False Witness

by Andrew Grant

  “Oh—you mean Siobhan.” McAuley threw up his arms. “I always called her Vonnie. That’s why I was slow to catch on. What do you want to know?”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Oh, wow. It must have been, like, two years ago. When she was pregnant. Her parents didn’t approve of me and she didn’t have the backbone to stand up to them, so we pretty much parted ways.”

  “And when did you last speak to her?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. Somewhere around the same time, I guess.”

  “You’re lying again, Kevin. I know you called her. More than once. Sometimes you threatened her. Sometimes you begged. Depending on—” Devereaux sniffed the air “—whether you were drunk or stoned.”

  McAuley leaned against the wall. “OK. We talked on the phone. Sure. I thought you meant, like, face-to-face, when you said talked.”

  “I’ll let that go if you tell me when you last saw Deborah Holt.”

  “I don’t know who that is.” McAuley brought his arms up to protect the sides of his head. “Really! I don’t. Please don’t go crazy.”

  “OK. In that case, where were you on Friday afternoon?”

  “Why?”

  “Where were you?”

  “I was here.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Watching TV.”

  “What was on?”

  “Survivor. I DVR’d it.”

  “Who got voted off?”

  “I don’t know. I fell asleep before the end.”

  “Can anyone confirm you were here?”

  “No. I was on my own.”

  “OK. What about Thursday afternoon? Where were you then?”

  “Same thing. I was here.”

  “Alone again?”

  “That’s right.”

  Devereaux picked up a coffee cup from the floor next to the couch. The dregs were congealing in it, but were still semi-liquid. And there was lipstick on the rim.

  “So I had female company.” McAuley took a step toward Devereaux. “So what? She’s married, so we’re keeping it on the DL. What’s that to Siobhan? What’s she saying I’ve done? Because let me tell you, she’s no angel. How do you think we met? But listen. I was ready to give all this up for her. Straighten myself out. Get a job. Be a father. And a husband, if she’d have me. I wanted that kid! But she wasn’t interested. She gave my baby away so she could carry on partying, or whatever she’s up to these days.”

  “This female who was keeping you company. She was here Friday afternoon?”

  “Yes.” McAuley slumped back against the wall. “She leaves work early Fridays. Comes over at lunchtime and stays all afternoon. That way she can get home at her regular time, and her husband doesn’t suspect a thing.”

  “I’ll need her name and contact details.”

  “No way.” McAuley held his hands out. “Her husband’s a monster. If he finds out, he’ll kill me.”

  “You should have thought of that before you started sleeping with his wife.” Devereaux took out his notebook. “Here are your options. Give me her name and contact details. Or I’ll take you to jail.”

  “For what?” McAuley crossed his arms. “I haven’t done anything illegal.”

  Devereaux crossed to the bookcase and picked up the bible. “This looks familiar. I have one around the same size.” He opened the book and revealed a compartment full of bags of dope and pills. “It looks like we’re going with option B. Taking you to jail.”

  “No, wait.” McAuley moved closer to the bookcase. “I can explain. That bible’s not mine. I didn’t know there was anything inside. It was here when I moved in, and I never even opened it.”

  “This is your last chance, Kevin.” Devereaux took his handcuffs out of the leather pouch on his belt. “Give me the name of someone who can alibi you for Friday.”

  “OK.” McAuley’s body sagged. “OK. I’ll tell you. Just please, try to be discreet. Why’s this so important, anyway?”

  “It’s important because Siobhan was murdered on Friday.”

  “Holy shit.” McAuley stepped back, his eyes suddenly wide and full of fear, and he reached out to lean on the wall for support. “And you think I did it?”

  “Maybe.” Devereaux dangled the cuffs from his finger. “You were pissed about what she did with your kid. You said so.”

  “Not that pissed!” McAuley’s eyes bulged even wider. “I’m over it. I’ve got a good thing going here. No way would I risk it over paying back some ex.”

  “We’ll see.” Devereaux stopped swinging the cuffs. “In the meantime, give me a good reason not to take you in for the dope.”

