blacks, and many whites, all coming home from work. From a local’s perspective, it was startling to witness this neighborhood’s transformation.
He parked in shadow on 12th, on the east side of the street.
A half hour later, a woman walked down the sidewalk. She appeared to be in her early thirties, with long chestnut-colored hair, a prominent nose, high cheekbones, and dark eyes. She wore a gray business suit, a shirt-jacket-and-slacks arrangement that did not conceal her long-legged, thoroughbred build. She carried a briefcase and walked with good posture and confidence.
Lucas got out of his Jeep as she hit the steps leading to the house with the lime green trim. He jogged across the street and said, “Lisa Weitzman?”
She stopped and turned, cool and unafraid. “Yes?”
“Spero Lucas,” he said. “I’m an investigator.”
NINE
H E SAT on her porch, on a folding metal chair that was one of two situated around a small round metal table. Lucas had asked for ten minutes of her time. She had agreed and told him to wait outside. She went into her home and when she returned she had removed her jacket. Her white button-down shirt was fitted and served her well. She took a seat in the second chair. Dusk had come to the street.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said Lisa Weitzman, after he had told her why he had sought her out. He had not been coy. He’d given her the straight information about the package and why it had been shipped to her house.
“You weren’t at home that day.”
“I don’t take time off. If I do go on vacation I leave town. But I’m at work every day, typically, out the door at seven thirty and usually not back here until six thirty, seven at night. So, no, I wasn’t aware that anyone had taken something off my porch. Certainly not a large amount of marijuana.”
“It was thirty pounds.”
“Was it shipped out from Boulder?” said Lisa.
“Huh?”
“ ‘Packed in coffee grounds and wrapped around in dryer sheets.’ ”
“ ‘Multitude of Casualties,’ ” said Lucas, with a slow, dawning smile. “The Hold Steady. You like them?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I do, too. They burn it down live.”
Their eyes met and something passed between them. Lisa pushed a strand of stray hair behind her ear and crossed one leg over the other.
“That’s how the dealers pack it, right? The coffee grounds mask the smell from the dope dogs.”
“So I hear,” said Lucas. “Any of your neighbors mention seeing suspicious activity up here?”
“A few of them certainly would. If they saw someone stealing something off my front porch…”
“Like the old lady across the street?”
“Miss Woods? She’d be one, definitely. She’d probably try to stop the culprit, too.”
“Yeah, we met.”
“She’s sweet.”
“To
you
, maybe,” said Lucas. “How about Ernest Lindsay, next door?”
“Ernest and I are cool.”
“Good guy?”
“Yeah. He has some home issues. I let him hang here sometimes, watch TV and stuff, when he wants to get out. Ernest loves movies. He even watches the black-and-whiteson TCM. He wants to be a director.” Lisa looked away, out toward the street. Perhaps she felt she had betrayed Ernest’s trust. “Ernest would have said something.”
“No doubt.”
“If I hear anything…”
“I’ll write my number down before I go. I appreciate you taking the time.”
Lisa Weitzman stood. Lucas did not. He was being presumptuous and somewhat childish. He didn’t want to go.
“Anything else?” she said.
“Nope.”
She stared at him and he said nothing.
“I’m going to have a beer,” she said. “Would you care to join me?”
“Absolutely,” said Lucas.
SHE HAD come out with a couple of Dogfish 90 Minute IPAs, candles, and matches. She told him about her work in copyright law, saying with sarcasm that it was “fascinating,” and he said that he did investigative work for a private-practice defense attorney who had an office down by
He parked in shadow on 12th, on the east side of the street.
A half hour later, a woman walked down the sidewalk. She appeared to be in her early thirties, with long chestnut-colored hair, a prominent nose, high cheekbones, and dark eyes. She wore a gray business suit, a shirt-jacket-and-slacks arrangement that did not conceal her long-legged, thoroughbred build. She carried a briefcase and walked with good posture and confidence.
Lucas got out of his Jeep as she hit the steps leading to the house with the lime green trim. He jogged across the street and said, “Lisa Weitzman?”
She stopped and turned, cool and unafraid. “Yes?”
“Spero Lucas,” he said. “I’m an investigator.”
NINE
H E SAT on her porch, on a folding metal chair that was one of two situated around a small round metal table. Lucas had asked for ten minutes of her time. She had agreed and told him to wait outside. She went into her home and when she returned she had removed her jacket. Her white button-down shirt was fitted and served her well. She took a seat in the second chair. Dusk had come to the street.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said Lisa Weitzman, after he had told her why he had sought her out. He had not been coy. He’d given her the straight information about the package and why it had been shipped to her house.
“You weren’t at home that day.”
“I don’t take time off. If I do go on vacation I leave town. But I’m at work every day, typically, out the door at seven thirty and usually not back here until six thirty, seven at night. So, no, I wasn’t aware that anyone had taken something off my porch. Certainly not a large amount of marijuana.”
“It was thirty pounds.”
“Was it shipped out from Boulder?” said Lisa.
“Huh?”
“ ‘Packed in coffee grounds and wrapped around in dryer sheets.’ ”
“ ‘Multitude of Casualties,’ ” said Lucas, with a slow, dawning smile. “The Hold Steady. You like them?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I do, too. They burn it down live.”
Their eyes met and something passed between them. Lisa pushed a strand of stray hair behind her ear and crossed one leg over the other.
“That’s how the dealers pack it, right? The coffee grounds mask the smell from the dope dogs.”
“So I hear,” said Lucas. “Any of your neighbors mention seeing suspicious activity up here?”
“A few of them certainly would. If they saw someone stealing something off my front porch…”
“Like the old lady across the street?”
“Miss Woods? She’d be one, definitely. She’d probably try to stop the culprit, too.”
“Yeah, we met.”
“She’s sweet.”
“To
you
, maybe,” said Lucas. “How about Ernest Lindsay, next door?”
“Ernest and I are cool.”
“Good guy?”
“Yeah. He has some home issues. I let him hang here sometimes, watch TV and stuff, when he wants to get out. Ernest loves movies. He even watches the black-and-whiteson TCM. He wants to be a director.” Lisa looked away, out toward the street. Perhaps she felt she had betrayed Ernest’s trust. “Ernest would have said something.”
“No doubt.”
“If I hear anything…”
“I’ll write my number down before I go. I appreciate you taking the time.”
Lisa Weitzman stood. Lucas did not. He was being presumptuous and somewhat childish. He didn’t want to go.
“Anything else?” she said.
“Nope.”
She stared at him and he said nothing.
“I’m going to have a beer,” she said. “Would you care to join me?”
“Absolutely,” said Lucas.
SHE HAD come out with a couple of Dogfish 90 Minute IPAs, candles, and matches. She told him about her work in copyright law, saying with sarcasm that it was “fascinating,” and he said that he did investigative work for a private-practice defense attorney who had an office down by
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