by Jan Burke
Gone for the day — not feeling well after lunch, Haycroft had said. And Hale had been down here asking about paper airplanes and talking about commissioners just before lunch.
Frank pushed the door open and stepped into the room. In the darkness, he could smell a faint odor of glass cleaner and furniture polish. He reached for the light switch.
In the sudden illumination, Larson’s desk, which was protected by a thick piece of glass, was the first thing to catch his eye. It held only two objects: a telephone and a framed photograph. The telephone was squared with the right-hand corner of the desk; the photograph, which was facing away from Frank, was at a forty-five-degree angle on the left. Although as an administrator Larson must have handled a tremendous amount of paperwork, there were no loose papers anywhere in the office. The wastebasket was empty.
Frank took another step inside.
The bookshelves were neat and dusted. Diplomas and other certificates hung perfectly aligned. Rolled up against another wall, a typewriter cart with wheels held a laptop computer. Frank could see that locks on the file drawers were pushed in, in the locked position.
Frank put his hands in his pockets, conscious of a desire not to leave any personal mark on this blank setting. He walked farther into the room, around the desk, so that he stood behind the large chair. He could see his own reflection in the desktop.
No note. Maybe Larson had sent it upstairs after all.
He was about to leave, but the photo on the desk caught his interest. A young boy, perhaps three years old, holding a tabby cat.
He hadn’t known that Larson had a son. He was a little surprised that the boy was so young. He vaguely recalled hearing that the lab director had been divorced for a dozen years or so. Didn’t he have a more current photograph of his child? Frank picked up the photo and studied it. A boy with a cat. Had the cat in this picture lived with Al Larson ten years ago?
“You lost?”
He jumped guiltily at the sound of the voice. He looked up to see the toxicologist watching him speculatively.
“I was told Dr. Larson left a note for me.”
She walked over to him, disbelief written all over her face. He saw her ID badge then — Mary Michaels. She held out her hand, palm up, and he realized he was still holding the photo. He handed it to her, then felt absurd for doing so.
She glanced around, and he thought she was looking to see if all the degrees were still on the wall.
“Look, Paul Haycroft—”
“Oh, Paul Haycroft comes in here all the time when Dr. Larson isn’t around. Just because he’s been in here doesn’t mean—”
“No, of course not,” he said quickly. “I don’t suppose that you’ll believe me if I tell you that I objected when he suggested it?”
She softened a little. “I’m sure he couldn’t resist having you see how neat and clean it is.”
“Exactly. And like I said, there was this note…”
“They are the weirdest pair of guys, if you ask me,” she said, interrupting. “And they have been working together way too long.”
She was still holding the picture. Seeing the direction of his glance, she said, “I’ll put it back for you — unless you’d like me to give you a tour of Haycroft’s office while you’re snooping around?”
“For God’s sake, I was not snooping around.” Not really, he added silently.
She clearly didn’t buy it.
They heard another voice say, “Mary, surely you don’t suspect Detective Harriman of burgling the office of the lab director in the middle of the day?”
To Frank’s relief, Haycroft stood in the doorway.
The toxicologist shook her head, then said, “If you really don’t think Dr. Larson would mind — you know him better than I do. I’ve got to get back to work.” She started to walk out, realized she still held the photo, and quickly handed it to Haycroft as she left.
“Thanks for the rescue,” Frank said.
“No problem,” Haycroft said absently, studying the photo before placing it back on the desk.
“Have you met his boy?”
Haycroft looked up. “Don’t you know? Kit’s been dead for many years.”
“Kit?”
“Christopher.” He turned the photograph toward Frank. “Kit for short.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“He was killed in a bank robbery.”
“He worked in a bank?”
“Oh, no,” he said sadly. “He was only four years old when he died. His mother, his stepfather, a stepsister, and Kit. A long time ago now, before you were in the department. A parent never gets over such a thing, of course — you’ve seen that in your own work, I’m sure.”
“The cases involving children are always the hardest to take. And you’re right, the parents never really get over it.”
“This affected all of us. Still does. Because the case hit so close to home, that photo of Kit has become — oh, I guess you could say it reminds us that this isn’t just lab work — reminds us that what we do is important to the families. Does that make sense to you?”
“Perfect sense. Listen — there was no note in here.”
“I’ll be darned. I wonder what the heck he did with it? I’m sorry, Frank, I could swear it was in here.” Haycroft frowned, pulled the chair back, and looked beneath the desk. “Here it is. Must have fallen.” He bent and picked up a white envelope. Frank’s name was neatly printed on it.
Frank thanked him and pocketed the envelope without opening it.
On his way out of the lab, he saw Mary Michaels again. He had the feeling the toxicologist had been watching for him.
“Detective Harriman—”
“Frank.”
“Look, I’m sorry about how I acted back there.”
“Don’t be. You had every right to ask me what I was doing.”
She hesitated, then said, “He talked to you about Kit?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t been with the department very long, so I don’t know the whole story, but I guess it was big news around here ten or twelve years ago, because it had something to do with another cop or detective, too.”
