False Positive (9 page)

The woman didn't know which was worse: The swarms of screeching children. The endless lines. The inane rides. Or the guys stalking around in creepy character costumes. But all these things were minor irritants, next to the problem of the security cameras.

It had been impossible to find out in advance how many there were, though not for a lack of trying. So she came up with an estimate, based on other places she'd taken kids for their treats in the past. At first, she thought her calculations were reasonably accurate. But she soon realized that there were way more cameras than she'd bargained for. They were well concealed, but once she got the hang of where to look, she saw they were everywhere. That was another strike against the place. If someone could sit in a bunker and watch the entire park on TV screens, it took away the advantage of its size. And made it harder to disappear into the crowd, should that become necessary.

She decided that for the rest of their stay, she'd switch wigs and sunglasses four times a day. That might be overkill, but it never hurt to take precautions.

Sunday. Morning
.

Ethan missing for thirty-seven and a half hours

Devereaux watched Vulcan's bulky silhouette shrink in his mirror as he accelerated up the first straight stretch of I-65 as it led out of the city to the north, then he slowed to skirt around an ambulance that was tending to the victims of a collision. The future looked bleak for one of them, Devereaux thought. That reminded him of how Vulcan's torch used to glow red on days when there'd been a traffic fatality, back when he was a kid. Although in those days his father had him convinced that the torch changed color every time he took down a particularly dangerous criminal. Smiling at the memory he turned to Loflin, but she had her phone pressed to her ear. She was holding for the manager of the Roadside Rendezvous, to arrange for the night clerk to be waiting for them when they arrived, along with the maid who'd made the original report.

Thirty-three minutes later the detectives parked in the kidney-shaped lot outside the sprawling, single-story hotel and made their way to the reception area, where a tall miserable-looking man was watching out for them from the side of a bank of vending machines.

“My name's George O'Brien.” The man held a skinny hand out toward Devereaux, then Loflin. “We spoke on the phone. I'm really
sorry about this, but Dave isn't back yet. I really thought he would be, but—”

“Dave's the night clerk?” Loflin folded her arms.

“Right. His name's David Day, ironically. He'll be here in a minute, I'm sure. He had to find someone to watch his kid, and—You don't need to know about his personal issues. Geraldine is here, though. She's the one who found the stuff in the room. It's probably meaningless, right? She just watches too much TV and got a little crazy. Would you like to start with her?”

“How long until Dave gets here?” Devereaux glanced at his watch. “No bull this time.”

“Two minutes. Five at the outside.”

“OK. Well, he's the one who actually saw the woman we need to identify, so I'd rather start with him.”

“Geraldine said something about a family thing that—That can wait, right? You want Dave first. Good. Come this way. You can use my office.”

O'Brien led them to an unmarked door to the side of the reception counter. He unlocked it, and stood aside for the detectives to enter before him. The room was more storeroom than office, Devereaux thought as he stepped inside. The air was stale, and every inch of wall space was covered with shelves holding boxes of candy bars for the vending machines and toiletries for the hotel store. Packs of soda cans were piled up in the center of the room. Four new commercial vacuum cleaners, still shrink-wrapped, were sitting in front of a tiny window with a view of the highway. The small desk tucked in the corner and its pair of flimsy visitors' chairs looked lost amongst all the clutter, as if they were the things that didn't really belong there.

“Can I get you a drink while you're waiting?” O'Brien's forehead was starting to bead with sweat. “Coffee? Water? Soda?”

“No thanks.” Devereaux pointed to the computer that was perched on one corner of the desk. “But you can tell me—that thing. Can you access your CCTV on it?”

“Absolutely. I showed the officers who were here earlier.”

“OK, then. Fire it up. I want to watch the footage of the woman checking in Friday night, while we wait for your guy Dave.”

O'Brien located the correct section of the file right away and
turned his monitor so that the detectives had a better view. The woman appeared almost immediately, and Devereaux felt a physical jolt to see the person who'd most likely taken Ethan—or killed him—transformed from an abstract idea in his head to a realistic image on the screen. She was in the shot for just under forty-five seconds, and not once did she allow her face to be caught on camera. Devereaux had O'Brien play the segment again at half speed, to be sure.

