by Andrew Grant
Devereaux took a moment to weigh the significance. “Where’s his birth mother now?”
“She’s dead. She was killed in an explosion not long after they reconnected. She smoked. There was a gas leak, they think.”
“Was the guy she gave up Lucas to marry killed in the explosion, too?”
“No. He died years before. Cancer, if I remember correctly.”
“OK. One last question. Lucas’s nerdy friend, who helped with the computer. What was his name?”
“I can’t remember. It was a long time ago. I think it began with a D, though. Dave? Dan? Something like that.”
—
Devereaux waited for Connie to disappear into the elevator, then called Garretty.
“It’s Paltrow. I’m digging up some amazing shit.”
“It isn’t Paltrow,” Garretty said. “I know you’ve got the bit between your teeth on this one so I went back over his alibis. His card was definitely used at the gas station. His regular card, which he’s had for years and uses pretty much every day. Not some new card he could have taken out to use as a cover and paid someone else to use at the relevant time. I spoke to the woman. Leaned on her hard, and she swears blind Paltrow was with her all night. And I checked with the church. They still have tai chi on Monday evenings, and this week they finished even later than normal because they had some visiting Asian monks who gave a demonstration. It’s just not possible for it to be him, Cooper.”
“I don’t know how, but I still think it is.” Devereaux reached for the elevator Call button. “And I’m going to keep on digging.”
Wednesday. Early afternoon.
Siobhan O’Keefe’s silver Jetta was still parked on the side of the street, near her house. It was all alone. No other vehicles were within forty feet of it, in front or behind, as if they were pack animals and could sense the recent tragedy afflicting one of their number.
Devereaux stopped his Porsche where he guessed the Escalade would have been, based on Mrs. Goodman’s account of Friday afternoon’s events, and stepped out into the road. He walked toward the back, imagining that Siobhan had just arrived home from work. He pictured an argument. Some kind of scam must have been in play, given that Mrs. Goodman remembered the guy producing some kind of leather wallet. It can’t have been totally convincing, as Siobhan was still reluctant to go with him. But whatever the ruse was, it didn’t have to be bulletproof, Devereaux figured. Just plausible enough to get her into the SUV. Once she was inside, it was as good as over for her.
—
It took Mrs. Goodman longer to answer the door than it had on Saturday, and when she appeared, Devereaux noticed she wasn’t wearing her emergency button.
“I’m rebelling.” She patted her chest where the pendent used to hang. “It seemed so trivial and self-absorbed, an old lady like me worrying about tripping over my own feet when a poor girl like Siobhan, in the prime of her life, was snatched off the street before my very eyes. And besides, it was my daughter’s idea for me to wear it. If she’s so worried about checking on my health, she can come and do it in person from now on.”
“Quite right.” Devereaux smiled.
“Can I offer you some iced tea, Detective?” Mrs. Goodman gestured toward the couch. “Come and sit. Tell me how things are going with your investigation.”
“Thank you. That would be nice.” Devereaux took the place at the end of the couch and tried his hardest to be patient while Mrs. Goodman made excruciatingly slow progress with fetching a tray and two glasses from the narrow galley kitchen.
“Have you made any arrests?” Mrs. Goodman settled herself in her armchair and took a sip of tea. “I’ve been following the case in the news, and none have been reported.”
“We have a suspect in custody.” Devereaux took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “But it would be very helpful if you could look at these photographs and tell me if you recognize anyone in them.”
Devereaux passed the array to Mrs. Goodman, who studied the six images carefully and then pointed to one in the center of the top row.
“That man.” She jabbed the picture again with her bony index finger. “I recognize him.”
The man she’d picked out was not Lucas Paltrow. It was Dean Sullivan.
“Where do you recognize him from, Mrs. Goodman?” Devereaux made an effort to keep the confusion he was feeling out of his voice.
“From outside, on the street.” Mrs. Goodman gestured toward the window. “He’s the man I told you about. With poor Siobhan, on Friday afternoon.”
