Flight ik-8

by Jan Burke

  “Am I supposed to be deaf to the insult in that reply?”

  “I’m sure I can’t, sir.”

  “Harriman—”

  “I’m too unsophisticated,” Frank said, pausing as he reached the door. “But maybe I could have understood something simpler. If you had told me, for example, that you believed Randolph was an honest man and you couldn’t stand to see your friend’s good name damaged after he was no longer around to defend himself — or that you couldn’t bear to see young Seth Randolph shamed at a time when he had already been through so much — that sort of thing, I might have understood.”

  Hale lowered his gaze to the top of his desk. “You don’t realize—” he began, but Frank Harriman was already gone.

  35

  Thursday, July 13, 10:15 A.M.

  Greenleaf’s Café

  Greenleaf’s Café was within walking distance of the Las Piernas Police Department, and the Looking Glass Man was certain that it obtained most of its customers from members of the department. He patronized it not because of convenience, but because it was one of the cleanest eating establishments in the city.

  He seldom ate food prepared by others. He mistrusted their commitment to personal hygiene, their willingness to adhere to safe food preparation practices. Even if he could force himself not to think of rampaging bacteria, he could not prevent himself from considering what vermin one might encounter in the cupboards, let alone the floors of such places — this was enough to make him choose fasting over dining out.

  However, Greenleaf ’s was a notable exception. The counters were kept clean and sanitized, the floors scrubbed, the tables wiped down. The kitchen, entirely visible to the patrons, could have been cleaner only if it had been his own. Even the windows sparkled.

  At this particular moment, he was sitting in the warmth of summer sunlight coming in through one of these windows. He was not warm.

  He was nearly alone here. The breakfast crowd had left, the lunch crowd had not yet arrived. He could sit here, drinking his coffee, so excellently prepared and thoughtfully warmed up for him by Mrs. Greenleaf, for as long as he chose to do so.

  Louise Oswald, adrift without her beloved Captain Bredloe, had stood before his desk not long ago on the pretext of bringing some paperwork to him. The moment he saw her, he realized she was big with news and invited her to make herself comfortable.

  To obtain this news, he had to play the game her way, which was irritating but ultimately worthwhile. And so he agreed with her when she said that no one could appreciate the burden the captain’s absence had placed on her, nodded mutely when she said that the chief’s decision that she should report to Lieutenant Carlson for the time being was a bad one, agreed that Carlson, puffed up after this announcement, was an insufferable horse’s ass unfit to supervise anyone, and so on.

  Carlson, generally the sort of political animal who knew better, had been so stupid as to criticize her habit of making certain kinds of improvements in the memos he dictated to her, and would undoubtedly find it difficult to recover from this fall from grace. It was one thing to ride roughshod over one’s underlings. To mistreat the person who sat outside the boss’s door was downright dumb.

  Finally, she began her confidences. (“Don’t tell anyone,” she said, invoking the favorite phrase of those who tell everyone.) Her news was that the rebellion against Carlson — whom she had once supported, but against whom she was now ready to don armor and do battle — was gaining ground. Her two best indications of this were that yesterday afternoon the chief himself had ordered Carlson to send Detective Baird on a particular assignment and that Frank Harriman — who hadn’t reported in to Carlson in days, much to Carlson’s wrath — was sitting in the chief’s office that very moment.

  “And I hope he is telling him that we in Homicide can’t take much more of Lieutenant Carlson. Carlson is worried sick, I’m happy to say. I was going to tell you about Pete yesterday afternoon, but you weren’t in,” she said. He disliked the speculative glance that accompanied this remark.

  “Why is Frank Harriman talking to the chief?” he asked.

  “It has something to do with the Randolph cases,” she said. “And watches.”

  “Watches?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling knowingly. “I passed by his desk before he went into his meeting with the chief, and he was asking someone when a watch with a particular serial number was made.”

  “That might have been in connection with any of his cases,” the Looking Glass Man said, hoping she didn’t detect his uneasiness.

  “No, he had the Randolph files open. He locked those away, then gathered his notes and took them in with him when he went to see the chief.”

  He could not go near the chief’s office without attracting unwanted attention. Unlike the relatively open area surrounding the office of the captain of the Homicide Division, the chief’s office was in the center of a labyrinth filled with administrative creatures who jealously guarded his time and attention.

  And Harriman was invited in. To talk about watches.

  This was so much worse than he had suspected. Harriman must have seen the evidence. Harriman had handled the Randolph case evidence, but the Looking Glass Man had not received a message on his pager, as he had when Captain Bredloe had examined it. What had happened? Had his little property room computer hacking been discovered? Were they searching for him even now, as he sat here?

  He remembered a moment from the day before, when he had looked in the mirror and thought himself invisible. Invisible! Far from it.

  He gazed into the window next to him, not at the street beyond, but at the window itself. He could see his reflection. It was the reflection of a fearful man. He looked away.

  He arranged the bottom of the folded paper napkin to the right of his coffee cup, moving one edge up a quarter of an inch or so, so that it was aligned parallel to the edge of the table. He then lifted the fork and placed it carefully on the napkin, so that the upper edges of the tines were parallel to the top of the napkin.

