False Positive

by Andrew Grant

  “OK. Well, he’s the one who actually saw the woman we need to identify, so I’d rather start with him.”

  “Geraldine said something about a family thing that—That can wait, right? You want Dave first. Good. Come this way. You can use my office.”

  O’Brien led them to an unmarked door to the side of the reception counter. He unlocked it, and stood aside for the detectives to enter before him. The room was more storeroom than office, Devereaux thought as he stepped inside. The air was stale, and every inch of wall space was covered with shelves holding boxes of candy bars for the vending machines and toiletries for the hotel store. Packs of soda cans were piled up in the center of the room. Four new commercial vacuum cleaners, still shrink-wrapped, were sitting in front of a tiny window with a view of the highway. The small desk tucked in the corner and its pair of flimsy visitors’ chairs looked lost amongst all the clutter, as if they were the things that didn’t really belong there.

  “Can I get you a drink while you’re waiting?” O’Brien’s forehead was starting to bead with sweat. “Coffee? Water? Soda?”

  “No thanks.” Devereaux pointed to the computer that was perched on one corner of the desk. “But you can tell me—that thing. Can you access your CCTV on it?”

  “Absolutely. I showed the officers who were here earlier.”

  “OK, then. Fire it up. I want to watch the footage of the woman checking in Friday night, while we wait for your guy Dave.”

  O’Brien located the correct section of the file right away and turned his monitor so that the detectives had a better view. The woman appeared almost immediately, and Devereaux felt a physical jolt to see the person who’d most likely taken Ethan—or killed him—transformed from an abstract idea in his head to a realistic image on the screen. She was in the shot for just under forty-five seconds, and not once did she allow her face to be caught on camera. Devereaux had O’Brien play the segment again at half speed, to be sure.

  “Smoothly done. No sign of any rings or distinctive jewelry when she handed over her credit card or took her key. And she looks a little short to be Mary Lynne Crane.” Devereaux turned to Loflin. “What do you think? I’d say it’s someone else. Someone who’s done this before.”

  Loflin didn’t reply. Her face was blank, her eyes were locked on the monitor screen, and her teeth had clamped down around her lower lip.

  “Jan? You OK?”

  “Yes. Sorry.” Loflin pulled herself together. “It was disconcerting, watching that. How the woman moved? Like she was gliding along? Then standing stock-still? Not displaying a single signature tick or gesture? It was freaky. Like watching an automaton.”

  O’Brien’s phone rang, and he spoke for a couple of seconds.

  “Good news. Dave’s arrived. He’s parking his car, and he’ll be inside in a moment.”

  O’Brien’s phone rang again before the detectives could respond, and this time his expression was less relaxed.

  “That was the housekeepers’ supervisor. We’ve got a problem with Geraldine. She’s insisting you talk to her right now, or let her go home to deal with this family situation, whatever it is.”

  “Of course we could make her wait.” Loflin turned the monitor back toward O’Brien. “But would she be as cooperative then? You don’t need me when you talk to the clerk, do you, Cooper? We should divide and conquer. I’ll go see what I can get from Geraldine, then I’ll come back here to debrief. Mr. O’Brien, would you ask her to meet me in the room where she found the things this morning?”

  “I can do better than that, Detective. I’ll take you to the room. She’s already there.”

  —

  Devereaux waited for Dave to knock, then moved around behind the desk after they shook hands. Dave sat on a stack of soda cans, preferring them to either of the visitors’ chairs. He was a heavy, unshaven guy in his mid-twenties, and he had on a blue shirt with the hotel’s logo embroidered on its chest, a pair of navy pants, and black lace-up work boots. The tip of a tattooed dragon’s claw peeped out from his rolled-up sleeve. And he smelled like he hadn’t seen the inside of a shower stall for two or three days.

  “Sorry, Detective.” Dave ran his hand through his sandy hair, which was already beginning to thin at the front. “Couldn’t find anyone to watch my boy. Had to bring him back with me.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Outside. In my truck.”

  “Want to bring him in?”

  “No—he’s good. He’s got his toys with him. Some picture books, too.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Eight.”

