An hour later, I stepped into the kitchen of Ron's and my office and found him munching down on a Quarter Pounder and fries.
"Sally gone already?" I asked.
He nodded, his mouth too full for a real answer.
"Was she upset about the vandalism? I didn't put her desk back in the greatest shape."
He swallowed deeply. "She dove right in like a little bird nesting," he smiled. "Had that sucker put right back in order."
"Good. I need to send some faxes. Where are we in the hiring process? Should I be getting my stuff organized for that too?"
"Let's wait a week or so," he said. "Sally's not leaving right away. I don't mind doing the interviews if you'll help me screen them. But my calendar's really filled up this week. I've got two depositions that could take anywhere from a couple of hours to several days."
I left him to the Quarter Pounder and proceeded with my own projects. Over the next hour, I managed to secure CharlDrake Helicopters a federal tax ID number, a state tax ID number, and a City of Albuquerque business license. I then drew up bylaws for the corporation, naming Drake to all the offices except myself as secretary, since the law for some reason required it that way.
By five o'clock I'd thoroughly had it with government forms and my breakfast omelet had long since worn off. I wondered what Drake and Rusty were up to. I called the house and checked the messages on the answering machine. There was only one.
"Sweetpea, call me," Hannah Simmons' voice said. She sounded like she was crying.
Chapter 24
I dialed Hannah's number and allowed it to ring twelve times before deciding that she wasn't going to answer and didn't have a machine. Should I drive up there? I really didn't want to, not in the rush hour traffic, but something wasn't right.
A male voice answered the hangar number Drake had given me. "Is this Bobby?" I asked. I introduced myself, apologized for the interruption, and asked if Drake were there. Bobby put him on the line.
"Hi, I'm back from Santa Fe and got your paperwork mostly done," I told him. "I also had a really strange phone call from Hannah Simmons and, although the machine recorded that she only called about ten minutes ago, she didn't answer when I called back. I'm thinking maybe I should drive up there and see if she's okay. What time were you planning on coming home?"
He said he'd be at least another hour and with the driving time to get home, I figured I wouldn't see him much before seven. "I'll go on up there then. See you later."
I had to look Hannah's address up again in the phone book since I'd written it in the spiral that was now missing. Rush hour traffic was in full swing and it took me nearly forty-five minutes to get there.
Her car sat in the driveway of the blond brick home, drapes stood open, the place looked as occupied as any house on the street. I glanced around the yard and approached the front door. Reached out to ring the bell. The front door stood open a few inches. I opened the screen and nudged the wooden door gently. It swung inward without a sound. The house was quiet as a tomb. My senses went on full-alert.
"Hannah?" I called out softly.
Silence hung thick in the air. I called her name twice more, then stepped into the living room.
"Oh, God," I moaned. Just as in my office, the room was a shambles. I scanned for a sign of Hannah. Her knick-knacks lay scattered on the floor, swept from their shelves ruthlessly. From the shelves below them, her photo albums had been tipped out onto the floor and spread open. Pillows and cushions from the sofa were upended and scattered. In the kitchen, drawers hung open, an address book and telephone directory had been riffled and flung down on the table.
"Hannah?" I called again.
This time I thought I caught a faint noise from deep inside the house. I followed a hallway that apparently led to bedrooms. The first one I peeked into was a spare bedroom that also served as Hannah's sewing room. Her sewing machine, scissors, multiple spools of thread, a red tomato pincushion, and a partially finished garment seemed undisturbed. The twin beds in the room were made up and, although they were the catch-all spots for miscellaneous stuff, appeared untouched by the vandals.
The next bedroom was obviously the one Hannah used. Her dresser drawers stood open and had been hastily rummaged. The bed coverings were pulled loose and strewn out. Her bathroom received the same treatment.
Thump, thump. I caught the faint sound again.
"Hannah? Where are you?" I called louder.
The thump responded louder. I traced it to a storage closet off the hall. I snatched the door open and there sat Hannah on the floor, her wrists, ankles and mouth bound with duct tape.
"Oh, Hannah! Here, let me get you out of there."
I retrieved her scissors from the sewing room and carefully clipped the tape off in a straight cut, trying to touch it as little as possible. It would be the perfect surface to contain fingerprints of the attackers.
She gingerly struggled to her feet, bracing herself against the doorjamb and leaning heavily on me.
"I'll be okay," she assured me, limping on numbed legs.
"Here, let's go in the kitchen and I'll make us a cup of tea," I suggested. I took her elbow and steered her that direction.
"Hannah, do you have any idea who did this?"
"Well, I didn't know their faces," she said, watching me fill the kettle with water. "But it had to do with your investigation."
My stomach dropped. I'd dreaded this.
"Tell me about it," I suggested.
"Well, I was working on my sewing. Had been in there all afternoon. I'm making jumpers for my grand-nieces for Christmas. They'll be red velvet with white lace trim . . ."
"And someone came in—" I prompted.
"Well, yes, I heard this little noise near the front here. Sounded like the front door opening. And I tell you, my heart just started racing." She put her hand to her chest. "And then a man's voice—one of them—whispered something to the other one.
