Chapter Seventeen

Arizona had a dozen residents named Steven Hicks, so finding his home address would take a little work. The town of Gilbert, part of the larger Phoenix metropolitan area, had several automotive repair shops, but I took a wild guess that Hicks & Sons was the right one. They were open on Sundays, so I headed in that direction.

Hearing about Steven Hicks had given me the tingling sensation I got when I uncovered a key piece of information for a story. Even if I didn’t yet know why something was important, that sixth sense told me I’d made a breakthrough.

Not that I’d always been right in the past, but still. If I was getting the feeling, and it turned out to be right, I’d know I hadn’t lost all my journalistic talent. I might get back to where I’d been before.

All the factors tumbled together in my mind. I couldn’t see how Hicks would benefit from hurting Mrs. Gregorian or Penelope Valentine, but he had hoped to benefit from Brit Egland’s death via an inheritance to her daughter. Hicks might have been testing his poison on the other victims, or trying to deflect suspicion by confusing the crime motive through multiple deaths. Or maybe the other two patients hadn’t been victims after all. In that case, the coincidence of the three episodes close together might have uncovered a murder that otherwise would have stayed hidden.

If Hicks was the killer, the other patients at Sunshine Haven should now be safe. He wouldn’t have any reason to kill again.

Unless he was using additional deaths as a cover-up. Then he might decide to kill one or two more people to further confuse the trail. That wouldn’t be smart. He would take a much greater risk by showing up at Sunshine Haven now, when he had no excuse to be there. Besides, multiple bodies piling up would make people suspicious. He might not know we were investigating already, but surely, he’d realize his best bet now was to lay low.

Unfortunately, murderers weren’t always logical, and they sometimes got caught because they weren’t willing to leave well enough alone. They had an urge to revisit the scene of the crime, throw out more red herrings, even go to the police with made-up evidence. Hicks might also have gotten a taste for murder, for playing God. Serial killers sometimes started by murdering someone for a reason that had some logic: to gain money or to remove a rival. For some people, getting away with that first murder encouraged them to see murder as a problem-solving response. Once they got the bloodlust, a relatively minor annoyance became an excuse to kill.

If Steven Hicks was a killer, we had to prove it and put him in prison. For Brit Egland’s sake, and her family’s. And for the rest of us. I couldn’t be certain my mother and the other patients were safe until we knew what had really happened.

I found the garage and parked across the street. I could bring in the car with some excuse about needing work, but then what? I could stay parked and watch the place, but for how long? The blue Camaro would eventually attract attention. I wasn’t sure what Steven Hicks looked like, or if he was working that afternoon.

At least if Hicks had followed me or tried to run me down, he wouldn’t associate me with the Camaro. I lingered on that thought. Could Hicks have driven the attack car? That had been shortly after I’d first talked to Heather. I hadn’t yet interviewed any of the family members or even the employees. In fact, I’d hardly talked to anyone directly associated with Sunshine Haven except Heather. I still thought the receptionist, June Songpole, might have told someone of my visit, but Norman Mendelson was the obvious choice there. Why would she have told Steven Hicks? Even if he’d somehow charmed her into being an unwitting accomplice, how would she have known my talk with Heather would be of interest to him?

Could I be on the wrong track after all?

I sighed and got out of the car. I was tired of all these questions.

Time to confront Steven Hicks.

I scuttled across the street, glancing back and forth to watch for cars ready to pounce. Once safely on the other side, I retrieved my phone and texted Dad to let him know what I was doing. If I disappeared, at least someone could follow my trail.

I hesitated with the phone in my hand. I often used an app to record interviews so I could double-check quotes, and so I had evidence if anyone tried to deny what they said. Ethically, I had to ask permission to record conversations, but I wasn’t acting as a journalist now. Federal law and the state of Arizona allowed private individuals to make recordings as long as one party involved in the conversation consented. That meant I could legally make the recording as long as I was part of the conversation and had my own consent. Getting it admitted in court could be trickier, but not impossible.

I doubted I could get Steve Hicks to openly admit he’d killed his girlfriend’s mother, but if he said anything incriminating, I wanted it recorded. I turned away from the automotive shop to hide my actions and started the app. My shirt didn’t have any pockets and I was afraid the recording would be too faint if I had the phone in the back pockets of my shorts, so I slipped my phone in my bra. It made an odd bulge over my left breast. Women who carry their phones in their bras all the time must either have smaller phones or larger breasts. I fluffed my shirt out a bit so the bump wasn’t obvious.

The shop had a small room with hard plastic chairs along one wall and a counter opposite. It smelled of grease or motor oil or whatever comes from inside car engines. A faint shuffle and clang from the back suggested someone at work.

