False Friend

by Andrew Grant

  “Understandable how?” Deep furrows appeared on Devereaux’s forehead. “The guy confessed to something he didn’t do. You heard him. I’ve never had to work so hard to make someone admit they didn’t commit a crime.”

  “You’ve got to take it in context.” Irvin clasped her hands together. “Answer me this. What if Principal Oliver had tried to make you do some of those things Bateman talked about? What would you have done?”

  “He wouldn’t have tried that with me. He didn’t. I was in his office a million times, and he never even gave me a sideways look.”

  “Hold that thought.” Irvin held up her hands like she was on traffic detail. “And work with me. Imagine he had…touched you. What then?”

  The thought brought the calm clarity down on Devereaux, and he couldn’t help but smile. “Let’s just say it would have been a mistake he didn’t make twice.”

  “Exactly.” Irvin stood up and started to pace from side to side, gesticulating as if she were giving a lecture. “You’d have reacted with violence, and you’d have gotten closure. Because you’d have felt in control. To a degree, at least. But Bateman isn’t like you. I’m sure he wanted to do something. To stop Oliver. To fight back. To take revenge. But he couldn’t. He failed. And in turn, the failure compounded the humiliation of the actual attacks. So he did what I’ve seen other hopelessly inadequate personalities do in this type of circumstance. He claimed to have done something that for the longest time he’d wanted to do. That he’d been desperate to do. So you see, it wasn’t so much a lie as a catharsis.”

  Devereaux didn’t respond, though a frown started to spread across his face.

  “What?” Irvin stopped moving and put her hands on her hips. “You don’t believe me?”

  “That’s not it.” Devereaux shook his head. “I just wish Bateman had told me all this at the time. I could have saved him a lot of pain, back then. And the city the cost of a new school now. I remember seeing him waiting outside the principal’s office a couple of times, crying. I should have known something was up. Did I tell you he used to make up nicknames for himself, to sound more interesting? He—”

  There was a loud knock, and Garretty’s head appeared around the side of the door.

  “Cooper, you’re needed. You, too, Agent Irvin. We’ve found Russell. The union leader.”

  “This should be entertaining.” Devereaux got to his feet. “Where is he?”

  “In a car.” Garretty held the door open. “He’s on his way here. And he’s bringing his lawyer.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Monday. Late morning.

  Alexandra had never wanted to knock on folks’ doors and run away when she was a kid. She hadn’t thought it was funny, even back then. So when she broke off from Nicole’s algebra lesson, went to answer the bell, and found no one there, she wasn’t amused. She felt a sudden anger flare inside her. And dissipate just as quickly when she noticed the envelope that had been left on the step.

  It was letter paper–size. Thick. Heavy. Stiff. And there was no name or address written on it. No marks or writing of any kind. Could it be some new kind of junk mail? Designed to snag your interest so you’d want to open it, rather than throw it in the recycling with all the rest? If so, she reluctantly admitted to herself, the ploy was working…

  “How are those problems coming along, Pumpkin?” Alexandra walked back into the kitchen, kissed the top of Nicole’s head, and took a surreptitious glance at the worksheet her daughter was battling with. She was only halfway through. “Need another few minutes?”

  Alexandra refilled both their iced tea glasses, grabbed a letter opener from the stationery drawer, then took the seat opposite Nicole. She slit open the envelope. Reached inside for the contents. Pulled out a stack of shiny paper. Turned it over. And felt her stomach contract. Her heart begin to race. Her breath catch in her throat. Her hand begin to shake. Her eyes lock on to the fuzzy black-and-white image on the first page. And refuse to budge.

  The table disappeared from her consciousness. The kitchen disappeared. The house. The whole city. Even Nicole ceased to exist to her. All that was left was the photograph. And the nausea. Which only grew when she turned to the second picture. And the third. Her stomach twisted a notch tighter with each new image, all the way through to the final one. She didn’t count how many there were. She didn’t notice how long it took to examine them all. Though she must have retained some kind of brain function because when a vague awareness of her surroundings eventually came floating back to her, she found that at least she’d been holding the pages upright, with only their blank sides facing her daughter.

