by Andrew Grant
In the kitchen, a big hunk of bacon was the first thing to come out of the tall paper sack. Then the olive oil. The stewing beef. A carrot. And an onion. Which rolled onto the floor the moment she let go of it. What on earth was she doing? Alexandra stopped lining the ingredients up along her countertop and slammed her nearly-new cookbook closed. Screw you, Julia Child! Boeuf Bourguignon was a ridiculous choice for Birmingham in September. The weather was far too hot. And the dish was far too much work. She’d be crazy to go to all that effort for someone who probably wouldn’t appreciate it. Who probably wouldn’t even come home to eat it. However much she hoped he would…
“Nicole! Come here!” Alexandra dumped the meat on the lowest shelf in the refrigerator. “Change of plan. We’re going out for dinner. Want to pick a place?”
“No, Mommy.” Nicole scurried along the hallway. “We can’t go.”
“Why not, Pumpkin?” Alexandra spun around, surprised that her daughter had responded so quickly. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“You said you’d make that beef thingy.” Nicole plonked her hands on her hips. “You said you would. So you should.”
“I didn’t know you liked it so much.” Alexandra wondered if she should back off on the wine content next time.
“I don’t. But Daddy does. It’s his favorite. You said you’d make it. What’ll happen when he comes home and you haven’t and we’re not here? He’ll be sad.”
“Pumpkin, that’s very sweet of you. But remember what I told you about Daddy’s job? About how sometimes he has to stay out all night to catch the bad guys? Well, I think tonight might be one of those nights.”
“No.” Nicole shook her head. “He’s coming home.”
“I wish I could agree with you, sweetheart.” Alexandra leaned down to straighten a rogue strand of her daughter’s hair. “But I’m not sure you’re right this time.”
“I am.” Nicole batted Alexandra’s hand away. “Daddy’s coming home. You’ll see.”
How did I get myself into this? Alexandra asked herself as she looked down at her daughter’s defiant scowl. What has being back with Devereaux done to me? I argue for a living. And here I am, up against a seven-year-old, hoping I’m going to lose…
Chapter Eighteen
Sunday. Evening.
Diane McKinzie thought she’d made it all the way to her bedroom door without giving herself away. She hadn’t tripped on any footwear. She hadn’t trodden on any creaky boards. She hadn’t even breathed until her fingers gripped the handle, started to turn, and—
“Mom!” Daniel’s voice echoed along the corridor. “It’s no good sneaking around. I can hear you. And I want to talk to you.”
Daniel was lying in bed with his head on the pillow and his periodic table comforter pulled right up to his chin. The room was warm—the air conditioner was on the blink again—and for a moment Diane was worried that he was sick. But she quickly dismissed that idea. She’d already have heard about it if there was something wrong with him. He wasn’t the kind to suffer in silence. Then her attention was drawn to his feet. How far down the bed they were—she remembered how lost he’d looked when she first put him in that bed as a toddler—and how large they’d grown, sticking straight up like the poles in a circus tent. She was tempted to say something, just to break the silence, but thought better of it. Daniel didn’t respond well to personal observations.
“Your room’s looking nice.” Diane noticed that most of the floor was visible, and the portraits lined up on two of the walls—Copernicus, Galileo, Kepler, Newton, Tesla, Einstein, and Oppenheimer—were unusually straight and level. “You’ve done a great job of picking up.”
“Why are you so late home?” Daniel raised his head a little. “What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been working, Danny.” Diane moved closer to the bed and made to sit on the edge. “You know that.”
“Don’t!” Daniel glared at his mother. “And don’t lie to me. Where have you been, really?”
“Meeting a source, like I told you.” Diane backed away again. “Then I was at the office. Mostly. I did have to go out and interview a couple of other people. And to quickly grab something to eat.”
“You had dinner? Where?”
Diane hesitated. “Gianmarco’s.”
“Without me? Why didn’t you come get me? This is outrageous! I had to heat up leftovers. You’re so selfish.”
“I’m not selfish, Daniel. I had to go there with someone. We had things to discuss.”
“What kind of things?”
“None of your business.”
“Oh, right, because you’re embarrassed to be seen with me. You think you can’t have an adult conversation with me around. Even though I’m smarter and know more than every single person who works at your stupid newspaper. Including you.”
“Daniel, you’re very smart, yes. But that’s not a very nice attitude. You’re not being very gracious right now.”
“Who cares? I’m right. Aren’t I?”
“It’s getting late.” Diane took another step back toward the door. “We both have to be up early in the morning. Let’s call it a night.”
“Wait!” Daniel raised his head a little higher. “What aren’t you telling me? Who exactly were you with? Was it someone from your work?”
“It doesn’t matter who it was. Now, goodnight.”
“Were you on a date? You were, weren’t you? How could you? You’re disgusting! You leave me home alone. You don’t bother to feed me. And why? So you can go out and cavort around with some asshole? You’re a disgrace.”
“Daniel! That’s enough. I was not on a date. I do not go on dates. I was meeting with a person I’ve known for a while. We were discussing something important. And confidential. Which is all I’m going to say about it.”
