False Witness

by Andrew Grant

  “The lab guys are processing the sheets the vic was wrapped in,” Garretty added. “They’re also all over her old car. We have an APB out on the one she just collected, so that might give us something if it turns up.”

  “We got nothing off her phone records,” Devereaux said. “Just the texts we already knew about, to her girlfriend and her mom. The phone itself is switched off, so we can’t trace it.”

  “No one’s tried to use her credit cards,” Garretty said.

  “Suspects are thin on the ground, too,” Devereaux said. “We ruled out the guy who found the body. There’s no indication of the vic having had a beef with anyone. She’d apparently kept her nose clean this last year, ever since an encounter with some mysterious mechanic Good Samaritan on her way back from Nashville. The boyfriend looked like a good bet for a little while, but it turned out we were backing a loser there.”

  “Are you sure?” Hale spun her cup around. “Could he be worth another look?”

  “Maybe.” Devereaux shrugged. “I really don’t like him for it, though. His reaction seemed genuine when I told him Deborah was dead. He said he’d been getting ready to propose to her. He was flying out west to collect some family heirloom ring. And he’s got a rock-solid alibi for the time of the murder.”

  “He could have used the New York trip as cover and paid for a hit,” Hale suggested. “You said he was rich, right? What if he found out about the baby she gave away and didn’t want to lose face with the family by dumping her?”

  “It’s too big a stretch, Lieu.” Devereaux shook his head. “Couples break up all the time. The family would have understood. And I sprang the baby thing on him. He seemed genuinely surprised.”

  “All right,” Hale said. “I trust your judgment. What else is there? How about her old running buddies? Could one of them have resurfaced? Someone with an old grudge? Or who wanted her to go back to her old ways and took it badly when she refused?”

  “The only possible candidate so far is her old boyfriend.” Devereaux smiled. “Thor, aka Oliver Casey. The father of her baby—as far as anyone knows. He’s a long shot, though. He knew Deborah was pregnant when she left him and made no attempt to see her or the baby. And the baby’s fine—we checked via the adoption agency. If this was a scenario where he just found out about the adoption and went ballistic, you’d expect him to have gone after the kid, too. But just in case, we reached out to Nashville PD. They’ve put a BOLO out on him. If they scoop him up and he can’t account for himself yesterday, we’ll head up there and have a conversation.”

  “It’s thin, but it’s the best we’ve got.” Hale scribbled a note on a scrap of paper. “A friend of mine’s a lieutenant up there. I’ll give him a call. See if we can get some extra weight behind it.”

  Friday. Early evening.

  Devereaux could have asked Garretty for a lift from police headquarters to the City Federal, but he preferred to walk. The leisurely eight-minute stroll would give him time to think. About the case. And about Alexandra. He hadn’t heard from her all day. Should he call her? Text her, maybe? Head over to her place and try to talk, face-to-face? Or give her space, like she’d asked him to?

  He was still wrestling with the dilemma when he crossed 20th Street. He ruled out the phone. That was too impersonal. So it was either head down into the garage and collect his car. Or up to his apartment. And spend another evening alone.

  The apartment won.

  Devereaux came out of the elevator on the twenty-fifth floor, turned right, and stopped dead. He wasn’t alone. A guy was sitting on the ground with his back against Devereaux’s apartment door. Devereaux recognized him. His name was Tim Kendrick. And at that moment, Kendrick was the second to last person on earth that Devereaux wanted to see. The last would be Kendrick’s grandfather, Chris Lambert. Because Lambert—an ex-instructor who Devereaux had hated ever since their days at the Police Academy—was now in bad health, and that had obliged him to rope his grandson into helping with the blackmail scheme that had led to Alexandra’s discovery about Devereaux’s past.

  “You shouldn’t have left the hospital like that last night.” Kendrick got to his feet. “My grandfather doesn’t have much time left.”

