“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 favor. 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.