False Witness

by Andrew Grant

  “Leather gloves?” Devereaux shot a glance at Garretty.

  “No.” Isringhausen stood up. “I don’t think so. The pattern’s too fine. I’d say they were some kind of synthetic material. Is that what you were expecting I’d find?”

  Devereaux shrugged. “Whoever killed Deborah and Siobhan, he was also wearing synthetic gloves. We just found out from Dr. Barratt, yesterday.”

  “That detail wasn’t in any press report.” Garretty shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “See where we’re going with this?”

  “Oh, shit.” Isringhausen’s eyes opened wider.

  “Shit is right.” Garretty ran his hand through his hair. “Think about it. Same MO means it can’t be Flynn. And whoever it was, he killed a woman two nights running. Had two nights off. Then killed another last night.”

  “Maybe that explains the extra violence?” Isringhausen glanced down at the body. “He stopped for two days and couldn’t hold it in any longer.”

  “Maybe,” Devereaux said. “But the real question is, what’s the guy going to do tonight? Keep the pattern going? Escalate?”

  “We need to make sure he’s in a jail cell before he gets the chance.” Garretty scowled. “Or in a body bag.”

  “Let’s think this through,” Devereaux said. “Go back to the one solid lead we have. The Escalade. Mrs. Goodman saw a guy coercing Siobhan to get into it. We figured that guy must be Flynn. If it wasn’t, the killer must be someone else with access to it.”

  “Paltrow.” Garretty practically spat out the name. “He’s a similar height. Build. Hair color. All we had was Mrs. Goodman’s description.”

  “Right.” Devereaux nodded. “We need to take another look at him.”

  “Excuse me, Detective.” A uniformed officer approached from inside the church. “Mr. Anderson—he’s not doing so well. Shock, I think. Do you need to talk to him again? Because I’m thinking we should get him to the hospital. A doctor needs to take a look at him.”

  “We don’t need him. Make sure someone takes care of him.”

  “Thanks, Detective. Oh—”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just, the victim—I recognize her.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know her name. But I’ve seen her before. A couple of months ago. My partner and I, we were called to a disturbance at a hotel. The Petite Maison. A party had gotten out of hand in one of the rooms. Other guests complained. The management did nothing, so someone dialed 911. We showed up, and a couple of guys tried to book out of the window—some wiseass businessmen from Miami had ordered some girls then tried to not pay, and so their minders had shown up to collect. Anyway, a couple of the girls tried to blend in with the suits. She was one of them. Her name should be in the report.”

  “Thanks, Officer. Good work. Now go look after Mr. Anderson.”

  The officer turned to leave and almost knocked over Ryan, who was holding his phone.

  “We’ve got an ID on our vic.” Ryan steadied himself. “Emma Noble. She had one prior for solicitation.”

  “Age?” Devereaux asked.

  “She turned nineteen two weeks ago.”

  “At least she wasn’t killed on her birthday. I would have sworn she was older than nineteen, though.” Devereaux turned back to Ryan. “Any indication she’s had a kid?”

  “I couldn’t tell.” Ryan shrugged. “The ME will know.”

  “So what’s next?” Garretty frowned. “Shall we pick up Paltrow?”

  “Not yet.” Devereaux shook his head. “What have we got on him? The Escalade thing. That’s not enough. We need more. And something doesn’t sit right here. There are too many deviations from the signature. The additional violence. The age. And neither of the other vics were hookers. It feels like there’s something else going on. So this is what we should do. Call the lieutenant. Have her get Colton or Levi to find Paltrow and watch him. Emma Noble was a call girl. Let’s find out who called her last night. Whoever did, they’re due a serious conversation. We’ll start with the hotel bust two months ago. I want the precise date and the name of the guy whose room the party was in.”

  Tuesday. Morning.

  Devereaux swung by his apartment at the City Federal to collect his favorite battered leather Jekyll & Hide suitcase, threw a bunch of T-shirts inside to make it look realistically filled out, and headed to the Petite Maison. He left the Porsche under the entrance canopy—ignoring the valet—and made his way to the reception counter.

