“Thanks.” I stood. “I’m going to call pawnshops. Maybe I can locate the one Bud visited yesterday and find out what upset him so much.”
The noon was just beginning so I stopped in the hallway outside the studio. The shelter officer was there waiting with the animals in crates. We each watched Ted and his coanchor through a large glass window.
“I thought I was nervous,” the officer said, “but that guy looks like he’s going to throw up.”
I said a silent prayer on Ted’s behalf to God, fate, or whoever might be listening. On a normal day I would have stayed and watched. Instead I found a phone book and retreated to an edit bay.
The calls to pawnshops went quickly. The owners all knew Bud—apparently he was a regular customer—and four of the six reported seeing him the previous day. None could remember anything unusual happening and all said Bud lingered to crack jokes with the men and flirt with the women.
When I’d reached the final listing, I asked the owner if there were any other pawnshops I might have missed.
“You could try Pawn Max. He’s retired, but his wife keeps the shop open a couple days a week. Doubt they’d advertise in the phone book. I think she only works to get away from all the craziness at home.”
He didn’t have a phone number, but the address he gave me wasn’t far from the station. I decided to drive over and check it out.
Pawn Max did business in a commercial strip cutting between a neighborhood on the upswing and one in decline. The businesses looked as if they were sliding the wrong way, despite the best efforts of the shopkeepers.
Just as I’d been told, the Pawn Max sign above the storefront was discreet. Less discreet were the plywood and the police tape covering the door and the windows.
They’d been robbed.
SEVEN
Christmas Eve, 12:36 p.m.
I retrieved my gear bag and camera from the van before walking down the block looking for an open business. I hoped to find someone who could get me in touch with the owners of Pawn Max, since they obviously weren’t going to be opening the store anytime soon.
I stopped at Kincaid’s Pharmacy and Gifts. A blast of air, thick with heat and potpourri, hit me as I pushed open the door. The flowery odor went with the cute teapots, stationery, and tea towels they were selling. It did not go with the security guard sitting by the door.
The female cashier was busy ringing up a customer with a last-minute Christmas gift, so I spoke with the guard.
He was a large man, but probably too old to stop an actual robbery. I guessed he was there more as a deterrent to shoplifters than anything else.
He spoke in a deep bass. “I’d help you if I could, but I only know the Pawn Max lady to say hi.” He pointed to a Caucasian man in a white coat behind the pharmacy counter. “But I think Mr. Kincaid is friendly with her.”
I thanked him and walked through the aisles of laxatives and deodorants to the rear. As his Scottish name suggested, Kincaid had red hair. It had probably dimmed a little with age, but hadn’t gone gray.
“I’m from KJAY,” I said. “I’m hoping you might know how I can contact the owner of Pawn Max.”
“I can give you the store’s phone number.”
Despite its not being offered, Kincaid probably had a home number for Mr. and Mrs. Pawn Max. At the least he’d know another business owner on the block who had it. I tried to quickly size him up.
Pushing fifty, but still trim. Vain enough to make the extra effort to stay in shape. Single, judging by the lack of a ring, but not a player. Probably divorced. Pictures of golden retrievers taped to the register where you’d expect to see kids. It appeared that he made his employees, although there were only two of them, refer to him as Mr. Kincaid.
Instinct told me he’d want to be on TV, want it real bad. His brain would replay fantasies about old rivals and enemies seeing the segment. If he did have an ex-wife, he’d probably call and tell her to watch.
“Can I interview you about the robbery?” This was a twofer. I actually wanted a sound bite for the five o’clock show, but also hoped interviewing him might help me get a home number for the Pawn Max owners.
“I don’t know if that would be good for business.” Contrary to his words, he straightened the white pharmacist’s jacket and ran a hand through his thinning red hair. “Things are bad enough without scaring off the customers we have left.”
“I understand. Thanks anyway.” I started to turn, wondering how far I’d get before he stopped me.
