at a place near the airport. A little restaurant called the Prop Room.”
“The Prop Room?” Frank asked, remembering the receipt among Lefebvre’s effects. He knew of the place and had seen it mentioned in the files on Lefebvre, but he had never been there himself.
“Yes,” Nereault was saying. “And if she acts upset, you have to tell her you threatened me with torture before I would say a word. And you better bring your hockey defenseman friend with you. She likes speaking this language even less than I do.”
“Want to have an early lunch near the airport?” Frank asked Guy when Nereault had hung up.
“Actually, I’m very curious about this place. A friend tells me it’s the only place in town where one can find genuine French-Canadian cuisine.”
During the drive to the restaurant, Frank said, “After he spoke to me in English, he spoke to you in French again.”
“He asked if I thought you were an honest man. I told him yes. He said that Las Piernas is not healthy for honest policemen, and that if I am really your friend, I would encourage you to go into another line of work, so that you could live to see your children.”
“Very dramatic, but not an accurate picture of the Las Piernas Police Department.”
“You’re right, of course. But perhaps from his perspective—”
“Yes, I understand that. I can’t blame him for being down on the department. But saying Lefebvre was framed is one thing — saying he was murdered is another.”
“Yes, it is something else entirely,” Guy said, and seemed lost in thought.
A large woman stood near the door, clutching a handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes as they approached, then said, “You are from the police?”
“I am, yes,” Frank said, and started to pull out his badge. But she had already turned her back on them and motioned to them to follow her through the restaurant. Although it was just after eleven, the place was already starting to fill up. She seated them at a relatively quiet booth near the back. “Yvette said to ask you to have your lunch. She will sit with you a little later.”
Guy ordered a hearty stew and ate it with gusto. Frank ordered a sandwich, but as he looked around at the aircraft paraphernalia decorating the walls, he thought of the wreckage in the mountains, of Lefebvre spending one of his last evenings here, and lost his appetite.
“I would think,” Guy said, observing this, “that by now a dead man wouldn’t stop you from eating.”
“Most don’t,” Frank admitted.
“But this one is different?”
Frank traced his right thumb over the knuckles of his left hand. “Yes, I suppose so. Every now and then a case bothers me more than others. Maybe this one bothers me because Lefebvre was in the same line of work.”
His pager went off. He saw that it was Ben Sheridan’s number. He excused himself from the table and went outside to return the call.
“My search group is going up to the mountains again next weekend,” Ben said. “We’re going to take the dogs to the crash site.”
“Didn’t the coroner’s office call you? The identification is in. They got it from the dental.”
“I know, I was there. I spent the morning going over the remains with the coroner. The trauma from the crash caused Lefebvre’s death, but the NTSB will have to tell you what caused the crash.”
“So why are you going up there?”
“Two reasons. First, it’s a good training opportunity for the dogs. And the other — a hunch. I suspect scavengers carried off some of the smaller bones and anything else that was small and loose and of interest to them. And almost anything that can be carried off is of interest to a wood rat. So if there’s a wood rat’s nest nearby, who knows what we might find in it? Maybe there will be a key to a safe-deposit box built into it.”
Frank smiled to himself, imagining Carlson’s face if he told him Lefebvre’s accomplice was a wood rat. “Call me if you find anything, but as you know, I have my doubts about this payoff story. It may be nothing more than a rumor.” He was about to hang up, when he thought of the chilly atmosphere in the squad room and said, “You don’t have anybody from LPPD in your group, do you?”
“No, not at the moment. Why?”
“Do me a favor. If anyone asks — especially Cliff Garrett — you’re just looking for bones, okay? I’d rather not start a treasure hunt up there.”
“Sure. I’m with you — no need to have dozens of people digging up the wilderness.”
When he walked back into the restaurant, a woman was sitting in his place across from Guy. Yvette Lefebvre Nereault was tall and slender, and looked to be in her late forties. Although her features were nowhere near as plain as her late brother’s, Frank could see the family resemblance. Especially in her dark, intense eyes, which were, at the moment, red-rimmed and puffy from crying. Still, she regarded him steadily as he approached, and he began to wonder if Lefebvre had looked at suspects in that same way. If so, it was not difficult to see why Phil Lefebvre had had success in getting confessions.
Guy introduced them to each other, and when she didn’t budge, scooted over so that Frank could share his side of the booth.
“So my husband the bag of wind told you exactly where to find me, eh?”
“I appreciated his help.”
She gave a harsh bark of laughter. “I’m sure you did.”
“Did he tell you why I was trying to reach you?”
She looked away for a moment, her lower lip trembling. She drew a steadying breath. “He said you found my brother.”
“Yes.”
