Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery Page 7

  The Sanchez yard was neatly trimmed, the lawn just beginning to turn winter tan. Lines of pyracantha espeliered themselves up the front of the house with fat gobs of orange berries clustered on their branches. A circular drive filled much of the front yard, curving up to the low porch. Two planters of chrysanthemums flanked the front door, their brilliant orange adding a glow to the adobe brown stucco.

  I pressed the doorbell and was greeted almost instantly by a child who tugged to get the door open, then ducked behind it when he realized I was a stranger. Same as his phone technique.

  "You must be Charlie," the voice I'd spoken to on the phone said. She didn't look any happier than she'd sounded. "I'm Rebecca," she said, holding the screen door open for me. She was about twenty-four or -five with long dark hair reaching to the middle of her back. Her black jeans and cropped purple sweater hugged her trim figure perfectly.

  "Thanks for letting me come by. You really have a lovely place," I said, hoping to find some way to warm her up.

  "Look, I don't mean to be unfriendly, it's just that my father's health isn't good. I don't want you to upset him." Her eyes and mouth showed a tiredness I hadn't noticed at first.

  I mumbled something about how I was sorry to hear it and I'd try not to stay long. I wondered what his health problems were. Judging by her age, and from the group photo I'd found, I estimated her father must be in his late forties or early fifties—hardly ready for senility.

  Rebecca turned and led me down a hallway to our right. We passed the open doors to the little boy's room, a bathroom, and a neat feminine room with white French provincial furniture. She opened the last door on the left and preceded me in.

  "Dad, are you awake?"

  The room's decor might have been taken from any modern metropolitan hospital-complete with mechanized bed, monitors of all sorts, a table on wheels that would roll into place over the bed, and a wheelchair in the corner.

  The man in the bed fluttered his eyes toward Rebecca. A thin smile pushed upward, dominating his narrow face.

  Rebecca backed out of the room and closed the door behind her, leaving me alone with him and speechless.

  Chapter 11

  "Larry? I hope I'm not bothering you," I offered tentatively.

  "Well, young lady, I sure don't have anything else to do right now," he teased in a raspy voice. He grinned a skeletal smile, but his dark eyes were sharp and clear.

  "I'm Charlie Parker. Bill Parker—you used to work with him at Sandia Labs—was my father."

  "Oh yes," he answered. "Bill Parker . . . how's Bill doing?"

  I pulled a straight chair from the corner of the room. "Mind if sit by you for a minute?" I asked. I took a deep breath.

  "My father was killed in a plane crash, over fifteen years ago. I was a teenager at the time, and I guess I didn't ask enough questions then. I just found out that it was a Sandia plane and he was on a business trip."

  His mouth formed a straight line and his eyes darted back and forth. "Plane crash?" he muttered suspiciously.

  "Do you remember it?" I asked.

  "Plane crash." His dark brows pulled together and his lips formed a tight little knot. "Right before my accident . . . I . . . haven't thought about it in years."

  "What happened to you?" I asked, wondering whether I should.

  "I fell. Fell off a platform—inside the plant."

  "At Sandia?"

  "Yes. Can't remember now—exactly what we were doing up there. I was an inspector. Had to monitor equipment . . . well, different things."

  I got the feeling his old security consciousness had kicked in again.

  "What caused the fall? Did the platform collapse?"

  "Don't remember. Woke up in the hospital."

  "Were you good friends with my father? I found a picture of you together at a company picnic."

  His eyebrows relaxed a little and a tiny smile played at his mouth. "Yeah, Bill Parker was a good guy. You know, not some snob—some of those scientists were."

  "Larry, do you have any idea what he was working on when he died?"

  His eyes did that darting around thing again.

  "I know you're not supposed to talk about work," I assured him, "but that's been a long time ago. Things have changed, and the same secrets wouldn't matter anymore."

  His mouth twitched but no sound came out.

  "I won't tell anyone," I promised.

  "I . . . I . . . just don't know," he rasped.

