by Jan Burke
“Yes, sir. Will that be all?”
Dane nodded absently. Myles was almost to the door when Dane called him back.
“The boy, Myles. Tell me everything you can remember about the boy.”
31
Wednesday, July 12, 5:30 P.M.
The Kelly-Harriman Home
Elena checked on Seth, who was still sound asleep. He had stayed up late the last few nights, visiting with Yvette and Matt — added to all the stress and excitement of the day, he was exhausted.
The dogs had gone out when she opened the door to the room. She had almost lost her balance, because she had been using one foot to block the entrance of the big gray cat — Cody? Yes, that was what Frank had called him. She shut the door behind the whole menagerie — on all but Seth’s guinea pig, who was sleeping in his new cage, undoubtedly dreaming of huge tomcats.
She looked around the room and tried hard to summon some sense of anger, of righteous indignation toward Frank Harriman. She couldn’t do it. She had seen him talking to Baird, could see there was some sort of friction between them. And although Pete had helped them out, she knew he was one of the ones who thought Phil was guilty.
There, the anger was back.
It lasted until she saw a photo of Frank with two boys who were near Seth’s age. The kids were climbing all over him; he was laughing. They weren’t his kids, though. She had overheard that much of Seth’s interrogation of him before Yvette had dragged her farther into the kitchen. No kids. But there were games for kids to play with here. Frank had shown her the closet that held toys. She couldn’t picture him playing with them himself — it was an aunt and uncle’s house, then.
She smelled smoke on her hair and decided to take a shower. Carrying the plastic bag that held the basic toiletries she had purchased at the drugstore, she gathered up a towel and a washcloth from the stack of linens Frank had left for them and went into the bathroom.
It was there, for the first time, that she became acutely aware of the fact that Frank’s wife lived in this house. Not that she had expected that Irene Kelly lived somewhere else, but Elena had been feeling too numb to really study her surroundings. In the moments when the numbness briefly faded, she was caught up in thoughts about the funeral and the fire, in worries about the future, in questions about whom she should trust.
Now, on the counter, small items became a visual alarm, declaring her an interloper on another woman’s ground. No, a couple’s ground. Two toothbrushes, a man’s comb, a woman’s hairbrush. A small bottle of scent, almost full. She opened the mirror door on the cabinet over the sink and saw the his-and-hers mix of deodorants, makeup (very little, she noted), mouthwash, razors, shaving cream, aftershave, hand lotion, cotton balls, aspirin, a box of bandages.
She felt a fierce stab of jealousy toward Irene Kelly. This was not because she had long considered Irene a potential rival or even because she had, at some point during the afternoon, decided that she liked the color of Frank Harriman’s eyes. It was because Irene Kelly had this male presence in her life.
Would she think of Elena as a poacher?
Elena began shrugging out of her clothes. Irene had nothing to worry over, she decided. Frank was attractive, but Elena never went after married men. Hell, she really didn’t spend a lot of time with men, period — although she had always liked the company of men more than of women. She didn’t have women friends. Her friendship with Yvette had been a first, and that one probably wouldn’t have been formed without Seth.
She shook her head. No, that wasn’t it. She liked directness, and most women weren’t as direct as Yvette.
As for men friends, most of the single men she met didn’t seem to be able to give up using the pointers between their legs as the compasses for their lives. Telling a man she was a single mom was usually enough to send his compass needle due south.
She’d met a few men she liked, and she had dated, but nobody ever got more than a good-night kiss from her. For a while, she had wondered if she was actually as frigid as the jerks at the LPPD had said she was. But she knew that was not the problem. The problem was, no one ever measured up to her memories of Phil Lefebvre.
She knew it wasn’t healthy to cling to memories this way, but it was no use trying to let go. She need only look at her son and the memories of Phil were there, inescapable. In a number of ways, she was more faithful to him than many women were to their living mates. She had said this once to Yvette, who had scoffed and said, “A dead husband is very easy to get along with. He doesn’t even snore.”
Maybe Yvette was right. Maybe they would have come to despise each other. Maybe they would have already been divorced, and she would have become a single mom anyway, and moreover, had to watch him date other women.
That was too hard to think about. Maybe, after all, they would have been happy, the way Harriman seemed to be with his wife. She had seen the way they supported each other at the funeral. She had envied Irene Kelly for that, too.
What would it be like, she asked herself, to have someone like Frank Harriman as your husband? There was a faint scent of aftershave, of maleness, in the room. She touched a towel hanging over the shower door. It was slightly damp. She brought it closer to her face and inhaled the combined scents of the soap and shampoo he used. She suffered a small shock, a sudden reacquaintance with the distantly familiar, and opened the shower door to see that Frank used the same brands of soap and shampoo that Phil had used.
She felt a chill. It was almost enough to make her close the shower door again, to let her hair stay smoky, to tell the Harrimans that she’d rent a hotel room somewhere.
She laughed at herself. A hotel? She didn’t make enough money to set herself up like that, not even in a rathole of a hotel. The afternoon shopping spree had almost maxed out her one credit card. “And this is just day one,” she said aloud, turning on the shower and stepping in.