“Involved in the robbery?”
“No — maybe someone else was killed in the robbery? Some guy’s wife?”
“I wasn’t with the department then, either,” he said, although now he had a feeling that he had heard something about this robbery, and not so very long ago. What was it?
He wondered, as he climbed the stairs toward the homicide room, if he was going to be able to manage finding Lefebvre’s killer without a damned history book.
Unfortunately, except for a PR publication or two, there was no department history book for the LPPD, which was what he’d need. The local newspaper, whose reporters didn’t always seem to grasp the full story, was as close as anyone could come.
The elusive memory suddenly returned to him. It wasn’t something someone told him recently — it was something he had been thinking about himself, here on this stairway. He paused halfway up, then raced to his desk, hoping to catch Irene before she left the Express for the day.
He read Larson’s note while he waited for Irene to call him back. After all he had been through to receive it, the note wasn’t all that exciting. On a single sheet of his letterhead, in neat block letters, he had written:
IMPORTANT THAT I TALK TO YOU REGARDING THE RANDOLPH CASES. NOT FEELING WELL TODAY, BUT HOPE WE WILL BE ABLE TO MEET TOMORROW AFTERNOON.
The phone rang. Frank set the note aside and answered the call.
“Frank? It’s Irene. I found something. I’ll fax it over.”
“Thanks — you’re amazing. I know I didn’t give you much to go on—”
“I’ll figure out some way for you to repay me.”
He smiled. “Can’t wait.”
He stood by the fax machine, retrieving each page as it emerged, anxiously reading over one as the next printed. It had taken Irene less time than he thought it
would to locate the article. He had only been able to supply a vague description of what he needed. He had asked her to look for a story about the bank robbery in which Vince Adams’s ex-wife had participated. He wasn’t sure what name the ex-wife had used then — was she still calling herself Lisa Adams after they split up? He didn’t know the date of the robbery, wasn’t even positive about what year it took place. He thought it was about a dozen years ago, but that might be wrong.
There was also a possibility that Mary Michaels was talking about some other bank robbery. But the toxicologist had said the robbery was big news, and most weren’t, especially not ten or so years ago. They were so frequent in the area then, at one point the L.A. office of the FBI had the slogan “Bank Robbery Capital of the United States” printed on its letterhead. Still, a robbery that ended in the killing of a family of four would make news. It would be even bigger news in the department if an officer’s ex-wife was involved.
Now, as he read the newspaper story, he was certain it was the same robbery. The article mentioned that a young boy named Christopher had been killed, but his last name wasn’t given as Larson in the story — all the last names were given as Dillon, the stepfather’s name. The fifth victim was a security guard. The five photographs didn’t reproduce very well over the fax, but he could see enough of the boy’s photo to tell that it was the same child as the boy in the portrait on Larson’s desk.
The article barely mentioned the victims, focusing instead on Lisa Adams — Vince’s ex-wife — and Carl Sudas, the suspected robber, who escaped. Sudas had been recently out of prison after serving time on a felony assault charge. He was arrested not long after his release, this time on drug charges. Judge Lewis Kerr tossed that case out during the preliminary hearing. Kerr ruled that the arresting officer, narcotics detective Robert Hitchcock, had acted improperly when he searched Sudas’s car and failed to show the probable cause necessary for a warrantless search of the vehicle. Within six months of his release, Sudas met up with Lisa Adams and sought her help with the robbery.
Frank took the pages back to his desk. He reread the article more slowly now. The largest photo was of Lisa Adams, looking blankly at the camera. Even in this poor reproduction, she appeared to be in shock. He was studying the photo when suddenly the fax was snatched from his hands.
“You asshole,” Vince said, tearing the pages in half and crumpling them into a ball. “You fucking asshole. You want to get back at me, you leave Lisa out of it!”
“This isn’t about her, Vince. Or you. That’s not why I was looking at that article.”
“Bullshit! Reading that crap in the paper.” He tightened his fists. “What’d you do? Get your wife to help you find something on me? Maybe I’ll start dragging your wife’s name through the mud. See how you like it.”
Frank stood up. “I said, this isn’t about your wife or you.”
“I don’t give a shit how big you are, Harriman,” he said, leaning closer. “You damned liar.”
“Get out of my face, Vince. Now.”
“I can’t believe you’d sink this low.”
Reed and Pete walked in the room just then. “Vince!” Reed called. “What the hell has gotten into you?”
Vince threw the torn fax at him without saying anything. He reclenched his fists.
Reed uncrumpled the ball, saw what the fax was about, and said, “Frank?” in a tone full of disappointment.
“I told him,” Frank said, “this isn’t about his ex. I was checking out something else.”
“Well, then,” Reed said, relieved. “Nothing to be upset about, is there, Vince?”
Vince was silent.
“Pete, help me out here,” Reed said. “Frank wouldn’t lie to any of us, right, Pete?”
Pete said nothing. Outraged, Frank turned to look at him. Pete looked away — just as Vince threw a punch.
