Flight

One

Ten Years Ago

1

Sunday, June 3, 11:35 P.M.

Las Piernas Marina South

Blissfully unaware that the moment everything would change was near, they were bickering.

“You should have to do the kitchen, Seth,” Mandy said, drying a tumbler. “I shouldn’t have to do it just because I’m a female.”

“Female,” Seth scoffed, securing the latch on a compartment beneath a berth. “Not like anyone could tell you are. You’re still an ‘it.’”

“An it!” Mandy snapped the towel at the seat of his pants. She hit her mark, then squealed in dismay as he turned and easily grabbed her weapon away from her.

He grinned as he saw the belated realization dawn on her face — it had been a mistake to attack him within the confines of the yacht. She cowered, waiting for his retribution. He laughed and tossed the towel in her face. “Half the other girls in ninth grade have bigger boobs than you do, Pancake.”

She shoved at him, and as he fell back in mock surrender, he knocked over a set of cookware she had not yet put away. In the silence after the crash and clatter, they each covered their mouths and repressed laughter.

“Quit the horseplay down there!” their father’s voice called.

Seth glanced at the companionway, but their dad was too busy with his own work above to continue scolding. Seth looked at his watch. They probably wouldn’t be at their dad’s house until almost one o’clock in the morning — they had a lot to do before they could even take their dad’s new boat back to number 414, its own slip.

Seth knew that some boat owners would have taken their yachts into the slip at any hour and cleaned up there, but his father never showed such disregard for others. Whenever he got into the marina after nine or ten o’clock at night, Trent Randolph, in consideration of the live-aboards whose boats occupied the slips nearest his own, always docked here first, next to a bait shop at an isolated point on the far end of the marina. “You wouldn’t turn on bright lights and wash and vacuum a car at midnight on your driveway at home,” he would tell friends who asked about this habit. “People live even closer together here.”

They hadn’t taken friends with them this time. This weekend’s sailing trip to Catalina Island had been fun — especially, Seth thought, because it had just been the three of them. Trent Randolph had finally dumped Tessa, his lowlife girlfriend, not long ago. Seth hated her. She was the one who had split his folks up two years earlier, but that wasn’t the only reason he didn’t like her. She bitched about Seth and Amanda constantly, and Seth was almost positive she was playing his dad. He had no proof, but once or twice when his dad wasn’t around, Seth had overheard her talking on her cell phone in kind of a lovey-dovey voice, all sexy and everything. And he knew she hadn’t been talking to his dad. So maybe his dad had caught her at it, too — or just finally wised up.

He knew his dad wouldn’t get back together with his mom. He knew they weren’t happy together. And he wished he could stop wishing they would get back together anyway.

Better to think of good times. Like this weekend. Seth, Mandy, and their dad even spent a night camping on the island, something they had not done since the divorce. “It was like he could be a dad again,” Mandy confided to Seth when they left Avalon. He had rolled his eyes, not willing to agree openly with her. One reason he liked the new boat was that he figured his dad had used it to get rid of Tessa — Seth recalled that she had been just about as pissed as his sister had been pleased with the yacht’s name — Amanda.

“I still say you should help with the kitchen,” Mandy whispered now as they picked up the fallen pots and pans.

“It’s a galley, not a kitchen,” Seth corrected. “You always say it wrong.”

“Whatever. You should have to do it.”

“Quit whining or I’ll make you clean the head.”

“The bathroom?”

He nodded.

“Why call it ‘the head’ and not, you know, something like ‘the ass’?”

“Don’t be a trash-mouth, Mandy,” he said, turning away so she wouldn’t see him laugh.

“It’s not trashy. Even donkeys are called asses.”

He wouldn’t take the bait, and so they worked quietly for a few minutes. They heard their father’s footsteps as he moved overhead, heard the thumps and thuds and other sounds of gear and life vests being stowed, rigging secured, decks hosed and scrubbed. Seth carried two duffel bags filled with camping gear toward the hatch, setting them near the companionway to be carried up later.

He was athletic; broad-shouldered and tall for sixteen. Dark-haired and green-eyed and a little shy. Mandy could make him blush furiously by using one of her nicknames for him: Mr. Babe-Magnet. “Every girl who becomes my friend develops a major crush on you,” she once complained to him, “unless she already had one on you and became my friend just so she could get next to you.”

“No, they like you for yourself.”

She shook her head and said, “Right. Try to catch the next flight back to planet Earth.”

He still thought she was wrong. At fourteen, she was slender but gawky, more bookish than he. The only reason he had started lifting weights was because he worried that without his father in the house, the duty of fighting off her unworthy would-be boyfriends would fall to him. He expected them to arrive by the busload once his redheaded little sister filled out a little. The only after-school fight he had ever been in — the one their mother chalked up to “Seth adjusting to the divorce” — had actually started when the other kid made a “see what develops” crack about Mandy. Seth had pummeled him.

“Where does this go?” Mandy asked, startling him out of his reverie. She was biting on her lower lip as she held up an oven mitt. Fretting over exactly where everything belonged. He didn’t blame her. No use shoving things any-old-where they would fit. Their dad was a neat freak. Seth showed her the compartment where such things were stored and went back to work cleaning the head.

“Mom’s probably called Dad’s house,” she said as Seth started polishing the mirror. When he didn’t respond, she added, “She’s going to be mad.”

“Mom’s always mad,” he said, not pausing in his work. “He’ll take us to school on time tomorrow, don’t worry. She doesn’t need to know we’re up this late on a school night — right?”

“Right,” Mandy agreed. “But if she calls—”

“Even if she finds out, she’ll still have to let Dad take us every other weekend.”

Mandy gave a little sigh of relief, a sound not lost on her brother.

A noisy boat pulled up nearby. They could hear the loud thrumming of its engines. A little later, above them, mixed in with the engine noise, they heard voices. Male voices. Their father and another man.

“Who could that be?” Mandy asked, moving toward the companionway.

Seth shrugged. “The guy from the other boat, probably.”

The voices grew louder. They heard snatches of conversation, their father’s voice as he strode angrily past the hatch: “…trouble… get up… not what police should… you think I’m going to… then…”

“I’m going to see who it is!” Mandy whispered.

“Some politico,” he said, using a term they applied to most of their father’s newest associates. “Can’t you tell? Dad’s making a speech to him.”

“At midnight?”

“They bug him at all hours. Stay put.”

They both listened, but the men seemed to have stopped talking.

“I’m going to go see,” she said. She was up the companionway before he could stop her. The men were still quiet, so he thought Mandy was too late anyway — the other man had probably left. He squirted some toilet bowl cleaner into the bowl and began to scrub — let Mandy get in trouble for not working.

He heard a loud thud and wondered if his dumb sister had tripped. He listened and could hear quick footsteps — too heavy to be Amanda’s. His dad running? He thought he heard her yelp. He stepped out of the head, listened. Hell, maybe she did fall.

He started toward the companionway just as she came stumbling down the ladder. Her face was white, and she was clutching her throat. A bright red wash of blood covered her hands, her arms, the entire front of her body.

“Mandy!”

Her eyes were wide and terrified, pleading with him. Her mouth formed some unspoken word just before she collapsed in a heap at the foot of the ladder. As she fell, her hand came away from her throat, and he was sprayed with her warm blood.

“Mandy!” he screamed.

There was a cut on her neck — blood continued to spray from it in smaller and smaller spurts.

“Dad!” he yelled. “Dad! Help!”

He heard hurried steps and looked up, expecting to see his father.

A pirate stood at the top of the ladder.

The man who looked down at him was wearing a black eye patch over his left eye and carried a glinting piece of steel — though it was a small knife, not a cutlass — and the man’s dark clothes were modern.

Seth turned and ran in blind panic toward the bow. But there was no escape except through the hatch, and no shelter — except the small head. He dodged into it, turning to close the door on his attacker just as the knife came slashing. He raised his hands in defense, and the knife cut across his fingers. Screaming in pain, he whirled and threw his back against the door, catching the attacker’s arm. The attacker shoved hard, moving one step in. Seth ground his heel into the man’s foot. The man gave a grunt of pain and pulled the foot back even as he slashed with the knife, cutting across the front of Seth’s neck. Only as he reached up with bloodied hands to cover the wound did Seth catch his own reflection in the mirror. Realizing that this was how the man had aimed the blow, Seth jammed his shoulder against the man’s arm, pinning it to the wall, then hit the light switch. He felt dizzy, but forced himself to stay on his feet. With a fumbling grasp, he used his less injured left hand to pick up the open plastic bottle of toilet bowl cleaner on the sink counter. He put it up to where the man’s good eye was peering in — and squeezed the plastic bottle between the wall and his palm.

He didn’t think any of the chemical had hit the man — who must have seen it coming, because he jerked back, cutting Seth’s shoulder as he pulled the knife arm from beneath him. Free of this obstruction, the door slammed shut and Seth’s weight held it closed. Seth dropped the cleaner even as he struggled with the lock, his fingers slippery and barely functioning. He managed to grab a towel, to hold it against his neck, but soon he could not stand. The pain was intense, and he felt himself weakening, his own blood warm and sticky and dampening his shirt. He wedged himself between the hull and the door, even as the attacker began slamming against it.

The door shook beneath the blows. It would give, Seth thought. He tried to yell, but found he couldn’t make a sound.

The pounding stopped. The small room swam before him. Seth bent forward, trying to fight the feeling of faintness. No sooner had he moved than the wood where he had rested his head splintered inward with a bang — split by a small ax. The attacker must have taken it from their camping gear. The man yanked the ax from the wood. Seth tried to drag himself away from the door before the second blow came, but found he could not. He brought his hands back to the towel at his throat, wondering if the ax’s third blow would slice into his back.

Suddenly, he heard music — not music, really, but a short series of tones, a repetitive, insistent, three-note call — the sound of a pager or of an alarm on an electronic watch.

Do-re-mi-do-re-mi-do-re —

Seth heard the sound cut off. He waited, every muscle tense, for the ax to strike again — but the third blow never came.

Over the next few minutes, Seth drifted in and out of awareness, but a low rumbling made him open his eyes. The other boat was leaving.

He began to feel cold and sleepy. He must get up and help Mandy now, he thought, but in his pain and light-headed confusion, he could not locate the door latch. Still holding the towel against his neck, he groped along the wall with one hand and managed to turn on the light. He found the latch just as he lost consciousness.

2

Monday, June 4, 1:56 A.M.

Las Piernas

Wearing rubber gloves, the Looking Glass Man checked all the blinds. On a less eventful evening, this last night of using this apartment would have filled him with a sense of regret. It was so perfectly suited to his needs — at the back of the building, over the carport, where no one would notice his footsteps across the floor late in the evening. The woman in the only adjoining apartment worked the graveyard shift. Still, he moved quietly.

The old television set was off; he had never watched it. The stove was clean but cold; he had never cooked on it. The meager, outdated furnishings in the apartment bore the marks of previous owners and tenants. The next tenant would not see any sign of his use of it. There was nothing he was so careful of as where he left signs of his presence.

