Endangered: A Zoo Mystery Part 13

"My husband died in a zoo accident almost three years ago."

He nodded. He didn't ask how it happened and how I felt about it and how could I still work at the zoo, yadda yadda. Good.

Food arrived and rescued us.

Ken was comfortable with pauses in the conversation. We talked about the Trail Blazers and the proposed new bridge across the Columbia River as excellent piles of meat disappeared, along with beans and coleslaw. He ate and spoke deliberately, with the same relaxed attention that he'd shown with the dogs he'd talked into cooperating.

"How'd you end up in Animal Control?" I asked.

After a moment of reflection, "Not much demand for a bachelor's in chemistry. I tried sales and found out I'm no good at that. So now I'm trying this, not that it was easy to get the job. I had experience-summer jobs at a boarding kennel and some vet tech work-and I know a woman who works there, so I got an interview."

He had finished his degree, more than I'd done. "Do you like it?"

He considered. "It's good work. I like talking to people. Most of them don't want to neglect their animals. They're just broke and overwhelmed. They're usually relieved that, one way or another, I get the animals fed and under shelter. Haven't been bitten yet or punched out. That might change my mind. But so far, yes."

"You're good with dogs. I saw you with that pit bull. I'll bet you're good with people, too. The Tiptons would have been a real test."

He sopped up juice with a piece of bread. "My boyish charm doesn't work on them." He c.o.c.ked his head at me. "You said they broke into your place."

I remembered my agenda: find out if he knew anything I didn't about Liana or the Tiptons. I told him about the break-in without mentioning that I'd moved out of my house. "That family has made my life h.e.l.l for almost two weeks. The cops say they aren't at the house or in the barns. They've got their van, so they could be anywhere. Any ideas?"

Ken shook his head. "Not a clue. I'd be pretty upset if I were in your shoes."

"No kidding. Keeping my kid safe shouldn't be this hard."

The waitress swung by with an offer of more beer, which he considered and declined.

I spooned up the last of my beans. "They looked like they were living rough-hungry and dirty. What worries me is their next move. They won't turn themselves in. They think the cops will shoot them."

The waitress cleared our plates and asked about dessert. I was prepared to be virtuous and decline, but Ken jumped for the pecan pie and a.s.sumed I'd want it, too. We both ordered decaf.

He added cream and sugar to his coffee and stirred it thoroughly. "You'd think the old man would have told the wife where he kept his money. Or his kids. They were his partners in crime, after all."

"He wasn't much of a father. His last words were to look after the birds, not his family."

"Cold."

I'd brought it up, but I was tired of the Tiptons. "I want those rotten sons busted-now, today-so I can quit worrying about them popping up. And I want them grilled about Liana's death and where they got those parrots and tortoises. But nothing is happening."

"The animals probably came in through LAX. Somebody must have done a good job of hiding them or had a lucky day with customs."

"Good guess."

"No, I heard cops talking at the Tiptons. After awhile, they forget you're around. Just the dog catcher..." A wry smile.

"Yeah. I felt some of that."

We finished up the pie and the waitress brought the tab. I tried to split it. He shook his head, laid out bills, and waved away the change. A good tipper.

Something earlier in the conversation came back to me. "You said your charm doesn't work on the Tiptons. You sounded as if you'd already tried it."

A slow nod. "I went to middle school with Jeff. We didn't get along."

"What? You know him?"

Ken looked-chagrined? "Just for a year or two. In Amboy. Then we moved away."

We'd settled back into our seats, the last customers. The waitress asked if she could bring us anything else, the implication being that she'd like the table freed up. We declined and I didn't budge. "What were they like when you knew them?"

"You sound like a reporter."

Not the time to think about Craig. "I need to understand these guys."

Ken straightened up a little and looked to one side, remembering. "They were kids when I last saw them. Everybody liked Tom because he was cute and nice. The teachers wanted to save him from turning into his brother. n.o.body liked Jeff. He wasn't any good at school and he was mean. Not entirely his fault. We called him "Zitchy," for zits and twitchy. His eye still twitch?"

