by Andrew Grant
“What kind of things does he do?”
“I don’t really know. Sweeps the floor. Cleans things. Fetches drinks. The most complicated thing he ever does is sometimes return cars to their owners, after Lucas has done the hard part and fixed them or done an upgrade to the sound system, or whatever.”
“Is Flynn allowed to drive the customers’ cars at other times, when he’s not returning them?”
“No. Lucas is very strict about that. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Billy did drive them anyway. He’s a total freak. I don’t trust him.”
“Why not?”
Sullivan shrugged. “I don’t really know. It’s a feeling I get. Specially if I ever have to spend time alone with him. He’s creepy in some weird way. He kind of stares at you with his mouth open a little bit and doesn’t say anything.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday morning. At Lucas’s.”
“What time did he leave?”
“Quite early. Lucas had him dropping off an SUV—an Escalade, I think—for some celebrity. Then he went to his other job. He works at a bar, somewhere out of town.”
“This is good.” Devereaux flashed Sullivan a brief smile. “You’re being very helpful. Just a couple more questions and I’ll be out of your way. The name Siobhan O’Keefe. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Of course.” Sullivan nodded enthusiastically. “It’s all over the papers. She was murdered on her twenty-first birthday and her body was wrapped up like a birthday present. Creepy!”
“Did you ever see her at Lucas’s workshop?”
“No. I’ve only seen her picture in the Tribune. Never in real life.”
“What about with Billy Flynn?”
“That imbecile with a woman? Never going to happen, Detective. Impossible.”
“OK. One last name. Deborah Holt?”
“I’ve never seen her or met her. But I do know her name. She was the first victim, right? Lucas told me he’d met her once. About a year ago. He fixed her car. Is this why you’re asking? Because Lucas knew one of the women who was killed?”
“I can’t say too much about the investigation while it’s still ongoing. But you’ve been very helpful. I’m going to leave you my card. I need you to call me if anything comes to mind regarding Billy Flynn and either of the dead women, OK?”
—
Devereaux was waiting for the elevator to arrive when he heard more sounds from Sullivan’s place. First the crash of breaking glass. Then the shriek of Hayley’s voice.
“What do you mean, you’re going to see Lucas…”
Sunday. Afternoon.
Diane McKinzie had gotten a new door fitted to her house, midway down a quiet cul-de-sac near Lunker Lake in Vestavia Hills. The new door was a good thing, Devereaux thought. Given that the last time he’d been there, on a case involving an arsonist who was targeting the city’s schools, he’d had to kick the old one down.
Devereaux hesitated before walking up the path. He’d gone easy with his right foot on the way over from Sullivan’s building to give himself extra time to think through some possible approaches. He hadn’t come up with anything he was happy with—there was simply no leverage, unlike when you’re dealing with a suspect—so he decided to just ring the bell and wing it.
Diane—daughter of the legendary journalist Frederick McKinzie and an accomplished reporter in her own right—was wearing pink satin pajamas with a matching robe when she answered the door. She didn’t speak for a moment, but Devereaux thought she actually looked pleased to see him.
“Are you checking up on me, Detective?” The hint of a smile played across Diane’s face. “Or is this a work thing?”
“It’s definitely not work.”
Diane stepped back and opened the new door the rest of the way. “What personal service! I’m impressed.”
Devereaux followed her into the hallway and saw that more repair work was under way. The dents in the floor had been filled and sanded, though not yet stained, and the framed newspaper articles had been taken down from the walls and their hooks removed.
“One of the frames was damaged.” She knew he’d noticed the absence. “It broke when my son, Daniel, flung something, a couple years ago. They couldn’t match the glass, so I’m having them all refinished. My life’s changed whether I like it or not, so I may as well take the chance to draw a line and move on. Fix anything that needs to be fixed. Make up for lost time, if you know what I mean. Come on in. Make yourself at home.”
