He disconnected, then removed the device that had altered his voice from the mouthpiece. He placed it in a plastic bag so that it would not contaminate his clothing with bacteria from the phone. He took out a small packet containing a disinfectant hand cleaner and used it to wipe his hands. He noticed that the shiny plated surface surrounding the phone’s keypad reflected his image, and could not resist wiping a small portion of it so that he could better see himself. He lowered the sunglasses and marveled at his changed appearance.
Reluctantly, he turned away and walked back to his van.
11
Monday, July 10, 6:20 P.M.
Las Piernas Beach
When it came to self-control, Irene thought irritably, Frank Harriman was a damned black belt. Usually, this wasn’t much of a problem between them — she was well aware that she held the record for getting him to lose his temper, and vice versa — although she would have readily admitted to having a much shorter fuse. Once, when they had snapped at each other in front of his mother, Bea Harriman had said disapprovingly, “You should have known what you were getting into when you married an Irishwoman, Frank.”
He had smiled at Irene in a way that had made her suddenly blush from head to toe and said softly, “Oh, I knew.” They had said quick good-byes to his mother, left the house, and less than an hour into the drive home, rented a motel room.
Now, as they ran together along the beach, she grinned as she recalled that evening, but when she glanced over at Frank, he seemed lost in his own thoughts — and they didn’t seem to be happy ones.
Throughout dinner, he had been tense, alternating between seeming ready to talk to her about something and not meeting her eyes. Not at all like him.
She thought she knew what his problem was. Just before he came home, she had received a call from Rachel, Pete Baird’s wife. Rachel let her know that Frank had been getting snubbed at work. Irene was angry that his coworkers were so childish, but was also surprised that he had let it get to him — that wasn’t like him, either.
Once or twice, she had looked up from her plate and caught him studying her. Then he would quickly look away. Talk to me, you big lug, she thought. But he didn’t.
She was tempted to goad him into saying something, but she decided he didn’t need more hassles at home and resolved not to push him this evening. She would just try to help him relax.
The beach run with the dogs was a ritual they followed on any evening when they were both home, and it usually would have helped him to relieve tension. But as this evening’s run came to an end, he seemed more ill at ease than before.
Wondering which tactic to try next, she headed up the wooden stairs that led from the beach to their street, Frank and the dogs behind her.
“Have you ever been to a place called the Prop Room?” he asked.
She stopped and looked back at him. “The French-Canadian place near the airport?”
For some reason, her response seemed to trouble him. “Yes,” he said. “Have you ever been there?”
“No. A couple of guys at the paper said it’s great, though. Want to try it sometime?”
“I had lunch there with Guy today. He came along as a translator.”
“Oh. Is this about Phil?”
“His sister knows the owner. We met with his sister today.”
Now she was sure she understood what was wrong with him. “Oh, no — you had to give the notice?” She knew he hated that part of the job, telling a family of the death of a loved one.
“Yes.”
“I thought Phil’s sister was in Canada.”
“She’s down here for a while.”
She shook her head. “I can’t believe they didn’t give that task to someone who knew Phil.”
“Probably better that they didn’t. The people in the department who knew him aren’t exactly weighed down by fond remembrance. Besides, it’s my case.”
“Still, I’m sorry — that must have been difficult for you.”
He looked away, as if uneasy with her kindness.
“Was it hard on her?”
Frank shrugged. “She had already assumed he was dead, and her husband passed the word on to her before I met with her, but — yes, I think it was hard on her.”
She came back down the stairs and looped her arm through his. He seemed, for the briefest moment, to want to move away from her — but just as she wondered if he thought it was too hot out to walk arm in arm, he seemed to make some silent resolution and put his hand over hers.
She was puzzled. Had she done something to make him angry? But this wasn’t really anger, it was — what? She didn’t know.
They walked in silence, but when they were almost back at the house, he said, “Lefebvre dined at that restaurant the night before he left town.”
“The night before he died?”
“Presumably, yes. The night before Seth Randolph was killed.”
She called to the dogs, who had loped beyond the house. Where was he going with this?
“The owner of the restaurant said a woman dined with him that night.”
