Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (20 page)

I remembered the mysterious sounding message
I'd left on Ron's answering machine, and decided I better clarify
it. I was hoping to get the machine again, so I wouldn't have to
fully explain myself, but no such luck. Ron picked up on the first
ring.

"Charlie, where the hell are you?" he
demanded.

"At Pedro's, having enchiladas. Want to join
me?"

He grumbled something about a frozen dinner
in the oven. I imagined his empty apartment with the ratty
furniture and the rude neighbors clumping around overhead. I felt
badly for him.

"Come over for a drink later, if you like," I
offered. "Meanwhile, I guess I better free up the phone here."

His goodbye came out rather mumbled, and I
got the idea I wouldn't be seeing him later. It was just as well. I
wanted the chance to go through the papers in my purse and see if I
could find a clue. There must be some link between David Ruiz and
Ben Murray that would make it to Ben's advantage to get rid of
David. Mere tax evasion probably wouldn't be enough. It looked like
Murray had a lot bigger fish in his little pond than David
Ruiz.

My enchilada plate was empty, and I still
hadn't come up with any brilliant ideas. I paid my check and
chit-chatted with Pedro and Concha for a couple of minutes before
heading home.

The spring evening was still and warm. It was
that magic time of evening when the sun has gone down but it isn't
dark yet. It's a time of day you'd like to freeze and keep
somewhere for when you need a good dose of tranquility.

I pulled my mail out of the box and let Rusty
romp around the back yard while I sat on the patio and opened it.
Bills and catalogs, mostly.

I thought about the police and wondered
whether they had any new leads on the case. Somehow, I didn't get
the feeling they'd made the Ben Murray connection yet, although I
couldn't be sure. What other leads were there? David's life seemed
to consist of his business and his women, and having lots of nice
things to impress those women. Maybe I ought to do a bit more
asking around about his personal life.

Sharon had said she didn't know that much
about the women he dated. If she didn't know, who would? Not his
parents. They seemed to believe he was serious about that girl from
the church. Not likely, given the pictures I'd seen in his office
of the beautiful model types he usually escorted around. A male
friend might know. Tomorrow I'd do some more checking.

The light was gone, and Rusty lay at my side,
panting. I took him inside and gave him a scoop of his food. I had
taken all the Nouvelle Mexicano financials to the office with me,
so I'd have to wait until the following day to compare them with
the papers I'd stolen from Murray.

When I arrived at the office the next
morning, though, all thoughts of financial statements were shoved
aside. Kent Taylor from Homicide was waiting for me.

"Where's Ron?" He tried to act casual, but
somehow I knew it was an official visit.

"I don't know, Kent. I just got here." Wasn't
that obvious? We were standing in the reception area, and I turned
to Sally, my eyebrows up.

She shrugged. "He hasn't checked in yet."

I steered Kent upstairs to my office. He took
a place on the couch. He started to lean back, but couldn't hold
the pose. He ended up sitting on the edge of the cushion, his
forearms resting on his knees.

"Kent, what's happened?" He was shuffling
around so much, I began to worry.

"Is Ron dating a girl named Vicky
Padilla-Mann?"

"Why?"

"I had a visit last night from her
husband."

"You guys take philandering wives cases
now?"

He shot me a get-real kind of look. The
silence began to get uncomfortable.

"He didn't know she was married, Kent. He
just found out, and took it really hard. It's over now."

"Good. She's bad news. And her husband is
worse."

"Michael Mann? He's a successful real estate
broker. He may not be a very attentive husband, but he's no Jack
the Ripper, is he? He certainly provides well for her."

"You knew he was David Ruiz's cousin, didn't
you?" he asked.

"Yes, in fact I first met him at the
funeral."

"He told me David was messing around with
some Mafia types. That he'd gotten into some money troubles with
them."

"Mafia? In Albuquerque?"

"We're not talking East Coast mob families,
Charlie, but yes, that kind of thing goes on here. With our drug
connection to Mexico, we've managed to attract some pretty heavy
hitters."

"What does this have to do with Ron and
Vicky?"