  Pleased with the result, he felt calmer, and checking his reflection again, he saw that indeed, he appeared to be more himself now.

  He began to think about this problem of Harriman.

  Yesterday he had overreacted. He had laid himself open for premature discovery. He must approach this problem logically, or he would fail again.

  He could not indulge in strange, frightening fantasies of Lefebvre being alive. Now — sitting in this clean booth, his hands on the hard, shiny table, fingers forming parallel lines — the panic that had come over him yesterday seemed alien, something that another man had experienced. Not him.

  Today he could consider his position coolly.

  The difficulty lay in not knowing how much Harriman knew or to whom he had spoken. That he did not know everything was certain. That his suspicions continued to lead him in dangerous directions was equally clear. So many people might now share these suspicions of Harriman’s — the chief, Pete Baird, Irene Kelly, Elena Rosario, Matt Arden. Then again, Harriman had so alienated his fellow homicide detectives, it was entirely possible that no one had spoken with him. How could Harriman convince them of any theory he might be developing if they refused to do so much as give him the time of day?

  He returned to considering plans for Harriman’s demise. Any number of them could be set up within the next few hours. And in the meantime he would take steps to throw Harriman off his scent. He would then stay in Las Piernas only long enough to fulfill his most important obligations before making his escape.

  Escape. Far from engendering visions of a carefree life, the word saddened him. Once the Looking Glass Man retired, who would see to it that justice was done? Who would be able to stop the next Judge Lewis Kerr?

  The Looking Glass Man acknowledged to himself that it was all coming to an end. He had always known that it would have to, sooner or later. He was, of course, prepared for the possibility of discovery. As years
of work for the Las Piernas Police Department had taught him, there was a vast difference between being discovered and being caught. He had no intention of being caught.

  He had a great deal to do, then.

  He would need to go to the several banks where he had stored cash and identification papers of one sort or another. Once he had gathered these, he would go to the airport and, staying below radar, fly his lovely Cessna to Mexico. He would not stay there, of course. Depending on the actions of law enforcement personnel, he had several alternatives available. At the moment, he was considering a cool climate.

  He would have to part with the Cessna at some point, probably in Mexico. The loss would be painful to him. He had not owned a Cessna ten years ago. He had only rented planes. All the same, destroying Lefebvre’s Cessna had bothered him almost as much as it had bothered him to kill Lefebvre. Now he would have to leave his own plane behind. Harriman deserved everything that was coming to him.

  The Looking Glass Man had only two other remaining objectives: Whitey Dane and Judge Lewis Kerr.

  Kerr was hardly a worry now. Everything was already in place. He consulted his watch. In a little more than twenty-four hours from now, Judge Lewis Kerr would no longer be able to lead justice astray.

  Whitey Dane was proving to be a bigger challenge than the judge — the Looking Glass Man feared that he would have to wait even longer for his revenge against Dane. Years, perhaps, when it was safe to return to Las Piernas.

  Dane’s workers were a vigilant and suspicious lot, so one could not dress as a gardener or a florist or an alarm systems repairman and get past them. The Las Piernas Police Department’s relentless pursuit of Dane had resulted in making him a less vulnerable target — Bredloe, a captain of detectives, had been easier to harm.

  The Looking Glass Man had tried to needle Dane into exposing himself to danger — teasing him in ways that might tempt him to come out into the open. He had hoped for a more personal response to the flowers. Instead, he had almost caused that poor florist to lose her life.

  Harriman had done what was expected of him, though. The Looking Glass Man smiled, picturing what Frank Harriman’s face must have looked like when Mrs. Garrity called him the illegitimate brother of Lefebvre’s!

  “I’m glad to see you perk up a bit,” a voice said beside him, causing him to jump.

  He looked up to see Mrs. Greenleaf, exchanging his cold cup of coffee for a fresh, hot one.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I startled you.”

  “I was daydreaming, that’s all,” he said, and thanked her before she went back to the kitchen.

  He glanced around. The café was still empty, but that would change soon. He had taken a few precautions at work, but needed to stop by a drugstore before going back there — there were a few inexpensive but necessary purchases to make. His other errands would need to wait until this afternoon. He was an efficient man and knew he could manage everything before him, but still… He looked across the street again at the police department. With so many errands, he wouldn’t be able to spend as many hours inside that beloved building as he’d like. Very little time remained for him there.

  He took out his wallet, in which all the bills were facing the same way, smallest denomination to largest, and left a large tip. Just before he refolded the wallet and put it away, he allowed himself a brief glance at the single photograph within it.

  He felt the same surge of grief and hopeless longing that he felt every time he saw it.

  Yes, he must do something about Mr. Dane.

  The idea of killing Harriman troubled him less and less. Harriman deserved some sort of punishment for not listening to his superiors. Hadn’t everyone in the department told him what must be done? But had he listened? No. Just like Lefebvre and Trent Randolph — if they had only left well enough alone! To have his work disrupted by meddlers who never would be able to grasp the importance of it — who would never see that the criminal justice system was damaged beyond repair, that he was fighting the evil that men like Judge Lewis Kerr set loose upon the innocent — no, that sort of interference was not to be borne!

