A reception desk just to the right of the front door was the only reminder that this wasn't an exclusive hotel. A discreet sign asked visitors to sign in. In case a visitor decided to sneak by, a woman in a modified nurse's uniform verbally repeated the request.
"I'm here to visit a friend of my father's," I answered to her May-I-help-you, "but I don't know the apartment number."
"The name?"
"Patterson. Wendel Patterson."
She raised the metal cover on a clipboard and ran a shell pink nail down the list. "Number 206. Go to the end of this hall, take the elevator up one floor. It's to your right. Oh, lunch is served in twenty minutes. I'm afraid without a reservation you can't stay for it."
"That's okay. It'll just be a short visit."
I followed her directions, past several side rooms with card tables that had jigsaw puzzles or bridge games in progress. One room contained a small library with comfortable looking wing chairs. The dining room was on my left, just before the elevators. The smell of something meaty wafted out toward me. I pressed the button with the "up" arrow, thinking I could easily get used to this kind of retirement life.
The Patterson apartment was two doors down from a tiny beauty shop and a laundry room. I pressed their buzzer.
The woman who answered looked like she'd just stepped out of the beauty shop across the hall. Her strawberry white hair lay in a bouffant cap covered with little curls that framed her face and set off the pale ivory of her two-piece suit perfectly. Her frosted nails carried through the pearl-colored tones.
"Mrs. Patterson? I'm Charlie Parker. My father used to work with your husband at Sandia. I know it's nearly lunch time, so I won't stay long. May I talk to your husband a few minutes?"
She looked vaguely flustered at having opened the door to a stranger but she graciously stood aside for me. The apartment was an extension of the lady herself, all done in cream and beige, silk flower arrangements, and few personal touches. One framed portrait of a younger family, presumably children and grandchildren, sat atop the TV set. The one out-of-place item in the room was a dark brown recliner covered with a bright multi-colored afghan.
"Wendel, there's somebody here to see you," Mrs. Patterson called out.
Patterson leaned forward slightly in the brown recliner, squinting to get a look at me. I did some quick math in my head. My father would have been sixty-five now—Patterson must have been at least fifteen years older, approaching eighty now. He wore brown slacks and a tan plaid shirt that swallowed his skinny frame.
"Well, who the hell is it?" he asked querulously.
"I don't know, dear. Somebody from work."
I stepped forward. "Mr. Patterson, my name's Charlie Parker. My father was Bill Parker. He worked with you at Sandia years ago."
"Huh? Ol' Bill Parker, you say?" He shifted back into his seat, not offering me one. Mrs. Patterson had melted away into the small kitchen off the entry hall.
I perched on a beige footstool so I could at least be on the same eye level with him. "Yes, Mr. Patterson, I recently learned about the circumstances of my parent's plane crash and I came across an old photo at a company picnic with Dad and you and some other men. So I figured you must have been friends."
"Hmph." His jaw worked his lower denture into place and I couldn't tell whether his noncommittal sound came from that or in reaction to my words.
"Anyway, I'd like to know more about the crash. I understand it wasn't an accident after all, and thought maybe something my father was working on at the time might have been behind it."
"Oh hell, them ol' boys in research always had somethin' goin' on, but it weren't so all fired important as that." He waved a heavily veined hand in dismissal.
"Were you also in research? Working on some of those same projects?"
"Ah hell no," he dismissed. "Course, you know all that stuff was real secret. Can't really say what all I did. It was all real important to the national security, you know."
"But you didn't work directly with my father?"
"Naw, he was in research, you know."
Mrs. Patterson emerged, her hands making little fluttery motions. "Wendel, lunch is starting in about five minutes," she reminded, looking almost worried that she had to interrupt.
I stood, remembering my manners. "I won't keep you." I pulled my business card from my purse. "If you can think of anything about the crash or anything that was going on around Sandia at the time, please let me know."
