by Andrew Grant
“This girl’s parents took her to Myrtle Beach to celebrate her seventh birthday. That was nine years ago. It was a sunny, summer day and while the kid paddled at the water’s edge, her mother and father both fell asleep. When they woke up, there was no sign of the child.”
The next kid to appear on the screen had wire-rimmed glasses and was wearing a Cub Scout uniform.
“Is eight too young to go hiking in the Grand Canyon? This kid’s Cub Scout leader didn’t think so. He took a party of twelve there, seven years ago. Only eleven came back, despite one of the largest manhunts the state has ever seen.”
The seventh picture was of a little girl. Her face was dotted with freckles and she was using both hands to stop an adult-sized pair of Aviator sunglasses from slipping down her nose.
“This little angel apparently flew away from her home in Boston, four and a half years ago. She was six, and her parents believed she was a runaway until a sighting of her was reported in DC, heading into the Smithsonian. The witness couldn’t recall seeing an adult with her, and the security tapes were no help. Again.”
The next picture showed a pair of boys, grappling, arms around each other’s necks, off balance and moments from hitting the ground.
“The story’s a little different with these guys. They lived in St. Louis. As you can see, they were identical twins. Age twelve. Last year, their family’s house caught fire just after one o’clock in the morning. It was the Fourth of July. The busiest night of the year for the fire department. The place burned to the ground. Fire department investigators confirmed it was arson. A heavy-duty accelerant had been used, meaning there was never a chance of pulling anyone out alive. But when the flames were finally put out, only the parents’ bodies were found. There was no trace of the boys’. And the police could never uncover any motive for an attack on the family.”
The final picture needed no introduction.
It was of Ethan Crane.
“Nine other kids.” Hale’s voice was hollow. “With Ethan, that’s ten. How many of the others were found alive?”
“None.” Grandison looked down at the floor. “None of the others were found at all.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Sunday. Late Afternoon.
Ethan missing for forty-six and a quarter hours
Devereaux’s eyes were locked on the screen.
Ethan’s picture hadn’t shrunk down like the others. It wasn’t tied to the red dot over Birmingham by a PowerPoint arrow. It was floating in the center of the map. The little boy’s fate might still be up for grabs, and Devereaux felt the burden of pulling him back into the room settle on his shoulders. He knew he couldn’t allow yet another child to drift helplessly into the shadowy realm of never found, and he couldn’t shake the macabre procession of lost little faces from his mind.
“What was the common thread?” Hale forced a business-as-usual tone back into her voice. “How did you pull these particular cases out of such a large pool?”
“We factored in as many similarities with Ethan as we could put our fingers on.” Grandison seemed relieved to get back onto practical ground. “Ethan’s not a runaway, which reduces the numbers by an order of magnitude. He’s not a confirmed homicide victim. He couldn’t have been kidnapped by a family member, since he doesn’t have any. No demands have been made by whoever took him. These things all helped. But the key that unlocked the puzzle was something Bruckner hit on. These kids? They were all orphans. And they’d all been taken in by foster families.”
Devereaux felt his chest tighten.
“That could be huge, right?” Hale was looking for the positive. “It has to narrow the field of suspects enormously. Whoever took them, maybe he or she was fostered themself, as a kid. Or they could have had a kid when they were young, who was taken into foster care. Or they could have applied to foster a kid, and been turned down. Or—”
“All those suggestions are possible.” Grandison cut her off. “But they’re not the most significant thing. Look at the map. What do you see?”
“The dots are spread around.” Hale was reaching. “The abductions took place all around the country.”
“Right. Which raises more problems. How did the person know where to find fostered kids? Why did he or she snatch them in so many states and jurisdictions? And let’s think about the methods employed. In one case, the offender demonstrated meticulous planning. In the next, he or she appeared opportunistic. In another, organized. Then chaotic. Perhaps persuasive. And finally, extremely violent.”
“Couldn’t that be a sign of a psychological progression?” Hale asked. “Or a regression?”
“No.” Grandison shook his head decisively. “These characteristics—if genuine—are generally considered to be mutually exclusive.”
“If genuine?” Hale echoed.
“I’m coming to that, Lieutenant. First, we have to add the timing to the mix. Usually when a person commits a series of similar crimes, the interval between the occurrences diminishes, but is recognizable and to some extent predictable. Here, we can identify absolutely no relationship between the crimes themselves, or anything external—holiday, anniversary, sporting event, etc.”
“What if the crimes weren’t committed by the same person?”
“If the victims were regular, random kids, I might buy that. But nine orphans? That’s too specific a target to be coincidental. And for them to be abducted by separate killers, each with the skill to ensure their victim’s body was never found? No way. My money’s on there being one offender.”
“Is this connection definite?” Devereaux’s throat was dry. “Or is it guesswork?”
