Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [59]
Lacey chugged a pint glass of tap water and then searched the bathroom for aspirin. In the mirror she saw something on the side of her face that resembled a primitive starburst. It looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite recall its origin. She scrubbed her face, brushed her teeth, and swallowed three aspirin, hoping that more coffee would give her the energy she needed to get to work. Her real work, that is—solving Hart’s murder.
Paul’s bedroom door was open, which meant he’d spent the night at Brandy’s. Something about that woman never sat right with Lacey. If she was so smart, why did she waste that gift on stripping? And what kind of genius lives in Tulac? Besides, that whole “pole-dancing injury” always sounded like a chapter in a white trash fairy tale.
Over fresh coffee, Lacey revisited her notebook, where she drew lines linking Hart to every one of Mercer’s citizens who had ever had anything to do with the man. The ink starburst on her face, she realized, had transferred when she slept on her notebook. Lacey decided to start from scratch and deepen her suspect pool—Big Marv and Jay Babalato, Doc Holland, Darryl Cleveland, Sheriff Ed, Deputy Doug, Rafael, Tate, Lito, and Sook, although she had a hard time writing down that last name. She also had Terry on the list. Just because he was dead didn’t mean he couldn’t have murdered someone before he died.
Lacey decided to pay another visit to the sheriff to see if he was making any headway in his investigation. She watched Deputy Doug devour a bearclaw through the office window. He stuffed the remaining pastry in his desk drawer, brushed the crumbs off his shirt, combed his hair, and checked his teeth in the reflection of his screensaver. When she entered the office, Doug got to his feet as if she were a four-star general.
“Lacey. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I’m here to talk about murder, so I’m not sure how pleasant it will be.”
“I see. What can I do for you?”
“You? Nothing. I’m here to see Sheriff Ed.”
Doug, disappointed, sat back down at his desk and picked up the phone.
“I’ll see if he’s in.”
“He’s in,” Lacey said. “His car is parked out front.”
Lacey strode down the hall to the door marked SHERIFF ED WICKFIELD. She knocked twice and waited. Inside she could hear the sheriff say, “I told you, no interruptions this morning.”
Lacey knocked again. A moment passed and eventually Ed opened his door.
“Lacey,” he said, wearily. His uniform, usually a specimen of military discipline, was wrinkled and spotted and had the odor of at least two days’ wear. Perhaps Sheriff Ed was in fact burning the midnight oil on Hart’s murder. Lacey decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Morning, Sheriff,” Lacey said, brushing past him and taking a seat.
The sheriff returned to his desk and summoned a smile.
“What can I do for you, Lacey?”
“I just thought I’d check in and see how the investigations are going.”
“Investigations?” Sheriff Ed asked, emphasizing that final s.
“Yes. The Hart murder and the possible homicide of Terry Jakes.”
“As for Hart, I have nothing to report. Unfortunately, without a head, we can’t pin down cause of death, and without that, we’re looking for diamonds in a manure heap.28 And frankly, no one seems to know what he’s been up to these last six months, but I can assure you, Lacey, that I’m working every lead.”
“I have a theory,” Lacey said.
“I’m sure you do.”
“Terry Jakes’s murder—”
“It could just have been an accident.”
“For argument’s sake, let’s say it wasn’t.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Well, for one, they were friends. Two, they happened within ten days of each other. Mercer hasn’t had a murder in fifteen years. What are the odds?”
“Lacey, investigating ain’t horseracing. We’re not playing odds. We’re looking for evidence. That’s how police work is done.”
“Have you found incriminating evidence at the fire tower