Authors: Andrew Grant
Monday. Morning
.
Ethan missing for sixty-two hours
Three doors had banged shut in close succession.
Barratt's office. The exit from the morgue. And Devereaux's car. One after another. Each one louder than the one before. Taken together, a perfect summary of the case, Devereaux thought. Every time it felt like he had something to go after, a door slammed in his face. Closing him off. Keeping him from getting closer to Ethan Crane. Wasting a little more time.
Time the little boy might no longer have.
The route from the morgue to police headquarters was a cinch. A straight shot up 14th Street South, past Regions Field and Railroad Park, under the Amtrak lines, and right into First Avenue. It was less than a mile. Three minutes in the morning traffic. Not far enough to be sure. But long enough for Devereaux's attention to latch onto a silver BMW X5. It had left the morgue parking lot right after he did, and then maintained a steady two or three car interval the rest of the way.
Devereaux could have turned into the headquarters parking lot and given the BMW no option other than to drive past. He could
have called for backup, and had the driver pulled over. But that wouldn't have suited Devereaux's temperament. He preferred to take a more hands-on approach to anything he perceived as a threat.
He kept going straight on First, then swung left into 26th Street where it ran below the Stephens Expressway for a stretch. There were few other cars on the closed-in lower level, so Devereaux accelerated hard between the thick, exhaust-stained concrete pillars, forcing the BMW to speed up and close the gap between them. There was no doubt now that he was being followed, so when 26th emerged into the fresh air, Devereaux took another left onto Seventh Avenue. He passed the side of Marconi Park and on toward the pale art-deco façade of the courthouse that squatted beyond the intersection, straight ahead. He slowed down for the rough section of pavement where the recent construction hadn't been finished properly, and went left again onto 22nd Street before he reached the library. Then he passed the side of the Cathedral of St. Paul and turned right onto Second Avenue, emerging just a block away from his building.
Devereaux let the Charger coast down the ramp leading to his basement garage, pressed the clicker he kept clipped to his visor, and waited for the roll-up barrier to rise out of the way. He scanned the interior to make sure it was deserted. Satisfied, he pulled a hard right and nosed into the first visitor's space in the row by the wall. The BMW raced past him then stopped dead, its tires squealing harshly in the enclosed space. The barrier began to roll back down. Devereaux slammed the Charger into reverse and pulled straight back, blocking the base of the ramp. Then he opened his door and stepped out, one hand on his Glock.
It was time to ask some questions.
The BMW's front doors opened simultaneously and two men climbed out. They were both in their mid-thirties, with neat haircuts and smart gray suits. And they were both holding square, black, Sig Sauer pistols.
“Drop your weapon and lie facedown on the ground.” The guy who'd been driving had a low, calm voice. “Put your hands behind your head. Federal agents. You're under arrest.”
Monday. Morning
.
Ethan missing for sixty-two and a half hours
Devereaux raised his gun and fired above the agents' heads. The shot was deafening in the enclosed space, but the discomfort was worthwhile. Devereaux had hit his target. A rusty wire cage attached to the whitewashed ceiling. The lightbulb inside it shattered, causing the circuit breaker to trip and plunging the garage into darkness. Devereaux moved to his right, agonizingly slowly to avoid making any sound, and he reached the shelter of a dusty Ford Taurus just as the emergency lights kicked in.
“This is your final warning.” The first agent's arms were stretched out and he was snapping his gun from side to side as he scanned the indistinct shadows thrown by the dimly lit rows of cars. “Surrender yourself. Right now.”
Devereaux slid his hand into his pocket. His fingers worked their way through its contents until they found the keys to his Porsche. His thumb located the recessed panic button on the rear of the fob. And pressed.
In its stall at the far side of the garage the Porsche's lights began to flash manically fast, staining the fume-ridden air a dirty orange, and its alarm howled like a scalded banshee. Devereaux heard the
agents start toward it. He scuttled forward, dodging between the parked cars and the rough concrete wall until he reached the double doors that led to the stairs. He eased the doors open, slipped through the gap, and closed them silently behind him.
Devereaux was about to start up the perforated mesh steps when he spotted a plastic container of rat bait fixed to the floor in the corner, beneath a pair of horizontal, four-inch pipes. He doubled back. Checked the trap's depth. Wrenched it free. Jammed it through the doors' D-shaped handles. Turned back to the stairs. And reached for his phone.
