False Positive (8 page)

Saturday. Late Evening
.

Ethan missing for twenty-six and a half hours

Devereaux only carried the standard-issue single pair of handcuffs, so once he had subdued both guys—and after giving them a last chance to tell him where to find Rutherford—he had them sit cross-legged on their hands between the first two rows of chair frames while he called headquarters. He asked for two units, ASAP: A squad car, to transport the prisoners. And a surveillance team to keep watch over Rutherford's Firebird, in case he came back to collect it.

Rutherford must have moved up in the world since Devereaux had last been involved with him. Not only did he have people to do his dirty work for him now, but they weren't stupid. By the time Devereaux caught up with them at headquarters, they'd already asked for their lawyers. Rutherford's resources must have improved, too, because a lawyer showed up within twenty minutes, despite it being close to 10:00 o'clock at night. A lawyer from a respectable firm, not the kind of drug-syndicate shyster Devereaux would previously have expected.

Devereaux hadn't seen Loflin since the meeting in the lieutenant's office. Hale had gone home as well and Devereaux was left sitting
behind his desk in the semi-darkness, at a loss about what to do next. It was late, but he wasn't ready to take his foot off the gas. Not without making some worthwhile progress. And he was frustrated after hitting another dead end. He needed a distraction.

He thought about the files he had stashed at his apartment. He wasn't supposed to keep records at home, but, like most detectives, he did. He kept them encrypted, so no one else would understand them. And he didn't keep them for every case. Just the ones his gut told him could lead to trouble down the road. Trouble, like someone trying to torpedo his career.

There was a chance of finding whoever had tried to smear him in those pages, but the prospect of searching through piles of paper wasn't appealing. Especially not after the adrenaline-rush of the confrontation at McCarthy's. Then his mind turned to the old guy who'd collapsed at his building. Talking to him might be a higher priority, anyway. He'd seemed in bad shape. The files would be around later. The old guy might not.

The geriatric special-care unit at UAB was housed in a shiny white corridor with five rooms spaced evenly down each side. The air tasted bitter due to its high oxygen content, and the constant low droning sound from the HVAC system made Devereaux imagine he was on board a spaceship. It was a very modern environment for such ancient inhabitants, he thought. A sign of optimism? Or desperation?

The old guy Devereaux was looking for was in the second room on the right. The sliding glass door sucked back into place on its own after Devereaux entered. He guessed it was designed to keep airborne germs out and, where necessary, the occupant in. There was no danger of this guy trying to go anywhere he shouldn't, though. He was lying in the bed, still as a board. His eyes were closed. His face was as colorless as the pillow he was propped up against. For a moment Devereaux thought he'd arrived too late. Then a faint movement caught his eye. A weak green line, tracing the guy's pulse across a wall-mounted monitor at the head of the bed, above the more static readings for respiration and oxygen saturation.

Devereaux checked the ID bracelet on the guy's wrist—Bronson
Segard, DOB 1-13-38—then took the one seat that was provided for visitors. He looked up and wondered how many more times the feeble EKG signal could limp from one side of the monitor screen to the other before it stopped moving for good. It reminded him of the way an old clockwork robot his father had given him would jerk and stagger when its spring had almost wound down, and he was struggling to push the maudlin image away when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

It was a text from Loflin:
Where are you?

News? Ethan?
Devereaux replied.

No. But we need to talk anyway
.

Devereaux told her he was at the hospital, followed up with the location of Segard's room, then turned back to the monitor. Another eight minutes crept by. The colored lines on the screen began to weave themselves into images of lost, scared children's faces. First his own, from his distant past. Then Ethan's, from the present. Alone. In danger. Devereaux couldn't shake the visions and was ready to leave, hoping a change of scene would clear his head, when he saw the old man slowly open one eye.

“Mr. Segard?” Devereaux stood and leaned over the bed. “How are you feeling? Are you OK? Can you hear me? It's Cooper Devereaux.”

“Listen to me.” The old man's voice was scratchy and barely audible. “Cooper—she knows.”

“Who's
she
, Mr. Segard? And what does she know?”

“She knows who she is. And she killed my partner.”

“Your partner? Were you a cop, Mr. Segard? And who knows? Who is
she
?”

“If she finds—” The old man gasped for air. “If she finds out. About your father. There are files. My partner kept records—”

The door slid open and Loflin walked into the room.

“Is this the guy you were telling me about?” She sounded out of breath. “Is he OK? Should I call a doctor?”

For a split second Devereaux could have sworn the old man's eyes grew wider. Then he clamped them shut and refused to say another word. And he stayed that way for ten more minutes, until a nurse arrived and asked the detectives to leave.

