False Friend

by Andrew Grant

  The figures formed a detailed financial record that someone had constructed for a corporation called Foughtthelaw Acquisitions, going back twenty-five years. It was an investment vehicle, specializing in long-term development projects in what were now some of the most gentrified districts of Birmingham. Nothing new had been added to its portfolio for over two decades, but the proceeds had continued to roll in and the value of the original properties had skyrocketed. One building, for example, had been purchased for $20,000. It was now estimated to be worth over $2.7 million.

  It was the first piece of real estate Devereaux had ever owned. He’d paid for it with a bag of cash he’d taken from a crack dealer, right before helping the guy leave town for good. It was another form of neighborhood improvement, he’d figured at the time. He didn’t regret it. He’d happily do the same thing again. Only he’d do a better job of hiding it. Foughtthelaw Acquisitions was the first smokescreen corporation he’d set up. It was from the days before the Academy, where he’d learned how to cover his tracks more effectively. Looking back, it was woefully inadequate. Alexandra had obviously linked it to him, due to its name and his love of The Clash. Joseph Oliver must have joined the dots, too, somehow. Though whoever he’d paid to pull the financial snapshot together was withholding two vital pieces of information. Where the capital had come from. And where the income was paid to. Not to mention all the tax code violations that were bound to be involved. The file was like a stick of dynamite without a cord or a detonator. Not a complete bomb. But more than enough to blow you to smithereens unless handled with extreme care.

  This business was no longer an inconvenience, Devereaux realized. He was no longer looking at an awkward conversation with Alexandra, or an embarrassing article in the local paper. He was looking at serious jail time if the information reached the wrong hands.

  He’d been wrong, back at the cabin. Stopping Oliver wasn’t a luxury, after all.

  It was a necessity.

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  Wednesday. Late evening.

  How was he still not arrested?

  Tyler Shaw flushed the toilet for the last time, dragged himself to the bedroom, and stood in front of his alcove. The officer had been right there. In that very spot. If he’d just reached out, pulled back the curtain, seen the icons…

  If Mr. Quinlan hadn’t stopped by the day before, and prompted him to deal with the smell…

  If the moron athlete had turned right instead of left, when he managed to slip away before the potion took its full effect…

  There were a lot of ifs. Lady Luck had tossed a lot of coins, these last few days. And every single one had come up in Shaw’s favor. That couldn’t be a coincidence. It had to show he was on the right path. And he didn’t have much further to go. A little more tidying up. A short drive, there and back. A good night’s sleep. A final run through the process. And then he’d be saying goodbye to the old, worthless Tyler. And hello to invincibility.

  Chapter Seventy-nine

  Wednesday. Late evening.

  Devereaux turned to the final sheet in the stack of papers from the envelope. It wasn’t printed, like the others. It was handwritten. A bold, blue dollar sign filled three quarters of the page. And a phone number was scrawled across the bottom.

  Devereaux called the number and was immediately greeted by a generic cellular network voicemail announcement. He tried again, and got the same result. This time he left a message:

  “Hello? My name’s Cooper Devereaux. I just saw your advertisement. I’m interested in what you’re selling, so call me back. As soon as you can. I’ll leave you my cell number so you can reach me direct.”

  Devereaux was frustrated not to reach Joseph Oliver right away, but he figured the delay wouldn’t be a major problem. Oliver wouldn’t do anything stupid as long as he believed he was going to get what he wanted. And the extra time would give Devereaux the chance to prepare himself a little more thoroughly. He thought for a moment, then opened the directory on his phone and pulled up an out-of-hours number for a contact who worked at the Support Services Bureau over on Fourth Avenue.

  “Devereaux?” Spencer Page answered on the second ring. “What can I do for you, buddy?”

