Chapter 10

 

My mainstay dinner at least two or three nights a week is usually Pedro's sour cream chicken enchiladas. I'd been home five whole days without having them. Something was seriously wrong.

The small adobe building on the fringes of Old Town manages to avoid most of the tourist trade. Probably because it just doesn't look like much. The small wooden sign, painted blue, with the single word, Pedro's, might mislead some into thinking the place is a private house. Indeed, except for the five parking spaces out front, it probably could be. I pulled into a space just outside the door.

There was only one other vehicle in evidence, a dust-covered pickup truck belonging to an old-timer named Manny. Manny is there even more often than I, and he boasts being able to take his chile as hot as it comes. Once in awhile an unfamiliar gringo will wander in, and actually be stupid enough to get caught up in a bet with Manny. Manny may not have become exactly rich this way, but his little diversion has managed to keep him well supplied with tequila shooters. Pedro once told me that Manny is somewhere around sixty, with the insides of a teenager.

When Rusty saw where we were, he jumped across my lap and out the open door on my side. By the time I had rolled up the windows and checked the locks, he had nosed open Pedro's warped screen door, and walked right on in. Pedro was scratching Rusty's ears and fussing over him by the time I got inside.

"Concha!" he called. "Concha, you better come here. There is some stranger walking in our door."

Concha came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, and looked me up and down. "Eee, I think you're right. Who is this girl? Have we seen this one before?"

I felt guilty that I hadn't brought them anything from Hawaii. I could have picked up an extra tin of macadamia nuts or something, although Pedro is usually suspicious of all foods that don't come from his own kitchen.

They teased me about staying away too long, but they both hugged me at the same time. Manny sat at his usual table in the corner, watching the little reunion, his dark brown face with its perpetual sprinkling of white whiskers remaining placid. I gave a little wave in his direction. He kept on chewing, raising his chin briefly toward me in the way of a greeting.

"You look good, little girl," Concha said, holding me at arm's length.

She's always called me "little girl," ever since I really was a little girl, coming here with my dad. It seems a bit silly now, since she stands all of four feet ten inches. At five-six, I feel like I tower over her. She makes up for it in the width department, though, her roundness giving her the overall shape of a penguin. Her smooth flat face remains unwrinkled, belying the fact that she must be in her mid-fifties.

Pedro, on the other hand, is a skinny little rail. He always wears white. White shirt, white pants, white apron, and in winter, a funny little white knit cap that he pulls on over his graying hair. He has lots of kindly wrinkles around his eyes, and deep smile lines on either side of his mouth. His hands are beginning to become warped with arthritis. He had stepped behind the bar, and returned now with a margarita for me.

"This one on the house," he said, "to welcome you home."

I wanted to protest, knowing they barely scratched out a living from the little place, but I knew it would offend him. Pedro is one of those generous souls who is most happy when he can do a favor for someone else.

He continued to fuss around me, bringing flatware and napkin, making a show of dusting the crumbs off my chair. Like Manny, I have my regular table here. Mine is tucked into a corner, on the opposite side of the room from his. That's not saying much. The place is only about forty feet square, and at least half of that is taken up by the bar, a heavy wooden carved affair from Mexico. That leaves space for only six tables. Pedro suggested this one to me because it's far enough into the shadowy corner that Rusty can lie down beside my chair without attracting the attention of anyone who's not used to seeing a dog in a food establishment.

The margarita was perfection. Lightly foamy on top, the rim of the glass crisp with salt crystals. My tongue puckered slightly as I took the first sip. The drink was cold and tart. I could feel tiny clumps of salt crystals at the corners of my upper lip, and I lapped them off with my tongue. Heaven.

"Dinner," Concha sang out. She carried the hot plate with a folded towel. "You look hungry tonight, so I made three."

