False Friend

by Andrew Grant

  “Forget the car. Why did you want the toluene?”

  “To sell it. I know a guy who buys it. For making meth.”

  “You’re an idiot. You need to give us this guy’s name. And then you need to stop this bullshit. Clean yourself up. Get yourself a job. And a new car. Because if I ever see you again…” Devereaux hooked the sharp tip at the curved edge of the crowbar under the guy’s chin, lifted it an inch, looked him in the eye, then turned and walked away.

  Devereaux turned back after two steps. “Actually, one more question. Why pick tonight to steal the toluene?”

  “Tonight was my last chance.” The guy tried to rub his chin on the neck of his T-shirt. “They’re getting a new alarm tomorrow.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I saw it on the Tribune’s website.”

  “It’s a new fire alarm they’re getting, you cretin. And if anyone else asks about that, keep your mouth shut.”

  —

  The detectives did rock-paper-stone on the way back to the surveillance truck to see who would break the news to the lieutenant. Garretty won. He declined the honor. But after they climbed inside and closed the door, Devereaux didn’t even get the chance to open his mouth.

  “I just got off the phone with the captain.” Hale’s expression was grim. “Green Acres Middle School’s on fire.”

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Wednesday. Morning.

  Where was she?

  Diane McKinzie opened her eyes. She tried to move her head, but her neck was too stiff. So she moved her eyes, instead. She saw tall bookshelves. A pair of framed New Yorker cartoons on the wall between them. A chandelier with a missing shade. It was her own living room! She was on the couch. And she was under a blanket. She didn’t remember fetching one from the cupboard. She didn’t remember deciding not to head for the safety of her bedroom. Didn’t remember anything she’d done after dinner, the previous night.

  She checked the time. Eight o’clock. She was late! She’d have missed her meeting with Detective Devereaux! This was a disaster. She had to fix it before Kelly Peterson found out. Where was her phone? She fumbled around until she found it, and saw it was on silent. Which was weird. And that she had a voicemail. She played it as she hurried upstairs to change her clothes.

  Unsurprisingly, the message was from Devereaux. But he wasn’t chiding her for not turning up. He was canceling on her! And apologizing. Something about unforeseen developments. And asking for a favor. For her not to stress the link when she wrote the story. What link? What story? What on earth was going on?

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Wednesday. Morning.

  “Did you mention your Ferrari to any of the guys in here?” Devereaux took a sip of coffee and smiled at Adama across the dented metal table.

  Adama didn’t reply.

  “No?” Devereaux took another, longer sip. “That’s probably wise. You see, mine’s a loaner. But you chose yours. People might start to wonder why…”

  “This is it?” Adama’s voice was hoarse. “You’re here to insult me? To gloat? After you totally framed me?”

  “The insults are a bonus. A kind of karmic payment-in-advance for the thing I have to do next, this morning, which is really going to suck. I’m actually here to find out if you’re happy to stay, or if you want to be released.”

  “I’m going to be released, asshole.”

  “You probably are, yes.” Devereaux frowned, as if weighing a complex problem. “But when? The courthouse is swamped, these days. Cases drag and drag. And while you’re in here, I may decide to look into the charges against you myself. I’m a very good investigator. Did you know that? I’m actually so good, I can find evidence even when none exists…”

  “All right! Then I want to be released. Right now.”

  “Then you know what to do.”

  “Yes. OK. I’ll tell you about Joseph Oliver. His address. His alias. Everything.”

  “That’s good. But it’s no longer good enough. Circumstances change. Prices rise. You’re a businessman, right? You understand these things.”

  Adama closed his eyes. “What else do you want?”

  “I found out some interesting things after our little tête-à-tête last night. Like for example that you own the store Dave Bateman used to work at.”

  “Right. I gave him that job. I was trying to help the guy.”

  “Give it back to him. Give him a raise. And make sure the manager knows that whatever Bateman does—even if he comes to work naked, craps on the carpet, and sets the place on fire—he doesn’t get fired. Ever again.”

