Stardom Can Be Murder: A Girl and Her Dog Cozy Mystery

Chapter 1

I didn’t head off to the bank Friday morning with an inkling that I’d find myself at gunpoint before lunch time, but I don’t suppose anyone does. The summer morning started off ordinarily enough—

Repetitive announcements blared over the airport’s PA as I hugged my brother Paul for a few more seconds before letting him go to join his family. He turned to wave at our little group—older brother Ron, Ron’s girlfriend Victoria, and myself—one last time before entering the rat-maze at airport security. I let out a deep breath.

God, this was a long week, I said to Ron, finding myself in a prickly mood as we turned away and headed for the airport parking garage.

Lucky you, getting the whole gang at your house. He grinned at the family joke.

Victoria watched us with some degree of bemusement. She’s been dating Ron for a bit over six months now and is still learning our family quirks. Paul and Lorraine are okay, they’re just on a different wavelength from the rest of us, and their kids … let’s just say, they’re exuberant. No, let’s be truthful here—the kids run that household with a special brand of emotional blackmail and it gets really old watching the parents hop to fulfill their every little wish. Ron and I have learned over the years to just grit our teeth and pray for a quick passage of time when that group visits.

Victoria spoke up. How about lunch later, Charlie? A long one that involves some margaritas?

Bless the lady, she knows how to offer the right thing at the right time. Although she was dressed in her usual chic, fit-for-the-country-club style, we parted with a plan to meet at Pedro’s at noon. I glanced down at my own attire, my normal jeans and a light blue summer top. I might have to class up my act if I began hanging around with Victoria. It wasn’t so much that she spent a lot on clothes—she just had a way of choosing things which went together so well. You knew she never stepped out of the house without checking the mirror.

The June sky, even this early in the day, was a blue so deep it was almost painful to look at, with the temperature predicted for the high nineties and not a puff of cloud to break the heat. I watched Ron and Victoria drive off in his Mustang, then retrieved my Jeep from the airport parking garage, paid my tab, and headed west on Gibson.

Three multi-colored hot air balloons floated above the western horizon, a rare sight in the summer months. Maybe they were practicing up for the annual Balloon Fiesta, a few months away. Every year the event drew hundreds of balloonists, thousands of spectators, and several tons of cash into our economy. Thinking of cash reminded me that I needed to stop at the bank on my way home.

I’d been longing for some time alone with Drake once my brother and his family left, but it looked as if it was not to be, not yet anyway. Drake’s helicopter business stayed fairly busy this spring, despite a short fire season. He’d done several photo shoots, sightseeing tours and those other miscellaneous services helicopters can perform. Now he had a customer who wanted to catch the fantastic light on the red rocks near Gallup, filming a music video at sunrise tomorrow. It would entail an overnight stay for all involved, and at over a thousand an hour for the aircraft, plus all expenses for the entire crew, it was turning into a pricey project. But they were willing. I just needed to make sure their check was going to clear before Drake turned a rotor blade for them. Nothing personal, but film companies were notoriously flaky about paying their bills.

I exited Interstate 40 at Rio Grande, passed the Sheraton and Old Town, and turned left on Central. I pulled into a neighborhood grocery, remembering that Paul’s two kids had decimated our supplies of milk and bread. That little errand took no more than five minutes and I headed next for our branch of First Albuquerque Bank. Whipping into the parking lot I was pleased to see that there were only two other vehicles in front of the building.

A woman leaving the bank’s ATM walked toward a small blue sedan, apparently finished with her business. Two men in an old red crew cab pickup truck parked near the door were deep in discussion. Looked like they were arguing over how to fill out a deposit slip. The one on the passenger side glanced up at me but I was walking quickly. I would easily beat them to the door.

With my choice of tellers I walked to the window of Gina, a woman about my own age who’d waited on me many times. Today, she wore her fluffy blond hair up in a clip and had an American flag sticker attached to her standard-issue bank name tag. Her red and white sweater complimented it nicely.

How’s it going, Charlie? she asked with a grin.

Good, good. Just sent my houseguests off on the plane.

