Flight ik-8

by Jan Burke

  He glanced through the files Wilkes had given him, but did not see any familiar names. A few of the applications were nearly illegible. He thought of Joe Koza, the lab’s questioned-documents examiner, and wondered if he’d be able to decipher them. He was reminded that he needed to check in with Koza about the bloodstained business card he had found on Lefebvre’s body. By now Joe probably had found time to run laser and other tests that would allow him to read the printing on the card.

  As he neared the end of the second folder, he found one application that wouldn’t need Koza’s expertise. The lettering was so neatly aligned, it seemed impossible that the form had been filled in by hand. The application was for a W. L. Wallace. He found others that had a draftsmanlike quality, but none quite so neat as Wallace’s.

  He set the folders aside and took out a thick sheaf of photocopies he had made of the small notebook Lefebvre had carried on the plane.

  The copies from the notebook made a good-size stack of papers because it had been almost full — Lefebvre had written on one side of each page, then turned the notebook over and started writing on the other side. Frank had been able to copy only two small notebook pages at a time, and the result made awkward reading. At least, he thought, all the blank space left room for his own notes. He knew there were ways to scan things like this into a computer and use a program to rearrange them on a page, but there never seemed to be money in the budget for things like computer scanners. The local high schools had better equipment than the police department did — which wasn’t saying much.

  Looking through the pages once, then spinning them around to read the reverse side, he began to make a list of the cases covered in the notebook. He decided to ask for files on these. It might help him to learn how Lefebvre had worked. And the names of his enemies.

  He couldn’t help but notice that the last few pages of writing seem to have been made under some stress. They were in connection with the Amanda case. He was especially interested in these. Seth’s name was often in them.

  Irene finished her work, sent it in by modem, and gave him a quick kiss before going to bed. He was tempted to follow her, but he kept working, sure he was getting close to something now.

  He was dismayed when he realized that Lefebvre had started making repeated lists in connection with the murders of Trent and Amanda Randolph — lists of names. Names of members of the department and police commission. What was Lefebvre on to?

  He found one exception — one name that he couldn’t make sense of. It didn’t relate to any name he had seen in the files, and as far as he knew, it wasn’t the name of an officer, detective, or crime lab worker.

  Doremi. He repeated the name in his head a few times until it began to sing a little song.

  Do-re-mi.

  But what the hell did it mean?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a loud cry, a sound of pain and fear and distress. It was as familiar as it was unsettling — Irene was having a nightmare, crying out in her sleep. He listened, but although he could hear her stirring restlessly, she did not make any other sounds. Still, he put his work away and moved to the bedroom.

  She had fallen asleep while reading in bed, and the lamp beside it was still on. The book had been knocked to the floor, as had most of the covers. The dogs had made the most of this latter situation, but a stern look from him was enough to get them to retreat. The cat, who usually slept next to Irene, had moved to the rocking chair — obviously not willing to put up with all the disquiet in the bed.

  The room was chilly — a cool ocean breeze came through the open window. He would not close the window — Irene’s fear of enclosed spaces prohibited shutting it. He put the sheet and blanket over her again, but by the time he had finished quietly undressing, she had already kicked them down around her feet. As she dreamed, she was breathing as fast and hard as any runner after a sprint.

  “Irene, you’re safe,” he said softly. “It’s okay, you’re safe.”

  She murmured something unintelligible, then grew quiet. He was starting to freeze his ass off, but still, he slowly and gently eased into bed. More than once he had been kicked when she took off “running” in her sleep. Recently, the nightmares had not come to her so frequently or as violently as in the past, but he knew the last few days had provided more than enough stress to bring one on. He pulled the covers up again and turned off the light.

  She half awakened and said, “You’re cold,” then snuggled closer to him.

  He held her, warming beneath her, stroking her back as he listened to the sound of the nearby sea and then to her soft and steady breathing.

  But just before he fell asleep, three notes played in his head — do-re-mi.

  23

  Wednesday, July 12, 10:00 A.M.

  St. Anthony ’s Catholic Church, Las Piernas

  Frank had worried that there would be only four other mourners at Lefebvre’s funeral: Yvette Nereault, Marie, Polly Logan, and Irene. Now, sitting next to Irene in the last pew of St. Anthony’s Catholic Church, he counted forty-seven people in attendance — not a bad turnout for a man no one had heard from for ten years. At first he thought the majority of the small crowd were curiosity seekers, but while he saw two or three people who might fit that description, there were many more who didn’t.

  Pete wasn’t here at the church, but Frank had been able to talk him and Reed into helping with surveillance at the cemetery. Reed would videotape the graveside service, or more accurately, the faces of the mourners, while Pete noted license plates. Frank was hoping that the killer would feel compelled to attend, but he kept that hope to himself. He had learned a lesson from his conversation with the chief — he told Pete and Reed that he was hoping that Lefebvre’s connection to Dane might show up.

  Here in the church, he seemed to be the only one from the department in attendance.

