Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (16 page)

The temperature had cooled somewhat from
earlier in the week. It felt good. In the park, the elm and
sycamore trees were almost fully leafed out. A huge willow, which
hung gracefully over the small pond, was already covered in soft
green. A pair of ducks hit the water as soon as they sensed Rusty.
He didn't even notice them. We circled the park, Rusty tugging at
his leash, wanting the freedom to run. I unclipped the leash, then
leaned back against a tree trunk and watched him rip off across the
green. He wouldn't go far. It was his custom to act like a young
pup for about three minutes, then come trailing back slowly to flop
at my feet.

My mind was still full of numbers. I took
several deep breaths, not really wanting to clear them away, but
trying to get a fresh perspective on them. For Sharon's sake, I
didn't want to find out that her partner had been embezzling. I
wasn't sure how I'd tell her. I'd need more evidence before I could
say for sure, anyway. I thought back to the small desk in David's
apartment. Had he kept bank statements? Perhaps I should get back
there before the relatives had a chance to clear out the place.
Monday was the last day of the month. Odds were the apartment
management would expect the place to be vacated by the first.

Rusty trotted toward me, his tongue hanging
impossibly far out one side of his mouth.

"Hey, boy, have a nice run?" I put my arms
around his neck. His fur was hot, with that distinctive dusty doggy
smell. I was suddenly glad to have him. Thursday night's attack was
still too fresh for comfort. He pulled back as my hug became too
confining.

"Come on, kid, let's head back. We've got an
errand to do."

We didn't even go into the house when we got
back. I pulled my keys from my jeans pocket, and Rusty was happy to
hop into the back seat of the Jeep. The sun was low over the
volcanoes to the west by the time we arrived at David's apartment
complex.

A light shone behind the living room drapes,
and the front door stood open. A short Hispanic man with thinning
hair was just backing out.

"Excuse me," I said.

He jumped visibly, and I apologized for
startling him.

"The place will be available on Wednesday,"
he said gruffly.

I peeked beyond him, and saw that David's
furniture was still in place.

"I'm not looking for a place to rent," I told
him. "I'm a friend of David's."

"Oh. Well, when is his stuff gonna be out? I
gotta get this place rented."

"Actually, I came to organize some of it
myself. I think his father is arranging to do something with the
furniture."

He seemed content with that. He stepped
aside. "Lock the door when you leave," he instructed.

I watched him shuffle down the sidewalk
toward the center of the complex. Closing the door behind me, I
once again faced the empty apartment. There were subtle differences
from my last visit. The fast food wrappers had been thrown in the
trash, the bathroom neatened a bit. There was fingerprint dust on
quite a few surfaces. I wondered if the police had cleaned out
David's desk.

They hadn't. I could tell the papers had been
shuffled through, but I couldn't see that anything was missing. The
bottom drawer still held a conglomeration of files and various
blank notepads. Under a pad of paper headed "From the desk of David
Ruiz" lay a stack of bank statements. It didn't look like the
police had even noticed anything this far down.

The statements appeared to be in reverse
chronological order, like David had tossed each month's statement
in on top of the last. Some of the envelopes had not even been
opened. Sloppy work for a financial man.

I peeked into a couple of the envelopes that
were already open. One of the statements showed a bank charge for
safe deposit box rental. The key. I had completely forgotten the
safe deposit box key on David's keyring. My mind churned with the
possibilities. A perfect place to stash illicit cash. But, if he
had lots of extra cash, why would he be behind with his bills?
Actually, as I recalled, his personal bills, although sizeable, had
been up to date. It was the restaurant, and therefore Sharon, that
was suffering. Now that David was dead, it would take a court order
to get into the safe deposit box. I probably should mention it to
Kent Taylor, although I had the distinct feeling he was getting
tired of me.

As for the bank statements, obviously I would
need to take them home and compare them side by side with the
business financials before I could see anything definite. I felt a
little larcenous taking them with me, but after all, who would
care? The police had already had their chance at them. And, I could
have them back here by the time any of the family would notice.

