False Witness

by Andrew Grant

  “Yes. For sure. I remember being annoyed when I saw it, because a woman from Crest had left me a voicemail asking me to return it to the TV dude this morning, and I’d wanted to sleep late. Luckily, Flynn was able to do it.”

  “So the guy Flynn could have driven the Escalade while you were at the movies, as well, and brought it back here before you arrived?”

  “Theoretically. I guess. I can’t believe he’d do that, though. He only touches customers’ cars when I tell him to. Why would he need to otherwise? He’s got his own wheels.”

  “What kind?”

  “A Nissan van. The one the Chevy City Express is based on.”

  “Where was Flynn on Thursday afternoon?”

  “He was here.” Paltrow shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Till about three o’clock. He asked to go home early. Said he had something important to do. I didn’t ask what that was. Look, Detective, Billy’s a good kid. But he’s not the sharpest tack in the box. Give him a job to do and he’ll do it. As long as it’s not too complicated. He doesn’t tend to think too much for himself. So why does it matter if he drove the Cadillac, anyway? As long as he didn’t damage it. Or if he went home early, without much of an excuse?”

  “You’re not painting him as employee of the month material, Lucas. Why did you hire him if he’s so dumb? Why leave him to watch your place?”

  “Look, Detective, not everyone can be Einstein. And it’s not like he’s a flake. He tries hard, and he does what you ask him to do. Here’s the thing. I met him maybe eighteen months ago. He was working in a bar I go to sometimes, bussing tables. He was a little slow. A little clumsy. Some guys started hassling him, giving him shit. He got flustered, and long story short, spilled a half-eaten bowl of chili on a guy’s Armani suit. The asshole started raising merry hell, demanding Billy get fired. So I stepped in. Got Billy out of there. Offered him a job at my place. Part-time only, doing simple stuff. I mean, it’s not like I can let him loose on car wiring. But it was better than turning a blind eye. Or putting the asshole in the hospital, as I would have done in my younger days.”

  “How old is Flynn?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s about six feet tall. Keeps himself in shape. Dark hair. Cut short. Doesn’t shave very often. But seriously, Detectives, it sounds like you’re accusing my employee of something, and I’d really appreciate knowing what it is. Was there damage to the Caddy when it got returned? Because we hear that kind of crap all the time from customers. The TV dude probably reversed into a gate post after Billy delivered it this morning and doesn’t want to claim it on his insurance.”

  Devereaux placed a photograph of Siobhan O’Keefe facedown on Paltrow’s desk. “I need you to look at this picture, Lucas. It’s of a young woman. I need you to tell me if you know of any way her path might have crossed with Billy Flynn’s.”

  Paltrow turned the picture over and immediately pulled his hand back as if the paper was red hot. “Shit, she’s dead?”

  “Unfortunately, she is.” Devereaux paused. “She was murdered sometime after she was seen being coerced into the TV dude’s Escalade. You see the problem we have?”

  “Oh.” Paltrow covered his face for a moment. “I do see the problem. But it couldn’t have been Billy who killed her. He just doesn’t have it in him. You’re sure it was him that someone saw? How close were they? Are they sure about the ID?”

  “I appreciate your loyalty to your friend, Lucas. But I need you to focus. Did you ever see the girl and Billy Flynn together? Or even separately, but in the same location? Did she ever come here, for example? As a customer? Or with a customer, maybe just sitting outside in a car while you talked? Or at the bar where you first met Billy? Or anywhere else?”

  Paltrow’s eyes narrowed briefly, then he shook his head. “No. I can’t think of any way that could have happened. I mean, I’ve never seen the girl before. So how could I have seen her anywhere Billy was? Your question doesn’t make sense.”

  “OK. So where can we find Billy this afternoon?”

  “He’s at his other job. He busses tables at a roadhouse. The Double Aught, out on 65. He was supposed to be here all day, but he told me he’d messed up his schedule and had to be there in time for lunch. It pissed me off, to tell you the truth, but I let him do it because he said his boss over there was mad at him after some screwup the week before and would fire him if he didn’t show.”

