False Friend

by Andrew Grant

  “You have the advantage in numbers. I’ll give you that.” Devereaux tightened his grip. “Firepower, too. But time? That’s on my side. Unless you think you can outflank me inside two minutes without turning your boss into a pepper pot. Because that’s how long you’ve got before the police get here.”

  Nobody moved.

  “OK. Or we could try this, instead.” Devereaux produced the package he’d retrieved from his bookcase and held it out, keeping one arm around the briefcase guy’s neck. “Here. Take it.”

  “Throw it on the ground.” The guy’s voice was calm. “One of them can open it.”

  Devereaux pitched it forward, but it didn’t travel far.

  The right-hand guy lowered his shotgun, picked up the packet, and cautiously peered inside. “It’s full of hundred-dollar bills. At least twenty. Maybe more.”

  “A gesture of good faith.” Devereaux let his guy go. “I need a minute of your time.”

  —

  Devereaux nosed the Ferrari between the stained concrete pillars that carried I-59 above the divided section of First Avenue North and rolled to a stop in the debris-strewn no-man’s-land at the side of the bridge. He climbed out, avoiding a heap of dead flowers that were periodically refreshed by crazy people who thought they could see the Virgin Mary’s face in the supporting cement wall. The Tesla pulled up next to him, and a moment later he was joined by the guy whose neck he’d grabbed.

  “People call me Frank.” The guy held out his hand. “It’s not my real name.”

  “I know.” The guy’s real name was Slobodan Dzerko, but none of his original running buddies could pronounce it properly. Plus, when he was starting out on his chosen career path and had yet to attain his current level of sophistication, he thought it was cool to adopt a faux-friendly demeanor before putting the fear of God into anyone who crossed him. He liked to start with, Let me be frank with you…And the nickname stuck.

  Devereaux shook Dzerko’s hand.

  “You’re Cooper Demonbruen. No. Devereaux. I remember you. You always had a flair for the theatrical. Like when you set up that guy Giggs, with the French Maid’s costume and the Poodle? Then shot him down in flames in front of his whole crew? That was priceless. The guy was such an asshole. So, here. Take your money back. Tell me what you need.”

  “Thanks.” Devereaux put the cash back in his pocket. “Now, here’s my problem. I’m a little out of touch these days. Say I wanted someone to take a permanent vacation. Who would I talk to? If I wanted the job done right?”

  Chapter Forty-one

  Tuesday. Early morning.

  The dawn sneaked up on Alexandra under cover of the previous night’s whiskey haze, and the alarm jolted her awake before she realized she’d even been asleep.

  She shot out a tired arm to silence the clock then rolled over and reached across the bed, searching for Devereaux. Hoping he hadn’t left early for work again. Craving his arms around her. The sound of his soothing, not-ready-to-get-up-yet voice. And then the memory hit home. He hadn’t left that morning. He’d left the night before. When she’d pressed him for answers about those ghastly photographs. And that appalling man. Surely he couldn’t really be Devereaux’s father?

  The shower did little to invigorate her, and the coffee machine never got the chance. She was too distracted to deal with tamping down the espresso grounds or fitting all the fiddly little parts back together. She should have bought a different system, like the kind with the pods. She should have done a lot of things differently. Like with Devereaux. She was beginning to think she hadn’t handled the situation very well the night before. Was it likely he had a reasonable explanation for the contents of that envelope? No. Or for why he hadn’t told her before? Probably not. But she hadn’t even given him the chance. Isn’t that what trusting someone is supposed to be about? Giving them the benefit of the doubt?

  Non, je ne regrette rien started spontaneously playing in her head. It had been her favorite song in college. Her statement of intent. A blueprint for her adult life. And now Edith Piaf was mocking her across the decades from a half-forgotten South Bend dorm room. How disappointed her teenage self would be. Her very existence had become a festival of regrets. If only she could go back and change everything. Start over with a clean slate. And get Devereaux to start over with her.