Patterson took the card, stood, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy slacks, jiggling loose change. "I sure will, miss." His mouth moved upward at one corner. Was he flirting?
I glanced over at his wife, but she was busy draping a cardigan sweater over her shoulders, clipping the top edges together in front with a pearlized gadget.
"Well, have a nice lunch." I left it at that.
The temperature outside had warmed to near summer levels. I peeled off my light jacket and flung it into the back seat, wondering if I'd have time to catch George Myers before getting back home to greet the movers and tackle the stack of boxes that would soon await. Digging my little notebook out of my purse, I found the page where I'd written down addresses. Sure enough, Myers' home was no more than five minutes away.
Taking my life in my hands, I crossed Montgomery Boulevard and navigated my way into the Holiday Park subdivision. The modest homes sat on good-sized lots developed in the days before builders figured out that they could get by with the minimum setbacks allowed by code and jam an extra two houses into every block. In the twenty-five or so years since its inception, the trees and shrubs had matured giving the neighborhood a well-established feel. Myers's address was two blocks off Montgomery, giving almost enough space to buffer the persistent traffic noise. The driveway boasted two large oil slicks, but no cars. I parked at the curb.
The house was sage green stucco, with turquoise trim around the roofline and a kelly green front door, a color scheme either chosen in the dark or by a design-challenged house painter. The front lawn was neatly trimmed and raked clear of leaves. A gaggle of yellow wooden geese trotted across the lawn, and two bright red hummingbird feeders hung from a sycamore tree in the center of the yard. Two large windows flanked the front door, both heavily decorated with cut-out paper jack-o-lanterns and skeletons, reminding me that we did have a holiday coming up.
I pulled the picnic snapshot from my purse, reminding myself of the faces. Myers was obviously the youngest of the group, probably in his early twenties when the photo was taken. So he'd only be around thirty-five now. Still had young children at home, judging by the window decor. And that probably meant that everyone was either at school or work now. I debated whether to even bother going to the door, then decided that it would be silly not to try after driving out here.
My first ring of the bell brought a cat to the windowsill, a distinctive calico who sat on the other side of the glass checking me out and meowing twice. I smiled at her and rubbed the window pane where her neck was, but no one came to the door. Oh well. It had been worth a try.
Twelve-fifteen. If I could dodge the major streets during lunch hour, I could be home by one. I stepped off the porch, breathing deeply of the spicy autumn air. I'd just inserted my key into the ignition when a vehicle pulled into the Myers's drive.
The woman who emerged from the lime green Plymouth frankly appraised me as she leaned to unbuckle a toddler from his car seat. The child whined and clung to her leg as she proceeded to grab two grocery bags while juggling her purse and keys and hipping the car door shut. Although I was pretty sure I knew the answer, I needed to make one more attempt.
"Mrs. Myers?" I called out to her.
She knew I was a sales person and she knew she didn't want to talk to me, but it's amazing how people can't just walk away when their names are called. She grimaced but nodded at me.
I crossed the drive. "Can I help you with those bags?" I offered.
"No, I'm fine, thanks." Her face remained closed. T
he toddler remained attached to her leg.
"I'm looking for a George Myers who worked at Sandia Corporation about fifteen years ago," I said.
"Yes?"
"I guess he isn't home now, but is this the right place?"
She wasn't sure how much to tell me. "Yes, it is."
"My name's Charlie Parker. My father, Bill Parker, worked with him back then. I'd really like the chance to ask him some questions. Does he still work at Sandia?"
"Yes, he does. Look, I need to get Jeffrey some lunch and put this stuff in the refrigerator."
"Sure. I won't keep you. Would it be easier if I tried to catch Mr. Myers at work?"
"He won't talk about work, you know."
"Really? Even something that happened a long time ago?"
She sighed and her mouth formed a thin line. "If he doesn't even share his work life with his family, what makes you think he'll tell you anything? Unless . . ."
