by Andrew Grant
The preacher’s words were a disappointment to her. Normally she found that whatever topic he chose, however obscure it may seem at the outset, it wound up shining a helpful light on some aspect of her life. Often she hadn’t even realized it was something she was struggling with and marveled at his almost telepathic ability to sense the areas that were troubling her before the symptoms came to the surface. But that day, his message missed the mark. It was as if she’d strayed into a lecture on some obscure branch of science—she recognized the words as English, but none had any discernible meaning. She felt only numbness on the drive home rather than the…what, relief? absolution? she’d hoped for, though she was beginning to give the preacher the benefit of the doubt as she turned in to her street. What words could compete with what had happened the night before? She was so distracted by the question that it took her a moment to recognize the Lexus that was parked at the curb in front of her house.
Alexandra opened the door from the garage to the backyard, sent Nicole out to play, then reluctantly made her way to the driveway.
Tim Jensen climbed out of the Lexus holding a folder that was a good half-inch thick. “How are you doing this morning? I was worried about you after last night. Then when I got here I was worried you’d left town!”
“I’m fine.” Alexandra crossed her arms. “I was just at church. It was nice of you to think of me. But you were there last night, too. How are you doing?”
Jensen shivered despite the warm morning sun. “I’m still a little freaked out, to be honest. When that guy pulled a gun on us? It was horrible. I couldn’t sleep a wink. I gave up trying in the end. So I pulled this together for you instead.” Jensen held out the folder. “I hope it’ll help with the thing you’re working on. I should have focused on that all along, instead of tricking you into coming to dinner with me. I’m sorry I put you through that, Alex.”
“Thank you.” Alexandra took the folder. “I appreciate your help. I’ll read this cover to cover as soon as I’ve given Nicole her lunch. But listen. Last night, you didn’t put me through anything. And you didn’t trick me. I chose to come.”
“I guess.” Jensen looked thoroughly miserable. “I just keep replaying the whole thing in my head. And part of me feels so stupid. The guy didn’t even have a real gun. I had no idea.”
“The gun looked real enough to me, too.” When you were trying to use me as a human shield, Alexandra was tempted to add.
“And he was so young. Did you see his face when his mask fell off? He couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen.”
“Why does that matter? Do you think someone can’t pull a trigger just because they’re—” Alexandra stopped herself. All she could think of was Devereaux, eight years before, seeing a teenager with a gun—a real gun—pointing at his partner’s head. How Devereaux had responded. And the damage the fallout from that incident had caused to their lives. “You know what, Tim? I think we should leave this here. Thanks for getting involved. I truly appreciate your assistance. But I don’t think I can be around you for a while.”
Sunday. Morning.
Devereaux left the conference room while Lieutenant Hale was still wrapping up some small talk with Agent Irvin. His plan was to leave the building and go knock on some doors, but before he was halfway along the fourth-floor corridor his phone rang. It was the officer on duty in reception. Devereaux had a visitor.
There was only one person waiting when Devereaux stepped out of the elevator, sitting on the first of the four pale blue chairs opposite the counter. A woman, in her early twenties. She was thin without being skinny, and when she stood up to shake his hand Devereaux guessed she was no more than five feet tall. She had on a dark blue cardigan over a flowery sundress with an embroidered neckline, as well as a pearl necklace and matching earrings. Next to her, tucked in neatly at the side of her chair, was a floral-patterned rolling suitcase.
“Detective Devereaux?” The woman pushed a long braid of brown hair back over her shoulder. “I’m Niamh O’Keefe. Siobhan’s sister. Is there somewhere we could talk?”
The interview rooms were all available, but Devereaux chose not to use any of them. Not right away, at least. Instead he led the woman back up in the elevator to his desk, wheeled Garretty’s chair around for her to use, and gave her a moment to settle herself.
“Thanks for giving up your time this morning, Ms. O’Keefe.” Devereaux gestured to the suitcase. “Did you have far to travel?”
