Tuesday morning I awoke early with Josh Detweiller on my mind. Maybe I could catch him before class. I dressed quickly in jeans, t-shirt, and tennies, then added a denim jacket which I hoped would be warm enough. I had neither the time nor inclination to do much with my hair, so I pulled it up into a pony tail. It was seven thirty when I pulled into the student parking lot at Highland High. A few cars dotted the lot. I was early enough to watch most of them arrive.
I parked in a spot at the far edge of the lot, near the gate. This should give me a clear view of the incoming traffic, which seemed headed toward the parking spaces nearest the buildings. Josh's car wasn't difficult to spot with its primer gray body and blackened windows. I started my engine when I saw him approach and followed him to his parking place. He didn't seem to notice me pulling in beside him.
"Hey, Josh, remember me?" I called out to him as he stepped from his car.
He gave me a blank look.
"Charlie Parker. I came by your house the other day."
His mind struggled to figure out who I was and what I was doing here. I used the time to circle the front of my car and join him. We fell into step walking across the parking lot.
"I was asking about your dad the other day," I reminded. "How are things going now?"
Recognition finally dawned, but he acted like he'd remembered me all along. "Fine."
"Fine? Just—fine."
"Yeah, just—fine."
"Have you heard any more about who might have done it? Have the police been around again?"
"I don't think so. I haven't been home much."
"How's your mom doing?"
"Okay, I guess. We don't see each other much." His tone was neutral, not revealing whether this was his idea or hers.
"I visited Larry Burke the other day," I told him. "From what he told me, he must have been the last one to see your dad alive. Except for the killer."
We followed a series of sidewalks between buildings. I followed Josh's lead, turning when he did.
"Do you think there's any chance Larry might have killed your father?" I asked. "He could be lying about the sequence of events that night. Maybe your dad didn't really take him home first. Maybe they went to your house, Larry shot him, then walked home."
Josh shrugged. "How would I know?"
We walked quietly for a few minutes. What motive would Larry Burke have, anyway, I reasoned, now that I'd brought up the question. Apparently Gary Detweiller shared the wealth, so why would Larry kill him? Unless they'd had some argument over a woman, or money?
"Have you had any other ideas about it since we talked the last time?" I asked Josh.
"Not really." We stood now in the doorway to a classroom. "Look, the bell's gonna ring in just a minute." He nodded toward the room, looking for a way out of the conversation.
"Yeah, okay. I gotta go anyway. Could we meet after school some day for a Coke?"
The request took him by surprise. "Sure, I guess. We usually hang out at Video Madness."
"Okay, maybe tomorrow." I watched him walk into the classroom, where he slapped hands with a couple of other guys in a teen male greeting ritual.
A bell jangled with loud heart-stopping ferocity, effectively silencing all other sound. Walking back to the parking lot, I thought back to my own school days, before gangs, blatant drug use, and almost obligatory teen sex. Although I'd been a teen in the seventies, those things were still not the norm for my generation. Life had been much easier then.
Not knowing any other way to avoid getting back to work on my tax returns, it looked like I had no other choice but to go to the office. There were still a couple of people I'd like to talk to in the Detweiller case, but they could wait. Plus, I'd really like to know how the police investigation was coming along, but didn't think I'd get a lot of information from Kent Taylor in homicide. Maybe I could hit Ron up to talk to him.
"Wow, you look like something fresh from high school," Sally commented when I walked into the kitchen.
"I am. Just got back from talking to Josh Detweiller."
"Are you still on that tangent?" Ron asked, coming into the room.
I poured myself a mug of coffee and offered him some. He let me fill his mug, too, and proceeded to add three spoons of sugar.
"I'm learning quite a lot about the victim," I told him. "But I still haven't found anyone who seems to have hated the man. Why would someone want to kill a guy that nobody disliked?"
He chuckled. "If it were that easy, don't you think the police would already have the answer? Charlie, did it ever occur to you that someone you've talked to is lying? I mean, people aren't always straight with us."
I resisted the urge to pop him one. Of course I wasn't naive enough to think that everyone was going to tell the truth. But, in fact, isn't that what I'd been doing? Taking all my suspects at face value? I returned thoughtfully to my desk.
