Heads You Lose (25 page)

“Give me thirty minutes,” Paul replied, and hung up the phone.

Paul knocked on Terry’s, now Harry’s, front door. There was no answer, so he knocked again. He waited another minute and then tried the door. It was unlocked, so he let himself in.

“Harry,” Paul said. “I’m here. Where are you?”

Paul traveled through the house until he reached Terry’s old office. He pushed the door open and found Harry Lakes, slumped back in a chair with a single bullet through his head. Paul shook him, just to be sure. Harry’s entire body crumpled over to the side and fell to the floor.

While there have been cases of people surviving bullet wounds to the head, this was not one of them. Harry Lakes, Esq., was undeniably, irreversibly, irreparably dead.

NOTES:

Dave,

Harry Lakes, R.I.P. This is like the pumpernickel from
The Fop
all over again. Should a Jerry Gates, third cousin twice removed from Terry Jakes, turn up in the next chapter, I swear to you, another of your beloved characters will be fish chum.

Let’s recap: We are nowhere near solving the Hart and Terry Jakes murders. If we follow the assumption that all the murders were committed by the same individual, then we only need to solve one. Harry Lakes gives us a clear window of time when the murder occurred and therefore the simplest way to check an alibi.

Let’s say Harry was murdered between 1:15 and 1:45 p.m. on

Wednesday. All we have to do now is interview the town folk and find out where they were during that half-hour. You can handle that, right?

I mean, you want this to end eventually, don’t you? I know I do.

Lisa

Lisa,

Can I get you anything else while I’m up? Compelling plot developments for you to commandeer? Essential backstory to ridicule? Another painstakingly crafted character to assassinate?

I guess I was hoping success might have helped you get your need for control under control. Your insistence on having the last chapter suggests otherwise. I wonder if you’d be so bold with any of the alternative coauthors you’re so reticent about.

How about we flip for it, just like Paul and Lacey?

Dave

CHAPTER 24

Paul’s gut told him to run, but he didn’t make it to the front door. Harry Lakes had called him only a half-hour earlier, so he was already a person of interest. The longer he waited to call, the more suspicious it’d look. And the way his career was going, he had less to hide every day. He called 911. He figured he’d still have twenty minutes or so to look for whatever it was that Harry had wanted to show him.

The place was a mess, but it didn’t look ransacked. The giant oak desk was piled with article printouts, Terry’s cheap journals, hideous vintage porn magazines, handwritten letters from friends, and plenty of documents that were unclassifiable at first glance. It was hard to see where Terry’s stuff left off and Harry’s began, except for a few pieces of mail addressed to Harry in Jirsa, CA. Paul grabbed a couple of paper towels from the kitchen and wrapped his hands in them to go through the papers without leaving prints.

The journals were standard Terry stuff: diatribes, poems, sketches for inventions. Paul checked the last few pages of each and came up empty. He turned to Harry’s mail. The first piece was a brochure from a Belarusian mail-order bride outfit. The next was from an ex-wife looking for palimony. The third and last was a month-old letter from the State Department of Parole, citing Harry Lakes for failure to appear and notifying him that another violation would make him, officially, a fugitive.

Paul figured Harry might not have left the document (or whatever it was) out in the open. He opened a desk drawer. Sticking out of a book of haiku was an obituary page from the
San Francisco Chronicle
, dated three months back. Before he could study it, Paul heard a car coming up the driveway. He bolted for the kitchen, pocketing the obit page and the paper towels on the way. He sat down at the table and tried to look composed. Then it occurred to him how fast the response had been—what, five minutes, tops? He eyed the back door. If the killer was back to tidy up, Paul’s only option would be hauling ass into the forest. For the first time in his life, Paul prayed for the company of Sheriff Ed.

Then he heard the front door open. A voice called his name. It was Deputy Doug.

“In here,” said Paul. “The kitchen.”

Doug looked a little shaken up himself. He told Paul to wait while he checked out the crime scene. When he came back to the kitchen, he questioned Paul about his day. Paul told him about the phone call from Harry, as well as their meeting the previous day. He described both as social calls, leaving out the business partnership they’d informally launched, as well as the mysterious item Harry had mentioned. “Reminiscing about Terry, that kind of stuff,” Paul said.

