Hooking up with Rod was the only thing I’d ever done that made my mother proud. She was even willing to overlook that we were living together while not married.
“It’s much more serious. Uncle Bud has been shot. He’s in surgery right now.”
“Oh” was all she said.
“You sounded more upset at the prospect of my breaking up with my boyfriend. I know you don’t like Bud, but that’s a bit much.”
“I love Bud as much as anyone,” she said with absolutely no feeling. “He helped us after your father died. I don’t know how I would have paid the mortgage.”
She paused. I waited for the inevitable but.
“But there’s no denying he associated with some shady characters. There were times I was ashamed to be seen with him, all those tattoos and never shaving.”
Her tone reminded me of Warner’s when he’d also been talking about Bud. “Did Dad ever mention Bud being friends with Leland Warner?”
“The billionaire?”
“I don’t know his exact financial status, but, yes, the rich guy.”
“What would a man like that have to do with Bud?”
Her tone, more than the words, made me angry. “Is there anyone else in the family I can ask? Any random relatives I don’t know about?”
“Bud was the only family your poor father had.”
I flashed on a surprise birthday party my mother had thrown for my father on one of his weekends home. She’d invited neighbors, coworkers, and friends from church. It had been a big success. The sun had shone on our modest backyard. The breeze smelled like clean sheets instead of the usual Bakersfield dairy-cow odor. We ate fried chicken off paper towels soaked with grease and drank Kool-Aid in Styrofoam cups.
Bud had not been invited. Maybe that was why my father had stayed in the kitchen performing useless tasks, absent from his own party. Maybe without Bud there he felt alone.
“What about friends?” I said into the phone. “Bud was in Korea. Did he talk about army buddies?”
“None that lived.”
We finished the call with the appropriate promises and good-byes. Mom said she wanted to know the minute there was news about Bud. She even offered to help pay for the funeral, but even that felt like a dig. The implication that Bud wouldn’t have left enough money to pay for his own funeral hung in the silence after her offer.
I signed in at the front desk, slapped a hospital visitor badge on my coat, and walked to the bank of elevators I’d used earlier in the day. The doors opened on the surgical floor and I made my way to the waiting room. Annette sat alone looking about as bad as I’d ever seen her. She was pretty, but this day was aging her in a way she’d probably never fully recover from.
On the other side of the empty room, Rod sat with her sleeping daughter, Bonnie. An open children’s book rested in his lap as though he’d just been reading the little girl to sleep. I didn’t cross the threshold.
“Rod,” I whispered.
He glanced up. Relief spread across his face and down through the rest of his body. It was as though stress and worry had bound him into a tight package and seeing me had cut the strings.
He carefully stood without waking the sleeping child. Annette came with him out to the hallway.
I kept my voice low. “Is there any word, yet?”
They each shook their heads, but Annette looked ready to cry. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay.”
“You should go.” Rod gestured toward her sleeping daughter. “You need to take Bonnie home. Lilly and I will stay until Bud’s out of surgery.”
The assurance in Rod’s voice made it that much harder for me to say, “I’m sorry, but I have an errand to run on another floor of the hospital.”
Rod stared for a moment. “What kind of errand?”
“I’m really sorry.” I looked at Annette. “I have a lead on what happened to Bud this morning. It has to be followed up.”
The tension returned to Rod’s body. “We should let the police handle this.”
I looked him square in the eye. “We both know there may be aspects to this that Bud wouldn’t want the police to be aware of.”
He started to argue, but Annette said first, “It’s okay. You two go, but when you get back, I may take Bonnie home.”
She started back into the waiting room, but I stopped her. “Did Bud ever mention any old army buddies? Maybe friends he might have still known right after Korea?”
“No. You wouldn’t even know he was a veteran from how little he talks about it.”
Annette returned to the waiting room, and Rod and I walked to the elevators. As soon as we were out of earshot, he said, “Where are we going?”