The rest of the morning seemed to fly. Getting into tax returns is an all-consuming task, with one schedule leading to the next form, leading to the next worksheet. I had preliminary numbers penciled in before I realized a fundamental mistake in my depreciation schedules. I'd have to go back to the computer and do a couple of adjusting entries before I would have any real figures to go by.
Sally stopped in to ask whether I'd want lunch. I couldn't believe it, but it was already twelve-thirty. I asked if she'd mind getting me a sandwich. Sometime later she appeared with turkey on whole wheat, which I held in my left hand while my right hand skipped over the keys on my calculator. I took bites between calculating and penciling in new numbers.
Sally left for the day, and Ron seemed intent on his own work. He'd been on the phone most of the morning, making routine calls on a skip trace. I switched on the answering machine after the phone interrupted me for the second time in fifteen minutes. Tax returns are something I don't do well with interruptions.
"Why don't we take a dinner break?" Ron's voice startled me, so intent had I been on Form 4562.
I glanced at my watch. It was already six o'clock. I set my pencil down and rubbed at my burning eyes. Most of the schedules were done, and hopefully correct. It was time to let them rest a few days, then I'd review them to see if any mistakes stuck out.
"Pedro's?" I asked.
"Where else?" He crossed the room and closed the blinds for me. "I've already checked the front door, returned all the calls that came in on the machine, and turned out the lights everywhere but here," he said.
"Wow, you must be hungry. One car or two?" I asked.
"Two. We're probably both gonna want to go straight home afterward."
Pedro's is a tiny Mexican restaurant, just six blocks from my house. It's a couple of streets off the main plaza in Old Town, so most of the tourists miss it. We've been coming here since we were children, and Pedro and his wife Concha have practically adopted us. Tonight, there were two other vehicles out front when we pulled up.
One was a dusty pickup truck of indeterminate color belonging to another regular, Manny. The other was local but I didn't recognize it. Rusty began to get excited as soon as he saw where we were. Pawing at the side window, he whimpered impatiently.
"Hold on, hold on," I told him. "We'll be there in a minute."
Pedro relaxes the city health code regularly for us, keeping a corner table for us where Rusty can lie in the shadows, keeping watch for fallen tortilla chips. None of the other regulars seem to mind, but I usually take the precaution of checking the room first before letting Rusty in.
It's a small place, with a long hand-carved bar from Mexico dominating the entire back wall. Six tables fill the tiny room to capacity. Manny sat at his usual table in the far right corner. His clothes were as dusty as his truck, nothing unusual, and he sat with his back to the wall as he watched the room and silently tossed back tequila shooters. I've seen him do five or six during the time it takes me to eat a meal, and he'll still be going at them when I leave. Pedro says Manny has the insides of a teenager.
Another
table, this one on the right hand side of the room near the windows, was occupied by a couple who seemed far more wrapped up in each other than anything else. Otherwise, the place was empty. Pedro stood behind the bar. He caught my eye and nodded. Rusty was overjoyed when I let him out of the Jeep.
The three of us took our usual table in the front left corner. By the time we were seated Pedro had appeared with a basket of chips, a small bowl of salsa, and two foamy margaritas. Just the right amount of salt on the rim, the right amount of tangy lime, the drink was what I needed at the moment to unknot my cramped neck muscles. We munched on the chips while he delivered a check to the couple's table. Manny raised his grizzled gray and black whiskered chin to us, the only show of recognition we ever get from him.
"Here you go, move those glasses please," Concha bustled toward us carrying two plates so hot she had to carry them with potholders. Pedro had apparently signaled our usual order to her even before we were seated.
The smells of meat, cheese, and chile assailed the senses, making me eager to dig right in. Concha patted me on the shoulder as she walked away, leaving us to do just that. I tossed Rusty an extra tortilla chip to pacify him while I cut into my chicken enchiladas, smothered in green chile and sour cream. It was a good ten minutes before either Ron or I stopped to say a word.
"How was everything?" Concha came back to check on us, wiping her hands on her apron. She and Pedro are almost like Latino caricatures of the old Jack Sprat nursery rhyme. She is short and round, obviously having sampled much of her own cooking. Pedro is not much taller than his wife but skinny as a pole, probably attributable to his constantly being in motion. He flits around like a hummingbird, serving drinks, rinsing glasses, wiping the tables and the bar. You rarely see him sit.
