Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery Page 7

  At the top of the steep stairs was another space about three feet square that served as landing and entrance to Murray's offices. His name had been hand lettered, probably by a six-year-old, on the opaque rippled glass panel in the top half of the door. I turned the cheap doorknob tentatively.

  Murray's taste in furnishings ran to the economical. The room I stepped into was meant as a reception area. It was furnished with a wooden desk, from which various sized chunks of the veneer were missing. An old-fashioned rotary dial phone in a peculiar shade of turquoise and an overflowing ashtray were the only visible desk accessories. A manual Royal typewriter with chipped paint stood on a metal typing stand beside the desk. It wasn't covered, and had a good quarter inch of dust on it. The only other furnishings in the reception room were two matching chairs with an end table between them. They were avocado green vinyl, which coordinated beautifully with the orange and green shag carpeting—something long and treacherous, looking like it could easily harbor small rodents. Another overflowing ashtray sat on the table between the chairs.

  No human being had yet taken notice of me, although I suspected tiny multi-legged creatures of the night were well aware of my presence. In the background I could hear a low monotone male voice, like one side of a phone conversation that was purposely being kept quiet. I stood awkwardly, not quite sure what to do with my hands, certain that I didn't want to sit down or touch anything. Finally, I ahummed a couple of times.

  "In a minute!" The male voice was sharp and angry sounding, and made me flinch. I was very tempted to tiptoe out of there, then clamber down the wooden stairs as fast as I could. Just as I began to give this serious consideration I heard the phone in the other room being returned to its cradle rather violently.

  Ben Murray appeared in the doorway, almost blocking it completely. He must have been close to six-four, and at least two hundred-sixty pounds. The front two-thirds of his scalp was shiny bald, and he combed what was left straight back. The thin dishwater blond hair in back had been pulled into a rubber band, leaving a pony tail about an inch and a half long. His round face showed few wrinkles, and I guessed him to be about forty.

  He wore a summer-weight linen looking shirt of pale yellow with no undershirt, and I could see the outline of his nipples through it. He had breasts many women would envy. He was apparently into personal decor, because he wore a heavy gold chain at his throat, a matching one, smaller, on his right wrist, a large watch with heavy gold band, a gold ring with a single turquoise nugget about the size of a nickel on one hand, and one encrusted with a similar-sized display of diamonds on the other. I was surprised to see that kind of ostentation in this neighborhood. Some of the local youth I had seen hanging around at the corner looked like they'd cut a necklace like that right off a person, just below the jugular.

  Murray's cotton twill pants had formed accordion pleats on either side of the groin and at the waistband, where they crunched down to accommodate his basketball-sized belly. The buttons on the shirt were trying valiantly to keep it together across the front, but it was a losing battle.

  "Whatta ya want?" His voice was every bit as friendly as it had been moments earlier, making me wish I had run while I still had the chance.

  "I'm here about David Ruiz," I said, sounding a lot braver than I felt.

  "So?"

  "Have you heard he was killed?"

  "Yeah. Saw it in the paper."

  "His business partner, Sharon Ortega, has hired me to check into his death." I handed him one of my business cards. "Had David mentioned the audit notices he had received from the IRS?"

  His face closed, telling me nothing. "I don't have to tell you anything about my client. That's privileged information."

  I wasn't sure at this point whether I wanted to let this man know that I'm a CPA myself. There is no legally privileged information between an accountant and a client. As a matter of professional courtesy, an accountant does not talk with others about his client's business, but when the law steps into it, the CPA can find himself in the slammer just as quickly as the next guy. I could see, however, with this one the only thing I'd get by arguing was a swift boot out the door.

  "Look, I'm just trying to help David's partner," I said, adopting what I hoped looked like a kindly attitude. "Sharon needs to know where things stand right now. Especially with this IRS question up in the air. I'm trying to work with her, and I can't locate any copies of the financials for the restaurant. I was hoping you might have copies in your files."

