by Andrew Grant
“We’re not sure yet. That’s why we need to know exactly what you saw.”
“Then I’ll try my best to be thorough. The altercation I called your people about occurred at just after half past five. I’m sure of the time because I was paying extra attention on account of the hideous Vulgarian that was—”
“The what?”
“I’m sorry.” Mrs. Goodman paused for a moment. “A Sports Utility Vehicle, I suppose I should say. Or a Stupid Ugly Vulgarian, as my husband used to call them. He was very particular about cars, you see. The name stuck, and we eventually shortened it to just Vulgarian.”
“You were suspicious of this SUV?”
“Yes. I was. Because it parked outside Siobhan O’Keefe’s house at five o’clock—I noticed because its engine was so appallingly loud—but no one got out. This is a residential street, Detective. Why would someone park here and not get out? It’s not as if they could be waiting for a meeting to convene. Or for a doctor’s appointment. Or for a class to begin. No. It struck me as very odd.”
“Could you see the driver?”
“No. That wasn’t possible. The vehicle was facing in the other direction, and the side and rear windows were almost completely blacked out.”
“Did you recognize the brand of vehicle?”
“Yes. It was a Cadillac.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m certain. Cadillac was the only brand of car my husband would drive. The Rolls-Royce of automobiles, he used to call them.”
Devereaux didn’t immediately know how to respond, and Garretty wasn’t any help.
“It was a joke, Detectives.” Mrs. Goodman sighed. “It wasn’t his own. He stole it from someone on television. Jay Leno, I think. Anyway, we only had respectable sedans, of course, I might add. Nothing vulgar like that overgrown station wagon from yesterday.”
“Did you happen to get a look at the Cadillac’s license plate?”
“Yes. I could see it clearly. It was one of those tasteless vanity plates. 34 TIDE.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” Devereaux hesitated before making a note in his book.
“Of course.” Mrs. Goodman’s tone turned cold. “I was a professor of Fine Art Photography at UAB for more than two decades, Detective. If there’s one thing I notice, it’s detail.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. What happened next?”
“Siobhan arrived home. That’s her car there—the silver Volkswagen. She got out, and that’s when the man I called about emerged from the SUV. He seemed to call out to her, and she stopped and began to talk to him. He showed her something—a kind of leather folder, a little larger than the one your police badge is in, Detective—and her body language changed. She seemed worried, to start off with. Then angry. Then the man gestured toward the SUV. This is where I began to get seriously concerned. It was clear from her posture that she was reluctant. But he was relentless. He didn’t actually grab her, or push her, but I could tell Siobhan was under duress. She eventually did get in, and they drove away. The whole thing just seemed off to me. But I didn’t want to seem like a mad old lady. So I let the recollection percolate for ten minutes. And in that time, the impression only grew stronger. I was sure that what I saw wasn’t right. That’s why I called 911.”
“Can you describe the man who forced Ms. O’Keefe into the Cadillac, Mrs. Goodman?”
“Of course. I’d say he was between thirty-five and forty years old. He was reasonably tall, perhaps between six feet and six feet two. In good shape. Strong-looking. But lean, like a runner, not a weight lifter. He had dark hair. A little stubble, but not a beard. And his hair was rather a mess.”
“And what about Ms. O’Keefe? You told the 911 operator that she’s five foot eight with long brown hair?”
“Yes. That’s right. Is it significant?”
“Mrs. Goodman, I need to show you a photograph now. I want you to tell me if the person in the photograph is Siobhan. But first I must warn you. The person in the photograph is dead.”
“Don’t worry, Detective. When you reach my age, you’ve seen your share of dead people. And I don’t shock easily.”
Devereaux handed Mrs. Goodman the photograph, facedown. She turned it over and took a moment before she spoke again.
“Oh yes.” She dabbed a tear from the corner of her eye. “That’s Siobhan. The poor girl.”
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” Devereaux stood up and stepped away. “I have to call my lieutenant. She needs to know that you confirmed Siobhan’s identity, and she can start the process of tracing the license plate you noted.”
“Did the man I saw kill Siobhan?” Mrs. Goodman turned to Garretty.