  Adama scowled. “OK. But that’s it, right?”

  “Just a couple more things. You’re going to buy Bateman a new car. Nothing fancy like yours, just something decent. American. You’re going to pay for him to have a cleaning service at his house. Say, twice a month. You’re going to send him on a nice, weeklong vacation, once a year. Somewhere in the United States. And you’re going to have him to dinner at your house, once a month.”

  “Not dinner.”

  “Twice a month.”

  “Once a month.” Adama held up his hands. “But only if my wife doesn’t have to be there.”

  “Deal. Now, they don’t allow sharp implements in here, but you have my details. Email me the information about Oliver the minute you’re home.”

  Adama rolled his eyes, then nodded.

  “And Bill? I’d like to think we now have a relationship built on trust and understanding. But if by any chance your email doesn’t arrive? Or the information it contains turns out to be inaccurate—”

  “I know. I’ll be back here on some other bullshit charge.”

  “Oh, no. You misunderstand. See, I’m going to find Oliver, even if you don’t help me. And when I do, let’s say he has some kind of accident. For sake of argument, an extremely painful and ultimately fatal accident. Now, if I was pissed with you, what good would it do me if you had an alibi?”

  ANOTHER ENTRY IN THE SAD LITANY OF FAILURE?

  The voyage of the Titanic. The flight of the Hindenburg. The launch of the Challenger space shuttle. The FBI’s attempt at catching the genius. What do these things all have in common? They were all complete disasters!

  People throughout the city are shaking their heads, and many are laughing out loud at the so-called experts and their doomed, feeble-minded strategy to outwit the genius. What will they do next? the people ask. And whatever they try, will it make a difference?

  A resounding NO is this reporter’s prediction. How can anyone compete with the genius’s superior intellect? It was too much on its own for the dullards in public service to cope with. And now that a source of inside information has been added to the mix? There’s only one possible outcome. Crushing defeat for the FBI. And inevitable triumph for the genius. If this was a game, the only detail yet to be established would be the margin of victory!

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Wednesday. Morning.

  Devereaux was the last to arrive.

  Captain Emrich was standing behind his desk holding the little rake from his Japanese garden, and he used it to punctuate the air as he spoke. “This tardiness had better be related to the case, Detective.”

  “Absolutely, Captain. I was just brushing up on my Arthur Miller.” Devereaux nodded to Irvin and Lieutenant Hale, then took the seat next to Garretty. “I thought a working knowledge of The Crucible might be a good thing, this morning.”

  “If I may, Captain?” Hale flashed Devereaux a look that said not another word. “OK. First thing. Chief Young sends his apologies. He can’t make it this morning due to the aftermath of last night’s incident. But he has sent me some information. He says the damage at Green Acres was severe. Worse than at Jones Valley.”

  “Was it the same kind of device?” Emrich set the rake down on his desk and took his seat. “Homemade napalm again?”

  “He believes it was.” Hale nodded. “But the real kicker this time? Green Acres had an updat
ed sprinkler system. Someone had disabled it. Presumably, the arsonist.”

  “Smart move,” Garretty said. “Maybe he learned from Inglenook.”

  “Maybe he learned from history.” Devereaux thought back to the movies he used to watch with his father. “In World War II, for the big bombing raids in Europe, the first thing they’d do was pound the hell out of the places in the cities with water mains running through them. Then when they followed up with the incendiaries, there was nothing to put out the flames.”

  “Or maybe, back in the twenty-first century, he read the article the Bureau planted on the Tribune’s blog.” Emrich was back to brandishing his rake.

