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.

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