Summer vacationers?

My middle brother. He has two kids who … oh, you don’t want to hear it. I handed her the production company’s check. I need to be sure this will clear.

Gina started to hit some keys at her terminal but something caught her eye. She glanced up and her gaze traveled over my shoulder. Uh-oh. Her hand slid below the counter. Her face lost about three shades of color.

I whirled around to see what had frightened her. My first coherent thought was, Why are those two guys wearing ski masks? My eyes traveled downward and caught the dull black barrel of a semi-automatic. My second thought was, Oh crap.

I turned away, avoiding the slitted eyes behind the dark blue masks.

Hold still, Charlie, Gina whispered through her teeth. It’ll be okay.

All right, everyone! Hands out on the counter—I want to see all hands! The shorter man seemed jittery as he shouted orders.

I turned halfway toward them and placed both hands flat on the ledge before me. Gina’s hands came up and she held them in plain sight.

I edged my eyes to the left and saw the taller of the two men step around behind me.

All right, tellers, all cash goes in the bags! the short, lean guy shouted. He tossed white canvas bags over the glass divider, one to each teller. Nothing tricky now, We’re watching all of you!

Gina and the other two female tellers opened drawers and began stuffing cash into the bags. My eyes were attracted to their motions but I knew it would be smarter to get details about the men. The jumpy one stood at the far teller cage, gun aimed at the petite Hispanic girl who was shaking like a delicate flower in a breeze. With his black jeans, black parka and dark blue ski mask there wasn’t much I could distinguish about the robber. His build was wiry, and a fringe of dark hair touched his collar where the mask didn’t quite cover it in back.

Movement across the room caught my eye as the bank manager emerged from her office. Shock registered momentarily on her face before the guy behind me shouted.

Lady in a suit! His voice came out high, with a shaky tremor. Was he younger? Or merely nervous? I couldn’t see him.

The whippy guy turned on her and ordered her face down on the floor.

The manager complied, turning her face away from the rest of the room. The guy caught me looking at him.

Make her lie down too, he shouted to the other one. He snatched the canvas bag from Gina.

I felt a nudge in my left shoulder and started to crouch down.

No! Wait. The shorter robber cocked his head toward the door. Somebody tripped a silent alarm. Dammit! Grab this one and let’s get the hell out of here!

The guy behind me hesitated a nanosecond.

Now, I said! I got the money, you take her!

A gun barrel appeared at my cheek and a hand grabbed my arm. C’mon, lady! You’re with us now, the wavering voice hissed in my ear. Just don’t cause any trouble.

My feet tangled momentarily as he shoved me toward the door. He gripped my bicep, yanking me upward and keeping me as a shield in front of both of them.

Sunlight blinded me as the tinted glass door opened. The red truck idled, facing the driveway, with its side doors open. I was shoved roughly into the back seat and the door slammed shut.

Go, go, go!! Hyper Guy’s voice shouted at the driver. Tires chirped on pavement as the truck shot forward. The man guarding me put a big hand on my neck and pushed me down to the floor. My hip jammed into a metal toolbox. My ribs cried out. The stiff suspension bounced hard as it went off the curb. I hit the hump in the middle again and heard a horn blare about four feet from where I lay.

Ow! I groaned and tried to right myself again.

Hey! shouted Jittery Guy again. He leaned between the front seats and shook a fist at the man in the back. Ger her blindfolded and tied up. What’re you—stupid?

Shaky Voice planted a knee between my shoulder blades and my breath exited with a whoosh. The floor of the truck smelled of grime and rust and my throat tried to close against it. My nose wasn’t so lucky. An involuntary sneeze made my head jerk and I whacked my cheekbone on the uncarpeted flooring. A moan escaped me.

I struck out with both arms, screaming, with a vague hope that someone on the outside would hear me. That somehow the truck would stop and I could get away.

… a gag, one of the men muttered.

I don’t know. Look in the toolbox.

The sound of metal against metal as tools were jostled in the box. Duct tape?

Something passed behind me and I heard the sound of the tape being unwound and ripped. A silver band of it covered my mouth. I struggled and kicked as the shaky one grabbed for my arms.

