Flight ik-8 Read online

  He went to the Records Department and requested the files for the two previous cases for which he had received calls from the anonymous tipster, hoping that they might help him discover something about the identity of the caller.

  “Give me an hour or so, okay?” the harassed clerk asked. “I just got a huge list of files to be pulled for Captain Bredloe. When we take his up, I’ll have someone bring these two to your desk.”

  “No,” Lefebvre said quickly, surprising the clerk. “Just hold them for me here, please. Give me a call when they’re ready.”

  “It’s no trouble, I’ll be up there anyway.”

  “Just give me a call.”

  He left, hearing the clerk mutter behind him.

  He was halfway up the stairs when he heard a familiar voice in the break room.

  “Fuckin’ Lefebvre.” Pete Baird.

  Lefebvre paused on the stairway, not wanting to walk by the open doorway.

  “That asshole asks me if anyone has been using his desk — ‘maybe using the phone,’ he says. Like the anal little prick wouldn’t know if someone sat there. Says someone might have picked up some paper he left on the top of the desk, but he’s looking in the drawer, right? Now, number one, he locks his fucking desk all the time ’cause he thinks the rest of us are so fucking interested in his caseload, we’re gonna ignore our own cases to spy on Mr. Hotshot. So you know it’s his desk drawer he’s freaking out over, and not the top of his desk. And number two, it would be easier to find paper in the only stall on a diarrhea ward than on the top of Lefebvre’s desk.”

  The others laughed, and someone razzed Pete about the messy state of his own desk. Lefebvre told himself to ignore their childishness and began to climb the stairs again just as Pete Baird stepped out of the break room and looked down at him.

  Baird blushed, obviously aware that Lefebvre had heard his loud comments. Lefebvre looked straight at him, thought about his wanting to confide in this man only a few hours earlier, and turned to go back down the stairs.

  Baird followed him, and from behind him, put a hand on his shoulder. “Lefebvre—”

  Lefebvre shook the hand off and kept walking.

  He was on the sidewalk when a slender, blue-eyed brunette hailed him. Irene Kelly hurried after him. “Hello,” he said. “How are things at the Express?”

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He felt a nearly uncontrollable urge to tell her to follow him to a restaurant, to tell her everything he knew. But even as he thought this, he realized that he could not bring himself to talk to a reporter about mere suspicions, especially ones that would damage the reputation of the entire department. “Just tired,” he said.

  She studied him, then said, “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

  Behind her, he saw Vince Adams step out of the building. Adams noticed who he was with and gave him a look of disgust.

  She followed Lefebvre’s glance and said, “They’re just jealous of the attention you get, you know.”

  “It doesn’t help me to have them jealous,” he said.

  “What’s bothering you today?”

  He smiled. “Do you really care, or are you looking for a story?”

  Her chin came up. He thought, wryly, that he had just given Baird the same look of disappointment.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m in a terrible mood. Come by tomorrow and maybe I’ll be better company.”

  “Lunch?”

  “Sure.”

  She started to walk off, then paused and said, “Take care of yourself, Phil.”

  He walked with no set purpose. When he realized that he was some distance from the office, he hailed a cab.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  He started to say, “Police headquarters.” Instead, he reached into his shirt pocket, found Elena’s card, and asked the cabdriver to take him to a corner near her address. He would just take a look at her neighborhood, he told himself. Get a sense of where she lived.

  She unlatched the last of the locks and opened the door, standing back as she said, “Come in.” She was wearing a short, silky yellow robe, and her hair tumbled down over her shoulders. She looked drowsy — sleep-softened and warm.

  “I’ve awakened you,” he said as he stepped into her apartment.

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing for weeks,” she said, and began loosening his tie.

  8

  Friday, June 22, 5:45 P.M.

  Elena Rosario’s Apartment

  “It’s a good plan,” she said, straightening the tie she had removed several hours earlier. She moved her hands into his hair.

