Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (22 page)

It took a minute for my breathing to slow
down enough to talk coherently.

"Is everything okay, Ron? Are you alone?"

"Yeah... Charlie,
what
is wrong?"

I knew I sounded completely overwrought, and
was beginning to feel a little foolish.

"Nothing, I guess. I just... well, I'll tell
you later. I'm on my way there. Will you be around?"

"For another hour or so, I guess," he said.
"You sure everything's okay?"

"Yeah, fine." I took a deep breath of warm
summer air. Out here in the late afternoon sunshine, my experience
in Michael's office seemed like a weird dream.

I hung up the phone, and got back in my Jeep,
just about the time I noticed a shopping center security patrol
eyeing it. I was out of the red zone and moving toward the exit
before he had a chance to say anything.

The shortest way back to the office would be
to take I-40 all the way to Twelfth Street, but at this time of
day, it wouldn't necessarily be the quickest. I debated the options
a moment too long, and missed the on-ramp. Now it would have to be
either Lomas or Central. I opted for Lomas after making a
last-second lane change. It was after making this foolishly quick
maneuver that I thought I spotted a green Jaguar behind me.

Traffic was too heavy for me to keep looking
at my rearview mirror. I slowed down, letting a number of cars pass
me, and infuriating those directly behind me who had no hope of
changing lanes. A couple of times I thought I glimpsed that
distinctive dark green again, but I couldn't be sure. If he was
back there it was no accident. He was purposely staying far enough
behind that I couldn't know for sure.

At San Mateo I decided to change course. I
turned south, and one block later made a quick left. By the time I
circled the block and emerged again on Lomas I was behind the group
of traffic I'd been a part of. My eyes scanned the cars ahead of
me, but no sight of a Jaguar. I was certain he hadn't followed my
little detour, but where was he? I sped up, weaving my way through
the group. No green car. Perhaps I'd been mistaken all along.

For the rest of the trip, though, I couldn't
help being on alert. Ahead, behind, around me— no green car
appeared.

By the time I reached the office I was
feeling somewhat foolish, like a skittish old lady seeing ghosts. I
decided not to tell Ron what a baby I'd been. His car was in its
regular spot out back, and I parked beside it.

The knob to the back door turned easily in my
hand. Ron, as usual, had left it unlocked. How many times had I
told him that it wasn't smart to be there alone after hours without
locking the door.

"Ron!"

"In my office." His voice drifted down the
stairs faintly.

Rusty was a little more enthusiastic to see
me. At the sound of my voice he came bounding down. Amazingly, he
didn't trip over himself on the stairs.

"Hey, boy." I rubbed his ears, and he smiled
up at me.

I walked toward Ron's office, Rusty close at
my heels. Ron was at his desk, files spread out in front of him
when I poked my head in.

"Everything going okay?" I asked.

"Just finishing up the paperwork on that
insurance case," he said. He looked up at me, his eyes narrowing
slightly. "What was that phone call all about?" he asked.

I debated how much to tell him. I didn't want
to sound like the huge chicken I was beginning to feel like. But,
then again, it really wasn't fair to keep him in the dark. Painful
as it might be, his involvement with Vicky was trouble. Whether
Michael actually knew Ron was the other man yet, I couldn't be
sure. But I was sure he planned to confront Vicky, and if, in a fit
of confession, she named names, Ron had the right to know he might
be in danger.

"Let me put my stuff down first," I told
him.

I carried my purse and briefcase into my own
office across the hall, and slipped Rusty a biscuit from the
canister. The late afternoon sun cast a golden tint through the
windows. I stalled a couple of minutes, unsure how to begin telling
Ron what I had figured out.

Back in his office I took the chair across
from him. Might as well come right out with it.

"Vicky's husband has figured out that she was
cheating." I filled him in on my visit to Michael, mentioning the
way Michael had started acting strangely. I didn't elaborate on my
reaction to it.

"He's going to confront her?" Ron asked.

"That's what he said. He said something about
the guy paying the price, too. I don't know if he knows it was you,
but it has me worried."