Shut her up! the leader ordered from the front seat. Hit the freeway, he said to the driver.

Another band of tape pulled my wrists together and circled them, then a strip of dark cloth covered my eyes. I was kicking for all I was worth when a fist to the side of my head caused tiny stars to flicker behind my blindfold. My body went limp despite my best efforts. As the stars receded, I realized that my ankles were bound now, too.

Santa Fe? I dimly heard the driver say to the jittery leader. I thought we were heading for Texas. The voice was softer than Hyper Guy’s, with a hint of a Spanish accent.

Changed my mind.

I think we made it, String, said the man in the back. Don’t hear any sirens.

Look, everybody just shut up. We’re not using names now. Little ears, you know.

Since my little ears were mostly covered and I couldn’t see a damn thing, I didn’t know what they thought I would do. But I huddled quietly on my side of the floor trying to appear as unconscious as I could while struggling to hear anything that might be a clue.

Chapter 2

Drake stepped out of the shower, thinking he’d heard the phone ring. He paused a moment but it had stopped. He pulled a towel off the nearby chrome and brass towel bar and scrubbed at the droplets on his face and hair. By the time he’d worked his way downward to his feet, the ringing started again. He wrapped the towel around his waist and went into the bedroom to pick it up.

Mr. Langston? The female voice wasn’t one he recognized. Sounded like a telemarketer. He almost hung up.

Mr. Langston, this is Gina at First Albuquerque Bank.

What did they want to sell him now?

Can you hold for a second?

Drake hadn’t responded but she hit a button and an irritating jazzy tune played way too loudly. The phone connection clicked a couple of times and a man’s voice came on.

Drake Langston? Is your wife named Charlotte Parker?

Charlie. Yes, yes, what is it? He knew the impatience in his voice wasn’t going to help and he took a deep breath to control it.

I’m Detective Dave Gonzales with APD. There was an incident here at the Central branch of the bank this morning.

"What kind of incident?" He chafed at the policeman’s euphemism.

Your wife was in the bank at the time, sir.

Drake couldn’t wrap his head around what the detective was saying. What’s happened?

Can you come down here, sir? We’d like to get some information from you and it would be best to do it in person.

What’s going on here? Is Charlie all right?

As far as we know, sir.

"What is that supposed to mean. Dammit, tell me something!"

Please come down to the bank, sir. We’ll go into all of it then. It’s the branch at Central and—

I know where it is, Drake snapped. I’ll be right there.

Grabbing the jeans and shirt he’d worn the previous day, Drake pulled them on over his damp skin and snatched a pair of deck shoes from the closet, shoving them on without benefit of socks. He raced out the front door, belatedly wondering if he’d locked it, only after he was more than a mile away.

The scene at First Albuquerque Bank sent his heart racing. Four police cars, parked at cockeyed angles, sat in the lot. Orange cones had been set up across the entrance to the drive-up windows, and at the street an officer was waving away anyone who tried to turn in. Drake pulled up to him and rolled his window down.

Drake Langston. Detective Gonzales told me to come.

The Anglo officer, who didn’t look old enough to be out of high school, hesitated a second.

He said my wife was in the bank, Drake persisted. That’s her Jeep, over there.

Go on through, sir. He moved one cone aside for Drake to pass.

A somewhat shakily lettered sign was taped to the glass door, informing customers that the bank would be closed temporarily. Another officer stood by to enforce that statement, until Drake identified himself once more. He pushed the lobby door open and allowed Drake past, pointing out Detective Gonzales.

The lobby bustled with activity. Uniformed police dusted surfaces with fingerprint powder. Two men in dark suits were talking with the tellers and the branch manager, off to one side. Drake tried to take it all in but the detective was walking toward him.

Where’s Charlie, and what did you mean by saying she’s okay ‘as far as you know’? He willed himself to stay calm.

Let’s step in here, Mr. Langston, where it’s more private. Gonzales was in his early thirties, a couple inches shorter than Drake, with caramel skin and a shaved head.

