False Witness

by Andrew Grant

  Devereaux cursed Tom Vernon’s distrust of phones as he gunned the Porsche’s engine and sliced through the worsening afternoon traffic. He left the car outside the front entrance of his old friend’s restaurant, waving away the halfhearted protest from the geriatric parking valet, and hurried through the building and up the stairs to the office.

  “Drink, Cooper?” Vernon took a bottle of Blanton’s from the bottom drawer of his desk.

  “No time, Tom.” Devereaux perched on the arm of one of the battered leather armchairs that faced the window. “Just tell me what you know.”

  “Don’t get too excited. There’s not much. Not yet, anyway. But I did get one interesting story from one of my guys. We call him Goliath. He’s huge and scary-looking, but actually wouldn’t hurt a fly. Unless you piss him off, in which case…Anyway, a couple of years back he got a call from Eric Wainwright. Eric’s an attorney. I use him any time one of my guys has a run-in with one of your guys. Eric had kept Goliath out of jail a few months before that when it seemed like he was a slam dunk, and in return Goliath had promised Eric a favor if ever he was in a jam. So Eric called Goliath and told him an asshole was trying to blackmail him, and he wanted the situation to go away. Goliath handled it, of course, but can you guess who the asshole was?”

  “Lucas Paltrow.”

  “Right in one. And as amusing as what Goliath threatened to do to Paltrow was, if he didn’t back off, I’m guessing it’s the details of the blackmail that you probably want to know about. Here’s what happened. Eric’s a widower. And he’s a busy man. He didn’t have time to date, and he didn’t feel right about permanently replacing the woman he’d loved. So he decided to try a little pay-to-play. He called an agency someone had told him about, but when the girl showed up at his house he was horrified. She was a wreck. Obviously abused, mentally and physically. He couldn’t go through with the sex. He sat her down instead and coaxed her life story out of her. Long story short, she’d wound up being basically owned by Paltrow and some other guy. The way it started, Paltrow made a kind of sales brochure with all kinds of kinky pictures of her. He’d show it to the customers at his auto shop, and if they liked what they saw, Paltrow offered them the chance to do more than just look in a special room he had rigged up out back. It was a brilliant plan. It brought in more customers, as word spread, and those customers were paying for more than just a new CD player or whatever. The problem was, Paltrow was greedy. The auto shop angle only worked during business hours, and he wanted to be earning twenty-four/seven. So he brought in another girl to cover the auto shop, where he could keep more of an eye on her while he broke her in. He moved the girl Eric met to a place he bought downtown, which he also used for established customers. And on top of that he hooked her up with the phone service, and split the profit he made on her in return for getting the bookings.”

  “So what happened? Paltrow tried to blackmail Eric for seeing a call girl, even though he didn’t sleep with her?”

  “No. It’s better than that. Eric was so appalled at what the girl told him, he put her in his car there and then, drove her to the airport, and put her on a plane to the West Coast or wherever her family was from. That’s why Paltrow was pissed. The agency sent some Russian gorilla around to put the squeeze on Eric, but he faced the guy down. Paltrow wouldn’t let it lie, though. He tried to take Eric on himself. Until Eric introduced him to Goliath.”

  Devereaux took a moment to sift through the detail. “OK. This is great, Tom. Thank you. So what I need you to do now is get Eric on the phone. Ask him if the girl told him the address of the place where she was kept downtown.”

  “I’ll ask him, sure.” Vernon stood up. “But not on the phone. It’s too sensitive. I’ll head over to his office. Talk to him face-to-face.”

  “There’s no time, Tom. I need you to call him. A young woman’s life is on the line.”

  “Not on the phone.” Vernon was adamant. “I’ll go see him right now.”

  “Tom, there’s something I want you to look at.” Devereaux pulled Annette Usherwood’s driver’s license photograph up on his phone. “See this woman? She’s alive right now. But if I don’t get to her in time, she’ll wind up like this.” He switched to an image of Deborah Holt. “Or this.” He changed to Siobhan O’Keefe’s picture. “Or this.” He finished with Emma Noble. “So please. Use a burner phone. It’ll be safe. And if someone somehow does tap it, I’ll go to bat for you. But I won’t forgive you if another woman dies because you won’t make the call.”