  “Come on, Detective.” McAuley sounded like a kid wheedling for more candy. “That’s just for personal use. It’s not like I’m a big-time dealer or something.”

  “You never help out a friend? Or a friend of a friend, maybe?”

  “You know how it is. A buddy might come over, once in a blue moon. We might get a little mellow together. But nothing beyond that. I swear.”

  Devereaux moved back to the couch and took hold of a sleeve that was peeping out from underneath. He pulled it out. It belonged to a hoodie. The pink camo pattern was similar to ones he’d seen in the kids’ and teens’ sections of clothing stores he’d been to with Alexandra and Nicole. And it was small. It would barely fit a fifteen-year-old, if that.

  “Does this belong to your female companion?” Devereaux grabbed McAuley by the throat. “Are you sure it’s not school she’s missing, not work? And her mom she’s keeping you a secret from, not her husband?”

  “No!” McAuley tried to wriggle free. “No. Someone else left that. She was here for a different reason.”

  “A customer?” Devereaux didn’t loosen his grip.

  “No.” McAuley grabbed the hand Devereaux was holding on to him with. “She’s a buddy’s little sister. He was supposed to be watching her, but his girlfriend—”

  “Forget it.” Devereaux spun McAuley around and grabbed his wrist. “You’re getting arrested.”

  “OK.” McAuley stopped struggling. “Go ahead. Take me in. How long do you think I’ll be in the cell for? I have a lawyer. He’ll get me straight back out. And then I’ll sue you for wrongful arrest.”

  “You know what?” Devereaux secured the first cuff. “You might be right. You might get straight back out. But I have to give the system a chance to do its job. After that, all bets are off.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “My partner’s not with me today. He’s in the hospital. He got hurt trying to catch the scumbag who killed Siobhan. But if he was here, I’m pretty sure he’d tell you a story about one of his first cases. So I’ll tell you a story about one of mine, instead. Actually, it’s about a cop I once knew. He was a big influence on my career. The biggest, in fact. Now, this guy, he had a particular way of working. He understood that justice and the law aren’t always the same thing. Sometimes the system needs a little help. Here’s an example. He once locked up an asshole who sold drugs to kids. The asshole beat the rap. The cop came back after a couple of days. The asshole was up to his old tricks again. And then he disappeared. His body was found in an abandoned furnace. No one knows how it got there. No one wasted any time trying to find out. Because here’s the thing. No one cares about small-time asshole dealers. They can take major ass kickings—or wind up dead—and no one even notices.”

  Sunday. Late morning.

  Devereaux had called for two backup units. One to take McAuley into custody and another to secure his apartment until the crime scene guys could process it. The second patrol car had taken forever to arrive, which left Devereaux seething with impatience, so as a result he took 20 and 280 to get to Mrs. Holt’s house. Avoiding the residential streets in that way added a little distance, and given the lightness of the traffic due to most people still being at church, there was no guarantee it saved any time. But it did enable Devereaux to be more generous with the gas, and the sensation of moving fast always made
him feel better.

  Devereaux eased the Porsche into the narrow driveway and rolled down the gentle slope, coming to a stop just in front of the entrance to Mrs. Holt’s garage. The structure was framed by tall, mature trees, and their leaves splashed four distinct shades of green against the clear blue of the sky. Devereaux sat for a moment and gazed up at the star-shaped pattern left by half a dozen planes’ contrails. He was suddenly reluctant to get out of the car. He hated dealing with grieving relatives. They could be so unpredictable. He wished Garretty was there. He was so much better in situations that called for high degrees of sensitivity. As it was, all Devereaux could do was hope that whatever the outcome—strike out, or hit the jackpot—the visit wouldn’t drag on for too long.

  There was no answer when Devereaux rang the doorbell.

  “Mrs. Holt?” He tried knocking, instead. “It’s Detective Devereaux. We met on Friday. I have a couple more questions I need to ask you. It won’t take long, I promise.”

