False Positive (25 page)

Tuesday. Afternoon
.

Devereaux ran along the landing and down the stairs, then stopped dead when he reached the porch.

All four of the Subaru's tires were flat. Devereaux hadn't heard any bangs, so Loflin's mother must have fixed the valves before she fled in the Mercedes. And done that despite carrying a gunshot wound. The professional in Devereaux saluted her thoroughness. The newfound father in him cursed her with every bad word he knew. Then he pulled out his phone and called Lieutenant Hale.

“Don't yell until you hear what I have to say.”

“You have three seconds.” Hale didn't sound like she was expecting to be placated.

“First, I've found Ethan. He's safe and well. He was anesthetized, and I have paramedics en route to check him out.”

“Really? Cooper—that's fantastic. Seriously. All is forgiven. Where are you?”

“I'll get to that in a second. Right now, I need you to get every unit we have out looking for a black M-Class Mercedes, Alabama license plate A68 0508, probably inbound to Birmingham from the southeast.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“The woman who took Ethan—she's driving that Mercedes. I think she has another target in the city. A seven-year-old girl this time. She knows her cover's blown, and she's on her way to snatch the kid right now.”

“What's the address for this little girl?”

“I don't know.”

“What's her name?”

“Her surname's probably Cunningham. Her mother's name is Alexandra Cunningham. Or was. She may have gotten married, I guess. That's all I have right now.”

“OK. Hang on.”

Hale put Devereaux on hold while she made the necessary calls, and was back on the line after sixty seconds.

“It's all in hand. So, who is this woman who took Ethan?”

“She
was
Madison Nesbitt. She didn't die in that house fire, after all. Long story short, she switched identities with one of the DOAs and is now known as Rebecca Loflin.”

“Another Loflin?”

“Detective Loflin's mother. She's a psychologist. She contracts for the Bureau. That's the law enforcement connection.”

“Is Detective Loflin involved in this?”

“She played a part, yes. A smallish one. But she was manipulated by her mother. In the end, she's the one who saved Ethan. She shot her mother, and took a bullet herself.”

“What about you? Are you hurt? Where are you?”

“I'm fine.” Devereaux gave her the location as precisely as he could, along with an outline of the horrors he'd found in the other bedrooms.

“More help's on its way. And Loflin's mother—she's wounded, too?”

“Yes. Gunshot wound to the upper left arm.”

“Good. I'll alert the local hospitals. Hold the line—I have another call coming in.”

Hale was reconnected after two minutes.

“OK. If that Mercedes shows itself within city limits, we'll find it. And there's progress on the girl. We've nailed down a possible address for her. A unit's on its way there now. We haven't found a school
registration for her yet, so we're putting units on all the grade schools in her district.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant. I'll get back as soon as I can. The vehicle I was using is out of commission, so I'll have to grab a ride back to the city in a squad car when one arrives.”

“One more question, Cooper. The name Alexandra Cunningham sounds familiar to me. Weren't you seeing someone with a similar name, a few years ago?”

“Yes. I was. With the same name. It's the same person.”

“So why would Loflin's mother be going after your ex-girlfriend's kid?”

“Because…” It was still weird for Devereaux to say out loud. “Because, she's also my kid. And no, I didn't know about her. Not until a few minutes ago when I found out this monster was stalking her.”

Devereaux hung up and went back inside, intending to check on Ethan and Loflin while he waited for the squad cars to arrive. But when he reached the landing, he walked past the room they were in. He continued to the next one, and went inside it instead. The one that was being made over. Prepared, he now realized, for his daughter.

An image formed in Devereaux's head of a small figure lying on the bed, inert, as Ethan had been. A little girl. But he couldn't picture her face. He didn't know what his own daughter looked like. Or what she was called. He poked at the boxes of Barbies with his foot. Were they his daughter's favorite toys? Or a random selection, based on a gender stereotype?

He had no idea.

Just like he had no idea how to save her.

The woman was taking a chance, exposing her real hair in public. But she needed to look convincing, and wigs don't look right when they're wet.

The bullet her daughter had fired at her had only nicked the fleshy part of her upper arm, and the woman had been able to stop the bleeding on her own without too much trouble. Now she changed into a tank top so the bandage would be visible. Splashed water on her head. Mopped up the excess with her discarded blouse. Slipped the blouse into her bag. Concealed herself in the cubicle nearest to the entrance. And waited.

