Going to the Bad (31 page)

The daughter looked at her husband. “We have a long drive back to Elizabeth and we have people coming for Christmas dinner.”

“Dad said he wanted to stop at Starbucks.” The granddaughter looked at Mrs. Paik. “You could talk to her there. It wouldn't take long.” She paused to wait for an answer. When none came, she spread her arms and said, “It's for Bud.”

We drove in separate cars to a nearby Starbucks just off the freeway. I wanted to suggest that I drive Mrs. Paik so we'd have more time to talk, but feared it would spook the daughter. She clearly viewed me with suspicion. She was right, secrets were being kept from her, they just weren't mine.

Mrs. Paik and I took a small table in the corner to talk while the rest of the family ordered drinks.

“If you're handling Bud's finances, he and I finished our business last summer.” Mrs. Paik rubbed her hands together as if cold, but it looked more like a nervous gesture. “He was very generous to take such a low percentage of our profits. I understand if you
want that money for his care, but I can't help you. It's already been spent on my condominium in Phoenix.”

“That's not why I'm here.”

She appeared to relax a little. Her hands still rubbed together, but she lowered them to her lap. “He would only take fifteen percent. I felt it wasn't fair, but he knew I needed money to retire. Seventy-seven is too old to be working.”

Bud had told me they were splitting the profits. I wondered how many other good deeds he'd done that I'd never know about. It made me feel better about the bad deeds I'd also never know about.

“I have some questions about your first husband. I believe he was friends with Bud.”

She looked over at her family.

“I haven't told your daughter or her husband anything. I want to respect your privacy.”

“Why do you need to know this?”

“I think Bud's shooting is related to something that happened back in the 1950s. Were your husband and Bud close friends back then?”

She nodded. “We moved here after the war because of Bud. My husband couldn't hold a job. He was drinking. Bud said to come here and there would be new jobs and a new start.”

“What happened?”

“New place, old problems.”

“What about Bud? I heard he had trouble adjusting after the war as well.”

“He had trouble, but not from the war.” She laughed. Her rigid face came to life and I even thought her curls loosened a little. “Bud had girl trouble. There was one in particular who wanted to marry him. Men like Bud are not made for that life. Her brother made trouble too.”

“Is that why Bud went to Alaska?”

“He and my husband both ran away from their problems. The
pay fighting wildfires was astonishing, much better than the jobs my husband kept losing here, but they did not do it for the money. They wanted to be free. Free of the people who loved them.”

She looked down at her hands. They'd gone still. “Bud ran from the girl, my husband ran from me.”

The girl had to be Erabelle. Mida had said he'd had trouble after the war, which I took to mean post-traumatic stress disorder. Now it sounded as if Bud left because he'd seduced his friend's sister and didn't want to face the consequences.

That was dishonorable enough, but he'd also been my father's only living relative. With Bud's own father and stepmother recently dead, he'd had a responsibility to care for his orphaned half brother. Instead, he'd left for Alaska and abandoned my father to the care of strangers.

An instinctive rejection of that idea swelled inside me. Bud loved my father just as he loved me. He would never abandon him. Out of that denial, an idea began to take shape. What if Bud hadn't left my father with strangers? Mida had said Warner recommended her and Carter because they needed the extra money Bud would pay. What if Mida had lied to me? What if Bud had already known and trusted Mida?

I had to stifle the urge to reach across the table and grab Mrs. Paik. “Do you remember a night when Warner's jewelry was stolen?” She looked uncertain, so I continued. “Bud was a witness. It would have been right after he and your husband returned from Alaska. The theft was a big deal and was probably in the papers.”

She nodded slowly. “I remember because my husband did not come home that night.”

I glanced at her family as they doctored their drinks at the condiment bar. “Your granddaughter told me that your husband disappeared, but is there any chance he's still alive?”

“Why?”

“I have to talk to him about Bud. He's the only one who might know the truth.”

She pulled back and managed to straighten her curved spine a little. “I lied to my granddaughter. I wanted her to believe I had no choice about the divorce, but that was not the case.”

