False Positive (14 page)

Sunday. Late Afternoon
.

Ethan missing for forty-six and a quarter hours

Devereaux's eyes were locked on the screen.

Ethan's picture hadn't shrunk down like the others. It wasn't tied to the red dot over Birmingham by a PowerPoint arrow. It was floating in the center of the map. The little boy's fate might still be up for grabs, and Devereaux felt the burden of pulling him back into the room settle on his shoulders. He knew he couldn't allow yet another child to drift helplessly into the shadowy realm of
never found
, and he couldn't shake the macabre procession of lost little faces from his mind.

“What was the common thread?” Hale forced a business-as-usual tone back into her voice. “How did you pull these particular cases out of such a large pool?”

“We factored in as many similarities with Ethan as we could put our fingers on.” Grandison seemed relieved to get back onto practical ground. “Ethan's not a runaway, which reduces the numbers by an order of magnitude. He's not a confirmed homicide victim. He couldn't have been kidnapped by a family member, since he doesn't have any. No demands have been made by whoever took him. These things all helped. But the key that unlocked the puzzle was something
Bruckner hit on. These kids? They were all orphans. And they'd all been taken in by foster families.”

Devereaux felt his chest tighten.

“That could be huge, right?” Hale was looking for the positive. “It has to narrow the field of suspects enormously. Whoever took them, maybe he or she was fostered themself, as a kid. Or they could have had a kid when they were young, who was taken into foster care. Or they could have applied to foster a kid, and been turned down. Or—”

“All those suggestions are possible.” Grandison cut her off. “But they're not the most significant thing. Look at the map. What do you see?”

“The dots are spread around.” Hale was reaching. “The abductions took place all around the country.”

“Right. Which raises more problems. How did the person know where to find fostered kids? Why did he or she snatch them in so many states and jurisdictions? And let's think about the methods employed. In one case, the offender demonstrated meticulous planning. In the next, he or she appeared opportunistic. In another, organized. Then chaotic. Perhaps persuasive. And finally, extremely violent.”

“Couldn't that be a sign of a psychological progression?” Hale asked. “Or a regression?”

“No.” Grandison shook his head decisively. “These characteristics—if genuine—are generally considered to be mutually exclusive.”

“If genuine?” Hale echoed.

“I'm coming to that, Lieutenant. First, we have to add the timing to the mix. Usually when a person commits a series of similar crimes, the interval between the occurrences diminishes, but is recognizable and to some extent predictable. Here, we can identify absolutely no relationship between the crimes themselves, or anything external—holiday, anniversary, sporting event, etc.”

“What if the crimes weren't committed by the same person?”

“If the victims were regular, random kids, I might buy that. But nine orphans? That's too specific a target to be coincidental. And for them to be abducted by separate killers, each with the skill to ensure their victim's body was never found? No way. My money's on there being one offender.”

“Is this connection definite?” Devereaux's throat was dry. “Or is it guesswork?”

“No guidance we produce is
definite
, Detective.” Grandison shrugged. “You know that. There's always a margin of error. In this case, the margin's bigger than usual, because of the lack of material we're working with. But Bruckner and I have been doing this a long time. We know what we're talking about. And we've hit on something you absolutely need to take into account, going forward.”

“OK. What?”

“Whoever took these other kids—and most likely Ethan—actually can't be profiled.”

“What kind of offender can't be profiled?” Hale was growing impatient.

“There are two kinds. One is the hard-core addict, because long-term drug abuse makes their behavior too erratic.”

“This doesn't feel like the work of an addict. The crimes are too complex. And they occur over too long a period.”

“I agree. Which means we're looking for someone much more dangerous. Someone who's capable of controlling every aspect of their behavior. Who knows intimately which parameters we measure when we're building a profile. Who…”

Grandison saw the expression on Hale's face, and suddenly he was reluctant to finish his thought. Devereaux had no such scruples.

“Someone who works in law enforcement,” he said.

The woman's trips to the Business Center were becoming an addiction.

A welcome distraction, anyway. A respite from the less-than-encouraging reports she was receiving from Birmingham. An escape from the Technicolor anarchy of the theme park. And a reassuring window into the ordered world she'd spent her life creating.

