I left the studio and walked to the newsroom. Except for Freddy, using one of the assignment-desk phones, the room was empty.
“Dude, I totally don’t care if your Christmas is ruined.” Freddy’s voice was firm, but he wasn’t yelling. “I don’t care if your mommy and daddy want their precious baby home so they can spoon-feed you turkey and mashed potatoes. You’re scheduled to work.”
Freddy listened for a moment, then hung up.
When he saw me, he shook his head in disgust. “The kid scheduled for audio tomorrow asked for the day off, was told no, and then called out sick via text message. Millennials, man. And I thought I hated the baby boomers.”
I didn’t point out that Freddy was himself a millennial. Maybe carping about the fickleness of young people went with the job of assignment manager.
“Callum’s in the break room,” he said. “Can you tell him about audio sicking-out? I’d go, but I can’t leave the scanners.”
Freddy was officially down the assignment-manager rabbit hole. Seeing how he’d so completely settled into the job only reminded me how itchy and unhappy I’d been. Whatever my future at KJAY held, it wasn’t going to be on the assignment desk.
What then, when everything was said and done, was there left for me to do here? How much longer would they keep paying a chief photog when there were no photogs on staff?
I found Callum sitting among dogs and cats in their pet carriers. An empty birdcage sat to the side. I didn’t ask. On the wall above Callum a muted TV played KJAY, but he wasn’t watching. Instead he examined dozens of photocopied pages spread out on the round table before him.
“Hi, kiddo.” Callum used his foot to kick a chair away from the table for me. “My source came through with the police file. It makes for interesting reading.”
Instead of sitting down I fished a dollar out of my coat pocket and went to the vending machine.
I bought a Mountain Dew and popped the top. Between caffeinated sips, I told him about the old farmhouse and the three generations of Kings in their mobile homes. I included Mida’s claim that my father had actually lived there and my suspicion that the farmhouse would be a great hangout for a wanted criminal.
“You could tell an amateur had done work fixing up the house, but maybe that was so Carter King could hide there and not for rental income, like Brandon said.”
Callum nodded. “Were there any pictures of Carter King around his sister’s place? I’d like to have something to put on the air if we eventually do the story.”
I shook my head. “No photos at all. The knickknacks and small appliances were all gone too. I think that stuff is either dangerous or likely to upset her.”
He picked up one of the photocopied pages on the table. “There’s also no picture in the police file, but there is a description.” He read aloud from the sheet, “‘Five-eight, a hundred and seventy pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, walks with a limp.’”
“Mida said he had polio as a child.” I took the sheet from his hand, but paused when I noticed the news had started. “How far into the A block are they? I have to help with the animals at the end of the show.”
Callum offered to enlist Freddy’s help in moving the crates so I could skim the report. Freddy spent most of what he termed Operation Orphan Critters trying to convince Callum that the sludge spill earlier today was actually toxic waste. Callum rolled his eyes, but Freddy kept pitching the story.
When they were almost finished, the door flew open on the final crate.
“Dude, this lock is broken.” Freddy tried to grab Thing as he hobbled out, but somehow the dog escaped his grasp.
Callum also made a grab, but despite the tiny dog’s slow pace, he was remarkably adept at avoiding capture. “Is this the dog that peed earlier?”
Freddy nodded. “Right after the noon the little dude let rip all over the animal control guy.”
“Why is he going into my gear bag?” I paused from reading long enough to scoop Thing up. “He tried to get in my van earlier today too.”
“Dude, you should totally adopt him. Rod’s always saying how he wants a dog.”
I got a whiff of its breath and jerked my head away. “Just put it back in the crate.”
They did and took him to wait with the others. I continued to read the police report while keeping an eye on the show.
Junior’s original account, that the heirlooms were military medals, had been correct. The stolen items were officially listed as The Order of St. Andrew. The first part, described as the badge, was a gold brooch in the shape of a double-headed eagle with a blue St. Andrew’s cross. The second, described as the star, was a diamond starburst with a miniature of the badge at the center, surrounded by Russian Cyrillic letters.
Warner had taken both pieces out of a safe in his office to show them to his friends Allan Hawkins and Carter King. He’d left the jewelry out on his desk when called away to take a phone call. In his sworn statement, Allan Hawkins had said that while they were waiting for Warner to return, Carter suddenly grabbed both pieces and ran out.
Hoping Carter would have a change of heart, Warner and Bud had waited several hours before contacting the police. King had used the time to get a head start out of town.
Mida had also been interviewed. She’d stated that her brother returned home to the family farm in a rush to retrieve some personal items before fleeing. While packing he admitted what he’d done, but said this was his only chance for a better life.
The Bakersfield police had several leads on King over the years. The better life he’d hoped for had never materialized. Instead, he’d slipped into a pattern of shady schemes and confidence games. Every few years there was a new entry in the file leading up to an actual arrest in El Centro, California, in 1984. Authorities there had detained him and a female accomplice for selling stolen Bibles. He’d posted bail and disappeared before the outstanding warrant from Bakersfield had come to light.
