there were no wear patterns noted.”
“May I see the photos?”
Frank showed him the photos of the shoes and of the bloody footprints on the
“Now I remember. The shoes were brand new. There was blood and little else on them. As far as we could tell, Trent had hosed down the decks of his yacht just before Dane arrived.”
“Any attempt made to find out if Dane had bought the shoes around here recently?”
“Yes, but we weren’t successful. That doesn’t mean anything — he could have had closets full of shoes he had never worn, bought them months earlier.”
Or, Frank thought, someone else bought a pair to match ones seen on Dane.
Frank again stood before the door of Larson’s office, telling himself that he had no real reason to feel so uneasy. He reached for the doorknob and turned it. As Haycroft had predicted, it was unlocked.
Gone for the day — not feeling well after lunch, Haycroft had said. And Hale had been down here asking about paper airplanes and talking about commissioners just before lunch.
Frank pushed the door open and stepped into the room. In the darkness, he could smell a faint odor of glass cleaner and furniture polish. He reached for the light switch.
In the sudden illumination, Larson’s desk, which was protected by a thick piece of glass, was the first thing to catch his eye. It held only two objects: a telephone and a framed photograph. The telephone was squared with the right-hand corner of the desk; the photograph, which was facing away from Frank, was at a forty-five-degree angle on the left. Although as an administrator Larson must have handled a tremendous amount of paperwork, there were no loose papers anywhere in the office. The wastebasket was empty.
Frank took another step inside.
The bookshelves were neat and dusted. Diplomas and other certificates hung perfectly aligned. Rolled up against another wall, a typewriter cart with wheels held a laptop computer. Frank could see that locks on the file drawers were pushed in, in the locked position.
Frank put his hands in his pockets, conscious of a desire not to leave any personal mark on this blank setting. He walked farther into the room, around the desk, so that he stood behind the large chair. He could see his own reflection in the desktop.
No note. Maybe Larson had sent it upstairs after all.
He was about to leave, but the photo on the desk caught his interest. A young boy, perhaps three years old, holding a tabby cat.
He hadn’t known that Larson had a son. He was a little surprised that the boy was so young. He vaguely recalled hearing that the lab director had been divorced for a dozen years or so. Didn’t he have a more current photograph of his child? Frank picked up the photo and studied it. A boy with a cat. Had the cat in this picture lived with Al Larson ten years ago?
“You lost?”
He jumped guiltily at the sound of the voice. He looked up to see the toxicologist watching him speculatively.
“I was told Dr. Larson left a note for me.”
She walked over to him, disbelief written all over her face. He saw her ID badge then — Mary Michaels. She held out her hand, palm up, and he realized he was still holding the photo. He handed it to her, then felt absurd for doing so.
She glanced around, and he thought she was looking to see if all the degrees were still on the wall.
“Look, Paul Haycroft—”
“Oh, Paul Haycroft comes in here all the time when Dr. Larson isn’t around. Just because he’s been in here doesn’t mean—”
“No, of course not,” he said quickly. “I don’t suppose that you’ll believe me if I tell you that I objected when he suggested it?”
She softened a little. “I’m sure he couldn’t resist having you see how neat and clean it is.”
“Exactly. And like I said, there was this note…”
“They are the weirdest pair of guys, if you ask me,” she said, interrupting. “And they have been working together
She was still holding the picture. Seeing the direction of his glance, she said, “I’ll put it back for you — unless you’d like me to give you a tour of Haycroft’s office while you’re snooping around?”
“For God’s sake, I was not snooping around.” Not really, he added silently.
She clearly didn’t buy it.
They heard another voice say, “Mary, surely you don’t suspect Detective Harriman of burgling the office of the lab director in the middle of the day?”
To Frank’s relief, Haycroft stood in the doorway.
The toxicologist shook her head, then said, “If you really don’t think Dr. Larson would mind — you know him better than I do. I’ve got to get back to work.” She started to walk out, realized she still held the photo, and quickly handed it to Haycroft as she left.
“Thanks for the rescue,” Frank said.
“No problem,” Haycroft said absently, studying the photo before placing it back on the desk.
