I cruised past Stacy's house once more on my way out of the neighborhood. Brad's car was still in the driveway so I didn't stop. Three blocks away, I spotted a pizza place on the corner. I realized I was famished. It was still early enough that I found a parking place right by the door. Almost ordained, it seemed.
They sold pizza by the slice. I ordered one with mushrooms and black olives and a Greek salad. I found a table in a deserted corner and waited there, crunching on the salad. Out of curiosity I pulled the sheaf of papers from my purse again. I hadn't organized them, and it took a few minutes to locate Charles Tompkins' name among the scraps of scrawlings.
I heard my name being called so I got up to collect my pizza slice. Back at the table, one of the racing forms almost jumped out at me. Why hadn't I noticed this before? Tompkins hadn't lost money on Bet The Farm. The horse had won. I remembered Tompkins' comment about hidden assets.
The horse had won, and maybe Gary hadn't paid off. Gary had written dates beside some of his handwritten entries, including Tompkins' big bet on Bet The Farm. I pulled out my checkbook calendar to verify the date. He'd placed the bet two days before Stacy had hired me to locate her missing watch. Could it be pure coincidence, or did Gary have an urgent reason to get out of town? Like maybe a hundred thousand reasons that someone might be angry with him?
Tompkins wouldn't have pulled the trigger. How stupid could I be? The way he'd done it was perfect. Out of town at a week-long convention, hundreds of witnesses as to his whereabouts, a hired assassin to get rid of Detweiller. The sheet of paper suddenly felt hot in my hand. I laid it down, staring at Gary's long, slanted writing as I finished my pizza. I remembered Ron's caution to me about withholding evidence. The police needed to know about this. I still couldn't figure out the connection between Tompkins and Jean Detweiller. That puzzle would take some work. But I didn't see how Kent Taylor could ignore this new finding. Surely, he would have to admit that Stacy was no longer the only suspect. I stuffed the last bite of pizza into my mouth and walked out of the place, still chewing.
It was one minute to five when I pulled into the only parking spot I could find within three blocks of the downtown police station. I had a feeling Taylor worked from eight to five and might already be gone by now. I locked my car and pushed my way up the crowded sidewalk.
Taylor sat at his desk with stacks of file folders surrounding him. He was making notes in one, resting his forehead on the other hand. Gone was the freshly pressed look he usually wore in the mornings. The precisely knotted tie hung over his chair and his hair looked like it had been the victim of an eggbeater attack.
He seemed completely unaware of my presence. I ahummed a couple of times before he looked up.
"Charlie."
I ignored the unspoken, What do you want? He went back to his writing. Helping myself to an extra chair, I pulled it to the front of his desk and sat still with my hands in my lap like a nice, polite little girl. It almost killed me.
He made a few more notes in his file, then closed the cover.
"Now, I assume by the way you're twitching in your chair that you came here to tell me something urgent," he said.
"I've found another suspect in the Detweiller case that had as much reason to kill Detweiller as anyone. More reason than Stacy did." I outlined the basics for him.
"That's crazy, Charlie. A guy bets on a horse and wins, he doesn't kill the bookie."
"He might if the bookie left town with the guy's winnings. Picture this—Tompkins places a large bet on Friday. Gets the word Saturday that he'd won. He's ready to collect, but Gary's gone. Out of town, can't be located. Tompkins spends the next three days getting madder and madder, until finally he's ready to kill Gary. He's also had time to think about it and decides he shouldn't do it himself. So he hires help."
"Or maybe he just couldn't take time out of his busy schedule to sit for an evening in Detweiller's driveway," he replied sarcastically.
"Come on, Kent, you have to admit this is at least as strong a motive as Stacy's."
He cocked his head to one side, almost but not quite agreeing.
"At least look into it," I asked.
I could tell by the look on his face that he had really wanted to close this file with Stacy's name on the bottom line. I had managed to complicate his life once again in the last ten minutes and he wasn't crazy about it. I left the station without knowing what, if anything, he'd do with the information.
Traffic was heavy as I left the downtown area. I managed to catch every red light. There was nothing to do but fall in with the slow pace of all the other vehicles. It was nearly six when I reached the office, but Ron's light was still on.
Rusty greeted me at the door like I'd been gone for days. After quite a bit of hand licking and sniffing my pockets for misplaced cheeseburgers, he let me go upstairs.
Ron was at his desk still, phone in hand. I thought the wrinkles were a little more noticeable around his eyes, and his thin hair was stuck to the top of his bald spot.
"Rough day?" I asked.
"Just a long one," he replied. "The usual."
"How about an enchilada dinner? My treat."
He pulled himself out of his chair, groaning slightly as he stood. He's only six years older than I, making me wonder if this was the kind of shape I'd be in before long. He reached for his Stetson on the wall rack. We checked the doors and windows and boarded our respective cars for the drive to Pedro's. Somehow, tonight I was eager for that margarita.
Pedro had the drinks plus a bowl of salsa and a basket of chips on the table almost before we sat down. If it weren't for Concha, I could probably fall in love with this man.
"How's your case going?" Ron asked after the first salty sip from his glass.
I told him of today's discoveries.
"At least I think the police will have to investigate the possibility that Stacy isn't the only suspect in this case," I told him. "I just wish I had a better idea of how Jean's murder tied in to all this. I still haven't figured out why anyone would have killed her. And it has to be related. She was shot with the same gun."
"You think Tompkins paid a hit man to do Gary? Well, the same guy could have killed Jean, not knowing about the relationship."
"Just for the fun of it, you mean? I doubt that." The conversation was becoming ridiculous. "I guess I'll leave that part to the police. At least I can tell Stacy that there is another suspect."
