Flight

“Have you met his boy?”

Haycroft looked up. “Don’t you know? Kit’s been dead for many years.”

“Kit?”

“Christopher.” He turned the photograph toward Frank. “Kit for short.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“He was killed in a bank robbery.”

“He worked in a bank?”

“Oh, no,” he said sadly. “He was only four years old when he died. His mother, his stepfather, a stepsister, and Kit. A long time ago now, before you were in the department. A parent never gets over such a thing, of course — you’ve seen that in your own work, I’m sure.”

“The cases involving children are always the hardest to take. And you’re right, the parents never really get over it.”

“This affected all of us. Still does. Because the case hit so close to home, that photo of Kit has become — oh, I guess you could say it reminds us that this isn’t just lab work — reminds us that what we do is important to the families. Does that make sense to you?”

“Perfect sense. Listen — there was no note in here.”

“I’ll be darned. I wonder what the heck he did with it? I’m sorry, Frank, I could swear it was in here.” Haycroft frowned, pulled the chair back, and looked beneath the desk. “Here it is. Must have fallen.” He bent and picked up a white envelope. Frank’s name was neatly printed on it.

Frank thanked him and pocketed the envelope without opening it.

On his way out of the lab, he saw Mary Michaels again. He had the feeling the toxicologist had been watching for him.

“Detective Harriman—”

“Frank.”

“Look, I’m sorry about how I acted back there.”

“Don’t be. You had every right to ask me what I was doing.”

She hesitated, then said, “He talked to you about Kit?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t been with the department very long, so I don’t know the whole story, but I guess it was big news around here ten or twelve years ago, because it had something to do with another cop or detective, too.”

“Involved in the robbery?”

“No — maybe someone else was killed in the robbery? Some guy’s wife?”

“I wasn’t with the department then, either,” he said, although now he had a feeling that he had heard something about this robbery, and not so very long ago. What was it?

He wondered, as he climbed the stairs toward the homicide room, if he was going to be able to manage finding Lefebvre’s killer without a damned history book.

Unfortunately, except for a PR publication or two, there was no department history book for the LPPD, which was what he’d need. The local newspaper, whose reporters didn’t always seem to grasp the full story, was as close as anyone could come.

The elusive memory suddenly returned to him. It wasn’t something someone told him recently — it was something he had been thinking about himself, here on this stairway. He paused halfway up, then raced to his desk, hoping to catch Irene before she left the Express for the day.

He read Larson’s note while he waited for Irene to call him back. After all he had been through to receive it, the note wasn’t all that exciting. On a single sheet of his letterhead, in neat block letters, he had written:

IMPORTANT THAT I TALK TO YOU REGARDING THE RANDOLPH CASES. NOT FEELING WELL TODAY, BUT HOPE WE WILL BE ABLE TO MEET TOMORROW AFTERNOON.

The phone rang. Frank set the note aside and answered the call.

“Frank? It’s Irene. I found something. I’ll fax it over.”

“Thanks — you’re amazing. I know I didn’t give you much to go on—”

“I’ll figure out some way for you to repay me.”

He smiled. “Can’t wait.”

He stood by the fax machine, retrieving each page as it emerged, anxiously reading over one as the next printed. It had taken Irene less time than he thought it would to locate the article. He had only been able to supply a vague description of what he needed. He had asked her to look for a story about the bank robbery in which Vince Adams’s ex-wife had participated. He wasn’t sure what name the ex-wife had used then — was she still calling herself Lisa Adams after they split up? He didn’t know the date of the robbery, wasn’t even positive about what year it took place. He thought it was about a dozen years ago, but that might be wrong.

There was also a possibility that Mary Michaels was talking about some other bank robbery. But the toxicologist had said the robbery was big news, and most weren’t, especially not ten or so years ago. They were so frequent in the area then, at one point the L.A. office of the FBI had the slogan “Bank Robbery Capital of the United States” printed on its letterhead. Still, a robbery that ended in the killing of a family of four would make news. It would be even bigger news in the department if an officer’s ex-wife was involved.

Now, as he read the newspaper story, he was certain it was the same robbery. The article mentioned that a young boy named Christopher had been killed, but his last name wasn’t given as Larson in the story — all the last names were given as Dillon, the stepfather’s name. The fifth victim was a security guard. The five photographs didn’t reproduce very well over the fax, but he could see enough of the boy’s photo to tell that it was the same child as the boy in the portrait on Larson’s desk.

The article barely mentioned the victims, focusing instead on Lisa Adams — Vince’s ex-wife — and Carl Sudas,