I almost told them about Sally’s buying her meth down the street from the pawnshop, but decided to keep things vague. “It’s possible, but unlikely considering that I’ve found a very recent connection between the pawnshop and the King family.”
Junior’s smile stayed plastered in place as he nodded, but his tightly controlled breathing telegraphed panic. “I know that earlier today I might have encouraged you to keep looking into this—”
I interrupted. “I wouldn’t say encourage, but you definitely wanted to know what I was doing and what I found out. Maybe you were just keeping tabs on me.”
“Nothing like that, I promise.” He stepped toward the desk. “But you have been very good to come and tell us this news about the jewelry. We’d like to be good to you in return.”
He picked up a piece of paper and handed it to me. “I was going to contact you about this tomorrow, but since you’re here now . . .”
It was a letter of instruction telling the family’s law firm to set up a charitable trust in Bud’s honor. Bud would have called the endowment “more than walkin’ around money.”
“Ten million dollars?” I looked at Junior, who easily returned my gaze, and then at Erabelle, who stared at the floor. “I was under the impression that neither of you had this much money to spare.”
“This was Dad’s idea.” Junior glanced at Erabelle. “He’s feeling very sentimental about his old friend, probably because of his own health problems.”
When I didn’t say anything, Junior continued, “We thought you could come on board as director. There would be a substantial salary, of course.”
“How substantial?”
He considered for a moment, but this had obviously already been decided. “An endowment of that size could easily support a salary of six figures a year.”
“And you’d be making a difference in people’s lives.” Erabelle spoke quietly, but with feeling. “The Allan Hawkins Foundation can do a lot of good.”
“The Bud Hawkins Foundation,” I corrected.
Erabelle laughed.
Junior did too, even though he didn’t seem to know why. “Of course. We’ll call it whatever you like.”
I handed the paper back to him. “And I assume you’d like me to focus on building Bud’s legacy instead of finding out who shot him?”
My blunt tit for tat made him uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t put it exactly like that.”
For a moment I relished what I was about to do. How often do you get to throw money back in the faces of rich jerks? This was literally a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to feel morally superior.
But then an instinct for self-preservation took over. Whatever had led to Bud’s shooting, whoever had pulled the trigger, the Warner family was desperate to make it go away—and not just a little desperate. We were talking $10 million desperate.
Since my last visit, something had changed in a fundamental way for Warner, Erabelle, and Junior. Had one of them shot Bud and the other two just discovered it? Regardless, the family was circling the wagons.
And people that rich and that desperate are not above resorting to violence to protect themselves. Was there a plan B if I didn’t take the money? Was Frank waiting outside the door to make me disappear? So what if Callum knew I was here? So what if there would be suspicions or even an investigation. I would still be dead.
“Please take the money.” Erabelle’s voice sounded frailer than when I’d met her earlier in the day. “It’s what Bud would want.”
I noticed she’d called him Bud for the first time and wondered if it was calculated to win me over.
“It’s a very generous offer, but I’d like to sleep on it.” I had no intention of being bribed, but despite the hotheaded ambitions I’d arrived with, it now seemed wiser to retreat. “Quitting my job is a big decision.”
“Of course.” Whatever doubt Junior had about my corruptibility didn’t amount to much. He clearly believed you could never go wrong assuming the worst about people. “I’ll expect to hear from you soon, though.”
We shook hands, and then Frank, who had been waiting outside the door, walked me back to the van. I didn’t get an escort to the gate this time. The money was considered enough to guarantee my good behavior.
EIGHTEEN
Christmas Eve, 10:52 p.m.
I wasn’t sure where to go. The Oildale house was a crime scene. I’d sleep in the van before returning to Rod’s house. Leanore would take me in, but she’d want to know why and I didn’t want to talk about it.
I needed to find a motel, but on the way to the freeway where most of them operated, I made a quick detour to the strip club Stallions. The emotion of my encounter with Rod, not to mention the bribe attempt, had me keyed up and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep.
This time I parked a block down from Stallions so my van wouldn’t be recognized. When I got out, I noticed a pickup pulling in behind me. Its motor shut off, but no one got out.
At Stallions the shifts had changed. The new bouncer hadn’t seen me driving the news van and let me right through. I kept my coat zipped and paid the cover charge.
Inside, no one paid me any notice as I walked to the bar. Normally, a thirty-two-year-old woman, alone in a strip club, and wearing a bulky jacket she refused to unzip, would probably have drawn some attention. I credited everyone’s zombielike interest in the dancer’s anatomy to my being able to fly under the radar.
The woman in question wore a Santa bikini and danced to “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” The pole had been decorated in red and white stripes like a handcrafted STD candy cane.
I shouldn’t be so harsh. Money had been spent on the zebra-striped carpeting and red velvet club chairs. All the men appeared to be clean and respectable. There was even something empowering about the command and athleticism in the dancer’s movement.
But, you know, ick.
“What can I get you?” The bartender had to shout to be heard over the music. “We’ve got a special on peppermint martinis for the holiday.”
