Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [47]
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” Doc Egan said.
“I know about your side business,” Terry whispered.
“I don’t have a side business.”
“We’re not being recorded, but I understand your concern. I’ll do the talking.”
“Oh good.”
“Secrets are a man’s only hope for survival.”
“Is that a saying?” Doc Egan asked.
“I just said it, so it is.”
“Fair enough,” Doc Egan replied, searching the room for an escape route.
“I can keep secrets,” Terry said, knocking his index finger on his head.
“Good.”
“Think of me as a double agent.”
“That sort of contradicts what you just said,” Egan replied.
“You know what I’m here to talk about?”
“I don’t.”
“I understand you had to say that for the recording.”
“You said there is no recording.”
“No. There isn’t. But you think there is.”
“What are we talking about?” Egan asked.
“We’re talking about one hand greasing the other hand.”
“Whose hand is greasing whose hand?”
“Let’s call one hand the Falcon and the other hand the Snowman.”
“Okay.”
“I know all about it. You’re the new Falcon.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“What does that mean?” Doc Egan asked.
“You know what I’m going to do about it?”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“Okay.”
“Make sure you tell the Snowman.”
Lacey drove to the Mallard Corp. address in Emery, where Doc Holland had been sending all those inflated malpractice checks. As she expected, it was just a mailbox depot combined with a pet supply store. Lacey knew that the proprietor would refuse to divulge the name of the owner of box 483, so she went in with a plan.
“Is box 483 available?” Lacey asked.
The clerk opened a file and reviewed the spreadsheet. Lacey tried to read it upside down, but the clerk snapped the file shut before any information registered.
“It just freed up,” the clerk replied.
“It did?” Lacey asked, briefly stumped.
She’d planned to ask the clerk to contact the owner to see if they could work out a swap because Lacey just had to have that box—483 was her lucky number, or something. But now her next move was much simpler.
“I’ll take it,” she said.
She paid the seventy-five dollars, took her key, and left. On the way home she devised a new plan.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Lacey drew a simple diagram. All the random clues and duck references were starting to jumble in her head. Paul looked over her shoulder and asked her what she was up to.
“I’m organizing my thoughts,” Lacey replied.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Paul said.
Lacey ignored Paul and brainstormed out loud: “It appears that someone using the name Mallard Corp. was blackmailing Doc Holland. It also appears that a corporation called Merganser was somehow employing Hart. Do you think Mallard and Merganser are connected?” Lacey asked.
“Why would they be?” Paul replied.
“Merganser. Mallard. Ducks? Hello, Paul? Two corporations named after ducks—one is blackmailing a fake doctor—a quack. Get it? Paul, why don’t you care about this stuff? Don’t you want to know who killed Hart?”
“Sure, but only so I can steer clear of him.”
“But what about justice?” Lacey asked.
“Bartenders serve booze. Baristas make coffee. Doctors treat patients. Cops solve murders. Lawyers prosecute and defend. Judges and juries mete out justice. You and me, we grow weed to chill all those folks out. Let’s let everybody do their own job.”
“Don’t you want a better job?”
“I work with something I love and I get to make my own hours. I’m not sure how much better it can get.”
“And it’s illegal.”
“Sometime in the future we might go legit and grow for those compassion centers.”
“There’s no we in this future. I don’t know how you can settle for so little. I’m out as soon as I solve this murder.”
“You should just let this thing go, Lacey, and learn to live your life.”
“We can’t, Paul. Whoever killed Hart was sending us a message. I, for one, want to know what that message was. Why don’t you?”
“Because, Lacey, I’ve