I scanned the apartment once more, but saw
nothing else that would help me. I didn't have David's keyring with
me, so I just twisted the lock on the inside of the doorknob and
pulled it shut behind me. Rusty was sitting in the front passenger
seat, nose pressed to the thin strip of open window I had left for
him. It was dark now, and he was worried. I bought him a
cheeseburger at McDonald's to appease him.

At home, there was one message on the
answering machine. Drake Langston had called to say he missed me.
The sound of his voice made my throat get a little tight. He said
he had to fly to the Big Island tonight, and would try to call me
again tomorrow.

I tossed David's bank statements on my desk
next to the restaurant printouts, but was too tired to think about
numbers again just yet. I dialed Sharon's number, and she answered
on the second ring.

"I don't know whether you're the person I
should notify about this, but you're the one I know the best," I
began. I told her about David's landlord wanting his apartment
cleared out by Monday.

"His parents are still pretty shaken up," she
said. "Maybe I ought to call the cousin, Michael Mann. He lives in
the same area, and seems like an organized guy."

Yeah. Hearing Michael's name re-conjured all
the thoughts I'd had last night about the Ron-Vicky-Michael
situation. I was more than glad to let Sharon talk to him. I was
not looking forward to Ron's return tomorrow evening.

Chapter 20

Saturday night with nowhere to go, and not
wanting to be alone with my thoughts. My head was full of David,
Sharon, Ron, Vicky, Michael, financial statements, bank statements,
and mushy love letters. Frankly, I was tired of all of them.

The back of my skull was beginning to throb
again. The stitches were out now, but the wound was not gone. I
wanted to go back in time three weeks, snuggling into Drake's arms,
sipping tropical drinks in a nice restaurant beside the ocean.

I took two Tylenol, peeled off my shorts and
top to slip into my snugly terry robe, and flipped open the TV
schedule. Channel 14 was showing
Casablanca
. I'd probably be
sorry, but I turned it on anyway. Two hours later I wiped the tears
off my face, and felt much better. Rusty and I made a cup of hot
chocolate and shared two Oreos before hitting the sack.

High, thin clouds formed a pale gray ceiling
Sunday morning when I woke up. A glance at my bedside clock told me
I had slept ten hours. I must have needed it. My head felt much
better, and I was actually eager to get back to work on Sharon's
financial statements.

I pulled on an old favorite pair of
sweatpants and loose t-shirt. A splash of water on my face, and
combing my hair back into a ponytail were my only allowances toward
vanity this morning. Rusty gobbled his breakfast while I peeled an
orange and made some toast. I carried this sumptuous feast into my
office with me.

Almost from the start, a pattern began to
emerge. David's bank account grew as the business's profits
dwindled. He wasn't even smooth about it. No doubt the IRS man
pegged this right away. No wonder he hadn't sounded concerned over
the phone. He must have had David's number almost immediately. Poor
Sharon. After the IRS attached liens for their share, and David's
creditors got through with the rest, it was doubtful she would
retrieve much.

I wasn't looking forward to breaking the news
to her. Perhaps the best way would be to make out a full report.
Seeing the numbers in black and white might make it a little more
real to her. I pulled out a columnar pad and began making notes. It
was after one o'clock before I looked up again.

It was entirely possible that David's
relatives would choose a Sunday to clear out his apartment, and I
began to get antsy over having his bank statements still in my
possession. Maybe I ought to go by the office and photocopy them,
and return the originals to his place. Rusty looked eager for
another outing, so I grabbed the papers I needed, David's keyring,
and my purse, and headed for the door.

The weather had turned decidedly cooler. The
high thin clouds were now thick and dark—a rumble of low thunder
sounding in the distance. I picked up a lightweight jacket, just in
case.

The office had a deserted feel to it. In the
two days since anyone had been there, an industrious spider had
started a web across the back door. The rooms were cool and dim. I
switched on lights, trying to dispel the hollow feeling. Microwaved
a cup of water and made myself some tea. Rusty clicked around
behind me wherever I went.

