Heads You Lose (30 page)

Dave

P.S. About your stable of would-be collaborators, I don’t doubt that all of those authors are adept at building and resolving intricate mysteries. But I’d argue that bringing a psycho to justice on the page and cowriting a book with one require different skill sets.

CHAPTER 28

Sheriff Cole Staley, head of the Birkton branch of the county sheriff’s office, looked around at the swarm of crime-scene workers in Verducci’s and shook his head in disbelief. Four murders in sixteen days, and the mayhem now seemed to be spreading geographically. His fear wasn’t great enough, however, to completely blot out an irritating thought, which he related to one of his deputies: “Great. Now I gotta call Ed.”

A few years back, when Sheriff Ed Wickfield was painstakingly building the case for a major coke bust in the area, Staley had run some smaller raids that yielded some minor convictions but also ruined Ed’s chances of nabbing the region’s main supplier. Relations between the two offices had been chilly ever since. Nevertheless, standing in Verducci’s, Sheriff Staley called Ed out of professional courtesy, politely declining any help from Mercer in the investigation, saying the crime scene was busy enough as it was.

Ed didn’t fight him to get involved in the new killing because he knew once the FBI came barging in—and if this last killing didn’t guarantee that, nothing would—both of them would be lapdogs for the Feds. Instead he called Paul and asked him to drop by the station immediately.

Halfway through the short drive to the station, Paul found himself suddenly nauseated and pulled over to the shoulder. It hadn’t occurred to him right away, but now he was sure of it. He’d failed to protect his sister again, and she was gone. Why else would Ed call him in so urgently? He should have packed up with Lacey and left at the first sign of trouble. Or the second or third one. He opened his door to throw up but nothing came.

Inside Sheriff Ed’s office, Paul refused to sit down. Even after Ed had provided a summary of the afternoon’s events, it took Paul a moment to realize his sister wasn’t dead. Then he sat down.

“No one is accusing Lacey of murder,” Ed said. “But she’s sure tangled herself up in this. Until we untangle her, I think you’re both in danger.”

“Where is she now?” Paul asked.

“She’s still at Verducci’s. They’ll keep her for a while until they secure the crime scene. Then they’ll probably take her to the station to finish their interrogation.”

“Can I call her?” Paul picked up his cell phone.

“You’re welcome to try,” Ed said. “I’m sure she’ll pick up if she can.”

Lacey answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Lace . . . uh, it’s good to hear your voice. What’s going on?” he asked.

“Not much.”

“You sure about that?”

“Uh-huh.” She wasn’t budging.

“Anything new?” Paul said. The relief he’d felt a few minutes before was being replaced by familiar irritation.

“We need more milk,” Lacey said.

“Anything else?”

“Cereal,” Lacey replied.

“Lace, are you in shock? I know where you are. I’m in Sheriff Ed’s office right now.”

Paul held up the phone awkwardly.

“Hi, Lacey,” Sheriff Ed called out.

“What were you doing in Birkton with that creepy doc?” Paul asked.

“Investigating. Tell the sheriff I think Doc Holland is suspect number one right now.”

“Lace, please. You’re putting yourself in danger. This has to stop.”

“It will stop when the murders stop,” Lacey replied, disconnecting the call.

Paul stuffed his phone back in his pocket.

“I’d tell you to talk some sense into her,” Ed said, “but that train has clearly left the station.”

Paul didn’t know how to respond to that. “Yep,” he said.

“This keeps up, we’re gonna have to change the population sign,” Ed said, shaking his head. His attempt at a light tone didn’t quite come off. He seemed shaken up.

“I guess so,” said Paul.

He wasn’t comfortable hanging around inside a law enforcement office, especially when it wasn’t quite clear what was expected of him.

“So, can I go?” Paul finally said.

“Yep,” Ed said, and stood up. He walked around the desk to Paul and took him by the shoulders, looking him in the eye. There was no sense of threat, only genuine concern. “Get some rest. And try to stay out of trouble. I’ll make sure Lacey gets home safe.”

For a second Paul forgot that he was a pot grower inside a sheriff’s office.

As Paul started toward the door, Ed said, “Remind Lacey to bring that letter to me tomorrow.”

“What letter?”

“From Doc Holland.”

“Right,” said Paul, like he knew what Ed was talking about. “Will do.”

When Paul got back home, he saw a familiar shape in the rocking chair on the porch.