  He traced the curve of her spine, not ready to let go yet. “I’m not sure. If it weren’t for Seth—”

  “I know.” She looked up into his eyes. “Whatever you decide.”

  He pulled her closer, held her to him, and said, “Promise me you will be careful.”

  “I will. You too.”

  Reluctantly, he let her go. “I’ll leave first. If you see anyone follow—”

  “I’ll page you.”

  He saw the worry in her eyes. “Elena—”

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t make me one of your problems.”

  He smiled, thinking of how, despite all the tension and trouble in his life right now, she had made him feel good, had eased some ache within him. “Sometimes, mon ange, you really are quite ridiculous.”

  “What’s an ‘ange’?”

  “Angel.”

  He left hearing the warm sound of her laughter.

  He did not step out into the street until he had studied it for a moment. Seeing no sign of anyone watching the building, he walked a block south. He unbuttoned his coat and kept his hand near his weapon. He continued for a few blocks, to a coffee shop. He used a pay phone there to call Lieutenant Willis.

  He was surprised when the lieutenant answered over a speaker phone — the lieutenant disliked using the speaker. “Lefebvre? Glad you called.” His voice sounded tinny. “Captain Bredloe and Pete Baird are here in my office. The captain wants to talk to you.”

  He heard Bredloe’s voice, a little closer to the phone, and deeper. “Everything okay with you, Phil?”

  “Yes, but — actually, I was calling to ask the lieutenant for a few days off.”

  There was a pause, then Bredloe said, “I happened to overhear — there was an incident here this morning—”

  Lefebvre heard a chair squeak and pictured Baird shifting in discomfort. So Baird was getting his ass chewed out. “Nothing of any importance,” he said quickly.

  “We haven’t seen you since then, and your car was still here, so we became a little concerned.”

  “I went for a walk, that’s all.”

  “For seven hours?” Baird’s voice said. “The Express must be getting one hell of a story out of this one.”

  “Detective Baird,” Bredloe said repressively.

  The picture became clearer in Lefebvre’s mind. “I’m afraid Vince Adams may have misled you. Except to disappoint Ms. Kelly when she asked for my time, I haven’t been talking to reporters today. I didn’t realize I had caused so much concern by holding that brief conversation with her.”

  This time more than one chair creaked.

  “I owe Detective Baird an apology,” Lefebvre went on, perfectly capable of returning Baird’s insults, but knowing that a man like Pete Baird would feel worse if he got conciliation when he expected revenge. “I was irritable this morning. The walk helped — taking a little time to myself helped. I realized that Lieutenant Willis made a good suggestion to me a few weeks ago, and I ignored it. So I called Matt Arden and he has invited me to fly out to the desert to spend a few days with him. If you’ve no objection, I’d like to go.”

  “You do need a real break, Phil,” Willis said. “You’re either working or with the kid. You’ve been too involved in the Randolph case.”

  “Exactly. Although to be honest, I would feel easier about going if we increased the guard on his room.”
r />   “Why?” Bredloe asked sharply.

  “Once or twice, I’ve thought I’ve seen suspicious-looking individuals in the hallways,” he said, glad to be able to be truthful about that, at least.

  “Nothing definite, but it occurs to me that Dane had no reason to attack when he thought Seth might die. Now that we’ve held this news conference, everyone knows that Seth is doing better and can communicate with us — but by making that information public, we’ve increased the danger to our only witness. I’m going over to the hospital this evening, but I can’t be with Seth all the time.”

  “What he’s saying makes sense,” he heard Bredloe say to Willis. “Let’s double the guard at the start of the next shift.”

  Lefebvre caught a cab. He took it back to headquarters, but didn’t enter the building. He retrieved his car and began a series of errands, the final one to Mail Call, a store where he rented a private mailbox. He talked for a moment with the owner and made a few arrangements with him. He picked up his mail, then drove over to the hospital.

