Flight

“Frank—”

“Tell him you’re sorry you all had your minds made up about his dad, because his dad didn’t know how to be one of the boys. That you’re sorry you put your faith in a guy like Hitch instead of Lefebvre, because Hitch showed up for hockey games. Tell him that because of bullshit like that, you’re sorry his dad never had a chance to see what a ‘tough little kid’ he is.”

Vince and Pete looked away. Reed said quietly, “You’re right.”

“That’s no comfort to the kid, is it? Two nights ago he brings out one of his big treasures to show me. You know what it was, Vince? An answering machine tape. A goddamned answering machine tape. That’s the only way he could hear his own father’s voice. He’s nine, and he’s played it over and over — less than a dozen words. That’s what you left for the son of Phil Lefebvre.”

The room was silent.

“You give Lefebvre the cold shoulder, like the one I’ve been getting around here lately? What did he do to get cut out of the herd?”

“Look, I apologize for that, too,” Pete said. “But Phil — Frank, he was always a loner.”

“From birth? You never did anything to make the guy feel isolated, is that it?”

Pete opened his mouth to protest, closed it, and looked away.

“Yes, I read the files,” Frank said. “And you wonder why the guy didn’t trust you? Any of you?”

Pete turned red.

“Frank,” Vince said, “can’t we just put this all behind us?”

“What, Vince? Get together for breakfast, like old times?”

Frank strode out of the room.

Without conscious thought, really, of where he was going, he ended up at the lab. Once there, he decided to look for Haycroft. As the assistant director of the lab, Haycroft might have an idea as to Larson’s expertise and recent movements. The door to Haycroft’s office was closed, and Frank received no response when he knocked. He thought of the reprimand he had received from the toxicologist on the previous day, then tried the doorknob anyway. It was locked. Maybe the toxicologist had told everyone that he was going around stealing personal effects, such as photographs.

He looked through other areas of the lab, but didn’t see Haycroft. He noticed Larson’s door was open and peered in. There was a neat stack of papers in the center of the desk. The photograph was gone.

“Frank! What brings you here this morning?”

He turned to see Al Larson walking toward him. Smiling, although it faltered slightly at the sight of his black eye.

Frank forced a smile of his own and said, “What a surprise, right?”

Larson looked at him uncertainly. “What can I do for you?”

He was tempted to say, “You haven’t seen that note you left for me yesterday, by any chance, have you?” But he could see he had already made Larson wary — which wouldn’t help him build a solid case against the man. Or stay alive. “Actually,” he said, “I wanted to talk to Paul Haycroft.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Paul’s taking some time off. He won’t be in for a week.”

“Really? He didn’t mention anything about that when I saw him yesterday.”

“No, probably not. A death in the family. He called me at home late last night — he so seldom misses work, I couldn’t think of denying his request. Will this cause difficulties with any of your cases in progress? I’d be happy to give my personal attention to anything you need.”

I’m sure you would. “Thanks, but I’ll just wait until he returns.”

“Fine, then. Let me know if you change your mind.”

He had almost reached the door of the lab when Mary Michaels, the toxicologist, saw him. She winced at the bruises on his face.

He held up his hands and said, “I’m not taking anything with me this time, I promise.”

“Hmm,” she said, eyeing him. “Maybe I ought to pat you down, just to make sure.”

He looked away, embarrassed by the comment.

“Hell, no,” another voice said. “If you’re going to make offers like that, tell him you’ll strip-search him.”

He turned to see Vince.

“Jesus, Harriman,” Vince said, laughing. “You’re blushing.”

“Well,” she said to Vince, “nobody’s going to offer to strip-search you. You’ve already let every woman in the department see that you aren’t carrying a thing.”

“That’s not true,” Vince said. “I’ve never been naked with Louise Oswald.”

She made a face and walked away.

“We used to date,” he explained to Frank.

“Ah. That accounts for the rapport.”

Vince shrugged. “Yeah, that’s me. Mr. Smooth. You got a minute?”

Frank almost said no — it would have been easy to make up an excuse. He felt awkward, and angry still, and wished that Vince would have given him a little more time to cool off. But he wasn’t proud of losing his temper, and he didn’t want the tension between them to get worse. So he said, “Sure. Let’s move out of the doorway.”