She was, he thought dispassionately, a beautiful woman. Her hair was auburn, and its thick, loose curls perfectly framed her pale, heart-shaped face. Her brows were dark, thin lines above long-lashed blue eyes. She wore stylish clothes that flattered her shapely figure. Yet her manner gave him an almost instant dislike of her — her lack of quiet irked him, and all his instincts told him that her need for attention was insatiable.
He thought he should probably feel more sympathy for her, but he was not convinced that she was good for Seth. Although Seth did not seem to be aware of his surroundings during the last few days, he was restless when she was near, as if responding to her anxiousness.
Lefebvre thought there was a fine line between her concern for the boy and her own fear of suffering another loss. He did not blame her for clinging to Seth — the funerals of her ex-husband, Trent Randolph, and daughter, Amanda, had been held just today — he simply believed that her strained emotions were having an adverse effect on her son.
Lefebvre alone had the opposite effect on Seth. Perhaps, Lefebvre thought, Seth remembered his voice from those seemingly endless moments on the boat while he held him, or in the ambulance, or after the surgery. Lefebvre was not a talker, but he talked to Seth. He did not tell him stories or talk of himself, but in the hours when they were alone in the room, Lefebvre spoke to him, his voice soft and low, urging Seth to live.
Until now, the moments of waking had always been the same — brief and panic-filled until Lefebvre spoke to him. Once, when Lefebvre had been away from the boy’s bedside for a few hours, he had come back to find Seth’s arms restrained. He released them and called Rosario. He gave her what he had never given anyone else — the key to his condo — and asked what he seldom asked of anyone else — a favor. Would she please pack a few things for him in an overnight case? She had responded immediately, and without asking questions.
And he had not left Seth’s room since. A friend from the newspaper had brought him a couple of “outside meals,” but Irene Kelly knew him well enough not to pester him for the story. The guard at the door had apparently reported these visits, though, because after the first one, his boss, Lieutenant Willis, complained about the time Lefebvre was spending at the hospital.
“You’ve been trying to get me to take time off, right?” Lefebvre asked.
“Yes, why don’t you take that little plane of yours and get out of town for a while — maybe fly somewhere like Vegas — you know, someplace where you can relax for a few days?”
Lefebvre could think of nothing he would find less relaxing than a trip to Las Vegas. “So you’re saying I can have the time off?”
“Of course.”
“Fine, I’m on vacation then.”
So far — to Willis’s irritation — he had spent the first few days of it in Seth’s room.
And now Seth was awake — calm, and truly awake. Lefebvre considered calling a doctor or a nurse to the boy’s bedside, but he found he could not walk away from that steady regard.
“Hello, Seth. Don’t try to talk, okay? Your vocal cords have been damaged, so it will hurt if you try to speak.”
Seth reached toward his throat, then held out his hands, staring at the bandages.
“Do you remember how you got hurt?”
Unable to move his head much, he shook it slightly, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Don’t be worried about that. It’s not unusual for an injured person to—”
But suddenly Seth’s eyes widened, and he tried to speak. He winced, but still Lefebvre thought he knew the one word the boy had tried to say.
Lefebvre’s hands tightened on the bed rails. “You want to know about Amanda?”
Seth mouthed the word “yes.”
“I’m sorry, Seth. Amanda and your father—”
But even before Lefebvre spoke, Seth had read his look. Tears began rolling down the boy’s face.
“I — maybe I should get the nurse.” Lefebvre started to move away, but felt a bandaged hand on top of his own and hesitated.
Seth gestured toward him, brows raised in question.
“Who am I?”
He tried to nod and winced — the damage to his throat had made the motion painful.
“Philip Lefebvre. I’m a detective with the Las Piernas Police Department.”
Seth wiped at his tears. Lefebvre reached for a tissue, to help the boy dry his face, but Seth tapped at Lefebvre’s hand in some urgency.
Seth covered his left eye, mouthing something.
Lefebvre moved to a nearby cupboard and took out a board a speech therapist had left. It had large letters, numbers, and a few short phrases on it — an aid for communicating with patients who could not speak after surgery.
“You tap my other hand when I’m pointing at the correct letter,” Lefebvre said.
He began slowly tracing his hand over the alphabet, almost Ouija-board style. When he reached the “P,” Seth tapped.
“First letter, p.”
Seth touched the word “yes” on the board, then put his hand back on Lefebvre’s, eager to proceed.
Slowly but surely, working together, they spelled out a word. P-I-R-A-T-E.
Lefebvre stared at him a moment. “You were attacked by a pirate?”
Awkwardly, Seth moved a bandaged hand to “yes” on the board. Seeing Lefebvre’s incredulous look, he covered his left eye again.
“My God,” Lefebvre said, suddenly realizing what Seth was saying. “You were attacked by a man wearing an eye patch?”
Seth’s relief at Lefebvre’s understanding was visible.
“A patch over his left eye?”
Yes.
“You’re certain?”
Another yes.
Working patiently, Lefebvre focused on getting a description of the man, and gradually one developed. A white male, medium build, dark hair and clothing. Seth was unsure of his attacker’s age, but thought he was around Lefebvre’s age — maybe a little younger or older. Seth indicated that he had seen the man for only a few moments, but believed his father may have known him.
From the moment the eye patch was mentioned, Lefebvre suspected that Dane was the killer. None of the other elements of the description changed that suspicion. He knew that more evidence would be needed to bring Dane to trial, but for once, the police might have enough to get a search warrant.
He needed to establish a time frame. He knew that when he had arrived at the yacht, neither Trent Randolph nor Amanda had been dead for long. The coroner’s report had confirmed that impression. He also believed that the killer had struck quickly and had not lingered aboard the Amanda. There were several indications of this — the attacker had not herded his victims belowdecks; bloodstain patterns showed that while Amanda died belowdecks, she and her father had been attacked above. There were no signs that anyone had been restrained, and except for damage to the door of the head, no signs of prolonged struggle or resistance. The killer had been in and out, not staying around to rob the victims or to steal any of the yacht’s equipment.
Again working with the board, he asked about the time of the attack. Seth thought it had been between eleven forty-five and midnight. Lefebvre remembered that a witness had heard a big-engined powerboat in that section of the marina at about that time. Carefully structuring his questions, he learned from Seth that the man who had attacked the Randolph family came aboard from another boat. A powerboat.
“Did you see the name of the boat?”
No. He looked away.
“Don’t worry, Seth. What you’ve told me tonight is very helpful. I think we can catch the man who did this.”