"I just couldn't think! I heard them come into the kitchen and by then they were making some noise—not much, but I knew they were going through things. And I ran into my bedroom and picked up the phone and was going to call the police. You know with all the burglaries we have in Albuquerque these days, I just knew they were some kind of drug addicts coming in to steal something they could sell."
The kettle whistled and I located cups and tea bags.
"So why did you call me instead?"
"Well, I could hear them in the hall by then and I got so scared. Then one of them said your name."
My stomach did another plunge. I set the two cups of tea on the table and sank into the chair next to Hannah's.
"Yes, I mean they were talking about you and the questions you've been asking. So I just dialed your number—your card was right there on my nightstand, and it was the only thing I could think to do right then. And you weren't home so I talked to your machine, and by then my voice was shaking and I didn't know what to do next.
"And then they walked right into my bedroom!"
"Oh lord, what did you do?"
She shuddered. "I guess I just froze. I remember hanging up the phone and wondering if they'd heard me talking. One guy pointed a gun at me and he told the other one to find something to tie me up. I just stood there in the corner, acting like a scared little baby, but thinking to myself that at least if they were going to tie me up, maybe they didn't plan to kill me. I mean, otherwise wouldn't they have just shot me right then?"
I sipped my hot tea and reached out to hold her hand. Her fingers were like ice.
"And they wrapped tape around you?" I asked.
"Yes, did my hands first, then that strip across my mouth. That stuff tastes terrible! Then they didn't seem to know what to do next. I got the idea they didn't want me in the room with them—like I'd be able to remember their faces better, or maybe they didn't want me to watch them searching the house. So they found that closet, put me in there and taped up my ankles."
"Oh, Hannah, I feel so bad about this
. I've put you in danger. I hope they haven't stolen anything from you." I thought back to the break-in at the office. We still hadn't noticed anything missing, which told me they were looking for something very specific and hadn't found it yet.
"Hannah, do you feel up to checking the house, finding out if there's anything missing?"
"Do you think I should call the police, Charlie?"
"It's up to you. It would be a good idea to file a report, but truthfully, I don't think they'll solve it. I glanced into the living room and here in the kitchen. Things commonly stolen in robberies, like television sets and microwave ovens, aren't missing here. And since we know it's connected to my investigation, I tend to think they were after notes, papers, anything that might incriminate the guilty people." I shrugged. "The police aren't going to be able to do much with that."
She finished her tea. "Let's check the house," she said. "If there's anything valuable missing, we'll call them. If not, maybe I'll just try to forget about it."
That wouldn't be easy.
I glanced at my watch and noticed it was already after six-thirty. "I'll stay and help you clean this up," I told her. "But I better let Drake know what's happened." I called home, left a quick message on the machine where he'd find it when he got home.
Hannah's color looked much better until she surveyed the damage. Her eyes welled.
"Why did they do this, Charlie?" she cried.
I put my arm around her thin shoulders. "I don't know. It's sick, isn't it. This is all my fault." I suddenly wished I'd never started poking around—what was I going to learn? The outcome wouldn't change and innocent people were getting hurt along the way.
She began replacing her treasured travel mementos on their shelves, arranging them precisely as they'd been before. I tackled the rest of it-righted the sofa cushions, straightened magazines on the coffee table. Went into the kitchen and neatened the items in the drawers. The mess actually involved little damage. Nothing was broken, slashed, or smashed. These guys had been very specific in their wish list. Whether they'd found anything, I didn't know.
Hannah was still sorting and placing little items on shelves so I went into her bedroom, remade the bed with fresh sheets I found in the linen closet and closed her dresser drawers without getting too personal as to their contents. I also went around the house, switching on lights and checking doors and windows.
"Hannah, you really should get deadbolt locks put on your doors." I demonstrated just how easily the men had probably broken in using a flexible plastic card. "I don't mean to scare you, but even when you think you're safely locked in, they can get past these things."
Her face went white again.
"For tonight, we'll rig up some protection. But promise me you'll call a locksmith tomorrow."
She agreed, as we shoved a stiff chairback under the knob on the back door and set up a pyramid of tin cans that should wake the dead if the door knocked them over.
"Now, after I leave, you do the same thing to the front door," I said.
I showed her my handiwork in the bedroom and kitchen and told her I'd checked all the windows.
"Did you notice anything missing?" I asked her.
"No. You know my scrapbook that had the Sandia clippings in it? Well, they must have only flipped through a few pages that had family photos, 'cause they didn't take anything out."
"I'm glad to know that," I smiled, giving her a hug before leaving. "You keep my number handy and call me if you get another scare. I don't think they'll bother you again, though. At this point, they know you don't have any evidence that'll hurt them."
"But you might, Charlie," she cautioned. "You better be extra careful."
I drove home wondering what the hell I was doing.
Chapter 25
Drake left early the next morning, looking chipper and pleased about something.
"I think I have a job lined up for Thursday," he said, glowing with enthusiasm. "It's a scouting trip for a film crew. They want to fly up around Farmington and check out locations for a couple of days. If they find what they like, I may get to do the camera work later, and that could involve quite a bit of flying."
"Cool." I made him stay for a prolonged kiss. "Good luck with it."
