Balloons Can Be Murder: The Ninth Charlie Parker Mystery Page 4

  He looked like he wanted to launch into another argument but something held him back. “All right,” he said. “Make these other inquiries. Particularly, check into this Bukovsky. I never did trust him.”

  He rose from his chair and shot his cuffs, heading for the door. I followed, watching his progress as he strode down the sidewalk to a dark blue Suburban parked at the curb. After he drove away I caught up with Ron on the stairs.

  “You seemed pretty quiet in there,” I said.

  He motioned me into his office and closed the door. “Fairfield. I recognized the name, but don’t know why I didn’t connect it. I’ve gotta be careful with him.”

  “Huh? What did I miss here?”

  “He’s got the power to change my future.”

  “What?” This all sounded a little too dramatic, coming from my nearly-redneck brother.

  “Fairfield manages the bank that’s handling my new home loan. I can’t afford to antagonize him.”

  Ah. The pieces began to fit. After Ron’s divorce, over five years ago, his credit was shot. Bernadette ran up huge bills and left him stuck with them. She got the house and the kids, while he got a tacky little apartment with paper-thin walls and visitation with his three boys every other weekend.

  “You know how much this means to me,” he said. “I found this house and it’s perfect for the boys. If I can get established, maybe the court won’t see me as such a loser and I can get more time with them.”

  And the secret lay in finding a banker who wouldn’t look too far out in his history or hold Bernadette’s lavish spending against him. He’d worked hard for this chance and I now understood his nervousness.

  “So, you don’t think Fairfield recognized you just now?” I asked.

  “I’ve never met him face to face before today. So far, I’ve only sat at the loan officer’s desk and talked to her. But I’ve seen him walking around the bank. That perfect posture and the collection of pinstripe suits—it’s him. The loan officer told me they’d review my application and the manager would have approval over it.”

  “So, we have to treat this guy very well.” I grinned at him.

  “Don’t take it lightly. Please, Charlie. Don’t piss the guy off. I need this.”

  “Okay. I’ll do the best I can.” I stopped with my hand on the doorknob. “What if we can’t stop the threats, though? What if someone out there really wishes Rachael harm and follows through on the threats? Surely Grayson Fairfield can’t hold us personally responsible, can he?”

  “I’ve already been turned down by two other banks,” he said miserably. “I’m not willing to risk it.”

  Oh boy, I thought as I went back to my own office.

  Chapter 6

  I dug into my purse and found the scrap of paper on which I’d written the addresses I’d found for Tamsin and Bukovsky and carried it back across the hall. Ron sat in his chair, a faraway look on his face.

  “Can you put your database magic to work on these?” I asked. “Maybe we can find something in either of their backgrounds that will help us. If nothing else, once we know whether the addresses are current we can pay each of them a visit.”

  He brightened at having something concrete to work on and started up his computer. I headed for the kitchen where I found Sally cutting a slice out of a cake she’d brought earlier in the week. Suddenly I felt ravenous so I helped myself to a hunk of it and made a cup of tea.

  “Did you see that?” Sally asked, jutting her chin out toward a newspaper that lay on the table.

  I hadn’t and I spread the front page open. Nothing caught my attention.

  “Go to the other sections,” she said, “probably on B-1 or C-1.”

  A quarter page of the second section jumped out at me with a photo of a patriotically patterned red, white and blue hot air balloon. The caption read: ‘Local woman to pilot Lady Liberty to world altitude record.’ The article went on to tell how Rachael Fairfield would be flying her balloon each day in the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta and would be attempting the woman’s world altitude from the balloon field on the final Sunday of the event. Phrases like ‘with the eyes of the world watching’ and ‘expected record attendance’ sent a sinking feeling to the pit of my stomach. How were we supposed to protect someone from a stalker when she intended to make herself the center of attention in front of nearly a million people? Shit.

