Flight ik-8

by Jan Burke

  Hitch blushed. She smiled at him.

  Then he saw Dane. If someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on his crotch, it could not have more effectively taken his mind off the woman.

  He had known Dane would be in the car, of course. Dane wasn’t looking at him, or at the woman, but he felt sure that Dane knew he had been staring at the woman’s thighs, at the way her nipples showed through her blouse. Dane’s own clothes were not in the least disarrayed.

  “Get in,” Myles said behind him, and Hitch climbed in, perching his large body on the edge of the long leather seat opposite Dane. Through the tinted rear window, he saw his own car pull up behind the limo.

  Myles entered after Hitch, shutting the door. As soon as it closed, the limo began moving, pulling out of the parking lot. The driver of Hitch’s car followed.

  The woman leaned over to pull her panties up from around her ankles.

  “No, Tessa,” Dane said, not looking at her. Tessa sat back, seemingly untroubled by the idea of leaving the panties where they were.

  Hitch averted his eyes, not looking at either of them for a time. But soon he found himself watching Dane, and only Dane.

  Dane sat silently, looking out the window nearest him, his head turned so that Hitch saw only one side of his face — the left side, the side on which he wore the eye patch. Hitch was always uneasy when beholding that black wedge on Dane’s pale face, and it now seemed more menacing than ever, as if that unseeing profile were all-seeing, as if his every thought had been scanned by that darkness, his fears absorbed through its cloth into Dane’s awareness. It stared at him, and nothing could be hidden from it.

  He remained silent, knowing that Dane would not take kindly to an initiation of conversation. He had learned this early on. He did not ask questions, although his head was full of them. Or at least one question.

  It was not Where is he taking me?

  It was Is he going to kill me?

  Hitch felt his fine midday meal roiling in his stomach. The martinis threatened to rise with it into his throat. He looked for a switch to lower a window, but found none.

  “An old friend of yours is in town,” Myles said, startling him.

  “Who?” Hitch asked, a little tremor in his voice making him sound, even to his own ears, like an ailing owl.

  “Elena Rosario — but please, don’t ask any other question to which you already know the answer.”

  Hitch looked over at Dane, who hadn’t moved.

  “Mr. Dane has questions for Ms. Rosario,” Myles said.

  “Look, I haven’t seen her in ten years. She won’t talk to me about anything, so I can’t help you. I didn’t even know she was back — someone told me she might have been the veiled woman at the funeral yesterday—”

  But this protest was cut short when Myles, in a move Hitch never saw coming, jabbed him hard and fast in the ribs with an elbow that seemed to be made of steel. Hitch’s breath expelled in a whoosh and he doubled over, eyes tearing as he held his side.

  Hitch felt the gun at his hip, and for a brief second he thought of using it, of pulling it out and blowing a hole right through Myles’s fucking head, and then through Dane’s dead eye, but he looked up to see that Dane had turned his face toward him, and the impulse quickly faded.

  “As much as I enjoyed that,” Dane said, “he won’t be able to play his part this evening if you injure him too badly, Myles.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Oh, don’t apologize. As I said, I quite enjoyed it. Perhaps now, Detective Hitchcock, you will be so good as to refrain from interrupting.”

  Hitch said nothing.

  “Mr. Dane has questions for Ms. Rosario,” Myles began again. “Mr. Dane will need your assistance in order to obtain her full cooperation.”

  Hitch opened his mouth and drew breath to speak. He felt the ache in his ribs and stayed silent.

  “You know where Detective Frank Harriman lives, is that correct?” Myles asked.

  Hitch nodded. “Went over there after a hockey tournament once.”

  Dane said, “Of course. You attended college on a hockey scholarship, as I recall. What a wreckage you’ve made of yourself since then. I confess I’m rather amazed that you can still manage to skate.”

  “I can skate.”

  Dane smiled at the hint of defiance in Hitch’s voice.

