“No.”
“Has he ever failed to richly compensate you for the risks you took on his behalf?”
“No.”
“Then you will not hesitate to be of service to him in this small matter, will you?”
“No,” Hitch said miserably.
“Do you begin to see that if certain parties were made aware of the extent to which you have helped Mr. Dane and shown readily available documentation regarding the rewards you have received in his service, you would soon find yourself in prison?”
“Yes,” Hitch whispered.
Myles paused, then said, “And do you see that it would be extremely unwise to fail him, or to return his generosity with double-dealing, or to in any way disappoint him?”
“Yes,” Hitch said, tears rolling down his face.
“Then please pay the strictest attention to the instructions I am about to give you.”
As Myles spoke, Dane reached over to Tessa, moving his long white fingers along the inside of her thigh. She sighed in pleasure and moved closer to him, reaching for his belt buckle.
Hitch noticed none of this, and later, when the sounds they were making intruded on his concentration, he forced himself to keep his eyes on Myles Volmer, so that when the limousine stopped and he was left standing at the side of the road, near the open door of his own car, he had an imperfect idea of what had taken place between Whitey Dane and Tessa Satel, but a perfectly clear understanding of what he must do that evening.
38
Thursday, July 13, 4:10 P.M.
Las Piernas Police Department Crime Lab
After talking to Soury, Frank had spent an hour or so looking over Lefebvre’s notes. The Wheeze stopped by his desk and gave him a note saying that Larson wanted to talk to him, but when he called the lab, he just got Larson’s voice mail.
He went downstairs to see if he could find him. He took a quick look around, but didn’t see the lab director. He walked by Larson’s office, but the door was closed. Frank knocked, but didn’t get an answer. Frank wasn’t surprised — he seldom saw Larson in his office. Larson spent most of his time at meetings or in the lab itself.
He decided to talk to Koza, the questioned documents examiner. Koza told him that the business card found on Lefebvre was Elena Rosario’s, but that an address and phone number had been handwritten on the back. Frank had the Randolph case files with him and thumbed through one of the folders until he found an old interview with Elena. Elena’s old home address and number matched those on the business card. Another dead end.
He stopped by the lab director’s office again.
“Looking for Dr. Larson?”
He turned to see the toxicologist standing at the end of the hall. She was fairly new here, had only worked for the lab for about six months. He couldn’t recall her name, and he was too far away from her to read it off her ID badge.
“Sorry,” she was saying, “Al went home sick. One too many mocha lattes, you ask me. Paul Haycroft asked me to send anyone who was looking for Al to talk to him.”
Frank still wanted to take a more careful look through the folders Professor Wilkes had given him, and that would take plenty of time. But at the toxicologist’s suggestion, he decided to talk to Haycroft again as long as he was down here — he had more questions about the
“Frank!” Haycroft said when he looked up from the fingerprint computer system. Frank saw that he was using the lab’s new digital imaging software to enhance an image of a partial fingerprint. “The big man himself was down here just before lunch, talking about you.”
“Hale?”
“Yes. Asking about paper airplanes. Seems you gave him something to think about.”
“Thinking about asking me to resign, you mean.”
“No, I doubt that. Did you get Al’s note?”
“Al’s note?”
“He left early — some sort of digestive problem. But he said if you came by, to make sure you got the note he left for you on his desk. I guess he wanted to talk to you earlier, but the chief said you were visiting commissioners this afternoon.”
Mentally cussing out the “big man himself” for blabbing that to Haycroft and Larson, Frank said, “I’m trying to talk to anyone who knew Trent Randolph. While I’m here with you — mind if I ask you about the Randolph cases?”
“Not at all.”
He was distracted by watching Haycroft clean the screen on the computer monitor.
“No wonder you think Pete’s a slob,” Frank said.
“Helps to see the image better,” he said, then smiled. “I’m not just being anal-retentive.”
“Don’t get me wrong — I’m not saying orderliness is a bad thing. I suppose it’s especially important down here.”
Haycroft shrugged. “I’ve seen cluttered crime labs. Larson wouldn’t stand for it here, though, and I think he’s right. Why give a defense attorney — or the D.A., for that matter — an opportunity to say you were careless or contaminated the evidence?”
