by Jan Burke
And somewhere along the way a forensic scientist might easily have learned how a man like Wendell Leroy Wallace devised a signature bomb to be placed under a car seat.
He felt his mouth go dry.
The bomb squad expert had said the maker of the bomb was neat and tidy — anal.
Al Larson’s pristine office came to mind. Even other workers in the lab thought he went too far in his demands for neatness. He would have the most access to the highest number of cases. He could walk into any crime scene and never be suspected of doing anything other than being a hands-on supervisor. He was probably the department liaison to the county investigation of the Wendell Leroy Wallace car-bombing cases. He had not only worn the type of watch the Amanda’s attacker wore, he had had a supply of them so that he could replace the DNA-laden watchband when new testing capabilities made that necessary.
He had means. He had opportunity. And he had motives in every case.
Randolph had been a man of science, someone who could have noticed irregularities in the lab. He had supported improvement of the lab, but he had also been critical of it. He was murdered the night before he was due to meet with the chief and other commissioners about problems in the lab. Larson had known about the meeting.
What if Larson suspected that Randolph’s report would lead to his being fired or worse?
Or worse. Frank frowned. What could have been worse for Larson?
Being discredited, unable to work in the field or to testify? Having previous cases overturned because of incompetence? Or corruption. Cases fixed against people like Whitey Dane. Tainting of evidence.
What if Trent Randolph was about to reveal something that might eventually lead to criminal prosecution of Larson? Frank thought of the lax property room procedures that had been in effect before Flynn stepped in. He thought of the watch in the evidence box.
Ten years ago, and Larson had been on the job at least fifteen — more than long enough to have learned all about Wendell Leroy Wallace. Jesus — how many cases might be affected?
Randolph had urgently wanted to meet with Hale, Pickens, Soury, and Larson. How desperate might Larson have been to prevent that meeting? There would have been a reprieve of sorts when the chief delayed the meeting until Monday morning. Time had been running out, though. Larson could have easily learned that Trent Randolph was going to take his new yacht to Catalina that weekend. He could have laid his plans and seen an opportunity to get a measure of revenge on an old enemy — Whitey Dane.
Larson had an excellent motive to seek revenge against Dane. One of Dane’s minions had murdered Larson’s only son.
Trent Randolph had to be stopped before he had a chance to meet with Hale and the others. The marina presented an opportunity to lay the blame on Dane.
Frank wondered if Amanda and Seth Randolph would have been spared if they had remained belowdecks. Amanda had gone up the companionway because she heard her father arguing with someone. Had she been killed because she heard Randolph say something that might identify his attacker? Perhaps Larson had planned to kill them — he could control physical evidence more easily than he could control witnesses.
Ironically, until the moment at the press conference when he reacted to hearing the watch, Seth was useful in pointing the blame toward Dane. Likewise, Phil Lefebvre became dangerous once it was clear he doubted that Dane was the killer.
Great, Frank thought. Now all he had to do was prove that any of it was true.
He called Hale’s office to say he’d be there at nine. Last night he had given the bomb squad expert the paper airplane contest entry form, on the remote chance that the sheriff’s department lab could learn something from it. He trusted Koza, his own department’s questioned documents man, but he found himself wanting to keep the evidence for these cases out of the reach of the LPPD.
Suddenly he remembered the neatly printed note from Larson, the one saying he had gone home sick, but wanted to meet about the Randolph cases. What had he done with it? He had read it and set it aside on his desk. He looked through his in box and all the desk drawers. Nothing. He told himself that it was one of hundreds of pieces of paper that crossed his path in a week, that he wasn’t clairvoyant and that yesterday he had no reason to think the note might become a piece of evidence. Still, he cussed himself out for not locking it up.
He decided to work with what he did have. He was going over Lefebvre’s notes again, looking at them to see if anything excluded Larson as a suspect, when Pete came in, sat down at his desk, and said, “Wish you would have let me know you didn’t plan to show up at the game last night. But maybe Vince is right — you don’t give a shit about anybody but yourself.”
Frank looked up.
Pete’s jaw dropped. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph — what the fuck happened to you?”
“I kicked a bad guy’s ass.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just a run-in with an asshole on the beach. I meet assholes everywhere these days.”
Pete frowned and looked as if he had more to say, but the phone on his desk rang. “Baird,” he answered.
Frank went back to Lefebvre’s notes, but he became aware, from Pete’s side of the conversation, that the grapevine was humming. “Hitch” and “Dane” and “confession” and “bomb squad” were said frequently. Without ever looking over at him, Frank knew Pete well enough to tell from his voice that he was shocked. The long silence that followed his hanging up the phone was as big an indicator as any. Frank timed it at a full five minutes before Pete said, “So…”
Frank waited.
“So… I hear you had a little trouble out at the house.”
Frank gave a short laugh.
“You doing all right?”
His head felt as if a team of mules was trying to buck its way out of his skull, he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in a week, and the simple act of starting his car this morning had nearly required more courage than he thought he could come up with. “I’m fine,” he said.
Vince came in, followed by Reed. They looked at him uneasily. So they knew, too.