“We don’t know yet.” Garretty placed his hand on Mrs. Goodman’s forearm. “But we will find out, and your help has been invaluable. Is there anything else you can tell me about her?”
“I don’t think she was very happy, I’m afraid.” Mrs. Goodman gently shook her head. “She wasn’t married. Her boyfriend left her last year. And her parents don’t seem to have anything to do with her. The poor thing.”
“That’s very useful background.” Garretty removed his hand and started to stand up.
“Detective?” Mrs. Goodman took hold of Garretty’s hand. “Before you go, tell me one thing. And be truthful. Am I in any danger as a result of calling you?”
“That’s a good question.” Garretty squeezed Mrs. Goodman’s hand. “Let’s figure it out. Did you go outside at all while the SUV was here?”
“No.” Mrs. Goodman shook her head.
“Were your lights on?”
“No.”
“Did you tell anyone else that you called 911?”
“Absolutely not. I kept that strictly to myself.”
“Then there’s no reason to think you could be in harm’s way. As always, though, it makes sense to exercise good safety precautions, such as not opening your door if you’re not one hundred percent sure who’s there. And if you’re still worried, maybe think about going to your daughter’s place for a while?”
“Certainly not!” Mrs. Goodman snatched her hand back. “I’d rather take my chances with a street full of murderers than spend a night under my daughter’s husband’s roof.”
“Well, OK.” Garretty got to his feet. “And you can always call me if you’re worried. Or if you see that Vulgarian again.”
“All right, Detective. I will.” Mrs. Goodman smiled.
Mrs. Goodman started to lead the way to the door, but Devereaux ended his call and came back over to join them.
“One last thing, Mrs. Goodman.” Devereaux took out another photograph. “Would you mind if I show you one more picture? I’m afraid it’s also of a dead woman. I need to know if you’ve ever seen her with Siobhan, or even anywhere else.”
Mrs. Goodman studied the image carefully. “No. I’ve never seen her.”
—
Devereaux’s phone rang again before the detectives had left the building. It was Lieutenant Hale.
“Will you hug that old lady for me?” Hale sounded excited. “She’s a gold mine. Thanks to her, we have two new pieces of information. Yesterday was Siobhan O’Keefe’s birthday. She was killed the day she turned twenty-one, just like Deborah Holt. And we have an ID on the owner of the Cadillac. You won’t believe who it is. We’ll have to handle this one very carefully…”
Saturday. Late morning.
Lawton Vetch had been making headlines in Birmingham for more than two decades. First as a high school football prodigy. Then as a record-breaking running back for Alabama. He gave countless interviews leading up to the NFL draft. He was at the center of interminable speculation, when an injury delayed his debut. He became the subject of sympathy when his knee blew out on his second start for the Bears. The focus of a docudrama detailing his many surgeries, rehab attempts, and failed comebacks. Then there was surprise, when he reinvented himself as an actor in a succession of low-budget TV shows. Shock, when he became established as a solid, mid-level st
ar. First in a historical series about union busters in Birmingham’s industrial revolution–era iron foundries. And more recently as a maverick detective in Magic City Blues.
Devereaux wasn’t a fan of the show.
“Remember, take it easy.” Lieutenant Hale took hold of Devereaux’s elbow as they approached the giant house that Vetch had built in Mountain Brook. “When we take him in, the press will be all over us. We’ll be under the microscope like never before. Plus the kind of money this guy’s got, he’ll have an army of lawyers on hand in no time. The last thing we want is for him to walk on a technicality. Or worse, hit us with a countersuit if he suffered any kind of unfortunate accident.”
A housekeeper opened the double-width front door and led them through the marble-floored hallway and fern-filled sunroom, before reaching the exit to a dual-level deck. Vetch was luxuriating in a hot tub set into the sloping hillside just beyond the rustic hand-milled railings around the lower level.
“Mr. Vetch, I’m Lieutenant Hale with the Birmingham PD.” Hale flashed her shield and held up a sheaf of paperwork. “We have here a warrant to search your house and a Cadillac Escalade that is registered in your name. I hope you’ll ask your staff to cooperate with us. I’d also like you to come with us to the precinct and answer a few questions. We’ll be as brief as we can, and the whole thing shouldn’t take up too much of your time.”
