Flight ik-8

by Jan Burke

  The boy studied Frank, then said, “You don’t live here, do you?”

  “No,” Frank said.

  “We can’t have pets,” the boy said.

  “But you do.”

  “No, if we could have real pets, I would have a dog. I mean — I love My Dog, but he’s not a dog. And I’m not even allowed to have him.”

  “I have two dogs,” Frank said.

  The boy studied him again, then said, “Why are you wearing a gun?”

  Frank’s jacket was closed, so he was surprised that the boy had noticed the weapon. “I’m a policeman.”

  “Let me see some identification,” the boy said — then added, “Please.”

  Frank smiled and pulled out his badge and ID. Without touching the holder, the boy studied them carefully.

  “Have you come to arrest me?” he asked.

  “No — oh, you mean because of the guinea pig? No.”

  The boy’s brows drew together, and he seemed to silently debate something with himself. But then he shook his head and said, “I am not allowed to talk to strangers.” He began to walk away.

  “Wait—” Frank called. “Have we met before?”

  The boy shook his head again, then hurried around the corner. Frank followed slowly and caught a glimpse of the kid climbing the stairs at the end of the building two at a time. He heard a door close. Lefebvre’s old unit.

  Those brown eyes, that serious face.

  He climbed the stairs faster than the boy had and rang the bell.

  He heard muffled voices and footsteps approaching the door. He heard the latch and waited for the door to open.

  It didn’t. He realized that he had heard it being locked, not unlocked.

  He knocked again. There was no sound from the other side of the door.

  He moved to the top stair and sat down. He pulled out his cell phone and called the number Yvette Nereault had given him — the one she made him promise not to write down. The phone rang in the apartment, but there was no answer, not even from a machine. He hung up, and the phone in the apartment stopped ringing. He tried again. Again the phone in the apartment rang. Again it stopped when he hung up.

  He considered annoying the hell out of Yvette just by making the phone ring or camping out on the stairs, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He pictured the kid hiding in the condo, afraid of him. And thought of all the harassment the department had already given this family. He had no warrant, no real reason to be here. He began the walk back to his car.

  Where had he seen that kid before?

  The boy’s eyes made him think of Lefebvre — was the kid Yvette Nereault’s son? No — he talked of living here, not in Quebec, and he did not have her accent. Perhaps some other relation to her? Living in Lefebvre’s home — he made a note to check property records to see who owned the condo now.

  Maybe he was just seeing Lefebvre everywhere. Besides, it wasn’t as if the boy was Lefebvre in duplicate — many of his features weren’t at all like Lefebvre’s. Lucky for the kid, Frank thought wryly.

  As he rounded the building, the sensation of being watched made him look up at the rear windows of the condo. He saw the kid staring down at him, his face solemn. Frank waved to him, but the boy didn’t wave back.

  10

  Monday, July 10, 5:02 P.M.

  Las Piernas Transit Center

  After more than ten years of escaping detection — years of constant vigilance — after thousands of hours spent developing contingency plans and making complicated preparations — the Looking Glass Man began to fear that his elaborate plans would all fall apart here, at a bus station.

  He needed nothing more than a frequently used pay phone. The contempt he felt for the persons he encountered at the downtown terminal was increased when he failed to find a working phone that was not already in use.

  He glanced at his watch, tried to calm himself. Bredloe routinely put in long hours and could often be found in his office as late as ten o’clock. No need to panic. If he could not find a phone here, then he could go elsewhere — to a shopping mall or even the airport — to find one that would suit his purpose.

  He walked out of the building and found a less popular bank of phones situated closer to the parking lot. The parking lot’s toll booth was nearby, and the phones were within view of the attendant — he thought this might account for the fewer signs of vandalism on these phones.

  Although the attendant was busy with the rush-hour exodus from the lot, the Looking Glass Man did not want to take unnecessary chances, and turned his back to the attendant’s booth, so that the logo on his coveralls — Las Piernas Security — faced her. The heat of the day had not subsided, and the coveralls were warm. The wig he wore beneath his billed cap made his own hair damp with perspiration — his scalp began to itch unbearably. So did his upper lip, but he dared not scratch at his small, false mustache for fear of dislodging it. Even the sunglasses were a nuisance, but he consoled himself with the thought that he would not need to wear the disguise much longer.

  The one item he would have been pleased to wear — gloves — would have been far too conspicuous. He would now have to touch surfaces a great many other hands had touched. This caused him more discomfort than the itching of his scalp.

  His plans were complex, and in many regards experimental, and yet he did not fear failure. Thus far, with the exception of this minor problem of finding a usable pay phone, every step had been carried out with remarkable efficiency. In fact, if all went well, when he was ready to leave, he would not even be required to pay for parking — he would be within the “first thirty minutes free” allowance and save one dollar. A pleasing thought, indeed.

  He removed a small device from one of his capacious pockets. Shuddering slightly, he picked up the receiver with his bare hand and fit the device over the mouthpiece. Trying not to think of the contaminants on the push buttons, he dialed a phone number. He pictured Captain Bredloe’s cell phone ringing, imagined the captain supposing that his wife, Miriam, was calling. Wouldn’t he be surprised!

