Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (21 page)

"Do you recognize this?"

She took it from me, her face draining of
color.

"Where did you get this?"

"Where did you lose it?" I didn't think this
would be the appropriate time to admit to breaking and entering her
sister's house.

"I don't know," she said slowly. "With the
moving and all... My parents haven't seen this, have they?"

"Not yet. Do you want to explain?"

"Steve sent me these letters. I asked Vicky
to keep them for me so Mother and Dad wouldn't find them. I went
over to get them from Vicky's house on Friday."

"Veronica, don't your parents know about
Steve? Why would you have to hide his letters?"

She set down her drink can, and leaned back.
She unconsciously stroked the letter as she talked.

"My parents are very, very Catholic. They
have very, very Catholic ideas about me someday marrying a very,
very Catholic boy. Steve happens to be somewhat Jewish."

"Somewhat?"

"He's not real religious, and I guess his
family is just so-so about it. They aren't the problem. I guess I'm
the problem. I haven't found the nerve to stand up to my parents
yet."

She turned and sat up straight now, her feet
on the floor. A bitter little laugh came out. "Look at me,
twenty-four years old, working in a law firm—that's where I met
Steve—almost through college, living at home until this week, and
still under my mother's thumb."

She had the situation pretty well pegged, I
thought.

"Don't worry, Veronica, you're getting there.
You'll tell them when the time is right."

I drained the last of my drink and set the
can on the table, giving her a few more moments to put her thoughts
together.

"So, Vicky was keeping the letters for you?"
I asked. "Did she ever say anything about them? Did Michael know
she had them?"

"I don't think so. Vicky doesn't tell Michael
everything."

Well, that was understating it a bit.

"You and Vicky seem so different," I
commented. "All the twins I've ever known were so identical it was
uncanny."

"We're mirror image twins," she said. "I'm
right handed, she's left. I have this mole on the right side of my
mouth, Vicky's is on the left. Those are the physical differences.
Emotionally, though, we might not even be related at all."

She glanced around the room, like she didn't
want to look directly at me. Her voice was sad when she resumed. "I
don't know why we're so different. It's like Vicky has something
missing inside, something like ... I don't know ... compassion? She
doesn't seem to consider others before she acts, you know."

I knew.

"When we were little she always took whatever
she wanted. She got the softer bed, the prettier dresses, the
bigger cookie. My parents never seemed to notice. When we got out
of high school, Vicky decided she didn't want to bother with
college. She was working in a real estate office that summer, and
she met Michael. He was engaged at the time, but she wanted him. No
one was going to stop her. She set up a compromising situation
where his fiancé couldn't help but catch them. Once the engagement
was broken, she had him."

"Did she love him?"

"She thought she did." Veronica paused and
stared again at the rug. "It's sad, but I don't think Vicky loves
anyone but herself."

Chapter 26

Veronica was still sitting on the sofa when I
left. I didn't think she'd gained any truly new insights into her
sister's personality during the course of our conversation, but
perhaps it was the first time she'd put words to her thoughts. It
must be hard to face the reality of a loved one's true nature,
especially in someone as close as a twin. Especially when the
picture you get is not particularly flattering.

I drove down the street a couple of blocks
before stopping. I didn't want Veronica to see me sitting in my car
in front of her house. Pulling the phone book from behind the seat,
I shuffled the pages until I found the listing for the real estate
office where Michael worked. I didn't relish the idea of facing
him, particularly if the truth about Vicky and Ron had come out.
Somehow, I didn't picture Vicky telling him, and I was sure Ron
hadn't. He'd seen enough results of these love triangle situations
to know that he'd be better off keeping his mouth shut.

The Maxwell Company had offices all over
town. I tried to remember, from Michael's business card, which one
he worked in. I thought it was the Uptown Plaza office. It was
about twenty minutes away, so I headed that direction.

