Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (10 page)

"It's fine, thanks." I said goodbye to the
others, and went out to my car.

I had no definite plan where to go next, so I
headed back to the office. Back there, I found Sally in a slump.
Her period had started, dashing her hopes of motherhood for at
least another month. I spent a few minutes sounding sympathetic.
The ringing telephone saved me from having to come up with
something encouraging to say.

It was Sharon, checking to be sure I'd made
it out of Ben Murray's office alive. I appreciated her concern.
When I posed the question to her about the gun, she couldn't be
sure. She had never heard David talk about a gun, but that didn't
necessarily mean he didn't own one. After hanging up, I went into
Ron's office and dug out the file containing the police report. The
gun's serial number had checked out as being registered to David
Ruiz. It had been purchased a month ago. A copy of his permit had
been found in his wallet and photocopied for the police file. He
had purchased it at A&B Coins and Guns on Central Avenue. The
shop was only about three blocks from the restaurant.

I decided to stop by there later. In the
meantime, I placed a call to the IRS agent who had left the
messages for David. It was a good five minutes before agent Tom
McDonald came on the line. He sounded young, and more harassed than
hardboiled. He was interrupted twice before I got my whole story
out about who I was and what I wanted.

"Now, Ms....Parker, was it? I have the file
in front of me. What was it you needed?"

I repeated the spiel I had just given, about
how David had been killed, and I was trying to straighten out his
records. What I needed from McDonald was to find out what
they
needed.

"Just how far along was the audit?" I
asked.

"Well, the personal audit was well underway.
It's the business audit we're waiting for information on," he
said.

"Personal audit?"

"That's where we noticed the inconsistencies.
David Ruiz failed to provide adequate proof that his income from
the partnership coincided with the level he claimed on his personal
return. Additionally, his expenses triggered a red flag, forcing us
to initiate an audit of the business as well."

"David was living beyond his visible
means."

"Basically, yes," McDonald said.

He didn't seem terribly upset when I told him
it might be several more weeks before we could put together enough
information to give him what he needed. Of course penalties and
interest, if owed, would continue to accrue, he reminded me. That
fact established, he seemed more than happy to sit on the case for
as long as it took.

This could prove to be the final setback for
Sharon. Since David's estate apparently consisted of a car he'd
made six payments on, a dozen five-hundred dollar suits, and his
share of the business, I knew where the IRS would come looking for
their money. Looked like my old friend could be in deep shit.

I didn't want to break it to her on the
phone. Better to deliver the terrible news in person. To add to her
troubles, the evidence was beginning to suggest that perhaps David
had
killed himself, in which case the insurance policy
wasn't going to pay off. The compounding drain on her finances
could well send her into bankruptcy.

Damn David! I wished he would come back to
life just so I could punch him in his smug little nose. I glanced
at my watch. It was already nearing five o'clock. I wasn't sure
Sharon would be at the restaurant this late, but I had to give it a
try. Also, the gun shop, like most downtown businesses, would
probably be closing shortly. I grabbed my keys and purse, preparing
to leave for the day.

I made it as far as the kitchen, where Ron
just about opened the back door into my face.

"Hey, kid, glad I caught you," he said. He
seemed in good humor. "Vicky and I are going to try out that new
barbecue place tonight. Wanna come? Please...it's my treat."

What's got into him, I wondered. "I've got
two stops to make, and I need to go home to let Rusty out. Can I
still make it?"

"Seven-thirty. Come by my place and we'll all
ride together."

I would be cutting it close, but told him I'd
be there.

The street in front of Nouvelle Mexicano was
deserted, and as I had suspected, the place was dark and closed up
tight. I walked around the side and up the alley, which reeked from
overflowing trash bins. I got no answer to my knock on the back
door, either. I'd have to call Sharon at home if I got in early
enough.

By the time I found the gun shop, and a place
to park two doors down, a middle aged man with frazzled dark hair
was turning over the CLOSED sign in the window. The sign on their
door said they were open till five-thirty, and my watch said it was
only five-twenty. I tapped on the glass, and pointed to my watch.
He opened the door, although he didn't look too happy about it.

