False Friend

by Andrew Grant

  Now she had Kraft mac ’n’ cheese as well. And strange as it sounds, that was better. Because for the second night running, Daniel was cooking for her. He’d insisted on it, despite Diane’s offer to order takeout. He said he wanted to cook. And eat together. And sit and talk after the meal, rather than rush off to his room on his own. He wanted to hear about her day. How her important series was going, about the school fires. What it was like to work with those cops, and that FBI agent. How what she did could actually help them solve crimes.

  She’d come a long way, she thought. Thanks to blind faith. It would be best not to turn her back on it just yet, though. Who knew what was lurking around the corner? But maybe she could ditch the vodka and the pills. And after last night’s experience, cutting back on the wine with dinner might not be a bad idea, as well…

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  Wednesday. Early evening.

  Devereaux was on a high after his discovery in McKinzie’s garage. The buzz had continued through the conversation with Lieutenant Hale, when she signed off on round-the-clock surveillance. He’d felt good while they waited for Levi and Colton to show up and take the first shift. He was still smiling on the drive to headquarters, to drop Garretty off. His mood was sunny all the way to the City Federal Building. And then the moment he reached the bottom of the garage ramp, the bubble burst. Because his second parking space was empty. His Porsche wasn’t there. And it was supposed to be.

  The doorman swore blind that he hadn’t left his post, even for a second, so Devereaux called the dealer and demanded answers.

  “I don’t understand, either, Mr. Devereaux. I’m sure it was delivered this afternoon. Let me just check the paperwork. Yes, I’ve got it now. Here we go. Model: 911. Color: sapphire blue. License plate: DVRX. Delivered to: home. Signed for by…Looks like A. Corinthian? Callaghan?”

  “Cunningham. It says Cunningham. And don’t worry about it. The car’s not lost. I know what’s happened.”

  —

  Devereaux covered the five and a half miles to Homewood in a virtual daze. How could this be? He’d woken up many times over the years not knowing where he was. But that was because he’d been somewhere strange. Somewhere new. It wasn’t because he’d not known where home was.

  The driveway was empty when Devereaux arrived at Alexandra’s so he let himself in, checked the kitchen table, and found her note saying she’d left the Porsche in the garage. He was disappointed she wasn’t there. He wanted to see her. To explain. To throw out a rope and pull her back to the shore. But at the same time, he was relieved she was gone. What he had to convey, he wasn’t sure he had the words for. He couldn’t stand the thought of screwing it up and losing her again. And it tormented him to think that with every hour he delayed, the ill tide was probably carrying her farther from his reach.

  The only ray of sunshine was that at least he had his Porsche back. He smiled when he saw it sitting in the garage, gleaming, the perfect embodiment of understated power and elegant precision. He unlocked the door and slid halfway onto the driver’s seat, savoring the aroma of soft leather like a cigar aficionado taking his first puff of the evening. He went to move the seat back and make room for his legs under the wheel. But he stopped before his finger touched the button. He climbed back out. Grabbed his phone. And called Lieutenant Hale.

  “Lieutenant? Big problem. We’re watching the wrong person.”

  THE FINAL CURTAIN?

  Plans were made. Tests were carried out. Concepts were proven. Obstacles were overcome. On top of all that, the authorities were outwitted at every turn. And now the conclusion of the genius’s mission is mere minutes away…

  Success is inevitable, such is the peak of the genius’s power. So what will come next? The miserable excuse for the city’s education system will have been taught its lesson, so maybe it’s time to take inspiration from the disrespectful, interfering Birmingham Police Department and their imbecilic cronies in the FBI?

  In other words, maybe it’s time to find out: Do police stations burn as brightly as schools?

  Chapter Seventy

  Wednesday. Early evening.

  “He’s gone, but she’s still in the house.” Colton looked up at Devereaux and Hale from the window of his Charger, a mixture of worry and anger creasing his face. “The mom’s definitely in there. She’s the one we were told to watch. Not the kid. How were we supposed to know you’d change your mind?”

  Hale pulled Devereaux to one side. “You’re sure, Cooper? Because of the position of the driving seat?”

