Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (13 page)

When I felt like I could stand again, I
turned back toward the house. How had the man gotten inside without
Rusty raising some kind of fuss? Granted, he is one of the
friendliest mutts around, but he wouldn't let a stranger enter the
house, especially after dark, without all hell breaking loose. My
eyes searched the back yard, as I called to him.

That's when I began to realize that Rusty was
missing.

Chapter 16

A rush of raw adrenaline can clear your head
quicker than any amount of rest. The thought that something might
have happened to Rusty sent a jolt of fear through me stronger than
any I'd felt while it was my own hide in danger. I reached inside
the kitchen door, switching on all the lights. Floods at the
corners of the building and on the carriage house lit the back yard
with clarity.

I called out to him, and circled the
perimeter without luck. Back inside, I walked through every room
and searched every closet and storeroom. Nothing. In the bathroom
mirror I happened to catch a glimpse of my own face. My reddish
hair had come out of its ponytail and my bangs were sticking up at
odd angles. There was a smear of blood across my cheek.

My first concern right now, however, was
Rusty. I retrieved my shoulder bag from the kitchen floor, pulled
out my keys, and headed for the Jeep. I rolled all the windows
down, and drove slowly down the street, calling out to him as I
went. There was no sign of him on our block, and I felt a sense of
dread as I continued into the next. If my attacker had taken Rusty
with him, he could be anywhere in the city by now. Tears dimmed my
eyes as my mind skipped over the possibilities, including one
unbidden view of the doggie morgue at the city pound. I couldn't
let myself think about it.

At the intersection with Central Avenue, I
pulled to the side. I didn't want to believe Rusty had gotten this
far away. Something inside me held to the hope that he was still
within the relatively safe confines of our quiet neighborhood.
Crossing a major street meant crossing into the unlimited vastness
of the city, including all those other possibilities.

I turned the Jeep around, planning to scout
out all the side streets before taking that next major step. Two
blocks from where I'd started, I spotted a dark form, lying inert
in the gutter. My heart stopped.

He was unconscious, but still breathing.
Bending close to his face, I caught a faint whiff of the same stuff
that had been used on me. Somehow, the attacker had gotten close
enough to Rusty to sedate him, although I couldn't imagine how.
Given the dog's body weight, as compared to a grown person though,
it probably hadn't taken much. The attacker must have put Rusty
into his car. That probably explained the nearby door slam I'd
heard from Ron's office. But, for what purpose?

I needed to get Rusty on his feet; lifting
him would have been difficult even if I wasn't still dizzy from the
bump to my own head. I wondered if you can give a dog
mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I wondered if you'd want to. A
notebook-sized sheet of cardboard that I found in the back seat
worked pretty well as a fan, and I sent as much fresh air toward
his nostrils as I could. I stroked his neck and talked gently to
him, and gradually he began to stir.

Now that I knew he was out of danger,
watching him come awake was almost comical. He had a stupid look on
his face like a drunk who isn't quite sure where he is. He almost
landed on his face the first time he tried to jump into the Jeep.
He took the second try much more cautiously, and finally dragged
his back half upward with a little boost from me.

The office was still completely unlocked, I
realized belatedly. I headed back there while Rusty began to snore
on the back seat. In my earlier frantic search for the dog, I'd
turned on every light in the place; the sight reassured me as I
returned. Still, I carried my little mace canister when I went back
inside. The place seemed clear. When I got to the bathroom, I
noticed once again, the smear of blood on my cheek.

I stepped closer to the mirror to examine it.
I rinsed it off, but could not find a wound that it could have come
from. It must have come off the attacker's gloves. In the kitchen I
found a square of gauze on the floor where I'd fallen. It was
fairly dry now, but still held the faint scent of the chloroform. I
found a sandwich bag in a kitchen drawer and dropped it in. The
rest of the room was pretty much unscathed. There was one smeared
muddy footprint near the back door, barely visible on the wood
floor. I looked at the bottoms of my own shoes. Since I had
trampled right through a flower bed, it didn't surprise me to find
traces of mud there. The footprint could be my own.

