False Positive (3 page)

The woman pulled up alongside the black M-Class Mercedes and killed her engine. She knew she was out of range of the security cameras so she checked that no one was watching from the other parked vehicles, then wiped everything she could have touched inside the Honda clean of prints. She got out. Unlocked the Mercedes. Helped the little boy and his tiny knitted monkey switch vehicles. Scooped up the cuddly rabbit he'd dropped on the back seat. Then moved her case and his backpack from one trunk to the other.

She opened her case. Took out a rectangular nylon bag. Flipped it over so that the word
Worn
was visible. Unzipped it. Took off her sunglasses, wig, and earrings. Placed them inside. Dropped the Honda key in with them. Zipped the bag up. Turned it over. Opened the side that said
Clean
. Took out a fresh wig. Brunette, this time. Another pair of sunglasses. Tortoiseshell, not black. New earrings. A chunky, turquoise necklace. A matching bracelet. Then she closed the trunk. Climbed in behind the wheel. Checked herself in the mirror. Flashed a reassuring smile at the kid, who still seemed a little groggy. And pulled back out of the diner's parking lot.

She had a new car. A new look. And a lot of ground to cover before her mission would be complete.

Saturday. Morning
.

Time slowed to a crawl as Devereaux knelt on the marble floor in the lobby at the City Federal building, keeping an eye on the old man's vital signs and willing the paramedics to pick up the pace. After eight minutes—each one of which felt like an hour—an ambulance finally pulled up outside. Devereaux passed on what little he knew to the crew and asked which hospital the guy would be taken to. Then, too impatient to wait for the elevator again, he took the stairs down to the basement garage. He reluctantly ignored his Porsche and continued to the department-issue Dodge Charger he kept in the adjacent stall. He climbed inside, and seventy seconds later he was parking in a spot that had just opened up on the street at the side of the police headquarters's sloping metal entrance canopy on First Avenue.

The detectives' desks were all empty when Devereaux pushed through the double doors from the elevator lobby on the third floor, but he could see Lieutenant Hale—five feet eleven, with swimmer's shoulders and jet-black hair halfway down her back—standing in her office doorway and gesturing impatiently for him to hurry up. As he drew closer he realized someone else was there, sitting behind Hale. Another woman. She looked a good fifteen years younger. Her
bobbed, blond hair was lacquered almost rigid. She had a plain, oval face. And she was skinny to the point of anorexia.

“Cooper, this is Detective Jan Loflin.”

Devereaux appraised Loflin for a moment, then held out his hand. “Cooper. Never Coop. Never Coops. Shame we're not meeting under different circumstances.”

Loflin stood, and as they shook Devereaux could feel the nervous energy running through her. It was as if there was too much for her small body to contain, leaving her muscles to burn off the excess like the flares at an oil refinery. Devereaux was a foot taller and seemingly three times as broad, and her rapid tiny movements made him feel clumsy and oversized.

“Jan's on loan to us from Vice.” Hale retreated behind her desk and scooped up a cup of coffee that had been perching on a stack of overtime authorization forms. “She comes highly recommended. And given that Tommy's helping out Colton while Levi recovers from his rotator cuff, I'm pairing the two of you up. For now, at least. We can take another look at things once the kid's safely home with his parents.”

“Foster parents.” Devereaux took the seat nearer the door.

Hale watched as Loflin shifted her chair a few inches closer to the window before sitting down and pulling a dog-eared Moleskine notebook out of her purse. She looked anxious. Hale hoped that was just down to Loflin being freshly back from sick leave, but she couldn't quash the nagging doubt at the back of her mind. Not completely. Loflin came with a reputation. Picking her up, even on a temporary assignment, was a risk. But it had seemed like a risk worth taking, with the team left shorthanded. And Hale had dealt with odd fish before, she reminded herself. Successfully. Just look at Devereaux. Saving misfits' careers was becoming her specialty.

“OK.” Hale extracted a color, eight-by-ten portrait from the chaos on her desk and held it up. “This is our missing kid. His name's Ethan Crane. Take a good look, guys. This picture's only two weeks old.”

Both detectives studied the image, praying that the next photo they saw of Ethan wouldn't have been taken at a crime scene. He was a cute kid. He had fluffy, chestnut-brown hair. A smattering of
freckles around his nose and forehead. A cheeky smile. Straight, white teeth. And a wary distance in his eyes that Devereaux would recognize anywhere.

