False Friend

by Andrew Grant

  “He’s a funny guy, your neighbor.” Garretty leaned back until the front legs of his chair were off the ground.

  “Maybe we should have his car taken to the pound?” Devereaux suggested. “See how amusing he finds that?”

  “Oh.” Johnson looked from one detective to the other, trying to figure out if Devereaux was serious. “I’m not sure we need to actually do anything…”

  “It’s your call. Think about it.” Devereaux took out his notebook. “In the meantime, let’s get back to business. The operation at Roundwood school, yesterday. I need to know who else you told. It’s very important.”

  “I’m sure it is. You need to figure out if someone warned the arsonist, and that’s why he attacked a different school. Believe me, guys. I want the asshole caught as much as you do. But I can’t help you.” Johnson spread his hands. “I didn’t tell anyone. Not a word. Not a whisper. Nothing.”

  “Not your boss? An assistant? A heads-up to an onsite security guard?”

  “No. No one. I guarantee.”

  “Let me tell you about a guy I knew once, Keith.” Garretty straightened his chair and leaned forward. “His neighbor went on vacation and left him to watch her house. When she came back, she found the house had been burglarized. He swore to the local police that he hadn’t told anyone it was vacant. But he hadn’t mowed the grass in the yard. He hadn’t emptied the mailbox every day. And he left a package on the stoop for a solid week after it was delivered. So while he technically hadn’t told anyone, he’d kind of told a lot of people.”

  “Detective, I’m not stupid.” A note of irritation had crept into Johnson’s voice. “I see where you’re going with that. And no. I didn’t leave any trails of bread crumbs. And I didn’t leave any dots to join. If the arsonist got his hands on inside information, it wasn’t through me.”

  —

  Devereaux nodded to Brenda Lee on the way back through reception, then turned to Garretty. Their conversion with Johnson had reminded him of a book he’d read as a kid about a guinea pig that dreamed of dancing the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy, but before he could mention it his phone buzzed. An email had arrived. From Adama.

  It confirmed Joseph Oliver’s new name: James Owen.

  And it gave an address for him. In Miami.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Wednesday. Late morning.

  Alexandra was in the kitchen when she heard the bell.

  She dropped the box of chamomile tea bags she’d been struggling to open and ran to the door. Clawed it open. Saw the back of a man as he jumped into a white SUV. Raced down the path, trying to get a look at the plates. Failed, because the vehicle moved away so fast. And was left with a problem.

  Lying on the mat, between her and the way back into her home, was another white envelope. It looked identical to the first one. Except for one thing. Even from twenty feet away, Alexandra could see it was thicker. Which meant it would contain more photographs. More appalling, grotesque images. She didn’t want to sully her eyes by looking at them. Didn’t want to be anywhere near them. Didn’t even want to step over them, to get inside the house. But she couldn’t leave the envelope lying there. Someone else could find it. Nicole could find it…

  Alexandra hid the envelope behind her until she’d made sure Nicole was still playing in the back yard. Then she went upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom. She sat for a minute with the envelope on her lap. Told herself that really she had to open it. Not out of morbid curiosity. But because there could be more photos of Devereaux inside. Photos that could answer the questions that had been spinning in her head since he’d left, driving her to the verge of craziness.

  She took another minute to summon the courage. Then she lifted the flap. Took out the contents. And studied every detail of every page.

  Chapter Sixty

  Wednesday. Late morning.

  One of the receptionists at the Tribune remembered Devereaux and Garretty from the previous day. Diane had sent word that they were expected, so she was happy to escort them to the meeting room while her partner covered the desk.

  The Goldfish Bowl was empty when they arrived but Devereaux spotted Diane at her desk at the far end of the office. She was hunched over her keyboard, so wrapped up in her work that she didn’t even hear when the detectives approached. She was creating a Word document, and using a font that looked like an old typewriter’s. Devereaux disliked the conceit of it, but was fascinated by how quickly her fingers moved. He found the rhythm almost mesmerizing as the vowels and consonants danced across the screen, banding effortlessly together into words. It was diverting to guess what they’d say before they were finished. Until he saw the final letters of his own name pop up at the end of a sentence.

  Devereaux scanned up to the top of the screen. McKinzie was writing total gibberish. A ludicrous, childish story about how a daring young investigative reporter had played a key role in capturing a school arsonist—a character so cunning and elusive that the police could never have cracked the case on their own. He nudged Garretty and gestured toward the screen. Garretty started reading from the beginning, and snorted out loud when he read the description of the two dim-witted detectives. Diane heard him. She jumped, shrieked with surprise, and hit a couple of keys to switch the screen to a different document. Then she swiveled her chair around, leaned forward, held her head in her hands, and groaned.

  “Oh my goodness.” Her voice was ragged. “I’m so embarrassed. I can’t believe you saw that. Please. Let me explain.”

  “We’re all ears.” Devereaux perched on the corner of the desk.

  Garretty folded his arms. “Just don’t use long words. Nothing too hard for us to understand.”

  Diane straightened up and fanned her face with her fingertips. “Time to get a grip, Diane. OK. First thing. Have you heard of Frederick McKinzie?”