“Although they say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.” He took a few steps and tried to see himself in the mirror running along one of the walls. “It might even be good for business.”
I positioned the tripod, then set the camera’s white balance off Kincaid’s jacket. A stained-glass representation of the pharmaceutical arts had been hung on the back wall between the shelves of drugs. I framed my shot so it appeared just over his shoulder.
After he said and spelled his name for me, I asked the most basic question imaginable. “In your own words, can you tell me about the robbery?”
“Happened in the middle of the night.”
This was a terrible sound bite—too short and no context at all. After three more tries I finally got something usable about neighborhood crime.
“This is a terrific neighborhood,” he said. “It’s full of hardworking, law-abiding people. It’s a shame that a rougher element is making it difficult for business owners. It drives up our costs when we have to install more security.”
“That’s great. Thanks.” I started to shut off the camera, but he continued.
“Not that you can defend yourself against a backhoe. There’s no security system that’s going to keep something like that out.”
I froze, even as my inner newshound was baying at the moon. “Do you mean the thieves drove a backhoe into the store?”
“Stole it from a construction site the next street over.” He gestured down the block. “That’s how they got in. Pawn Max had the strongest door money could buy and bars over the window.”
My throat went dry, but I still managed to ask in a squeaky voice, “Is there surveillance-camera video of the backhoe driving in?”
“I think so, but you’d need to ask the owner.”
Jackpot! Blackjack! Eureka! Video such as that would be a sensation. It could even go viral and get all kinds of attention for KJAY.
I shut off the camera and said honestly what I’d planned to be sneaky about. “I need to talk to the owner of Pawn Max. Can you give me a home number?”
“I’m not sure. Christmas is their busy time at home.”
I should probably have asked why this was their busy time, but I was too focused on my own issues. “I need that surveillance video. It’s crucial to the story.”
He glanced at the shelves of drugs and lowered his voice. “I only have her home number because she’s a customer of the pharmacy, which I shouldn’t even be telling you.”
I decided to apply pressure where Kincaid would probably feel it the most. “If I can’t get an interview with the pawnshop owner tonight, the story probably won’t air, including your interview.”
Kincaid saw his fifteen minutes of fame slipping away and grabbed for it. “She’s coming to pick up a prescription later. I can ask her to speak with you.”
My phone started vibrating. I checked the screen, told Kincaid I’d only be a moment, then answered, “Callum, can I call you right back?”
“The Sheriff’s Department is sending Rod home.” Behind Callum’s voice I heard the hum of multiple conversations and forks scraping plates. “I said you’d come get him at headquarters, but if you’re in the middle of something, I can make other arrangements.”
“No, I’ll get him. I’m almost done. Thanks for calling.”
“If Rod’s hungry, come down to the Knotty Pine. I’m here now meeting with a couple retired cops I know.”
The Knotty Pine Café was a police hangout a block from the Sher
iff’s Department headquarters. The thought of their tuna melt made my mouth water. “I’m so hungry. Even if I have to take Rod home first, I’ll come back and find you.”
I hung up and gave Kincaid my business card. “Please tell the owner of Pawn Max that I’d like to speak with her, even if it’s off camera. I’m happy to meet her here when she comes for the prescription.”
I paused at the van to shoot quick video of the damaged storefront, then I drove as fast as I could to the Sheriff’s Department headquarters. It’s in a section of Norris Drive bordered by Airport Drive and, I kid you not, Oil Junction. The airport butted up behind the facility, and train tracks ran directly across the street.
Rod looked completely out of place standing outside in his expensive wool coat, but his face brightened when I pulled up in the van.
He jumped into the passenger seat and immediately reached for me. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”
“You’re glad to see me? This morning I thought you’d been shot.”