“Good.” Hale traded the glossy picture for a sheaf of creased papers and flicked away a crumb of chocolate that she'd dropped on the top page. “Here's what we know about Ethan Crane. He's seven years old. Orphaned. No living relatives. Placed in two previous homes before he was fostered, and subsequently adopted, by Joseph and Mary Lynne Crane. We're tracing the previous families, but don't have any information as yet. Joseph Crane's a V.P. in charge of project management at the University of Alabama down in Tuscaloosa, so he leaves home early and gets back late. Mary Lynne's a nurse, here in Birmingham. There are no red flags from any neighbors or co-workers. None that the uniforms have canvassed so far, anyway. They have a nice house over the mountain. The kids go to a good school—”

“Kids?” Devereaux sounded surprised.

Loflin carried on scribbling in her notebook.

“Yes.” Hale reached out and prodded one of the slats in the vertical blind at the window, trying to block an offending ray of sunlight that had started to shine in her eyes. “Not long after adopting Ethan, Mrs. Crane—who'd been told she couldn't—got pregnant. They have another little boy. A biological son, named Dillon.”

“That cause any problems?” Devereaux frowned. “I bet they didn't want the adopted kid around, once they had one of their own.”

“Couldn't say.” Hale paused. “Find out. So anyway, this Dillon, he's four years old. He's in pre-K, at the same school as Ethan. Uniform's tracking down their teachers. As for the parents, last night Mr. and Mrs. Crane went to dinner at their neighbors, the Ketterbaughs. Apparently it's a semi-regular thing. Four couples go, every few months. As they usually do, the Cranes put their boys to bed before heading next door at around seven pm. They kept an ear open for the boys by using an app on Mrs. Crane's smartphone. And every forty-five minutes or so, Mr. Crane went back to check on them in person. He checked for a final time at about twelve-thirty, when the couple got home, and everything was fine. Both kids tucked up in
their beds, snug as bugs. Then, this morning, Mrs. Crane—who always wakes at five-thirty, come what may—went into the boys' room.”

“They share?” Devereaux's frown deepened.

“Yes. So Mrs. Crane went in—for no special reason, she just wanted to see her kids—and found Dillon, thumb in his mouth, fast asleep. But no sign of Ethan. His comforter was kind of bundled up, to make his bed look occupied from a distance, but he wasn't there. She searched the house for him, thinking it was a prank. Then she started to panic. She woke her husband. And at five fifty-eight, she called 911.”

“Did the uniforms search the place again, when they got there?” Devereaux knew he was clutching at straws. That little boy was gone.

“They went through all the usual hiding places. The attic. The basement. The works.” Hale took a swig of coffee. “No dice. Nothing stood out from the parents' initial statements, either, or from interviewing the neighbors. Uniforms are still out canvassing the area. All available K9 units have been deployed. And five of our own people have given up their days off to help check the kid's favorite haunts.”

“How about Find-a-Child?”

Find-a-Child was a national agency Hale had used three times before when kids had gone missing on her watch. Based out of Miami, it used hundreds of specially trained volunteers to flood carefully targeted areas with phone calls, hoping to uncover snippets of information that could be passed on to the police and developed into leads. All three of those kids had been recovered safely—one had been snatched by his estranged father, who was trying to take him to Nicaragua; one had run away, and was hiding in an abandoned storage shed at the edge of a cotton field; and the most recent had been taken by a man who thought the boy was an alien newly arrived on earth to direct an extra-terrestrial invasion.

“I authorized bringing them in, right before you got here.”

“Anything from forensics yet?” Devereaux tried to push the edge of a carpet tile back into place with his foot, but it refused to cooperate.

“No sign of forced entry.” Hale took another sip of coffee. “No
blood. Plenty of fingerprints in the house, but no hits from any database. Still waiting on the rest.”

“Any background on the Cranes?”

“They were screened extensively before being allowed to foster Ethan, and nothing seems to have changed.” Hale was nursing her cup, anxious to conserve the final few drops of coffee. “No records of anything out of the ordinary, debt-wise. They denied having any enemies, and swore they haven't been threatened by anyone. I've reached out to Vice and Narcotics, just in case there's anything the Cranes aren't telling us.”

“Any reports of Joseph Crane getting into fights? Or Mary Lynne?”

“None.”

“And they've not received any demands?”

“No.”

“Did they say if anything else was missing?” Devereaux could feel the quicksand sucking at his ankles, dragging him back to the times when emergency calls had been made to report
him
missing. “Other than Ethan?”

Loflin underlined something, but still didn't speak.

“Yes.” Hale flipped to a paper at the rear of the sheaf. “The backpack Ethan used for school. Underwear—at least three pairs. Several T-shirts. And one pair of pajamas.”

“What about toys? Or books?”

