Going to the Bad (17 page)

“The last lead anyone ever had on Carter King was an arrest
for selling stolen merchandise down in the southeast part of the state. They picked him up with a lady named Laurie Bogdanich.”

“Was that the thing with the stolen Bibles back in '84?”

“That's right.” I looked at the LexisNexis search. “Laurie Bogdanich later moved to Bakersfield and owned half of the Booby Hatch over on Union Avenue.”

Hoyt hooted. “The old strip club?”

“That's right. Any chance King and Bogdanich were lovers? Maybe she's hiding him while he's back in town.”

“Nah. That's a dead end. Even if it's the same lady and she's still in Bakersfield, she wouldn't hide Carter.”

“Why's that?”

“The SOB ran off on her. Posted bail and left her holding the bag.”

I thanked him and hung up. Despite Hoyt's pessimism, I was still curious.

My final errand of the night was something I wanted to do as late as possible. A detour now would be perfect, even if it was to a strip club on Christmas Eve.

When Los Angeles was still young and freeways didn't exist, Union Avenue in Bakersfield had been part of the main road up to Northern California. When Highway 99 had been built, and then Interstate 5 after that, Union Avenue slid into skid row like a silent-film actress put out of business by talking pictures.

The section where the strip club Stallions made its home, and the Booby Hatch before that, was actually on the nicer end of the faded boulevard. It bordered an industrial area, but with no by-the-hour motels or hookers standing on corners.

The bouncer, dressed in a tuxedo and a Santa hat, eyed my news van as I pulled into the large parking lot. Since I'd been made, I didn't bother changing my polo shirt.

Before leaving the van I reviewed Callum's LexisNexis search for the name of Carter King's known associate. Keeping straight the various supporting players in this drama was getting harder, and my fatigue wasn't helping.

Before becoming chief photog, I'd used nicknames to differentiate people. Over the last year, I'd made a conscious effort to stop reducing people to clichés. I didn't count the ten-thousand-year-old demon because I knew what her name was and only used the nickname privately, in my head, for spite.

I resisted the urge to call Carter King's friend Booby Hatch Bible Thief and repeated Laurie Bogdanich several times out loud, so I'd remember it.

The bouncer turned out to be even bigger than he'd looked from a distance. The man loomed over me. Despite the tux, I could see the muscles bulging as he crossed his arms. “No reporters. Sorry, but it's bad for business.”

“I'm a shooter, not a reporter,” I said before realizing that was not the right tack to take. “But it doesn't matter because I'm not here on the job. This is personal.”

He smirked. “You're here to see pretty, naked girls rubbing themselves on a pole?”

“Not personal like that.” I officially hated him. “Maybe you can help me and I won't even have to go inside. Did you work here back when it was the Booby Hatch?”

He shook his head. “How old do you think I am? That was over ten years ago. I was . . .” He paused trying to do the math.

Apparently working as a strip-club bouncer required more muscle than brain. I know, shocking.

“I get your point,” I said. “You didn't work here then.”

He finished the calculation. “Seventeen, which isn't even legal.”

“Maybe there's somebody else around who did work here then. I'm trying to find one of the old owners, Laurie Bogdanich.”

His eyes glanced down and then up again quickly. “Never heard of her.”

“Can I at least go inside and ask some of the other employees if they remember?”

“The last thing our customers want is for their pictures to be broadcast on the news.”

I opened my coat like a flasher. “I don't even have a camera.”

He mimicked me by opening his tux jacket. “Answer's still no.”

I mustered as much quiet dignity as possible, which wasn't a lot, and returned to the news van.

It was earlier in the evening than I would have liked, but I decided to go ahead and run my final errand of the night. I texted Rod my plans in case something went wrong. I would have called, but I knew what his reaction was going to be.

As soon as I passed the city limits, fog crept into the beams of my headlights. It wasn't nearly as thick as the infamous tule fog that can smother California's Central Valley in the winter, but it did concern me. Fog usually gets worse before it gets better.

