Flight

“Well, then, perhaps the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and every other law enforcement group between here and Hong Kong can sleep better tonight. Their enemy is dead after all.”

Frank said nothing. She stared hard at him, then said, “So, is it true? My husband said you believe in Philippe’s innocence.”

“I told him I am not sure of his guilt.”

“Not quite the same thing, but at least you are honest with me about it.”

She spoke to Guy in French for a moment, then said to Frank, “He tells me your wife knew my brother. What is her name?”

“Irene Kelly.”

“Irene Kelly,” she repeated slowly. A small smile of private amusement briefly crossed her face. “I know this name. In fact, at one time…” Her voice trailed off, and the look of amusement was gone. “It’s nothing.”

“Did he mention her to you?”

But Yvette’s attention strayed to the large woman who had met them at the door. The woman walked up to the table, and Yvette introduced her as an old friend, Marie, and indicated that she should sit down beside her. “Ten years ago Marie was a waitress here. Today she owns this place.”

“The food was excellent,” Guy said. “I haven’t eaten so well since I was last in Montreal.” Seeing her look between Frank and his nearly untouched sandwich, he said something quickly in French. It caused both Marie and Yvette to look at Frank with expressions of disbelief.

“C’est vrai,” Guy said.

“What did you tell them?” Frank asked warily.

“That my brother’s ghost troubles you and has taken your appetite,” Yvette said.

Frank felt his headache returning.

“Holy God, it’s so!” Marie said, turning white. “This table — this is the very one where he sat with her, that last night.”

“With her?” Frank asked even as Yvette shot her friend a quelling look. “Who was here with him?”

Marie said nothing.

“Who?” he asked again.

Marie crossed her arms. She looked away.

“If he didn’t kill Seth Randolph,” Frank said, “let me help you clear his name. We already know he ate here the night before he died. I read the file — the owner of the restaurant was questioned, and so were the staff. Everyone said that Lefebvre ate here often, and was probably here that night, but no one could recall anything remarkable about it.”

Marie glanced at Yvette, then said, “I was mistaken. He was here alone.”

“If you know something—”

“I don’t.”

“All right — perhaps he was here earlier in the week with someone else,” Frank said, not believing for a moment that Lefebvre had dined alone on that last night. “What did this woman look like?”

“There is no time for this,” Yvette interrupted. “I am only here a few more days. Will I be allowed to arrange for a funeral for my brother? Or will you make me wait another decade to bury him?”

Frank gave her the information she would need to contact the coroner. “If you would like me to take you there—”

“No… no, thank you,” she said.

“Where can I reach you while you are here?”

“Marie can always reach me.”

He waited. She returned his stare, then slowly she began to smile.

“You know, Philippe used to be the only one who could get me to say what I did not want to say to him.” She hesitated. “Do you have a good memory?”

He nodded.

“If I give you a phone number—”

“Yvette!” Marie warned.

“If I give you a phone number, you must promise not to write it down. Not anywhere. I would not want the people I am staying with to be bothered — or worse — by the Las Piernas Police Department.”

“All right.”

She gave him a local number.

He gave her his card. “My pager number is on there. Please let me know if I can be of help. And please let me know when and where the services will be held.”

“So that he can be buried with full police honors?” she asked bitterly. “I should take him back to Quebec. He never should have left.”

“Why did he live here, so far away from the rest of the family?” Frank asked.