Flight ik-8 Read online

  He frowned. “Tampered with it… because if Lefebvre survived the crash but needed medical attention, a delay in locating the plane might lead to his death.”

  “I can’t help but think that might have been the case.”

  “Jesus, that’s cold.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re not sure anything was wrong with the ELT?”

  “Not absolutely. There is no sign of damage, and after ten years that battery would have been dead no matter what. But the curious thing was, the battery was long past its expiration date before the crash.”

  “And Lefebvre wouldn’t have let it go.”

  “His maintenance logs say he routinely checked the battery and had just replaced it that May. I can’t believe he replaced it with an old one.”

  “No. Mayumi — is there any way to trace the purchase of the battery?”

  “I’ve got someone working on it.”

  She walked him to his car. He looked back toward the building and said, “What will happen to it?”

  “The plane? Depends in part on what his heirs want us to do when we’re finished. Probably be sold for scrap. I try to think of it as organ donation.”

  He smiled and thanked her for her help with the case. He started to get into the car, then said, “Mayumi, if anyone else from my department calls about this—”

  “I’ll be away from my desk. Maybe even on vacation. Yes, I’ve thought about what all of this means, too, Frank. You’ve got more to worry about than I do.”

  On the way back to Las Piernas, he thought of facing Yvette Nereault and telling her that her brother had been murdered, just as she had always believed. He thought of the men who had met him for breakfast that first morning back from the mountains — including his own partner — and their clumsy attempt to pressure him into forgetting about Lefebvre.

  He grew angry thinking of their disparagement of a good cop — even the chief had made Lefebvre’s name taboo.

  Suddenly he thought again of the paper airplane in Bredloe’s pocket and heard Nereault’s warning echoing through his mind:

  “You should watch your back, Detective Harriman, especially if you are going around saying that Philippe might have been innocent.”

  19

  Tuesday, July 11, 5:30 P.M.

  St. Anne’s Hospital

  He called Pete to get an update on the captain’s condition. Pete told him that Bredloe had briefly regained consciousness several times during the afternoon. The captain hadn’t been awake long enough to really talk to anyone, but his doctors seemed pleased that he had managed a slurred version of Miriam’s name when he saw her at his bedside.

  Frank decided to stop by the hospital before heading home. Bredloe probably wouldn’t even know he was there, but it seemed important to Frank to take the time to visit him. If nothing else, he could give Miriam a chance to eat dinner or offer to bring something to her if she wouldn’t leave the room. Irene wouldn’t be able to join him; on Tuesday nights, she covered city council meetings.

  As he pulled into a parking space at St. Anne’s, his pager went off. Ben Sheridan’s cell phone number. Frank called the anthropologist.

  “Frank? Glad you called back so quickly,” Ben said. “I’m just coming back from the mountains.”

  “I thought you weren’t going up there until the weekend.”

  “I wasn’t, but I didn’t have any classes today and I was curious. So Anna and I took the dogs up to the site.”

  Anna was Ben’s girlfriend. She was also an experienced dog handler and often helped Ben on searches. “You found something or you wouldn’t have paged me.”

  “Well, not much in the way of remains — a few small bones. But we found a wood rat’s nest and located something that might be sort of interesting in it. Lefebvre’s watch.”

  “His watch? Are you sure it’s his?”

  “Inscribed to him from his sister, Yvette, on the back. In French, by the way. Even better, I’ve got made-for-TV evidence for you here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know how it works on TV,” Ben said. “A bullet passes through a victim and conveniently hits a clock or breaks his watch, so you learn the time of death — right? Only it wasn’t a bullet, just good old impact. Plenty of that in a crash. So it stopped Lefebvre’s watch. The watch is an old-fashioned but very nice Omega. An analog dial. With little windows on the face that show the day and date.”

  “Are you telling me you can determine the time of the crash from it?”

  “Not exactly. The watch was smashed up on impact, and the minute hand and crown are missing — probably in the debris the NTSB picked up on the cockpit floor. Your lab should be able to see the impression of the minute hand on the face even though it’s gone. The face is a little dirty, but you can still see ‘Fri’ for Friday and ‘Jun’ for June and the number twenty-two for the date. The hour hand is on nine.”

  “Which means Lefebvre died the same night he took off. The NTSB learned that already, I think, but this helps to confirm that. It should probably go into their report, too.”

  “So — I guess it wasn’t so exciting after all.”

  “No — it is. I’ll tell you why the next time I see you. I’ve got to check out something in the property room before I know more. Are you hanging on to the watch?”

  “I’ll be giving it to the county coroner. I’m working for him at this point. But I’ll call Mayumi Iwata and let her know about it.”

  “Good. Thanks a lot. Oh — one other thing. Do you know the name of the engineering professor who’s in charge of the paper airplane competition at the university?”

  “Ray Wilkes. Do you need to talk to him about something?”

  “Yes, are you friends?”

  “I haven’t known him for long, but I like him. The first time I came on campus openly wearing my prosthesis, he stared — but not in the way most people do. He named the make and model of everything in my rig and complimented me on my choice of prosthetist. Turns out he runs the campus program for students interested in going into prosthesis design. Want me to ask him to give you a call?”

