False Positive (12 page)

Sunday. Afternoon
.

Ethan missing for forty-two and three-quarter hours

Devereaux stopped dead at the bottom of the stairs.

He thought he'd heard a noise. From the hallway closet. It was in almost exactly the same spot as the one in his father's house, where he'd hidden for the final time that fateful night when he was six. Devereaux realized the closet was the only place in Tomcik's house that he hadn't searched, as if he'd instinctively shied away from it. He shook his head, thinking he was going crazy. Then he heard the sound again. Floorboards creaking. He crept closer. Now he thought he could hear breathing. Worrying that he was losing his mind, he pulled open the closet door.

Two people sprang out at him.

Two women, both with blond hair and high cheekbones. One was wearing a red leather dress, short, with a neckline that plunged almost to her navel. The other had a white crop-top attached to a miniscule pair of Daisy Dukes with elastic straps.

The women weren't big, but their combined weight was enough to send Devereaux staggering back into the hallway. The one in the dress ducked under his outstretched arm and ran toward the kitchen, tottering on her ludicrous heels. The other kept coming at him, shrieking and spitting and clawing at his eyes. Devereaux regained
his balance, batted her hands aside, and shoved her in the chest, pushing her away from him.

“On the floor,” Devereaux yelled. “Facedown. Hands where I can see them.”

The woman launched herself forward again, trying to kick Devereaux in the crotch. He stepped to the side, blocked her foot with his left hand, and as her body drew level he punched her hard in the side of the head. She flopped down instantly, like a puppet with its strings cut, and slid sideways until she reached the wall.

Devereaux checked her pulse, rolled her onto her side, then ran to the kitchen. The second woman was still there, wrestling with the lock on the back door.

“Stop.” Devereaux kept his voice lower this time. “Turn around. Then lie down on the ground with your hands behind your head.”

The woman turned and took a step toward Devereaux. She was brandishing a carving knife. The blade was ten inches long. It looked like a sword in her tiny hand.

“You've seen Indiana Jones, right?” Devereaux took out his gun. “Put the knife down.”

The woman took another step.

“Hold it right there.” Devereaux took aim at her chest. “I'm a Birmingham PD detective. I can shoot you dead, and no one will look at me twice.”

The woman stared at him.

“You are…detective?” She spoke with a thick, Eastern European accent. “Police?”

“Right. Police. Now put the knife down.”

“You have…papers? Show me!”

Devereaux wasn't in the habit of taking instructions from people with knives, but there was something confused and frightened in the woman's behavior that struck him as genuine. Keeping the gun on her, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and showed her his shield. She stared at it for five seconds. Looked him in the face for another five. Then she dropped the knife and flung her bony arms around his neck.

Sunday. Afternoon
.

Ethan missing for forty-three and a half hours

Loflin shot Devereaux an anxious glance when he walked into the conference room. She wanted to know where he'd been. Who he'd seen. What he'd done. And whether she'd been a fool to think that maybe—just maybe—she'd been wrong to mistrust him.

Agent Bruckner watched as Devereaux tried to balance on the uneven-legged chair, two spaces down from Loflin. Then he hit a button on his keyboard that chased the FBI seal screen-saver away from the room's large projection screen and replaced it with an aerial view of the Casey Jones Railroad Museum.

“We've reviewed the security tapes from yesterday.” Bruckner glanced over his shoulder, not completely trusting the technology. “There was no sign of our targets. Tomorrow, we'll have the place locked down tighter than a drum. The arrangements are all made. But I wouldn't bet a dime they'll show up. Because of this.”

The image on the screen dissolved and was replaced by a photograph of a white Honda Odyssey.

“This was taken thirty minutes ago in a parking lot outside a diner in the outskirts of Nashville. And this was left inside…”

The picture dissolved again, making way for a shot of a child's
T-shirt. It was from Cedar Point, white, with a silhouette of a roller coaster picked out in red and orange. There was a chocolate stain on the right sleeve, and it looked ridiculously small cradled in one of the Honda's swiveling rear seats.

“Mrs. Crane confirmed it's Ethan's. She said he got the chocolate on its sleeve the day his father bought it for him, but he loved it so much he insisted on keeping it.”