I rang the bell and waited. Photos on the walls showed men standing proudly beside cars. Several men in blue coveralls appeared in multiple pictures, along with occasional other men in regular clothes and one or two women. I didn’t recognize anyone, so I wasn’t sure if the mechanics were having their pictures taken with famous customers, favorite customers, or favorite cars.

Several minutes later, a man came in from the garage. He was tall and barrel-chested, late sixties or early seventies, with gray hair and a thick beard that straggled down to his breastbone. His stern face and stiff posture could have illustrated the encyclopedia entry for patriarch.

“Help you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Steven Hicks.”

“Found him.”

He wasn’t at all what I was expecting. “You’re the Steve Hicks who dated Lisa Delacruz?”

“You want my son, Stevie.”

I glanced at the photos on the wall. The men in overalls might be father and sons. “I suppose I do. Is he here?”

“He doesn’t work today.”

“Where can I find him?”

He glanced at a clock on the wall. “After four. Probably at the bar.”

“Which bar?”

He pulled a rag from his pocket and absently wiped the counter, making it dirtier rather than cleaner. “What do you want with Stevie? Is this about Lisa?”

“Not directly. You know her?”

“Sure, nice little gal. Too good for my son.”

Although I tended to agree, it was an odd comment from a father.

“Brought her boy here a couple of times ’cause he’s interested in cars. Only wants to drive ’em, though. Don’t want to get his hands dirty making them run.” He glanced back into the garage, home of polluting chemical products and testosterone. “Too soft. No wonder, raised by a woman with no man around.”

Hello, toxic masculinity. “I’d really like to talk to Stevie today. Do you know what bar he might be at?”

He studied me. “You’re not his type.”

Thank goodness for that. “This is more of a business thing.” I decided to throw a pebble in the water and start some ripples. “It’s about Sunshine Haven. You know what he’s been doing there?”

Steven Senior shrugged, but I wouldn’t really expect him to know if his son had been killing patients. Still, if I didn’t find Stevie that day, word might get back to him that someone had been asking about his connection to the place. Let him sweat a little, wondering if he was under suspicion.

Mr. Hicks took a breath that filled his chest and blew it out. “Try the place down the street, on the left.” He gestured with his head. “If Stevie got himself in trouble again, no point in putting it off.”

“Again? Does he get in trouble a lot?”

“Try down the street.” He headed back into the garage.

I had a lead, but I still had to find Stevie Junior in a public place. I reviewed the photos on the wall. One showed Steven Senior with a man on either side, all of them in blue coveralls. One of the men might be in his forties and the other a bit younger. It was hard to judge the similarity in their faces because of Steven Senior’s beard, but they all had the same barrel chest. I guessed the Stevie I wanted might be the older of the two, but I studied both faces so I’d recognize them.

I headed to my car. I didn’t know how far down the street I had to go, but even a block or two would be tiring, and I needed my energy. The first bar I came to was about four blocks away. I’d been expecting someplace seedy, but this was a sports bar that served food. I drove a couple more blocks to see if I came to any other bars, but the neighborhood had apparently become too trendy for the type of place I’d pictured.

I returned to the sports bar and parked. I’d almost forgotten that my breast was recording everything. I stopped the recording I had going and checked that it had managed to catch my conversation with Steven Senior. My voice was louder than his, but he came through even over the distractions of rustling from my shirt. I started a new recording. If I was lucky, Stevie would be drunk and careless. If I prodded him hard enough, maybe he would say something incriminating.

Inside the doorway, I let my eyes adjust to the dimmer light. Several large-screen TVs hanging high on the walls played different sports events. A waitress dropped off burgers at a nearby table full of young men.

She passed by. “Have a seat anywhere.”

I made my way through the room, squeezing between the tables and trying not to catch my cane on a chair leg. Fortunately, the place wasn’t crowded, so I didn’t have to examine too many customers. A man seated at the bar seemed to have the Hicks build. I took the second stool down from him.

The young bartender said, “Good afternoon. What will you have?”

“Nothing at the moment. Thanks.” I turned my body toward the man next to me. “I’m here to talk to Steve Hicks.”

The bartender shrugged and moved off. Steven Hicks Junior—I was sure it was him now—swiveled toward me. “You looking for me?”

“I am. I want to talk about Sunshine Haven.”

He snorted. “Sunshine Haven. Stupid name. Trying to pretend it’s someplace people want to be. Like all these housing developments with names like Shady Oaks, when they cut down all the trees to build it, or Mountain Vista when you can’t see past the other houses.”

“You were seen at Sunshine Haven the day before Brit Egland died.”

