Flight ik-8

by Jan Burke

  The woman in the veil and Matt Arden were talking with someone from the funeral home, choosing which flowers would be taken with them. Yvette Nereault walked over to Frank. “So — I am saying good-bye to you. I go back home today. You have my phone number there, I know. I’ll wait to hear what you learn.”

  While she was talking, Frank became aware of someone coming closer, to stand next to him. When he looked down, he was not surprised to see the boy.

  Yvette said something to the boy in French. He answered, looking stubborn. He moved even closer to Frank.

  “Won’t you introduce me to your nephew?” Frank said, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Yvette Nereault was unable to hide her surprise. The boy gave a small smile of triumph.

  Behind them, a woman’s voice said, “Don’t say another word to him!”

  Frank turned to see the veiled woman. Matt Arden stood next to her.

  “It’s too late,” Arden said to her. He studied Frank, then said, “If we can count on your confidence — we can introduce him.”

  “Confidence from the department?” Frank asked, feeling the ground shift beneath his feet as surely as if he had stepped backward and into the grave.

  “Especially from the department,” the woman said.

  He hesitated. Make a pledge like that to someone whose face he couldn’t see? He was fairly sure he knew who she was, and could guess at her reasons for wanting secrecy, but he wasn’t willing to offer that promise to a stranger. “I don’t know if I can guarantee that under every circumstance—”

  “My name is Seth Lefebvre,” the boy announced clearly. “I’m not ashamed of it! My father was a hero. That’s what everyone said. I’m proud to be Seth Lefebvre.”

  “Seth?” Frank said, startled.

  “Seth,” Matt Arden said at the same moment, but in a pained voice. “Of course you’re proud, but what you just did is dangerous. You should have let your mother decide.”

  “He knows,” Seth said, looking up at Frank. “You said ‘your nephew.’ I didn’t even tell you. You knew the day you helped me catch My Dog, didn’t you? You tried to call on the phone.”

  “Yes,” Frank said. “I wasn’t certain, though. Mr. Arden is right, your mother is only trying to protect you from danger.” He turned to her. “Elena Rosario?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly, but not lifting the veil.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  “And I’ve been wanting to talk to you!” Seth said. “Just ask Tante Yvette.”

  Yvette Nereault was the only one of the group besides Seth who was smiling. “You know, Seth, I would not need to use DNA testing to know you are my brother’s child.” To Elena, she said, “He will decide his own course, you know, just like his father. And God help anyone who tries to sway him from it. If you don’t mind, Elena, I think it would be best to invite Detective Harriman back to the condo. We should not allow Seth to have his important discussion here in the open.”

  “It seems I don’t have any say in the matter.” Elena held out a hand to her son. “All right, let’s go, Seth.”

  Seth didn’t budge. “You promise?” he asked his mother.

  “Yes, I promise. Now please…”

  Seth started to move away from Frank but looked up at him and said, “You can come to my house?”

  “Yes, I’ll be there in a little while,” Frank said.

  “You know where it is,” Elena said acidly.

  Frank let that go by. “Yes.”

  “Good,” she said. “Try to make sure you aren’t followed.”

  “Elena,” Arden protested, “there’s no need to insult the man.”

  She stiffened, then walked off. Seth called to her and ran after her. Yvette sighed, then followed.

  Arden extended a hand. “Don’t have much time, and you seem to know who I am, so I won’t bother introducing myself. I hear good things about you, Harriman.”

  “Likewise,” Frank said. “No one works Homicide without hearing of the legendary Matthew Arden.” He saw that it pleased Arden to hear him say so, and although he wanted Arden to feel at ease with him, he had told Arden nothing less than the truth. He had often heard Pete and the others in Homicide mention Arden’s name with near reverence. Most of the current veteran detectives had been trained to do homicide investigations by Arden. But then Frank’s last conversation with Bredloe came to mind. They had argued about Arden — argued over Arden’s lies about Lefebvre while agreeing that he had lied. “Will you be at the condo as well?” he asked Arden now.