  “Nice age. OK. Let’s get down to business. About Friday night. When the red-haired woman checked in to the hotel. Does anything stand out about that?”

  “Not really.” Dave glanced toward the window.

  “David!” Devereaux’s voice was suddenly harder. “A boy is missing. His life could be at stake. A cute little guy, not much younger than your kid. So I need you to raise your game, here. Think. Does anything stand out?”

  “Like what?” Dave looked thoroughly miserable.

  “Did the woman seem nervous? Impatient?”

  “No. She just walked in, totally normal. Told me her name. Gave me her credit card. Filled in the form. Took her key. Job done.”

  “When she filled in the form, did she use her own pen? Or did you lend her one?”

  Dave thought for a moment.

  “She used her own.”

  “Are you sure?” Devereaux hadn’t seen the woman rummage in her purse on the CCTV footage. “This could be important.”

  “I’m sure.” Dave leaned forward. “See, at night, I move the pot of pens off the counter, ’cause people are always stealing them. So if someone wants a pen to sign or whatever, they have to ask me. And she didn’t ask me. She took one out of her jacket pocket.”

  “What did she look like? Not her clothes. Her face.”

  “She had this amazing red hair. Maybe real. Maybe a wig. I don’t know. And a necklace, like a silver chain with a big star on it. Not a Jewish one. Fancier than that. It sparkled, even though the lights were down pretty low.”

  “What about her features? Her eyes? Her teeth? Her skin?”

  “I didn’t really notice.”

  “Dave, come on. You’re a guy. A woman walks into your hotel, and you don’t notice what she looks like?”

  “It’s like I told the other officer. When you’re on nights and someone shows up that late, you’re just hoping they don’t shoot you or puke on the carpet. What they look like isn’t an issue.”

  “OK. What about other people? Did you see the woman with anyone else?”

  “No. She was alone.”

  “All right. One last question, then you can get back to your kid. When you heard that the police had been called to the woman’s room this morning, what did you think? Were you surprised?”

  “Why should I be?” Dave shrugged. “My job’s to take their money, check they sign the form, and give them their key. What they do outside of that’s none of my business. I don’t ask, and I don’t care.”

  “Fair enough. But if anything comes back to you that doesn’t ring true, give me a call, OK?” Devereaux pushed a business card across the desk. “Remember, this is important. Now, can you point me toward the room the woman had?”

  “She was in 113.” Dave stood up. “It’s a courtyard room. Easier if we walk out together, and I’ll show you.”

  —

  Dave led Devereaux across the reception area. He nodded to the girl who was now behind the counter, opened the side entrance—ignoring the sign that said it was alarmed—and stepped outside. A dusty black 1988 Chevy Silverado Crew Cab was parked in the first space they reached, next to one of the clumps of ornamental bamboo that were set in small, raised brick beds throughout the lot.

  “This is my truck.” Dave stopped and pointed along the side of the pale brick building. “Room 113’s straight down on the left.”

  Devereaux thanked him but d
idn’t move right away. He was curious to catch a glimpse of Dave’s kid, given the parallel with Ethan having also been left alone in a vehicle in that lot. Dave pulled open the truck’s rear door and Devereaux saw a little boy sprawled out across the seat. He was lying on an old blue sleeping bag. Six or seven pillows were scattered around. And enough toys littered the cab to last a lengthy road trip.

  “Hold on.” Devereaux took hold of Dave’s arm. “You said you’d had to bring the boy back with you, just now. He spent the night here, didn’t he? In the truck.”

  “No.” Dave tried to pull away, and Devereaux could see his pupils starting to dilate.

  “Don’t lie to me, Dave. That wouldn’t be wise.”

  “Look, I didn’t want to bring him! I didn’t have any choice! I’m not supposed to be working this weekend, OK? My girlfriend’s out of town, and Charlie went out sick, and Mr. O’Brien said he’d fire me if I didn’t cover, and my cousin let me down, and—”

  “Dave, slow down. I’m not looking to jam you up. Help me out, and no one need know about your kid’s little camping adventure. Not social services. Not your girlfriend. Just promise me you won’t leave him in the truck again.”