He evenly sprayed disinfectant over the surface of the gray Formica table-top, then wiped it with a white paper towel, moving his gloved hand in controlled, overlapping circles. He placed the towel in a white plastic bag.

When he was certain the surface of the table was dry, he took out a notebook with a stiff, cardboard cover. It was the sort of notebook one could find in any college bookstore, a black-and-white-marbled cover binding graph paper, used by science students to record experiments.

Inside, on the first page, he had written a quotation:

“God is in the details.”

The quotation was from a famous architect — Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, who had designed the Seagram Building in New York. The Looking Glass Man considered himself to be a kind of architect, too. When he had started the first of these notebooks, at the age of sixteen, the entries had been so benign — nothing more than recorded observations of little social experiments, his attempts to monitor the reactions of others to certain stimuli. But even then, perhaps intuitively, he had placed the quotation on the first page of the notebook. He now had many of these notebooks and had written this same quotation at the front of all of them. His faith in the importance of details was unshakable.

He turned to a blank page, and using a mechanical pencil, began to record data in block letters. Each letter took up one square of the graph paper’s grid, the tip of the pencil lead never crossing a blue line. He wrote a heading, ANTI-INTERFERENCE, then noted the date and time for a series of events, from the time he boarded the fishing vessel Cygnet until the time he left it. It was difficult not to rush ahead to the most exciting minutes, those few spent on the yacht, the Amanda. He forced himself to work in a precise manner, recounting every one of the God-laden details in chronological order.

He left a row of empty squares beneath the last of these, then wrote:

TIME ELAPSED IN CRITICAL MODE: 18 M 51 S

FATALITIES: 3

RATING: 4

AREAS FOR IMPROVEMENT: TOO SLOW W/ THIRD VIC; NEARLY SUSTAINED INJURY FROM CORROSIVE, WHICH WOULD HAVE REQUIRED MEDICAL TREATMENT. SUCH TREATMENT MIGHT HAVE BEEN REMARKED ON BY PHYSICIANS AND LATER CONNECTED TO CRIME SCENE. TOO EMOTIONAL. SLOPPY!

He paused, then lifted the pencil, turning it upside down so that he could see the tip, and gently turned the pencil barrel so that the lead was at the proper length. He then continued to write.

COMMENTS: DID NOT LIKE WORKING WITH CHILDREN. NEVER WILL FORGIVE RANDOLPH FOR FORCING THIS SOLUTION. HOWEVER, MUST NOT THINK OF THIS. MUST CONSIDER THE NUMBER OF CHILDREN SAVED BY THE DEATHS OF THESE TWO ADOLESCENTS. SHOULD BE ABLE TO CONTINUE NOW. SMALL SACRIFICE, ALL CONSIDERED.

He reread what he had written, checking for errors. He found none. Accurate records were so important. If one were to truly evaluate the effectiveness of his activities, one could not rely on memory. He knew the discovery of any of the more recent notebooks by others would greatly increase his chances of being prosecuted for certain of the activities recounted in them. It was a risk he had to take, though, in order to proceed in an orderly manner.

His hands began to perspire beneath the gloves. He disliked the sensation it caused.

He retracted the pencil lead, closed the notebook, and put it and the pencil into a briefcase. He went into the bathroom, fought off a sudden nausea, then quickly went back to work. He emptied the remaining disinfectant into the toilet and flushed it twice. He put the empty bottle into the white plastic bag.

He caught his own reflection in the mirror over the sink and paused for a moment, studying himself. He stared hard into his own eyes, looking for observable changes. It was a habit of his, staring at himself in the mirror. His sister used to chide him, calling him the Looking Glass Man. But while he admitted a fascination with faces, especially his own, it was with detached interest and not any real admiration that he studied his reflection.

Who was that, looking back at him from that silver surface?

The Looking Glass Man.

He switched off the bathroom light.

He gathered the bag and the briefcase, stepped out onto the landing, and locked the apartment door. Over the next few days, the apartment would be painted, the carpets cleaned. The new tenants would move in by the tenth.

He should not allow such trifles to disturb him, he decided. He had greater problems to consider. Crime and punishment. He thought of the photograph in his wallet, but he did not take it out. Thinking of the photograph always made him think of the judge — Judge Lewis Kerr. Kerr must be watched.

He allowed himself a small, soft sigh, then walked downstairs to the large metal trash bin. At last able to remove the annoying gloves, he added them and the roll of paper towels to the white bag, which he placed in the bin. The bin was quite full.

Trash day, he thought. Just another trash day.

3

Monday, June 4, 2:15 A.M.

Las Piernas Marina South

“Maybe your snitch was wrong,” Elena Rosario said.

Philip Lefebvre did not reply. He continued to watch a yacht moored to a dock near a bait shop.

“Lefebvre?”

He turned, then followed her gaze toward her partner, Bob Hitchcock, who was walking toward them. The narcotics detective’s hands were in his pockets as he approached them, his head down. Hitch was a big man who was beginning to go soft around the belly and beneath his chin — and Lefebvre thought he was going soft on the job as well, coasting whenever he could. Any extra effort would have put Hitch in a shitty mood, and the fact that this surveillance call hadn’t panned out had ticked him off.

Rosario, Hitch’s partner, was easier to work with but harder to read, more reserved. And unlike Hitch, she wasn’t a burnout case. When Hitch had argued against coming down here, she had said, “You want to tell the captain why we didn’t follow up on a lead concerning Whitey Dane?”

Hitch had caved — they all knew this was exactly why he was being forced to work with Lefebvre in the first place. As much as Hitch resented having someone from Homicide assigned to the task force on Dane, there was nothing he could do about it.

Whitey Dane, long suspected of being behind a number of local criminal activities, including drug dealing, had proven slippery — although the police department had occasionally crippled his operations in the city, their efforts to bring charges against him were futile.

Every attempt to make progress in investigating his activities had met with a reversal. Informants were murdered or disappeared, undercover officers were unable to get anywhere near Dane himself. Rosario had told Lefebvre that most of her two years as a narcotics detective had been spent on a team that had tried to gather enough evidence against Dane to put him out of business. Instead, over that time, he had branched out from drug dealing and vice into other types of crime — and increased his influence on local politics and businesses.

Following a recent outbreak of violence in an area controlled by Dane, the task force was expanded — Lefebvre, a veteran homicide detective, had been assigned to work with it.

“So they’ve given us the golden boy,” Hitch had said. “You sure you can stop giving interviews long enough to work with us?”

“He’s already more aware of Dane’s little oddball habits than you are,” Rosario had said. “And you’re just jealous because you think he’s getting into that reporter’s pants.”

“Irene Kelly is a good-looking broad. So tell me, Lefebvre, what’s she like in bed?”

Lefebvre had regarded him coldly but said nothing, and after a moment of uncomfortable silence, Rosario had said, “You were asking who makes the silk vests Dane likes to wear…” and had gone on to discuss Dane’s affected way of dressing.

As she watched Hitch coming toward them now, she sighed. “Tonight had seemed so promising.”

Lefebvre thought of the call that had brought them here. Just before midnight he had received a tip from an informant, an electronically disguised voice saying that Whitey Dane would be paying for a hit tonight aboard his fishing boat, the Cygnet. Whitey and the shooter were due back to the marina at any moment. The informant seemed to know what he was talking about — he knew Whitey’s slip number, 305.

Lefebvre had paged Rosario and Hitch, who already knew exactly where Whitey kept his boat, and the three of them hurried to that section of the marina. Sure enough, the slip was empty. And so, for the past two hours, they had awaited the Cygnet’s return.

The slip had stayed empty.

“We’re at the wrong marina,” Hitch said now, addressing Rosario and avoiding eye contact with Lefebvre. “The whole time, the damned boat’s been in the other marina.”

“The Downtown Marina?” Lefebvre asked.

“Yep.”

“But this is where he usually keeps the boat?”

“Yes. We’ve been watching this guy for three years, and I’ve never seen him do so much as gas the thing up at the Downtown Marina.”

“Was Dane—?”

“Didn’t see him at all. And Mr. Eye-Patch isn’t exactly difficult to spot in a crowd.”

“Anyone still watching the boat?”

“Yes, but until we get a warrant…” Hitchcock shrugged.

“You know we’d be turned down again,” Lefebvre said. “Not enough to go on yet.”

“You sure your snitch said here?”

“Yes.” Lefebvre looked back toward the yacht, as if this conversation no longer interested him. Hitch bristled over the dismissal.

“Call came in anonymously?” he asked.

“He already told us it did,” Rosario said, impatient with Hitch’s mood. Hitch gave her a dark look, but she ignored it.

Lefebvre’s attention remained with the yacht. “Is that yacht moored legally?”

“What, you want to leave Homicide and join the Harbor Patrol?” Hitch asked.

Lefebvre turned to Rosario. “Is that yacht—”

“How the hell should we know?” Hitch interrupted.

“No,” she said. She turned to Hitch. “I like to sail,” she said, “but in case you’re wondering, no, I don’t want to join the Harbor Patrol, either.”

Lefebvre quickly hid a smile, but Hitch noticed his amusement. “You might end up working there anyway,” he snapped at his partner.

Lefebvre started walking down the dock, toward the yacht. Leaving Hitch behind, Rosario hurried to catch up with him. “Why are you so interested in it?” she asked.

“Rats with wings,” Lefebvre said.

“What?”

“Seagulls,” he said, walking a little faster. “They usually stay put for the evening, right?”

She then saw what he saw, that birds were gathering around the yacht. “Maybe the bait shop—”

“That’s what I noticed. The birds are ignoring the bait shop and going for something on the boat deck. And whoever’s belowdecks hasn’t come out to see what they’re interested in.”

“Amanda,” she said, reading the neat lettering on the stern. “Somebody has bucks. She’s a beauty.”

She said that before they came close enough to see what was aboard.

First Lefebvre saw the blood and then the man lying not far from the hatch. “Call for backup,” he said. “Wait here on the dock.” He stepped aboard amid noisy birds and flies, shooing them off as he moved cautiously toward the body.

Hitch had the only radio. He was still sauntering along.

Rosario shouted to him to make the call.

Lefebvre quickly checked the victim — the body was cold. As he headed for the companionway, he saw Rosario stepping aboard. He sighed with exasperation. “Put your hands in your pockets and don’t step on any of the obvious pathways — or in the blood.”

“I know enough not to mess up a crime scene,” she said testily, but obediently put her hands in the pockets of her slacks. She stared at the dark, open gash on the victim’s throat and turned pale.

Lefebvre watched her, then said, “If you’re going to be sick—”

“I won’t be.”

He said nothing else to her; he had already turned to look down the companionway. He swore when he saw the girl’s body, then drew his gun and moved awkwardly down the steps, doing his best not to disturb the bloodstain patterns. Rosario took her own weapon out and came closer.

“Oh, no,” he heard her say. “Oh, no. Oh, no.”

More faintly, from the docks, Hitch’s voice. “Christ almighty!”