  As these thoughts occurred to him, he felt a little hum within his bones, a little heat within his blood. He looked at his reflection to see if he looked different to himself. He did — he really did! He knew what it was now, this heat and hum, and how to handle it. It was a mixture of fear and anger. Just a little of each. This time, he knew how to mix it up right. Yesterday he had let the fear dominate. Today it would be anger.

  He put the wallet back in his pocket and stood. Although he knew the restroom in the Greenleaf Café was as clean as it was possible for a public restroom to be, he decided to wash his hands at work, where he could use the brand of soap he preferred, and his own towels and hand lotion.

  36

  Thursday, July 13, 12:18 P.M.

  Office of Michael Pickens

  Commissioner Michael Pickens agreed to talk to him, but warned that he could spare only a few minutes. Pickens owned a large chain of tire stores and managed them from a building not far from the department.

  Frank rode the elevator up to a suite of plush executive offices. The door to Pickens’s office was closed, but even through it, Frank could hear him haranguing someone. His secretary, who had timidly asked Frank to wait, cast a worried look at the door, then resolutely returned to her paperwork.

  “One of his good days?” Frank asked.

  She glanced up nervously.

  “So they’re all this good, right?” he said. “Or does he ever take a vacation?”

  “Never,” she said sadly.

  “If you tell me he also enjoys perfect health, I’m going to really feel sorry for you.”

  “Never sick a day in his life,” she said, but smiled.

  “How inconsiderate can a man be?” he asked, and she laughed.

  The door opened and a red-faced employee strode past them, eyes downcast.

  Pickens stood in his office doorway, watching him go. He held a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  “Mr. Pickens,” the secretary began, “this is—”

  “Betty, let me show you something,” he said. The large man marched over to her desk and began berating her — he disliked the angle at which she had placed the staple in the corner of several reports. “That’s not the way to do it!” he said again and again, not sparing her anything on account of an audience.

  When he finally acknowledged Frank’s presence, it was to say, “I suppose I’ll have to talk to you now.” He turned on his heel and marched toward his office. As Frank passed Betty’s desk, he surprised her by picking up her staple remover. He rapidly worked it like a set of maniacal teeth, chasing after Pickens’s back end.

  Pickens turned at the sound, but Frank, looking all innocence, quickly palmed the device. He returned it to her desk only after Pickens resumed his angry strides toward his office. She smiled up at Frank as he left to follow her boss.

  “So you’re interested in Randolph,” Pickens said, taking a chair behind an oversize desk. “A little late, aren’t you?”

  Realizing that waiting for an invitation would be futile, Frank found a chair and sat opposite him. “The case is old,” Frank agreed, “but that doesn’t mean we should forget about it.”

  “I have. Hardly remember the man.”

  “Word is, the two of you didn’t get along very well.”

  “No, that’s untrue. We disagreed over the matter of the lab, but that wasn’t anything personal. He wasn’t a man I admired. He didn’t understand how to finesse things. Just rolled right over everybody. If he thought there was a problem with something, he’d write himself a report, issue it to half the planet. He rolled along through your department like a bazooka-proof tank division. He had something to say about everything, and nothing could stop him.” He laughed, then added, “Well, now, I guess Whitey Dane stopped him.”

  When Frank didn’t join in his laughter, Pickens fell silent.

  “Why would Whit
ey Dane choose him for an enemy?”

  “Randolph donated all kinds of money and equipment to the lab so that they could do fingerprint comparisons by computer, and some other load of gadgets so that they could do something else to do with chemical analysis. Randolph enjoyed that, too — playing Santa.”

  “And this upset Dane?”

  “Sure. The chemical analysis goodie helped the department bust up one of his drug operations. And the fingerprint system allowed the department to find out the real names of some of his key people. Surprise, surprise — many of them had outstanding warrants. So that hurt. Whitey recovered from all of that, but he didn’t like what it cost him.”

  “Do you have any of the reports Randolph made to the commission?”

  “Reports by Randolph?” He looked away, then said, “Nope. Not a one. Now, if that’s all…?”

  Frank tried asking him other questions — about Randolph’s plans for that Catalina weekend and who might have known about them. He received vague answers. “So long ago,” Pickens kept saying. Frank tried to get more specific information about possible enemies of Randolph’s, with the same result. He decided to try his luck with Soury.

  As he walked out, he noticed that Betty, Pickens’s secretary, was away from her desk. Maybe she wised up and decided to resign, he thought. But then, as he walked out of the elevator into the lobby, he found her sitting on a bench nearby. She was holding a dusty box, but when she saw him, she stood and spilled its contents onto the marble floor in such a blatantly contrived manner, he hoped that if she did have plans to resign, she wasn’t aiming for a career on the stage.

  “Oh, how clumsy of me!” she said.

  Grateful that he was the only audience for this performance, Frank bent to help her pick up the folders and steno pads that had fallen out.

  “Thank you!” she said, then extended a spiral-bound phone message log toward him. “Would you mind holding this for a moment? If you’ll do that, I can get the rest of these old files back into the box in order.”