“No guidance we produce is definite, Detective.” Grandison shrugged. “You know that. There’s always a margin of error. In this case, the margin’s bigger than usual, because of the lack of material we’re working with. But Bruckner and I have been doing this a long time. We know what we’re talking about. And we’ve hit on something you absolutely need to take into account, going forward.”
“OK. What?”
“Whoever took these other kids—and most likely Ethan—actually can’t be profiled.”
“What kind of offender can’t be profiled?” Hale was growing impatient.
“There are two kinds. One is the hard-core addict, because long-term drug abuse makes their behavior too erratic.”
“This doesn’t feel like the work of an addict. The crimes are too complex. And they occur over too long a period.”
“I agree. Which means we’re looking for someone much more dangerous. Someone who’s capable of controlling every aspect of their behavior. Who knows intimately which parameters we measure when we’re building a profile. Who…”
Grandison saw the expression on Hale’s face, and suddenly he was reluctant to finish his thought. Devereaux had no such scruples.
“Someone who works in law enforcement,” he said.
Chapter Forty
The woman’s trips to the Business Center were becoming an addiction.
A welcome distraction, anyway. A respite from the less-than-encouraging reports she was receiving from Birmingham. An escape from the Technicolor anarchy of the theme park. And a reassuring window into the ordered world she’d spent her life creating.
Webcams were one of her all-time favorite inventions. She’d used them in her own properties since the first generation had been released. But that kind was bulky and obtrusive compared to the newest ones. Ones so small and discreet they can be used pretty much anywhere, as long as you’re not seen installing them. Something that’s not hard to achieve, given how stupid most people are. How unaware they are of their own security. How they fall into easily predictable routines, such as leaving their houses at the same time, every day of the week…
The woman liked certainty. Thanks to her oldest set of webcams, she knew things were still all straight at the place she’d prepared for the boy. She figured she’d give him one more day, then it would be time to head over there.
And thanks to her newest set, she could be sure everything was also lined up and ready for the next lost soul who needed her help.
Chapter Forty-one
Sunday. Evening.
Ethan missing for forty-eight hours
Devereaux hung up rather than leave another message on Loflin’s voicemail, climbed out of his car, and waved away the middle-aged parking valet who’d been looking hopefully in his direction. Toward the city center he could see Vulcan, whose illuminated back and shoulders were peeking through a gap in the distant cottonwood trees. He smiled, remembering how as a kid he’d snickered at the giant’s lack of underwear. Then he made his way up the path to the last in the line of crumbling nineteenth-century mansions that were still clinging resolutely to the side of the hill.
There was a thick, leather-bound ledger on a table just inside the entrance to the house, and an old Bakelite telephone. But no answering machine. And no computer. Such modern devices would ruin the ambience of the place. And they’d conflict with the owner’s dislike of electronic records.
Paper can’t be hacked. And it’s so much easier to burn…
The maître d’ made a show of paging through the ledger, then turned to Devereaux and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, sir. We have nothing available this evening.”
All the principal rooms on the first floor had been combined to maximize the space in the restaurant’s dining area. The plaster on the walls was deliberately rough—or rustic, according to the interior designer from Atlanta who’d handled the recent remodeling. It was painted the color of antique parchment and had been complemented by a series of framed watercolors of exotic birds. There were four tables up front, side by side, filling the width of the room. The four beyond them were set end-on, to allow for the bar with its prodigious supply of rare wine, which jutted out from the side wall. And at the far end, six more tables were laid out in a rough rectangle near the entrance to the kitchen.
Of the fourteen tables, only nine were taken.
Devereaux spun the ledger around, opened it, took out a pen, and crossed through the first name he saw.
“Seems you’ve had a cancelation.” He returned the book to the maître d’. “You’re lucky I dropped by. Table three? I’ll seat myself. Have someone bring me a beer while I take a look at the menu.”
—
Devereaux took a seat at the table in the far corner of the room, beneath the giant image of a toucan. He didn’t look at the menu. And nobody brought him a beer. Instead he sat quietly, wondering how useful the little bronze sculpture at the center of the table could be as a weapon, and calculating how long it would be before anything happened. The owner would want him taken care of quickly, before the ripple of anxiety his entrance had provoked could lead any of the other diners to leave. And he’d certainly need to be dealt with before the people who’d reserved his table turned up and caused a scene. It would just depend on where the owner was that night. Whether he had any muscle already on the premises. Or if he’d have to send out to one of his other—more colorful—establishments.
Eleven minutes passed. The glances from neighboring tables grew less frequent, but Devereaux could sense the tension still simmering in the room. People were eating unusually slowly. The waitstaff were moving around as little as possible. Eventually one of them emerged from the kitchen carrying a wooden tray of bacon-wrapped beef tenderloins. He was taking them to a group of sharply dressed guys in their mid-twenties, at the table nearest the door. The aroma was intoxicating and Devereaux was tempted to grab a plate, just to up the ante. He resisted. But when another waiter went by with fresh silverware, Devereaux didn’t pass up the opportunity. He reached out and helped himself to a steak knife. Just in case.