  Devereaux shrugged. Lambert was in the geriatric special care unit, which was a place Devereaux hated more every time he was obliged to visit it. He couldn’t stand its cloying, oxygen-rich, antiseptic smell, and the impersonal bleakness of the tomb-like basement rooms gave him the creeps. The thought of ending his days in one of them was his idea of a nightmare. So the moment Lambert had finished making his play the previous night—a promise to provide information that would exonerate Devereaux’s father in return for half a million dollars—Devereaux headed for the door. He didn’t even stay long enough to wish his aging nemesis a speedy journey to Hell.

  “I’m serious!” Kendrick shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and momentarily arched his spine. “You’re going to miss your chance. Now listen carefully. You won’t be able to see my grandfather again for a while. He took some kind of a turn, immediately after you left. A bad one. His heart rate flat-lined. All the monitor alarms went off. A nurse came racing in—right away, luckily—with the crash cart. She got him stabilized. But they had to sedate him. He’s still sedated now. No one knows how long they’ll have to keep him under. So this is what I suggest. Get the money together. We know you can afford it. Then keep it close to hand. That way, the moment Granddad’s ready to talk, we can put this thing to bed.”

  “Have you got a twin brother?” Devereaux was having a hard time fighting the urge to punch Kendrick in the face.

  “A twin?” Kendrick scowled. “Why?”

  “Because there was a guy in your granddad’s room last night who looked just like you.” Devereaux crossed his arms, disguising the way his hands had involuntarily balled themselves into fists. “If you don’t have a twin, it must have been you. But if it was you, you’d have heard me invite your granddad to bite me. I don’t pay blackmailers. Or more accurately, rip-off merchants who turn out to have nothing to interest me.”

  An angry pink rash spread rapidly from Kendrick’s neck to his cheeks. “That was me in the room last night. I heard you insult my grandfather. But you’re wrong. On so many levels. Granddad’s not trying to rip you off. He has something to sell you. Information. Extremely valuable information that you can’t get from anyone else.”

  “Maybe family loyalty’s turned your head.” Devereaux forced his hands to relax. “Or maybe you’re a moron. I don’t know. But it should be obvious what your grandfather’s doing. It’s the oldest trick in the book. He’s trying to pull a bait-and-switch. The information he parceled out about my father to get my attention? That was genuine. I’m not denying it, bad as it made me look. But this conspiracy theory he wants five hundred grand to tell me about? This magic bullet that’ll instantly rehabilitate my poor dead dad? Give it up, Tim. It doesn’t exist. It’s complete crap.”

  “You’re wrong.” Kendrick shook his head. “This is new information. And it’s for real.”

  “Is it?” Devereaux looked Kendrick in the eye. “OK, then. Give me a sample. Something tangible. A gesture of good faith.”

  Kendrick held up his hands. “I don’t have a sample.”

  “Why not?” Devereaux took a half step closer. “You had plenty of dirt to dish out in those envelopes you left on my girlfriend’s doorstep. Old documents. Photographs that hadn’t seen the light of day for decades. So how come you can’t show me any of this new stuff? It should be much easier to put your hands on.”

  “My grandfather memorized it all. That’s why.” Kendrick pointed to his temple. “It’s all in his head.”

  “Convenient.” Devereaux slowly nodded and pulled an exaggerated frown, as if struggling with a complex equation. “But what did he memorize? Where did he get the information from?”

  “Pay him and he’ll tell you.” Kendrick crossed his arms. “We both know you can easily put your hands on
the cash.”

  “Maybe I can.” Devereaux shrugged. “Maybe I can’t. But affordability isn’t the issue here. Proof is the issue. Because if there’s no proof, there’ll be no cash. Tell that to your grandfather, assuming he ever wakes up.”

  “He said you were a stubborn jackass, but this is ridiculous. He’s trying to help you!” Kendrick thrust his hands back in his pockets and brushed past Devereaux, heading toward the elevator. “But all right. I’ll talk to him. And I’ll be in touch. This is for real, Devereaux. You’ll see.”

  “Maybe.” Devereaux took out his keys and waited for Kendrick to disappear into the elevator car before unlocking his door. “But I won’t hold my breath.”

  Saturday. Early morning.

