by Andrew Grant
“Devereaux?” The guy put his hands on the wheel, where they’d be visible.
“Correct. Who are you?”
“My name’s Kendrick. And I don’t like having guns jammed into me.”
“That’s interesting. But unfortunately for you, the personal likes and dislikes of blackmailing assholes have never been a major concern of mine.” Devereaux pressed a little harder with his untraceable .22. “Although I do have your number, so I’ll be sure to let you know if that changes. Meantime, let’s not drag this out. You have something I want. If you’re smart, you’ll hand it over, and you’ll make sure I never see or hear from you again.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Don’t dick me around.” Devereaux increased the pressure even further.
“I don’t have it.” Kendrick hardened his tone. “My job’s to take you to the guy who does. That was always the plan. So your whole tracing my phone, or whatever you did, and breaking into my truck? That was a waste of time, Detective.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Devereaux drew back the gun and saw a small crescent-shaped smear of blood below Kendrick’s ear. “I wouldn’t say a total waste.”
Chapter Ninety-eight
Thursday. Afternoon.
Alexandra clapped her hands with relief. She had the answer! They’d take a vacation. Somewhere quiet. Relaxing. Beautiful. Where Nicole could play, and she could get time alone with Devereaux. Plenty of it. Uninterrupted. They could talk. Straighten things out. Lay the foundations for a real future together.
The only possible wrinkle in the plan was getting him to agree to take time off work. But Alexandra had the solution for that, too. She’d get Nicole to ask him. He’d never say no to his precious little daughter.
Alexandra hurried down the landing. She knocked on Nicole’s door. Opened it. Walked in without waiting for a reply. And saw her daughter sitting in the middle of her floor. She had a red marker pen in one hand and a Barbie in front of her. The doll was lying on its back on a piece of paper that had been colored in to look like it was covered with tiles. The doll’s legs were bent back so far they’d almost snapped. Its right arm had been pulled off. And one half of a pair of scissors was sticking out of its stomach.
“I’m hungry, Mommy.” Nicole didn’t look up from the tableau she was creating. “When’s Daddy coming home?”
“I don’t know, Pumpkin.” Alexandra was too shocked to lie. “Maybe never.”
Chapter Ninety-nine
Thursday. Late afternoon.
Kendrick tacked the Suburban onto the end of a line of SUVs that had been dumped as usual in a no-parking zone near the ambulance bay at UAB hospital. Then he jumped down and led the way past the fountain, around the reflecting pool, and in through the entrance to the main building.
The geriatric special care unit was down a level, in the basement. Devereaux had been there before, earlier in the year. He recognized the enclosed hum of the HVAC system and the bitter, oxygen-rich tang in the air as they approached its bleached, acerbic corridor. And he was again struck by the macabre image of the nearly dead being lined up so neatly, already underground.
Kendrick stopped outside the last of the five rooms on the left-hand side of the corridor and waited for its door to slide open. Then he stood back and gestured for Devereaux to go in ahead of him. There was an old man lying in the bed, wheezing loudly in his sleep. He was completely bald, though the paper-thin skin stretched across his chin and neck was flecked with white stubble. One shriveled hand lay on top of the crisp baby-blue sheet, with a clip on its middle finger attached to a wire running to a socket on the wall. Kendrick approached the bed and when the old man didn’t stir he reached down and gave the exposed hand a gentle squeeze.
“Granddad?” Kendrick leaned in close to the man’s ear. “Wake up. He’s finally here.”
The old man’s eyes slowly opened, bloodshot and watery, and his face twisted into a cruel, disdainful scowl that transported Devereaux back in time more than two decades.
“Chris Lambert.” Devereaux folded his arms across his chest. “You’re still breathing. What a shame.”
“Ever wish you had a time machine, Devereaux?” Lambert’s voice barely rose above a hoarse whisper. “I do. Let me tell you. I wish I had one right now. I’d go back and stop you joining the Academy. Make sure you went to jail instead, where you belong. But failing that, I reckon there’s another sweet spot I missed. From after that asshole Tomcik got too old for me to worry about him having your back. To before I got sick. That’s when we should have done our business. It’s too late for me to cash in now, I guess. But there’s no reason for my grandkids to miss out, right?”
“The smell of your breath’s making me sick.” Devereaux fanned the air in front of his face. “So’s your hypocrisy. Suppose I say screw your business. Invite you to bite me, instead. And leave you to take whatever secrets you think you know about me to your grave. Which I hope you’ll be filling very soon.”
“You could do that, I guess.” Lambert paused to weakly clear his throat. “But it would be an awful shame. My grandkids would have to make do with seeing you rot in jail rather than enjoy spending your money. And you’d have to spend however long it takes these days for a dirty cop to get shanked in the shower knowing that you’ll never learn the truth about your father.”
“I already know the truth about my father, you senile asshole.”
“You do?” A thin, mocking smile spread across Lambert’s face. “So you know he was innocent? That he was framed and murdered by a pair of crooked cops? And you have proof of this? Because I do.” Lambert tapped his forehead with his bony index finger. “It’s all up here.”
For Tasha—Tê kallistê.
Acknowledgments
I would like to extend my deepest thanks to the following for their help, support, and encouragement while I wrote this book. Without them, it would not have been possible.
My editor, the inimitable Kate Miciak, and the whole team at Random House.
My agent, the outstanding Richard Pine.
My friends, who’ve stood by me through the years: Dan Boucher, Carlos Camacho, Joelle Charbonneau, John Dul, Jamie Freveletti, Keir Graff, Kristy Claiborne Graves, Tana Hall, Nick Hawkins, Dermot Hollingsworth, Amanda Hurford, Richard Hurford, Jon Jordan, Ruth Jordan, Martyn James Lewis, Rebecca Makkai, Dan Malmon, Kate Hackbarth Malmon, Carrie Medders, Philippa Morgan, Erica Ruth Neubauer, Gunther Neumann, Ayo Onatade, Denise Pascoe, Wray Pascoe, Dani Patarazzi, Javier Ramirez, David Reith, Sharon Reith, Beth Renaldi, Marc Rightley, Melissa Rightley, Renee Rosen, Kelli Stanley, and Brian Wilson.
Everyone at The Globe Pub, Chicago.
Jane and Jim Grant.
Ruth Grant.
Katharine Grant, my chemistry consultant.
Jess Grant, my anatomy consultant.
Alexander Tyska.
Gary and Stacie Gutting.
And last on the list, but first in my heart—Tasha. There’s still no shoe…
By Andrew Grant
Even
Die Twice
More Harm Than Good
RUN
False Positive
False Friend
About the Author
ANDREW GRANT was born in Birmingham, England. He attended the University of Sheffield, where he studied English Literature and Drama. He has run a small, independent theater company and worked in the telecommunications industry for fifteen years. Andrew is married to novelist Tasha Alexander, and the couple divides their time between Chicago and the UK.
andrewgrantbooks.com
Facebook.com/AndrewGrantAuthor
@Andrew_Grant
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