  “Dammit, get Rachael on the phone for me,” I told Sally. “No, never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

  I stomped out of the kitchen and up the stairs, the cake and tea abandoned on the countertop.

  “Rachael, what the hell is going on?” I demanded the moment she picked up the phone. “Why on earth would you think it was a good idea to talk about this record attempt to the newspapers?”

  “Charlie? What?—wait a minute. What are you talking about?”

  “Have you seen this morning’s Journal? How are we supposed to keep you safe when the entire city now knows exactly where you’ll be and what you’ll be doing for the next ten days?”

  “No—” I heard her take a deep breath. “No, I haven’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Did you send them a press release about your record attempt?”

  “Gray probably did.” Resignation lay heavy in her voice. “He wants this thing to be a big deal.”

  “What is the man thinking!” I ranted.

  “I know, I know.” She sighed. “I’m sure he sent the release out a long time ago. He wouldn’t have done it once we knew about the threat.”

  I forced my voice down a notch, both in volume and in tone. “I just don’t get it. He was in here awhile ago, making it clear that your safety is our responsibility now, that he expects us to find this, this stalker. He informs us that it simply couldn’t be your father sending the threat, he has no clue who did send it, and we’re just supposed to make it all better. Meanwhile, he’s doing everything he can to put you in the limelight, right out there in the public eye at the biggest event in Albuquerque. Do you see why I’m maybe just a little . . . peeved?”

  Ron stood in my doorway, obviously having heard the commotion, looking at me with ‘What’s up’ written all over his face. I tossed him the newspaper section as I listened to Rachael. His face began to darken, as I’m sure mine had, as he read the piece. I held my hand out to prevent him from snatching away the phone and laying into Rachael as she continued with excuses for the article.

  “Rachael, please.” I was surprised to hear that my voice was nearly normal again. “Please just tell your brother that we can’t work this way. He’s more likely to listen to you, so I’m making this your assignment. You tell him that there are to be no more stories in the paper. Especially during Fiesta week. It’s going to be hard enough to keep the reporters away after this one, but let’s not invite them with more little tidbits.”

  “Okay,” she finally said. I couldn’t tell if it was resignation or relief in her voice. She’d already told me that she’d be perfectly happy to perform this record attempt quietly. I suspected any hesitation came more from the idea of having to confront her brother.

  “Today,” I said.

  “Yes, right now. I’ll call him at his office.” She paused a second. “You’re right about this whole thing. It’s not about me and my record, as far as Gray’s concerned. It’s about his wanting to be mayor.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He didn’t tell you? Well, no, I guess that’s still a few months off. He’s planning to declare his candidacy for mayor in next year’s election.”

  “And this relates—how?”

  “I think he’s looking for any positive publicity with the Fairfield name attached. It’s got him worried that Dad’s prison time will come out. Every dirty little family secret usually does in an election, doesn’t it? So, he’s intent on keeping Dad’s name hidden and making the most of any positive claims to the family name.”

  “Do you think that’s the main reason he’s insisting th
at your father isn’t the threat?”

  “Quite possibly so. Probably so, I’d say.”

  That put a slightly different light on things. I pondered this as I hung up. I quickly filled Ron in on Rachael’s version of things and his jaw lost some of the tightness that had been building since he looked at the newspaper.

  “Ugh,” he said, “sometimes people just make me want to scream.”

  “Yeah, ditto to that.” I reached out and automatically took the note paper Ron held out to me. It was the scrap I’d given him earlier with addresses and phone numbers for our other suspects.

  “These check out,” he said. “Both current. I think we oughta pay each guy a visit.”

  “And you’re handing them to me because . . .”

  “Because I’ve received special dispensation from the queen to have the boys for an extra night. She’s actually letting them spend the night in my apartment.” This was rare, I knew. “I’m taking them to a movie tonight and out to the balloon field in the morning. The real reason I get them tonight is probably because she can’t be awakened from her beauty sleep at five in the morning to get them dressed, but I’ll take whatever I can get.” He nodded toward the note in my hand. “So, I’d like for you to do the interviews. Please?”