While the copier warmed up, I sorted through
the papers I had brought. It would probably be a good idea to stick
an extra copy of my findings into Sharon's file here, in addition
to the one I planned to give her. The machine hummed as I fed the
sheets into it. I didn't notice Rusty leaving the room, or see the
male silhouette in my doorway until he cleared his throat.

"Ron! You big shit! You scared the hell out
of me," I panted, patting my chest to get my heartbeat back to
normal.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to," he said.

"So, how was your weekend?" I asked. "You're
back kind of early." I was hoping like crazy that he'd say they had
fought the whole time, and had broken it off. No such luck.

He practically glowed as he told me how much
fun they'd had. The only reason they were back this early was
because it had started raining hard, and he didn't want to be
caught in the worst of the traffic in bad weather.

My mind had been so absorbed with numbers and
finances that I really hadn't planned exactly how I'd bring up the
subject of Vicky and Michael with him. I took the coward's way out,
and invited him to dinner at six. It would give me another four
hours to come up with something.

When I left, Ron was looking through the
Saturday mail that had been shoved through the slot in the front
door. The traffic on the freeway was not bad. The heavy clouds had
moved away from the city, hovering now on top of Sandia Peak like a
giant gray fur cap. I steered into a parking slot at David's
apartment building about twenty minutes later.

My eyes scanned the area, wondering whether I
would run into anyone I knew, but all was quiet. The apartment
looked just the way I'd left it the night before. I slipped the
bank statements back into their hiding place, and made my way out
again without being seen by anyone.

All the way home, I let myself shift back
into Ron-Vicky mode, trying to plan what on earth I might say to
him that evening. Maybe making his favorite dinner would help
soften the blow a little. I stopped at the grocery, and picked up
chicken, potatoes, and fresh corn.

An hour later, I remembered why I don't cook,
especially fried foods. Flour, salt, pepper, potato peels, and corn
husks littered the counter tops. A fine mist of oil spatter covered
my range top and probably the surrounding walls, if I looked hard
enough. It would take a week to get it all off.

All I could say was, Ron better appreciate
this. Kentucky Fried Chicken would have been so much easier.

By six o'clock, the kitchen was back in some
semblance of order, and the table was set. We would eat in the
kitchen, I decided. Making his favorite dinner was one thing, but
eating it in the dining room would definitely clue him in that
something was wrong.

Rusty met Ron at the door, and the two of
them rough housed in the back yard for a few minutes while I set
out the food.

"This looks great," Ron said, breathing hard
from Rusty's workout.

He washed his hands, then proceeded to load
his plate high with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn,
and salad. Luckily, conversation wasn't called for right away. I
commented that his face looked a little sunburned. I felt stiff and
awkward, and hated the fact that I was postponing what I really had
to say.

"Where's the pecan pie?" Ron asked, wiping a
big greasy place off his face.

I actually had one, but was wanting to save
it as a peace offering. I brought it out, and suggested that we
brew some coffee first.

"Is it Grandma Franklin's recipe?"

"No, Elsa’s, actually. I wasn't
that
organized. She had it in her freezer."

"What is it, Charlie? You've been acting
weird all evening. I haven't been your brother all these years
without figuring out when something's bothering you."

The coffee sputtered through the drip spout
while I tried to come up with a way to begin.

"It's Vicky, isn't it?" he asked gently,
pulling my chin toward him with his index finger.

I nodded.

"You think she's too young for me, don't
you?" His voice was indulgent.

I shrugged. It wasn't untrue. I could sense
that he was about to launch into justification of their ages, and I
didn't want to get into that. He needed to know the truth.

"Ron, I think she's too
married
for
you."

Denial was immediate. "She's divorced."

I reached to the top of the refrigerator
where I had stashed my evidence. I handed him the envelope I had
swiped from their dining room table, addressed to Michael and Vicky
Mann.