by Andrew Grant
“ ‘J.R.O.’?” Devereaux looked at the others.
“Means nothing to me,” Peterson said.
“I’ll check with Intell.” Garretty scribbled a quick note. “Have them run it against known aliases.”
“The letter itself. It must have been hand-delivered, given the timescale.” Devereaux looked around for a trash can. “Do you still have the envelope?”
“My assistant opens the mail.” Peterson picked up her phone, asked for the envelope to be brought in, then listened for a few seconds. “Very weird. Apparently Sarah didn’t open it. She found it in her in-tray. She brought it in with the rest of the mail, figuring it had gotten opened somewhere else by mistake, but none of the other assistants she’s spoken to since then know anything about it.”
“You know, Ms. Peterson, don’t waste too much time on it.” Devereaux suppressed a smile. “We’ll just take the letter, if you don’t mind, and have our lab check for prints and so on. I’m sure that’ll be enough.”
—
“What were you smirking about in there?” Garretty pulled Devereaux aside as soon as they reached the corridor leading back to reception. “And why didn’t you press harder for the envelope?”
“Because there is no envelope, Tommy. And I know who sent the letter.”
“You do? Who?”
“Diane McKinzie. It’s brilliant, actually. You heard her bullshit. You better give me the inside track so I can stop the public seeing the link to your article. This is her insurance. If we don’t play ball, she’ll say Oh dear, Detectives. Look. Some bright spark’s figured it out. Now you really better give me some juicy info so I can stop it happening again! You can’t blame her for trying. She thinks she’s fighting for her job.”
“I guess. The typeface is like the one she had for that crazy story she was writing for her dead dad. And that was totally over-the-top, too. The genius, my ass!”
WITH TWO LIFELINES GONE, IS IT REALLY TIME TO PHONE A FRIEND?
We all know about the Japanese Kamikaze pilots in World War II. The plane crash survivors who ate the corpses of the dead passengers in the Andes Mountains. The rafts full of refugees crossing the ocean from Cuba. And now we have the Birmingham Police Department tip line!
Attempting to enlist the public’s help to catch the genius only shows the depths to which the authorities have sunk—and how high their level of desperation has risen! It also reveals their stupidity. The genius will simply use it against them. To inside information will be added: mis-information!
As a strategy, it’s doomed to fail from the outset. Ask yourself this: How many morons does it take to outweigh one genius? No one knows for sure. But this reporter would happily wager that it’s more than there are in the whole of the United States!
Chapter Sixty-three
Wednesday. Early afternoon.
Devereaux called Irvin from the car.
“McKinzie went for it.” He eased up the ramp onto I-20/59, then hit the gas and smiled at Garretty’s terrified expression as the car surged forward like a plane tearing down a runway. “She’s going to run the help-line story. Shoot me over the details as soon as you have them, and I’ll pass them on.”
“Thanks, Cooper. They’ll be with you inside the hour.”
“No problem. But while I’ve got you, help me settle a bet with Tommy. Is this thing for real? Or were you just pushing Emrich’s buttons?”
“Which horse did you back?”
“Let’s just say I’m hoping there was more mischief in your mind than method.”
“You would, though, wouldn’t you, Cooper? I’m sorry. Tommy wins.”
“The guy’s really going to call?” Devereaux worked his way around the slower cars on the intersection with Stevens. “You’re confident?”
“No. Not confident at all. And seriously? It depends on why the guy’s setting the fires. If it’s revenge, then no. He probably won’t call. On the other hand, if he has messed-up wiring in his head, it’s very likely he will. He’ll probably call multiple times. The whole payoff for him will be seeing the impact he’s having. Making the Bureau, the police department, Fire and Rescue, all of us dance to his tune. He’ll constantly dig for details, to keep refreshing the picture in his head. He’ll offer to help. He’ll try anything to worm into the investigation. But however friendly he may seem, that’ll be a false impression. It’ll just be a way to get a seat closer to the stage.”
