Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  As I'd hoped, the long hours behind the wheel with only the dog for company helped free my mind to think about the case. I ran through the list of people I'd talked to and tried to decide where my suspicions lie.

  George Myers still topped my list. Larry Sanchez had told me that George loaded the bags onto the ill-fated plane. And George's sudden interest in my investigation made me wonder if he didn't have something to hide—something that he'd want to know immediately if I stumbled upon it. I hadn't forgotten the creepy feeling a few nights ago when he'd shown up at our favorite restaurant and the way he'd come on to me with Drake sitting right there.

  The pilot, Joe Smathers, was a big question mark, too. Louise had sworn he wouldn't have a death wish. But the explosive was in his bag—who put it there? And the adoring wife he'd left behind had all but forgotten him now. So, were they really that close in their marriage?

  Wendel Patterson was either a nobody who wanted to appear more important than he was—or he was a cagey one, able to cover his motives and actions with a lot of swagger.

  And Larry Sanchez. Such a tragic figure. I just couldn't believe he had an evil spot in him. If he'd been one of the "spy people" way back then, they would have finished him off at the time, because he'd certainly have implicated those involved after his accident—assuming he had reason to believe they'd caused the accident. My own theory was that he knew something and they'd tried to kill him for it, but botched the job. Either the bad guys had not had access to him after that, or they figured no one would believe his "spy people" story anyway.

  And the mysterious man in black at the Caravan—I felt virtually certain that he'd shot Jim Williams, but no one I'd talked to resembled him physically. A hired hit man?

  The motive was still the tough part. I could only surmise that my father had figured out that someone planned to sell defense secrets to the Soviets and he was about to blow the whistle. The other five people on the plane had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Including my mother.

  My eyes brimmed at the thought that my brothers and I had lost both parents over something we'd had nothing to do with.

  I pulled off the interstate in Raton for lunch and a break from thinking. Twenty minutes later, I'd consumed a Big Mac and Coke and Rusty'd had a small cheeseburger and cup of water. We both felt better.

  Once again as the white lines darted by, my brain kicked into gear. I tried to think back over the notebook entries my father kept, but remembered nothing of relevance. I'd have to review them again soon, in light of the names I'd come across. Maybe something would stand out this time.

  My mind whirled and I finally tuned in to a talk radio station so I could listen to someone else's problems for a change.

  We hit the outskirts of Albuquerque before the nastiest of the rush hour traffic began and, amazingly, the construction zone on I-40 westbound wasn't nearly as clogged up as before. I cheated a little on the speed limit as we left the western edge of town behind and we arrived at Double Eagle Airport about twenty minutes later. I had the feeling I'd soon get to know this route well.

  Drake stood there, showing off his new toy to the other pilots and mechanics in the hangar. The ship really was gorgeous and they were all grinning like kids at Christmas. Louise had told me that aviation really takes you by the heart.

  I pulled up to the open hangar door and a border collie ran out to greet us. I closed my car door quickly, not knowing how the two canines would mix.

  "It's okay to let him out," a man shouted toward me. "Sparky's used to sharing her space with other hangar dogs."

  I opened the door again, gradually, and the two dogs sniffed noses. Sparky bounded into the building where she ran three rapid circles around the perimeter. Rusty followed suit and a solid friendship came to life. Rusty proceeded to sniff every corner of the place, including two airplanes and several red tool boxes, before finally plopping at Drake's side.

  Darkness began to settle in and the air took on a chill as we transferred gear from the helicopter to the truck. Drake gave a wistful look as the large hangar doors closed on his baby and we backed out of our parking slot.

  "Want to spend the night here?" I teased.

  He squeezed my leg. "Much as I love helicopters," he said, "you're a lot more fun to snuggle at night."

  I edged over next to him to prove it was true.

  "Let's stop by the office on the way home," I suggested. "If I check my phone messages and mail tonight, I won't have to go in tomorrow and I can get started on filing your corporate paperwork and getting some of those details done."