  “A little later on. I’m going to try to stop by the hospital, see your captain, if they’ll let me. They say he can’t talk or anything, but still — Jesus, I hope Bredloe’s going to be all right. I knew him when he was in uniform, for God’s sake.”

  “When do you head home?” Frank asked, not wanting to talk to Arden about the captain. He wasn’t sure how many details of the attack had been leaked to Arden through his cronies in the department, but he wasn’t going to be a source of further information.

  “I’m taking Yvette to LAX this afternoon, then driving on from there.” He glanced at the others, who were waiting for him. “I’d better get going. Tell that little shit Pete Baird that I said it was good to see him today, even if he is twice as bald as the last time I saw him.”

  “Arden—” Frank said, as the old man began to step away.

  Arden looked back at him.

  “We need to talk before you leave Las Piernas.”

  Arden scowled in disapproval. “You youngsters are too damned impatient. Christ on a cracker! We’re in the fucking cemetery, Phil’s casket’s not even in the ground, and you tell me we need to talk!”

  Frank waited.

  Arden stared fiercely for a long moment, then gradually his features softened and a small reluctant smile emerged. “Maybe not so damned impatient after all.” He sighed. “Yes, we’ll have our talk, Detective.”

  “Thank you.”

  Arden laughed and walked away.

  Frank watched as they drove past the cemetery gates and onto the road beyond, but didn’t see any other cars pursuing theirs.

  He took a moment to look at the cards on the remaining flowers, writing down names. There was one completely white spray without a card on it. His love of gardening helped him identify the flowers in it, which were mostly gladiolus interspersed with white roses and baby’s breath. He frowned; then, taking a small camera from his pocket, he used the last of a roll of film to take photographs of the arrangement. The cemetery workers watched him, their expressions a mixture of disapproval and impatience, as if he were a new brand of ghoul. No, he thought, an old brand. He watched as they lowered the coffin and began the actual work of burial.

  “Good-bye, Lefebvre” he said as the coffin was lost from sight. The man deserved better than this, he thought. Then he remembered the gratitude the people in the church had expressed and Seth saying proudly that his father was a hero. “Not such a bad send-off, after all, was it? Something tells me you would have preferred that ceremony to bagpipes.” A slight breeze came up, making him shiver. He reminded himself that he wasn’t a superstitious man and walked away.

  As he started his car, he saw a white Chevy van turn down the lane where the workers continued loading earth over the casket. The van slowed, then stopped. Frank could not see the plates from where he sat.

  He waited, but the van didn’t move and the driver didn’t get out. He put the car in gear and drove closer to get a look at the plates. He saw the number — 2E98098. Commercial plates. He couldn’t see the driver; a set of curtains had been drawn behind the front seats of the van. He pulled ahead a short distance and parked again. He called the DMV and ran the plates.

  A short time later the dispatcher’s voice crackled back at him. The van was registered to Garrity’s Flowers. Someone with a legitimate reason to be parked at a cemetery.

  He pulled away from the curb and headed for the exit. He was out on the street bordering the cemete
ry when he saw the van behind him. He got held up by a large funeral procession making its way to the cemetery, and stopped to let them turn toward the entrance. The van would be pulling up behind him, and he would get a closer look at the driver. But the van didn’t slow. Just as he thought it would rear-end him, it swerved around him and cut across the procession, nearly causing a collision, then turned up a side street. Frank couldn’t lose the feeling that the driver didn’t want to stop near enough to be seen. He thought of pursuing him, but decided there would be little chance of catching up to him now. He stepped out of the car and walked up to the officer closest to him — the one who had stopped traffic from his direction — and showed him his identification. He was a weary-looking young officer. He had probably worked a regular shift then hired out to do the funeral work, which was contracted separately. “I know you’re working privately,” Frank said, writing the van’s plate number on the back of one of his cards and handing it to the officer, “but could you contact me if the van comes back? I’d like to know who was driving it.”