Once the warm water began to sluice over her, she reached for Frank’s shampoo, leaving her own in the plastic bag, leaving the one she knew must be Irene’s on the tile shelf above her. She washed her hair with it, and as its scent rinsed across her face, the knot that had been tied so tightly somewhere in the middle of her chest loosened and the tears began to flow. She couldn’t remember ever crying so much in a single day, and she despised herself for it, even as she let long-denied grief take her where it would go.
So she let herself think of Phil and of what might have been. She fantasized, as she had so often, of Phil at the hospital on the night she gave birth to his son, holding Seth as an infant, how proud he would have been.
She thought of being held by him, of sharing warmth with him.
And as she had done so many, many times, she wondered if he had suffered before he died, if he had been scared, or cold, or lonely. If, from within the wreckage, the very marrow of his bones had tried to call out, asking to be found, only to be utterly abandoned.
“Stop it!” she said aloud, but the scolding only made her cry harder.
Irene had been sent into downtown L.A. on a story that the greenest reporter in the newsroom could have covered, on orders from Wrigley, her boss’s boss. She had watched while Judge Lewis Kerr was handed a plaque from the Southern California Women in Law, thanking him for organizing a series of Tomorrow’s Women in Law days in six counties. Tomorrow’s Women in Law days allowed girls to learn about the legal system by touring courtrooms, meeting with judges and attorneys, and generally being scared out of their wits by the inmates in the women’s jails.
Irene liked the program, and liked Kerr, but she was a veteran reporter, and the assignment had been a bit of petty office warfare. She had, not for the first time, considered finding other work. She loved her job, especially on the days when she was allowed to do it. Today wasn’t one of those days.
Although the press conference was over at two-thirty, Kerr had been flattered that the Express had sent her out on the story, had singled her out afterward, and had extracted a promise from her to attend the u
pcoming dedication ceremonies for a new wing of the Las Piernas County Courthouse. The fifteen minutes of sunshine he showered down on her ensured that she was going to be totally screwed trying to get back from L.A. through traffic.
The traffic was only beginning. Knowing she was never going to make it back in time to file the story, she called it in — on one of the newspaper’s cell phones. She had left her own phone at home when she heard that she would be covering this event. Wrigley would have to foot the bill for this one. She knew the cost of the call would irk the stingy bastard. Keeping that in mind, she described today’s event in minute detail. She had never loaded a story up with so many adjectives in her life.
As it turned out, she also paid for her moments of revenge — the battery on the cell phone went dead just before she reached the last bloated paragraph of the story, abruptly ending the call and denying her the chance to check her messages. Cussing out Wrigley for not investing in phones with a longer battery life, she inched her way home, smelling exhaust fumes, watching brake lights, and wondering if the paper in Modoc County was hiring.
At last, after spending nearly three hours covering a distance of about thirty miles, home was in sight. She pulled into the driveway, anxious to get out of the car. She hurried into the house, was snubbed by a preoccupied Cody, greeted the dogs, and went back into the bedroom to change.
She was surprised to hear the shower running; she hadn’t seen Frank’s car. But he might have parked in the garage or on the street. His clothes were in a pile and smelled heavily of smoke. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. She was putting them in the bag for dry cleaning, wondering why her normally neat husband had just tossed them on the floor, then thought of the shower. Probably washing the smoke smell out of his hair. She imagined him in the shower, smiled, and quickly stripped. She was on her way out of the bedroom when she saw the blue kimono. She smiled again and put it on.
She stepped into the bathroom, heard a woman say, “Honey, are you awake now?”
Honey?
Through a haze of red, she pulled the shower door open and yanked the temperature control so that the water went to one hundred percent cold.
Seth woke up, hearing two women’s voices shouting words that would have put him on restriction for weeks.
32
Wednesday, July 12, 5:45 P.M.
Garrity’s Flowers
He parked in the alley behind the florist shop, checked his pocket to make sure he had the photos, and got out of the car. The two vans parked at the back of the store were older than the one he had seen. They were white Chevy vans, but they didn’t look like the one at the cemetery. Emblazoned in red and green on the side panels and the back door of each was Garrity’s Flowers and the florist’s phone number (2-4-BLOOM). One of the vans had something in common with the van he had seen — its plate number. Even before he walked around to the front end, he knew the other plate would be missing.
He walked through a narrow breezeway between buildings to get to the front of the shop. A bell rang as he stepped in, but apparently it wasn’t heard over Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 5, which was playing over a speaker. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy both the music and the earthy scents of potted plants, the sweet and spicy mix of fragrances of roses and other flowers, the bright colors of summer blooms.
There was no one at the front counter at the moment. A set of glass climate-controlled cases filled with orchids and other exotic-looking plants stood behind the counter, and through them he could see an elderly woman working in the back of the shop. He heard her humming to herself as she created an elaborate arrangement.
