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  “I asked for Yvette Nereault and was told that she was not at home, but the man who answered was her husband. I asked when she would be back and he said not for a week, that she was in California. I said that I was calling on behalf of a friend who was with the Las Piernas Police Department, who needed urgently to contact her. You heard what happened after that.”

  Frank sighed. “This family is understandably upset with the department.”

  “Why?”

  “Strictly between us?”

  “Of course.”

  Frank gave him a brief summary of the case.

  “Phew!” Guy said. “So they must believe in his innocence.”

  “I’m not so sure their faith is misplaced. And the notes on the case indicate that persistent inquiries were made of the family during the first year or so after Lefebvre disappeared — some members of the department thought Lefebvre would hide out in Canada.”

  “So they feel harassed and have no love of the Las Piernas police.”

  “Right. But I need to do my best to tell them that we’ve found him. Are you willing to try again?”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe we can convince him to get in touch with his wife and ask her to call us — to let it be her decision.”

  Guy dialed the number again. He spoke very rapidly when Nereault answered, and Nereault allowed him to go on at some length. Frank heard him mention Montreal and then the Buffalo Sabres and, from Nereault’s disbelieving and then excited tone, realized that Guy was gaining ground. He also realized that however excellent Detective Tran’s French might be, unless he had played pro hockey, he wouldn’t have made such a hit with Nereault. Eventually, Frank heard Guy mention “Detective Harriman” and then Philippe Lefebvre.

  “So you didn’t work for the department when my brother-in-law disappeared?” Nereault said in perfect English.

  “No. I was working in another city then.”

  “Philippe is dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Frank answered.

  There was a long silence.

  “Yvette knew it. She knew it then. Her parents — that was another matter.”

  “Can you tell me how to reach them?”

  “Do you know a spiritualist?” Nereault said. “Sorry — that was in poor taste. They have been dead for eight years.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I can’t say that I miss them. And even Yvette has come to see that they were not — well, that does not matter. Whatever one thinks of them, it is a shame that they died thinking their son was a crooked cop. But to tell the truth, for many years, they had thought worse of him than that. Philippe had been dead to them for a long time, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t—”

  “And now you tell me he is really dead. Who killed him?”

  “His plane crashed in the mountains.”

  “Who killed him?” Nereault asked again.

  “I’m trying to learn the truth about what happened to him,” Frank said. “If someone killed him, I’ll do my best to find out who it was.”

  “I’ll tell you who it was,” Nereault said. “It was one of you. One of your Las Piernas Police Department fellows, that’s who. You should watch your back, Detective Harriman, especially if you are going around saying that Philippe might have been innocent.”

  He spoke in French to Guy for a while, then said, “You may be surprised to learn that my wife is not far from you at the moment. She is in Las Piernas.”

  “What brings her here?”

  He hesitated, then said, “She would not want me to discuss her business with you.”

  Frank waited.

  “Let’s say she is visiting a friend. A good reason to be there, no? A woman named Marie. You can ask for Marie at a place near the airport. A little restaurant called the Prop Room.”

  “The Prop Room?” Frank asked, remembering the receipt among Lefebvre’s effects. He knew of the place and had seen it mentioned in the files on Lefebvre, but he had never been there himself.

  “Yes,” Nereault was saying. “And if she acts upset, you have to tell her you threatened me with torture before I would say a word. And you better bring your hockey defenseman friend with you. She likes speaking this language even less than I do.”

  “Want to have an early lunch near the airport?” Frank asked Guy when Nereault had hung up.

  “Actually, I’m very curious about this place. A friend tells me it’s the only place in town where one can find genuine French-Canadian cuisine.”

  During the drive to the restaurant, Frank said, “After he spoke to me in English, he spoke to you in French again.”

  “He asked if I thought you were an honest man. I told him yes. He said that Las Piernas is not healthy for honest policemen, and that if I am really your friend, I would encourage you to go into another line of work, so that you could live to see your children.”

  “Very dramatic, but not an accurate picture of the Las Piernas Police Department.”

  “You’re right, of course. But perhaps from his perspective—”

  “Yes, I understand that. I can’t blame him for being down on the department. But saying Lefebvre was framed is one thing — saying he was murdered is another.”

  “Yes, it is something else entirely,” Guy said, and seemed lost in thought.

  A large woman stood near the door, clutching a handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes as they approached, then said, “You are from the police?”

  “I am, yes,” Frank said, and started to pull out his badge. But she had already turned her back on them and motioned to them to follow her through the restaurant. Although it was just after eleven, the place was already starting to fill up. She seated them at a relatively quiet booth near the back. “Yvette said to ask you to have your lunch. She will sit with you a little later.”

  Guy ordered a hearty stew and ate it with gusto. Frank ordered a sandwich, but as he looked around at the aircraft paraphernalia decorating the walls, he thought of the wreckage in the mountains, of Lefebvre spending one of his last evenings here, and lost his appetite.

  “I would think,” Guy said, observing this, “that by now a dead man wouldn’t stop you from eating.”

  “Most don’t,” Frank admitted.

  “But this one is different?”

