Flight ik-8
Page 44
He looked at Denise, who was nodding furiously.
“I think not. I feel safer with her here, you might say. And I am concerned that Vince Adams must have had a little look-see through my plane while he waited for me, so I don’t really believe I can rely on your story. I will be leaving now.”
He began to taxi out of the hangar. “Haycroft!” a new voice said.
“Detective Harriman, forgive me, but I must be on my way.”
“That’s fine with me, but I just wondered if you really believe your papers are the only thing Vince and I might have messed with on that Cessna today.”
He stopped taxiing, then smiled to himself. “Nice try. It’s running perfectly well.”
“To tell you the truth, I hope you think so.”
“You wouldn’t be trying to tell me that you in some way disabled a plane carrying a hostage?”
“How was I to know there would be one? Besides, sometimes lambs must be sacrificed.”
“But you, dear Frank, are no killer of lambs.”
“Things happen to change a man. You weren’t either, before Kit.”
Haycroft was silent. He allowed the plane to move a little farther forward.
“You should know better than anyone, Haycroft, that, sometimes, the legal ways are not the effective ways. I’ve learned that from you. I applied it to your case, too. You just couldn’t be caught by normal means. So I had to come up with something special.”
“You don’t know the first thing about airplanes,” Haycroft sneered. The plane nosed out of the hangar.
“Vince has a pilot’s license. And I don’t need to tell you that a person can learn a lot when he’s investigating a homicide. For example, the NTSB showed me how little it might take to sabotage a plane.”
“I still don’t believe you.”
“Okay, my conscience is clear. Have a sweet plane ride, just like Lefebvre did all those years ago. And don’t forget to wave to Vince on your way out. He’s just to your left.”
As Haycroft passed, Vince smiled and waved. He was holding an opened five-pound bag of sugar.
“This is nonsense,” Haycroft said, as much to himself as to Frank.
But he thought of Lefebvre’s fall from the sky.
He taxied to the runaway that had been assigned to him that morning.
“Nice try, Frank,” Cassidy whispered to Frank.
“I’ll bet you’ve wondered what it was like for Lefebvre, that last flight,” Frank said, not giving up.
Haycroft was silent.
“I’ll bet you’ve asked yourself, ‘Was he calm when he heard the engine cough and then go silent? Did he panic and scream?’ Now you can find out what you’ll do in that situation. Personally, I’ve got you pegged as a screamer.”
Haycroft let the plane drift a few feet forward.
“Maybe you think you’re such a hot pilot, you’ll be able to land it without power.”
Haycroft increased power so that the engine droned louder.
“But then your emergency locator transmitter won’t work any better than his did.”
The plane did not move farther.
“And you never know what you’ll be flying over when you start to hear that first little sputter. Water, trees, rocky ground. I guess it won’t matter. It will all feel like a brick wall once you actually hit it.”
The plane turned and continued turning. As everyone in the hangar held their breath, Haycroft taxied back. He shut down the plane and climbed out, leaving his hostage within. His hands were over his head. Within seconds, the SWAT team had him down on the floor and Denise was free.
56
Saturday, July 15, 1:00 P.M.
Las Piernas Beach
He watched for a moment before going down the steps to the beach.
Seth and Irene and Jack were playing Frisbee, with Deke and Dunk doing their best to add a little chaos to the game. After a second interception, Jack put Seth on his shoulders. Seth giggled wildly.
Elena sat on a blanket, watching them. He continued down to the beach.
“Mind if I sit here?” he asked Elena.
She looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I don’t if you don’t.”
They sat in silence for a time, then he said, “Hitch did a little more talking.”
She kept watching her son.
“He said that Dane deposited money in your account by forging your endorsement on a check and threatened to say you had extorted it from him. And Hitch threatened to back him up. That you refused to keep the money, but were afraid no one would believe you.”
“I like your friend Jack,” she said. “He’s good with Seth.”
He looked out at the water. “Jack’s a good man,” he said quietly. “My best friend, really.”
She looked at him in surprise, but didn’t say anything.
“I should have started out by saying I’m sorry,” he said.
“You have nothing to apologize for. I wasn’t much of a cop.”
“There’s more to life than being a cop. You were surprised when I said Jack was my best friend. You thought, ‘Why didn’t he say Pete?’”
“Okay, I admit it, I did.”