  But then again, would there be any point? Can anyone ever really change?

  A CASE OF TWO STEPS FORWARD, ONE STEP—ANOTHER DAY!

  The temperature may have been high in the Magic City last night, but none of the heat came from a fire. Not at a school, anyway. That may have come as a surprise to the good people of Birmingham. Many of you may have expected the genius to keep up the momentum, and take the third consecutive step on the path to inevitable triumph.

  This reporter has been chosen to reveal the truth: In the genius’s original plan, another devastating inferno had been scheduled for last night. But, for reasons that cannot yet be revealed, the genius chose to change the plan! However, as the keenest observers amongst you will already have noted, the key word is change. It wasn’t a stumble. And it wasn’t a defeat. It was a case of the genius showing yet another extraordinary facet: tactical flexibility. Presented with an unforeseen circumstance, the genius adapted, and in the process threw the authorities yet another curveball…

  Chapter Forty-two

  Tuesday. Morning.

  Diane McKinzie had known the detectives on-and-off for years. She liked them well enough. She trusted them—as far as you can trust cops. She was intrigued by the older one, Devereaux, because she knew that her father had written a piece back in the day about his father getting murdered. But it was the FBI agent who really interested her. She was new to town. Probably had no friends yet. According to the phone message she was a profile coordinator. But what Diane heard was opportunity. This might be someone she could cultivate. Mine for information. Get an inside track from, into the arson case…

  Detective Garretty had left his message requesting the meeting the previous evening, after she’d crashed out for the day, so Diane had to start her Tuesday with a hustle. She had to call Garretty back, confirming the arrangements. Get to the office. Book a meeting room. Scare up coffee and cookies. And most importantly, deal with Daniel. He was still refusing to go to school, and she’d had no more luck in persuading him to stay home on his own.

  There was hardly anyone around these days who might even theoretically want to stop them and chat, so Diane was able to smuggle Daniel through the sea of vacant desks and into the empty Supervisor’s Office without dropping too much time.

  The only meeting room available at such short notice was, of course, the least popular. It was really a ten-by-fifteen section of the main reporters’ floor hived off with a glass door and glass panels for walls. The newspaper employees called it the Goldfish Bowl, because anyone moving around the office was drawn to stop and stare in at its occupants. The journalists hated it from the start, and only ever used it as a last resort. To add insult to injury it always seemed to be too hot inside because the Tribune’s master craftsmen had built it without enclosing a single air-conditioning outlet, and it was furnished with uncomfortable, mismatched castoffs from other parts of the building. Diane was almost embarrassed to show her guests into it, but they didn’t seem to mind. Although she thought they did look a little pompous with their gold shields on display, rather than wearing the standard building visitors’ tags.

  Devereaux got the ball rolling with the introductions, and then left Irvin to run through the details of what they wanted the Tribune to do. Diane listened attentively, smiling and nodding and doing everything she could to send friendly vibes to the newly arrived agent. Irvin was thorough. And by the end of her pitch, there was only one question left in Diane’s mind. If she said yes, what kind of leverage would it buy her? Putting her name to something she hadn’t written didn’t bother her. Nor did the fact that the story wasn’t strictly true. She was more than happy to flex her journalistic ethics
in order to help the community and stop a criminal—just as long as she could rely on a little quid pro quo, not too far down the line.

  “So we’re agreed?” Devereaux was surprised that Diane had rolled over so easily. He’d been expecting to hear all kinds of Woodward and Bernstein type bullshit, and maybe have to throw around a few threats about the IRS or late-night breath tests from the traffic detail. “You’ll do it?”

  “Absolutely. I just—” Diane caught sight of Daniel. He’d come out of the office and was standing next to her desk.

  “Ms. McKinzie?” Devereaux tried to see what she was staring at. “We’re agreed?”

  “Of course.” Diane tried to pull her attention back into the room. “Yes. I just need to run it past my editor, and we’ll be good to go.”