  I reached out and took his hand. His eyes closed and I realized the effort had tired him. Within a minute, he was breathing the soft even breaths of sleep.

  I gently removed my hand from his and pulled his blanket up to his chin. After replacing the chair where I'd found it, I backed out of the room.

  Rebecca was waiting for me in the living room.

  "I'm so sorry," I told her. "I had no idea this had happened."

  She shrugged. "He was a lot better than this—used to be able to get out some. We'd go to the mall with the wheelchair, or I'd take him to a ball game. This last year has been tough. He had a minor stroke in December, one that most anyone else would have easily recovered from, but it really sapped him.

  "The accident left him paralyzed from the chest down and he lost his right arm."

  I hadn't even noticed that; it had been tucked away under the blankets.

  "Are you the only one here to care for him?" I asked.

  "This was my destiny," she replied. "I was nine years old when he fell. I watched my mother care for him until it killed her. I knew it would be my responsibility someday. So I went to nursing school so I'd be ready to take over."

  "That's such an unselfish thing to do," I told her. I had a hard time grasping the amount of dedication it would take.

  "There's no way we could afford private nurses all these years," she answered simply. "He gets a disability check each month. At least that keeps me from having to find another job outside."

  The child had come back into the room, ducking behind Rebecca's legs. She sensed the question in my eyes.

  "J.J., go look on the kitchen table," she told him. "I left you a banana peeled and cut up just the way you like it. Sit at the table to eat it."

  "His father's not in the picture," she explained, as she must have hundreds of times. "We were engaged when I got pregnant. My mother died the next month and Jerry got a real look at what our lives were going to be like. He ran. Last I heard he might have gone to California. No one seems to know."

  She shrugged again. I felt like crying.

  "Hey, it's not so bad," she assured me. "J.J.'s the most wonderful little kid—he's my ray of sunshine, you know? Dad won't last much longer, I have to be realistic about that. His life insurance policy will support us until J.J. is old enough for school. Then I'll get a nursing job somewhere."

  I wished her luck and walked out to my car. She certainly seemed to have things figured out—one of the only twenty-somethings I'd met recently who did. I started my Jeep but had only driven a block or so before I needed to pull over. It took three or four minutes of deep steady breathing before I felt ready to drive on. I pulled the manila folder from the map pocket where I'd tucked it and reviewed my list of Dad's co-workers.

  George Myers's phone number had answered earlier with an answering machine and it was across town anyway. I'd save it for another day. Harvey Taylor's address fifteen years ago had been on Carlisle, about a mile out of my way home, but I figured what the heck. It was a gorgeous afternoon with a deep blue cloudless sky and that crystal clear light that artists love so much.

  I took Lomas west to Carlisle and turned north. Trying to catch addresses and drive at a reasonable pace to keep from being run down, gunned down, or both, was a trick. The two lane thoroughfare barely accommodated its traffic as it was, without one Sunday driver holding up the show.

  Horns expressed their driver's sentiments as the road widened to four lanes and a dozen or so cars zipped past me. I'd still not found the address I was looking
for but was getting closer. Two blocks later, I realized that address was an apartment building.

  This would be a dead end. Renters in Albuquerque do not stay long in one place. I pulled into the parking lot and took a half-space that included a generous slice of sidewalk. Everyone seemed to be home on a Sunday afternoon and I'd be willing to bet that one of them wasn't Harvey Taylor. Well, I'd come this far.

  The manager snatched open the door, expecting to snarl at a tenant with a stupid complaint, and looked totally surprised to find me standing there. He made a quick attempt to smooth the few threads of hair that covered his shiny head and to tuck in the T-shirt that boasted a large dollop of salsa at the point where his round belly jutted out. A football announcer screamed from the TV set across the room.

  "Sorry to interrupt," I said. "I'm just wondering about one of your tenants."

  He set his beer can on an unseen table behind the door as an oily smile slicked its way across his features.

  "Sure thing, honey. Come on in."

  My teeth began to grind. "No thanks." I bit back a smart remark and backed a couple more feet away from the door. "I just wondered if Harvey Taylor still lives here."

