False Positive (18 page)

Lunch break was over.

The little girl ran back inside the house, ready for whatever lesson her mother had lined up for her next. The woman watched until the child had disappeared from the screen, then closed the browser window. She opened three more. Logged on to three of her web mail portals. And made the final checks on her deliveries.

It was tedious work, but it paid to be thorough. She made a mental note to stress the point with her successor. The kind of things they needed couldn't be picked up at a local store. And they couldn't be rustled up at the last moment. Not without drawing undue attention. Timing and coordination were everything.

And that was made extra difficult when you couldn't risk using the same supplier for more than one product. You couldn't use the same one for subsequent jobs. You couldn't schedule multiple deliveries on the same day. You had to use different names. Pay with different credit cards. You couldn't call, to sort any wrinkles out over the phone.

And you certainly could never meet anyone face-to-face.

Monday. Afternoon
.

Ethan missing for sixty-eight and a half hours

Devereaux stood on the stone path a hundred feet from the steps that led to Vulcan's column and nervously checked his watch.

Waiting in that place took him back to his childhood. The column had been clad in marble in those days, concealing the original rough limestone that was now visible again, but the sensation of doubt and worry he felt remained the same. As a kid, he'd gone there whenever he was on the run from a foster home, wondering if Tom Vernon or another one of his school friends would come through with their promises of food and shelter. That day he'd gone to meet Mike Freeman, a cop he'd known since the Academy. They'd been through plenty together, over the years. But Devereaux still couldn't be sure that Freeman hadn't reported his questions to Lieutenant Hale. Or even Internal Affairs.

Five minutes later—ten minutes after Freeman should have arrived—Devereaux caught sight of him skirting around a gaggle of young kids who'd been rolling down the grassy slope where the water cascade used to be. Freeman was a little younger than Devereaux, but the years hadn't been kind to him. His fondness for cold beer and fried food hadn't helped, either, and as he drew close Devereaux
could see the sheen of sweat covering his old friend's ample cheeks and forehead.

“Hey, Cooper.” Freeman was breathing heavily. “Mind if we find somewhere to sit?”

The two men walked together in silence until they reached a wooden bench. It was in the shade of a pink dogwood, and out of earshot of the kids and parents and old folks who were scattered around, enjoying the afternoon sun.

“Thanks for coming, Mike. I appreciate it.” Devereaux shifted a little closer. “What I need to know doesn't sound like much, but it's important, believe me. It's about the forensics report for the Tomcik homicide. Was—”

“You need to drop this, Cooper.” Freeman held up his hands. “Right now. Anything that connects you to Tomcik—bury it. Then forget you ever knew him. Tomcik was toxic.”

“I don't believe that. The man saved my life.”

“Maybe he did. But I won't beat around the bush, Cooper. There are other things, and they don't look good.”

“Like what?”

“I can't get into it.”

“Mike, come on! Don't hold out on me.”

“I'm not. But where do I even start?” Freeman shrugged. “Tomcik's whole life's a hornets' nest. Internal Affairs had been sniffing around him for years. They never got a result, but things were different back then. Cops closed ranks, no matter what. The climate's different these days. And now that he's dead, it's open season. Forensic accountants are being brought in to run down some kind of money trail. And don't forget the girls you found. Whether Carver smuggled them in or whether someone else did, they're here illegally. They were being pimped out. And they were at Tomcik's house.”

“We don't know anything about those girls.”

“We do. Vice has sat them down with translators. A picture's starting to emerge. There's talk of connections with Mexico, maybe also Canada. And Tomcik's neighbors have reported seeing other girls coming and going at strange times. For all we know, Tomcik was behind the whole thing himself. He could have been dirty his entire career. So for your own good, Cooper, stay out of this.”

“OK.” Devereaux raised his hands as if in surrender. “I get the picture. I'll back off. If you just tell me this one thing: Was there any trace of a second victim's blood in Tomcik's house? In his kitchen? Enough to suggest a second homicide?”

Freeman didn't answer. He sat in silence for a moment, then made to stand up.

“Mike?” Devereaux reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “I'll find out. One way or another. A little boy's life is at stake. So if you really want me to stay out of trouble, tell me. Right now.”

“I should never have come here.” Freeman flopped back onto the bench and crossed his arms over his protruding gut. “OK. Yes. Large traces of blood were found. Consistent with a victim bleeding out. Someone had tried to clean it up with bleach. Same with the smaller trace near the back door.”

“There were two victims, aside from Tomcik?”

“Isn't that what I just said?”

Devereaux took a breath. “Any DNA?”

“The samples are at the lab. It's too early for any results.”

Monday. Afternoon
.

Ethan missing for sixty-nine and a half hours

Lieutenant Hale was a ball of impatience, bouncing back and forth behind Devereaux's and Loflin's chairs as she waited for Bruckner and Grandison to arrive at the fourth-floor conference room. She contained herself until they'd taken their seats. Then she turned and gestured to the wall displays with both arms spread wide.

