veiled, so Frank could not see her face or even the color of her hair. When she sat up again, he had an impression of both restraint and strength. Marie, the owner of the Prop Room, sat next to her, weeping. On the other side of Marie, an elderly man with close-cropped gray hair and military posture turned and surveyed the church, as if sensing Frank’s study of him. But in the next moment Frank realized that the man was making his own study of the mourners. His eyes met Frank’s, held for a moment, then continued to scan the crowd.
“Guy’s a cop,” he whispered, not realizing he had said it aloud until Irene spoke softly in reply.
“Matt Arden.”
Frank turned to her. Because she had to leave for work soon after the graveside ceremony, they had driven to the funeral separately. Until now, she had not said anything to him since he’d sat down beside her.
She was still watching Arden and added, “He was Phil’s mentor, you know. He’s not looking well.”
Frank thought the same — the ten years since Lefebvre’s death had not been kind to Matt Arden.
“This has got to be so hard on him,” she said, but something in her voice caught his attention and he saw how hard this was on her — and that she was trying to hide her grief from him. He put an arm around her shoulders, and understanding the gesture, she leaned against him and let the tears fall. When she started fumbling through her purse, he gave her his handkerchief.
He watched the other mourners and noticed that they did not seem to know one another. They sat a little apart from one another and did not converse.
The priest entered and began the funeral Mass. Frank had been to enough funerals to quickly recognize that this priest, a young man, had had no acquaintance with Lefebvre. He paused to consult notes whenever any mention of the deceased was called for, and never said Lefebvre’s name without carefully pronouncing it, like a child who has learned to read a new and difficult word. After a series of prayers, at the point of the Mass where Frank expected a routine sermon assuring the mourners that Lefebvre was in a better place, the priest said, “Let us take a few moments to celebrate Detective Lefebvre’s life by sharing our memories of him. While I did not have the honor of knowing him personally, Mrs. Nereault, Philippe’s sister, tells me that some of you would like to share your memories of him. I hope you’ll do so now. Would anyone like to begin?”
The result, after a moment’s hesitation, was a line at the microphone. One by one, the mourners spoke of family members — of their brothers, sons, daughters, wives — who had been murder victims, and of Philip Lefebvre’s dedication in finding the killers. Moreover, they spoke of his kindnesses to their families, of his support that continued through the killers’ trials, and well beyond.
Frank took out his notebook and started writing. When Irene saw what he was doing, he thought she might object. Instead, she pulled out her own notebook.
The stories were varied, but had certain elements in common. The speakers often told of Lefebvre persisting long after others had given up. They always spoke of Lefebvre’s concern for the families, of how kind and considerate he had been to them. They all stated their faith in his honesty. No one made a direct reference to the accusations made against him after his disappearance, but they clearly believed this man who had helped them could not have been a bad cop. To them, Lefebvre was unquestionably a hero.
No one from Lefebvre’s own family got up to speak. At one point, the boy turned around to stare intently at Frank, until the veiled woman noticed and apparently told him not to look back again. A few minutes went by while he looked straight ahead, and then he began stealing glances whenever the woman seemed distracted.
Toward the end of the Mass, Frank heard the church doors open, then a woman’s half-hushed voice. He turned to see Tory Randolph making an entrance. He found himself ready to block her way if she started to make a scene. She looked around, saw him, smiled, saw Irene, stopped smiling — saw Polly Logan, and frowned. She then pulled a harried-looking man into the pew across the aisle. The man stumbled over the kneeler as she dragged him behind her, nearly falling into her lap before he regained his balance. He righted himself, but his black-rimmed glasses had fallen halfway down his nose. He used his middle finger to push them up again, inadvertently flipping the bird to the assembled company.
“That’s the unfortunate Mr. Britton,” Irene murmured. “Pray for him.”
24
Wednesday, July 12, 10:00 A.M.
A Private Home in Las Piernas
The Looking Glass Man checked his watch. The church service would be starting now. He had a little more time. It would not do to arrive early. The police always watched for suspects among mourners and spectators.
Frank Harriman would certainly do so. His brows drew together as he considered Harriman. Bad sign that he had gone to the university. The Looking Glass Man did not worry that Harriman could trace him from there — he had never used real information when signing up. Still, he was annoyed that Harriman had even thought to go to the campus. Something must be done about Harriman.
Perhaps an accident in the home. He would bring a few supplies with him today — both Harriman and his wife would be away from the house. First they would attend the funeral and then they would go on to work. There might be a little time to set something up.
Today was a busy day, though. He felt compelled to watch them lower Lefebvre into the ground — he regretted that he had been unable to see the wreckage of the plane, but a burial was better than nothing. From there, he planned to visit St. Anne’s Hospital — not because he wished Captain Bredloe well, but because he knew Matt Arden would undoubtedly do so. Arden had been in Lefebvre’s confidence. Arden must be watched.
He forced himself to clear his mind of these immediate worries and began to review the blueprints for the targeted building, again confirming the wisdom of his choices in his placement of the devices. He was anxious about this aspect of the work. Placement was a key issue both for effectiveness and avoidance of premature discovery. And it was the one subject Wendell Leroy Wallace had not fully discussed in his notes.
The Looking Glass Man could have learned how to construct such devices from a number of sites on the Internet or from the how-to books that could be found anywhere from swap meets to public libraries. He chose instead to learn from Wallace — that late, local master of the explosive. Wallace had loved precision and neatness, and kept detailed records of his experiments, which made the Looking Glass Man embrace him as a secret soulmate. Wallace had sacrificed himself to his craft some years ago, before the Looking Glass Man had a chance to meet him, but his photocopies of the bomber’s notebooks were among his favorite reading materials.
He rolled up the blueprints and carefully stored them. He opened a binder that held a copy of one of Wallace’s later notebooks, turning to a section that described devices for use in automobiles. He read for a few moments, gratified that the necessary ingredients would not require a shopping expedition. Then his watch beeped three times, and he knew it was time to go to the cemetery. He looked at the watch with a sense of