Lieutenant Hale answered on the first ring. “Cooper, where are you?”
“I just left the garage, under my building. Two agents followed me here. They tried to arrest me. What the hell's going on?”
“Damn. Emrich pulled me in and told me, like, one second ago.”
“Told you what? That they think I'm the one who took Ethan? This is crazy!”
“No, Cooper. That's not it at all.”
“Look, I get that I fit their profile, but check my record! I was here in Birmingham when the other kids disappeared. I've never even been to half those states.”
“Cooper! They don't think you took the kid. They were on you for another reason.”
“What other reason? What have
I
done?”
“The Feds were watching Vernon last night. They saw you go into the restaurant. They had parabolic mikes trained on the upstairs window.”
“But that's bullshit! I told you I went to Vernon's!”
“I know. I explained it to Emrich. He's handling liaison on this personally, with the special agent in charge of the Birmingham Field Office. A guy called Larry McMahan.”
“What happens next?”
“You said you got away?”
“Damn right.”
“Are either of the agents hurt?”
“No. They're fine.”
“Good. Emrich wants you to surrender. Go back. Find them. Emrich's coming down there himself with McMahan, to straighten everything out.”
Emrich was coming in person, instead of letting Hale handle it? That couldn't be good. Next stop, Internal Affairs, was Devereaux's guess. And another long spell out of the field.
“Cooper?” The anxiety was plain in Hale's voice. “Did you hear me?”
“I heard you, Lieutenant. No problem.”
“Good. Now don't do anything stupid.”
Monday. Morning
.
Ethan missing for sixty-two and three-quarter hours
Devereaux was pinned in by agents from both directions.
He could see a pair of them in a blue Lincoln sedan parked beneath the flag flying from the Longshore Building on Second Avenue, twenty yards from the City Federal's south entrance. He spotted another pair in a black Suburban in the corner of the open lot on Arrington Boulevard opposite the other, east entrance. Devereaux toyed with the idea of creating a diversion. He could call 911 and say someone was trying to drag a kid into a minivan. The chaos that would be caused when the squad cars arrived would give him plenty of opportunities to escape. But he rejected that option right away. It was in bad taste, given that Ethan was still missing. It could hurt the investigation. And it would take too long. The agents he'd trapped in the garage would have the door open any minute. Or they could leave it jammed, use the clicker in Devereaux's Charger to open the barrier, and run up the vehicle ramp.
Arrington Boulevard was his preferred direction so Devereaux made his decision. He stepped out onto the sidewalk. Turned left in front of the City Federal's line of solid, Ionic columns. Glanced across the street as he passed the entrance to the First Commercial drive-through ATM, to make sure the agents had seen him. Made
another left into Third Avenue, following the brick and terra-cotta perimeter of the Massey Building, and then ducked between the spiral-fluted pillars and through its fake-gold entrance doors.
Devereaux badged the doorman then stepped past him, heading down a broad, brightly lit corridor with a pale purple carpet that led deeper into the building. He ignored the sober brass plaques identifying the half-dozen law firms that rented suites in the building and followed the carpet all the way to the rear exit, emerging into a scrubby square of grass and rubble where three of the attorneys parked their Cadillacs. Keeping low, he used the cars for cover until he reached the narrow, roughly paved alley that runs between Arrington and 20th. Then he turned right. Sprinted another hundred yards along the uneven surface. And unlocked the entrance to a small garage that was tucked away behind a tattoo parlor.
There were only five stalls in the garage, and Devereaux had rented all of them since before he moved into the City Federal building. He paid cash, a year at a time, money up front, and had never met the landlord in person. He only used one of the spaces. He kept a dull green 2003 Jeep Grand Cherokee there. It had false plates. Smoked glass. A full tank of gas. And a hook-up to a trickle charger to make sure it was always ready to go.
Devereaux fired up the Jeep and drove directly to Shuttlesworth Airportâpassing not far from the spot on 60th Street where the hooker's body had been dumpedâand pulled into the short-term garage. He parked the Jeep in a grubby two-space alcove next to the entrance to the elevator lobby on level two. He made his way to arrivals. Then took a cab straight back into the city.