  He exited I-40 at Rio Grande, east on Central, and turned in at our quiet side street. The office was completely dark, the two reception lamps we keep on timers at night apparently burned out. We pulled into the driveway that flanks the left side of the building leading to the parking area at the back. The kitchen light, which we don't normally leave on, was on. What was Ron doing, messing with the whole system?

  "You can wait out here if you'd like," I told Drake. "I'll just be a minute."

  I fished into my purse for keys. When I reached the back door, key aimed toward the lock, I realized that the door stood open just a crack. My hand froze.

  Ron's car wasn't here and this wasn't right.

  "Drake, maybe you better come here," I called out to him. "Something's wrong," I whispered when he stood beside me.

  "Wait a second," he cautioned. "Let me get us a weapon." He returned to the truck and pulled a tire iron from under the seat.

  I edged the door open with my toe and he slid past me with the weapon ready. Rusty tried to shove his way in but I gripped his collar. The kitchen was clear and normal-looking. I flipped the light switch in the hallway leading toward the front. The conference room and reception area were dark and I flipped on overhead lights there too. Sally's desk had been ransacked.

  I rushed to it, while Drake quickly scanned both rooms, found no one, and worked his way upstairs, followed by Rusty.

  Sally's drawers had been pulled out, rummaged roughly, and left gaping. I couldn't tell that anything was missing, but she'd have to verify that.

  "We're alone," Drake said. "But you're not going to like what you find up there."

  I raced up the stairs to my office. Sally's desk was frisked—mine had been raped.

  "Oh my God, what is this?" I cried out.

  Books lay in scattered heaps on the floor, swept from the bookcases with angry swipes. My desk drawers rested upside down, the contents strewn over the floor like someone had dumped them then sifted through the wreckage. File folders spilled papers everywhere. Rusty circled the room, frantically sniffing.

  Drake came up behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders.

  "We better call the police," I said dully.

  I stabbed 911 on my telephone, using a pencil eraser to touch the keypad. It really would be the final insult if the intruders had run up the phone bill while they were here.

  "What about Ron's office, hon?" I called to Drake after I'd given all the particulars to a bored-sounding operator who probably handled fifty break-in calls every shift.

  Drake reappeared in my doorway. "I can't tell whether Ron's office was hit or not," he grinned.

  I rolled my eyes. "Geez, we might never know either." I'd told Ron his sloppy housekeeping ways would catch up some day.

  "Guess I better call him, too," I sighed.

  Again my trusty pencil-dialer went to work and I interrupted Ron's dinner to brief him. He said he'd be there right away.

  I had no idea how long it would take the police to arrive. Calls that don't involve bleeding, dying, or thefts of big money from federally insured institutions have to take second seat to all the ones that do. I was itching to clean up the mess but knew that I shouldn't. After all, there was that one-in-a-million chance that they'd actually get an identifiable print out of the clutter.

  I slumped downstairs to the kitchen where I brewed a pot of coffee and rummaged th
rough the fridge until I came up with one three-day old cheese sandwich, a package of Twinkies, and four saltine crackers. We called it dinner.

  We'd just polished off the last of our scrumptious fare when Ron showed up. I wanted to rehash all the questions—who had done this? how did they get in? what did they take? was it part of the recent crime spree in the area?—but since Drake and I had already done all that, I just didn't have the energy. I pointed a finger upward and let Ron go up to view the situation himself.

  He clumped down a few minutes later. "You called the police?" he asked.

  I nodded.

  He sat heavily in his chair. "It looks like they mostly targeted you," he said. "My office shows minimal disturbance."

  "Sally's desk isn't too bad either."

  "And," Drake pointed out, "they didn't really take anything they could have easily sold. The microwave, computers, phone equipment—that all seems to be here."

