by Dete Meserve
Robert Kryvoskya, also known as Dr. K, closed the door in my face when I went to his home. I rang the doorbell again, my mind racing to figure what to say if he opened it again.
He flung it open and started speaking before he even saw me. “I appreciate your persistence, but I won’t discuss my political views on television. You’re the third reporter this week to ask me about Jack Hansen, and quite frankly I’m fed up with the constant intrusion.” He started to close the door again.
“I have only one question.” I gave him my most sincere look. “One that isn’t political or about Jack Hansen.”
He raised an eyebrow and spoke in a tone I’m sure he usually reserved for recalcitrant students. “What would that be?”
I exhaled sharply, steeling my nerves. “I want to ask you about Brian Hayes.”
His tone softened. “What about him?”
“Did you know him?”
“Of course,” he said.
“How did you know him?”
He glanced around me. I guessed he wanted to see if there was a camera pointed at him. There wasn’t.
A smile tipped the corners of his mouth, and his eyes brightened. “Brian started in the entrepreneur program at UCLA about five years ago, after a couple of years selling real estate. He was making quite a lot of money already in the real-estate business, but he knew he couldn’t advance to the next level unless he branched out and went on his own.”
“He started his own business?”
Dr. K nodded. “Within two years his firm was the fourth-largest real-estate buyer in Los Angeles. He did remarkably well in a short time.”
“He learned how to do it from you?”
“I can’t take credit for that. Brian already had a lot of the skills he needed to be a successful entrepreneur before coming into my program. What he lacked was confidence in his ability to go out on his own. Perhaps, in a small way, I helped him find his confidence.”
“How did you do that?”
He beamed with pride. “I suppose the answer you’re expecting is that I imparted some dense wisdom gained from a textbook. But it wasn’t that way. Brian came to see me after he graduated from the program. He was struggling with some fairly significant business issues, and his investors and advisers were urging him to go in a direction he wasn’t comfortable with. He asked me what to do, and I said, ‘You already know the answer. You have everything you need to make this decision.’ Brian thanked me later, even credited me with catapulting his business to the top, although I can’t say I did much of anything.”
“Did he ever—”
“Why are you asking about Brian Hayes?” he interrupted.
I felt my mouth go dry. “That’s a very good question,” I said, almost to myself. “What would you think if I told you that at least three of the people who received money from Good Sam all knew Brian Hayes?”
Dr. K considered that for a moment and straightened his bow tie. “I’d think it was an interesting coincidence but nothing more. I don’t know if you’re aware, but Brian Hayes is dead.”
“Yes, I know.”
“When Brian was alive, he knew a lot of people. He was very outgoing and had many friends. Had to be in his line of work. That some of them later received money from Jack Hansen is odd, but it’s still a coincidence.”
I wasn’t buying the coincidence angle, even though I wanted to. But if it wasn’t a coincidence, what was it? Why did all of these people have connections to Brian Hayes? Was Eric somehow involved in all of this?
Dr. K must have sensed my skepticism. “Tell me…what are your father’s initials?”
I tilted my head. “Why do you want to know?”
“Tell me your father’s initials. I’ll explain.”
“H.D.B.”
“Let’s say that you go into an antique store, buy a watch, and return home to find the initials H.D.B. engraved on it. You’d say there was a connection of some sort. Surely not a coincidence. Am I right?”
“Right.”
“But statistics will tell you that if everyone in Los Angeles were to buy an antique engraved watch, three thousand people would find their father’s initials on it. Three thousand people. Call it luck, chance, randomness, coincidence. But that’s what you’ve got here.”
It made sense, but I wasn’t convinced. After I left Dr. K’s house, I dialed Jack’s private cell phone, but it went to voice mail.
“I’m out of the hospital and back at work,” I said after the beep. “Call me. There’s something I have to ask you.”
When Rob Haywood tried to deposit the one hundred thousand dollars he had received from Good Sam into his account at City National Bank, he asked the bank—begged, apparently—not to disclose his name to the press. But word leaked out to the Associated Press anyway, and Rob and his family were thrust in the media spotlight.
I had reported on Rob Haywood early on but didn’t realize it. Turned out he was the anonymous caller who told me he’d received money with a note from Good Sam indicating the money was for his daughter, Lauren, to go to law school.
Rob’s house was straight out of a Seven Dwarfs fairy tale—white stucco, with a wood shingle roof, a redbrick chimney, and a meandering cobblestone path that led to the front door.
I rang the doorbell, and soon after, a woman cracked open the front door and poked her head out. “I’m sorry, but we’re not doing any interviews.”
She started to close the door.
“I’m Kate Bradley from Channel Eleven. I only need a moment of your time.”
“Please leave,” she said through the door. “We don’t want any more media attention.”
“Did you know a man named Brian Hayes?”
“Yes,” she said. She opened the door, so now I could see her entire body instead of just her head. She was dressed casually in a pair of skinny jeans and a plaid camp shirt. “Why do you ask? Are you doing a story about Brian Hayes?”
“We’re considering it,” I lied, hoping she didn’t ask more questions. “How did you know him?”
