Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [48]
“You really are absolutely no help at all to this investigation. In fact, if you took a long vacation right now, I don’t think anyone would notice.”
“A long vacation sounds nice, Lace. Unfortunately, I can’t go anywhere because if I leave you alone, you’re likely to get yourself killed.”
Paul then pulled out the Purple People Eater, got massively stoned, and watched four episodes in a row of Flowers of Evil,24 in which a borderline-sociopath horticulturist critiques the works of amateur suburban gardeners. The following morning, Lacey tossed the PPE in the neighbor’s trash and drove to work.
Lacey arrived an hour early at the Tarpit. She started the coffee brewing, took down the chairs, and used the office computer to type up and print a brief note to Doc Holland.
Dear “Doc,”
We have some unfinished business. Please contact me for a meeting at your earliest convenience.
Best Regards,
The Mallard
During the brief morning rush, Lacey got a much-needed respite from the investigation, which had been bouncing around in her head like a violent game of handball. Familiar faces smiled with either concern or satisfaction, asking about her well-being—some with genuine concern, others without. While coffee was poured and milk was steamed, Lacey gazed around the café, realizing how little Hart’s death mattered to anyone. Come to think of it, Hart had only started meaning something to her again after he died. She’d been close to forgetting all about him. What surprised her was that when the memories surfaced, they were usually the good ones. Maybe that was the best way to think of the dead.
When the morning patrons began to disperse, Lacey cleaned up her station and sat down at one of the tables for a short break. She stared into the distance until she spotted a familiar face entering the establishment.
“Doc Egan,” she said, getting to her feet and marching around the counter. “What can I get you?”
“Coffee, I guess.”
“You came to the right place. What kind?”
“Regular. Black.”
“Seriously?” Lacey asked.
“Yes.”
“Wow. That almost never happens anymore.”
Lacey poured the coffee and handed it to Egan, marveling at how simple an exchange it was. She served maybe one cup of straight coffee a day. It always lifted her spirits for some reason.
“Do you have a minute?” Egan asked.
Lacey’s eyes darted around the empty café. “I might have ten,” she said. “What’s up?”
“I had a very strange conversation with Terry Jakes yesterday.”
Lacey and the new doc sat at one of the back tables while Egan shared the details he could recall from his peculiar meeting with Terry.
“It didn’t make much sense,” Doc Egan said.
“Not much makes sense with Terry. But there’s usually a kernel of truth in there somewhere. Give me the bullet points.”
“He said something about one hand greasing the other. He knew about my side business, only I don’t have one. He promised to keep my secret. He called me the ‘New Falcon’ and he told me to say hello to the ‘Snowman.’ Does that mean something to you?”
“No,” Lacey replied. “I think it’s just more Terry nonsense. He hit his head when he was young.”
That was, of course, a lie. Not the head injury part, but the part about Lacey thinking it meant nothing. She wondered whether Terry was clued in to Doc Holland’s Mallard problem. Although she was grateful that there were no more duck references.
Egan finished his coffee and there was an awkward pause before he left.
“So next week, Lacey—do you think you might be able to take a break from crime-fighting?”
“Maybe,” Lacey replied. “I mean, if other people decide to chip in, who knows—we might have solved the mystery by then.”
After work, Lacey dropped by the Timberline, nodded a polite hello to Tate, and found Deena, Terry’s first ex, sitting at the last barstool.
“You doing all right?” Deena asked. She was sincere.
“I’m fine,” Lacey replied.
“Men,” Deena said. “Can’t live with ’em.”
She left it at that.
“I’m looking for Terry. You know where he is?”
“He came