  “Tonight you will visit Detective Harriman’s home,” Myles said.

  “I’ll see him at the game tonight — my team plays his.”

  Myles looked over at Dane. Dane nodded. Myles slapped Hitch across the face, hard enough to make Hitch’s head snap back against the seat.

  “Are you paying attention now?” Myles asked.

  Hitch rubbed the heated mark on his face, but nodded.

  “Tonight you will visit the Harriman home before the game. Ms. Rosario is staying there.”

  Hitch grew wide-eyed.

  Dane leaned forward. “Your reaction interests me, Detective Hitchcock. Is it one of surprise? Anticipation? Or fear?”

  “Surprise. Like I said—”

  “Yes, my hearing is fine, thank you.” But he studied Hitch in a way that made the detective call upon whatever shreds of courage were left to him in order not to shrink back. After what seemed to Hitch an eternity, Dane smiled, released him from his gaze, and turned to Myles.

  Myles immediately said, “I have further instructions, Detective Hitchcock. I will give them to you in a moment.” He picked up a cell phone and handed it to Hitch. “First, call your bank.”

  “My bank?” Hitch said.

  “Apparently his own hearing is suffering,” Dane said.

  Hitch cringed, expecting another blow. When it didn’t come, he began dialing.

  “No,” Myles said. “The other bank. Where you keep the account the Internal Affairs Division will have difficulty tracing to you.”

  Hitch hung up, and — hands shaking — dialed again.

  “Use the automated, self-service system to check your account balance.”

  Hitch froze. Myles took the phone from him and entered all the required information, including the account number and the phony Social Security number Hitch had used to establish the account.

  Myles handed the phone back just in time for Hitch to hear the mechanical recorded voice say, “Your account balance is four dollars and fifty-two cents.”

  All color drained from Hitch’s face.

  “Shall we save some time?” Myles said. “Or would you like to hear what has become of your airline reservations?”

  “Tsk, tsk,” Dane said. “After all our years together? Not even a kiss goodbye? I feel so used, Detective Hitchcock!”

  “Has Mr. Dane ever treated you unfairly?” Miles asked.

  Hitch shook his head.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Has he ever required you to do anything that you could not easily do?”

  “No.”

  “Has he ever failed to richly compensate you for the risks you took on his behalf?”

  “No.”

  “Then you will not hesitate to be of service to him in this small matter, will you?”

  “No,” Hitch said miserably.

  “Do you begin to see that if certain parties were made aware of the extent to which you have helped Mr. Dane and shown readily available documentation regarding the rewards you have received in his service, you would soon find yourself in prison?”

  “Yes,” Hitch whispered.

  Myles paused, then said, “And do you see that it would be extremely unwise to fail him, or to return his generosity with double-dealing, or to in any way disappoint him?”

  “Yes,” Hitch said, tears rolling down his face.

  “Then please pay the strictest attention to the instructions I am about to give you.”

  As Myles spoke, Dane reached over to Tessa, moving his long white fingers along the inside of her thigh. She sighed in pleasure and moved closer to him, reaching for his belt buckle.
/>   Hitch noticed none of this, and later, when the sounds they were making intruded on his concentration, he forced himself to keep his eyes on Myles Volmer, so that when the limousine stopped and he was left standing at the side of the road, near the open door of his own car, he had an imperfect idea of what had taken place between Whitey Dane and Tessa Satel, but a perfectly clear understanding of what he must do that evening.

  38

  Thursday, July 13, 4:10 P.M.

  Las Piernas Police Department Crime Lab

  After talking to Soury, Frank had spent an hour or so looking over Lefebvre’s notes. The Wheeze stopped by his desk and gave him a note saying that Larson wanted to talk to him, but when he called the lab, he just got Larson’s voice mail.

  He went downstairs to see if he could find him. He took a quick look around, but didn’t see the lab director. He walked by Larson’s office, but the door was closed. Frank knocked, but didn’t get an answer. Frank wasn’t surprised — he seldom saw Larson in his office. Larson spent most of his time at meetings or in the lab itself.