  “I had a real good look when I was in the garage. The seat was all the way back. I could have gotten straight in. No way could someone McKinzie’s size have driven like that. It had to be someone taller. Plus Colton and Levi just saw Daniel drive off in that Volvo. He doesn’t even have a learner’s permit.”

  “He could be sneaking off to his girlfriend’s. Diane could know about it, and be covering for him.”

  “True. But that kid? A girlfriend? And what about the benzene and the Styrofoam in the garage. A coincidence?”

  Garretty arrived while Hale was thinking it through.

  “All right, then.” Hale squeezed Devereaux’s shoulder. “We’ll get the Volvo’s plates out over the air. You go to the house. See what’s happening.”

  —

  Diane was lying on the couch in the living room, covered with a blanket. She wasn’t moving, and a wine bottle lay tipped over on the floor near her outstretched arm.

  “Maybe she’s a functioning alcoholic?” Garretty banged on the window. “Maybe she’s like this every night?”

  “I don’t think so.” Devereaux also pounded on the glass. Diane still didn’t respond, so he returned to the front door and drove his foot into the wood just below the lock. The frame shattered. Wooden splinters showered into the hallway. A six-foot length of architrave caught one of the framed newspaper articles, knocking it to the floor and smashing its glass. Devereaux kicked the debris aside and ran to the living room, with Garretty hard on his heels.

  Diane flailed her arms, moaning and trying to push Devereaux away until she managed to unglue her eyes and finally focus on his face.

  “Detective?” Her tongue seemed to be too big for her mouth, and her speech was slurred and indistinct. “What are you doing here? Wait. Where are we?”

  “Diane—we need to know where Daniel is.” Devereaux spoke slowly, but there was an urgent edge to his words. “It’s very important. Where did he go?”

  “Daniel’s my son.” Diane smiled crookedly. “He’s a good boy. A lot of stress. If he said anything, it’s just—”

  “We need to find him, Diane. You need to help us. He’s in danger. He’s going to get hurt if you don’t tell us where he went.”

  “He cooked dinner. We’re going to talk. So tired…”

  “He’s gone somewhere in your car. Your Volvo. The one that was in your garage. You need to tell us where he went.”

  “The Volvo’s Dad’s.” Diane shook her head. “Daniel can’t drive.”

  “He’s gone to a school, hasn’t he, Diane?”

  Diane tried to slump back down onto the couch, but Devereaux held her upright.

  “You know it’s Daniel who’s been setting these fires, don’t you, Diane? Somewhere deep inside. That’s why you keep asking all your questions. To see if we’re close to catching him.”

  “Daniel’s my son. He hasn’t done anything wrong. Leave him alone.”

  “Hey. What’s this?” Something had caught Garretty’s eye. It was the corner of a scuffed gray ring binder, peeping out from under the couch near the abandoned wine bottle. He reached down and fished it out. There was a hand-drawn shield on the front cover flanked by a lion and unicorn, and below those were the words Daniel’s Daily Dispatch picked out in extravagant gothic script. Garretty opened the folder and started to leaf through its pages. “This is weird. It’s full of stories, like pretend newspaper articles. Looks like they’re written by a kid. They all talk abo
ut the same person. Some genius. How he’s going to be the youngest person to ever be the president of Harvard. The first—”

  “That’s mine!” Diane broke away from Devereaux and snatched the folder from Garretty, sending a shower of more recent, loose pages fluttering across the room. “They’re only stories. They don’t mean anything.”

  “Put that down, Diane.” Devereaux took her arm, eased the folder from her grip and let it drop onto the couch. “There’s no time. Come with us. There’s something we need to show you.”

  Devereaux opened the garage door and left Garretty to prop Diane upright. Then he moved to the middle of the empty space and held out his arms. “You see? The Volvo’s not here. Daniel’s taken it.”

  He grabbed the section of hose from its pegs on the wall and held it under Diane’s nose, making her retch. “Can you smell that? It’s gasoline. Daniel syphoned it out of the Volvo’s tank.”

  He moved to the far corner and grabbed a handful of packing peanuts. “He took a bunch of these, too. And he added benzene, from that can over there. Which makes a kind of bomb, Diane. Think about that.”

