by Andrew Grant
It held one ultrasound image of a fetus, in utero.
And one hospital portrait of a newborn baby boy.
—
Mrs. Holt was in the same chair, her feet tucked up underneath her, when Devereaux came back into the room. She was rocking gently back and forth, and there was no sign of the cats. Garretty had brought her a glass of water, but she hadn’t touched a drop.
“Mrs. Holt, I know this is an awful time, but there’s one more thing I need to ask you about.” Devereaux showed her the baby picture. “Is this Deborah’s child?”
Mrs. Holt didn’t respond.
“Please. I know this is hard. I know what it’s like to lose a loved one. But this is important. It might help us catch whoever took your daughter from you.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Holt made an effort to sit still. “The baby was hers.”
“Was Deborah pregnant when she came back from Nashville?”
Mrs. Holt nodded.
“Where’s the baby now?”
“I don’t know.” Mrs. Holt rubbed her eyes. “She gave him up for adoption. It wasn’t my idea. I promised to help her look after him, but she refused. She said she wanted a normal life. To get a job. To date. To go out at night. She couldn’t do all that with a baby, she thought. And she said there are all kinds of other women out there, desperate for babies, who can’t have their own. She convinced herself that everyone would win.”
“Who was the baby’s father?”
“I don’t know. She never said. I didn’t press her.”
“Could it be this guy Thor, from Nashville?”
“Maybe.” Mrs. Holt shrugged. “I figured it probably was, but Deborah never said.”
“Do you know which agency handled the adoption? We’ll need to make sure the baby’s all right, just in case it’s the father who’s behind all this.”
“Alabama Unified. I remember the caseworker. Mrs. Forrest. She was really lovely. Her kindness made the whole thing as painless as it could be.”
“OK, then, Mrs. Holt. You’ve been a huge help. We won’t take up any more of your time. But before we go, is there anyone you’d like us to call? Could someone come and stay with you a while? A relative? Someone from your church, maybe?”
“No.” Mrs. Holt’s voice sounded small and distant. “I don’t have any family left, and I’m not a churchgoer. Anyway, it’s OK. I’d rather be on my own. I can’t…I keep thinking I’ll hear that crappy car of hers pull up outside. I feel so awful. I was always on her case about that car. I was embarrassed, if I’m honest. Because of the neighbors…Now I’d give anything to hear that stupid car again. What happened to it? Did you find it?”
“Not yet. But we will. The whole of the police department will be looking for it.”
“Oh my God! This is my fault! I should never have let her stay out all night. I should have made her come home. If only I had—”
“Mrs. Holt—no.” Devereaux’s voice was firm. “This is not your fault. It’s the fault of the person who took your beautiful daughter away. Whoever that is, however far he runs, wherever he hides, we’re going to find him. And we’re going to see that he pays. You have my word on that.”
Friday. Late morning.
“Is this about Debbie?” Ben Warren was on his feet behind his shiny, riveted aluminum desk before Devereaux and Garretty were fully through his office door.
“That’s an interesting question.” Devereaux gestured toward a pair of chrome-and-leather visitors’ chairs. “Do you mind?”
The detectives sat down without waiting for an answer.
“I’m worried about her.” Warren moved around to the front of his desk and leaned against the edge. “She didn’t come into work today, and she’s not answering her cell. Has something happened?”
“We’ll get to that. First, though, tell us about yesterday.”
“What about it?”
“It was Deborah’s birthday. Her twenty-first. You met up at lunchtime. What did you do next?”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s not a hard question. But if it’ll help, I’ll back up a step. Where did you meet Deborah yesterday?”
“Where are you getting your information from? I didn’t meet Debbie yesterday. I couldn’t. I was in New York.”
“It was your girlfriend’s twenty-first birthday, and instead of celebrating with her, you went to the Big Apple?”
“I didn’t want to. I had to. It was work. A commitment I made months ago, before I even met Debbie. I couldn’t get out of it.”
“What time did you get back to Birmingham?”
“About an hour ago.”
“You were in New York overnight?”
“Yes. I had meetings all day, then a dinner. Why?”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“Of course. But why would they need to?”
“Because we need to trace Deborah’s movements yesterday, and we have a witness who says she left her house around lunchtime in order to meet you.”
“That’s ridiculous. I wish I could have met her for lunch. But like I told you, I was in New York. Anyone who says otherwise is lying.”
Garretty leaned forward in his chair.
“OK.” Devereaux glanced sideways at his partner. “Let’s all just calm down. There’s obviously a misunderstanding here, and we need to figure out where it’s come from. We were just at her house. Her mother told us that Deborah opened the card you sent her, was very excited about something inside it, and rushed out of the house. Right around lunchtime.”
Warren blinked rapidly, several times. “Right. Yes. That makes sense. Mostly. Her mom must have assumed Debbie was coming to meet me. Actually, she’d have been going to collect her present. But why did she leave it till lunchtime? I thought she’d have been more excited.”
“The mail was late, apparently. Her mom said Deborah left the moment she opened the card. To collect her present?”
