after all.”
“It’s not just my instinct that tells—” Frank began, but Hale interrupted again.
“If you are about to tell me that your instinct tells you that traitor was innocent, spare yourself the trouble. I have an assignment for you, Harriman. The assignment is for you to reread the case files so that you know what the hell was going on here ten years ago. Now, if that’s all…?”
“Sir, I have read them, and forgive me, but I can’t say the investigations were up to the department’s usual standards. I can’t help but wonder why we didn’t look at who benefited from Randolph’s death, why we didn’t ask —”
“Because, Detective Harriman,” Hale bit out, “as you’ll see from the files, we had evidence and witnesses and all those other dumb little elements of a murder investigation that bring criminals to justice. I’ll admit we only did our poor best before a creative thinker like you came along, showing us how paper airplanes are more important than all that, but somehow, by God, we closed cases!”
Accepting defeat — for the moment — Frank said, “I take it you have no objection to my telling the family what I’ve learned from the NTSB?”
The chief hesitated, then said, “Why not? Even if you don’t, the NTSB files will soon be a matter of public record in any case. But do you mean to tell me you would tell those French hotheads before you’d give this information to your own lieutenant?”
“They’re Quebecois, not French, sir. Given our — let’s say our lack of sympathy—”
“Sympathy! I’ll be damned before—”
“I’m just saying that under the circumstances, I haven’t found the family to be unreasonable.”
“You also haven’t answered my question.”
“I believe they can be discreet.”
“And Carlson can’t, eh? Well, he’s proven that, I suppose.” Hale studied him. “You don’t like Carlson much, do you?”
“No, sir.”
Hale laughed. “Honest to a fault. Good night, Detective Harriman. Read those files again.”
He began to walk away, then turned back toward Frank. “The files only tell part of the story, you know. They won’t tell you what this department suffered. Budget cuts, community mistrust — those were bad. You know what was worse? We couldn’t hold our heads up. That was the worst. The loss of morale, of pride. Not to mention the guilt — I felt it, Bredloe felt it, and so did Willis. You didn’t know Willis, but he was Lefebvre’s lieutenant. I don’t think he ever got over feeling that he was in some way responsible for Seth Randolph’s death and all that followed. He retired not long after that. Died the same year he retired. I can promise you this, Detective Harriman — I will not let this department be put through something like that again. Not by anyone.”
20
Tuesday, July 11, 6:00 P.M.
The Dane Mansion
Myles waited patiently while Mr. Dane finished feeding the swans. Dane would not sit down to his own dinner for another hour. The household was on its summer schedule now.
Dane scattered the last of the food pellets, then turned and held out his hands. One of the younger servants came forward immediately — Derrick, blond and blue-eyed, a little wasp tattooed just behind his right ear — and washed and dried Mr. Dane’s hands very carefully. Dane smiled at him and Myles felt a little jealousy. He did not betray this in any way.
Dane took his silver-handled walking cane from another young man, then dismissed him and the others. He beckoned to Myles to walk with him. This was a special privilege, and Myles already felt both comforted by the invitation and ashamed of his earlier stab of envy.
Mr. Dane began by talking of general business matters. Mr. Dane no longer involved himself in the drug trade — at least, not in any direct fashion. He made a certain amount of money from it, but only by controlling more direct participants. He had divided his territory and now amused himself by playing the bystander, watching his successors murder one another’s associates in a quest to reunite that territory. That would never happen. Mr. Dane would not allow it to happen.
And he had made it clear that the violence was not to spill over into areas where he had forbidden it. When one of the leaders of these two groups failed to abide by this rule, Mr. Dane had him brought to a meeting place and told him not to defecate where he dined. Mr. Dane had asked Myles to translate the phrase into language the young man would comprehend. Myles, misunderstanding, merely told the young man, “Don’t shit where you eat.”
But Dane said, “No, Myles, he doesn’t understand what is
And so, as Dane watched, they had fed the man a cathartic, and after the inevitable event occurred, forced him to swallow the results. He did not live long after that, though the cause of death had more to do with asphyxiation than with anything ingested. Dane promoted the man’s second-in-command — a witness to the lesson — and there had been no difficulties of a similar nature since.
Mr. Dane had grown tired of such people, he told Myles. Their stupidity wearied him. He now focused his attention on various business enterprises, mostly real estate and import-export concerns. He was a silent partner in a great many small establishments in the city. He told Myles that over the past ten years, he had learned that there were opportunities everywhere — and plenty of stupidity as well. “But the latter — on the part of another — often creates the former for me, so I must not complain.”
Myles was pleased that, so far, he was able to answer all of Mr. Dane’s questions this evening.
“And were you able to learn anything more about the incident at the Sheffield Club?”
“Yes, sir. The story being given to the media is inaccurate. The police are claiming that they are unsure of Captain Bredloe’s reasons for being there, even hinting that he was there because his wife is on the Historical Preservation Commission. But Captain Bredloe clearly expected some attack — there were SWAT team members on hand and a bomb squad checked the building before he entered.”