"Nothing, directly. After Mann visited me
last night, I decided to do some checking into his background.
Found out that he had a wife named Vicky, and I remembered
something Ron had said about his girl named Vicky. I just wanted to
warn him away from her. Glad to know he's already broken it
off."

"Do you think Michael had some other reason
for visiting you, Kent?"

This was the first clue I'd had about any
drug connection, but the more I thought about the names in Murray's
files, the more it made sense.

"Not that I could find out," Kent replied.
"He isn't involved with the drug guys, if that's what you
mean."

I debated whether to tell Kent what I knew
about David's embezzling. I decided he'd been pretty candid with
me, and maybe I owed it to him. Not to mention that obstruction of
justice charges later on could prove rather embarrassing. Briefly,
I outlined for him what I'd found in going through Nouvelle
Mexicano's books. I made it clear to him that Sharon had known
nothing about what was going on. I left out the part about Ben
Murray. He could figure out that connection for himself, if there
was one. Meantime, if he rushed right over to Murray's, it would be
pretty obvious who had been into the files last night. I wanted to
have a some more evidence under my belt before that little tidbit
came out.

Taylor left before Ron came in, which was
just as well. Ron didn't need his wounds opened again quite so
soon.

I sat at my desk for quite some time,
pondering everything. David involved with the mob? It could be, but
somehow it just didn't fit. Everything I'd seen so far made it look
like David was just a small time guy doing a little personal white
collar crime. Murray might have coached him on the procedure, but
even with the accountant's help, he hadn't covered his tracks too
well. He was nowhere near smooth enough to satisfy the mob.

And, why on earth would Michael Mann go to
the police with that kind of information on his own cousin? Michael
and David had been close. I remembered the pictures I'd seen at the
Ruiz home. Closer than brothers.

I pulled the sheaf of stolen papers from my
purse. David's file was in the cabinet in Ron's office, and I
brought it to my desk. Page by page, I compared the two. Definitely
two sets of books. I was surprised that David had kept the real
figures in his computer at the restaurant. Murray's records showed
the official set that went to the IRS, the banks, and to Sharon.
David's big mistake had been in depositing so much money to his own
account. When his personal return was audited, the natural place
for the feds to look would be the business. No wonder he didn't
want to return those phone calls.

It was after noon, and Ron still hadn't come
in. My stomach was telling me something, so I decided to go out for
a burger. Sally said Ron had called. He had been in a meeting with
the insurance company all morning in connection with his fraud
case. Would probably be in around two. She was about caught up with
her work, and wondered if she should wait for Ron or just leave. I
told her to leave. We could handle the afternoon by ourselves. I
offered to bring back a burger for her, but she said no. She and
Ross were going shopping for new backpacks.

I was at the kitchen table, the burger and
fries almost gone, when I heard Ron's car pull in. He looked about
a million percent better today. At least he had shaved, and his
shirt was pressed.

"Thanks for delivering those pictures
yesterday," he said. "I got tied up later than I thought I
would."

"No problem. Hungry?" I held out the
cardboard folder of french fries. He waved them away. "You doing
okay?" I asked.

His gaze scooted across the floor. "Yeah.
Fine."

It wasn't the time to mention Kent Taylor's
visit. Ron was having enough difficulty dealing with his pain.
Nothing in the David Ruiz case was relevant to him, anyway. I
watched him go upstairs. I crushed my hamburger wrapper, gathered
the other remains of lunch, and threw it all in the trash. I
couldn't stop thinking about the many facets of David Ruiz. What
had happened that night in the parking lot? What had turned on him?
Which of the many people in his world had wanted him dead?

The phone began ringing when I was halfway up
the stairs. I dashed for it, not counting on Ron to be aware of it.
I was breathless when I picked it up. It was Sharon.

"Charlie? You okay?"

I assured her I was.

"I just wanted to check on you," she said. "I
got the funniest feeling last night that you might have gone back
to confront Ben Murray."

"You haven't heard from him again, have you?"
I asked, my stomach tightening.

"Oh, no," she assured me.