Devereaux and Loflin made their way back through the hospital, moving quickly along the deserted corridors until they reached the elevators leading to the reception desk. It seemed to take hours for one to arrive despite Devereaux impatiently pounding on the Call button, so he changed tack and took out his phone to call headquarters. Then he remembered the time. No one senior would be available, and he didn't want his inquiry getting buried at the bottom of some clerk's to-do pile. Lieutenant Hale would be able to put some muscle behind it, but he didn't want to get drawn into discussing his motives. Sending a text would be a much better option:

Need info. Urgent. Any 70 to 80 y/o male homicide victims reported in Bham in last 2 weeks?

The night air felt warm on their skin when Devereaux and Loflin finally emerged from the main entrance. The concourse was deserted. No traffic passed by. The fountain had been switched off. The reflecting pool's surface glinted, mirror-smooth, capturing a giant image of the almost-full moon floating high above in the inky sky. Devereaux closed his eyes. He enjoyed the moment of unexpected peace, until it was shattered by an approaching siren. Then he took a step closer to Loflin. “Jan? What did you want to talk about?”

“It's—I don't know.” Loflin turned away, trying to stop the confusion from showing in her face. Which was the real Devereaux? The man she'd watched at McCarthy's, who stood in front of her now? Or the one she'd read about a thousand times in the file she'd been sent? Honestly, she had no idea. “It's nothing. Sorry I bothered you. See you in the morning, Cooper.”

Sunday. Early Morning
.

Ethan missing for thirty-six hours

In the closet. In the hallway. Just me and the bugs and the spiders. Why's Daddy so late?

The front door creaks open
.

“This is the police.”

It's not Daddy's voice. It's a stranger's. Coming to hurt me?

“Show yourself. Right now.”

I hold my breath. Lie extra still
.

“Come on. The kid's got to be here, somewhere. We've got to find him.”

Footsteps come closer. The closet door opens. The light switches on. Coats swish on the rail. One of Daddy's boots falls over. The thump's real loud. Right above my head. I don't breathe at all. I squeeze my eyes shut. Any second now the board will lift up…

The stranger's phone starts to ring. If he goes to answer it, he might not find me
.

Go! Answer it! Go! Answer it!

The phone keeps ringing. The stranger stays where he is
.

The phone keeps ringing. It's playing Guns N' Roses. The intro to “Sweet Child O' Mine.” Over and over…

Wait. A phone? Playing Guns N' Roses? In 1976? Relieved, Devereaux slowly floated back to consciousness. Then he reached out a hand, groping around on the nightstand for his cell.

“Detective Devereaux?” The civilian aide from headquarters sounded agitated when Devereaux finally answered.

“Yes. What?”

“Lieutenant Hale wants you in the office. Fourth floor. Right now.”

Hale was standing in the corridor, talking on her phone, when Devereaux emerged from the elevator. He nodded and started to squeeze between her and the line of gold-framed portraits of past chiefs of the Birmingham PD, which were screwed to the wall behind her, but she ended her call, grabbed his elbow, and led him away from the conference room door.

“Cooper—quick heads-up before we go in. We've got company this morning. The FBI's here. Two agents. Both trained in profiling. Are you comfortable with that?”

Two years earlier the Birmingham PD had been stumped by a series of murders. Someone had killed the wives of three prominent businessmen, apparently vanishing into thin air between each crime. The media was doing its best to whip the public up into a frenzy of outrage, going all-out to portray the authorities as lead-footed incompetents. More and more manpower was thrown at the case, and eventually a possible suspect emerged. A locksmith who'd worked at each of the victim's houses over the last ten months, and who'd allegedly clashed with the women over the exorbitant unexpected extras he'd tried to charge them for.

Everyone in the department was delighted with this long-awaited, face-saving breakthrough. Everyone except Devereaux.

Devereaux had spent hours at the crime scenes, trying to put himself in the killer's shoes, and had come up with an alternative explanation for the murders. He'd noticed that the three victims looked very similar, and had developed a theory that they'd been targeted by
a local doctor whose own wife—who also resembled the three dead women—had abruptly left him, the previous Christmas Eve.

No one would listen to Devereaux. No one wanted to burst the sudden bubble of optimism surrounding the investigation. His idea was dismissed as psychobabble. So while the rest of the detectives were out chasing the wrong man, Devereaux followed his instincts. He staked out the doctor's house, on his own time, and one night followed him to a mansion belonging to the owner of a chain of cell phone stores. The guy was away in Atlanta, negotiating the purchase of a rival operation. His wife—who could have passed for the doctor's ex's younger sister—was home alone. Devereaux broke into the premises and found her kicking and scratching, the doctor's hands still locked around her throat.