  “What’s Billy’s home address?”

  “I don’t have it. When I need him, I call him on his cell. Do you want me to write his number down?”

  “Do that. Now, we’re going to head over to the Double Aught and talk to Billy. You’re obviously close to him. You might be tempted to get in touch and warn him we’re coming. Don’t. Am I clear?”

  “Don’t worry, Detective. I get it. And anyway, there’s no way for me to warn him. The owner of the place never answers the phone, and Billy’s not allowed to use his cellphone while he’s working there. Plus there’s no reason for me to. You’ll talk to Billy. Clear everything up. And be on to your next suspect in no time. I’m certain of it. But if you could do me one favor, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, it’s a favor to him, really. When you talk to him, go slow. Use short words. Don’t pile on. He’ll get flustered if you push him too hard. Maybe do something stupid, like try to run. But if you keep things low-key, I’m sure he’ll stay calm and tell you what you need to know.”

  “I’ve been doing this a long time, Lucas. You don’t have to tell me how to interview a suspect. There is one other thing you can do for me before we head out, though.”

  “OK.” Paltrow’s eyes darted around the room, as if looking for a physical trap. “What is it?”

  “Take a look at one more photograph. Of another girl. Same question as before.”

  “Is she dead, too?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Paltrow took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s get it over with.”

  Devereaux handed over the picture.

  “Shit, no. Really? This totally sucks.” Paltrow gazed at the image for half a minute, then blinked hard. “I do recognize this one. Deborah something? She showed up out of the blue, maybe a year ago. She was driving an old Chevy Nova. It had crapped out on her, halfway to Mexico. I got it going again. Never saw her again, though.”

  “You must be the Good Samaritan.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Deborah told her best friend that a mystery guy fixed her car en route to the border, but wouldn’t take any payment. Just told her to go home, make peace with her family, and give herself a second chance at life. It was a pivotal moment for her. If you’re that guy, you completely changed her life. You did a good thing.”

  “Not good enough, apparently.” Paltrow handed the picture back. “And that’s not quite what I said. I told her to give her baby a chance at life. She was pregnant when she showed up. The kid must be six months old by now. Poor little guy. I hope his new parents are good to him. I was adopted, myself, when I was not very old. That’s what I was hoping to avoid, by sending the girl back to her mom.”

  Dear Mom,

  Lucas is SO MEAN!!! Honestly, I hate him. I don’t know why I waste so much time on him. Sure, he pays for dinner sometimes. And he springs for the tickets if we go to the movies together. Although he always has to be the one to pick the show. It doesn’t matter what I want to see. And he won’t let me get ice cream. Or popcorn. He won’t let me help him work on his stupid sports car—like he’s ever going to get it going. He won’t even let me drive his customers’ cars. Even when they’re just sitting around the workshop, not being used. Not unless it’s to deliver one back to its owner, when he can’t be bothered to do it himself. Or if he wants to be taken somewhere. Then it’s all right for me to get behind the wheel. It would probably be good for those cars if someone took them for a spin. Keep the engine turning ove
r, or whatever it is the mechanics say. They think they’re so smart, just because they know how cars work. Well if Lucas is so smart, how come he always needs my help with his computer? He calls me over. Asks me to find something out for him. Gets mad if I take even one second to check into something on the side that I find interesting. Or funny, like that cellphone customer who was named Dick Horney. Seriously! Or the drilling guy, whose actual name was David Drille. I’m not making this up! Anyway, the moment Lucas realized what I was doing he started yelling at me till I switched back to what he wanted. I found it for him—of course!—and he said my help was invaluable. That he couldn’t get by without me. Then he shut me out again. Wouldn’t talk to me for hours. Maybe I should shut HIM out, sometime. See how HE likes it. Make him do his own dirty work for a change. Run around the city doing errands. I bet he’d appreciate me a little bit more then!

  Saturday. Afternoon.

  The Double Aught was a strange-looking place.