  Page was something of a pariah to most of the detectives in the department. He’d come through the Academy, spent five years in uniform, and only switched to a support role after a long stay in the hospital due to a fire escape collapsing under him while he was chasing down a suspect. Superstitious cops feared that his bad luck would rub off on them. Macho cops sneered that he was too chickenshit to drag his patched-up ass back out on the street. But Devereaux didn’t react in either of those ways. He was never going to turn his back on someone else who’d reinvented themself. He thought Page had made a smart move. And he appreciated the real-world perspective that Page brought to the job. His time at the sharp end had taught Page that in some situations, corners need to be cut. Procedures flexed. Budgets ignored. Information kept on a need-to-know basis…

  “I need the location of a cellphone.” Devereaux reached for the piece of paper with the number scrawled across it. “I’m guessing it’s in Miami, but I need to be sure. And this needs to stay between you and me, Spencer. Nothing official. No court orders. No records.”

  “Goes without saying. When do you need the info?”

  “How soon can you get it?”

  “Depends which network the phone’s on. But within the hour, for sure. Leave it with me. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Devereaux hung up, took a can of Battlefield from his refrigerator, and crossed back to his living room window. He scanned the surrounding streets and offices, desperate for something to distract him from the impatience that was boiling inside him like acid. He saw that lights were still burning in two of the windows in the Wells Fargo building, half a mile away. Devereaux took a long pull on his beer and wondered who was there. Maybe a couple of guys vying for promotion. Prepping for some big deal they were desperate to win. Pretending to work late, but really having an affair. Or maybe—

  “Spencer?” Devereaux snatched up his phone the moment its screen began to glow. “Have you found it?”

  “No.” Page sounded disappointed. “Sorry, buddy. The phone’s switched off. There’s no way of knowing where it is. But I’ve flagged it. Discreetly. If it gets turned on, you’ll be the first to know. Besides me, obviously.”

  “Thanks, Spencer.” Devereaux swallowed back his frustration. “I appreciate the help. One last question, though. Can you tell where it was, the last time it was used?”

  “I tried for that, too. No dice there, either. The phone’s never made a call. Never received one, either. Only your two attempts tonight, which ended up in voice—”

  “Spencer—sorry.” Devereaux felt his phone vibrate. “Got to go. Another call’s coming in.”

  Devereaux disconnected, then realized it was a text he received, rather than another call:

  910. 2. 15?

  He didn’t recognize the number because it would belong to a burner phone, but he knew who the message was from. Tom Vernon. It was a code they’d used since their school days, only then they’d relied on paper rather than SMS: 910 was a lower number than 911, meaning the situation wasn’t urgent; 2 was their backup meeting place, Sloss Furnaces. And 15? was a question—meet in fifteen minutes? Hell, yes, Devereaux thought. Whatever Vernon had for him—whether he figured it was urgent or not—finding out had to be a million times better than sitting around doing nothing, driving himself crazy.

  —

  Sloss Furnaces was a jagged, rust-red slice of Birmingham’s industrial past, sandwiched between First Avenue North and the railroad, a mile east of the City Federal as the crow flies. Iron production had ceased there even before Devereaux’s father had died, and for years afterward the fate of the site hung in the balance as the developers and the conservationists slugged it out for control. Officially abandoned and unsafe, the place became a magnet for local kids. Devereaux had s
pent countless hours climbing the web of crumbling pipework, and the dozen rocket-shaped silos were ideal places to hide from irate foster parents. Back then Devereaux used to imagine they were escape pods, about to blast off and carry him away to a better world. Or at bleaker moments—especially when he was alone there at night—he imagined them as futuristic mining machines bursting back out of the ground, their pitted and scorched surfaces clear evidence of angry demons pursuing them up from the inner reaches of Hell. Now, though, the place was a National Historic Landmark. It had been for more than thirty years. That meant it was properly maintained, and secured at night. There was no way in after hours. Not officially, at least.

  Tom Vernon was waiting at the foot of the one remaining ladder in the brick annex to the main furnace building when Devereaux arrived. The days when they were happy to scurry up the worn iron rungs and disappear into the network of aerial girders at the first sight of an adult were long gone, but it was still their favorite meeting place on the site.

  “You got news already?” Devereaux embraced his old friend.