Ron leaned back in his chair, his hands
rubbing at his face. He let out a long deep breath. He didn't say
anything for a couple of minutes, but I know my brother well enough
to know that he was worried, too.

"I could use a glass of water," he said,
abruptly standing up. "Want one?" He headed toward the stairs.

"Uh, okay."

His boots made hollow thuds on each step as
he went down to the kitchen. The light was fading fast now, the
windows darkening. I decided to close the blinds. I went across the
hall to my own office first.

Standing at the bay window, I glanced out at
the quiet street. The residential neighbors were tucked in behind
their soft yellow windows now. A dark cat strolled up the street,
intent on its own pursuits. I reached for the plastic wand to crank
the blinds shut when I noticed something out of place. Two doors
up, in the driveway of the only unoccupied house on the block, sat
a dark Jaguar.

I froze.

Had it been there when I arrived? Surely I
would have noticed it. I couldn't remember, though. I stepped
aside, flattening myself against the window frame. It was too dark
out to tell whether the driver was in the car. I had to assume he
wasn't.

I backed away from the window, careful not to
let myself be silhouetted in the doorway with the hall light behind
me. Where was Rusty? Usually he was right at my feet, but I
couldn't remember him being in Ron's office while we talked. I
hadn't seen him since he almost knocked me over in the kitchen.

I was standing at the door to the hall, my
back pressed against the wall. A tiny sound came up from the
kitchen. Was it Ron getting the water, or had Michael somehow
gotten into the house? Had I locked the back door behind me? My
ears went on alert. The old Victorian tended to creak a lot, but
now things were quiet. Almost too quiet.

Chapter 28

The hall practically reverberated darkness
and quiet. Light from Ron's office formed a bright rectangle on the
hardwood floor. I couldn't remember that we'd had lights on in
there. I listened for another full minute. Nothing.

When he isn't wearing it, Ron keeps a gun in
his desk. Bottom drawer on the right. I don't like guns. A tight
feeling forms inside me whenever I watch Ron handle one. He's
demonstrated this one to me a couple of times, moving through the
maneuvers of loading, unloading, chambering a round, and checking
the safety with the lightning rapidity that familiarity brings. Now
I wished I had paid attention.

There's a creaky spot in the old floor, in
the hall midway between Ron's office and mine. After a quick peek
in each direction I sidestepped the squeak and pressed myself
against the door frame of Ron's room. It, too, was clear.

I switched off the desk lamp, so I wouldn't
be quite such an easy target. I picked up the phone and punched
911. Dead silence greeted me. All three of our incoming lines were
the same.

The drawer slid open silently. The holstered
weapon lay there on top of a lined yellow notepad. It was heavier
than I expected. I unfastened the holster snap and withdrew the
gun. My hands shook. I tried to remember what Ron had wanted to
teach me about it. My mind went blank. The thing was as foreign to
me as a missile launcher. I gripped it tightly with both hands, the
way I'd seen Mel Gibson do in the movies.

Never taking my eyes from the door, I slipped
off my shoes. Although they were soft soled, it was too easy for
them to squeak on the hard floors. Barefoot, I'd have a much better
chance of moving around unheard. I heard a sound from downstairs,
something indefinable. A rapid scratching sound coming from far
away. Leaving the relative safety of Ron's office didn't have much
appeal, but I needed to.

Working in this old building for three years,
sometimes late at night, I'd become thoroughly familiar with all
its little quirks. There were squeaky places throughout, and I knew
where most of them were. An advantage Michael didn't have. A doubt
still lingered in my mind. The place was too quiet. Was he inside?
Where were Ron and Rusty? Fear shot through me as I remembered what
Michael had done to Rusty the last time he'd been here. I had to
get moving.

The gun was getting heavier, and I adjusted
my grip, keeping it pointed upward like TV detectives do. Careful
not to silhouette myself in an open window or doorway, I edged
around the room and out into the hall. Faint light from street
lamps came through the windows. Otherwise, the place was in
darkness. I had to relinquish one hand on the gun so I could feel
for the stair railing. Third step down, I knew, had a bad creak. I
avoided it. I heard the odd scratching noise again. Couldn't tell
where it was coming from. For now, I had to concentrate on
remembering which steps to avoid.

