“Lefebvre didn’t steal it.”
“I’m not saying he did — but what makes you so sure he didn’t?”
“It wasn’t like him. Totally unlike him. Except for flying that plane, the guy had no life outside of the department.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know him that well.”
“That’s not what I meant. We were friends, and I knew things about him, but I didn’t know him. No — don’t give me that look. What I mean is, Phil was one of those guys you could never really get to know. If you followed him around all day, day after day, you might get some idea of how his mind worked, and know that he was absolutely devoted to his job, or begin to see this — this sort of quiet sense of humor he had. But you would never get a word out of him about his past, or learn if he had the hots for someone, or much of anything else about the man underneath all of that.”
He was silent, thinking over what she had said, when she added, “There were two times when he seemed really happy to me and when I actually thought, ‘He does think of me as a friend, because he’s letting me in on this.’ Once, when he took me flying.”
“Oh, Christ — you went up in that little Cessna with him?” He thought of the wreckage he had seen — of both pilot and plane — and felt his stomach clench.
She bristled at his tone, then seemed to realize the direction of his thoughts. “I know you’ve just seen the worst possible results of being in that plane, but, Frank, I swear to you, he was a terrific pilot. He flew in the military and had lots of hours flying solo in that Cessna. He was careful, and safety conscious. He wasn’t a hot dog.” She paused, then said, “I got to know Phil when I was caring for my dad — when I was first starting to realize that my dad wasn’t going to recover from the cancer. I had some really rough days with that, and on one of those, I ran into Phil. It was one of his rare days off. He took one look at me and said, ‘Meet me at the airport.’ And he took me up. It was great. He was so in love with flying, it was contagious.”
“So — do I want to know about the other time you saw him happy?”
She hit him with her pillow. “You’re as bad as Vince Adams and those other clowns in Homicide.”
“I am one of the other ‘clowns,’ remember?”
“No, you are not. Vince was always so sure that I had something going on with Phil. He made remarks. It was bullshit, but it pissed me off — you know what I think Vince’s problem is?”
“Forget about Vince. Tell me about this other time Lefebvre was happy.”
She fell silent, all the fight of the moment before draining away. “The only other time,” she said quietly, “was at the hospital. He had waited there for hours while they operated on Seth Randolph. After that, he kept waiting — the doctors weren’t sure the kid was going to pull through, but Phil never left his side. At first I thought it was Phil’s dedication to the job. You know — if Seth came around, he wanted to be there to ask questions. Anyway, I was there when the doctor told him that he thought Seth was going to live. He was so happy — I was there, Frank, and I saw his face. I saw how he looked when the doctor said that. Lefebvre didn’t want that boy to die, and he never could have murdered him. Whoever says that is full of crap.”
“Maybe something changed—”
“I was there,” she repeated. “I don’t know why Seth was so important to him, but if you had seen them together, you’d be as certain as I am that Phil Lefebvre would never have hurt him, let alone kill him.”
“Is that the position the Express took?” he asked.
“No. I was pulled off those stories. John Walters was news editor then, and he thought I was too close to Phil to be objective. It made me madder than hell, but around that same time my dad took a turn for the worse — to be honest, I was too busy with him to think of anything else.”
“When was the last time you saw Lefebvre?”
“The day he left town.” She frowned. “Was that the day his plane crashed?”
“Probably.” He watched the play of emotions on her face, then asked, “What aren’t you telling me?”
“It will be in the reports you have. I was interviewed — some might say grilled — by the LPPD about my last conversation with him.”
He sighed with impatience.
“All right, all right. He seemed upset. But not so agitated that I thought he was about to kill the kid whose life he saved! And I just remembered something else — something I told Vince Adams about a dozen times, and he ignored me. Phil said he would meet me for lunch the next day, which shows he planned to come back right away, right?”
“Yes, but he told other people he was flying out to see Matt Arden for a few days.”
“What did Arden say?”
“He said Lefebvre had called him, but just to talk about old times and to ask how he was doing. He said Lefebvre hadn’t mentioned any plans to see him.”
She fell into a brooding silence. He let it stretch, caught up in his own thoughts. He wondered how well anyone had really known Phil Lefebvre.
“Did you know Elena Rosario?” he asked Irene.
“Who?”
“Narcotics detective who was with Lefebvre the night they found the Randolphs. She quit the department right after Lefebvre went missing.”
“No,” she said, “not really.”
He would have asked more, but the phone rang.
“Harriman,” he answered.
“Frank — good to have you back.”
“Hello, Pete. How’d you know I was home?”
“Partners have no secrets, right?”
“Who told you — Carlson?”
“That asswipe? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Then Cliff called you.”
“Cliff and I go way back, you know?”
“Terrific.”
Pete missed the sarcasm. “So he told me you and Ben found Lefebvre. I hope you pissed on his bones before you packed them up.”
Frank was silent.
“Listen,” Pete said uneasily, “no need to take that wrong. I want to help you out here. I called to invite you to breakfast. Me and some of the other guys who were around back then thought we’d bring you up to speed.”
“It’s Sunday. I didn’t get yesterday off, and I don’t want to spend Sunday working.”
“But—”
“Cold cases, Pete. They can wait.”
“Well, we’re all together here at the Galley.”
“All? Who’s with you?”
“Vince, Jake, Reed — a couple of other guys. Why don’t you come on down and join us? Then the rest of the day is yours.”
“The day’s already mine.”
“Frank, c’mon,” he said. “Let’s get this over with and behind us, okay?”
Irene was tracing her hand along his spine. He looked down at her; her hand stilled.
“I don’t know, Pete,” he said, and the hand began moving again.
“Frank, I’m asking this as a personal favor.”
Frank covered the phone, but before he could say anything, she was out of bed and putting on the blue kimono.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She looked back, shrugged, and said, “Me, too,” before walking out of the room.
He heard her turn on the shower.
“Frank?” he heard Pete say.
“I can’t be there sooner than an hour,” he said into the phone.
“Aw, for God’s sake, Frank. It’s only ten minutes from your place.”
“An hour. And next time, partner, call me first — not last.” He hung up and hurried down the hall, wondering if her temper had led her to lock the bathroom door.
But she opened it before he reached it and said, “Get a towel.”
He laughed. “What a relief — if you didn’t grab a towel for me, I guess you weren’t too sure of me.”
She smiled, slipped the kimono off, and stepped into the shower.
So he had been wrong, he thought, but couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it.