Dead to Rights by Jack Patterson (fiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

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