She grabbed the toddler by the hand and marched toward the front door, effectively ending the strange conversation. I gnawed the inside of my lip, then headed toward my car. What was that all about? Was I emitting some kind of pheromones today, or was it merely my imagination that every person I'd talked with came out with some intensely personal reaction to me?
Chapter 16
A white moving van with blue lettering stood in front of my house. Its back doors were open and a ramp angled down to the driveway, which now held about two dozen cardboard cartons of various sizes. Two men with dollies traversed the distance from the ramp to the driveway and back. Drake came out the front door, closely followed by Rusty, picked up a carton and waved at me. I parked in front of Elsa's house and tiptoed around the clutter.
"Hi honey, I'm home," I grinned at him. "Looks like we have our work cut out for us." I brushed a streak of dust from his cheek and accepted a kiss.
"I'm just taking these into whichever rooms they're marked for—kitchen, bathroom, whatever," he said. "Don't worry, they've got almost everything off the truck," he added as I stared at the boxes.
"How about some lunch?" I asked. "Have you eaten yet? I could make us a sandwich while they finish up."
He nodded approval at that idea and turned to carry his load into the house. I followed, with Rusty trailing behind, sniffing at each new parcel he encountered.
I was spreading mayo on bread when the phone rang.
"Ms. Parker?" a strange male voice queried.
"Yes?"
"Hey, you just managed to get my butt chewed royally," he said, with a hint of laughter in his voice.
"What? Who is this?"
"George Myers at Sandia. I don't know what you said to my wife earlier, but she's convinced we're fooling around."
"What! Look, Mr. Myers, I didn't say anything. I told her you used to work with my father years ago."
"Hey, no problem. She gets that way every time some very good looking lady comes along."
I was beginning to get the feeling that she might have good reason. My mind darted back to the picnic picture. George Myers was young then, with a Presley haircut and a Redford smile.
"Look, I don't want to get in the middle of any personal problems here. I wanted to ask if you remembered anything about the work my father was doing right before the plane crash that killed him."
I could hear him thinking over the phone line.
"Let's see, that was when?"
I told him the date.
"I'll have to give that some thought, go back through my records. The '60s and '70s were pretty intense around here. And I was fairly new with the company. I know my first few months I sat on the sidelines a lot, observing but not doing a whole lot of my own research."
"That might be exactly what I need," I told him. "Someone who knew what projects my father was working on."
"Tell you what, Charlie, let me think about this a couple days and give you a call back. Maybe we could meet for a drink and go over it."
Fat chance. "Fine," was all I said. Didn't want to tell him what I really thought of him until I had all the information I could get, but there was no way I'd meet privately with this guy. Bringing Drake along would quench him.
"Oh, George," I remembered, "don't say anything about this to anyone else. There's already been some . . . trouble with someone else I talked to."
"Really?"
"I can't elaborate." I got the feeling that trouble was this guy's middle name. I hung up the phone hoping he wouldn't get too daring just now.
Drake and I ate our sandwiches and spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking boxes, me taking the bedroom and office and leaving the kitchen to his expertise. By five o'clock we'd made a sizeable dent and decided to take a dinner break.
I placed a quick call to Neil Kirkpatrick, Drake's contact at the FAA, but he'd gone for the day. I left a message with a secretary who gave me the definite impression that she, too, wanted to go home and would probably forget to tell him I'd called.
Pedro's was crowded for a week night. All six tables were filled, but one couple was getting ready to leave so we nabbed their spot. It felt funny sitting across the small room from our usual corner.
My shoulders ached and my hands burned, even though I'd been careful with my skinned palms. Pedro caught my eye and held up two fingers. I nodded, and the margaritas arrived a couple minutes later. The first one was so good I broke with tradition and ordered a second.
"Those guys with the moving company said the other van, the one with my pickup, should be here in a day or two," Drake said, licking salt off his upper lip. "Then I can get out on my own and not be cramping your style so much."