“Everybody okay at your place?” Vince asked.
“Just dandy.”
He saw the others exchange glances.
“All this must be hard on the kid,” Pete said. “I like the little guy. He’s a tough little kid.”
“Lefebvre,” Frank said angrily. “The kid’s name is Seth Lefebvre. I know you don’t like the name much.”
“Oh, no,” Pete said. “I love the name Lefebvre. I can’t get tired of saying it. I’ve got the zeal of a convert now. Build a statue to the guy. Call the town the City of Lefebvre. I mean it. I can admit when I’m wrong.”
“Very big of you, Pete — but you’re wasting it on me. In another ten years, ask Seth to accept your apologies.”
“Frank—”
“Tell him you’re sorry you all had your minds made up about his dad, because his dad didn’t know how to be one of the boys. That you’re sorry you put your faith in a guy like Hitch instead of Lefebvre, because Hitch showed up for hockey games. Tell him that because of bullshit like that, you’re sorry his dad never had a chance to see what a ‘tough little kid’ he is.”
Vince and Pete looked away. Reed said quietly, “You’re right.”
“That’s no comfort to the kid, is it? Two nights ago he brings out one of his big treasures to show me. You know what it was, Vince? An answering machine tape. A goddamned answering machine tape. That’s the only way he could hear his own father’s voice. He’s nine, and he’s played it over and over — less than a dozen words. That’s what you left for the son of Phil Lefebvre.”
The room was silent.
“You give Lefebvre the cold shoulder, like the one I’ve been getting around here lately? What did he do to get cut out of the herd?”
“Look, I apologize for that, too,” Pete said. “But Phil — Frank, he was always a loner.”
“From birth? You never did anything to make the guy feel isolated,
is that it?”
Pete opened his mouth to protest, closed it, and looked away.
“Yes, I read the files,” Frank said. “And you wonder why the guy didn’t trust you? Any of you?”
Pete turned red.
“Frank,” Vince said, “can’t we just put this all behind us?”
“What, Vince? Get together for breakfast, like old times?”
Frank strode out of the room.
Without conscious thought, really, of where he was going, he ended up at the lab. Once there, he decided to look for Haycroft. As the assistant director of the lab, Haycroft might have an idea as to Larson’s expertise and recent movements. The door to Haycroft’s office was closed, and Frank received no response when he knocked. He thought of the reprimand he had received from the toxicologist on the previous day, then tried the doorknob anyway. It was locked. Maybe the toxicologist had told everyone that he was going around stealing personal effects, such as photographs.
He looked through other areas of the lab, but didn’t see Haycroft. He noticed Larson’s door was open and peered in. There was a neat stack of papers in the center of the desk. The photograph was gone.
“Frank! What brings you here this morning?”
He turned to see Al Larson walking toward him. Smiling, although it faltered slightly at the sight of his black eye.
Frank forced a smile of his own and said, “What a surprise, right?”
Larson looked at him uncertainly. “What can I do for you?”
He was tempted to say, “You haven’t seen that note you left for me yesterday, by any chance, have you?” But he could see he had already made Larson wary — which wouldn’t help him build a solid case against the man. Or stay alive. “Actually,” he said, “I wanted to talk to Paul Haycroft.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Paul’s taking some time off. He won’t be in for a week.”
“Really? He didn’t mention anything about that when I saw him yesterday.”
“No, probably not. A death in the family. He called me at home late last night — he so seldom misses work, I couldn’t think of denying his request. Will this cause difficulties with any of your cases in progress? I’d be happy to give my personal attention to anything you need.”
I’m sure you would. “Thanks, but I’ll just wait until he returns.”
“Fine, then. Let me know if you change your mind.”
He had almost reached the door of the lab when Mary Michaels, the toxicologist, saw him. She winced at the bruises on his face.
He held up his hands and said, “I’m not taking anything with me this time, I promise.”
“Hmm,” she said, eyeing him. “Maybe I ought to pat you down, just to make sure.”
He looked away, embarrassed by the comment.
“Hell, no,” another voice said. “If you’re going to make offers like that, tell him you’ll strip-search him.”
He turned to see Vince.
“Jesus, Harriman,” Vince said, laughing. “You’re blushing.”
“Well,” she said to Vince, “nobody’s going to offer to strip-search you. You’ve already let every woman in the department see that you aren’t carrying a thing.”
“That’s not true,” Vince said. “I’ve never been naked with Louise Oswald.”
She made a face and walked away.
“We used to date,” he explained to Frank.
“Ah. That accounts for the rapport.”
Vince shrugged. “Yeah, that’s me. Mr. Smooth. You got a minute?”
Frank almost said no — it would have been easy to make up an excuse. He felt awkward, and angry still, and wished that Vince would have given him a little more time to cool off. But he wasn’t proud of losing his temper, and he didn’t want the tension between them to get worse. So he said, “Sure. Let’s move out of the doorway.”
A small table and two chairs were nearby. They moved a few steps closer, but neither man sat down.
