False Positive (10 page)

Sunday. Morning
.

Ethan missing for thirty-nine hours

Loflin was perched on the edge of the left-hand bed when Devereaux reached room 113. She was staring at her phone, almost in a trance, but snapped out of it the moment she heard the door swing open.

Devereaux brought her up to speed on what he'd learned, and asked how things had gone with the maid, Geraldine.

“It was the damnedest thing.” Loflin got to her feet. “She was half deranged. A total
CSI
freak. She thinks we live on the set of a giant TV show. I bet she's cried wolf a dozen times about all kinds of wacky things, but this time she actually came up with some genuine evidence. She showed me the trash can where she found the hair and the bleach bottle, and I called the lab tech who's handling it. He confirmed they're taking it seriously.”

“How much hair was there?”

“Not much, in the trash. But the techs also found traces in the toilet bowl and the sink trap. Impossible to say how much altogether. But theoretically enough for a major trim. Remember how bushy his hair was in the photo?”

“Did they find anything else?”

“No. Not a thing. Not even any prints. The woman must have
wiped the place down incredibly thoroughly. You can still smell the Windex. And yet she left the bottle, and some hair. So she either cut and bleached Ethan's hair, or wants us to think she did.”

“Is there anything to prove the hair was actually cut here?”

“No. But you said the woman was seen carrying a kid in here. If Mary Lynne had killed Ethan and was looking to divert suspicion, I doubt she'd be dragging her dead son's body around as a decoy. That's pretty extreme. She didn't seem together enough. My gut says Ethan's still alive, and that he was just here.”

“I hope you're right. But I could use some proof.”

Devereaux stood in the center of the room, tuned out the background hum from the traffic on the nearby highway, and took a moment to evaluate the place. It was a master class in cynical design. The carpet was an inoffensive, neutral color, but its coarse fabric was chosen more for its ability to stand up to suitcase wheels than to pamper a tired traveler's feet. The bold, abstract patterns on the bedcovers gave the impression of warmth and brightness, but their real purpose was to disguise the stains that would inevitably be left by careless guests. The cushions and pillows were under-stuffed for comfort, but sufficiently oversized to hide the fake wood of the headboard. And the low-wattage bulbs in the lights were there to reduce electric bills, not provide ambience.

Devereaux's eyes were drawn to the bathroom door. Ethan would have spent time alone in there, assuming he'd been brought to the hotel. In which case, he must have known he was in trouble. But would he have been resourceful enough to help himself? To leave a sign? And how could he have taken anything in without the woman spotting it? No. It would be the other way around, if at all. The bedroom. Ethan would have had time alone there while the woman was using the bathroom. So where, exactly? Somewhere concealed, but not too high. Devereaux estimated Ethan's reach if he'd stood on the room's one chair, and his eye settled on the shelf holding the TV. Next to it was a remote control. Devereaux picked it up, blew off the residual fingerprint powder, and pried off the battery compartment cover. Then he set the unit on the bed and pulled on a pair of disposable
gloves. Lifted out a piece of paper. Unfolded it. And felt his doubts evaporate.

Hale answered her phone on the first ring.

“I was just dialing your number, Cooper. I have news.”

“Me first. Listen to this. I found something the techs missed in the hotel room. A flier for the Casey Jones Railroad Museum in Jackson, Tennessee. It was hidden in the TV remote. Ethan must have put it there. That must be their destination.”

“The hotel's on the right kind of route if you're driving from Mountain Brook to Jackson.” Hale's computer keys rattled in the background. “And a railroad museum is the kind of place a seven-year-old boy would like to visit. But why snatch a kid and then take him to a museum? Where's the sense in that?”

“What if she's planning on selling him? She could be using the lure of the trains to keep him cooperative before she meets her contact for the handover. There'll be lots of adults with kids at a place like that. They wouldn't stand out, even if Ethan realized something was wrong and started to pitch a fit.”

“The museum's not open on Sundays. Damn. Nine am tomorrow's the earliest they could get in. It's a pretty small place. We'll have agents and local PD crawling all over it. The moment the woman shows up with Ethan, we'll grab her. Meantime, I want you back in Birmingham, pronto. Because my news? We've got a hit on the partial plate. In a homicide. A couple of weeks old. Nick Randall's running with it. I want you to sit down with him. Pick his brain. See if you can figure out the connection.”