“Smoothly done. No sign of any rings or distinctive jewelry when she handed over her credit card or took her key. And she looks a little short to be Mary Lynne Crane.” Devereaux turned to Loflin. “What do you think? I'd say it's someone else. Someone who's done this before.”

Loflin didn't reply. Her face was blank, her eyes were locked on the monitor screen, and her teeth had clamped down around her lower lip.

“Jan? You OK?”

“Yes. Sorry.” Loflin pulled herself together. “It was disconcerting, watching that. How the woman moved? Like she was gliding along? Then standing stock-still? Not displaying a single signature tick or gesture? It was freaky. Like watching an automaton.”

O'Brien's phone rang, and he spoke for a couple of seconds.

“Good news. Dave's arrived. He's parking his car, and he'll be inside in a moment.”

O'Brien's phone rang again before the detectives could respond, and this time his expression was less relaxed.

“That was the housekeepers' supervisor. We've got a problem with Geraldine. She's insisting you talk to her right now, or let her go home to deal with this family situation, whatever it is.”

“Of course we
could
make her wait.” Loflin turned the monitor back toward O'Brien. “But would she be as cooperative then? You don't need me when you talk to the clerk, do you, Cooper? We should divide and conquer. I'll go see what I can get from Geraldine, then I'll come back here to debrief. Mr. O'Brien, would you ask her to meet me in the room where she found the things this morning?”

“I can do better than that, Detective. I'll take you to the room. She's already there.”

Devereaux waited for Dave to knock, then moved around behind the desk after they shook hands. Dave sat on a stack of soda cans, preferring them to either of the visitors' chairs. He was a heavy, unshaven guy in his mid-twenties, and he had on a blue shirt with the hotel's logo embroidered on its chest, a pair of navy pants, and black lace-up work boots. The tip of a tattooed dragon's claw peeped out from his rolled-up sleeve. And he smelled like he hadn't seen the inside of a shower stall for two or three days.

“Sorry, Detective.” Dave ran his hand through his sandy hair, which was already beginning to thin at the front. “Couldn't find anyone to watch my boy. Had to bring him back with me.”

“Where is he?”

“Outside. In my truck.”

“Want to bring him in?”

“No—he's good. He's got his toys with him. Some picture books, too.”

“How old is he?”

“Eight.”

“Nice age. OK. Let's get down to business. About Friday night. When the red-haired woman checked in to the hotel. Does anything stand out about that?”

“Not really.” Dave glanced toward the window.

“David!” Devereaux's voice was suddenly harder. “A boy is missing. His life could be at stake. A cute little guy, not much younger than your kid. So I need you to raise your game, here. Think. Does anything stand out?”

“Like what?” Dave looked thoroughly miserable.

“Did the woman seem nervous? Impatient?”

“No. She just walked in, totally normal. Told me her name. Gave me her credit card. Filled in the form. Took her key. Job done.”

“When she filled in the form, did she use her own pen? Or did you lend her one?”

Dave thought for a moment.

“She used her own.”

“Are you sure?” Devereaux hadn't seen the woman rummage in her purse on the CCTV footage. “This could be important.”

“I'm sure.” Dave leaned forward. “See, at night, I move the pot of pens off the counter, 'cause people are always stealing them. So if someone wants a pen to sign or whatever, they have to ask me. And she didn't ask me. She took one out of her jacket pocket.”

“What did she look like? Not her clothes. Her face.”

“She had this amazing red hair. Maybe real. Maybe a wig. I don't know. And a necklace, like a silver chain with a big star on it. Not a Jewish one. Fancier than that. It sparkled, even though the lights were down pretty low.”

“What about her features? Her eyes? Her teeth? Her skin?”

“I didn't really notice.”

“Dave, come on. You're a guy. A woman walks into your hotel, and you don't notice what she looks like?”