  Alexandra jammed the papers back into the envelope and forced herself out of her chair. She moved to the sink. Started to thrust the envelope toward the garbage disposal, but pulled it away at the last moment. What if it jammed? She didn’t want the pages getting stuck with their vile contents on permanent display. No. Fire would be a better option. She turned to the stovetop. But stopped again. What about the smoke alarm? And how would she explain the flames to Nicole? It was hopeless. She started to sag, ready to slip down onto the floor, but got ahold of herself just in time. Pulled herself upright. Half walked, half ran to the living room. Crossed to the old writing desk beneath the window. Opened the top flap, knocking over a Murano glass bowl and sending a shower of sweet-scented potpourri onto the floor. Took out a small key. Unlocked the bottom drawer on the left. Yanked it open. Dropped the envelope inside. Locked it. Returned the key. Took a minute to control her breathing. Then returned, slowly and calmly, to the kitchen.

  “So how about those problems, Pumpkin?” Alexandra forced a cheery note into her voice. “Are you ready for me to check them?”

  “Not yet, Mommy.” Nicole looked up, smiling sweetly. “I’m not quite done.”

  “Well, let me see them, anyway.” Alexandra snatched the worksheet out from under her daughter’s outstretched forearms, and the slight giddiness she was feeling was replaced by disappointment. Nicole had made no progress since the last time she’d looked. None at all. She was still stuck on the exact same calculation.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Monday. Early afternoon.

  Friends close. Enemies closer?

  Devereaux couldn’t think of any other reason for Captain Emrich to volunteer his office for an interview with a suspected arsonist. An arsonist who, according to the Internet, was being touted as a potential future rival for the mayor’s office…

  Two minutes after Devereaux joined Hale and Garretty around Emrich’s chrome and steel meeting table, the door opened again and Emrich’s assistant ushered two more people into the room. One of them was a defense attorney called Bubsy van Erran. Devereaux had never crossed swords with her, but he’d seen her around the courthouse on a couple of occasions. And he’d been warned not to be fooled by her eccentric favorite aunt persona, with her baggy cardigans, long shapeless skirts, and ruffled, graying hair. The word was, all that was a ruse to lure unsuspecting witnesses within range of her steel-trap mind, defenses down, ready to be crushed and left bleeding on the stand.

  The man with van Erran was presumably Kevin Russell, though he looked nothing like the firebrand who’d been seen ranting and raving on Hale’s computer screen. This guy seemed slimmer. His face was shaved. His hair was neat. He was wearing a flawless navy blue suit. A crisp, open-collared white shirt. And his black dress shoes were polished to a deep, even shine. This guy’s more like a banker than a union leader, Devereaux thought as he caught a whiff of Russell’s soft, flowery cologne. Although Devereaux wasn’t certain about that. He avoided bankers, whenever possible. He preferred the kind of criminals he had a chance of arresting.

  Captain Emrich emerged from behind his desk, his hand extended and a photo-op-worthy smile clamped across his face. He greeted the visitors like they were old friends, and showed them to their places around the table. Russell ended up facing the shiny black samurai mask, like Darth Vader but with ears and horns, that Emrich had
brought back from Hitachi, Japan. Birmingham’s oldest sister city. Emrich claimed it was one of the things that was presented to him by the chief of police when he’d been posted there as part of a six-month cultural exchange. A coincidence, the seating arrangement? Devereaux doubted it.

  Emrich made small talk with Russell and van Erran until his assistant returned with a tray and set it down on the table. It was clover-leaf-shaped, inlaid with sky blue and jade green flowers, and had a small but fierce-looking white dragon guarding the center. Arranged around it were six short, handleless cups and a black iron teapot, which Emrich picked up and started to pour from. Enough of the Japanese trinkets, Devereaux thought. You have a passport, and you know how to brown-nose. We get it…

  “Thank you for the tea, Captain.” Van Erran took a tiny sip. “It’s excellent. But we know you’re a busy man. We don’t want to take up any more of your time than we have to. Now, here’s the thing. The reason we thought it would be worth sitting down with you fine folks for a while this afternoon is that a disturbing rumor has reached our ears. A rumor about my client here, Mr. Russell. About a video of him. An illegally-taken, clandestine video.”