“From Atlanta.” O’Keefe blinked several times. “I live there with my parents. I was with them when we got the news about Siobhan…”
“That must have been very hard on you all.” Devereaux paused for a moment. “I was hoping to talk to your parents, as well. Did they come to Birmingham with you?”
“No. They stayed home. I came on my own.”
“Are your parents older? Not up to the trip?”
“No. It’s not that.” O’Keefe looked away, blinking rapidly. “It’s just—they kind of disowned Siobhan. They refuse to have anything to do with her. Even now. But I figured someone should come. Oh God. Her body. Will I have to identify her?”
“We’ll get to that. Try not to think about it for a moment. First of all, I’m sorry to hear that things have been rocky at home. I’m grateful you came here anyway. Now, we’re still trying to piece together exactly what happened to your sister. We have someone in custody—well, in the hospital—who we think is responsible, but we have to be sure. So, would it be OK if I ask you a few questions? The more we know about Siobhan, the better we understand her as a person, the sooner we can wrap everything up. Make sure we have the right guy.”
“Sure. I guess.” O’Keefe fumbled in her purse, took the last Kleenex from a multicolored travel pack, and blew her nose. “What do you need to know?”
“Let’s start with your family situation, if that’s OK? What happened between Siobhan and your parents to make them disown her?”
“It was the baby. You have to understand, my parents are weird. They’re totally old-fashioned. So when Siobhan told them she was pregnant—they just couldn’t handle it. They weren’t trying to be mean. It’s just—they’re from a different world.”
“Your sister was pregnant? When was this? There was no sign of a baby or a child at her house.”
“It was two years ago. She had the baby, if that’s what you’re driving at. A beautiful little boy. I was with her at the birth. Only with everything that was happening—her boyfriend was a complete flake, our parents were so down on her, she’d just started a new job—she couldn’t keep him. So she gave him up. She had him adopted. I think part of her hoped that if she did that, our parents would come around. Maybe they would have, given more time.”
“Do you know which adoption agency she used?”
“I’m sorry.” O’Keefe wiped her eyes. “I don’t remember. I met the woman who was organizing the whole thing, and I know she was very nice, but I can’t recall her name. Is it important?”
“Probably not. Just covering all the bases. What about Siobhan’s boyfriend. The baby’s father. Is he still on the scene?”
“Goodness, no. They split up before the baby was born. Siobhan decided to go the adoption route, and Kevin was furious. He wanted them to keep the kid. Get married. The whole nine yards. Can you believe it? When she broke the news, he went totally AWOL. She didn’t see him for weeks. Had to do all the prenatal stuff on her own, because I was in Atlanta and of course Mom wouldn’t get involved. Then he reappears with all kinds of unrealistic expectations and was pissed when she wouldn’t go along with them.”
“Did he contact her afterward? Try to get back together? Threaten her? Anything like that?”
“At first he did. She said he called her sometimes, when he was drunk. Sometimes he was mad at her and wanted to yell. Sometimes he was sloppy and begged her for another chance. But I don’t think he’s done it for a while. Probably lost interest, or found someone else.”
“What was this guy
’s name? Kevin?”
“Right. Kevin McAuley.”
“Do you remember his address?”
O’Keefe nodded. “I have it in my phone.”
“Excellent.” Devereaux passed her his notebook. “Can you write it down for me? Just in case we need to ask him any follow-up questions.”
“I guess. But I don’t want to get him in any trouble, if he hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“Don’t worry. If he’s done nothing wrong, then he’s got nothing to worry about.”
O’Keefe scrawled the details in Devereaux’s notebook and handed it back to him.
“Thanks. I know this is hard, but I just have a couple more questions. You mentioned Siobhan had a job. Where did she work?”
“At the McWane science place. She was a receptionist. It wasn’t her original plan. She came to Birmingham to go to college, but dropped out. Daddy didn’t approve of anything that smacked of giving up, so she started working there temporarily to buy some time to figure out how to tell them. Turned out she liked it there. She decided to stay on.”
