False Positive (19 page)

Monday. Late Afternoon
.

Ethan missing for seventy and three-quarter hours

Devereaux lifted the metal box out of the crawl space and carried it to the living room. He sat down on the couch and set the box next to him. It had a lock, but that had already been forced. The lid swung open easily. Inside, Devereaux counted twenty-two files, with room for another four or five. He pulled one out at random and saw it was divided into two sections. The first followed a standard format, much as the files in the other batch had done. It had copies of police department forms along with supplementary notes typed on official paper and signed by the case officers. The second part was Tomcik's personal contribution. It was all handwritten, and some passages were bordering on illegible.

The case involved a local pimp called Kelsey Pike. Tomcik had arrested him multiple times over an eighteen-month period, and if his reports were true, Pike was a very nasty piece of work indeed. He was accused of rape. Vicious beatings. Drug dealing. Extortion. But on every occasion he'd escaped without conviction. The cops suspected witness intimidation and bribery, but nothing had been proved.

Tomcik arrested Pike for the final time in September 1971. Pike
had believed one of his girls had been holding out on him, trying to scrape a little extra cash together to buy clothes for her infant son. She'd wound up in the hospital. Pike had made bail. And then disappeared. Tomcik and his partner had gone through the motions of looking for him. They didn't find him. But Pike's body did show up, six months later. It was discovered by some workmen in the basement of a building that was being prepared for demolition. The corpse's legs had both been broken, and several of its teeth were smashed.

No assailant was ever identified.

The next file Devereaux looked at told of a rapist who'd been active in the poorer suburbs of Birmingham in 1973. He was suspected of a string of attacks, but was only arrested twice. The first time he walked, after the victim withdrew her complaint and refused to testify. The second time, he attacked a sixty-two-year-old grandmother. Tomcik was called to the scene. The rapist tried to run. He was hit by a passing car, and died later that day in the hospital.

The driver was never identified.

The next dozen files told similar stories. Tomcik was apparently adept at finding ways to ensure that when the justice system left cracks, the city's vilest evildoers didn't slip through them. Not too many times, anyway. What he'd done wasn't strictly legal. In truth, many of his actions were downright criminal. Could these have been the things that Internal Affairs had caught wind of? Devereaux had never advocated vigilantism, but he could understand why Tomcik had acted the way he had. He'd been wrong, but he hadn't been
wrong
. Devereaux was beginning to feel guilty for doubting his old mentor. Assuming that these kinds of things were all that he'd done…

Devereaux reached for another file, and right away he saw that the format was different from the others. There was no official opening section. Only Tomcik's handwritten entries, which were laid out in the style of a ledger. At the top of each page was the title UGR, followed by a series of names. The first was “
Flossie
,” in quotation marks. Then “
Bella
,” “
Trixie
,” “
Ginger
,” and more, all in the same vein. Then came dates. Then a value in dollars, ranging
from $100 to $700. And in the last column, a country. Mexico. Or Canada.

Mexico or Canada
.

The countries he'd heard Freeman mention that afternoon, in relation to human trafficking…

The woman stopped talking and turned her back.

Dealing with naughty kids was nothing new to her. Even the most placid ones were bound to have at least one insolent episode in the course of an expedition. This little boy had been remarkably low maintenance ever since leaving Birmingham three days ago. He hadn't acted up at all, right up until he realized it was his last night at the park. He wanted to stay longer, which the woman took as a kind of compliment. But she certainly wasn't going to stand for his refusal to go to bed while she went to work on removing all traces of their presence from the room.

Her training had taught her how to handle even the most willful of children. The key was to make them desperate for your attention, not the other way round. Her experience over the years had shown her lots of ways to achieve this, but she found turning her back was the simplest method. Kids instinctively know you won't give in to their demands if you're not even listening to them.

She always had to work a little harder with kids she was rescuing, of course. It had been much easier with her own daughter.

But then, look at the genes…

Monday. Evening
.

Ethan missing for seventy-one and a quarter hours

The first pages in Tomcik's UGR file dated back to the 1970s, but the entries kept coming long after Tomcik had retired from the department.

Devereaux was slumped on the couch, robotically flicking through one sheet after another. His eyes were half registering details from the '80s and '90s and 2000s. His brain was struggling to come to terms with what he was seeing. His imagination was linking the handwritten names with the frightened faces of the girls he'd found in Tomcik's closet. And with the lifeless faces of the girls from Carver's warehouse and the dump site on 60th Street.