Devereaux folded the paper so that only the picture of Sullivan was showing. “Mrs. Goodman, just so that I’m absolutely clear, you’re saying that you saw this man force Siobhan O’Keefe into a black SUV outside her house on Friday?”
“No, Detective.” Mrs. Goodman shook her head. “I didn’t see him force her. How could I?”
Devereaux felt as if he’d been plunged into a pool of ice cold water and left there, submerged, unable to breathe.
“OK.” Devereaux used every ounce of self-control to keep his voice calm and level. “So what exactly did you see? Talk me through it, step-by-step.”
“I saw the man approach Siobhan when she got out of her car.” Mrs. Goodman spoke slowly and clearly, as if Devereaux were one of her less gifted students. “They argued. The man led Siobhan around the front of her car, onto the sidewalk. Nothing happened after that for maybe five seconds. Then the Vulg— the SUV drove away, and no one was left standing there. So, Detective, I inferred that he forced her in and then got in himself. But I couldn’t see, because the beastly vehicle was too tall.”
“So he took her to the sidewalk. That’s the passenger side of the car.”
“Yes.”
“And he didn’t reappear? He didn’t walk around to the driver’s door?”
“No. I assume he got in the passenger seat. Unless he got in the back with Siobhan. Is it important which seat he took?”
“Someone else was driving!”
“I would imagine so.” Mrs. Goodman nodded. “I’ve read in the newspapers about the introduction of self-driving cars, but I don’t believe they’re available to the public just yet.”
“Mrs. Goodman, thank you.” Devereaux got to his feet and started toward the door. “You’ve been a huge help. Huge.”
Wednesday. Afternoon.
Devereaux called Garretty as he crossed the street, on the way back to his car.
“Tommy, I was wrong.” Devereaux climbed in behind the wheel. “It wasn’t Paltrow.”
“We knew that.”
“It was Sullivan and Paltrow. They were working as a team.”
Garretty didn’t respond.
“I’m serious.” Devereaux fired up the engine. “I just left Mrs. Goodman’s. She ID’d Sullivan as the guy who snatched Siobhan O’Keefe. And she said he got into the passenger side of the Escalade. Which means someone else was driving.”
“Shit. Paltrow? But what about Flynn?”
“He was dead before Emma Noble was taken, so it couldn’t have been him. Actually, Paltrow killed him.”
“He couldn’t have. Chief Young said the fire wasn’t deliberate.”
“He said there was no evidence that it was deliberate. We need him to take another look. Because, get this. Paltrow was separated from his birth mother for most of his life. When he reconnected, he got in a fight with her. Right after that, she died. She burned to death when her house exploded. There was an unexplained gas leak. And she was a smoker.”
“That’s some coincidence.”
“Right? And guess how Paltrow found her?”
“No idea.”
“A nerdy friend who was good with computers tracked her down online. Does that ring any bells?”
“Sounds like Sullivan, obviously. But what about the obsession with twenty-one-year-olds?”
“That’s down to Paltrow’s mother. She met some rich guy when she was twenty, pregnant with Lucas from a one-night stand. The rich guy p
roposed to her on her twenty-first birthday, with the condition that she give up the other guy’s kid as soon as it was born.”
“When did Paltrow find that out?”
“A while ago. I don’t know exactly when.”
“So why wait till last week to wage this crusade against twenty-one-year-olds who’d given up their kids?”
“I don’t know how their paths crossed again, but it must be connected to Deborah Holt somehow. She was the first victim. Paltrow met her last year, when she was twenty and pregnant. Suddenly she’s twenty-one, the baby’s out of the picture, and she’s getting a fancy sports car for her birthday from the rich guy she’s seeing. Paltrow must have found out. It must have hit him like a thunderbolt. Unhinged him. Released all his childhood demons. Set him on the warpath, and he took Sullivan along for the ride.”
“I can see why Deborah touched a nerve with Paltrow, I guess. But what did Siobhan do to attract his attention? Sounds like she ran with a different crowd.”