  He took a step toward me and stuck an index finger at my face. "Look, Miss, you won't get anything from me. All business between David Ruiz and me was private. I got nothin to do with him killing himself, and no file leaves this office without a subpoena attached."

  "Fine. We can work it that way." I turned to the door, my hand shaking as I reached for it.

  He followed me as far as the doorway, but I was already halfway down the stairs. "Listen, you little bitch," he shouted, "you better not drag me into this."

  I forced myself to walk slowly, as though I hadn't heard his words, but in truth I wanted to bolt. As I pulled open the outside door, I glanced back up. He was still standing at the top of the stairs, hands on hips, his lips pursed into a tight knot. I got to my Jeep as quickly as possible and locked myself safely inside. My fingers were still shaking as I fumbled the key into the ignition.

  I drove several blocks before my mind settled down enough to form a plan. I realized that continuing south on Broadway would take me out to the valley. A couple of turns would get me to the Ruiz place.

  The house somehow looked somehow different, smaller and lonelier, than it had yesterday with all the cars and people around. I pulled into the driveway behind a two or three year old gray Pontiac. I couldn't be sure whether it belonged to the Ruiz's, or if they had company.

  I was raising my hand to tap on the aluminum screen's frame when the front door suddenly opened. A little girl of about three or four stood clutching a stuffed rabbit by the ear. She looked as startled as I felt.

  "Hi," I said, smiling to put her at ease. "Are Mr. and Mrs. Ruiz at home?"

  Her thumb went straight to her mouth, the rabbit dangling from her clenched fist. A woman stepped up behind her.

  "Can I help you?" she asked.

  "Mrs. Padilla! I'm Charlie Parker. I met you here yesterday after the funeral."

  "Oh, yes, Charlie. Please, call me Esther. Come on inside." She stepped back, pushing the screen outward for me.

  "I was wondering if Mr. and Mrs. Ruiz are home," I told her.

  "We were just about to leave for mass," she said, looking around somewhat apologetically.

  "That's all right," I assured her. "I just wanted to ask one or two questions."

  "Let me find Bernice. You can visit with my granddaughter, Melissa. I was trying to keep her from going outside yet. We need to keep that pretty dress clean." She pried Melissa off her leg, and gave her a gentle push toward me.

  I'm always at a loss for something to say to children in situations like this. My repertoire of kiddie small-talk is sadly lacking, I'm afraid. I smiled at her, and she retreated a couple of steps.

  "What's your rabbit's name?" I said tentatively.

  She mumbled something past her thumb, and hugged the rabbit closer to her. She'd make a real protective little mommy one day.

  "That's a neat vest he's wearing," I commented, thinking privately that a rabbit dressed in a pin-striped vest was an odd toy for a little girl. Usually such things were pink and fluffy, I thought. Melissa made no reply to my overtures. I was about to ask how she thought the Dow Jones would do this week, when Bernice Ruiz appeared from the other room.

  She was dressed in full mourning, including a black lace mantilla. Her hands fluttered a lot as she spoke, and she was clearly not in much better shape than she'd been yesterday. I noticed, for the first time, that she'd brought out a lot of pictures of David. Most were eight-by-ten studio portraits in dime store gold metal frames. They began wi
th David as an infant, and went right on up to one that had to have been taken within the past year. A couple of larger frames held collages of family snapshots, and I saw a few that were probably David and his cousin Michael together at about high school age. The two boys looked remarkably alike. In a couple of the pictures, they could have easily been brothers.

  I hadn't noticed that much resemblance in person, but of course I had never seen them together. I turned my attention back to Bernice.

  "I'm really sorry to be bothering you so soon," I said. "I just have a question or two."

  She perched primly on the edge of the afghan covered couch, indicating the ugly brown recliner for me.

  "I'm trying to locate some business records that David would have had. Did he ever bring work here? Or, did he keep any files here?" I knew it was a long shot, even as I asked.

  She shook her head silently. Her mournful eyes didn't even look as though she truly comprehended the question.

  "Did he have a special girlfriend?"

