Crazytown (The Darren Lockhart Mysteries) Read Free Page A

fed.
    Special Agent Lockhart had learned early on that a job like his could break a man down. There is only so much reality a person can take before wishing they didn’t know the extent of humanity’s savagery. Thus, he took pleasure in the little things that helped him stay out of a straightjacket. Eighties music and nice clothes made him feel like a person, an individual instead of one of the nameless, faceless members of the multitude, destined to end up on a cold metal autopsy table. Lockhart was no victim, so if that meant wearing a suit from Hugo Boss, Dolce & Gabbana, or even the occasional Armani—at the expense of the paychecks he rarely had time to spend on anything anyway—then so be it. His Ralph Lauren Black Label Anthony Dot Stripe suit cost more than most of the cars in town, a fact that instilled both pride and depression.
    The atmosphere inside Dan’s Café was boisterous. Families and neighbors chattered over breakfast and a steady flow of coffee being grabbed from the service window. A line cook could occasionally be seen in the kitchen, his head always down, even when setting a plate in the window accompanied by the food order ticket. About twenty tables and booths were crammed into the small space, and there was a line at the door. People loitered around inside the entrance and even on the sidewalk, waiting for an open table at what seemed to be the town hot spot.
    Lockhart had to excuse himself to the head of the line and asked the young hostess, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, where he could find the chief of police. She pointed to the counter-seating area at a gray-haired man with a retired boxer’s build. He wore a large green coat that hid any evidence of a gun or other police equipment.
    Lockhart maneuvered through the crowd of people until he was nearly touching the chief, who was hunched over a bowl of bran flakes, reading the newspaper.
    “Chief Donaldson?” Lockhart asked.
    The Chief turned his head slightly, barely enough to notice the special agent at all, keeping his attention firmly locked on the newspaper. He had a weathered face and reminded Lockhart of an aged silver gorilla in a zoo—something that was obviously once so powerful but was now resigned to relative captivity, refusing to move unless absolutely necessary. He certainly didn’t look too interested in Lockhart’s presence.  “You the Fed?”
    A few patrons turned to look when he uttered the remark.
    “I’m Special Agent Lockhart.” He paused, waiting for a reaction that never came. “From Washington.”
    “Yeah, I assume that’s where you all come from,” the chief said to the crease of his newspaper. He chuckled at his own comment.
    “Chief, do you mind?”
    Chief Donaldson sighed before reaching for his wallet. He set a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Thanks, Joanne. See you later, sweetie.”
    The middle-aged waitress across the gaudy teal Formica counter blushed as she thanked the chief, as if he was some kind of celebrity leaving a tip, or perhaps she was a schoolgirl with a puppy-dog crush.
    Chief Donaldson stood with what Lockhart viewed as a combination of effort and annoyance, as if “the fed’s” very presence was a major inconvenience. The chief was a large man who had no problem standing eye-to-eye with Lockhart at just over six feet tall, but Donaldson had at least forty pounds on the agent, most of which was probably muscle at one time. He had a somewhat ex-military look about him, but years of simple living had caught up to him. His deep-set gray eyes looked tired, and his silver hair only dusted the top of his head. He walked past Lockhart and out the door without a word.
    Lockhart followed after an awkward, silent moment of staring at the waitress.
    “Hope you don’t mind. I’m going to drive back to the office.”
    Lockhart assumed that he meant he had a ride back to the police station, but before he could even grab the passenger-side door handle, Donaldson had the car