Devereaux had the cab drop him outside Tom Vernon's restaurant, and he made no attempt to hide as he approached the entrance. The maître d' scowled at him as he stepped inside, but this time Devereaux didn't worry about finding a table. He just told the guy to fetch his boss.
Three minutes later Devereaux was back in one of the leather armchairs in the second-floor office, sitting next to his childhood friend. He held a finger to his lips, then mimed the action of writing
on his palm. Vernon nodded and fetched a pen and a pad of paper from the desk.
FBI listening
, Devereaux wrote.
Devereaux passed the note to Vernon. He read it and nodded. Then he pulled out an antique gold lighter, set the note on fire, and dropped the flaming remains into an ashtray.
Need to put agreement on ice. Too risky right now. Need to ride out investigation. Find leak. Then talk. OK?
Vernon read that note, too, burned it, then motioned for Devereaux to hand the pad to him.
How long will that take?
Devereaux shrugged.
How long have Feds been snooping?
Devereaux shrugged again.
How got on to me? What they want? Watching my other places?
Devereaux shrugged for a third time.
OK
. Vernon wrote quickly.
Contact when time right. You did stand-up thing, warning me. Will remember it
.
Devereaux motioned for the pad.
Welcome! But need 1 favor. Limo / SUV nearby? Black windows? + driver?
Vernon nodded.
Take me to airport? Need to disappearâ¦
Devereaux climbed into Vernon's black Escalade when it pulled up outside the restaurant, fifteen minutes later. He couldn't see any agents watching from the mansion across the street, but he knew they were there. And as if for confirmation, a silver Ford Taurus had tucked in behind them before they reached the first intersection. Devereaux told the driver not to take any special precautions, so the Taurus had no trouble staying on their tail all the way to Shuttlesworth.
As they approached the airport Devereaux directed the driver to the short-term garage. The Taurus followed, keeping close through the sprawling maze of curving access roads. The Escalade rolled up to the nearest entry machine and the driver reached out and took a ticket. The barrier rose. The Escalade pulled through. Then Devereaux
told the driver to stop. Back up. And slam into the barrier hard enough to disable its mechanism, but not to snap its red-and-white-striped arm right off.
A Toyota minivan had pulled up behind the Taurus, penning the agents in. It took them four minutes to extricate their car and negotiate the next entry barrier in line. Four minutes was plenty of time for the Escalade to ascend one level and stop near the elevator lobby, blocking the view of any passersby as Devereaux switched vehicles. And then pull away, with no one else in the world knowing that Devereaux was no longer on board.
The woman had expected the boy to be bouncing off the walls when she got back from her lunchtime visit to the Business Center. Especially after the late start they'd made that morning.
A placatory promise of ice cream was already on her lips as she unlocked the door. But when she pushed it open, she was greeted only by silence. For a moment she panicked. Could he have wandered off, despite the warnings she'd drummed into him? Cried for help, and been taken away by another guest? Or a hotel employee? Found where she'd hidden the phone, figured out how to plug it back in, and called the front desk? Or the police?
The woman ventured farther into the room to investigate and heard slow, heavy breathing coming from the bed by the window. It was OK. The boy was propped up on a mound of pillows in front of the TV.
Blue's Clues
was playing, but the sound was off. He was fast asleep.
She leaned against the wall, letting her heart rate return to normal. Then the woman took a step toward the bed, ready to wake the boy and suggest they return to the park. But before she could reach out and touch him, she changed her mind. A little time quietly reading in the air-conditioned room would be much more pleasant than
diving straight back into the screeching mayhem outside in the blazing sun.
The woman pulled a novel out of her suitcase and settled into the armchair near the window. She read half a page. Then she put the book back, swapping it for a stack of four worn manila folders that had been buried beneath her clothes. She fanned the folders out on the carpet at her feet and read the faded, handwritten titles:
Raymond Kerr
.Cooper Devereaux
.Mitchell Burke
.Madison Nesbitt
.
She picked up the last file, opened it, and studied the black-and-white photograph that was stapled inside the front cover. It was of a little girl. She was five years old, with wide, innocent eyes. Fine, pale hair. Crooked teeth. And a beaming smile. The woman hardly recognized her younger self.
She closed the file and ran her fingers across the title, feeling the letters as if they were Braille.
Madison Nesbitt
.
That was a name she hadn't used for many, many years.