Diane led the way to the living room. Patches of that floor were also mid-repair, and the chandelier—which had a cracked globe when Devereaux last visited—was missing, with just a clump of wires sticking out in its place. Diane sat in the corner of the couch and indicated that Devereaux should join her.
“Would you like a drink?” Diane ran a hand through her hair. “Then give me a minute to change and we could go grab some dinner? Still no ring, I notice…”
“Coffee would be nice.” Devereaux glanced down at his left hand. “And honestly, dinner sounds good, too. I’m starving, and this hasn’t been the best of days. I could use some interesting company. But that’s not why I’m here. The truth is, I need to ask for your help.”
Diane’s back stiffened. “You want my help? Seriously? After everything that happened following the fires? Maybe you should just leave.”
“If that’s what you want, I will.” Devereaux clasped his hands together. “But let me tell you what I have in mind, first. Because it concerns both of us. It’s an opportunity for us to help each other.”
“Really. How’s that?” Diane’s hand shot out like she was a traffic cop. “But let me warn you. If this is leading up to you asking to see my father’s files, you can forget it. I won’t just throw you out. I’ll shoot you with my father’s gun. I can’t even count the number of people who’ve crawled around here spouting pathetic convoluted excuses for needing to get their hands on his research. I always say to them, if you want the reward, do the work for yourself. That was his rule, too.”
“That’s fair.” Devereaux nodded. “But it does leave me between a rock and a hard place. It’s a weird situation—not of my making—and it impacts your father, too. I’d thought there might be an answer in his files, but it hadn’t occurred to me you’d be bombarded by this kind of request. So, let’s do this. I’ll explain what’s happened, and you tell me what you think we should do about it. OK?”
“I guess.” Diane pulled the robe tighter around herself. “But no promises.”
“Understood.” Devereaux took a breath. “All right. Here’s the background. A guy I know—an untrustworthy asshole who’s had it in for me for years—says he has new information about my father’s death. Information that, if it were true, would be massively important to me. He says if I give him a bunch of money, he’ll hand over the proof.”
“So what’s the problem?” Diane glared at Devereaux. “Just pay him. Everyone knows you’re loaded.”
“It’s not just about the money. It’s not that simple. The guy’s theory is that another cop—who’s dead now, but was the only guy who ever helped me when I was growing up—was crooked and framed my father for his own crimes. So if I don’t pay there’s a risk he’ll release his story and smear the old guy I care about.”
“But also clear your father?”
“Potentially.” Devereaux shrugged. “But I don’t think he’s right. I know who my father was, and I’ve made peace with it. I think the guy’s got his wires crossed. Which is where the next problem comes in. His theory is based on your father’s research—he showed me a picture of a file he took when your father met him for an interview.”
“Then why didn’t my father break the story, if it’s true? Crooked cops? That would have been right up his alley.”
“That’s part two of the guy’s theory. And these are his words, not mine. Your father knew the truth, but didn’t take the dirty cop down because he was crooked, too.”
Diane was straight on her feet. Her eyes wild. Her fists clenched. “Who is this asshole? He thinks he can destroy my father’s reputation? I’ll kill him! I’ll burn his damn house down with him inside it.”
“Both good options. But the way I see it, first we need to look in your father’s files and figure out how this guy put two and two together and made a thousand. That way your dad’s name will be protected if any of this somehow leaks out. What do you say?”
“I don’t know.” Diane sat back down. “We’re talking about police corruption. You’re a cop. How can I trust you not to destroy evidence, or something? Maybe I should find someone independent to look into this?”
“There’s no time for that. And it’s like I told you—I already know my father was a very bad man. My girlfriend knows. My job knows. There’s no reason for me to destroy anything, or cover anything up.”
“What about the old cop? Your friend. It sounds like you want to save his reputation.”
“I just want to make sure no lies are told about him, not hide the truth. So how about this? Why don’t you sit with me. Keep your eye on me the whole time. See for yourself that I don’t tamper with anything.”