  “Thanks, Ben. Have him call the cell phone.”

  As he hung up, he saw Chief Hale walking out of St. Anne’s. Frank locked his car, hesitated briefly, then called out to the chief. Hale’s aide had already opened the door to the chief’s car, but Hale waited, scowling as Frank hurried over to where he stood.

  “If I could have a word alone with you, sir?”

  “What is it?” the chief snapped.

  “Alone, sir,” Frank said, glancing toward the aide.

  Hale seemed about to refuse, but then said, “Wait here,” to the aide and began walking. Frank followed him as he took quick strides back toward the hospital. The chief moved on a determined course, not stopping until he reached a walled area near the emergency room. He went through a gate as if he owned the place, and Frank saw that they were in a small garden, an outdoor waiting area for families of patients. At one end of the garden was a fountain with a religious statue at its center — a serene woman Frank guessed to be St. Anne, although he wasn’t sure. There was a bench near the fountain. Hale moved to the bench but did not sit down. He frowned at the statue for a moment, then turned to Frank and said, “Well?”

  Now that he had the chief’s attention, he wasn’t sure where to begin. Hale was obviously not in a receptive mood.

  “Well?” the chief said again.

  “The NTSB contacted me today. I drove out to where they are studying the wreckage of Lefebvre’s plane. They’ve made some preliminary findings that I thought you should know about, sir.”

  “How odd,” the chief said.

  “Sir?”

  “How odd, Detective Harriman, that the chain of command in this department has been changed and no one saw fit to tell me about it. So now you report directly to me and not to Lieutenant Carlson?”

  Frank considered saying nothing more. Carlson wasn’t up to handling a problem li
ke this, and Bredloe — the man he would have gone to under other circumstances — was in no condition to help. Frank had decided to approach Hale because he trusted him. He knew Hale tried to run an honest department — that was part of why Frank liked working for the Las Piernas PD. But this was the second time in as many days that the chief had rebuffed him after a mention of Lefebvre’s name. Tired and frustrated, Frank felt his hold on his temper slipping and clenched his teeth to hold back a suggestion about where Hale could put his organization chart. If he couldn’t talk to Hale, to hell with it.

  Hale watched his reaction, smiled, and said, “As long as you have me here, Detective, let’s hear it.”

  “I need to know that I’m speaking to you with absolute confidentiality,” Frank said.

  Hale looked surprised, but said, “All right. Now what’s the trouble?”

  “There is definite evidence that Lefebvre’s plane was sabotaged, sir. Lefebvre was murdered.”

  Hale sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that. But those who do business with men like Whitey Dane shouldn’t expect to live forever.”

  “But we can’t assume—”

  “Lefebvre was cozying up to the wrong side!” he said angrily. “Obviously the man who hired him killed him.”

  “With all due respect,” Frank said, again struggling to control his own temper, “there is another possibility. It’s possible that Lefebvre was not working with Dane, that someone else within our department stole that evidence and murdered Seth Randolph. And Lefebvre as well.”

  “Ludicrous.”

  “Lefebvre had an excellent record and no motive to kill Seth Randolph. If he was working for Dane, why did he call attention to the Amanda on the night Trent and Amanda Randolph were killed?”

  “No one believes he was working for Dane then. He was obviously recruited later, when Dane saw that he had access to the boy. As for motive — Dane had enough money to make it worthwhile.”

  “To make it worthwhile to someone, yes. But not necessarily Lefebvre.”

  “Do you suppose we just drew his name out of a hat ten years ago? It was not simply that he fled, you know. He was the last person to handle the evidence against Dane and the last person to enter Seth Randolph’s room before the boy’s body was found. You know those are the facts, Detective Harriman.”

  “I’m not saying I understand all of his actions on that night, sir — but to ignore the possibility that Lefebvre was framed is to endanger other members of the department now.”

  “Such as you?” Hale asked sarcastically.

  “Such as Captain Bredloe.”

  “Harriman, really—”

  “The paper airplane, sir. It has to be connected. A mistake on the part of—”

  “Detective Harriman,” Hale said, leaning so that he was only a few inches from Frank’s face. “I’ll tell you who’s making a mistake. You are.” He straightened, then began pacing, muttering to himself. “Paper airplanes! For God’s sake—”

  “Captain Bredloe and I had been talking — arguing, really — about Lefebvre not long before the captain left for the Sheffield Club. Many members of the department knew that — I think Lefebvre’s killer knew it. Not much later someone used that paper airplane to lure the captain out to where he’d be hit by the falling bricks.”

  Hale rolled his eyes. “God grant me patience! You find a paper airplane in a suit pocket and you’re ready to call in the paratroopers. Bredloe could have picked up that paper airplane anywhere — anytime. He could have made it himself.”

  Frank stayed silent. He thought of arguing that even the lab believed Bredloe’s attacker made the plane, but obviously Hale’s mind was made up.

  “You asked to speak to me in confidence,” Hale said. “I will respect that request, in part because I know you have done good work for this department. We’ve had our ups and downs with you, but you’ve got the gift. No, don’t look surprised to hear me say that — and don’t expect I’ll ever admit I did. I don’t think of it as voodoo, you know. But I’ve been on the job too long not to know it when I see it. You’ve got it. I’ll tell you who else had it — Lefebvre. For all the good it did him.”

