Flight

reason. Trying to discover what Harriman was up to, what line of investigation he was using, meant following him here. That alone had put some pressure on the Looking Glass Man to act hastily.

He smiled to himself now, acknowledging that over the years he had become adept at handling such pressure. He preferred to plan in advance and had any number of contingency plans ready and waiting. But if he had to think on his feet, he could do so.

The dome light in Harriman’s car went out, and the man heard the Volvo’s engine start. He was preparing to follow Harriman when his pager vibrated.

He shielded the pager’s light from view and read the number on it. It was not a phone number, but a code. After checking it against a list of similar codes in his electronic organizer, he broke out in a cold sweat.

Anxiety overtook him, his fears rising like a buzzing swarm of bees inside his head. He held his hands to his temples, lowered his face between his knees to keep from fainting. A neatly bundled stack of newspapers on the floor of the van — papers he had planned to take to the recycling center after work today — caught his eye. He calmed immediately.

Under other circumstances, he would have mentally enumerated the reasons he found pleasure in seeing the bundle: (1) the papers faced the same way, with the folds neatly aligned; (2) the lengths of twine that bound them were exactly the right length to hold them neatly without creasing them; (3) the papers were stacked in order of date of issue, oldest to newest, with the most recent on top, and within each day’s issues the sections were in the proper alphabetical order; (4) it represented his good intentions, because recycling was the socially and environmentally correct thing to do.

During that moment of high-pitched anxiety, though, this particular bundle brought him more than pride in good citizenship — it brought him inspiration. For the front page of last Saturday’s edition of the Las Piernas News Express carried a local news story that made him think of a place. He had already considered going there to further test a device he had recently made. It might hold the answer to his current problem.

He would have to act quickly.

Fortunately, not entirely without preparation.

9

Monday, July 10, 3:55 P.M.

Lake Terrace Condominiums

As he drove toward Lefebvre’s condo, Frank called several local television stations, asking if they had any footage of the press conference in Seth Randolph’s hospital room. None had much more than what he had seen in Bredloe’s office. Since no one actually went looking for tapes when he called, he thought he might be talking to the wrong people — getting the brush-off from production assistants who didn’t want to be bothered with his request.

He needed help from someone inside the business. He thought of a friend of Irene’s, Marcia Wolfe, a news editor at an L.A. station. He remembered that she used to work for Channel 6 in Las Piernas. He gave her a call.

“Try Polly Logan.”

Frank groaned. “I’ve been trying to avoid her.”

She laughed. “I know, she’s got more bad miles on her than a Baja road race, but she knows you’re married to Kelly, so she’ll leave you alone.”

“She has some history with Irene?”

“Yep, but I’m not even going to go there.”

“Okay, but why should I talk to Logan? She’s just a face, right?”

“And a very expensive face it is — and I’m not talking about what they pay her. Somewhere in Beverly Hills, a plastic surgeon thinks of her every time he starts up his Rolls. But aside from all that, if there’s anyone who has footage of Lefebvre, it’s going to be Polly. I know for a fact that she has a personal collection on the guy.”

“A personal collection on Lefebvre?”

“She had a major crush on him. Never took her camera off him if she could help it. I started out over at Channel Six, and believe me, I saw so much of that guy’s mug, we began sending crews out with her just so we could verify that more than one detective worked for the LPPD.”

He thanked her and called Logan.

“Yes, I can help you,” she said. “But what will you do for me in return?”

“You know I can’t discuss the case itself with you,” he said. “Lieutenant Carlson—”

“That pompous twit — never mind. I suppose you’d be in trouble if he knew you had called me about the tapes?”

“Probably.”

“Well, we’ll have to be discreet, then. This will take some time, and I’m about to leave on an assignment. How can I reach you later?”

He gave her his cell phone number.

“It might be late,” she warned. “How late can I call?”

“Anytime,” he said, envisioning Polly Logan thinking of his number as a personal hotline to the LPPD Homicide Division. Maybe he’d have to get a new cell phone.

The condo was in a large, gated complex, but Frank had no difficulty following another car through before the electronic gate rolled closed. He figured that “gated community” ran second only to “one size fits all” when it came to phrases that offered Americans a false sense of security.

He drove along the street that formed the outer circle of the complex, then made a series of turns that took him past a shallow, artificial lake with a fountain in the center. He passed an empty tennis court and then a fenced playground, where a half-dozen small children were playing on swings, a sandbox, and a slide under the watchful eye of young mothers. Not far from them, some slightly older children, perhaps fourth or fifth graders, were playing basketball.