by Andrew Grant
It wasn’t until Devereaux turned to leave that Lambert finally spoke.
“Gotcha.” His voice was rasping and barely audible. “Now, where’s my money?”
Devereaux turned back and shook his head. “That’s what I’ve come to tell you. There isn’t going to be any money.”
Lambert’s face creased into a frown and he tried to wriggle himself more upright in the chair.
“Don’t get excited.” Devereaux held out his hands, palms upright. “I’m not here to argue. I looked into what you told me, and I’m prepared to believe you thought you were selling something genuine. And actually, it was genuine. But it only told half the story. Frederick McInzie divided his investigation into two parts, like a lawyer. Evidence for Tomcik’s guilt in one box. Evidence against, which I guess you never saw, in another. Evidence against won. The reality is, Tomcik wasn’t a crook. And my father wasn’t innocent.”
“Well, shit.” Lambert sank back against the cushions, wheezing weakly. “I guess we all wind up a heck of a lot poorer, one way or another, if what you’re saying’s true.”
“It is true.” Devereaux paused for a moment. “Listen, Lambert. You weren’t always on the same page as me, but you did wear the same uniform. I know part of what you were doing was looking after your grandson. So tell him. No more blackmail. No more trash talk about Hayden Tomcik. But if he ever needs help after you’re gone, he knows where I am. I’ll never turn my back on anyone with blue blood in their veins.”
—
Devereaux sat in his customary spot on the wall by the reflecting pool while he waited for his cab to arrive, and his eyes were drawn to the parking lot beyond the trees on the far side of the street. While I’m tying up loose ends…he thought, and pulled up the email he’d received from Alison Jacques at the Cadillac dealer. Then he dialed the number for the kid he’d caught trying to break into his Porsche.
“Mike Jedinak? This is Detective Devereaux. How are you doing?”
“OK, I guess.” Jedinak sounded wary.
“Good. Now listen carefully. I have a job for you. In a minute, I’m going to text you an address. A nice old lady lives there. Some asshole kids have been messing up her front yard. You’re going to make sure that stops. Don’t put yourself in danger. Call me if you need help. But as of now, you’re responsible for making sure that not one more petal or leaf or blade of grass of hers gets damaged. Are we clear?”
—
Nicole tore down the hallway when she heard Devereaux’s key in the lock. He opened the door and she leapt at his chest, trusting him implicitly to catch her.
“Daddy!” She planted a huge kiss on his cheek. “I missed you! Can you play?”
“Not this minute, sweetheart.” Devereaux lowered her to the ground. “I have to talk to Mommy for a while right now.”
“That’s OK.” Nicole turned and skipped away toward the staircase. “I’ll be in my room…”
Alexandra was in the kitchen, sitting at the table and working on Nicole’s lesson plans for the rest of the week. She jumped up when Devereaux entered, hugged him a little less enthusiastically than their daughter had done, then pecked him on the same cheek.
“It’s good to see you, Cooper.” Alexandra cupped Devereaux’s face in her hands for a moment, then let go when she noticed the rip in his sleeve. “What’s this?” She slipped the tip of her finger into the tear, exposing his scorched skin. “It looks sore. Are you OK? Do you need a bandage?”
“I’m fine.” Devereaux covered the hole with his other hand. “It’s nothing.”
“Can I at least get you a coffee? A glass of wine?”
“No thanks.” Devereaux stood by the table. “I just came by to show you something.”
“Oh?” Alexandra sat back down. “OK. What is it?”
“First of all, there’s something I want to say. Something I want to be real clear about.” Devereaux paused for a moment. “We’ve been out of touch for a few days now, and I didn’t like it. I like it here. I like it with you. I like it with Nicole. I like it when we’re a family. Now, if you were putting that space between us because you don’t like being with me, tell me and I’ll walk away. But if the problem is down to my father—to the effect you think he has on me, on who I am—then I want you to read this.”
Devereaux pulled the papers he’d taken from Frederick McKinzie’s study out of his pocket and slid them across the table. Alexandra picked them up and started to read. At first confusion covered her face. Then hope. Excitement. And finally relief.
“Are these real?” Alexandra jumped up from her chair. “Where did you get them?”
“They’re real.” Devereaux nodded. “This is what the blackmailer was trying to sell me for half a million dollars. It’s the summary of an investigation Frederick McKinzie conducted about police corruption. Remember I met his daughter during the arson case? I got her to show me his files. That’s where I found them.”
“This is wonderful!” Alexandra ran to Devereaux and threw her arms around his neck. “It’s the answer to my prayers!”
“Is it?” Devereaux gently pushed her away. “I showed you because I want you to know who I really am.” He reached out and gathered up the papers. He formed them into a neat pile. Then he ripped them in half, in half again, and flung the pieces up in the air. “You believed what they said. I did as well, at first. But I found out—long story short—the picture they paint isn’t true. My father really was the evil monster you believed him to be. I didn’t have to tell you that. I could have let you go on believing he was as pure as the driven snow. But that’s not who I am. I’m not defined by him, or anyone else. I make my own choices. And now you have to choose, too. The man I am—is that who you want to be with? I hope so. I hope so with all my heart. But it’s your call, Alexandra. And either way, at least now you know the truth.”
Devereaux turned to leave, but paused when he reached the kitchen door. “It’s up to you to decide, Alex. But, please—don’t take too long.”
For my father, Captain John Grant (1924–2016), who taught me never to bear false witness—and so much more besides.
I would like to extend my deepest thanks to the following for their help, support, and encouragement while I wrote this book. Without them, it would not have been possible.
My editor, the excellent Brendan Vaughan, and the whole team at Random House.
My agent, the outstanding Richard Pine.
My friends, who’ve stood by me through the years: Dan Boucher, Carlos Camacho, Joelle Charbonneau, John Dul, Jamie Freveletti, Keir Graff, Kristy Claiborne Graves, Tana Hall, Nick Hawkins, Dermot Hollingsworth, Amanda Hurford, Richard Hurford, Jon Jordan, Ruth Jordan, Martyn James Lewis, Rebecca Makkai, Dan Malmon, Kate Hackbarth Malmon, Carrie Medders, Philippa Morgan, Erica Ruth Neubauer, Gunther Neumann, Ayo Onatade, Denise Pascoe, Wray Pascoe, Dani Patarazzi, Javier Ramirez, David Reith, Sharon Reith, Beth Renaldi, Marc Rightley, Melissa Rightley, Renee Rosen, Kelli Stanley, and Brian Wilson.
Everyone at The Globe Pub, Chicago.
Jane and Jim Grant.
Ruth Grant.
Katharine Grant.
Jess Grant.
Alexander Tyska.
Gary and Stacie Gutting.
And last on the list, but first in my heart—Tasha. Everything, always…
I’d also like to extend extra special thanks to the real Deborah Holt of Wetumpka, Alabama, for generously bidding on a character name in support of the Friends of the Wetumpka Library.
By Andrew Grant
Even
Die Twice
More Harm Than Good
RUN
False Positive
False Friend
False Witness
About the Author
ANDREW GRANT was born in Birmingham, England. He attended the University of Sheffield, where he studied English Literature and Drama. He has run a small, independent theater company and worked in the telecommunications industry for fifteen years. Andrew is married to
novelist Tasha Alexander, and the couple lives on a wildlife preserve in Wyoming.
andrewgrantbooks.com
Facebook.com/AndrewGrantAuthor
Twitter: @Andrew_Grant
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