  “Good morning, miss.” Devereaux kept a friendly smile on his face and discreetly showed the receptionist his badge. “Here’s what I need you to do. Act like I’m a regular guest checking in. Imagine that I have a room booked for tonight. Do whatever you normally do with the computer. Then give me one key for the largest suite you have available. And don’t mention this to anyone at all.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The receptionist glanced at her computer screen and then back to Devereaux, looking alarmed. “We’re a small hotel. We only have one suite, and it’s already booked. I could offer you a standard room on the first floor?”

  “That won’t work. I need the suite. Are the guests who booked it already here? Or do they check in later today?”

  “The notes on my screen say they’re flying in from New York and are due early this afternoon. But—”

  “Good. Then give me the key. And don’t worry. I only need the suite for half an hour. It won’t come to any harm. When these New Yorkers arrive they’ll never know I was there. I guarantee. And you have to understand—this is part of a very important investigation. I’m not taking no for an answer. So don’t make this difficult.”

  —

  Devereaux declined the offer of help with his bag. He took the elevator to the fourth floor. Let himself into the suite. Took a moment to see what $400 a night could buy you. Texted the room number to Garretty. Then settled himself in one of the suede chaises by the window and called the number he’d been given by the duty officer in Dispatch.

  The phone was picked up after one ring. “Make this quick. I’m heading into a meeting. What do you need?”

  “Peter Bromley?” Devereaux pictured a twenty-something in a $4,000 suit with overcoiffured hair and a Bluetooth earpiece, trying to emulate Leonardo DiCaprio in The Wolf of Wall Street. “This is Detective Devereaux with the Birmingham Police Department. I have a question for you.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “No, it can’t wait.”

  “Well, I’m very busy, and—”

  “Let me explain something. I’m investigating three homicides. I don’t have a lot of patience. So you can either answer my one simple question right now on the phone. Or I can have some uniformed officers come to your office. Drag you out of your meeting in handcuffs. Put you on a plane to Birmingham. And you can answer me in person.”

  “All right. Calm down. I get it. What do you need to know?”

  “July twenty-first. You were staying at the Petite Maison hotel, here in town. You had a party in your room. Call girls were involved.”

  “Hold on, wait a minute. That was a misunderstanding. I explained to the officers at the time, we didn’t realize they were call girls. No money changed hands. When we found out what they were doing, we—”

  “Cut the crap, Pete. And don’t worry. I’m not looking to cause you trouble over the girls. I just need to know who supplied them. That’s all.”

  “Supplied them? No. We just…my buddies and I…we were walking down the street, and—”

  “You weren’t walking down any street. We both know how this works. You’re fixing to party at a fancy hotel, you don’t go to the street corner and round up the first bunch of hookers you see. You talk to someone. They take care of it. I need to know who that someone is. Right now.”

  There was silence on the line.

  “Are you married, Pete?” Devereaux kept his voice matter-of-fact.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because if I have to send those office
rs around to arrest you for obstructing my investigation, it’s going to be hard to keep the full details of the case quiet. Word might spread…”

  “You bastard.”

  “Whatever. The name of the guy who arranged the girls?”

  “Art.”

  “Art?”

  “That’s all I have. He’s one of the bellmen at the hotel. A buddy of mine stays there all the time. He told me—talk to Art. Art can hook you up. He’s some kind of European dude. The service was supposed to be discreet.”

  “What’s your buddy’s name?”

  “Easton. Ken Easton.”

  “Where does he live? What town?”

  “Mobile, Alabama. But you’ll have to take my word for it. Ken’s out of town. He’s in Ecuador. All month. He owns a half share in a hotel there.”

  “All right. That’s good. I’m going to leave you to your meeting now, Mr. Bromley. You won’t be hearing from me again. Unless you’re lying, of course. If you’re lying, and the three homicides turn into four, I’m going to come to Miami and find you. And trust me. You won’t like what happens next.”

  —

  Devereaux returned to the lobby and hung out by the newspaper stand at the entrance to the gift shop, checking the employees’ name badges until he spotted a guy in his mid-twenties with a bellman’s uniform that was noticeably smarter than his coworkers’.