As Doug filled out his report, Paul noticed that the deputy didn’t seem like himself. A confident glint in his eye made for a striking change from his usual look, which fluctuated between confused determination and determined confusion.

“So how’s the investigation going?” Paul asked.

“That’s official business.”

“Come on, man,” said Paul, “I just want to help out. What’s going on?”

Doug thought for a moment, then looked around as though making sure no one was listening. He stared Paul down and announced, “With all due respect to Mr. Lakes, we just got a whole lot closer to our killer.”

“What, you think I did it?” said Paul.

“Not necessarily, although the general vicinity of you and your sister does seem to be a dangerous place to be as of late. What it means is that we finally have what we in the investigative field call a
fi-nite
window.”

“Help me out with the argot,” said Paul.

“Argot?” said Doug.

“The lingo.”

Doug rolled his eyes. “Let me put it in layperson terms. Unless you’re lying about the phone call—which the phone records will show—we now have a murder that we know was done at a definite time and place,” said Doug.

Paul gave him a confused look.

“Allow me to review,” said Doug. “Crime number one, the killing of Hart Drexel. Without the head we can’t pin down the event. We don’t know when or where it happened, which significantly impairs our ability to narrow down the pool of suspects. Which, I might add, you and your sister are still in the deep end of.” He smiled at his turn of phrase.

Paul nodded solemnly.

“Crime number two,” said Doug, making the peace sign, “Terry Jakes and the tower collapse. I am not at liberty to divulge the latest findings of the . . . crime-scene guy, but let’s say for the sake of argument that we know somebody rigged the thing to collapse. Once again, no clear time frame. Could have happened anytime before Terry went up there.”

Paul raised an eyebrow as Doug continued.

“What we have here with Mr. Lakes is quite simply a different animal. We know that the crime happened right here in this house
and
that it happened between the times of approximately one-fifteen p.m. and one forty-five p.m. Bang. Finite window.”
³⁷
Doug snapped his hands into a rectangular shape to illustrate the window.

When Paul’s expression didn’t change, Doug sighed. “Think about it. Most people will have alibis for such a specific time of day. Anyone who doesn’t moves to the top of the suspect list. And I don’t think I have to tell you that whoever killed Harry must have killed Hart and Terry, too. Unless you believe that three murders in two weeks, after zero murders in twenty years, is just a coincidence.”

Paul held his tongue. In a way, he envied people who viewed the world so simply.
³⁸
It wasn’t an optimal trait for police work, however. Finite window or not, Harry Lakes was a wild card. No one knew the kind of connections he had, or the enemies he’d accumulated over the course of a wide-ranging life, or even why, if he and Terry had been so close, Paul had never met him.

While the murders were almost surely connected in some way, Paul thought, to assume that all three killings were done by the same person closed off all kinds of plausible scenarios. For example, what if the second and third killings represented a
response
to the first, not continuations of it? Or what if someone had wanted to kill Harry for years, and recognized his move to Mercer as a chance to tie the killing into the previous local murders? It was like Doug was stuck in the first half-hour of
Nightcrimes,
just before the obvious scenarios get shot full of holes.

The sound of another car in the driveway drained all the confidence out of Doug. Paul stayed in the kitchen as Doug went to the front door.

Paul overheard Sheriff Ed: “Jesus H., Deputy, what are you doing in here?”

“I was protecting the—” Doug said.

“We got a fresh murder here. Did you even secure the perimeter? No signs of AVD out front. Suspect could have come in on foot, still be nearby.”

“AVD?” Paul interjected.

“Abrupt vehicular departure,” Doug recited grimly.

Ed sent Doug out to case the woods. Then Ed reexamined the body and requestioned Paul, who repeated what he’d told Doug. After that, Paul was free to go.

Paul had left his phone on the seat of his truck. There was one new message: “Paul. Marv Babalato. I’m sorry about the confusion the other day. My brother and I have had a chance to talk things over and get our ducks in a row. We are prepared to make you a
very
generous offer, as well as an explanation of our interest in your property. Maximum transparency, no B.S. Give me a call.”