  Wednesday. Late afternoon.

  “Cooper, look at the time.” Garretty checked his watch. “We’re too late.”

  The twenty-four hours since they’d taken Paltrow into custody were up. They still had nothing concrete to charge him with. And no definite location for Annette Usherwood.

  “Call the lieutenant.” Devereaux pulled up at the light where Sixteenth Street meets Second Avenue and looked at the reflection in the rearview mirror. “Tell her we need SWAT here. They need to hit the place right now.”

  Eric Wainwright hadn’t been able to give Tom Vernon a precise address. All he remembered was the girl he’d rescued saying that the place where she’d been kept was on the corner of Sixteenth and Third. Her room had been on the top floor, at the northeast corner. Devereaux knew right away which building she was talking about. It was only half a mile from the City Federal, where his apartment was. It was two floors high and had started life as a warehouse. Back in the day its pale brick had cost top dollar, and the original owners had paid even more to have extravagant coats of arms and mythological figures molded into the cement panels between the broad rows of metal-framed windows. In later years, when most of the city’s storage businesses moved out of town to be nearer the airport, it was converted into a series of low-rent storefronts. That had kept the building alive for another decade or so. Nowadays, though, it was in poor shape. It was basically unoccupied. The glass was cloudy and obscured with city grime. The frames were red with rust. The brickwork was crumbling. And the cement had flaked away, leaving the moldings flat and featureless, like sand carvings on a beach after the first waves of a rising tide had washed over them.

  Devereaux had considered buying the building years before, when he’d started speculating on inner-city regeneration. It wasn’t far from some of the shiny new banks and office buildings, and if the gentrification had spread a little farther south, it could have been a great investment. But in the end he’d decided against it. The place was only a stone’s throw from police headquarters, and he hadn’t wanted to attract attention to his unorthodox financial situation if the development took off and permits needed to be filed. Paltrow obviously hadn’t had such qualms about basing his operations under the noses of the police, though. Devereaux couldn’t believe he’d been questioning the smug asshole that morning only five minutes’ walk from where Annette was being held. If that’s where she was being held…

  “We call SWAT on the strength of one new padlock and a thirdhand report of a years-old memory?” Garretty adjusted his door mirror to get a better view behind him. “Annette might not even be in there.”

  “Someone is.” Devereaux gripped the wheel tighter. They were using a white Lexus sedan they’d borrowed from Tom Vernon, figuring the Porsche and their department-issue Chargers would be too recognizable if Sullivan was keeping watch. Even so, they’d only risked one pass, and the only sign of life they’d spotted was a shiny lock standing out against the decaying wood of the truck entrance at the north side of the building. “And it’s all we’ve got. If it was your daughter who might be inside, what would you do?”

  “I’d make the call.” Garretty pulled out his phone. “Let’s hope they’re here quick. Why not loop around and wait over there?” He nodded toward the vacant ground on the corner opposite the building, which had been set up as a temporary parking lot. “We can blend in with the other cars and still keep watch.”

  —

  With every passing second Devereaux felt
like someone was tightening a chain around his chest. All he could do was picture Nicole inside the building across the street. How would he get to her? A pane was missing from the block of windows above the main entrance. If he could get onto the canopy—Garretty could boost him, or he could climb on the hood of the car—he could reach inside. The frame was severely corroded. The whole thing would probably pull away. At the least he could pry out the surrounding panes. Climb in…

  “Cooper!” Garretty pointed to the far side of the street. Through the moving traffic a man was visible on the sidewalk, coming from the direction of First Avenue. He was moving fast. Heading for the building.

  It was Paltrow.

  He paused outside the main entrance. Reached up and eased a Ziploc bag out of a gap at the top of the frame. Opened it. Took out a pair of latex work gloves. And started to ease them onto his hands.