  Garretty tightened his grip on Diane’s arms. “Daniel’s got that bomb with him, right now, in the car. And every police officer in the city’s out looking for him. When they see him, they’ll open fire. The car will explode, Diane. Daniel will be blown to pieces.”

  Diane writhed and twisted, desperate to break free, shrieking and sobbing like a tormented dervish.

  “There won’t even be enough of your son left for you to bury, Diane.” Devereaux moved in close and grabbed her jaw, forcing her to keep her head still and look at him. “Not unless you tell us where he’s going. Then we can stop him. Keep him safe. So you can see him again. But you have to tell us which school, right now. Every second you waste is a second closer to a bullet setting off that bomb.”

  “Wylam!” Diane stopped struggling and slumped against Garretty. “Wylam Elementary School. That’s where he’ll be.”

  FIELD REPORT

  The fires are easy to start now that the genius has perfected the gadget, though there is one aspect that is slightly less than optimal. The proximity required to carry out the ignition sequence often affords the genius a poor overall vantage point. That makes it hard to watch the puppets dance, which in turn reduces his satisfaction. A new system should be introduced for the next phase of the mission.

  Some form of remote ignition device would seem to be the answer, or possibly a timing mechanism. At the time of writing, the genius isn’t yet sure. But have no fear! Further rounds of development and testing, in tandem with his outstanding brilliance, will undoubtedly yield the necessary breakthrough.

  If this first magnificent phase has taught us anything, it’s that the genius always delivers!

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Wednesday. Early evening.

  Hale and Garretty stood in the parking lot behind a crooked line of BPD sawhorses. There was a kids’ play area at the top of the grassy mound to their left, with a pair of giant blue umbrella-shaped structures shielding the climbing frames from the setting sun. And ahead, across a narrow service road, was Wylam school, its brick walls almost hidden behind three enormous weeping willows. It looked like it should be some kind of tranquil boathouse on a wide, lazy river, Hale thought. A place for fun and relaxation. Or for learning and study. Not somewhere to be assaulted by pairs of cops with Colt M4s, wearing black helmets and body armor.

  People from the long, low rows of houses in the nearby streets had been alerted by the sirens and were now gathering and starting to press up against the barriers opposite the school’s main entrance. Others joined them as they arrived home from work. A dozen uniformed cops were in place, holding them back. Hale had one eye on the crowd and one on the sky above the roof of the school. She was concerned that an idiot would squeeze through the cordon and get himself shot. And she was terrified that she’d see fingers of black smoke start to reach up from the structure and soil the cloudless sky. She prayed the SWAT guys could wrap things up fast, before either of those things happened. And preferably without any harm coming to this boy, Daniel McKinzie.

  The hands on the giant clock on the wall facing the playground had crept forward by twenty-two minutes when the SWAT commander finally approached Lieutenant Hale, his helmet in his hands.

  “Is it over?” Hale stepped toward him.

  The commander shook his head. “We swept the entire building. There wasn’t a soul to be found. It was a false alarm, Lieutenant. Daniel McKinzie isn’t here.”

  Chapter Seventy-two

  Wednesday. Early evening.

  Devereaux hadn’t gone with the others to Wylam school. Instead, he’d helped Diane McKinzie back inside and got her settled on the couch. Then he’d slipped around to the back of the house and found a spot in the shadows with a view through the rear windows.

  Ten minutes crawled past, then Devereaux saw Diane begin to stir. She started to struggle with her blanket and kept pawing at it until she uncovered her phone. She poked clumsily at its screen, and finally managed to place a call. She held the phone to her ear, but didn’t speak. She hung up. Tried again. And again, six, seven, eight times. Then she flung the phone across the room and staggered out into the hallway.

  Diane reappeared in the kitchen. She took a tall beer glass from a wall cupboard and dumped six tablespoons of salt into it. She filled it with hot water from the faucet. Swilled the mixture around. Held her nose, and forced herself to drink every drop. She stood for a moment, swaying slightly, one hand over her mouth. Then she doubled over and vomited into the sink, the long, hard convulsions wracking her entire body.