Devereaux's daughter was the only girl in the afternoon swim class and there was no one else in the women's locker room when the kid wandered in, dripping and pleasantly exhausted, at the end of the session. The woman discreetly watched her get changed—agonizingly slowly—then emerged from the cubicle. She made a play of trying to swing her bag over her shoulder, wincing at the apparent pain, and clutching at the bandage on her arm.

“Are you OK, miss?” The girl kept a wary distance, but she was too inquisitive to ignore the woman's plight altogether.

“I will be! Thank you, young lady. I'm having a bit of trouble with my arm. I had a little surgery on it, and I think I came back too early. I thought swimming would help it get better quickly, but I guess I was wrong.”

“What's the matter with your arm? Why did you need the surgery? Did you get hurt?”

“Kind of. I'm a police detective, and I got in a shoot-out with two very bad people. It worked out OK, though, because they're in prison now—they'll be there for a very long time—and my arm will be better soon.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes it does. Like right now. It's killing me. Say, you wouldn't be an angel and carry my bag for me, would you? I'm having a real hard time dealing with it.”

“Carry it where?”

“Just out to the foyer. My husband's meeting me there. How about you? Is your mom here to take you home? Or your dad?”

“My mom is. She's waiting for me in the pool cafe.”

“Great! That's right through the foyer. What do you say? Will you help me out?”

The girl took the bag. She held the heavy door open, and followed the woman out of the locker room. But when they reached the open expanse of the foyer the woman stopped, sagged over, and put one hand on the girl's shoulder.

“Oh my goodness, I'm not feeling good at all. Help me look for my husband, would you? Is he here? He's short. And fat. He has gray hair and little round glasses. Can you see him?”

“No.” The girl scanned the area around the reception counter, the notice board advertising forthcoming events, the entrance to the cafe, the door to the men's locker room, and the two exits to the parking lot. “Don't think so.”

“I need to sit down.” The woman staggered over to a wooden bench beneath a large framed photograph of Jennifer Chandler, Olympic gold medal in hand. “Are you sure my husband's not here?”

“Don't think he is. Can't see any old fat guys.”

“He's such an airhead. Maybe he forgot what we arranged. Maybe
he's still in the car. Could you go to the window and look out? See if there's a black Mercedes SUV parked nearby? Do you know what SUVs look like?”

The girl nodded, scampered to the floor-to-ceiling window, then came straight back.

“It's there. Right outside.”

“Great!” The woman tried to stand up, but couldn't straighten her legs. “Oh no. This is terrible. I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't make it. Could you help me up?”

The girl tried to pull on the woman's good arm, but didn't have the strength to get her on her feet.

“This is terrible.” The woman was on the verge of tears. “This has never happened to me before. I need my husband to help me. I don't want to be stuck here for the rest of my life!”

“Would you like me to go get him?” The girl's face lit up at the idea. “He's right outside. It'll only take me a second.”

Tuesday. Afternoon
.

Devereaux was on I-65, haring down the Birmingham side of New Hope Mountain, when his phone rang.

“Cooper, I have news.” Lieutenant Hale's voice was tight with tension. “Alexandra Cunningham? She called 911 half an hour ago. Reported her daughter missing. Nicole. She disappeared from Underwood Swimming Pool on South 26th.
Your
daughter, I should say. I'm so sorry.”

So his daughter's name was Nicole? What a way to find out.

“She disappeared from a swimming pool?” Devereaux gestured to the officer who was driving him to pull around an open-top Lexus that had merged from the Montgomery Highway. “How? Why was she there in the first place? Why wasn't she at school?”

“It turns out she's home-schooled. Her mother takes her to the pool for swim lessons every Tuesday. She has done for the last semester and a half. Today was no different, until Nicole went to get changed after the lesson and didn't reappear from the locker room. She must have come out, obviously, but no one saw what happened to her.”

Devereaux was stunned. A vision of Loflin's mother drugging his
little girl filled his head. Dragging her to an SUV. Driving her somewhere. Freezing her in time in a freaky facsimile of her bedroom…

“What's happening now?” Devereaux fought to push the images away.

