Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [93]
“Why? What will you do?”
“Let’s just say I know someone.”
“Of course you do.”
“See you in a bit, buttercup,” Brandy said.
After their preliminary talk at Verducci’s, Sheriff Staley took Lacey to the Birkton station for more questioning. At the restaurant, sipping stale coffee, she’d seemed barely capable of hearing his questions, but now she was coming out of her daze.
Since there were only a few drops of blood on Lacey’s clothes and the waitresses could place her outside the men’s restroom until the moment the body was discovered, Staley knew it would have been impossible for Lacey to have committed the crime. Besides, no weapon was found. But she was the closest thing he had to a witness. Lacey told Sheriff Staley about the missing Doc Holland and how Egan had arranged a meeting with him. While she hadn’t seen Holland in the vicinity, she made it clear to Staley that she was certain Doc Holland was behind the murder.
Staley asked her why she seemed to be the common denominator in the murders.
“I wish I knew,” said Lacey, her voice breaking. “You’d think someone at the center of the whole mess could figure out what tied it all together. But I just can’t. And believe me, I’ve been trying.”
With the letter in his pocket, Paul got into his truck and started toward the freeway and Brandy. But as he approached the on-ramp he veered toward downtown. An hour ago, he’d been seized by the certainty that his sister had been murdered—and the knowledge that he hadn’t done anything to prevent it. Whatever she’d gotten herself entangled in, he thought, the only way he could protect her now was to risk entangling himself. No, that was bullshit. What he had to do was accept that he was already neck-deep in it, whether he liked it or not.
Paul realized he could no longer stand above the fray and hope things worked out. He also couldn’t count on Lacey to share what she knew—or on anyone else to help him out. Who could he really trust when Sook was a blackmailer and Sheriff Ed was a pal? He had to finish the investigation of Doc Egan, and he had to do it alone.
He parked his truck around the corner from Egan’s home and office. No sheriff’s cruiser was out front, but he knew that would change soon. He got out and strolled down the leafy street toward Egan’s driveway, and then hopped the fence into his backyard.
Paul opened the screen door and found a locked but not bolted back door. Terry had taught him how to do it when Paul was a teenager, but he’d never done it in real life. He took a credit card out of his wallet and slid the lock open. In a few seconds he was in a mauve kitchen littered with takeout cartons and menthol butts.
Paul headed to the bedroom first. He was looking for any clues about who this guy really was, and maybe what his connection was to Doc Holland. But mostly he had no idea what he was looking for. He just knew he had to do something.
He opened the closet door because he figured that’s where most people hide things. On the top shelf he spotted an old shoebox. He pulled it over the shelf so it nearly came crashing down on him. It was just receipts and software manuals and office debris, but at the bottom was a single photo, facedown. He held it up. In faded purple cursive, it said “Dad & Matthew, Summer ’75.” He flipped it over. A smiling kid with a bowl cut stood on a pier. Behind him was a middle-aged man with a crooked smile who rested one hand playfully on the boy’s head. A tiny fish hung from each of the boy’s outstretched hands. The man’s distinctive crooked smile looked familiar. After a moment Paul realized why. It was Doc Holland.
A heavy car door shut somewhere near the front of the house. Paul shoved the photo in his pocket, next to the letter, and went out the back. He peeked around the corner of the house. The front bumper of the cruiser was only a few feet away. Paul took off toward the back fence, hopped it, and ran through a lot covered in clover. He came out the other side and walked around the corner