A small table and two chairs were nearby. They moved a few steps closer, but neither man sat down.
“Upstairs,” Vince began, “you said something that’s been eating at me. About Phil. You really think he didn’t trust us? I mean — the guy seldom worked with partners, but I just figured he always thought he was better than us. Shit, he
Frank hesitated, then said, “I don’t think it was a personal thing, Vince.”
“What the hell are you talking about? How can that
“I’m saying he didn’t know who in the department could be trusted, who couldn’t. It wasn’t a matter of mistrusting any one individual.”
Vince was clearly unsatisfied with this answer, but seemed unwilling to start a new argument with Frank. He indicated the lab door and asked, “You coming or going?”
“Going. I was trying to see Haycroft, but he’s on funeral leave.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry to hear that. That poor guy can’t have much family left.”
“What do you mean?”
Vince looked extremely uncomfortable. “You know — you read about the robbery.” Seeing Frank’s blank look, he added in a low voice, “The fax Irene sent you from the newspaper.”
“That was Larson’s son,” Frank said, bewildered.
“The hell it was. You think I don’t know who died in that robbery?” He sighed and shook his head. “Let me tell you something, Frank. Not a day goes by I don’t think about that family — every single one of those five people who were killed — and wonder if somehow — maybe if I’d been more patient with Lisa or forced her to get help…” He swallowed hard. “But I gave up on her, and look what happened. I let her go her own way after the divorce, and she gets mixed up with one of Dane’s bunch, and that prick Sudas kills the security guard, Haycroft’s ex-wife, Haycroft’s son, the ex’s new husband — Dillon — and Dillon’s little girl from his first marriage. And Lisa — I know Lisa, and I know she didn’t know what was going to happen, not really — and God knows fucking Sudas might as well have shot her, too, because in her head, that’s the last day that ever was. I know that as sure as I’m sitting here. I haven’t been able to look Haycroft in the eye ever since. He’s never said a word to me about it or blamed me in any way, but I sure as hell know that boy was his.”
Frank sat down. “My God.”
“Hey,” Vince said, “you feeling okay? You look a little pale.”
Frank leaned his elbows on the table and cradled his forehead in his palms. “My God…”
“Frank? Maybe you should have taken the day off. You’re looking like hell.”
“No — no, it’s not that, it’s just that — Haycroft — Jesus, Kit was Haycroft’s boy?”
“How many times I gotta tell you? Yes. Kit Haycroft. That’s why I feel sorry for the guy now—”
“Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for him,” Frank said. “When I think of those photographs of Amanda Randolph… and all the others! Christ, what a bastard!”
Vince narrowed his eyes. “You aren’t making a hell of a lot of sense.”
“Listen, you were asking about Lefebvre not trusting anyone. He was trying to figure something out — a day or so before he was murdered—”
It hit him, then. Just like Lefebvre, he had been working alone, not trusting anyone. He didn’t really blame Lefebvre — things had happened too quickly for him to figure out whom he could trust. Lefebvre didn’t have much more than a day to work out what might be going on with the case.
And now, ten years later, things were happening quickly again. If Haycroft’s arson attempt had succeeded in destroying the condo and everyone in it, who would have known where to look for Frank’s own killer? Or if one of the car bombs had done its work? In either case, Dane would have doubtless been blamed.
Over the past few days, Hale had heard Frank’s theories, but Hale was an administrator. He’d never get involved in a case the way these guys would. At the end of the day, Hale was what any other chief of police was — a politician. A politician who would always be thinking about the department’s image.
Frank looked at Vince, who was waiting for him to explain. He decided he wasn’t going to play it Lefebvre’s way.
“I’m talking about the fact that Phil Lefebvre was killed by someone in this department.”
Vince looked at him in utter bewilderment, as if Frank had suddenly spoken in a foreign language. “What?”
Frank looked over his shoulder — this part of the lab was still empty, but he felt ill at ease being anywhere near Haycroft’s territory. “Let’s go upstairs. I need to talk to you and Reed and Pete about this.”
Looking at their faces, seeing the mixture of disbelief and confusion and anger there, Frank thought that if he had taken the bombs that were in his car a few hours earlier and set them off in the middle of the squad room, the effect wouldn’t have been any less devastating.
They listened patiently while he outlined what he had learned as well as his theories. They had questions, but he could see that as each minute passed, they became more convinced. If he had given them the same information the day before, they would have accused him of going to wild lengths to clear Lefebvre’s name. But the events of the night before had changed everything.
At one point the Wheeze came by, and Frank asked her who had told her Larson wanted to speak to him the previous day.
“Paul Haycroft,” she said. “I’m sorry, I guess Dr. Larson had gone home by the time I gave you the message.”
“Haycroft must have put his son’s picture on Larson’s desk,” Frank said when she had left. “And then he made sure I went into Larson’s office when Larson wasn’t there. I walked into a staged scene.”