"Umm, wonderful as always," I assured Concha.
"Good. You finish now, we'll visit later." She waddled back toward the kitchen. She and Pedro live here, too, in a small apartment they've made for themselves at the back.
"So, how's the case coming?" Ron asked, wiping red chile from the corners of his mouth.
"I feel kind of stumped," I admitted. "I've talked to so many people, but I just don't feel like I'm getting any answers."
"Remember -- motive, means, and opportunity," he reminded. "Listen to what people tell you, but read between the lines. Listen to your gut instincts about people."
"I think I've found several who might have had motive. Maybe I just need to ask more questions to find out about the other two factors."
"The rest of this week looks pretty loaded for me," he said, "but maybe by the first of next week I can free up some time to help you."
"Thanks, but don't worry about it just yet. I'd like to work on it a little longer myself."
"Just remember, there is still an active police investigation going on here," he said. "If you uncover any evidence at all, you better turn it in or you're looking at trouble."
I shot him a look. I'm not that stupid, Ron. "Oh, that reminds me, do you think you could get any information out of Kent Taylor? I'd love to know what angles they're working on."
He chuckled. "I seriously doubt it, Charlie. What do you think? I just walk in there and request a copy of the file, and I get it? Not hardly."
"Okay, okay. Be patient with me. I'm just learning how these things work." Maybe I am that stupid.
He didn't mention it. We finished our drinks and visited a couple of minutes with Pedro and Concha before saying goodnight. I started home but found I really wasn't in the mood for a quiet evening in front of the TV. The case still nagged at me and I'd sat still enough hours today already. Pulling over under a street lamp, I reached for the city map I keep in the glove box. Carla Delvecchio's address was not in the Tanoan community but just outside it. I wondered if it would be worth a drive across town. If she wasn't home or didn't answer her door after dark, I'd have wasted the time. On the other hand calling in advance probably wouldn't net me anything either.
Traffic was light; we were on the opposite side of town in about twenty minutes. Carla Delvecchio's home was impressive. Not quite up to Tanoan specs but otherwise a good-sized piece of southwestern architecture. Soft perimeter lighting cast a friendly glow into otherwise dark corners. The reason, surely, was security but the effect was soothing not harsh. Two large arches formed the most dramatic feature of the house, each with an ornate wrought iron light fixture draped into its center. Soft golden light emanated through the colored glass. A single muted chime sounded when I pressed the doorbell.
I could hear faint shuffling sounds as someone approached the door, no doubt checking me out through the peephole before opening it. Carla Delvecchio wore a loose caftan of some velvety looking material in a large pattern of ruby, emerald and sapphire. Her dark chin-length hair looked unsettled, like she'd probably worn it up all day and brushed it loose when she got home. It formed a cloudlike frame for her heart shaped face. The effect was attractive. She was in her early forties with the air of someone who has achieved her desired place in life and is now enjoying it.
"May I help you?" The voice was firm, full of authority and not so concerned with helping me as with getting rid of me. Politely, of course.
"Hi, my name's Charlie Parker." I produced a business card. "I've been asked to look into the death of Gary Detweiller."
"RJP Investigations," she read. "I believe my law firm has used your services. Come in, please."
Now that she mentioned it, I recognized the name. Sloan and Delvecchio. I couldn't remember what services we'd performed. I was sure it had been over a year ago. I stepped into a marble foyer. Her taste in furnishings ran to the classic, with quality wood pieces and rich upholstered fabrics.
"I was just having a glass of wine," she said, "would you like one?"
"No thanks." One margarita was plenty for one evening. "But you go ahead." I followed her into a spotless kitchen of pale peach.
She finished uncorking a bottle that sat on the counter, and poured a single glass. Her movements were confident. She wiped the side of the bottle with a sponge and recorked it. Next she wiped at an imaginary spot on the counter, then replaced the sponge near the sink and returned the bottle to the refrigerator. "Let's take this somewhere a little more comfortable," she suggested. "I spent most of my day on a hard wooden chair in court."
She led the way to the living room, where a fire sprang to life the second she turned the gas key. Instant coziness. We sat at opposite ends of a peach colored satin couch and stared at the flames.
