False Positive (2 page)

Saturday. Early Morning
.

I'm in the closet. In the hallway. Two boards are loose. In the floor. I pull them up. Wriggle into the space below. Slide one back in place, above me. Hook my arm through the gap. Grab Daddy's spare boots. Put them on the board, so it'll look like it hasn't been moved. Slide the other board back. Then settle down in the dark, to wait
.

Just me and the bugs and the spiders
.

Why's Daddy so late? I want him to come home. I want him to find me, so I can come out. I'm hungry. And I need the bathroom. Real bad
.

The front door opens, but the creaks don't sound the way they're supposed to. The door doesn't close all the way. Daddy doesn't step into the hall. He doesn't kick off his boots. He doesn't start looking for me. He doesn't begin our game, the way he always does
.

Someone shouts: “This is the police.”

But it can't be the police, because Daddy's the police and it isn't Daddy's voice. It's another man's. A stranger's. Coming to hurt me?

“Police! Show yourself. Whoever's in the house, show yourself. Right now.”

I know the rules. Never come out. Wait for Daddy to find me.
Whatever anyone says. It's the only way to stay safe. I hold my breath. Lie extra still
.

“Come on.” Another voice that isn't Daddy's. “The kid's got to be here, somewhere. We've got to find him…”

Cooper Devereaux's subconscious took the sound of the blows raining down on his cabin door and merged them into his dream. They became footsteps. Invading his house. Heading down the hallway. Reaching the closet. He was seconds away from being discovered…

But the noise kept on getting louder. It didn't stop. Ten seconds thundered by. Twenty. And that wasn't right. That wasn't how it was supposed to go. Something stirred, deep inside Devereaux's brain. It dragged him back to wakefulness, chasing away the unwelcome echoes from the past, leaving him blinking and disoriented on his moldering leather couch.

“Hello?” Devereaux reached down, picked his gun up from the floor, and pulled it back beneath his empty, stained, patchwork comforter cover. “Who is it?”

Saturday. Early Morning
.

Jan Loflin took the outfit off the hanger and held it against her slender body.

She closed her eyes and tried not to retch as a wave of vulgar perfume and spilled beer and someone else's sweat washed over her. She recalled how it felt to pull the flimsy strips of shiny material over her head. How the neckline plunged obscenely toward her midriff. How the skirt barely reached the tops of her thighs. How it made her small, thin frame look a decade younger than her twenty-four years. How it made the men—
those
men—stare at her. Leer at her. Paw at her…

For a month after her meltdown she hadn't been able to open the closet door. For another two weeks she hadn't been able to touch the dress, or any of the other half-dozen similar ones that hung next to it. Or any of the wigs, lined up over their stands like hunting trophies on the shelf above. Now she was up to handling these things, but she still couldn't bear to put any of the slut-rags on.

Would she ever be able to?

Maybe she wouldn't ever have to, if she did this next job right
.

Loflin replaced the dress. Lifted up a box of sparkly, five-inch-heeled pumps from the closet floor. Pulled out the folder she'd stored
there since it arrived unexpectedly in the mail the previous week. And moved back to the bed. She had ten minutes before she needed to leave. Fifteen probably, given that it was so early in the morning. And it was a Saturday. The I-65 should be slightly less insane than it was on a weekday.

Fifteen minutes. Enough time for her to check the facts for the thousandth time, before coming face-to-face with the next monster she was going to have to slay.

Saturday. Early Morning
.

“Police. This is Officer Jackson. Is anyone inside?”

“Jackson?” Devereaux hauled himself into a sitting position. “Come on in. It's not locked.”

The ancient hinges screeched, then a man in a Birmingham PD uniform stepped inside and looked around the small, rectangular room. The only permanent fixture was a hulking iron furnace to his left. It completely dominated the space, and the way its giant metal chimney extended up into the pitched roof put him in mind of an organ in a crude, rural church. A camping stove was set up on the rough wooden floor, next to the furnace. Four empty baked bean cans lay on one side of it, and another ten fresh ones were lined up on the other. There were a dozen bottles of water. A stack of six-packs of Devereaux's favorite beer—Avondale Battlefield IPA. And three large glass flasks full of some kind of clear liquid that, given his profession, Jackson decided not to ask any questions about.

“What?” Devereaux caught the expression on the officer's face as he took in the decrepit state of the walls and the ceiling. Jackson risked another cautious step forward. The shaft of light from the door joined a line of cracks and gaps in the floor and the officer was hit by a sudden vision of a laser beam cutting the building in two.
Although, given the condition the place was in, he figured a flashlight beam could probably do the job. The metallic blue Porsche gleaming in the sunshine outside the half-derelict cabin was the only external sign that Jackson had found his way to the right place. It left him thinking that Devereaux must have a very strange set of priorities.