  “I see.” Emrich set his cup back on the tray.

  “Is there such a video?”

  “There is a video.” Emrich refreshed his and Russell’s cups. “I’m not in a position to comment on its legal status. Or on the progress of any criminal investigation that may or may not be linked to it.”

  “I understand. But in any case, we’d like to see it.”

  “I thought you might.” Emrich pulled out his phone, hit a couple of buttons, and a screen unrolled itself from a long rectangular box on the ceiling in front of the opposite wall.

  No wonder there’s no money left to fix up the conference room, Devereaux thought as the video began to play. Then he turned his attention to Russell, who didn’t flinch or betray a single emotion from beginning to end. Not even when Emrich seemed to fumble the controls on his phone, leaving the enlarged image of Russell’s sweaty, distorted face displayed on the screen for way longer than strictly necessary.

  “Oh.” Van Erran dropped her hands into her lap. “Is that it? Is there perhaps another video you’re not telling us about?”

  “No.” Emrich took another sip of tea. “This is the only one.”

  “Really? Then I must apologize, Captain. For wasting your time. You see, I’d heard a whisper that the tape you had could land Mr. Russell in some pretty hot water. But what we’ve just seen? It was a master class in public speaking. He could use it on his résumé.”

  “I disagree.” Emrich set his cup down again. “Your client is on tape threatening to commit a felony. A felony that has, in fact, been committed. That’s something we have to take seriously.”

  “You’re talking about the fires at the two schools?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Well, bless your heart, Captain. Your case must be going very badly if you’re scraping this low down the barrel, so soon. And no wonder, with all the kids I’ve seen out there, roaming the streets, too scared to go to school. All the desperate parents, lining up to sue the city. Dear me. I’m glad I’m not in your shoes, truly I am. But here’s the thing. The words you heard come out of my client’s mouth? Hyperbole. Rhetoric. That’s all they were. No part of anything he said formed a serious or credible threat. And I think you know that.”

  “That depends on what kind of man your client is. Whether his word counts for anything.” Devereaux turned to face Russell. “You stood up in front of those guys, and you promised to save their jobs. You failed. You weren’t embarrassed by that? Ashamed? Pissed? You didn’t feel obliged to follow through on some of those grand-sounding threats you made?”

  “Who says I failed?” Russell laced his fingers together and rested his chin on his knuckles.

  “I do.” Devereaux’s eyes narrowed. “Or did ten more of your guys not just lose their jobs?”

  “Yeah, they did.” Russell couldn’t stop a smug grin from spreading across his face. “That was a terrible shame. But membership is up. Dues are up. And my personal approval rating is through the roof. You see, Detective, people don’t mind if you hit the canvas. They can relate to it. Who hasn’t been knocked down a couple of times in their lives? Just as long as you go down fighting. That’s what wins their hearts.”

  “Oh, and one other thing.” Van Erran shook her head and looked up at the ceiling, as if cursing her forgetfulness. “My client has an alibi for two hours either side of the time when each of the schools was attacked. If you need statements or whatever, I’ll he happy to provide them. Just say the word.”

  All of a sudden Devereaux was very glad that Russell was nowhere near the police union. And he had a feeling that sometime very soon the IRS would be receiving an anonymous tip about the state of the guy’s finances…

  —

  Emrich steered the conversation back to safer waters, and after a round of smiles and handshakes from everyone but Devereaux he escorted Russell and van Erran out of the room.

  “Here’s an idea.” Devereaux opened the door a crack and peered into the corridor. “Why don’t we take the stairs.”

  “Hold on a minute, guys. Stay put. The captain will want to speak to me when he gets back. Meantime—” Hale gestured toward the miniature Japanese garden that Emrich kept on the corner of his desk. “Cooper! Stay away from that sand thing. No more writing rude messages in it. But as I was saying, in the meantime, I want your thoughts.”

