False Friend

by Andrew Grant

  “I don’t know.” Devereaux weighed up his seating options, trying to figure which piece of furniture was least likely to do terminal damage to his clothes. And how to avoid whichever one Bateman had just been sitting on, without his pants. “I never had a pet. And to be honest with you, Dave, I didn’t come here to talk about animals. I came because there’s another problem. You could be in a lot of trouble. Now, I want to help you. I think I can make everything all right again. But only if you’re absolutely truthful with me. Are you clear on that?”

  Bateman sank down into the corner of the couch and pulled his knees up to his chest. “How can I be in more trouble? I don’t understand. I didn’t do anything.”

  “Let me tell you what I know, then we can make a plan.” Devereaux perched on the arm of one of the chairs. “We’ve received information that a group of guys took out a contract to have Joseph Oliver killed. What do you know about that, Dave?”

  “Nothing.”

  Devereaux got up and headed toward the door.

  “Cooper?” Bateman let his feet flop down onto the floor. “Where are you going?”

  “You’ve got to understand, this is a time-critical situation.” Devereaux paused in front of the crud-encrusted window. “We know who the hit man is, who was hired for the job. We’re closing in on him. Detectives are out there right now, with dogs, hunting him down. He’ll be in a cell in a matter of hours. Minutes, maybe. And this guy? He’s wanted for some pretty heavy stuff. We’re talking lethal injection territory. So the minute he’s a collar, he’s going to start talking. Trying to cut a deal. But who do you think he’ll give up first? Powerful people? The kind of guys who could say one word and have his tongue cut out with a rusty spoon, even in jail? Or you and your buddies?”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Shall I go, then?”

  Bateman didn’t answer.

  “Because here’s the thing. We know the contract was taken out by a bunch of guys who’d been to Jones Valley school together. Now, your next problem is that shit rolls downhill. First the hit man will give you and your buddies up. But maybe he won’t know all your names. Maybe one of you took the lead in setting the thing up. Or maybe one of you stands out more, for some other reason. So he’s the first of you to end up in the cells. And what does he do? He also cuts a deal. He gives the rest of you up for a walk.”

  Bateman still said nothing.

  “It’s human nature, Dave.” Devereaux softened his voice. “There’s nothing you can do. You can’t fight it.”

  Bateman leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his head.

  “I’m giving you a chance to get out ahead of this thing.” Devereaux moved closer to the couch. “Tell me the others’ names. Then I can protect you. I bet I can keep you out of jail altogether. But you’ve got to tell me. Right now.”

  “I can’t.” Bateman’s voice was muffled by his sleeves. “We promised not to.”

  “Not to tell about the contract?”

  “Not to tell about one another.” Bateman half straightened up. “The thing is, we all have the same reason to hate Oliver. And we didn’t want anyone else to know. We were all hoping to get married. Find jobs. Live normal lives. Funny, eh? Just look at me now. But anyway, it’s all moot. We never went through with the hit. We called it off. We chickened out.”

  “Hiring a hit man is still a serious crime. I still need your buddies’ names. But how about this? Write them down. That way, technically you didn’t tell me. You can even destroy the piece of paper after I’ve looked at it. OK? No one will ever know the information came from you.”

  Devereaux passed Bateman his notebook. Bateman took his time, but eventually scrawled four names at the top of the page. Presumably the four had all been to Jones Valley school at the same time he and Bateman were there, but Devereaux didn’t recognize any of them. “When did this contract thing happen, by the way?”

  “Five years ago. Maybe six. And that was the end of it for me. I cut ties. I haven’t seen or spoken to any of them since then.”

  “Probably a smart move in terms of these school guys. But go back to the hit. I’m a little confused. Because I’ve been doing some checking, myself. Joseph Oliver dropped out of sight eleven years ago. How did you know where to tell the hit man to find him?”