“But even though I love Pete like a brother — it often is as if he’s a brother. An annoying one. He’s uneasy around me now, because I got pissed off with him about Lefebvre. But for Pete, being partners means we’ll have to work all that through. For him, just about all of life is about being a cop. I’m not like that, I guess.”
“Why not? You grew up in a cop family, right?”
He nodded. “My dad was more like Pete — true-blue. But I guess I don’t have their zeal. Sometimes, I take a step back, I don’t know that I really do any good.”
“Are you crazy?” she said.
“Take this week. What the hell did I accomplish? Lefebvre is no more alive than he was ten years ago. Whitey Dane is dead — but not because of anything the police did to stop him.”
“I hear Myles Volmer survived.”
“Yes — word is, just before the bomb went off, he stepped out into one of the hallways of the new building to see if he could sneak Dane in to see Kerr. Even if he had been killed, Derrick or some other asshole would take over Dane’s kingdom from here — and I doubt Hitch’s testimony is going to be able to deliver anything to change that.”
“That doesn’t mean that what you did this week is unimportant.”
“Worse than unimportant. Carlson hates me more than ever, Bredloe’s hardly able to speak, and the Wheeze is fawning over me — which is unbearable. We’ll probably lose the lab. The taxpayers just had a new building blown to hell. And as Internal Affairs learns more about Haycroft’s ‘experiment books,’ more lawsuits will be filed and violent offenders released. You ask me, I did more for the forces of evil than good this week.”
“You saved my son’s life in that fire.”
“You would have saved him — you would have gotten out without me. At best, I saved a guinea pig. And maybe if I had just played it the way the department asked me to, there never would have been a fire in your home. You’d have been living there in peace.”
She shook her head. “Whatever else you can say about my existence before that fire, I was not at peace. And I only recently realized how much that was costing Seth. You want to know what good you did this week? Look at my son. Right now. Look at him.”
Seth was searching through the sand. He picked up a flat rock and smiled at Jack. “Have you found one yet?”
“Okay,” Jack said. “I’m ready.”
“You first.”
Jack grinned and skipped his rock.
“Three!” Seth announced. “Now it’s my turn.” His face was a picture of concentration. He threw the rock exactly as Frank had shown him. “Four!”
Before Frank could say anything, they heard a voice call, “Hey, it’s Nereault!”
A group of four boys who appeared to be brothers came running over. Deke and Dunk positioned themselve
s at Seth’s side.
“They live in our condo complex,” Elena said. “The middle two are twins who are his age.”
They were peppering him with questions about the dogs, the fire at the condo, and asking if My Dog had survived.
“Yes,” Seth said, pointing to Frank, “my friend saved him. But my name isn’t Nereault anymore. It’s Lefebvre.”
“Is that true?” one asked Elena.
“Yes, it has always been true. Lefebvre was Seth’s father’s name.”
“My father was a hero. I’ll show you a videotape one day.”
“Say that name again,” the youngest pleaded.
“Lefebvre,” Seth said slowly. “Lefebvre. Lefebvre.”
“You haven’t done shit this week, have you?” Elena whispered to Frank.
“I forgot to tell you something,” Frank said. “I talked to Joe Koza, our questioned documents examiner, the other day. I asked him about a business card I had bagged at the scene of the crash. Turns out it was yours, with a handwritten number on the back.”
She looked up at him, searching his face.
“Lefebvre had it in his shirt pocket.” He put his hand over his heart. “He carried it right here.”
“Thanks,” she said, and quickly walked away.
Irene came up to him then, saying, “The kids want to watch the video, so I told their mom they could all come up to our place. Is that okay?”
“Sure,” he said, still watching Elena.
Irene followed his gaze and said, “Did you make her cry?”
“No, another cop did,” he said, then smiled as Jack began to follow her.
They led the boys up the stairs. Behind him, he heard a chant, a boy saying “Lefebvre” perfectly, four others getting better at it as they repeated, “Lefebvre, Lefebvre, Lefebvre, Lefebvre…”
The Looking Glass Man stood very still near the center of the cell. He did not want to touch any surface. The cell was filthy. No amount of complaining would improve conditions in this hellhole.
There was one small victory this evening. He had stolen a spoon during dinner. He took it out now and polished it with his shirttail. He polished it, whispering to himself as he did. Then he paused and looked at his reflected image — first convex, then concave.
Not very satisfactory.
Nothing was anymore.