“Mrs. Crane says
Brian
is missing. That's Ethan's favorite soft toy. A stuffed life-size rabbit. What do you make of that?”

Devereaux shrugged.

“OK, then.” Hale drained her cup and plonked it down on a pile of phone message slips. “In that case, you know the question. Stick or twist?”

Devereaux knew what the lieutenant was really asking. Should they treat the kid as a runaway—or potential homicide victim—and continue to handle it themselves? Or was there anything to suggest a kidnapping, in which case jurisdiction would pass to the FBI.

“Put a gun to my head, I'd say runaway.” Devereaux ran a hand through his hair. “Kidnappings serve a purpose. They're done to extort money. Enforce compliance with something. Take revenge. Or
get exposure for some wacky cause. There's no hint of any of those things here. On the surface, at least. So, unless we're dealing with something really freaky, like the kid being snatched by a cult or a pervert—or someone looking to sell him to a pervert—the chances are he ran. Or the adopted parents killed him, and are covering it up. Either way, I should head over there and take a closer look at them.”

Hale noticed Loflin tense up in her chair. “You and Jan should.”

“Right.” Devereaux looked at the door, anxious to be moving.

“Good. Then you two get over to the Crane house. I'll reach out to someone I know in the Birmingham field office, off the record, and see if the Bureau's had word on any pedophile rings that are active in the area. And cults, just to cover all the bases. The Bureau's shit-hot with that stuff. And, guys, remember—time.” Hale turned her robot clock to face the two detectives. “You know the first twenty-four hours are key if we're going to find this kid alive.”

Devereaux stood, then stepped back to allow Loflin to leave the office first.

“Cooper?” Hale stood, too, reached across her desk, and took hold of Devereaux's sleeve. “Move fast. But handle this with kid gloves, OK? We already have the media coming out of the wazoo. And people like these? Ruffle their feathers too much and we'll be in the middle of a shit storm, whether we get the boy back or not.”

Funny, Devereaux thought. There hadn't been any media interest whenever he'd gone missing. He could remember plenty of shit storms, though. And they'd all been focused squarely on him.

Cooper Devereaux. Extract from Disciplinary Record (Suspensions):

Date	Complaint
06-21-96           Â	Use of Excessive Force
04-16-99	Use of Prohibited Police Tactic
12-01-03	Unjustified Arrest
06-30-07	Unlawful Killing of a Minor. Reckless Discharge of a Firearm
05-08-10	Assault and Battery
07-05-12	Shots Fired into Vehicle Without Justification

None of these complaints were ever substantiated, but really? Think about it, Jan!

Smoke / fire?

Leopard / spots…?

Saturday. Morning
.

Ethan missing for eight and a half hours

Devereaux had been
over the mountain
hundreds of times in his life. To the classy suburbs that had once been sheltered from Birmingham's choking clouds of pollution behind the thousand-foot crags and later, after the demise of the ironworks, had used them as a buffer against the city's creeping urban decay. He'd dated a woman from over there. Visited friends. Arrested criminals. Pursued suspects. Confiscated contraband. Even considered buying property. But when Loflin blipped her Charger's siren to scatter the small crowd of reporters that had gathered at the end of the Crane driveway, the sight of the palatial Mountain Brook home and its crisp white exterior triggered another familiar sensation.
Not belonging
.

It was the same rush of emotion that had overwhelmed him when he first glimpsed the house he'd been sent to when he was six. House? More like a shack. Run-down. And tiny. The Crane residence was a mansion in comparison. Devereaux figured it must be close on five thousand square feet. And beautifully maintained. A child would need a good reason to run away from that kind of place. But as Devereaux knew from bitter experience, there are plenty of good reasons to run.

The Crane yard was huge, too. A neatly manicured lawn separated
the house from the street. There was no fence, though, which on that day seemed like a mistake. The reporters and camera crews were constantly creeping forward from the edge of the street, where the first officers on the scene had told them to stay. The Crane grass had been a healthy emerald green, unlike the sun-scorched scrub that satisfied some of their neighbors, but now the delicate surface was getting torn up by the uninvited, encroaching feet.

A line of evenly spaced dwarf conifers was the only visible border on the property, delineating the parking area where a late-model silver BMW was standing in front of a dented green RAV4. To the far side of the house a broad bed of shrubs gave way to saplings, and then to mature trees. It was practically a private forest. Plenty of ground for a curious boy to get lost in. Or buried in.

Devereaux would have wagered a month's salary there'd be a decent-size swimming pool round back, too, where a kid could easily drown. He was squinting up at the roof and wondering whether the pitch was sufficiently steep to contain an attic, or at least a crawl space big enough for a kid to hide in, when Loflin leaned over and touched his arm.