“If it’s so innocent, why did you try to hide it? Why did you lie to me?”
“I’m not hiding anything! And I didn’t lie.”
“You did. Just not very well. If you’re going to lie, you should at least try to do it properly. You can’t even do that right. You’re pathetic. I hate you. Now leave me alone. And close my door on the way out. It’s time for me to sleep.”
—
Diane double-checked that her own door was properly closed, then sank onto her bed. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, breathed deeply, and willed the encounter with Daniel to show itself in a better light. She had to be ready, in case the guy she’d gone to dinner with asked about the rest of her evening, the next time they spoke. If there was a next time. So: She got home. Happily, her son was still awake, despite all the extra work he’d been doing on his science projects. They chatted for a while—he was very interested to hear about her day, as usual—then he settled down to sleep in preparation for his very demanding school schedule. Yes. That should do. It sounded reasonable. As long as she could summon the willpower to keep things lined up the way she needed them to be. But it was all just so very, very tiring. She was worried she didn’t have enough left in the tank. And she wondered if it was wrong of her to sometimes wish Daniel had gone to live with his father…
She was pretty sure it wasn’t wrong of her to fall back on the vodka and pills, given the circumstances. They were medicinal. And taking them was far better than lots of other things she could be doing.
Far better than lots of things she’d already done.
Chapter Nineteen
Sunday. Evening.
The garage door was open.
All the way open. Not just a crack. Wide enough that anyone passing by would be able to see the stupid Ferrari. Devereaux wasn’t a fan of that car. He preferred his tasteful, sapphire blue Porsche, and couldn’t wait for it to come back. He wasn’t a fan of the dealer scoring points off a rival by using their latest model as a loaner. It seemed like a cheap shot. And he certainly wasn’t a fan of inviting strangers to invade his privacy. His lifestyle raised enough unwanted questions as it was.
Devereaux had been orphaned
when he was six, and the rest of his childhood had been spent passing through a succession of gruesome foster homes. And he didn’t fare much better at school. But not because he was stupid. Or lazy. His problem was his attitude. He balked at following the path his teachers laid out when he could see a quicker way. Or a better one. And what he learned in the classroom stayed with him when, after graduating with no money for college and little hope of regular employment, he was left to spiral unwillingly down through the unwanted leftover dregs of society. He soon found himself surrounded with criminals and drug addicts, but he was never tempted to follow their examples. He ignored the dopers, but kept his eye on the burglars and thieves and extortionists while they did their work. Then he stepped in. He took their proceeds for himself, and knocked the low-lifes out of the game by whatever means were necessary. Or desirable.
Devereaux had finally come unstuck when he went after a gang that accidently killed a clerk during a botched gas station stickup. He was swept up by the police in the chaotic aftermath, and because a man had died in the commission of a crime he was linked to, Devereaux was looking at a murder charge. It was almost the end of the road for him. It would have been, if an old cop named Tomcik—one of the officers who’d worked his father’s case—hadn’t stepped in and brokered a deal: Devereaux’s testimony against the shooter for a walk.
Tomcik was pleased with the way Devereaux stood up at the trial, and was delighted when the younger man cut himself free from his dubious associates and asked for help to get into the Police Academy. It wouldn’t be possible today, but things were different when Devereaux was in his early twenties. Tomcik was well enough connected to get the problematic areas in Devereaux’s record tidied up a little, and back then the department didn’t mind too much what lines their recruits had previously crossed as long as the experience made them better cops. And as long as they didn’t ever cross those lines again.
Devereaux had a much healthier bank balance than the other recruits in his class, thanks to the giant heap of cash he’d accumulated in his past life. Some of it he gave away in the form of anonymous donations, when he could identify the original victims of the other people’s crimes. But the bulk he kept and invested in a variety of creative ways, which generated a return that was far greater than his salary. He felt no guilt. He’d taken the money from lawbreakers. And he felt he deserved compensation for the misery he’d been forced to endure in foster care, without two cents to rub together.
If someone had told Devereaux during those dark days that the time would come when he’d be pissed because someone had left a garage door open, he’d have laughed in their face. He acknowledged the thought and reached down for the bottle of wine he’d bought earlier in the day. It was a 2012 Louis Latour Bourgogne Pinot Noir, which the clerk had assured him would work well with Boeuf Bourguignon. It had something to do with tannins, the guy had explained. Devereaux hadn’t really followed, and he didn’t really care as long as the wine tasted good. And Alexandra liked it. He just hoped he wasn’t too late. It was nice of her to leave him food in the fridge when he missed dinner. But not as nice as sitting across from her as they ate. And chatted. And held hands. And watched Nicole play. And…whatever else might happen after the little girl was tucked up in bed. He smiled, looking forward to the evening. Then cursed when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.
“Cooper?” It was Lieutenant Hale. “We have a problem. Another fire. At another school. Inglenook. It’s a K–8 this time.”
Chapter Twenty
Monday. Early morning.
The grating screech of the alarm shattered her dream and for a moment Alexandra lay inert in the bed, too shocked to silence it. Then she thought about Devereaux and shot out an arm, her fingers scrabbling urgently for the Off button.