Frank didn’t rush her. An avid gardener, he was quickly distracted by the colorful displays around him. Florists could order from greenhouses, of course, and while his own roses and zinnias and dahlias were doing fine, he couldn’t match the variety here. He walked slowly past bins of tulips, lilies, irises, snapdragons, carnations, daisies, and chrysanthemums. He made his way toward another set of climate-controlled cases at the back — these were filled with roses. Wending his way to it, he studied their various shades and shapes, wondering if he should surprise Irene by bringing her a dozen of them, a token of thanks for accepting two houseguests without notice — and a peace offering. It would surprise her — he didn’t stop at florists very often; not only because there were plenty of flowers right outside their back door, but also because he preferred to see flowers growing.
The aisles of the shop were narrow, crowded with blossoms, indoor plants, boxes of chocolates, and a limited assortment of other gifts — ceramic mugs with “World’s Greatest Granddad” and similar phrases imprinted on them; stuffed animals, mostly overdressed bears; hand-painted T-shirts, seemingly designed with cat lovers in mind. He negotiated his way between a display of Mylar balloons and a large potted palm and was bending to take a closer look at a bromeliad when the bell on the door rang again.
A young man entered the shop. He was tall. Not quite as tall as Frank — six two, maybe. His build was solid and muscular — so muscular that Frank thought his neat blue suit must have been custom-tailored. He had close-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and a small tattoo on his thick neck just behind his right ear. A wasp.
He walked directly to the counter, apparently not noticing Frank’s presence. His posture was ramrod straight, his manner assured.
For reasons Frank could not name, the man made him feel uneasy. He stayed still, watching from his crouched position, hidden behind the palm.
The wasp man used his large hands to beat sharply on the countertop. “Hello!” he called, more in impatience than by way of greeting.
The florist came out, smiling. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?”
The wasp man smiled back. “Excuse me, ma’am. I sounded a little impatient, didn’t I? I apologize. I guess I’m a little frustrated, is all. You see, I’ve been to almost every florist in town, so I hope you can help me out.”
Her smile grew at this engaging politeness. Frank felt more wary. He unbuttoned his jacket, to give himself freer access to his weapon. He prayed he was being paranoid.
“I certainly hope so,” she said. “You’re not wanting something completely out of season, are you?”
“No, ma’am,” the wasp man said, laughing a little. “Oh, it feels good to laugh. I haven’t laughed much today.” He suddenly grew solemn. “You see, we had a funeral today — my uncle’s.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
He shrugged his big shoulders. “I really wasn’t close to him at all. But my mom loved him, and now she’s really upset — not just because of the funeral, but because of a little something that happened at it. You see, someone sent a big, beautiful spray of white flowers — gladiolus, mostly, or so my mom says — but the card must have fallen off of them, because we couldn’t find it after the service. The funeral home said they didn’t bring them to the cemetery, so they must have come directly from a florist. We checked with the cemetery, and they can’t tell us who brought them to his grave. Did you happen to make a delivery of white flowers to Good Shepherd Cemetery today?”
Even from the back of the shop, Frank could tell that the woman was nervous. He swore silently to himself, then, staying low, slowly crept forward. He tried to stay beneath the level of the counter, so that his reflection would not appear in the glass of the cases behind it.
“Good Shepherd?” she repeated.
He’s not a cop, Frank thought, edging closer. Not the one who killed Lefebvre. He’s too young. Which left the only other person who’d be interested in white flowers. One of Dane’s men. This likelihood did not make him feel any better.
The wasp man said, “Yes. Lefebvre. My uncle’s name was Lefebvre.”
“I — I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
The wasp man sighed, then walked toward the door. Frank couldn’t believe he was giving up so easily — there was something else going on. Did the wasp man have a confederate outside? He hurriedly reposition
ed himself so that he was better concealed, but not aligned with the woman behind the counter. If he had to fire his weapon at the wasp man, he did not want her to be in the line of fire. He could not see as much of the man’s movements, but he still had a good view of the woman and the street outside. There was a Camaro parked at the curb. No one was waiting in it.
He hoped the wasp man was going to leave, that he had learned whatever he wanted to know. But he didn’t believe for a minute that it was going to happen that way. He thought of all the names on the police memorial that belonged to guys who had bought the farm just like this, on a night when some walk-in asshole’s random or not-so-random act of assholishness turned a trip to a florist or a store or a restaurant into a situation, forcing an off-duty cop to act without the usual protections he’d have on the job — no backup, no radio, no Kevlar vest. Shit.
Instead of going out the door, the wasp man locked it. As he bent to do this, Frank saw the outline of a weapon beneath his coat. Shit.
“Why did you do that?” the florist said. “Can’t you read the sign? ‘This door to remain unlocked during — ’”
“I said, I need your help.”
Frank unholstered his own weapon. With his other hand, he pulled out his cell phone, which was set on silent mode, and dialed Pete’s pager number. Keeping an eye on the wasp man, who was moving closer to the florist, he entered 77, the last digits of his badge number, which would immediately tell Pete who was calling. Separating each code with asterisks, he followed this with 1199, the radio code for “officer needs assistance,” then 211, “armed robbery,” then 2-4-BLOOM — driven nearly mad by having to translate the store’s phone number into digits before hitting the pound key. He put the phone away.
The wasp man was back at the counter now. “Come on, tell me.”
“I told you,” the woman said. “I can’t help you.”