Following this success, Devereaux had been inspired to join the FBI. He'd aced the written exams. Passed the physical. Taken a couple of college courses, to plug some gaps in his résumé. Shone at the interviews. Been told on the phone he was in. Had set his heart on working his way into the legendary Behavioral Science Unit. But at the last moment the rug had been pulled from under him. No one had been able to explain what had happened. No one had even been willing to try. But regardless, Devereaux had found himself back in Birmingham with bridges to rebuild with the police department. And resentment to burn with the Bureau.

“So this means that Ethan was kidnapped?” The cogs were spinning in Devereaux's head. “What happened? What did they find?”

“More about that in a minute.” Hale squeezed his elbow. “Don't jump to conclusions. What I need to know is, can you handle being in this meeting? I only want cool heads in there. I can brief you later, if that would be more…productive.”

“No. Of course not. I'm glad the Bureau's here.”

“Good. In that case, there's just one other thing before we go in. The text you sent me last night? About geriatric homicide victims? I did as you asked. I checked. And there are no records of any. Not in the last month. So whatever that was about, forget it. Focus on getting Ethan back. Nothing else. Are we clear?”

Sunday. Morning
.

Ethan missing for thirty-seven hours

Devereaux had always thought of the fourth floor conference room as the place where enthusiasm went to die.

He visited it as infrequently as he could get away with—usually he just went there for mandatory briefings about departmental reorganizations, which invariably made his job harder—and whenever he did set foot inside he was half expecting to find a team of scientists under the table, searching for the black hole that sucked all the initiative and optimism out of the room's occupants.

That morning, Devereaux felt like he'd walked into a completely different room. Large sheets of lining paper had been taped to the walls from floor to ceiling, creating fifteen separate focus areas. Twelve already had headings, handwritten in thick black ink—
Ethan Crane, Mary Lynne & Joseph Crane, Crane Friends, Crane Family, School, UAB, UAB Hospital, Triazolam, Honda Odyssey, Pedophiles, Cults, Threats / Demands
—and three were blank, held in reserve for future breakthroughs.

Most of the items pinned up so far related to the missing boy, his parents, and their workplaces, but Devereaux knew the sheets would quickly fill up as the investigation continued to gain pace. All the
information was processed electronically, too, but computer logic can't entirely replace detectives' intuition. Plus these physical displays gave the case a sense of tangible momentum. They linked all the investigators with everything that was happening and helped to ensure that no clue was ignored and that no connection—however tenuous—was missed.

Loflin was already in the room, sitting at the right-hand end of the beaten-up rectangular conference table. She'd changed into jeans and a white blouse since Devereaux had seen her at the hospital, but the beginnings of dark circles were showing beneath her eyes and she'd clearly taken less time arranging her hair than usual. Devereaux was about to head to the opposite end of the room but she discreetly gestured for him to join her. He paused for a moment, eyeing the two extra-large Styrofoam coffee cups on the table in front of her, then took the adjacent seat.

There were two other people in the room beside Lieutenant Hale, and neither matched Hollywood's typical portrayal of dyed-in-the-wool FBI agents. Neither looked much like a young, thrusting, climb-the-ladder-at-all-costs type, fresh from the assault course at Quantico. Instead, they were older guys, in their early fifties, and both had a calm, safe-pair-of-hands vibe about them. They were wearing chinos and polo shirts, rather than expensive suits. And they were locked in battle with the laptop computer that sat in front of them.

Loflin slid one of the coffee cups across to Devereaux, catching its base on a gap in the veneer and almost spilling it. The room should have been refurbished years ago, and there were competing rumors circulating to explain its continued run-down state. One said that the department's entire decorating budget had been spent on remodeling the commissioner's office. The other, that a meeting room in a different building had been fixed up by mistake. It was a classic example of
chaos or conspiracy
, but Devereaux didn't care which was true. He didn't even care if
either
was true.

Lieutenant Hale settled herself at the head of the table and got straight down to the introductions. The agent with the computer had a shaved head and an inch-long scar to the side of his left eye. His
name was Derek Bruckner. The other one, Stephen Grandison, had a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. Devereaux could have pictured him as a boxer in his younger days.

“OK.” Hale cleared her throat. “Now that we know one another, let's start by bringing my detectives up to speed.”

“All right.” Grandison had a deep, gravelly voice. “Here's what we know. Two minutes after six this morning, a maid went to service a room at a hotel called the Roadside Rendezvous off I-65, near Cullman, Alabama. In the bathroom she found two things: A hydrogen peroxide bottle, which was empty, and a bunch of hairs. Some were bleached. The others were chestnut brown, like Ethan Crane's. And they were curly, also like Ethan's. The maid had heard that the boy was missing, and she'd seen his picture on the news, so she told her boss. He called 911. The evidence was collected, and we're running the hair against a DNA sample from the kid's house to be sure. But there's also this. A description of the car the woman who paid for the room was driving. A Honda Odyssey. White. Same as the one reported on Ethan's street Friday night.”