  It was built entirely out of rough, smoke-stained wood that had been reclaimed from one of the city’s disused factories, but its shape reminded Devereaux of an igloo. The main section was domed. There were no visible windows. And to get in you were supposed to walk through a long tunnel that jutted out along the edge of the small, unkempt parking lot. Devereaux and Garretty climbed out of the Porsche, rounded the end of the tunnel, and when they saw it from the front they realized it was made out of two giant sewer pipes fixed together to look like the barrel of a shotgun. The theme continued inside the building proper. Jars full of cartridge cases were lined up on shelves. Shotguns were hanging from every available inch of wall. All were classic models, exclusively with wooden stocks. Some were old and beat-up. Some looked factory fresh. Some were even cutoffs. If you’d described the place to Devereaux ahead of time, he wouldn’t have expected to like it. To him, guns were a tool of his trade, not decorating accessories. But once he was there, he was pleasantly surprised.

  Apparently Devereaux was in a minority. Only three other people were visible. One guy, at least eighty years old, was sitting behind a small table in the far corner, playing solitaire. He was using actual cards, which was something Devereaux hadn’t seen in a while. Another guy of a similar age was slumped on a stool at the bar, leaning forward with his forehead pressed against the dull, grainy surface, sound asleep. The final guy was standing behind the bar. He was tall with a pronounced gut that was straining the fabric of his faded denim dungarees. His head was completely bald, but his face was almost obscured by an enormous, grizzled, gray beard. He was standing stock-still and hadn’t responded in any way to the detectives’ arrival. Devereaux could see why Billy Flynn would choose to work there, if Paltrow was right about his slow-paced approach to life. If you set a tortoise to walk across the floor, it would be the fastest moving thing in the place. By a healthy margin.

  “We need to talk to Billy Flynn.” Devereaux moved closer to the bar and showed his badge. “Get him for us, would you?”

  “Can’t.” The bearded guy slowly reached for a whiskey bottle. “Drink?”

  “No. Where’s the owner? Maybe he can get Flynn?”

  “I am the owner.” The guy set three shot glasses down on the bar.

  Devereaux made an effort to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Then why can’t you get him?”

  The guy methodically filled the glasses from the bottle. “He’s not here. You should have called. I could have told you that on the phone. Saved you a drive.”

  Devereaux scowled. “So where is he? We were told he was working here today.”

  “Nope.” The guy picked up a glass and drained it in one. “He’s at his other job. In the city. He helps out at an auto electrician’s place.”

  “We were just there. His boss said you’d insisted he come here today, or you’d fire him.”

  “Nope.” The guy spread his arms. “Doesn’t look like Billy’s services are desperately needed, now does it? Such as they are.”

  “You’re saying his other boss is lying?”

  “Nope. Lucas Paltrow’s a stand-up guy. If he says something, in my experience, he believes it. Doesn’t mean he can’t be wrong, though.”

  “You know Paltrow?”

  “Sure. He used to be a customer. Doesn’t come in much these days, though. Not after his partner died and he moved to his new place near Hoover. But it’s because of him I ended up employing Flynn.”

  “How so?”

  “I kind of owed Lucas. A year ago—maybe a little longer—I got myself a beautiful old Chevy pickup. 1957. Won her in a card game, believe it or not. But when I tried to drive her home from my buddy’s place, she wouldn’t start. Turned out her wiring was all shot to hell. You get nothing for nothing, right? So I had her towed to Lucas’s new shop. He gave me two options. A basic spit and Band-Aid job, which was a little more than I could afford. Or a top of the line, better-than-new rewire, which was way more than I could afford. He could see I really wanted the job done right, so he came up with a plan. He’d do the work for free if I threw a few hours at Billy, at the Double Aught, for at least six months.”

  “That’s a strange way to do business.”

  “Not really.” The guy drew himself up a little straighter. “Lucas said he was feeling bad ’cause Billy had lost his job at another bar, but he just didn’t have enough for him to do to hire him full-time. This new way, everyone won. Billy kept earning. Lucas didn’t have to be always finding make-work for him. And it was like I was paying Lucas back in installments for the truck wiring.”