“Officer?” Devereaux slid his legs out from under the comforter and slipped his bare feet into his scuffed brown boots. He was careful to make sure the gun remained concealed. “What's on your mind?”

“It's Lieutenant Hale. She wants you in her office. Immediately. If not sooner. Those were her exact words, Detective.”

Devereaux followed Jackson's squad car at a distance, nursing his Porsche over the bumps and exposed tree roots in the rough forest track until he reached the start of the paved road. He knew from experience that a cell signal usually became available at around that point, but he allowed himself a couple of fast miles before easing off the gas and reaching for his phone.

“Devereaux.” Lieutenant Hale picked up on the first ring. “Where are you?”

“On my way in, as ordered.” Devereaux changed lanes and left a chrome-encrusted RV dawdling in his wake. “What am I being blamed for this time? Global warming?”

Hale was one of the few people who knew anything about Devereaux's past. She knew he had skeletons. She knew that being a detective helped him keep them buried. And beyond that, she understood that the police department was more than just a job to him. It had taken the place of his family, with all the sensitivities and raw nerves that came with the package. If she'd been dealing with any of the other detectives in her squad, her approach would have been different. More robust, given the urgency of the situation. But with Devereaux, she figured she needed to show a little patience. She couldn't afford for him to walk away, back to the only other “family” he'd known since he was a kid.

“You're not being blamed for anything, Cooper.” Hale kept her voice deliberately calm and level. “In fact, it's the opposite. The accusation
that was made against you? It's been dropped. Your suspension's been lifted.”

Devereaux didn't respond.

“Cooper? Did you hear me? Everything's been taken care of. You're back on rotation.”

“The accusation was dropped.” Devereaux blasted the Porsche through a tight curve, enjoying the way the firm leather pressed against his back. “Why?”

“The woman who started all this? She called again. Last night. Admitted she'd been lying. Claimed she'd been paid to smear you, and wanted to clear her conscience before starting a new life in California.”

“Did you believe her?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. We triangulated on the place where she made the call. It was a roadside bar, thirty miles outside of the city. The right direction for someone heading out west. We found the phone she used. It was in the parking lot. Broken. Snapped in two. There were no prints. But there was a witness. He gave us a description. Too generic to be much help on its own, but he thought the woman was driving a minivan. There's a lot of road between here and the coast, Cooper. We'll find her. Make sure her story adds up.”

“I told you.” Devereaux wove his way through a pack of gray-bearded bikers on rumbling, antique Harleys. “I did nothing wrong. This was down to someone I sent to jail, carrying a grudge. Or a relative of someone I locked up, out for revenge.”

“You did tell me. I haven't forgotten.”

“Leave it to me.” Devereaux glanced in his rearview mirror, checking that all the bikers were still on two wheels. “I'll come up with some names. Knock on a few doors.”

“Good approach. But that can wait. Have you got a bathroom fixed up at your atrocity of a cabin yet?”

“No. Why?”

“When did you last wash? Change your clothes?”

“Tuesday. Fashion and hygiene aren't big priorities when you get wrongly put on suspension.”

“OK. Then go home. Shower. Shave. Do whatever you need to do
to make yourself presentable. And get to my office, like ten minutes ago.”

“Where's the fire?”

“You have a new case, Cooper. I'll tell you everything when you get here.”

“Tell me now.”

“When you get here.”

“You know, Lieutenant, I don't appreciate this. One minute you suspend me over some anonymous bullshit, and the next you want me jumping through hoops and won't even tell me why. So here's the thing. I may not be feeling too good. I may need to take some sick leave.”

“You're not sick, Cooper.”

“I may need some personal time, then. You know my atrocious cabin roof needs fixing. You've seen the state it's in.”

“Someone else can fix the roof, Cooper. OK? You want the bottom line? We have a missing person. A kid.”

Devereaux didn't reply.

“A little boy. He's seven years old.”

Devereaux felt like he was being pulled back into his dream.

“An orphan.”

The woman woke at first light and checked her phone. There were no new messages.

So far, so good.

She had no interest in going back to sleep so she reached for her book—a lighthearted introduction to what regular folk can learn from psychopaths—and spent the next couple of hours quietly reading. Then she felt the buzz of an incoming text:

Devereaux's been reinstated. He's en route to Hale's office. Apparently a kid's missing and she wants him on the case. Unbelievable!