“Are you ready?” Loflin reached for her door handle, but waited for Devereaux to nod before she stepped out of the car.

Devereaux could feel the reporters' eyes on his back as he and Loflin approached the house's gabled porch. He could hear voices, too, when they reached its glossy white door. They were coming from inside. A man's, angry and accusatory. A woman's, defensive and shrill.

Another inevitable aspect of the case.

Another unwelcome echo from the past.

Devereaux knocked on the door. Hard. The kind of knock that does more than request admittance. The kind that tells whoever's inside to shut up and behave themselves. The yelling stopped abruptly. Footsteps approached. The door opened an eighth of the way. A man's long, manicured fingers curled around its edge at chest height and a hairy big toe appeared at its base.

“What do you want now?” The hidden voice sounded desperate. “Why can't you leave us alone? Get off our property!”

“Police.” Devereaux thrust his badge into the gap.

The door opened the rest of the way.

“Sorry.” The man was a shade over six feet tall, stocky, with thinning blond hair. He was wearing pale blue pants and a wrinkled white linen shirt, and a lingering hint of stale alcohol hung in the air around him. “I thought you were from the TV. Or the papers. They've been outside all morning, trying to film us and take pictures through the windows. Come on in. Quick, before they start snapping again.”

Devereaux shook his head and followed Loflin as she stepped past a neat line of shoes and entered the hallway. It was a pleasant space. Light and airy, with a faint scent of lilac. The ceilings were high. The doorways and staircase were broad. The walls were finished in a soft off-white, with a half a dozen Impressionist-style paintings in pale wood frames dotted at intervals along their length. The floor was pale wood, too, but with a two-foot gash carved into it near the foot of the stairs. Devereaux wondered which of the boys was responsible, and how the parents had taken it.

“Have you found Ethan?” A woman in dark gray yoga pants and a matching top rushed toward the detectives from deeper inside the house. She was tall—maybe five-nine or -ten—and was clutching a plump, ginger-haired little boy to her chest. “Tell me he's all right!”

“Mrs. Crane?” Loflin stepped forward to intercept the woman. Devereaux moved to the side, scanning the mother's expression and gauging her body language.

“We have over a hundred people out looking for Ethan, right now.” Loflin stretched out and touched the woman's arm. “They're doing everything they can. But there are some things we need to check with you, to help them bring Ethan home. Is there somewhere we could sit and talk?”

The detectives followed Mary Lynne and Joseph to the living room. Mary Lynne's pace slowed as she walked and her shoulders sagged a little more with every step. Devereaux could practically see the hope draining out of her. She ground to a halt in the center of the room with her husband by her side and gestured for the detectives to take one of the four cream-leather couches that were arranged around a brightly patterned Turkish rug. Picture windows dominated one wall—though the tapestry-style drapes were closed just
then—and the other three sides were filled with bleached oak bookcases. There was no sign of a TV, Devereaux noted. Or any toys.

The Cranes hesitantly settled themselves across from the detectives. Mary Lynne perched at the edge of her couch, hunched protectively over Dillon, who was noisily sucking his thumb. Joseph leaned back and stretched his left arm along the top of the cushions, but the tendons standing out like cords in his neck gave the lie to his attempt at appearing calm.

Loflin handled the introductions, then took out her notebook and started to walk the couple through the bones of the story Lieutenant Hale had outlined in her office. Mary Lynne handled all the questions, nodding or mumbling brief affirmatives, and struggling to hold back her tears when asked about finding that Ethan had vanished. Dillon snuggled further into her lap, occasionally wriggling his head, but generally seeming content to soak up the attention. Devereaux wondered if Mary Lynne had ever hugged Ethan that way. Maybe when Ethan was the only child in the house, he thought. But after baby Dillon arrived? He doubted it.

“Can you add anything, Mr. Crane?” Devereaux leaned forward, trying to make a connection with him. “It's important not to ignore the tiny details. They can make all the difference.”

“No.” Joseph Crane flinched as if someone had pinched him. “My wife's covered everything. What I want to know is, what are you guys actually doing to find my son? Why are you here, asking us questions we've already answered? Why aren't you out looking for Ethan?”

“You agree with everything your wife just said?”

“Of course! Why are you wasting time?”

“Everything she said?”

“Yes! Now why—”

“Because when we arrived, it sounded like you guys didn't agree about something. What were you arguing about?”

“We weren't arguing. This is a very stressful situation, is all, and—”

“I heard you yelling, Mr. Crane. You were yelling at your wife. Why would you do that?”