“Because nothing says Christmas like cheap liquor at a strip club.”
He laughed. At first I thought he had a sense of humor about his job, but then I realized he hadn’t been able to understand me over the music. He probably just laughed at everything customers said and hoped he’d get a bigger tip.
“The peppermint thing sounds good,” I yelled.
He went to work mixing the drink, which included crushing a candy cane to sprinkle on top. When he finished, I set a twenty on the bar for him.
The song had changed to “Santa Baby,” which seemed a little on the nose to me, but also allowed us to hear each other better.
“I’m curious. When in the year do you guys break out the Christmas decorations and costumes?”
“Just today.”
“I thought maybe it was like the radio, where they start playing Christmas songs in November.”
He laughed, but then something behind me caught his attention. His frown made me curious. I turned and saw a man sitting alone in a chair by the wall. He wore a Santa hat and cradled his head in one hand. His body moved back and forth in an odd way.
“Just what we need.” The bartender removed a cell phone from his belt and used the instant-talk function. “We’ve got a code five on the left side of the stage.”
A voice replied, “I’m on it.”
I refused to turn around. “A code five . . . That’s not, you know, a guy . . . touching . . .”
“No. That’s a code nine.” He returned the phone to his belt. “Code five is a crier.”
I started to ask what the codes between five and nine were, but instead said, “You mean ‘crying’ crying?”
He nodded. “I’m sympathetic, but it’s bad for business. We have to get him out of here before he upsets the other customers.”
“Does this happen often?”
“More often than the code nine, actually.”
The bartender waited while the crier was escorted out, t
hen took the twenty off the bar and opened the register.
“Keep the change,” I said.
He glanced back. “Really? On a twenty?”
“It’s not actually that nice. I’m looking for someone and hoping you’ll be able to help me.”
He grinned, but I noticed he kept the money. “Let me guess, a guy?”
“Not exactly.” I tried to remember the name of Carter King’s known associate—the woman he’d been arrested with back in the eighties—but all I could think of was Booby Hatch Bible Thief. “This is embarrassing, but I can’t remember the name.”
I glanced at the door. Was I going to have to go all the way back to the van just to get Callum’s LexisNexis search? “It starts with a B. It’s like Erin Brockovich.”
“You’re talking about one of our bouncers. His name is Bogdanich.”
I started to tell him that I was looking for a woman, but stopped myself in time. “That’s right. Is he working tonight?”
“He was on the door, but left early to go to a party.”
No wonder the creep hadn’t let me inside the club. “That’s right. He told me about his mom when we met. Didn’t she own this club, back when it was called the Booby Hatch?”
The bartender nodded. “I think that’s how he got the job, but it’s worked out. He’s a good guy.”
“You said Bogdanich left early. Do you know where he went?”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree.” I hadn’t heard the woman approach over the music. She set down an overnight bag and a purse on a bar stool near me.
“Why’s that?” I said.
The young woman wore skintight jeans with high-heel boots and a bright red winter coat. Her blond hair had been teased and cemented in place with buckets of hairspray—just like that of the dancer currently onstage.
“You’re not his type.”
At first I thought she might be an ex-girlfriend acting jealous, but then I noticed the bartender.
He smirked. “Bogdanich is gay.”
The dancer took a handful of coins from her coat pocket and placed them on the bar along with a pile of bills. “Can you change these for me?”
I guessed she was swapping her tips for higher bills, but wondered about the change. I leaned in as the bartender counted them out, and I recognized Sacagawea dollars. “Did a guy actually tip you in coins?”
“Idiot threw them up on the stage.” She rubbed her thigh. “I’m going to have big welts where he hit me.”
The bartender deposited the money in the cash register and returned with larger bills.
She placed the money in her purse. Before leaving she said, “If Bogdanich had been inside instead of on the door, I never would have gotten hit with coins. He may be gay, but he’s chivalrous as all get-out. Best bouncer we’ve ever had.”
When we were alone again, I gave the bartender another twenty. He wouldn’t give me the bouncer’s home address, but he did let slip that he’d left work early to attend a Christmas party at Bakersfield University, where he took classes.
I left the club as quickly as I could. Back in the van, I took out my smartphone and opened the Internet browser. The temperature had dropped even more, so I turned on the van’s engine and cranked up the heat.
Bakersfield University campus was closed for the winter break, but I did find one club hosting a Christmas party tonight. Bakersfield Pride invited all LGBT students whose families were hostile or prejudiced to celebrate the holiday together. The address listed belonged to the only gay fraternity on campus.
I fastened my seat belt and put the van in drive.
That’s when I heard the high-pitched bark. I’d been so wound up since leaving Rod’s that I’d forgotten about Thing. He gleefully played underneath the tarp in the back. I was going to have to take him back to the station, but since the Pride party was on the way, I decided to go there first.
While en route, my cell phone rang. The area code was for Lake Elizabeth, but with a different number than before.
I pulled over and answered, “Hello.”