“Awesome!” Vetch stood up and clapped his hands. The waist-high water swirled around him, bubbling vigorously, but it was still apparent that he wasn’t wearing a bathing suit. “You’re the best yet. Totally believable. If it wasn’t for those idiots Tony sent around last week for that children’s hospice telethon thing, I’d totally have fallen for it. What’s the cause this time? And how much do you want? How about this—leave the details with Claire, my assistant, and I’ll have a check biked over to the event. Or if it’s something I’m really into, maybe I’ll bring it over myself, personally. Give your ratings a bit of a bump.”
“We’re not from some lame TV show, jackass.” Hale unclipped her handcuffs from the holster at the back of her belt. “We’re here to take you to jail. So you can put on clothes. Or not. It’s all the same to me. But if it’s ratings you’re thinking about, I’d recommend you cover up.”
Devereaux thought about the headlines that would follow if they marched Vetch to headquarters, cuffed, in his birthday suit. He thought about the charges that would inevitably follow. And he couldn’t help but smile.
—
Hale chose to lead the interrogation herself, with Devereaux relegated to the second chair.
“Let’s start with something straightforward.” Hale’s tone was brisk and businesslike. “The black Cadillac Escalade, license plate 34 TIDE, that we found in your garage. Can you tell me who it belongs to?”
“It’s mine.” Vetch sounded bored. “I got it three weeks ago.”
“All right.” Hale made a note at the top of a fresh legal pad. “And can you tell me where you were yesterday, between five and five-thirty pm?”
“Yesterday afternoon?” Vetch took a moment to think. “I was at home.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“No. I don’t think so. I was on my own till about eight. Then I had dinner with a couple of buddies from the TV show.”
“Oh dear.” Hale shook her head theatrically. “That didn’t last long. And yet you started out so promisingly. Just like your football career, I guess. How ironic. Anyway, let’s try again. Where were you? Yesterday? Between five and five-thirty? The truth, this time.”
“What’s up, Lieutenant?” Vetch grinned. “Are you pissed that I’ve had two successful careers, while you’re still stuck in the first job you took out of college? Or because I make ten times what you do? Look, jerk my chain all you like. I get it. But whatever you do, you can’t change two facts. Everyone loves me. And they think the real police are douches. If it’s irony you’re concerned about, it must really suck to be you.”
“How much do you think people will love you when we charge you with two murders?”
“When you do what now?” Vetch’s voice grew louder, with a harder edge. “Wait a minute. Enough of this bullshit. I want to speak to my lawyer.”
“No problem.” Devereaux intervened, taking the reins from his boss. “You’re not under arrest. You can speak to whoever you want.”
“I can go?” Vetch looked from Devereaux to Hale and back.
“You can.” Devereaux nodded. “But if you try to go before we’ve got this thing cleared up, then we will arrest you. And if you ask for your lawyer, we’ll get him for you. That might be a smart move for you. I don’t know. I don’t know your lawyer. Maybe he’s got your best interests at heart. Or maybe he’d sniff a big payday. A chance to get a few minutes in the spotlight himself. So he might start trying to build a case against the big bad BPD. But here’s the thing. It won’t be him in the holding cells. It won’t be him in county, when the judge denies bail because all your money and resources make you a flight risk. So why not help yourself instead? Get out ahead of this thing, before it gets out of control. If you really didn’t do it, help us to understand. Let me give you an example. We’ve got a witness who saw you driving your Escalade at five yesterday afternoon. Tell me why she’s wrong.”
“I don’t know.” Vetch had his voice under better control now. “I was at home. I have no idea why someone would say they saw me somewhere else. Maybe she’s crazy? You have no idea how many weirdos you have to deal with, when you’re in the public eye.”
“I’ve spoken to her.” Devereaux was firm. “She’s not crazy.”
“Then she’s lying.”
“I believed her. So would a jury.”