Mida appeared to have cooperated with the authorities. She’d alerted them each time her brother made contact and even turned over several letters and postcards.
I got out my phone and dialed the number Frank had given me for Warner’s son.
“Lilly.” Junior’s fake charm sounded even more hollow when it was just a voice. “Thank you for calling. Have you discovered something?”
“Maybe.” I didn’t quite trust him, so I decided to keep my cards close to the vest. “Remember telling me that story about Warner-family heirlooms being stolen?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to speak with your father about it. Can I come to the house tomorrow?”
“I doubt he’ll see you, but don’t worry. After you left, I got the details from Erabelle.”
“I didn’t think she was in the mood to talk to you.”
The slightest of giggles came through the phone. “I may have twisted her arm a little.”
I pictured Junior literally twisting her arm. “What did she tell you?”
“Your uncle wasn’t the thief.”
“I know. Bud would never steal from a friend.” I paused. “A stranger, no problem, but never a friend.”
Junior laughed and took a drink of something—probably more Scotch. “Technically, it wasn’t actually Dad who was robbed. It was Erabelle. That’s why she knows about it.”
“The police report says the brooches belonged to your father.”
The second after the words came out, I regretted them. So much for keeping my cards close to the vest.
“The police report?” he said. “You have been a busy little reporter.”
TWELVE
Christmas Eve, 5:19 p.m.
I’m a shooter, not a reporter.”
He didn’t seem interested in the distinction. “The medals belonged to Erabelle, not Dad. My great-grandmother smuggled them out of Russia when she fled the communists. It was the only thing Erabelle inherited when her parents died. Dad got all the land and property.”
If the diamonds had really be
en Erabelle’s only asset, it might also have been her only chance for financial independence. I suspected that a woman such as Erabelle would have felt that loss more than the monetary one.
I said I still wanted to see Warner, if circumstances allowed it, then we said good-bye. Just as I was hanging up, I had a thought and called out to him.
“I’m still here,” he said.
“The man who stole the jewelry was named Carter King. His sister, Mida, still lives on the family farm adjacent to your refinery.”
Silence.
“Is there any chance the King family is related to you?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Mida King called your father ‘Cousin Leland.’”
Silence.
“Hello?”
“I’m here.” He cleared his throat. “What name did you say?”
“Mida King.” Silence again. “You going to tell me how you know that name?”
He laughed. “Nothing to tell. Never heard of her.” He barely paused. “I’ve got to go now, but I’ll call you if I learn anything.”
He hung up. Obviously, Mida’s name had meant something to Junior—something I doubted he would ever willingly share with me.
I thought again about Bud’s visit to the pawnshop the previous day. Something he’d seen had upset him enough to call Warner.
Pawnshops sold jewelry.
I called Kincaid, the pharmacy owner. He had the prescription ready, but the owner of Pawn Max wasn’t returning his calls. He promised to let me know if or when she did.
It was almost time for the pet segment, so I gathered the file and went into the newsroom. Callum sat with Freddy on the assignment desk.
I handed Callum the pages. “There’s no sign of Carter King since ’84. Where do you think he’s been?”
Callum shrugged. “He could have gotten sick and died. Or maybe he made a big score and retired.”
“Did any of his known associates have ties to Bakersfield? If Carter’s in town his old friends might know.”
I could tell Callum liked the idea. “Good thinking. I’ll run the names and see if I find anything.”
Callum pulled out those pages from the file. They’d been converted from microfilm. It reminded me how ancient some of this history was. “I wish I could talk with someone who knew Bud back in the fifties. Maybe fact-check what Warner and Mida King have told me.”
“Your uncle was in the army, right?”
I nodded. “Paratrooper toward the end of the Korean War.”
“Doesn’t he have any old army buddies who knew him back then?”
“You would think, but Bud’s never talked about friends from the war or been involved with any veterans groups.”
“When I’m running King’s known associates, I’ll poke around your uncle’s military service. See if any names come up with his.” Callum gestured back to the police file. “And I’m expecting to hear from Kelvin Hoyt within the hour.”
“Who?”
“The retired cop who handled the King case for a couple decades. His name is all over the file and I’m hoping he’ll talk to us even if it’s off-the-record.”
Freddy, who’d been watching Ted with the volume low, spoke before I could thank Callum. “Commercial break.”
I hurried into the hallway, picked up two of the crates, and carried them into the studio. Ted and the demon were already moving to the interview set. I set down my load, then Ted and I went back outside for more. When we returned, the demon had taken a tabby out of its crate.
She placed it on a table draped in red cloth. “This is the docile one. She’ll stay here during the entire segment with no problem.”
Ted was helping me carry in the largest crate, containing a chocolate-colored Lab. “This one keeps moving around inside. He seems totally spooked.” Ted caught his slip and corrected himself. “I mean very spooked.”
“Let’s not use him.” I set down my end and the Lab began scratching at the crate. “The last thing you want is an agitated dog around a bunch of cats.”
The demon stroked the tabby on the table. “No, there’s only one other dog, and he peed right after the segment at noon.” She pointed at Thing in his little crate. “That’s the one we don’t want to use.”
