by Jan Burke
That afternoon Myles did not betray his concern over Mr. Dane’s lack of appetite, although he knew Mr. Dane’s chef would be nearly inconsolable. Myles’s years in service to Mr. Dane had taught him to read the most subtle indicators of his master’s moods, and Mr. Dane’s almost untouched luncheon was a sign far from subtle. He knew the reason for Mr. Dane’s pensiveness, of course.
Myles handed the plate and glass to an underling. He took time to wash his hands, carefully drying them and checking his manicure before returning to his master’s side.
Mr. Dane had not returned to reading his paper. He was standing now, looking toward the open sea. Without averting his gaze, he made a little sign to Myles, who in turn signaled the others to leave. This was speedily accomplished, but it was some time before Mr. Dane spoke to him.
“Myles — you have had an opportunity to read the Express today?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dane reached into his vest pocket and removed his Hamilton watch. He opened it, wound it carefully, and replaced it before saying, “Then you know which article most interested me?”
“Yes, sir. The one about the wreckage of a plane.”
“Oh, not just a plane.”
“No, sir.”
“‘Identity of the pilot withheld pending notification of the next of kin,’” Dane quoted.
“They’ve found him, sir.”
“Presumably. His plane, anyway.”
“Shall I check to see if progress has been made on the identification, Mr. Dane?”
“Later, perhaps.”
Myles waited. He knew not to rush Mr. Dane.
“Tell me, Myles — do you anticipate any problems?”
“Difficult to say, sir.”
“That is not the answer I wished to hear.”
“Which is what makes it difficult to say, sir.”
Dane smiled. “Why, Myles! Unexpected wit.”
“I apologize if I seemed… impertinent, sir.”
Dane waved this away. “What is your evaluation of the situation?”
“That we need to monitor events, sir. Until now, we worried that he might be able to bring some pressure to bear. We have probably long been out of danger. Ten years—”
“There is no statute of limitations on murder,” Dane said testily.
“No, sir. But as we did then, we may rely on certain individuals who will have access to any…”
“‘Recovered evidence’?” Dane sneered.
“To any object or obstacle we may wish to have removed.”
“Are we as sure of our situation now as we were then?”
“More certain than previously, sir.”
Dane raised an eyebrow.
“Much more certain,” Myles said.
Dane brooded for a time. “I don’t share your level of confidence, I’m afraid. Too many of our acquaintances have been convicted of crimes I’m not so sure they committed. Not that they were innocents, mind you — and admittedly their operations were less subtle and clever than ours — but our failure to discover how they were trapped disturbs me greatly.”
Myles remained silent.
“You do realize, Myles, that I would feel so much more at ease if the dismissal of charges ten years ago had come through our efforts and not those of some unknown?”
“Yes, sir.”
Eventually, Dane sighed. “I don’t think I’ll sail today after all,” he said. “Being in this marina makes me think of that bastard Trent Randolph. What a damned nuisance that man’s death turned out to be!”
“Yes, sir,” Myles said. “May I do anything more for you before asking for your car?”
“No, thank you, Myles.”
Mr. Dane was unhappy. Myles vowed to be extra vigilant in matters connected to the discovery of Lefebvre’s plane.
He would do just about anything to receive one of Mr. Dane’s smiles.
7
Monday, July 10, 12:30 P.M.
Las Piernas Police Department
Homicide Division
Frank told Carlson that the next-of-kin notification had been made and watched the other man hurry over to the Wheeze with ready-made press releases. As he returned to his desk, he noticed that most of the other desks were empty. Pete and Vince were still in, but neither acknowledged his presence.
Their silence no longer bothered him. In his present mood, he welcomed it. He reread the file on Lefebvre and the reports taken on the night of the attack on the Amanda. He focused on Elena Rosario’s report, which told of Lefebvre attacking a door with an ax in order to rescue Seth Randolph, the reports of Lefebvre’s movements on those last two days of his life, the autopsy report on Seth Randolph.
Each reading raised more and more questions in his mind. Lefebvre’s family members could have easily distanced themselves from him when the accusations were made, but they had been fiercely loyal. Even Lefebvre’s parents were uncooperative with the Las Piernas police when he disappeared.
He looked at Lefebvre’s photo, wishing he had the power to read the man’s character from it. There was so little to go on. That, he realized, said something on Lefebvre’s behalf — if he had been a bad cop, where were the signs of it?
Where were the tales from anywhere in his past to indicate that he would be inclined to take a bribe? To arrange the killing of such a key witness, would Dane dare to approach someone he had never dealt with before? Nothing in the Internal Affairs investigation indicated that Lefebvre would have been ready to cross the line — no reprimands, no signs of dissatisfaction with his job, none of his partners from his days in uniform saying they suspected him of being on the take. Instead, it seemed the worst accusation anyone could make was that he was a loner.
But was he? He had been friendly to Irene. And despite Marie’s denials, Frank was certain that Lefebvre had met a woman at the restaurant on the evening before he died.
