Dead to Rights

by Jack Patterson

  “That’s not my style to rat out anyone,” Curly said, lowering his voice as he glanced around the diner. “I like my business here.”

  Another customer sat down at the other end of the bar and signaled for Curly’s attention. Without another word, Curly darted toward the customer to take his order.

  After Cal and Kelly finished eating, Cal reached for the receipt on the counter. But it didn’t budge. Curly anchored the paper to the counter with his first.

  “Did you folks like your meal?” Curly asked.

  They both nodded.

  “It was delicious,” Kelly said as she dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

  “Good to hear that,” Curly responded while shoving another receipt beneath the original. “You two have a pleasant time here in Pickett, and I hope to see you again here real soon.”

  Cal slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and nodded.

  Curly hustled around the counter and held the door open for them as they left.

  However, as Kelly stepped out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk, she was almost bowled over by a man in a wheelchair.

  “Hey!” Kelly yelled.

  The man continued on without looking back, throwing up his right hand as some vague acknowledgment that he heard her. But he didn’t say a word.

  “Never mind him,” Curly said as he watched the man roll along on the sidewalk. “That’s Devontae Ray, the bitterest man in Pickett, if not the entire state. Can’t say that I blame him though. He did get hit while riding a motorcycle with his brother. The accident ended Devontae’s dreams of being a professional athlete, but he was far more fortunate than his brother, who lost his life in the ordeal.”

  “Will he ever walk again?” Kelly asked.

  Curly shook his head. “That accident was a long time ago back when he was in high school. He ain’t ever gettin’ out of that chair. And it’s a shame. He and his brother could both fly down the field. It was like their feet didn’t even touch the ground.”

  “Thanks for the great lunch,” Cal said, shaking Curly’s hand again.

  “You’re welcome,” Curly said. “Just be sure you don’t outstay your welcome, especially given the topic you came here to write about. You’re sure to stir up some emotions that are still raw with people around here.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Curly let go of the door, returning to the restaurant. Now on the street outside, Cal could still hear Curly’s voice booming from inside.

  They started to walk along the sidewalk.

  “What do you make of that?” Kelly asked.

  “More like what do I make of this?” Cal said, holding up the receipt Curly had given him.

  “What is it?”

  “A note Curly slipped me. He slid it underneath my receipt.”

  Kelly took the note and read it aloud: “Talk to Jordan Hayward. Works at Hank’s Pawn Shop. Don’t tell him I sent you.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes,” Kelly said. “And he underlined the word don’t twice just to make sure he was clear.”

  Cal stopped and glanced back at Curly’s Diner.

  “Thank you, Curly. I guess we should pay Mr. Hayward a little visit.”

  CHAPTER 7

  HANK’S PAWN SHOP SAT on a corner just off Main and Juniper and was accessible from either street. Cal noted the building’s white brick veneer needed a new paint job, but that was far down on the pecking order of necessary maintenance. He held the door open for Kelly before they stepped into the store, which wasn’t much cooler than the muggy air outside.

  Add air conditioning unit to the list of repairs.

  Cal stopped in front of a fan for a moment to cool off. He scanned the store’s hodgepodge of items for sale. Nothing of considerable value was on the storeroom floor with most of the high-dollar ticket objects encased in a glass display beneath the counter or on the wall behind the clerk. Diamond rings, gold jewelry, bikes, guitars, televisions—all the usual fare.

  An overhead light flickered before going out.

  And light bulbs need to go on the list as well.

  “Can I help you folks?” called a man from across the room.

  Cal looked up to see a man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties, hunched over the counter with a bottle in his hand. Cal and Kelly quickened their pace and walked up to him.

  “We were actually hoping to find Jordan Hayward here. Does he still work here?” Cal asked.

  The man, who wore a khaki shirt with the name ‘Hank’ stitched over the left pocket, rolled his eyes and shook his head. “We both wish he didn’t, but I can’t find anyone else to work in this hell hole, and nobody in town’ll hire him.”