He took hold of the shirttail again. As he polished and polished the spoon, more vigorously this time, he whispered a little louder:
“Lefebvre, Lefebvre, Lefebvre, Lefebvre…”
Acknowledgments
The research for this book required the help of a number of experts whose kindness in offering it should not result in their being blamed for any of my mistakes. I’m especially grateful to fellow author Detective Paul Bishop, Los Angeles Police Department; Officer John Pearsley, Jr., El Cajon Police Department; and Detective Bill Valles of the Long Beach Police Department. My special thanks to Detective Sergeant Ed Cavanaugh, Evidence Control, Long Beach Police Department, for his time and willingness to answer my many questions, and for all he does to keep the LBPD Evidence Control area free of the problems the fictional Sergeant Flynn faces.
Barry A. J. Fisher, author of Techniques of Crime Scene Investigation, director of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department Crime Laboratory, and former president of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, is an inspiring teacher who’s generous with his time to writers and former students.
For the sections concerning Lefebvre’s plane, I am indebted to Jeff Rich, Senior Safety Investigator, National Transportation Safety Board, Southwest Regional Office, and to Manny Raefsky, who spent a career investigating aviation disasters.
SAR and cadaver dog trainer Beth Barkely provided help with passages concerning Bingle (but please don’t assume she’d break the rules Ben Sheridan breaks!) and also with the collapsed building scenes. I also had help regarding Ben and Bingle’s mountain searches — especially the wood rat’s nest — from the members of the Internet Listserv SAR-DOGS, and I thank Leo Delany, Travis County SAR; Fleta Kirk, MARK-9 SAR, Dallas; Bev Peabody, Placer County Sheriff’s SAR K9 Team; and Laura Rathe, California Rescue Dog Association for their assistance.
The technical rescue scenes and information about collapsed buildings grew out of conversations with Mark Ghilarducci, Federal Coordinating Officer for the Federal Emergency Management Agency and a specialist in urban search and rescue; with Bob Caldon, Public Information Officer for the Long Beach Fire Department; and most especially with the help of Captain Jeff Reeb, Long Beach Fire Department.
I appreciate the time and effort given by forensic anthropologists Madeleine Hinkes — who allowed me to picture the crash site much more clearly — Paul Sledzik, Diane France, and Marilyn London; Sandra Cvar for guinea pig sound effects and for helping me catch errors in the manuscript; John G. Fischer for fight scenes; Jonathan Beggs for help with constructing the attic; Melodie Johnson Howe for reconstruction and encouragement. Timbrely Pearsley provided computer information, and Tonya Pearsley gave feedback on early drafts.
Shortly after I named a character Lefebvre, I began to hear five or six different pronunciations of his Quebecois name. Thanks are due to the members of Dorothy L, an Internet Listserv dedicated to mystery fiction, who kindly answered my plea for help with this matter, especially Nicole Leclerc, C. Tessier, Carole Epstein, Catherine, Gail, Marlyn, Nina, and Mary Jane. As Phil Lefebvre explains, there are several ways the owners of the name may say it, and I hope my readers in Quebec will find the one I chose to be believable for his background.
In addition to surviving jobs in television news, the real Marcia Wolfe-Gruber is a dear friend, Video Vixen, and kick in the pants — her husband, Dr. James Gruber, also my friend, and inventor of the Grubescope, answered medical questions.
One evening at the Mystery Lovers Bookshop in Oakmont, Pennsylvania, I was introduced to Erin Declan Philbin, a speech and language pathologist who specializes in alternative augmentation communication — and soon enlisted her aid in understanding how Seth Randolph would communicate after his injuries. My thanks to Erin and the MLB.
Thanks also to Scott Carrier of the Los Angeles County Department of the Coroner for his assistance.
Marysue Rucci is an extraordinary editor whose commitment to this book and influence in helping it to outgrow an awkward adolescence have earned her my deepest gratitude and respect.
Tim Burke, you’re still the one.
About the Author
Jan Burke is the recipient of the Edgar Award for Best Novel of 1999 (Bones), the Macavity Award, the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine Readers Award, and the Romantic Times’s Career Achievement Award for Contemporary Suspense. She lives in Southern California with her husband, Tim, and her dogs, Cappy and Britches. She is currently at work on her next novel. Her Web site is at www.janburke.com.
Also by Jan Burke
Goodnight, Irene
Sweet Dreams, Irene
Dear Irene
Remember Me, Irene
Hocus
Liar
Bones
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