Frank focused on the events of that day — June 21. Several witnesses said that at the press conference, Seth suddenly seemed upset. No one knew why. The press conference ended, and the room was cleared — but Lefebvre stayed behind. That night Lefebvre the loner dined with a woman at the Prop Room. A date or a business connection? Was the woman an emissary from Whitey Dane? Did she hire Lefebvre to kill Seth that night?
After thinking it over, Frank discarded that idea. Lefebvre would not hold such a meeting in a public place, let alone in one where he was so well known. He had paid for the meal with a credit card — knowing such transactions could be traced.
There was some connection between the woman and Yvette. At lunch today, Yvette was the one who had prevented Marie from naming the woman — Yvette had protected the woman’s identity. But the only woman whose name had been mentioned in connection with Lefebvre was… Irene.
Had Irene been afraid to reveal just how close she had been to Lefebvre?
He thought of Yvette’s recognition of Irene’s name, that look of amusement.
He dialed Irene’s work number. The line rang once, twice, three times, then went to her voice mail. He hesitated, suddenly aware that he was about to ask her if she had lied to him. He hung up.
He sat for a long moment with his hand on the receiver. Maybe he’d ask to be taken off the case after all.
He glanced down at the photo of Lefebvre, then looked around the office. Vince was staring at him. Some of the others had returned, but they ignored him. If he bailed on this case, would any of these men take the time to find out what had really happened to the Randolphs and Lefebvre?
He turned back to Lefebvre’s record.
Money was widely assumed to have motivated Lefebvre to murder Seth. But instead of the multiple reports of a payoff that Frank had expected, the files showed only one anonymous tip. Reed had taken the call and noted that the voice was mechanically disguised. Anyone with an ax to grind could have made that call. He began to see why the numbers he had heard up in the mountains were so varied — the rumors about the payoff amount had probably originated in-house. H
e had seen this sort of thing many times before, squad-room know-it-alls making sly remarks to one another, innuendos that soon were believed to be fact. This case had all the ingredients needed to excite the gossips — a fallen department star, envied for his success, supposedly turned into a hired killer for Whitey Dane — rumors must have been flying.
But Frank was more and more convinced that there had been no payoff. Nothing in Lefebvre’s financial records indicated money trouble or even big spending habits. He was at top pay for a detective. As in his military days, he saved more than he spent. He owned a small condo, which he had bought for a song. His only other big expenditure had been the purchase of the Cessna, and Internal Affairs documents showed that Lefebvre had saved over years to buy it and had chosen it carefully. The man had been conservative with his money, lived simply, and was not burdened by debt.
Lefebvre was not at all the typical target for bribery or a hired hit. A large enough sum might tempt any man, but given what he had learned about Lefebvre, it was hard for Frank to imagine that Lefebvre would have been the easiest person for Dane to approach. Why not bribe one of the lower-paid guards? Or send in a professional killer dressed as a hospital staff person?
He was struck by the degree to which the investigation had always focused on Lefebvre; apparently, no other suspect had been considered. He could easily see how this had happened, but still thought the investigators guilty of poor detective work.
His phone began ringing with calls from reporters. Someone must have tipped them off about who was handling the investigation. He gave a polite but standard “no comment on open cases” to all of them and referred them to the department’s public information officer. After the sixth call, he picked up the files and moved to the break room. Once his voice mail was full, the calls would transfer to the Wheeze’s desk.
He poured a cup of coffee and began looking through the coroner’s and lab reports. The physical evidence in the Seth Randolph case was of little use; the autopsy had not provided any surprises. The boy had been held down and suffocated with a pillow, and judging from the direction of the pressure, it was likely that the killer had been right-handed. Seth’s hands had been too injured from the previous attack to allow the boy to defend himself — no skin from the attacker had been found beneath the boy’s fingernails.
Trace and fingerprint evidence were inconclusive. Many people had been in and out of the hospital room during the previous twenty-four hours, including Lefebvre.
Frank also noted that Seth’s computer files had been erased. He would have to ask Henry Freeman, the department’s computer expert, if there was any chance that the files could be recovered. He knew that sometimes this could be done, that the erased files might actually still “reside” on the computer’s hard drive, but he wasn’t sure what was involved in locating and restoring them.
He finished his coffee and went back to his desk. As he sat down, Frank glanced at Vince Adams, who was now involved in completing paperwork. At the time of Seth Randolph’s murder, Vince would have been paying alimony for an ex-wife and child support for four kids. Frank recalled what Pete had said at breakfast — in addition to the payments to his first wife, Vince was beginning divorce proceedings with his third wife. Attorney fees and court costs, setting up a separate household — and the costs from the two previous marriages already on his back. He would have had all those expenses, and at a lower salary grade than the one he had now. Were there others in the department who might have found Whitey Dane’s offer too tempting to refuse?
He became aware of some new tension in the room and followed the gaze of the other detectives. The Wheeze was coming toward his desk with a skirt-stretching stride, and he found himself thinking that she could teach Carlson how to march. Maybe the two of them could form a private drill team.
Some of his amusement must have shown on his face, because she raised her brows. They had been recently re-dyed, he noticed, a process she went through every few weeks. Now, as always on the first day or two after she had them done, her brows were alarmingly dark — a cue for Pete to stalk behind her, doing Groucho imitations behind her back.