  “The name rings a bell,” Devereaux said.

  “Not for me,” Garretty countered.

  “Well, he was my father.” Diane paused for a moment. “He was basically Mr. Tribune back in the day. Long story short, I wanted to be just like him. All I ever did as a kid was play newspapers. He’d help me. He taught me shorthand. Bought me my first typewriter. I still have it. I used to write stupid articles on it, about things I imagined my stuffed toys doing while I was at school. He loved them. Kept every one in a special binder. Called it Diane’s Daily Dispatch and even designed a cute little masthead for it. Anyway, writing those stories for him is one of my fondest memories. It reminds me of when I thought anything was possible. Like having a career, instead of churning out crappy blog posts until they find someone cheaper to replace me with. So now, when I’m pissed off or stressed, I write a little story for my dad. Only he’s dead now, of course, so I can’t give it to him. But you get my point.”

  “I guess.” Devereaux pushed himself away from the desk. “Whatever gets you through the day.”

  Diane checked over her shoulder as she stood up. The door to the Supervisor’s Office was closed—almost all the way. Had Daniel been listening? Diane was embarrassed at the prospect, but only a little. Daniel had grown up the same way she had. He knew the deal. Everything would be fine as long as he didn’t disrupt her meeting again. Stay inside, she thought. Stay inside! Then she took Devereaux’s arm and ushered the detectives back toward the Goldfish Bowl.

  —

  Diane listened to Devereaux’s questions and Garretty’s allegory, and gave them an answer without hesitation.

  “I told one person. Kelly Peterson. My editor. I cleared that with you beforehand, remember? And I did nothing that could have tipped anyone off. I don’t even talk in my sleep. And anyway, if I did, there’d be no one there to hear me.” Diane noticed that Devereaux wasn’t wearing a ring.

  “We’re going to need your editor’s contact details.” Devereaux reached for his book.

  “No need.” Diane held up her hand. “She works right here, in the building. I’ll take you to her office as soon as we’re done.�
��

  “That’s convenient, having her so close.”

  “Not all the time, believe me.” Diane half smiled. “We’ll head over there in a second. But before we wrap things up, you said on the phone you’d sniff out some details for me to use in my next piece on the fires?”

  “Right.” Devereaux scratched his chin. “I did say that. And I tried. I wracked my brain. There’s not much you don’t already know, is the problem. Though there is that one thing…No. It’s probably no good. Leave it with me. I’ll keep digging.”

  “What thing?”

  The door opened and Daniel stepped into the room. “Mom, when are—”

  “Can I help you with something?” Devereaux’s glare was not remotely friendly.

  “I’m talking to my mom. She needs to—”

  “You can talk to her later. She’s working right now. You need to respect that. Now get out, and don’t interrupt her again.”

  Daniel attempted to lock eyes with Devereaux but gave up after six or seven seconds and slunk out of the room, not bothering to close the door.

  “I’m so sorry!” Tiny red dots were spreading upward from Diane’s neck. “He’s not normally like that, but he’s working on a major project right now for—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Devereaux got to his feet. “Shall we head for this Kelly’s office?”

  “Sure.” Diane stood, after a moment. “In a second. You were telling me about a thing? To do with the fires?”

  “Oh, that. It’s probably nothing. And we’re not even supposed to know about it. Remember that agent from the Bureau? Linda Irvin? She’s decided to take their side of the investigation in a different direction. Appeal directly to the public. Launch some kind of help line. I think it’s a mistake, personally. And not very useful for you, probably?”

  “No, no, I could definitely do something with it.” Agency Rift Threatens School Safety? Investigation Hits the Skids? Desperate G-Men in Public Plea for Help? Diane’s reporter’s brain was spinning. “When’s it going live? Have they got a phone number set up? What about email? A website? Social media tie-ins? What hashtag are they using?”

  “Good questions.” Devereaux shrugged. “I guess I could find out. If you promise to keep my name out of it.”

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Wednesday. Late morning.

  It didn’t matter what Mr. Quinlan said. He could be outside the front door with a sledgehammer and a megaphone and it wouldn’t change a thing. A whole army of bosses could be lining up out there. Tyler Shaw wasn’t moving. He just didn’t have it in him.

  Shaw’s body may have been stranded in his bed, but his mind was elsewhere. It was floating between Charlotte and Roanoke. Cincinnati and Toledo. Des Moines and Omaha. Rapid City and Denver. Salt Lake City and Bakersfield. Tucson and El Paso. San Antonio and Baton Rouge. All the places he’d been to in the years after his mother died. After he could no longer bear the loneliness in her quiet, empty house. While he traipsed around the country, desperate to latch onto a relative. To make a friend. To find a lover. To somehow connect with someone. Anyone!

  It had all been in vain, though. He should never have left Birmingham. Because the story was the same wherever he went. Whenever he found someone—as soon as he started getting close—they left him. They walked out. Changed the locks. Moved away. Got a restraining order. Died. One way or another, he always ended up alone.

  There are billions upon billions of people in this world, he thought. What did he have to do to make just one person stay with him? Of their own free will?