I knew I should probably report the attack to
the police, but right now I just wanted to take my dog and go home.
What could the police do anyway? The evidence was skimpy at best; a
smeared footprint and a gauze square. I'd be surprised if there
were any decent footprints outside. The person had run down the
concrete driveway, straight to the waiting car. I couldn't give
much description of the car. It had been dark and low, and without
lights I'd had no hope of seeing the license plate.

I knew from past experience that a call like
this would be low priority. I'd probably sit around an hour or more
before they even came, then be asked questions which I couldn't
answer for another thirty minutes. I decided I'd just report it to
Kent Taylor when I saw him in the morning.

Rechecking all the doors and windows twice, I
finally locked the office and headed home. Rusty slept, sprawled
out across the back seat like a lumpy fur rug. I turned the radio
off and listened to his light snoring for reassurance. I hoped I'd
be able to put the whole evening behind me that easily, but I knew
it wouldn't happen. If the attacker had intended to kill me or rob
me, he'd had the perfect chance with Rusty out of the way, and me
supposedly unconscious. Why hadn't he? I had to believe the attack
was meant as a warning.

Less than three hours ago I'd sat in the
Porsche and come to the conclusion that David Ruiz's death had been
murder. Two hours ago I'd reported that conclusion to Kent Taylor.
Within an hour after that, I'd been jumped in my own office and my
dog had been abducted. My internal antennae hummed like electric
wires at the thought of someone watching my moves that closely.
What else did they know? What else did they
think
I
knew?

I drove past my house casually, then cruised
a three block area around the neighborhood, alert for any sign of
an unknown dark car. Most of the residents in my area are about
Elsa Higgins’s age, old enough to be my grandparents. They tuck in
pretty early. Many of them don't drive at all anymore, and those
who do come from an age where they learned to care for the few
possessions they have. Their cars are normally parked in their
meticulously organized garages at night. A car parked on the street
is a rarity around here. My attacker had either decided that one
scare per night is enough, or he had realized how obvious he would
be coming into this neighborhood. Either way, I had soon satisfied
myself that no strange cars were nearby.

Even so, I carried my flashlight and mace
canister with me as I got out of the Jeep and approached my house.
Rusty stayed close to me as we went inside and I did a thorough
check of all doors and windows. Call me paranoid.

I microwaved water for tea, then remembered I
hadn't had dinner yet. Somehow nothing sounded very good. I put
Rusty's food in his bowl but he let it lie there untouched. We
settled for a couple of Oreos each. I took off the slacks and
sweater I'd worn all day, and slipped on a lightweight summer robe.
The house was too quiet, so I put a couple of classical CDs into
the player, keeping the volume low. It was peaceful, snuggling into
the corner of my cushiony sofa with soft music and a cup of tea.
Peaceful surroundings for a turbulent mind.

Kent Taylor clearly hoped I would have
abandoned my quest by the next morning when I showed up at his desk
at 7:05. He drew long pulls on his coffee mug, obviously forcing
himself to stay polite as I began my narrative. By the time I
finished, he was sitting up straight and taking notes.

"So, you think someone shot David through the
open car window?" he asked.

"It had to be that way, Kent. The killer shot
through the open window, then opened the door and rolled the window
up." He stared at me as I took a quick breath. "I can show you. I
sat in that car and pretended to point a gun at my head. David
would have had to aim at a completely crazy angle, causing the
bullet to end up either in the roof or the passenger seat of the
car. For that bullet to go where it did, someone else had to have
been behind it."

Taylor stood up and walked to his file
cabinet. He pulled out his file on the case, and spread the
pictures out on the desk's surface.

"See?" I indicated one of the exterior shots
of the car. "Imagine a line of fire from the driver's head to the
inside door panel just below the window on the passenger side." I
laid a pencil across the photo to illustrate my point. I knew I
sounded like an eager little kid, but couldn't help myself.

