False Positive

by Andrew Grant

  “We all are, Cooper. But listen. Even before I knew Dillon’s blood test result, I figured that if anyone had used triazolam on the Crane kids—anyone other than Mary Lynne—they had to get it from somewhere. So I did some digging. I went back to a bunch of my old contacts. And one name kept coming up. Jake Rutherford.”

  “My old C.I.?”

  “The same. So I was thinking. Rutherford still owes you, right? For saving his skin. You could hook up with him. Encourage him to give you an insight into his customer base.”

  Devereaux pulled out his phone and took a minute to compose a text.

  “This’ll bring him out of the woodwork.” Devereaux hit Send, then set the phone on the edge of Hale’s desk. “Or send him running for the hills. It’s fifty-fifty, with that one.”

  No one spoke for a couple of minutes, then Hale slid out from behind her desk and left the room. Devereaux ate more of his pizza and stared impatiently at his phone. Loflin levered open the lid of her pizza box with her toe, then let it drop straight down again.

  Hale reappeared carrying the quarter-full pot from the coffee machine. “What? No one else is going to need it. Any word from Rutherford?”

  “Nothing.”

  There was an electronic ting, but it came from Hale’s computer, not Devereaux’s phone. The lieutenant glanced at her screen, then swapped the coffeepot for her mouse and clicked on something.

  “Jan?” Hale helped herself to some coffee. “Your lieutenant left me a voicemail this morning, and now he’s following up. He wanted—”

  Devereaux’s phone vibrated.

  “It’s Rutherford.” Devereaux opened the message. “He’s agreed to meet. At McCarthy’s old place. In two hours.”

  “Great.” Hale put her mug on the desk. “How do you want to play it?”

  “Rutherford’s a lunatic.” Devereaux slid his phone back into his pocket. “He’s completely paranoid. If anything spooks him, he’ll split. I should go see him. Alone. I’m not trying to shut you out, Jan. But we’re more likely to get a result if I go on my own.”

  “Don’t apologize.” Loflin couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice. “I can see what you’re trying to do.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The woman took a moment to reflect on her progress.

  There was a lot happening at once. The schedule was out of her control, of course. She’d always intended for the handover to be done much later, when everything was thoroughly prepared. When each step had been taken in its own proper time. But all things considered, she felt cautiously optimistic. All the plates were still spinning. And now she had the opportunity to show what she’d been teaching was true. That was so much more powerful than simply telling. Maybe it was an omen. A sign that at last the pendulum was swinging back in her favor.

  She couldn’t get carried away, though. The opportunity was far from a slam dunk. She had almost no time to prepare. To reset the stage at McCarthy’s so that her own players were in place, ready to hand the detective the rope he’d need to hang himself. But she’d acted the second she’d received the heads-up. And she had a lifetime of experience to call on.

  A lifetime of doing things that other people couldn’t even imagine.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Saturday. Evening.

  Ethan missing for twenty-five hours

  Devereaux parked his charger at the entrance to the turnoff for Irondale Junior High and walked the final quarter mile down 16th Street South to what remained of McCarthy’s International Dubbing Studio.

  He moved slowly through the irregular shadows thrown by the trees onto the scrubby, dried-out grass at the edge of the pavement, cut across the street, then paused. A lemon-yellow 1974 Pontiac Firebird had been left in the lee of the strange, circular, long-deserted medical center cradled within the curve of the Crestwood Boulevard on-ramp. Devereaux recognized it as Rutherford’s car. But that didn’t mean Rutherford was nearby. Or that he was alone. And even if he was nearby, and alone, a man as unstable as Rutherford was not to be treated lightly.

  Devereaux continued past the on-ramp until he reached the abandoned parking lot in front of the wrecked McCarthy building. Reginald McCarthy had established the studio in 1934, and at the time it was the largest of its kind outside of Hollywood. People thought he was crazy to build it so far from the West Coast, but he took no notice. He didn’t need to be near where films were made, he figured, because he wasn’t making any. He’d found a niche. His studio took films other people had made—and paid for, and taken the risk on—and dubbed them into foreign languages, ready for worldwide distribution. His payday was guaranteed, regardless of box office performance. And by keeping his voice artists away from the rest of the industry, he found it easier to pay them less than the going rate.

