False Witness

by Andrew Grant

  Devereaux was confident that if he waited long enough, the ability to move would eventually return. How long that would be was another question. Years ago he’d have taken hauling one guy a few yards through some smoke in stride. Maybe he was getting too old for this kind of thing. Maybe he should think about turning in his shield. Watching his daughter grow up. Spending more time with Alexandra. Assuming she ever spoke to him again…

  Three pairs of uniformed officers had handled the evacuation of the surrounding houses and three more had set up a hasty perimeter to hold back the throng of onlookers that had rapidly assembled. Several people were taking pictures and filming video on their phones, and as Devereaux watched, a TV crew arrived and pushed to the front with its equipment. This caused a temporary gap to open up in the center of the crowd, allowing Devereaux to spot a woman on the far side of the street. She was alone, except for the little boy she was clutching in her arms, and unlike all the other people in the area she was standing stock-still. And instead of excitedly looking around, eager for the next inferno to break out, her eyes were locked on the shell of the house Devereaux had just escaped from.

  Devereaux heaved himself to his feet, ducked under the police tape, and skirted the edge of the crowd. He made as if he was heading for one of the parked patrol cars until he was sure no one was paying him any attention, then crossed the street.

  “Are you Mrs. Flynn?” Devereaux approached the woman, but kept one eye on the crowd. “Billy Flynn’s mom?”

  The woman nodded. “What happened? Where’s my son? Is he OK?”

  “I won’t lie to you.” Devereaux paused to make sure the woman wasn’t too shocked to understand him. “Billy’s banged up pretty bad. He’s been taken to the hospital. The doctors are going to do everything they can to help him. As soon as he’s well enough to have visitors, I’ll make sure you’re the first to see him. In the meantime, I’m going to need you to answer a few questions. It looks like Billy could have been wrapped up in something pretty bad. He could be in serious trouble. But I’ve heard he’s a good guy. I’d like to help him if I can. And with him in the hospital, he needs someone out here to speak for him.”

  Saturday. Evening.

  It’s only a mile and a quarter from Alexandra’s house to Gianmarco’s restaurant, but the usual three-minute taxi ride took the best part of half an hour due to a nasty three-car accident on Broadway Street. Alexandra hated being late. She could feel her heart rate increase with every extra second it took the cab to squeeze between the police cruisers and ambulances that were blocking their path. But it wasn’t just the delay that was causing her anxiety. It was the question she couldn’t stop asking herself: What on earth was she doing?

  Going to the restaurant was a crazy idea. She decided to tell the driver not to stop. To keep going to Forest Drive and loop back around that way. To take her home the long way via Saulter and Rockaway, to avoid the traffic. But when he finally pulled up next to the cars that were parked neatly end-on at the side of the street outside Gianmarco’s, she didn’t say a word. She just paid her fare and climbed out. Made her way toward the wide ivy-covered brick building, squeezing between two expensive German sedans. Saw herself reflected in the restaurant’s glass doors. Knew it was her last chance to walk away.

  And went inside anyway.

  —

  Tim Jensen was already at the table when the maître d’ showed Alexandra to her seat. The moment he saw her approach he put down the anthropology book he’d been reading and got to his feet, a broad smile spreading across his face. He was wearing a silver-gray jacket and narrow-cut black pants. He had patent brogue shoes with contrasting crocodile leather inserts, and a white shirt that was carefully tailored to show off his trim waist. Without his glasses his eyes seemed unnaturally blue in the subdued, slightly pink light that was cast by the chunky glass chandelier above his head, and his hair was artfully styled to look like it hadn’t been styled at all.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late.” Alexandra stepped around the table to hug him, and she couldn’t help but admire the subtle elegance of his sandalwood cologne. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Jensen waved his hand dismissively. “This is a lovely place. I brought my book, which has some very interesting material relating to your area of interest, by the way. I printed some stuff out for you, too. We’ll get to all that later, though. In the meantime, I hope you don’t mind but I ordered us some wine…”

  A waiter stepped forward with a bottle of Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé and poured a little for Jensen to taste.