Kent rubbed his chin as he studied the
picture. I could tell he was considering my argument, but
professional pride wouldn't let him admit that he hadn't figured it
out first.

"There's more," I told him. "Within a couple
of hours after I'd left the car lot, I was attacked in the kitchen
at my office."

I dropped the plastic bag with the piece of
gauze in it on his desk. He sniffed at the gauze, and listened as I
quickly recapped the events, including the abduction of Rusty.

"It has to be related," I told him. "The Ruiz
case is the only one I'm directly involved in right now. And, the
only one that might send someone up for murder. It was a warning,
I'm sure; if they'd wanted to kill again, they had every
chance."

"I don't have enough personnel to give you
protection," he warned. "Based on what you've told me, we'll reopen
our investigation. You better drop back and stick with your little
bookkeeper duties. Let us handle the Ruiz case."

It was all I could do to maintain my cool. I
felt my "little bookkeeper" temper rising, and just managed to get
out of his earshot before I began muttering loudly under my breath.
By the time I reached my car, I'd graduated to all-out swearing. I
knew Ron had worked hard to establish a good rapport with Taylor,
but that didn't stop me from wanting to punch him in his smug
little nose.

Unfortunately for Taylor, he'd chosen
precisely the wrong tactic to use with me. His condescension made
me all the more determined to solve the case before he did. This
was war.

Chapter 17

Still fuming, I decided to visit Nouvelle
Mexicano. I hoped Sharon would be free for a few minutes. It was
about eight-thirty, the hour when the junior executive types were
usually power-breakfasting before showing up at their offices
around nine-fifteen. Sharon's share of the crowd didn't look so
hot. The brief burst of business they'd enjoyed after David's death
had dwindled. It was another reason I wanted to get the case solved
as quickly as possible. Sharon needed that insurance money.

I walked in to find her waiting tables.

"I wish you'd been here about two hours ago,"
she said. We walked together toward David's office at the back.
"Another of my nineteen-year-old reliables quit on me."

"I've never waited tables," I told her.
"You'd probably end up having to fire me."

"Oh, I didn't mean that." She laughed as she
pulled out her keys. "I could have used your accounting expertise.
I had to write a final paycheck for her, and didn't know how to
figure the taxes. I had to call that nasty Ben Murray. If you think
he's a grouch in the middle of the day, you should hear him at six
in the morning."

I didn't envy her one little bit.

"If you don't mind, I'll poke around in here
a bit," I told her. "When you finish your breakfast shift, I'll
fill you in on the case. There've been some interesting
developments."

She looked like she wanted to ask about them
right then, but duty called. She tucked a stray blond lock back
into its bobby-pin, and headed back to the dining room.

David's office felt a little more abandoned
each time I visited. The clutter had taken on a layer of dust now,
and an industrious spider family had claimed one corner for their
own. The only change I saw was the gradually increasing stack of
mail forming in the center of the desk. Bills. I had the feeling
Sharon was putting them here because she wasn't sure where to turn.
She'd given the impression that she didn't even know their checking
account balance. She was probably afraid to write checks, not
knowing whether they had any money. Maybe I ought to volunteer a
little accounting time to help get things back on track.

During the night, between restless dreams and
bouts of anxiety where I'd get up and check to be sure Rusty was
breathing, one thing had hit me with crystal clarity. If I couldn't
find David's copies of the restaurant's financial statements, I
might be able to retrieve them off the computer. The more I thought
about it, the dumber I felt for not having figured it out sooner. I
might only be able to reprint those for the last month—I wasn't
sure. Some accounting programs allow the user to keep more than one
month open, others require that the previous month be closed out
before it will accept any entries for the current month. At the
very least, I should be able to run some kind of historical reports
that would point out trends. It wouldn't be the same as having
David's files, which would probably contain his notes and monthly
adjustment figures, but it was better than nothing.