By the time he reached the 2010s, Devereaux was feeling utterly dejected. He was about to admit defeat when he noticed a loose piece of paper lying facedown at the bottom of the metal box. Assuming it had fallen from one of the files, he fished it out and turned it over. And saw that, instead, it was an index sheet for the whole set. It listed twenty-six titles.

The first one read:
UNDERGROUND RAILROAD
.

It took a moment to sink in. Under Ground Railroad. UGR! He'd gotten it wrong. Hale had gotten it wrong. Internal Affairs had gotten it wrong. Tomcik hadn't been smuggling girls into the country.
He'd been spiriting them out. Getting them over the border, north or south. And then probably back to their home countries. But wherever they went when they left the United States, it didn't matter to Devereaux. What counted was that even though Tomcik may not have been playing by the rules, he'd by no means been in the wrong. He hadn't been
toxic
, as Freeman had called him. He'd been rescuing the weak. The vulnerable. He'd been a hero.

Devereaux leapt off the couch and started spinning around the room, punching the air while his feet unintentionally stirred up the smattering of broken ornaments and books and cushion stuffing that covered the floor. He gave himself a minute to celebrate. Then he bent down to recover the index sheet, which had floated off the couch in all the excitement. He grabbed it, and his eye fell on one of the titles farther down the list. He blinked and looked again, to check he wasn't seeing things. He sat back down. Steadied himself. Cross-referenced the remainder of the entries against the subjects of the files he'd just worked through. Highlighted three more names. Then pulled out his phone and called Hale.

Monday. Evening
.

Ethan missing for seventy-two and a quarter hours

Lieutenant Hale was waiting for Devereaux in the lobby of his building when he arrived. She greeted him with a cold stare, and they rode up in the elevator together in silence.

“Your mind works in strange ways, Cooper.” Hale waited for him to open the locks on the door to his apartment. “Who hears their boss order them not to investigate a homicide—under any circumstances—and then goes to the victim's house regardless and pokes around under his floorboards? Give me one reason not to put you right back on suspension.”

“I'll give you two.” Devereaux walked through the open-plan living space to the corner kitchen and took a couple of beers out of the refrigerator. “It's a good thing I didn't listen to you. I cleared Tomcik's name by poking around under those boards. And I found the key to getting Ethan back.”

“You're talking about the missing files?” Hale hesitated, then took the bottle Devereaux offered her.

“Right.” Devereaux crossed the room, stopped in front of the giant window, and raised his bottle to the distant figure of Vulcan. “They concerned four people. Me. Raymond Kerr—the guy who
killed my father, may he burn in Hell. And two names I didn't recognize. Mitchell Burke. And Madison Nesbitt.”

“Mitchell Burke?” Hale moved and stood next to Devereaux. “That name rings a bell.”

“I Googled him in the car on the way back here. He was a murderer. Strangled a dozen people in Birmingham in the late sixties and early seventies. His last victim was Madison Nesbitt's father. Tomcik was the one who brought him down.”

“What happened to him?” Fine lines traced their way across Hale's forehead. “Is he still in jail? I don't remember reading about a trial.”

“There wasn't one.” Devereaux took a mouthful of beer. “It was suicide by cop. Madison Nesbitt's mother was already dead, so she was left an orphan. She ended up in foster care, like I did. I figure Tomcik kept an eye on her, the same as he did for me. Hence the files.”

“You think this Nesbitt took them?”

“Well, I didn't. Kerr and Burke are dead. Who else could it have been? A random stranger? I think she found out, or figured out, that Tomcik had a file on her and the asshole who killed her father.” Devereaux turned his back to the window. “She went to Tomcik's house and tortured him into giving up the files. Then fate threw a curveball. I'm guessing that a hooker—the one who wound up getting dumped on 60th—showed up looking for Tomcik's help at exactly the wrong time. So Nesbitt killed her to keep her quiet. A utility killing, like Dr. Barratt said. Bronson Segard—Tomcik's longtime partner—must have been with the girl. He was wounded, but got away. I bet the second blood trace in Tomcik's kitchen is his.”

“Nesbitt could have used the Honda to dump the girl's body.” Hale drummed her fingers on the bridge of Devereaux's binoculars, leaving a line of overlapping smudges on its shiny surface. “But why would she bother moving it?”