  “If that’s true, you could have let Billy go six months ago. Why are you still employing him?”

  The guy shrugged. “Why not? He’s a nice enough kid.”

  “Nice enough to cover for?”

  “No.” The guy ran the tip of his finger around the rim of the empty glass.

  “My first partner and I, we wanted to talk to a guy who worked in a bar, this one time.” Garretty wiped the dusty surface of the nearest stool and lowered himself down. “Right here in Birmingham. The problem was, the guy didn’t want to talk to us. He saw us coming and hid himself away in a storage closet. He asked one of the older fellas who worked there to cover for him, by feeding us some bullshit about him being away at another job. The old guy’s story wasn’t very convincing, but while we were getting to the truth of the matter, the guy we wanted sneaked out the fire escape. Three more young girls were dead before we caught up to him again. And when we did, do you think we forgot about that unhelpful old barkeep? Or do you think some mysterious, never-to-be identified assailants might have given him the beating of his miserable and worthless life, one dark night not long afterward?”

  The guy refilled his glass, and as he did so his sides started to heave with the beginning of a long, deep chuckle. “So Billy—Fast Billy Flynn—he’s some kind of multiple-murdering, criminal mastermind? That’s what you want me to believe?”

  “We don’t care what you believe,” Devereaux said. “We just want you to tell us where he is.”

  “And I’ve told you.” The guy drained his glass for a second time. “I don’t know where he is, if he’s not at his other job. He hasn’t been here. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He’s not coming here. Not till Monday, anyway. Monday’s payday for him ’cause he doesn’t work Fridays. He’s bound to show up then.”

  “How well would you say that Billy interacts with the customers? Has he ever got into any beefs about anything?”

  “Billy doesn’t interact at all, if he can possibly help it.” The guy slammed the empty glass down next to the other ones. “Stays as far away from the customers as possible. Except for one guy. Woody. He used to spend more time outside with Woody, smoking, than he did inside, working.”

  “Used to?”

  “Woody died. The cancer got him, in the end. He always knew it would, but he just didn’t want to quit. His choice, I guess.”

  “The more I hear about him, the more of a screw-up Billy sounds.”

 
“No. That’s not fair. I wouldn’t say that. He’s a nice enough kid, all things considered.”

  “What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Albert. Albert Ray.”

  “Have you got any daughters, Albert?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sisters?”

  “Nope. Had one, but she passed away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Albert. But I want you to imagine something for a minute. Pretend your sister was still alive, and she came home and told you she was dating Billy. Would you be OK with that?”

  “Hell, no. I’d fire the son of a bitch.” The guy reached under the bar and produced an antique shotgun. “And make sure he knew, if he ever came near Lilly-Ann again, I’d fill his sorry ass full of double aught.”

  “That’s very helpful, Albert. Now I need you to put the gun away.” Devereaux waited for the guy to put the shotgun back under the counter, then took a pair of photographs out of his pocket and laid them facedown on the bar. “I need you to look at these pictures. They’re of two young women. The pictures aren’t pleasant, but I need to know if you recognize either of them. If you’ve seen them in here. And specially if you’ve seen them with Billy.”

  “Billy, with two girls?” The guy shot Devereaux an indulgent look and turned over the pictures. Then the breath caught in his throat and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the twin, morbid images for a good twenty seconds. “They’re dead? They’re so young.” He reached for the glasses he’d poured for the detectives, his hands unsteady, and drained them greedily one after the other. “You think Billy killed them?”

  “Do you think he could do a thing like that?”

  “No.” The guy refilled the glasses and drained the first one. “I mean, I don’t think so. But how can you be sure? About anyone? I mean, every time you see some serial killer on TV getting dragged off to jail, his neighbors aren’t saying, I knew it! I could always tell he was a no-good psycho. No. They’re always like, He was such a nice guy. So quiet. Never caused any trouble. Who would have thought he chopped people up and ate their livers? Oh God, is that me now? Have I been working with a monster for twelve months? Jesus…”