“Was there anyone there she didn’t get on with?”
“I don’t think so. We talked on the phone all the time, and she never mentioned anything like that.”
“What about socially? Did she have problems with any other boyfriends?”
“No. After the baby thing she pretty much stopped socializing. She did go to a party a couple Saturdays ago at a coworker’s house, but she didn’t like what was going on there. She was home in bed by nine-thirty.”
“What was going on? Did she say?”
“She did, but I don’t know if I should tell you. She wouldn’t have wanted to get anyone in trouble. She was…” A tear dripped down onto the collar of O’Keefe’s cardigan before she could wipe it away. “She was such a kind person.”
“Don’t worry.” Devereaux opened his desk drawer, took out a fresh box of Kleenex, and handed it to her. “You can tell me. The only thing I’m interested in is making sure we’ve caught the guy who killed your sister. Anything else, it goes no further than here. I guarantee.”
“OK.” O’Keefe took a moment to blow her nose and compose herself. “Well. The thing is, Siobhan said there were people at the party who were smoking drugs. In fact, she said everyone there was smoking drugs. Apart from her. She didn’t want to. There was pressure. She felt uncomfortable. That’s why she came home. She wasn’t judging. And like I say, she wouldn’t have wanted to get anyone in trouble.”
“That’s it? People were smoking at the party?”
“Isn’t that a bad thing?”
“Well, yes. It is. Your sister was right not to participate. Walking away was the sensible thing to do. She was obviously a very strong person.”
“She was.”
“Did she ever mention knowing a guy named Billy Flynn? He could have gone by William, or Bill?”
“No. I don’t think so. Who is that?”
“What about her car? Did she ever have work done on its audio system? Any upgrades? Or electrical repairs of any kind?”
“No.” O’Keefe sniffed. “She liked her car. She took it in for oil changes and what have you religiously, every six months. And she didn’t need a new stereo. The car already had a good one. And it never broke down or anything.”
“What about a woman named Deborah Holt? She was the same age. She lived in Birmingham. And worked at a company called Invetrade, in the Empire building downtown.”
“That name doesn’t ring a bell, either. I’m sorry.”
“It’s no problem. I just have one more name for you. Oliver Casey. He plays the guitar. Mainly goes by Thor, apparently.”
“Thor? No way. I’d have remembered him.”
“OK. You’ve been very helpful, Niamh. I just have one last question. Friday was Siobhan’s twenty-first birthday. That’s kind of a big deal. Did she have any plans to celebrate it?”
“No. We talked about it. She didn’t want to do anything with her coworkers, because of the drug problem. She couldn’t come home to Atlanta, because of our parents. I offered to come here and take her out to dinner, but she said no. She wanted us to save up, instead. She had this crazy plan for next summer.” O’Keefe looked away and dabbed her eyes, struggling to hold back more tears. “Siobhan wanted us to go to Europe. She is—was—a huge Game of Thrones fan, you see. So she wanted to go to Dubrovnik, which is in Croatia, I think, and visit the places where they film it.”
—
Devereaux let Niamh O’Keefe reminisce about her sister for another few minutes, and when he was confident she had nothing else to add that would help the investigation, he escorted her back to reception. Then he returned to the third floor and knocked on Lieutenant Hale’s office door.
“Lieutenant, we need to call Linda Irvin back. There’s another overlap between the victims. It’s not just the age thing. They both gave up babies for adoption. That can’t just be a coincidence…”
Dear Mom,
Lucas Paltrow is the worst person in the world. He literally is. You wouldn’t believe how mean he is. How thoughtless. Inconsiderate. Manipulative. He’s just a taker! I mean, sure, if he’s doing something fun he’ll include me. But beyond that, if he wants something done, who does he ask? Me. Well, ask probably isn’t the right word. It’s not like I could say no. Not unless I want to be left out altogether. So I help. I do what he asks me to do. But here’s the thing. It has to be exactly on his terms. If I do something like, say, ask him why he wants me to do something, what does he do? Does he tell me? Let me into the secret? No. He gets mad. He yells at me. Like when he told me to babysit the halfwit who works for him while he went out for half an hour. He was so specific. Stay here, he said. Make sure Billy stays here, too. DO NOT LET HIM LEAVE. Not even for a second. Don’t let him out of your sight. OK, Lucas, I say. No problem. I’ll do that. But how come? Where are you going? Honestly, Mom, I thought he was going to hit me. It’s OK to leave me shut in with a cretin who has the conversational skills of a wheelbarrow, but not to tell me why? What’s the point? Why leave me in the dark? What does he get out of it?
