Flight ik-8

by Jan Burke

  The message log was open, and he immediately saw a name that caught his attention: Trent Randolph. The message was dated Thursday, May 31. No year was shown. At eleven-fifteen that morning, Randolph had called to ask Pickens to join him at a meeting in Chief Hale’s office at eight o’clock the next day. There was an additional note: “Soury, Larson, also to attend.”

  Frank turned the page and saw another message from later in the day — Chief Hale canceling the meeting, rescheduling it for the following Monday — by which time Trent Randolph and his daughter were dead.

  “I overheard you in his office,” Betty said. “I remembered that he was supposed to meet with Mr. Randolph that Monday, because he was extremely upset about it.”

  “Upset in what way?”

  “Oh, not exactly grief-stricken over Randolph’s death, although I think he was shocked — everyone was. But mainly he was convinced that someone might have it out for the members of the police commission. He was scared out of his wits. For weeks, we had guards around the place. Eventually, he calmed down.”

  Frank thanked her for her help, and after a moment’s hesitation, handed back the message pad. If he managed to arrest someone in connection with these murders, he didn’t want any courtroom problems to arise out of how he had obtained the evidence. He’d get a warrant. “You have a safe place to keep this?” he asked.

  “Yes, absolutely. You’ll have a warrant if you need it again?”

  He smiled. “If you can think of anything else I’ll need to name on it, let me know.”

  “Oh, I will. Not for nothing have I worked for a police commissioner — although some days, it feels that way.”

  He waited on the deck near the north end of the indoor Olympic-size pool. Rapidly coming toward him, in the lane reserved for fastest swimmers, was the man he hoped to speak to, but Commissioner Dan Soury finished the lap, completed his turn, and headed for the other end without seeing or hearing Frank.

  Although he had been trying to capture Soury’s attention for only a minute or two, it was too warm and humid to be standing around an indoor pool in a suit, breathing air saturated with the scent of pool chemicals. This meeting might turn out to be even less pleasant than the one he had just finished with Commissioner Pickens.

  “Mr. Soury?” Frank called out. His voice was better today, but he still couldn’t shout as loud as usual. The acoustics in the room must have helped, though, because Soury nodded. He was a slender man of medium height. There was a goodly amount of silver in his short dark hair and in his mustache. The mustache made Frank remember something — in the Randolph file, he had seen a group photograph of the commission members. Soury had worn a beard. He didn’t fit the description of the man who attacked the Randolphs on the Amanda.

  This thought, in turn, reminded him to pick up Seth Randolph’s computer. There might be more information about the attacker on it.

  Soury’s workout had left him slightly out of breath; he swam back at an easier pace to where Frank waited.

  Frank introduced himself and told Soury that he wanted to talk to him about Trent Randolph. “Your secretary told me I might find you here. I hope you don’t mind—”

  “Not at all, not at all. But you must be uncomfortable. If you’ll wait for me in the club’s lobby, I’ll be out in fifteen minutes.”

  Frank used the time while he waited to call Mayumi. She put him in touch with a friend at the FAA, who promised to check a list of names for him. Whoever had sabotaged Lefebvre’s plane knew something about aircraft. Frank wanted to know if any of the names on Lefebvre’s lists were licensed pilots.

  He didn’t have time for any other calls — Soury had taken no longer than he said he would. Attired in a dark, elegantly tailored suit, he smiled as he approached Frank and apologized for keeping him waiting.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked. “There’s a pasta place next door.”

  They walked the short distance to the small restaurant.

  It was soon clear that Soury was a regular and favorite customer. Although the restaurant was crowded, they were given a private booth near the back.

  Soury made small talk until their beverages were brought and their orders taken. When the waiter walked away, he said, “So what can I do for you, Detective Harriman?”

  “I’m trying to learn more about Trent Randolph. I’m especially interested in the last few weeks of his life, and I hope you can tell me about any projects he was working on just before his death.”

  “Projects in connection with the police department?”

  “Yes.”

