Going to the Bad (19 page)

In short, I was in the mood for trouble and I drove to the one place I was guaranteed to find it.

A new voice answered the intercom at Warner's gate, but the rigmarole was the same. After going several rounds with the unseen guard I was angry enough to plow my van straight into the copper door.

Fortunately, my cell phone rang. I recognized the Lake Elizabeth number. I'd called it earlier in the evening.

“I'm going to take a call,” I said into the intercom. “While I'm doing that, get on the phone with your supervisor and tell them that Lilly Hawkins isn't leaving without seeing Mr. Warner.”

The call was from Mrs. Paik's daughter, responding to my earlier message. Unfortunately, Annette's lead turned out to be a dead end. Bud may have told her that he was going up to Elizabeth to help the wife of an old army buddy, but that didn't mean it was true. Mrs. Paik's dead husband had been Korean, never served in the American armed forces, and never even met Bud.

Bud had gone to help in the doughnut store during the wildfire because the money was good and he wanted to. He'd lied to Annette because she hadn't wanted him to go.

After we said good-bye, I rolled down the window and pushed the intercom button. “Have you talked to your boss?”

My answer came not through a garbled voice on the intercom, but in the opening of the copper doors. A young man in a Valsec Security uniform walked up to my car window. “Please unlock your passenger door, ma'am. I'm going to escort you to the house.”

I noted his choice of words, as though his escort were the only thing getting me inside the gates. The posturing continued in his tone of voice, which was meant to sound authoritative and in command. The entire act only made him look less in control.

He got in, but before driving onto the property I texted Callum. I wanted someone to know where I was just in case this went badly.

We didn't talk on the ride. As I suspected, the view at night was even better than during the day. When we came over the hill, I almost hit the brakes. The concrete parts of the house appeared black, but the columns of windows glowed, and the greenhouses on each end were lush and bright. Behind this, the oil field continued this contrast. The artificial lights twinkled and glowed, but in other places fire shot straight into the air in a kind of primal defiance of technology.

Frank, still in his uniform despite the late hour, met me at the front door. He told my escort to wait by the car and led me inside. I checked my cell phone and was glad to see I had reception. I wasn't expecting to be in danger, but it was still nice to know I could call for help.

He led me inside and up the staircase in front of the glass wall.

When Frank reached the top of the stairs and turned toward the left, I stopped. “I'm here to see Warner senior.”

“You can come with me now or I can have my men throw you back out on the street. Your choice.”

Frank was a fairly straightforward kind of guy, so I knew he meant it. The guard who'd escorted me from the gate would love nothing better than a physical confrontation.

I followed Frank. “Junior it is, then.”

Leland Phillip Warner II waited for me in his bedroom, but this time there was no offer of Scotch. Maybe it was because Erabelle was also there, looking as if she'd been stabbed in the gut.

“Miss Hawkins. It's late for an unannounced visit.” He stood in the center of the room as though he'd been waiting for the door to open and for me to enter.

“It is, but I notice you're both still dressed.”

Junior glanced at Erabelle before attempting a mournful frown. “Dad had another episode.”

I nodded. “I'd like to see him anyway.”

“The doctors would never allow it.”

Erabelle spoke for the first time. “How's Allan?”

“He can't breathe without a respirator,” I said. “And by the way, Carter King is back in town.”

Junior didn't even blink, but Erabelle covered her mouth.

“You mentioned him on the phone earlier.” Junior continued to act nonchalant. “Of course we'd like the man caught, but I can't believe he'd be stupid enough to come back to Bakersfield.”

“One of the two brooches he stole from your family was pawned here in town. Bud saw it yesterday. That's why he called your father and tried to speak with him.”

“So you think King pawned it?”

I didn't want to share everything I'd learned, so I said, “Or someone in his family.”

“Isn't it more likely that the brooch was sold shortly after it was stolen and has passed through many different hands?”

I almost told them about Sally's buying her meth down the street from the pawnshop, but decided to keep things vague. “It's possible, but unlikely considering that I've found a very recent connection between the pawnshop and the King family.”

Junior's smile stayed plastered in place as he nodded, but his tightly controlled breathing telegraphed panic. “I know that earlier today I might have encouraged you to keep looking into this—”

I interrupted. “I wouldn't say encourage, but you definitely wanted to know what I was doing and what I found out. Maybe you were just keeping tabs on me.”

“Nothing like that, I promise.” He stepped toward the desk. “But you have been very good to come and tell us this news about the jewelry. We'd like to be good to you in return.”

He picked up a piece of paper and handed it to me. “I was going to contact you about this tomorrow, but since you're here now . . .”

It was a letter of instruction telling the family's law firm to set
up a charitable trust in Bud's honor. Bud would have called the endowment “more than walkin' around money.”

“Ten million dollars?” I looked at Junior, who easily returned my gaze, and then at Erabelle, who stared at the floor. “I was under the impression that neither of you had this much money to spare.”

“This was Dad's idea.” Junior glanced at Erabelle. “He's feeling very sentimental about his old friend, probably because of his own health problems.”

When I didn't say anything, Junior continued, “We thought you could come on board as director. There would be a substantial salary, of course.”

“How substantial?”

He considered for a moment, but this had obviously already been decided. “An endowment of that size could easily support a salary of six figures a year.”

“And you'd be making a difference in people's lives.” Erabelle spoke quietly, but with feeling. “The Allan Hawkins Foundation can do a lot of good.”

“The Bud Hawkins Foundation,” I corrected.

Erabelle laughed.

Junior did too, even though he didn't seem to know why. “Of course. We'll call it whatever you like.”

I handed the paper back to him. “And I assume you'd like me to focus on building Bud's legacy instead of finding out who shot him?”