  “Delicious.” Jensen nodded and gestured for the waiter to continue. “I said wine, but it’s really champagne, obviously. I first had this one in Reims, France, years ago. I’d just finished a research project at the Sorbonne, in Paris, and decided to travel a little before coming home. I knew nothing about wine at the time, of course, so I picked it for the name. It made me think of a fish in a cart being pulled by a billy goat, which seemed kind of funny. And it was way cheaper in France, too, believe me. They were practically giving it away, back then.”

  Alexandra took a sip and smiled as the tiny bubbles danced on her tongue. “It’s fabulous. Great choice, Tim. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” Jensen smiled, revealing his cosmetically perfect teeth. “It’s not every day I get to reconnect with an old friend. Specially one who’s so smart. So accomplished. So beautiful…”

  Saturday. Evening.

  Lieutenant Hale waited for Devereaux to finish questioning Billy Flynn’s mother, then told him to go home. Normally Devereaux would have resisted any move to make him stand down like that, but his exertions in the burning house had left him feeling drained. His exposed skin was filthy with ash and soot, and he was conscious that his clothes and hair must stink of smoke. Plus there was nothing else for him to stay there for. The Fire Department would have to give the all clear before the crime scene guys could get to work and comb through the wreckage of the house. They had to be sure the structure was safe. They had to check that no hazardous or explosive gasses had built up, and test for asbestos and other dangerous materials. And if anything led them to suspect the fire had been started deliberately, they’d have to sweep the area even more thoroughly in case there were any other devices, which had failed to go off right away. Or which had been designed to go off later, specifically to injure the emergency crews.

  Devereaux was conscious of a couple of reporters snapping his picture and filming him as he headed for his car. He let that go—it wasn’t worth creating a scene over—but he did make absolutely sure that no one followed him back to the City Federal. He left the Porsche in the building’s underground garage and went straight up to his apartment. He stayed there long enough to take a decent shower. Grab some clothes off the rack in his bedroom, including his favorite I Fought the Law T-shirt, which was still just this side of wearable despite a hole it had sustained in a fight a few years back. Get dressed. Fire up the coffee machine and make two double espressos. Pull a stainless steel hip flask—one engraved with a fancy version of the original French Devereaux family coat of arms that a girlfriend had bought him when he’d graduated from the Police Academy—out of a kitchen drawer. Fill it with Blanton’s. Slip it into the hidden section of a King James bible, where the center portion of the pages had been cut away. And head back down to the garage.

  The traffic was light so Devereaux made short work of the mile drive to the UAB Hospital. There was plenty of legal parking at that time, too, so for once he didn’t leave the Porsche in an ambulance-only zone. Instead he picked a spot in the far corner of the surface parking lot on Sixth, opposite the main entrance, and strolled across toward the revolving doors. There was no one else around so he took his time, pausing by the reflecting pool and enjoying the warm, still evening air.

  No one was on duty at the reception desk, either, when Devereaux approached—he had to look twice to be sure, thanks to the forest of indoor ferns that th
reatened to overwhelm the whole booth—but he wasn’t worried. He knew the basic layout of the hospital pretty well from all the times he’d been there to visit other cops, and was fairly sure he’d find Garretty in one of the general wards on the top floor of the main building.

  —

  Garretty was propped up against a pair of pillows, watching a football game on TV with the sound switched off, when Devereaux walked into his room. He was wearing sky blue hospital pajamas with tiny white silhouettes of Vulcan dotted all over them, and a fresh bandage had been taped to his injured cheek. “This is ridiculous, Cooper. They’re making me stay here overnight.”

  Devereaux slid the room’s sole visitor’s chair closer to the bed and sat down. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing!” Garretty pulled a fearsome scowl, then winced and touched his hand to his bandaged cheek. “They say it’s standard procedure, because I got beaned by that stupid satellite dish. Bullshit, is what I call it.”

  “How’s your stomach doing?” Devereaux shuffled the chair a little closer.