  “You know me. I don’t let the grass grow.” Vernon passed Devereaux a cellphone with a photograph open on its screen. “See what you think. That was taken at the address you gave me. Is it the guy you were looking for?”

  The image was small and the man in the picture was old and stooped, but Devereaux had no doubt. It was Joseph Oliver. “It’s him. When was this taken?”

  “An hour after we spoke. I had a guy I do business with in Miami get right on it. I was out of pocket when his message came in, so I couldn’t call you right away.”

  “No problem.” Devereaux felt the calm clarity begin to flow. He wouldn’t have to wait for Page to locate Oliver’s phone, after all. Or for Oliver to call him back. He could just hop on the first plane to Miami in the morning. Visit Oliver in person. See what he had to say for himself. “Is he still there? Is your guy still on him?”

  “This is why I wanted to see you, Cooper. There’s something you should know. I’m not sure what your deal was with this guy, but I have more news. A second message came. Not long after the first. The fact is, he’s gone, Cooper.”

  “As in, gone away? Gone to the airport?” Was that why his phone had been off? He’d been on a plane? Devereaux was trying to figure flight times, wondering if there’d still be the chance to intercept Oliver at Shuttlesworth if he was coming up to Birmingham, before he disappeared into the labyrinthine clutches of the city.

  “No, Cooper. He’s gone. As in, my guy saw him take a phone call. Drink a fifth of whiskey. Change into a suit and tie. And blow his own brains out with a nickel-plated .22.”

  Chapter Eighty

  Thursday. Early morning.

  Where was Daniel?

  Diane McKinzie sat up in bed, instantly wide-awake. Her head was pounding. Acid was burning her throat. Her heart was hammering its way out of her chest. What had Daniel done? She had to remember. Break it down, piece by piece. Smooth the edges. Soften the tone. Change the emphasis. Make it into something that other people could accept…

  Then she allowed herself to remember. Daniel had gone too far this time. He’d strayed from the protective shadow she’d strained for so long to cast over him. He was standing in the spotlight now, on his own, his actions plain for all to see. All. Including herself.

  Diane lay back down. Suddenly she didn’t feel afraid. She didn’t have to be scared that someone would discover her secret. That ship had sailed. Not only sailed, but gone down with all hands. Which meant she wasn’t responsible anymore. Daniel’s fate was no longer on her shoulders. She felt a little guilt, for all the people she’d misled. Disappointment, for not having been able to make everything perfect for her son. Disgust, for some of the lengths she’d gone to, like offering herself to that odious private school admission guy over dinner at Gianmarco’s on Sunday. Anger, at the condescending way he’d turned her down. But mostly she felt relief.

  Relief, because she didn’t have to lie anymore.

  To other people. Or to herself.

  Chapter Eighty-one

  Thursday. Morning.

  Devereaux was woken by his phone.

  His eyes had been shut for barely four hours when a Ramones riff started to blare out from his nightstand. He’d been too keyed up to sleep after meeting Tom Vernon at Sloss Furnaces the night before, and trying to weigh the implications of Joseph Oliver’s suicide had kept him awake even longer. Would Oliver’s demise make him safer? Or more vulnerable? Dead men can’t make blackmail demands. But how much incriminating material was out there? And where was it? Devereaux didn’t like the thought of some stranger—or worse, some lawyer—coming across whatever other information Oliver had stashed away about his past activities. And he couldn’t help but wonder about the timing. Why had Oliver decided to punch his own ticket that particular afternoon, after so many years living under the radar in the Florida sunshine? Tom Vernon’s guy said Oliver had taken a phone call right before eating his gun. Was that a coincidence? Had he received some kind of bad news that had pushed him over the edge? Or had someone tipped him off? Devereaux made a mental note to reach back out to Spencer Page. Have him find where that final phone call came from…

  I must change my ringtone again, Devereaux thought as he scrabbled for the Answer button. The irony of “I Wanna Be Sedated” was too much for him to bear at that time of the morning.