  Jim Defoe was not the kind of guy to be put off by gossip. He knew that people talked behind his back about his job at the crematorium. He heard the jokes—some of them, anyway—like the ones his buddies liked to whisper when they went out for pizza at the place on Second Avenue South with the real wood oven. But he didn’t care because the work was easy. He earned good money. And there was always plenty of overtime to be had. Which was fortunate, because he needed to save up for a ring for his long-term girlfriend. They’d been together since high school, and recently the hints she’d been dropping about how all her friends were married or at least engaged had become impossible to ignore. He’d honestly have preferred to be at his favorite fishing spot, where he usually spent his Saturday mornings, but in the circumstances he figured it would be wiser to pile up a few more dollars and put them toward the jewelry store down payment.

  Defoe parked his dark red Toyota Tundra in his usual spot at the far corner of the rectangular parking lot and made his way toward the entrance of the building. It was built of pale brick and shaped like a capital T, with a rectangular chamber much like the nave of a modern church making up the central section. That’s where the ceremonies were held, and when they’re done the mourners leave to the left, to the garden of remembrance. The coffins leave to the right, to be converted into ashes. Defoe hadn’t been involved in the design, but he appreciated the efficiency of the setup and took pride in playing a part in keeping things running smoothly.

  The entrance to the main chamber was covered with a deep, verdigris-coated copper overhang to provide some shelter from the sun for pallbearers as they unloaded the hearses. The fall sun was bright that morning but low, casting a long shadow, so Defoe didn’t notice the parcel until he was almost on top of it. He stopped dead in his tracks, then took a cautious step forward. It was something long—five foot eight, maybe five nine. About a foot across at its widest part. And wrapped up in a pale blue sheet, with another folded into a narrow strip and tied around it in an intricate bow.

  —

  The detectives and the crime scene techs stood in a shallow horseshoe, six feet from the body, and for a good few minutes none of them spoke.

  “So.” Isringhausen eventually broke the silence, his voice flat and depressed. “It’s the same basic deal as yesterday. She looks a little taller. A little older, maybe. Brown hair, not red. Not quite as glam. But she was wrapped up the same way. She was strangled. Look at her throat—there’s the same distinct, confident marks. Her breasts and genitals are covered. And there are the same signs of sexual assault. God damn it, I was hoping Deborah Holt was a one-off.”

  “We all were.” Devereaux sighed. “Anything on an ID?”

  “I’ve sent her prints to the lab.” Isringhausen shrugged. “We’ll hear back soon. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky again.”

  “Are we assuming this is another dump job?”

  “It’s impossible to be sure.” Ryan scratched the side of his nose. “It’s been dry the last week and the area’s paved, so there’s nothing to record any tire marks. Or footprints. Or signs of struggle. However, given all the other similarities with yesterday’s case, I’d say it’s a virtual certainty.”

  “This might be a stupid question.” Garretty hesitated for a moment. “But what about the sheets? They’re a different color. Yesterday’s were white. These are blue. Could that be significant?”

  “Who knows?” Devereaux shrugged. “It could be the key to this thing. Or it could be that the guy just grabs the next set out of the closet. It’s not a stupid question, though. It would be worth talking to Linda Irvin, from the Bureau. I’d like her take on why the guy left both the bodies at funeral sites—”

  Devereaux was interrupted by the sound of an approaching helicopter, swooping low.

  “It was only a matter of time before the press got wind of this, I guess.” Devereaux scowled. “At least we’re under cover here. When it’s time to move the body, though, make sure your truck pulls right up close. Whoever our vic was, she probably has family. The last thing they need is to see her like this on the ten o’clock news. Meantime, Tommy and I’ll talk to the kid who found her.”

  —

  “Why did I touch it?” Jim Defoe was sitting in the center of the first row of seats in the main chamber, hunched over with his head in his hands. A uniformed officer had been sitting next to him, trying to offer some comfort. She stood up when she saw Devereaux and Garretty approaching, shook her head, made a gesture that said I tried, and then made her way outside. “Why did I do that? I must be crazy. What an idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot, Mr. Defoe.” Devereaux took the seat that the other officer had vacated. “A parcel’s like a puzzle. It’s designed to make you curious. Don’t feel bad about it. Anyone would have done the same.”