  The business passed from father to son, and over time new services were introduced. Transfers from flammable celluloid film to newer, more stable media was big business for a while. So was copying from film to VHS. And then to DVD. But despite these innovations, McCarthy’s was hit hard by lower-cost competition from the East. By 1996 the founder’s grandson was ready to quit, but selling the lame-duck company was not an easy proposition. Then fate played its hand. A fire broke out in a storeroom full of long-forgotten reels of celluloid, leaving a very relieved Reginald McCarthy III to retire on his generous insurance payout.

  The burnt-out building was never redeveloped. It became a magnet for local kids. For the homeless. For fortune hunters, who’d swallowed the rumors about Norma Jeane Baker working there before her Hollywood transformation and leaving behind a trove of lost movies featuring her voice. But for Jake Rutherford, it offered something else.

  A spot in the corner of a noisy, industrial city like Birmingham was never the best place for a recording studio, and things had only gotten louder after I-20 was built almost directly overhead, so McCarthy’s had soundproofed the artists’ booths extra thoroughly. That made them perfect for conducting Rutherford’s brand of confidential business, away from the prying ears of his competitors. And of the police.

  Or so he’d thought.

  Backing Devereaux’s hunch, Hale had called in a favor from a contact in the Birmingham Field Office and arranged for the FBI to run a trial of its next generation surveillance equipment. The trap was set, and Rutherford walked right into it. He was given a choice: Become an informant, or go to jail. He didn’t agonize over the decision for very long. And for the next eighteen months he fed Devereaux a steady supply of high-quality leads. Devereaux made so many arrests on the back of them that any other detective would have been guaranteed a promotion. The arrangement continued to run flawlessly, until one day the wheels came off altogether. Devereaux was in the middle of grabbing up some low-level dope dealers at a vacant apartment in Southtown when the enforcer for the local syndicate showed up, suspecting a spy had infiltrated his camp. Devereaux promptly arrested that guy, too, and handed Rutherford a sufficiently authentic beating that his cover wasn’t blown. But in the aftermath the Brass decided that Rutherford would no longer be much use to the police department, so Devereaux advised him to leave town. He fled the same day, and promised not to return. Now the guy was back, and Devereaux had to question his motive: Greed? Stupidity? Or something else?

  The old studio looked like a virus had swept relentlessly through its innards, eating away every trace of wood and fabric and leaving only the metal and concrete skeleton behind. The only things to survive the fire and the thieves had then been ravished by time, and were now coated with layers of slimy, dark gray dust.

  The roof over the non-soundproof sections was missing, so when Devereaux stepped inside what had been the reception area, the yellow light spilling down from the freeway illuminated a trail of footprints leading toward the entrance to the auditorium. Devereaux paused. The Rutherford he remembered would not have left such an obvious sign of his presence.

  A brief lull in the nearby traffic allowed Devereaux to catch a sound from the next room. A s
uccession of sharp, staccato hisses. He moved forward to investigate and through the open doorway he saw a man, about twenty feet away. He was spraying graffiti at the bottom of the space where the giant silver screen had once been. It wasn’t Rutherford, or anyone else Devereaux had seen before. This guy was around five-ten, and was in his mid-forties. He was wearing pale jeans and an Italian bicycle-racing-team T-shirt. The picture he was painting looked unsophisticated in contrast with the other images that had been sprayed on that wall. It depicted a pair of stick men, and one was cutting the other’s head off.

  “You!” Devereaux was angry. The chances of Rutherford showing up now were next to zero because of this fool. “Michelangelo! Drop the paint, and get lost.”

  “I don’t think so, Detective.” The guy turned to face Devereaux, and kept hold of his spray can.