"You're not cramping . . ."
"Charlie Parker?"
I stopped in mid-sentence to look up at the stranger addressing me.
"May I?" He pulled out the extra chair at our table and sat down before I could close my gaping mouth.
"George Myers," he introduced, holding his hand out first to me then Drake. "Nasty scrape you have there," he said, nodding toward my cheek.
Drake shot me a puzzled look, while I turned on Myers.
"How on earth did you find me here?" My blood pressure rose, along with my temper.
I turned to Drake. "Mr. Myers used to work with Dad at Sandia. His name was on my list of contacts, but we've never met."
"Unfortunately." Myers wiggled an eyebrow.
What nerve! I noticed that Drake was working as hard as I was not to lash out at the man.
"What are you doing here?" I asked again.
"I found some information for you."
"Does anyone else know about this?" I asked, scanning the crowded room.
"No. I go into the file rooms all the time. Would you believe that about nine-tenths of the work done out there wasn't even computerized in the '70s? Mostly just the scientific research, and even that's stored in some outmoded old program. Everything like travel records, time sheets, minutes of meetings, that was all kept in old fashioned manila files."
"So, what did you find out about my father's work?"
"Well, here's the deal. There was a top secret project just coming into being when I started work there. Like I told you, in the beginning I just sat in on meetings. Didn't do any real research of my own.
"The project was the forerunner of what later became popularly known as the Star Wars defense plan. But this was early on. Around the lab it was simply referred to as SDL-14-X1."
"All that?"
"Well, X1 was what most of us called it. Anyway, Bill Parker headed up the team and ran most of the meetings. So I knew he must have kept a pretty hefty file on it. Figured now, with defense cut way back, and the Soviets no longer our enemies, a lot of that stuff has either been declassified or moved to less secure areas for storage. Figured I could probably find some of it."
"And?"
"And I can't find Bill Parker's name on a single piece of paper in that place."
"That can't be. He worked out there, was deeply involved in all that stuff for nearly twe
nty years. There's just no way his name wouldn't be all over the place."
"No kidding. I personally saw lots of documents he worked on. He had three file cabinets—twelve drawers full of stuff—in his own office. Now where did all that go?"
Where indeed? "Did you ask anyone?"
"Not yet. You sounded so mysterious this morning. I thought I'd see what I came up with first."
I gnawed at my lip. This whole thing was going beyond strange, venturing into the really weird.
"Tomorrow, I thought I'd go into the computer records. So far, I've only checked the physical files. It could be that Bill's project was considered important enough at the time to be stored on computer. Or even on microfiche. All those files in his office could have been filmed for storage, then the paper files destroyed."
"That's true," I agreed. "Meanwhile, can you think of anyone else I should talk to?" I told him the names I'd already checked out.
"If you've talked to Hannah, you've probably got your best knowledge source right there," he said. "Now Larry Sanchez, he was an inspector. In charge of checking the prototype missiles and guidance systems. He'd probably know if there was anything fishy going on."
"Maybe he did. He had an accident, not too long after Dad's crash, and he's been paralyzed ever since. I visited, but didn't get anything out of him."
"I knew Larry pretty well—we were two of the younger members of the team. Maybe I should visit him too," George offered. He pushed his chair back. "Well, I'll leave you folks to your dinner."
"I don't trust that guy," Drake muttered as Myers exited.
"Why? Because he hit on me?" I teased. "You know you've got nothing to worry about."
Pedro rushed up, apologizing for taking so long to get our orders. I broke with tradition and ordered the taco plate, but Drake insisted he still couldn't resist the chicken enchiladas.
"You notice he never did answer your question about how he knew to find you here?" Drake continued as if there'd been no interruption.
"True. So, how did he?"
"And is he truly so non-busy right now that he dropped everything to go digging through fifteen year old records? Or is there more than idle curiosity at work here?"
Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery Page 10