“I don’t know…” Diane shuffled closer to the front of the couch.
“Here’s another thing to think about. One way or another, there’s a story here. Help me get to the truth, and I’ll make sure you get the exclusive. The chance to build on your father’s work, rather than let some asshole taint his legacy.”
Diane didn’t reply.
“How are things going at the paper, by the way? Does your boss still have you working on that blog you hate so much? Big City Nights?”
—
Diane led the way down the corridor, through the kitchen, and into her father’s study. She paused for a moment, relishing as always the decades-old aroma of ingrained tobacco smoke, then gestured for Devereaux to sit behind the giant mahogany desk and wait. Then she pulled out a large cardboard archive box from the closet and set it in front of him.
“You’re probably wasting your time.” Diane perched on the corner of the desk. “I’ve looked through this a couple of times since…recently and didn’t come across anything that sounds relevant to what you were describing.”
“I’ve seen a picture of one of the key documents, remember,” Devereaux said. “That gives me a head start.”
Devereaux methodically sifted through the contents of the box. There were stacks of notes in Frederick McKinzie’s own hand, along with photographs and cuttings from his and other newspapers. Roughly half the documents related to Raymond Kerr and half to John Devereaux. The inference that Frederick had been suspicious about Devereaux’s lineage was clear. But he hadn’t pursued it all the way. The entries stopped a few months after Devereaux’s father had died. Diane was right. There was nothing related to Lambert’s claims. Devereaux felt disappointed. Then confused. Then suspicious. Could Lambert have been so caught up in his vendetta against Tomcik that he hadn’t just copied McKinzie’s papers, but stolen them?
“Wait!” Diane slid down from the corner of the desk. “We’re idiots. We’re looking in the wrong file.”
Diane returned to the closet and disappeared inside. It must have been an old dressing room, Devereaux guessed. He was wondering what else could be squirreled away in there when Diane emerged with another box.
The contents painted a bleak picture of Tomcik. Devereaux knew about most of the episodes from Tomcik’s own files so he saw them in a different context, but could still appreciate how wrong it could all look. He was imagining the way a committed anti-corruption campaigner would respond when, halfway down, he found the page that Lambert had photographed. McKinzie must have kept working on it after interviewing Lambert, because additional handwritten notes had been scrawled in the margins. Some were in pencil, making them hard to read after so many years.
“This is what the guy showed me.” Devereaux handed the page to Diane. “Does it mean anything to you?”
Diane scanned the notes. “No. But it must have related to something complex. This is how Dad organized his research. He wanted me to do the same. I remember him teaching me. He liked to make a kind of summary. That helped him to focus, and to get back up to speed if he got pulled away in the early stages by more urgent stories. Here—let me see what I can find.”
Diane rummaged through the contents of the box once again, forming the documents into two piles. The first, taller one she ignored. When she reached the bottom of the box she picked up the second pile and retreated to an armchair in the corner of the room. She read every page carefully, cross-referencing and comparing with the other sheets. Eventually she looked up at Devereaux, concern and confusion etched into her face.
“Detective, trust me on this. I’ve read a lot of my dad’s papers over the years. I know how to interpret them. And these—the conclusion he reached? Your father really was framed. He was innocent.”
Sunday. Afternoon.
Faulty reasoning!
Alexandra laid Jensen’s folder down on her kitchen table and despite everything that was going on in her life, she smiled. Those two words had sprung into her head, and they reminded her of another friend from Notre Dame. Melissa, who she’d met in freshman philosophy class. Melissa was a woman who could spot an invalid argument at a hundred paces. In Alexandra’s defense, the information that Jensen had collated for her was a welcome diversion. But it was still crazy that it had taken her all afternoon to recognize the logical error her frightened subconscious had been pushing her toward. Just because Jensen was wrong for her, it didn’t mean Devereaux was right. Melissa would have seen that immediately.