  “Is there any way we could go ahead without involving anyone else?” Devereaux lowered his voice. “Secrecy’s a major concern. The fewer people who know what we’re doing, the lower the risk.”

  “I get that. But—” Daniel was moving again. He was heading in Diane’s direction. “I’m sorry, Detective, there’s nothing I can do. I have to tell my editor. It’d be my ass, otherwise. But only her. She’s very professional. Very discreet. And very experienced. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s dealt with something like this before.”

  “OK. Just her, then. And I need you to emphasize the secrecy angle. Really hammer it home.”

  “No problem.” Daniel was going to barge into the room. Diane could feel it, and she was willing him not to. “I’ll handle it.”

  “Good. So, Agent Irvin will email you the final wording inside the next couple of hours. All I need you to do then is let me know when it’s live on the website.”

  “Perfect.” Daniel was right outside the door now, gesturing for Diane to hurry up. “I’ll let you know the second it goes up.”

  “If we don’t get a bite tonight, we’ll go for the print edition tomorrow. And—”

  “Mom?” Daniel took two steps into the room. “Are you nearly done here? I need your help. My computer keeps dropping off the stupid Wi-Fi.”

  Diane got halfway out of her seat, then sank back down. She simply could not summon any words. Devereaux turned to Garretty and shook his head. Garretty rolled his eyes in reply.

  “Hello, there.” Irvin twisted around to face Daniel, figuring that someone ought to break the silence. “Now, don’t worry. We just need your mom for a few more minutes. We’ll wrap things up as fast as we can, and then get her back to you, OK?”

  —

  It took Diane a few minutes, but she recovered a little of her composure on the way back to reception. Then she took Irvin’s arm and slowed her down slightly, allowing a gap to open up between them and the detectives.

  “Thanks for stepping in, back there.” Diane’s voice was still a little uneven. “With my son.”

  “No problem.” Irvin patted Diane’s hand. “What is it—Bring Your Kid to Work Day?”

  “Oh, no. This is nothing official. I’m just keeping him out of school right now because he’s working on a special project, for a competition—he’s a very keen scientist—so it makes more sense for him to come here and use the paper’s reference resources. I guess he just got a little carried away. He can go all tunnel-visioned when he’s near the end of something really complicated.”

  —

  Diane stayed downstairs shooting the breeze with the receptionists until she saw Irvin and the detectives pull out of the parking lot. Then she stepped outside and walked around to a small concrete alcove near the loading bay. The few remaining members of the paper’s smoking community often used it because it fell in a blind spot between two security cameras.

  Diane didn’t smoke, but she did carry matches. She took a book of them out of her purse and separated one. She struck it and watched, entranced, as the flame crept rapidly up the flat cardboard stem. All the way up to the tips of her fingers.

  She felt it sear her flesh.

  And she didn’t even flinch.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Tuesday. Morning.

  Was it the police?

  The blows rained down on Tyler Shaw’s front door, but they didn’t give way to a battering ram. Or to bullets. They showed no sign of stopping, either, so eventually Shaw risked taking a glance through the peephole. And relaxed. It was only Mr. Quinlan. His blowhard boss at Hawkins & Leach, where he worked.

  Shaw straightened his robe, tightened the cord, and slowly opened the door a crack.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, son?” The tip of Quinlan’s nose bobbed up and down when he yelled, and Shaw couldn’t take his eyes off it. “Why aren’t you dressed? And what are you staring at?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Quinlan.” Shaw managed to look down at the ground. “I’ve been working real hard these last few days, and it’s wiped me out. I must have slept through my alarm.”

  “You have not been working hard.” Quinlan’s voice gained another decibel. “Not nearly hard enough. You were OK your first couple of weeks, but it’s been all downhill since then. You’ve been coasting. Showing up late. Going home early. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

  “I’m sorry.” Shaw risked glancing up. “I didn’t mean to. I’ll turn it around.”