“An Amber Alert has already gone out. Nicole's description has been circulated. Along with Loflin's mother's and details of the Mercedes. Alexandra Cunningham's phones are being intercepted. And a female officer is with her, in case of developments.”

“Where is Alexandra? Is she still at the pool?”

“No. She's at her home. She had to be smuggled out of the pool. The press got wind that another kid was missing and started hovering like flies round a you-know-what.”

“Give me the address. I'm going over there.”

“I'm not sure that's a good idea, Cooper.”

“I'm going, Lieutenant. This kid's my daughter, too. So it's up to you. You can give me Alexandra's address, or I can get it myself.”

“OK.” Papers rustled on Hale's end of the line. “Give me a minute. Let me find where I wrote it down. But you're not going on your own. I'll meet you there.”

Tuesday. Afternoon
.

Nicole missing for one and a quarter hours

The house Alexandra Cunningham had moved to was smaller than the one she'd lived in when Devereaux had been seeing her. And it was in a less prosperous neighborhood—the southern edge of Homewood, rather than the center of Vestavia Hills. He'd assumed she'd relocated to get away from the memory of the time they'd spent together, and had expected her to have chosen something similar to what she'd had before. Or better. But her motivation had actually been quite different.

Alexandra Cunningham had been taught at home by her mother, and had sworn she'd do the same for any kids she ever had. Nicole was unexpected—and Alexandra was bringing her up alone—but she saw no reason to break her promise. She was a successful woman. Independent. She'd made good money as a lawyer, for a good number of years. She had plenty stashed away. Admittedly, an adjustment to her lifestyle had been necessary. A change in the standard of her accommodation. And a shift to shorter hours, doing consulting work for other law firms. But taken together, those measures gave her the flexibility she needed to educate her daughter the way she chose.

If Devereaux had called by twenty-four hours earlier, he'd have sworn Alexandra Cunningham hadn't aged a day in the eight years
since he'd last seen her. But the woman who opened the door when she saw Devereaux and Hale hurrying up her front path looked eighty years older. She was stooped. Her eyes were red from crying. Mascara streaked her cheeks. Her red hair was tangled, where she'd been frantically twisting it while she waited for news.

“Cooper?” Her voice was hoarse. “What are you doing here? Have you found Nicole?”

Devereaux shook his head.

“Then you can't be here. You can't be involved. You—”

“Alex, I know.”

“You…Oh. How?”

“I found out. This afternoon. Someone told me.”

“Who did?”

“That doesn't matter.”

“You need to go.”

“No. We need to talk.”

“We don't. I can't. Not while—”

“All right. Knock it off.” Hale was looking over her shoulder, anxious that someone would spot them and bring down a horde of reporters and TV people. “We can do this inside. The last thing any of us needs right now is a public scene. Plus, Detective Devereaux has been working a related case. He might have some useful insights, which could help us bring Nicole home. And if she is his daughter, I think he has the right to know what's going on with her.”

Tuesday. Afternoon
.

Nicole missing for one and three-quarter hours

The hallway in Cunningham's house was shaped like an upside-down T.

Straight ahead, Devereaux caught a glimpse of a kitchen. It didn't look like Cunningham's taste had changed too much over the last eight years. There were plain white cabinets. A white marble countertop. Stainless steel appliances. A pair of black leather stools next to a high breakfast bar. Only a pair, Devereaux noted, with a touch of relief.

Devereaux's impression of continuity was reinforced when Cunningham led the way to the right, into her living room. A couch and a love seat were arranged in the far corner, forming a ninety-degree angle. A modest-size TV was fixed to the wall, along with a couple of prints, which Devereaux recognized from her old house:
Nighthawks
, by Hopper, and
Starry Night
, by Van Gogh. The other walls were taken up with tall wooden bookcases, and a carefully distressed antique writing desk was tucked under the window. Devereaux could just detect the faint scent of sickly sweet potpourri. Cunningham's favorite kind.

“Please.” Cunningham gestured to the couch. “Sit.”

