Lalla Bains 02 - A Dead Red Heart (29 page)

Arny scoffed at the line of Mercedes and limos backed up and double-parked along the front.

"I'm not going to let one of these goons have the keys to this baby."

"We're going to have to hoof it, then," I said, peering down the long line.

We argued for a few seconds about whether he would allow me to get out at the curb or I would walk a few blocks so I'd know where he'd parked. I won, and we found something five blocks away next to an empty lot.

Stockton has, over the last years, become rougher around the edges than the local Chamber of Commerce liked to admit. Five to one, the neighborhood we were now parked in was a less than desirable area. Arny would have to stay locked in his vehicle.

Three young men, their oversized pants hanging low, lounged under the street lamp.

"Arny, keep your cell on. If you have any trouble, call 9-1-1."

"I'll be okay. They're just homies."

They looked dangerous. "Maybe we should move."

"Nah. They're just hangin', no worries."

"What do you mean, 'no worries'? They look pretty tough to me."

"No do-rags, no colors, and no neck tats. They're just homies hangin' out 'cause it's too hot in da crib. Go on, it'll be okay."

Cribs, huh? I closed the car door hoping he knew what he
 
was talking about and jogged across the street. Other than an appreciative woof whistle, none of them made a move away from the street light. Maybe Arny was right.

At the entrance to the Farr building, the attendees were all black tie and evening gown as the couples pushed through the protestors and into the building.

Security had provided rent-a-cops, but the surprise must have been that there were two groups of protestors, and they were noisy in their disagreements.

"No heart transplants for convicts!"

"Prisoners have rights, too! Who're you to decide who lives or dies?"

The other side yelled, "Is there no justice for victims?"

Ironically, both sides had signs that said, "Dignity for humanity!"

Now and then a protestor danced through the crowd of attendees and shoved pamphlets at them. I bent down and scooped one up. The print was made to look like blood splashed across white paper, complete with droplets dripping down the edge.
Heart transplants are a Sin against God and Nature!
it said, and another said,
A murderer kills twice when he gets a heart transplant. Is that justice?
All of it very similar to the hate mail sent to Billy Wayne's mom.

Following Jan's instructions, I went around to the side door where Jan and Del were waiting.

"Boy," Del said, "some party, huh? This is going to be fun."

"Yeah," I said, looking at the shoving match going on out front, "if there isn't a riot soon. Was this expected? The protestors?"

Del winked, "It might even become part of the eleven o'clock news feed."

"What do you mean 'it might'?"

"Never mind," said Del, steering me towards the door. "Jan will cover the protestors and you and I will go talk to the good doctor. Here's your pass."

I took the cardboard ID on a lanyard and draped it over my neck. "Do you really think he'll still talk to us with that rowdy mob out there?"

"You have much to learn my little chickadee. Watch and learn."

Once Del waved his pass at the gauntlet of security and got us through the door, it was relatively easy to go anywhere we wanted. We walked down a long hallway stopping to peek through a side door and into a giant ballroom filled with the buzz of several hundred guests. Except for the black tie, and maybe better food, it looked like any National Aero-Ag Association convention. Everyone eats and then there are boring speeches.

"How're we going to find him in all those people?" I asked, peering over Del's head.

"Not a problem. Follow me." He snagged a door handle, and it opened on a darkened backstage. Small things came into focus, a dim overhead bulb, the steps leading up to the stage and the closed curtain beyond. The stage looked enormous from here, with enough maroon velvet fabric to cover Kansas. I heard the clip of heels, and out of the shadows a woman with a clipboard breathlessly hurried toward us.

Del flashed the badge around his neck. "Doctor Madison is expecting me," he intoned. "Is he back here?"

"Police?" She exhaled a noisy breath, relief washing over her thin face. "Oh, thank God you're here. What about her?"

"She's with our unit," he answered in a way that gave the impression that we were both police.

"Right this way then." She gave me a quick once-over, shrugged, and lifting a finger to indicate that we should follow and
 
marched off.

Del winked at me, turning first one, then the other side of the badge for my approval.

"He's expecting the police," I hissed.

He pursed his lips, blew me a kiss, then hurried after the clipboard lady.

"Hideous crowd out there," she said, over her shoulder. "This is Doctor Madison's first society fund raiser, and all the invitations were quietly mailed directly to the doctors. You brought in additional security? We have some of this country's most prestigious heart doctors here tonight, and for heaven's sake, do assure Dr. Madison that you'll do something about that mob out there."

She stopped at a door. "Here we are." She lightly tapped on the door. "Doctor Madison? The police are here to see you. Doctor Madison?"

She peeked into an empty room. "Oh, dear. Now I have to go round him up again. Wait here."

We stepped through the door "Must be a changing room for actors," I said. Thankfully, there were two chairs for guests, and I gratefully dropped into one. "We're frauds. We're going to get thrown out of here."

"No, we won't."

I watched Del scrounge through desk drawers.

Finding nothing he went to the screen and pulled back a corner. "We'll get a heads-up if the police show."

"What're you doing? What if he comes in here and finds you going through his things?"

"You won't tell your boyfriend about the badge, will you?"

That shut me up. "Fine, fine. Then why don't you tell me what it is that your mom knows about the killer?"