  Devereaux shifted into Drive, jammed his hand on the horn, and surged forward across both lanes of Sixteenth Street. The oncoming cars braked and swerved and honked. Three collided with each other. One clipped the rear of the Lexus, but Devereaux corrected his course and hit the gas harder. Yards away, Paltrow pulled out his key, apparently oblivious to the chaos in the street behind him. He calmly slid it into the lock. Wrestled the door open. Disappeared inside. A homeless guy lying on the ground under the shelter of the building’s canopy realized what was about to happen and threw himself to the side, out of harm’s way. Devereaux kept going straight. The Lexus demolished the entryway, smashing through in a maelstrom of shattered glass and fragments of metal frame and pulverized brickwork. A dozen airbags exploded from all around the interior of the car. One tore the sleeve of Devereaux’s jacket, burning his arm. He stamped on the brake, killing what remained of the car’s momentum, and threw open his door. Garretty followed him out a split second later.

  Dust and debris swirled in the air, obscuring their view of the stained, graffiti-covered walls and concrete stairway with its incongruously fancy art deco banister rail. Above them, they heard footsteps. They ran forward, pounded up the stairs, and reached the upper corridor just in time to see Paltrow disappearing through the last of three doors on the right-hand side. They approached, guns drawn, and tried the handle. It was locked.

  Inside the room, a woman screamed.

  “Birmingham PD.” Devereaux banged on the door. “Lucas? Dean? It’s not too late. There’s no need to hurt Annette. Let us in. We can help you. We’ll figure something out. No one else needs to get hurt.”

  The woman screamed again. Louder, this time.

  “All right.” Devereaux tightened his grip on his gun. “Stand away from the door. We’re coming in on three. Ready? One…”

  Devereaux drove the ball of his foot into the door, just below the handle. The lock gave way and Devereaux used his momentum to propel himself through the entrance into the room. There was a bed under the window, with no sheet on its filthy, stained mattress. A narrow, empty wardrobe without a door. A cracked, wooden dresser with a bottle of Windex on top of it, along with a syringe, a power cable with a pair of exposed, protruding wires, and a party-size box of condoms. Sullivan was lurking in one corner. Paltrow was standing in the center. He was behind Annette Usherwood, who he was holding by the hair. She was naked. Her arms were up above her head and she was clawing at Paltrow’s hands, trying to free herself. There was a scrape on her cheek, which was oozing blood. And a scarlet horizontal stripe across her lower abdomen. For a moment Devereaux thought she’d been stabbed, then he realized it wasn’t bleeding. It must have been a scar from a recent surgery.

  “Let her go, Lucas.” Devereaux kept his voice calm and level. “You’ve got nothing to gain by hurting her.”

  Paltrow reached out and picked up the syringe. Devereaux raised his gun. Garretty did the same. Neither had a clear shot.

  “Let’s agree to disagree.” Paltrow jabbed the needle deep into Annette’s neck and drove home the plunger. She screamed, then fell silent. Paltrow let go of her hair and ducked right down behind her, with just his fingertips visible where he was grasping her hips. Annette was still for another moment, then her legs began to shake. She lost control of her arms. Her neck was suddenly rigid. She started to gurgle, as if her throat was filling with fluid. Then Paltrow flung her forward, straight at Devereaux. Sullivan made a break for the door, but wound up on the floor after Garretty’s elbow connected with the side of his head. Paltrow did get out, though. Annette’s flailing body knocked Devereaux momentarily off balance, and by the time he’d gotten hold of her and laid her safely on the ground, Paltrow was five yards down the corridor.

  “Look after her,” Devereaux yelled over his shoulder as he dived out of the room. He raised his gun, but Paltrow reached the top of the staircase and dodged right into the passageway, running across the width of the building before Devereaux could take a shot. Devereaux sprinted after him, and arrived at the corner just in time to see the fire door at the far end swinging shut.

  Devereaux reached the door, pushed down on its release bar, and just managed to check his momentum before he stepped outside. The metal mesh platform was still there, surrounded by a corroded safety rail. But the stairs leading down had fallen away. Presumably when Paltrow had put his weight on them. They were lying on the ground, twenty feet below, a tangled mess of jagged spars and murderously sharp edges. Paltrow himself was dangling from the edge of the platform, clinging to a thin and rusted metal slat.