At the bottom I waited, my back pressed to
the wall. There was a storage closet beneath the stairs. It held
some office supplies neatly arranged on shelves, a vacuum cleaner
and mop. Otherwise, it was clear and would make an excellent hiding
place. I wanted to be sure I didn't turn my back on it. From my
vantage point I could see the front door ahead of me, the doorway
into the reception area was to my left, the conference room ahead
and to my right. All in shadow. Nothing out of place that I could
see.

Again, the scratching noise. This time it was
right in front of me. The hair on my neck tingled. I held the gun a
little tighter. Then I heard the whine.

It was Rusty. I let out my pent-up breath. He
was outside on the front porch, scratching to get in. I wanted to
go to him and pull open the door, but thought better of it. Running
loose in the house, at best he would be an unknown, another sound,
another distraction. At worst, he might sniff his way right into
Michael's hands. He was safer outside for now.

Hearing him, though, made me more sure than
ever that Michael was somewhere in the house. Rusty would not be so
intent on getting in if the intruder were still in the yard.

Somehow, Michael must have lured the dog
outside, then taken Ron by surprise when he went to the kitchen for
the water. Upstairs, I hadn't heard a sound. How had he managed it?
The kitchen was to my right and behind me, the door almost directly
across from the door to the storage closet. Surely Michael knew I
was in the house. If he had successfully subdued Ron his next step
would be to come after me. Was the silence driving him crazy,
too?

As a jealous husband, the tendency might be
to strike out at the wife's lover, then vanish. But Michael wasn't
stupid. I knew too much, and he'd have to get rid of me, too. He
had gone over the edge now. I remembered how he'd looked in his
office only awhile ago. Crazed.
He paid the price
Michael
had said.
Paid
, past tense. Wait a minute—Michael hadn't
been talking about Ron. Michael thought someone else had sent those
letters. And the only other person in this whole scenario who had
paid a price had been David.

It hit me with almost physical force. The
whole picture laid itself out neatly now, and everything made
sense. Michael had found the love letters in Vicky's drawer.
Instead of confronting her and finding out the truth, he'd gone
after the man he believed had sent them. His cousin David.

My head spun and my stomach threatened to
lurch. Michael truly was crazy. He'd killed one of the people
closest to him in the whole world. I thought of the pictures I'd
seen of the two of them together as boys. They had looked enough
alike to be brothers. And that was how Michael had gotten away with
posing as David when he purchased the gun. Michael had borrowed
David's drivers license for awhile. A stranger, looking at a one
inch sized picture, could easily be fooled.

Now Michael was after my brother. He'd killed
his own cousin, now he would feel no remorse at killing again.
There would be Ron, then me. A lump rose in my throat, my lunch. I
had to concentrate on getting it to settle down, and think what to
do next. I really wished I had been able to reach the police. A
female side of me that I don't like very much shows itself at times
like this. I wanted to be rescued.

Stop it, Charlie! There is no rescue. You
have to handle this yourself.

A sound from the kitchen served as a great
adrenaline pump. I couldn't be sure what it was, but it sent macho
hormones to my brain instantly. I gripped the gun tighter and
tiptoed toward the sound, working on a plan as I went. I avoided
the creaky spot at the foot of the stairs, and another about three
feet farther on.

The swinging door to the kitchen was closed.
Approaching it, I could distinguish other small sounds that I
hadn't noticed earlier. A low male voice murmured something. I
didn't hear a response. With or without a gun, walking through that
swinging door would be a mistake. Obviously, Michael would be
armed. He'd see me long before I could assess the situation in
there. I needed a distraction.

A small table in the hall held an arrangement
of dried flowers. We usually stacked our outgoing mail there. It
was easily within my reach. I didn't have much time. Had to plan my
moves carefully but quickly. The thought of aiming the gun and
killing, even a killer, sickened me. I picked up the glass vase and
moved into position at the hinged edge of the swinging door.