“We could understand how that might have happened! Lefebvre was his protégé, really almost like a son to him.”
“But he made this protégé of his out to be a liar — and none of you questioned it at the time — or spoke up if you did.”
“We thought Matt was lying. We had him watched for months, thinking he’d lead us to Lefebvre.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No.”
“I’m not saying I blame you for suspecting Lefebvre, Captain. Other evidence made him look bad — it still does. But you’ve had your doubts, haven’t you?”
After a long silence, Bredloe said, “Yes. Yes, I suppose I have. But there was so much to indicate Lefebvre — believe it or not, at first I couldn’t accept the idea that he was guilty. But the evidence against him was overwhelming.”
“I’m just getting my feet wet on this one, Captain. I have a long way to go. Like you, I think Arden lied — but for a different reason. I think he was scared into lying. And I want to know who or what scared him.”
“Scared Matt?” Bredloe said with a small laugh. “That in itself is unbelievable. Matt Arden is probably the toughest old son of a bitch I know. Even now — and he has to be almost eighty.”
Frank hesitated, then said, “With your permission, sir, I’d like to personally invite him to Lefebvre’s funeral.”
“I can’t see any harm in that. Louise can give you his number.”
“I’d prefer to get it out of the files, sir, or through the DMV.”
“Detective Harriman—” Bredloe said angrily.
“And I’d ask, sir, that you keep our conversation absolutely confidential. In fact, I’d prefer the others thought I whined to you about the silent treatment, or asked to be taken off the case, or better yet — that I told you I had no hope of learning anything more.”
Bredloe rubbed at his forehead, as if trying to relieve a headache. “For now, I will not discuss this with anyone. But I will use my own judgment about this case, Frank. If you are right, then of course we must consider that someone else has Seth Randolph’s blood on his hands, that someone else allowed Dane to escape punishment for the murders. And if that someone is in this department, I’ll want a full-scale investigation of the matter.”
Frank looked up Matt Arden’s number in the file and dialed it. He got a phone company recording saying that the number was disconnected or no longer in service. But he remembered that it had been ten years since the number was entered in the file and thought the area code might have changed. He checked with information — and discovered he had guessed right. He redialed.
On the fourth ring, an answering machine picked up the call. A gravelly recorded voice said, “This is Matt. Can’t come to the phone. Leave a message….” There was the sound of someone fumbling around in the background and a muttered, “How do I record the damned beep on this thing?” and finally the beep itself.
“This is Detective Frank Harriman with the Las Piernas Police Department. Please call me as soon as possible.” He left his pager number and hung up.
He looked up to see that although the squad room was more crowded now, he was still on the receiving end of the scowl-a-thon. He saw Bredloe leaving his office — even the captain frowned at him as he went by. Frank shrugged it off — Homicide was never a goddamned sunshine factory on the best of days.
He felt restless, though, and made a sudden decision. He gathered the files before locking his desk. He headed down to his car, where he looked up Lefebvre’s old address on a Thomas Guide map of the city.
He had seen the place where the man had died. Now he wanted to see where he had lived.
8
Monday, July 10, 3:15 P.M.
Las Piernas Police Department
Hidden in the shadows of the parking garage, hunched down behind the front seat of his van, the Looking Glass Man stared into the rearview mirror — but not at an angle that would reflect his own face back to him. He watched Frank Harriman, who sat in his car with the dome light on. The Looking Glass Man had intentionally parked across the aisle from Harriman’s car when he learned that the detective was handling the Lefebvre case.
Harriman troubled him. He felt a moment’s fury toward Bredloe for assigning Harriman to the case.
Harriman wouldn’t rush things. He would be thorough. And he was just a little too good at his job to make the Looking Glass Man feel safe. Perhaps it would be best to simply remove Harriman from the equation.
The Looking Glass Man had been fortunate this afternoon, lucky enough to be in the homicide room when Harriman had gone in to talk to Bredloe. Harriman had aggravated Captain Bredloe, and the Looking Glass Man doubted Harriman had done so by talking about funeral arrangements. The others knew about the funeral before Harriman had left Bredloe’s office, of course. The Wheeze, miffed that Harriman had shut the door to a realm she considered her protectorate, had immediately gone among the other detectives and told them that Harriman was trying to get the captain to provide an honor guard for Lefebvre’s funeral.
This had caused some outrage — sadly, the expressions of it had not allowed the Looking Glass Man to make out Bredloe’s occasional muffled shouts while he stood near the wall of Bredloe’s office.
Still, he thought he understood why Bredloe was upset. He was upset as well, though not for quite the same reason. Trying to discover what Harriman was up to, what line of investigation he was using, meant following him here. That alone had put some pressure on the Looking Glass Man to act hastily.
He smiled to himself now, acknowledging that over the years he had become adept at handling such pressure. He preferred to plan in advance and had any number of contingency plans ready and waiting. But if he had to think on his feet, he could do so.
The dome light in Harriman’s car went out, and the man heard the Volvo’s engine start. He was preparing to follow Harriman when his pager vibrated.
He shielded the pager’s light from view and read the number on it. It was not a phone number, but a code. After checking it against a list of similar codes in his electronic organizer, he broke out in a cold sweat.
Anxiety overtook him, his fears rising like a buzzing swarm of bees inside his head. He held his hands to his temples, lowered his face between his knees to keep from fainting. A neatly bundled stack of newspapers on the floor of the van — papers he had planned to take to the recycling center after work today — caught his eye. He calmed immediately.
Under other circumstances, he would have mentally enumerated the reasons he found pleasure in seeing the bundle: (1) the papers faced the same way, with the folds neatly aligned; (2) the lengths of twine that bound them were exactly the right length to hold them neatly without creasing them; (3) the papers were stacked in order of date of issue, oldest to newest, with the most recent on top, and within each day’s issues the sections were in the proper alphabetical order; (4) it represented his good intentions, because recycling was the socially and environmentally correct thing to do.
During that moment of high-pitched anxiety, though, this particular bundle brought him more than pride in good citizenship — it brought him inspiration. For the front page of last Saturday’s edition of the Las Piernas News Express carried a local news story that made him think of a place. He had already considered going there to further test a device he had recently made. It might hold the answer to his current problem.
He would have to act quickly.
Fortunately, not entirely without preparation.
9
Monday, July 10, 3:55 P.M.
Lake Terrace Condominiums
As he drove toward Lefebvre’s condo, Frank called several local television stations, asking if they had any footage of the press conference in Seth Randolph’s hospital room. None had much more than what he had seen in Bredloe’s office. Since no one actually went looking for tapes when he called, he thought he might be talking to the wrong people — getting the brush-off from production assistants who didn’t want to be bothered with his request.