  Soury seemed amused. “Why? Is Whitey Dane no longer the department’s favorite suspect for every crime in Las Piernas?”

  “I’m just covering all the bases.”

  “It’s about time someone did,” he said. “I don’t imagine Chief Hale is pleased with you for it, though.”

  Frank hesitated. “He knows I’m talking to you. He knows what some of my suspicions are. He didn’t forbid me to ask any questions.”

  “I’m greatly relieved to hear that.”

  “Do you know if Randolph had any enemies within the department?”

  “Enemies? A strong term. People who bore him some sort of grudge? You could find them quite easily — starting with his ex-wife, but by no means ending there.”

  “But within the department or on the commission?”

  “Within both. Trent was subject to all the problems of those who are very bright. He didn’t converse, he lectured. Few adults enjoy that. He also loved to solve problems and attacked them with enthusiasm — fine, but if he found a solution for a problem, he was impatient with any delay in implementing it. Very tough on bureaucracies such as the one you work in. He was sometimes a little quick to criticize. Not bound to win friends that way. And he was not easily fooled — at least not by men. Which was terribly difficult for those who tried to blow smoke at him.”

  “When you say ‘at least not by men — ’”

  “Oh, the only woman in his life who was worth a damn was his daughter, Amanda. His ex-wife is a shrew. His girlfriend — Tessa? A lovely, doting nothing. Scratch the surface and you could see daylight out the other side. She’s the only reason I’ve ever considered the possibility that Dane might have actually killed Trent.”

  “I don’t understand,” Frank said.

  “Don’t you? Trent told me that he broke up with her because she had lied about her past. When I questioned him a little further, he told me that he thought she had connections to the criminal world. In Las Piernas, that is spelled D-A-N-E. And Dane was not pleased at the progress Trent was making with the police lab, so perhaps he did have him killed.”

  “Do you remember the last conversation you had with Trent Randolph?”

  “Yes,” Soury said, suddenly solemn. “Yes, I do. He called me at my office the day before he left for Catalina, to ask if we could reschedule a meeting with Chief Hale. I’m not certain, but I think Pickens and Dr. Larson were supposed to be there, too. Trent wanted to talk at length, but I was in a hurry, so I… I interrupted him. Cut him off. Told him he could give me all the details on Monday. That’s when we were to meet — first thing Monday morning. By which time, of course, Trent and Amanda had been murdered.”

  “What was the subject of the meeting?”

  “I confess, I hadn’t listened very carefully. He had been studying the property room and the lab and had already made some suggestions. But I think this had to do with narcotics and homicide investigations. I remember he used the phrase ‘disturbing patterns.’ Later, of course, we stumbled across what he had seen all along — the lack of security and proper handling of evidence in the property room. Too many people had access to too many areas. Unfortunately, the mismanagement and theft of evidence continued for some time before any of the rest of us saw those ‘disturbing patterns.’”

  He was interrupted by the sound of a man saying, “Dan! How are you?”

  “Fine, Lew — Judge Lewis Kerr, do you know Frank Ha
rriman? One of our detectives. Homicide Division.”

  Kerr smiled. “Yes, of course. You’re Irene Kelly’s husband, aren’t you? Just saw her yesterday. Will you be joining us at the courthouse ceremonies tomorrow?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I won’t,” Frank answered.

  “How about you, Dan?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. Saw you on the news, Lew — congratulations on the award.”

  They continued to chat for a moment. Kerr wasn’t a favorite of Frank’s — he thought the man was a better politician than judge. Around the department, he was often known as Judge Curse, not because he did, but because he was considered the kiss of death to any case that wasn’t rock solid. Kerr was too inclined to make life easy for the defense, as far as Frank was concerned. Irene liked him, though — and once, when they had argued about Kerr, threatened to buy “Bill of Rights wallpaper” for the bedroom.

  Seeing him hadn’t made the day any more pleasant. Not long after Kerr went back to his table, Frank took his leave of Soury.