  “One of the guys—the last name on the list—he’s rich now, like you. And obsessed. He spent whatever it took to keep tabs on Oliver, wherever he went. And whatever he changed his name to. It drove him out of his mind when we called the whole thing off. He kept saying he’d pay for the hit on his own if we wouldn’t chip in. But honestly? I think he was full of shit.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Tuesday. Late afternoon.

  Tyler Shaw stood in front of his mirror and shook his head. He’d never thought he’d see the day, but the dragon shirt would have to go. Routine or no routine.

  He turned to the bed and stared down at the other three nice shirts that he owned. The black one with the tiny white skulls. The lion one. And the psychedelic one, where the fruit are changing shape and eating people. He had to be honest. None of those were much use, either. He was in serious trouble here. His wardrobe—a key tool of his trade—was in danger of betraying him.

  Although, to be fair, it wasn’t the clothes’ fault. It was the upper crust–type guys he was having to mingle with these days. They didn’t give you any wriggle room. They were too spoiled. Too fussy. Too used to getting exactly what they want, when they want it. Take last night, as an example. When that asshole violin player he’d set his sights on got cold feet over his lack of sophistication. He’d nearly struck out as a result. Nearly. Luckily he’d lined up a fallback option. A snarky academic guy. A much easier target, as it turned out. But still. He’d come mighty close to disaster.

  Actually, maybe it was a good thing, what had happened. It was a warning shot. No harm had been done. But he’d been left with no doubt he’d have to raise his game.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Tuesday. Late afternoon.

  Devereaux pulled out his phone as he walked to the car and called Dispatch to have them check the four names that Bateman had given him.

  It turned out that one of the guys was dead, following the accidental discharge of a firearm four years previously. One had emigrated to New Zealand around the same time. And two still lived in Birmingham. Including Bill Adama. The well-off guy Bateman had described as being obsessed with Joseph Oliver’s whereabouts.

  Next Devereaux called Garretty, who confirmed that all was quiet on the Roundwood school front. He also said he’d be happy to cover for Devereaux while he made one more stop on his way to the stakeout. The school site was well covered, Devereaux figured. He wouldn’t make a great deal of difference by showing up a little sooner. But if he could locate Joseph Oliver, that would make an enormous amount of difference. To his chances of snuffing out the guy’s blackmail scheme, anyway.

  Devereaux started out by retracing the route he’d taken from Bateman’s former workplace, but instead of leaving Stevens at Third and returning downtown, he continued up and over the Red Mountain until I-280 peeled off to the east, toward the classy neighborhoods that nestled in its lee.

  The first thing Devereaux saw when he pulled onto Adama’s sweeping block-paved driveway was a red Ferrari, identical to the one he was reluctantly driving. It was parked near a giant fountain that was shaped like a wedding cake, and beyond it was an intricate white lattice gazebo complete with climbing pink roses and a faux wrought-iron weather vane.

  Devereaux climbed the steps to the front door, rang the bell, and craned his neck to survey the apparent acres of flawless white render.

  “Nice, huh?” Bill Adama opened the door himself and joined Devereaux for a moment in admiring the façade. He was dressed for tennis, minus the shoes, and a rose gold Apple watch stood out against his richly tanned forearm. “I’m Bill. You live around here?”

  “We have a mutual, let’s say, acquaintance.” Devereaux stu
died Adama’s soft, unwrinkled face and tried in vain to summon a recollection of him from high school. “Friend would definitely be the wrong word. I need to find him, and I’m told you’re the man who can help.”

  “Does this acquaintance have a name?” Adama shoved his hands into his shorts pockets.

  “Joseph Oliver.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.” Adama’s top lip curled itself into a tiny sneer. “And my dinner’s about ready, so I’m going to say goodbye. Whoever you are.”

  Adama stepped back into the house but Devereaux shot his foot over the threshold before he could slam the door.

  “Move your foot.” Adama was making no effort to conceal his annoyance anymore. “Or I’ll crush it.”

