Frank watched as Carlson struggled to control his temper. After a moment, Carlson said, “Even if you had been in Las Piernas, you’re the one I would have sent up to the mountains precisely because you are one of the only detectives in Homicide who has been with this department less than ten years. I needed at least one person who would be able to approach that wreckage without a lot of preconceived notions about the pilot of that plane.”
“This is ridiculous. The other detectives in this department can be trusted to be professional.”
“Where Lefebvre is concerned, no. Not anyone who was around here then. Lefebvre’s name is universally despised in this department — and the sooner you understand that, the sooner you’ll see why you must be the one to take the case. None of the others could have viewed the scene objectively — including Pete Baird.”
“With or without Pete, I deserved to know what I was walking into.”
Carlson shifted in his chair, making sure he had a firm grip on the desk before doing so. “Yes,” he said, “in retrospect, I concede that’s true. At the time — perhaps I allowed my own dislike of Lefebvre to influence my response to the situation.” He sighed. “To tell you the truth, I would have been happy if Lefebvre stayed missing. Now this will all be raked up again.” A sudden suspicion came to him. “You haven’t discussed this with your damned wife, have you?”
Frank leaned forward just slightly. Carlson leaned back. He kept his grip on the desk.
“I don’t think I could have possibly heard you correctly.”
Carlson looked down at his desk again. “I want to reiterate that this is not to be discussed with the press.”
“Who around here has ever leaked anything to the press?”
Carlson colored. Not so long ago, he had received a formal reprimand for discussing a sensitive investigation with the
Carlson cleared his throat. “I’m only saying that I dread what this department will inevitably be put through as a result of reopening old wounds. I gather you understand my concerns?”
“I’ve got a few of my own. Once everybody up there realized I didn’t know jack shit about my own case, they didn’t have much to say. What little I heard from them doesn’t make sense, and now—”
“The basics are simple. We believe Lefebvre stole evidence and killed a teenager who was a witness in a capital case. Word on the street was that he was paid handsomely to ruin the case — half a million dollars.”
“Half a million, huh? Nice to have an official figure.”
“You found it?” Carlson said eagerly.
“Only if he spent all but forty-three bucks of it gassing up the plane.”
Carlson looked ludicrously crestfallen. “What do you mean?”
“I mean either Lefebvre stashed it somewhere, had a confederate, or never had it in the first place. From what I saw today, I’d say he never had it.”
“Perhaps it was stolen from the plane—”
“Doesn’t seem likely.” Frank described the scene.
Carlson sat brooding. He began making a low, tuneless humming noise, a sound he made whenever he was inwardly debating something. He was unaware that his coworkers referred to this as “Carlson’s thinking noise.” The office joke was that it would have driven everyone crazy if he’d made it more often.
“Cliff Garrett said that Lefebvre was a department hotshot,” Frank said by way of interrupting the humming.
“He was a fine detective,” Carlson agreed. “One of the best.”
“A friend of yours?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I was in uniform then. Not very likely I’d be fraternizing with a detective.” He shifted in his chair — undoubtedly he had suddenly recalled that Frank often socialized with uniformed officers.
Harriman was silent, studying him. Carlson had never spent much time on the street, and Frank suspected he hadn’t been very useful during the time he was in uniform. Hell, he wasn’t very useful now. “So you didn’t know him at all?”
“He was a loner,” Carlson said, shrugging. “Afterward, we realized how much he had really held himself apart from others in the department.”
“So he had enemies — even before the kid’s death?”
“Not really. He was someone we were proud of,” Carlson said. “If you want to know why, take a look at his record.” He smiled smugly. “In fact, your wife seemed to be rather fond of him.”
“Is there something you’d like to come right out and say?”
“No, not at all,” Carlson said, quickly losing the smile. “She was a crime reporter then, and naturally she wrote about him. A lot. I’m sure she was devastated when you told her he was dead.”
“I haven’t told her.”
“I suppose Louise conveyed my level of concern about the sensitive—”
“Setting aside your dire warnings about discussing the case, I haven’t had the chance to talk to Irene today. She’s up in Sacramento, covering a political story. She won’t be home until tomorrow. But you were talking about Lefebvre — at least, I think that’s who you were talking about.”
Carlson went back to making his thinking noise, then abruptly said, “You don’t believe Lefebvre ever had the money. Why not?”