“If she understands law enforcement like the FBI thinks she does, she'd definitely have left the body where we found it. We might not have busted our asses looking for a missing whore—sad, but true—but one of Carver's pimps certainly would. They wouldn't allow a valuable asset to just disappear. And if her body was found at Tomcik's house, next to his, that would spark off the hunt for a cop killer.
Nesbitt wouldn't have wanted that kind of attention if she was preparing to abduct a kid. She was probably staking out the Crane house the whole time she was in town.”

“OK.” Hale took hold of Devereaux's elbow. “I've heard enough for now. I'll talk to the Bureau. See what they know about Nesbitt. In the meantime, try to work up some leads of your own. Then get some sleep. And pray that by the morning I've forgotten about the crap you pulled today.”

Monday. Late Evening
.

Ethan missing for seventy-five hours

Being told to go to sleep is one thing. Going to sleep is another thing altogether.

Devereaux's first foster mother used to shriek at him to go to sleep, every night. He always wanted to play. Or read. Or explore. To do anything but close his eyes and be transported back into the crawl space under the closet with the spiders, where Tomcik found him. His foster mother never knew that, though. He never told her. He just closed his eyes and waited for the yelling to stop. Then he got out of bed. Slipped his clothes on over his pajamas. Climbed out of his bedroom window. And ran back to his father's house. No one new lived there yet. He had the whole place to himself. He could do as he pleased. Just like when his daddy was at work. All he had to do was steer clear of that closet.

Devereaux's second foster home was too far from his father's house to make nocturnal visits feasible, and he was out of the habit by the time he was moved to the third. But for some reason that night, lying cocooned in soft Egyptian cotton and with the drapes wide open so he felt like he was floating above the city, all he could think about was that old house. He knew sleep wasn't coming any time
soon. So he got out of bed. Changed into clean clothes. And grabbed the keys to his Porsche.

He had to find the way to his childhood neighborhood more by instinct than memory, because so many of the landmarks had changed. The trees he remembered had grown bigger—or were missing entirely. The stores where he'd bought candy on the rare occasions he had money were both closed. The street corners he'd fought for, shoulder to shoulder with his friends, had mostly been remodeled.

Devereaux paused at the last intersection before his father's street and closed his eyes so that he could picture the place as it had been. He opened them. Turned. Coasted around the final, shallow curve. And found himself facing an empty space.

The space wasn't completely empty, Devereaux realized. There was a rusty chain-link fence slung between cracked concrete posts. Giant weeds. Overgrown bushes and trees. Broken glass. Wooden packing crates. Garbage and abandoned household appliances of every kind. Just not a house.

Devereaux pulled out his phone and checked the GPS. It confirmed he was in the right place. But what the hell had happened there? He got out of the car and pushed through a hole in the fence. He moved forward cautiously, using his phone as a flashlight and trying to weave around the worst of the thorny foliage that was tearing at his face and clothes. Chunks of half-buried rubble caught his feet, tripping him or throwing him off balance by shifting when he stepped on them. He slowed, approaching the looming shadows where his father's house had been, and heard a sharp, snapping noise to his right. An animal? It was close. He spun toward it, ready to defend himself. Then he relaxed.

“Hi.” Devereaux took a step back, conscious now of the stench from the skinny, half-naked, gray-haired guy who was trying to scuttle further beneath a tangle of branches. “Who are you?”

“Are you from the government?” For a second the old guy looked quite fierce.

“No. I'm from here.”

“What do you mean? Don't talk in riddles, man.”

“I'm not. I was born here. In the house that used to be right in this yard.”

“There hasn't been a house here for years.”

“It was years ago when I lived here. In my father's house. Right on this spot. Did it burn down, or something? Do you know what happened to it?”

“It didn't burn down.” The old man shuffled forward as if he wanted to leave the shelter of the branches, then thought better of it and reversed. “They knocked it down. They had to.”

“They knocked it down?” Devereaux felt a surge of anger flood through him. “Who did? When?”

“In 1980.”

“Don't be ridiculous. How would you know that?”

“I know my dates—1776, 1865, 1918, 1945, 1969, 2001—”

“Who was President when they knocked it down?”

“The peanut guy.”

Devereaux wasn't expecting that. “Who won the World Series?”

“The Phillies.”

“Who won the Super Bowl?”

“Who the hell cares?”

“OK. In 1980, the house was demolished. Why?”

“Easy. No one would buy it. The place was cursed. The whole lot still is. That's why no one bothers me when I sleep here. Till you showed up, anyway. Stay, and you might see the Devil himself. He used to live here. When I saw you coming I was pretty sure you were him.”