Webcams were one of her all-time favorite inventions. She'd used them in her own properties since the first generation had been released. But that kind was bulky and obtrusive compared to the newest ones. Ones so small and discreet they can be used pretty much anywhere, as long as you're not seen installing them. Something that's not hard to achieve, given how stupid most people are. How unaware they are of their own security. How they fall into easily predictable routines, such as leaving their houses at the same time, every day of the week…

The woman liked certainty. Thanks to her oldest set of webcams, she knew things were still all straight at the place she'd prepared for the boy. She figured she'd give him one more day, then it would be time to head over there.

And thanks to her newest set, she could be sure everything was also lined up and ready for the next lost soul who needed her help.

Sunday. Evening
.

Ethan missing for forty-eight hours

Devereaux hung up rather than leave another message on Loflin's voicemail, climbed out of his car, and waved away the middle-aged parking valet who'd been looking hopefully in his direction. Toward the city center he could see Vulcan, whose illuminated back and shoulders were peeking through a gap in the distant cottonwood trees. He smiled, remembering how as a kid he'd snickered at the giant's lack of underwear. Then he made his way up the path to the last in the line of crumbling nineteenth-century mansions that were still clinging resolutely to the side of the hill.

There was a thick, leather-bound ledger on a table just inside the entrance to the house, and an old Bakelite telephone. But no answering machine. And no computer. Such modern devices would ruin the ambience of the place. And they'd conflict with the owner's dislike of electronic records.

Paper can't be hacked. And it's so much easier to burn…

The maître d' made a show of paging through the ledger, then turned to Devereaux and shook his head.

“I'm sorry, sir. We have nothing available this evening.”

All the principal rooms on the first floor had been combined to maximize the space in the restaurant's dining area. The plaster on
the walls was deliberately rough—or rustic, according to the interior designer from Atlanta who'd handled the recent remodeling. It was painted the color of antique parchment and had been complemented by a series of framed watercolors of exotic birds. There were four tables up front, side by side, filling the width of the room. The four beyond them were set end-on, to allow for the bar with its prodigious supply of rare wine, which jutted out from the side wall. And at the far end, six more tables were laid out in a rough rectangle near the entrance to the kitchen.

Of the fourteen tables, only nine were taken.

Devereaux spun the ledger around, opened it, took out a pen, and crossed through the first name he saw.

“Seems you've had a cancelation.” He returned the book to the maître d'. “You're lucky I dropped by. Table three? I'll seat myself. Have someone bring me a beer while I take a look at the menu.”

Devereaux took a seat at the table in the far corner of the room, beneath the giant image of a toucan. He didn't look at the menu. And nobody brought him a beer. Instead he sat quietly, wondering how useful the little bronze sculpture at the center of the table could be as a weapon, and calculating how long it would be before anything happened. The owner would want him taken care of quickly, before the ripple of anxiety his entrance had provoked could lead any of the other diners to leave. And he'd certainly need to be dealt with before the people who'd reserved his table turned up and caused a scene. It would just depend on where the owner was that night. Whether he had any muscle already on the premises. Or if he'd have to send out to one of his other—more colorful—establishments.

Eleven minutes passed. The glances from neighboring tables grew less frequent, but Devereaux could sense the tension still simmering in the room. People were eating unusually slowly. The waitstaff were moving around as little as possible. Eventually one of them emerged from the kitchen carrying a wooden tray of bacon-wrapped beef tenderloins. He was taking them to a group of sharply dressed guys in their mid-twenties, at the table nearest the door. The aroma was intoxicating
and Devereaux was tempted to grab a plate, just to up the ante. He resisted. But when another waiter went by with fresh silverware, Devereaux didn't pass up the opportunity. He reached out and helped himself to a steak knife. Just in case.

After another seven minutes a pair of stocky guys in dinner suits appeared. They emerged from the kitchen and walked straight up to Devereaux. One moved in close to his table. The other hung back, his hands low in front of him and an impassive expression on his face.

“Good evening, sir.” The first guy leaned down toward Devereaux and lowered his voice. “It's time to leave, asshole. Get on your feet. Don't give me any trouble.”

“Have your boss come out and tell me himself.” Devereaux sat back and crossed his arms.

“That's not going to happen.” The guy kept talking, quietly, through his fake smile.

“It is, if you really don't want any trouble.” Devereaux smiled back. “He comes out and tells me himself. Or I don't leave.”