Frank had expected it, though, and easily dodged the blow. He grabbed Vince’s wrist and pulled him halfway across the desk, then pinned him to it, holding him down with most of his weight. He pressed Vince’s face into the desk and said, “The only person around here who has mentioned her name is you.”
Vince struggled, but Frank was stronger. And nearly as angry.
“Frank…” Reed said.
“I’ll let him go when my partner asks me to,” Frank said. “Oh, wait — I can’t. I don’t have a partner.”
He straightened and shoved Vince off the desk. Vince wasn’t able to get his footing and landed hard on his ass.
Carlson came into the room just then.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Vince said.
“Then why are you on the floor?”
“I slipped and fell.”
Carlson looked at the other three. No one spoke. When the lieutenant turned toward Frank, Reed silently pocketed the fax.
“You,” Carlson said, pointing at Frank. “You seem to be at the center of a number of disturbances in our office lately.”
“It wasn’t Frank,” Pete said. “It was me. Just a joke I played on Vince that got a little out of hand, that’s all.”
“Read the department regulations!” Carlson said, rounding on him. “Horseplay is strictly forbidden!” He pointed a finger at Pete’s chest. “Do you know what we can do to those who engage in horseplay?”
“Ask for a blindfold and a cigarette, Pete,” Frank said. “They say it goes easier that way.”
The others laughed, with the exception of Carlson. He marched off toward his office.
The moment he was gone, the sour mood descended on the others again. Vince regained his feet and left the office. Pete and Reed followed suit.
39
Thursday, July 13, 7:55 P.M.
The Kelly-Harriman Home
He placed his skates, helmet, and uniform in a large duffel bag — already occupied by shin guards, elbow pads, and other hockey gear — and hoisted it onto his shoulder. He was choosing a pair of sticks when the dogs began barking, and soon after, someone rang the doorbell.
He swore softly. Irene wasn’t home — she had taken Seth to the skating rink not long after dinner, to enjoy some of the public skating time before the evening’s hockey games started. Elena was depressed or pouting or both — he couldn’t tell which — and had stayed behind, shutting herself up in the guest room. And now, just before he needed to leave, someone was at the door.
But by the time he was inside, the dogs had stopped barking and were merely standing before the door, apparently listening to something on the other side. He noticed the guest room door was open now.
“Elena?” he called as he set the equipment down.
No response.
He looked through the peephole and saw Bob Hitchcock standing on the front lawn, talking to her. Hitch seemed to be pleading, Elena looked obstinate. Hitch wore a dark golf shirt and slacks and was dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.
What the hell was Hitch doing here? he wondered. He stepped outside.
“Frank!” Hitch said with a smile, but it wasn’t a smile Frank liked much. Although the evening air was cool, Hitch was sweating, and Frank could see the pulse in his neck.
But Elena’s reaction bothered him more. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“What brings you to my door, Hitch?”
“I heard my old partner Rosario was staying with you, Frank.”
“Heard it where?”
“Word gets around.”
“Really? Who brought it around to you?”
“No, no — I’m not naming names. Besides, that’s not important. I gotta talk to the two of you.”
“About what?”
Hitch looked toward the ocean, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “Jesus, this is a great setup you have here, Frank. This close to the water — I never could afford a piece of property like this.”
Elena muttered something, and Hitch dabbed at his chin with the handkerchief. “I’m not implying anything,” he said quickly. “Everybod
y in the department knows the old lady that lived next door rented it to him and then sold it to him on the cheap ’cause she liked him. Well, who could blame her? Say, how about we take a walk along the beach?”
Elena glanced at Frank then, but Frank let the silence stretch. Hitch shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Talk about what?” Frank asked again.
“Lefebvre. The Randolphs. There are things I should have spoken up about before now.” He stared at Elena for a moment. “Jesus — and now I learn he had a kid with you, Rosario — God damn, that was a shock.”
Frank thought it was the first time that evening Hitch had been completely truthful. “I’m curious, Hitch — why now? In the evening, at my home? Why not just talk to me at the game tonight?”
“Screw the game!” He tried another smile. It looked more forced than ever. “Well, take a gander at me, Frank. I’m a fucking wreck — I can’t sleep, I’m on edge all the time — I can’t live like this, Frank.” He looked to see if he was having any effect. A little more desperately, he said, “Tonight I thought of being out on the ice with you, surrounded by everybody else on your team, knowing what I know—”
“Didn’t bother you much a few days ago at breakfast. Surrounded by the same guys.”
“Jesus Christ almighty, Frank, please don’t start being stubborn about this!”
“Leave Frank out of it, Hitch,” Elena said tonelessly. “This mess is between the two of us.”
Frank turned to her in surprise, but she had already moved away, starting to walk quickly toward the beach. He hurried after her.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked when he reached her, but she said nothing and still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “If you’re in some kind of trouble, Elena, for God’s sake tell me. You know I’ll try to help you.”
She halted for a moment, but in the next instant Hitch caught up to them, and she shook her head and kept walking.
Hitch was panting now, straining to match her pace. “Could we go just a little slower?”