It was difficult for her to say these things, so I managed to stay silent and not push her.

After a pause she continued, “Alaska was good for my husband. He stopped drinking. The rigid lifestyle of the firefighters was similar to the army. When he returned, he said he would do well if he could find more work like that, but we both agreed the marriage was over. We divorced as soon as my citizenship was finalized.”

“Do you know if he's still alive or where he's living?”

She nodded. “Kelvin got a job working for the Bakersfield Police. He still lives in town.”

I felt my skin flush. I didn't know if it was excitement or embarrassment at being made a fool of. “Kelvin Hoyt?”

She looked up with startled eyes. “Do you know him?”

“Yes. I met him last night at the hospital. Kelvin has cancer.”

Christmas Day, 1:05 p.m.

K
elvin Hoyt, retired sergeant of the Bakersfield PD,
lived in an upscale senior-living community. He'd given me the name when I'd taken his phone number the night before.

I waved a poinsettia I'd taken from the community's own driveway at the kid behind the sign-in counter. “I'm visiting Kelvin Hoyt. Which apartment is he in?”

I had a detailed backstory ready to explain who I was and how my face had been cut. I even had a response in case he told me I needed stitches, but the young man gave me the number without question. The smarter and more attentive employees probably had the holiday off.

I took the stairs to the second floor instead of using the elevator. I felt stifled enough by the heat and potpourri of the place without getting in a small box. This was probably just a symptom of both my eagerness and apprehension.

The tastefully carpeted hallway, with its framed prints of horses and flowers, was just as empty as the streets downtown. Maybe the residents had all gone out to spend the holiday with loved ones. I knew this would not be the case with Kelvin.

I rang the doorbell. His neighbors had each decorated their doors with Christmas cards and tinsel. The only thing on Kelvin's was a simple sign reading
K. HOYT
.

There was no answer to the bell so I knocked. After several tries I heard a frail voice inside. I waited. After another minute the door opened.

I'd only seen him reclining in the chemo chair. Now, face-to-face,
I was surprised by how tall he was. His thin frame loomed over me.

“Hi, Kelvin. It's Lilly Hawkins.” I held up the plant. “I stole a poinsettia for you.”

“Dear girl, what happened to your face?”

“Can I come in?” Instead of waiting for an answer I pushed past him. “How are you feeling after your chemo?”

“But your face. Have you seen a doctor?” He shut the door behind me. “You need stitches.”

I laughed. “You should see the other guy.”

Kelvin didn't laugh. “Who is the other guy? It wasn't that boyfriend of yours, was it?”

“Not at all. I'm offended on Rod's behalf.”

I smelled vomit. Other than that bitter odor and about a dozen pill bottles sitting on the counter in the kitchenette, the apartment could have been the model they showed potential renters. The small living/dining room was clean, the immaculate carpet vacuumed, and the bed I glimpsed through a doorway was even made.

Was this more of the militaristic structure Kelvin had told his wife he needed to survive? Maybe forcing himself to get dressed and make his bed was the only thing getting him through the chemo.

Kelvin stayed at the door, but I could tell he was using it to prop up his weight. “Who hit you like that?”

“You might be surprised to hear it was Leland Warner's son.” I set the poinsettia down next to unopened mail on the dining-room table. “I shot some incriminating video of him this morning. He wanted it back.”

“I see.” Kelvin wobbled—that really was how he walked—toward the living room. “Someone should go have a talk with him.”

He said it as though that someone would be Kelvin, in a week or so when he'd got some of his strength back. It also didn't sound as if there'd be much talking done.

“Don't get any ideas about beating up Leland Phillip Warner the second. Although I appreciate the sentiment.”

He stopped and made the effort to turn toward me. He was
smiling and warmth twinkled from his eye. “Don't worry. I wouldn't fight fair.”

I spread my arms. “Why then, by all means, have at him. But you should know I left Junior with a broken hand, a stab wound in the gut, and a nasty snakebite on the thigh.”