“I’m so sorry about Bud. I tried everything to help him, but there was so much blood.” His arms tightened around me. “And the ambulance took forever. I keep thinking I should have done something. Maybe driven him to the hospital myself.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault.” I kissed him as if it were my last chance. His arms relaxed and slowly wrapped around my back. The feel of his hands and lips sent a jolt through my system despite the day’s sorrow.
After a moment I pulled back just enough to look at him. Dark bags hung under his eyes and his usually smooth skin had wrinkles.
“I’m sorry you had to go through all this. We probably should have moved like you wanted to. I really didn’t think the neighborhood was that bad.”
“It’s not your fault either. It’s not anyone’s fault.” He took a breath and asked the question. “How’s Bud?”
“They’re doing surgery, but it’s a long, difficult procedure. At his age . . .” I couldn’t bear to finish the sentence.
“Thank you for coming to get me.” Rod took my hand. “We can go right back to the hospital now.”
“I wasn’t exactly at the hospital when you called.”
“Oh?” He didn’t look judgmental, just confused. “Where were you?”
“I was canvassing pawnshops, but I think I’m free now until Mrs. Pawn Max calls for her drugs.”
Now he looked judgmental. “Who’s Mrs. Pawn Max and why do you have her drugs?”
“I don’t have her drugs. The pharmacy does.” I put the van in drive and pulled away from the curb. “Let’s get something to eat. Callum’s down at the Knotty Pine pumping some retired cops for information.”
Rod’s voice rose. “What’s been going on while I was being interrogated?”
My head jerked from the road to Rod’s face. “They interrogated you?”
His tone immediately changed. “No. I misspoke. I gave a statement is all.”
“You don’t misspeak. Your speak is perfect.” Suddenly a lot of things seemed ominous. Why had Handsome Homicide insisted Rod come to headquarters to make his statement? Why had they kept him for so long? Where were the gym shorts and T-shirt he’d been wearing back at the house?
“Did the police confiscate your clothes?”
He shrugged. “They just want to run some tests on them. It’s not a big deal.”
Bud’s blood had been on Rod’s clothes, but they’d hardly need a lab to prove that. “Are they testing for gun-powder residue?”
“Yes, but it’s procedure. They’re just being thorough.” He raised a hand as if dismissing the whole thing. “Obviously they won’t find any powder because I didn’t fire a gun.”
I turned the van into the parking lot in front of the yellow building that housed the Knotty Pine Café.
Rod pointed. “There’s Callum’s car.”
I refused to drop it. “Is Handsome harassing you because I wouldn’t go out with him? I knew he was a jerk, but this is beyond anything.”
“At least it’s over now. We can focus on Bud and his recovery.” Rod reached for the door handle. “I’ll go in and find Callum while you park. This is actually a good idea. I haven’t eaten all day and I could use something before going to the hospital.”
Rod jumped out and shut the door before I could say anything else. He’d apparently forgotten about Pawn Max, or else he was too exhausted to deal with another complication on an empty stomach.
I parked next to Callum’s Ford Taurus and took a moment to change my shirt. Pumping retired police officers for information was something that required discretion. My wearing a big red KJAY polo shirt at a cop hangout would have been a little too obvious, even for me. Fortunately I kept a generic Gap T in my gear bag for just this sort of occasion.
After ducking down between the seats and making the switch, I followed Rod in. On my way to the front door, I passed the trunk of the pine tree that grew straight up and through the veranda’s roof. Its green branches sprouted above the building like flowers out of a vase.
Inside, the restaurant buzzed. They were closing soon for the holiday weekend, but plenty of patrons lingered over their lunches. Christmas lights had been strung across the wood paneling covering all the walls. It somehow fit with the old saws and other lumberjack paraphernalia decorating the restaurant.
Callum waved at me from a corner booth he shared with three old men. I approached and noted their empty plates.
“Rod’s over there.” He pointed to a pine table in the back where Rod sat. “I’ll join you two in a minute.”
I took the hint and left him alone with his sources.
