Heads You Lose (23 page)

“You didn’t agree to anything, did you?” Sook asked.

“Hell no. For one, why is Shady Acres so valuable to start with? Two, why wouldn’t they go in on it together? They own other stuff jointly. And
c
, whoever sabotaged my plants put me in a spot where I’d be more likely to accept an offer. The timing is suspicious, to say the least.”

“Unless the timing’s
too
suspicious,” Sook offered, ignoring the botched outline. “They wouldn’t be so bold as to ruin your plants and make you an offer the next day, would they?”

“Unless they were counting on me to assume that,” Paul countered. “And five, while I’m sitting across from them, outside the other end of the restaurant I see some effete weirdo in Lou Reed sunglasses come stumbling through the shrubs and smash his face up against the glass.” Paul made a pig nose with his thumb to illustrate the effect. “That’s, what, four types of weirdness too many for me to even think about making a deal.”

“So what’d you do?”

“Excused myself to the restroom. But I hung a right through the kitchen, came out the other side, and hid where I could hear them. Jay told Marv he was fucking everything up again, just like with Hart.

“I went back around through the kitchen and came back from the bathroom. By the time I got to the table—literally a minute later—they were gone.”

“What about this . . . Louie Reed creep?” asked Sook.

“Also gone.”

“Great. One more suspect for Lacey’s list.”

“Let’s keep him to ourselves,” said Paul.

“Agreed,” Sook said, and drained his glass. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to bed. I’m on the second-to-last chapter of
Mascara Mayhem.
It looks like Detective Nikki Maxwell may have finally met her match.”

Lacey woke up to an empty house, running late for her shift at the Tarpit. On her way to her car, she stopped, went back into the house, and took a quick look around. No gun. She called Paul’s cell phone, got his voicemail, and didn’t know what to say. She hung up.

“Ever hear of Mal and Mel Sundstrom?” Paul said to his new bodyguard as they eased off the highway onto the West Easternville exit.

“Doesn’t ring a bell, but I’m guessing they live in Easternville,” said Sook.

“You’re a natural,” said Paul.

“Been hanging out with your sister.”

Paul found the house number, pulled over, shut off the ignition, and turned to Sook. “Leave the gun, Hardcastle,” he said.
³³

“Who?”

“Just leave the gun.”

Sook slipped it into the glove compartment and they exited the vehicle.

On the front wall of the house were hand-carved wooden letters spelling out “The Sundstroms.” “Looks like this is the place,” Sook observed.

“Again, nicely deduced,” said Paul.

A tall blond woman in her late twenties answered the doorbell, two kids hanging onto her legs.

“Hi, I’m Paul Hansen, and this is my friend Sook.”

“I’m Ilsa,” the woman said cautiously through the black wrought-iron screen door.

“We’re looking for some of my parents’ old friends, Mal and Mel Sundstrom. Are they home?”

The woman looked defensive. “What’s this about?”

“My parents shared a cabin with your . . . with the Sundstroms.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

“Wait,” said Paul. “My parents are dead. I’m just trying to figure out what happened to them.”

Ilsa shot him a hurt look. “Hang on,” she said. She closed the door and parked the kids somewhere in the house.

When she opened the door again, her tone had turned frosty. “I’m sorry for your loss, but I can’t help you. My parents had their problems, but they didn’t kill anyone.” She started to close the door.

Sook perked up. “
Had
their problems?” he asked.

“Halloween 1999,” she said. “They drove off a cliff. Freak accident.”

“Jesus,” said Paul. “So that means—”

“That we’re both orphans,” said Ilsa matter-of-factly. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Listen. I just found out that the night my parents died at the cabin,
your
parents were supposed to be there instead. And the car crash was only, what, two months later.”

“What are you saying?” Ilsa stammered.

“I mean, are you sure your parents’ death was an accident?” said Paul. Ilsa’s face went stiff.

Sook chimed in again. “What if someone was trying to kill your folks, but killed Paul’s by mistake?”

“This conversation is over,” Ilsa said, her voice trembling as she closed the door.

Paul and Sook were silent on the drive back to Mercer. Paul had forgotten all about getting Sook’s take on Lacey’s recent behavior, his initial motivation for bringing him along. While he still wasn’t quite ready to clear her as a suspect in the plant sabotage, now she was just his sister again. Paul was starting to feel that maybe everything that had happened since they found Hart
was
connected somehow—maybe Rafael was right. Maybe Lacey was right. In any event, their parents might have been accidentally murdered. And the murderer could still be out there, wondering if anyone would ever find out.

“Drop me at the Tarpit,” said Sook when they reached town. “I could use some coffee—and some time to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with myself.”

“Sure,” Paul said. “But don’t tell Lacey about the Sundstrom stuff, okay? She doesn’t know anything. I’ll tell her when I know for sure what happened. Or maybe she’s better off not ever knowing. I’ll figure it out later.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” said Sook.

As he drove the few blocks from the Tarpit to the Timberline to look for Rafael, Paul’s phone rang—“American Woman,” Terry’s ringtone.

Paul pulled over, startled. “Hello?”

“Paul, my brother. Harry Lakes, Esq., at your service.” The man pronounced it “esk.”

“Uh . . .”

“Terry’s cousin. The one he left his house to.”

“Oh, hey, Harry . . . I take it you’re out at Terry’s already?”

“Yep. His phone ain’t been cut off yet and I been meaning to call you since I got in yesterday. I’m havin’ a bit of a private send-off over here since I missed the official memorial.”

“I actually was just on my way to meet a—”

“You sound a little shaken up, my friend,” said Harry. “You okay?”

“It’s just . . . you sound
exactly
like Terry.”

