Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery Read Free Page B

Gary Detweiller so I'd have something for Ron to work on when he
got back to town. I walked across the hall to Ron's office and
located his Rolodex behind a tall stack of file folders. Ron isn't
exactly negligent in his office duties, he just has a different
system. Very different. His contact at APD is Kent Taylor in
Homicide. I looked in the Rolodex under A, then under T, then under
K. C for contacts didn't yield anything, either. Finally I found
Taylor under P, for police. Naturally. Where else?
    I phoned Taylor and got him to agree to see
me at two. I didn't say why. This was an active police
investigation and I knew he'd cut me off immediately if he knew I
was snooping. Besides, I have much more winning ways in person than
over the phone.
    Sally Bertrand was at her desk when I went
downstairs again for a coffee refill. She wore a pair of gray wool
slacks and a blue and gray sweater. That's about as dressy as she
ever gets. Usually it's jeans and plaid flannel. We run a casual
operation here since Ron and I are both firm believers in jeans
ourselves. Sally's shaggy blond hair was recently trimmed but not
by much. I think she does it herself, probably without benefit of a
mirror. She smiled at me with her wide grin, reminding me of an
extra large six-year-old. She has square straight teeth, honest
blue eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across her un-madeup
face.
    "Who was the lady?" she asked.
    "Old school friend," I answered. "You haven't
seen her before because we haven't exactly been friends for about
the last ten years."
    "Oh." She didn't ask, and I didn't
explain.
    I refilled my coffee mug and carried one up
front for Sally, too. She hadn't brought doughnuts, but I decided
my waistline was better for it. I've been lucky all my life to
never have a weight problem, but I could see that subtly changing
now that I'd reached thirty. Given the facts that I love to eat and
hate to exercise, something was going to have to give. When it
began to give too much, I'd have to face a lifestyle change. Why
don't our bodies just stay twenty-five forever?
    Back in my own office, I finished up a few
odds and ends. Rusty waited patiently, stretched out on a small
Oriental rug near the bay window. He hadn't budged during Stacy's
visit, probably thinking he'd rack up some good behavior points
that way. I know the mutt. He was probably hoping for a trip to
McDonalds at lunchtime. No such luck.
    I worked until one, then made him stay behind
when I left for my appointment with Kent Taylor. APD's headquarters
is downtown, only a few blocks from our office. Getting there takes
maybe ten minutes, finding a parking place, another twenty. Even
so, I'd allowed myself enough time to stop along the way and
indulge in a fast hamburger and Coke. In a burst of health
consciousness, I skipped the fries.
    Kent Taylor's office is accessed through a
rabbit-warren of cubbyhole-sized spaces separated by carpet-covered
dividers. Each housed a desk, chair, and wastebasket. I'd been here
once before with Ron, but doubted I could find my way through the
maze again. I didn't need to. I asked for Taylor at the front desk,
and he came up.
    Kent is a forty-ish man, dark hair thinning
on top, a thick roll of extra weight around the middle. The
well-fed, cared-for look of a married man with a stay-at-home wife.
His pale blue shirt was neatly pressed, no spots on his tie, slacks
had probably been picked up from the cleaners yesterday afternoon.
I followed him back through the labyrinth to his office.
    A glass wall separated his eight-by-ten space
from the main room. I hadn't given much thought as to how I was
going to approach him, and suddenly felt a little nervous.
    "How's Ron these days?" he asked, giving me a
little time to work into my story.
    "Fine. He's at a firearms show right
now."
    "The big one in Dallas?"
    I nodded. I'm uneasy about guns. Ron knows
better than to push the subject with me. The gun control issue is
one on which we have an ongoing debate.
    The