  “Detective? It’s Officer Jackson. Do you remember me? Your lieutenant sent me out to your cabin with a message, back in June. Anyway, I just started a tour in Dispatch, and I think I might have something for you.”

  “Jackson? OK. What have you got?”

  “It might be nothing, but I figured I should run it by you. Here’s the thing. We were told Tuesday that the Bureau was interested in anything that came up on a couple of guys. Diane McKinzie, a journalist. And Keith Barent Johnson, a pencil pusher at the Board of Ed. McKinzie ran a red light, or maybe her kid did, from what I hear, but we passed it on and it was slaps on the back all around. Then something much more crazy happened last night, and no one wanted to know.”

  “Because they already know, dummy. Daniel McKinzie was a collar for those school fires. He’s in a rubber room right now, at UAB.”

  “No, Detective. I’m talking about the other guy. Johnson.”

  “Oh. OK. What did he do?”

  “There was a report of a disturbance at his premises. A guy was running around outside, after midnight. Some kind of foreigner, apparently. He couldn’t speak any English. But he was making a hell of a ruckus. And get this. The guy was buck naked.”

  “What was the outcome?”

  “A unit responded. A couple of neighbors got involved. Another guy showed up, claiming to be romantically involved with the naked dude. No arrests were made, though. Anyway, I thought if this doesn’t fall under unusual activity, I don’t know what does.”

  “It does sound pretty weird. Thanks, Jackson. I’ll look into it, if I get the time.”

  —

  Devereaux sank back down, wondering why his bed always seemed so much more comfortable when it was time to get out of it, when a snippet of a conversation with Diane McKinzie floated back into his head. It was something she’d said to him on the phone, two days before. She’d been complaining about having to write some gossipy blog post about a guy disappearing from a club in town, including insinuations about his sexuality.

  Devereaux called Dispatch back and asked for Officer Jackson. “Check one thing for me. Have any single adult males been reported missing in the last week?”

  “Hold on.” Computer keys rattled, then Jackson came back on the line. “One has. Last seen Monday night. A professor. And there’s a note about a woman calling about her son, a graduate student, who didn’t come home last night. There’s no paper on that one yet. It’s too soon.”

  “Thanks, Jackson. I’m thinking I might go talk to that pencil pusher, after all.”

  Chapter Eighty-two

  Thu
rsday. Morning.

  Nothing woke Alexandra that morning. Because she hadn’t been asleep. She hadn’t even gone to bed. She’d hit the Zinfandel pretty hard after Devereaux left the previous evening, replaying their last conversation in her head and trying to make sense of what she’d seen in the two envelopes. The second one, in particular. She’d often wondered where Devereaux had gotten his money from. He’d always evaded her questions about his finances. But now she knew. About some of it, at least. She had no idea how many other pies he had his fingers in, though.

  Alexandra had moved to the lounge, taking the wine with her, and out of habit started looking at the evidence against Devereaux from the other side, searching for holes. For reasonable doubt. She didn’t expect to find any. Experience told her that people don’t invest legitimate money in illegal schemes. There are plenty of safer ways to build your nest egg, if you have nothing to hide. Ways that earn you interest, not prison sentences. But she hadn’t actually asked Devereaux where the seed money had come from. She’d only assumed it was ill-gotten. And even if it was, as far as she could tell from the figures, there’d been no further activity for twenty-plus years. Maybe Devereaux had done something wrong two decades ago. But should he be condemned for it forever? Because who hadn’t made a mistake, sometime in their life?

  At some point between that thought and the end of the second bottle, Alexandra had briefly dozed off, sprawled out on her couch. She’d immediately started to dream. She’d seen herself in court. She was arguing a case against Devereaux. Counsel for the defense was Devereaux’s father, lying dead on the floor but somehow speaking through the bullet hole that had killed him. Nicole was the judge, flanked by a pair of Barbie dolls. The jury box was twice the usual size. And it was full of the victims she’d seen in the photographs in the first envelope, complete with their knife wounds and severed limbs and oceans of blood.