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Wednesday. Early afternoon.

  Diane McKinzie took Devereaux’s arm and stopped him about ten yards short of Kelly Peterson’s office door.

  “You guys won’t want me in there with you, I guess, so I’ll get out of your hair. There is just one other thing, though, before I go. A favor I need to ask.”

  Here it comes, thought Devereaux. “Your traffic ticket?”

  “What? No. It’s about Kelly. When you’re talking to her it would really, really help me if you didn’t tell her about Daniel coming into our meetings those two times. She heard him saying some stuff the other day that she took all out of context, and I think I’ve got her back on my side again but I wouldn’t want there to be any new misunderstandings. She’s great, Kelly, but she can jump to conclusions sometimes. Be a little judgmental. Especially where other people’s kids are involved. She doesn’t have any of her own, you see, so she doesn’t quite get it.”

  “No problem. We won’t bring him up, and it’ll be Daniel who? if she asks us anything. And I’m sorry that I jumped to a conclusion there. Usually the first thing people ask for help with is their traffic tickets.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. Luckily I haven’t had any lately, but I’m going to keep your number, just in case.”

  “What about last night? I heard you picked one up then.”

  “Really? I did? I didn’t even realize. It must have been one of those automatic cameras. I guess I’ll be seeing it in the mail pretty soon, then.”

  “I thought you stayed in last night? That’s why you passed on the stakeout?”

  I thought I did, too, Diane thought. What’s happening to my memory? Maybe I should back off the pills a little…“Yeah, well, I basically did. I just had a quick errand to run. Not worth mentioning, really.”

  “I hear you have a cool car, if that’s any consolation?”

  “Really? My Mini’s nice enough, I guess. It’s no Porsche, though.” Diane gave Devereaux’s arm a playful punch. “That’s right, Detective. I keep my ear to the ground, too…”

  —

  Kelly Peterson kept two desks in her office. One was a standard size, and had a computer, a telephone, and a couple of reference books on it. The other was larger, and was covered with neatly organized stacks of paper, each one weighed down with a different large, metal initial. Three of her walls were plain, but the one facing the desks was hung with six large wooden trays. Each one was broken into thirty-odd unevenly-sized sections, and many of the divisions between them were partly worn away and stained a deep black. More metal initials were distributed throughout the compartments—these standing upright—and Devereaux realized that they spelled out a name. Ezekiel Peterson.

  “They’re typesetters’ trays.” Peterson noticed Devereaux staring at them as he took the visitor’s chair next to Garretty’s. “They were my grandfather’s.”

  “Interesting.” Devereaux turned and took a second look. “Is he the reason you got into newspapers?”

  “No.” Peterson sat behind her computer desk. “That’s a coincidence. But he is the reason I can read upside down and backwards, so you might want to take care if you write anything down today.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” Devereaux took his notebook out, anyway. “But if I do write anything, it’ll just be a name. Or names, maybe. What we’re doing is pretty simple. The piece that you guys posted for us was supposed to lead the arsonist who’s out there into attacking Roundwood school last night. Instead, he attacked Green Acres. We need to find out if that’s because he got wind of the trap. We’re not for one minute suggesting any kind of wrongdoing here. But if you mentioned the real purpose of our article to anyone, for any reason—management reports, accounting for use of web space, anything like that—we need you to tell us.”

  “I understand. It’s a logical question. And the answer’s no. I didn’t mention it to anyone, because I didn’t have to. I didn’t need anyone else’s authority to run the story, and Diane McKinzie told me that you guys had stressed the need for secrecy—which was pretty obvious, really—so I made a point of not making any notes or records that could give it away.”

  “That’s excellent.” Devereaux closed his notebook. “Thanks for being so cooperative. And thanks for laying off the speculation angle, too, linking the article and the choice of target. That would have been embarrassing. And the negative publicity could have put people off comin
g forward with information, hurting the investigation. We appreciate it.”

  “No problem. We’re obliged to report the facts, but we don’t want to see other schools going up in flames any more than you do. I can’t guarantee that angle’ll stay off the front page for long, though. We’ve already had one letter complaining about our failure to highlight the connection.”

  “That was quick.” Garretty raised his eyebrows. “The fire only happened last night. Your coverage was this morning. Was it an email, this complaint?”

  “No. It was an actual letter.” Peterson rolled her chair across to her other desk, took a piece of paper from the top of one of the piles, and passed it to Garretty. “You don’t see these very often anymore.”

  Ms. K. Peterson.

  Birmingham Tribune.

  Dear Ms. Peterson,

  I am writing to express my disgust at your newspaper’s shoddy and incompetent coverage of the fire at Green Acres school. Your inept reporter described the event as if its location had been chosen at random, and completely failed to note the connection with the article you published the previous day, which was nothing more than a crude and thinly-veiled attempt, presumably by the FBI, to lure the genius who has been orchestrating this extraordinary campaign into a trap. Please correct this misconception immediately. The public of our great city deserve better!

  Sincerely,

  J.R.O.

  Garretty read the letter, holding it gingerly by the edges, then passed it to Devereaux.