She needn’t have worried. Devereaux wasn’t there. He’d come to bed after she was asleep, and left before she was awake. She only knew he’d been there at all by counting the shirts on the weird rack he’d insisted on putting in the corner of the room. Why couldn’t he just use the closet she’d cleared out for him, like a normal person? And this disappearing act of his had been happening a lot recently. He’d only been living there—semi-officially—since the middle of August, and already a pattern was forming. It wasn’t a pattern she liked. She knew—or at least hoped—that he was doing good work. And she understood that following in his father’s footsteps was important to him. So was it selfish of her to want more of him for herself? Surely a relationship should be about sharing more than a house?
The lawyer in Alexandra was still debating the issue as she pulled on clothes and hurried downstairs, running through dozens of arguments both for and against. Then, growing tired of listening to the voice in her head, she switched on the radio. NPR was running a segment on the two school fires. People were calling in. They were angry. Some were scared. Most were demanding action. One even threatened revenge if any children were hurt before the arsonist was caught. Alexandra felt bad for Devereaux, having to deal with that kind of hysteria. She felt guilty about the critical thoughts she’d been having. But not bad or guilty enough to stop herself from taking a cheap shot at him. She shoved his Honey Smacks back in the kitchen cabinet and took out the ingredients for cranberry oatmeal. That had been her go-to breakfast back when it was just her and Nicole in the house. Nicole loved it. She scarfed it down by the bowlful because it was so delicious. And it was healthy. Not like Devereaux’s stupid sugary cereals.
Alexandra waited for the oatmeal to reach just the right consistency, then ladled it into two big bowls. She carried them to the kitchen table and set them down just as Nicole walked in and took her seat.
“What did you make that for?” Nicole crossed her arms. “I don’t like it anymore. I want froggy cereal. That’s what Daddy always gets me.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Monday. Morning.
The staff at Hawkins & Leach Electrical, Inc. hadn’t known Tyler Shaw long enough to realize how out of character his behavior was. It was a Monday morning. He was on time. He was cheerful. And he wasn’t drunk.
Anyone watching him carefully might have picked up on a few things that reflected his true nature more accurately. Like the way he parked his van in a handicapped space because it was the nearest to the stockroom. The way he whistled the tune to the Crimson Tide fight song when he came in through the main front entrance; not because he supported Alabama, but because he’d noticed that the receptionist always used an Auburn mug. Or the way he picked up a number of components that couldn’t possibly be needed on the jobs he’d been assigned for the day.
There were at least two facts that none of his co-workers could have divined, however. The kind of labor he’d been engaged in that had put him in such a good mood. Or that there was plenty more of that labor left to come…
THE SUN ALSO RISES, BUT WILL THE LIGHT EVER DAWN?
As the sun once again blazes its incandescent trail across the Birmingham sky, the city’s sleepy inhabitants are on the verge of learning some momentous news: The genius has made the next move!
As the celestial rays mingle with the plumes of smoke still issuing forth from the devastated remains of another school, one question remains: Will the asinine authorities comprehend the significance? Will the pattern be clear to them yet? Will it ever be? Or will the dunces keep on chasing their tails until the genius chooses to reveal the method behind the masterfulness?
For what it’s worth, this reporter’s money’s on the latter option.
Chapter Twenty-two
Monday. Morning.
“Cooper! A word.” Lieutenant Hale was emerging from the fourth-floor conference room just as Devereaux arrived, and she took his elbow and steered him back toward the elevator. “Let’s make this quick. Irvin and Young are waiting in reception. But I have a question first. Your voicemail. On your cellphone. Is it broken?”
“Not that I’m aware.” Devereaux shrugged his arm free.
“Then why do I have some guy
calling me every five minutes, complaining about you not responding to your messages?” Hale shot a fierce glare over her shoulder and continued walking. “He says he left you a bunch. At least one every day for the last week?”
“Oh.” Devereaux hurried to catch up. “This is Chris Lambert we’re talking about?”
“You know him?”
“Unfortunately.” Devereaux scowled. “He was an instructor at the Academy when I was there.”
“So why don’t you call him back?”
“Because he’s an asshole.”
“Can’t you just call him and see what he wants?” Hale reached out and hit the call button for the elevator.
“I already know what he wants. My input on some project he’s working on. He said so on the tenth message he left. Or was it the eleventh. Anyway, what he means is he wants help. Or money. And I’m telling you, he’s not getting either of them from me. He’s a useless parasite and I don’t want anything to do with him.”
“Cooper, I understand you don’t like the guy.” The doors parted and Hale stepped into the elevator car. “No one likes him, from what I hear. But that’s not the point.” She held out a hand to stop the doors from closing. “The point is, if you don’t respond, he’ll keep on bugging me. And I don’t want that. I have enough on my plate already. So you’re going to call him. Today. Whether you want to or not. OK?”
—
Lieutenant Hale led the visitors into the room, got them situated, then asked Chief Young to get the ball rolling.
“Happy to.” Young was wearing the same outfit as the previous day, but his expression had changed to one of pure sunshine. “All right, then, ladies and gentlemen. Do you want the good news? Or the weird news?”