I reached the freeway exit and, for the second time that day, followed the highway to the King farm. Light from the refinery warmed the sky on Warner's side of the road.

In contrast, the other side had no light for the mist to soften. The King family's useless land kept its secrets. I eventually found my Mountain Dew bottle by the side of the road and headed toward the farmhouse. I didn't even need the trail of bread crumbs. The van had crushed a trail through the weeds earlier in the day. I just followed the path.

As soon as I saw the trees, I stopped and cut my headlights. Leaving my door open so the interior light would stay on, I walked around to the rear and retrieved my Maglite flashlight, camera, and gear bag. As I lifted the gear bag, I heard a small noise from inside, but foolishly ignored it. I closed the rear hatch, walked back to the open driver's side, and quietly shut the van door. The vehicle's interior light died.

When you live in a city, even one the size of Bakersfield, you take light pollution for granted. I wasn't prepared for complete darkness. I rushed to turn on the Maglite. Water particles from the fog appeared in the thick beam. I used it to find the trees, then quickly shut it off again. I crouched next to a tree trunk and looked down where I expected the house to be.

Nothing. I couldn't even see where the ground dropped off. If a light was on inside the house, the plywood over the windows blocked it completely. I would have assumed the place was deserted except for one thing: hammering heavy-metal music. The aggressive thumping of the bass jolted me, even from a distance.

Someone was in the house, although given the nature of the music, it seemed unlikely to be an old man such as Carter King.

I wouldn't make it down the ridge carrying both a flashlight and my gear, so I reluctantly decided to leave the latter behind. I opened the gear bag, intending to store the camera inside, away from the moisture in the air.

A pair of odd-shaped eyes popped out. Thing must have climbed in my bag when I'd left it unattended at the station. Ted had warned me that the dog was loose, but I hadn't actually thought it would try to stow away with me.

“Dog!” I said. “Don't you have sense enough to know I don't like you?”

It burped and a cloud of foul breath floated up.

I zipped it back inside the bag and left it along with my gear at the top of the ridge.

At the bottom, I kept the flashlight low and navigated my way through the dead animals. The stench was definitely mixed with something more industrial. It had a sharp chemical quality that was different from natural decay.

The music got louder with each step I took toward the house. I avoided the front porch and continued toward the back. At the corner, I stopped, shut off my light, and peered around the side.

A faint light came from the open back door. In contrast, the music blasted. It easily overpowered the rumble of the generator, which unlike on my previous visit was now running at full power.

I crept to the back steps and peeked into the former kitchen. It was hard to tell in the reduced light, but it appeared the old iron stove had fallen through the floor. The top rose out of the splintered wood like the head of a partially submerged body.

The generator cord snaked a path on the still intact portion of the floor. It disappeared into a wall of opaque plastic sheets backlit by a bright light.

I stepped up, testing my weight on the rotting wood, and slowly entered the kitchen.

I froze. A shadow appeared against the sheeting, then disappeared. Someone was around that corner. After waiting to be discovered and realizing it wasn't going to happen, I crept to the doorframe. I found the seam in the plastic and peered inside.

A figure in a protective suit and goggles stood with his back to me working over a table. The plastic sheets covered the entire room like a cocoon. The only other visible objects were a powerful light on a stand and a speaker blasting the heavy-metal music. Without those violent rhythms, the figure would surely have heard my approach.

My breathing slowed. Disjointed memories of horror movies—chain saws, bloody limbs, and the idiot girl who walks right into the serial killer's torture chamber—all flashed before my eyes. Despite the cold, a bead of sweat fell from my bra line and down my abdomen.

Then I glimpsed a pile of Sudafed boxes in the corner. Nearby, the empty foil blister packs had been dumped along with bottles of bleach and antifreeze. My head shot back to the figure as it bent over the table working.

I took a deep breath and let it out. The good news: this was not a serial killer's den. The bad news: it was a meth house.

Christmas Eve, 9:22 p.m.