“Brian was friends with my daughter Lauren in college.”
“They dated?”
She shook her head. “Not like that. He was like a brother to her. She tutored him. That’s how they met.”
As accomplished as Brian Hayes sounded, I couldn’t imagine he needed a tutor in college. “What did she tutor him in?”
“Everything. Most people didn’t know it, but he had dyslexia. He was smart—very smart—but he had terrible trouble reading. No one thought he’d make it through college, but with Lauren’s help, he did.”
“And became very successful.”
She nodded. “I don’t think anyone ever expected that. Except Lauren. She always said he was going to go on and do great things.”
All this new information was swirling around me, and my mind was frantically trying to make sense of it. My cell phone rang, adding to my confusion. I pulled it out of my purse and glanced at the screen. Jack Hansen.
I answered the call. “Jack, I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back?”
“I really need to talk with you. It’s important.”
I covered the mouthpiece. “Sorry, I need to take this. Thank you for your time.”
I left the Haywoods’ front porch and start a slow walk back to the van.
“What’s so important?” I asked.
“Sorry I didn’t come to the hospital, but I had to fly to DC to meet with campaign advisers. I heard about your accident. You all right?”
“Better than I was a few days ago.”
“They told me you went after a girl in the river, but I didn’t believe it. Whatever possessed you to go in after her?”
“She was drowning, Jack.”
He laughed. “Well, I’m sure you won’t make the same mistake next time.”
I wanted to tell him I was insulted by his comment, then I thought better of it. I didn’t want him to know he could rattle me so easily.
“Let’s have dinner tonight. I ne
ed your advice about my campaign.”
I swallowed hard, shutting his dinner proposal out of my mind. “There’s something I need to ask you. I want to know if… Did you know someone named Brian Hayes?”
“No. Should I?”
I surprised myself by rattling off facts about a man I never knew. “He owned a real-estate firm in Los Angeles, loved sailing, had a wife and a kid named Jonathan.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. But I’ve met so many people this last week, I can’t remember everyone.”
“He’s dead.” I paused dramatically. “He died about six months ago.”
“Then why are you asking me about him?”
“At least four of the people you supposedly gave money to had some connection to Brian Hayes. And I wondered if you chose them because you knew him.”
There was a long pause on the line. “Sounds like a strange coincidence—that’s all. Someone with your high profile shouldn’t waste time on such stuff when there’s news of substance going on. I’ve just got endorsements from the Los Angeles Police Association and several key city council members. I want to talk to you over dinner and get some advice on how I should handle making these kinds of announcements.”
“I can’t make it, Jack. Gotta run—I have to take this other call.”
There wasn’t another call. I needed time to think this through. I wasn’t surprised that Jack didn’t know about the connections to Brian Hayes because it confirmed what I already knew. Jack wasn’t Good Sam.
But was Brian Hayes Good Sam? How could a man who died six months ago be doing this? And why?
John Baylor’s house was my next stop. Before Jeff had brought the van to a complete stop, I slid out of the van, ignoring the shooting pain in my hips and legs. “I won’t be long,” I told him.
I spotted John Baylor on his front porch peering at the screen of a silver laptop. Scowling, actually.
“Excuse me, Mr. Baylor,” I called out. “I’m Kate Bradley from Channel Eleven. We met before.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“I’m sorry to bother you while you’re working,” I said, nodding toward the laptop.
He closed the laptop, set it aside, and stood. “I’m working on a story for LA Weekly, so any diversion from writing is a welcome distraction,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. He shook my hand with a vigorous grip. “I’m guessing you’re here about Good Sam.”
“I’m supposed to be here to get your reaction to Jack Hansen—Good Sam—running for Congress. But that’s not really what I’m looking for.”
He looked puzzled. “Then why are you here?”
My throat tightened. “Did you know a man named Brian Hayes?”
He shook his head. “The name doesn’t sound familiar. Should it?”
“Is it possible that your wife knew him?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. But why are you asking?”
“So far, all the people I’ve talked to who received money from Good Sam had some connection to him. I’m trying to figure out if it’s a coincidence or a pattern.”
The wind chimes on his porch tinkled in the light breeze. “Who is he?”
“He was in real estate. Owned a company called Residential Realty Trust. Maybe he sold you this house?”
He shook his head. “Never heard of him or his company. I inherited the house when my parents passed away several years ago.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. Was he mistaken? Lying?
“Could I ask your wife if she knew him?” Then I remembered that his wife was battling cancer. “On second thought—”
“She’s up and about, so I’ll ask her real quick,” He headed to the front door. “We’re leaving for Mayo tomorrow for the experimental treatment that Good Sam is helping us pursue.”
As he went inside, I felt guilty for bothering him. Where was this line of questioning leading? Was it a wild goose chase, or had I uncovered something I’d completely missed the first time around?
I was surprised then when John stepped back on to the porch and said, “My wife’s never heard of Brian Hayes either. We don’t know anyone by the last name of Hayes. And the only real-estate broker we know recently retired to Oregon.”