  “OK. Yes. I will. I mean, I won’t. No problem. Whatever you need.”

  “Good. Now, was your truck parked in this same spot last night?”

  “Yes. It’s my regular spot. Closest to the door.”

  “So this is what I’m thinking. There’s a great view of the whole parking lot from here. If your kid was paying attention, he might have seen the woman arrive. Mind if I ask him about that?”

  “It won’t work. He’s totally shy. Let me ask him.”

  Dave leaned into the truck, beckoned the boy to come closer, and started a whispered conversation.

  “He says he did.” Dave turned back to Devereaux, his face flushed. “He saw the woman drive up in her van, park, and go inside. She came back out and carried a boy, who was asleep, into one of the rooms. Room 113, like I told you. Then she went back to the van and fetched their bags.”

  “Excellent.” Devereaux felt a surge of excitement. “Ask him about the boy. Did he have black, spiky hair?”

  Dave ducked back into the truck for a second.

  “No.” He looked worried this time. “He said it was brown. And curly, not spiky.”

  “That’s OK.” Devereaux’s heart was beating faster. “That’s good. Now, the van she was driving. See what he remembers about that.”

  “Not much.” It only took Dave a couple of seconds to return with the answer. “Only that it was white.”

  “What about the license plate? Ask if he remembers it.”

  —

  Devereaux had hit the Speed Dial button before Dave even had hauled himself all the way into his cab.

  “Lieutenant?” He turned away from the sound of the giant V8 roaring into life. “I’m at the Roadside Rendezvous. We have a possible witness. And how’s this? We have a partial plate for the Honda.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Sunday. Morning.

  Ethan missing for thirty-nine hours

  Loflin was perched on the edge of the left-hand bed when Devereaux reached room 113. She was staring at her phone, almost in a trance, but snapped out of it the moment she heard the door swing open.

  Devereaux brought her up to speed on what he’d learned, and asked how things had gone with the maid, Geraldine.

  “It was the damnedest thing.” Loflin got to her feet. “She was half deranged. A total CSI freak. She thinks we live on the set of a giant TV show. I bet she’s cried wolf a dozen times about all kinds of wacky things, but this time she actually came up with some genuine evidence. She showed me the trash can where she found the hair and the bleach bottle, and I called the lab tech who’s handling it. He confirmed they’re taking it seriously.”

  “How much hair was there?”

  “Not much, in the trash. But the techs also found traces in the toilet bowl and the sink trap. Impossible to say how much altogether. But theoretically enough for a major trim. Remember how bushy his hair was in the photo?”

  “Did they find anything else?”

  “No. Not a thing. Not even any prints. The woman must have wiped the place down incredibly thoroughly. You can still smell the Windex. And yet she left the bottle, and some hair. So she either cut and bleached Ethan’s hair, or wants us to think she did.”

  “Is there anything to prove the hair was actually cut here?”

  “No. But you said the woman was seen carrying a kid in here. If Mary Lynne had killed Ethan and was looking to divert suspicion, I doubt she’d be dragging her dead son’s body around as a decoy. That’s pretty extreme. She didn’t seem together enough. My gut says Ethan’s still alive, and that he was just here.”

  “I hope you’re right. But I could use some proof.”

  —

  Devereaux stood in the center of the room, tuned out the background hum from the traffic on the nearby highway, and took a moment to evaluate the place. It was a master class in cynical design. The carpet was an inoffensive, neutral color, but its coarse fabric was chosen more for its ability to stand up to suitcase wheels than to pamper a tired traveler’s feet. The bold, abstract patterns on the bedcovers gave the impression of warmth and brightness, but their real purpose was to disguise the stains that would inevitably be left by careless guests. The cushions and pillows were under-stuffed for comfort, but sufficiently oversized to hide the fake wood of the headboard. And the low-wattage bulbs in the lights were there to reduce electric bills, not provide ambience.