  “Fine.” Garretty rolled his eyes. “OK. It’s a little sore. I needed a couple of stitches, I guess. But they say there are no internal injuries, which is the important thing.”

  “That’s all good, but maybe this will help you recover a little faster.” Devereaux handed Garretty the bible. “I thought you might be in need of some spiritual refreshment.”

  A flash of confusion crossed Garretty’s face, then he opened the cover, found the flask, and smiled. “Cooper, you old dog. Nightcap?”

  “Better not.” Devereaux frowned. “Don’t think my throat could take it. I breathed too much smoke at Billy Flynn’s house.”

  Garretty unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. “I told you not to go in there.”

  “You did.” Devereaux held up his hands. “And you were right.”

  “You did get Flynn out, though?” Garretty took another swig. “So did he make it?”

  Devereaux shrugged. “He’s hanging in there, I guess. He was still unconscious, the last I heard. He’s got some bad burns and his lungs are damaged from the smoke he inhaled. Apparently they have to kind of hoover them out, due to a bunch of fluid that built up inside them. It sounds gross. But they’re hopeful he’ll pull through.”

  “And what do you think?” Garretty closed up the flask. “Is he the guy?”

  “The lieutenant’s called a case review, first thing in the morning, to put it all together.” Devereaux closed his eyes and shuddered in mock terror. “She said Emrich’s coming. You can bet he’ll be slavering to get in front of the cameras and hand them Flynn’s head on a plate. And if Flynn’s not the guy…”

  “He’s got to be the guy.” Garretty put the flask back inside the bible. “Doesn’t he? I mean, he’s got no alibi, right?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  “OK. And the time line fits. He had access to the Escalade. And you’ve seen his face. What do you think? Does he match Mrs. Goodman’s description of the guy who snatched Siobhan O’Keefe off the street?”

  “He does.” Devereaux frowned. “Pretty much. But on the other hand, what’s his connection to the victims? Nothing jumps out. We can’t question him. Not until he wakes up, anyway. If he wakes up. And his house is one big pile of ash, so we’ll get nothing from forensics.”

  “What about his van?”

  “It’s at the lab. There’s nothing obvious, but they’re combing through it. You never know. They might find something.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “We wait for the morning.” Devereaux sighed. “And see if another body shows up.”

  Saturday. Evening.

  Tim Jensen had finished barely half of his tiramisu when he laid down his fork and flopped back in his chair. “Wow. That meal was amazing. So was the wine. But the best part of all? The company.” He checked his watch. “You know, Alex, it’s still early. What do you say? It seems a shame to bring such a perfect evening to a premature end…”

  They could go for one drink together, right? Alexandra thought. That wouldn’t do any harm. They’d just be two old college buddies, reliving old times. Plus Tim had been helping her. It would be rude to take what she wanted, then blow him off. Alexandra giggled to herself. That was an unfortunate choice of words. Maybe she’d drunk more of the champagne than she’d thought. Still, she could have one more drink with Tim. A nice cocktail, perhaps. Then she’d go home. Alone.

  Jensen paid the bill—tipping a scant fifteen percent, Alexandra noticed—then he stood back to let her leave first. He held the door for her, then touched her left elbow to steer her toward the side of the building.

  “I parked around back.” Jensen released Alexandra’s arm so that they could scoot past a pale blue Bentley coupe. It had been tacked onto the end of the line, beyond the last of the marked bays, and its nose was almost touching the restaurant’s rustic brick wall. “Look at this guy. He should have parked around back, too. But I bet he wanted to show off his fancy ride. You know Bentleys are really Volkswagens now, right?”

  “Are you sure you’re OK to drive?” Alexandra was starting to wish she’d chosen a pair of shoes that was easier to walk in. “I don’t think I would be.”

  “Of course I am.” Jensen paused on the far side of the Bentley. “I only had one glass. I’m fine. Come on. My car’s just over here.”