This warmed him even more. “Good for you.”

“I only stabbed him with a key, so it wasn't very deep, but, you know, I felt good about it.”

He continued wobbling toward a recliner. “I feel good just hearing about it.”

The conversation petered out and so did the warmth. He collapsed into the recliner. A bucket was on the floor next to it, probably for throw-up emergencies. The end table next to the chair overflowed with cans of 7UP, a digital thermometer, and one of those plastic organizers to sort pills by day and time.

I sat on an ottoman since it was closer to the recliner than the chair it went with. I scooted to the edge and leaned toward him with my elbows on my knees. “Why didn't you tell me the truth last night?”

“I did.”

“You left a lot out. Like how you and Bud were friends. How Carter King, the man you hunted for all those years, had been dead and buried all along. How Bud had impersonated him and you diligently added those fake leads to the police file.”

Kelvin must have guessed when I arrived that I knew at least part of the truth—why else would I be there?—but he still looked upset. “Bud doesn't want you to know this, Lilly. You should stop. It's bad for everyone.”

“I'm guessing he called you at the same time as he called Warner, right after he found the brooch in the pawnshop. It was good of you to drop everything and help him, especially since he couldn't get Warner on the phone.”

Kelvin's face tightened as he debated what to say. “All I did was put my treatment off for a day.”

“Driving backhoes into pawnshops is hard enough when you're at full strength. I wouldn't want to do it with chemotherapy drugs in my system.”

He reached for the soda and took a small sip—probably stalling for time. “How'd you find out about that?”

“The police have surveillance video of you and Bud from the store. They ID'd Bud from one of his tattoos, but they have no idea who you are.”

“That's good. The only thing worse than being old is being old with cancer. The only thing worse than being old with cancer is doing it in prison. The only thing worse than being old, with cancer, in prison, is doing it as a former cop.”

I had to laugh. “It really was good of you to help him. I think you're the only real friend he ever had, except for Warner when they were young.”

“He would have done more than that for me.” Kelvin looked away to hide his emotion. “He saved my life up in Alaska. A bunch of us got on the wrong side of the wind and had to run for it. I tripped and sprained my ankle. Everyone ran. Bud ran too, but first he threw me over his shoulder.”

“Do you know who shot him?”

Kelvin shook his head. “No. We busted into the pawnshop, like you said. All we wanted were the records to know who'd pawned the brooch. We got back here and I just about collapsed.”

He hooked his thumb back toward the bedroom. “I went in to get some sleep. Bud stayed up going through the paperwork trying to find a name. When I woke up, Bud was gone.”

Hoyt reached under the side table and withdrew a thick, black binder. “Here's the paperwork from the pawnshop. I went through it myself yesterday afternoon. The fella who pawned the brooch is named Kincaid, but I can't figure how he got ahold of it in the first place.”

I took the binder from him. “He's Sally King's drug dealer. She traded it for meth.”

Kelvin took this in, but it seemed to frustrate him. “Why would Bud go tackle that fella without me? Why take off by himself while I was sleeping?”

I didn't think that was any great mystery. If Kelvin had been exhausted after the robbery, and he had chemo scheduled for later that day, Bud probably decided he'd imposed on his friend enough.

Instead of saying that, which might have made Kelvin feel weak and useless, I said, “What happened to the gold brooch?”

“Last I saw, Bud had it.”

I shook my head. “It's missing now.”

“Whoever shot him probably took it. I know he had fifteen grand stashed at your place too.”

If Bud was planning to pay someone off, or even to buy back the more valuable diamond brooch, it would explain why he'd needed to use the house so suddenly that morning.

“Kincaid, the drug dealer, is the best-looking suspect.” I pointed at the binder in my lap. “You could spin an easy scenario where Bud gets his name from the paperwork, arranges a meeting, and Kincaid shoots him.”

Kelvin nodded. “He'd keep the jewelry and Bud's money that way. And drug dealers tend to react bad when questions get asked about their business.”