  "Of course," she replied. "Libby Marquez. She's a wonderful girl from the church. So devoted to David, she was. We expected an engagement announcement any time. She sat right by my side all day yesterday." Her eyes grew bright with tears.

  I had a vague memory of a girl sitting next to Bernice after the funeral. She had worn a plain dark skirt and blouse, no makeup, her hair pulled back from her face at the sides and secured with barrettes. She had held Bernice's hand, but other than that I couldn't remember much about her. From what I had seen of David, he preferred the flashy type. I remembered the photos in his office and had a hard time picturing him settling down with such a mouse.

  I had one more question, and I knew it would be a painful one.

  "Bernice, do you know if David owned a gun?"

  This time her face came alive. "No, there is no way my David would own a gun," she said adamantly.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Of course. David loved living things. Once, when he was a small boy, he threw a rock and accidentally killed a bird. That boy was heartbroken. It hurt him so badly to see that little bird die, after that he would not play with even toy guns."

  "I see." A touching story, I had to admit, but people do change later in life. With David, I couldn't be sure.

  Chapter 12

  I could tell she was getting restive. The others had gathered near the dining room door, waiting to leave for church.

  "I'll let you get going," I said. "I wonder, though, could I take one of these pictures of David? I'll return it, of course."

  Bernice seemed reluctant to part with one of the large ones, but she pulled an envelope of snapshots from the small drawer in the end table, and leafed through them quickly.

  "Will this one be all right?" she asked.

  The photo showed David dressed in a three piece suit, standing with his arm around Sharon. They both held champagne glasses, obviously at a party somewhere. Perhaps the grand opening of the restaurant last year.

  "It's fine, thanks." I said goodbye to the others, and went out to my car.

  I had no definite plan where to go next, so I headed back to the office. Back there, I found Sally in a slump. Her period had started, dashing her hopes of motherhood for at least another month. I spent a few minutes sounding sympathetic. The ringing telephone saved me from having to come up with something encouraging to say.

  It was Sharon, checking to be sure I'd made it out of Ben Murray's office alive. I appreciated her concern. When I posed the question to her about the gun, she couldn't be sure. She had never heard David talk about a gun, but that didn't necessarily mean he didn't own one. After hanging up, I went into Ron's office and dug out the file containing the police report. The gun's serial number had checked out as being registered to David Ruiz. It had been purchased a month ago. A copy of his permit had been found in his wallet and photocopied for the police file. He had purchased it at A&B Coins and Guns on Central Avenue. The shop was only about three blocks from the restaurant.

  I decided to stop by there later. In the meantime, I placed a call to the IRS agent who had left the messages for David. It was a good five minutes before agent Tom McDonald came on the line. He sounded young, and more harassed than hardboiled. He was interrupted twice before I got my whole story out about who I was and what I wanted.

  "Now, Ms....Parker, was it? I have the file in front of me. What was it you needed?"

  I repeated the spiel I had just given, about how David had been killed, and I was trying to straighten out his records. What I needed from McDonald was to find out what they needed.

  "Just how far along was the audit?" I asked.

  "Well, the personal audit was well underway. It's the business audit we're waiting for information on," he said.

  "Personal audit?"

  "That's where we noticed the inconsistencies. David Ruiz failed to provide adequate proof that his income from the partnership coincided with the level he claimed on his personal return. Additionally, his expenses triggered a red flag, forcing us to initiate an audit of the business as well."

  "David was living beyond his visible means."

  "Basically, yes," McDonald said.

  He didn't seem terribly upset when I told him it might be several more weeks before we could put together enough information to give him what he needed. Of course penalties and interest, if owed, would continue to accrue, he reminded me. That fact established, he seemed more than happy to sit on the case for as long as it took.

  This could prove to be the final setback for Sharon. Since David's estate apparently consisted of a car he'd made six payments on, a dozen five-hundred dollar suits, and his share of the business, I knew where the IRS would come looking for their money. Looked like my old friend could be in deep shit.