  “Devereaux!” Paltrow’s knuckles were gleaming white against the setting sun. “Help me!”

  Devereaux leaned against the doorframe. “Like you helped Deborah? And Siobhan? And Emma? And now Annette?”

  “I did help Deborah! She’d be a deadbeat whore in Mexico right now if it wasn’t for me.”

  “As opposed to being actually dead? Murdered, on her twenty-first birthday? By you.”

  “What was I supposed to do? When I saved her ass, I told her to come to me if she needed help. Raising her kid, I meant. I don’t hear a whisper from her for a year, so I figure everything’s OK. Then she shows up at my place, on her birthday, without her kid, wanted me to pair her fucking phone with the car her new boyfriend bought her? Come on!”

  There was a loud crack. One end of the slat that Paltrow was hanging onto had broken, and the remaining overstressed metal was starting to sag.

  “Quick!” Paltrow let go with one hand and started scrabbling desperately for something else to take his weight. “Help me!”

  “You know, Lucas, I’d love to.” Devereaux took out his phone. “But here’s the thing. The police department is very bureaucratic these days. There are procedures for everything. And in a situation like this, I’m not permitted to enter a potentially dangerous environment without first carrying out a risk assessment. So, in the circumstances, I think the best thing to do is for me to summon assistance. I’m sure my colleagues will respond with the minimum of delay. Now, what’s that emergency number, again? The stress of watching you attack that woman is playing havoc with my memory.”

  Wednesday. Late afternoon.

  Annette Usherwood’s birthday party had relocated to the corridor outside her room at the UAB hospital. To the obvious displeasure of the medical staff, the narrow space was crammed with hordes of noisy friends and relatives. Most of them were still dressed up. Some seemed drunk. But all were immersing themselves in what was now a dual celebration: Not only had Annette reached twenty-one that day, she’d become the only woman to survive an encounter with B/DK.

  Devereaux and Garretty kept their distance, hovering awkwardly at the edge of the group until Lieutenant Hale emerged from Annette’s room. They watched as she made her way through the crowd, accepting the thanks and congratulations of the revelers as tactfully—and quickly—as she could, then they fell in step with her as she headed for the elevators.

  “They’re keeping her here overnight.” Hale picked up the pace. “But that’s just because she crashed unexpectedly right after she got here. Fortunately a
nurse was on hand to deal with it. They don’t think the Windex will have done any permanent damage. The convulsions were nasty, but she should make a full recovery.”

  “That’s all we wanted to hear.” Devereaux leaned across and slapped Garretty between the shoulders.

  “You guys did good work today.” A smile broke out across Hale’s face. “Although, Cooper, you really shouldn’t have left Paltrow dangling off that fire escape until SWAT arrived. There was no way to guarantee they’d get there before he fell. And those spikes!”

  “I know.” Devereaux held up his hands in mock surrender. “That was bad. I should have thought to call you and cancel SWAT. What a missed opportunity.”

  “And it won’t be long before the lawsuits start to land.” Hale’s smile faded. “There’ve already been three complaints about the accidents you caused, driving across the street like that. And I can tell you, Captain Emrich is not happy at all about having to buy your friend Tom Vernon a new car.”

  “OK.” Devereaux winked at Garretty. “Tell the captain to forget about the car. I’ll find some other way for the department to pay Tom back.”

  “Cooper!” Hale stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Don’t even joke about that.”

  —

  Hale and Garretty got out of the elevator on the first floor, but Devereaux reluctantly remained inside until he reached the basement.

  Chris Lambert was propped up in the armchair at the side of his room when Devereaux arrived. His eyes were open and the various electronic lines were pulsing their way busily across the screen on the wall, but Lambert didn’t react at all when the glass door hissed back into place. He was so still and his skin was so pale and chalky that he reminded Devereaux of a sci-fi movie he’d once watched where humans were cloned by aliens, and their original bodies turned to dust that blew away on the wind. Devereaux was suddenly filled with the sense that this was the last time he’d see Lambert alive, and this time it wasn’t just wishful thinking.