  “That would be your second mistake of the night.” Devereaux flashed his badge. “Now. Joseph Oliver. I want his address. And the name he’s currently using.”

  “Who told you I would know?” Adama let go of the door and folded his arms. “Because they’re full of shit. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You do, Bill. And you’re going to tell me. That’s not up for debate. The only question that remains is how much you’re going to piss me off in the process. Because right now I’m annoyed. But not too annoyed to have the rest of the conversation here on your doorstep. Irritate me any further, and you’ll spend the night in jail.”

  Adama stepped back outside and pulled the door closed behind him. “You’ll take me to jail, for what? Having that pedophile scumbag euthanized? Allegedly.”

  “I know you didn’t have Oliver killed. You and your buddies didn’t have the stones for it, so you chickened out. But you do know where he is. Tell me, and I’ll take care of the problem for you. Put him in jail. Think about it. Imagine what’ll happen to him when the other lifers find out he likes little boys.”

  “Screw you. I don’t need you to take care of anything. Or those other losers. You want to find Oliver? Fine. Do it yourself. You think I really don’t remember you? Of course I do. You’re Cooper Devereaux. And you know what I remember most? How you didn’t help me when I needed it, at school. So I’m not helping you now. You can bite me. And then you can get the hell off my property.”

  “One last chance, Bill. Tell me where Oliver is. Or you will spend the night in the cells.”

  “Really?” Adama held out his wrists. “Go ahead. I’m calling your bluff.”

  “OK, then.” Devereaux reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and slipped it between Adama’s fingers. “Take care of that. Don’t lose it. You’ll need it in the morning. Think of it as a magic key. Because calling me is the only way you’ll be able to get out.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Tuesday. Early evening.

  It was only Kraft mac ’n’ cheese. And she suspected that the milk may not have been one hundred percent fresh. But it was the best meal Diane had ever eaten in her life. Because it had been cooked by Daniel.

  Diane hadn’t asked him to do it. She’d actually been apprehensive about what the evening might have in store, after he’d turned down her offer to stop for a milkshake or ice cream on the way home from the newspaper. But once they’d walked into the house, her mood had turned on a dime. He hadn’t just offered to cook. He’d insisted. He said he wanted to do something special for her, to make up for the way he’d let his anxiety get the better of him a couple of times recently.

  When she’d finished eating, she moved to the couch—taking a second bottle of wine with her—and allowed herself a moment of self-congratulation while Daniel dealt with the cleaning up. She’d been so right to turn down Detective Devereaux’s offer of a ride-along to the school. She’d figured it would be better all around for her not to cancel another evening with Daniel. But the time they’d just had together? It was worth a million head starts on a million stupid stories. And sure. Yes. She’d had her fair share of wobbles along the way. But all things considered, she’d done a pretty good job of bringing up her son. Ever since her selfish, narcissistic, cheating asshole of an ex-husband had left her and run off to…where? She couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember when he’d gone. What his name was. Where she was. What she was doing…

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Tuesday. Evening.

  Devereaux kept his speed down on the way toward Roundwood school to give himself time to make a couple of phone calls. Then he parked three streets away, figuring he was no longer in the kind of neighborhood where the Ferrari would work well as an undercover car, and walked the rest of the way.

  The school site looked just as it had on Johnson’s plan—a long, wide triangle, like a slice of cheese. Appropriate, Devereaux thought, given that they were using it as a trap. The Bureau was watching the short end and one of the long sides, and the BPD was responsible for the other. Devereaux saw the department’s surveillance vehicle as soon as he turned the last corner. It was fitted out to look like a telephone company truck, complete with a dummy cable leading from a hatch to a nearby utility pole and a host of fake microwave dishes scattered across the roof to disguise its array of infrared cameras.

  Inside, three cushioned stools were fixed to the floor, positioned to give good access to the banks of monitors and equipment racks along both walls. Lieutenant Hale was perched on the farthest one from the door, and Garretty moved up next to her to give Devereaux room to slide in.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, Lieutenant.” Devereaux wasn’t too happy about finding an extra body taking up space in the already confined interior.