His eyes narrowed and he took more time in forming a response. “Sure, I went every week with my girlfriend and her kid.”

“You couldn’t have gone too many times, since you and Lisa had broken up until a few weeks ago.”

He took a swig of beer. I couldn’t tell if it was a stalling tactic or if he simply liked to drink.

“What’s it to you?” he asked.

“I’m looking into some deaths there.”

His lip pulled up in a sneer. “You don’t look like a cop.”

“I’m not. I’m an investigative reporter. But I’ll turn my findings over to the police. Tell me, how many times did you actually go to Sunshine Haven? Three?”

“More than that.” He drained his beer and waved to the bartender for another. Hicks watched me from the corner of his eye while the bartender filled a glass and set it in front of him.

The bartender asked me, “You sure you don’t want anything?”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to give Hicks too much time to think.

The bartender moved off. Across the room, the young men cheered at something sports-related.

“The old lady didn’t like me much,” Hicks said. “When she started losing her marbles, Lisa spent all her time there. I wasn’t going to hang around. But I thought, maybe with her gone, me and Lisa could work it out.”

“Gone? You mean dead?”

He glared. “’Course not. I meant with her in that dump. They’d take care of her there. What else is the place for? But Lisa still wanted to go all the time.”

“And you didn’t want to share Lisa?”

“Who are you anyway? Did Lisa send you?”

The person who had called to warn me off had clearly known who I was. The person who tried to run me down surely knew who they were targeting. Hicks seemed sincere in his confusion, and he didn’t sound like the man on the phone.

Maybe he was a good actor, but if he didn’t already know my name, I wasn’t crazy about giving it to him. On the other hand, if he thought Lisa had sent me, he might take revenge on her. I dug in my bag and pulled out a card that showed my connection to the newspaper, with an address that was fortunately over two thousand miles away.

“As I said, I’m an investigative reporter. I’m looking into the situation at Sunshine Haven with the full knowledge and support of the company and the police. Ms. Delacruz is of interest to us only because her mother recently died, and we suspect foul play.”

Hicks studied my card. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and it wasn’t especially warm in there. “She was old. Old people die.”

“She wasn’t that old, and she shouldn’t have died yet.”

Hicks slapped my card facedown on the bar and pressed his hand over it. He sipped his drink, darting glances at me. He seemed nervous, which was suspicious but didn’t prove anything. “She wasn’t the only old lady to die recently. These things happen.”

“That’s right. She wasn’t. We’re looking into two suspicious deaths and one unexplained illness. You know anything about them?”

“Why would I? I didn’t have anything to gain.” He swung toward me and stared into my eyes. “I didn’t have anything to gain from anyone dying. Not even Lisa’s mother. All the old lady’s money went to that home. Didn’t Lisa tell you that?”

My breast buzzed. I flinched and almost slapped it, thinking I had an insect in my bra, before I realized it was merely a text coming in. I ignored it and hoped Hicks hadn’t heard it over the background noise of the bar. “I know that, but you didn’t. Not until after she died.”

“You can’t prove anything.” Hicks gulped his drink. He slammed the glass down on the bar so hard the last two inches of beer sloshed and spilled over the rim. He twisted away from me to leave his seat and headed for the door. No point in trying to catch up with him. I’d definitely rattled him, though I hadn’t recorded anything useful.

The door swung shut behind him. I checked the bar top for my business card, but Hicks must have taken it with him.

As I stood, I glanced at the bartender. “Did he pay for his drinks?”

“No, but he’s in here several days a week. I’ll get him next time. What did you say to upset him?”

“Only what needed to be said.”

I headed out. I should get back to Sunshine Haven, to regroup with the others and see what had been learned in my absence.

I stopped the recording and checked the text that had made my breast buzz in public. It was from Dad, letting me know he’d gotten my message and wondering what my plan was for the rest of the day. I told him I’d be back in about half an hour. Note to self: when using the bra recording system, mute the phone if you don’t want your chest making odd noises.

Outside, I scanned the area for Steven Hicks but didn’t spot him. I got into Simon’s convertible and headed toward Sunshine Haven.

At the first stoplight, a white pickup truck pulled up behind me. The driver revved his engine and leaned on his horn as the light turned green. I barely bothered to swear as I pulled forward. American drivers, no matter how obnoxious, paled in comparison to the craziness I’d seen in the Middle East, where drivers turn a two-lane road into four lanes, or swerve across multiple lanes of traffic to make a turn.

The truck backed off ten feet and then zoomed forward again. It loomed so large in the rearview mirror that I braced for impact. I couldn’t see the truck’s driver through the glare on his windshield, but one thing was clear.

This wasn’t some random driver bullying a stranger. This was an attempt to bully me.