  Devereaux heard another sound behind him, and a second guy appeared in the doorway. He was a similar age to the man Devereaux had yelled at, but was two inches shorter. He was a few pounds heavier. He wasn’t wearing a jacket over his Public Enemy T-shirt. But he was holding an AK-47 assault rifle.

  “What’s your next move, genius?” Devereaux stepped across so that he was directly between the two guys. “Shoot me and your buddy?”

  “No one needs to get shot.” The guy with the paint moved nearer to Devereaux, and his shadow closed in from the other side. “We’re here to deliver a message, is all. You ready? Here is it. Jacob Rutherford: Leave him alone.”

  “Where is Rutherford?”

  “Do I need to finish my painting?” The guy gestured toward the wall. “In case you’re not following, the one on his knees is you. Rutherford never wants to see you again. Are we clear?”

  “How do I contact him?” Devereaux edged closer to the guy with the gun.

  “One more stupid question, and this’ll be pointing at you.” The guy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a battered Zippo lighter. He flipped it open and struck a flame. Then he squirted his can across it, igniting the propellant and sending out a jet of fire fourteen inches long. He was looking Devereaux in the eye but aiming the spray to his right, showering little flecks of molten paint all over the twisted frames of the folding auditorium chairs.

  “All right, then.” Devereaux felt a wave of calmness and clarity wash over him, the way it always did at times like this. Times when a solution to a problem became inevitable. A violent solution. His right fist flashed sideways, catching the heavier guy on the temple, then his hand opened and Devereaux grabbed the AK’s leather shoulder strap before the guy staggered and fell. “Let’s start over…”

  —

  Loflin steadied herself against the wrecked door frame, took out her gun in case Devereaux spotted her, then held up her iPhone and hit its video capture button. Her new partner had once again manipulated events so that he could be alone with a pair of low-lifes. But there’d be no doubt about the outcome this time. No wiggle room. No ambiguity to cloud the conclusion that Internal Affairs would be forced to reach.

  She would make sure of that.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Saturday. Late Evening.

  Ethan missing for twenty-six and a half hours

  Devereaux only carried the standard-issue single pair of handcuffs, so once he had subdued both guys—and after giving them a last chance to tell him where to find Rutherford—he had them sit cross-legged on their hands between the first two rows of chair frames while he called headquarters. He asked for two units, ASAP: A squad car, to transport the prisoners. And a surveillance team to keep watch over Rutherford’s Firebird, in case he came back to collect it.

  —

  Rutherford must have moved up in the world since Devereaux had last been involved with him. Not only did he have people to do his dirty work for him now, but they weren’t stupid. By the time Devereaux caught up with them at headquarters, they’d already asked for their lawyers. Rutherford’s resources must have improved, too, because a lawyer showed up within twenty minutes, despite it being close to 10:00 o’clock at night. A lawyer from a respectable firm, not the kind of drug-syndicate shyster Devereaux would previously have expected.

  Devereaux hadn’t seen Loflin since the meeting in the lieutenant’s office. Hale had gone home as well and Devereaux was left sitting behind his desk in the semi-darkness, at a loss about what to do next. It was late, but he wasn’t ready to take his foot off the gas. Not without making some worthwhile progress. And he was frustrated after hitting another dead end. He needed a distraction.

  He thought about the files he had stashed at his apartment. He wasn’t supposed to keep records at home, but, like most detectives, he did. He kept them encrypted, so no one else would understand them. And he didn’t keep them for every case. Just the ones his gut told him could lead to trouble down the road. Trouble, like someone trying to torpedo his career.

  There was a chance of finding whoever had tried to smear him in those pages, but the prospect of searching through piles of paper wasn’t appealing. Especially not after the adrenaline-rush of the confrontation at McCarthy’s. Then his mind turned to the old guy who’d collapsed at his building. Talking to him might be a higher priority, anyway. He’d seemed in bad shape. The files would be around later. The old guy might not.

  —

  The geriatric special-care unit at UAB was housed in a shiny white corridor with five rooms spaced evenly down each side. The air tasted bitter due to its high oxygen content, and the constant low droning sound from the HVAC system made Devereaux imagine he was on board a spaceship. It was a very modern environment for such ancient inhabitants, he thought. A sign of optimism? Or desperation?