  Frank traced his right thumb over the knuckles of his left hand. “Yes, I suppose so. Every now and then a case bothers me more than others. Maybe this one bothers me because Lefebvre was in the same line of work.”

  His pager went off. He saw that it was Ben Sheridan’s number. He excused himself from the table and went outside to return the call.

  “My search group is going up to the mountains again next weekend,” Ben said. “We’re going to take the dogs to the crash site.”

  “Didn’t the coroner’s office call you? The identification is in. They got it from the dental.”

  “I know, I was there. I spent the morning going over the remains with the coroner. The trauma from the crash caused Lefebvre’s death, but the NTSB will have to tell you what caused the crash.”

  “So why are you going up there?”

  “Two reasons. First, it’s a good training opportunity for the dogs. And the other — a hunch. I suspect scavengers carried off some of the smaller bones and anything else that was small and loose and of interest to them. And almost anything that can be carried off is of interest to a wood rat. So if there’s a wood rat’s nest nearby, who knows what we might find in it? Maybe there will be a key to a safe-deposit box built into it.”

  Frank smiled to himself, imagining Carlson’s face if he told him Lefebvre’s accomplice was a wood rat. “Call me if you find anything, but as you know, I have my doubts about this payoff story. It may be nothing more than a rumor.” He was about to hang up, when he thought of the chilly atmosphere in the squad room and said, “You don’t have anybody from LPPD in your group, do you?”

  “No, not at the moment. Why?”

  “Do me a f
avor. If anyone asks — especially Cliff Garrett — you’re just looking for bones, okay? I’d rather not start a treasure hunt up there.”

  “Sure. I’m with you — no need to have dozens of people digging up the wilderness.”

  When he walked back into the restaurant, a woman was sitting in his place across from Guy. Yvette Lefebvre Nereault was tall and slender, and looked to be in her late forties. Although her features were nowhere near as plain as her late brother’s, Frank could see the family resemblance. Especially in her dark, intense eyes, which were, at the moment, red-rimmed and puffy from crying. Still, she regarded him steadily as he approached, and he began to wonder if Lefebvre had looked at suspects in that same way. If so, it was not difficult to see why Phil Lefebvre had had success in getting confessions.

  Guy introduced them to each other, and when she didn’t budge, scooted over so that Frank could share his side of the booth.

  “So my husband the bag of wind told you exactly where to find me, eh?”

  “I appreciated his help.”

  She gave a harsh bark of laughter. “I’m sure you did.”

  “Did he tell you why I was trying to reach you?”

  She looked away for a moment, her lower lip trembling. She drew a steadying breath. “He said you found my brother.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, perhaps the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and every other law enforcement group between here and Hong Kong can sleep better tonight. Their enemy is dead after all.”

  Frank said nothing. She stared hard at him, then said, “So, is it true? My husband said you believe in Philippe’s innocence.”

  “I told him I am not sure of his guilt.”

  “Not quite the same thing, but at least you are honest with me about it.”

  She spoke to Guy in French for a moment, then said to Frank, “He tells me your wife knew my brother. What is her name?”

  “Irene Kelly.”

  “Irene Kelly,” she repeated slowly. A small smile of private amusement briefly crossed her face. “I know this name. In fact, at one time…” Her voice trailed off, and the look of amusement was gone. “It’s nothing.”

  “Did he mention her to you?”

  But Yvette’s attention strayed to the large woman who had met them at the door. The woman walked up to the table, and Yvette introduced her as an old friend, Marie, and indicated that she should sit down beside her. “Ten years ago Marie was a waitress here. Today she owns this place.”

  “The food was excellent,” Guy said. “I haven’t eaten so well since I was last in Montreal.” Seeing her look between Frank and his nearly untouched sandwich, he said something quickly in French. It caused both Marie and Yvette to look at Frank with expressions of disbelief.

  “C’est vrai,” Guy said.

  “What did you tell them?” Frank asked warily.

  “That my brother’s ghost troubles you and has taken your appetite,” Yvette said.

  Frank felt his headache returning.

  “Holy God, it’s so!” Marie said, turning white. “This table — this is the very one where he sat with her, that last night.”

  “With her?” Frank asked even as Yvette shot her friend a quelling look. “Who was here with him?”

  Marie said nothing.

  “Who?” he asked again.

  Marie crossed her arms. She looked away.

  “If he didn’t kill Seth Randolph,” Frank said, “let me help you clear his name. We already know he ate here the night before he died. I read the file — the owner of the restaurant was questioned, and so were the staff. Everyone said that Lefebvre ate here often, and was probably here that night, but no one could recall anything remarkable about it.”

  Marie glanced at Yvette, then said, “I was mistaken. He was here alone.”

  “If you know something—”

  “I don’t.”

  “All right — perhaps he was here earlier in the week with someone else,” Frank said, not believing for a moment that Lefebvre had dined alone on that last night. “What did this woman look like?”

  “There is no time for this,” Yvette interrupted. “I am only here a few more days. Will I be allowed to arrange for a funeral for my brother? Or will you make me wait another decade to bury him?”

  Frank gave her the information she would need to contact the coroner. “If you would like me to take you there—”

  “No… no, thank you,” she said.

