A Fatal Frame of Mind (21 page)

“I’ll be happy to . . . Langston,” he said. “And you call me Gus.”

“He has been,” Shawn said. “And speaking of hasbeens, maybe we should talk about what we’re going to do now, since it’s pretty clear that Langston here can’t go back to teaching, and we’re going to look pretty silly trying to run a detective agency from inside a prison.”

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Kitteredge said. “I imagine that with your unique abilities you could be tremendously useful to the other inmates. After an initial testing period, they would be coming to you with—”

Even Kitteredge, who frequently became so enraptured by his own thought process he had no idea what effect it was having on others, was stopped by the glare on Shawn’s face. “Although I can see why you’d prefer not to be in a position to start such an enterprise,” he said.

“Thank you,” Shawn said. “So let’s figure out how we’re going to avoid that.”

“It seems perfectly obvious to me,” Kitteredge said. “We know the Cabal was behind the murder of Clay Filkins, so all we have to do is expose them and let the truth come out. It will be a grand adventure.”

“That would be great,” Shawn said. “Except that the real truth about the murder is back in Santa Barbara. And since we’re climbing almost straight up, I think our flight is intended to go a little farther than thirty-five miles.”

“If the proof is in the picture, why do we have to go anywhere?” Gus said. “Why can’t we just figure it all out right here on the plane and then turn it over to the police?”

Kitteredge looked surprised, as if he’d expected Shawn and Gus to understand what he’d been thinking all along. “The picture, even now that we know about the crucial verse, isn’t enough to convince a doubting world,” he said. “We need to retrieve the sword.”

“And just where would all that be?” Shawn asked warily.

“That we still need to figure out,” Kitteredge said. “It’s in that verse, but we may have to compare it with some of Morris’ and Rossetti’s other works, along with those of some of their contemporaries, to understand the meaning. Those works are scattered far and wide.”

“How far?” Shawn said.

“And how wide?” Gus said.

“I believe in terms of those pieces freely available to the public at large, we’ll find several of them at the Tate Gallery,” Kitteredge said as he checked through a mental catalogue. “They’ve got both the Waterhouse
Ophelia
and Burne-Jones’
The Golden Stairs
, which I believe together announce the Cabal’s manifesto. There are the Arthurian frescoes at the Oxford Union. Lizzie Siddal’s grave, of course, is in Highgate Cemetery. Those are the clues that seem the most compelling, although I’m sure now that we have the key, each one will lead to a discovery previously unimagined.”

As Gus listened to the list of locations, something was nagging at the back of his mind. He knew he hadn’t been to any of those places, but even aside from that, he was sure he was missing a connection. Then it hit him.

“Professor,” he started, then corrected himself. “Langston. The Tate Gallery, the Oxford Union, Highgate Cemetery—aren’t they all in England?”

“Of course they are,” Kitteredge said. “And we will be, too, in about ten hours.”

E
ven after all his years on the force, there was almost nothing Carlton Lassiter didn’t like about the institutions of law enforcement. He loved the ritual of the morning briefing, the ceremonial bonding of the post-shift cop bar, the rigid adherence to standards of excellence. Unlike most of his peers, he even welcomed strictures like the ones placed on police by the Miranda rules. Working within a rigid set of restrictions only forced you to be smarter, better, and stronger.

The one thing that Lassiter didn’t like about the profession was the replacement of thought with procedure. And this was a prime example, he said to himself as he pulled up a few car lengths behind the squad car sitting across from Henry Spencer’s house. When you were searching for a suspect, it was standard practice to post lookouts at the homes of his family and friends, and clearly that’s what was going on here. The department needed to find Shawn Spencer, and they hoped he might show up to see his father.

But one moment of thought would have made a chimp realize there was no reason to waste a team of officers and a departmental vehicle on Henry Spencer’s street. Or, more precisely, on former detective Henry Spencer’s street. Although he’d been retired for years, Henry was and always would be a pure cop. If a wanted fugitive showed up on his doorstep, he’d find a way to detain him and then call for backup.