After another seven minutes a pair of stocky guys in dinner suits appeared. They emerged from the kitchen and walked straight up to Devereaux. One moved in close to his table. The other hung back, his hands low in front of him and an impassive expression on his face.
“Good evening, sir.” The first guy leaned down toward Devereaux and lowered his voice. “It’s time to leave, asshole. Get on your feet. Don’t give me any trouble.”
“Have your boss come out and tell me himself.” Devereaux sat back and crossed his arms.
“That’s not going to happen.” The guy kept talking, quietly, through his fake smile.
“It is, if you really don’t want any trouble.” Devereaux smiled back. “He comes out and tells me himself. Or I don’t leave.”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“A cop.”
“Not what I am. Who I am.”
“We know your name, yes.”
“Then your boss is here. Bring him out, and we can all be civilized.”
The guy grabbed Devereaux’s shirt, just below his collar. Devereaux felt the calm clarity flood through him. He looked the guy straight in the eye. Took hold of his hand. Rotated his wrist, breaking the guy’s grip. Forced the wrist around farther and snapped it back, locking the joint. Pushed, until the guy’s forearm was flat on the table. Then took the steak knife and drove it down through the guy’s sleeve, its tip biting deep into the wood below.
“Let’s think this through.” Devereaux leaned back in his seat. “You’re not going to kill me in here. You know what your boss would do to you for dragging his customers into a murder inquiry. And you don’t have what it takes to make me leave. So, here are your choices: You can stay there, all twisted and hunched-up and ridiculous-looking. Or you can have your boss come out here and talk to me. I’d tell you to take your time deciding, but people are starting to stare…”
The kitchen door swung open once more, and another man appeared. He was tall, but painfully skinny with sparse, ginger hair and a haggard, pockmarked face. He wore a Zegna suit. An Armani shirt. Prada shoes. A TAG Heuer watch. But none of these trappings could disguise the wariness in his eyes that came from not having had enough to eat or anywhere dry to sleep too many times in his life.
Devereaux stood, and the two men faced each other. Every person in the room expected one—or both—to pull a knife or a gun. Absolute silence filled the restaurant. Five seconds ticked away. Then, at the same instant, Devereaux and the skinny guy sprang forward. Their chests slammed together. They grabbed hold of each other. Twisted around. Grappled. Pushed. Pounded each other on the back. Finally, they both let go.
And by then, they were both laughing hysterically.
Chapter Forty-two
Sunday. Evening.
Ethan missing for forty-eight and a quarter hours
The skinny guy’s name was Tom Vernon.
He’d moved to Birmingham with his family just before turning thirteen, and had made Devereaux’s acquaintance the moment he set foot in his new classroom. The two kicked lumps out of each other in the yard at their first recess together. And were inseparable for the rest of their time in school. Vernon had brought Devereaux food each time he’d run away from home, and once had even hidden him in his bedroom closet for three days to escape a winter storm. They’d been closer still during the unsavory years that followed graduation. Right up until the day Devereaux signed up for the Police Academy. After that, their paths didn’t cross too often. And that was a situation both had been happy with for a very long time.
Vernon’s euphoria lasted another twenty seconds, then his street sense kicked back in. He gestured for his thugs to bring Devereaux, and led the way into the kitchen.
“Twenty years?” Vernon leaned against a stainless steel counter.
“Twenty-four.”
“Twenty-four years, and you suddenly want to talk? Now?” Vernon picked up a meat-tenderizing mallet and swung it casually between his fingers. “Tonight? Why?”
“I want to talk, but not here.” Devereaux gestured to a trio of chefs, semi-concealed in the plumes of steam that the tiny kitchen’s extractor fans were struggling to deal with. “Somewhere private. Just you and me.”
&nbs
p; “Why?”
“I have some news. You’ll be interested. I guarantee it.”
“You must have mixed me up with the memory of someone else you turned your back on, Detective. I’m not a moron.”
Devereaux reached into his pocket, pulled out a gold signet ring, and set it down on the counter. Vernon lifted the ring, held it up to the light, then handed it back.
“You wearing a wire?”
“No.” Devereaux put the ring away. “I didn’t even bring my gun. Search me, if you like.”
—
Vernon’s office had started life as the house’s master bedroom. It had a large window that overlooked the street at the front of the restaurant. That was better than security cameras, in Vernon’s book. There was no chance of anything being recorded. Two battered leather armchairs were arranged near the window, facing out. A dusty, dark-red rug bridged the space between them. A scarred wooden steamer trunk served as a table. A pair of overflowing ashtrays filled the room with the stench of stale cigars. The only other furniture was a leather-topped desk pushed against the blank wall and a typist’s chair tucked under it.
“That ring.” Vernon flopped into one of the armchairs. He was happy to speak freely now that he’d established Devereaux wasn’t wearing a recording device. “It looked like Sean Carver’s.”