"Indeed it does. Mean, how?"

"Chewing gum in the girls' hair, stupid nicknames, tripping people. He picked fights and he was big, so he won. Looking at it now, the teachers could have done more to include him and make all of us behave better. Maybe it would have helped." He grinned at me. "I've been accused of excessive forgiveness."

I noted an edge to his grin and wondered what it meant. "Too darned nice for your own good?"

"That's my ex's diagnosis. She mistook it for not caring."

That was interesting. "My diagnosis is foot-in-mouth disease."

"Not so far."

We looked at each other for a minute. I felt my face flush and skittered back to safe ground. "Ah, those Tiptons-did any of them have the brains to set up the meth and animal smuggling?"

"My guess would be that girl. Liana or whatever her real name was."

"Why her?" I didn't want it to be her.

"Where'd they learn all that? Plenty of dim bulbs figure it out, but it feels like a stretch."

"She was helping the mother and keeping house for the rest of them. I can't see it."

"Because she was young and a girl? We don't know why she was there or what she was doing before. She's more likely to be the brains behind the meth than any of those Tipton losers."

"That reporter who was hanging around the Tiptons said she went into town to turn tricks." I was helping trash a person who couldn't defend herself.

"For pocket money or maybe Jerome was exploring another profit center."

I pushed my chair back a little. He was making sense, but I didn't have to like it. "So who killed her?" The buzz I'd felt between us had cooled.

"Beats me. Someone from her old life maybe."

I stood up, surprised at how upset I was at the idea of Liana as a master criminal.

We stepped outside into the cold night, a full moon glowing faintly behind the clouds. He walked me to my car and shook my hand, the first physical contact, awkward and electric. I thanked him for a nice evening.

He said, "My pleasure. Keep safe," and left it at that.

Why didn't he press for more? A kiss? A drink at his place?

I drove away certain I'd never hear from him again, trying to talk myself out of the conviction I'd lost a round in the dating game. I was too focused on pumping information out of him, a college drop-out, an animal addict when he might be working Animal Control only until something better came along. No wonder he hadn't wanted more.

And all I'd learned was to avoid naive emotional bonding with dead girls.

My mother stood at the sink with dripping hands. "How was it? Will you see him again?"

No pressure..."It was okay, but I don't think it's going anywhere. How was Robby? I want to ask Dad about the trip to the Children's Museum." I ducked away to the living room.

I busied myself putting Robby to bed and avoided cross examination for the time being. Not that long ago, I would have called Marcie and dissected the evening with her. I missed her. As for Ken, chalk it up to experience. He'd checked me out, and it hadn't clicked for him.

Well, Craig liked me. Mostly because he thought I had information for his article. Men. Who needed them?

Me? Something female and feral was trying to wake from a two-year hibernation, alert and hungry. I shoved it back into its cave. It was still winter.

Chapter Seventeen.

Monday was my day off, a day I normally spent with Robby and my dogs, a day for household ch.o.r.es. Not today. Today I tried to get my life back. Child care was the first step since my parents had gone to work. Amanda was distracted and kept putting the phone down to deal with toddlers. Once she focused long enough to understand my question, she said, "Sure, you can bring him for a half day. Gabe will love that." Gabe was Robby's best buddy, an older guy who had seen his third birthday already.

"I'll drop him off about ten o'clock and pick him up about two."

"That should be fine. Katie, do you have to go potty? I think you do. Let's..."

I hung up.

Ken hadn't called. No matter.

Half an hour after I dropped Robby off, I stood on a Vancouver sidewalk with my back to the Clark County jail. Across the street were two bail bond storefronts. I picked one, the wrong one it turned out, and then the other.

After fifteen minutes with a pleasant but wary woman sitting behind a desk, I knew more about bail bond in Clark County than anyone should. Middle-aged with seen-it-all eyes, she told me, "We can't discuss the specifics of any case."

