Flight

him to read the printing on the card.

As he neared the end of the second folder, he found one application that wouldn’t need Koza’s expertise. The lettering was so neatly aligned, it seemed impossible that the form had been filled in by hand. The application was for a W. L. Wallace. He found others that had a draftsmanlike quality, but none quite so neat as Wallace’s.

He set the folders aside and took out a thick sheaf of photocopies he had made of the small notebook Lefebvre had carried on the plane.

The copies from the notebook made a good-size stack of papers because it had been almost full — Lefebvre had written on one side of each page, then turned the notebook over and started writing on the other side. Frank had been able to copy only two small notebook pages at a time, and the result made awkward reading. At least, he thought, all the blank space left room for his own notes. He knew there were ways to scan things like this into a computer and use a program to rearrange them on a page, but there never seemed to be money in the budget for things like computer scanners. The local high schools had better equipment than the police department did — which wasn’t saying much.

Looking through the pages once, then spinning them around to read the reverse side, he began to make a list of the cases covered in the notebook. He decided to ask for files on these. It might help him to learn how Lefebvre had worked. And the names of his enemies.

He couldn’t help but notice that the last few pages of writing seem to have been made under some stress. They were in connection with the Amanda case. He was especially interested in these. Seth’s name was often in them.

Irene finished her work, sent it in by modem, and gave him a quick kiss before going to bed. He was tempted to follow her, but he kept working, sure he was getting close to something now.

He was dismayed when he realized that Lefebvre had started making repeated lists in connection with the murders of Trent and Amanda Randolph — lists of names. Names of members of the department and police commission. What was Lefebvre on to?

He found one exception — one name that he couldn’t make sense of. It didn’t relate to any name he had seen in the files, and as far as he knew, it wasn’t the name of an officer, detective, or crime lab worker.

Doremi. He repeated the name in his head a few times until it began to sing a little song.

Do-re-mi.

But what the hell did it mean?

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud cry, a sound of pain and fear and distress. It was as familiar as it was unsettling — Irene was having a nightmare, crying out in her sleep. He listened, but although he could hear her stirring restlessly, she did not make any other sounds. Still, he put his work away and moved to the bedroom.

She had fallen asleep while reading in bed, and the lamp beside it was still on. The book had been knocked to the floor, as had most of the covers. The dogs had made the most of this latter situation, but a stern look from him was enough to get them to retreat. The cat, who usually slept next to Irene, had moved to the rocking chair — obviously not willing to put up with all the disquiet in the bed.

The room was chilly — a cool ocean breeze came through the open window. He would not close the window — Irene’s fear of enclosed spaces prohibited shutting it. He put the sheet and blanket over her again, but by the time he had finished quietly undressing, she had already kicked them down around her feet. As she dreamed, she was breathing as fast and hard as any runner after a sprint.

“Irene, you’re safe,” he said softly. “It’s okay, you’re safe.”

She murmured something unintelligible, then grew quiet. He was starting to freeze his ass off, but still, he slowly and gently eased into bed. More than once he had been kicked when she took off “running” in her sleep. Recently, the nightmares had not come to her so frequently or as violently as in the past, but he knew the last few days had provided more than enough stress to bring one on. He pulled the covers up again and turned off the light.

She half awakened and said, “You’re cold,” then snuggled closer to him.

He held her, warming beneath her, stroking her back as he listened to the sound of the nearby sea and then to her soft and steady breathing.

But just before he fell asleep, three notes played in his head — do-re-mi.

23

Wednesday, July 12, 10:00 A.M.

St. Anthony ’s Catholic Church, Las Piernas

Frank had worried that there would be only four other mourners at Lefebvre’s funeral: Yvette Nereault, Marie, Polly Logan, and Irene. Now, sitting next to Irene in the last pew of St. Anthony’s Catholic Church, he counted forty-seven people in attendance — not a bad turnout for a man no one had heard from for ten years. At first he thought the majority of the small crowd were curiosity seekers, but while he saw two or three people who might fit that description, there were many more who didn’t.

Pete wasn’t here at the church, but Frank had been able to talk him and Reed into helping with surveillance at the cemetery. Reed would videotape the graveside service, or more accurately, the faces of the mourners, while Pete noted license plates. Frank was hoping that the killer would feel compelled to attend, but he kept that hope to himself. He had learned a lesson from his conversation with the chief — he told Pete and Reed that he was hoping that Lefebvre’s connection to Dane might show up.

Here in the church, he seemed to be the only one from the department in attendance.

The closed casket near the altar was a plain and inexpensive one, but it was draped in flowers and there were many wreaths and other flowers surrounding it. He was puzzled — Lefebvre had been by all accounts a loner, and no one had seen him for ten years. Who were these mourners, and who had sent all the flowers? Most of the names in the guest book were not familiar to him, but he had written them down in his notebook. Did Yvette Nereault have a wide circle of friends in Las Piernas, people who were responding in sympathy for the loss of her brother? He wanted to get a look at the cards on the flowers, but he didn’t want to place any additional strain between himself and Yvette Nereault.

He saw her now, sitting in the front pew. Although she was not weeping, her grief was evident. She seemed to be intent on bearing up for the person sitting next to her — the boy Frank had met outside Lefebvre’s condo. Another woman sat on the other side of the boy, bending to whisper something to him. The woman was heavily