  Devereaux’s eyes were drawn to the bathroom door. Ethan would have spent time alone in there, assuming he’d been brought to the hotel. In which case, he must have known he was in trouble. But would he have been resourceful enough to help himself? To leave a sign? And how could he have taken anything in without the woman spotting it? No. It would be the other way around, if at all. The bedroom. Ethan would have had time alone there while the woman was using the bathroom. So where, exactly? Somewhere concealed, but not too high. Devereaux estimated Ethan’s reach if he’d stood on the room’s one chair, and his eye settled on the shelf holding the TV. Next to it was a remote control. Devereaux picked it up, blew off the residual fingerprint powder, and pried off the battery compartment cover. Then he set the unit on the bed and pulled on a pair of disposable gloves. Lifted out a piece of paper. Unfolded it. And felt his doubts evaporate.

  —

  Hale answered her phone on the first ring.

  “I was just dialing your number, Cooper. I have news.”

  “Me first. Listen to this. I found something the techs missed in the hotel room. A flier for the Casey Jones Railroad Museum in Jackson, Tennessee. It was hidden in the TV remote. Ethan must have put it there. That must be their destination.”

  “The hotel’s on the right kind of route if you’re driving from Mountain Brook to Jackson.” Hale’s computer keys rattled in the background. “And a railroad museum is the kind of place a seven-year-old boy would like to visit. But why snatch a kid and then take him to a museum? Where’s the sense in that?”

  “What if she’s planning on selling him? She could be using the lure of the trains to keep him cooperative before she meets her contact for the handover. There’ll be lots of adults with kids at a place like that. They wouldn’t stand out, even if Ethan realized something was wrong and started to pitch a fit.”

  “The museum’s not open on Sundays. Damn. Nine am tomorrow’s the earliest they could get in. It’s a pretty small place. We’ll have agents and local PD crawling all over it. The moment the woman shows up with Ethan, we’ll grab her. Meantime, I want you back in Birmingham, pronto. Because my news? We’ve got a hit on the partial plate. In a homicide. A couple of weeks old. Nick Randall’s running with it. I want you to sit down with him. Pick his brain. See if you can figure out the connection.”

  “Will do, Lieutenant. But here’s another thought. The railway museum. Could you get
the FBI to check its security tapes for yesterday?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “The woman never checked out of the hotel. We don’t know when she left. She could have already been to the museum. We could be too late.”

  Extract from Lieutenant Danielle Hale’s Most Recent Annual Departmental Overview Report.

  Lieutenant Hale noted that for the seventh year running, Cooper Devereaux was the detective with the highest number of arrests resulting from information obtained from Confidential Informants. He was also the detective with the highest number of Confidential Informants registered to him in total, and the highest number of new Confidential Informants registered during the course of the year.

  Why is it that Devereaux has such an affinity for criminals, Jan? All these years after his so-called reformation, and he still has so many underworld contacts? How come? And how does this really work? Devereaux busts a crook based on what? Information from another crook? Leaving a vacuum? Who fills it?

  And what does Devereaux get in return…?

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Sunday. Early Afternoon.

  Ethan missing for forty-one hours

  The Anthracite Grille opened on Highland Avenue in the early ’90s, when Five Points South was still a district you thought twice about visiting after dark. The neighborhood has moved on since then, but the Anthracite? Not so much. There’s a reason people call it the bar that time forgot.

  Devereaux first went there the week it opened, and even then the place looked ten years out-of-date. Nothing had changed since. Nick Randall—the detective Devereaux and Loflin were waiting for—had actually called the owner once on a Friday night just after the millennium celebrations, saying he was “the Eighties” and that he wanted his decor back. It hadn’t made an impact. But it did make the Anthracite an appropriate place to meet, since Randall’s defining feature—aside from his sense of humor—was his inability to show up anywhere on time.

  The waitress brought Devereaux a second beer and refilled Loflin’s iced tea without waiting to be asked. Devereaux slowed down, rationing his drink out a sip at a time. He was down to the final half inch when he finally saw Randall making his way through the meager lunchtime crowd. It could be a challenge to remain patient around the guy, but he was the longest-serving detective in the unit and he’d put his years to good use. Not much happened on the seedier side of Birmingham that Randall didn’t know about.