  “Where can I reach you while you are here?”

  “Marie can always reach me.”

  He waited. She returned his stare, then slowly she began to smile.

  “You know, Philippe used to be the only one who could get me to say what I did not want to say to him.” She hesitated. “Do you have a good memory?”

  He nodded.

  “If I give you a phone number—”

  “Yvette!” Marie warned.

  “If I give you a phone number, you must promise not to write it down. Not anywhere. I would not want the people I am staying with to be bothered — or worse — by the Las Piernas Police Department.”

  “All right.”

  She gave him a local number.

  He gave her his card. “My pager number is on there. Please let me know if I can be of help. And please let me know when and where the services will be held.”

  “So that he can be buried with full police honors?” she asked bitterly. “I should take him back to Quebec. He never should have left.”

  “Why did he live here, so far away from the rest of the family?” Frank asked.

  She hesitated, then said, “He never got along well with my father. He left home when he was eighteen and went to college in the U.S. He was born here, you know. A U.S. citizen. Whenever he was angry at Philippe, my father used to call him ‘L’Américain.’”

  “Yvette and Bernard were born in Quebec,” Marie said proudly.

  “Bernard?” Frank asked.

  “My younger brother,” Yvette replied. Turning to Marie, she said something in rapid French, speaking angrily and in a low voice.

  Marie blushed. “Excuse me,” she said, and stood up.

  “Marie! Pardon…” Yvette called to her, but the other woman walked away.

  Frank glanced at Guy, who gave a small shrug.

  “I didn’t know you had another brother,” Frank said to Yvette. “If you’ll let me know how to reach him—”

  “Bernard died a long time ago,” she said softly. “A hunting accident.”

  Frank waited, and silently willed Guy to do the same.

  “Philippe came home from college for Christmas that year,” she said, reminiscing. “And Bernard — Bernard had missed him and never let him have a moment’s peace. Bernard and I were both excited — we had not seen Philippe for two years. When Bernard begged to be allowed to join Philippe and a few of his friends on a hunting trip, my father said no, but Philippe took him along anyway.” She shook her head. “It was nothing new for Philippe to defy my father. And Bernard had gone hunting with Philippe many times before. But this time — the others said that one of the laces of Bernard’s boot became loose. That is how I lost my younger brother, you see? Because of a bootlace. Bernard leaned his rifle against a fallen log, then placed his boot on the log to retie the lace. Only — the log moved a little. The gun fell and went off, and he was killed. Philippe did everything he could to save him, but there was not the slightest chance he could have done so.”

  “How old was Bernard?” Guy asked.

  “Sixteen.”

  “The same age as Seth Randolph,” Frank said.

  She looked sharply at him. “So… you see it, too — penance, non? A way to redeem himself.” But in the next moment she smiled cynically. “If the police are right, what a Judas my brother must have been!”

  6

  Monday, July 10, 12:30 P.M.

  Aboard the Cygnet II

  Las Piernas Marina South

  Whitey Dane sensed the presence of his chief
assistant and lowered the newspaper. The other man had not cleared his throat or cast the slightest shadow over the page Dane had been reading. After twelve years in his service, Myles would never have been guilty of such a disturbance of his boss’s peace. At twenty-eight years of age, Myles’s manners were far more refined than those of the teenager who had indentured himself to Dane those dozen years ago.

  “Everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Dane?” he asked.

  “Yes, Myles, thank you. You may take the rest away.”

  Built like a linebacker, Myles nevertheless moved gracefully and silently as he removed the fine bone-china plate and crystal wineglass. The tall, dark-haired man was dressed entirely in white. All the assistants who cared for Mr. Dane when he was on his yacht wore white. Their sailing clothes were spotless.

  Myles nodded at another assistant — a younger man, but also of hefty build. The young man quickly and thoroughly rid the linen tablecloth of any crumbs. Myles glanced around the cabin to make sure his master — for he thought of Mr. Dane as his master — did not want for anything that might be necessary for his comfort, then left.

  When he was sixteen, Myles had eluded Mr. Dane’s security guards and approached a surprised and not especially pleased Mr. Dane. Although Dane, not quite as slow as his guards, was training a gun on him by then, Myles asked for his help. Mr. Dane listened and soon relieved Myles of a major burden — his drunken, abusive father — and made it possible for Myles’s mother and two younger brothers to leave the rathole they were living in. Myles moved into Dane’s mansion.

  Dane had simply used Myles as muscle at first, which Myles was pleased to provide. But one evening, after he had given a year of loyal service to his eccentric employer, Dane had called the brawny street kid into his library, where he sat before a warm fire, reading a book that Myles would later realize contained a play by George Bernard Shaw. Mr. Dane had looked up from his book and stared at Myles. An elderly member of the staff had once told Myles that Mr. Dane could see more with one eye than anyone else could see with two. Myles hadn’t understood that when the old man said it, but he did when Dane studied him that evening. Mr. Dane said that he had decided to play Pygmalion. At that point, Myles had had no idea what Mr. Dane meant. That was before he acquired what Mr. Dane referred to as “polish.” Myles had also acquired a measure of pride in himself, and a devotion to Dane no dog could have matched.