  Cal cocked his head to one side. “So is he here?”

  Hank let out an exasperated breath before putting the bottle to his lips and spewing a long stream of tobacco juice into it. A flimsy strand of saliva momentarily hung between the man’s chin and his bottle.

  “Gimme a second, and let me see if I can find him,” Hank mumbled. “He’s due for a fifteen-minute break here in a bit. And if he wants to waste it by talkin’ with you, that’s his choice.”

  Hank exited the main room by pushing his way through a sheet of heavy opaque plastic strips hanging from the top of the doorway.

  “Ole Hank doesn’t look too excited to be here, does he?” Kelly asked with a wry grin.

  Cal’s eyebrows shot upward. “That’s an understatement. The fact that this place exists is nothing short of a miracle.”

  A few seconds later, Hank emerged from the back.

  “Just go outside and use the alleyway to your right to reach the back of the store,” Hank said, gesturing toward the door. “Jordan is takin’ a smoke break but said he’ll talk with ya.”

  Cal and Kelly followed Hank’s direction and found Jordan Hayward right where Hank said his employee would be.

  Perched on a concrete step, Hayward didn’t look up to acknowledge his visitors. A plume of vapor arose around him and swirled away into the light breeze blowing through the alleyway. Holding his electronic vaporizer in one hand, he tugged his hat down with his other.

  “Jordan Hayward?” Cal asked.

  “Who’s asking?” Hayward mumbled, head still down.

  “I’m Cal Murphy, and this is my wife, Kelly. We’re with The Seattle Times and wanted to speak with you for a few moments about something.”

  “You gotta be more specific than that,” Hayward said as he yanked on the tongue of his right sneaker. “I don’t just talk with anybody.”

  “We want to talk with you about Isaiah Drake.”

  Hayward slowly raised his head, his eyes meeting Cal’s with a vacant stare.

  “What about him?” Hayward asked with a sneer before releasing another cloud of vaporized nicotine into the air.

  “Just trying to find out what happened on the night of Susannah Sloan’s murder,” Cal said.

  “I told the police everything I remembered about that night back when it happened and—”

  Cal held up both of his hands. “I don’t doubt you did, but I’m retracing all of Drake’s movements and trying to get a better idea of what happened.”

  Hayward shook his head as a slight grin spread across his face.

  “There really isn’t that much to tell,” Hayward said.

  Cal sat down next to his interviewee.

  Hayward scooted to the side a few inches and put his head back down.

  “Anything you say can and will be most helpful as The Innocence Alliance determines if they want to take this case,” Cal said.

  “Innocence Alliance? That group that helps get innocent people out of prison?”

  “That’s the one,” Kelly said.

  “Why do I wanna help them, especially since they got the right man?” Hayward asked.

  Cal narrowed his gaze. “So you think Isaiah Drake is guilty?”

  Hayward released a large puff of vapor that whipped in front of Cal.

 
“Can you please not blow that in my face? I don’t really want to get high.”

  Hayward looked back up and grinned. “I can tell you know your stuff, Mr. Murphy.”

  “Vaping marijuana isn’t that novel of an idea. People do it all the time in Seattle. But that’s another story for another day.”

  “I’d rather hear it today—right now,” Hayward said.

  “I’m sorry, but I’ll to have to decline,” Cal answered. “We have a big day still ahead of us, and I need to get some answers from some people who were there.”

  “And what makes you think I was there?”

  “I don’t know. Just call it a hunch.”

  “Look, I’ll tell you what I told the police and every other reporter and detective trying to figure out what happened that night.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “That morning, Drake and I went to get breakfast at Curley’s Diner. Heloise had a slow start to her day after throwin’ down with her old lady friends the night before and wasn’t up.”

  Cal looked quizzically at Hayward. “Heloise?”

  “My mom.”

  “You were living with her at the time?”