Sunday. Morning.
Devereaux summoned up his mental map of the city and took a minute to figure out how best to adjust the route he’d planned for the day, now that he had an extra stop to make. He definitely wanted to end up at an address in Vestavia Hills, so that he could take his time on the final task he had in mind without feeling pressure to hurry off somewhere else. He’d already factored in stops at Deborah Holt’s mother’s and Dean Sullivan’s—the guy who Lucas Paltrow claimed to have gone to the movies with—but those would both be follow-up calls. The information about Kevin McAuley, Siobhan O’Keefe’s ex-boyfriend, was new. The guy sounded like he had a temper, so Devereaux figured it was worth having a conversation with him first.
—
McAuley was blinking like a zoo animal that had been woken too early from hibernation when he finally answered Devereaux’s knock.
“I didn’t buzz you in,” McAuley grunted, somehow managing to sound indignant and half-asleep at the same time. “How’d you get in the building? Who the hell are you?”
It was true that McAuley hadn’t responded to his buzzer. None of the building’s residents had. There were eight, and Devereaux had tried them all. But that wasn’t a problem. The entrance to the building was halfway down a narrow driveway leading off the street. No windows overlooked it, and there was no sign of any cameras, so it had only taken Devereaux a few seconds to open the outer door with a credit card he carried specially for the purpose. Then he’d picked his way through the mounds of bills and catalogs that were scattered across the black-and-white-tiled floor of the entrance lobby and turned his attention to the inner glass door that led to the stairwell.
“Kevin McAuley?” Devereaux showed his badge. “Birmingham PD. I need to ask you a couple of questions. Mind if I come in?”
Devereaux pushed the door, forcing McAuley to move back, and stepped after him int
o the apartment’s inner hallway. The floor was covered with paper-thin brown carpet. The walls were pale green. They looked recently painted, and there were no pictures or posters hanging anywhere. The one bedroom was to the right. The shades were pulled across its window, but Devereaux could still make out a queen bed beneath a knot of unmade turquoise sheets. There was a built-in closet, its door open, nothing on the rail but a bunch of clothes heaped on the floor, some spilling out into the space at the foot of the bed. Four beer bottles were perched haphazardly on the nightstand. And there was a ceiling fan, slowly spinning.
“Hey!” McAuley grunted.
Devereaux continued as far as the living room. A bay window looked out over the street, and the trees that lined the sidewalk made the room feel dark and enclosed. It was hard to see out. Or in, Devereaux guessed. The fireplace was filled with giant candles. There was a bookcase on either side, though McAuley had just one book—a thick, hardcover bible. A narrow couch was the only other piece of furniture, with a filthy tartan blanket flung across it. A TV was balanced on an old packing crate by the opposite wall, and a door in the far corner led to a dark kitchen. Devereaux could smell the odor of rotting food. He didn’t want to think what the countertops or refrigerator would be like.
“Come in.” McAuley gestured sarcastically. “Make yourself at home. And tell me. What do you want?”
“I have a couple of questions for you. About Siobhan.”
“I don’t know who that is.” McAuley inched back toward the door.
“It’s Sunday today, and on the Sabbath I normally try not to beat anyone senseless until after lunch. In your case, though, I’d be happy to make an exception. Siobhan had your child. So don’t be disrespectful. And don’t lie to me again.”