Joseph Crane glowered at Devereaux, but his lips tightened and he didn't reply.

“Was it about Ethan? Was there a problem with him? With his behavior?”

“No.”

“At home? At school, maybe? Have there been complaints?”

“Of course not! Ethan's a bright kid. His teachers are delighted with him.”

“How about from his friends?”

Joseph Crane shook his head.

“From his friends' parents?”

“No.”

“What about his…brother?” Devereaux switched his attention to Dillon, hoping for a reaction. “Boys fight, right? All the time. Did they go at it a little more than usual yesterday? Ethan's older than Dillon. Bigger. And he's not your natural son…”

“The hell are you suggesting?”

“Mr. Crane?” Loflin closed her notebook. “Here's the thing. We're not looking to jam you up. We're not here to judge. We're here to help find Ethan. And if we're going to do that, we need to know everything. Good and bad.”

Joseph Crane shifted his gaze to the maze of patterns in the rug, but didn't answer.

“If it turns out not to be relevant, we'll forget we ever heard it.” Loflin spread her hands out in front of her. “Whatever it is. And if you need to change one of your previous answers, we won't be mad at you. But saving your son is more important than saving face. You need to tell us
everything
.”

“No.” A scarlet rash appeared on Joseph Crane's neck and started to spread up toward his face. “You need to—”

“It was me.” Mary Lynne Crane sat bolt upright, startling Dillon then pulling him tighter to her chest. “I know I should have told you sooner, but I was ashamed. When we got home last night, Joe went to check on the boys one last time. It was my job to lock the kitchen door behind us. That's the way we always do it—Joe checks the kids, I lock up. Except that I'd drunk a little more than usual. A little too much, if I'm honest. I fixed myself a glass of water instead of dealing with the stupid door right away. And then I forgot about it. I went upstairs. And fell asleep. I didn't even take my makeup off. When I
found Ethan was missing, I couldn't understand it. But now I do. It was my fault. Whoever took him, they just walked right in.”

“You're sure you left the door unlocked?” Devereaux softened his voice.

“Let's not jump to conclusions.” Loflin turned to Mary Lynne. “Maybe the door was unlocked this morning because Ethan had gone out and left it that way?”

“No.” Mary Lynne started to shake, causing Dillon to whimper until she let him slide down and curl up on her lap again.

“Our son did not run away.” Joseph Crane got to his feet, his hands balling into fists at his sides, his face growing red.

“But he has run away before.” Devereaux stated it as a fact, not a question.

Joseph Crane stopped moving, but neither he nor his wife replied.

“How many times?” Devereaux kept his voice neutral. “Four? Five?”

“Only once.” Mary Lynne's answer was barely audible. “Sort of. For, like, an hour. He was mad at us. But he came back, so it doesn't really count, right?”

“What did he take with him, that time?” Devereaux leaned forward.

“A little bag.” Mary Lynne looked heartbroken. “A couple of toys. His pajamas. Some clothes.”

“And this time?” Loflin's voice was gentle. “Isn't his school bag missing? His pajamas? And some clothes?”

“You're making us out to be monsters, driving him away!” Joseph Crane flopped back onto the sofa and took Dillon from his wife, lifting him onto his knee and absentmindedly straightening the little boy's scarlet Mickey Mouse sleep suit. “The bastard who took Ethan, he took those things to trick you. He wanted to throw you off the scent. And it's working. You're useless.”

“What about his toy?” Loflin kept her focus on Mary Lynne. “Brian? His stuffed rabbit? Brian's missing, too, right?”

“Yes.” Mary Lynne's eyes were filling with tears. “Ethan takes that rabbit everywhere. He can't get to sleep without it.”

“What about the other time he ran?” Devereaux kept his voice soft. “Did he take Brian then, too?”

“Yes.” Mary Lynne sounded confused. “No. Not exactly. He has another rabbit. Bert. It's exactly the same as Brian. Ethan says they're twins. Last time, he took Bert instead.”

“How do you know which one he took, if they're exactly the same?”

“They started out exactly the same, but now Brian's falling apart. He's been hugged half to death. Bert, Ethan hardly touches. Never takes him out of his room. No idea why. He still looks brand-new.”

“Could I see Ethan's room?” Devereaux stood up.

“Why?” Joseph Crane pulled Dillon back against his chest. “Because of some stupid toy? The crime scene guys already went through it.”

“Oh my God!” A single tear ran down Mary Lynne's cheek, carving a meandering trail through the smeared remnants of the previous night's makeup. “You've found something, haven't you? Something you think belongs to Ethan?”