  “I’m gratified by your comments, sir, but—”

  “You should be. But don’t think that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy about you, Harriman. You’re a damned pain in the ass. And if you think I enjoy working with a pain in the ass, maybe you don’t have such great instincts after all.”

  “It’s not just my instinct that tells—” Frank began, but Hale interrupted again.

  “If you are about to tell me that your instinct tells you that traitor was innocent, spare yourself the trouble. I have an assignment for you, Harriman. The assignment is for you to reread the case files so that you know what the hell was going on here ten years ago. Now, if that’s all…?”

  “Sir, I have read them, and forgive me, but I can’t say the investigations were up to the department’s usual standards. I can’t help but wonder why we didn’t look at who benefited from Randolph’s death, why we didn’t ask—”

  “Because, Detective Harriman,” Hale bit out, “as you’ll see from the files, we had evidence and witnesses and all those other dumb little elements of a murder investigation that bring criminals to justice. I’ll admit we only did our poor best before a creative thinker like you came along, showing us how paper airplanes are more important than all that, but somehow, by God, we closed cases!”

  Accepting defeat — for the moment — Frank said, “I take it you have no objection to my telling the family what I’ve learned from the NTSB?”

  The chief hesitated, then said, “Why not? Even if you don’t, the NTSB files will soon be a matter of public record in any case. But do you mean to tell me you would tell those French hotheads before you’d give this information to your own lieutenant?”

  “They’re Quebecois, not French, sir. Given our — let’s say our lack of sympathy—”

  “Sympathy! I’ll be damned before—”

  “I’m just saying that under the circumstances, I haven’t found the family to be unreasonable.”

  “You also haven’t answered my question.”

  “I believe they can be discreet.”

  “And Carlson can’t, eh? Well, he’s proven that, I suppose.” Hale studied him. “You don’t like Carlson much, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Hale laughed. “Honest to a fault. Good night, Detective Harriman. Read those files again.”

  He began to walk away, then turned back toward Frank. “The files only tell part of the story, you know. They won’t tell you what this department suffered. Budget cuts, community mistrust — those were bad. You know what was worse? We couldn’t hold our heads up. That was the worst. The loss of morale, of pride. Not to mention the guilt — I felt it, Bredloe felt it, and so did Willis. You didn’t know Willis, but he was Lefebvre’s lieutenant. I don’t think he ever got over feeling that he was in some way responsible for Seth Randolph’s death and all that followed. He retired not long after that. Died the same year he retired. I can promise you this, Detective Harriman — I will not let this department be put through something like that again. Not by anyone.”

  20

  Tuesday, July 11, 6:00 P.M.

  The Dane Mansion

  Myles waited patiently while Mr. Dane finished feeding the swans. Dane would not sit down to his own dinner for another hour. The household was on its summer schedule now.

  Dane scattered the last of the food pellets, then turned and held out his hands. One of the younger servants came forward immediately — Derrick, blond and blue-eyed, a little wasp tattooed just behind his right ear — and washed and dried Mr. Dane’s hands very carefully. Dane smiled at him and Myles felt a little jealousy. He did not betray this in any way.

  Dane took his silver-handled walking cane from another young man, then dismissed him and the others. He beckoned to Myles to walk with him. This was a special privilege, and Myles already felt both comforted by the
invitation and ashamed of his earlier stab of envy.

  Mr. Dane began by talking of general business matters. Mr. Dane no longer involved himself in the drug trade — at least, not in any direct fashion. He made a certain amount of money from it, but only by controlling more direct participants. He had divided his territory and now amused himself by playing the bystander, watching his successors murder one another’s associates in a quest to reunite that territory. That would never happen. Mr. Dane would not allow it to happen.

  And he had made it clear that the violence was not to spill over into areas where he had forbidden it. When one of the leaders of these two groups failed to abide by this rule, Mr. Dane had him brought to a meeting place and told him not to defecate where he dined. Mr. Dane had asked Myles to translate the phrase into language the young man would comprehend. Myles, misunderstanding, merely told the young man, “Don’t shit where you eat.”

  But Dane said, “No, Myles, he doesn’t understand what is said to him, because I have already said that I did not want altercations to take place near any establishment in which I had an interest. I believe experience is the only language he’ll understand.”

  And so, as Dane watched, they had fed the man a cathartic, and after the inevitable event occurred, forced him to swallow the results. He did not live long after that, though the cause of death had more to do with asphyxiation than with anything ingested. Dane promoted the man’s second-in-command — a witness to the lesson — and there had been no difficulties of a similar nature since.

  Mr. Dane had grown tired of such people, he told Myles. Their stupidity wearied him. He now focused his attention on various business enterprises, mostly real estate and import-export concerns. He was a silent partner in a great many small establishments in the city. He told Myles that over the past ten years, he had learned that there were opportunities everywhere — and plenty of stupidity as well. “But the latter — on the part of another — often creates the former for me, so I must not complain.”