He needed help from someone inside the business. He thought of a friend of Irene’s, Marcia Wolfe, a news editor at an L.A. station. He remembered that she used to work for Channel 6 in Las Piernas. He gave her a call.
“Try Polly Logan.”
Frank groaned. “I’ve been trying to avoid her.”
She laughed. “I know, she’s got more bad miles on her than a Baja road race, but she knows you’re married to Kelly, so she’ll leave you alone.”
“She has some history with Irene?”
“Yep, but I’m not even going to go there.”
“Okay, but why should I talk to Logan? She’s just a face, right?”
“And a very expensive face it is — and I’m not talking about what they pay her. Somewhere in Beverly Hills, a plastic surgeon thinks of her every time he starts up his Rolls. But aside from all that, if there’s anyone who has footage of Lefebvre, it’s going to be Polly. I know for a fact that she has a personal collection on the guy.”
“A personal collection on Lefebvre?”
“She had a major crush on him. Never took her camera off him if she could help it. I started out over at Channel Six, and believe me, I saw so much of that guy’s mug, we began sending crews out with her just so we could verify that more than one detective worked for the LPPD.”
He thanked her and called Logan.
“Yes, I can help you,” she said. “But what will you do for me in return?”
“You know I can’t discuss the case itself with you,” he said. “Lieutenant Carlson—”
“That pompous twit — never mind. I suppose you’d be in trouble if he knew you had called me about the tapes?”
“Probably.”
“Well, we’ll have to be discreet, then. This will take some time, and I’m about to leave on an assignment. How can I reach you later?”
He gave her his cell phone number.
“It might be late,” she warned. “How late can I call?”
“Anytime,” he said, envisioning Polly Logan thinking of his number as a personal hotline to the LPPD Homicide Division. Maybe he’d have to get a new cell phone.
The condo was in a large, gated complex, but Frank had no difficulty following another car through before the electronic gate rolled closed. He figured that “gated community” ran second only to “one size fits all” when it came to phrases that offered Americans a false sense of security.
He drove along the street that formed the outer circle of the complex, then made a series of turns that took him past a shallow, artificial lake with a fountain in the center. He passed an empty tennis court and then a fenced playground, where a half-dozen small children were playing on swings, a sandbox, and a slide under the watchful eye of young mothers. Not far from them, some slightly older children, perhaps fourth or fifth graders, were playing basketball.
He parked in a visitor’s space near the playground, then walked some distance through the complex, until he found Lefebvre’s street. He could have parked closer, but he wanted to get a feel for the place. He wondered if Lefebvre had ever taken walks like this one — or had he simply parked in his garage and gone up to his bed each night?
He should look up real estate records, he supposed. Get the names of people who had lived here for ten years or more. The files he had read indicated that not many of Lefebvre’s neighbors knew anything about him; those who did knew two things: he was quiet and he was a cop. Frank decided he would ask around, anyway.
He had a hard time imagining a man as private as Lefebvre in such a place, with shared walls and a condo association. But perhaps it was all he could afford — at the time Lefebvre had bought his condo, a modest single-family dwelling in this part of Southern California went for the price of four houses in almost any other state.
Perhaps Lefebvre had done more of his living away from home. There was his love of flying — Frank decided he would try to talk to pilots and workers at the airport, people who might have been closer to Lefebvre when he was relaxed and enjoying himself.
He came to a building that was somewhat set apart from the others, at the end of a cul-de-sac. The address matched Lefebvre’s. He was walking along a shrubbery-lined sidewalk, toward the last unit near the back, when a skinny, dark-haired boy rounded the corner at a run, pointed at Frank, and shouted frantically, “Stop him!”
Startled, a second passed before Frank realized that the boy was pointing toward the ground near his feet, and looked down just in time to see a small reddish-brown mop of fur scurrying toward him.
A guinea pig.
He blocked the rodent’s path with a judiciously placed shoe, apparently confounding it, because it came to a halt. He scooped it up just as the boy came up to him. Frank thought he was probably about eight or nine. For reasons he couldn’t name, the kid seemed familiar. The boy stopped as suddenly as the guinea pig had and held up his hands, looking at Frank with pleading brown eyes.
“You’ll be able to keep hold of him?” Frank asked as the animal began squirming, making high-pitched beeping noises.
“Oh, yes,” the boy said softly, taking it from him. The guinea pig calmed immediately.
The boy started to walk away, then turned and said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He walked a little farther, then came back a few steps and said in a low, conspiratorial voice, “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Won’t tell anyone what?”
“About My Dog.”
“Your dog?” Frank asked, looking around. “Is he loose, too?”
The boy shook his head and sighed. “My guinea pig’s name is My Dog. I’m not allowed to have a dog, and so—” He shrugged.
Frank kept himself from laughing — an effort he made because the kid was so serious. “So what is it I’m not supposed to tell?”
The boy studied Frank, then said, “You don’t live here, do you?”
“No,” Frank said.
“We can’t have pets,” the boy said.
“But you do.”
“No, if we could have real pets, I would have a dog. I mean — I love My Dog, but he’s not a dog. And I’m not even allowed to have him.”
“I have two dogs,” Frank said.
The boy studied him again, then said, “Why are you wearing a gun?”
Frank’s jacket was closed, so he was surprised that the boy had noticed the weapon. “I’m a policeman.”
“Let me see some identification,” the boy said — then added, “Please.”
Frank smiled and pulled out his badge and ID. Without touching the holder, the boy studied them carefully.
“Have you come to arrest me?” he asked.
“No — oh, you mean because of the guinea pig? No.”
The boy’s brows drew together, and he seemed to silently debate something with himself. But then he shook his head and said, “I am not allowed to talk to strangers.” He began to walk away.
“Wait—” Frank called. “Have we met before?”
The boy shook his head again, then hurried around the corner. Frank followed slowly and caught a glimpse of the kid climbing the stairs at the end of the building two at a time. He heard a door close. Lefebvre’s old unit.
Those brown eyes, that serious face.
He climbed the stairs faster than the boy had and rang the bell.
He heard muffled voices and footsteps approaching the door. He heard the latch and waited for the door to open.
It didn’t. He realized that he had heard it being locked, not unlocked.
He knocked again. There was no sound from the other side of the door.
He moved to the top stair and sat down. He pulled out his cell phone and called the number Yvette Nereault had given him — the one she made him promise not to write down. The phone rang in the apartment, but there was no answer, not even from a machine. He hung up, and the phone in the apartment stopped ringing. He tried again. Again the phone in the apartment rang. Again it stopped when he hung up.