“Man, we been getting that since we were fifteen. I used to make dirty phone calls to all the moms of Terry’s friends, acting like I was him. One of them called him back. That’s actually how he lost his cherry. If you don’t count hookers.”

Paul didn’t know whether he counted them or not.

“Come on, brother. Terry would have wanted us to get together mano y mano. He told me you were the smartest dude he knew. Other than himself and me, of course.”

“Okay,” Paul said. “I’ll stop by.”

Outside Terry’s place, the air was thick with the strong, sour smell of healthy plants. Nepalese Kush, maybe, Paul thought. Harry must have brought his own plants to his new estate. Paul heard singing from inside the house, in a high voice like Terry’s:

I’m leavin’ everything I hoped for
Cause the road has called my name

Paul knocked on the door for a while, but the singing didn’t stop. It was impossible not to picture Terry in there.

Harry finally came to the door, pointing to his ear. “Sorry, man, hearing aid on the fritz,” he explained. Harry was wearing overalls ripe with resin, ladies’ white après-ski boots, and a purple mustache. Paul recognized the boots as Terry’s. Harry wasn’t quite a dead ringer for Terry, but he carried himself the same way and had the same rickety frame, uneven walk, and ragged teeth. He embraced Paul and invited him in.

“Mi casa is su casa,” Harry said. “I mean literally.”

“Thanks, man,” said Paul. “Wish we could have met under better circumstances.”

They sat down at the kitchen table and Harry poured a couple of Winner’s-Cup-and-grape-sodas, no ice.

“So, how you holdin’ up, man?” Harry asked.

“Not so great, actually. On top of Terry and everything, somebody hermaphroditized my plants.”

“I had some plants go Herm Edwards on me once,” said Harry. “Wiped me out. I gave up on everything and went to Thailand. Turned out to be the best five years of my life. One door hits you in the face, another one opens.”

“Right,” Paul said.

“Look, man, what we have here is a case of fortune smiling on us in our darkest hour. I need your help. For starters, I need to get Terry’s old Air Scrubber up and running. As you probably noticed outside, it ain’t scrubbin’ shit. You help me get things up and running, I’ll get you back in business. We’ll be partners.”

It was the best offer Paul had heard in a long time. They shook on it, and Harry raised his cup.

“Opportunities multiply as they are seized,” Harry said.

“Sun Tzu?” Paul asked.

“Ted Nugent.”

Paul couldn’t wait to tell Brandy about his day. In a strange way it was almost comforting to think that there might have been some intention behind his parents’ death, rather than utter chance.

When he got to her place, Brandy was tense and cool.

Paul tried to defuse the tension with a joke. “Look, I’ve known for months that you’re a DEA agent. I’m willing to work around it.”

Brandy wasn’t laughing. “Something’s been eating at me and it’s better to just say it. I knew Hart.”

“Okay,” Paul said. “And?”

Brandy took a moment to compose her response.

Then Paul panicked. “Wait a minute,
knew him
knew him?”

“God, no,” said Brandy. “Actually, it’s not so much about Hart as it is about his dad . . . and my dad.”

“What about them?”

Brandy unconsciously twirled her finger through her hair, lapsing into ditz mode. “They were, like, kind of the same guy,” she said.

Paul swayed for a moment, then found his balance. “Hart was your
brother?”

Brandy took a deep breath and snapped back to her normal self. “Half,” she said.

“When were you planning on letting me in on this?”

“I don’t know—as soon as possible? I didn’t want to drop everything on you at once. You were so sweet about the other stuff.”

Paul sat down for the rest of the story.

“After Hart’s dad left the Drexel’s ranch down south, he lived up here for a while. That’s why Hart’s mom moved back up here with Hart—she was still hoping to bring the family back together. Anyway, he met my mom, swept her off her feet, and voilà: Brandy. He didn’t even stick around for my debut. Now he’s a cattle baron in Argentina. I’ve never met him.”

“How’d Hart get in touch with you?”

“His mom found out about me and told him. He was sweet to me, you know? We’d just get together for lunch and stuff like that. He always said his plans were on the brink of paying off, and he loved to talk about putting me through school. Then he started getting weird. He became more and more obsessed with Lacey. The way he talked about her, it was like they were still together.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” said Paul.

“I’m sorry, Paul. But this has been hard on me, too. You know what, Hart really liked you. In fact, that’s how I first learned about you. The way he described you, you sounded like a great guy. When I met you, I felt like I already knew you.”

“Jesus. Is that everything? What else do you know about Hart? Did he ever talk about the Babalatos or . . . Doc Holland or Tate?”

“He kept the specifics to himself. One thing always stuck with me, though.”

“What’s that?” Paul said, bracing himself.

“He always said he wasn’t going down without a fight.”

NOTES:

Lisa,

Okay, I have a confession to make. After spending a little time with Sook, it’s hard not to make him a little bit cute. It just feels like that’s how the character wants to be. Just like Brandy has a heart of gold, no matter what you say about her. After thwarting your latest attempt to sully her name, I’m hoping you’ll finally accept her for who she is.

Overall, I’m feeling good about how things are going. I even put one of those workplace-safety signs up on my bulletin board: ___ DAYS WITHOUT A GRATUITOUS MURDER BY LISA. For the record, we’re now at six days (in Mercer time), and I do appreciate your restraint.

Another note in the spirit of harmony: I’d just like to confirm that, since you wrote the first chapter, I’ll be writing the last one. I’m trusting that you’ll acknowledge the logic and fairness of this.

Dave

Dave,

Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think it would be unwise for you to write the last chapter. It’s one thing to end a TV season with a vague and unsatisfying cliffhanger, but readers generally like some closure with their crime novels. At least if I write last, I’ll have a chance to tie in all the wayward clues. Plus, I have more experience.