Traffic was beginning to thicken, slowing in
direct proportion to people's eagerness to get home. Getting to
Uptown Plaza took close to thirty minutes. Finding a parking space,
at least, did not prove difficult. Obviously, the real estate crowd
thinned out even earlier than most. I wondered whether Michael
would still be in. The answer came when I spotted his green Jag
parked at the far edge of the lot, taking two spaces, shaded by one
of the few trees which dotted the parking lot.

Inside, the building was almost frigid in
comparison to the June heat outside. In light summer clothing, it
was like walking into a refrigerator. The Maxwell Company was
located on the third floor, according to the directory of white
plastic letters on the wall. I pressed the up arrow next to the
elevator.

William Maxwell had built his company on the
wow-them-with-your-success theory. Nothing was done second rate.
The real estate mega-firm was the largest in Albuquerque, and they
showed it. The elevator doors opened to reveal the Maxwell name and
logo in thick gold lettering covering the entire wall in front of
me. Carpet that felt like marshmallows and looked like the ocean on
an overcast day spread out before me in a seamless expanse of
blue-gray calm. Upholstered furniture of burgundy and cream stripes
and patterns stood in intimate groupings, while a variety of plants
and antique porcelain pieces gave the place an air of elegant
hominess. Classical music unobtrusively filled the air.

The only human in sight was a receptionist
seated at an antique table, which looked to me to be of French
origin. The woman was about twenty-five, dressed in a pale apricot
suit with just the right number of gold jewelry accents decorating
her person. She had deep chestnut hair, worn to her shoulders, in a
style which managed to tread a very fine line between businesslike
and sexy.

She glanced up at me, but didn't speak until
I approached her desk. Clearly, people in jeans were not often seen
in here. The very air in the place would discourage the
riff-raff.

"May I help you?" A barely disguised
what-do-you-want.

I drew myself up, willing my voice to come
out low and cultured.

"I'm here to see Michael Mann," I told
her.

We went through a short session of b.s. about
whether I had an appointment; no I didn't; she'd have to see
whether he was available; what was my name. Tiresome.

I was told to take a chair. Eventually,
Michael appeared from somewhere deep and mysterious, apparently
surprised to see me. He faked cordiality well, though.

"Could we talk privately?" I asked, looking
pointedly toward Miss Apricot Perfect.

"Certainly." He guided my elbow gently down a
wide hallway.

There was more hustle going on back here than
was evident from the reception area. Several of the brokers sat at
their desks, their doors open. Most had their jackets off, shirt
sleeves rolled up. Phone conversations tended to be lively.

The decor in the broker's offices was only
slightly less formal than the reception area. Michael's door had
his name in gold letters. His furniture was not antique, but it was
the best you could find in a standard office furniture store. The
art consisted of R.C. Gorman lithographs, signed and numbered. An
eight by ten of Vicky, lips pursed, eyelids half lowered, stood on
the credenza behind his desk.

He indicated the chair across the desk from
himself. I let myself sink back, adopting the most relaxed posture
I could manage under the circumstances. Staring at Vicky's sexy
pose irritated me, so I angled myself away from her. Now that I was
here, I wasn't sure whether I wanted to discuss Vicky or David.
Both problems bothered me.

Michael wasn't helping. He didn't say a word,
but rested his elbow on the arm of his chair while feeding his
lower lip between his teeth with his index finger. His steady brown
eyes never left my face.

I'm not one who feels comfortable with long
silences. If Michael knew about Ron and Vicky, he was waiting for
me to broach the subject. I decided to stick to safer ground.

"How is David's family doing?"

"They'll make it."

"His mother is lucky to have good friends
like the Padillas standing by her."

"Yeah."

Obviously, my visit here was unwanted, and my
little attempts at chit-chat weren't breaking the ice. Michael's
helpful attitude the day of the funeral had vanished. I had the
very uncomfortable feeling that he knew about Ron.

"The police seem to think David might have
had something going with the mob," I said. "I hadn't turned up that
connection myself. Did he ever say anything to you?"