  On the drive back to the department, Frank thought about the meeting Randolph had tried to schedule. He felt sure that Randolph wasn’t setting it up because of the problems in the property room. According to Flynn, Randolph had already made recommendations for that area, even if the report was bureaucratically buried by those who were threatened by it.

  But evidence didn’t go to just the property room — it was also handled by detectives and the lab. He considered the fact that Al Larson was invited to Randolph’s meeting. Randolph’s strongest area of expertise in connection with the department was scientific — the lab. He might have seen some problem in the control of evidence going to and from the lab or ways in which a detective might compromise it before it got there. Perhaps he had even noticed patterns in connection with a particular detective’s work.

  Frank called Tory Randolph and made arrangements to pick up her son’s computer.

  “It isn’t working, you know,” she said. “They told me everything was erased off it. And the battery is dead. It’s one big blank. Really outdated now. People probably have watches with more memory in them.”

  “I understand. But we might be able to find something on it anyway.”

  “I guess those lab types come up with new stuff all the time. That’s why I married Dale. Never a dull day.”

  He pulled into the department garage, noticed how damned many white Chevy vans were parked in it, and found a space. He sat in his car for a moment, thinking about watches. Why would the killer go to the trouble of switching a new watch for an old one? Even for someone inside the department, and despite the lax property room procedures in effect until recently, it would have involved risk. Why?

  The old watch could not have had any damning bits of evidence on it — bloodstains or the like — Britton’s examination would have discovered them ten years ago.

  What had happened seven years ago to trigger that change? Some event?

  He got out of the car hastily, abrading his knuckle on the edge of the door as he did. He glanced at it. A little sting — it didn’t even bleed, just scraped the skin up a little.

  Skin. No blood.

  Suddenly he recalled Tory’s comments about labs coming up with new stuff all the time and saw what he had missed.

  The sort of DNA evidence the Las Piernas Police Department lab could not have handled ten years ago, but could handle now. DNA testing that had evolved from the earliest versions — now capable of detecting DNA patterns from the skin cells that might have rubbed off the wearer of a watch and onto a watchband.

  He hurried upstairs, not noticing the man who waited in the dark interior of one of the many white vans.

  37

  Thursday, July 13, 12:55 P.M.

  The Cliffside Hotel

  Robert Hitchcock left enough cash on the table to cover the bill and a fifteen percent tip. He dabbed his forehead with his cloth napkin, then added a few more dollars to bring the tip up to twenty percent. Hitch worried that in a swanky place like the Cliffside, fifteen percent wouldn’t do. He didn’t want to tip too little or too much. His concern had nothing to do with the excellent service he had received. Hitch didn’t want to be remembered — not for generosity, not for stinginess.

  He was distracted for a moment by the sight of the money on the mirror finish of the salver that had held the tab. He knew that there was at least a trace of cocaine on almost every piece of American currency. Cash and drug dealing. During Prohibition, he wondered, had every dollar reeked of gin?

  At this thought, he held his hand up as if he were about to sneeze, in front of his nose and mouth. He exhaled softly through his mouth, then inhaled through his nose. No, he didn’t reek of gin. At least he didn’t think he did.

  If someone had been watching him, they might have seen that he rose from the table a little carefully. He had enjoyed the martinis. The Cliffside was famous for serving a good martini. It also boasted one of the best restaurants in the city. Today, the first time he had dined here, he discovered that its good reputation was well deserved.

  Hitch had been eating lunches in fine restaurants all week. The Cliffside hadn’t been able to give him a reservation until today, and he was almost tempted to see if they could give him another reservation for next week. But what use would that be?

  Harriman. That stubborn asshole.

  Hitch had been around long enough to read a guy like Frank Harriman. They could fire Harriman and Harriman would work the case on his own. He had seen that on Sunday. Vince Adams was wasting his time trying to pressure Harriman. Why couldn’t Vince see that?