“He's not here.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“A cop.”

“Not
what
I am.
Who
I am.”

“We know your name, yes.”

“Then your boss
is
here. Bring him out, and we can all be civilized.”

The guy grabbed Devereaux's shirt, just below his collar. Devereaux felt the calm clarity flood through him. He looked the guy straight in the eye. Took hold of his hand. Rotated his wrist, breaking the guy's grip. Forced the wrist around farther and snapped it back, locking the joint. Pushed, until the guy's forearm was flat on the table. Then took the steak knife and drove it down through the guy's sleeve, its tip biting deep into the wood below.

“Let's think this through.” Devereaux leaned back in his seat. “You're not going to kill me in here. You know what your boss would do to you for dragging his customers into a murder inquiry. And you don't have what it takes to make me leave. So, here are your choices: You can stay there, all twisted and hunched-up and ridiculous-looking.
Or you can have your boss come out here and talk to me. I'd tell you to take your time deciding, but people are starting to stare…”

The kitchen door swung open once more, and another man appeared. He was tall, but painfully skinny with sparse, ginger hair and a haggard, pockmarked face. He wore a Zegna suit. An Armani shirt. Prada shoes. A TAG Heuer watch. But none of these trappings could disguise the wariness in his eyes that came from not having had enough to eat or anywhere dry to sleep too many times in his life.

Devereaux stood, and the two men faced each other. Every person in the room expected one—or both—to pull a knife or a gun. Absolute silence filled the restaurant. Five seconds ticked away. Then, at the same instant, Devereaux and the skinny guy sprang forward. Their chests slammed together. They grabbed hold of each other. Twisted around. Grappled. Pushed. Pounded each other on the back. Finally, they both let go.

And by then, they were both laughing hysterically.

Sunday. Evening
.

Ethan missing for forty-eight and a quarter hours

The skinny guy's name was Tom Vernon.

He'd moved to Birmingham with his family just before turning thirteen, and had made Devereaux's acquaintance the moment he set foot in his new classroom. The two kicked lumps out of each other in the yard at their first recess together. And were inseparable for the rest of their time in school. Vernon had brought Devereaux food each time he'd run away from home, and once had even hidden him in his bedroom closet for three days to escape a winter storm. They'd been closer still during the unsavory years that followed graduation. Right up until the day Devereaux signed up for the Police Academy. After that, their paths didn't cross too often. And that was a situation both had been happy with for a very long time.

Vernon's euphoria lasted another twenty seconds, then his street sense kicked back in. He gestured for his thugs to bring Devereaux, and led the way into the kitchen.

“Twenty years?” Vernon leaned against a stainless steel counter.

“Twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four years, and you suddenly want to talk? Now?” Vernon picked up a meat-tenderizing mallet and swung it casually between his fingers. “Tonight? Why?”

“I want to talk, but not here.” Devereaux gestured to a trio of chefs, semi-concealed in the plumes of steam that the tiny kitchen's extractor fans were struggling to deal with. “Somewhere private. Just you and me.”

“Why?”

“I have some news. You'll be interested. I guarantee it.”

“You must have mixed me up with the memory of someone else you turned your back on,
Detective
. I'm not a moron.”

Devereaux reached into his pocket, pulled out a gold signet ring, and set it down on the counter. Vernon lifted the ring, held it up to the light, then handed it back.

“You wearing a wire?”

“No.” Devereaux put the ring away. “I didn't even bring my gun. Search me, if you like.”

Vernon's office had started life as the house's master bedroom. It had a large window that overlooked the street at the front of the restaurant. That was better than security cameras, in Vernon's book. There was no chance of anything being recorded. Two battered leather armchairs were arranged near the window, facing out. A dusty, dark-red rug bridged the space between them. A scarred wooden steamer trunk served as a table. A pair of overflowing ashtrays filled the room with the stench of stale cigars. The only other furniture was a leather-topped desk pushed against the blank wall and a typist's chair tucked under it.

“That ring.” Vernon flopped into one of the armchairs. He was happy to speak freely now that he'd established Devereaux wasn't wearing a recording device. “It looked like Sean Carver's.”

“It was Sean Carver's.” Devereaux took the other chair.

“How did you get it?”

“I took it off his corpse.”

“Carver's dead?”

“As a doornail.”