  The old guy Devereaux was looking for was in the second room on the right. The sliding glass door sucked back into place on its own after Devereaux entered. He guessed it was designed to keep airborne germs out and, where necessary, the occupant in. There was no danger of this guy trying to go anywhere he shouldn’t, though. He was lying in the bed, still as a board. His eyes were closed. His face was as colorless as the pillow he was propped up against. For a moment Devereaux thought he’d arrived too late. Then a faint movement caught his eye. A weak green line, tracing the guy’s pulse across a wall-mounted monitor at the head of the bed, above the more static readings for respiration and oxygen saturation.

  Devereaux checked the ID bracelet on the guy’s wrist—Bronson Segard, DOB 1-13-38—then took the one seat that was provided for visitors. He looked up and wondered how many more times the feeble EKG signal could limp from one side of the monitor screen to the other before it stopped moving for good. It reminded him of the way an old clockwork robot his father had given him would jerk and stagger when its spring had almost wound down, and he was struggling to push the maudlin image away when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

  It was a text from Loflin: Where are you?

  News? Ethan? Devereaux replied.

  No. But we need to talk anyway.

  Devereaux told her he was at the hospital, followed up with the location of Segard’s room, then turned back to the monitor. Another eight minutes crept by. The colored lines on the screen began to weave themselves into images of lost, scared children’s faces. First his own, from his distant past. Then Ethan’s, from the present. Alone. In danger. Devereaux couldn’t shake the visions and was ready to leave, hoping a change of scene would clear his head, when he saw the old man slowly open one eye.

  “Mr. Segard?” Devereaux stood and leaned over the bed. “How are you feeling? Are you OK? Can you hear me? It’s Cooper Devereaux.”

  “Listen to me.” The old man’s voice was scratchy and barely audible. “Cooper—she knows.”

  “Who’s she, Mr. Segard? And what does she know?”

  “She knows who she is. And she killed my partner.”

  “Your partner? Were you a cop, Mr. Segard? And who knows? Who is she?”

  “If she finds—” The old man gasped for air. “If she finds out. About your father. There are files. My
partner kept records—”

  The door slid open and Loflin walked into the room.

  “Is this the guy you were telling me about?” She sounded out of breath. “Is he OK? Should I call a doctor?”

  For a split second Devereaux could have sworn the old man’s eyes grew wider. Then he clamped them shut and refused to say another word. And he stayed that way for ten more minutes, until a nurse arrived and asked the detectives to leave.

  —

  Devereaux and Loflin made their way back through the hospital, moving quickly along the deserted corridors until they reached the elevators leading to the reception desk. It seemed to take hours for one to arrive despite Devereaux impatiently pounding on the Call button, so he changed tack and took out his phone to call headquarters. Then he remembered the time. No one senior would be available, and he didn’t want his inquiry getting buried at the bottom of some clerk’s to-do pile. Lieutenant Hale would be able to put some muscle behind it, but he didn’t want to get drawn into discussing his motives. Sending a text would be a much better option:

  Need info. Urgent. Any 70 to 80 y/o male homicide victims reported in Bham in last 2 weeks?

  The night air felt warm on their skin when Devereaux and Loflin finally emerged from the main entrance. The concourse was deserted. No traffic passed by. The fountain had been switched off. The reflecting pool’s surface glinted, mirror-smooth, capturing a giant image of the almost-full moon floating high above in the inky sky. Devereaux closed his eyes. He enjoyed the moment of unexpected peace, until it was shattered by an approaching siren. Then he took a step closer to Loflin. “Jan? What did you want to talk about?”

  “It’s—I don’t know.” Loflin turned away, trying to stop the confusion from showing in her face. Which was the real Devereaux? The man she’d watched at McCarthy’s, who stood in front of her now? Or the one she’d read about a thousand times in the file she’d been sent? Honestly, she had no idea. “It’s nothing. Sorry I bothered you. See you in the morning, Cooper.”