“I’m guessing that once he started, Paltrow wanted to keep going. So he got Sullivan to dig up new targets. If he could track down Paltrow’s mother, who’s to say he couldn’t hack an adoption agency? I’ll talk to Spencer Page in Support Services. See if he thinks that’s feasible.”
“And poor Emma Noble was collateral damage, designed to throw us off track.”
“They were cleverer than that, I think. They designed it to give each of them an alibi. Paltrow called the agency while Sullivan was at the therapist’s office. Sullivan met Emma while Paltrow was at the gas station. And Sullivan disposed of Emma’s body after Paltrow got to his girlfriend’s house. We’d have let Paltrow walk by now if that woman he was banging had been around to confirm his alibi, instead of leaving town for France.”
“That does all fit, Cooper. Specially the part about Sullivan dumping the bodies. He’s obviously the follower, of the two of them. And he’s not avenging some perceived outrage by womankind. If either of them felt remorse, it would be him.”
“He’ll feel more than remorse when I catch up with him. I’m heading to his place now.”
“Good. I’ll talk to the lieutenant. Make sure no one discharges Paltrow. His twenty-four hours are almost up.”
Wednesday. Afternoon.
Devereaux saw that Sullivan’s apartment door was open a crack as soon as he stepped out of the elevator car. A moment later he heard a woman sobbing. He drew his gun, crept up to the door, and listened. He could hear no movement and nothing that revealed how many people were inside.
“Miss?” Devereaux banged on the door. “Hayley? Are you all right?”
The sobbing grew louder.
“Birmingham PD.” Devereaux banged again. “Hayley? Are you in danger? Is anyone in the apartment with you?”
The sobs grew louder still and morphed into a hysterical attempt to speak, but Devereaux couldn’t make out the words.
“If you can, move away from the door.” Devereaux took a breath. “I’m coming in on three. OK. One. Two.” He shouldered open the door, stepped into the room, and dodged immediately to his right. Then lowered his gun.
Hayley was sitting on the floor to the side of the kitchen area. Her robe was undone. Her pink nightdress, which was covered with pictures of cats, was stretched tight across her belly. Her hair was wild. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. Broken crockery was strewn all around her. Smashed plates. Bowls and mugs. Glasses, too. On the other side of the countertop was another smashed vase, surrounded by pink roses this time. Farther away, the couch was on its back. Its cushions had been flung around the room, and the TV screen was badly cracked.
“Don’t try to move.” Devereaux stepped closer to Hayley. “Are you hurt? Are you OK?”
Hayley struggled onto her knees and reached up, trying to get a grip on the edge of the countertop.
“Where’s Dean?” Devereaux’s foot slipped on a piece of broken plate. “Did he do this?”
“Dean’s gone. The little worm took my car keys.” Hayley heaved herself half upright, and her next word was overtaken by a long, drawn-out, terrified howl. Straw-colored liquid started to pour down the inside of her legs. It pooled on the floor between her feet and spread out, engulfing the surrounding fragments of china.
“Hayley, don’t worry.” Devereaux pulled out his phone. “This is totally normal. It just means the baby’s ready to come. Very soon now, you’ll be a mom. I’m going to call for an ambulance. It’ll be here in no time. Trust me. Everything’s going to be all right.”
—
Devereaux helped Hayley into the bedroom and stayed with her until the paramedics arrived. Then he dialed Garretty’s number and began to search the apartment, hoping for a clue as to where Sullivan might have gone.
“Sullivan’s in the wind.” Devereaux moved into the smaller bedroom. “He’s using his girlfriend’s car. We need to get an APB out, right away.”
“I’m on it.” Garretty grabbed a pencil. “Got the license plate?”
“No, sorry.” Devereaux pulled open a drawer. “But how about this. Half the bedsheets are missing out of his linen closet.”
“The asshole.” Garretty banged the side of his fist into the desk. “Don’t worry. We’ll get him. I’ll find Hayley’s vehicle deets. Are you coming back in?”