Rosario shouted, “Get on that radio, you fucking asshole! We’ve got at least two dead — one’s a kid.”

Lefebvre kept moving toward the battered door to the head. He pushed on it — it opened only a few inches; something heavy was on the other side. Through a narrow, splintered slit that had been hacked into the door, he saw more blood — and then the boy. Lefebvre quickly holstered his weapon, got down near the floor, then reached inside. He pushed in a little farther and touched skin — cool, but not the cold of the bodies behind him.

For one brief instant, the memory of the cooling skin of another young man flickered across his thoughts, but he closed his mind to it.

Not this time, he swore to himself. Not this time!

And in that moment felt a faint pulse.

He turned to Rosario and shouted, “Still alive! Get an ambulance here!”

Even as she began relaying this to Hitch, Lefebvre saw the ax. He grabbed it, and heedless of Rosario’s shout about prints, swung it hard but with precision, striking the wood near the upper hinges. With the fourth swing, the door began to give — he dropped the ax and turned, catching the door’s weight, slowing its outward fall. He gently lowered it, and with it, the boy.

Lefebvre gathered the unconscious young man in his arms, keeping pressure on the bloodstained towel at the boy’s throat, holding him close to warm him, speaking to him in a low voice, a desperate litany of “Stay with me, keep fighting, come on!”

Rosario found a sleeping bag among some camping gear near the companionway and brought it over. She covered the boy with it, helping Lefebvre bundle him within it, but when she touched the boy’s skin, Lefebvre heard her sharp intake of breath.

“Lefebvre,” she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He shrugged it off. “Stay with me!” he repeated to the boy, bending closer to him, as if shielding him from her lack of faith.

“Lefebvre,” she tried again, but when he would not relent, moved closer, holding on to a boy he knew she believed to be dead, silently adding her own warmth to his.

4

Thursday, June 7, 10:30 P.M.

Las Piernas General Hospital

The boy was awake, and watching him.

Two days earlier, the first time Seth had awakened, it was as if from a nightmare. He had looked wildly about the room, his face contorted in terror and pain; he batted his swathed hands in the air as if warding off blows. One of the doctors and his mother had tried to calm him, but their efforts seemed to further upset him.

Lefebvre had said one word: “Easy.” Seth turned toward the sound of his voice, ceased struggling, and quickly went back to sleep.

The doctor, after subjecting Lefebvre to a long and considering look, gave orders that the detective should be allowed to stay by the boy as long as he liked, any time he liked — provided Mrs. Randolph had no objections? Lefebvre thought she hid the smallest trace of resentment before answering, “No, of course not. Detective Lefebvre saved my son’s life.”

Now Lefebvre sat at the side of Seth Randolph’s hospital bed, hoping for another miracle — that the boy would be able to identify his attacker. Seth had lived. That, he told himself, was miracle enough. The boy’s vocal cords had been damaged, but a slightly deeper cut would have severed a major artery and killed him. A laceration on one shoulder had required stitches. His hands were covered in bandages, but the doctors thought he would eventually recover most of the use of his fingers. He had lost a lot of blood; this would undoubtedly cause him to suffer weakness and fatigue. Those, of course, were only the physical injuries.

He was the son, Lefebvre had learned, of Trent Randolph — the first of the victims they had found on the Amanda — a wealthy local industrialist, divorced, and recently named a member of the police commission. The case had been making headlines all week, resulting in more interference than progress toward its resolution. Other than bloody footprints, and a report that someone had heard a powerboat with big engines near the area, the police had little to go on.

Lefebvre surprised his boss and most of his coworkers by taking a less active investigative role than expected, insisting on staying at Seth’s side. Elena Rosario came by every day. She thought she understood why he kept watch over the boy. Lefebvre knew she didn’t, but never corrected her notion that he had formed some sort of bond with Seth during the rescue. It was, after all, not entirely untrue. It simply wasn’t the whole truth. Yesterday she had come by a little later than he expected, and he found himself checking his watch and looking at the door every few moments until her arrival.

Seth’s mother, Tory Randolph, also came by every day. Today she had stayed until about half an hour ago. While Lefebvre knew she would have wanted to be here for this occasion — the first time since his surgery that Seth had awakened for more than a brief moment — he was not sorry she had left. Once she learned that she couldn’t hint Lefebvre out of the room, they fell into a pattern of strained civility and long silences.

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.”

Seth looked at him uncertainly.

“Yes, I mean it,” he said. He was not just comforting the boy. Seth had already been more useful than many other crime victims would have been under far less traumatic circumstances.

He saw the boy was tiring, but ventured one more question. “Do you know how to use a computer?”

Yes, Seth answered, but held up his bandaged hands.

“The speech therapist and your mother want to get you one that will let you communicate without using your fingers to type — they can wire these computers now so that they will read movement from muscles in your arm, for example. We can deal with that later — for now, just concentrate on getting stronger, all right? We’ll talk again when you’ve had a little more rest.”

Seth looked toward the chair where Lefebvre had been sitting, then anxiously back at the detective.

“I’m not going anywhere, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Seth mouthed the word “thanks,” then closed his eyes.

When he was sure Seth was sleeping soundly, Lefebvre called Elena Rosario.

“Are they still watching Whitey Dane’s boat?”

“Yes. And Whitey, too.”

“Has he been anywhere near the Cygnet in the last few days?”

“No.”

“Do we know what time it came into the Downtown Marina that night?”

“No, but I could ask around. Maybe one of the live-aboards will remember. You working again?”

“Sort of. Listen — I think Dane just became our prime suspect in the Randolph case.”

“What?” she asked, startled.

“Seth woke up. I asked a few questions.”

“And you got a mute witness to talk to you.”

“Yes. Come by and I’ll tell you all about it.”

A search warrant was issued, and although the Cygnet didn’t look as lovely when they finished, the crime scene unit found crucial evidence there. Whitey Dane protested that he had not been aboard the boat for days, that he never took it to the Downtown Marina, that it must have been stolen from the Marina South. While the boat had been made to look as if it had been hot-wired, the police didn’t buy his story. The boat was not far from its home, and none of its expensive gear had been taken.

The decks had been washed, but luminol tests showed bloody footprints. And although the weapon was not found, a pair of bloodstained deck shoes were discovered hidden in a footlocker. An uncommon and expensive brand of deck shoes, of a style which exactly matched — as surveillance photos showed — those worn by Whitey Dane on several occasions. Careful collection of trace evidence in the locker and shoes yielded small amounts of hair and fiber evidence as well.

Whitey Dane was arrested for the murders of Trent and Amanda Randolph and the attempted murder of Seth Randolph. The D.A. wanted him held without bail, but the defense argued that he had no criminal record, that he had business interests in the community, and that there were indications that the boat had indeed been stolen. Judge Lewis Kerr, in a move some considered uncharacteristically harsh, set bail at two million dollars. Dane made bail in less than twenty-four hours.

5

Thursday, June 21, 2:00 P.M.

Las Piernas General Hospital

The room was too crowded, and the camera lights made it overly bright and warm. Lefebvre wanted the television news crews to leave. He wanted everyone to leave. But Tory Randolph was holding court, charming the press, the captain, the members of the police commission, and the others.

He was especially uncomfortable to see Polly Logan here. The platinum blond television news reporter always managed to get herself assigned to stories about his cases. He had thought it was coincidence until she had asked him out. He had politely refused, and although she had never asked again, when she showed up to cover stories now, he often found her glancing his way, directing a camera operator to shoot footage of him, and positioning herself as close as possible to him — to an extent that gave him the creeps. She often muttered catty remarks about Irene Kelly of the Express, perhaps jealous of Irene’s closeness to him. His friendship with Irene would never be understood by someone like Polly, he knew — like many of his coworkers, Ms. Logan suspected they were more than friends.

As if his thoughts had tapped her on the shoulder, Polly Logan turned to look at him. She smiled. He nodded, then looked away. He watched Irene, who seemed tired today. Her father was ill — cancer — and she was caring for him. She did not play the martyr about this, as some might have. He tried to picture Polly Logan or Tory Randolph bearing such a burden so quietly, and could not imagine it.

Most of the other members of the media were captivated by the Tory Show, as he had started to think of this press conference. When the reporters realized that Seth still couldn’t speak, they had focused on his surviving parent, camera operators dutifully recording her as she starred in the role of concerned mother — a beautiful, tragic figure, hovering over Seth, making statements about the credit due to her brave boy, who had helped police capture the man who had killed her daughter and her husband.

“Ex-husband, correct?” Irene asked. Lefebvre suppressed an urge to smile.

Tory said — with a little catch in her voice, and lifting a tissue to a dry eye — that divorce was just a legal term, but in her heart she had never stopped loving Trent Randolph and considered herself a widow. She continued her planned speech, ending by skillfully reminding the assembled reporters that her son, heir to the Randolph Chemicals fortune, would become one of the wealthiest young men in Southern California when he reached his majority. He could almost feel her distress whenever Polly asked her camera operator to get a shot of anyone else, especially him.

Lefebvre despised Tory, but over the last three weeks he had carefully hidden that. He had not been so successful at hiding it from Seth, who he thought sensed it and sympathized with him. Seth, he had come to realize, was an excellent observer. Lefebvre was the person most often in his company, and Seth hadn’t hesitated to study him, picking up on nuances of his behavior to a degree that was at times unnerving to the detective, who was much more used to being observer than observed.

The formal portion of the conference ended, but Polly Logan and some of the others asked Tory to pose with the newly appointed Homicide Division captain — Captain Bredloe — as well as the members of the police commission.

The doctors and a few reporters left, but there was still a crowd in the room. Most were from the PD — Willis and two other lieutenants, as well as a few uniforms, a couple of guys from the crime lab, and several detectives — including Hitch and Rosario.

Something was happening between him and Rosario, he admitted to himself. Not surprisingly, Seth had picked up on that, too. Now proficient at utilizing the special equipment that allowed him to type on the computer without using his fingers, Seth had urged Lefebvre to ask her out. Maybe he would. He was not living here, in Seth’s room, as he had during those first two weeks, but he still spent many hours at a time at the young man’s bedside. He found he rarely thought of Seth as a boy now, although just this moment, while others laughed and talked around him without actually talking to him, Lefebvre thought he looked more fragile than usual.

Lefebvre had done his best to stay in the background during this press conference, but in recent days the media had made much of his role in the rescue of Seth and in the case against Whitey Dane. Some of his coworkers resented it, made a play on the sound of his name and called him “The Fave” — not in a complimentary way. Their resentment made some aspects of his work difficult, but otherwise, it didn’t bother him much. Others from the department, people who would not normally have had much to do with him, now sought him out. Most of that was, he knew, strictly political — a desire to be seen with the golden boy of the moment — and all of it sickened him.

Turning his back on them, he moved toward Seth, who was clearly wearing down — Seth still tired easily, a result, the doctors said, of having lost so much blood on the night of the attack. In one bandaged hand, he was cradling a rubber ball his physical therapist had given him, barely able to curl the hand around it. Even so, he weakly squeezed it, doing his best to regain strength in his fingers.