“Is this Bud’s niece?” The voice was low, as though whispering, but I thought I recognized it.
“Yes. My name’s Lilly. I think we met last summer at the doughnut shop. Are you Mrs. Paik’s granddaughter?”
“That’s right.” She still spoke quietly. “I heard my mom talking to you on the phone earlier. Is it true Bud got shot?”
Someone called in the background and then the girl yelled, “I’ll be there in a minute. . . . No, I’m watching TV.”
There was silence for a moment, then I heard the TV switch on.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t want my mom to know I’m calling you.”
“Why not?”
“Because Grandma doesn’t want her to know the truth.”
Maybe I was still bristling from Rod’s lying to me, but this bugged me. “Your mother is a grown woman. She doesn’t need protecting like she’s a little girl.”
“Grandma’s not protecting her. Grandma’s ashamed.”
In my business shame usually equals newsworthy, so even without the issue of Bud, I would have been curious.
But before I could ask what there was to be ashamed of, the girl jumped in. “Can you come meet me? My parents will be asleep by midnight and I can sneak out.”
“You shouldn’t be sneaking out. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.” Her voice rose. “Don’t act all judgmental. Bud said you used to do all kinds of bad stuff when you were my age.”
I had no answer for that. She was right.
A voice called in the background, “Who are you talking to?”
“I have to go,” the girl rushed to say. “Meet me at the THINK SAFETY signs at one thirty.” She hung up.
Driving up to the mountains, although only a forty-minute trip, was an unattractive prospect. Not only did I want to be near the hospital in case Bud’s condition changed, but I was tired and didn’t think this lead was important. Mrs. Paik’s granddaughter might be able to tell me new things about Bud, but I doubted she’d be able to tell me why he’d been shot and by whom.
I decided to go for one reason: Bud owned a mobile home at the lake. His girlfriend, Annette, even suggested he might have stayed there last night, since he hadn’t come home to her house. He might have left evidence behind or even the gold brooch he’d bought at the pawnshop. At the least, Bud’s mobile home would give me a free place to spend the night.
I reached the address for the Bakersfield Pride party near the BU campus. I left my unwanted passenger in the van and knocked on the house’s front door. No one answered so I tried the handle. It was unlocked.
Inside the air was warm and smelled of cinnamon and ham. Michael Bublé singing jazzy Christmas standards played. The party was in full swing with young men and women talking, sipping drinks, and munching on food. Nobody asked who I was, but I got enough curious glances to make it clear I stood out from the crowd.
I made a full circle of the house and stopped in the dining room. A potluck of holiday food covered the table, and people were filling plates. I took a closer look and saw the KJAY logo disappearing under a helping of potato salad. All the paper plates and cups were from KJAY.
“Lilly, dude, what are you doing here?”
I turned. Freddy had come up behind me.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
“I’ve been pretty active in Bakersfield Pride since I enrolled at BU last spring. I was going to run for club treasurer next semester, but now that Callum’s offering me work on the assignment desk, I may not have time for that and classes.”
“But, how long have you been gay?”
Conversations stopped. Heads turned. Michael Bublé’s singing was the only sound.
“Since I was born.” Freddy’s voice turned cold. “It’s totally not a choice.”
“I know.” I looked around the room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Freddy crossed his arms. �
��Then what did you mean?”
“How long have you been out of the closet?”
“I’ve never been in it.” Freddy stared at me, then realization flashed across his face. “You didn’t know I was gay?”
He started laughing. Between snorts he pointed at me and said to the others, “I’ve known her for, like, five years. I even told her I liked dudes.”
The others joined his laughter.
“That’s not fair,” I said. “You call everybody dude, even me. How was I to know that this one time you were using it in a gender-specific way?”
They laughed even more.
Freddy put a hand on my shoulder. “Lilly, dude, I totally love you. You’re one of my favoritest people, like, on the entire planet, but you do not know what you do not know.”
“I know you’re my friend.” I couldn’t help but feeling a little defensive. “I couldn’t care less what your sexual preferences are.”
This was not a calculated move on my part, but the room’s attitude toward me softened and the party resumed.
Freddy walked me back out to the van so we could talk privately. Standing on the curb, my coat zipped up to fight the cold and Freddy stubbornly still in his shorts, I explained I was looking for the bouncer from Stallions and why.
Freddy didn’t know the man well, but thought Bouncer—I’d started dropping the the by then—had been at the party earlier. Freddy offered to ask around and text me if anyone knew where he lived.
“There’s something else.” I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “Are there any students at BU who are good with computers? I’d be willing to pay.”
“What do you want them to do?”
I looked over my shoulder to make sure the block was empty. “There’s a bank account I want to hack into. It may have to do with why my uncle got shot.”
I hoped to trace the origin of Mida’s pension by gaining access to her financial information, but Freddy actually laughed at me. “That’s mondo-serious stuff, Lilly. You’re not going to find that at BU, or probably anywhere in Bakersfield. You’d be better off trying to get the log-in and password.”
Going to the Bad Page 15
