He considered annoying the hell out of Yvette just by making the phone ring or camping out on the stairs, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He pictured the kid hiding in the condo, afraid of him. And thought of all the harassment the department had already given this family. He had no warrant, no real reason to be here. He began the walk back to his car.
Where had he seen that kid before?
The boy’s eyes made him think of Lefebvre — was the kid Yvette Nereault’s son? No — he talked of living here, not in Quebec, and he did not have her accent. Perhaps some other relation to her? Living in Lefebvre’s home — he made a note to check property records to see who owned the condo now.
Maybe he was just seeing Lefebvre everywhere. Besides, it wasn’t as if the boy was Lefebvre in duplicate — many of his features weren’t at all like Lefebvre’s. Lucky for the kid, Frank thought wryly.
As he rounded the building, the sensation of being watched made him look up at the rear windows of the condo. He saw the kid staring down at him, his face solemn. Frank waved to him, but the boy didn’t wave back.
10
Monday, July 10, 5:02 P.M.
Las Piernas Transit Center
After more than ten years of escaping detection — years of constant vigilance — after thousands of hours spent developing contingency plans and making complicated preparations — the Looking Glass Man began to fear that his elaborate plans would all fall apart here, at a bus station.
He needed nothing more than a frequently used pay phone. The contempt he felt for the persons he encountered at the downtown terminal was increased when he failed to find a working phone that was not already in use.
He glanced at his watch, tried to calm himself. Bredloe routinely put in long hours and could often be found in his office as late as ten o’clock. No need to panic. If he could not find a phone here, then he could go elsewhere — to a shopping mall or even the airport — to find one that would suit his purpose.
He walked out of the building and found a less popular bank of phones situated closer to the parking lot. The parking lot’s toll booth was nearby, and the phones were within view of the attendant — he thought this might account for the fewer signs of vandalism on these phones.
Although the attendant was busy with the rush-hour exodus from the lot, the Looking Glass Man did not want to take unnecessary chances, and turned his back to the attendant’s booth, so that the logo on his coveralls — Las Piernas Security — faced her. The heat of the day had not subsided, and the coveralls were warm. The wig he wore beneath his billed cap made his own hair damp with perspiration — his scalp began to itch unbearably. So did his upper lip, but he dared not scratch at his small, false mustache for fear of dislodging it. Even the sunglasses were a nuisance, but he consoled himself with the thought that he would not need to wear the disguise much longer.
The one item he would have been pleased to wear — gloves — would have been far too conspicuous. He would now have to touch surfaces a great many other hands had touched. This caused him more discomfort than the itching of his scalp.
His plans were complex, and in many regards experimental, and yet he did not fear failure. Thus far, with the exception of this minor problem of finding a usable pay phone, every step had been carried out with remarkable efficiency. In fact, if all went well, when he was ready to leave, he would not even be required to pay for parking — he would be within the “first thirty minutes free” allowance and save one dollar. A pleasing thought, indeed.
He removed a small device from one of his capacious pockets. Shuddering slightly, he picked up the receiver with his bare hand and fit the device over the mouthpiece. Trying not to think of the contaminants on the push buttons, he dialed a phone number. He pictured Captain Bredloe’s cell phone ringing, imagined the captain supposing that his wife, Miriam, was calling. Wouldn’t he be surprised!
“Captain Bredloe?” he asked when the call was answered.
“Who is this?”
“I have information you need.”
“Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say—”
“This is a private telephone. Call 555-5773 if you have information for the police.”
“Please don’t hang up! This is about Lefebvre.”
The captain said nothing, but the Looking Glass Man knew that he had the other man’s attention. “I don’t want the same thing to happen to me that happened to Lefebvre,” he went on. “That’s why I want to talk to you and only you. I need protection, Captain…”
“I’ll put you in touch with the detective who’s handling the case,” Bredloe said. “He can offer you confidentiality and protection if you need it.”
“No! You or no one — I can trust no one else in the Las Piernas Police Department. Do you want to know what really happened to the Randolphs? Come to the Sheffield Club tonight at six-thirty. Come alone.”
“If you have something we should be interested in, you’ll have to get it to me another way.”
“I’ll prove to you I know what I’m talking about. There was only one item left in the box of evidence — a watch.”
There was the briefest hesitation before Bredloe said, “You could have read that in the newspaper.”
“No. You know that information wasn’t released. The Sheffield Club, six-thirty.”
He disconnected, then removed the device that had altered his voice from the mouthpiece. He placed it in a plastic bag so that it would not contaminate his clothing with bacteria from the phone. He took out a small packet containing a disinfectant hand cleaner and used it to wipe his hands. He noticed that the shiny plated surface surrounding the phone’s keypad reflected his image, and could not resist wiping a small portion of it so that he could better see himself. He lowered the sunglasses and marveled at his changed appearance.
Reluctantly, he turned away and walked back to his van.
11
Monday, July 10, 6:20 P.M.
Las Piernas Beach
When it came to self-control, Irene thought irritably, Frank Harriman was a damned black belt. Usually, this wasn’t much of a problem between them — she was well aware that she held the record for getting him to lose his temper, and vice versa — although she would have readily admitted to having a much shorter fuse. Once, when they had snapped at each other in front of his mother, Bea Harriman had said disapprovingly, “You should have known what you were getting into when you married an Irishwoman, Frank.”
He had smiled at Irene in a way that had made her suddenly blush from head to toe and said softly, “Oh, I knew.” They had said quick good-byes to his mother, left the house, and less than an hour into the drive home, rented a motel room.
Now, as they ran together along the beach, she grinned as she recalled that evening, but when she glanced over at Frank, he seemed lost in his own thoughts — and they didn’t seem to be happy ones.
Throughout dinner, he had been tense, alternating between seeming ready to talk to her about something and not meeting her eyes. Not at all like him.
She thought she knew what his problem was. Just before he came home, she had received a call from Rachel, Pete Baird’s wife. Rachel let her know that Frank had been getting snubbed at work. Irene was angry that his coworkers were so childish, but was also surprised that he had let it get to him — that wasn’t like him, either.
Once or twice, she had looked up from her plate and caught him studying her. Then he would quickly look away. Talk to me, you big lug, she thought. But he didn’t.