  “So would I,” the officer said. “Asshole could have caused serious damage.” He turned the card over and suddenly seemed more awake. “This a homicide case?”

  “Yes. I mean — there’s a slight possibility that the driver of the van is connected to a case I’m working. More likely that he’s just a jerk in a hurry, with no connection to it at all, but…”

  “I understand, Detective Harriman. I hope to work Homicide myself someday.”

  Frank figured this kid was only slightly less green than the reserve officer he had worked with a few days ago. He thought of Lefebvre and wanted to say, “Careful what you wish for.” Instead he smiled and said, “That’s great. Any help you can give me with this will be appreciated.”

  “I should have followed him,” he said, as if he had failed Frank personally.

  “You have a job here. It was probably nothing. Just let me know if he returns.”

  Frank didn’t want to take too long to get over to Lefebvre’s condo. Despite her promises to Seth, Elena Rosario might change her mind about talking to him. On his way there, he called Pete on his cell phone. Before he could tell him that he wouldn’t be in for a while, Pete said, “Partner, you are brilliant. Damn, am I glad you let me in on this. So is Reed. That will teach Vince to be such an asshole.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The guy in the shades who was getting jacaranda sap all over his expensive suit? Myles Volmer. Whitey Dane’s number one man. I followed him right back to Dane’s lair. And the Organized Crime Unit took one look at that tape and knew exactly who showed up to mourn his old partner Lefebvre. Even Carlson is happy with you over this one. And I’m loving it, because he was giving me and Reed grief about being down there today. Hurry back while the lieutenant is in a good mood. If anyone can tie Whitey Dane to the Randolphs’ deaths, I know you can.”

  Frank was silent. In spite of their disagreements over the last few days, Pete was his closest friend in the department. More than once they had risked their lives for each other. And he was going to lie to him.

  “Something wrong?” Pete asked. “Aw, shit — you’re still sore about how things have been around here.”

  “No. Honest to God, Pete, that didn’t get to me. But I’ve got a dozen other things I need follow-up on if we’re going to get further with this than a sighting at a cemetery. Not exactly illegal for Dane’s guy to show up there.”

  “No, but it’s a start. First real connection we’ve had to Dane since the evidence disappeared.”

  “It’s definitely worth pursuing,” Frank said.

  “I knew you’d start to see it our way!” Pete said. “You need any more help, you let me know. No need for you to go it alone from here.”

  “Sure, Pete,” he said. “I’ll let you know.”

  He hung up and forced himself to think of Seth Lefebvre.

  26

  Wednesday, July 12, 12:30 P.M.

  Lake Terrace Condominiums

  She was waiting for him outside the building, leaning against the wall near the bottom of the staircase. The veil was gone, but he recognized her by her shape and the dress she was wearing. She was a good-looking woman, with long dark brown hair and beautiful sea green eyes — a winter sea, he thought. There was not the slightest bit of warmth in them at the moment. They bore the marks of her recent grief, but she regarded him coldly. She was lean and strong — the muscles of her calves and arms were so well defined, he wondered if she lifted weights. She wasn’t mannish, but there was physical power in her build. She looked as if she was sorely tempted to use some of that power to punch him, as if keeping her arms folded tightly across her chest was all that prevented her from doing so.

  “You took advantage of my inability to deny my son’s request at his father’s funeral,” she said by way of greeting. “I don’t appreciate that. I know how the game works, and that children are certainly not off-limits, but still—”

  He held up a hand. “Hold on — your son approached me, not the other way around.”

  “After you played up to him the other day.”

  “I didn’t set the guinea pig loose. I didn’t even know you were living here or that Lefebvre had a son. Meanwhile, your boy is up there waiting for me and you don’t dare disappoint him. Not today.”

  Her mouth leveled into a thin, tight line.

  He sighed. “Maybe you’ll feel a little less hostile toward me if I tell you that I have no plan to use your son as a pawn.”