  He was right. As far as I knew, the neighborhood break-ins all involved the theft of electronics. My mind immediately flew to the Sandia case. Had one of my suspects broken into the office, thinking it would be the logical place I'd keep any files?

  I struggled to think back over the past few days. How many people had I given a business card to? It was the only logical way I could think of that any of them would connect me with this address. And it would explain why my office had been hit hardest.

  Anyone scoping out the place could figure out, from the small personal memorabilia, which were the two desks occupied by females here. Sally's desk had probably been checked first, yielding nothing. By the time they got to mine, they were angry enough to trash the room—perhaps to send me a message as much as anything.

  A sharp rapping at the front door grabbed our attention. Ron and Drake went to answer it, admitting an officer that looked like he'd just graduated high school. Rusty greeted him like he'd found a kid to play with. I swear, authority figures are getting younger every day.

  I halfheartedly showed him Sally's desk and told him the real mess was upstairs.

  "There've been a lot of break-ins in this neighborhood recently, ma'am," he told me.

  Ma'am. Oh, God, they weren't getting younger, I was getting older.

  "I know. But I don't think this is one of those." I shared our reasons for that conclusion.

  "I'll radio for a fingerprint team," he said. "We can at least get some prints on file that way."

  "Don't bother. I really think this is related to a case I'm working on right now, which narrows it down to about a half-dozen people. At a glance, I don't think they took anything, which means they didn't find what they wanted." I paused. What did they want, anyway?

  I could guess that they'd want any evidence I'd found on the plane crash. Or perhaps my father's notes and files.

  My small spiral notebook.

  I looked over at Drake. He hadn't put it together yet.

  Oh, shit—what if they decided to wreak this kind of havoc on the house? But if someone had broken in and taken the spiral, wouldn't they have already wreaked?

  "Charlie?"

  I snapped to. Ron looked at me quizzically.

  "The officer asked whether you wanted him to list any missing items on his report."

  "I better check a little more closely. It's okay to start touching things, isn't it?"

  "Unless you want that fingerprint team to come in, ma'am."

  I shook my head. The thought of cleaning black powder off every surface in the office wasn't an appealing one. "Let me just check my files and I'll let you know. I can always call and add something to the report later, can't I?"

  We'd trailed the nice young officer through the building, showing him the ravaged areas. As the men showed him out, I stayed in my office, inserting the upturned drawers back into the desk, gathering files and replacing them. Drake joined me and reshelved the books.

  The seven hour drive, the excitement of the new helicopter, capped by this mess had really sapped my strength. I stuck the files back into the drawers most any old way, knowing that I'd soon be sorting carefully through them to pass along some of my duties to the new employee. I performed a similar once-over on Sally's desk and left her a note explaining.

  I leaned against his shoulder as Drake drove us home, with Rusty curled on the narrow jump seat in back. At this moment I only wanted a hot bath and my own bed. But the closer we got to home, the more I feared finding another destructive mess there.

  Chapter 23

  I awoke from a deep sleep, snuggled against Drake's back, where I was tempted to stay for hours, but knew I couldn't. We'd enjoyed a thoroughly lazy Sunday yesterday, driving out to the airport and taking the new machine for a short spin around the west side of town, then going to the shooting range for a little target practice.

  Today I needed to get serious about getting Drake's corporation set up and ready to go, at least in the paperwork department. I nuzzled his back and kissed his bare shoulder a couple of times to get his attention. He rolled over to face me, returning the kisses and enveloping me in his warmth.

  "Mmmm, I could do this all day," he murmured.

  "Hah. I doubt that," I laughed. "You're anxious to get out there and play with your new toy."

  "And what are you anxious to do? I get the feeling that, now you're rested, you aren't about to lounge around all day either."

  I outlined my plan to drive to Santa Fe, visit the corporation commission, and set the new company in motion.

  "I have a couple of things to do here first, typing up a form or two, then how about if we have a nice hearty breakfast out somewhere before I go?"