“To see Kelvin Hoyt.” I pushed the down button. “He was the police officer in charge of finding Carter King after the robbery.”
“He’s in the building?”
The door opened and we got on the elevator. It was huge to accommodate stretchers and rolling beds.
I hit the button for the third floor. “He’s getting chemo in oncology.”
“We shouldn’t bother him at a time like this.”
“I agree, except it was his idea. Hoyt actually called Callum after hearing we were looking for him.”
The doors opened and I exited.
Rod caught up with me. “Leanore told me what happened at the King farm. That crazy woman might have shot you.”
“If it’s any consolation, Leanore said it was a small-caliber rifle.”
He forced me to stop by taking hold of my arm. “It’s not.”
He kissed me full on the lips until my toes curled and I forgot about everything else. Then he pulled back. “Promise me you won’t go out there again. It’s not safe.”
THIRTEEN
Christmas Eve, 6:04 p.m.
This put me in what Uncle Bud would have called a tighter spot than a cat’s butt in winter. You see, I’d already decided to go back out there again that night. I wasn’t going to have any peace until I knew if Carter King was using the farmhouse.
Instead of lying to Rod, I deflected by walking to the nurses’ station and explaining whom we were looking for. The man behind the counter said the department was about to close for the evening, but we could go in and sit with Mr. Hoyt while he finished his treatment.
Rod did not continue our previous conversation. Chemotherapy rooms aren’t good places for arguing or kissing.
An old Caucasian man was stretched out in one of the many La-Z-Boy recliners spaced at discreet intervals. He was the only one in the room and his eyes were closed as he listened to the spa music playing overhead. In that way some people do, Kelvin Hoyt sensed he was no longer alone and looked up.
“Hi.” I crossed the room, followed by Rod. “I’m Lilly Hawkins from KJAY. I think you spoke with our assignment manager.”
“Sure did.” Hoyt brought the chair up to sitting and offered his hand. The rubber tubing from his IV moved with his arm. “Sergeant Kelvin Hoyt, Bakersfield PD, retired. At your service.”
We shook. I could feel the bones in his hand. Hoyt had to be in his early eighties, but all of the usual ravages of age were heightened by the chemo. Instead of thinning hair or a bald strip across the top of his head, he was completely hairless. Sitting in the large chair, he looked shrunken. Even the pair of thick, black-framed glasses slipping down from the bridge of his nose looked too big for him.
Rod shook after me. “Pleased to meet you, sir. My name’s—”
Hoyt laughed. “No need to introduce yourself, Mr. Strong. Terrific reporting you did last summer on that fire.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir.” Rod always shrank a little into his shell when recognized. “Please call me Rod.”
“I’m a big fan of KJAY. You’re the most professional operation in town. That’s why I was so eager to talk when I heard you were working on the old King case.”
Obviously he’d missed the five o’clock show. “I am working on a news story, but there’s a personal ang
le for me as well.” I pulled up a stool and sat down next to him. “My uncle was shot this morning. He was the chief witness against Carter King in the theft of Warner’s jewelry.”
“And you think King might have shot him, out of revenge or something?”
I decided not to mention the pawnshop, since I only had a hunch how it fit in. “Something like that.”
Hoyt glanced at each of us. “This is all off-the-record, you understand?”
Rod nodded. “If that’s how you want it.”
“I doubt it will matter because I doubt Carter King had anything to do with what happened to your uncle.”
I tried not to let my disappointment show. I was probably only mildly successful. “Why’s that?”
Hoyt smiled. “Besides the fact he waited an awfully long time to get his revenge?”
I smiled back. “Yes. You could drive a dump truck through that hole in my theory, but humor me. Besides that.”
“King never was the kind of man for murder.”
“Why not?”
Kelvin Hoyt shifted his weight in the chair, as though trying to get comfortable before starting a long story. “You have to understand, I inherited the case in the early sixties. Leland Warner was turning into a real big shot about that time. The powers that be wanted to impress him so they reopened the case.”