  Hale shrugged. “I’ve got nothing better to do. And this is better than fielding more calls from that Lambert guy. I told you to call him back!”

  “I will.” Devereaux tried to focus on his breathing, but that wasn’t easy with the lingering odor of coffee and Chinese food that was overwhelming the inadequate supply of air. “I’ll do it later.”

  “Make sure you do. I’m sick of hearing his voice. He wants your help with some gardening project now. Or something like that. If he calls tonight, you’re answering. His whining’s all I need, on top of this madness.”

  “You know, if you’re not behind this operation, Tommy and I can handle it.” Devereaux was pretending he hadn’t noticed the crisscrossed strips of Velcro that had been stuck to most of the flat surfaces, for securing portable items of equipment. Velcro’s flammable. It can spontaneously combust. Apollo One’s capsule had been full of Velcro…

  “I’m not behind it.” She flashed a lukewarm smile. “But if it’s going to be a clusterfuck, I don’t want to have to read about it in a report.”

  “No sign of our guy yet, then.” Devereaux tried closing his eyes.

  “Two false alarms.” Garretty stifled a yawn. “A guy on a bike. And two in a pickup. But nothing for over an hour now.”

  The three of them settled down to wait. The stakeout slumber, some cops called it as a reaction to the mantra that was drummed into them at the Academy: brain alert, body inert. The human version of lock and load was how Devereaux preferred to think about it. He was happy to wait any amount of time, as long as there was the prospect of some action at the end of it. He’d just have preferred not to do the waiting in such an enclosed space.

  Forty-five minutes drifted by, then Garretty pointed at the center screen. “Movement.”

  “A Ford Pinto?” Hale leaned forward. “I haven’t seen one of those in years. I thought they’d all exploded.”

  The rusty old car entered the school’s parking lot, coasted around the side of the building, and rolled to a stop next to an emergency exit. A guy got out. He looked to be in his early twenties. He was wearing jeans, a red T-shirt, white sneakers, and he had an Atlanta Braves baseball cap jammed down tight on his head. He glanced around, then opened his trunk and took out a crowbar and a white twenty-gallon container. He took a step forward, started to line up the crowbar, then the fire door burst open. Two agents in FBI windbreakers and hats charged out. They grabbed the guy, threw him facedown on the asphalt, an
d zip-tied his wrists behind his back.

  “OK, then.” Hale shook her head. “Maybe I owe Agent Irvin an apology.”

  —

  Devereaux and Garretty could hear the guy screaming for his rights from across the street. They slipped through the line of low trees at the edge of the parking lot and started toward him, but one of the agents gestured for them to slow down. He picked up the white container from the ground, then came forward to intercept them.

  “I think we might have a problem, guys.” The agent took the cap off the container and turned it upside down. “It’s empty. Plus we’ve searched him, and he doesn’t have any matches or a lighter. Nothing flammable at all.”

  Devereaux walked over to the guy, who by now was sitting propped up against the school wall with his hat lying upside down on the ground next to him.

  “School’s a strange choice of place to be on a fine Tuesday night.” Devereaux poked the guy with his toe to make sure he had his attention. “And not a very wise choice. So let me offer you a couple of alternatives: Home, wherever or whatever that may be. Or the station house, answering a million questions.”

  “I want to go home.” The guy’s voice was quieter now.

  “OK. You’ve got one chance to make that happen. Tell me what you’re doing here.” Devereaux picked up the guy’s crowbar. “And don’t lie.”

  “Toluene.” The guy nodded at the container that the agent was still holding. “It’s a kind of chemical, right? I figured they have some in the school lab.”

  “You were trying to steal toluene?”

  The guy nodded.

  “And drive away with it in a Ford Pinto?”

  “Yeah…” The guy looked confused. “Why? I’m not going to leave my car behind…”