  “Art?” Devereaux strolled across and fell in step with him as he returned from one of the elevators. “Got a minute? I need your help.”

  “Of course.” The guy had a noticeable French accent. “Please, come with me.” He led the way to the vacant concierge station, opposite the reception counter and to the left of the main sliding glass doors. “How can I be of assistance today?”

  “Well, Art, let me introduce myself. My name’s Devereaux. I just drove up from Mobile, and I’m only in town for the night. I’m staying in the suite, on the fourth floor. I’ve got meetings all afternoon, then I’m taking some clients to dinner. Some very important clients. It’s going to be a very intensive few hours. Very stressful. So when it’s done, I’m going to be ready for some entertainment. Some very special entertainment, if you know what I mean. And I hear you’re the guy who can make that happen.”

  “You would like me to recommend a nightclub?” Art’s expression gave nothing away. “Or perhaps tickets to a show? The Alabama Theatre on Third Avenue North seems to be very popular with our guests.”

  “No, no, no.” Devereaux shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I’m talking about some entertaining company. Female company. For me and one of my associates.”

  “You have been misinformed, sir.” Art remained impassive. “This is not the kind of thing I know anything about.”

  “Come, come, my friend.” Devereaux leaned in close. “Maybe I should have mentioned this before. My buddy Ken stays here all the time. Ken Easton. He told me to find you. He said, Devereaux, Art will hook you up. He did say you might be a little wary after that fiasco with Pete Bromley, a couple months back. But listen, don’t worry about that. I’m nothing like that jackass. I’m discreet. I pay my bills. And I tip. Very generously.”

  Art didn’t respond.

  “Here’s a thought.” Devereaux pointed outside, to the Porsche. “See that car? The blue one? Look at the license plate.” He watched as Art took in the letters DVRX, and waited for the penny to drop. “Why don’t I give you the key? Have yourself a little fun when your shift ends. I won’t be needing it for a while. Then you can give it back to me in the morning, assuming our business is concluded to everyone’s satisfaction.”

  Art didn’t answer, but his eyes lingered on the Porsche.

  “What do you say?” Devereaux took the car key out of his pocket and held it just out of Art’s reach. “Have we got a deal?”

  Art nodded. “OK. I can make that work.”

  “All right, then!” Devereaux smiled. “Outstanding. Let me tell you what I need. First of all—”

  “Not here.” Art held up his hand. “Upstairs. In your room. Ten minutes.”

  —

  Devereaux opened the door to the suite when he heard a sharp knock, twelve minutes later. Art was standing outside carrying two pillows, freshly wrapped in crisp white tissue paper.

  “You don’t have to use these.” Art came in, tossed the pillows onto the nearer bed, and looked quizzically at Garretty, who was sprawled on one of the chaises by the window. “You must be Mr. Devereaux’s associate?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Garretty sat up straighter.

  “Here you go.” Devereaux wheeled a blood-red Aeron chair from a desk by the wall and positioned it facing the chaises. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  Art sat down and released the latch so that he could recline the back of the chair. “Well, gentlemen. Let’s talk about tonight. Why don’t you outline your requirements, and I’ll see what I can do to help. I believe you’re interested in the company of some accommodating young ladies?”

  “That is what I suggested.” Devereaux perched on the edge of the empty chaise. “But I have some news for you. Our requirements have changed. As has our method of payment.” He reached into his pocket, took out his shield and a small digital voice recorder, and laid them on the coffee table that filled the space between them. “What we require now is information. And we’ll pay you for that information by deleting the recording I made of the conversation we had downstairs. The one where you agreed to participate in a felony.”

  Art grasped the armrests of the chair and his face twisted into a mask of pure hatred. “You cocksucker.” He practically spat the words at Devereaux.

  “It’s OK.” Devereaux crossed his arms. “You’re upset. We get it. So take a moment. Get it out of your system. Then focus. You have a decision to make. This thing can work out well for you. Or it can work out badly. It’s your choice.”

  Art stood up and moved to the window, stared into the distance for thirty seconds, then spoke without turning around. “This information you require. Be more specific.”

