Going to the Bad by Nora McFarland

guy I know who’s still on the force and owes me a favor. He’s trying to pull the old file right now. If he gives it to us, that’s illegal.”
    â€œI understand that you’d do anything to help Bud.” Rod looked at me with tired eyes. “But digging up Warner’s ancient history isn’t going to make him better.”
    â€œWhoever shot Bud is still out there,” I said. “That’s not exactly good for his health.”
    â€œIt was a robbery.” Rod reached across the table and took my hand in his. “As horrible as this whole thing is, at least we don’t have to wonder if someone targeted Bud. It wasn’t personal.”
    â€œI understand where you’re coming from, Rod.” Callum glanced at him. “And you’re probably right, but the first rule of good journalism is don’t make assumptions.”
    Rod took a deep breath. A little color returned to his cheeks. “You and the rest of the news department should do whatever you think necessary to cover the story, but Lilly and I need to be at the hospital focusing on Bud’s recovery, not working.”
    I knew I should tell Rod that I didn’t expect Bud to live through the surgery, let alone recover, but I didn’t seem to be able to say it out loud.
    â€œThis might be my guy.” Callum pulled his vibrating cell phone off his ample belt and answered. The conversation lasted for less than a minute, but Callum still took out his tablet computer to take notes. “Thanks,” he finally said. “I’ll meet you at three.”
    He hung up and opened the browser on the tablet. “Back in 1955 a man named Carter King stole two gold brooches from his friend Leland Warner. One of them had a buttload of diamonds on it. Carter was never caught. The warrant is still open and he’s been a fugitive all these years.”
    Callum paused from his web search to look up. “According to the file, the primary witness against Carter King was none other than Allan Hawkins.”

EIGHT
    Christmas Eve, 1:31 p.m.
    T hat’s Bud.” I sat forward. “Allan is his real name. If Bud turned this man in to the police, then maybe he held a grudge all these years. King could have shot Bud out of revenge.”
    â€œThat’s a huge reach.” Rod shook his head. “King would have to be in his seventies or eighties by now, if he’s not already dead.”
    â€œMy source is making a copy of the police file to slip to me. We’ll know a lot more when we see it.” Callum held up the tablet. “But according to the county assessor’s website, Carter and Mida King are still the legal owners of five hundred acres of land just north of town.”
    I took the tablet from him and stared down at the map. “This borders Warner’s property.”
    Rod laughed, but his voice was hoarse from the strain of the day and it sounded forced. “That doesn’t mean anything. Warner is so rich that almost everything in town borders something of his.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “It borders his original property. The one he inherited from his father. It used to be orange groves, but now it’s an oil field.”
    My cell phone made a noise, followed by Rod’s and Callum’s. We all silenced them and read our new text messages.
    â€œThat’s weird,” Rod said. “Freddy is texting me from the station. He doesn’t even work there anymore.”
    Callum stared at his screen. “He’s filling in on the assignment desk today.”
    Rod’s head shot up. “Freddy?”
    I nodded and then read my message: SOS. 9II. HLP. XMAS PETS GNE2HELL. CAT8BRD .
    Callum leapt from his seat.
    â€œIt might not be as bad as it sounds,” Rod said, but Callum was already running out of the restaurant. “Maybe Freddy means the animal shelter brought one cat and eight birds.”
    â€œYour optimism is the thing I love best