“Right. I was upset when I realized I was going to miss Debbie’s twenty-first—she was really understanding about it, though, it’s not like she was pissed or guilted me into anything—so I decided to do something special. As the day grew closer, I didn’t say anything. I acted like I’d forgotten. I didn’t call her from New York that morning, or anything. But what I did, I made this crazy gift certificate and put it in her card. I thought it would be a fun surprise, finding out that way and then going to get it.”
“I guess it was. Her mom said she squealed. But what was the present?”
“Her mom didn’t know? Debbie didn’t go home? Wait—where is she?”
“The present, Mr. Warren. What was it?”
“Oh. A car.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure. Why not. I can afford it. And you should have seen the piece of crap she was driving around in. Not the kind of ride that was fit for my future wife.”
“You guys are engaged?”
“Well, no. Not technically. Not yet. But we’ve talked a lot about building a future together, and I’m going home this weekend to tell my folks. My mom always said that when I found the right girl, she’d let me have my grandmother’s ring to give her.”
“That’s nice. But isn’t it a bit quick? How long have you guys been together? Three months?”
“Sure. It’s quick. But so what? When you know, you know. I’m not one to let the grass grow. Swift and decisive, Detective. That’s me. Always has been. You don’t achieve what I have before you turn thirty, otherwise.”
“I’m sure.” Devereaux fought to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “And it all sounds very romantic. But are you certain there isn’t another reason for acting so fast?”
“You mean, is she pregnant?”
“Call me cynical, but when two people suddenly ramp up their wedding schedule, that’s usually the reason.”
“I never said we’re getting married any time soon. Just engaged. We have plans. Debbie wants to tie the knot at the top of the Eiffel Tower. And I don’t mean the one in Vegas.
That takes time to arrange. I just love her, and I want everyone to know it. As for kids, we talked about it, and neither of us want them.”
“OK.” Devereaux nodded. “That sounds good. But let’s go back to the car for a second. What kind of thing are we talking about here?”
“Nothing too crazy. An SLK. A Mercedes.”
“That’s not crazy, for a twenty-one-year-old? OK. Is it new? Or used?”
“New, of course.”
“From the main dealer in Birmingham?”
“Right.”
“Who’s your contact there?”
“A guy named Bill Bolitho. Why do you need to know?”
“I’ll get to that. One other thing, first. You said neither of you wants kids. I guess for her that would be more kids, right?”
“No. She doesn’t have any kids. Neither of us do.”
“I’m talking about the baby she gave up for adoption. You knew about that, right?”
Warren went back to the other side of his desk, sat down, and pressed the palms of his hands briefly against his eyes.
“I guess there’s a conversation Debbie and I need to have. No. She hadn’t told me. I don’t know why not. Maybe she was ashamed. Maybe she was afraid about how I’d react. But whatever the reason, it doesn’t make any difference. I’m still going to make her my wife. Now. Again. These questions. What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”
Devereaux paused. He took a breath before continuing.
“Mr. Warren, I’m sorry, but I have some very bad news for you. Yesterday, most likely in the afternoon, Deborah became the victim of an assault. She sustained a very severe injury. By the time someone found her, it was too late to do anything. Deborah didn’t survive. Detective Garretty and I, we’re truly sorry for your loss.”
Warren flopped forward onto his desk, sending his coffee mug flying onto the floor where it sheared into two identical pieces. Then he wrapped his arms around his head and moaned like a wounded animal. “No.” He suddenly sat straight up. “This can’t be true. I don’t believe it. It’s some kind of trick. You’re making it up.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Warren. We’re not.”
“This can’t be happening.” Warren pressed his hands on either side of his head. “It’s too much. You know what? Yesterday, when she didn’t call to thank me, I was pissed with her. It was her last day on this earth and I was pissed with her. Over some stupid car.”
“Is there anyone we can call for you? Or if you want to talk to someone about this, we can give you some numbers.”
“No. I just want to be with my family. I already have my plane ticket. Is it OK if I still go?”
“Where does your family live?”
“Laramie, Wyoming.”
“That’s fine. Go see them. But keep your cellphone on. And don’t leave the country. Just in case we have any follow-up questions.”
Friday. Late morning.
The harder you work, the luckier you become.
Alexandra couldn’t remember who said that, but she’d always believed it was true. And here was a perfect example. She’d given Nicole another set of math problems to work on and then, true to her new mission, begun to look for articles online about genetic inheritance. She started with half a dozen that she thought looked promising, opening each one in a different tab on her laptop in her usual way. The first two didn’t hold her interest, but when she switched to the third, the author’s name immediately grabbed her attention. Actually, the fact that his biography said he was another Notre Dame alum was what initially hooked her. It took her another minute before she remembered the guy himself. Timothy Jensen. He was Dr. Jensen now, of course. But she still thought of him as Tadpole Tim—a nickname he’d acquired in his freshman year after an off-the-books experiment he was running about amphibian mating cycles went awry and famously flooded one of the newly refurbished bio labs. Anyway, not only was Dr. Jensen now one of the leading lights in the field she was newly interested in, but according to his LinkedIn profile he was carrying out a research project about identical twins at the UAB hospital. Right there in Birmingham. Ten minutes’ drive from Alexandra’s house.