  There was still no response from inside the house. The driveway had been empty when he arrived, but it had also been that way on Friday when Mrs. Holt was home. Plus it was dotted with oil stains, suggesting that was where Deborah used to keep her old Chevy. Devereaux moved to the side of the garage and peered in through the window. The glass was grimy, but he could make out the shape of a car parked inside. A Toyota Camry. Not the latest model. Was it possible that Mrs. Holt had taken a walk somewhere? Devereaux doubted it. She’d told him she wasn’t a churchgoer, and there weren’t any stores nearby. Or parks, if you assumed that Mrs. Holt didn’t have the legs for the climb up to Vulcan, which was the only place nearby worth visiting.

  Devereaux returned to the front door and rang the bell one more time. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed Mrs. Holt’s number. He could hear the old-fashioned jangle of the ringer coming from somewhere inside the house, but the call tripped over to an answering machine without being picked up.

  Mrs. Holt didn’t have any family. She hadn’t mentioned any friends. She hadn’t driven anywhere. And there was nowhere to walk to. Where could she have gone? If she’d gone anywhere. Devereaux hurried across the lawn toward the street. The neatly cut, brownish grass crunched slightly beneath his feet, and he noticed that scrawny strands of ivy were trying to make their way up the post that supported Mrs. Holt’s mailbox. He reached it and looked inside. There was a late birthday card for Deborah. Two bills. And an event invitation from the Civil Rights Institute. They must have been there since the previous day, as there’s no delivery on Sunday. Was Mrs. Holt the kind of person to leave her mail out for twenty-four hours? She hadn’t struck Devereaux that way. Although grief can change how people behave, of course.

  Another thought struck Devereaux as he walked back toward the house. He took his phone back out of his pocket and pulled up the photograph he’d taken of the text Deborah had sent her mother. That showed Mrs. Holt’s cell number, so he tried giving it a call. It took much longer to connect than the landline had, but as he reached the front door once again he could hear ringing from somewhere inside the house. Ringing, but no answer. He waited for voicemail to kick in, then followed the path around the side of the building. The first window he came to looked into the living room. The room seemed neat and cozy, just as it had on Friday. Next up was the kitchen. Everything in there looked orderly, too. There was a bowl on the draining rack, and a mug and a spoon. Two bananas and an apple nestled in the fruit basket. A clean tea towel was hanging on the rail. Nothing was broken. Nothing was out of place.

  Still uneasy, Devereaux turned and started to make his way back to his car. He was probably worrying about nothing, he told himself. Mrs. Holt probably just wanted some privacy, after what had happened to her daughter. She was probably too grief stricken to talk to anyone. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to shake the feeling that he was missing something. Then he stopped dead. The cats! Where were they? There was no sign of them. Or their litter trays. Their water bowls. The pretty embroidered mats where Mrs. Holt gave them their food…

  —

  Devereaux found Mrs. Holt in her bed, in her room next to Deborah’s on the second floor. She was propped up on a mound of pillows, looking for all the world as if she was peacefully asleep. Except that her eyes were open and her gaze was locked forever onto a photo album that was lying open on her lap. The pages were full of pictures of Deborah as a baby. Other albums were stacked up on the floor. Baby clothes were fanned out on the empty side of the bed. A soft toy was on the nightstand. A threadbare rabbit. It was lying next to an empty bottle of pills and a glass. Of water, Devereaux noted. Not whiskey.

  At least she was no longer alone, he thought, as he reached down to close her eyes.

  Sunday. Early afternoon.

  Devereaux could hear the voices from the elevator lobby, long before he was close enough to knock on the apartment door.

  “Answer it, then, jackass!” The woman’s voice was ferocious.

  “You answer it, you lazy bitch.” The man’s was equally hostile. “Why should I have to do everything?”

  “Don’t make me laugh. You don’t do anything. If I didn’t—”

  Devereaux knocked again, harder. “Birmingham PD. Open up.”

  Footsteps approached from inside the apartment and a second later the door opened and a man peered around the edge, his face a little flushed. He was around six feet tall, slim, unshaven, with untidy brown hair.

  “Dean Sullivan?” Devereaux showed his badge. “I have a couple of questions, if this is a good time?”

