False Friend

by Andrew Grant

  “All right.” Emrich got to his feet. “Enough talk. Lives might be at stake. How quickly can we make this happen? I want a plan on my desk by close of play today.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Monday. Afternoon.

  Hale, Devereaux, and Garretty held their tongues until Emrich had retrieved his newspaper and left the room, but their expressions spoke volumes. And they all had their eyes focused firmly on Agent Irvin.

  “What?” Irvin waited until she heard the door slam behind her. “It’s a good plan! It’ll work. If it’s implemented right.”

  “Then we better implement it right.” Hale turned to Irvin. “And we don’t have much time. Captain Emrich wants it to happen, so there’s no point discussing whether it’s a good idea or not. Right now we need to focus on logistics. I want a list. Actions. Timescales. Responsibilities. Go.”

  “No problem.” Irvin got up and crossed to the sheet of paper hanging on the wall. “There are three main bases we need to cover. First”—she took out a pen and wrote (1) Press Contact—“we need to identify a journalist who’ll cooperate with us, and who we can trust. We’ll need him to place our article under his byline, to avoid it standing out as a plant. And we need him onside before lunchtime tomorrow. Could the department’s PR guys help with that? Or would you prefer me to go through the Bureau?”

  “Neither.” Garretty scrawled in his notebook. “Cooper and I have unofficial contacts with a few local journos. We’ll find someone who’ll play ball. It’ll be quicker that way. And easier to control.”

  “Good. Thanks.” Irvin added (2) Identify Target Location to the list. “Now, in parallel, we need to figure out which school to use as the trap. I guess someone at the Board of Education would be the best place to start?”

  “We’ll take that, too.” Garretty made another note for himself. “I’ll cross-reference with the results of the interviews. It makes sense to approach someone who’s already been cleared.”

  “Right. It does. And finally…” Irvin wrote (3) Finalize Article. “This one speaks for itself. I’m happy to take it. I’ll pull something together, let you guys see it, and run it by my mentor at the Bureau, as well.”

  “Those points all sound fine.” Hale stood and took the pen from Irvin. “But I’m adding a fourth.” She used all capitals for her entry: INCREASE SURVEILLANCE ON ALL OTHER SCHOOLS. “You know. Just in case.”

  “Good idea.” Irvin nodded. “I agree. You can’t argue with safety first.”

  Devereaux’s phone chirped in his pocket. He pretended to be absorbed by the list on the wall.

  “Are you going to check that, Cooper?” Hale glared at him.

  “I’ll check it later.” Devereaux shrugged. “It’s just a voicemail. The signal’s garbage in here.”

  “It might be Chris Lambert again.”

  “That’s why I’ll check it later.”

  “Cooper!” The intensity of Hale’s stare increased tenfold. “Check it now!”

  Devereaux sighed. He fished out his phone, glanced down, and his expression immediately clouded. “It’s from Alexandra. That’s weird. She never tries to call when I’m working. Give me a moment?” He listened to the message, then got to his feet and started making his way around the table. “Something’s wrong. I couldn’t make sense of it, exactly, but there’s a problem. And it sounds urgent. I need to duck out for a minute and call her back. Lieutenant? Is that OK?”

  Hale didn’t answer right away because her attention had been taken by her own phone. An email had arrived, marked urgent. There were photos attached. She scanned the images, then stepped sideways to block the door. “Cooper, you can call Alexandra from the car. Tommy, you can do the same for the journalist and the education guy. We’re leaving right now. That message was from Chief Young. He’s found something at Jones Valley Middle School. Something we need to see.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Monday. Late afternoon.

  Frederick McKinzie was always a calm, levelheaded kind of guy.

  Diane McKinzie only saw her father lose his temper once in the whole of her childhood. But boy, that one time, did he blow his stack! It was at a dinner party at their house to celebrate the latest journalism award that Frederick had won. And one of the guests—another reporter—made some comment suggesting that Frederick had been lucky.