  Tears were streaming down Diane’s face as she opened a drawer and took out a handful of shiny purple pods. She fed one into her coffee machine, hit a button, and downed the espresso shot it produced in one mouthful. She followed it with three more. Then splashed cold water on her face, turned, fished her keys out of a wooden bowl on the countertop, and started to make for the hallway.

  Devereaux reached the ruined front door just as Diane was shuffling out through the wreckage.

  “Oh, Diane, I’m so, so sorry.” Devereaux took Diane’s hand and led her back inside. “At least I found you, so I can give you the news right away. This really is the worst part of my job. I just hate it. If only you’d not lied to us about which school Daniel was heading for…”

  “I didn’t lie. I mean, wait!” Diane suddenly shifted more of her weight onto Devereaux’s arm. “What news? What do you mean? What’s happened?”

  “It’s like I told you. The traffic cops were all looking for Daniel. You said he was going to Wylam school, so we cleared the patrols away from there. But he wasn’t going to Wylam, was he, Diane? If only we’d known…”

  “What happened to my son? Is he safe? I didn’t know! I thought he was going to Wylam, when I told you that. It was only after you’d gone it hit me—maybe I remembered it wrong? It’s all been so confusing. If only they hadn’t stopped Daniel getting into Ramsay! Or Carver. No wonder he was mad at them. How can he climb to the top if he’s trapped at the wrong school? He’s a genius, my son. He’s—”

  “Who stopped him, Diane? Who’s he mad at?”

  “It’s not his fault. It’s the system. It’s not fair. Kids at other schools, they get priority, if they’re from certain neighborhoods. That’s why Daniel didn’t get in. If they’d only spoken with him. Seen his work. The projects he’s been working on—”

  “Schools like Jones Valley?”

  “Right. The kid who got into Ramsay from there isn’t anything special. She’s not even half as smart as my Daniel. She totally didn’t deserve to get that spot.”

  “And Inglenook?”

  “Right. That boy was a hooligan. Not as bad as the one from Green Acres, though. He’s nothing but pond scum.”

  “But the other kid was different, right? Super bright, from what I heard. Maybe the brightest kid in the state.”

  “The
girl from Putman? Are you kidding me? They basically took pity on—”

  “Stay here, Diane.” Devereaux grabbed her car keys and shoved her back toward the living room door. “I’ll be back with more news for you very soon.”

  Chapter Seventy-three

  Wednesday. Evening.

  Devereaux weaved through the residential streets of Vestavia Hills and then made a left onto Lake Parkway, figuring he could more than offset an extra couple of miles on the way to Putman school by sticking to the fastest roads. He called Dispatch to request backup units and a fire truck, pulled around a dawdling furniture delivery van, then left a voicemail for Lieutenant Hale.

  The replica of the Statue of Liberty filled Devereaux’s rearview mirror as he was about to cross the Cahaba River, parallel with I-459. She was high up on her stone pedestal, looming a ghostly green against the rapidly darkening sky. Devereaux noticed that the flame in her torch had already been lit. That didn’t usually happen until later in the evening, he thought. And it didn’t strike him as a good omen, given the circumstances.

  Devereaux passed the giant sign for Hamburger Heaven then zigzagged through the intersection from Crestwood onto Montclair before both roads dived beneath I-20. Putman school came up on the left after another third of a mile. Devereaux followed its narrow driveway through the tall, lopsided pine trees that screened the main building from the street. The neat rectangular structure was made of brick. It was two storeys high, with wide, white-framed windows and five glass pyramids evenly spaced along its roof to bring extra light to the second-floor classrooms.

  There was no sign of smoke or flames, and all the parking spaces that were randomly dotted around between the trees were empty. Devereaux felt a stirring of doubt. Could Diane McKinzie have misled him again? She’d seemed sincere when they’d spoken. She may have been a little worse for wear, but she wasn’t stupid. Surely she understood the consequences of not helping to find Daniel. But she was the boy’s mother. She’d already gone to crazy extremes to shield him. If she somehow thought she was protecting him again now by lying, Daniel could be anywhere…