Alexandra switched to her mail program and began to compose a message explaining what she was trying to find out. She felt she should include some background, rather than just hit the guy with a series of questions after not having had any contact for a couple of decades. But, as often happened, her lawyer’s brain started to trip her up. She didn’t want to reveal her true motivation, preferring to keep her dirty laundry private, but neither did she want to lie too egregiously. The words kept piling up and the verbal acrobatics grew more and more convoluted until finally she hit the delete key. She switched back to her browser. And googled the hospital’s switchboard number.
Friday. Early afternoon.
The detectives didn’t want to take two cars back out to Hoover, where the Mercedes dealer was, so Garretty tossed a coin. And won. Devereaux wasn’t surprised. That’s the way it goes with Garretty, he thought. It had grated on him when they’d first become partners, the way that everything always broke in Garretty’s favor. He could somehow instinctively pick the fastest route, wherever they were going. The winning ticket in a department raffle. Who’d be named MVP in the Iron Bowl, even before the first down was made. But over the years Devereaux had become used to it. He’d found that sometimes it could even be useful.
Devereaux’s apartment was in the City Federal, a diagonal block from the Empire building as the crow flies, so it made sense for him to move his Porsche into its underground garage rather than leave it on the street. Garretty picked him up outside the entrance on Second Avenue and looped around to jump on Stephens for the quick blast south. It wasn’t the route Devereaux would have picked, but he’d learned years ago not to worry about his partner’s navigational skills.
The road had changed its name twice by the time they cut under I-65, and Garretty was about to make a joke about that when he had to slam on his brakes, killing the detectives’ conversation for a moment. A silver Toyota Camry from the early ’90s had started to make the turn into a strip mall, then suddenly swerved back out in front of them almost at stalling speed. It kept going for another mile, ten miles an hour below the limit, finally making a right into Deo Dara Drive.
“Don’t you sometimes wish you were back on Patrol?” Garretty sped up to ten over the limit. “So you could pull assholes like that over? People ought to learn how to drive.”
“He was probably just lost.” Devereaux looked back over his shoulder. “There was a car service place back by that mall, and he just pulled up outside an auto electrician’s shop. Probably had something wrong with his car.”
“All right, then. Maybe I’ll give him a break.” Garretty pointed straight ahead. “Anyway, forget him. Here we are.”
—
Bill Bolitho was waiting for the detectives at the main entrance. He shook their hands, then led them through a cluster of gleaming silver sedans and SUVs to a meeting room at the rear of the showroom.
“First of all, I want to assure you gentlemen that everything was absolutely legal and aboveboard.” Bolitho slid a manila folder across the table. “Here’s all the paperwork you’ll need. The original order, showing the full specification. The receipt for the deposit, which was made on Mr. Warren’s Amex card. The receipt for the balance, made by electronic transfer. A screenshot of our bank account, showing that the payment cleared. And a copy of the invoice we got from the manufacturer, showing that we sold the car at a fair market price. If you want anything else, just say the word.”
Devereaux pushed the folder away without opening it. “We’re not here about money laundering, Mr. Bolitho. We’re happy that there’s nothing untoward about the purchase of the car. No. We’re looking into something else altogether. You see, Ms. Holt was the victim of a crime sometime after she left your dealership. We need to reconstruct her movements throughout the day, so we need you to talk us through what happened when she
came in to collect the car. In as much detail as you can. Even the smallest, most trivial thing might turn out to be important.”
“That’s terrible.” Deep lines appeared in Bolitho’s forehead. “She seemed like such a nice girl. Is she OK?”
“I’m afraid not. Ms. Holt was murdered.”
Bolitho closed his eyes for a moment. “Please tell me it wasn’t a carjacking. I had a customer two years ago, he got shot when he wouldn’t give up the keys to an SLS AMG I’d sold him. You know the one, with the crazy gull wing doors? I felt just horrible. Like I was responsible somehow. I starting telling all my customers, if anything like that happens, let them take the car! It’s only metal. It’s insured. Or it should be. But my boss made me stop. She said it was hurting sales.”
“We don’t know for sure,” Devereaux said, “but given the circumstances I’d be very surprised if this had anything to do with car theft. Anyway, take a moment. Get a drink of water if you need one. Then please, tell us what happened while Ms. Holt was here.”
“Right.” Bolitho closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Of course. OK, well, really, everything was totally normal. There was only one thing that stood out.”
“What was that?”
“We thought she wasn’t going to turn up. Mr. Warren told us to expect her first thing, so we got the handover bay all ready the night before. I don’t know if you guys have experienced this kind of thing before.” Bolitho glanced out the window at the dusty department-issue Charger that Garretty had left blocking one of the service spaces. “But what we do here, we have a special area, and we cover each new car with a red silk sheet ready for when the customer arrives. Then, once the expectation level has built up good and high, we do a big unveiling. People love it. The problem was, we had three other customers due in that morning. When Ms. Holt didn’t show, we had to move her car out of the way. And when she rushed in after lunch, we weren’t ready. We had to have our service manager distract her with paperwork while we brought it back in.”