“Will do, Lieutenant. But here's another thought. The railway museum. Could you get the FBI to check its security tapes for yesterday?”

“Sure. Why?”

“The woman never checked out of the hotel. We don't know when she left. She could have already been to the museum. We could be too late.”

Extract from Lieutenant Danielle Hale's Most Recent Annual Departmental Overview Report
.

Lieutenant Hale noted that for the seventh year running, Cooper Devereaux was the detective with the highest number of arrests resulting from information obtained from Confidential Informants. He was also the detective with the highest number of Confidential Informants registered to him in total, and the highest number of new Confidential Informants registered during the course of the year.

Why is it that Devereaux has such an affinity for criminals, Jan? All these years after his so-called reformation, and he still has so many underworld contacts? How come? And how does this really work? Devereaux busts a crook based on what? Information from another crook? Leaving a vacuum? Who fills it?

And what does Devereaux get in return…?

Sunday. Early Afternoon
.

Ethan missing for forty-one hours

The Anthracite Grille opened on Highland Avenue in the early '90s, when Five Points South was still a district you thought twice about visiting after dark. The neighborhood has moved on since then, but the Anthracite? Not so much. There's a reason people call it
the bar that time forgot
.

Devereaux first went there the week it opened, and even then the place looked ten years out-of-date. Nothing had changed since. Nick Randall—the detective Devereaux and Loflin were waiting for—had actually called the owner once on a Friday night just after the millennium celebrations, saying he was “the Eighties” and that he wanted his decor back. It hadn't made an impact. But it did make the Anthracite an appropriate place to meet, since Randall's defining feature—aside from his sense of humor—was his inability to show up anywhere on time.

The waitress brought Devereaux a second beer and refilled Loflin's iced tea without waiting to be asked. Devereaux slowed down, rationing his drink out a sip at a time. He was down to the final half inch when he finally saw Randall making his way through the meager lunchtime crowd. It could be a challenge to remain patient around the guy, but he was the longest-serving detective in the unit and he'd
put his years to good use. Not much happened on the seedier side of Birmingham that Randall didn't know about.

“Ever seen the movie
Alien
, guys?” Randall slid into the booth alongside Devereaux, almost hitting his head on the display of crucibles and fake pig-iron ingots on the wall above them. He grinned, nodded to Loflin, and signaled to the waitress to bring him a drink.

“Ages ago.” Devereaux was hesitant. “Why?”

“Do you know Carlos Camacho? The bastard's been playing tricks on me for years. He's retiring next week. And he thinks he can throw a farewell party without me finding out. Wrong! So, I was thinking: A waitress. She looks like she's six months pregnant. She goes up to him with a tray of drinks. And boom! Her stomach explodes. Some kind of critter—maybe a toy dragon?—shoots out at him. Covers him in raspberry jam. What do you think?”

“Maybe you should just make him a nice cake.”

Randall had achieved legendary status back in the days of typed reports when he'd iced his weekly case summary onto a cake and handed it to his lieutenant as a protest against the department's growing bureaucracy.

“I could do both.” Randall's drink arrived, and he took a long swig. “Now, enough about Camacho and his party. Nice to meet you, Detective Loflin. And what about you, Cooper? What do you need?”

“Information, Nick. We have a case that might overlap with one of yours. Ours is a missing kid. A seven-year-old boy. We think he was snatched by a woman who was driving a white Honda Odyssey. We have a partial plate, and it matches a vehicle connected to your homicide. We need to figure out the connection, if there is one.”

“Interesting.” Randall drummed his meaty fingers on the table for a moment. “The Honda in my case was seen driving away from the site where a body was dumped. The vic was dressed like a hooker. And found in Lawnswood. But we're getting nowhere. We don't even have an ID on the body. We've pulled in all the usual pimps and low-lifes, and spoken to a couple dozen of the local girls, but no one said they knew her.”

“Anything from the postmortem?”

“Not much. It was pretty clean, so we figure she was new to the game as well as new to Birmingham.” Randall took a swig of his
beer. “What about the missing boy? Is he the hooker's kid? Could your perp have killed my vic and snatched him?”

“No. He was orphaned when he was three. Honestly, we have no idea what the deal is. We're clutching at straws. The kid's been gone since Friday night…”

“I hear you. I'll get back out there tonight. Mix things up a little. Let you know if anything shakes out.”