  “It’s possible that the perp read the blog and adapted, yes.” Irvin kept her hands clasped on her lap. “But it’s more likely that word of the operation leaked. There are at least three people we’re aware of outside the department and the Bureau who knew of the plan. Diane McKinzie and Kelly Peterson at the Tribune. And Keith Johnson at the Board of Ed. I know that McKinzie’s and Johnson’s backgrounds were already checked, and that Johnson was actually interviewed after the Jones Valley fire. My boss had them checked again this morning. I’ll email all of you the results, for the file. Following on from that, I think our next move should be to talk to each of them.”

  “Did you find anything we missed, on the backgrounds?” Devereaux asked.

  “No.” Irvin shook her head. “We just noticed one thing, and it’s new. One of them picked up a traffic ticket. Ran a red light. Last night. Diane McKinzie. It’s a surprisingly cool car, hers, actually.”

  “Then are we agreed? Interviewing them’s the way to go?” Hale glanced at each person. No one objected. “OK. Which of them first?”

  “I’d start with Johnson,” Irvin said. “He’s worked across the school system his entire career, and three fires suggest someone’s carrying a pretty broad grudge.”

  “Makes sense to me.” Devereaux got to his feet. “What are we waiting for? Come on. Let’s get started.”

  “Cool your jets, Detective.” Emrich got up and moved around his desk. “Doing some more interviewing is all we’ve got? After a third school has gone up in smoke? Give me something more proactive!”

  “A minute ago you implied that doing something proactive was what got the third school burned down.” Devereaux made a show of rubbing his chin. “And now you want us to do something more proactive. What’s the story, Captain? Are you in a sweep to see which will be the next school to go up?”

  “OK, guys.” Hale held out her arms. “We just need to find the right balance. It certainly makes sense to regroup right now. Make sure we’re covering the basics. That way we can prepare the ground for more…proactive…ideas as soon as possible after that. Right?”

  “Right.” Irvin nodded. “And I actually have one other idea that’ll help bridge the gap. I think it’s time we start to consider the possibility that there might be more to these fires than just revenge. There might be something deeper, psychologically. And in case that’s true, I think we should launch a tip line. Invite the public to call in and help.”

  “Why?” Emrich sneered at the idea. “You think someone’s going to call in and give up the arsonist, but only if there’s a special number?”

  “No.” Irvin stuck out her chin. “Based on the pattern that’s starting to emerge, I think the arsonist himself will call.”

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Wednesday. Morning.

  Diane had intended to call her hopefully soon-to-be new best friend, Agent Irvin, so she was surprised to see that her fingers actually dialed Detective Devereaux’s number. She spotted the difference in time to hang up before he answered, but decided to go with it, anyway. Let fate be her guide. Everything happens for a reason, she told herself.

  “Detective! It’s Diane McKinzie. I’m so glad I caught you. I wanted to tell you in person how sorry I am about what happened at Green Acres school last night.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t your fault. We knew from the get-go there were risks. It comes with the territory.”

  “I get that. But still. I feel just awful that a plan I helped to set in motion went so horribly wrong. I hope you didn’t get in any trouble with your job?”

  “Me? No. And anyway, me and trouble with the job are old friends. We go way back.”

  She had heard stories…

  “I’m glad, Detective. And I hope this doesn’t put me in your bad books. I know how superstitious some of you cops are.”

  “Not me.”

  “That’s good. Did you see my column this morning, by the way? I did like you asked and kept the focus away from any link between the fire and that last piece you guys had me post.”

  “I saw it. You did a great job. Very subtle.”

  “Thanks. I had to cover Green Acres, obviously. And keeping away from the link wasn’t easy. It’s the kind of thing readers can quickly catch on to on their own. I figured the best way to keep them off the scent was to bury them with details about the new fire. I’m pretty much out of material now, though, is the problem. So about that fire, Detective. Is there—”

  “Are you trying to hustle me, Diane?”

  “No! Absolutely not. I could just use a little help, is all. If there’s anything you could give me…”

  “Tell you what. How about this? I have something to attend to right now. It’ll either take all day, or I’ll be in and out in five minutes. Assuming it’s the latter, I could drop by the newspaper as soon as I’m done. We could sit down, put our heads together, see what we can come up with.”