“Look a little different, don't they?” She scooped up a handwritten note from the floor and pinned it back on the
Crane Friends
section. “Because we've explored all the usual avenues. We've searched, and re-searched, and searched again. But we still don't have Ethan. We've gone well beyond the sixty-hour mark, and you don't need me to tell you how serious that is. What I will say is that me going to Mary Lynne and Joseph and telling them their little boy's not coming home? Not an option. The Birmingham PD and the FBI getting skewered in the press for failing to save him? Not an option. And what I'll tell you is this: I know you've all been giving a hundred percent. But we need more. We need to do whatever it takes to find Ethan. We need to look at whoever needs to be looked at. Does everyone follow?”

There was a murmur of assent around the room.

“Good. Now, remember—this is about finding Ethan, and nothing
else. I don't want any tribalism or defensiveness here. OK—let's get the ball rolling. As you all know, yesterday afternoon Detective Devereaux rescued two girls from the house of a guy called Hayden Tomcik. A homicide victim.”

“Tomcik?” Bruckner had fired up his laptop and was taking notes. “That name rings a bell. He was a retired cop?”

“Yes, he was.” Hale nodded. “Now, since yesterday, Vice has been working with the girls, and they've pieced together the bulk of their story. It's not an unusual one, sadly. They're from Hungary. They wanted to come to America to make their fortunes. They got hooked up with a bunch of low-lifes who smuggled them here with a couple dozen other girls, all crammed into some kind of modified cargo container. They had no money, so the deal was they'd pay for their passage when they arrived. Working in the
hospitality
business. Only their understanding of hospitality didn't match what the assholes who'd brought them here had in mind.”

“The assholes being Sean Carver's crew?” Bruckner stopped typing for a second.

“Correct.” Hale frowned. “These girls told Vice they were transported in the same group as the girl Devereaux found dead at Carver's warehouse. And they each separately identified a picture of the girl who was found with her throat cut on 60th, a couple of weeks back. The one whose body was dumped out of the white Honda that was used to abduct Ethan Crane.”

“And this guy, Tomcik?” Bruckner was shaky with the pronunciation. “Why were the girls at his house? What was his involvement? Was he tied into Carver's crew?”

“We're still working to clarify Tomcik's precise role.” Hale shot a hard stare at Devereaux, who stayed silent. “The girls say they were trying to escape, which is consistent with their behavior. But listen. Any dotted lines will be firmed up in due course. They're not the priority right now. Ethan is. And here's where we stand: You predicted a law enforcement link to Ethan's kidnapper. Carver is the common factor in all the evidence we have relating to Ethan—a prostitute Carver smuggled into the country was killed, and her body was dumped from the vehicle that was used to abduct Ethan. Therefore, the current law enforcement link is to the Carver investigation. Who
knows what other cases may have been involved in the past. But it means we need to cross-reference all personnel from the Carver investigation against their status and location when the other orphans went missing. We need that for the Bureau. For anyone who transferred into the Birmingham Police Department. And for the DEA. We know that whoever we're looking for is smart. And apparently above suspicion. They've been doing this for sixteen years, minimum, and getting away with it.”

“Lieutenant, do you know what you're asking for?” Bruckner had closed his computer and was looking distinctly pale. “A needle in a haystack. A giant haystack.”

“I do know. And I'm asking for it yesterday.”

The woman hoped that the little boy hadn't fallen asleep again. At least not unless he'd finished the task she'd set for him.

She hurried back from the Business Center, let herself into their room, and straightaway saw she needn't have worried. The boy was sitting on the bed, cross-legged, still working his way through the stack of problems she'd left him with. There were 144 of them, altogether. He had to pick between two possible answers for each one. Then put a candy in the green bowl for option A. Or in the blue bowl for option B.

The woman had told him that when he'd answered all of the questions, she'd count the candies in both bowls. She'd told him there'd be a prize if there were the right number in each one. But she hadn't told him that if he answered the way she expected him to, all the candies would be in the blue bowl. And that she'd also check how many of the spare ones he'd eaten without permission…

This was an exercise she'd developed herself. The questions were carefully designed to test a subject's attitude to a set of moral conundrums. They were posed from different angles and used contrasting language to ensure rogue responses were not disproportionately
weighted. And the stolen candy aspect gave it an interesting, alternate dimension.

The result wasn't the only criterion she used, obviously. There was the painstaking research, before rescuing each kid. The detailed observation of his or her behavior, during their treat and in the hotel. The subtle word association games she sneaked into their conversations. But it was the final assessment. The way to be sure that the next step was absolutely necessary.

She'd never known a kid able to escape its genes.

But she felt it was only right to check.

Monday. Late Afternoon
.

Ethan missing for seventy hours

This guy, Tomcik? What was his involvement?

Agent Bruckner had asked the question, and Devereaux knew it would make no practical difference who answered it. The past couldn't be changed. A man's actions couldn't be undone. But somehow, given everything that Tomcik had done to help him, Devereaux felt an obligation to be the one who uncovered the truth. However ugly it might turn out to be.