  "Good suggestion," he agreed. "Then I'll be sufficiently fed that I can go out to the hangar and work most of the day without taking a break."

  While he showered, I filled out the corporate paperwork for the new CharlDrake Helicopters, Incorporated, then I took over the shower. Thirty minutes later we were seated in a booth at Denny's waiting for the omelets and toast we'd just ordered.

  "I'm really feeling stumped on this plane crash," I told Drake. "I feel like I'm close to something important. I mean, I'm virtually certain there's a guilty person or two walking around out there—and the scary thing is that they know about me but I don't know who they are."

  "Yeah, that break-in at the office sure looks like it points that way. Like someone desperately wants to get their hands on something you've found. Something pretty incriminating."

  We paused while our waitress set warm plates down for us. The omelets looked fluffy and hot. Mine was loaded with ham and veggies. I stuck my fork in and cut out a wedge before I spoke.

  "I'm just stymied as to what evidence they think I have. I've been through nearly all Dad's boxes and files and haven't come up with much. His references to the heat being on is still a mystery to me, even though it does somehow tie in with Larry Sanchez's telling me about `spy people'."

  Drake spread grape jelly on a toast triangle. "And we sure didn't find any physical evidence at the crash scene, did we?"

  "I guess the scariest part so far is the fact that Jim Williams was murdered for that file he was bringing me. And when I was in his office he told me that the investigation file was, at one time, two or three inches thick. And yet, what he had then was only a few sheets of paper.

  "So, what did he find in the meantime that he planned to bring me? And how on earth did someone know he was meeting me and arrange to have him killed before he could do it?" I chewed slowly while I mulled it over.

  "Seems to me that someone in Williams's own office would have had to know that he'd taken a second look at the case. And either that person was somehow involved from the start or they are close to one of the guilty and alerted them," Drake said.

  My mind flew again over the possibilities. Who indeed? I just couldn't seem to get the puzzle pieces to slip into place. I changed the subject.

  "I'll leave for Santa Fe now," I told him. "Hope to get into the Corporation Commission offices before they close for l
unch, and with any luck that whole procedure won't take long. When I get back, I'll stop in at Ron's office so I can use the fax machine for a couple of things. If you need me during the day you can call there and Sally will leave me a message. I might also try to pop in at the State Aviation Division while I'm in Santa Fe to see if they keep any records about plane crashes."

  "Okay, hon, you know where I'll be." He pulled a card from his wallet and read off a phone number. "That's the operator who owns the hangar. If you need to get in touch with me, I'm sure they can find me. The mechanic's name is Bobby McNeil—nice guy—and I'll probably be working with him quite a bit. I'm listing his company in my FAA documents as my authorized maintenance facility."

  We left money on the table and parted ways in the parking lot. Rusty, who'd ridden over with me, opted to go to the hangar with Drake.

  I stopped at the north edge of town to top off the Jeep's gas tank and run her quickly through the car wash. Although the temperature had once again dropped, we'd lucked out with another clear blue day. I hit the outskirts of Santa Fe less than an hour later and followed the circuitous Paseo de Peralta to the PERA Building that houses the Corporation Commission.

  Stepping into the molasses-paced world of state government, I waited my turn to be greeted, then waited my turn to be waited on, then waited while they typed up some more forms and added a gold sticker and signature to the forms I'd submitted. I sat in a stiff upright chair facing several rows of cubicles that I couldn't see into and occupied myself with memorizing the southwestern art prints on the walls.

  Finally, my newly formed corporation in hand, I exited the building, practically in time to be stampeded in the lunch hour rush to get out. I located a phone directory and looked up the State Aviation Division, only to get a recorded message informing me that the offices were closed from twelve to one-thirty. So much for that idea.

  With no desire to hang around Santa Fe two more hours on the chance that they could or would actually provide me with useful information, I headed out Cerrillos Road where I got a Coke from the first fast food place I came to, then headed south.