“Near Nashville?” Hale narrowed her eyes. “Isn't that a little far north, if you're driving from Birmingham to Jackson, Tennessee?”

“It is.” Bruckner nodded. “But perfect if you're switching vehicles, and want access to routes heading northwest. Or northeast. Or southeast.”

“Have you had any thoughts on why she took the kid in the first place?” Devereaux stood up and moved to another chair. “If she hasn't killed him, sold him, or demanded a ransom for him, what does she want?”

“Good question.” Bruckner crossed his arms. “We've been focusing on that, obviously. But we have nothing conclusive so far.”

“Is there any security camera footage of the vehicle they switched to?” Devereaux slid his new chair closer to the table.

“No.” Bruckner shook his head. “There was only one camera covering the lot, and it was out of service.”

“So we have no idea what kind of vehicle the woman's driving now?” Hale couldn't keep the disappointment out of her voice.

“None.” Bruckner frowned.

“Or where she's going?”

“No.”

“Whether she's working alone?”

“Not a clue.”

“Any prints?”

“None.” Bruckner's voice was flat. “The minivan was wiped clean. Even the back of the rearview mirror, which is the place most people forget. But we do have this…”

He hit the button again, and a view of the front of the minivan came up on the screen. Complete with its license plate.

“And the best part?” Grandison banged his fist on the table. “It
hasn't been reported stolen. So we have an address. Here, in Birmingham. We'll be raiding it in forty minutes' time. And we also have this…”

The picture of the van was replaced by a copy of a driver's license. Its owner was described as female, five feet four, one hundred and thirty pounds, with green eyes and brown hair.

“Meet Angela Wild, our new prime suspect. If we're lucky, she left the Honda where she did as cover for bringing Ethan back to Birmingham. But in case she didn't, her name, picture, description, and credit card information are being disseminated nationwide. That way, the second she buys anything, stays anywhere, boards a plane, or rents a car, we'll know. Either way, she can't stay invisible for long.”

The agents scooped up their things and left to complete their preparations for the raid. Devereaux hardly noticed them go. He was too distracted by the competing emotions—grief, shock, guilt, regret, anger—that had been fighting for the upper hand since he'd discovered Tomcik's body.

“This raid they're coordinating. What do you think, Cooper?” Hale slapped the table to get his attention. “Cooper! Are you with us?”

“Sorry.” Devereaux held up his hand. “It could be just the break we need. I'm praying they hit on something. I doubt they'll find anything at the house, but circulating the ID might help.”

“I feel the same. But we have to be practical. We can't afford to lose momentum if their efforts don't pan out. So what else are you working on? How about the connection with Randall's case? Any luck with that?”

“We talked.” Devereaux nodded. “One new lead came up. The Honda—and now that we've seen the full license plate we know it's the same one—was used to dump a body. A hooker's. The best anyone can figure, she was new to Birmingham. If she came into town on her own, she's a needle in a haystack. But if she was brought in as part of an organized operation, we might be able to trace her. Find her killer. And through them, find Ethan. Loflin's using her contacts in Vice to sniff around for likely candidates.”

“Good.” Hale turned to Loflin. “Any luck with that, Jan?”

“I've asked the questions. Now I'm waiting for answers. There are—” Loflin was interrupted by her phone. She answered it, gestured to indicate that the call was important, and left the room to talk.

“Now that it's just you and me, Cooper, I want some answers.” Hale folded her arms across her chest. “You brought in two young women this afternoon, right? Why? What's the connection with Ethan?”

“I don't know yet, Lieutenant.”

“So what were you doing at some dead guy's house?”

“Remember Bronson Segard? The guy who collapsed at my building yesterday? He told me his partner had been killed. I didn't know who his partner was, then. But today I found out. So I went and checked his house. I found a body, along with the girls.”

“Who's the victim?”

“A retired cop.”

“Do you have a name? An ID?”

“Hayden Tomcik. He's been dead a while. He was tortured. Then murdered.”

“This is the seventy- to eighty-year-old you were asking about?”

“Yes.” Devereaux began to pick at a loose piece of veneer on the tabletop.

“Wait.” Hale rubbed her temples. “Hayden Tomcik. The name's familiar. Wasn't he…He was the one who found your father?”

Devereaux nodded.