Rod tried to smile as I approached. “I ordered you Roger’s Raving Tuna Melt. I hope that’s okay?”
I sat down opposite him. “Perfect.”
He’d removed his winter coat, revealing khakis and a gray cashmere sweater his fashion-conscious mother had sent him last month. “I don’t understand. Who are those men Callum is speaking with?”
“Retired cops. I asked him to find out some background on Leland Warner.”
“You did what?” Rod lowered his voice after an older couple sitting nearby turned to look. “Why would you do that?”
I told him about Bud’s phone call to Leland Warner. I also filled him in on the robbery at Pawn Max.
Rod’s already tired face lost the rest of its color. “Lilly, you need to let this go. It’s not a story. We’re not working.”
“Actually, it is a story. Callum has me on it.”
We each sensed someone approaching and turned to see Callum himself. The men he’d been sitting with were all waiting in line to pay.
“One of my guys remembered Warner getting robbed back in the fifties.” Callum pulled a chair over from another table. “And it was a lot more than heirlooms. He thinks the thief got away with jewelry. Diamonds, no less.”
Callum paused so the waitress could place our food on the table. In addition to my tuna melt, Rod had ordered catfish and eggs for himself.
When the waitress left, Callum continued, “I guess the thief was a friend of Warner’s. He fled town with the loot and was never seen again.”
I took a bite of my sandwich and savored the combination of tuna, mayonnaise, and melted cheese. “It’s obviously not Bud, although I think he and Warner were still close back in the fifties. Maybe the thief was a friend of Bud’s too.”
“It’s probably unrelated to the shooting today, but I’ll follow up.” Callum took a fry off my plate and popped it in his mouth. “A cop named Hoyt handled the case. He’s a bit of a lone wolf and hasn’t been seen much since retirement. They’re going to try to contact him for me.”
“What about the case file?” I said. “Is there any way we can get our hands on it?”
Rod set his fork down. He’d hardly eaten anything. “Lilly, that’s illegal.”
Callum shook his head. “It’s not illegal for us to ask. I’ve got a call in to a guy I know who’s still on the force and owe
s me a favor. He’s trying to pull the old file right now. If he gives it to us, that’s illegal.”
“I understand that you’d do anything to help Bud.” Rod looked at me with tired eyes. “But digging up Warner’s ancient history isn’t going to make him better.”
“Whoever shot Bud is still out there,” I said. “That’s not exactly good for his health.”
“It was a robbery.” Rod reached across the table and took my hand in his. “As horrible as this whole thing is, at least we don’t have to wonder if someone targeted Bud. It wasn’t personal.”
“I understand where you’re coming from, Rod.” Callum glanced at him. “And you’re probably right, but the first rule of good journalism is don’t make assumptions.”
Rod took a deep breath. A little color returned to his cheeks. “You and the rest of the news department should do whatever you think necessary to cover the story, but Lilly and I need to be at the hospital focusing on Bud’s recovery, not working.”
I knew I should tell Rod that I didn’t expect Bud to live through the surgery, let alone recover, but I didn’t seem to be able to say it out loud.
“This might be my guy.” Callum pulled his vibrating cell phone off his ample belt and answered. The conversation lasted for less than a minute, but Callum still took out his tablet computer to take notes. “Thanks,” he finally said. “I’ll meet you at three.”
He hung up and opened the browser on the tablet. “Back in 1955 a man named Carter King stole two gold brooches from his friend Leland Warner. One of them had a buttload of diamonds on it. Carter was never caught. The warrant is still open and he’s been a fugitive all these years.”
Callum paused from his web search to look up. “According to the file, the primary witness against Carter King was none other than Allan Hawkins.”
EIGHT
Christmas Eve, 1:31 p.m.
That’s Bud.” I sat forward. “Allan is his real name. If Bud turned this man in to the police, then maybe he held a grudge all these years. King could have shot Bud out of revenge.”
Going to the Bad Page 6