  “We’d have done better to bring a tape measure.” Garretty slumped back onto the Barcelona-style couch. “Give it to Emrich and Russell and let them get on with it.”

  “You’re right.” Hale kept one eye on Devereaux. “Probably would have been quicker, too.”

  “That Russell asshole wasn’t involved in the fires.” Devereaux moved back and took the spot next to Garretty. “Maybe in five years I’d look at him, if he’d just lost an election or something. But not now. Not when he thinks the world’s spread out in front of him.”

  “Agreed.” Hale stayed on her feet. “So what else have we got?”

  “Not much right now.” Devereaux started to check the points off on his fingers. “We struck out on the physical evidence. Napalm sounds exotic, but the ingredients in the homemade kind are too common to trace. You don’t even need special expertise to put it together because the instructions are all over the Internet. No one showed up at the hospital with interesting burns. Nothing came back from the gas stations and hardware stores. We expanded the canvass to include movers and packaging suppliers, given the Styrofoam angle. Still nada. Nothing useful came from residents at either scene. And my old school buddy turned out to be a basket case. One hare we still have running is the chance that Joseph Oliver, the principal, might have left more victims out there. They could be pretty highly motivated to take revenge. No luck yet, but we’ll keep trying.”

  “We got nothing off the interviews, either.” Garretty frowned. “Yet. They’re still ongoing, too. I’ve got half the squad involved. Colton, Levi, Denise, P.J., they’re all on it. Have you been downstairs recently? It’s like a zoo. Teachers. Pencil pushers. Students. And you know what? We’ve even had extra kids showing up, who should be way down at the bottom of Irvin’s list. Word’s spread, and evidently you’re not cool if you’re not a suspect.”

  “Only to be expected, I guess.” Devereaux shrugged. “Who hasn’t wanted to burn down a school, sometime or another.”

  “Um, me!” Hale put her hands on her hips.

  Garretty winked at Devereaux. “Maybe we should head down there? Round up some delinquents? Sounds like they’d feel more comfortable talking to you.”

  Before Devereaux could respond there was a loud knock and the door swung open. It was Agent Irvin.

  “Good. I’ve found you.” She was a little out of breath. “I’ve got something.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Monday. Afternoon.

  A day didn’t go b
y without Diane McKinzie feeling the loss of her father. But that morning was one of the occasions she was glad he at least couldn’t see what she was doing, and how low she’d sunk.

  One of the increasingly frequent occasions…

  Frederick McKinzie had been a legend at the Birmingham Tribune. For decades, cub reporters wanted to be him and seasoned pros were in awe of him. He worked at the paper his whole career, and literally died at his desk. The word was he could have had any management job he’d named, but he turned them all down. The only things he wanted were the chance to chase down any stories that interested him—that he thought were important to the people of Birmingham—and the freedom to report them however he saw fit. He covered the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing in 1963. He interviewed Martin Luther King in Birmingham Jail, the same year. He documented the civil rights marches throughout the decade. He reported the shooting of Governor Wallace in 1972. So what would a man with that pedigree have thought of being asked to write for the paper’s new Big City Nights blog? Diane knew exactly how her father would have reacted. He’d have burned the building down before agreeing to it.

  Diane struggled to make her fingers hit the keys, even though she’d been able to type over a hundred words a minute since she was twelve years old. It was just so demeaning. Local housewife suspected of running a brothel. Big deal. And no one would have turned a hair if the woman had lived in Woodlawn instead of Mountain Brook, which should have been the real story. Shenanigans reported involving Auburn football players. There’s a shock. Although there might have been an actual shock, if someone had dared scratch the surface of the big schools’ recruitment practices. Teens hide grandmother’s body in Social Security scam. Rats found feasting on her corpse! Why wasn’t she investigating the lack of oversight for the city’s most vulnerable citizens instead of regurgitating such gratuitous nonsense? This was all total garbage. Pure gossip. No sources. No fact checking. No analysis. It wasn’t reporting. And it certainly wasn’t what she’d become a journalist to do. What she’d worked for ever since she was a little girl, sitting on her father’s lap and writing practice articles under his critical eye.