"I did go on a little fact-finding mission,"
I said. "But there was no confrontation."

I sensed that she wanted to hear more, but it
was probably best that I keep my larcenous little escapade to
myself. I told her I felt close to finding some answers, and would
keep her posted. I managed to end the call without giving away more
than that.

I had picked up the phone while standing in
front of my desk, and during the conversation had walked around to
my chair, stretching the phone cord as I went. Now, seated in my
chair, I realized that my foot had connected with something on the
floor under the desk. I reached down to pick it up. It was the
letter I'd pilfered from Vicky's house. It must have fallen out of
my purse earlier when I'd pulled out Murray's reports.

The paper had become somewhat dog-eared. I
opened it again, and reread the brief note. Suddenly, I knew who
one of the key players was. To confirm it, I'd have to pay a
visit.

Chapter 25

Veronica's house was a modest one in an area
of town the old timers still called "the hill." Albuquerque began
in the valley near the Rio Grande river, the Old Town area. As the
town spread to the east, the terrain rose. My father used to say,
"I'm going up the hill." Meaning he was driving from the valley up
Central to the newer area. Now days, of course, the city has spread
in every direction, including well into the foothills of the Sandia
mountains, so "the hill" really isn't so very high after all.

It was a flat-roofed square little box,
probably two bedrooms and one bath, as were most of its neighbors.
The yard had been landscaped in gray river rock and hardy
evergreens, probably because the place was now a rental, and there
was less maintenance involved. Many of the neighboring homes looked
more inviting with tall deciduous trees, colorful flower beds, and
neatly trimmed lawns. The block hadn't gone completely over to
rentals yet, as many others in the area had.

There were two cars in the driveway, a gray
Honda and a five- or six-year old Volkswagen. The kind driven by
college students whose parents had a little spare money.

I rang the bell and waited. It was
mid-afternoon—late enough, I hoped, that Veronica would be here.
She answered after a long four minutes. She was wearing jeans and a
plaid shirt, tied in a knot at the waist. Her long hair was pulled
into a ponytail, and even through the screen door I could see beads
of perspiration on her forehead.

"Yes?" she said, breathlessly.

"Hi, I'm Charlie Parker. Remember me? I ran
into you at the University Bakery the other day?"

"Oh, yes! Goodness, what are you doing here?"
She wiped her hands on the thighs of her jeans. "I'm sorry," she
said, "I didn't mean to be rude. Come on in."

She held the screen open to me. "I'm just
moving in," she explained. "My folks helped me move my furniture
this past weekend, but I'm still putting the little stuff
away."

"Want something to drink? I think we have
some Cokes, maybe an open bottle of white wine..."

"No, that's all right. I didn't mean to
interrupt."

"I needed a break anyway. I'm having a Coke,
how about you?"

"Well, if you're getting one anyway."

I waited in the living room while she went to
the kitchen. It looked like a college student's place. The
furniture appeared to be the cast-offs from several parent's
homes—everything at least ten years old, nothing matching. I
remembered a lot of good times in friend's homes just like
this.

Veronica came back with two frigid-looking
red cans, the store brand, not the real thing. I pulled the top on
mine, and sat in an upholstered chair that had been slipcovered
with a geometric-patterned sheet. It was surprisingly comfortable.
Veronica took the sofa, planting her rear in one corner, and
stretching her legs out across the cushions.

"Oh, that feels good," she said, arching her
back slightly and taking a long pull on the soft drink. "I've been
unpacking boxes since I got back from class at noon. I had no idea
I owned so much junk."

"You have a roommate? I noticed two cars
outside."

"Two, Tammy and Jennifer. Tammy's the red VW.
I think she's in her room asleep. They're sisters, and they share
one room. I've got the other to myself. Their parents own the
house, but made them get a roommate to help with expenses."

She took another drink from her soda. "But
that's not why you came, is it?"

"Actually, no," I said. I hadn't gone to the
trouble of calling her parents on the pretense of being a school
friend for this, exactly, but every tidbit of information helped. I
pulled the letter out of my purse.