Free Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) by Brendan DuBois

said, “I suppose so. A moment or two.”
    I dragged a chair over as the five members of the zoning board packed up their own belongings, grabbed their coats and jackets, and bustled their way out the meeting-room door. They looked like prisoners finally getting a long-promised parole. The chairwoman, a plump woman with short blond hair, called out, “Carl? Will you lock up and shut off the lights?”
    Lessard waved and said to me, “Would you like to make an appointment for tomorrow?”
    “This won’t take long, I promise,” I said. “It’s about Mark Spencer.”
    “Oh.” He seemed to peer at me closer and said, “You’re the guy who was in our office this morning, right? The one who camped out in our reception area?”
    “That’s me,” I said.
    “But I thought you talked to Hannah.”
    “I did. But I want to talk to you.”
    He had a deep, rattling cough, took out a handkerchief, and wiped at his lips. “Then talk away.”
    “Mark,” I said. “He’s been missing now for about five days. Aren’t you concerned?”
    “Concerned? About his safety? His well-being? His future with the firm?”
    I leaned forward. “How about a straight answer for once? You and your partner . . . you seem happy to dance around and duel with words, and all I’m looking for are some answers. Your fellow attorney is missing. Yet nobody seems concerned about that.”
    “Are you a friend?”
    “No,” I said. “An acquaintance, doing a favor for a friend.”
    He carefully put his handkerchief away in his pants pocket. “Ah, that would be a female friend, correct? Paula Quinn?”
    A bit of a surprise. “Yes, Paula Quinn. How did you know?”
    “Please . . . I keep my eyes and ears open. Paula is a sweet girl. All right, then, I guess the reason I’m not concerned, or Hannah, is that Mark is fine.”
    A bigger bit of a surprise. “How do you know that?”
    Some sort of emotion played across his face that I couldn’t decipher. “Why, because he informed me so today, that’s why.”

CHAPTER SIX
     
    T he uptown fire station for Tyler is right next door to the town hall, and I was positive that if every piece of their equipment were to leave right then, sirens and horns blaring, I would not move an inch.
    I stared into the pale eyes of Carl Lessard. “Say again? You talked to Mark Spencer today?”
    “He informed me he was safe. Like the day before, and the day before that.”
    I tried to process what I was hearing, as he zippered his leather bag shut and started to get up. I stood up with him and held out my hand.
    “Please, just one more moment,” I said. “Where is he?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “But you know he’s safe.”
    “I do.”
    “But . . . why did he leave? And why hasn’t he contacted Paula, or the town manager? Why just you?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”
    He started walking out and I stepped in front of him.
    “Please . . . this is important to me. Why can’t you say any more?”
    His watery eyes blinked. “You want me to say more?”
    “Please.”
    He shifted his leather bag from one hand to the other. “Mister Cole, I’m exactly one year, one month, and three days away from retiring, with a healthy retirement plan that will keep me going quite well for at least three decades. During the next one year, one month, and three days, I intend to be the perfect, quiet, and hard-working attorney, even though I work for a woman whose ancestry, I believe, could be traced to the Borgias of Renaissance Italy.”
    “But—”
    Lessard stepped closer, and I caught the smell of mothballs and pencil shavings. He said, “I represent a town made up mostly of quiet citizens, going about their lives day in and day out, but I have to endure and work with a number of liars, fools, and grifters seeking their own gain against the interest of Tyler. So be it.”
    I said nothing, letting him go on, and go on he did. “I’ve done one favor for Mark Spencer, and seeing you suffer through