Seeing Lefebvre approach, Seth smiled. There was a knowing look in his eyes, one that said he knew Lefebvre was displeased with all the hoopla.

It was at that moment that the alarm on someone’s watch played a little tune. It was shut off almost as soon as it sounded.

Seth’s already pale face lost all color — the look in his eyes became one of sheer terror. The ball dropped to the floor. Lefebvre hurried to his side.

“Easy,” he said, but this time Seth would not be soothed. Lefebvre saw a kind of desperation in him that had not been there since his first days in the hospital — the way he looked when he awakened from nightmares. “Seth, it’s all right.”

Seth shook his head, reached out to hold on to Lefebvre.

“What’s wrong?” Tory asked. “What’s wrong with him?”

Television cameras and lights turned toward the bed, and Polly Logan repeated the question, in a less frantic tone.

Fear, Lefebvre thought. “A little too much excitement,” he said. “Perhaps it would be best if we let Seth rest.”

“Detective Lefebvre is right,” Captain Bredloe said. “We need to let the boy have a chance to recover. I’m sure everyone here understands that Seth’s health must be our first concern.”

Lefebvre’s respect for the new captain increased when Bredloe suited action to word and courteously herded almost everyone out of the room, including Polly. Irene moved a little more slowly, watching Lefebvre and Seth with open curiosity. She met Lefebvre’s eyes and seemed to realize that if she pushed to stay around now, she’d anger him — and risk losing future cooperation from him. He was glad she didn’t say anything to him as she left. It would have only increased some of the friction he was encountering in the office, and Polly would have complained about unfair access for the Express.

Rosario, under Hitch’s watchful eye, didn’t look back at Lefebvre as she left. Even Tory Randolph found herself gently escorted away on the captain’s reassuring arm.

Lefebvre reached up, smoothing Seth’s hair in a calming gesture. “Better now?”

Seth still seemed frightened, but he nodded, turning to the computer. Lefebvre moved to read the screen:

He was here just now. In this room.

“Who?”

The killer.

“Whitey Dane?”

Seth shook his head and typed furiously.

No. Wrong man.

Lefebvre wondered briefly if this was some sort of setback brought on by the excitement of the day, but when he looked back into Seth’s eyes, he saw the young man’s need to be believed. “Tell me more,” he said.

Seth looked relieved and began typing again:

Doremi.

6

Thursday, June 21, 8:30 P.M.

Las Piernas General Hospital

Lefebvre paused, making sure Seth was sound asleep, then quietly stepped out of the room. The stocky guard was away from the door, chatting with the nurses down the hall. He saw Lefebvre’s fierce scowl and hurried back to his post.

“How’s he doing?” the guard asked, looking as if he wondered if Lefebvre had had all his shots.

“He’s asleep. If he awakens, Officer, you will please ask one of the nurses to let me know — a nurse, or anyone else, but you remain here at all times — understood?”

“I’ll stay right here, sir,” he said nervously. “Uh, where will you be?”

“On the patio, outside the waiting area — just over there.” He pointed to a tinted glass door at the end of the hallway. “I need a little air. I won’t be long.”

As he stepped out into the warm evening, he sensed movement to his left. Another door to the patio, leading to a separate corridor, swung softly shut. He walked toward it and pulled it open, but whoever had been on the patio must have moved into the nearby stairwell. He listened, heard footsteps going down the stairs, and walked back outside. He returned to the door he had used to enter the patio and looked down the hallway. The guard was still at Seth’s door, looking a little more alert than usual. Lefebvre hoped he had scared the crap out of him.

He took off his suit coat and stretched, looking into the moonlit sky, imagining how it would feel to take the Cessna up into this calm night. He had not flown since the day before the Randolph murders. Perhaps when Seth had recovered, he would take him flying.

He sighed, chiding himself for the thought. He was too emotionally involved in this case. That involvement began the moment he reached through that door on the yacht and felt Seth’s pulse. No — a little later, when he held Seth, and perhaps in some small way helped him to live, as he had not been able to help another boy…

But that was a long time ago, he scolded himself, and nothing could be changed by thinking about it.

Honest with himself about his own weaknesses, he had tried to stay away from most of the investigative work of the Randolph case, to involve others. But today — what Seth had told him today had shattered the delicate balance he had worked out between his protectiveness of Seth and his obligations to the department.

He heard a door open and turned to see Elena walking toward him.

“Phil? Is Seth all right?”

“Yes. He’s sleeping. Did you come to see him?”

She hesitated, then said, “Both of you. I worried about him this afternoon, but knew he would be all right if you stayed. I wanted to stay, too, but Hitch…”

“Hitch is worried that his partner spends too much time with Lefebvre and always watches how she acts around him now.”

“Yes, I thought you had probably picked up on that.” She moved closer, standing a few inches from him, at his side. She did not touch him, but he felt his skin warm at her nearness. It would be easy to touch her, so simple to lean a little closer.

“Seth has picked up on it, too,” he said, moving a little farther away.

“Seth?”

“Yes, but I think little escapes Seth.”

“Little concerning you.”

He shrugged.

“Are you sure he knows?”

“Knows what?” he asked, angry with himself for letting this conversation begin, let alone reach this point.

She was silent.

Lefebvre, you are an asshole, he told himself.

She began to walk away and he heard himself say, “Have you eaten?”

He took her to the Prop Room.

The place was crowded. “I’ve never been here before,” she said, looking around at the various airplane paraphernalia that covered the walls — including the propeller mounted on the wall behind the bar.

“Unless you count a couple of guys from the Air Patrol, it’s not a cop hangout.”

“Which is why you like it.”

“One reason,” he admitted.

A large woman saw him, called out, “Philippe!” and eyed Elena speculatively. After a brief, rapid-fire exchange of French with Lefebvre, she pointed to an empty back booth. They made their way through the crowd.

“I didn’t know you spoke French,” Elena said as he sat opposite her.

“My parents and sister live in Quebec. When Marie” — he indicated the woman he had spoken to — “lived there, she and my sister were friends.”

“So you’re French-Canadian?”

“My parents are Quebecois. I was born in the U.S., despite my father’s best efforts to get my mother back to Canada when she went into labor. I was born in Maine, so you see how close it was.”

She laughed. “And your sister?”

“Yvette was born in Quebec, so my father had nothing to be ashamed of there.”

“You have other brothers and sisters?”

He looked away but answered, “No.”

She was studying him, he knew, seeing the evasion. He pretended to be engaging in the cop’s habit he had already observed in her — the habit of staying aware of one’s surroundings, of the people who moved in and out of any room. But he knew she was watching only him.

He tried to impartially consider what she was seeing. That he was older, undoubtedly. She was about eight or ten years his junior — somewhere in her early thirties. She was probably deciding he was too old for her. While he was tall and slender — too thin, some would say — he was not at all handsome. His features were harsh. He was intelligent, but not a conversationalist, not a charmer. It occurred to him that most women would have liked a quieter place to dine, decorated with something other than airplane parts.

“It’s not a very fancy place—” he began.

“It’s comfortable.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “The food is plain here, but good. The steaks are the best in Las Piernas. I should have asked before — are you a vegetarian?”

She shook her head. He signaled to Marie, who quickly came to take their orders. They waited in silence until she brought their wine. Searching for another topic of conversation, he said, “Tell me about your family.”

“I have two brothers, one fifteen years older, the other, twelve years older — they refer to me as ‘the retirement package.’ My parents were both forty-five when I was born — they’re no longer living. I’m close to my brothers, though. They both live in Santa Barbara.”

He studied her, just as she had studied him, all the while wondering why he had no gift for flirtation. After years of spurning overtures, of letting subtle and not-so-subtle invitations go unanswered — he found himself curiously unwilling to waste this chance. There was something waiting to begin here, but how to make that beginning? He might compliment her on her green eyes and dark hair — tell her that he liked the way she wore her hair tonight, perhaps? Not pinned up, as usual, but falling in soft curls across her shoulders. But why should she care what he liked, after all? Did any woman really want a man to say such things? Certainly, no woman would want a man to tell her that her skin was the color of walnuts. Walnuts were wrinkly things — nuts, for God’s sake. What a poet you are, Lefebvre! A real smooth operator. Still, to his eye, her skin was just that lovely, creamy brown color—

He realized she had stopped talking and was looking at him with — impatience?

“You’re wondering what I am,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“I’m used to it.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh.” She blushed.

You see? he told himself. Walnuts do not blush. Of all the things—

“I saw you looking at my skin.”

Now he blushed.

She smiled. “You were thinking, let’s see…”

For an awful moment, he wondered if she would somehow guess.

“You wouldn’t put it like Hitch did,” she went on. “So you wouldn’t say, ‘What kind of goddamned mutt are you, anyway?’”

“Mutt?” he repeated blankly.

“I admired his directness, actually. So much better than being told I’m ‘exotic.’”

The look on his face must have made her realize that he hadn’t been thinking about her ethnicity at all, because she faltered, then said, “Oh,” again — this time, a sound of both pleasure and embarrassment.

“I wasn’t—”

“I know,” she said quickly. “I mean, I see that now.” She hesitated, then rapidly forged ahead. “You’re lucky to know both French and English. Even though your last name is French, when people read your ID card, they probably don’t expect you to speak the language—”

“They don’t even know how to say my last name,” he said, looking mildly amused. “And I know I cannot ever teach most of them to say it — the sounds aren’t found in English, so…” He shrugged. “I’m known as ‘Leyfeb,’ ‘Le-fever,’ ‘La-five,’ ‘Luh-fave.’ Usually I tell them it almost rhymes with ‘ever,’ and then they’re really confused.”

“Tell me how to say it.”

“The way my cousins in Maine say it? Or the way my father said it?”

“The way you say it.”

He smiled. “Phil.”

“No, come on.”

“Okay. ‘Luh-fevre.’ A short e, then a soft ‘vre’ sound.” He repeated it.

She tried it.

“Almost. You’re rolling the r — you’re making it Spanish.” He said his name a few more times.

She repeated it back until he said, “Yes, now you have it. Now — you were about to tell me more about your name. Rosario.”

“You rolled the r’s perfectly! You speak Spanish, don’t you? English, French, and Spanish?”

“Yes, but just those three.”

“Just those three,” she said mournfully.

“The French of Quebec, the English of California, and the Spanish of Baja California. There are undoubtedly Europeans who would tell you I don’t speak any of those languages properly.”

“When people read ‘Rosario’ on my badge, they definitely expect me to speak Spanish. I’m trying to learn Spanish, but the last people in my family who spoke the language came to California not long after Junípero Serra.”

“But you are not only Hispanic,” he said.

“That’s exactly it. Without telling you my whole family history, let’s just say I’m one of those people who could mark about four boxes when asked to indicate ethnic origins. African American, Chumash Indian, Spanish, Mexican, Irish, Greek… Maybe Hitch is right — I’m a mutt.”

“An American,” he said. “Like me — true no matter what side of the border I was born on, I suppose.”