  “Can’t do it tonight. Remember, Rachael gave me that ticket to the pilot’s party? It starts in a little over an hour and I’ve gotta take Rusty home and change clothes first. Tomorrow afternoon is probably the best I can offer.”

  “Okay. Look, some background on Chuck Bukovsky. He’s currently living with someone new, a Nora Garcia. My source at APD says she’s placed at least two 911 calls from that address, domestic disturbance. The usual drill, the cops get there and things have settled down and she doesn’t want to press charges. Her eye’s a little puffy on one of the calls, but no one’s bleeding and no one’s dead so there isn’t much they can do.” He shuffled as if he didn’t want to say the rest of it. “So, just be careful. The guy’s got a rough streak.”

  He headed back to his own office where I heard him switching off his computer and making noises to leave. I thought about his warning and wished I didn’t have to see Bukovsky tomorrow. I knew, in theory, abusers usually only acted out toward their partners but still, I’d keep my distance.

  Sally had apparently left sometime during my call to Rachael, so I rechecked doors and windows and made the office ready for the night. Rusty followed my every move, his nails softly clicking on the hardwood floors, his enthusiasm picking up as he figured out that we were heading home. An hour later, I’d changed into better jeans—ones without white knees—and a western shirt and boots. The party was in the ballroom of one of the downtown hotels and I ended up parking at the Convention Center parking garage.

  My ticket got me a plastic wristband and a numbered stub good for a free drink. I scanned the room, which probably already held nearly two hundred people, and spotted Rachael off to one side. She’d obviously been watching for me, too, because as soon as I caught her eye she waved.

  A mariachi group in huge sombreros and black blousy shirts strummed away enthusiastically in one corner, and a table with an enormous spread of Mexican food bordered one entire end of the room. A good part of the crowd had begun to gravitate that direction.

  “You made it!” Rachael greeted me with a warm smile. She wore jeans, as did nearly everyone in the room, but while many of them leaned toward T-shirts or jumpsuits covered with gaudy ballooning patterns and scads of brightly enameled lapel pins Rachael presented her usual understated elegance in a turquoise sweater and fitted black leather jacket. A simple gold chain with a balloon-shaped pendant hung around her neck.

  “Want to get in the food line?” she asked.

  “Not just yet.” Mexican food didn’t seem quite the thing right now.

  “Well, the line’s shorter at the bar anyway,” she said, indicating portable bars set up in each corner of the large room. We moved slowly toward the nearest one and I opted for a Coke when we got there.

  “Did you get a chance to talk to your brother this afternoon?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” She sipped at her glass of merlot.

  “And?”

  “No more press releases.” She shuffled slightly and looked hesitant. “See, the thing is, he’s already got some reporters lined up to fly with me several days during the Fiesta.”

  I pondered this. Doubtful that any reporter would be the one threatening Rachael, but what would they talk about once they knew she had this cloud over her.

  “Ron wants me to go along with you each morning, keep an eye on you,” I told her. “How are we going to keep this situation quiet if there are reporters hanging around all over the place?”

  Her mouth did a thoughtful little pucker. “Okay, I think Sam and I are the only two on the crew who know about it. I certainly haven’t told the younger guys and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t either. But I better make sure. Sam’s not exactly all for this whole altitude record idea anyway.”

  “I picked up on that at your house yesterday. Why?”

  She struggled not to say anything disloyal. “Sam’s just a traditional man. He has his little farm and he’d be very happy to end up with a little farm wife.”

  “So, how on earth did he end up with you?” I said. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right. But, really, you’re hardly the checked-apron type, canning her own tomatoes.”

  “True, true, I’m not.” She took a longer swig of the wine this time. “I really don’t know how things will end up with Sam and me. We have this very powerful attraction, probably because he is protective and such a far cry from most of my experiences with men. But our lifestyles are so different. He’s up there in the mountains with his dairy goats and I’m trying to run my little law practice in town. I don’t know.”