“Thanks, Nick. I appreciate it.”

“I'll also reach out to Vice. See what they can tell us about fresh meat coming in from out of town. Maybe whatever kind of trouble killed my vic followed her here.”

“Jan has contacts in Vice.” Devereaux gestured toward Loflin. “You could ask them, right? Go straight to the horse's mouth. We could save some time, that way.”

“Sure.” Loflin sounded a little distracted. “No problem at all.”

“Good.” Devereaux nodded. “Nick, let's stay in touch on this one. Let me know immediately if anything breaks?”

“You got it.” Randall eased himself cautiously out of the booth. “Always good doing business with you, Cooper. Now, I've got to get my feet on the street. There's somewhere I need to be.”

“One second.” Devereaux raised his hand. “Before you go, let me throw a name at you. Bronson Segard. He's seventy-seven years old. He might have been a cop. Does that ring any bells?”

“No. Sorry. Should it?”

“It has no reason to. It's a little left field. This guy Segard showed up on my doorstep yesterday. Then he collapsed. I visited him in the hospital, and he started babbling about a woman killing his partner. The thing is, there's no record of any old retired cops being killed.”

“Is it connected to the kid disappearing?”

“If it is, I can't see how. I just don't like loose ends.”

“Me neither. There's only one way to deal with a loose end, Cooper. Pull on it. The problem is, once you start, you never know how much will come undone.”

Sunday. Afternoon
.

Ethan missing for forty-one and a half hours

Randall left the Anthracite to rouse a nightclub bouncer who was a possible witness in a fatal stabbing he was investigating, but Devereaux couldn't follow him because Loflin had succumbed to all the iced tea she'd been drinking and had gone in search of the ladies' room.

Devereaux was frustrated. He wanted to be moving. Making something happen that would bring them closer to finding Ethan. Not sitting and waiting for someone who was in line to challenge the world record for the longest-ever bathroom break. To make matters worse, the waitress kept hanging around his booth, making small talk and offering him more drinks. In the end, partly to back her off, and partly because Randall's words of wisdom about loose ends were ringing in his ears, he picked up his phone and dialed the number for the BPD Human Resources Department.

“This is Mollie Allen. How can I help?”

Devereaux had gotten to know Mollie when he was struggling to straighten out his arrangements in the aftermath of his failed move to the FBI. They'd talked a couple of times a day for a week and a half, and become good friends in the process, even though they'd never met face-to-face.

“Mollie, it's Devereaux. I need another favor…”

“Cooper? You never write. You never call. And now you need
another
favor? Give me one good reason.”

“To help out an old, sick, ex-cop.”

“An ex-cop? They finally threw your ass out?”

“Not me! I'm looking for someone. A guy who showed up at my home. His name's Bronson Segard. He was born in January '38. And now he's in the hospital, hanging on by his fingernails. I want to make sure he gets taken care of. If I can find out if he has family, I can see to it he has visitors.”

“Cooper, I'm only messing with you. Of course I'll help. Are you sure this guy was a cop?”

“Not one hundred percent. But pretty sure. Could you check for me?”

“Hold on.”

Devereaux swigged a little more beer, and saw that the waitress was scowling at him now.

“Cooper?” Mollie was back quickly. “I found him. He retired eighteen years ago. He has an address over in Indian Springs, but there's no next of kin listed.”

“OK.” Devereaux nodded, even though Mollie couldn't see him. “How about this—can you find out who his last partner was? Maybe he could come to the hospital and hang out. Keep his buddy company.”

“Hold on. I have to switch systems. Here we go. Looks like Segard had a few partners over the years. As you'd expect. The last one, he was with for over twenty years. A guy called Hayden Tomcik.”

“Say that name again?” Devereaux fought to keep his voice level.

“Hayden Tomcik. Do you need me to spell it?”

“No, it's OK. There is one thing, though.
Tomcik
is an unusual name, I know, but could you see if there were any other guys called Tomcik in the department at the same time as Bronson Segard?”

Devereaux heard computer keys rattling at the other end of the line.

“Only him.” Mollie sounded confident. “No surprise there.”

“OK. Just one last question, then.” Devereaux was ashamed he didn't already know the answer. “Could you give me Tomcik's current address?”