  He sat in the car for a few moments, to give himself time to consider how he would tell Seth that he was leaving Las Piernas for a few days. Earlier, from Elena’s apartment, he had called Matt Arden. Matt had immediately agreed to help and urged Lefebvre to move out of range of the killer. Lefebvre, unwilling to run away, had at first refused to leave Las Piernas. After some argument, though, the old man had finally persuaded Lefebvre that it would be best for him to come to the desert just long enough to meet with an outside investigator. To bring anyone into Las Piernas would only alert the killer, he said — Matt would use his connections to make sure Lefebvre told his story to someone they could trust, but Lefebvre must tell Seth’s story away from the department.

  The moment he walked into Seth’s room, Lefebvre began to reconsider his plan to leave Las Piernas. Seth looked worse than he had in days — pale and tense, with dark circles under his eyes. Although his mother was with him, he did not hide his relief at seeing Lefebvre.

  Tory Randolph immediately launched into an exhaustive list of grievances, most of them having to do with what she considered the premature breakup of the gathering the day before.

  Lefebvre, watching Seth, suddenly said, “No, don’t—”

  But he was too late — Seth angrily knocked a stack of books to the floor.

  She rounded on Seth. “Why did you do that?” she asked angrily.

  “It’s the only way he can interrupt you,” Lefebvre said, bending to pick up the books.

  “I asked him!” she said.

  Lefebvre stood. “Well, then — read his answer.”

  She read the computer screen aloud. “‘You don’t listen to me. He does. He stays.’” She looked at her son, then began to cry. “Oh, Seth—”

  Apparently accustomed to her tears, he ignored her.

  “I’m thinking of going away for a few days,” Lefebvre said quietly.

  Seth mouthed the word “no,” then in frustration, pointed to the screen.

  Please don’t go. Not now.

  Tory turned and walked to the far side of the room, saying nothing.

  Again Seth pointed to the screen. He had typed one word:

  Scared.

  He erased it before his mother walked back to pick up her purse. She bent to kiss his cheek. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee. I’ll come back later.”

  When she had left, Lefebvre sat quietly beside Seth. Seth tapped him on the hand and wrote: Sorry. Selfish of me. Ashamed.

  “Don’t be. I’m scared, too.”

  When will you be back?

  “I don’t think I’ll go after all,” Lefebvre said. “Not just yet.”

  Lefebvre decided to call Matt and tell him that he would wait until Monday to fly out there. By then, Seth would probably feel a little more at ease and the guard on his room would be heavier. Matt wouldn’t be happy, but he couldn’t disappoint Seth. He would at least take care of one of Matt’s requests — he would stop by the lab and take another look at the bloody shoes that had been found on the Cygnet. Matt wanted to know if the shoes looked new or worn.

  “When your mother comes back, I’m going to go over to my office for a few minutes,” Lefebvre said. “But I won’t be gone long — I’ll hurry back, and I’ll stay here with you this evening.”

  When he saw Seth’s look of relief, he said, “I’m sorry — I should have stayed with you last night, too.”

  You can’t be here all the time.

  “No, but I could have stayed here last night. Will you be okay until I get back?”

  Yes.

  But he seemed anxious. Lefebvre began talking to him about the Cessna and asked him if he thought he might like to learn to fly when he was feeling better. Seth said yes and began asking him questions about the requirements for a pilot’s license.

  With his typical perceptiveness, Seth wrote: You miss flying. Haven’t done it because I’ve kept you grounded here with me.

  “I do what I like,” Lefebvre said. “I stayed here because I like spending time with you — you know that’s true. I’ll get to fly again soon enough.”

  Take me with you someday?

  “As soon as you are well enough to leave here, you can be certain I’ll take you up.”

  And Elena?

  “Are you playing matchmaker again?”

  Seth smiled at him.

  “Yes, Elena, too. If I can convince her to come along.”

  She’ll like it.

  Tory returned then, her makeup repaired, her manner reserved. Lefebvre took his leave.