"The catch is that my FAA inspectors are coming out today. Gotta pass all that before I'm legal. Oh, I better take my office paperwork with me," he added. "I'm sure they'll want to get a look at all that too."
I helped him gather the recently acquired incorporation papers and his other documents.
Rusty stared at Drake with ears cocked and head tilted, waiting to receive word on whether he'd get to go.
"Not today, kid," Drake informed him. "FAA probably doesn't see a dog as necessary to the operation."
"You can go with me," I told him. "We'll be investigators today."
"You realize all he got out of that was `Blah, Blah, GO, Blah, Blah, Blah'," Drake laughed.
"Hey, he understands everything I tell him," I asserted.
"Yeah, yeah. Kiss me, you beautiful woman."
I did.
The house turned quiet after Drake left. I reached for my new spiral notebook and decided to go back over my suspect list. There was still one of the men in Dad's circle that I hadn't reached—Harvey Taylor—and I meant to give that another try.
First, I dialed Rebecca Sanchez's number. It rang five times and I was just about to hang up.
"Hello?" The voice was breathless.
"Rebecca? It's Charlie Parker. Did I catch you in the middle of something?"
"I just walked in." I could tell she was doing other things as she spoke, as she instructed her son to hang up his jacket and wash his hands.
"I just wanted to check and see how your father's doing," I told her.
"He's gone into a coma," she sighed. "It doesn't look very hopeful at all."
"I'm so sorry to hear that."
"Yeah."
"Rebecca, I don't mean to come across as self-centered, but did he say anything more about Sandia or my father? It could be important."
"He mumbled a lot of things, but most of it didn't make sense and wasn't even understandable," she said. Her voice was extremely weary.
"Thanks, Rebecca. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"I don't think so. I'm spending almost all my time at the hospital, on the chance he'll wake up. My best friend watches J.J. for me. We're doing okay."
"Well, call me if you think of anything." I gave her my number again.
Next, I called the office and asked Sally if Ron was in.
"Hey, kiddo," he greeted.
"Ron, I'm trying to locate an old co-worker of Dad's, a man named Harvey Taylor. The last address I got was an apartment on Carlisle, but that was really old. The sleazeball manager said he'd been there for several years but never heard of Taylor. He's not in the phone book. So do you have anything in your investigator's arsenal that might give me an address?"
"Only assuming that he's still in Albuquerque. If he's moved away, I'd need some information and more time."
"Do what you can that's easy, and I'll follow up on that," I told him before hanging up.
I pulled the picnic photo out of my purse and gave it another look. The faces were familiar to me by now. In light of the visits I'd made and the personalities involved, I tried to analyze the body language of those in the picture.
Dad stood at the far right in the photo, next to Larry Sanchez, his arm draped over Larry's shoulder. They both wore straight neutral faces. Next to Larry, in the center position, stood Harvey Taylor, tall and lanky with bushy sideburns down to his chin and blond hair that dipped in a thick wave to his eyebrows. His polyester shirt was open two buttons down and a gold chain with a big gold bear claw dangling from it made him a real middle-aged '70s fashion plate. He smiled a camera-smile, like most people do. Without having met the man, I didn't know how to read his expression.
Wendel Patterson, the oldest of the group, came next. His swagger and crooked smile came
through clearly in the photo. Both he and George Myers grinned at the camera in a way that made me think the photographer was probably the prettiest girl in the office. They had their arms over each other's shoulders in a good-ol'-buddy kind of posture.
Were George and Wendel really that carefree, or were they indeed flirting with someone behind the camera? Were Dad and Larry worried about something, or were they simply more serious about life? And, of everyone in the picture, why were they the two who'd suffered? I couldn't believe that was merely a coincidence.
The phone rang, startling me.
"Charlie, I've got a Harvey Taylor for you," Ron's voice began. "Can't say for sure it's the one from Sandia, but it's a current address and phone."
I wrote down the information and thanked him.
Taylor lived in Rio Rancho, the west-side community that had burst into rapid growth in just the last few years. I consulted the phone directory map and figured I could locate it. Rusty was thrilled to join me in the Jeep for the trek.
We headed north on Rio Grande and got on I-40. I vaguely knew that taking Rio Grande all the way to where it T'd at Alameda would also get us there, but had the feeling that the freeway would be quicker. I'd no sooner exited at Coors to head toward Rio Rancho than I quickly became disoriented.
Things change so quickly in Albuquerque. The miles of Coors Boulevard that used to be long and empty with no traffic lights now felt like it was smack in the middle of the city. Fast food places, new shopping centers, car dealerships, and heavy traffic had sprouted in a surprisingly short time. I stayed in the center lane, hoping that I wouldn't have trouble spotting my turn-off.
Luckily, the Chevron station that had always marked the intersection of 528 and Southern Boulevard was still there. I glanced at my map and made a couple of turns. The Taylor address was in the Country Club area, developed in the '60s and one of the few areas of Rio Rancho that has fully-developed trees and gives the feeling that it's been there longer than a few weeks. I pulled up in front of a little box that sported sparkling white vinyl siding and a brick-red shingle roof.
Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery Page 15