The Wheeze was a tall, brittle woman in her mid-fifties, slender and conservatively dressed. She wore her (also re-dyed) ash-blond hair pulled back into a chignon. He supposed that if her mouth had been a little less wide, her eyes a little less hard, she might have been a handsome woman. Irene had met her once at an office party and said, “When none of you are watching, she goes into Bredloe’s office, tries on his hat, and sits in his chair.”
Looking up at her now, Frank thought she probably strapped on the captain’s gun while she was at it.
She was carrying a small stack of pink telephone message notes by the fingertips of both hands, as if she were parading a consecrated host through the squad room. She snapped them down on his desk without saying a word, turned on her heel, and headed back toward the captain’s office.
“Walks on water,” Pete muttered.
“Easy for her,” Frank said. “It freezes under her feet.”
Pete gave a muffled snort of laughter and grinned at him — then looked up to see Vince scowling at them. Pete said, “Oh, for God’s sake,” then stood up and walked out of the room.
Frank sorted through the slips. Most were calls from reporters — one television reporter, Polly Logan from Channel 6, had called eleven times. Frank knew the obnoxious woman and smiled to himself when he thought of the Wheeze doing battle with Logan. The smile faded when he came across a message from Yvette Nereault. She had called to say that Lefebvre’s funeral would be held on Wednesday morning.
He stood up and walked toward Bredloe’s office. As he approached, he could hear the murmur of voices through the captain’s half-open door.
“He can’t see you right now, Detective Harriman,” the Wheeze said.
“I’ll wait, then,” Frank said.
She started to object, but Bredloe’s deep voice called out, “Frank? Come in — you should see this.”
Frank entered the office and shut the door behind him to keep the Wheeze from eavesdropping. He discovered the captain was alone — the low voices were coming from a small television.
An aerial shot of the mountainside where the wreckage had been found was on the screen. There was little to be seen — it was basically a shot of the trees above the ravine. As the reporter’s helicopter hovered, he spoke of how difficult it would be for searchers to spot the Cessna.
The scene suddenly changed to a hospital room, and Frank was startled to realize that he was seeing Seth Randolph and Philip Lefebvre on one of the last days of their lives. The sound had been cut out, so he could not hear what Lefebvre was saying to someone else in the room. He was hovering near Seth, who looked pale and frightened. Over the brief shot, a news anchor’s voice said, “When asked if any evidence in connection with the murder of Seth Randolph was recovered at the scene of the crash, the Las Piernas Police Department refused to comment.”
“They’ve shown that same ten-second clip a dozen times,” Bredloe said, turning the set off. “Must be the only one they saved.”
He walked slowly toward the windows along one wall of the room. He was a tall man in his late fifties, about six foot eight, and built like a bull. Unlike Carlson, Bredloe had worked patrol in the toughest parts of the city before he made detective. While there had been times when Frank disagreed with Bredloe’s decisions, he had always respected him, not just because of his experience, but because he believed that Bredloe did all he could to make the department the best it could be.
After a moment of silently staring out over the city, he seemed to remember that Frank was in the office. “Have a seat,” he said, and returned to his own chair. “Lieutenant Carlson tells me you want to be taken off the Lefebvre case. If that’s true…?”
Frank hesitated briefly, thinking of Irene, then said, “No, sir.”
“No?”
“If you had asked me on Saturday night, when I spoke to Lieu
tenant Carlson, I would have told you I didn’t want it. But I’ve changed my mind.”
“Why?”
Because too many cops wanted me to join them for breakfast the next day, he thought. To Bredloe, he said, “I’m not sure you’d like my answer.”
“You know me better than that.”
“Yes — I apologize.”
Bredloe waited.
“Because of the possibility that Lefebvre looked guilty but wasn’t.”
Bredloe seemed ready to object, but apparently thought better of it. He stood and began to pace near the windows. He took three or four turns before he said, “You won’t find a lot of support for that theory in this department.”
“Believe me, sir, I know.”
With a small smile, Bredloe nodded toward the squad room. “It has been a quiet day out there.”
“I don’t imagine that was true any time I stepped out of the room.”
The smile broadened. “No, it did get a little noisier then.”
Frank said nothing.
“I have no doubt you can cope with a little friction. After all, you’ve dealt with that sort of heat before now. Selfishly, I depended on your ability to do so when it was decided that you should be the one to handle this investigation. That wasn’t the only consideration, or even the first consideration, but I won’t deny it was a factor.”
Frank shrugged. “Thanks for the faith, but popularity contests aside, I may not be able to learn much. Ten years—”
“I don’t expect miracles.”
Frank was silent.
“If you had already decided to stay with the case,” Bredloe asked, “what brought you into my office?”
“Lefebvre’s funeral arrangements.”
Bredloe frowned, and Frank suddenly wondered if he had made a mistake in bringing Lefebvre’s funeral to the captain’s attention; perhaps the captain, like the others in the department, wanted only to distance himself from the pariah — dead or alive. Deciding it was too late to turn back now, Frank recited the information on the note.