Free Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery by Connie Shelton Page B

four, Linda is somewhat on the bosomy
side, soft in all the right places for hugging a hurt child. Her
short blond curls are the wash and wear variety, and her bright
blue eyes go naturally with the faint freckles visible under her
makeup.
    "What are you in for this time?" she
asked.
    She consulted my folder, where her nurse had
made notes about the appointment. "Removing sutures?"
    She stared over the tops of her beige rimmed
reading glasses. "Charlie, Charlie, Charlie," she tsked. She set
the folder down, and her hands went to her ample hips. "What ever
am I going to do with you?"
    "Oh hush, Linda, and pull 'em out," I said
with mock annoyance. I lifted my hair up, giving her a clear
view.
    She reached for a pair of shiny surgical
scissors and some tweezers.
    "What was it this time? Doesn't look like a
good clean-cut knife wound." Snip, snip. I felt a small tug.
    "A wrench."
    "Oh, okay." Snip, snip, tug. "Are you ever
going to give up these quests of yours, this insatiable need to
help out the underdog?" Snip, snip.
    "I doubt it."
    She twisted her upper body around to look me
in the eye. "I'll bet you're working on another one right now,
aren't you?"
    "Well..."
    "I knew it! I ought to suture you to this
table."
    "What? And take all the fun out of life?"
    She laid the instruments down on the formica
counter top with a little more force than necessary. I turned to
see if she was really angry. Her head shook slowly back and forth,
her mouth puckered into a resigned little grin.
    "You haven't changed since fifth grade," she
said.
    I hopped off the examining table, and gave
her a hug. "Neither have you. Do you ever get out of here long
enough to have lunch with an old friend?"
    "Rarely. But it happens now and then. So,
when do you want to do lunch ?"
    "I'm serious, Linda. Pick a day, and I'll be
there."
    "Next Wednesday. Twelve-thirty. High Noon
Restaurant in Old Town."
    "Watch me, I'm writing it down." I took the
small spiral from my purse, and made notes.
    Linda scratched a couple of notes on a
multiple part billing form. "Hand this to the receptionist,
Charlie. There's no charge."
    "Oh, no you don't," I said. I remembered that
she'd only had two other patients for the day. "You can't give your
services away." I looked her straight in the eye.
    "Okay, minimum charge."
    She gave me her don't argue with me look. We exchanged another hug, and I left. At the front desk, the
receptionist said, "That'll be twenty-one sixteen with the
tax."
    I gave her a check for forty and told her to
adjust the billing accordingly.
    Outside, the day was already turning into
another warm one. A couple of cottony clouds sat atop Sandia Peak,
but they didn't look quite powerful enough to build into rain
producers. Anyway, the weatherman hadn't predicted any moisture,
and it looked as though we might already be heading for our typical
hot dry June. I let the engine idle a minute or two, then turned
the air conditioner up full blast. The visit to Linda Casper had
served as a pleasant interlude between investigatory duties. I
proceeded toward the address Sharon had given me.
    Sharon was right
about Ben Murray. His office was down on South Broadway, in an area
where most businesses had boarded up and left. The ones that stuck
it out were heavily protected. Murray's office was upstairs over a
pawn shop with windows outlined in silver burglar alarm tape, then
coated with steel mesh, and finally covered by wrought iron bars. I
entered a narrow door off the street, and stepped into a three foot
square space facing a dilapidated wooden staircase. The closed-in
area was musty with the smell of old cigarettes, with dust and
mouse turds to add ambiance. Given David's inclination toward
classy, expensive touches in his personal life, I had a hard time
imagining him coming here for financial advice.
    At the top of the steep stairs was another
space about three feet square that served as landing and entrance
to Murray's offices. His name had been hand lettered,