The three rolled enchiladas stuffed with tender chicken meat were invisible beneath the blanket of melted cheese, green chile sauce, and two dollops of sour cream. A scattering of lettuce and freshly chopped tomato covered the whole steaming platter. I could see the cheese still bubbling around the perimeter where the broiler had turned the edges crisp. Experience had taught me not to dig right in. First I cut into the side of one of the enchiladas, releasing a delicate tendril of steam. The smell made my saliva glands go into overdrive, while my eyes watered slightly from the pungency of the green chile. I finished every bite.

I had gained five pounds on my trip to Hawaii, thanks to the wonderful dinners supplied by Drake Langston. I had promised myself that I would get into some kind of exercise program when I got back but obviously I hadn't done it yet. Now this. I really would have to get serious. Maybe once I'd solved the David Ruiz case.

It was almost ten before Rusty and I got away from Pedro's. The place was dead quiet once the boisterous Manny left, so Pedro, Concha, and I sat together awhile longer, catching up. Finally, I had to let them go. I knew they must have lots of kitchen cleanup to do before calling it a night. Luckily, they don't have far to travel to get home. They live at the back of the restaurant in a little apartment they've constructed out of what probably used to be the storeroom. With their one daughter grown and gone, it's just right for the two of them.

I was tempted to leave the Jeep and walk home—the exercise would have done me good. But, the thought of coming back for it in the morning cooled me down. Besides, this isn't the safest neighborhood for a woman to go walking late at night. Even with Rusty at my side, I don't feel entirely at ease in the dark places between street lights.

There was a stack of mail waiting in the box, which I'd forgotten to check for two days, so I stayed up awhile, drinking a cup of tea and paying a few bills. I finally hit the sack around midnight, and for some reason, was wide awake at six.

I kept thinking about Michael's comment that he thought David might be worried about money. The phone messages I'd seen on his desk from the IRS might bear that out. I felt like I needed to go back and have another look at his desk. Now that I had a direction to take, Sharon might provide some further insight as well.

The heavenly smells of fried meats, onions, and coffee greeted me when I arrived at the restaurant. Unfortunately, I still felt stuffed from the night before. I did accept a cup of coffee from Sharon, as she let me into David's office once again.

The place appeared untouched since the last time I'd been there. Apparently the police had made their decision without a whole lot of checking into David's life. The messages from Tom McDonald at the IRS were still where I'd left them. I wondered if Sharon would mind if I called the man under the guise of being the accountant for the restaurant. It would be a way of finding out whether the business was involved or not. It was still early, though. Maybe I'd be better off to search through the mess in the office a bit further first.

I opened the lower desk drawer and ran my fingers through the file folders inside. One was labeled "taxes." Inside, I hit the jackpot. The restaurant had received two notices by mail of an impending audit. They were dated three months earlier. The phone calls had probably come because David had not responded to the audit notices. I was glad I'd discovered this before calling and making a fool of myself. I wondered what other little surprises the files would yield.

Specifically, I was interested in seeing the financials for the business. I found it odd that the IRS would already be getting around to an audit for a business that had only existed for a year. They don't normally move that fast. Unless there was something obvious to arouse their suspicions. I rummaged through the rest of the files in the drawer, but didn't come across any income statements or balance sheets. A similar search of the clutter on the desktop didn't turn them up either.

By this time, the breakfast crowd had pretty well thinned out, so I took Sharon aside.

"Did David keep financial records any place besides this room?" I asked.

She looked thoughtful for a minute. "I don't think so. He did all his work here. I'm not sure I ever saw him even take anything home to do on a weekend, or anything."

I thought about the apartment. There hadn't been any filing cabinets, and the small desk had contained only personal papers.

"Were you aware that the IRS had initiated an audit of the business?" I asked Sharon

Her eyes drifted toward the floor. I wasn't sure whether I just imagined the slight hesitancy.

"You mean the phone messages on his desk? I assumed that had something to do with David's personal taxes. I didn't think the business was being audited."

Something about her statement sounded weak to me. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I sensed she wasn't being a hundred percent open about this. Had she and David been up to some funny business with the books?