  Hayward nodded and continued. “It was just as well, though, because Curly loved Drake and never made him pay for a meal. After that, we drove out to an old abandoned racetrack and saw how fast Drake could go. He’d just bought a sweet new action green Rolls-Royce Phantom. It was hot—but not in the street term sense of the word. He was good with his money, but cars were his weakness.”

  “So, you raced at the track?”

  “Yeah, until Drake hit a pot hole. That ended the racing.”

  “What happened next?” Cal asked, scribbling down a few notes.

  “He dropped me off and said he had some business to attend to and that he’d meet up with me later at The Pirate’s Den.”

  “What time did he get there?”

  “He got there somewhere around eight o’clock,” Hayward said before taking a long drag on his vaporizer. “I don’t know exactly what time because I didn’t get there until eight-thirty.”

  “Did you see him leave?”

  “Yeah, he left in a huff. We all saw it. He went to get a drink, but on his way to the bar, he stopped and pulled something out of his pocket. He looked at it and got really mad. Next thing I know, he’s storming toward the door like he’s jonesing for a fight.”

  “Did you go after him?”

  “Of course I did. I wasn’t going to let my boy fight someone on his own. But by the time I got out there, he was gone.”

  “I drove around looking for him before I decided to cruise by Susannah’s house and see if he was there. His car was parked out front, and I thought about ringing the doorbell. But I didn’t want to bother him, so I just went back to The Pirate’s Den after that.”

  “Did you see him again later that night?”

  “Nope. Next thing I know, I get a phone call from a friend telling me Susannah was dead and the sheriff arrested Drake.”

  Cal shot Kelly a look. She nodded, giving Cal the go-ahead to ask the next question they both knew he wanted to ask.

  “Drake told me that you went to the shooting range together that day. Do you recall that?”

  Hayward shook his head. “I don’t remember that. I know we went out and shot a few rounds the day before, but the day of . . . I don’t remember that. He probably got his days mixed up. But can you blame him?”

  Cal shrugged. “So, are you in the habit of giving out your guns?”

  Hayward scowled and took another long drag on his vaporizer.

  “It was Drake. What was I supposed to do? Tell him no? Nobody tells Drake no. He gets whatever he wants, whenever he wants it.”

  Hayward stood up and nodded toward the back entrance of the pawn shop.

  “I gotta get goin’. I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for. Even though Drake was convicted, some people around here still wonder if he really did it or not. But I know he did it.”

  Cal nodded. “Thanks for your time.”

  Once Hayward disappeared, Kelly locked eyes with Cal.

  “What do you think?” asked Kelly.

  Cal looked skyward and exhaled. “I’m not sure what to think any more. If there’s one thing I’ve learned so far, it’s this: Somebody is hiding something . . . and we’re going to find out what it is.”

  Kelly sighed. “Of course we are. Just as long as I don’t get kidnapped or you get shot, I’m good with it.”

  Cal smiled wryly. “I can’t make any guarantees, but I’ll do my best.”

  He headed back down the alleyway toward the main road, motioning for Kelly to join him. Waiting for her to catch up, he stared at the building’s old red brick.

  When Kelly finally reached him, Cal pointed at the outer walls.

  “This place has been around a while,” he said.

  But before he could say another word, his field of vision was suddenly impeded by a large poster board sign attached to a yardstick.

  What the . . . ?

  “The end is near!” shouted a man who held the sign in front of Cal.

  Cal pulled Kelly back as the man encroached in their space.

  “That’s right. Be afraid. Back away. I know you don’t want to hear the truth!” the man said.

  Cal gave the man a head fake to the right before slipping past him on the left with Kelly in tow.

  “You can’t escape the inevitable!” the man shouted.

  Cal and Kelly quickened their pace and walked back in front of the pawn shop. Standing out by the door was Hank, who was wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He chuckled at the scene.

  “I see you two just met crazy Corey Taylor,” Hank said. “Just ignore him. He means no harm; he’s just our village idiot.”