Devereaux took a corner spot and glanced at the nearest bookshelf.
He recognized pretty much all the titles. They were all in alphabetical order by author, the way Cunningham had always been fanatical about. Her DVDs were the same, too, except for a small selection of children's movies. So much about the room was familiar that for a moment Devereaux could see himself living there. He tried to picture what things would have been like if Cunningham hadn't broken up with him. Could he have handled it? Her home was so low down and boxed in compared to his apartment. And so cluttered. But when he scanned her possessions, he realized there wasn't too much that was new. She'd clearly used the intervening years to shed things from her life. The things she must have not wanted around. Like him. And once his mind started to dwell on what wasn't around, it jumped inevitably to Nicole.

“So, Alex. I guess we have a daughter.”

Cunningham nodded, hesitantly.

“I'm going to grab a glass of water.” Hale headed for the door. “I'll give you two a minute.”

“She's called Nicole?” The name still felt strange on Devereaux's lips. “Good choice. After your mother?”

“Yes. Thanks. Mom passed right before Nicole was born, so it seemed appropriate.”

“Can you tell me about her? What she's like?”

“No, Cooper. I'm sorry. I can't. Not while she's missing. It's too much. I can't talk about her. Her being gone—it's eating me up inside.”

“At least tell me what happened. Eight years ago.”

“Not right now. Maybe later. I'm not used to this kind of thing. This is your world, Cooper, not mine. My child is kidnapped, I freak out. I don't go into interrogation mode.”

“I'm not in interrogation mode. I just want you to tell me about my daughter, like you should have done before she was born. Why didn't you tell me, Alex?”

“You know why. You remember how things were, back then. You? A father? Please.”

Devereaux walked to the window. He stared out into the yard, then his eyes shifted their focus to the reflection of the room. It made
him feel like he was on the other side of the glass, looking in at another possible life he'd been denied by his past.

“What did you tell her?”

“Nicole?”

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“Me. Her father. Why she doesn't have one.”

“You selfish bastard, Cooper. You're making this about you? Nicole is missing. That's all that matters.”

“This is about Nicole. Don't you remember what losing my father did to me? Have you got any idea of the number of deals I tried to make with God, if He'd just let my daddy come back home? The bad choices I made when he didn't? In my case, it was fate calling the shots. But you chose that same path for our daughter. You
chose
it, Alex.”

“How could you try to make deals like that? What were you thinking? You knew your father was dead.”

“Because that's what grieving kids do. I told myself, the detective who broke the news? Maybe he was wrong. People make mistakes, don't they? Or maybe my daddy had just been hurt. He could be in the hospital, in a coma. Or he could have lost his memory. But when he woke up, or remembered who he was, he'd come find me. Or he could be a spy, off on a mission so secret everyone had to think he was dead. But when he was successful, he'd come back and find me. For years, every foster home I was in, every time there was a knock on the door or footstep on the path, I'd pray it was him coming to find me.”

“Nicole's not in a foster home, Cooper. She lives here, with me.”

“I know. But this still matters, Alex. What did you tell her?”

“You've got to understand, I had no idea you had those crazy ideas. I thought it was for the best. I'm sorry, Cooper. I told her you were dead.”

Devereaux didn't say anything. He wanted to go. Get in his car. Drive far, far away from that house. But at the same time, he couldn't leave. Unsatisfactory as it was, being there was the closest he'd ever been to his daughter. The closest he might ever be.

“I didn't do anything deliberately to hurt her, Cooper.” Cunningham came and stood next to Devereaux. “What I did I thought was for the best. Better than letting her think you didn't love her enough to stick around, anyway.”

“Better than letting her know you kept her a secret from me?”

Cunningham didn't answer.

“I wish you would have told me about her, Alex.”

“I know.” Cunningham looked down at her bare feet sinking into the deep pile of her rich blue carpet. “But back then, when she was on the way, I couldn't handle it. I couldn't handle
you
. Not after what happened with that boy. The one who…died. So I did the only thing I thought I could.”

“I did nothing wrong, Alex. I saved my partner's life. You don't have to be a certain age to pull a trigger. And that was work. You could have given me a chance at home. You didn't have to write me out of her life without letting me
try
to be a father.”

Cunningham didn't reply.

“Have you got a picture of her?” Devereaux turned to face her. “I don't even know what Nicole looks like.”

“A picture?” Cunningham wiped a tear from her eye. “Are you joking? I've got thousands.”