“Unless I can find anything useful here.” Devereaux moved back into the living room and started to rummage through the debris.
“OK, I’ll…Hold on. The lieutenant’s here. Something’s up. I’ll be right back.” Garretty put the call on hold for the better part of a minute. “Cooper? There’s a problem. Another twenty-one-year-old’s been taken. Annette Usherwood. She was at Ocean, with her family, celebrating her birthday. She went to the bathroom. And never came back.”
Wednesday. Afternoon.
Devereaux was conscious of all the eyes watching through the one-way mirror behind him. On the other side of the table, Paltrow was staring straight ahead. His chin was up. His lips were curled into a thin, mocking smile. Was he aware of the hidden audience, too, Devereaux wondered? Or was he just admiring his reflection?
“It’s funny.” Devereaux crossed his arms and leaned back. “We always had you pegged as the brains of the operation. And yet here you are. Locked up, with only the needle to look forward to, while he’s out there. Having all the fun with lovely Annette.”
“He?” Paltrow raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Dean Sullivan. Your buddy.”
Paltrow shrugged. “I’d call him an acquaintance. Not a buddy.”
“That’s probably fair.” Devereaux nodded. “You certainly won’t be calling him a buddy after he rolls on you. Because he’ll be in here soon. We have fifty guys looking for him, right now. He can’t hide for long. And you know what he’s like. The first hint of pressure, he’ll crumble. Then we’ll explain how there’s only one deal on the table, and he won’t just take it. He’ll grab it. He’ll beg for it. He’ll give you up quicker than your own mother did. Unless you’re smarter than him. Because you can help yourself here, Lucas. Tell us where he’s taking Annette. If we get to her while she’s still alive, that’ll be huge for you.”
“Let me see if I understand you, Detective. You’re saying another girl’s gone missing? That’s terrible. But if she went missing while I was in here, I couldn’t have had anything to do with it, could I? Or, it follows, with the other identical disappearances. It’s like I’ve said all along. I’m innocent. And very soon, you’ll be the one with the decision to make. Tick tock. Tick tock. Charge me, or let me go. How many minutes have you got left?”
Devereaux didn’t respond.
“And if you do charge me, my lawyer will have me out in fifteen minutes. So I’m not saying another word. The ball’s in your court, Detective, and it’s staying there.”
In his pocket, Devereaux’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen. It was a text from Tom Vernon. He had news.
“Tell us where Sullivan is before h
e hurts the woman. That’s your only hope.” Devereaux stood up. “Think it over. But don’t take too long. If they find Sullivan without you, or the girl dies, you’re toast.”
—
The expression on Hale’s, Garretty’s, and Irvin’s faces was glum when Devereaux joined them in the observation gallery.
“OK.” Hale crossed her arms. “Options?”
“Go at him again.” Garretty’s hands had automatically curled into fists by his sides. “Keep going at him till he gives us something.”
“That won’t work.” Irvin shook her head. “He’s planned this out, move by move. He thinks he’s home free. And he’s probably right. We can’t hold him much longer.”
“All right.” Garretty scowled. “What if we play along? Let him go. Make a show of being pissed about it. And tail him. Let him lead us to Sullivan and Annette.”
“Way too risky.” The frustration was clear in Hale’s voice. “What if we lose him? Or what if he takes us on a wild-goose chase? His plan could be for Sullivan to kill the victim while he’s under surveillance, for all we know. And if we lose him, God knows what the body count will be by the time we find him again.”
“Here’s another angle.” Devereaux paused for a moment. “When I thought Paltrow was behind this on his own, I put some feelers out. In places you don’t need to know about, Lieutenant. One of my guys just got back to me. He might have something. It could be nothing, but I feel like it’s worth following up.”
Hale was silent for a moment. “OK. Have the conversation. But make it quick. In less than an hour, Paltrow will be back on the street. And if Annette’s not already dead by then, she will be soon after.”
Wednesday. Afternoon.