“Irving!”
⁴⁴

Paul picked him up and gave him a squeeze. His thick fur was tangled with thistles, burrs, and even part of a cigarette filter. He’d apparently been on quite an adventure. Paul took him inside for some milk and tuna, then cut the reunion short to start looking for the Doc Holland letter. It was for Lacey’s own good. Keeping stuff to herself seemed to have a way of putting her in the vicinity of dead bodies.

He was about to lift Lacey’s dresser when Brandy called his cell.

“You want to come over? I made mac ’n’ cheese. Don’t worry—it’s from a box. I figure you could use some quote-unquote home cooking.”

“That sounds delicious,” Paul said.

“You sound distracted,” Brandy said. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for a letter. Lacey has apparently heard from Doc Holland. Ed wants it. Not sure why. Maybe to test it for DNA or something. I just don’t know where she’d be keeping it. For all I know she might be carrying it around with her.”

“You’ve tried the obvious places, right?” Brandy asked.

“Probably. Like what?”

“Like between her mattress and box spring?” Brandy said.

Paul lifted the mattress. There it was, still in its envelope. He put the phone down and read the letter. He was surprised to find that it was addressed to Sook. He didn’t know the old man had been involved in the whole blackmail scheme. Yet another one of Lacey’s secrets.

“How’d you know?” Paul asked.

“Sometimes you have to dumb yourself down a little to find what you’re looking for,” Brandy said.

“I’ll be over right after I drop the letter off at the station.”

“I’m not sure that’s the right move, Paul.”

“Why?”

“Getting official DNA test results can take months around here. Bring the letter over with you.”

“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 to his truck.

NOTES:

Lisa,

I thought it was time we had an actual revelation to balance out the bloodshed. If you can find it in yourself to just let things unfold naturally from here on, I think this book can still work. Of course, that’d be an unprecedented development for you, on or off the page.

Dave

P.S. One last question about the authors who rejected you: Why all men?

Dave,

Yeah, Paul’s convenient discovery of the photograph in the closet was totally natural. I’m starting to think you never took this project seriously. I’m also starting to think if a dead body turned up at your door, you’d step over it and go out for a burger. If we weren’t so close to the end, I’d forfeit this “game,” because that’s what it’s starting to feel like.

But in the interest of finishing what we’ve started, I have a gift for you: I’m going to let Irving live. You know why? So you have a character to jump-start your cat mystery series. It’ll be awesome—bodies piling up on the streets and no man or feline giving it a second thought.

Lisa

P.S. I wasn’t rejected, I was politely declined. I asked men because I wanted my book jacket to use colors outside of the pastel palette for once. End of discussion.

CHAPTER 29

That night, Paul returned home still reeling from his discovery that Doc Holland was Doc Egan’s father. He didn’t want Lacey to be alone after discovering a corpse, but he certainly wasn’t going to share the news with her. He still didn’t know what to make of the connection, and after everything Lacey had survived that day, he figured she didn’t need any more information to fuel her investigative urges.

“Mac ’n’ cheese from a box,” Paul explained, sliding the dish in front of her. “You should eat something.”

“Who made it?”

“Brandy.”

“No thanks.”

“It’s not poison. I had it for dinner.”

“Well, I’ll wait a few more hours to be sure.”

“Cereal?” Paul asked.

“You never got the milk.”

“Right.”

Lacey took a beer from the fridge and sat back down at the table. “What if Big Marv was the killer?” Lacey asked.

“Of who?”

“One or all of the victims.”

“Then he should go to prison for a very long time,” Paul replied, not sure what answer Lacey was hunting for.

“Well, of course. But my question is, we’ve agreed to take this man’s money. Should we take it if he’s a murderer?”

“I’m
more
inclined to take it if he’s a murderer,” Paul replied. “If you think about it, we’re swindling him.”

“But he thinks he’s swindling us.”

“Right,” said Paul. “When did our lives get so complicated? We used to grow plants. Now you’re hunting a serial killer and we’re engaged in shady million-dollar business deals.”

“So, we’re taking the money,” Lacey said, ignoring Paul’s comment. Her mind was crowded enough, she didn’t need to worry herself about what was crowding his. She took her beer and went to bed.

In the morning Paul was gone. Sheriff Ed called Lacey and reminded her about the letter. She searched for three hours until she gave up. Was it possible that she’d hid it from herself? With all that had transpired, the idea crossed her mind, but then she figured something more sinister was going on. Mercer used to seem like a nice place, but the town had splintered into jagged shards right in front of her.