  I didn't want to break it to her on the phone. Better to deliver the terrible news in person. To add to her troubles, the evidence was beginning to suggest that perhaps David had killed himself, in which case the insurance policy wasn't going to pay off. The compounding drain on her finances could well send her into bankruptcy.

  Damn David! I wished he would come back to life just so I could punch him in his smug little nose. I glanced at my watch. It was already nearing five o'clock. I wasn't sure Sharon would be at the restaurant this late, but I had to give it a try. Also, the gun shop, like most downtown businesses, would probably be closing shortly. I grabbed my keys and purse, preparing to leave for the day.

  I made it as far as the kitchen, where Ron just about opened the back door into my face.

  "Hey, kid, glad I caught you," he said. He seemed in good humor. "Vicky and I are going to try out that new barbecue place tonight. Wanna come? Please...it's my treat."

  What's got into him, I wondered. "I've got two stops to make, and I need to go home to let Rusty out. Can I still make it?"

  "Seven-thirty. Come by my place and we'll all ride together."

  I would be cutting it close, but told him I'd be there.

  The street in front of Nouvelle Mexicano was deserted, and as I had suspected, the place was dark and closed up tight. I walked around the side and up the alley, which reeked from overflowing trash bins. I got no answer to my knock on the back door, either. I'd have to call Sharon at home if I got in early enough.

  By the time I found the gun shop, and a place to park two doors down, a middle aged man with frazzled dark hair was turning over the CLOSED sign in the window. The sign on their door said they were open till five-thirty, and my watch said it was only five-twenty. I tapped on the glass, and pointed to my watch. He opened the door, although he didn't look too happy about it.

  Inside, the place looked like it had been hit by a burglar with a moving van.

  "Sorry, we put all the merchandise in the safe at night," he said tiredly. "If you know what you want, I could bring it out."

  "I just need information," I told him, showing him my card. I pulled out the photocopy of the gun permit. He glanced at it briefly.

  "So?"
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br />   "I need to know if you remember this sale. Would you recognize the man who bought the gun?"

  "What was the name again?" He looked back at the form, this time taking the time to read it. "Ruiz. Ruiz." His eyes shifted upward as he searched for a visual memory.

  "He came in here about a month ago," he said, speaking slowly like a medium in a trance. "The whole thing took about ten minutes. Guy knew exactly what he wanted. Walked in, pointed it out in the case, bought one box of ammo, signed the papers, and walked out."

  "Did you check his identification?"

  "He showed a driver's license. Everything looked okay to me."

  "Was this the man?" I showed him the photo Bernice Ruiz had given me.

  He studied it carefully. "It's hard to tell, you know? A guy at a party, smiling, had a few drinks. Looks a little different than when he's talking business, no smiles, just gets right to the point. He looked a little younger in person, too, you know. I'm pretty sure it's the same guy, though."

  "He did show his driver's license?"

  "Oh, yeah. I always check that."

  I thanked him and left. Something nagged at me. No one I'd spoken to had mentioned David having any knowledge of guns. In fact, his mother had pretty adamantly denied it. Yet this guy said the man walked right in and knew just what he wanted. How would David know what to buy?

  I turned the Jeep around, heading west toward home. Maybe David figured a gun's a gun. Aimed point blank at your temple, probably any gun will accomplish the job. Assuming a knowledgeable, businesslike manner would allow him to complete the transaction with a minimum of questions. Maybe that was just David's way. Still, it bothered me.

  It was seven-thirty-four when I pulled into the lot at Ron's apartment building. As usual, finding a parking spot was the real trick. Poor planning had resulted in a severe shortage of spaces. Each apartment was allotted two, which worked fine in Ron's case—one for himself and one for a visitor. However, since the majority of the tenants were young couples with two cars, their guests spilled over into any extras. Then there were the two gay guys on the second floor, whose vehicles included a twelve-year-old Mercedes, a Mustang convertible, some kind of off-road square looking thing, and a pair of matching Honda GoldWings. It always irked me that they took up so much space. If they had money for all these toys, why didn't they live in a classier place than this dump?