  “You know, Detective, it’s a terrible time. Could we maybe do this later? Maybe tomorrow? It’s like a war zone in here right now.”

  “Let me explain something to you, Dean.” Devereaux took a step closer. “When I asked if now was a good time for you? That’s what’s known as a social nicety. What I really mean is that I’m going to ask you some questions. Right now. You’re going to answer them to my satisfaction. Or you’re going to have a problem. Is that clear enough for you?”

  Sullivan opened the door the rest of the way and stepped back. “Just be careful. Watch where you walk. Don’t slip.”

  There was a white U-shaped countertop to the left, with a polished surface that glittered with silver flecks. A teakettle sat on a stove top. Next to that was a coffee machine. A stand mixer. A packet of cereal that had been knocked over. An empty knife block. Two empty wine bottles and one used glass. Two newspapers were spread out, open to reports of the murders. A woman had been reading them. She was heavily pregnant and was now patrolling the kitchen area like a boxer in a ring, waiting to see if her opponent would get up from the canvas.

  Beyond the countertop was the living area. There was a brown leather couch facing a large, wall-mounted TV. Extra speakers perched on the shelves on either side, which also held fifty or sixty books. Devereaux could see volumes of poetry. Art encyclopedias. Psychology texts. Computer manuals. All with colorful jackets that were psychedelically reflected in a sliding door that led to the balcony.

  Between the two spaces a broken vase lay on the blond wood floor. Water had pooled around it, along with shards of glass and a handful of broken stems and crushed petals that were all that remained of a bunch of multicolored tulips.

  “You better clean that up.” The woman stepped forward, her weight on her front foot as if she was ready to attack.

  “I’m not cleaning it up.” Sullivan sneered at her. “You clean it up. You broke it!”

  “Only because you made me! If you hadn’t—”

  “No one’s cleaning it up!” Devereaux stepped between them. “Not until I’m done here. Then you can sort it out between yourselves. Miss—what’s your name?”

  “Hayley King. Why? What did I do?”

  “Miss King, would you give us a moment?”

  “Happily.” She flounced away through an arch to the right of the room, continued into the bedroom, and slammed the door.

  “Let’s sit for a minute.”
Devereaux nodded toward the couch. “This is a nice place. How many bedrooms do you guys have?”

  “Two.” Sullivan sat at the far end.

  “That’s good. It’ll be useful when the baby comes. How much longer to go?”

  “Two weeks. Anyway, how can I help you, Detective?”

  “You can start by telling me where you were on Friday afternoon.”

  “Why? What’s this about?”

  “Things will move a lot quicker if I ask the questions and you stick to the answers. Friday afternoon. Where were you?”

  “At the movies.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Rush. It’s a motor racing movie. About Formula One, in Europe in the 1970s. The action sequences are unbelievable. The sound, the cinematography—it’s like you were really there, at the racetrack. And the crashes? The fires? They take your breath away.”

  “How did Hayley like it? I’m not sure my girlfriend would be so enthusiastic. She prefers musicals.”

  “Hayley didn’t come.”

  “Oh, now I’m really jealous. It’s been years since I got to sneak off to the movies on my own.”

  “Who said I was on my own?”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “No. I went with a friend.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Lucas Paltrow. He picked the movie, actually. It’s up his alley, him being an auto electrician. I wasn’t expecting to like it much, but it blew me away. There were these two guys, two drivers, they were total rivals, and the movie kind of focused on their stories and there was this accident, a huge crash, and a fire, and the one guy—I’m rambling, aren’t I? Lucas is always yelling at me about that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. What time did you get home?”

  “I’m not sure. It was pretty late. I hung out at Lucas’s for a while after we got back from the movie theater. I don’t know the exact time. Hayley might, though. You could ask her. She remembers that kind of thing.”

  “You mentioned that Lucas Paltrow’s an auto electrician. He employs a guy named Billy Flynn, isn’t that right?”

  “Yeah. Flynn’s a kind of charity case. He’s a complete moron. A trained seal would be more useful than him.”