Why did he need to uncover it? Why did he not already have the answer? Devereaux felt a wave of regret wash over him. He should have stayed in better touch with the old guy. He should have helped him. Protected him, the way Tomcik had protected Devereaux after his father was killed. Kept him on the straight and narrow. Unless the temptation would have proved too great, leading Devereaux to stray from the path as well? Maybe that's why Tomcik had reached out to him. Pulled strings to get him into the police department. Eased him into place, like a sleeper agent, in case he was ever needed.

Devereaux felt like the ground beneath his feet was suddenly a little less secure.

Tomcik's front door had been locked, but Devereaux took care of that in seconds with his expired credit card. Inside, the house felt different, too. That's always the way after a forensic team's been to work and there's no owner left to straighten up. Things get dumped in the wrong locations, altering the ambience of a place. The stink of chemicals never gets properly dispersed. And the presence of so many people carrying out their morbid tasks—technicians, photographers, paramedics, detectives—leaves some intangible, psychic residue. Devereaux remembered that from his father's house. The atmosphere was never the same after the police tore it apart. Strangely, though, that was still the only place he ever really thought of as home.

Devereaux made straight for Tomcik's bathroom. He paused at the side of the tub and held his breath. The investigation had been focused on the kitchen, but if the crime scene techs had been über-efficient…Devereaux forced himself to stop borrowing trouble. He prodded the edge of the bath panel. It gave an inch. He swung it open wider, peered inside—and felt his intestines turn to lead.

The box was gone.

The files would be in the evidence locker by now. Secured. Cataloged. Photographed. How could Devereaux get his hands on them, without anyone finding out? He'd come up with a dozen different ways—and rejected every one—when another thought hit him. He'd read nearly every one of the files, yesterday, before being summoned back to headquarters. The contents were interesting, but hardly earth-shattering. Not worth committing murder for. There were only three or four files he hadn't touched. What were the odds of those ones being radically different? And yet, what was it Segard had said, from his hospital bed?
My partner kept records…

Tomcik's bedroom was the farthest room from the entrance, so Devereaux started there. The old man's broken possessions hadn't so much been processed as stirred around and heaped up in piles, like some kind of abstract art installation. Devereaux wondered who'd clean them up. And what would happen to the property? Who would want to live there now? That was another problem with his father's house. It had stood empty for ages after the old man was killed. Devereaux had liked to sneak away from his foster home and hang out
there on his own. It used to drive his foster parents crazy. They'd go out of their minds with fury. Lock him in their basement for a whole day without food each time he was caught there. But he still kept going back.

No one could compete with the memory of a cop killed in the line of duty, Devereaux figured. Maybe it would have been better if he'd been fostered by another cop. Someone who understood what the job meant. Suddenly Devereaux was conscious of a void in his life, and for a crazy moment he wondered if he should apply to foster a kid, himself. Then he stepped back onto the landing, and closed his mind to the past.

He worked his way slowly and systematically, room by room, throughout the whole house. He shifted every piece of furniture. Looked in every drawer and closet. Checked for hidden compartments and false panels. Looked behind every picture. Tested every inch of floor and wall for hollow areas.

And found nothing.

The tech crew had been particularly thorough in the kitchen. The floor, walls, countertops, table, chairs—even the ceiling—had all been thoroughly sprayed and scraped, but strangely that made the room seem shabbier. Every last dent and scratch and scuff was laid bare, shorn of its protective layer of everyday dirt. It seemed impersonal, too, as if all humanizing residue had been dissolved away with the grime, leaving only the inanimate structure behind.

Devereaux trudged back along the corridor, feeling dejected, until his gaze settled on the door to the closet. He realized it was the one place he hadn't checked. He hadn't deliberately ignored it. His subconscious must have guided him away, once again. He still wasn't keen to look inside. But it would be crazy to walk away and leave this one stone unturned.

There was nothing hanging from the rail in the closet, and the shelf—the twin of the one where Devereaux's father had kept his hats and gloves—was empty. The walls seemed solid. But Devereaux noticed a series of parallel scratches on the floor. He used his phone as a flashlight to get a clearer view, and saw the damage was recent. He was suddenly terrified that someone had beaten him to the jackpot. Then he remembered the women who'd hidden in there, the day
before. They'd been wearing ridiculously tall shoes. They'd probably shuffled around nervously, causing the damage with the tips of their heels.

Devereaux was almost certain he'd hit on the explanation, but he still couldn't turn away. Without consciously deciding to, he crouched down. His fingers moved on muscle memory, scrabbling for the join between the boards. The first one he tried was stuck solid. The second one moved. Only a fraction of an inch, but enough to tell him it wasn't nailed down. He kept prying at it, and didn't give up until it came loose. He lifted it. Shone his flashlight into the gap. And saw the side of a black metal box.

The next two boards came away more easily, and as more light flooded the space Devereaux could see a small footprint in the dust to the side of the box. A cleaner strip of wood, an eighth of an inch wide, was also visible around two of its sides. Someone had stepped into the crawl space, recently. They'd removed the box. Then put it back in a slightly different position.