The Case of the Race Condition
It was another Monday morning. The sign on the door said Private Investigator.
But the sign below that said closed and I was saying yes to a third cup of coffee.
It was cold and weak, like a motto of shift left.
My partner was out of town, looking into an art forgery ring, but that was like a bad bug bounty – lots of duplicates and low pay.
When a process walked in.
They had a sob story about a suitcase of money, a horse track, and a con.
It was another sucker with a race condition.
That reminded me of the door. The closed sign has been up for weeks, but it still needed a lock.
Their story wandered, with a lot of callbacks to things I’d already heard.
Even so, I made them promise to tell me the whole thing.
I knew I should try to listen for clues, but my tab at the local donut shop needed attention.
The one catch was how much money they had left for my hourly rate.