The enchiladas arrived just then and we stayed busy shoveling steaming tortilla, chicken, cheese, and green chile into ourselves. Rusty helped with the fallen chips. Twenty minutes later I was full, but managed to put away a honey-filled yeasty sopapilla for dessert.
We visited with Pedro and Concha for a few minutes before leaving. At home, I felt restless. I wanted to call Stacy but found myself putting it off, telling myself that it was already getting late. The truth was, I didn't want to talk to Brad or to have him around when I spoke with her. And I really wasn't sure why. Just that contact with him was something I dreaded a little more each time it happened.
I puttered around the house, finding little things to keep myself busy until eleven. I went to bed then, more out of habit than from tiredness. Despite efforts to get comfortable, my eyes stared wide awake at the ceiling for a long time. I couldn't rid myself of the feeling that there was more to the story than I'd discovered so far.
I fell into an uneasy sleep, where I dreamed that someone slashed all four of my tires while the Jeep was parked at the Tanoan Country Club. Tangled images of jacks and tow trucks and a maitre d' who feigned concern over my plight filled the night. I awoke abruptly, relieved that I no longer had to deal with the problem.
It was early morning, the room defined in colorless shades of gray and black. I rolled toward the night table. The red numerals on my clock radio provided the only spot of color in the room. Five-fourteen, they said. I groaned and rolled away from them, but my adrenaline was already pumping too hard for sleep to return.
Ideas boin
ged around inside my skull, giving me no peace. The dream of more flat tires only reminded me that here was another aspect of the mystery that I had yet failed to solve. In my mind, I had linked Larry Burke with that incident as well as with the dark truck that followed me home. But I had no proof. And the only way I'd get proof was either to confront him or to return to Penguin's and try to get some evidence. Neither option appealed to me at the moment.
Thirty minutes later, I was still staring at the clock, still no closer to drifting back to sleep. I was also mentally kicking myself in the butt because I couldn't seem to get motivated to do what I needed to do—visit Larry Burke again.
Mental butt-kicking usually serves to get me in motion, and this time was no exception. By six o'clock I had forced myself into the shower and by six-thirty I was in the predawn traffic, headed across town. I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually used my headlights in the morning.
Judging by the absolute blackness at the Burke house, they weren't much for early mornings either. Fortunately, McDonalds didn't have any such prejudices and I was able to fortify myself with a breakfast thing that combined eggs, sausage and biscuit in a way I'd never seen it done before. This wonderful concoction and a cup of really black coffee would keep me alive until Larry Burke finally showed his face. In the back seat, Rusty just about went into seizures over the egg and sausage smell, so I ordered him one, too. We'd both be watching our cholesterol for days.
I parked in front of the house next to Burke's. I wanted a clear view of his driveway, but didn't want him getting a clear view of me first. This is tricky. A large juniper at the corner of his property would, I hoped, do the job.
Rusty wolfed down his breakfast treat in approximately five seconds but I knew we ought to ration our provisions. I nibbled at mine, thinking this would make the time pass more quickly. It didn't, but at least I had something to do while I was bored out of my head. Rusty eyed my sandwich and drooled, but I ignored him.
Finally, about seven-thirty a light appeared in what I supposed to be the Burke kitchen. Behind closed mini-blinds I could see a shape move back and forth occasionally, but couldn't tell who it was. At five minutes before eight, Larry emerged, perfectly coifed as usual, spiffy checked jacket hanging just right from his small frame. I sincerely hoped he didn't have to be at work by eight, because he was about to be late.
I met him at the door to his sports car. It was unfortunate that I'd left my camera at home, because the look on his face would have made an interesting shot.
"Hello, Larry."
He was able to close his jaw with some effort. His hands seemed to be oddly restless, reaching first for the car door, then into his pockets, clasping together, then back to the pockets.
"I'm wondering why you're so surprised to see me," I told him.
More fidgeting.
"Could it be that someone was supposed to chase me down Friday night? Maybe I'm not supposed to be walking and talking right now."
His eyes darted toward the front door, then up and down the street. He noticed my car for the first time, where Rusty was quite visibly pressing against the window. A dozen stories flitted through his list of possibilities, but finally he slumped.
"Willie, down at Penguin's, he told me you were trouble," he said. "He wanted to know if he could teach you a lesson."
"What did I ever do to him?" I asked incredulously.
Burke shrugged, like he just realized he didn't know. "Well, not him really—the guy he works for. Somehow you've pi— ticked that guy off."
"What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?"
"Some rich dude. Willie works for him, as a security guard, I think. I don't know his name. I've seen him around the club." He was uncomfortable with this. I got the idea that he didn't really know, and that he'd opened his mouth to Willie without knowing enough of the story.
"At least tell me Willie's last name," I insisted.
"I, umm, I don't know it." He stared at his toes while mumbling the words.
"You don't know Willie. You don't know who he works for. Yet you gave him permission to chase me down, to scare the hell out of me!" I spat the words at him. "You are something else, Burke. I just wish I could find a way to pin Gary's murder on you." I spun and stalked toward my car, leaving him standing in the driveway.
Sitting in my car, I gripped the wheel with both hands. My heart was thumping audibly and my face felt curiously flushed. I breathed deeply while I watched Burke start his own car, race the engine, and zip out of the driveway. I seldom lose my temper. When I do, I hate the physical effects. I reached for my Styrofoam cup of coffee. The lid was still tightly in place and the coffee was reasonably warm. The long drag I took soothed my insides.
What next? I was only a couple of blocks from the Detweiller house. Maybe I could catch Josh before he left for school, assuming he was still going to school these days.
Chapter 21