"Now, you said this was about Gary Detweiller?" she prompted.
"Yes, I understand he had begun hanging around the country club and had hit on some of the female members."
"Including me." She met my eyes with a firm gaze as she said it.
"Well, yes."
"Otherwise, why would you be here, right?"
"Well, yes." I found her forthrightness a little disconcerting.
"Gary seemed determined to make me one of his conquests the minute he saw me," she said. "It was at one of those Friday night dinner dances. I rarely go to them, but that night I had an out of town client to entertain and the club seemed more his style than bar hopping." She paused to sip her wine. "Anyway, I saw this sleazy-looking guy in a cheap suit across the room. My first thought was to wonder what he was doing there. I guess he caught me staring and misinterpreted. The next thing I knew he sidled across the room—pardon me, but that's the only word I can think of for that walk of his."
"I gathered you two got kind of friendly."
"I'd had a few drinks, and I guess I figured what the hell. I laughed at his jokes, but I don't think he figured out I was really laughing at him. You know, the whole picture, the moves he made, the image he gave off. He was just so phony." She chuckled slightly as she remembered. "He was obviously there to hit on the rich women. I mean, it was so obvious it was comical."
"Some of them fell for it, though, didn't they?"
"I guess so. Like I said, I don't
hang around the club much. It's an image place. Unless there's a business benefit in it for me, I'm really not into projecting an image. I put a lot of myself into my practice, and what little time is left I like to spend alone, recharging my batteries." She took a deep breath and watched the fire dance.
"Anyway, about Gary," she finally said, bringing herself back to the question.
"Who else did he hit on?" I prompted.
"Brad North's wife, I think. She and Gary looked pretty cozy one night. You know him? North? He's a personal injury attorney. I know I shouldn't say this about a colleague . . ." Her mouth formed a little grimace. "But that man is just so obviously after a buck. Get him in a social situation and he's still selling. He'll practically ask you if you've been hurt somewhere, just so he can suggest suing someone. I've never really gotten to know her, but it wouldn't surprise me if she had to look elsewhere for a little attention."
"I was engaged once to Brad North," I told her.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry. I mean for what I said. That was really tactless."
"No offense. I'm thankful it didn't work out. He and Stacy eloped right under my nose. I guess that should have told me what kind of person he is."
"You're right. If you don't mind my saying so, you got the better end of the deal."
"If you don't mind my saying so, I agree." We laughed, breaking the uneasy moment.
"So, who might have killed Gary Detweiller?" I asked.
She sipped more wine and stared into the fire, thinking. "You're investigating on behalf of Stacy North, aren't you?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Well, I don't think she would do it. I don't even know the lady, but it doesn't seem like it would be her style."
"Can I tell you something in confidence?" I asked. "Detweiller stole a watch from Stacy. When she realized it, she was terrified. She had me recover the watch, and I thought that would be the end of it. When he turned up dead, she was even more terrified. I don't think she did it either. But she's scared to death of her husband."
"And she might kill to keep him from finding out what was going on?"
"No! I mean, I really don't think so."
"You don't want to think so."
"I want to find out what really happened, and I want to hope like hell that when I find out, the truth will clear Stacy."
"Could Stacy use a friend in the legal profession?" Carla asked. "I know Brad North, for all his obnoxiousness, has a lot of friends in the business. If she needs a lawyer, she may have a hard time finding one that won't run straight to him."
"She's worried about that," I admitted.
Carla set her wine glass on a coaster and stood up. She stepped into the foyer where I found her reaching into a pocket of her briefcase.
"Here," she said, handing me a card, "have her call me if she needs to."
I took the card and thanked Carla for her time. She promised to call me if she remembered anything more about Detweiller that might point to the killer.
Outside, the air had turned cold. My denim jacket was no match for it. I hurried to the car and turned the heat on. Cold air blasted me until I'd driven a couple of miles. Gradually I began to warm up. It had been a long day and home seemed like a good idea.
Another suspect defused. Another acquaintance of Detweiller who'd claimed to see right through him, who hadn't been taken in or threatened by him. So far, I had to admit, it looked like Stacy was the only one with a strong motive for wanting him out of her life. Someone was lying to me. Who? And why?
Chapter 11