  “You better. Because I don’t care who vouched for you, or how high up they are at the Board of Ed. I’m not going to carry you. Here’s the way it goes. Strike one: You get a warning. And that’s what this is, in case you’re too dumb to realize.” Quinlan paused. Shaw had let the door swing open a little wider and a sickening, disgusting stench was starting to billow out into the street. Unless it was coming from the fire-damaged school across the street? “Strike two: You’re fired. Get it?”

  “I guess.” Shaw stifled a yawn. “But what about strike three?”

  “There is no strike three.” The smell was definitely coming from inside the house, and it was getting even stronger. “Are you clear about that, son? Because you need to be. One more screwup like this morning, and you’re out on your ass.”

  “Got it.” Shaw nodded. “Work harder. Don’t screw up. No problem. I can do that.”

  “You better.” Quinlan took a step back. “I’m docking you a day’s pay for today, but I want you at the depot inside half an hour, anyway. Understand? And I have one more question before I go. What in the name of all that’s good and holy is that smell? What have you been doing in there?”

  “Oh.” Shaw fiddled with the hem of his robe. “Is it that obvious?”

  Quinlan crossed his arms.

  “To tell the truth, sir, I’m ashamed.” Shaw shook his head. “Two weeks have gone by, I guess. Or maybe three? No, two. It was because I was so excited. About starting my new job. Anyway, I must have forgotten to feed them, because they all died. The fish. Twenty-four of them. I found them all one morning, just floating in their tank. Not moving. I know I should have buried them or something, or flushed them down the toilet, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. So they’re still there, right in my living room. And the water? The water’s the real problem, I think. It’s gone all green. And a bit brown. And—”

  “Get rid of them, you moron.” Quinlan turned and started back toward his truck. “And get dressed. Be at the depot. Half an hour. And remember: no strike three.”

  Shaw watched Quinlan’s truck turn onto 31st Street, then closed his front door. It hadn’t been the police, but it was still a close call. The smell had almost been the end of him. Because the truth was, he’d forgotten how strong it was.

  And how much he liked it.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Tuesday. Late morning.

  The Birmingham Board of Education’s two-story building straddles a fine line between elegant and austere. Its plain concrete façade is reserved and understated. Its rows of rectangular windows are perfectly proportioned. But the line of pillars supporting its horizontal canopy are a skinny, unadorned departure from the classical norm.

  The building
is located on Park Place. It’s right across the street from the actual park, a block-size square of bare soil, spindly trees, scrubby paths, and four dried-up pools; a reality unable to embody its designer’s grand vision in the face of the hot Alabama sun. Devereaux had often gazed out over it from the windows of Jefferson County Courthouse, which stretches along its east side. The Museum of Art is on the north side, between a concert venue and the county jail. But of most interest to Devereaux in that area was Sneaky Pete’s Hotdogs, half a block to the west. He was thinking that if the timing worked out, he might be able to grab an early lunch…

  Devereaux dropped the Charger in a space outside the building and immediately a guy appeared from behind the rusting, backward C-shaped sculpture in front of the main entrance. He was tall and painfully thin, and his neck protruded from the collar of his smart green shirt like he was a turtle. His hair was neatly parted, he had small round glasses, and his pants were immaculately pressed.

  “Are you the detectives?” The guy held out his hand. “I’m Keith Barent Johnson. I spoke to one of you on the phone. Pleased to meet you.”

  Devereaux was pleasantly surprised. He’d been expecting an earful from the guy about leaving the car in a no-parking zone.

  Johnson led Devereaux, Garretty, and Irvin to a small office on the second floor. He asked them to wait while he rounded up another chair, and Devereaux spent the time examining the items that were neatly lined up on the walls. There were educational qualifications behind the desk. Pictures of sailing boats on the left-hand wall. Certificates Johnson had won in chili cooking contests when he’d been in college in Texas on the right. And a giant, immaculately clean whiteboard to the side of the door.