“It's like I told the other officer. When you're on nights and someone shows up that late, you're just hoping they don't shoot you or puke on the carpet. What they look like isn't an issue.”

“OK. What about other people? Did you see the woman with anyone else?”

“No. She was alone.”

“All right. One last question, then you can get back to your kid. When you heard that the police had been called to the woman's room this morning, what did you think? Were you surprised?”

“Why should I be?” Dave shrugged. “My job's to take their money, check they sign the form, and give them their key. What they do outside of that's none of my business. I don't ask, and I don't care.”

“Fair enough. But if anything comes back to you that doesn't ring true, give me a call, OK?” Devereaux pushed a business card across the desk. “Remember, this is important. Now, can you point me toward the room the woman had?”

“She was in 113.” Dave stood up. “It's a courtyard room. Easier if we walk out together, and I'll show you.”

Dave led Devereaux across the reception area. He nodded to the girl who was now behind the counter, opened the side entrance—ignoring the sign that said it was alarmed—and stepped outside. A dusty black 1988 Chevy Silverado Crew Cab was parked in the first space they reached, next to one of the clumps of ornamental bamboo that were set in small, raised brick beds throughout the lot.

“This is my truck.” Dave stopped and pointed along the side of the pale brick building. “Room 113's straight down on the left.”

Devereaux thanked him but didn't move right away. He was curious to catch a glimpse of Dave's kid, given the parallel with Ethan having also been left alone in a vehicle in that lot. Dave pulled open the truck's rear door and Devereaux saw a little boy sprawled out across the seat. He was lying on an old blue sleeping bag. Six or seven pillows were scattered around. And enough toys littered the cab to last a lengthy road trip.

“Hold on.” Devereaux took hold of Dave's arm. “You said you'd
had to bring the boy back
with you, just now. He spent the night here, didn't he? In the truck.”

“No.” Dave tried to pull away, and Devereaux could see his pupils starting to dilate.

“Don't lie to me, Dave. That wouldn't be wise.”

“Look, I didn't want to bring him! I didn't have any choice! I'm not supposed to be working this weekend, OK? My girlfriend's out of town, and Charlie went out sick, and Mr. O'Brien said he'd fire me if I didn't cover, and my cousin let me down, and—”

“Dave, slow down. I'm not looking to jam you up. Help me out, and no one need know about your kid's little camping adventure. Not social services. Not your girlfriend. Just promise me you won't leave him in the truck again.”

“OK. Yes. I will. I mean, I won't. No problem. Whatever you need.”

“Good. Now, was your truck parked in this same spot last night?”

“Yes. It's my regular spot. Closest to the door.”

“So this is what I'm thinking. There's a great view of the whole parking lot from here. If your kid was paying attention, he might have seen the woman arrive. Mind if I ask him about that?”

“It won't work. He's totally shy. Let me ask him.”

Dave leaned into the truck, beckoned the boy to come closer, and started a whispered conversation.

“He says he did.” Dave turned back to Devereaux, his face flushed. “He saw the woman drive up in her van, park, and go inside. She came back out and carried a boy, who was asleep, into one of the rooms. Room 113, like I told you. Then she went back to the van and fetched their bags.”

“Excellent.” Devereaux felt a surge of excitement. “Ask him about the boy. Did he have black, spiky hair?”

Dave ducked back into the truck for a second.

“No.” He looked worried this time. “He said it was brown. And curly, not spiky.”

“That's OK.” Devereaux's heart was beating faster. “That's good. Now, the van she was driving. See what he remembers about that.”

“Not much.” It only took Dave a couple of seconds to return with the answer. “Only that it was white.”

“What about the license plate? Ask if he remembers it.”

Devereaux had hit the Speed Dial button before Dave even had hauled himself all the way into his cab.

“Lieutenant?” He turned away from the sound of the giant V8 roaring into life. “I'm at the Roadside Rendezvous. We have a possible witness. And how's this? We have a partial plate for the Honda.”