Whatever had the Babalatos so hot to buy the property could wait. For now, he just wanted to get out of there. Then he remembered the newspaper page in his sweatshirt pocket. He uncrumpled it and read through the listings. One in particular caught his eye: an attractive thirty-three-year-old woman named Laura Loomis. No cause of death was mentioned, but the last line got Paul’s full attention:
She is survived by her loving husband, Dr. Matthew Egan of San Francisco.

Paul tried not to pull an AVD as he took off for the Tarpit to have a talk with his sister about her would-be boyfriend, who, if Paul remembered correctly, had told Lacey he was divorced, not grieving. At the coffeehouse he found Sook playing checkers with a ten-year-old kid. “Paul, help me. I’m dying of boredom here. No offense, kid.”

“King me,” his opponent said. Sook did.

“Where’s Lacey?” Paul asked.

“Lunch break,” said Sook. “I wasn’t invited. What’s up?”

“Be right back,” said Paul.

Paul went out to the sidewalk and called Lacey on his cell.

“Lace, it’s me. What do you know about Doc Egan’s wife?”

“Um, I think you have the wrong number.”

“What? Lacey, it’s Paul, your brother.”

“Nope. No Mrs. Golaberry here. Okay, good luck,” Lacey said, and hung up.

There was only one reason she’d respond that way. Paul ran to his truck and sped the half-mile to Doc Egan’s home office, just enough time to review the doctor’s recent bio:
a.
Lies about young wife’s death of unknown causes.
b.
Takes over the business of another doctor, who was being blackmailed and has now disappeared.
c.
Arrives in peaceful mountain town just in time for string of homicides.

Lacey’s car was parked outside Egan’s office.
Don’t bust in
, Paul told himself as he pulled up. Egan probably wasn’t dangerous unless he knew someone was onto him.

The reception area was empty, so Paul knocked on the door to the examination room.

“Doc Egan? Paul Hansen here. I’m looking for my sister.”

After a long moment, the door opened. Egan came into the waiting room, giving Paul a chipper look and a warm handshake. “Paul, good to see you. We’re just finishing up here. What brings you to these parts?”

“It’s Terry’s cousin Harry Lakes. He’s dead,” Paul said with a tremor in his voice. “I found him at Terry’s.”

“Good God!” Egan exclaimed.

“Are they sure he’s dead?” Lacey asked as she entered the waiting room.

“Bullet in the forehead,” said Paul. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Lace. I’m just a little shaken up. Sook told me you were here. I just needed to talk.”

After an awkward departure from the office, Paul and Lacey got into his truck. She let out a long exhale.

“What the hell’s going on?” she demanded. “Why’d you call me about Matthew’s wife?”

“I found something at Ter—Harry’s. What do you know about her?”

“Not much,” Lacey said with a shrug. “They split up recently. It was rough.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” said Paul.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She died in June.”

“Oh,” said Lacey. After a pause, she added, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure she’s dead. What is it with you and death verification, anyway?”

She ignored the question. “So what’s he supposed to do? Tell people, ‘Hi, I’m Matthew, I’m new in town and my wife just died?’And shouldn’t we be talking about Harry Lakes right now?”

Paul just stared at her.

“Maybe Egan’s not ready to deal with her death,” Lacey offered. “So he tells people they got divorced instead. He’s in the five stages of grief or whatever.”

“Something tells me you’d respond differently if he were, say, my girlfriend. For two weeks you’ve been treating everyone like a suspect. Doctor Dreamy bats his eyes at you and it’s innocent until proven guilty?”

“Nice one, Paul,” Lacey said, and opened the truck door. “I gotta go finish my shift.”

Paul was glad to find Rafael at the Timberline, nursing a beer and a cigarette in a back booth.

“Any word from your buddy Brice?” Paul asked.

“Nope. Why don’t you join me?”

A few pints later, Paul had told Rafael about the botched Babalato meeting, Harry’s urgent call, Egan’s dead wife, even the WINO findings. When he was done, the information that had been piling up around him seemed a little less threatening.