My blunt tit for tat made him uncomfortable. “I wouldn't put it exactly like that.”

For a moment I relished what I was about to do. How often do you get to throw money back in the faces of rich jerks? This was literally a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to feel morally superior.

But then an instinct for self-preservation took over. Whatever had led to Bud's shooting, whoever had pulled the trigger, the Warner family was desperate to make it go away—and not just a little desperate. We were talking $10 million desperate.

Since my last visit, something had changed in a fundamental way for Warner, Erabelle, and Junior. Had one of them shot Bud and the other two just discovered it? Regardless, the family was circling the wagons.

And people that rich and that desperate are not above resorting to violence to protect themselves. Was there a plan B if I didn't take the money? Was Frank waiting outside the door to make me disappear? So what if Callum knew I was here? So what if there would be suspicions or even an investigation. I would still be dead.

“Please take the money.” Erabelle's voice sounded frailer than when I'd met her earlier in the day. “It's what Bud would want.”

I noticed she'd called him Bud for the first time and wondered if it was calculated to win me over.

“It's a very generous offer, but I'd like to sleep on it.” I had no intention of being bribed, but despite the hotheaded ambitions I'd arrived with, it now seemed wiser to retreat. “Quitting my job is a big decision.”

“Of course.” Whatever doubt Junior had about my corruptibility didn't amount to much. He clearly believed you could never go wrong assuming the worst about people. “I'll expect to hear from you soon, though.”

We shook hands, and then Frank, who had been waiting outside the door, walked me back to the van. I didn't get an escort to the gate this time. The money was considered enough to guarantee my good behavior.

Christmas Eve, 10:52 p.m.

I
wasn't sure where to go. The Oildale house was a crime
scene. I'd sleep in the van before returning to Rod's house. Leanore would take me in, but she'd want to know why and I didn't want to talk about it.

I needed to find a motel, but on the way to the freeway where most of them operated, I made a quick detour to the strip club Stallions. The emotion of my encounter with Rod, not to mention the bribe attempt, had me keyed up and I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep.

This time I parked a block down from Stallions so my van wouldn't be recognized. When I got out, I noticed a pickup pulling in behind me. Its motor shut off, but no one got out.

At Stallions the shifts had changed. The new bouncer hadn't seen me driving the news van and let me right through. I kept my coat zipped and paid the cover charge.

Inside, no one paid me any notice as I walked to the bar. Normally, a thirty-two-year-old woman, alone in a strip club, and wearing a bulky jacket she refused to unzip, would probably have drawn some attention. I credited everyone's zombielike interest in the dancer's anatomy to my being able to fly under the radar.

The woman in question wore a Santa bikini and danced to “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” The pole had been decorated in red and white stripes like a handcrafted STD candy cane.

I shouldn't be so harsh. Money had been spent on the zebra-striped carpeting and red velvet club chairs. All the men appeared to be clean and respectable. There was even something empowering about the command and athleticism in the dancer's movement.

But, you know, ick.

“What can I get you?” The bartender had to shout to be heard over the music. “We've got a special on peppermint martinis for the holiday.”

“Because nothing says Christmas like cheap liquor at a strip club.”

He laughed. At first I thought he had a sense of humor about his job, but then I realized he hadn't been able to understand me over the music. He probably just laughed at everything customers said and hoped he'd get a bigger tip.

“The peppermint thing sounds good,” I yelled.

He went to work mixing the drink, which included crushing a candy cane to sprinkle on top. When he finished, I set a twenty on the bar for him.

The song had changed to “Santa Baby,” which seemed a little on the nose to me, but also allowed us to hear each other better.

“I'm curious. When in the year do you guys break out the Christmas decorations and costumes?”

“Just today.”

“I thought maybe it was like the radio, where they start playing Christmas songs in November.”

He laughed, but then something behind me caught his attention. His frown made me curious. I turned and saw a man sitting alone in a chair by the wall. He wore a Santa hat and cradled his head in one hand. His body moved back and forth in an odd way.

“Just what we need.” The bartender removed a cell phone from his belt and used the instant-talk function. “We've got a code five on the left side of the stage.”

A voice replied, “I'm on it.”

I refused to turn around. “A code five . . . That's not, you know, a guy . . . touching . . .”

“No. That's a code nine.” He returned the phone to his belt. “Code five is a crier.”

I started to ask what the codes between five and nine were, but instead said, “You mean ‘crying' crying?”

He nodded. “I'm sympathetic, but it's bad for business. We have to get him out of here before he upsets the other customers.”

“Does this happen often?”

“More often than the code nine, actually.”

The bartender waited while the crier was escorted out, then took the twenty off the bar and opened the register.

“Keep the change,” I said.

He glanced back. “Really? On a twenty?”

“It's not actually that nice. I'm looking for someone and hoping you'll be able to help me.”

He grinned, but I noticed he kept the money. “Let me guess, a guy?”

“Not exactly.” I tried to remember the name of Carter King's known associate—the woman he'd been arrested with back in the eighties—but all I could think of was Booby Hatch Bible Thief. “This is embarrassing, but I can't remember the name.”

I glanced at the door. Was I going to have to go all the way back to the van just to get Callum's LexisNexis search? “It starts with a
B.
It's like Erin Brockovich.”

“You're talking about one of our bouncers. His name is Bogdanich.”

I started to tell him that I was looking for a woman, but stopped myself in time. “That's right. Is he working tonight?”

“He was on the door, but left early to go to a party.”

No wonder the creep hadn't let me inside the club. “That's right. He told me about his mom when we met. Didn't she own this club, back when it was called the Booby Hatch?”

The bartender nodded. “I think that's how he got the job, but it's worked out. He's a good guy.”