She smiled. “Yes.”

They were silent again, but this time it was more companionable. She asked him how he came to know of this place, and he told her about being a military pilot and saving for the Cessna, searching for just the right one, and finding it — becoming more animated as he talked about flying.

When they had finished eating, he looked across at her and said, “Thanks for coming here with me.”

“My pleasure.”

Another silence stretched out, then she asked, “Phil, what was bothering you tonight — at the hospital?”

He frowned. “It’s this — probably half the department knows every detail that can be known about Whitey Dane’s appearance and habits, right?”

“Sure,” she said, surprised by the question. “All of us who’ve been part of the investigations connected to him, anyway.”

“And he has a number of affectations, right?”

“Like the patch, you mean? I’ve heard he’s not actually missing an eye,” she said. “I’ve even heard that he used to wear the patch on the other eye.”

“It’s not just the patch. For example, he sometimes wears vests.”

“Yes, usually. Complete with a watch on a chain.”

“Not a wristwatch.” He said it flatly.

“Not in a million years. You must have read about that in the files — he carries an old Hamilton railroad pocket watch on a gold chain and tucks it into a vest pocket. Makes a big show of winding it and taking it out and looking at it.”

“He’s never been seen wearing an electronic watch?”

“No — like you say, one of his affectations. Like the patch.”

Again he was silent.

She waited.

“Don’t mention to anyone that I asked about a watch, all right?”

“Sure.”

“It could be… it could cause a lot of problems, and be dangerous to Seth.”

“What?”

“Just don’t talk about it — not to anyone, not even Hitch.”

“I said I wouldn’t, and I won’t,” she said with some exasperation. “What’s this all about?”

He looked down at his hands, debating how much to tell her. He had so little to go on, and the implications…“I’ll take you back to your car,” he said.

He could see that she wanted to tell him to go to hell, but after studying him for another moment, said, “Okay.” They argued over the payment of the bill, which allowed her to discover that he was a little old-fashioned in some matters, and very stubborn.

“Do you have to go in early tomorrow?” he asked after they had driven in silence for a while.

“No, sleeping in. I have a late-night surveillance with Hitch on one of our other cases.”

Again he fell silent, thinking he should apologize to her, but not wanting to reopen the topic of the Dane case. He dropped her off at her car and watched her drive away. He had not been able to think of the sort of words that might have tempted her to stay with him a little longer, and deciding that it was useless to wish for what was beyond his reach, he started to get out of the car. He noticed something small and white on his passenger seat. A business card. He picked it up and saw that it was hers. In bold blue strokes, she had written her home address and phone number on the back. He sat for a long time, tracing its edges with his fingertips, then started to put it away in his wallet. He hesitated, then tucked it into his shirt pocket instead.

“Anyone come by?” he asked the guard.

“No, sir. And I’ve checked on him a couple times — he’s asleep.”

Just as Lefebvre was about to enter Seth’s room, he saw the door to the patio open slightly, then quickly close, as if someone had started through it and changed his mind. He walked with quick strides toward the patio, stepping outside just as the far door closed. He ran to it, yanking it open. He could see no one, but again heard footsteps on the stairs. This time, they were hurried. He followed as quietly as possible. The footsteps stopped, and Lefebvre slowed his own steps, creeping closer to his prey. A series of small, high-pitched sounds filled the stairwell:

Do-re-mi-do-re-mi-do-re-mi

Lefebvre ran toward the sounds, heedless of any noise he was making.

He reached the bottom of the stairwell and came out into the hospital lobby. He quickly scanned the room: A pair of doctors, wearing scrubs, talking to each other. A receptionist. Five people huddled together in one set of chairs, as if praying together; a family, it seemed. None of them looked as if he or she had just sat down. He turned around and saw a bank of elevators — one car just starting to ascend. And beyond the elevators, a series of hallways. He made a quick check of these, but realized his quarry was long gone.

Or was he? He thought of the elevator and ran back up the stairs. If the attacker had returned while Lefebvre searched the lobby and hallways — how much resistance would that guard offer?

Heart pounding, he raced to the fourth floor, immediately went out onto the patio and crossed it to the other door. Yanking it open, he looked toward the door to Seth’s room — the guard’s chair was empty.

“No!” he shouted, causing the nurses to stare at him as if he were a madman.

But in the next instant, the guard came out of the room, and seeing Lefebvre, said, “Oh, you’re back. He just woke up. I think he wanted me to find out if you were still here. Of course, since he can’t talk, I’m only guessing… hey!”

Lefebvre pushed past him into the room.

Seth smiled when he saw him, then raised a questioning brow.

“You’re okay?” Lefebvre asked, still shaken.

He nodded, then pointed to Lefebvre, asking a silent question in return.

“I’m fine.”

Seth seemed skeptical, but gestured toward a chair.

“Yes,” Lefebvre said. “Yes, I’ll stay awhile — I have a phone call to make, but I’ll be right back.”

Seth gestured to the phone next to his bed.

“What, you think you get to be privy to all police business now?” Lefebvre said, trying to keep his tone light. Seth smiled, but Lefebvre did not think he looked convinced.

He apologized brusquely to the guard, then using the phone at the nurses’ station, called the homicide desk and asked to be patched through to the team currently on surveillance of Dane. No, Dane had not left his house. Yes, they had seen him with their own eyes — had him in sight right now.

He had pissed them off with the last question. It could not be helped.

The guard’s replacement had come on duty in the meantime. Lefebvre felt more sure of this man’s alertness and abilities. He went back into Seth’s room and bent himself to the task of distracting Seth from his memories and fears. He failed miserably at this, until he began to tell him about his dinner with Elena.

7

Friday, June 22, 7:00 A.M.

Las Piernas Police Department

Homicide Division

Lefebvre nodded to Pete Baird as he went to his desk. Baird, the only other detective in the homicide room, nodded back and continued working, his head bent over a file. There was a thinning spot on his crown — Lefebvre dispassionately considered the likelihood that Baird would be bald within a few years.

He didn’t think Baird disliked him, but would not have worried if he did. He knew that his coworkers’ feelings about him were mixed. He was not a gregarious person, as Baird was. Among some of his fellow detectives, he knew, his success was probably more resented than admired, in part because he was a loner.

If he could cope with Baird’s talkativeness, Baird would make a good partner on this case. It was not that he would be especially interested in Baird’s thoughts about it — Baird did not solve cases with his mind, although Lefebvre was sure there was more going on under that thinning hair than most people believed. Baird solved cases with doggedness. Doggedness was undoubtedly what had brought him here so early in the morning. Many times Lefebvre had seen Baird’s persistence pay off; Baird often solved cases that had discouraged supposedly smarter detectives.

Lefebvre’s last assigned partner had been his mentor, Matthew Arden. When Arden retired, he convinced their lieutenant that Lefebvre would work best without a partner, and no lieutenant since then had insisted on pairing him with anyone.

But although there were a great many differences in their style of work and in their personalities, Lefebvre believed Pete Baird was trustworthy. Lefebvre did not for a moment doubt his honesty. Looking around the room at the other desks, he realized that there was no one else of whom he felt quite so sure. It would be good, Lefebvre thought, to tell someone else that perhaps Whitey Dane was not the one who had attacked the Randolphs.

But what would he say, after all?

Pete, I have no idea who the killer is, but it isn’t Dane — even though all the physical evidence and the witness’s description point to him. I know he’s a suspected crime boss we’ve been trying to arrest for several years, and probably has been involved in murder many times over, but he’s not the man we want for this one, the only one to which we can connect him. I base this on how frightened Seth became at the sound of a watch — a watch that many thousands of people may own, but which I believe may belong to a member of our own police department.

Ludicrous.

He would spend the day trying to learn more, to come up with something more solid — and answers to the questions that had plagued him all night. Those questions, and his fears for Seth’s safety, had denied him any sleep.

At least the guard who had come on duty at eleven was more capable than the previous man. Lefebvre was equally confident about the man who had the next rotation. He had called the officer who took over this morning, intimating that new threats had been made against Seth. He would try today to get the guard on Seth’s room doubled, and to get the hospital to lock the door between the patio and the stairwell. The hospital night-shift security guard had been unwilling to do so.

At his desk, Lefebvre took out his notebook and reviewed a list of initials he had made during the long night. Once again he pictured himself in Seth’s room and tried to recall exactly who had been present when the watch beeped. With the exception of a few reporters, Tory Randolph, and Seth himself, they were all members of the Las Piernas Police Department or police commissioners. Lefebvre still strongly resisted the idea. He told himself that other evidence still indicated Dane.

Then he thought of the sound of the watch in the stairwell.

Whoever wore the watch had seen Seth’s reaction and had returned, probably to finish what he had started on the Amanda.

Why, Lefebvre wondered now, was the watch set to go off a few minutes before eleven?

Gazing off into space as he recalled the previous evening, he soon came to an answer. The guard’s shift changed at eleven. Any member of the department could easily learn which officers had guard duty at the hospital. With very little research, the attacker would know that the least alert guard was on duty from three to eleven. And near eleven, as the shift changed, both guards would be on hand — presenting two guards to overcome at Seth’s door, instead of one inattentive man who often strayed away from it.

He went back over the description Seth had given of his attacker. Eliminating only those who most obviously differed from that description, Lefebvre narrowed his list of potential suspects. He reviewed the remaining names.

Two were on the police commission: Dan Soury and Michael Pickens. Soury, who chaired the commission, had a thick, full beard. He could not have grown that out so rapidly in the weeks after the murders. He crossed Soury off the list.

Three were from the Homicide Division: Captain Bredloe, Pete Baird, and Vince Adams. He recalled that Bredloe and Randolph had been at odds on occasion, but Lefebvre did not know of any disagreement that would have led to murder. No matter how he tried, Lefebvre could not picture Bredloe in the role of the attacker. Besides, Bredloe was tall and broad-shouldered, and Lefebvre thought Seth would probably have described the attacker as a larger man if Bredloe had been the one.

Baird and Adams had investigated a homicide case believed to be connected to Dane, but had not been able to come up with any solid evidence. They weren’t alone — Lefebvre himself was working on such a case.

Lefebvre started to cross off the name of Robert Hitchcock, Elena’s partner. Then he realized that he could not account for every moment of Hitch’s time on the night of the murders. A long shot, but still…

The next three men on his list — Dr. Alfred Larson, Paul Haycroft, and Dale Britton — all worked in the crime lab. Larson managed it, Haycroft worked for him, and Britton was part of the crime scene unit that had examined both the Cygnet and the Amanda. Britton had seemed quite taken with Tory Randolph, while Larson and Haycroft had been ill at ease during their part of her show in Seth’s room yesterday.

The last three men on his list were uniformed officers. Earl Allen, Duke Fenly, and Ned Perry. He was well acquainted with “the aristocrats,” as Earl and Duke were known. They were large men, often called upon to help transport violent criminals. Again, too large, thought Lefebvre. Still, he would need to take a closer look at their activities on the night of the murders. He knew very little about Perry, only that he had been one of the first to respond to their call for backup on the Amanda. He had seemed uneasy in Seth’s room, but Lefebvre had been uneasy, too — so he wasn’t ready to hold that against him.