“Why didn't you say that? Oh. Wait. You kept quiet in the hope I wouldn't recognize the name, and you'd land the case.”

Devereaux didn't respond.

“Cooper, don't ask me for that. The answer's no. You're absolutely
not
investigating his death. It's completely off the table.”

“Lieutenant, I—”

The door opened and Loflin came back into the room, her face flushed. “Good news, Lieutenant. That was one of my old partners. A team from Vice has been watching a guy called Sean Carver for the last few months. Carver has a seafood distribution business, with a warehouse out near the airport. Vice says it's a front for other things.
Girls, mainly. Also drugs. They're smuggled into the States via Key West, then driven up to Birmingham using Carver's seafood trucks. My guy thinks it's most likely the dead hooker belonged to Carver's organization. Probably those girls Cooper brought in, too.”

“Good work, Jan.” Hale nodded. “So where is this Carver? We need to throw a net over him, pronto.”

“My old partner said Carver's wicked slippery. He dropped out of sight a week ago. But the next shipment from the Keys is expected on Thursday. The team from Vice is going to be waiting for it. The FBI is on board. So's the DEA. My guy says that if Cooper and I want in, he can make that happen.”

“Tell your guy yes. Big picture, that's a piece of action we need. But as for Ethan, the clock's ticking too fast. Thursday'll be too late for him. Cooper, Jan, I need you to get back out there. Find out if the dead hooker is definitely connected to Carver's organization. Try and get a lead on Carver himself, too. And do it quickly. Time's getting away from us. Do whatever you need to do.”

Extract from BPD Human Resources File: Cooper Devereaux
.

Contacted by IRS investigator. Asked to confirm Detective Devereaux's current salary, unsocial hours payments, etc. Also whether he is authorized for supplementary employment, which he is not.

Contact reported to Internal Affairs Division.

A detective with a Porsche? A penthouse apartment? A cabin in the woods?

How does he afford all that, Jan?

Where does his money come from?

Fingers / Pies…?

Sunday. Afternoon
.

Ethan missing for forty-four and a quarter hours

Devereaux gunned his engine with frustration as he pulled out of the police headquarters parking lot. He slotted his Charger into a gap in the light Sunday afternoon traffic and headed northeast through the incongruous mix of parking garages and ornate office buildings on First Avenue, doing his best to ignore the loaded stares he was catching from Loflin.

He should be the one investigating Hayden Tomcik's murder. Not whoever happened to be next up for catching a case. Tomcik wasn't some random victim. He was a retired cop. A good man who'd done way more than the job demanded. He deserved someone who'd show the same commitment to bringing him some justice, now that he was dead.

Devereaux cursed Randall. If he'd done his job right instead of coasting toward retirement, they'd already know all about this hooker. He cursed whoever had killed her. He cursed the woman who'd taken Ethan. He cursed Segard for collapsing with warnings on his lips, but the explanations locked in his head. He cursed…himself, for losing concentration and missing the turn for 60th Street.

“Cooper?” Loflin's attention was drawn to the whiteness of his knuckles on the steering wheel. “Where are we going?”

Sixtieth Street would have led them directly to the spot where the hooker's body had been dumped. Even more annoyed now, Devereaux decided to continue underneath the highway, then turn left into Aviation Avenue. From there he could skirt the cemetery and work his way down Messer Highway to Georgia Road, and start their foray into Lawnwood all over again.

He and Loflin both knew the area well from their days in uniform. They knew the kind of people they needed access to wouldn't surface much before dark. The neighborhood would be relatively benign before then. But daylight would give them a better sense of the drop site, and allow them to spot anything that had changed physically since either of them had last passed through the place.

Devereaux made the turn onto Messer, and one of the industrial buildings on the opposite side of the road immediately caught his eye. It was a warehouse, tucked away between a car rental franchise and a tractor dealer. The signage said
Carver Crustaceans
.

“That place.” Devereaux nudged Loflin and pointed to the warehouse. “Is it Carver, as in
Sean
Carver?”

“Could be. We are near the airport. Want me to check?”

“That's OK.” Devereaux squeezed the Charger through a pair of bollards at the side of the street and onto a patch of rough, weed-strewn ground. “I'll just head on in. Buy a pound or two of lobster. Ask a couple questions.”