  “On July 21st, Peter Bromley asked you to arrange some girls for him. We need to know who you called to make that happen.”

  “No.” Art turned around, his eyes open wide. “Forget it. Arrest me. Deport me. Do what you need to do. But I’m not telling you that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Simple.” Art shrugged. “I want to stay alive. The guy you want? He’s a bête. He kills people with his bare hands. Crushes their skulls till their eyeballs pop out. He showed me pictures…”

  “So you’re frightened of this guy.” Devereaux nodded. “That’s good. Because it shows you know who he is. That saves us the trouble of wading through a whole other layer of bullshit. Now let me explain to you what’s at stake. One of the girls you brought to the hotel on July 21st is dead. Emma Noble was her name. She was nineteen years old. Last night she was murdered. She was beaten. Burned. Stabbed. Raped. And strangled. Whoever did it has already killed two other women. We think he’ll kill another one tonight. Unless you help us stop him.”

  “You think the guy I work for did it?”

  “No. We think the guy who hired Emma last night did.”

  “Even if he didn’t, we need to trace Emma’s movements in the hours before she died,” Garretty said.

  “So when we go see your boss, we’re not going to be talking about anything that happened back in July. Or anything connected to the hotel. Or to you. We’re just going to ask him where he sent Emma last night,” Devereaux said.

  “There’s no way anything will link back to you. There’s absolutely no risk. You’ll be completely safe,” Garretty said.

  “And if you don’t help us now and another girl dies, you’ll have that on your conscience the rest of your life.” Devereaux paused and let that settle.

  “That’s not the easiest thing to bear.” Garretty sounded sincere. “Let me tell you about a case I worked, years ago. A young woman had been murdered. She was completely torn apar
t. It was a horrible, horrible crime. My partner and I, we got wind that a guy might have seen the killer leaving the scene. We went and talked to him. He denied having been anywhere near the place, let alone seeing anything. The trail went cold, leaving the killer on the loose. He took two more lives before we caught him. And do you know what? That first witness? He’d lied to us. He had seen the killer. He could have identified him. Stopped the murders. But the guy was driving a stolen car at the time. He was afraid that if he talked to us and we looked into his story, we’d find out and he’d get in trouble for it. So he kept quiet, to save his own skin. And when he realized his selfishness had cost those two other women their lives, he couldn’t live with himself. Two weeks later he locked himself in his garage, fired up his old Camaro, and checked out.”

  “Of course, if you don’t help us, you won’t have access to garages or Camaros.” Devereaux tapped the voice recorder. “Because we’ll be taking you to jail.”

  Dear Mom,

  I hate Lucas! He’s the most selfish asshole I’ve ever met. You won’t believe this, but he still won’t give me my video camera back. It’s totally outrageous. Why doesn’t he buy his own, if he wants one so much? He’s rich enough. He could buy ten. He knows I can’t afford to replace it. And it’s not like he’s even using it anymore. He doesn’t have anything to use it for now. He’s just holding on to it to torment me. He knows I want it. He knows not having it is causing me problems with Hayley. And I can’t blame her. The baby will be arriving soon. She wants me to document everything. And I mean, everything—going to the hospital, the room, the birth, the baby’s first bath, coming home. Everything. It’s really important to her. To me, too. So I want to test the equipment. Make sure everything’s in top shape. Charge the batteries. Be certain I’m ready. These aren’t unreasonable things to want to do, in the circumstances. And I’m running out of excuses for not doing them.

  I wish I knew where the damn thing was. I’d just take it. But he keeps everything in his place so neat. He’d know if I’d been searching for it. But all isn’t lost. I have a plan. If he doesn’t return it by Friday, I’m going with the nuclear option. I’m going to take one of his client’s cars. Whatever he has in the shop at the time. It doesn’t matter what kind. They’re all valuable. Except for that girl’s Nova, last year, and he won’t be working on that thing again. But that’s irrelevant. The point is, Lucas is so uptight about his reputation, he’d do anything to avoid finishing a job late. We could have a hostage exchange. Like in that movie with Tom Hanks. There are plenty of bridges in Birmingham, after all…