  "Who? Taylor, you say?"

  "You don't know any Harvey Taylor?"

  He was about to shake his head in denial, but decided he could keep me there a bit longer if he checked his records.

  "That's okay," I assured him. "If he was here, you'd know it. He would have been a tenant for at least fifteen years."

  He chuckled, trying to make it sexy but missing by a mile. "Babe, ain't nobody been here fifteen years. Not even me. I been here about five, and that's only because they give me my rent real cheap for managin' the place. Wanna see the apartment? They're real nice."

  "Could I ask you just one more teeny little thing," I said, wiggling my eyebrows and stepping closer again.

  He met me at the doorjamb. "Sure, babe."

  "Please do not ever call me babe—or honey—or sweetie. Ever."

  "What . . .?"

  I was halfway to my car before I heard that part and was backing out of my half-assed parking spot before I noticed that his mouth was still moving. Luckily my windows were up.

  I darted into traffic, realizing after the fact that he'd have an easy time getting my license plate number if he wanted to. Stupid, Charlie, stupid. Why do I always feel I have to make a point about pointless things? Well, that guy might think twice before using his routine on someone else.

  I watched my rearview mirror for a few blocks but didn't see anyone behind me. He was probably back in his easy chair with a fresh beer, the ball game blasting away as he rubbed his sore ego.

  The other two addresses on my list were across town and I was feeling drained and suddenly famished. Drake and Ron were probably back from the shooting range by now and I could probably talk them into going to Pedro's for a comfort dinner. Sour cream chicken enchiladas would go a long way toward curing my ills. Seeing Drake again and having him hold me would help the rest of them.

  Ron's convertible was parked in front of the house, facing against traffic as usual, although traffic on my street is virtually nonexistent. He just can't seem to be bothered to turn around and face the right way.

  Inside, the two men were TV-side with the football game on. Ron was totally absorbed, Drake looked bored. He and Rusty greeted me like I'd been gone for days. Drake bestowed me with two enormously satisfying kisses, while Rusty thwapped my legs with his tail and led me to his empty food bowl.

  "I'm starving," I told him. "Think we can pry Ron away from the game long enough to go to Pedro's?"

  "I don't know—it looks pretty serious in there," he said. "But you could get me to go in a wink."

  "Okay, then, here's the plan. We tell him we're going. If he wants to come, fine. If he won't leave, we'll bring him take-out."

  Ron opted for the game and take-out, which was just as well with me. I was ready to have Drake to myself again.

  "How was the shooting range?" I asked after we'd taken our seats in our usual corner table. Pedro and his wife Concha had fussed over Drake some more. They weren't quite used to seeing me as part of a couple, but I could tell the idea was taking hold fast.

  "Well, I could've done better," he said. "But for being as out of practice as I am, I guess it was okay."

  "Not a roaring good time?"

  "I'd rather you'd been there, too." He looked truly forlorn. "I missed you."

  I reached over to stroke the back of his hand. "I missed you, too. I think we're bonding."

  "Wow, that's, like, pretty serious isn't it?"

  We were in the middle of a kiss when Concha ahummed behind us.

  "Now, you little lovebirds," she teased, "you can't be doing that when I'm standing here with hot plates."

  She set them down carefully, using potholders.

  "Now." She said, hands on hips. "Now you can either eat your food while it's hot or go back to that kissing." She winked at me as she turned to go back to the kitchen.

  Steam rose from the plate as I made the first cut into my enchiladas. The combined flavors of tortilla, chicken, onions, cheese, and green chile blended to create heaven in my mouth. Conversation stayed at a minimum for the next few minutes as we both ummmed and rolled our eyes upward.

  Initially sated, I told Drake about meeting Larry Sanchez and Rebecca.

  "Afraid I didn't learn anything, though."

  "What a sad case," he agreed. "I wonder if there's anything we could do for them."

  "I don't know what, but I'm thinking I should get over there and see them again. Maybe something will come to mind."