“Then she must have seriously messed-up eyesight.” Vetch sneered. “Was she wearing glasses? How thick were they? Did you test her vision? Because let’s face it. I must be the most recognizable guy in Birmingham. If she saw someone she thought was me, there must be something wrong with her eyes.”
“She identified your car. She got the make. The model. The color. Every tiny detail, right down to your fancy license plate.”
“Wait—she thinks she saw my car? Yesterday?” Vetch sounded triumphant. “Then she’s definitely mistaken. Because my car was in the shop. It was there all week. I was having the sound system upgraded. It only got returned this morning.”
“Which shop was it in?” Devereaux felt a shift in the balance of power in the room. “Who was doing this upgrade?”
“It was at Crest.” Vetch smiled. “On Montgomery. The place I bought it from.”
“We’re going to talk to them.” Devereaux closed his notebook. “You better hope they confirm what you say. I’ve been patient with you up to now. But if you’re wasting my time, I’m going to introduce you to a kind of trouble you don’t feature on your little TV show.”
Dear Mom,
I hate my girlfriend! I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it’s true. Hayley’s impossible to live with. Her behavior’s intolerable. Let me give you an example. Occasionally—very, very occasionally—I might stay out late. I don’t go anywhere she should be worried about. Just to Lucas’s. Just to hang out with him. And to help him with things. You know he’s not that good with computers, as one example, so sometimes there are things he wants me to do online for him. And when I get home, not even that late, she’s there, lurking in the dark, lying in wait for me. With her questions. All her goddamn questions. Her whats? And wheres? And whos? And whys? And how longs? And get this: As well as the inquisition, she’s started to check up on me. How do I know? I’ve seen her. One time she sneaked out to her car to check the mileage, after I parked it in her spot in the garage. Another time she even tried to check my computer—my email, my browser history—as if I’d ever leave anything she could find on it. That’s one thing I do know how to do! It’s just awful. Intolerable. Honestly, the way she treats me, it makes me want to kill her. She makes me crazy. I sometimes think I should take a leaf o
ut of Lucas’s book. He knows what he’s doing. After he got rid of his ex-wife, he’s never had a problem with a woman. Not for long, anyway. He never keeps them around long enough to get on his nerves.
Saturday. Early afternoon.
Devereaux and Garretty didn’t hang around headquarters a moment longer than necessary. Lieutenant Hale was pissed, and that made her a bad person to be around. She was clearly annoyed with herself after their encounter with Vetch. It was obvious the interview hadn’t gone the way she would have wanted, but Devereaux suspected there was more to the situation than frustration with a ring-rusty performance. Hale wasn’t one to grandstand. She wouldn’t butt into an investigation just because the suspect was a celebrity. But someone else in the department would. Captain Emrich. Devereaux could sense his presence lurking in the shadows. He guessed that Hale was trying to hold him at bay, fearing a repeat of a case that had gone sour three years ago. An MLB star had come to town to visit his brother who was a freshman at UAB. Allegations of misconduct with underage girls emerged. Devereaux caught the case and started to dig. Pressure was exerted from above to let things slide. That only made Devereaux dig deeper, causing the player to miss two games in the run-up to the postseason, and the department to end up saddled with the blame for his team missing out on the pennant. Devereaux couldn’t find enough evidence to make an arrest stick, so the guy ended up walking anyway, sending Emrich apoplectic in the face of a media frenzy. Devereaux did uncover an illegal betting operation as a consequence, however, eventually sending half a dozen people to jail. But by the time all the loose ends were tied up and the arrests were made, the media spotlight had long since moved away. This time, whether Emrich was looking to avoid the bad press or steal the good, Devereaux wasn’t sure.
Even without the need to avoid Lieutenant Hale’s temporary ire, Devereaux would have been happy to get out of headquarters. In his experience, there’s no substitute for getting out and talking to people. The crime scene guys have their role. So do the profilers and the technical analysts. But for every case that was closed due to science, ten were solved by sniffing out lies and inconsistencies in the stories people told them. A rich guy like Vetch, who isn’t a moron, using his own distinctive car complete with vanity plates to commit a pre-planned crime? That had never passed the smell test anyway. It was just a step on the path that would lead them to the guilty party, as long as they read the signs correctly.