Of course, the brass knew that. But he could practically hear the conversation in the chief’s office.
Sure, he was a fine cop, but this is his son we’re talking about.

If he’d been there for the discussion, Lassiter would have made sure that everyone knew the truth—that would only make Henry Spencer more certain to make the call. Because he’d know that if Shawn was innocent, the fastest and safest way to prove that would be to turn him in.

Instead, they assumed that Henry was as weak and foolish as the average member of the citizenry. But if he were, would he be standing by the squad car, handing the officers frosty glasses of lemonade?

If Lassiter had been in charge of this investigation, things would be running differently. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t even allowed in on briefings. All because that quack of a shrink didn’t understand how a man was supposed to react to a bad situation.

Well, he was going to show her what a real man did when the chips were down.

At least he would if those two cops would move.

Lassiter needed to talk to Henry Spencer. He was the only one who would understand. But if he was spotted, word would get back to Chief Vick that he’d been at Spencer’s house, and she would leap to the assumption that he was trying to work the case even though he was on suspension.

Of course Lassiter could always do what Spencer was doing now—walk right up to the squad car and sweet-talk the surveillance team. In normal circumstances that would have been his first move. But he knew what he’d feel about any other cop—particularly one as high in the command structure as he was—who’d allowed himself to be taken hostage in his own station and been responsible for freeing a suspect wanted for murder. Lassiter wouldn’t be in a mood to do any favors for that loser. He couldn’t imagine that these two would be, either.

If only there was a burglary in the area. Or a hit and run. A flasher, even. Anything to pull those two away from Henry’s door. But this was a good neighborhood, and the presence of a squad car only made it safer. There was no way Lassiter could get to see Henry without Chief Vick finding out. He couldn’t even call. With Shawn on the wanted list, the cops would have put taps on Henry’s home and cell phones.

Henry was heading back to his house. In a second he’d be back in his comfortable living room, and Lassiter would have lost his chance. But before Spencer reached his front door, he made a hard right turn and disappeared into his garage. After a moment, Lassiter saw a glow of red. Henry’s truck was backing out.

Lassiter put his Impala back into drive and eased away from the curb as Henry headed down the street, shielding his face with his hand as he passed the two cops in the squad car. But they didn’t even glance up in his direction as he cruised past.
If this were my case, I’d have those two on report
, he thought.
There’s no excuse for that kind of sloppiness.

Henry’s street was residential and quiet; there was no traffic in either direction. Which made it easy for Lassiter to keep Henry in sight, but also for Henry to spot him. Which might be a problem. Lassiter was certain that Spencer would be cooperating with the police in every way possible, but he was also sure Henry would draw the line at being followed wherever he went. If he called Chief Vick to complain about the tail, he was cop enough to give her Lassiter’s plate number. And there was no way he could claim this was part of his therapy.

Henry wasn’t making it any easier for Lassiter to remain inconspicuous. He couldn’t have been going faster than fifteen miles an hour. Any normal driver would have passed him right away, and all but the most saintly would have flipped him off as they did. The fact that Lassiter considered to dawdle along behind him had to look suspicious.

Henry did the full grandpa down the street for two blocks. Then he reached an intersection, and instead of slowing further to check for cross traffic, he accelerated furiously, taking the right turn at thirty-five. What the hell was he doing? Lassiter hit the gas and screamed around the corner.

And then slammed on the brake to keep from hitting Henry’s truck. It was sitting at the curb, exhaust chugging from the tailpipe. Lassiter could see Henry sitting completely still behind the wheel.

Again, Lassiter wondered what he was doing. It was possible he’d pulled over to take a cell call, but both hands were on the steering wheel, and his head wasn’t moving in the way most people’s do when they’re talking. He was just sitting in his truck.

And then he wasn’t sitting anymore. He snapped off the ignition and opened his door. Lassiter assumed he’d come to see a neighbor, although it surprised him to see that Henry would drive rather than walk such a short distance. The cop in him wanted to watch Henry to see which house he went to, but the suspended-cop part of him won out, and he slid down in his seat so that Henry wouldn’t see him.