Hoyt pushed the chair back so he was more comfortable. “I worked at it for the next twenty-five years. Not full-time, you understand, but I kept feelers out there, trying to get information on where King might be and what he might be doing. That’s a long time to be shadowing a fellow, and I got a pretty good feel for him.”
Hoyt looked at me. “King was shady, but he never was the type to cross the line into murder. And most of his schemes weren’t even illegal, just unethical.”
I glanced at Rod, who was being uncharacteristically quiet. “Not only does that not sound like a murderer, it doesn’t sound like someone who’d commit a high-profile jewelry robbery. Is it possible King was framed?”
Hoyt laughed. “No way. Even if your uncle hadn’t witnessed the theft, King’s own sister said he confessed to her before running away. She even described the two brooches.”
“What about Mida?” I said. “Did she know more about Carter’s whereabouts over the years than she let on?”
“You mean the sister?” I nodded, and Hoyt continued, “Doubt it. She got married and moved off the family’s land. I think she was trying to put everything behind her.”
“She’s back there now.”
“I heard something like that right before I retired. Her daughter got herself pregnant, no father in sight, so they all moved back to the farm to raise the baby.” Hoyt shrugged. “I never was one to believe the country was better than the city. Kids go bad because they go bad, not ’cause the city messes them up.”
Rod turned and I followed his gaze to the plump nurse entering the chemo room. “Do you remember any local friends or contacts that King might be staying with if he came back to town?”
“Nah. He’d be an idiot to come here, even after all these years. The man is probably sitting in a condo in Florida, if he isn’t dead.”
“How we doing in here?” The nurse was Latina, but her hair had been dyed an intense red. It fit her bright personality.
It was obvious Hoyt liked her from his smile. “Better than some and worse than others.”
Rod and I stepped back so she could check the IV bags and speak with him.
When she left, I asked my last question. “Were you ever able to trace the brooches? Russian antique military medals must be pretty rare. Did King sell them?”
“No, but that’s not unusual.” Hoyt took a sip of the soda the nurse had got for him. “Back then there wasn’t so much interest in antique jewelry like that. The star, with the diamonds, was probably broken up for parts, like a stolen car.”
Rod had been silent through the entire interview, so I said, “Is there anything you want to ask?”
He shook his head and relaxed his arms from where they’d been crossed in front of him. He looked like a man who’d been waiting for something bad to happen, but had somehow avoided it.
Hoyt and I exchanged contact information. Rod and I thanked him and started to leave.
“By the way,” Hoyt said as we neared the door. “How’s your uncle? You said he’d been shot.”
“He’s in surgery upstairs.”
Hoyt smiled. “I’ll say a prayer for him.”
We left, but at the door I glanced back for a moment. The smile had vanished from Kelvin Hoyt’s face. He no longer looked jovial or wry, just alone.
In the hallway the redheaded nurse stopped us. “Are you Mr. Hoyt’s family in for the holidays?”
“No. We just had a few questions relating to his old job.”
Her face fell. “Oh. That’s too bad. You’re the first guests he’s had for a treatment. Most people bring someone along at least some of the time.”
Rod glanced back toward the empty room. “Is it normal to schedule these things so late on Christmas Eve?”
She shook her head. “Mr. Hoyt actually rescheduled for our last appointment before the holiday. I think he’s all alone and wanted something to do.”
I always volunteered to work holidays. What happens to workaholic loners who retire? Would a person actually schedule chemo so he’d be too busy throwing up on Christmas to notice he was all alone?
What was I saying? That was exactly what I’d do.
When Rod and I returned to the surgical waiting room, Annette was just ending a conversation with the nurse at the reception counter.
After checking on her still sleeping daughter, she joined us near the doorway. “The surgery is over. Someone will be out to speak with us soon.”