  He decided to talk to Koza, the questioned documents examiner. Koza told him that the business card found on Lefebvre was Elena Rosario’s, but that an address and phone number had been handwritten on the back. Frank had the Randolph case files with him and thumbed through one of the folders until he found an old interview with Elena. Elena’s old home address and number matched those on the business card. Another dead end.

  He stopped by the lab director’s office again.

  “Looking for Dr. Larson?”

  He turned to see the toxicologist standing at the end of the hall. She was fairly new here, had only worked for the lab for about six months. He couldn’t recall her name, and he was too far away from her to read it off her ID badge.

  “Sorry,” she was saying, “Al went home sick. One too many mocha lattes, you ask me. Paul Haycroft asked me to send anyone who was looking for Al to talk to him.”

  Frank still wanted to take a more careful look through the folders Professor Wilkes had given him, and that would take plenty of time. But at the toxicologist’s suggestion, he decided to talk to Haycroft again as long as he was down here — he had more questions about the Amanda lab work. The toxicologist told Frank he could find Haycroft working on a set of latents in the fingerprint-identification area.

  “Frank!” Haycroft said when he looked up from the fingerprint computer system. Frank saw that he was using the lab’s new digital imaging software to enhance an image of a partial fingerprint. “The big man himself was down here just before lunch, talking about you.”

  “Hale?”

  “Yes. Asking about paper airplanes. Seems you gave him something to think about.”

  “Thinking about asking me to resign, you mean.”

  “No, I doubt that. Did you get Al’s note?”

  “Al’s note?”

  “He left early — some sort of digestive problem. But he said if you came by, to make sure you got the note he left for you on his desk. I guess he wanted to talk to you earlier, but the chief said you were visiting commissioners this afternoon.”

  Mentally cussing out the “big man himself” for blabbing that to Haycroft and Larson, Frank said, “I’m trying to talk to anyone who knew Trent Randolph. While I’m here with you — mind if I ask you about the Randolph cases?”

  “Not at all.”

  He was distracted by watching Haycroft clean the screen on the computer monitor.

  “No wonder you think Pete’s a slob,” Frank said.

  “Helps to see the image better,” he said, then smiled. “I’m not just being anal-retentive.”

  “Don’t get me wrong — I’m not saying orderliness is a bad thing. I suppose it’s especially important down here.”

  Haycroft shrugged. “I’ve seen cluttered crime labs. Larson wouldn’t stand for it here, though, and I think he’s right. Why give a defense attorney — or the D.A., for that matter — an opportunity to say you were careless or contaminated the evidence?”

  “One of my questions is about that,” Frank said, opening one of the file folders he had with him and turning to a page he had marked. “There was some problem with cat hair?”

  “Let me try to remember. May I see that?”

  Haycroft read the notes and said, “Oh, yes, now I remember. A few stray hairs inside the shoes we recovered. Unknown source. We thought Vince or Dale might have brought them to the scene when they were searching Dane’s boat, but when we tested their cats’ fur against a sample, it didn’t seem to match in color.” He frowned. “I recall talking about this to Lefebvre, showing it to him under the microscope. It bothered me, because Dane is highly allergic to cats. And also, Vince was so touchy about the whole business — his lieutenant had to pressure him into letting us comb his cat. Then Vince told me not to talk about it to anyone.”

  “But you have — and you wrote it up in the report.”

  “Vince isn’t my supervisor.” He suddenly seemed embarrassed and said, “I’m not as brave as I’m making it sound. I added the information to the formal report after talking to Lefebvre about it. Then he disappeared, and no one seemed to care about what I’d written. The cat hairs were gone with all the other evidence, so what did it matter?”

  “You examined the watch that was left in the evidence box?”

  “I didn’t do more than take a look at it. Dale Britton did the real work on it.”