  The closed casket near the altar was a plain and inexpensive one, but it was draped in flowers and there were many wreaths and other flowers surrounding it. He was puzzled — Lefebvre had been by all accounts a loner, and no one had seen him for ten years. Who were these mourners, and who had sent all the flowers? Most of the names in the guest book were not familiar to him, but he had written them down in his notebook. Did Yvette Nereault have a wide circle of friends in Las Piernas, people who were responding in sympathy for the loss of her brother? He wanted to get a look at the cards on the flowers, but he didn’t want to place any additional strain between himself and Yvette Nereault.

  He saw her now, sitting in the front pew. Although she was not weeping, her grief was evident. She seemed to be intent on bearing up for the person sitting next to her — the boy Frank had met outside Lefebvre’s condo. Another woman sat on the other side of the boy, bending to whisper something to him. The woman was heavily veiled, so Frank could not see her face or even the color of her hair. When she sat up again, he had an impression of both restraint and strength. Marie, the owner of the Prop Room, sat next to her, weeping. On the other side of Marie, an elderly man with close-cropped gray hair and military posture turned and surveyed the church, as if sensing Frank’s study of him. But in the next moment Frank realized that the man was making his own study of the mourners. His eyes met Frank’s, held for a moment, then continued to scan the crowd.

  “Guy’s a cop,” he whispered, not realizing he had said it aloud until Irene spoke softly in reply.

  “Matt Arden.”

  Frank turned to her. Because she had to leave for work soon after the graveside ceremony, they had driven to the funeral separately. Until now, she had not said anything to him since he’d sat down beside her.

  She was still watching Arden and added, “He was Phil’s mentor, you know. He’s not looking well.”

  Frank thought the same — the ten years since Lefebvre’s death had not been kind to Matt Arden.

  “This has got to be so hard on him,” she said, but something in her voice caught his attention and he saw how hard this was on her — and that she was trying
to hide her grief from him. He put an arm around her shoulders, and understanding the gesture, she leaned against him and let the tears fall. When she started fumbling through her purse, he gave her his handkerchief.

  He watched the other mourners and noticed that they did not seem to know one another. They sat a little apart from one another and did not converse.

  The priest entered and began the funeral Mass. Frank had been to enough funerals to quickly recognize that this priest, a young man, had had no acquaintance with Lefebvre. He paused to consult notes whenever any mention of the deceased was called for, and never said Lefebvre’s name without carefully pronouncing it, like a child who has learned to read a new and difficult word. After a series of prayers, at the point of the Mass where Frank expected a routine sermon assuring the mourners that Lefebvre was in a better place, the priest said, “Let us take a few moments to celebrate Detective Lefebvre’s life by sharing our memories of him. While I did not have the honor of knowing him personally, Mrs. Nereault, Philippe’s sister, tells me that some of you would like to share your memories of him. I hope you’ll do so now. Would anyone like to begin?”

  The result, after a moment’s hesitation, was a line at the microphone. One by one, the mourners spoke of family members — of their brothers, sons, daughters, wives — who had been murder victims, and of Philip Lefebvre’s dedication in finding the killers. Moreover, they spoke of his kindnesses to their families, of his support that continued through the killers’ trials, and well beyond.

  Frank took out his notebook and started writing. When Irene saw what he was doing, he thought she might object. Instead, she pulled out her own notebook.

  The stories were varied, but had certain elements in common. The speakers often told of Lefebvre persisting long after others had given up. They always spoke of Lefebvre’s concern for the families, of how kind and considerate he had been to them. They all stated their faith in his honesty. No one made a direct reference to the accusations made against him after his disappearance, but they clearly believed this man who had helped them could not have been a bad cop. To them, Lefebvre was unquestionably a hero.

  No one from Lefebvre’s own family got up to speak. At one point, the boy turned around to stare intently at Frank, until the veiled woman noticed and apparently told him not to look back again. A few minutes went by while he looked straight ahead, and then he began stealing glances whenever the woman seemed distracted.

  Toward the end of the Mass, Frank heard the church doors open, then a woman’s half-hushed voice. He turned to see Tory Randolph making an entrance. He found himself ready to block her way if she started to make a scene. She looked around, saw him, smiled, saw Irene, stopped smiling — saw Polly Logan, and frowned. She then pulled a harried-looking man into the pew across the aisle. The man stumbled over the kneeler as she dragged him behind her, nearly falling into her lap before he regained his balance. He righted himself, but his black-rimmed glasses had fallen halfway down his nose. He used his middle finger to push them up again, inadvertently flipping the bird to the assembled company.

  “That’s the unfortunate Mr. Britton,” Irene murmured. “Pray for him.”

  24

  Wednesday, July 12, 10:00 A.M.

  A Private Home in Las Piernas

  The Looking Glass Man checked his watch. The church service would be starting now. He had a little more time. It would not do to arrive early. The police always watched for suspects among mourners and spectators.

  Frank Harriman would certainly do so. His brows drew together as he considered Harriman. Bad sign that he had gone to the university. The Looking Glass Man did not worry that Harriman could trace him from there — he had never used real information when signing up. Still, he was annoyed that Harriman had even thought to go to the campus. Something must be done about Harriman.