"Makes great cookies, doesn't she? Sugar's a great substitute for bourbon, though my mom couldn't save Billy Wayne even if she was at AA meetings three times a day."

He bent over and pulled out a briefcase. He sat down and put the case on his lap. It wasn't locked. "Ah, good, he left his i-Pad. I'm going to look up phone numbers."

He scrolled through pages and punched buttons. "If my mom had her way, she'd be here asking questions instead of you. Better you than her, though. Besides, I hear the doc is partial to tall blonds. Don't take it the wrong way, Lalla. You're smart, and you found the connection between Mr. Kim and Billy Wayne before I did. And it never occurred to me to ask Billy Wayne why he hung out in that particular alley in town. Think Billy Wayne knew that the heart belonged to Mr. Kim's son?"

"Wouldn't surprise me. The way he felt about having that heart transplant, that it was more of a burden than a blessing, it would make sense that he would be drawn to Mr. Kim."

"Too bad we'll never know. As for my mom, if you don't mind my saying so, people have a way of turning up dead when you're around. Look, I'm sorry to have to cut my mom out of this. In another scenario, I think you two would get along just fine, but I don't want her in the line of fire, and that's that." He moved his shoulders around as if trying to readjust the weight of his guilt.

"'The more there is, the less you see'… What did it mean?"

"Who knows? The more I see the less I know." Del's voice broke, and he fisted his eye sockets. When he looked up again, I saw something I thought I'd never see on Del Potts' face—the sharp delineation of grief and regret. "I wanted my best friend back, my big cousin who played ball with me, not some burnt out vet with a drinking problem. I couldn't help him, and now he's gone and it's my fault. If I hadn't sold that damn story to the Star he'd be alive."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "All kinds of people are running around trying to protect their loved ones from this killer. Caleb's trying to protect me, you're trying to protect your mom, and Mr. Kim is vainly trying to protect his daughter who runs off from everyone who wants to help her."

Zip it," he said, "Someone's coming. Del put the i-Pad back in the case,
 
the case on the table, and leaned against the table.

An impeccably dressed middle-aged man stood at the open door. Sandy gray hair combed back from his forehead, his name identified him as our target.

"Dr. Madison?" Del said, grabbing the other man's hand and pumping it. "I'm Del Potts from
The Modesto Bee,
and we're close to discovering who killed Billy Wayne Dobson, but we need your help."

The doctor dragged his gaze off me long enough to register that Del was talking to him. Then he reddened, and nailed us with a glower. "This is a private event! How'd you get past security?"

I cowered under the harsh assessment of our lowly status. Del, however, wasn't the least bit intimidated. "You and a couple hundred of your closest friends, huh?"

The doctor bristled. "You impersonated a police officer to get in here. I'll see you arrested."

"I most certainly did not. I have a press pass, see?" He held up the side of his pass that said, PRESS. I mimicked the gesture, but kept my mouth shut. To open it would only compound the stupidity of this stunt.

"I could care less who you are. You weren't invited—now get out!"

Del pointed at the wall vibrating with the rising tide of discontent. "You can talk to me, or the protestors, or the TV stations that are lining up to question you about Billy Wayne Dobson. But we're probably going to be easier to handle than trying to break through that mob."

"I have no intention of giving you an interview, I hate the press. It's the press who've been twisting my life's work into inane sound bites. It's despicable. Now get out!" He pointed to the door. I looked at Del for signs that he was going to move for the door. Watch and learn, huh?

Seeing that we weren't going to move, the doctor turned to leave.

"Wait," Del said grabbing him again. The hot glare from the doctor was enough to knock Del's hands away, but he wasn't giving up. "There's an angry crowd out there, all because of one murder case. TV cameras from all over the state, all of them hungry for a story. We're between elections, and there's not even an apartment on fire to keep them busy. You're it. Do you really want your first event as president to be on the eleven o'clock news?"

"If you were with the police, I would grace that with an answer. As it is, you're not worth my time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go call someone who can do something about the rabble outside."

Del followed him out, practically walking up the doctor's heels. "I can quiet that crowd for you. Make them all disappear so it doesn't interrupt your nice speechifying."

"You?" The doctor smirked. Then a shrewd look crossed the doctor's face. He tucked his lower lip thoughtfully under his perfectly capped front teeth. "How do you propose to do that?"

"You'll have to trust me on this, but for a few questions answered, I promise to make it happen."

"Who are you?"

"I'm a reporter, but I have a very personal interest in Billy Wayne Dobson's murder."

The doctor put his manicured hands on his hips and considered the short, dumpy, balding man in front of him. "You're just another scum-sucking sleeze rag reporter hoping that I'll give you the name of the person who should've gotten that heart, aren't you?"

I had to say, Del and Jan were two of a kind, they both stood up to bullies, though I doubted Del would be able to pull off quelling the rising flood of protesters outside.

I moved Del aside. "He's a scum-sucking sleeze rag newspaperman, but he's also the murdered victim's cousin."

"Pitiful," he said, looking Del up and down. "Barely the same species, if related at all."

At Del's shrug, the doc's attitude shifted ever so slightly.

"Cocky little bastard, aren't you?"

Seeing a break, I said, "Yeah, he's cocky, but you should at least hear him out."