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.
That afternoon Myles did not betray his concern over Mr. Dane’s lack of appetite, although he knew Mr. Dane’s chef would be nearly inconsolable. Myles’s years in service to Mr. Dane had taught him to read the most subtle indicators of his master’s moods, and Mr. Dane’s almost untouched luncheon was a sign far from subtle. He knew the reason for Mr. Dane’s pensiveness, of course.
Myles handed the plate and glass to an underling. He took time to wash his hands, carefully drying them and checking his manicure before returning to his master’s side.
Mr. Dane had not returned to reading his paper. He was standing now, looking toward the open sea. Without averting his gaze, he made a little sign to Myles, who in turn signaled the others to leave. This was speedily accomplished, but it was some time before Mr. Dane spoke to him.
“Myles — you have had an opportunity to read the Express today?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dane reached into his vest pocket and removed his Hamilton watch. He opened it, wound it carefully, and replaced it before saying, “Then you know which article most interested me?”
“Yes, sir. The one about the wreckage of a plane.”
“Oh, not just a plane.”
“No, sir.”
“‘Identity of the pilot withheld pending notification of the next of kin,’” Dane quoted.
“They’ve found him, sir.”
“Presumably. His plane, anyway.”
“Shall I check to see if progress has been made on the identification, Mr. Dane?”
“Later, perhaps.”
Myles waited. He knew not to rush Mr. Dane.
“Tell me, Myles — do you anticipate any problems?”
“Difficult to say, sir.”
“That is not the answer I wished to hear.”
“Which is what makes it difficult to say, sir.”
Dane smiled. “Why, Myles! Unexpected wit.”
“I apologize if I seemed… impertinent, sir.”
Dane waved this away. “What is your evaluation of the situation?”
“That we need to monitor events, sir. Until now, we worried that he might be able to bring some pressure to bear. We have probably long been out of danger. Ten years—”
“There is no statute of limitations on murder,” Dane said testily.
“No, sir. But as we did then, we may rely on certain individuals who will have access to any…”
“‘Recovered evidence’?” Dane sneered.
“To any object or obstacle we may wish to have removed.”
“Are we as sure of our situation now as we were then?”
“More certain than previously, sir.”
Dane raised an eyebrow.
“Much more certain,” Myles said.
Dane brooded for a time. “I don’t share your level of confidence, I’m afraid. Too many of our acquaintances have been convicted of crimes I’m not so sure they committed. Not that they were innocents, mind you — and admittedly their operations were less subtle and clever than ours — but our failure to discover how they were trapped disturbs me greatly.”
Myles remained silent.
“You do realize, Myles, that I would feel so much more at ease if the dismissal of charges ten years ago had come through our efforts and not those of some unknown?”
“Yes, sir.”
Eventually, Dane sighed. “I don’t think I’ll sail today after all,” he said. “Being in this marina makes me think of that bastard Trent Randolph. What a damned nuisance that man’s death turned out to be!”
“Yes, sir,” Myles said. “May I do anything more for you before asking for your car?”
“No, thank you, Myles.”
Mr. Dane was unhappy. Myles vowed to be extra vigilant in matters connected to the discovery of Lefebvre’s plane.
He would do just about anything to receive one of Mr. Dane’s smiles.
7
Monday, July 10, 12:30 P.M.
Las Piernas Police Department
Homicide Division
Frank told Carlson that the next-of-kin notification had been made and watched the other man hurry over to the Wheeze with ready-made press releases. As he returned to his desk, he noticed that most of the other desks were empty. Pete and Vince were still in, but neither acknowledged his presence.
Their silence no longer bothered him. In his present mood, he welcomed it. He reread the file on Lefebvre and the reports taken on the night of the attack on the Amanda. He focused on Elena Rosario’s report, which told of Lefebvre attacking a door with an ax in order to rescue Seth Randolph, the reports of Lefebvre’s movements on those last two days of his life, the autopsy report on Seth Randolph.
Each reading raised more and more questions in his mind. Lefebvre’s family members could have easily distanced themselves from him when the accusations were made, but they had been fiercely loyal. Even Lefebvre’s parents were uncooperative with the Las Piernas police when he disappeared.
He looked at Lefebvre’s photo, wishing he had the power to read the man’s character from it. There was so little to go on. That, he realized, said something on Lefebvre’s behalf — if he had been a bad cop, where were the signs of it?
Where were the tales from anywhere in his past to indicate that he would be inclined to take a bribe? To arrange the killing of such a key witness, would Dane dare to approach someone he had never dealt with before? Nothing in the Internal Affairs investigation indicated that Lefebvre would have been ready to cross the line — no reprimands, no signs of dissatisfaction with his job, none of his partners from his days in uniform saying they suspected him of being on the take. Instead, it seemed the worst accusation anyone could make was that he was a loner.
But was he? He had been friendly to Irene. And despite Marie’s denials, Frank was certain that Lefebvre had met a woman at the restaurant on the evening before he died.
Frank focused on the events of that day — June 21. Several witnesses said that at the press conference, Seth suddenly seemed upset. No one knew why. The press conference ended, and the room was cleared — but Lefebvre stayed behind. That night Lefebvre the loner dined with a woman at the Prop Room. A date or a business connection? Was the woman an emissary from Whitey Dane? Did she hire Lefebvre to kill Seth that night?
After thinking it over, Frank discarded that idea. Lefebvre would not hold such a meeting in a public place, let alone in one where he was so well known. He had paid for the meal with a credit card — knowing such transactions could be traced.