There was some connection between the woman and Yvette. At lunch today, Yvette was the one who had prevented Marie from naming the woman — Yvette had protected the woman’s identity. But the only woman whose name had been mentioned in connection with Lefebvre was… Irene.
Had Irene been afraid to reveal just how close she had been to Lefebvre?
He thought of Yvette’s recognition of Irene’s name, that look of amusement.
He dialed Irene’s work number. The line rang once, twice, three times, then went to her voice mail. He hesitated, suddenly aware that he was about to ask her if she had lied to him. He hung up.
He sat for a long moment with his hand on the receiver. Maybe he’d ask to be taken off the case after all.
He glanced down at the photo of Lefebvre, then looked around the office. Vince was staring at him. Some of the others had returned, but they ignored him. If he bailed on this case, would any of these men take the time to find out what had really happened to the Randolphs and Lefebvre?
He turned back to Lefebvre’s record.
Money was widely assumed to have motivated Lefebvre to murder Seth. But instead of the multiple reports of a payoff that Frank had expected, the files showed only one anonymous tip. Reed had taken the call and noted that the voice was mechanically disguised. Anyone with an ax to grind could have made that call. He began to see why the numbers he had heard up in the mountains were so varied — the rumors about the payoff amount had probably originated in-house. He had seen this sort of thing many times before, squad-room know-it-alls making sly remarks to one another, innuendos that soon were believed to be fact. This case had all the ingredients needed to excite the gossips — a fallen department star, envied for his success, supposedly turned into a hired killer for Whitey Dane — rumors must have been flying.
But Frank was more and more convinced that there had been no payoff. Nothing in Lefebvre’s financial records indicated money trouble or even big spending habits. He was at top pay for a detective. As in his military days, he saved more than he spent. He owned a small condo, which he had bought for a song. His only other big expenditure had been the purchase of the Cessna, and Internal Affairs documents showed that Lefebvre had saved over years to buy it and had chosen it carefully. The man had been conservative with his money, lived simply, and was not burdened by debt.
Lefebvre was not at all the typical target for bribery or a hired hit. A large enough sum might tempt any man, but given what he had learned about Lefebvre, it was hard for Frank to imagine that Lefebvre would have been the easiest person for Dane to approach. Why not bribe one of the lower-paid guards? Or send in a professional killer dressed as a hospital staff person?
He was struck by the degree to which the investigation had always focused on Lefebvre; apparently, no other suspect had been considered. He could easily see how this had happened, but still thought the investigators guilty of poor detective work.
His phone began ringing with calls from reporters. Someone must have tipped them off about who was handling the investigation. He gave a polite but standard “no comment on open cases” to all of them and referred them to the department’s public information officer. After the sixth call, he picked up the files and moved to the break room. Once his voice mail was full, the calls would transfer to the Wheeze’s desk.
He poured a cup of coffee and began looking through the coroner’s and lab reports. The physical evidence in the Seth Randolph case was of little use; the autopsy had not provided any surprises. The boy had been held down and suffocated with a pillow, and judging from the direction of the pressure, it was likely that the killer had been right-handed. Seth’s hands had been too injured from the previous attack to allow the boy to defend himself — no skin from the attacker had been found beneath the boy’s fingernails.
Trace and fingerprint evidence were inconclusive. Many people had been in and out of the hospital room during the previous twenty-four hours, including Lefebvre.
Frank also noted that Seth’s computer files had been erased. He would have to ask Henry Freeman, the department’s computer expert, if there was any chance that the files could be recovered. He knew that sometimes this could be done, that the erased files might actually still “reside” on the computer’s hard drive, but he wasn’t sure what was involved in locating and restoring them.
He finished his coffee and went back to his desk. As he sat down, Frank glanced at Vince Adams, who was now involved in completing paperwork. At the time of Seth Randolph’s murder, Vince would have been paying alimony for an ex-wife and child support for four kids. Frank recalled what Pete had said at breakfast — in addition to the payments to his first wife, Vince was beginning divorce proceedings with his third wife. Attorney fees and court costs, setting up a separate household — and the costs from the two previous marriages already on his back. He would have had all those expenses, and at a lower salary grade than the one he had now. Were there others in the department who might have found Whitey Dane’s offer too tempting to refuse?
He became aware of some new tension in the room and followed the gaze of the other detectives. The Wheeze was coming toward his desk with a skirt-stretching stride, and he found himself thinking that she could teach Carlson how to march. Maybe the two of them could form a private drill team.
Some of his amusement must have shown on his face, because she raised her brows. They had been recently re-dyed, he noticed, a process she went through every few weeks. Now, as always on the first day or two after she had them done, her brows were alarmingly dark — a cue for Pete to stalk behind her, doing Groucho imitations behind her back.
The Wheeze was a tall, brittle woman in her mid-fifties, slender and conservatively dressed. She wore her (also re-dyed) ash-blond hair pulled back into a chignon. He supposed that if her mouth had been a little less wide, her eyes a little less hard, she might have been a handsome woman. Irene had met her once at an office party and said, “When none of you are watching, she goes into Bredloe’s office, tries on his hat, and sits in his chair.”
Looking up at her now, Frank thought she probably strapped on the captain’s gun while she was at it.
She was carrying a small stack of pink telephone message notes by the fingertips of both hands, as if she were parading a consecrated host through the squad room. She snapped them down on his desk without saying a word, turned on her heel, and headed back toward the captain’s office.
“Walks on water,” Pete muttered.
“Easy for her,” Frank said. “It freezes under her feet.”
Pete gave a muffled snort of laughter and grinned at him — then looked up to see Vince scowling at them. Pete said, “Oh, for God’s sake,” then stood up and walked out of the room.
Frank sorted through the slips. Most were calls from reporters — one television reporter, Polly Logan from Channel 6, had called eleven times. Frank knew the obnoxious woman and smiled to himself when he thought of the Wheeze doing battle with Logan. The smile faded when he came across a message from Yvette Nereault. She had called to say that Lefebvre’s funeral would be held on Wednesday morning.
He stood up and walked toward Bredloe’s office. As he approached, he could hear the murmur of voices through the captain’s half-open door.
“He can’t see you right now, Detective Harriman,” the Wheeze said.
“I’ll wait, then,” Frank said.
She started to object, but Bredloe’s deep voice called out, “Frank? Come in — you should see this.”
Frank entered the office and shut the door behind him to keep the Wheeze from eavesdropping. He discovered the captain was alone — the low voices were coming from a small television.