I waited for what he said to sink in, but it just made my head hurt like one of those mind-bending math problems on the SAT. If Jack Hansen wasn’t Good Sam and Brian Hayes was associated with some, but not all, of Good Sam’s recipients, then who was Good Sam?
“You know, once we found out Jack Hansen was Good Sam, it all made sense,” John said quietly.
I leaned against the porch railing. “How so?”
“Jack serves on the board of Human Rights Watch, where my wife works. I think he knew about her cancer and knew we’ve been struggling to make ends meet. So we understand why he chose us. And we’re happy he’s running for Congress. He deserves all the good that’s coming to him.”
I was more confused than ever. As I left John Baylor’s house and headed back to the news van, the only theory that made sense was that Good Sam’s connection to Brian Hayes was simply an odd set of coincidences. As Dr. K had pointed out, Brian had crossed paths with a lot of people in his lifetime, so the likelihood of anyone knowing him was fairly high.
But if Jack Hansen wasn’t Good Sam and Good Sam’s connection to people who knew Brian Hayes was a mere coincidence, then who was Good Sam?
Now a heavy blanket of exhaustion had descended over me. I’d missed at least two doses of the medicines I was supposed to take, and searing pain shot down the back of my legs. Worse, fatigue was dulling my thinking.
I tried to ignore the pain and instead asked Jeff to drop me off at Marie Ellis’s home. I decided that if Marie didn’t know Brian Hayes, I would put the whole thing aside as an unusual series of coincidences and go home and rest.
Marie answered the door dressed in a black satin gown. Her hair was styled in an updo, and unlike the last time I saw her, she was wearing makeup. Her transformation was so dramatic that for a moment I thought I’d come to the wrong address.
I extended my hand. “I’m Kate Bradley, Channel Eleven. We met before—”
“Hello again,” she said, her tone polite but curt. “We’re on our way out. How can I help you?”
“This will only take a moment,” I said. “Did you know a man named Brian Hayes?”
She tilted her head. The question clearly seemed odd to her. “No, I don’t know anyone named Brian Hayes.”
It took a moment for me to absorb what she said. If she didn’t know him, then this was just all a strange coincidence.
“Why are you asking about this person?”
“I’m talking to some of the people who received money from Good Sam—Jack Hansen—and in a strange coincidence, almost everyone knew Brian Hayes.”
“We don’t know him,” she said.
“We don’t know who?” a man in a tuxedo asked, stepping into the foyer.
With his dark hair graying at the temples and his boyish face complete with cleft chin, Michael Ellis looked like a cross between Dr. Kildare and Harrison Ford.
“Did you know a man named Brian Hayes?” I asked.
“Yes, I did,” he said, adjusting one of his cufflinks. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m investigating a connection between Brian Hayes and some of the people who received money from Good Sam.”
“I don’t understand…” he said.
“How did you know Brian Hayes?”
“He was a patient.”
“If I remember right, you’re a neurosurgeon?”
He nodded.
“What did you see him for?”
“Brian Hayes’s medical history is confidential, but I can tell you he had a serious medical condition and wasn’t expected to recover, yet he did.
“When was he your patient?”
He looked up as though the answer were written on the ceiling. “Maybe six, seven years ago.”
“And he never had problems with the…the condition after that?”
I’d never met Brian Hayes, but I knew as much about his life as I did about my friends’ lives.
He had loved sailing most of all. He had overcome dyslexia and his self-doubts to launch a highly successful real-estate business. He was a man who had faced a serious medical condition and, with the help of a great doctor, beaten the odds. A man who had married and had a son. A man who had died in some kind of accident.
It was a compelling portrait of one man’s life. But what did any of it have to do with Good Sam?
I gulped down the rest of my coffee. After another dose of the medicines, a hot shower, and a gloppy application of antibiotic cream, the soreness screaming through my body had settled into a dull ache.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I said aloud, then felt foolish because I was alone in my apartment. I once read somewhere that talking to yourself is a sign of intelligence, but I think it means you’re becoming unhinged.
That’s how I felt too. Unsettled. Confused. I wrote out the facts, hoping to make sense of them:
Larry Durham—Brian Hayes’s best friend
Cristina Gomez—nanny to Brian’s son
Robert Kryvoskya—teacher; convinced Brian to start his own business
Lauren Haywood—tutored Brian in college because of his dyslexia
Michael Ellis—neurosurgeon who saved Brian’s life
John Baylor—no connection
Everyone except John Baylor had a connection to Brian Hayes. Was this simply a coincidence, as Robert Kryvoskya suggested?
I already knew the answer.
Chapter Fifteen
I didn’t know if Eric was working. He’d explained once how the three platoons rotate twenty-four-hour shifts throughout the month, but the schedule seemed as complicated as the IRS tax code, so I hadn’t retained much of it.
I headed to his house instead. Before I could knock, he opened the door.
He hugged me tight and led me inside. “You look much better. Got a little more color in your face. How’re you feeling?”
I kicked off my tight shoes, settled next to him on the couch, and rubbed my swollen feet. “I feel like I’ve just finished playing the Super Bowl,” I admitted. “Definitely overdid it today.”