There was nothing in Jensen’s file that meant Devereaux was wrong for her, either, she conceded. There were plenty of theories, and lots of speculation, but nothing to prove that Devereaux’s character was inherently flawed. Nothing to tie his behavior to his father’s. No irrefutable proof for her to base any decisions on. So maybe it was time for a different approach. Maybe it was time to listen to her gut. Because her gut wasn’t flip-flopping. It had been telling her the same thing from the moment she saw a photograph of the four-year-old Devereaux standing next to his dad. Whether there was empirical evidence to support her or not, she simply wasn’t comfortable in a relationship with the son of a mass murderer.
Sunday. Afternoon.
The discovery in her father’s files energized Diane. It sent her bouncing around the room in a sudden burst of irrepressible energy. She was awash in ideas. For articles. Books. Social media tie-ins. People to interview. Her journalist’s brain had been thrown into overdrive and she just couldn’t stop moving. Or talking.
The discovery had the opposite effect on Devereaux. He fell silent, still sitting behind Frederick McKinzie’s desk. The original revelation about his father had felt to Devereaux like crashing through a thick crust of ice into the freezing water of confusion and doubt. He’d dragged himself out of that. Now he’d been plunged back in. He needed calm. Quiet. A place to isolate himself and think. He needed his cabin.
Devereaux had traced the ownership of the decaying one-room structure in the woods outside Birmingham using the city archives and then bought it, fifteen years ago, in the belief that the original owner had been his great-grandfather. He’d paid well over the odds, hoping that the place would help him connect with his family history. Now he knew that his history was a sham, as flimsy and shot through with holes as the cabin itself. But even leaving the family angle aside, he’d forged his own ties to the place. There was a straightforward, rustic honesty to it that he’d never found anyplace else, and in his darkest moments it was always where he wanted to be.
When Devereaux stood up to leave, he still had the presence of mind to thank Diane for her help and to ask if he could come back and see her again if any more questions arose. Still buzzing, she agreed. But before she could walk him to the door, his phone rang.
“Cooper?” It was Lieutenant Hale. “Billy Flynn’s awake. Tom
my’s not cleared for work till tomorrow, so I’ll meet you at the hospital. This could be huge, so it has to be done by the book. Don’t try to talk to Flynn without me.”
—
Devereaux stopped at the City Federal for just long enough to grab a bag of basic clothes. Then he completed the drive to the hospital, parked in the same spot in the Sixth Street lot as the previous night, and hurried to Garretty’s room.
“I’m going mad in here, Cooper.” Garretty turned the TV off when Devereaux appeared in the doorway. “Have you brought me more bible study material?”
“No.” Devereaux dumped the bag on Garretty’s bed. “Something better. Flynn’s ready to talk. Get dressed. I’ll wait outside.”
—
Devereaux and Garretty arrived at the nurses’ station outside the burn unit two minutes before Lieutenant Hale got there. She was wearing jeans and a plain blouse, but her hair was up and her face showed tiny traces of makeup. Devereaux was dying to find out where she’d been, but he knew better than to ask.
“Tommy?” Hale put her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m just out for an evening stroll, Lieu.” Garretty kept his face relatively straight. “It’s part of the physical therapy rehab routine they have here.”
“I see. And since when do you like The Who?”
Garretty looked down at the roundel logo on the shirt he was wearing. “Always. My favorite band.”
“OK. Name me—”
“Excuse me, Officers?” A nurse had arrived to escort them to a pair of anterooms so that they could prepare for their visit. The environment in the burn unit was strictly controlled due to the increased risk of infection for the patients. Nothing from the outside world was allowed unless it was sterilized or carefully covered up, which meant each of them would have to wear a hat, mask, scrubs, and disposable slippers.
“You’re Detective Devereaux?” the nurse asked, when the detectives emerged. “Mr. Flynn asked to see you first.”