“Upstairs,” Vince began, “you said something that’s been eating at me. About Phil. You really think he didn’t trust us? I mean — the guy seldom worked with partners, but I just figured he always thought he was better than us. Shit, he was better — at the job, anyway. But that’s different from thinking that the people you’re working with are crooked. And that’s what you meant, right?”
Frank hesitated, then said, “I don’t think it was a personal thing, Vince.”
“What the hell are you talking about? How can that not be personal?”
“I’m saying he didn’t know who in the department could be trusted, who couldn’t. It wasn’t a matter of mistrusting any one individual.”
Vince was clearly unsatisfied with this answer, but seemed unwilling to start a new argument with Frank. He indicated the lab door and asked, “You coming or going?”
“Going. I was trying to see Haycroft, but he’s on funeral leave.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry to hear that. That poor guy can’t have much family left.”
“What do you mean?”
Vince looked extremely uncomfortable. “You know — you read about the robbery.” Seeing Frank’s blank look, he added in a low voice, “The fax Irene sent you from the newspaper.”
“That was Larson’s son,” Frank said, bewildered.
“The hell it was. You think I don’t know who died in that robbery?” He sighed and shook his head. “Let me tell you something, Frank. Not a day goes by I don’t think about that family — every single one of those five people who were killed — and wonder if somehow — maybe if I’d been more patient with Lisa or forced her to get help…” He swallowed hard. “But I gave up on her, and look what happened. I let her go her own way after the divorce, and she gets mixed up with one of Dane’s bunch, and that prick Sudas kills the security guard, Haycroft’s ex-wife, Haycroft’s son, the ex’s new husband — Dillon — and Dillon’s little girl from his first marriage. And Lisa — I know Lisa, and I know she didn’t know what was going to happen, not really — and God knows fucking Sudas might as well have shot her, too, because in her head, that’s the last day that ever was. I know that as sure as I’m sitting here. I haven’t been able to look Haycroft in the eye ever since. He’s never said a word to me about it or blamed me in any way, but I sure as hell know that boy was his.”
Frank sat down. “My God.”
“Hey,” Vince said, “you feeling okay? You look a little pale.”
Frank leaned his elbows on the table and cradled his forehead in his palms. “My God…”
“Frank? Maybe you should have taken the day off. You’re looking like hell.”
“No — no, it’s not that, it’s just that — Haycroft — Jesus, Kit was Haycroft’s boy?”
“How many times I gotta tell you? Yes. Kit Haycroft. That’s why I feel sorry for the guy now—”
“Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for him,” Frank said. “When I think of those photographs of Amanda Randolph… and all the others! Christ, what a bastard!”
Vince narrowed his eyes. “You aren’t making a hell of a lot of sense.”
“Listen, you were asking about Lefebvre not trusting anyone. He was trying to figure something out — a day or so before he was murdered—”
“Murdered?”
It hit him, then. Just like Lefebvre, he had been working alone, not trusting anyone. He didn’t really blame Lefebvre — things had happened too quickly for him to figure out whom he could trust. Lefebvre didn’t have much more than a day to work out what might be going on with the case.
And now, ten years later, things were happening quickly again. If Haycroft’s arson attempt had succeeded in destroying the condo and everyone in it, who would have known where to look for Frank’s own killer? Or if one of the car bombs had done its work? In either case, Dane would have doubtless been blamed.
Over the past few days, Hale had heard Frank’s theories, but Hale was an administrator. He’d never get involved in a case the way these guys would. At the end of the day, Hale was what any other c
hief of police was — a politician. A politician who would always be thinking about the department’s image.
Frank looked at Vince, who was waiting for him to explain. He decided he wasn’t going to play it Lefebvre’s way.
“I’m talking about the fact that Phil Lefebvre was killed by someone in this department.”
Vince looked at him in utter bewilderment, as if Frank had suddenly spoken in a foreign language. “What?”
Frank looked over his shoulder — this part of the lab was still empty, but he felt ill at ease being anywhere near Haycroft’s territory. “Let’s go upstairs. I need to talk to you and Reed and Pete about this.”
Looking at their faces, seeing the mixture of disbelief and confusion and anger there, Frank thought that if he had taken the bombs that were in his car a few hours earlier and set them off in the middle of the squad room, the effect wouldn’t have been any less devastating.
They listened patiently while he outlined what he had learned as well as his theories. They had questions, but he could see that as each minute passed, they became more convinced. If he had given them the same information the day before, they would have accused him of going to wild lengths to clear Lefebvre’s name. But the events of the night before had changed everything.
At one point the Wheeze came by, and Frank asked her who had told her Larson wanted to speak to him the previous day.
“Paul Haycroft,” she said. “I’m sorry, I guess Dr. Larson had gone home by the time I gave you the message.”
“Haycroft must have put his son’s picture on Larson’s desk,” Frank said when she had left. “And then he made sure I went into Larson’s office when Larson wasn’t there. I walked into a staged scene.”
“Must have also made sure Larson went home sick,” Reed said.
“Mary did mention something about mocha lattes—”
“Oldest trick in the book,” Vince said. “Wonder if Haycroft bought any chocolate-flavored laxatives somewhere yesterday?”
“Why did he leave the photo?” Pete asked. “That was a big risk on his part.”