I
slowly lowered the sheeting back into place. I turned,
planning to make a quick exit, but something small and dark jumped up the steps into the kitchen. The animal was followed by a man with the hurried pace of someone in pursuit. He didn't pause at the steps. Instead he swooped down and grabbed the animal and rose triumphantly into the light.

It was Rod. Thing rested in his firm grip and gave me a lopsided dog smile. Seconds later it began peeing. As Rod jerked the dog out to arm's length, he saw me.

I hurried forward and cupped my hand over Rod's ear so he could hear me above the music. “We have to get out of here before anyone sees us. They're making meth.”

He pulled back in disbelief, but then he saw the plastic sheeting and inhaled the chemical smells.

He nodded and stepped toward the exit just as a set of headlights passed through the open back door. I glanced out long enough to see Sally King's Escalade coming down the dirt road from the mobile homes. I hadn't heard the car's approach over the music, and now it was too late. We couldn't go outside without getting caught. We couldn't retreat inside without getting caught. My eyes darted from place to place in the kitchen looking for somewhere to hide.

The headlights died. Sally must be getting out of the car. We had seconds before she walked in. Thing barked and leapt from Rod's arms. It darted along the floor like a rat and disappeared into the hole made by the fallen stove.

I grabbed Rod and followed. My foot hit dirt and we scrambled into the crawl space under the house.

We ended flat on our backs looking at the underside of the kitchen floor. Light streaked between the rotting planks of wood in the makeshift lab, but the crawl space was dark enough that I couldn't see Thing.

Someone shouted, but I couldn't understand them over the music. The planks above me moved. Dirt fell straight down as two sets of feet walked across the kitchen.

I covered my face, but still had to cough. I froze, listening to see if I'd given myself away.

More shouting I couldn't understand. The music abruptly stopped. The only sound came from the generator rumbling outside.

“I said get out of here.” I recognized Brandon King's voice. “You idiots are going to contaminate this entire batch.”

“Sorry, dear.” It was his mother, Sally. “Why don't you take that work suit off and we'll wait for you outside.”

Two sets of footsteps returned to the kitchen. Who was the third person with Sally?

“He didn't mean to yell like that,” I heard her say. “He's under a lot of pressure. My mother and I are both completely dependent on him now.”

“He needs to watch his mouth. I'm used to a little more respect than that.”

It was a man. His self-important tone seemed just as familiar as his voice, but I couldn't place him. I glanced at Rod, but he showed no sign that he'd recognized the voice. Instead he was peering into the darkness, trying to locate Thing.

Brandon, presumably now divested of his protective suit, walked toward the kitchen. I heard the plastic sheeting move. “Okay, what do you want?”

“How can you work with all that music?” I absolutely knew this man. I strained trying to listen to his voice. “If you screw this up, we're out all the ingredients with nothing to show for it.”

Brandon was on the far end of annoyed and teetering into
angry. “If you're so worried about my concentration, why are you here interrupting me?”

“Don't get smart. Your mother placed another order.” An image of a white coat and red hair flashed in my mind. “Since I drove her fix all the way out here, the least you can do is give me a progress report.”

Kincaid? Could the fiftysomething pharmacist with two beloved golden retrievers actually be standing above me in the old King farmhouse? I sat up and tried to see through the slits in the floor, but they were too thin.

“You need more?” Brandon shouted. “What happened to the stuff you just got?”

“The holidays are hard,” Sally said matter-of-factly, as though she were talking about taking an extra nip of eggnog. “I'm still trying to get the lights straight, and thanks to you I'm going to have to stay up all night trying to thaw that frozen monstrosity. I told you to get a fresh turkey.”

The puzzle pieces fell into place and I felt stupid for not seeing it earlier. Sally's pockmarked skin and brown teeth, which Leanore and I had taken for bad grooming and OCD, was good old-fashioned meth addiction. An addiction serviced by Kincaid, who owned a business just down the block from where the brooch had been pawned.

If Sally had visited Kincaid to buy drugs, then Pawn Max would have been a convenient place to pawn the brooch. Or she might have traded it to Kincaid directly and he'd pawned it. Either way, the trail led back to the King family.