What if Larson suspected that Randolph’s report would lead to his being fired or worse?
Or worse. Frank frowned. What could have been worse for Larson?
Being discredited, unable to work in the field or to testify? Having previous cases overturned because of incompetence? Or corruption. Cases fixed against people like Whitey Dane. Tainting of evidence.
What if Trent Randolph was about to reveal something that might eventually lead to criminal prosecution of Larson? Frank thought of the lax property room procedures that had been in effect before Flynn stepped in. He thought of the watch in the evidence box.
Ten years ago, and Larson had been on the job at least fifteen — more than long enough to have learned all about Wendell Leroy Wallace. Jesus — how many cases might be affected?
Randolph had urgently wanted to meet with Hale, Pickens, Soury, and Larson. How desperate might Larson have been to prevent that meeting? There would have been a reprieve of sorts when the chief delayed the meeting until Monday morning. Time had been running out, though. Larson could have easily learned that Trent Randolph was going to take his new yacht to Catalina that weekend. He could have laid his plans and seen an opportunity to get a measure of revenge on an old enemy — Whitey Dane.
Larson had an excellent motive to seek revenge against Dane. One of Dane’s minions had murdered Larson’s only son.
Trent Randolph had to be stopped before he had a chance to meet with Hale and the others. The marina presented an opportunity to lay the blame on Dane.
Frank wondered if Amanda and Seth Randolph would have been spared if they had remained belowdecks. Amanda had gone up the companionway because she heard her father arguing with someone. Had she been killed because she heard Randolph say something that might identify his attacker? Perhaps Larson had planned to kill them — he could control physical evidence more easily than he could control witnesses.
Ironically, until the moment at the press conference when he reacted to hearing the watch, Seth was useful in pointing the blame toward Dane. Likewise, Phil Lefebvre became dangerous once it was clear he doubted that Dane was the killer.
Great, Frank thought. Now all he had to do was prove that any of it was true.
He called Hale’s office to say he’d be there at nine. Last night he had given the bomb squad expert the paper airplane contest entry form, on the remote chance that the sheriff’s department lab could learn something from it. He trusted Koza, his own department’s questioned documents man, but he found himself wanting to keep the evidence for these cases out of the reach of the LPPD.
Suddenly he remembered the neatly printed note from Larson, the one saying he had gone home sick, but wanted to meet about the Randolph cases. What had he done with it? He had read it and set it aside on his desk. He looked through his in box and all the desk drawers. Nothing. He told himself that it was one of hundreds of pieces of paper that crossed his path in a week, that he wasn’t clairvoyant and that yesterday he had no reason to think the note might become a piece of evidence. Still, he cussed himself out for not locking it up.
He decided to work with what he did have. He was going over Lefebvre’s notes again, looking at them to see if anything excluded Larson as a suspect, when Pete came in, sat down at his desk, and said, “Wish you would have let me know you didn’t plan to show up at the game last night. But maybe Vince is right — you don’t give a shit about anybody but yourself.”
Frank looked up.
Pete’s jaw dropped. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph — what the fuck happened to you?”
“I kicked a bad guy’s ass.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just a run-in with an asshole on the beach. I meet assholes everywhere these days.”
Pete frowned and looked as if he had more to say, but the phone on his desk rang. “Baird,” he answered.
Frank went back to Lefebvre’s notes, but he became aware, from Pete’s side of the conversation, that the grapevine was humming. “Hitch” and “Dane” and “confession” and “bomb squad” were said frequently. Without ever looking over at him, Frank knew Pete well enough to tell from his voice that he was shocked. The long silence that followed his hanging up the phone was as big an indicator as any. Frank timed it at a full five minutes before Pete said, “So…”
Frank waited.
“So… I hear you had a little trouble out at the house.”
Frank gave a short laugh.
“You doing all right?”
His head felt as if a team of mules was trying to buck its way out of his skull, he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in a week, and the simple act of starting his car this morning had nearly required more courage than he thought he could come up with. “I’m fine,” he said.
Vince came in, followed by Reed. They looked at him uneasily. So they knew, too.
“Everybody okay at your place?” Vince asked.
“Just dandy.”
He saw the others exchange glances.
“All this must be hard on the kid,” Pete said. “I like the little guy. He’s a tough little kid.”
“Lefebvre,” Frank said angrily. “The kid’s name is Seth Lefebvre. I know you don’t like the name much.”
“Oh, no,” Pete said. “I love the name Lefebvre. I can’t get tired of saying it. I’ve got the zeal of a convert now. Build a statue to the guy. Call the town the City of Lefebvre. I mean it. I can admit when I’m wrong.”
“Very big of you, Pete — but you’re wasting it on me. In another ten years, ask Seth to accept your apologies.”
“Frank—”
“Tell him you’re sorry you all had your minds made up about his dad, because his dad didn’t know how to be one of the boys. That you’re sorry you put your faith in a guy like Hitch instead of Lefebvre, because Hitch showed up for hockey games. Tell him that because of bullshit like that, you’re sorry his dad never had a chance to see what a ‘tough little kid’ he is.”
Vince and Pete looked away. Reed said quietly, “You’re right.”
“That’s no comfort to the kid, is it? Two nights ago he brings out one of his big treasures to show me. You know what it was, Vince? An answering machine tape. A goddamned answering machine tape. That’s the only way he could hear his own father’s voice. He’s nine, and he’s played it over and over — less than a dozen words. That’s what you left for the son of Phil Lefebvre.”
The room was silent.
“You give Lefebvre the cold shoulder, like the one I’ve been getting around here lately? What did he do to get cut out of the herd?”
“Look, I apologize for that, too,” Pete said. “But Phil — Frank, he was always a loner.”
“From birth? You never did anything to make the guy feel isolated, is that it?”
Pete opened his mouth to protest, closed it, and looked away.
“Yes, I read the files,” Frank said. “And you wonder why the guy didn’t trust you? Any of you?”
Pete turned red.
“Frank,” Vince said, “can’t we just put this all behind us?”
“What, Vince? Get together for breakfast, like old times?”
Frank strode out of the room.
Without conscious thought, really, of where he was going, he ended up at the lab. Once there, he decided to look for Haycroft. As the assistant director of the lab, Haycroft might have an idea as to Larson’s expertise and recent movements. The door to Haycroft’s office was closed, and Frank received no response when he knocked. He thought of the reprimand he had received from the toxicologist on the previous day, then tried the doorknob anyway. It was locked. Maybe the toxicologist had told everyone that he was going around stealing personal effects, such as photographs.