probably by a
six-year-old, on the opaque rippled glass panel in the top half of
the door. I turned the cheap doorknob tentatively.
Murray's taste in furnishings ran to the
economical. The room I stepped into was meant as a reception area.
It was furnished with a wooden desk, from which various sized
chunks of the veneer were missing. An old-fashioned rotary dial
phone in a peculiar shade of turquoise and an overflowing ashtray
were the only visible desk accessories. A manual Royal typewriter
with chipped paint stood on a metal typing stand beside the desk.
It wasn't covered, and had a good quarter inch of dust on it. The
only other furnishings in the reception room were two matching
chairs with an end table between them. They were avocado green
vinyl, which coordinated beautifully with the orange and green shag
carpeting—something long and treacherous, looking like it could
easily harbor small rodents. Another overflowing ashtray sat on the
table between the chairs.
No human being had yet taken notice of me,
although I suspected tiny multi-legged creatures of the night were
well aware of my presence. In the background I could hear a low
monotone male voice, like one side of a phone conversation that was
purposely being kept quiet. I stood awkwardly, not quite sure what
to do with my hands, certain that I didn't want to sit down or
touch anything. Finally, I ahummed a couple of times.
"In a minute!" The male voice was sharp and
angry sounding, and made me flinch. I was very tempted to tiptoe
out of there, then clamber down the wooden stairs as fast as I
could. Just as I began to give this serious consideration I heard
the phone in the other room being returned to its cradle rather
violently.
Ben Murray appeared in the doorway, almost
blocking it completely. He must have been close to six-four, and at
least two hundred-sixty pounds. The front two-thirds of his scalp
was shiny bald, and he combed what was left straight back. The thin
dishwater blond hair in back had been pulled into a rubber band,
leaving a pony tail about an inch and a half long. His round face
showed few wrinkles, and I guessed him to be about forty.
He wore a summer-weight linen looking shirt
of pale yellow with no undershirt, and I could see the outline of
his nipples through it. He had breasts many women would envy. He
was apparently into personal decor, because he wore a heavy gold
chain at his throat, a matching one, smaller, on his right wrist, a
large watch with heavy gold band, a gold ring with a single
turquoise nugget about the size of a nickel on one hand, and one
encrusted with a similar-sized display of diamonds on the other. I
was surprised to see that kind of ostentation in this neighborhood.
Some of the local youth I had seen hanging around at the corner
looked like they'd cut a necklace like that right off a person,
just below the jugular.
Murray's cotton twill pants had formed
accordion pleats on either side of the groin and at the waistband,
where they crunched down to accommodate his basketball-sized belly.
The buttons on the shirt were trying valiantly to keep it together
across the front, but it was a losing battle.
"Whatta ya want?" His voice was every bit as
friendly as it had been moments earlier, making me wish I had run
while I still had the chance.
"I'm here about David Ruiz," I said, sounding
a lot braver than I felt.
"So?"
"Have you heard he was killed?"
"Yeah. Saw it in the paper."
"His business partner, Sharon Ortega, has
hired me to check into his death." I handed him one of my business
cards. "Had David mentioned the audit notices he had received from
the IRS?"
His face closed, telling me nothing. "I don't
have to tell you anything about my client. That's privileged
information."
I wasn't sure at this point whether I wanted
to let this man know that I'm a CPA myself. There is no legally
privileged information between an accountant and a client. As a
matter of professional courtesy, an accountant does not talk