The upswing of her words telegraphed hope. It was there too in her face and nervous hands. She actually thought the doctor might have good news.
The instinct to run erupted like a volcano. Wasn’t this moment exactly what I’d been trying to avoid all day?
Rod put his arm around me. It gave me more comfort than any words. It also trapped me.
Annette continued in her upbeat tone, “I remembered something too. Last summer, when the wildfire broke out up in the mountains, Bud mentioned an old army buddy.”
The fire had been big news, and Rod and I had covered it along with the evacuation of several mountain communities. Bud had been there selling doughnuts to the army of fire-suppression personnel, which had been a lucky break for Rod and me. Bud’s knowledge of wildfires had probably saved our lives.
“I didn’t want him to go.” Annette heard a noise and took a quick glance at her daughter in the waiting room. “We had a fight about it. Bud said he had to go help the wife of someone he served with. She owned a doughnut shop and needed another set of hands in the kitchen. Bud said he had a responsibility to help her on account of her husband.”
I remembered the woman and her granddaughter but not their names.
“He never mentioned it again,” Annette said. “Sorry I don’t know more.”
“No, this is great.” I felt my phone vibrating and checked the screen. I didn’t recognize the number, but given all the leads I was pursuing, that didn’t mean anything. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
Rod and Annette took seats while I stepped out into the hallway. “Hello?”
“I got this number from the pharmacy.” The voice was low, almost furtive. “Are you a reporter?”
I had visions of Woodward meeting Deep Throat in a parking garage. “I’m a shooter, but a lot of the time there’s no reporter available and I do interviews by myself.” I paused. “Are you the owner of Pawn Max?”
“My husband and I own it together,” she continued quietly. Behind her I thought I heard the rumble of an engine or a blower. “I know you want to meet me at the pharmacy, but I can’t leave home right now.”
“Can we make an appointment for tomorrow? I can come to your house.”
&
nbsp; “I’d rather do it tonight, but I have a favor. I worked it out with the pharmacy so you can pick up my prescription and bring it to me. They close at seven.”
I glanced at Rod inside the waiting room. “I’m not free tonight. Tomorrow would be much better.”
“Please. I need that prescription.” A train whistle blasted in the background. “You have no idea how stressed-out I am. I’m begging.”
I tried to make sense of the different sounds. “Are you at home?”
“Yes, but don’t let anyone see you.” She paused for emphasis. “Please be discreet. I’ll meet you in the shed out back.”
She started to hang up, but I stopped her. “Wait. I may not make it to the pharmacy before it closes. I’ll try, but I’m not promising.”
“Do your best.” She sighed again. “And while you’re there, pick up some Pepto-Bismol.”
She hung up. Pepto? Prescriptions for stress? What exactly was going on in her life?
Before joining Rod and Annette inside the waiting room, I called information. Only one doughnut shop was listed in the city of Elizabeth. I immediately recognized the name Double Down Donuts and dialed the number.
On my third ring a man answered, “What?”
“Can I speak with the owner? My name’s Lilly Hawkins. My uncle was there working last summer during the wildfire.”
“I am the owner. I just bought the place a couple months ago.”
“What happened to the lady who used to own the store? I think she was Korean.”
“Retired to a warmer climate. Arizona or New Mexico or something.”
“Do you have a phone number?”
“No.” He hung up.
I called again. No answer. I let it ring.
After a minute he picked up. “Lady, unless you’re calling to buy doughnuts, I don’t have time to talk to you.”
“You want me to go away, then I suggest you help me. Otherwise, I’m going to keep calling you all night. Tomorrow I’ll come up there in person.”
He almost growled, but then relented. “Paik’s got family still in town. Call them and ask where she is.” He gave me the number, but hung up before I could say thank you.
I dialed. Voice mail picked up, and a generic electronic voice told me to leave a message. I wondered if I’d been given a wrong number, but went ahead and left a message anyway.
Going to the Bad Page 11