“You can't, Cooper!” Loflin grabbed his arm. “Carver's in the wind, and if this
is
his place, we're raiding it on Thursday. If you go in now, you could screw everything up.”

“Finding something that leads us to Ethan is way more important than some future raid.” Devereaux pulled himself free. “You heard the lieutenant.
Do whatever's necessary
.”

“This is wrong.” Loflin took hold of the armrest as if she was afraid that Devereaux would drag her out of the car. “I'm staying here. I want no part of it.”

Devereaux walked back toward the building and saw it was formed from two matching units joined together at the center. They had brick walls that were twelve feet tall, and curving corrugated steel
roofs that more than doubled their height. The bricks were in poor condition. Much of the mortar was loose, and large patches of the dull brown paint that covered the metalwork were peeling badly.

Devereaux followed the wall until he found a door with a tiny, faded sign, which read
Reception. Please Ring Bell
. Devereaux pressed the button, and while he was waiting for a response, his phone rang.

“Detective Devereaux?” The civilian aide sounded harried. “What do you want me to do? Two of Ethan Crane's teachers have called. The mother of one of his friends has, as well. They found the cards that the uniforms left for them. Do I schedule a time for them to come in? Or do you want to interview them at their homes?”

“Neither.” Devereaux tried the handle to the door, but it was locked. “That ship's sailed. Just call them back and thank them for their time.”

Devereaux shoved the phone back in his pocket and rang the bell again. Still no one answered. To the right, a security camera had been mounted on the wall. It was eight feet from the ground.

Only eight feet. That kind of sloppy setup was practically an invitation. Devereaux slipped off his jacket and hung it over the camera. Took out an expired credit card he carried specially for this kind of occasion. Used it to ease open the door. Retrieved his jacket. And stepped inside.

The reception area was square, around ten feet by ten. The right-hand side housed a table and an immense, battered wooden counter. The foot-square marble-effect vinyl tiles on the floor were pale from excessive scrubbing, and there was a tank against the left-hand wall. It was home to half a dozen frisky lobsters, each with bright blue elastic bands around its claws. Straight ahead two perforated metal shelves, like the kind people have in their garages, were set on either side of a doorway. The shelves held an array of bizarre seafood memorabilia—stuffed animals, fish-themed board games, lobster-shaped cookie jars, crab tea-light holders—and the doorway was hung with broad multi-colored plastic strips to keep flies from getting through. The place was filled with a powerful smell of fish, so Devereaux figured there must be at least some legitimate seafood business going on in there.

Devereaux picked up a cuddly lobster from the top shelf and pushed his way through the plastic strips, holding the bright red toy in front of him like he was looking for a clerk to help him make a purchase. The doorway led to a storage and sorting room. It felt several degrees colder than the reception area. Three walls were covered with modular industrial shelving, and a roll-up metal door was set into the fourth. It was closed. The floor space was big enough for a forklift truck to operate in, and Devereaux estimated that three-quarters of the shelves' capacity was taken up with cardboard boxes. They were all the same size. He took one down at random and opened it. Inside, along with an extra large cold pack, was a pair of groggy two-pound lobsters.

Devereaux worked his way along the shelves, looking out for any irregularities in the boxes. At the far end, the shelves on the right-hand wall stopped three feet shy of the corner of the room. As he moved closer, Devereaux saw that this was to allow space for another door. He tried the handle. It was locked, but with a little attention from the pick he routinely carried on his key ring, Devereaux had it open within twenty seconds.

The door led to a corridor that ran the whole length of the other half of the warehouse. There were three rooms on each side, with staggered entrances so that people rushing out of them wouldn't run into one another. Devereaux looked into the first one. It was a storeroom, crammed with folded-down cardboard boxes, stacks of glossy catalogs, and giant sacks full of unrefrigerated cold packs.

The next room was a kitchen. Its end wall was kitted out with basic cupboards and drawers in some kind of fake reddish wood, a length of battered melamine countertop, a scratched stainless steel sink, a small microwave oven, and a coffee machine, which was hissing and gurgling as it completed its brew.

But Devereaux hardly noticed any of those things.

Because there was a woman's body lying in the middle of the floor.