  “Hey, girl, how ya doing?” A woman glided up to Rachael and pulled her into a fierce hug, which Rachael sort of stumbled into.

  “Liz, good to see you. Let me introduce you to Charlie Parker. Liz Pierce.”

  Liz turned to me and extended her hand. She was model-pretty, with long blond hair and a body that Playboy could have commandeered for the centerfold. Large brown eyes and pouty lips made her look about twenty.

  “Kevin’s here somewhere,” she said to Rachael. “Did Sam come?”

  “No, he had work to do at his place. Considering that we’ll all be up before dawn for several days now.”

  “Oh, Charlie, you should see Sam’s place,” Liz said. “We all went up there for a barbeque this summer. Gorgeous, just gorgeous mountain property. And the goats. He took us to that lower pasture where they stay. They’re just so cute!”

  I supposed that, with some imagination, goats might be called cute but I didn’t voice this.

  “Oh, here’s Kevin now. Kevin! Kevin, over here, honey.”

  I caught Rachael’s eye and she sent me a tiny wink. Clearly, Liz was a little on the gushy side for her, too.

  Kevin Pierce didn’t look like the kind of guy who could score once with a gorgeous girl like Liz, let alone marry one. He was four inches shorter than his wife and slightly on the chunky side, a result no doubt of many libations like the beer he held in one hand. His receding blond hair was pulled back into a scrawny ponytail and he had one of those strips of facial hair that looks like a fuzzy caterpillar crawling toward his lower lip. I resisted reaching out to pluck it off and stomp on it.

  “Hi, babe,” he said to Liz, handing her a glass of wine. Rachael introduced him and I noticed that his T-shirt already had a dribble of salsa down the screen-printed, hot pink balloon on the front. The name Beauty’s Beast was written below it in scrolling script.

  He took a long gulp from the beer can, clearly not his first for the evening. “I’m the luckiest guy in this room,” he said, barely suppressing a belch. “Who else is married to a beauty queen?”

  “Oh, Kev, those pageants were years ago.” Liz snuggled into the arm he draped around her and dabbed at the salsa spot wit
h a cocktail napkin. She turned back toward Rachael and me. “Really, it was only Miss Dallas. I didn’t get all the way to Miss America.”

  “Yeah, but honey you could still do it some day,” he said, looking into her eyes.

  She giggled and actually blushed. I stretched a smile over my lips and wondered how many times they’d performed this little routine.

  “Well,” said Rachael with a slight clearing of the throat. “That buffet line is looking a little more reasonable now. Charlie?”

  “Yeah, I think I will.”

  We scooted across the room as quickly as we could.

  “Liz really isn’t quite that vacant,” she murmured to me as we took our places at the end of the line. “I’ve known her for a couple of years and, yes, she comes across pretty forcefully at times. But she really only goes into that dumb blond beauty queen routine when Kevin’s around. Usually when he’s had a few.”

  “Yeah, I got that impression.”

  Her eyes skipped beyond me and she perked up with a look of familiarity. “Butch, how are you?” The dark-haired man came up behind us in line, along with a woman wearing a denim jacket that held a glitter of enameled balloon pins all over the front. Rachael introduced them as Butch and Sara Haines.

  “Are you a pilot, too, Charlie? Which balloon is yours?” Sara asked. Her blue eyes sparkled with fun.

  “Oh, just helicopters, actually. I’ve never piloted a balloon. I’m going to be on Rachael’s crew this week.”

  By the time I’d passed through the buffet line, taking nothing stronger than salad and a flour tortilla, I’d learned that Butch and Sara flew Early Morning Delight, a multi-colored spiral patterned Aerostar AX-8, and that they were from Kansas. As they chatted on with Rachael about gores and single turbos and upright tanks, I realized this sport had a language all its own.