The Wheeze was a tall, brittle woman in her mid-fifties, slender and conservatively dressed. She wore her (also re-dyed) ash-blond hair pulled back into a chignon. He supposed that if her mouth had been a little less wide, her eyes a little less hard, she might have been a handsome woman. Irene had met her once at an office party and said, “When none of you are watching, she goes into Bredloe’s office, tries on his hat, and sits in his chair.”
Looking up at her now, Frank thought she probably strapped on the captain’s gun while she was at it.
She was carrying a small stack of pink telephone message notes by the fingertips of both hands, as if she were parading a consecrated host through the squad room. She snapped them down on his desk without saying a word, turned on her heel, and headed back toward the captain’s office.
“Walks on water,” Pete muttered.
“Easy for her,” Frank said. “It freezes under her feet.”
Pete gave a muffled snort of laughter and grinned at him — then looked up to see Vince scowling at them. Pete said, “Oh, for God’s sake,” then stood up and walked out of the room.
Frank sorted through the slips. Most were calls from reporters — one television reporter, Polly Logan from Channel 6, had called eleven times. Frank knew the obnoxious woman and smiled to himself when he thought of the Wheeze doing battle with Logan. The smile faded when he came across a message from Yvette Nereault. She had called to say that Lefebvre’s funeral would be held on Wednesday morning.
He stood up and walked toward Bredloe’s office. As he approached, he could hear the murmur of voices through the captain’s half-open door.
“He can’t see you right now, Detective Harriman,” the Wheeze said.
“I’ll wait, then,” Frank said.
She started to object, but Bredloe’s deep voice called out, “Frank? Come in — you should see this.”
Frank entered the office and shut the door behind him to keep the Wheeze from eavesdropping. He discovered the captain was alone — the low voices were coming from a small television.
An aerial shot of the mountainside where the wreckage had been found was on the screen. There was little to be seen — it was basically a shot of the trees above the ravine. As the reporter’s helicopter hovered, he spoke of how difficult it would be for searchers to spot the Cessna.
The scene suddenly changed to a hospital room, and Frank was startled to realize that he was seeing Seth Randolph and Philip Lefebvre on one of the last days of their lives. The sound had been cut out, so he could not hear what Lefebvre was saying to someone else in the room. He was hovering near Seth, who looked pale and frightened. Over the brief shot, a news anchor’s voice said, “When asked if any evidence in connection with the murder of Seth Randolph was recovered at the scene of the crash, the Las Piernas Police Department refused to comment.”
“They’ve shown that same ten-second clip a dozen times,” Bredloe said, turning the set off. “Must be the only one they saved.”
He walked slowly toward the windows along one wall of the room. He was a tall man in his late fifties, about six foot eight, and built like a bull. Unlike Carlson, Bredloe had worked patrol in the toughest parts of the city before he made detective. While there had been times when Frank disagreed with Bredloe’s decisions, he had always respected him, not just because of his experience, but because he believed that Bredloe did all he could to make the department the best it could be.
After a moment of silently staring out over the city, he seemed to remember that Frank was in the office. “Have a seat,” he said, and returned to his own chair. “Lieutenant Carlson tells me you want to be taken off the Lefebvre case. If that’s true…?”
Frank hesitated briefly, thinking of Irene, then said, “No, sir.”
“No?”
“If you had asked me on Saturday night, when I spoke to Lieutenant Carlson, I would have told you I didn’t want it. But I’ve changed my mind.”
“Why?”
Because too many cops wanted me to join them for breakfast the next day, he thought. To Bredloe, he said, “I’m not sure you’d like my answer.”
“You know me better than that.”
“Yes — I apologize.”
Bredloe waited.
“Because of the possibility that Lefebvre looked guilty but wasn’t.”
Bredloe seemed ready to object, but apparently thought better of it. He stood and began to pace near the windows. He took three or four turns before he said, “You won’t find a lot of support for that theory in this department.”
“Believe me, sir, I know.”
With a small smile, Bredloe nodded toward the squad room. “It has been a quiet day out there.”
“I don’t imagine that was true any time I stepped out of the room.”
The smile broadened. “No, it did get a little noisier then.”
Frank said nothing.
“I have no doubt you can cope with a little friction. After all, you’ve dealt with that sort of heat before now. Selfishly, I depended on your ability to do so when it was decided that you should be the one to handle this investigation. That wasn’t the only consideration, or even the first consideration, but I won’t deny it was a factor.”