  When the last of the guests had left, and his blood pressure had returned to normal, Frederick sat Diane down to explain why he’d gotten so angry. “You see, sweetheart, in journalism, there’s no such thing as luck. There’s only hard work. Take this award I won as an example. Regular folk might think, wow, that McKinzie fella, he sure fell on his feet! Happening to be outside the mayor’s house at midnight just as the guy who won the contract to supply the city’s electricity showed up, carrying a shiny metal briefcase crammed with C notes. Now, regular folk don’t know about all the years I spent cultivating my sources. Or all the nights I spent sweltering in my car, watching the house, till the electricity guy showed up. But a fellow newspaperman? He should know what it takes. So for him to say I was lucky, that meant one of two things. He’s a fool, and I can’t abide fools. Or he doesn’t respect my work. Which is worse.”

  Frederick’s words stayed with Diane as she grew up, and when she reached college she turned them into a kind of mantra. Whenever she was behind with an assignment, or later as a cub reporter if she was struggling to hit a deadline, she’d print N L - O H W across the top of her page. No Luck - Only Hard Work. The initials floated back into her head just as she was finishing the last piece for the paper’s blog, and was worrying about how to patch things up with Kelly. It was as if her father was sending her a message: You want to fix the relationship? Then make it happen. Don’t wait for something to fall into your lap.

  Diane gave her piece a final read-through, then picked up the phone and called Gianmarco’s. She got through to the maître d’. Asked him for a favor—hold a table for her for 6:00–6:30ish, but when she arrived with two guests, pretend they were fully booked and he was giving her a table they usually hold back for VIPs. Next she released Daniel from the office he’d been using. Ushered him out to the parking lot. Bundled him into her Mini’s passenger seat. Told him not to open the door on pain of death until she gave him the green light. Then she let all the air out of both her rear tires.

  Kelly Peterson appeared after twenty minutes—ten minutes later than usual—heading toward her Mercedes convertible, arms bulging with two briefcases, a purse, and a box of files. “Are you OK, Diane? Two flats? That sucks. Have you called the auto club?”

  Diane crossed her arms tight across her chest. “Yes. A minute ago. And you know what they said? They’re short staffed right now. Half their mechanics are on some new federally mandated training course. Another bunch are out with a bug. Blah blah blah. I didn’t honestly listen to all of it. But the bottom line? I could be here for hours. And I have Daniel in the car.”

  “That’s awful! Do you guys want to ride with me? Your place isn’t far out of my way.”

  “Well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble, Kelly, that would be wonderful. And how about this? Let me treat you to dinner on the way. I absolutely insist. Would Gianmarco’s be all right with you? They’re pretty popular, but hopefully they’ll have a table left when we get there.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Monday. Late afternoon.

  Devereaux had strapped the mask on tight around his nose and mouth, but the stench still got through to him. So did the taste. And that brought with it an unnerving physical sensation, like he was sucking raw decay straight into his lungs.

  Chief Young met Hale and the detectives at the front entrance to Jones Valley Middle School and led them into the main corridor. The roof was missing in that part of the building and the afternoon sunlight flooded in, throwing crazy shadows across the smoke-blackened walls and debris-strewn floor. The reception counter and one set of lockers had been smashed by a jumble of giant steel girders that looked like
they’d been flung down by a petulant giant. Other lockers had twisted in the heat, their doors buckled open and their contents reduced to ash. A shoe had somehow survived and now lay on the floor, mixed in with jagged chunks of roof tile and lengths of shattered door frame. And at the far end, sticking out from the wall about eight feet above the ground, the melted remains of a TV screen clung to the twisted stub of its mounting bracket. Devereaux thought it looked like something Salvador Dali would have created if he’d survived into the twenty-first century.

  “This way.” The chief was wearing heavy gloves, so he didn’t offer to shake hands. “Follow me. But be careful.” He pointed to a line of four yard-square metal plates on the ground near the remains of the reception counter, where the scorching was at its darkest. “Sections of the floor are missing. They’re at the lab. We took them for analysis.”