Where is my wife?

Gonzales touched Drake’s elbow lightly. This way, he said.

They stepped into a conference room with a whitewashed pine table, eight chairs with Zia symbols carved on their backs, and a single window. When the door closed the hum of voices from the lobby disappeared.

What’s going on here?

Gonzales sighed and scraped a hand across his shiny forehead. There was a robbery here this morning.

I gathered that. But …

Your wife was at the teller window when the suspects entered.

Was Charlie hurt? Where is she? Drake resisted the urge to scream or put his fist through the wall.

Gonzales sensed his frustration. Well, sir, the … the suspects took her with them.

What! Charlie’s a hostage? Whatever he’d thought he was going to hear, this wasn’t it. A cold knot, like a ball of ice, settled in his gut.

… statewide alert.

Sorry? I didn’t catch all that, Drake whispered, pulling his attention back into the room. The officer came into focus slowly.

I just wanted to assure you that we’ve got every resource on this, Gonzales said. FBI, city, county and state.

What time did this happen?

Gonzales looked at his watch. About an hour ago.

An hour! They could be anywhere by now! He felt his temper flare.

The detective had the good grace to squirm a little.

Look, I’ve got a helicopter. I can be airborne in— Drake calculated, —in thirty minutes. Give me the description of the vehicle.

We can’t do that.

Why the hell not! Drake exploded. This is my wife!

The shorter man folded his arms across his chest, revealing a holstered pistol under his jacket. Calm down, sir. APD and state police are already on it.

Have they sighted the vehicle? Are they following?

Gonzales shook his head. Then it dawned on him what Gonzales was really saying. They had no clue where the robbers had gone. He slumped into one of the carved chairs.

Sir, why don’t you just—

Just what? Just wait patiently? Just sit around on my hands until they’ve killed her?

Gonzales backed away, his expression faltering.

What would you be doing if it were your wife? Drake accused. Losing your cool, just a little?

The detective’s tan complexion suffused with red. For a moment he looked as if he wanted to snap back, then he sagged. I guess so, he said simply. I probably would be losing it right about now.

For some reason the policeman’s sympathy had a more profound effect on Drake than the straight-up officiousness. He felt his throat tighten and a telltale twitch began to work on his chin. He turned his head away, took a deep breath, blew it out.

Okay, he said. Look, I promise not to get in anyone’s way. But I’m not the kind of guy who can just sit around and do nothing. Especially— His throat clamped shut again. Especially when it involves the person closest to me.

The detective reached out and patted Drake on the shoulder.

I know this has gotta hurt like hell, Gonzales offered in a soft voice. But you have to understand that I just don’t have the authority to send you out chasing them down. He glanced toward the ceiling. I’d have my chief down on me so fast it’s not even funny. Look, I can sympathize, but I got a family to feed too.

Drake gave the cop one final, hard stare then stood up. Okay. He let the flatness in his voice convey his displeasure, but he knew it was pointless to argue further.

At the door, he paused. Can I get someone to drive her car home for me?

Probably. Let’s check with the Feds out front. I believe they’re through processing it.

Feds. Drake walked into the lobby, realizing for the first time that half the investigators on the scene were in suits rather than uniforms. Of course, he thought. Bank robbery and kidnapping. Both were federal charges. For some reason he felt a tiny bit better.

Gonzales posed the question to the FBI senior man, a gray-haired paunchy guy with the resigned look of someone who’d hoped there wouldn’t be another major case before his retirement date rolled around. He introduced himself as Cliff Kingston.

Yeah, I don’t see why not. Our guys gave the Jeep a once-over, he responded to Drake’s inquiry.

Drake patted his pockets, forgetting why, then remembering that a spare key to Charlie’s Jeep was on his key ring. He fumbled it, picked it up from the floor. Gina, the teller who’d called him at home stepped over, Charlie’s purse in her hand.

She dropped this. The police said they don’t need it.

Drake took the purse, rubbing at the soft leather. Memories flashed through his mind—all the times Charlie had reached into that bag for something, the way she would curse when her pen or lipstick eluded her in the