She was tempted to goad him into saying something, but she decided he didn’t need more hassles at home and resolved not to push him this evening. She would just try to help him relax.
The beach run with the dogs was a ritual they followed on any evening when they were both home, and it usually would have helped him to relieve tension. But as this evening’s run came to an end, he seemed more ill at ease than before.
Wondering which tactic to try next, she headed up the wooden stairs that led from the beach to their street, Frank and the dogs behind her.
“Have you ever been to a place called the Prop Room?” he asked.
She stopped and looked back at him. “The French-Canadian place near the airport?”
For some reason, her response seemed to trouble him. “Yes,” he said. “Have you ever been there?”
“No. A couple of guys at the paper said it’s great, though. Want to try it sometime?”
“I had lunch there with Guy today. He came along as a translator.”
“Oh. Is this about Phil?”
“His sister knows the owner. We met with his sister today.”
Now she was sure she understood what was wrong with him. “Oh, no — you had to give the notice?” She knew he hated that part of the job, telling a family of the death of a loved one.
“Yes.”
“I thought Phil’s sister was in Canada.”
“She’s down here for a while.”
She shook her head. “I can’t believe they didn’t give that task to someone who knew Phil.”
“Probably better that they didn’t. The people in the department who knew him aren’t exactly weighed down by fond remembrance. Besides, it’s my case.”
“Still, I’m sorry — that must have been difficult for you.”
He looked away, as if uneasy with her kindness.
“Was it hard on her?”
Frank shrugged. “She had already assumed he was dead, and her husband passed the word on to her before I met with her, but — yes, I think it was hard on her.”
She came back down the stairs and looped her arm through his. He seemed, for the briefest moment, to want to move away from her — but just as she wondered if he thought it was too hot out to walk arm in arm, he seemed to make some silent resolution and put his hand over hers.
She was puzzled. Had she done something to make him angry? But this wasn’t really anger, it was — what? She didn’t know.
They walked in silence, but when they were almost back at the house, he said, “Lefebvre dined at that restaurant the night before he left town.”
“The night before he died?”
“Presumably, yes. The night before Seth Randolph was killed.”
She called to the dogs, who had loped beyond the house. Where was he going with this?
“The owner of the restaurant said a woman dined with him that night.”
She looked up at him then — studying him. Understanding began to dawn.
“It was the day of the press conference — that evening,” he was saying. “It’s so close to the time he disappeared, I thought it might be important. Or if it isn’t — well, I’d like to know that it isn’t.”
She quickly left his side to put the dogs in the backyard. She turned around, her hands on her hips. “Rachel said the other guys in the department weren’t talking to you today.”
“They weren’t,” he said, apprehensive now.
“Oh, yeah? So why am I hearing an insinuation?”
“What insinuation?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t fuck with me, Frank.”
“Lower your voice.”
“Answer the question,” she said, twice as loud.
“Let’s go inside. Let’s not have this discussion out here on the front lawn.”
“You started this discussion in the great outdoors, we can finish here.”
“Irene—” he pleaded, glancing at the house next door. “Do you really want Jack and all the other neighbors to have to listen to this?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass if they pop popcorn to enjoy with the show!”
“Damn it, Irene—”
“You’re wondering if I had dinner with Phil after the press conference. You’re wondering if I’ve — if I’ve what? Cheated on you before we were together? No — no, that’s not it. You aren’t that crazy.” She considered his questions, not one by one, but as a whole, their direction. “You keep talking about the night before he disappeared. You think — you think Phil and I had some kind of secret, right? About what, Seth Randolph?”
He looked away. “I made a mistake.”
“A mistake? My God… you thought that I’ve known something about the murder of a sixteen-year-old boy and kept it to myself for ten years? You could believe that of me? Jesus, why am I even trying to talk to you!”
“Irene—” He took hold of her arm, but she shook him off angrily. “God damn it,” he said. “Irene, it’s my job.”
“Oh, really? I have a job, too, so I guess I’ll phone in a story—”
“Come on, be reasonable!”
“So now I’m the one being unreasonable? Bullshit! We have rules, Frank, and you’ve broken them. Don’t expect me to shrug that off.”
“Look—”
“No, you look. A little while ago, I could have sworn I was talking to my husband as his wife — but come to find out I’m secretly being questioned by the Las Piernas Police Department regarding a murder case! Next time let me know who’s talking to me — the flaming asshole who works for the PD or the flaming asshole I married.” She stormed into the house, slamming the front door behind her.
Her anger squeezed the breath from her, made the house feel too small. The phone was ringing, Frank’s pager was beeping, and she kept right on walking, kept right on going, until she was out in the backyard, on the damned patio he had built, seeing the damned garden he had planted. She heard him come in through the front door. She needed to get away from him, from this house, this yard. She kept moving, along the side of the house to the gate, then, taking the dogs with her, headed back to the beach.
Deke and Dunk, at first cowed by her anger, now seemed unable to believe their luck.
She couldn’t believe her own.
12
Monday, July 10, 6:20 P.M.
The Sheffield Club
Downtown Las Piernas
Bredloe was parked five blocks away from the Sheffield Club when his cell phone rang. For a moment, he feared it was the anonymous caller, making a last-minute change in arrangements or canceling altogether. But it was one of the sharpshooters.
“We’re in position, Captain.”
“The dogs are out?”
“Yes.”
“I hope the members of the bomb squad were discreet.”
“Yes, sir. Sheriff’s department dog handlers showed up dressed as security guards — even had a van made up. No explosives were found.”
Bredloe mentally reviewed his hasty preparations: The bomb squad had checked for explosives. Tactical officers were in place in key locations outside the building, and two marksmen were positioned within. A helicopter unit was ready to join in on any pursuit. Other units were standing by. And he was wearing his Kevlar vest.
“You weren’t seen?” he asked the marksman.
There was slight hesitation before the SWAT officer answered, “I can’t be one hundred percent certain on that, sir. But no, sir, we don’t think we were seen.”
“I appreciate your honesty, Lieutenant. We’re probably on a wild-goose chase here anyway. Civilians have been cleared from the building?”
“We sent the last of the construction crew home an hour ago.”
“And no sign of our caller?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“I’m on my way, then.”
Bredloe stepped onto a plywood ramp that led away from the covered wooden sidewalk, ignoring the handbills that had been plastered everywhere. The narrow passageway from there to the building had been opened only four days ago, and would probably be closed again soon. The Sheffield Club was an active construction site, and only a brief moment of recent limelight had made it accessible to the public.