"How about we go someplace and sit down. There's a juice place a couple of doors down from here-it's kind of funky-and there's a Starbucks around the corner. You choose, Alan."
I noted that she hadn't included The Cheesecake Factory, which was right across the street, on her list of possible destinations. I did recall that the Starbucks near the east end of the Mall was the one where Paul Bigg was a barista.
"Starbucks," I said. I hoped there would be someone named Paul behind the counter. I wanted to see if Paul Bigg fit my mental image of the Boulder adolescent Starbucks tender.
Lucy hooked her arm in mine and led me down Pearl Street. Before we made it into the canyon created by the buildings, the wind almost lifted us off our feet. In between gusts, she said, "I'd like a seat that lets me sit with my back to the room, okay? People have been recognizing me."
I led Lucy to a table by the fireplace. She chose the chair facing the wall. "What can I get you?" I asked.
"Chai."
Sometimes I thought I was the last person in Boulder to taste chai-or, considering that Sam Purdy lived in Boulder, too, maybe the second to last. So, although I had no real interest in buying one for myself, I was intrigued at the prospect of at least getting to order one and watch it made. But I was disappointed to see that the baristas at the counter were both young women. One pierced eyebrow and three visible tattoos between the two of them. Impossibly filthy green aprons. No Paul Bigg in sight.
Chai looked to me to be a lot like hot tea and milk. The menu mentioned spices, too. I withheld judgment.
After I paid, I returned to the table with our drinks.
Lucy was staring at her hands. Her fingers were long but her nails were trimmed short, and if they were polished, the polish was clear. She looked up and mouthed, "Thank you."
"Why did you think I'd be reluctant to meet with you?" I asked.
She glanced at the occupants of the adjacent tables and leaned into the space between us before she answered. "Sam told me that you were the one who knew about the bomb at Royal's house."
I said, "Shit."
"That's why I thought you'd be reluctant to meet with me."
I shook my head to express my disappointment with Sam. "He shouldn't have told you."
She sat back, narrowed her eyes a little, and she shrugged. "That's one point of view."
"It's mine," I said.
"Is it? You made a decision to tell Sam about the explosives. Are you suggesting that telling one person is okay, but telling two people makes you unprofessional? Sorry, I'm not sure it's a point of view that you can easily defend."
She was right, of course. Pushing Humpty-Dumpty off the wall a second time doesn't make a whole lot of difference to Humpty. It's the first plop that does the irrevocable damage.
"As you can probably guess, Lucy, I can't talk to you about how I suspected that there might be explosives."
Without hesitation she said, "I can help you."
I was taken aback. I expected Lucy to ask for my assistance, not the other way around. "What do you mean? How can you help me?"
"Sam thinks you've painted yourself into a corner. You know something you'd rather not know. But he says you're someone who can't walk away from what you know. He called it a 'character defect,' by the way." She smiled at me and sipped some of her milky tea. "But he also knows that your problem and my problem may be able to be resolved simultaneously."
"Go ahead."
She lowered her voice to a bedroom whisper. "Whoever planted that bomb probably killed Royal, right?"
"It's likely," I acknowledged.
"I don't think you know who that is. Sam doesn't either. He says you wouldn't leave somebody like that on the street. To me that means only one thing: that you know somebody who may know who planted that bomb. Well, I can help you find the bomber. That's how I can help. Don't forget, I'm a detective, Alan, and right now I have lots and lots of free time on my hands."
"It won't work, Lucy. For you to help me, I'd have to tell you things that I'm not permitted to tell you."
She was prepared for my argument. "And if you don't tell me? Are you ready to live with the consequences of that? People who build explosives don't usually build just one and stop. So what if the one at Royal's house isn't the only bomb? What about that? And what about my situation? Are you ready to sit back and watch me go to jail? Cozy thinks that I'll be arrested within the week."
I didn't answer.
Lucy sat back on her chair and said, "I think you're going to let me help you. Want to know why that is?"
"Sure."
"Because, besides Sam, you're the only one who doesn't look at me like they're wondering whether or not I really did it. Even Cozy's not convinced I didn't kill Royal. Your wife-she's very sweet, Alan-but she's not sure about me, either. I can tell. But you seem to be confident that I didn't do it. And that's why I think you're going to let me help you."
I shifted my gaze outside. A plastic trash can was whistling down the Mall, doing, I guessed, about thirty. Way over the speed limit for rubbish containers.
My espresso cup was empty. I tilted it up to my lips anyway and pondered ordering myself a chai. I said, "Let's go someplace else, Lucy. We shouldn't be talking about this here."
CHAPTER 20
Lucy's place wasn't an option. The media was keeping too close an eye on it. My house wasn't an option, either. Neither Lucy nor I wanted Lauren, and therefore Cozy, to know what we were up to.
We were loitering outside Starbucks trying on alternatives when Lucy said, "We could go to Sam's house."
I considered it. "We shouldn't involve him, Lucy. His position is awkward enough as it is."
"You're right. Can we go to your office?"
"I guess that's okay. You know where it is?" She nodded. I'd forgotten that she'd responded to an emergency there with Sam years before. "There's a back door that opens onto the yard. Why don't you come in that way?"
She shifted her blond hair from her face, held it back with one hand, and smiled at me. "How about… I'll park my car around the corner and then I'll come in through the yard, and then come in the back door." She laughed. "That's always kept me out of trouble in the past."
I was impressed by her ability to find irony in her situation.
Lucy and I would be alone at my office. Diane Estevez, my friend and partner, was as likely to be working on Saturday as Boulder was to establish a sister-city relationship with Colorado Springs.
I drove the half-dozen blocks to Walnut Street and parked in back as I always did. I let myself in the French door that opened onto the yard, quieted the alarm system, and waited for Lucy to arrive.
She tapped on one of the glass panels a few minutes later.
"Nice," she said, looking at my office as though she were seeing it for the first time.
"Have a seat, Lucy. I can heat some water for tea, if you'd like. No chai here, I'm afraid."
"No, thank you, I've had enough." She touched the chair. "Is this where your patients sit?"
"There or on the couch."
Lucy was wearing a suede jacket. She took a moment to remove it and lay it on the sofa. Beneath it she was wearing a blue pinstripe shirt that was open halfway to her navel. Beneath that was a thin cotton something.
"Where do we start?" she asked.
"I don't know. I should tell you I'm not comfortable with the position I'm in right now, Lucy."
"I can appreciate that, Alan. I'm not totally comfortable with the position I'm in right now, either."
"Some people-maybe most people-would argue that what I'm about to do is highly unethical."
She sat erect, her hands on her knees. The tendons in her neck had stark definition. For the first time that morning, I got the impression that I was talking with a cop. She said, "Something I've learned working with Sam for so many years is that ethical codes should be written in pencil. Frequently they need revising. When people find new ways to be crooked, that's when it's time to rewrite the rulebook."