  “How can I not feel bad?” Defoe sat up straight. “Did you see what was inside?”

  “We did.”

  “I thought someone was playing a trick on me. One of my fishing buddies. And then, oh God, her face! I close my eyes, I can still see it. Will it ever go away?”

  “You’ve had a terrible shock, Mr. Defoe. No one can deny that. But you know the best way to move past it? Work with us. Help us to find whoever did this.”

  “OK. But how? What do you want me to do?”

  “Just answer a few questions. Then leave the rest to us.”

  —

  Garretty climbed into the Porsche next to Devereaux while they called Lieutenant Hale on speakerphone to bring her up to speed.

  “We’ve got nothing. No prints. No tire tracks. No weapon. No witnesses. The crime scene’s a total bust, unless the ME or the lab guys can pull something out of a hat. And worse, we’ve got no idea who the vic is this time. Her prints came up empty. The guy who found her didn’t recognize her. Plus he doesn’t usually work Saturdays, and he hadn’t noticed any strange people or vehicles hanging around the area when he was here.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Hale said. “And I’m not too worried about it. The fact that we have a carbon copy of yesterday’s scene means we have to look in a different direction. We need to figure out what connects these victims. And then how the killer came in contact with them. And we need to do it fast, before there’s a third nasty parcel on someone’s doorstep.”

  “Unless—it’s a little out there, but let’s not dismiss Ben Warren yet.” Garretty frowned. “The guy just seemed too perfect to me. And with his resources, if he had Deborah killed while he has an alibi out of town, he could have had this second girl killed as a cover. Again, while he’s out of town.”

  “That’s not impossible,” Hale said. “Not completely. But let’s keep it on the back burner for now. Our priority has to be to ID the victim, then find the connections. I’ve got someone checking missing persons, just in case. We’re reaching out to Nashville PD again, in case they crossed paths there. Now, Deborah Holt worked in an office, downtown. It’s probably closed today, so find out who their HR chief is. See if he or she recognizes today’s vic. If not, try other businesses in the area. Coffee shops. Lunch places. And don’t forget—wait, hang on one second, I’m getting another call. This might be something. I’ll call you back.”

  “What about the Mercedes dealer?” Devereaux su
ggested after Hale hung up. “We should give Bill Bolitho another call. See if this vic just bought a car there, too.”

  “That’s worth a shot.” Garretty nodded. “And we could—”

  Devereaux’s phone rang. It was Lieutenant Hale.

  “Gentlemen, this might be our lucky day. I’ve just been told that yesterday afternoon, 911 took a call from a citizen. She saw a man and a woman arguing in the street. The fight ended when the pair got in a vehicle and drove away. But the caller said she felt like the woman didn’t get in the car voluntarily. She had the impression she was forced against her will. The woman matches the description of our victim. And get this. The caller knows this woman. She can give us a name.”

  Saturday. Morning.

  Everything in Betty Goodman’s apartment was black and white. The stark leather furniture. The bleached wood floors. The immaculately painted walls. The dozens of photographs in thin metal frames, all the same size, precisely lined up. The only splash of color the detectives could see when the door opened was the red emergency button that Mrs. Goodman wore around her neck.

  “I don’t need it.” Mrs. Goodman caught Garretty staring at the device. “My daughter makes me wear it. She says she worries about me.”

  “That’s nice.” Devereaux showed her his shield. “Thanks for seeing us, Mrs. Goodman. We were hoping you could let us know a little more about the incident you called 911 about yesterday.”

  “Very well.” Mrs. Goodman stepped back and led the way to the sitting area in the center of the large, open-plan space. “What do you want to know about it?”

  “Everything.” Devereaux spread his hands wide. “Please start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out. Any detail, however small, might be very important to us.”

  “I was right then?” Mrs. Goodman took the seat nearest to the window. “That man was up to no good?”