Gone for the day — not feeling well after lunch, Haycroft had said. And Hale had been down here asking about paper airplanes and talking about commissioners just before lunch.
Frank pushed the door open and stepped into the room. In the darkness, he could smell a faint odor of glass cleaner and furniture polish. He reached for the light switch.
In the sudden illumination, Larson’s desk, which was protected by a thick piece of glass, was the first thing to catch his eye. It held only two objects: a telephone and a framed photograph. The telephone was squared with the right-hand corner of the desk; the photograph, which was facing away from Frank, was at a forty-five-degree angle on the left. Although as an administrator Larson must have handled a tremendous amount of paperwork, there were no loose papers anywhere in the office. The wastebasket was empty.
Frank took another step inside.
The bookshelves were neat and dusted. Diplomas and other certificates hung perfectly aligned. Rolled up against another wall, a typewriter cart with wheels held a laptop computer. Frank could see that locks on the file drawers were pushed in, in the locked position.
Frank put his hands in his pockets, conscious of a desire not to leave any personal mark on this blank setting. He walked farther into the room, around the desk, so that he stood behind the large chair. He could see his own reflection in the desktop.
No note. Maybe Larson had sent it upstairs after all.
He was about to leave, but the photo on the desk caught his interest. A young boy, perhaps three years old, holding a tabby cat.
He hadn’t known that Larson had a son. He was a little surprised that the boy was so young. He vaguely recalled hearing that the lab director had been divorced for a dozen years or so. Didn’t he have a more current photograph of his child? Frank picked up the photo and studied it. A boy with a cat. Had the cat in this picture lived with Al Larson ten years ago?
“You lost?”
He jumped guiltily at the sound of the voice. He looked up to see the toxicologist watching him speculatively.
“I was told Dr. Larson left a note for me.”
She walked over to him, disbelief written all over her face. He saw her ID badge then — Mary Michaels. She held out her hand, palm up, and he realized he was still holding the photo. He handed it to her, then felt absurd for doing so.
She glanced around, and he thought she was looking to see if all the degrees were still on the wall.
“Look, Paul Haycroft—”
“Oh, Paul Haycroft comes in here all the time when Dr. Larson isn’t around. Just because he’s been in here doesn’t mean—”
“No, of course not,” he said quickly. “I don’t suppose that you’ll believe me if I tell you that I objected when he suggested it?”
She softened a little. “I’m sure he couldn’t resist having you see how neat and clean it is.”
“Exactly. And like I said, there was this note…”
“They are the weirdest pair of guys, if you ask me,” she said, interrupting. “And they have been working together way too long.”
She was still holding the picture. Seeing the direction of his glance, she said, “I’ll put it back for you — unless you’d like me to give you a tour of Haycroft’s office while you’re snooping around?”
“For God’s sake, I was not snooping around.” Not really, he added silently.
She clearly didn’t buy it.
They heard another voice say, “Mary, surely you don’t suspect Detective Harriman of burgling the office of the lab director in the middle of the day?”
To Frank’s relief, Haycroft stood in the doorway.
The toxicologist shook her head, then said, “If you really don’t think Dr. Larson would mind — you know him better than I do. I’ve got to get back to work.” She started to walk out, realized she still held the photo, and quickly handed it to Haycroft as she left.
“Thanks for the rescue,” Frank said.
“No problem,” Haycroft said absently, studying the photo before placing it back on the desk.
“Have you met his boy?”
Haycroft looked up. “Don’t you know? Kit’s been dead for many years.”
“Kit?”
“Christopher.” He turned the photograph toward Frank. “Kit for short.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“He was killed in a bank robbery.”
“He worked in a bank?”
“Oh, no,” he said sadly. “He was only four years old when he died. His mother, his stepfather, a stepsister, and Kit. A long time ago now, before you were in the department. A parent never gets over such a thing, of course — you’ve seen that in your own work, I’m sure.”
“The cases involving children are always the hardest to take. And you’re right, the parents never really get over it.”
“This affected all of us. Still does. Because the case hit so close to home, that photo of Kit has become — oh, I guess you could say it reminds us that this isn’t just lab work — reminds us that what we do is important to the families. Does that make sense to you?”
“Perfect sense. Listen — there was no note in here.”
“I’ll be darned. I wonder what the heck he did with it? I’m sorry, Frank, I could swear it was in here.” Haycroft frowned, pulled the chair back, and looked beneath the desk. “Here it is. Must have fallen.” He bent and picked up a white envelope. Frank’s name was neatly printed on it.
Frank thanked him and pocketed the envelope without opening it.
On his way out of the lab, he saw Mary Michaels again. He had the feeling the toxicologist had been watching for him.
“Detective Harriman—”
“Frank.”
“Look, I’m sorry about how I acted back there.”
“Don’t be. You had every right to ask me what I was doing.”
She hesitated, then said, “He talked to you about Kit?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t been with the department very long, so I don’t know the whole story, but I guess it was big news around here ten or twelve years ago, because it had something to do with another cop or detective, too.”
“Involved in the robbery?”
“No — maybe someone else was killed in the robbery? Some guy’s wife?”
“I wasn’t with the department then, either,” he said, although now he had a feeling that he had heard something about this robbery, and not so very long ago. What was it?
He wondered, as he climbed the stairs toward the homicide room, if he was going to be able to manage finding Lefebvre’s killer without a damned history book.
Unfortunately, except for a PR publication or two, there was no department history book for the LPPD, which was what he’d need. The local newspaper, whose reporters didn’t always seem to grasp the full story, was as close as anyone could come.
The elusive memory suddenly returned to him. It wasn’t something someone told him recently — it was something he had been thinking about himself, here on this stairway. He paused halfway up, then raced to his desk, hoping to catch Irene before she left the Express for the day.
He read Larson’s note while he waited for Irene to call him back. After all he had been through to receive it, the note wasn’t all that exciting. On a single sheet of his letterhead, in neat block letters, he had written:
IMPORTANT THAT I TALK TO YOU REGARDING THE RANDOLPH CASES. NOT FEELING WELL TODAY, BUT HOPE WE WILL BE ABLE TO MEET TOMORROW AFTERNOON.
The phone rang. Frank set the note aside and answered the call.
“Frank? It’s Irene. I found something. I’ll fax it over.”
“Thanks — you’re amazing. I know I didn’t give you much to go on—”
“I’ll figure out some way for you to repay me.”