  The floor was crunchy underfoot as they strode down the corridor behind the chief, and Devereaux noticed that where it had dried, the surface of the wall had become dusty and flaky. He reached out to touch an inch-long strip of charred plaster that had separated from the cinder block, but when his finger made contact it just disappeared into a puff of fine gray powder.

  The chief stopped at a pair of wide blue doors at the far end of the corridor. The smoke damage was minimal in that area, and the white stenciled word GYMNASIUM was clearly legible. “OK. Are you folks ready?”

  Hale nodded, and the chief pushed through the doors. Devereaux took in the scuffed wooden floor with its multitude of overlapping colored lines. The basketball hoops, cranked up out of the way, with their baseboards parallel to the floor. The climbing bars on the walls. The honor boards, higher up. The inevitable badminton birdie stuck way up in the rafters. And in the center, two guys in dark blue coveralls. They were standing next to a piece of lighter blue plastic sheet, about six feet square, which was weighed down at each corner with a brick.

  “This is where we took one of the control samples from, for comparison with material from the seat of the fire.” The chief started toward the two guys, and nodded when they drew close. The pair kicked away the bricks and pulled back the sheet, revealing a three-feet-square hole in the floor. “The other places were totally standard. But here you can see why I sent you the pictures.”

  Hale looked down through the gap and scanned the scattered, moon-white remnants without saying a word. Garretty made the sign of the cross. Devereaux stepped back for a moment as a flood of memories from his childhood fought for a way into his head. He closed his eyes. Focused on breathing until the unwelcome thoughts were back at bay. Then he pulled out his flashlight, knelt down, and peered as far into the crawl space as the beam would allow.

  “This is very strange.” Devereaux switched off the flashlight and stood back up. “I can count four skeletons. But only one skull.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Monday. Early evening.

  Diane set down her dessert spoon and allowed herself a discreet smile of satisfaction.

  The maître d’ at Gianmarco’s had been suitably theatrical when she’d arrived with Kelly and Daniel, throwing up his hands and grimacing with despair at her request for a table. Once they were seated the food had been magnificent, particularly the Chicken Francese. But the best thing of all had been the conversation. Daniel really can be very personable, if kept on a narrow-enough path. Diane was wilting a little from the effort of subtly steering him—at times like that she felt like a puppet master, constantly wrestling with invisible strings—but it had been worth it. Kelly had listened sympathetically as Daniel described his disappointment at not getting a place at either Ramsay or Carver high schools, where the city’s specialty engineering academies were based, and which would have been the best match for his particular skill set. He kept his language moderate when he outlined what he thought of the science curriculum at Vestavia Hills, his fallback school, and his worries about the implications for his career path. She even laughed at some of his physics jokes. And as an added bonus, Kelly also said nice things about Diane and her work.

  Who knew? Maybe Daniel would start to appreciate what his mother did for her living a little more, in future. And recognize that she might actually be the smart one in the family…

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Monday. Early evening.

  Tyler Shaw’s left hand was shaking.

  Stop it! He glared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and noticed that his chin and neck were starting to reappear from under the thin layer of watery foam. Calm down! You’ve got to do this. Before it’s too late. Stick to the routine. Everything must be the same way. Or nothing will work!

  Shaw lifted the razor and tried again.

  —

  When he was safely shaved and daubed with his favorite cologne, Shaw made his way to his bedroom, still naked. He pulled the curtains—the ones covering the alcove at the foot of his bed, not the window—knelt down, and clasped his hands together. He needed guidance. What he was about to do was harder than anything he’d ever tried before. And more important. So should he go through with it? The real thing? Right away? Or would a trial run be better? To make sure he was ready. Shake off any remaining rust. Iron out any kinks he might have left. After all, he’d been out of the game for quite a while.