"My cousin apparently had a lot of things
going on that no one knew about," he said. The brown eyes had begun
to bore into me.

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. I'm sure you've turned up the
important stuff."

What was he getting at? Why wouldn't he just
say what he thought David had been into? He'd approached Kent
Taylor with this supposed hot flash of information. Why not
elaborate?

"Well, I guess this is a bad time," I
said.

Obviously, he wasn't going to open up as he
had before. I picked up my purse and stood up. The intercom buzzer
startled me.

"Michael, your wife is on the phone," the
brunette voice informed him.

"Tell her I've left for the day." His voice
was sharper than expected.

My eyes strayed to the photo on the
credenza.

"My wife. Vicky," he said. "A beautiful,
lying, cheating little slut." The last words came out through
clenched teeth.

My expression must have amused him. The
corners of his mouth turned upward in a sarcastic imitation of a
smile.

I felt my heart rate quicken, my breathing
becoming shallow. I consciously worked at making my face neutral. I
had no way of knowing how much he knew.

"Her latest fling had taken to sending
letters. Sickening stuff. Very foolish, putting ones feelings in
writing like that." His eyes had become hard points of obsidian.
The voice was steely.

I could almost feel heat emanating from the
hidden letter in the side pocket of my purse.

"He paid the price. Now it's her turn. Dear
little Vicky is going to be out so fast she won't know what hit
her." He wasn't really talking to me any more; his words were more
reflection than conversation. He ran his fingers through his hair,
gripping at the sides of his head as if in pain.

The office seemed too secluded now. I edged
my way to the door, opening it, and positioning myself for a quick
break.

"I really should be going, Michael."

He gave me the oddest look, as if he weren't
sure when I'd gotten there. He came around the desk toward me. I
was aware that the hallway and other offices had become dark and
quiet. Not just quiet. Deserted.

Chapter 27

Michael's phrases kept spinning around in my
head. Somehow I had to make sense of it. I wanted to explain to him
that the letters weren't Vicky's, that she'd only been keeping them
for her sister. But Michael wasn't listening.

The man coming toward me didn't even resemble
the composed businessman I had known as Michael Mann. His hair
stuck out at wild angles where he'd run his fingers through it. His
eyes were distant, as though he had somehow retreated inside
himself.

"Michael," I said. My voice sounded loud and
shaky to me. It echoed through the hall, and I knew the rest of the
staff had gone home.

He didn't look at me. His eyes, and
apparently his thoughts, were elsewhere.

I edged my way out into the hall. Walking
half sideways, always keeping an eye on his door, I headed for the
elevator and pressed the button. The lights were turned out now,
except for a table lamp in the reception area. Dim gray light from
the outside windows filtered through the open doorways of the
associate's offices. Shadows, deep and eerie, filled all the
corners. I could hear Michael's voice, almost chanting, the words
unintelligible. The elevator wasn't coming nearly fast enough.

Michael still had not left his office when
the doors behind me silently slid open. I wasn't sure I had ever
been so glad to find myself alone as I was when those doors
enclosed me.

My hand was shaking when I aimed my key at
the door lock on my Jeep. Inside, I switched on the air
conditioning, so I wouldn't have to slide the windows down. A
glance back toward the building revealed nothing behind its
reflective windows.

Coronado shopping center was only a block
away. I pulled in, looking for a pay phone. Michael's words
he
paid the price
haunted me. Had he found out about Ron, and
believed that Ron sent the letters? I had to find out if my brother
was all right.

There were pay phones right outside Mervyn's,
and I stopped in the red zone, despite the honking horn of a yellow
Toyota behind me. I had thrown the change from lunch into the
bottom of my purse; now I pawed through the top layers of junk
looking for a quarter.

I dialed the number for our second line, our
after-hours code that it was one of us calling. Ron answered on the
third ring.

"Ron, thank God!" Religion comes to me
usually only under duress.

"What's the matter, Charlie?"