“Anything on its license plate?” Hale asked.

“Nothing useful.” Grandison shook his head. “We ran what the driver wrote down when she registered, but it shows as belonging to a silver Jaguar in New York. We called the owner, and he confirmed his car's still in his garage. We've put out an alert on the plates, in case she cloned them, but it's more likely she wrote something down at random rather than give us the license number she's really using.”

“What about the desk clerk?” Devereaux put his coffee cup down. “Didn't he or she recognize the boy from when they checked in? Didn't the local police show them pictures?”

“There was no point.” Grandison spread his hands, palms-up. “They showed up in the early hours of Saturday morning. The night clerk was on duty, and he said that a woman checked into the room. On her own. Their security tapes confirm this, but the woman avoided her face being picked up on camera so we can't compare her image against Ethan's teachers, or any of the other adults in his life. We're sitting the clerk down with an artist, and we'll circulate the woman's image ASAP. Try and get a match that way.”

“Did he give much of a description?”

Bruckner consulted the notes on his computer. “He said she was Caucasian. Slim. Five foot four to five-eight. Straight, shoulder-length red hair. When he was pressed he couldn't swear it wasn't a wig, which suggests a possible disguise. And he couldn't pin down her age.”

“What about a name?”

“We have a name from the credit card she used. We're running it, but the odds are, it's phony. I'm not holding my breath.”

“So where was Ethan at this point?” Devereaux rotated his cup as he thought out loud. “Outside in her car, I guess. On his own? He could have been, if she'd drugged him. Or there could have been a second adult with him. How many room keys did the woman ask for?”

Bruckner rattled his laptop's keys again. “One. But a woman, working alone? That's unusual. Especially if she's planning on killing the kid.”

“One key doesn't necessarily equal one adult,” Grandison reasoned.

“True,” Bruckner conceded.

“And there were signs that both beds had been slept in.” Grandison picked up his thread again. “One by an adult. One by a child.”

“When did they check out?” Devereaux spun the cup the opposite way.

“They didn't.” Grandison shrugged. “But we figure they've left, because their car and all their stuff's gone.”

“This hotel's where?” Hale stood up and started to close the blinds over the room's nine windows. “Near Huntsville? Have we got any idea why this woman would take Ethan in that direction?”

“Have you guys checked on his relatives?” Bruckner turned back to his computer. “Do we know where they are? And Ethan's adopted, right? What about his birth mother?”

“Both natural parents are dead.” Devereaux didn't have to check any notes to answer that one. “He has no other relatives.”

“What about a crazy woman?” Loflin suggested. “One whose own baby died? Maybe around the time Ethan was born?”

“That's possible.” Bruckner nodded. “It's worth following up on.”

“If we're lucky, something like that will shake out.” Hale turned
to Bruckner. “But we can't count on it. What else do you have for us?”

“We got very little of value from either scene, so we're focusing on victimology. That's our best bet right now. We got nothing back from VICAP in terms of known offenders with similar MOs. Our next move will be to revisit the profile we're building, taking out the possibility that the kid ran away, and factoring in the tranquilizer, the prominent role of the woman, and the potential manipulation of her appearance.”

“How long will that take?” Concern creased Hale's forehead.

“Too long, probably.” Bruckner laid his hands palms-down on the table and fanned out his fingers. “Three million kids run away every year. And sixty thousand get snatched by non-family members.”

Bruckner closed his computer and the two agents left the room. Devereaux wanted to follow their example, but Hale insisted he stay. She had to head upstairs to brief the captain in five minutes, so remaining on the fourth floor was convenient for her.

“Thoughts?” She looked at Devereaux, then Loflin.

“In a way, this could be good news.” Loflin sounded tentative. “If Ethan's been kidnapped, he's most likely still alive. For now, at least.”

“I'm not convinced.” Devereaux frowned. “There's not much real evidence here. Only the car, the hair, and the peroxide. Those things are suspicious, granted. Especially when this woman lied about the plates when she registered. But it's not conclusive. It pretty much rules out the chance that Ethan ran away, but we shouldn't stop looking at the parents. This hotel sighting's the best lead we've had so far, but for all we know the woman could have been Mary Lynne, planting evidence to persuade us Ethan's still alive. If only we had a better description. Of the woman, or the car. I need to go and look for myself. Poke around a little. Ask a few more questions.”

“Agreed.” Hale checked her watch. “Both of you go. And hurry. Leave now.”