  “He’s not exactly the poster child for the Pickett County Chamber of Commerce, is he?” Cal quipped.

  Hank chuckled and shook his head. “The Marsh Monster isn’t givin’ up that spot any time soon. But I’d pay money to see him square off against Crazy Corey. It’d be epic.”

  Cal glanced at his watch. It was getting late in the afternoon, and they still had work to do.

  CHAPTER 8

  DURING THEIR RIDE ACROSS TOWN to The Pirate’s Den, Cal processed aloud with Kelly what they had learned so far. Cal tried to ascribe motive to Drake—and then to Sheriff Sloan and Jordan Hayward.

  “You really think the sheriff could kill his own daughter?” Kelly asked.

  Cal stared at the green pasture dotted with grazing cows. “I think you know as well as me that it’s wise not to put anything past anyone.”

  Kelly furrowed her brow. “But his own daughter?”

  “Maybe not, but he’s hiding something for some reason; that much we know—or at least strongly suspect.”

  “And Hayward? Why would he do it?”

  “Jealousy? Revenge? We’re still a long way from figuring out the why. I’m more interested in the who at this point.”

  “Those two questions are strangely intertwined.”

  Cal shook his head. “Don’t I know that all too well.”

  He put on his blinker and turned right into the parking lot for The Pirate’s Den. The sign by the road was painted red and black, matching the local high school’s color scheme. A caricature of a pirate wielding a sword stood atop the main sign. Below, a lit sign with boxed letters advertised the local cover band for the evening and drink specials.

  Cal skidded to a stop in the gravel parking lot next to a truck that towered over his rental vehicle. The back mud flaps depicted Yosemite Sam with guns blazing and the not-so-subtle message of back off. Cal noted the gun rack in the back and the dirty baseball cap resting on the dashboard.

  They walked past a row of motorcycles and toward the entrance.

  “This ought to be fun,” Cal said.

  Kelly smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you to take me to a place like this for a long time.”

  “Best date night ever?”
<
br />   “That remains to be seen.”

  Happy hour had just begun in earnest at The Pirate’s Den, and everyone inside the establishment was reveling in the moment.

  Cal noticed a seat yourself sign and took a seat with Kelly against a wall, away from all the locals. They hadn’t been there more than a minute before a hefty man who appeared to be in his fifties lumbered up to the table.

  “First time at The Pirate’s Den?” he asked as he pulled a pencil from behind his ear.

  Kelly nodded. “What gave us away?”

  He smiled and winked. “My name’s Burt, the owner of this here joint. What can I get you two to drink? It’s Happy Hour, and all drinks are half priced.”

  “I’ll just have a glass of sweet tea,” Kelly said.

  “Make that two,” Cal added.

  “All right then. Sweet tea it is.” Burt hustled off and returned moments later with their drinks. “So, have you had a chance to look at our menu?” Burt asked as he placed the glasses on the table.

  Cal and Kelly ordered and then asked Burt to return because they had some questions for him.

  “Y’all aren’t lawyers, are you? My ex-wife has been tryin’ to squeeze more child support out of me, and I ain’t havin’ it,” he said.

  Cal chuckled. “Far from it. We just have a few questions for you about Isaiah Drake.”

  “Ah, Isaiah Drake, my favorite Pickett County High player ever,” he said, nodding toward a pennant on the wall. “Let me put this order in, and I’ll be right back.”

  “This should be interesting,” Kelly said to Cal.

  “Guys that run places like these always know everyone’s business.”

  They watched as one of the bikers tipped back a pitcher of beer to the raucous chants of his companions. When he finished, the biker took two steps before toppling to the floor.

  Burt returned and grabbed a seat at Cal and Kelly’s table.

  “Sorry about that,” Burt said. “They’re my best customers, but they can be intimidatin’ to people who haven’t been around this kind of drunken revelry.”

  Cal waved off Burt. “It wasn’t that long ago that I was in college. No need to apologize.”