He decided to start with the uniformed officers. Their movements would be the easiest to check. He went downstairs and asked for their schedules and records of calls between about eleven o’clock on the night of June 3 and one in the morning on June 4 — roughly the time of the murders. The sergeant who supplied the information didn’t hide his curiosity over the request, but didn’t hesitate to comply with it. Lefebvre ignored the curiosity and thanked him for his help.

Looking at the logs, he noticed that Perry and his partner had been busy with a nearby domestic violence call during the time of the attack on the Amanda. Duke and Earl had been near the downtown area, arresting a felon on a parole violation. Their time had been completely taken up with these activities. Relieved, he crossed all three names off his list.

While he was downstairs, he put in a request for an additional guard on Seth’s room, but despite his arguments of urgency, the sergeant told him that they were stretched thin now, and if he could manage it at all, tomorrow would be the earliest — if the request was approved by higher-ups.

Lefebvre hid his annoyance and went back to the homicide room.

He found it much more crowded and filled with the hum of conversation. He returned a few greetings, then sat down at his desk and took out a pen and paper. His notebook was full of disjointed reminders, notes made in the anxious hours of the previous night. Seeking an orderly approach to the problem, he started to make a list of the avenues he would pursue from here.

The first of these was to take a look at the physical evidence against Dane.

This brought to mind a problem that had nagged at him throughout the night — the anonymous tip he had received, telling him about Dane’s supposed meeting with a triggerman — the one that had brought him to the marina in the early hours of June 4. If Dane had not killed Trent and Amanda Randolph, then Dane had been set up, and the informant who had called Lefebvre was very likely the murderer. What bothered Lefebvre most was the awareness that this was not the first time he had been contacted by the informant.

On two other occasions, he had heard that obviously disguised voice — the caller had spoken as few words as possible, almost as if he had been sending a telegram. Just before midnight, on a night when he had been working late at his desk, going over department files on Whitey Dane, Lefebvre had received the call. “Dane on Cygnet paying shooter. Returns to Marina South soon. Slip three-zero-five.”

Even if he had never heard the weird, altered voice before, even if two previous tips from that same caller had not led to important arrests, Lefebvre would have gone down to the marina. But because he thought of this informant as reliable, that night he paged Elena and Hitch. Yes, they said, Dane had a boat called the Cygnet and moored it in slip number 305.

If Seth had not heard the watch, Lefebvre never would have questioned the snitch’s information. Over the last few hours, he had wondered about the previous cases. Although he remained convinced that they were good arrests, he made a note to look at those files as well. Perhaps there was some link between them, some person within the department or commission who was connected to all the cases.

He looked over the list of names again and wondered how long it might take him to ferret out the man he sought. For Seth’s sake, he hoped it would be soon. He neatly folded the page, placed it in his top desk drawer with the pen, and locked the drawer.

Lefebvre felt a certain pride in the Las Piernas lab. A year or so ago, there had been pressure to close it down and to rely on the county forensic science services. He had nothing against the county lab, but they were over-burdened and would be far less convenient to use. And the thought of losing scientists like Paul Haycroft was one he’d rather not contemplate.

Haycroft was studying photographs of blood-spatter patterns when Lefebvre walked into the lab. Although both Larson and Haycroft had solid, broad-based experience in a number of areas of forensic science, this was Haycroft’s specialty. The department’s success in solving cases where bloodstains were present was higher than average, and Lefebvre knew this was due in part to Haycroft’s ability to interpret the evidence.

Haycroft looked up as he heard Lefebvre approach, and seeing him, smiled. “Hello, Phil. Decided to take a little time away from the boy and help us solve murders, eh?”

“The thought has occurred to me, Paul,” Lefebvre said. “But actually, I need to see if I can come up with anything more on the Randolph case.”

Haycroft’s brows rose. “You don’t think we have enough to prosecute Dane?”

Lefebvre shrugged. “I would like to feel satisfied that we are doing our best to make sure the man who attacked Seth and his family is punished.”

Haycroft sighed. “I’m relieved to find someone else who feels that way. When we put Mr. Dane away, I’d like it to be for good. I suspect he is more clever than many of us believe. In fact — well, let me show you something.”

He put the photos away and rose from his desk. Lefebvre followed him as he went to the property room and signed for the box for the Randolph case. He took Lefebvre to a microscope with a video camera and monitor attached to it. Haycroft sat at the microscope itself and motioned Lefebvre to sit in front of the monitor. He found a labeled slide and set it up for viewing. After some minor adjustments, he said, “There. I’ve got it at about four hundred and fifty X.”

On the monitor, Lefebvre saw two thin parallel lines with a row of dark marks between them, the darker row looking somewhat like beads on an invisible string. “Hair or fiber?”

“Hair,” Haycroft said. “From the inside of the shoes — the bloodstained shoes we found on Dane’s boat.”

“Inside of the shoes, but not from the outside?”

“Right. This is just a sample, of course. Several of these were recovered from inside the shoes.”

“You found these hairs?”

He shook his head. “No, Dale Britton had the good sense to look for hair and fiber evidence. He was on the mobile crime scene unit that day, thank God. We found these inside the shoes. One of our trace evidence technicians did the identification work.”

“So is this hair Dane’s?”

Haycroft laughed. “Only if he is a cat.”

Lefebvre looked away from the monitor. “A cat?”

“Yes, among other indicators, that medulla pattern — the pattern of the material in the middle of the hair shaft — tells us this is from a cat.” He pointed to the row of dark marks on the monitor.

Lefebvre stared at Haycroft in disbelief. Reading his look, Haycroft said, “Yes, once we had identified it as cat hair, I asked Vince Adams if Dane had a cat. And he told me what I suspect you also know.”

“That Dane is highly allergic to cats.” Lefebvre paused, then asked, “Did Detective Adams have anything more to say about this?”

“Yes. He told me to keep my mouth shut.”

Lefebvre frowned. “But—”

“I told Al about it anyway.”

“Good. And what did Dr. Larson say?” Lefebvre was sure the lab’s director would be concerned.

“Al had two theories. One was that Dale or Vince — who found the shoes — contaminated the evidence. They both own cats, you see. For that matter, so does Dr. Larson. But he didn’t process the scene. Dale and Vince were there.”

“Locard’s Exchange,” Lefebvre said. “‘Whenever two objects come in contact with one another, there is always a transfer of material across the contact boundaries.’”

“Yes,” Haycroft said, pleased that Lefebvre could quote this tenet of forensic science.

“Because of static electricity in his clothing, Vince Adams picks up cat hairs on, say, his cuffs. He later touches the shoes on the Cygnet and the hairs transfer to them.”

“Something like that, yes. When I asked how he handled the shoes, he admitted that in order to preserve the blood evidence on the outside, he had carefully placed his hands on the inside of the shoes. He was wearing gloves, but still, he could have transferred hairs to the shoes.”

“You said Dr. Larson had two theories.”

“The second is that Dane intentionally placed cat hairs in the shoes to eliminate himself as a suspect.”

“A little far-fetched?”

“If it were anyone but Dane, I would think so.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.”

“In any case, don’t let the boss know I talked to you about this, all right? Or anyone else, for the time being. Al’s actually going to try to match the hairs up to Dale’s or Vince’s cat, but both of them are touchy about it.” Haycroft smiled. “Dale had to let Al comb his cat, of course — Al’s his boss. But he resented the implication that he was sloppy on an important case. Dale’s a little — well, lacking in physical coordination at times. He’ll trip over his own two feet. But when he’s concentrating on a case, that clumsiness disappears. He’s never careless when it comes to handling evidence.”

“And Vince?”

“Oh, Vince was so mad about it, he told Al he’ll have to get a court order to come anywhere near his cat.”

“Al?”

Dr. Al Larson, who had been staring into a microscope, gave a start. He looked up at Phil and said, “Oh! How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long. Can you spare a few moments?”

He hesitated slightly, then smiled and said, “Sure. I could use a break. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

They moved to a small break room, aglow with the light from a wall of vending machines. Lefebvre declined Larson’s offer of coffee, then waited while the other man got a cup for himself. As they sat down at one of the empty tables, Larson said, “What’s on your mind, Phil?”

“Trent Randolph.”

Larson’s smile disappeared. “I liked Trent Randolph very much,” he said quietly. “I can’t tell you how difficult it has been for me to work on this case. He was brilliant. And to have a scientist on the commission… a terrible loss.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Personally? Not well. After he was appointed to the commission, he spent a great deal of time here, though. So he was well acquainted with the lab and everyone who worked in it — he reviewed the whole lab and had wonderful suggestions — and resources. He even donated equipment.”

“Didn’t you resent that a little? Not the donations, but having some newcomer from the commission reviewing your work?”

Larson pushed the coffee cup away. “Not in the least. I invited him to do so. I knew what Michael Pickens was trying to do to this lab.”

“Commissioner Pickens wanted it shut down.”

“Yes,” he said. “Move everything to the county. I saw the chance to have an ally, someone who would be able to give an informed and respected opinion to the commission.”

“And Randolph was that ally?”

“Absolutely. Pickens is no scientist. Randolph was able to silence his objections quite easily. And he was able to help us acquire funding that we’ve needed for years. Until Randolph came on the scene, Pickens always made sure we were shortchanged. He kept us from obtaining new equipment, then complained that we weren’t able to do the job because our equipment was outdated.”

“Politicians,” Lefebvre said.

“Exactly! But Randolph outmaneuvered him. He got O’Connor from the Express — you know him?”

“I’ve met him once or twice,” Lefebvre said.

“Trent Randolph got that old man in our corner, and between the two of them, they put Pickens on the defensive for once. So the recommendations for the budget looked a little different than they had for the last few years — and we got our funding.”

“Is that funding secure without Randolph on the commission?”

Larson moved the paper coffee cup to the center of the small table, the coffee still untouched. “We’ll be fine this year, but who knows what will happen without Trent?” He frowned, then added, “I’ve only talked to you about the funding, but he was — he was more than that to us. He was a colleague. And a man of integrity.”

Lefebvre waited.

Larson suddenly looked him directly in the eye and said, “I know why you’re asking.”

Lefebvre told himself to keep his face impassive, to stay calm. “Oh?”

“It’s the boy,” Larson said.

Lefebvre didn’t answer.

“Don’t be angry with me for suggesting this, Phil, but there are those around here who think you’re too attached to Seth Randolph — a little too devoted, let’s say. Staying overnight in his room and so on. I won’t repeat the crudest comments—”

Lefebvre felt an impulse to let his fist fly into Larson’s face. With an effort, he held his temper, but Larson must have read something of the intent in his eyes, because the lab director turned pale and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

His voice cold, Lefebvre said, “Are you implying—”

“I’m simply warning you that there are rumors. Just a word to the wise — okay? I don’t even know who started them. Besides, most of them are saying you’re after the ex-wife.”