“I see.” Devereaux left Stevens at Rosedale. “OK. Well, if anyone puts himself in the frame, let us know. We’ll look at him real hard.”
—
The phone rang again just as Devereaux was rolling to a stop at the side of the street. He was tempted to let voicemail take care of it, thinking it might be Lambert calling for the nine-hundredth time, but changed his mind when he saw it was the Porsche dealer’s number.
“Mr. Devereaux? Great. We have good news for you. Your 911’s ready. You can pick her up anytime. How does later this afternoon work for you?”
“It doesn’t work at all.” Devereaux was torn. He really wanted that car back…“I’m right in the middle of something, and I don’t have time to come over there.”
“No problem, then. We can bring her to you.”
“I don’t have time to get home, either.”
“Oh. Well, would there be someone we could leave the keys with?”
There is a doorman at the City Federal, 24/7, but leaving the keys wasn’t the answer, Devereaux thought. He wanted to inspect the car. To make sure it was perfect. To check that the new speaker was balanced properly, and the whole audio system wasn’t out of whack. He was about to decline when a couple of women walked by. They were in their mid-twenties, maybe. All blond hair. Crop-tops. Daisy Dukes. Tall sandals. Oversized sunglasses. And Devereaux caught the nudges and giggles that passed between them as they looked down at him and Garretty—two dudes wedged into a flashy Ferrari.
“Actually, yes there is. But what about the loaner? I can’t get that back to you today.”
“Give me one second, sir…” Computer keys rattled at the other end of the line. “Actually, that won’t be a problem, either. No one needs it until Friday. We could send someone over for it first thing tomorrow?”
“OK. That sounds good. Let’s do it.”
—
Devereaux left Garretty in the car and crossed the street to the last in the line of hundred-year-old mansions that crested the hill. The first floor of the house had been converted to a restaurant, and two minutes later Devereaux was standing at the upstairs window of what had been its master bedroom. To the left he watched the old parking valet harassing Garretty about leaving the car on his turf, as he’d known would happen. To the right, he could see all the way past Railroad Park as far as downtown.
“I love how we don’t have a river.” Devereaux turned and sank into the battered leather armchair. “You ever notice that? Most cities have a river running through the center. Not us. We have railroads.”
“Had railroads.” Tom Vernon was sprawled in the other chair, his feet—in new Versace loafers—resting on the wooden steamer trunk he used as a coffee table. “Though I’m guessing you didn’t come here to talk geography.”
Devereaux’s relationship with Vernon spanned more than three decades, and had seen its share of highs and lows. They’d fought like cats and dogs when they first met, in seventh grade. They’d been the best of friends, as Vernon helped Devereaux find food and shelter during the darkest days of his foster care. They’d had each other’s backs after graduation, as they landed up in the outer reaches of Birmingham’s underworld. They fell out spectacularly following Devereaux’s about-face in joining the Police Academy. Ignored each other for years after that. And had only been back on the upswing for three months or so, after Devereaux had reached out for help in a recent case.
“No, it wasn’t geography that brought me here.” Devereaux took a sip of the Woodford Reserve that Vernon had poured for him when he arrived. “I came be
cause I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I’ve got the name and address of someone in Florida. I need pictures, to make sure I’m dealing with the right guy before I head down there to see him.”
“You can’t go through police channels?”
“If I did that, the guy would end up in the system.”
“And you prefer he ends up…somewhere else?”
“Maybe. Depends what he says when I talk to him.”
Chapter Sixty-four
Wednesday. Afternoon.
The man didn’t run away this time.
Alexandra could see his silhouette through the frosted glass panel in her front door. He’d rung the bell and now was just standing there, waiting for her. She didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t like when she ran out of the house to chase him, and the adrenaline rush gave her courage. Now she felt like prey. And she was cornered. Should she call 911? Or Devereaux? Or hide? Suddenly she wished she had a gun…
The guy rang again, then rapped on the glass with his signet ring. “Mrs. Devereaux? Are you home?”