  “Don’t bother, because I won’t believe you. Any more than I believe the crap you’ve given Yvette about believing in Phil’s innocence.”

  “I do believe in his innocence.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Try that on someone who’s never been a cop. I’ve been there, remember? And I know you can lie like the devil — the laws are set up so that you’re free to tell anyone just about anything in order to learn what you want to know. So bullshit Yvette if you like, but it won’t work with me.”

  “You’ve been a cop, so you know what it’s like to bust your ass for someone who is determined to give you nothing but grief.”

  “Cry me a river. Listen, I know you don’t want to talk to my son. Not really. He wasn’t even around when the trouble started. He can’t help you. So — let’s leave him out of it, all right?”

  “I’m here because he wanted to talk to me. I’m not out to hurt him. Whether you like it or not, he’s learned something about his father today and—”

  “Exactly my point — can’t you just let him think of Phil as the hero he was? Do you have to take that away from him?”

  “Who says I am trying to?”

  “Don’t give me that act!” she said furiously. “The Las Piernas Police Department has not sent you here to be helpful — I know, I worked for them.”

  “You should consider rejoining the force. You’d fit right in — not twenty-four hours after I got back from the mountains, the guys I work with had all the answers, too.”

  “Don’t ever compare me with those assholes again!” she said.

  This is going nowhere, he thought. Sooner or later, he’d need to talk to her about Lefebvre, and he wasn’t exactly doing a fine job of building rapport. He slowly let out a breath, tried to recover his temper. “All right, I won’t compare you to them,” he said, keeping his voice even. “I know the department hasn’t been great where the family’s concerned. But if I’m going to clear Phil Lefebvre’s name, I’ll need your help.”

  She gave him a look that said she had no faith in him whatsoever, but said, “You have questions for me, ask away.”

  “Look, we’re off to a bad start here—”

  “We haven’t got any kind of start at all, because nothing is building from here — you understand?”

  He didn’t say anything. After a moment, he saw the tension in her shoulders ease, saw them lower as she relaxed slightly — as if the effort of maintaining this level of anger with him had gra
dually become too much for her.

  When he saw this change, he began. He asked a few easy questions — yes or no questions, ones to which he knew she would always answer yes: She had been promoted to detective faster than any other woman before, right? Commendations during her patrol work? Then worked in Narcotics? About two years as a detective?

  It was an old technique, one she undoubtedly knew of — the person being questioned says “yes,” and each time he or she says it, becomes a little less resistant, a little more open to the questioner. Elena unfolded her arms, and he was beginning to think all the fight had gone out of her, when he said, “You were partners with Hitch?”

  Her eyes flashed and the arms came back up across her chest. “Yes,” she said bitterly.

  So much for the “yes” theory, he thought.

  He heard a door open, then heard Yvette say, “You will wait in here, Seth.”

  The door closed again, but he realized that he might not get a chance to talk to her alone again for some time, if ever, and that Seth was growing impatient. He took the plunge. “It seems no one in the department knew you had a relationship with Lefebvre…”

  “Which is probably why I’m alive.” She glanced over at him and relented. “Look, no one knew I had a relationship with Phil because we hardly got a chance to know it ourselves. In one twenty-four-hour period, Phil became my lover, Seth Randolph was murdered, Phil disappeared, and everyone started saying that he killed Seth. One day.”

  “You were only together—”

  “Yes. One afternoon.” She swallowed hard. “You don’t know how much I wish I could say it was more, but…”

  He thought for a moment that she might cry, but she held the tears back. She moved to the stairs and sat down.

  He sat next to her and waited, taking his chances on Seth’s patience.

  When she started talking again, her voice was steady, but she spoke in the distracted manner of those immersed in memories.

  “That night I’m out on a routine surveillance job and the radio starts going wild. What I’m hearing — what I’m hearing on that radio is unbelievable. A call from the guard on Seth’s room about a one-eighty-seven, and then he keeps saying, ‘It’s not my fault — it was Lefebvre.’”