  “Captain Bredloe?” he asked when the call was answered.

  “Who is this?”

  “I have information you need.”

  “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say—”

  “This is a private telephone. Call 555-5773 if you have information for the police.”

  “Please don’t hang up! This is about Lefebvre.”

  The captain said nothing, but the Looking Glass Man knew that he had the other man’s attention. “I don’t want the same thing to happen to me that happened to Lefebvre,” he went on. “That’s why I want to talk to you and only you. I need protection, Captain…”

  “I’ll put you in touch with the detective who’s handling the case,” Bredloe said. “He can offer you confidentiality and protection if you need it.”

  “No! You or no one — I can trust no one else in the Las Piernas Police Department. Do you want to know what really happened to the Randolphs? Come to the Sheffield Club tonight at six-thirty. Come alone.”

  “If you have something we should be interested in, you’ll have to get it to me another way.”

  “I’ll prove to you I know what I’m talking about. There was only one item left in the box of evidence — a watch.”

  There was the briefest hesitation before Bredloe said, “You could have read that in the newspaper.”

  “No. You know that information wasn’t released. The Sheffield Club, six-thirty.”

  He disconnected, then removed the device that had altered his voice from the mouthpiece. He placed it in a plastic bag so that it would not contaminate his clothing with bacteria from the phone. He took out a small packet containing a disinfectant hand cleaner and used it to wipe his hands. He noticed that the shiny plated surface surrounding the phone’s keypad reflected his image, and could not resist wiping a small portion of it so that he could better see himself. He lowered the sunglasses and
marveled at his changed appearance.

  Reluctantly, he turned away and walked back to his van.

  11

  Monday, July 10, 6:20 P.M.

  Las Piernas Beach

  When it came to self-control, Irene thought irritably, Frank Harriman was a damned black belt. Usually, this wasn’t much of a problem between them — she was well aware that she held the record for getting him to lose his temper, and vice versa — although she would have readily admitted to having a much shorter fuse. Once, when they had snapped at each other in front of his mother, Bea Harriman had said disapprovingly, “You should have known what you were getting into when you married an Irishwoman, Frank.”

  He had smiled at Irene in a way that had made her suddenly blush from head to toe and said softly, “Oh, I knew.” They had said quick good-byes to his mother, left the house, and less than an hour into the drive home, rented a motel room.

  Now, as they ran together along the beach, she grinned as she recalled that evening, but when she glanced over at Frank, he seemed lost in his own thoughts — and they didn’t seem to be happy ones.

  Throughout dinner, he had been tense, alternating between seeming ready to talk to her about something and not meeting her eyes. Not at all like him.

  She thought she knew what his problem was. Just before he came home, she had received a call from Rachel, Pete Baird’s wife. Rachel let her know that Frank had been getting snubbed at work. Irene was angry that his coworkers were so childish, but was also surprised that he had let it get to him — that wasn’t like him, either.

  Once or twice, she had looked up from her plate and caught him studying her. Then he would quickly look away. Talk to me, you big lug, she thought. But he didn’t.

  She was tempted to goad him into saying something, but she decided he didn’t need more hassles at home and resolved not to push him this evening. She would just try to help him relax.

  The beach run with the dogs was a ritual they followed on any evening when they were both home, and it usually would have helped him to relieve tension. But as this evening’s run came to an end, he seemed more ill at ease than before.

  Wondering which tactic to try next, she headed up the wooden stairs that led from the beach to their street, Frank and the dogs behind her.

  “Have you ever been to a place called the Prop Room?” he asked.

  She stopped and looked back at him. “The French-Canadian place near the airport?”

  For some reason, her response seemed to trouble him. “Yes,” he said. “Have you ever been there?”

  “No. A couple of guys at the paper said it’s great, though. Want to try it sometime?”

  “I had lunch there with Guy today. He came along as a translator.”

  “Oh. Is this about Phil?”

  “His sister knows the owner. We met with his sister today.”

  Now she was sure she understood what was wrong with him. “Oh, no — you had to give the notice?” She knew he hated that part of the job, telling a family of the death of a loved one.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought Phil’s sister was in Canada.”

  “She’s down here for a while.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t believe they didn’t give that task to someone who knew Phil.”

  “Probably better that they didn’t. The people in the department who knew him aren’t exactly weighed down by fond remembrance. Besides, it’s my case.”

  “Still, I’m sorry — that must have been difficult for you.”

  He looked away, as if uneasy with her kindness.

  “Was it hard on her?”

  Frank shrugged. “She had already assumed he was dead, and her husband passed the word on to her before I met with her, but — yes, I think it was hard on her.”

  She came back down the stairs and looped her arm through his. He seemed, for the briefest moment, to want to move away from her — but just as she wondered if he thought it was too hot out to walk arm in arm, he seemed to make some silent resolution and put his hand over hers.

  She was puzzled. Had she done something to make him angry? But this wasn’t really anger, it was — what? She didn’t know.