  It was dark by the time he parked in the underground lot at department headquarters. He sat in the car for a moment, hesitant to go inside. The building had changed, he thought. Yesterday, it was a place where he felt completely at home. Today, it was an enemy’s lair.

  “You are being foolish,” he told himself. “Almost everyone in there is your ally, not your enemy.”

  But that, he knew, was also foolish.

  He looked about him but saw no one. Still, by the time he reached the property room, his nerves were stretched taut.

  The evidence technician smiled as she handed the sign-out sheet to him. He had just finished signing his name when he heard her say, “Back already?”

  “Yes,” he said, trying for a smile — then paused when he saw his own name already on the sheet — supposedly signing for the Randolph case evidence at 6:01 P.M.

  An excellent forgery of his signature.

  The tech turned away from him to help an officer who was checking in evidence from a drug bust. With cold fingers, Lefebvre lifted the lid of the box. It was empty except for one item — a wristwatch.

  He shut the lid and managed to say to the tech, “Not your usual night, is it?”

  “No,” she said absently, still concentrating on the incoming evidence. “This is Bill’s shift, but he had to go home.” She glanced over at him. “He was probably looking kind of green around the gills when you saw him.”

  Lefebvre didn’t answer.

  “You’re not looking so great yourself,” she added. “Must be something going around.”

  “Must be.” He walked away without taking the box.

  “Hey!” she called. “Don’t you want—”

  “Changed my mind,” he said, hurrying out of the building.

  He held down the urge to race through traffic and drove back to the hospital at a sedate pace, not wanting to attract police attention to his car.

  He tried to seem casual as he walked through the hospital lobby, cautiously looking around him, wondering how long it would be before a call was made to Internal Affairs saying he had stolen the evidence in the Randolph case.

  The guard on Seth’s room was away from his post, talking to the nurses at the nurses’ station. When he saw Lefebvre, his eyes widened, and for a moment Lefebvre thought he might be placed under arrest by this incompetent jerk. But the guard merely took up his place at the door of the room, avoiding eye contact with Lefebvre.


  Lefebvre was surprised to find the room almost completely in darkness — only the soft glow of Seth’s computer screen provided light. By it, he could see the boy’s sleeping face.

  He sat next to the bed, holding his head in his hands. He thought of paging Elena, but if IAD learned of it, she would fall under suspicion, too. He might have only a few more minutes of freedom; he could not just sit here. Keep moving, he told himself.

  “Seth?”

  The young man didn’t stir.

  “Seth?” he said, a little louder.

  When there was still no response, he reached to gently waken him.

  The boy’s skin felt cool beneath Lefebvre’s hand. No, not cool. Cold.

  “Seth!” He felt for a pulse. Seth had none — his own was racing.

  “No,” he murmured, disbelieving. “No…” Panicking, he looked for the call button — but suddenly remembered the forged signature, the stolen evidence.

  What did that matter if Seth could be helped? he asked himself angrily. Nothing else mattered! He must get help, call a doctor—

  But he knew he was too late. His experience with death was too thorough to allow him to believe that anything could be done for Seth. Still, he fumbled for the control button on the bed that turned on the lights and pressed it. In their stark brightness, his hope faltered. With a trembling hand, he raised the lids of Seth’s eyes. There was no pupil response to the light.

  “Seth,” he said again, but now it was a sound of loss. He heard himself make a low, animal cry, and for a time was aware of nothing other than the boy lying still and cold and alone in the bed, and the crushing weight of his failure to protect him.

  “Forgive me,” he said again and again. “Forgive me.”

  He gradually became aware that he was weeping and grew angry with himself for it. Wiping his face, he forced himself to observe the room as a professional. The small harness device used to operate the computer had been removed from Seth’s arm. The call button for the nurse was on the floor beneath the bed. Near it, he found a pillow — he glanced at the other bed and saw that the pillow had been taken from it. The pillow had been torn near the center — perhaps bitten. He also saw bruising on Seth’s arms and marks near his nose and mouth.