Mrs. Devereaux? What the…
Alexandra stormed down the hallway and yanked open the door. “It’s Ms. Cunningham. How can I help you?”
“I just need your signature, miss.” The guy stepped to the side and gestured toward the covered-in delivery truck at the side of the street, with a giant Porsche logo on its side. “Then I can let you get on with your day.”
—
Alexandra figured she shouldn’t leave the car at the side of the street. What if something happened to it before Devereaux had even seen it again? He’d go crazy. She wasn’t ready to get into a whole conversation with him about it, either. There were far more important things for them to talk about, and she still needed time to digest all the details. She didn’t need any stupid distractions. The best thing would be to put the Porsche in the garage. Leave Devereaux a note. Then get out of the house until he’d been and gone again.
This was another benefit of homeschooling, she thought. The rest of the afternoon’s lessons could easily be switched to the Birmingham History Center…
Chapter Sixty-five
Wednesday. Afternoon.
“What happened back there? Something bad?”
Garretty was concerned. Devereaux hadn’t said a word since he’d emerged from Vernon’s restaurant, and in the five minutes since pulling away from the curb he hadn’t shifted higher than second gear. He was driving so slowly that they’d just been overtaken by a hippie camper van…
“Nothing happened.” Devereaux put his phone on speaker and hit the Play button. “Just listen to this voicemail. It came while I was in there.”
“Oh, hi, Detective Devereaux. It’s Diane McKinzie. I’m just calling to see if you had those details we were talking about? I’m definitely going to run with that idea. It’ll be a really interesting piece, and I think it could be a major help to the investigation, too. I’d love to maybe get some feedback on how effective it is? Maybe run some follow-ups, if that works for you? And also, about the schools. Have you got anything else for me on those? Because here’s what I’m thinking. We haven’t really tapped into the human interest angle yet. How people have been affected. You know, the teachers whose workplaces have been destroyed. The kids. The firefighters who—”
“She goes on and on.” Devereaux silenced the phone. “And she keeps calling me with more and more questions.”
“So?”
“You heard Irvin. She said to watch out for someone who’s trying to worm into the investigation.”
“McKinzie’s not worming in. She’s a journalist. They ask questions in their sleep. I knew this guy once, who—”
“It’s not just the questions. What about the ride-along I offered her? Most reporters would kill for a chance like that, and she turned it down. Then lied about where she was and what she was doing.”
“We don’t know that. The thing about the errand might be true. And if not, she might have a good reason for lying. Maybe she had an appointment at the hospital that she wanted to keep quiet. I don’t know. Maybe she’s sleeping with someone’s husband.”
“And the traffic ticket? That didn’t ring true, either. You know if you’ve run a red light. Specially at night. You think, maybe you can make it. You hit the gas. And flash! Flash! Two of them, like bolts of lightning with a huge fine attached. There’s no way you can miss it. You know you’re screwed, right away.”
“I guess. OK. Hold on. Let me check something.” Garretty called Irvin and talked for a couple of minutes. He was frowning when he hung up. “OK. The light McKinzie ran? It’s on the route Google Maps gives from Green Acres school to her house in Vestavia Hills. She got the ticket about ten minutes after Chief Young estimates the fire took hold. And get this. She wasn’t driving her Mini, like she implied when we spoke to her at the newspaper office. She was in another car that’s registered to her. Some ancient Volvo.”
Devereaux slammed his hand against the steering wheel. He really wanted to go home and get his Porsche back! “Screw it. Vestavia Hills, then. You got her address?”
“Yeah, but it won’t help. No judge is going to sign a warrant because of a suspect being extra helpful.”
Devereaux looked across at Garretty for a moment, winked, then hit the gas. He figured he might as well stretch the Ferrari’s legs one last time…
Chapter Sixty-six
Wednesday. Afternoon.
It was time for the wallowing in self-pity to stop.