Inside, the place looked like it had been hit
by a burglar with a moving van.

"Sorry, we put all the merchandise in the
safe at night," he said tiredly. "If you know what you want, I
could bring it out."

"I just need information," I told him,
showing him my card. I pulled out the photocopy of the gun permit.
He glanced at it briefly.

"So?"

"I need to know if you remember this sale.
Would you recognize the man who bought the gun?"

"What was the name again?" He looked back at
the form, this time taking the time to read it. "Ruiz. Ruiz." His
eyes shifted upward as he searched for a visual memory.

"He came in here about a month ago," he said,
speaking slowly like a medium in a trance. "The whole thing took
about ten minutes. Guy knew exactly what he wanted. Walked in,
pointed it out in the case, bought one box of ammo, signed the
papers, and walked out."

"Did you check his identification?"

"He showed a driver's license. Everything
looked okay to me."

"Was this the man?" I showed him the photo
Bernice Ruiz had given me.

He studied it carefully. "It's hard to tell,
you know? A guy at a party, smiling, had a few drinks. Looks a
little different than when he's talking business, no smiles, just
gets right to the point. He looked a little younger in person, too,
you know. I'm pretty sure it's the same guy, though."

"He did show his driver's license?"

"Oh, yeah. I always check that."

I thanked him and left. Something nagged at
me. No one I'd spoken to had mentioned David having any knowledge
of guns. In fact, his mother had pretty adamantly denied it. Yet
this guy said the man walked right in and knew just what he wanted.
How would David know what to buy?

I turned the Jeep around, heading west toward
home. Maybe David figured a gun's a gun. Aimed point blank at your
temple, probably
any
gun will accomplish the job. Assuming a
knowledgeable, businesslike manner would allow him to complete the
transaction with a minimum of questions. Maybe that was just
David's way. Still, it bothered me.

It was seven-thirty-four when I pulled into
the lot at Ron's apartment building. As usual, finding a parking
spot was the real trick. Poor planning had resulted in a severe
shortage of spaces. Each apartment was allotted two, which worked
fine in Ron's case—one for himself and one for a visitor. However,
since the majority of the tenants were young couples with two cars,
their guests spilled over into any extras. Then there were the two
gay guys on the second floor, whose vehicles included a
twelve-year-old Mercedes, a Mustang convertible, some kind of
off-road square looking thing, and a pair of matching Honda
GoldWings. It always irked me that they took up so much space. If
they had money for all these toys, why didn't they live in a
classier place than this dump?

Visiting Ron's digs always depresses me. I
hate seeing my brother live like this, when it's so unnecessary.
When our parents died, they each had sizeable life insurance
policies. Ron, our brother Paul, and I each ended up with about a
hundred grand in cash after taxes and bills were paid. I got the
family home in addition—because I was the only one still living
there at the time, I guess. Our trusted family attorney managed to
bilk me out of about half of mine before I wised up, but that's
another story altogether. Anyway, Ron and Paul both bought homes
when they married, and the cash gave them a nice boost at a time
most newlyweds are struggling.

About eight years ago Ron's wife, Bernadette,
decided she wanted out of the marriage. She managed to take the
three kids, and the house and furnishings, which had all been paid
for with his inheritance. Ron got his clothes and a few pieces of
their old cast-off furniture. New Mexico is a community property
state, but don't believe for a minute that it insures fair
treatment. If one party is easy-going enough, and the other party
is selfish enough, anything is possible.

About that time Ron and I decided to start
the agency. I put up the money, and he did most of the legwork. To
this day, I have a hard time keeping a civil tongue when I have to
face Bernadette. This flat-roofed brick apartment building with the
paint peeling off its trim, the parking lot full of junker cars,
and the perpetual noise of screaming kids is too vivid a
reminder.

Ron answered his door on the first knock,
jacket in hand, ready to go. I couldn't help but wonder if he
didn't want me to see inside the place. He's not much of a
housekeeper.

