn't be working that well just yet.

  A car door slammed and it occurred to me that Williams might just decide to take off after whoever had broken his windshield and I was not exactly on safe ground here. I tried to roll over but my right shoulder caught the bumper—damn these low built cars anyway. I had to dig my heels and do an inch-worm kind of maneuver to get out from under it before I could begin to get up.

  Rolling over felt like it took forever. My left shoulder had taken the brunt of the fall and didn't want to do anything I asked of it. But that screaming wouldn't stop. A strong urge came over me to find the source and slap it.

  I crabbed my way on all fours to the driver's side of the car. A quick recon of the street revealed nothing more than ordinary traffic out on Central. I back-tracked to the curb.

  The inebriated couple had sobered up quickly. She, apparently the source of the screams, stood now with her face buried in his shoulder. No one else was in sight. I used the car bumper, then its hood, to pull myself to my feet. Crystalline chunks of windshield littered the hood's surface. Inside, Jim Williams sat strapped into the driver's seat with his shoulder harness in place. He stared at me with the one eye that remained in his half-face. My dinner rose dangerously close to my throat.

  Again, I scanned the entire street. No one, except the couple on the sidewalk. I approached them.

  "What happened?" I demanded. "Did you see what happened?"

  The woman sobbed hiccupping little words into the man's leather jacket. His mouth hung open, emitting a little sound that came out as "huh?" They weren't going to be any help. I turned toward Williams

  He wasn't going to be any help either. The bullet had taken out the driver's window, half his face, and a good part of the front windshield. Assuming it was only one bullet. There could have been several, I supposed, with a silencer—I hadn't heard any of them. But then, everything happened so fast I realized now that I hadn't absorbed much of anything.

  I gingerly opened the passenger door of Williams's car. The light came on and I scanned the interior thoroughly. No file folder. Hadn't he specifically told me he was bringing me a file? Had I actually seen it in his hands as I cruised past? I couldn't think.

  There was a cell phone mounted on a little stand near the floor between the front seats. I picked it up and dialed 911.

  Cops in Albuquerque must hang around the east Central area in droves, or gaggles, or herds, or whatever it is you call a big group of them because I'd swear that within two minutes of my 911 call a whole flock of them screeched in. The quiet dark side street blossomed into a riot of color, complete with red, white and blue flashing lights, shouting voices, and what appeared to be the entire population of the Caravan and then some. People must have come from blocks around for the excitement. I hadn't quite scooted my little butt out of Williams's car before the first arrived and the next thing I knew my hands were on the roof, my feet spread apart, and Drake's gun was being snatched out of my jacket.

  The now-quite-sober couple, who might have sworn that I hadn't been in a position to do any shooting—if they'd been able to speak—stood now a good half block away, surrounded by three or four officers.

  For my part, questions were flying at me so fast I felt like I was babbling. Finally, one voice broke through.

  "Charlie?" Kent Taylor, homicide detective and friend of Ron's, pushed past the blue shoulders surrounding me.

  "You know her?" One of the officers turned to Kent.

  "Yeah. Look, guys, it's fine. Let's back off a little here."

  I wasn't sure whether to cry or hug him or both.

  "Sir, it looks like we hav
e one of those boyfriend/ girlfriend bar scenes here," the other officer said knowingly. "She probably watched him come out of the Caravan here with somebody else, they parted ways, she pulls out this,"—showing Drake's gun—"and blows him away. Her fingerprints are all over the car and the gun."

  Where did they get all this? I stared at Kent in amazement.

  "You don't seriously believe that, do you?" I asked.

  Kent took my elbow and pushed through the group to a quiet spot near one of the tall leafy shrubs that lined the side of the building. "Now, tell me about it," he said, pulling a little notebook from his pocket.

  I recounted the story, including a quick summary of the reason for the meeting, right up to the point where I'd crawled out from under the car and dialed 911.

  "I have to commend the PD," I said with just a touch of sarcasm. "It wasn't two minutes before they got here and made me assume the position. That's where you came in," I told him.

  He'd scrawled constantly in the little notebook while keeping his eyes fixed on my face the whole time. I wondered if that was a skill taught in the police academy.

  "Now, the only people you remember seeing were that other couple and a guy in a black hat. Any idea where he got off to?"

  I hadn't even thought about him again. But I was sure he was nowhere around when I peeked toward the street from my vantage point under the car.

  "Think back, Charlie. Did he have a gun? Did he approach Williams's car?"

  "He approached the car . . . I didn't think much of it at the time because he seemed to be on a direct heading toward the nightclub. He was dressed like anyone else going in there, like he was going dancing. I didn't see any weapon, but come to think of it, his right arm was down at his side." I shrugged. "Anything's possible."