Read Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery for Free Online

parking space I saw. I lifted the cover
on the police file once more, to get a picture of David's car
firmly in my mind. I spotted one just like it, and walked toward
it.
    I had not quite circled the car once before a
salesman was at my side.
    "Beautiful car, isn't it?" he asked smoothly.
Despite the heat, his white shirt was still crisp, his tie
perfectly knotted. He had, however, removed his suit jacket. His
blond hair was expensively cut, and his flat nails were buffed to a
shine. He looked to be in his late twenties.
    "Yes," I answered, "I was just admiring it.
Could I sit in it?"
    "Go ahead," he said, pulling the door open,
and standing back graciously.
    The leather seats felt like they'd been
custom made for my rear end. A roll of padding lined the outside
edges of the seat, rising up on either side of my hips just enough
to make me feel secure. At a hundred twenty pounds, I consider
myself to be about average build. Even so, I wasn't sure how anyone
much larger would manage these seats. They were definitely built
for slim people. The rest of the interior was just as comfortable.
The gear shift was right at my fingertips. A padded console divided
the space between driver and passenger, giving a nice place to rest
my forearm. The instruments were basic and easy to look at.
    I pulled the door shut, and put my hands on
the wheel like I was driving. My eyes scanned the
instruments—everything okay there. Now I reached for the gear shift
with my right hand. Ready, clutch, okay. Yes! I could see myself
zooming past other cars like they were standing still. The
announcer's voice was clear and triumphant. Yes, folks, in the
final laps of the Indianapolis 500, Charlie Parker easily takes the
checkered flag.
    The door opened just then, abruptly bringing
me back to Albuquerque. I guess the salesman was nervous, not being
able to talk to me.
    "What do you think? Want to take it for a
test drive?"
    I had to make a conscious effort not to
drool.
    "I better not, not this time." I reminded
myself that I had a job to do. This is purely research, I repeated
internally. You cannot afford this car. You must get back to work.
My inner voice kept working at me, but it had to do some imaginary
tugging at the back of my collar to get me out of the Porsche and
back to my own set of wheels.

    Chapter 6

    Still daydreaming twenty-five minutes later,
I walked into Sharon's restaurant. She was making a gallant effort
at conducting business as usual, but I could tell it was a strain.
The waiters stood around like they weren't sure what to do
next.
    "We had a good sized lunch crowd today,"
Sharon told me, as she showed me to David's office. "Morbid
curiosity, I think. There was a long story and a picture of David
in this morning's Journal ."
    David's office consisted of a small room near
the back alley door, which had been constructed by setting up some
hasty partitions of two-by-fours and nailing drywall over them. The
door had a lock, but even I could have easily gotten past it.
Inside, an old metal desk took up most of the space. Behind it,
some one-by-twelve boards laid across metal brackets formed a set
of shelves, which were laden to the point of sagging. There were
stacks of computer printouts, file folders, and miscellaneous
papers, along with books on restaurant management and computer
operation manuals. Unframed snapshots of David, each with a
different woman on his arm, were propped against the books. The
women all had dark eyes and lots of hair, like he'd gone through
the roster of a modeling school to find his dates.
    A personal computer sat to one side of the
desk. The remaining space was cluttered with calculator, stapler,
and a shallow dish of paper clips just waiting to be tipped over. A
mug, half full of oily looking coffee, sat perilously near the
computer keyboard. On the side of the mug was a picture of a
haggard looking office worker receiving a pink slip, and the saying
"Go Ahead, Make My Day."
    Scattered across the top of