"Let's take my car," I suggested. Two boys,
about seven or eight, were throwing a baseball back and forth.
Neither was a very good catcher, and the ball bounced off the roof
of someone's old Ford while I watched.

Ron gave directions to Vicky's place,
glancing nervously at his watch.

"She got another date if you don't show on
time?" I teased.

"Oh, no," he said a little too brightly. "I
was just checking the time."

I gave him a sidelong glance.

"Well, she made a real point of asking me to
be there by seven-forty-five."

"No problem, I can step on it a little."
Already I was becoming leery about the evening. I had not seen my
brother quite so entwined around a female's digits since
Bernadette. I really didn't want to see him start that scenario
over again.

Vicky's house was just off Eubank and Academy
Road, in a new subdivision jokingly called "poor Tanoan." The
Tanoan Country Club is just across the road, and within its walls
reside the elite of Albuquerque society. Albuquerque doesn't have a
wealth of tycoons. No Gettys, Perots, or DuPonts live here. But,
the next best thing, the successful surgeons, lawyers, businessmen,
and those who have come here from California where high property
values have left them searching for expensive homes, have settled
into Tanoan. We're talking homes in the four- to ten-thousand
square foot range. Not truly mansions, but not shabby, either. My
former fiancé, Brad North and my ex-best friend Stacy, live
there.

“Poor Tanoan,” on the other hand, has sprung
up just outside the walls for the wannabees. Lacking in sufficient
status, not to mention the bucks it takes to get inside, they've
settled into the grouping of impressive, albeit smaller homes on
the fringes. These little places run to about three thousand square
feet, and boast lots of bevelled glass front doors and landscaping
that looks like it's been trimmed with nail scissors—just like the
rich neighbors. Vicky's house was such a place. I felt bad about
not washing the Jeep before parking it here.

"Wow, what does this girl do for a living?" I
spurted out the words before I realized how it sounded.

"She's an interior designer, remember?
Impressive, huh? Wait'll you see inside."

Ron pressed the doorbell. A long churchlike
pealing of chimes went off somewhere far inside. Vicky opened the
door almost immediately. This time she wore a pair of those
stretchy black pants that look like hell on anyone over a hundred
pounds. Her stomach, I noticed, was flat as a board. A stretch top
that looked like it had been made out of an old pair of tights hit
her just below the breasts, leaving three or four inches of
well-tanned tummy showing. She started to take a step out, ready to
leave immediately.

"Hey, we have a minute, don't we?" Ron said.
"I wanted Charlie to see how nice you've done your place."

She glanced at her watch, making it very
obvious that she didn't want to linger. Ron was unaware, though. He
stepped right past her, leaving Vicky and me no alternative but to
follow.

Pale shades of cream and apricot dominated
the impeccable entry and living room. The latter was large enough
to hold two furniture groupings, arranged to make the big room look
cozier. The sofas wore an elegant cream colored silk, the side
chairs were apricot velvet with a Southwestern pattern subtly woven
into it. A baby grand piano in the corner had been finished in the
same delicate apricot. Arrangements of silk flowers accented
specific places around the room. It literally looked like a page
out of
House Beautiful
. I had to admit, her taste in
furnishings beat her taste in clothes all to heck.

A bookcase, floor to ceiling, filled one
short section of wall. Behind its glass doors stood an assortment
of all the right books, looking like they had never once been
opened. A few items of personal memorabilia were arranged between
them, among them a picture of a smiling baby propped up among a
collection of stuffed toys. It was a nice photo, eight-by-ten in an
expensive decorator frame. Somehow it looked familiar to me, but I
couldn't imagine how.

The room's pile carpeting showed vacuum
cleaner tracks, and I imagined that Vicky flinched as Ron trekked
across to the far side. He pointed out the city lights view from
the room's wall of glass on the west side. That was about as far as
we got. Vicky hovered like a nervous mother cat, obviously eager to
have us on our way. She hit a couple of light switches, plainly
indicating that this was as far as the house tour would go. For an
interior designer she wasn't very eager to show off her work. How
did she know that I wasn't ready to do a makeover on my old
place?