Crazytown (The Darren Lockhart Mysteries) Read Free

the welcome party. A middle-aged woman, with a warm maternal-look about her sat at the desk near the door. Something about her made Lockhart smell fresh-baked apple pie, and he envisioned a large ball of yarn and knitting needle as she greeted him with what Lockhart had begun to think was a mandatory North Country smile.
    “Good mornin’!” she said cheerfully.
    “Ma’am, can you please tell me where I can find the chief of police?” Lockhart took out his badge. “My name is Special Agent Lockhart, with the FBI.”
    “Oh jeez. You must be here about that poor Weber boy. It’s so sad, so awful. That poor child.”
    Lockhart always did his best to dismiss sentiment regarding victims and the local population; they tended to cloud investigation, and his investigation was apparently going to be difficult enough as it was. To make matters worse, the two desks facing the front door were empty; one with a “Chief of Police” faceplate, and the other with a “Deputy” one.
    “Ma’am, I—”
    “Oh, Joy… please.”
    “Joy, ma’am, can you please tell me where the chief of police is?”
    “Oh, well, I guess he’s probably at breakfast.”
    “Breakfast? He was made aware of my taking over this investigation, was he not?
    “Oh my yes, but the Chief got diagnosed with that diabetes last year. Says he has to keep his blood sugar up.”
    Lockhart maintained his professionalism, but only because the woman reminded him of an old—much cherished—school teacher. “And the deputy?”
    “Oh, I’m sure he’s with the chief at the diner.”
    “Of course he is. A boy was executed in his town, so he decided to go have a Danish instead of waiting for the FBI.”
    “Oh, I doubt he’s having a Danish. Too much sugar in those, ya know.”
    It would have sounded patronizing coming from anyone else, but she was old, sweet, and sincere—her name was Joy, of all things. Minor incompetence aside, Lockhart decided anyone would have trouble disliking the woman, himself included.
    “Where, if I may ask, is the diner, Joy?”
    Joy seemed to light up when he stepped into informality and used her name. “Left out the door, first right, second door on the left. Dan’s Café. Can’t miss it. Best food in the state.”
    Lockhart thanked Joy and left the police station. He stepped into the streets of Crayton, nearly rolling his ankle on the uneven pavement. He hadn’t given much notice to the town on his way in. He was a myopic man when it came to his job. At forty-two, he had been with the FBI for almost two decades. The last fifteen of those twenty years spent investigating violent crimes and serial offenders. He had sacrificed having a family or sharing funny work stories around the coffee maker because he believed he had been summoned by a higher calling.
    Now, on the sidewalk of a town he hadn’t known existed a day earlier, he let the silence envelope him. It was peaceful with only the slight murmur of distant cars and people going in and out of the stores and gas station. In the air lingered the scent of pine, an aroma he had only really known from Christmas-tree shaped taxi cab air fresheners. The wind blew gently through the streets carrying the sounds of birds Lockhart couldn’t name. Some people—certainly most—would have found the serenity comforting but Lockhart grew tense in the stillness. The silences in his life were often interrupted by blood. He was overcome with a sudden sense of urgency to occupy the penetrating silence; he needed to find the chief of police.
                 
     
     
     
     
     

chapter 2
     
     
    Lockhart opted to walk to Dan’s Café, allowing him to survey the town and the people. He hoped to get an idea of the people, but he was far from camouflaged for easy infiltration. It was a t-shirt-and-jeans kind of town and Lockhart was garbed in a tailored suit and Italian leather shoes. It would have come as no surprise to him if someone had instantly suspected him of being a