He looked up to see Mrs. Greenleaf, exchanging his cold cup of coffee for a fresh, hot one.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I startled you.”
“I was daydreaming, that’s all,” he said, and thanked her before she went back to the kitchen.
He glanced around. The cafe was still empty, but that would change soon. He had taken a few precautions at work, but needed to stop by a drugstore before going back there — there were a few inexpensive but necessary purchases to make. His other errands would need to wait until this afternoon. He was an efficient man and knew he could manage everything before him, but still… He looked across the street again at the police department. With so many errands, he wouldn’t be able to spend as many hours inside that beloved building as he’d like. Very little time remained for him there.
He took out his wallet, in which all the bills were facing the same way, smallest denomination to largest, and left a large tip. Just before he refolded the wallet and put it away, he allowed himself a brief glance at the single photograph within it.
He felt the same surge of grief and hopeless longing that he felt every time he saw it.
Yes, he must do something about Mr. Dane.
The idea of killing Harriman troubled him less and less. Harriman deserved some sort of punishment for not listening to his superiors. Hadn’t everyone in the department told him what must be done? But had he listened? No. Just like Lefebvre and Trent Randolph — if they had only left well enough alone! To have his work disrupted by meddlers who never would be able to grasp the importance of it — who would never see that the criminal justice system was damaged beyond repair, that he was fighting the evil that men like Judge Lewis Kerr set loose upon the innocent — no, that sort of interference was not to be borne!
As these thoughts occurred to him, he felt a little hum within his bones, a little heat within his blood. He looked at his reflection to see if he looked different to himself. He did — he really did! He knew what it was now, this heat and hum, and how to handle it. It was a mixture of fear and anger. Just a little of each. This time, he knew how to mix it up right. Yesterday he had let the fear dominate. Today it would be anger.
He put the wallet back in his pocket and stood. Although he knew the restroom in the Greenleaf Cafe was as clean as it was possible for a public restroom to be, he decided to wash his hands at work, where he could use the brand of soap he preferred, and his own towels and hand lotion.
36
Thursday, July 13, 12:18 P.M.
Office of Michael Pickens
Commissioner Michael Pickens agreed to talk to him, but warned that he could spare only a few minutes. Pickens owned a large chain of tire stores and managed them from a building not far from the department.
Frank rode the elevator up to a suite of plush executive offices. The door to Pickens’s office was closed, but even through it, Frank could hear him haranguing someone. His secretary, who had timidly asked Frank to wait, cast a worried look at the door, then resolutely returned to her paperwork.
“One of his good days?” Frank asked.
She glanced up nervously.
“So they’re all this good, right?” he said. “Or does he ever take a vacation?”
“Never,” she said sadly.
“If you tell me he also enjoys perfect health, I’m going to really feel sorry for you.”
“Never sick a day in his life,” she said, but smiled.
“How inconsiderate can a man be?” he asked, and she laughed.
The door opened and a red-faced employee strode past them, eyes downcast.
Pickens stood in his office doorway, watching him go. He held a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Mr. Pickens,” the secretary began, “this is—”
“Betty, let me show you something,” he said. The large man marched over to her desk and began berating her — he disliked the angle at which she had placed the staple in the corner of several reports. “That’s not the way to do it!” he said again and again, not sparing her anything on account of an audience.
When he finally acknowledged Frank’s presence, it was to say, “I suppose I’ll have to talk to you now.” He turned on his heel and marched toward his office. As Frank passed Betty’s desk, he surprised her by picking up her staple remover. He rapidly worked it like a set of maniacal teeth, chasing after Pickens’s back end.
Pickens turned at the sound, but Frank, looking all innocence, quickly palmed the device. He returned it to her desk only after Pickens resumed his angry strides toward his office. She smiled up at Frank as he left to follow her boss.
“So you’re interested in Randolph,” Pickens said, taking a chair behind an oversize desk. “A little late, aren’t you?”
Realizing that waiting for an invitation would be futile, Frank found a chair and sat opposite him. “The case is old,” Frank agreed, “but that doesn’t mean we should forget about it.”
“I have. Hardly remember the man.”
“Word is, the two of you didn’t get along very well.”
“No, that’s untrue. We disagreed over the matter of the lab, but that wasn’t anything personal. He wasn’t a man I admired. He didn’t understand how to finesse things. Just rolled right over everybody. If he thought there was a problem with something, he’d write himself a report, issue it to half the planet. He rolled along through your department like a bazooka-proof tank division. He had something to say about everything, and nothing could stop him.” He laughed, then added, “Well, now, I guess Whitey Dane stopped him.”
When Frank didn’t join in his laughter, Pickens fell silent.