  They walked in silence, but when they were almost back at the house, he said, “Lefebvre dined at that restaurant the night before he left town.”

  “The night before he died?”

  “Presumably, yes. The night before Seth Randolph was killed.”

  She called to the dogs, who had loped beyond the house. Where was he going with this?

  “The owner of the restaurant said a woman dined with him that night.”

  She looked up at him then — studying him. Understanding began to dawn.

  “It was the day of the press conference — that evening,” he was saying. “It’s so close to the time he disappeared, I thought it might be important. Or if it isn’t — well, I’d like to know that it isn’t.”

  She quickly left his side to put the dogs in the backyard. She turned around, her hands on her hips. “Rachel said the other guys in the department weren’t talking to you today.”

  “They weren’t,” he said, apprehensive now.

  “Oh, yeah? So why am I hearing an insinuation?”

  “What insinuation?”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t fuck with me, Frank.”

  “Lower your voice.”

  “Answer the question,” she said, twice as loud.

  “Let’s go inside. Let’s not have this discussion out here on the front lawn.”

  “You started this discussion in the great outdoors, we can finish here.”

  “Irene—” he pleaded, glancing at the house next door. “Do you really want Jack and all the other neighbors to have to listen to this?”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass if they pop popcorn to enjoy with the show!”

  “Damn it, Irene—”

  “You’re wondering if I had dinner with Phil after the press conference. You’re wondering if I’ve — if I’ve what? Cheated on you before we were together? No — no, that’s not it. You aren’t that crazy.” She considered his questions, not one by one, but as a whole, their direction. “You keep talking about the night before he disappeared. You think — you think Phil and I had some kind of secret, right? About what, Seth Randolph?”

  He looked away. “I made a mistake.”

  “A mistake? My God… you thought that I’ve known something about the murder of a sixteen-year-old boy and kept it to myself for ten years? You could believe that of me? Jesus, why am I even trying to talk to you!”

  “Irene—” He took hold of her arm, but she shook him off angrily. “God damn it,” he said. “Irene, it’s my job.”

  “Oh, really? I have a job, too, so I guess I’ll phone in a story—”

  “Come on, be reasonable!”

  “So now I’m the one being unreasonable? Bullshit! We have rules, Frank, and you’ve broken them. Don’t expect me to shrug that off.”

  “Look—”

  “No, you look. A little while ago, I could have sworn I was talking to my husband as his wife — but come to find out I’m secretly being questioned by the Las Piernas Police Department regarding a murder case! Next time let me know who’s talking to me — the flaming asshole who works for the PD or the flaming asshole I married.” She stormed into the house, slamming the front door behind her.

  Her anger squeezed the breath from her, made the house feel too small. The phone was ringing, Frank’s pager was beeping, and she kept right on walking, kept right on going, until she was out in the backyard, on the damned patio he had built, seeing the damned garden he had planted. She heard him come in through the front door. She needed to get away from him, from this house, this yard. She kept moving, along the side of the house to the gate, then, taking the dogs with her, headed back to the beach.

  Deke and Dunk, at first cowed by her anger, now seemed unable to believe their luck.

  She couldn’t believe her own.
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br />   12

  Monday, July 10, 6:20 P.M.

  The Sheffield Club

  Downtown Las Piernas

  Bredloe was parked five blocks away from the Sheffield Club when his cell phone rang. For a moment, he feared it was the anonymous caller, making a last-minute change in arrangements or canceling altogether. But it was one of the sharpshooters.

  “We’re in position, Captain.”

  “The dogs are out?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope the members of the bomb squad were discreet.”

  “Yes, sir. Sheriff’s department dog handlers showed up dressed as security guards — even had a van made up. No explosives were found.”

  Bredloe mentally reviewed his hasty preparations: The bomb squad had checked for explosives. Tactical officers were in place in key locations outside the building, and two marksmen were positioned within. A helicopter unit was ready to join in on any pursuit. Other units were standing by. And he was wearing his Kevlar vest.

  “You weren’t seen?” he asked the marksman.

  There was slight hesitation before the SWAT officer answered, “I can’t be one hundred percent certain on that, sir. But no, sir, we don’t think we were seen.”

  “I appreciate your honesty, Lieutenant. We’re probably on a wild-goose chase here anyway. Civilians have been cleared from the building?”

  “We sent the last of the construction crew home an hour ago.”

  “And no sign of our caller?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “I’m on my way, then.”

  Bredloe stepped onto a plywood ramp that led away from the covered wooden sidewalk, ignoring the handbills that had been plastered everywhere. The narrow passageway from there to the building had been opened only four days ago, and would probably be closed again soon. The Sheffield Club was an active construction site, and only a brief moment of recent limelight had made it accessible to the public.

  He didn’t know how the anonymous caller had obtained his cell phone number, but he was even more concerned about the fact that he knew about the watch — the caller had been right, it was a detail of the Lefebvre investigation that had not been released to the public. Perhaps the caller had learned of it through a careless comment by a property room clerk, or more seriously, a deliberate leak within the department. He felt almost certain that the caller himself was not a member of the department, because he had asked Bredloe to come here alone.