I jerked back as the Lab barked. “I think this is a mistake.”
“Stop being so negative and work on keeping him quiet.”
Ted joined her on the set. I gave the Lab a dog treat, which seemed to quiet him down. He looked similar to the dog on Sally King’s flyer so I checked the paperwork. The Lab had been surrendered by the owner and wasn’t a stray, but if I needed another excuse to visit the farm, I could always pretend I thought they were the same dog.
The segment went smoothly. The tabby behaved perfectly as it lounged on the table. Two other cats were quickly rotated through as Ted read their information. I hoped they’d end it there, but the demon had other ideas.
“For our final little blessing today, we have a darling chocolate Labrador retriever.” She turned to me off camera and waited.
I unlatched the crate. The Lab ran right to her.
She pretended to be surprised, but her remark sounded planned. “Well, you’re my number one fan, aren’t you?”
For a moment she savored the perfect clip she’d be adding to her audition reel. Then the Lab tried to stick his nose in her rear end.
“Oh, my.” She tried to shoo him away. “No, doggy. Sit. Sit.”
I hurried in and clipped the leash on him.
He reared up and barked.
The tabby hissed, so Ted moved to calm it with a few gentle pets. “That’s okay, sweetie. Everything’s okay.”
The cat hissed again and leapt at Ted’s chest. He shrieked and jerked back with the animal hanging off him. He tried to pull her free with his hands, but the cat sank its claws deeper into his flesh.
“Ted, hold still.” To her credit, the demon rushed to help, but in her haste she tripped over the Lab’s leash. Her weight ripped the strap from my hand as she fell to the floor.
With Ted screaming as though the monster from Alien had jumped out of his chest, I made a split-second decision to help him first.
Unfortunately that left the Lab free. He went nose-first straight up the demon’s skirt.
“Bad doggy.” Still on the ground, she struggled to push it away. “No. I said no, doggy.”
I had both hands around the cat and was trying to dislodge it from Ted’s bleeding chest, but I managed to tell her, “Get him by the collar.”
I lifted the cat’s midsection. The animal hissed, but the claws remained firmly embedded.
Ted tried to remove them one by one, but the cat sank its teeth into his hand. He cried out, but then remembered he was on TV. “Don’t try this at home, folks.”
Meanwhile, the demon, on her back on the floor, had followed my instructions and grabbed the Lab by the collar. She managed to hold it back from her crotch, but the two seemed to have reached an impasse in which neither could shift position without giving the other leverage.
That’s when I saw Thing. He’d got out of his broken crate and hobbled all the way to where the demon was locked in her stalemate with the Lab.
I couldn’t drop the cat and help her. All I could do was watch as it lifted its leg.
“No, doggy,” she yelled, but it did no good. As the control room rolled the closing credits a stream of yellow liquid hit her like a heat-seeking missile.
After the show, Ted and the demon locked themselves inside gender-appropriate bathrooms. Ted had the excuse that he was cleaning his wounds. The demon was just crying. As the only woman in the building, I was nominated to go in and comfort her. I demurred on the grounds that I was probably the least likely to actually make her feel better.
“Fine, I’ll go in there,” Callum said. “You go interview Kelvin Hoyt.”
“He called?”
Callum started toward the ladies’ room door. “During the show. Says he won’t go on c
amera, but see what he’ll tell you off-the-record.”
Kelvin Hoyt probably knew all kinds of juicy details that weren’t in the police file, but I had something far more pressing.
“Rod is pushing himself to exhaustion and my uncle may be out of surgery soon. Before I do anything else, I need to go check on them at the hospital.”
Callum stopped at the door with the generic female stick figure. “Then it’s a good thing I told Hoyt you’d meet him at the hospital.”
I drove as quickly as I could, but once I’d parked in the hospital lot, I stayed in the car. I had a call to make before going upstairs. I’d been putting it off all day.
She picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”
“You have caller ID, Mom. Why are you pretending you don’t know it’s me?”
“Because I’m polite, sweetheart.” She made a sound I knew well, a slight clearing of the throat signaling disgust for her offspring. “I clearly failed you as a mother since I didn’t pass that trait on.”
“Excuse me for having a low bullshit tolerance.”
“Lilly, language!” She lowered her voice. “You could at least use the initials.”
“I’m sorry, but my previously mentioned low tolerance prohibits me from referring to it as BS.” This was a complete lie. My mother had programmed me against any kind of swearing from an early age. Ironically, the only time I ever broke free and went blue was when speaking to her.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” she said, playing the holiday card. “Did you call just to start a fight on this holy day?”
Tomorrow’s the holy day, I started to say, but guilt stopped me just in time. I had started things off badly with the caller ID comment and then the swearing, which I knew she hated. I really was a jerk.
“You’re right. I’m sorry, Mom.” How was it possible to feel so guilty and so angry at the same time? “I actually called with bad news. I should have done it sooner, but it’s been a crazy day.”
Her voice rose with panic. “Did you and Rod break up?”
“No.”
Going to the Bad Page 10