The woman smiled, pulled on a fresh pair of surgeons' gloves, and got out of bed. She took her case from its place next to the door. Carried it to the bathroom. Took out the Ziploc bag she'd prepared five hours earlier. Removed the empty hydrogen peroxide bottle. Dropped it in the trash. Sprinkled a few bleached hairs in on top of it. Set the bag down next to the basin, ready to be used again. Placed a bottle of Rich Mahogany hair dye next to it. Then went back to the bedroom. To rouse the small, newly blond figure curled up in the other twin bed.

Saturday. Morning
.

The cabin had originally belonged to Devereaux's great-grandfather.

Devereaux had traced it through old city records fifteen years previously, and bought it in an attempt to reconnect with his family heritage. He slept there at least once a week, but Devereaux's real home was an apartment in the City Federal building on Second Avenue, a stone's throw from the police department headquarters in the heart of downtown Birmingham. He liked being close to the raw heartbeat of the city. He liked the building's height. The way it dominated the skyline, turning up its neo-classical nose at its plain, modern neighbors. He liked its polished white terra-cotta cladding (which was no longer falling off) and its balanced, elegant proportions. The bold neon sign that once again blazed extravagantly on its roof at night. But most of all he liked the fact that it had started its life as an office building. It's still the same on the outside. But inside, it's completely different. It had started over. Remade, top to bottom.

Just like him.

When Devereaux graduated from the Academy he bought a small, discreet studio on the sixth floor of a converted warehouse at Sixth and Sixth. He got it for a song, which was good because he hadn't
wanted to invite questions about how a rookie street cop with no inheritance and no record of any legitimate employment could afford to live in a higher-profile place. He stayed there, even after he made detective. But his eye had been caught when the renovations began at the City Federal. His mind was made up by the time the neon sign was re-lit. And finally, he treated himself. He moved to a three-bedroom unit on the twenty-fifth floor. He was the first resident to occupy the newly refurbished building, and he added stunning city views—all the way south to the giant cast-iron statue of Vulcan, god of the forge, standing proud on his column at the foot of the Red Mountain—to the list of things he liked about the place. But that was the best part of ten years ago, and two of the bedrooms remained empty.

Devereaux unlocked his door and hurried inside. He stepped over the work clothes that were scattered across the dark walnut floor where he'd flung them on Tuesday night when he'd stormed home after Hale broke the news about his suspension. He peeled off his jeans and his Clash “
I Fought the Law
” T-shirt—which had been torn in a fight years ago with a couple of old-timers who didn't appreciate the irony of him wearing it to a cop bar—and quickly hit the shower. He was tempted to skip his shave, but the quantity of gray staring back at him in the mirror changed his mind. Finally, he grabbed a blue button-down shirt and a pair of khaki pants from the freestanding rack he kept in his bedroom in place of a closet. Pulled them on. And was good to go inside ten minutes.

One advantage of living in an ex–office building is the plentiful supply of elevators at your disposal—a holdover from the days when they were needed to whisk the eager wage-slaves to their desks as quickly as possible. But that day it seemed to take an eternity for one to arrive. The bank of polished brass doors seemed to be frozen in time after Devereaux hit the Call button. Eventually a pair slid open and Devereaux rode down alone in a car, willing the antique indicator needle to move faster and replaying Lieutenant Hale's parting words in his head. A little boy. Missing. Runaway? Alone and vulnerable? Or worse?

Devereaux stepped out into the marble-lined lobby. He skirted around a little knot of older residents who were spending their Saturday
morning standing next to the building's twin stacks of mailboxes and complaining about the fares on the DART trolleys. He headed for the exit.

Then he stopped.

Something about one of the seniors had caught Devereaux's eye. An old man. Maybe in his early eighties. He was standing apart from the rest of the group, leaning—almost hunched over—against the round font-like table in the center of the lobby. His thin gray hair was uncombed. His lean face was grizzled with white stubble. And he was wearing a light-colored raincoat, which made no sense on such a sunny June day.

The rest of the seniors drifted into an elevator and the doors closed, leaving Devereaux and the old guy staring at each other, twenty feet apart, like weary gunslingers in an old Western. Then the guy pushed himself away from the table and took an unsteady step toward Devereaux. His coat sagged open, revealing the dried bloodstain on his shirt.

“Cooper?” He was swaying on his feet. “Cooper Devereaux?”

“Who's asking?”

“Son, be careful. She knows.”

Then the old guy sank to his knees and pitched forward, face-first onto the hard, tiled floor.