The expression on Vernon's face didn't change. “When did he die?”

“This afternoon. At his lobster warehouse.”

“Why haven't I heard about this?”

“The Feds are keeping it quiet. Word won't come out till the morning.”

“Are you sure? Did you see the body?”

“I'm certain. I shot him.”

“Cooper—seriously. What the fuck?”

“The papers will say my partner pulled the trigger, but that's wrong. She's taking one for the team. I'm back from suspension thirty-six hours, and Internal Affairs crawling up my ass on another deadly force inquiry is the last thing I need right now.”

“You're telling me you retired Carver. And now you're here. Should I be worried?”

“No. You should be pleased. Because Carver left a vacancy. I'm thinking you could be the guy to fill it.”

“You were Carver's guy on the inside? I don't believe you.”

“Take a look out of the window, Tom.”

“So some police sniper can shoot me?”

“No. So you can see the Porsche parked out front. A brand-new 911. In sapphire blue. License plate DVRX. And then tell me: How many cops do you know who drive a car like that? Cops getting by on their regular salaries, anyway.”

“I don't need to see your car, Cooper. After what we went through together I always kept an ear open for you. I heard things, over the years. A couple of guys going down, when maybe they shouldn't have. A half-dozen excessive-force beefs. I figured, maybe if you were a little light on the evidential side of things, you might hand out some justice yourself rather than roll the dice in court. I know how your mind works. But this thing with Carver? This is crazy. This blows me away. What the hell happened to you? Or were you playing us all, right from the start?”

“I wasn't playing anyone, Tom. Have you got anything to drink in here?”

Vernon rose and went to the desk. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two chipped, cloudy glasses. Poured a generous measure in each. Handed one to Devereaux. And sat back down.

“Remember when we were young?” Devereaux took a sip of his drink. “People got hurt from time to time. But they always deserved
it. Until the thing with the gas station. That clerk? He shouldn't have taken a bullet. That wasn't right. It shook me up. Left me vulnerable. People pissed in my ear. They made me believe, if I had a badge, I could stop other innocent people getting hurt. And at first, that's what happened. But I was naïve, Tom. I was stupid. Gradually, my eyes opened. I saw what was happening. The police were hurting just as many innocent people as we used to. Maybe more. They just didn't get sent to jail.”

“You could have come back to us.”

“I nearly did. But then I thought: Why? If I stayed where I was, I could have the best of both worlds. Make more money. And not get arrested.”

“Makes sense. For you. But me? I'm doing OK as I am. What if I come in with you, and end up like Carver?”

“Carver was stupid. He was greedy. He was impatient. And he didn't listen. I should never have brought him on board in the first place.”

“What did he do?”

“Long story short, we needed a new guy down in the Keys to handle importation. Carver came up with a name. I ran some checks. I didn't like what I saw. And I said no. But this guy turned Carver's head with talk of huge extra profits. He thought I'd change my mind when I saw all the extra cash. Instead, the Feds got wind of what the guy was doing, with him being so reckless. He rolled on Carver. Gave up a big shipment we've got coming up from Florida, Thursday night. I found out the Feds are going to raid it. And that Carver's fixing to sell me out, to save his own skin.”

“What an asshole. Seriously? You had no choice, Cooper. You had to clean house.”

“I did. And now I need to replace Carver. I could find someone new, with all the potential to get bitten in the ass all over again. Or you could do it. What do you say?”

“I'm flattered. But I need to think.”

“What's to think about? This is right up your alley. Come on, Tom. Yes or no?”

“Let's get together tomorrow. I'll give you my answer then.”

“I need to know now. When word spreads about Carver, the
blood'll be in the water. The sharks'll be swarming in no time. No. I can't miss a beat. The transition needs to be seamless.”

“What kind of numbers of girls are we talking, here?”

“Nothing you can't handle. You're an experienced guy. You're sensible. I can trust you. The details, we can work out tomorrow. For now, I just need to know: Are you in? Or out?”

Vernon picked up his glass and returned to the desk. He took the bottle and poured himself another measure. A bigger one, this time. He held the glass up to the window and swirled the golden liquid around for a moment. Then he drank it in two large gulps.

“All right. I'm in.”

“Good decision, Tom. Now, there's just one thing I need from you to seal the deal. One piece of information…”