investigation of the attack. Apparently, there’s very little to go on.”
Haycroft said, “You didn’t come down here just to ask about the plane, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. I’ve wanted to talk to you about Trent Randolph, but I think that may have to wait until later. My more immediate interest is in Dale Britton.”
Larson and Haycroft exchanged a look. Haycroft shook his head. “Rather awkward, isn’t it?”
“You could put it that way.”
“His involvement with Mrs. Randolph was my fault, I’m afraid,” Larson said.
“You can’t blame yourself for it,” Haycroft protested.
“I introduced them,” Larson said. “She was always hounding me — waiting for me outside the building, cornering me every chance she could to nag me about the investigations. She was calling here constantly, and I seemed only to infuriate her. One day she stopped me as I was walking out to the crime scene unit van. Dale was with me and I introduced them. He was much more patient with her — I could see that he had a calming effect on her. So I began to let him deal with her, and before long, he was the one she asked for when she called.”
“Is he still in contact with you?”
“No, I haven’t spoken to him since he resigned,” Larson said. “He kept coming back late from lunch, and eventually someone told me that these long lunches were with Mrs. Randolph. I asked him to stop seeing her — concerned that if we ever managed to bring charges against Whitey Dane, his lawyers would claim she was influencing the investigation. Dale resigned instead.”
“So you haven’t talked to either of them lately?”
“No,” Haycroft said. “Why do you ask?”
“Someone in the department is contacting Dale Britton — at least his wife claims they’re getting updates about the Lefebvre case. Not very accurate ones, but he obviously has some connection here.”
Al Larson frowned. “I suppose that’s to be expected, but I can’t say it makes me happy.”
“I’ll see if I can learn more from her this morning,” Frank said, glancing at his watch. “I’d better get going. I’m supposed to meet her at ten-thirty.”
“Good luck, Frank,” Haycroft said. “Of all the questions you might have about Trent Randolph, you’ll have the answer to one of them by ten thirty-five — you’ll know why he got a divorce.”
17
Tuesday, July 11, 10:35 A.M.
Downtown Las Piernas
She was standing outside the small cafe, talking on a cellular phone. Her face was turned slightly away from him, so she did not see him yet and did not know that he had seen her stomp her foot in impatience with her caller.
She was in her late forties, he thought, although doing her best to look much younger than that. She had succeeded to a greater degree than Polly Logan. She was still a beautiful woman, and he wondered briefly if Amanda would have grown up to look like her. But Frank could not reconcile the file photos of smiling, carefree Amanda with Tory Randolph-Britton.
She was slender and dressed becomingly in a dark silk suit. As he approached, she watched him appraisingly and began to smile. If it hadn’t been so blatantly predatory, he decided, it would have been more attractive.
She put the phone away and extended a well-manicured hand. “Detective Harriman? I’m Tory.”
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice,” he said. Her clasp was cool and firm, and she held his hand a little longer than necessary.
“
“Yes. Let’s go inside.”
The owner greeted him by name and gestured toward a booth.
“You come here often?” Tory said, then giggled. “Sorry, that sounds like a bad pickup line.”
“My wife works not far from here,” he said. “So, yes, I’m here fairly often.”
“Oh.” She lowered her lashes and began tapping her nails on the gleaming wood of the tabletop.
A waiter came and Frank ordered a coffee. Tory ordered a double latte and a croissant. “I shouldn’t, but I feel like being bad,” she said, smiling.
“Tell me, how did you meet your husband?” he asked.
“We met in college — oh, do you mean Dale?”
“Let’s start with Trent.”
“Trent, I met in college — at San Diego State. He was crazy over me then. In those days, he couldn’t believe his luck. He was this nerdy science guy, and — well, let’s just say he wasn’t my only admirer.”
He smiled, hoping it didn’t look as phony as it felt.
“Yes indeed. You may not believe it to look at me now, but I was quite a beauty in my day. Won a pageant — just a little local contest in El Cajon, but still—”
What the hell, he thought. No use insulting her — chances were, she could provide information he couldn’t get from anyone else. “I have no trouble believing you could have won any contest you entered. I take it marrying Trent was the only reason you didn’t go on to state competition?”
“Oh, there were some who thought I could have taken it all.”
“And I would be sitting here having coffee with Miss America. Imagine that.”