That might have been OK in the old days, but it wasn’t why Tyler Shaw had come back to Birmingham. He’d come back to make some serious changes. To stop drinking. To pull himself together. To not just stay on the same path—to move up to a whole other level.
And he was well on his way.
Two down…
Shaw threw the stained comforter onto the floor and stood up. He pulled back the curtains covering the alcove at the foot of his bed and gazed at his icons. They were good. They were helpful. But they weren’t enough. They were yesterday. He needed to focus on tomorrow. On the achievements that were yet to come. The two targets he still had to hit. Which included an athlete of some kind. That was going to be a real challenge. Maybe he should get that one out of the way tonight? Do that, and it would be plain sailing from there on in.
Chapter Sixty-seven
Wednesday. Late afternoon.
Diane McKinzie lived halfway down one of the cul-de-sacs that were laid out along the sharp, pointy reaches of Lunker Lake—a dragon’s claw of still green water between I-459 and Lake Purdy. Her house had a roof made of crazy tessellated shapes like most of the properties in the area, but otherwise was a fairly standard brick box. It had a dark brown door in the center. A bulky garage protruding to the left. A bay-windowed lounge not quite balancing it out to the right. And it was separated from the street by a half-dead lawn with a withered stalk of a cherry tree trying to survive in a dried-out pocket of earth in its center.
There was no response to the bell, and the garage and front doors were both locked, so Devereaux made his way around to the back. He checked off each room in turn, making sure it wasn’t occupied. The lounge. The study. The kitchen. The utility. All the way along until he reached the shallow rear window of the garage. Then he took out his flashlight and peered through the film of dust that covered the surface. He caught sight of white metal. It was the side of a car. Something sleek and low. Discouraged, he angled the beam around until he could see the hood. He focused on the front, where the badge was attached. It was a circle with an arrow pointing to the top right of a triangle that ran around the outside. And there was a surprising word emblazoned across its center.
Volvo.
Devereaux removed the laces from his shoes, tied them together, and formed a loop at one end. He took out the switchblade he always carried and pried open the thin rectangular vent that ran along the top of the window, just above its hinges. He enlarged it slightly. Then he used the
tip of the knife to poke the lace through the space he’d made and lower it down the inside of the glass until the loop slipped over the handle at the bottom left of the frame. He pulled up, releasing the catch. He repeated the process for the handle at the right side. Then eased the window open wide enough to climb through.
Devereaux was floored by the car. It was gorgeous. When he’d heard the words ancient Volvo he expected some ratty, hipster-friendly abomination on wheels, but this was something he’d gladly drive. And it was in great shape for its age. The paintwork was flawless, and the interior—though basic, by current standards—was impeccable. He tried the driver’s door, eager to slide in behind the wheel, but it was locked. Disappointed, he turned his attention to the rest of the garage. He started at the front and worked his way systematically back again, opening trunks and suitcases, and lifting boxes and packages down from shelves. He found men’s clothes. Yard toys. A broken golf club. A wedding dress. An easel. Cans of paint. Hand tools. Fluid for lighting an outdoor grill. Cracked glass flasks from a kid’s chemistry set. A pair of Buzz Lightyear drapes. Six empty plastic ten-gallon containers. A ladder. Boxes for six plastic gerbil houses, which looked like miniature space stations, with electronic timers to control access to the different sections. A wooden sled. A drum of benzene. A broken ironing board. A section of rubber hosepipe, balancing on pegs on the wall and stinking of gasoline. And a giant box of Styrofoam packing peanuts. Devereaux was still raking through it with a broom handle to see if anything was concealed inside when his phone buzzed.
It was a text from Garretty, who was watching the mouth of the cul-de-sac:
She’s coming. You’ve got 30 seconds max
Chapter Sixty-eight
Wednesday. Early evening.
Blind faith.
There were times when that was pretty much all Diane McKinzie had going for her. Her father had died. Her husband had left. Her job was going sideways. And her son was—Daniel. She had to find something to pull her through. So blind faith it was. Blind faith and vodka. And pills.