  We lingered over the last of our margaritas and shared a small dish of caramelly flan before collecting Ron's Styrofoam encased dinner and heading home. The shorter days were catching up with us. The low sun over the volcanoes turned the air golden, the adobe buildings in Old Town to a rose color. I wanted to drink it in and make it last forever.

  Ron ate his dinner watching the last two minutes of the game, which took more than fifteen minutes in real time. Drake sat down with him and worked up a little enthusiasm. I made coffee and watched the back garden wall go from gold to gray to charcoal.

  It wasn't until after Ron left and I'd showered and put on my terry robe that I remembered the Sandia folder in the car. I'd wanted to try those last couple of phone numbers, but it wasn't worth the effort. We settled onto the couch with a movie on TV and I dozed off before ten.

  I woke up just long enough to brush my teeth and drop the robe before falling into bed snuggled into Drake's shoulder.

  I was in a warehouse somewhere, walking a high platform that ran, gallery-like around the perimeter of the building. The walkway was narrow and dark and I had to hug the wall to stay on it. My father stood on the same walkway, around the corner from me and out of reach.

  "It's all right," he insisted. "Just come toward me. I'll get you down."

  I edged along without making any progress. He edged toward the corner but there was some obstacle in the way. I kept working my way toward him, when my foot bumped something.

  "Daddy, it's a man! There's a man lying here!"

  "Don't worry, hon. Let me get there and see."

  I wanted to step over the man, but Dad kept coming closer, warning me to hold still. His face became clearer in the darkness.

  "Just one more minute, Charlie. I'll be right there."

  My foot touched the inert man once again and I quickly slipped back. But it was too late-I'd pushed too hard. The man rolled toward the edge and, in slow-motion, tumbled off the platform. As his body fell toward the unseen floor below, he turned face up.

  It was Larry Sanchez, smiling thinly and blinking his eyes at me. He mouthed the word "Help," but no sound came out.

  I awoke sharply, as though I'd been the one falling.

  "What's the matter sweetheart?" Drake asked.

  My breathing was shallow and rapid and it took me a moment to figure out that it had been a
dream. I felt clammy with sweat. He reached out and put his arm over me.

  "Just a dream. I'm fine."

  But I didn't fall asleep again until the red digital clock numbers had passed four o'clock.

  Chapter 12

  Dark circles hung under my eyes like death shadows. My hair drooped limply and my mouth tasted like poison. I leaned against the basin for support for a couple of minutes before deciding that I couldn't let a mere dream drag me down like this.

  Drake gave my backside a squeeze as he exited the shower, toweling off as he went.

  "Your turn," he smiled. "Hon? Are you okay?"

  "Yeah, I'll be fine." I squeezed a smile out. "I didn't sleep very well after that dream."

  I peeled off my undies and stepped under the hot spray.

  "Tell you what," he continued, as I rubbed the bar of soap into a rich lather. "If I may use your car today, I'll take you to breakfast first. Then, you can either come with me to the FAA or I'll be happy to take you to your office."

  I let the gentle showerfall rinse lather from my shoulders and breasts. "Well, as tempting as it sounds to spend a morning at the FAA going through aircraft documents, I really should spend a little time at my own office. I'm already feeling guilty for not going in most of last week."

  "All right then, office it is. But first things first—what's for breakfast?"

  I mumbled something about anything being fine with me, which he asked me to repeat, since I'd had my face under the water at the time.

  Thirty minutes later, we were dry, dressed, and on our way to Nouvelle Mexicano, a friend's restaurant downtown, not far from our office. I'd helped my friend, Sharon Ortega, a few months ago when her business partner was killed and it looked like she might lose the restaurant as a result.

  Things had been iffy for her for several months afterward, until one day when one of those Hollywood-turned-Santa Fe actors had come to Albuquerque to shoot his newest movie and had publicly declared the place one of the best he'd ever patronized. The newspapers picked up on it and Sharon's place was hopping. The actor still came in often enough to keep the patrons coming back. We all hoped his popularity wouldn't lag, but you know what they say. I guess a restaurant is only as popular as its latest actor.