"Jerome Tipton died while I did CPR on him. His sons broke into my house. I need to know where Jeff and Tom are hiding out and get them locked up. Do you have anyone looking for them?"

She didn't react to my dramatization. "Nope. There's probably a warrant out for them about that dead girl-bring them in and question them-but their court date isn't for three weeks, so we're still good with the bail. If they skip, we send out a fugitive recovery agent."

"A bounty hunter?"

"A fugitive recovery agent."

"Right. And if they turn up in Portland?"

"We call the police and they pick them up. They're pretty good about it."

That was different from what Hap had said, different and better. "Let's see if I've got this straight. Jerome Tipton called you to arrange bail. He signed over his property as collateral, but he still owed you ten percent of the bail as your fee. That showed up in back of this place as a box of gold coins the next day. Right so far?"

"I need a cigarette." She didn't bother with a jacket, just leaned against the outside of the building under the awning and lit up. I had the choice of breathing smoke or standing in the rain. I chose the rain.

"Everyone's looking for the rest of that gold," she said.

"Not me. I just want to be safe in my own house. How did Jerome get the coins to you? Who delivered them? And who picked the three of them up when they were released?"

She shrugged and dragged on the cigarette. "We have no idea. He told us the money would show up, and it showed up. We didn't see who delivered it. I did the paperwork, and they were released late that afternoon. Coins are unusual, but they work."

"How much was their bail?"

"No secret. $150,000 for him, $50K for each of the sons."

I did the math. "$250,000 total bail, so ten percent is twenty-five grand in gold?"

"Yup." She read my mind. "Price of gold is up. It's not as many coins as you'd think."

I left with twice as many questions as I'd arrived with. Not a good trend.

Next stop was Legacy Hospital, the Salmon Creek campus. It's several miles from downtown Vancouver, much closer to Finley Zoo. I left the car in the low-ceilinged parking structure, worried I'd never find it again.

I found myself in the midst of some swell landscaping. A large metal sculpture dominated the courtyard. It looked like an inflated kid's toy-giant blocks shaped like O's and J's. It was about as orange as a sculpture can get. It radiated orange under the blue-gray daylight, glistening in the rain. Each building around the courtyard was nicely identified by a legible sign. I flipped up the hood on my jacket and headed toward the hospital.

Inside, a man in a red polo shirt sat behind an information counter and smiled at me. I swerved away from him and up an escalator. Marble floors, wood paneling. I should have dressed better than jeans and a white sweater. This place was fancy. Hard to picture Wanda Tipton here. After studying the directory, I tried the fifth floor. A nurse in plain blue scrubs had no problem directing me to Wanda Tipton's room.

I was a zoo keeper, not a cop. Maybe that gave me an advantage. Something somewhere ought to, if there was any justice in the universe.

The door to room 518C was half open. What was the worst that could happen? She could yell at me. I gathered my courage and knocked. No answer. I peeked in. The bed was occupied, a woman half sitting up, with her head tilted to watch the television suspended above the bed. "Mrs. Tipton?" I asked. No response. "Wanda Tipton?" She was doughy, overweight, a Wonderbread woman whose pale scalp showed through thin dark hair. Surprisingly she wore sweats, not a hospital gown. They were green and tight at belly and thigh and ankle. Her feet were covered with thin hospital slippers.

Oprah was giving away a huge pickup to a park ranger. The studio audience applauded. A re-run. Even I knew the show was over. The woman's gaze drifted from the television screen to me. "Yes?"

"I'm Iris Oakley. Could we talk a minute?"

"Yes?"

"Could we talk? Without the TV maybe?"

"Who are you?" She didn't click the TV off, but she turned the volume down.

A pretty Hispanic woman in blue scrubs walked in and picked up a food tray next to the bed. "You're family? She doesn't talk much. Still kind of out of it." She smiled brightly at us both, didn't seem to expect an answer, and took the tray away.

Wanda Tipton's mouth slowly formed an annoyed grimace. Her lips were full and pale.