  “And it was definitely worn? I mean, not a new watch?”

  “Not new, no. As I recall, Dale got a wrist measurement from it. I don’t suppose your forensic anthropologist friend might be able to help us compare it with Lefebvre’s?”

  “I’ll ask him,” Frank said, deciding not to let Haycroft know that Ben had already discussed it with him. “Do you remember anyone else around here who had a watch like that?”

  “Well, yes. We all did.”

  “What?”

  “Everyone in the lab. One of the vendors gave Al a dozen of them when we bought some equipment. He gave one to me, one to Dale, one to each of the technicians, and then a few to detectives — Vince received one, I believe. Pete, too. Lefebvre must have been given one also.” He hesitated, then said, “They weren’t that expensive — not meant as a bribe or anything of that nature.”

  “Not asking about it because of that — listen, are you sure Dr. Larson gave them all away?”

  “Well… I hate to say that any were stolen, but I think some people may have believed that if the watches were a giveaway, they were free — so why not take one without asking? Al was looking for one of them a few years later and couldn’t find them in the place where he’d left them. Really became upset about it.”

  “Remember when that happened?”

  “Oh, about six or seven years ago.”

  “What makes you think it was then?”

  “Because that same vendor sold us the DNA equipment. I suppose that’s what made Al think of the watches. That’s seven years ago, I believe.”

  “Maybe Dr. Larson just misplaced them,” Frank said, wishing the vendor had been less generous.

  “Misplaced?” Haycroft said in disbelief, then laughed. “Have you ever been in Al Larson’s office?”

  “Not more than once or twice,” Frank said. “Now that I think about it, I haven’t ever been inside yours. Usually, when I’ve come down here, you’ve both been in the lab itself.”

  “Or we’ve come up to your desk in Homicide. If you’d like to take a look in my office, go right ahead. I’m in the middle of doing this comparison or I’d show it to you myself.”

  “I’ll take a rain check.”

  “Yes, I imagine you have better things to do than look at my desk. Anyway, my point was that Al doesn’t misplace things. When you pick up the note he left for you, take a look around his office and tell me if you think the man who occupies it ever had a disorganized moment in his life.”

  “Any idea what he wanted to talk to me about? I’m a little uncomfort
able about going into his office if he’s not in—”

  “The door is never locked.”

  “Still—”

  “You aren’t going to tell me you’ve never been in an office without the owner’s knowledge?”

  “Never a colleague’s office.”

  “No need to take offense,” Haycroft said. “He left the note for you there, after all.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t just send it up to my desk?”

  “Well — he probably wasn’t thinking straight. Not to get into embarrassing detail, but from what he told me, he seemed to have a case of food poisoning — stomach cramps and so on. He was distracted, as you might imagine, and left in something of a hurry.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sure he’ll feel better by tomorrow. And I wouldn’t tell you to go into his office if I thought you’d be violating his privacy or compromising cases. He’s very security-conscious, Frank — his desk and file cabinets will be locked. You don’t need to touch anything — just pick up the note. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

  “Okay, but one other question — back to the cat hair business. Actually, not the hairs, but the shoes you found them in — the shoes that were discovered aboard the Cygnet. You examined them, but there were no wear patterns noted.”

  “May I see the photos?”

  Frank showed him the photos of the shoes and of the bloody footprints on the Amanda.

  “Now I remember. The shoes were brand new. There was blood and little else on them. As far as we could tell, Trent had hosed down the decks of his yacht just before Dane arrived.”

  “Any attempt made to find out if Dane had bought the shoes around here recently?”

  “Yes, but we weren’t successful. That doesn’t mean anything — he could have had closets full of shoes he had never worn, bought them months earlier.”

  Or, Frank thought, someone else bought a pair to match ones seen on Dane.

  Frank again stood before the door of Larson’s office, telling himself that he had no real reason to feel so uneasy. He reached for the doorknob and turned it. As Haycroft had predicted, it was unlocked.