  Perhaps an accident in the home. He would bring a few supplies with him today — both Harriman and his wife would be away from the house. First they would attend the funeral and then they would go on to work. There might be a little time to set something up.

  Today was a busy day, though. He felt compelled to watch them lower Lefebvre into the ground — he regretted that he had been unable to see the wreckage of the plane, but a burial was better than nothing. From there, he planned to visit St. Anne’s Hospital — not because he wished Captain Bredloe well, but because he knew Matt Arden would undoubtedly do so. Arden had been in Lefebvre’s confidence. Arden must be watched.

  He forced himself to clear his mind of these immediate worries and began to review the blueprints for the targeted building, again confirming the wisdom of his choices in his placement of the devices. He was anxious about this aspect of the work. Placement was a key issue both for effectiveness and avoidance of premature discovery. And it was the one subject Wendell Leroy Wallace had not fully discussed in his notes.

  The Looking Glass Man could have learned how to construct such devices from a number of sites on the Internet or from the how-to books that could be found anywhere from swap meets to public libraries. He chose instead to learn from Wallace — that late, local master of the explosive. Wallace had loved precision and neatness, and kept detailed records of his experiments, which made the Looking Glass Man embrace him as a secret soulmate. Wallace had sacrificed himself to his craft some years ago, before the Looking Glass Man had a chance to meet him, but his photocopies of the bomber’s notebooks were among his favorite reading materials.

  He rolled up the blueprints and carefully stored them. He opened a binder that held a copy of one of Wallace’s later notebooks, turning to a section that described devices for use in automobiles. He read for a few moments, gratified that the necessary ingredients would not require a shopping expedition. Then his watch beeped three times, and he knew it was time to go to the cemetery. He looked at the watch with a sense of disappointment.

  How he missed hearing do-re-mi!

  25

  Wednesday, July 12, 11:45 A.M.

  Good Shepherd Cemetery, Las Piernas

  The graveside service began under a hot July sun that made the black-veiled woman sway from the heat. No, Frank decided, it wasn’t the heat that made her sway. Although she held the boy’s hand firmly, she seemed distracted, more upset than at the church. The boy continued to watch Frank. It might have unnerved him to have anyone else regard him so fixedly, but there was nothing hostile or even overly curious in the boy’s stare. It was as if the grave between them formed a much deeper chasm, and the boy was willing him to find a place to cross. For what reason, Frank could not begin to guess.

  He was wondering again if the boy could be Lefebvre’s son when movement several yards away caught his attention. A large, neatly dressed man sought the sparse shade of a jacaranda tree. There was deeper shade nearer to the grave, but the man seemed to want to keep his distance. He was wearing wraparound sunglasses and looked down in a slightly different direction often enough to make Frank briefly wonder if the man was there not for the funeral, but to visit a grave. Something about him made the hair on the back of Frank’s neck rise — the way he stood, the way he moved, the way he watched the mourners. Frank looked to see if Reed or Pete had noticed him and saw that they were as attuned to the man as he was. It was then that Frank noticed that the man was looking down and away not toward a gravestone, but to avert his face from the camera whenever Reed moved it toward him.

  Reed’s presence was not obvious, but the man knew where he was. Matt Arden also knew. Now Frank saw that Arden was watching the man beneath the jacaranda, too.

  The large stranger stood straighter and walked away. Pete followed him.

  The priest was sprinkling the casket with holy water when a high-pitched, electronic ringing rent the air. As the rest of the group near the grave looked on in irritation and disbelief, Tory Randolph pulled a phone from her purse.

  “Hi,” she said in a loud voice. “I’m so glad you called me back. I’ve been trying to reach you about the material for the d
raperies in the guest cottage. Have you—”

  But before she could get any further in her drapery order, the woman in the black veil marched over to her, grabbed the phone from her hand, and pitched it onto the nearby pavement with a force and accuracy that could have won her a place in the Dodgers’ starting lineup.

  “Hey!” Tory protested. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Today is not about you,” the woman said angrily.

  “Do I know you?” Tory said.

  Frank began moving toward them, wondering if they were going to start a shoving match right here in the cemetery.

  “Get out of here,” the woman said. “Get out now.”

  Tory put her hands on her hips. “Just a—”

  “Apologize,” Dale Britton said to his wife with surprising firmness.

  Tory eyed him angrily but said nothing.

  “Very well, then, I will.” He turned to the veiled woman. “We apologize. It was incredibly rude to create a disturbance at a time like this. I’m sorry, Ms.—?”

  “I’ll send money for the phone,” she said, not telling him her name.

  “That won’t be necessary. Our condolences to your family.”

  He took Tory by the arm and steered her toward their gold Lexus. She got into the driver’s seat and pulled away from the curb almost before he was able to get into the car. Frank noticed that Britton had slammed part of his suit coat in the door — several inches of dark blue fabric waved along the side of the car as Tory sped away.

  The assembled guests murmured, but the ceremony ended without further disturbance. The family group stayed behind as most of the mourners left. Irene moved a little distance away to give the family some privacy.

  He looked for Pete, but didn’t see him. Pete had apparently followed the jacaranda man. Reed signaled to Frank that he was going, too.