  Screw it. Shaw got to his feet and reached for his lucky dragon print shirt. I’m doing it. He continued to get dressed, pulling on his Wranglers and lizard-skin boots, and assured himself he’d been wrong to ever worry. The black coroners’ vans he’d seen lined up outside the school weren’t of any significance. Nor were the extra police who’d been poking around. He could safely ignore them. It stood to reason. Because if he was going to be stopped, why hadn’t he been caught a long time ago?

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Monday. Early evening.

  Alexandra’s Range Rover wasn’t on the drive when Devereaux reached the house. The front door was locked. And when he tried to use his key, it wouldn’t fit in the slot.

  The shock hit him like a punch to the gut, just like it had eight years ago. Only that time Alexandra hadn’t even tried to leave a message. She’d just changed the locks, gone away, and then sold the house. Moved, without telling him. Although then it was because she was pregnant and hadn’t wanted him to find out. Could that be the answer again? Devereaux started running back through his mental calendar, checking off the dates, figuring the odds, and feeling a tiny bloom of excitement begin to grow in his chest. Then he reached for his phone to listen to her message again. And saw the key, still in his hand. It was the one for his apartment, at the City Federal. He had the key for Alexandra’s house on a separate ring. Maybe it was time to do something about that, he thought. As long as he hadn’t been cut adrift again…

  Devereaux called out for Alexandra from the hallway, and when he got no response he tried her phone. There was no reply. Feeling his heartbeat quicken, he moved to the kitchen. No one was there. There was no sign of disturbance, either, thankfully. Just Nicole’s schoolbooks piled neatly to one side of the table. He checked the living room. The dining room. There was nothing in either place. He took the stairs three at a time and checked their bedroom. It was empty, the bed neatly made. Nothing was spilled or broken in their bathroom. The other bathroom was clear, too. Which left one last room. Nicole’s. Devereaux pushed the door. It opened two inches, then caught on something. The tip was protruding beyond the edge of the door. It was metal. Shiny. Sharp.

  “Whoever you are, I’m coming in on three.” Devereaux drew his gun. “One…” He drove his shoulder into the door, which easily cleared the pair of craft scissors it had snagged on and continued on its arc, thudding into the wall where its handle left a crescent-shaped dent in the paintwork. Devereaux stepped into the room, gun raised. And found himself confronted by two dozen Barbies. Nicole had them laid out across almost every flat surface.

  Devereaux sank down onto the bed and tried Alexandra’s phone again. This time she picked up.

  “Coope
r? Where are you?”

  “At the house. I got your message. It was messed up somehow so I couldn’t understand it all, but I came home as soon as I could. Where are you? What’s going on?”

  “I had to get out for a while. Something happened. It freaked me out a little, so I brought Nicole to the diner. For a change of scene, you know?”

  “What was the problem?”

  “It’s hard to explain. We can talk about it later. Face-to-face.”

  “But everything’s all right? You’re OK?”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, good then. Hey, how about this? I could come over there. Meet you guys. Maybe grab a slice of pie.”

  “There’s no point. We had to wait to get seated because there are all kinds of kids in here for some reason, but we’re almost done now. I’ll be home soon. Want me to bring you a slice back?”

  “No. Don’t worry about it. Take your time. Feel better. I’ll see you when you get here.”

  —

  Devereaux picked Nicole’s scissors up from the floor and took them to the little desk with the folding lid she kept in the corner of the room. It wasn’t like Nicole to leave her stuff lying around, Devereaux thought. Alexandra must have dragged her out of there in a hurry. He wondered what could be bothering Alex so much. What aspect of English grammar or American history could be so upsetting that she had to race off to the diner. And how that would compare with the recent sight of four skeletons. Of which three were missing their heads.

  The corner of a piece of paper was just visible, peeping out from under the desk lid. Devereaux was curious to see what Nicole had been working on, so he raised the lid and saw that she’d cut a series of holes in the paper. Four rectangles about an inch by an inch-and-a-half. One, around an inch-and-a-half by three. And another, near the bottom and not as straight as the others, around an inch-and-a-half by three-and-a-half.