“Tory?” He nearly laughed.

“Yes, after all, she’s a beautiful woman and—”

Lefebvre suddenly stood, and Larson went another shade of white.

“First you suggest I’ve molested a young witness,” Lefebvre said quietly, “and then you insult my tastes. And you will not say—”

“Forget I said anything at all!” Larson said just as Dale Britton stepped into the break room, carrying a clipboard and looking owlish.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I need your signature on this, Al.” He leaned across Lefebvre’s vacant chair with the clipboard and knocked the coffee cup over. Larson came to his feet, but not in time to prevent the lukewarm liquid from splashing over his lap, staining the front of his pants.

Britton was still apologizing to his boss when Lefebvre left the room.

Lefebvre returned to his desk some time later, so lost in anger that he pulled the top drawer open before he realized that he had not unlocked it. The list he had made earlier was missing from the drawer. He felt a cold knot form in the pit of his stomach. He looked up to see Pete Baird watching him.

“Have you been here all morning?” Lefebvre asked.

“Look,” Pete said, “you work your way, I’ll work mine. Just because I’ve been working from my desk—”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said hastily. “I just wondered — did you see anyone approach my desk while I was gone?”

“All sorts of people. Look.” He pointed to the desk tray. As usual, during the morning hours various bulletins and paperwork had been placed there.

Lefebvre didn’t miss Baird’s look of amusement. Ignoring it, he said, “Has anyone used my desk or looked through it?”

The amusement faded. “Exactly what are you getting at, Lefebvre?”

“I had some paperwork here. It was in this drawer. It’s gone now.”

“And you think someone from this squad took it.”

Too late, Lefebvre saw his mistake. “No, I just wondered if someone might have used the phone and accidentally picked up the paperwork.”

“No one has used your frickin’ phone. Or sat at your desk. Or taken anything that belongs to you.”

“I must have mislaid it, then,” Lefebvre said, and closed the drawer. When he tried to relock it, he found the lock was broken.

Baird continued to watch him, frowning. Lefebvre left the squad room without saying anything more to him.

He went downstairs, trying to walk off some of the tension he was feeling. If he had any doubt that someone within the department was involved in Trent Randolph’s murder, that doubt was gone now. He wandered near a pay phone in the hallway and got as far as fishing coins out of his pocket. He stopped before pulling the card out of his shirt pocket. Elena had a late-night surveillance assignment tonight. She might be sleeping. He did not know what he would have said to her anyway.

He went to the Records Department and requested the files for the two previous cases for which he had received calls from the anonymous tipster, hoping that they might help him discover something about the identity of the caller.

“Give me an hour or so, okay?” the harassed clerk asked. “I just got a huge list of files to be pulled for Captain Bredloe. When we take his up, I’ll have someone bring these two to your desk.”

“No,” Lefebvre said quickly, surprising the clerk. “Just hold them for me here, please. Give me a call when they’re ready.”

“It’s no trouble, I’ll be up there anyway.”

“Just give me a call.”

He left, hearing the clerk mutter behind him.

He was halfway up the stairs when he heard a familiar voice in the break room.

“Fuckin’ Lefebvre.” Pete Baird.

Lefebvre paused on the stairway, not wanting to walk by the open doorway.

“That asshole asks me if anyone has been using his desk — ‘maybe using the phone,’ he says. Like the anal little prick wouldn’t know if someone sat there. Says someone might have picked up some paper he left on the top of the desk, but he’s looking in the drawer, right? Now, number one, he locks his fucking desk all the time ’cause he thinks the rest of us are so fucking interested in his caseload, we’re gonna ignore our own cases to spy on Mr. Hotshot. So you know it’s his desk drawer he’s freaking out over, and not the top of his desk. And number two, it would be easier to find paper in the only stall on a diarrhea ward than on the top of Lefebvre’s desk.”

The others laughed, and someone razzed Pete about the messy state of his own desk. Lefebvre told himself to ignore their childishness and began to climb the stairs again just as Pete Baird stepped out of the break room and looked down at him.

Baird blushed, obviously aware that Lefebvre had heard his loud comments. Lefebvre looked straight at him, thought about his wanting to confide in this man only a few hours earlier, and turned to go back down the stairs.

Baird followed him, and from behind him, put a hand on his shoulder. “Lefebvre—”

Lefebvre shook the hand off and kept walking.

He was on the sidewalk when a slender, blue-eyed brunette hailed him. Irene Kelly hurried after him. “Hello,” he said. “How are things at the Express?”

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He felt a nearly uncontrollable urge to tell her to follow him to a restaurant, to tell her everything he knew. But even as he thought this, he realized that he could not bring himself to talk to a reporter about mere suspicions, especially ones that would damage the reputation of the entire department. “Just tired,” he said.

She studied him, then said, “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

Behind her, he saw Vince Adams step out of the building. Adams noticed who he was with and gave him a look of disgust.

She followed Lefebvre’s glance and said, “They’re just jealous of the attention you get, you know.”

“It doesn’t help me to have them jealous,” he said.

“What’s bothering you today?”

He smiled. “Do you really care, or are you looking for a story?”

Her chin came up. He thought, wryly, that he had just given Baird the same look of disappointment.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m in a terrible mood. Come by tomorrow and maybe I’ll be better company.”

“Lunch?”

“Sure.”

She started to walk off, then paused and said, “Take care of yourself, Phil.”

He walked with no set purpose. When he realized that he was some distance from the office, he hailed a cab.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

He started to say, “Police headquarters.” Instead, he reached into his shirt pocket, found Elena’s card, and asked the cabdriver to take him to a corner near her address. He would just take a look at her neighborhood, he told himself. Get a sense of where she lived.

She unlatched the last of the locks and opened the door, standing back as she said, “Come in.” She was wearing a short, silky yellow robe, and her hair tumbled down over her shoulders. She looked drowsy — sleep-softened and warm.

“I’ve awakened you,” he said as he stepped into her apartment.

“I’ve been thinking the same thing for weeks,” she said, and began loosening his tie.

8

Friday, June 22, 5:45 P.M.

Elena Rosario’s Apartment

“It’s a good plan,” she said, straightening the tie she had removed several hours earlier. She moved her hands into his hair.

He traced the curve of her spine, not ready to let go yet. “I’m not sure. If it weren’t for Seth—”

“I know.” She looked up into his eyes. “Whatever you decide.”

He pulled her closer, held her to him, and said, “Promise me you will be careful.”

“I will. You too.”

Reluctantly, he let her go. “I’ll leave first. If you see anyone follow—”

“I’ll page you.”

He saw the worry in her eyes. “Elena—”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t make me one of your problems.”

He smiled, thinking of how, despite all the tension and trouble in his life right now, she had made him feel good, had eased some ache within him. “Sometimes, mon ange, you really are quite ridiculous.”

“What’s an ‘ange’?”

“Angel.”

He left hearing the warm sound of her laughter.

He did not step out into the street until he had studied it for a moment. Seeing no sign of anyone watching the building, he walked a block south. He unbuttoned his coat and kept his hand near his weapon. He continued for a few blocks, to a coffee shop. He used a pay phone there to call Lieutenant Willis.

He was surprised when the lieutenant answered over a speaker phone — the lieutenant disliked using the speaker. “Lefebvre? Glad you called.” His voice sounded tinny. “Captain Bredloe and Pete Baird are here in my office. The captain wants to talk to you.”

He heard Bredloe’s voice, a little closer to the phone, and deeper. “Everything okay with you, Phil?”

“Yes, but — actually, I was calling to ask the lieutenant for a few days off.”

There was a pause, then Bredloe said, “I happened to overhear — there was an incident here this morning—”

Lefebvre heard a chair squeak and pictured Baird shifting in discomfort. So Baird was getting his ass chewed out. “Nothing of any importance,” he said quickly.

“We haven’t seen you since then, and your car was still here, so we became a little concerned.”

“I went for a walk, that’s all.”

“For seven hours?” Baird’s voice said. “The Express must be getting one hell of a story out of this one.”

“Detective Baird,” Bredloe said repressively.

The picture became clearer in Lefebvre’s mind. “I’m afraid Vince Adams may have misled you. Except to disappoint Ms. Kelly when she asked for my time, I haven’t been talking to reporters today. I didn’t realize I had caused so much concern by holding that brief conversation with her.”

This time more than one chair creaked.

“I owe Detective Baird an apology,” Lefebvre went on, perfectly capable of returning Baird’s insults, but knowing that a man like Pete Baird would feel worse if he got conciliation when he expected revenge. “I was irritable this morning. The walk helped — taking a little time to myself helped. I realized that Lieutenant Willis made a good suggestion to me a few weeks ago, and I ignored it. So I called Matt Arden and he has invited me to fly out to the desert to spend a few days with him. If you’ve no objection, I’d like to go.”

“You do need a real break, Phil,” Willis said. “You’re either working or with the kid. You’ve been too involved in the Randolph case.”

“Exactly. Although to be honest, I would feel easier about going if we increased the guard on his room.”

“Why?” Bredloe asked sharply.

“Once or twice, I’ve thought I’ve seen suspicious-looking individuals in the hallways,” he said, glad to be able to be truthful about that, at least.

“Nothing definite, but it occurs to me that Dane had no reason to attack when he thought Seth might die. Now that we’ve held this news conference, everyone knows that Seth is doing better and can communicate with us — but by making that information public, we’ve increased the danger to our only witness. I’m going over to the hospital this evening, but I can’t be with Seth all the time.”

“What he’s saying makes sense,” he heard Bredloe say to Willis. “Let’s double the guard at the start of the next shift.”

Lefebvre caught a cab. He took it back to headquarters, but didn’t enter the building. He retrieved his car and began a series of errands, the final one to Mail Call, a store where he rented a private mailbox. He talked for a moment with the owner and made a few arrangements with him. He picked up his mail, then drove over to the hospital.

He sat in the car for a few moments, to give himself time to consider how he would tell Seth that he was leaving Las Piernas for a few days. Earlier, from Elena’s apartment, he had called Matt Arden. Matt had immediately agreed to help and urged Lefebvre to move out of range of the killer. Lefebvre, unwilling to run away, had at first refused to leave Las Piernas. After some argument, though, the old man had finally persuaded Lefebvre that it would be best for him to come to the desert just long enough to meet with an outside investigator. To bring anyone into Las Piernas would only alert the killer, he said — Matt would use his connections to make sure Lefebvre told his story to someone they could trust, but Lefebvre must tell Seth’s story away from the department.

The moment he walked into Seth’s room, Lefebvre began to reconsider his plan to leave Las Piernas. Seth looked worse than he had in days — pale and tense, with dark circles under his eyes. Although his mother was with him, he did not hide his relief at seeing Lefebvre.

Tory Randolph immediately launched into an exhaustive list of grievances, most of them having to do with what she considered the premature breakup of the gathering the day before.

Lefebvre, watching Seth, suddenly said, “No, don’t—”

But he was too late — Seth angrily knocked a stack of books to the floor.