  Hitch left the restaurant, stood awhile in the hotel’s grand lobby, then walked outside. It was terribly hot, he thought, and started to dab his forehead. To his horror, he realized he had taken the napkin with him. Jesus! Was the waiter on his way out now to accost him? He would be remembered. He would be the man who stole the napkin. The cop who stole the napkin. Quickly, he stuffed it into his pants pocket, which made the pocket bulge clownishly. It seemed as big as a damned tablecloth in there now, that napkin. He hurried toward his car. He unlocked it, tossed the napkin into the front seat, shut the door and locked it, locked it away from him.

  He stepped back from the car, feeling a little dizzy, breathing heavily. He turned and stumbled toward the low wall that ran along the far side of the parking lot, at last leaning against the railing there, looking out over the cliff that gave the hotel its name. The wind was stronger here, blowing hard across the beach and up the face of the sheer rocky surface, on to his own heated face. He needed the cool ocean air to calm him, the sound of the sea to soothe him.

  Hitch told himself that he had no reason to feel vulnerable. But that was bullshit, and he knew it. He had been vulnerable for ten years. Not long after Lefebvre disappeared, he had been terrified, certain he would be next. When Rosario left the force, he had gone down on his knees before God and begged for mercy.

  He got a miracle. For ten years, nothing.

  Now this. His miracle, it seemed, had an expiration date.

  Maybe Dale Britton was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Elena Rosario he had seen at the funeral.

  A voice behind him said, “Did you drop something?”

  He turned to see Myles Volmer holding the napkin. He was smiling.

  Hitch felt his spine turn to cold jelly.

  “Wh-what are you d-doing here?” he stammered, noticing two other burly giants standing not far away.

  “Isn’t the question what are you doing here?” Myles asked.

  Hitch glanced nervously toward the hotel, at the large, tinted windows that looked out toward the water.

  “You’re right,” Myles said. “It isn’t good for us to stand out here where we might be seen. Although I doubt many police officers lunch at the Cliffside. A bit above your touch, isn’t it?”

  “How did you know—”

  “Hold your hands out to your sides,” Myles said, suddenly stepping very close to him.

  H
itch’s legs felt wobbly. The bastard was going to take his weapon from him. He knew he shouldn’t let him do it, but Hitch couldn’t find it in himself to resist. He wanted to weep from the fear and shame he felt as Myles reached for the button of his suit coat and unfastened it. Myles smiled down at him again, a hard, icy smile. Myles’s hand moved slowly inside the jacket — then he startled Hitch by plunging that hand into Hitch’s pants pocket and pulling out his keys.

  Myles stepped back, still smiling, and tossed them to one of the other men.

  Hitch felt a rush of relief that Myles all too apparently observed, so that the relief was quickly followed by anger and a deeper sense of humiliation than he had felt when the other man was touching him.

  “What?” Hitch said with false bravado. “All of a sudden you need keys to get into my car? Or were you just copping a feel?”

  “Let’s go,” Myles said in a bored tone, then turned and started walking toward a white limo.

  “Fuck, no!” Hitch said, knowing whose limo it must be. “You’ve probably just blown everything. What is it with you guys? You were fool enough to show up at that funeral, one of his other men causes a scene — at a flower shop, for God’s sake—”

  Myles kept walking.

  “I’m telling you, the department is watching his every move!”

  Myles stopped, turned, and said, “Do you want to see me in a mood as foul as your language?”

  Hitch hurried after him.

  Myles held a door to the limo open, making a mocking “after you” gesture.

  As he bent to enter, Hitch hesitated. The interior of the limousine was warm and white and smelled of sex.

  He saw the woman first — her white stiletto heels, her lacy underwear around her slender ankles, her white silk skirt pushed up almost to her hips, her nipples dark beneath her thin white blouse, her full red lips, her blue eyes, her long blond hair. He had seen her a few times before, of course, but never this close. She wasn’t young, maybe in her thirties, but he had seen plenty of women in their twenties who didn’t have half of what she had going for her. Even in his anxiety, he responded to her. She leaned back lazily, posing alluringly in the corner, her long legs falling slightly apart at the knees.