Since he couldn’t tell which direction Henry would be going in, Lassiter decided to give it a slow ten-count before rising to look out the window again. Before he could get to eight, there was a loud rapping on the passenger’s window.

Henry Spencer was standing outside, staring down at him.

Lassiter straightened in his seat, then reached over and opened the passenger’s door. Henry got in and slammed the door closed.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Henry said.

“When did you make me?” Lassiter said.

“My house has this amazing new invention called windows,” Henry said. “I saw you pull up behind the idiots in the cruiser. I almost brought you your own glass of lemonade.”

“Did they spot me?”

Henry scowled disgustedly. “No,” he said, “and don’t think that isn’t something else I’ll be bringing up with Chief Vick.”

“Something else?” Lassiter said. “Besides what?”

“I don’t know,” Henry said. “Maybe a level of incompetent police work that was directly responsible for my son becoming a fugitive from justice.”

Lassiter’s instinct was to argue. He’d take the blame for a lot, but to make him responsible for Shawn Spencer’s irresponsibility was more than even his guilty conscience could take. One look at Henry’s face, however, suggested that if he wanted any help at all, he’d let that go unchallenged.

“I screwed everything up, Henry,” Lassiter said. “I treated Langston Kitteredge as a cooperating witness, and it never even occurred to me that he was the perp we were hunting.”

“Is that all?” Henry said.

Lassiter didn’t want to answer the question. He didn’t want to think back to that moment. He never wanted to face it again. But he needed Henry’s help. And Henry would know if he was holding something in, and then he would get out and go home without a look back.

“It’s not all,” Lassiter said. “Although God knows that was bad enough. But there was a moment when I could have turned everything around. When I could have apprehended Kitteredge and kept any of this from happening.”

“Go on,” Henry said.

Lassiter let the images from the interrogation room back into his mind. As he did, he realized how much effort he’d been putting in to keeping them out. He could feel the muscles loosen in his forehead, his temple, even his jaw. The headache he’d been fighting for days began to ease.

And he realized something else. He wanted to tell Henry Spencer about that moment.

“Kitteredge was giving his statement,” Lassiter said. “I have to admit—I wasn’t paying as much attention to what he was saying as I should have.”

“Why?”

“Believe me, if you ever talked to the man, you’d understand,” Lassiter said. “Let’s just leave it at that for the moment.”

Henry nodded, then gestured for Lassiter to go on.

“Anyway, the man was talking and talking and talking,” Lassiter said. “And at one point he reached into his left jacket pocket and pulled out an old pipe, which he’d already done several times in the interview. He never actually lit the damn thing, just waved it around as if it added something to the conversation. Anyway, this time after he pulled out the pipe, he reached into his right pocket. And I didn’t pay any attention to it. I assumed he was going for a lighter or a book of matches.”

“Not unreasonable,” Henry said. “But then I’d guess that no individual step here was unreasonable on its own. You’re too good a cop for that.”

Lassiter winced. He’d never had a compliment that stung so badly. “As I said, I assumed he was going for a lighter,” he said. “So when he opened his hand and revealed the murder weapon, I was still acting on my assumption and not on what had just happened. I looked at that knife and for one second the only thing in my mind was the question of why his pipe lighter was painted red. Just for a second, Henry, I swear. But that second was all it took. Kitteredge realized he’d exposed himself, and he grabbed me and jammed that knife against my throat. I could give you a load of excuses about how late it was, about how I’d been up all night, or that I had no reason to suspect the man. But no excuses can change the fact that I screwed up.”

Henry was giving him an odd look. Lassiter didn’t bother trying to interpret it. He was deserving of nothing but contempt, so he assumed that’s what Henry was feeling.

But for the first time since the incident, Lassiter was beginning to feel a little better. Not about what he’d done, of course; that was still shameful. But about himself. He’d always carry this humiliation, true; but now he saw a possibility of carrying on with his life and career in spite of it.