  Alexandra looked up to see where he was pointing and stumbled slightly, catching her heel on the uneven pavement. Jensen shot his arm around her waist, stopping her from falling but holding on to her a little tighter than strictly necessary. He pulled her closer still and led her across to his car—a silver Lexus sedan. He took her around to the passenger side, slipped his hand into his pocket, and worked the key fob. The car’s lights flashed and Alexandra heard a solid clunk as the door unlocked. Jensen reached out to open it for her. But before he could touch the handle he jumped back, pulling his other arm away from her waist. Alexandra was confused. She almost lost her balance again. Then she saw a guy moving toward her. He was wearing motorcycle boots. Black jeans. A black long-sleeved T-shirt. Black leather gloves. His face was hidden by an ice hockey mask. It was plain white apart from the holes for his eyes and the perforations around the mouth and nose, leaving it eerily impersonal, and making it seem to almost float above his body.

  And he was holding a gun.

  The guy shoved Alexandra aside, stepped past her, grabbed Jensen by the neck, and pushed him against the car. “Give me the keys.” His voice was slightly muffled by the mask. “Give me the keys, and no one gets hurt.”

  Jensen didn’t react, but Alexandra could see from his eyes that he was frozen by fear, not defiance. The other guy’s gun was still low down at his side. A threat to Jensen, but not an invitation for a passerby to call 911. Not that anyone was passing by.

  Alexandra drew breath, but she didn’t scream. There was no point, as there was no one there to hear her. Instead she looked around for something to use as a weapon. There was nothing. She could feel the desperation building inside her, and then she remembered her shoes. They had three-inch heels. Narrow, with sharp metal tips. She could hit the guy with one. In the back of his head. His throat. His eye…

  “Don’t be a hero.” The guy tightened his grip on Jensen’s shirt. “That’ll just get you killed. It’s only a car. You can get another one. Now, do the smart thing and give me the keys!”

  Alexandra was close enough to see the tendons bulging at each side of the guy’s neck. She figured his vision would be restricted by the mask. She could whack him and he’d never see it coming. She took off her shoe. Picked her spot. Tried to move her arm…

  “Last chance.” The guy leaned in close, his mask almost touching Jensen’s face.

  Alexandra knew her opportunity was slipping away. She had to hit the guy right away. She couldn’t delay any longer…

  The guy turned sideways and whipped up his arm, bringing the muzzle of the pistol level with Alexandra’s head. �
��Drop the shoe.”

  Alexandra unclenched her fingers and let the shoe fall, and was suddenly bathed in blinding light. Behind her she heard the squeal of tires.

  “Birmingham PD.” The man’s voice was tinny and impersonal through the squad car’s external speaker. “Drop the gun. Get on the ground. Do it now!”

  The guy released the gun and Alexandra watched it fall, then bounce off the pavement before landing finally near her bare foot. The sound it made was light and insubstantial. She poked it with her big toe, and it moved easily. It was made of plastic. It was just a toy…

  Saturday. Late evening.

  Devereaux had rejected four phone calls while he was in Garretty’s hospital room. Each time the handset buzzed he’d taken a peek at the screen, hoping to see Alexandra’s name. Each time he’d been disappointed. And increasingly annoyed. Because each time it had been Kendrick who was trying to reach him.

  His phone buzzed again as Devereaux was walking through the hospital’s main entrance. Again, it was Kendrick’s number that appeared. Devereaux rejected the call and fought the urge to fling the phone into the center of the reflecting pool. The fountain had been switched off, and the surface had settled out as smooth as polished glass. Devereaux perched on the low surrounding wall for a moment, wondering whether he should just call Alexandra and get it over with. He’d given her time, as she’d asked. How much longer did she expect him to wait? He hated waiting. Waiting for her to decide if they had a future together. Waiting to find out if Flynn really was the killer. Waiting to see if another body would be discovered in the morning. He slammed his palm against the surface of the water, splashing his pants and sending ripples radiating in all directions. Some of them went straight, disrupting the reflection of the moon which was hanging lazily above the white buildings behind him. Others bounced off the walls and changed their course. Some once. Others—those near the corner—twice. Even so, it was relatively easy to anticipate which way they’d go, he thought. But once they were off and running, almost impossible to work out where they’d begun…