She rounded on Seth. “Why did you do that?” she asked angrily.

“It’s the only way he can interrupt you,” Lefebvre said, bending to pick up the books.

“I asked him!” she said.

Lefebvre stood. “Well, then — read his answer.”

She read the computer screen aloud. “‘You don’t listen to me. He does. He stays.’” She looked at her son, then began to cry. “Oh, Seth—”

Apparently accustomed to her tears, he ignored her.

“I’m thinking of going away for a few days,” Lefebvre said quietly.

Seth mouthed the word “no,” then in frustration, pointed to the screen.

Please don’t go. Not now.

Tory turned and walked to the far side of the room, saying nothing.

Again Seth pointed to the screen. He had typed one word:

Scared.

He erased it before his mother walked back to pick up her purse. She bent to kiss his cheek. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee. I’ll come back later.”

When she had left, Lefebvre sat quietly beside Seth. Seth tapped him on the hand and wrote: Sorry. Selfish of me. Ashamed.

“Don’t be. I’m scared, too.”

When will you be back?

“I don’t think I’ll go after all,” Lefebvre said. “Not just yet.”

Lefebvre decided to call Matt and tell him that he would wait until Monday to fly out there. By then, Seth would probably feel a little more at ease and the guard on his room would be heavier. Matt wouldn’t be happy, but he couldn’t disappoint Seth. He would at least take care of one of Matt’s requests — he would stop by the lab and take another look at the bloody shoes that had been found on the Cygnet. Matt wanted to know if the shoes looked new or worn.

“When your mother comes back, I’m going to go over to my office for a few minutes,” Lefebvre said. “But I won’t be gone long — I’ll hurry back, and I’ll stay here with you this evening.”

When he saw Seth’s look of relief, he said, “I’m sorry — I should have stayed with you last night, too.”

You can’t be here all the time.

“No, but I could have stayed here last night. Will you be okay until I get back?”

Yes.

But he seemed anxious. Lefebvre began talking to him about the Cessna and asked him if he thought he might like to learn to fly when he was feeling better. Seth said yes and began asking him questions about the requirements for a pilot’s license.

With his typical perceptiveness, Seth wrote: You miss flying. Haven’t done it because I’ve kept you grounded here with me.

“I do what I like,” Lefebvre said. “I stayed here because I like spending time with you — you know that’s true. I’ll get to fly again soon enough.”

Take me with you someday?

“As soon as you are well enough to leave here, you can be certain I’ll take you up.”

And Elena?

“Are you playing matchmaker again?”

Seth smiled at him.

“Yes, Elena, too. If I can convince her to come along.”

She’ll like it.

Tory returned then, her makeup repaired, her manner reserved. Lefebvre took his leave.

It was dark by the time he parked in the underground lot at department headquarters. He sat in the car for a moment, hesitant to go inside. The building had changed, he thought. Yesterday, it was a place where he felt completely at home. Today, it was an enemy’s lair.

“You are being foolish,” he told himself. “Almost everyone in there is your ally, not your enemy.”

But that, he knew, was also foolish.

He looked about him but saw no one. Still, by the time he reached the property room, his nerves were stretched taut.

The evidence technician smiled as she handed the sign-out sheet to him. He had just finished signing his name when he heard her say, “Back already?”

“Yes,” he said, trying for a smile — then paused when he saw his own name already on the sheet — supposedly signing for the Randolph case evidence at 6:01 P.M.

An excellent forgery of his signature.

The tech turned away from him to help an officer who was checking in evidence from a drug bust. With cold fingers, Lefebvre lifted the lid of the box. It was empty except for one item — a wristwatch.

He shut the lid and managed to say to the tech, “Not your usual night, is it?”

“No,” she said absently, still concentrating on the incoming evidence. “This is Bill’s shift, but he had to go home.” She glanced over at him. “He was probably looking kind of green around the gills when you saw him.”

Lefebvre didn’t answer.

“You’re not looking so great yourself,” she added. “Must be something going around.”

“Must be.” He walked away without taking the box.

“Hey!” she called. “Don’t you want—”

“Changed my mind,” he said, hurrying out of the building.

He held down the urge to race through traffic and drove back to the hospital at a sedate pace, not wanting to attract police attention to his car.

He tried to seem casual as he walked through the hospital lobby, cautiously looking around him, wondering how long it would be before a call was made to Internal Affairs saying he had stolen the evidence in the Randolph case.

The guard on Seth’s room was away from his post, talking to the nurses at the nurses’ station. When he saw Lefebvre, his eyes widened, and for a moment Lefebvre thought he might be placed under arrest by this incompetent jerk. But the guard merely took up his place at the door of the room, avoiding eye contact with Lefebvre.

Lefebvre was surprised to find the room almost completely in darkness — only the soft glow of Seth’s computer screen provided light. By it, he could see the boy’s sleeping face.

He sat next to the bed, holding his head in his hands. He thought of paging Elena, but if IAD learned of it, she would fall under suspicion, too. He might have only a few more minutes of freedom; he could not just sit here. Keep moving, he told himself.

“Seth?”

The young man didn’t stir.

“Seth?” he said, a little louder.

When there was still no response, he reached to gently waken him.

The boy’s skin felt cool beneath Lefebvre’s hand. No, not cool. Cold.

“Seth!” He felt for a pulse. Seth had none — his own was racing.

“No,” he murmured, disbelieving. “No…” Panicking, he looked for the call button — but suddenly remembered the forged signature, the stolen evidence.

What did that matter if Seth could be helped? he asked himself angrily. Nothing else mattered! He must get help, call a doctor—

But he knew he was too late. His experience with death was too thorough to allow him to believe that anything could be done for Seth. Still, he fumbled for the control button on the bed that turned on the lights and pressed it. In their stark brightness, his hope faltered. With a trembling hand, he raised the lids of Seth’s eyes. There was no pupil response to the light.

“Seth,” he said again, but now it was a sound of loss. He heard himself make a low, animal cry, and for a time was aware of nothing other than the boy lying still and cold and alone in the bed, and the crushing weight of his failure to protect him.

“Forgive me,” he said again and again. “Forgive me.”

He gradually became aware that he was weeping and grew angry with himself for it. Wiping his face, he forced himself to observe the room as a professional. The small harness device used to operate the computer had been removed from Seth’s arm. The call button for the nurse was on the floor beneath the bed. Near it, he found a pillow — he glanced at the other bed and saw that the pillow had been taken from it. The pillow had been torn near the center — perhaps bitten. He also saw bruising on Seth’s arms and marks near his nose and mouth.

He felt a white-hot anger burn through him, a desire for vengeance unlike any he had ever known before.

He heard voices in the hall. He hurriedly turned off the lights and moved to the closed door. The so-called guard was chatting with a nurse. “Need some help with that?” he heard the guard say to her. There was the scrape of the guard’s chair as he stood, the sound of his footsteps moving away.

Lefebvre quietly moved out of the room and out to the patio door. He used it to escape down the stairwell, just as the killer had escaped him the night before. Sickened that he had not caught him then, he made his way to the car.

He looked back toward the window of Seth’s room, saw it was still darkened, and with a sense of emptiness unlike any he had ever known, he drove away.

9

Friday, June 22, 8:45 P.M.

An Apartment Not Far from the Las Piernas Police Department

He stared at the pencil lead, placed it on the page, and then lifted it again. How to rate today’s performance?

At times, he had achieved nothing less than an eight. At others, he barely merited a one. Those hours, for example, when he had lost track of Lefebvre. Terrible, though hardly his fault.

He decided that he would need to patiently await the final outcome before giving himself a rating. Waiting patiently would add points; jumping to conclusions would lower his score.

He never doubted the importance and necessity of his work, but that did not mean that he was pleased with every aspect of it or even took joy in it. He was quite critical of himself. Knowing that his special calling would always be a lonely business, he not only had to keep his triumphs to himself, but there was no one with whom he could share his disappointments.

In truth, the entire Dane episode had been a disappointment. Had his plans succeeded as intended, a great deal of trouble would have been spared. God was indeed in the details — one small element out of place could ruin the most elaborate plans.

The watch. If the boy had fought instead of hiding on the yacht, he would have been dead long before he heard the watch. If he had not recognized the sound of the watch yesterday afternoon, he would have been allowed to live. And Lefebvre! Such a brilliant career, and it would end in shame. Because of a watch.

He shook his head and sighed deeply, genuinely sad about Lefebvre.

To console himself, he carefully turned to the first page of the notebook and began reading.

As always, it cheered him.

10

Friday, June 22, 9:36 P.M.

Above the San Bernardino Mountains

Lefebvre flew above the dense fog that blanketed the mountains on that moonless summer night. Solo in the Cessna, with a cloud carpet below, a canopy of starlight above — on another night he would have been calmed by the view, lulled by the droning of the engine. Not tonight.

Tonight he was distracted from the night sky by memories of Seth, lying cold and still in the hospital bed. He had thought himself accustomed to seeing the dead, until he had seen the body of the young man.

Not a young man, really. Not yet. Not ever.

The boy, he amended. The boy who had trusted him.

Against such thoughts, the drone of the plane’s engine became a drill, burrowing into his mind, looking for secrets. He needed to get away from talk and noise and pursuers.

The engine coughed and caught, coughed and caught — once, twice, three times. And then, with a horrifying suddenness, the drone was gone.

Without another cough or sputter or miss, the Cessna’s engine died.

At first, he was disbelieving. He was an experienced pilot. This couldn’t be happening to him. Not tonight. Not tonight of all nights.

He feathered the propeller to reduce drag on the plane, tried to restart the engine. Nothing. Tried switching fuel tanks. Nothing.

What was wrong?

Had he missed some problem in preflight? Tonight he had found some comfort in the rituals of preflight, rituals he performed religiously. But he could not deny that he had been upset, distracted. He kept seeing the boy, dead — kept wondering if the others had found the body yet and how much lead time he would have before they came looking for him. Wondering if Elena would be safe, would be wise enough to keep her distance from him.

Even in that anxious state, though, he had made sure he had enough fuel to reach his destination. He had topped off the Cessna’s tanks himself.

He checked the gauges — he still had plenty of fuel. Then what the hell was wrong?

He went through the Cessna’s checklist, item by item, fighting the urge to panic. Nothing worked.

He tried to restart again. No response.

Nothing made sense! Helplessly, he watched the altimeter fall.

No, he pleaded. No! Please, God, not now! Not now!

The plane was losing altitude, dropping into the clouds, the darkness below. He did not need lights to know what lay waiting for him.

Trees. Tall pines and unforgiving rocky canyons — mountain slopes.

Don’t come in fast, he told himself. He slowed the plane to a stall. The fog beaded into water on the windows, enveloped him in white silent darkness.

His mouth went dry. He knew a moment of nearly unbearable loneliness, then calm, as his thoughts returned to Elena and the boy.

The young man, he amended.

The left wing went first — wrenched off by a pine tree. Once again — though briefly — Lefebvre’s world filled with noise.