  “Brilliant idea, Detective. I’ll see you soon.”

  —

  Diane was surprised by how much she was starting to like Detective Devereaux. She’d known of him for years, of course. But she’d only really thought of him as a faceless cop. Well, a faceless cop with more than his share of skeletons, if the local scuttlebutt was to be believed. How much of that could be true? Maybe she could write an article about him. Come at him sideways, and uncover the truth that way. Her father had written about Devereaux’s father. She could write…

  Wait. First things first. She needed information about the fire. Devereaux seemed to play his cards pretty close to the vest, so she’d have to be right on her game when he arrived. Was there time to go home and change? No. But that didn’t matter. Finding somewhere private to talk was much more important. Not the Goldfish Bowl again, though. What about the Supervisor’s Office? Maybe Daniel would agree to swap it for her desk? She’d only need to trade places for an hour or so…

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Wednesday. Morning.

  “There’s still no answer from his extension.” The receptionist at the Board of Education building—Brenda Lee, according to her name badge—didn’t seem too concerned, though. She pulled a dog-eared beige ring binder from a nook near her right knee and started to leaf through its pages. “Why don’t you gentlemen take a seat? I’ll soon track him down, I’m sure. He is expecting you?”

  “He certainly is.” Devereaux leaned on the counter, which he thought looked more like a fireplace. It had a broad marble top in place of a mantel and a square-edged grooved pillar at each side. Behind it Brenda Lee keyed in another couple of numbers without getting an answer, then shot out a plump arm.

  “Hey, there’s Julie.” She waved frantically. “Julie! Come here a minute!” Then she turned to Devereaux and Garretty and lowered her voice. “Julie works on Mr. Johnson’s floor…”

  A short woman in her forties with a neat plaid skirt and brown cardigan made her way over from the base of the stairs.

  “Hey, Bren.” Julie tried to surreptitiously check out the two visitors. “Do you need something?”

  “Yeah. I’m trying to find Mr. Johnson. These gentlemen have an appointment with him but he’s not answering his phone. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  “Keith Johnson?” Julie looked surprised. “Sure I have. He left.”

  “Are you certain?�
�� Devereaux shot a glance at Garretty.

  “Absolutely. I saw him go.”

  “When was this?”

  “Twenty minutes ago. Twenty-five, max. I heard him slam down the phone, and then he came racing out of his office looking like he’d seen a ghost. He took the back stairs. And he was running so fast I was half frightened he was going to fall. Probably heading for his car. He likes to park on that side of the site.”

  Devereaux and Garretty stepped away from the counter.

  “And it looks like we have a winner.” Devereaux reached for his phone. “We need his plates out over the air. And let’s get a radio car to his address, just in case.”

  “That prick.” Garretty scowled. “I really believed he was on the level. I poured my life into those schools. What an asshole.”

  “Excuse me, Detectives!” Brenda Lee was waving her arm again. “Look.” She pointed to the corridor that ran down the side of the stairwell. Keith Johnson was standing there, bent almost double, his hands propped against his knees, his hair astray, and his glasses in danger of slipping off his nose.

  —

  Upstairs in his office Johnson retreated behind his desk and pulled a bottle of water out of a drawer. “Do either of you guys want one?”

  Garretty shook his head. Devereaux took a moment to check his email. Nothing from Adama.

  “OK, Keith.” Devereaux waited until Johnson had sucked down half the bottle. “Want to tell us what that was all about?”

  “Nothing.” Johnson set the bottle on a round Birmingham in Bloom coaster on his desk and looked down at the floor. “And I’m here now. So shall we get started?”

  “Skipping out on an appointment with two BPD detectives is not nothing, Keith. Do you realize how much heat you almost brought down on yourself?”

  “I’m sorry.” Johnson’s face turned scarlet. “It’s embarrassing. Look, I got pranked, OK? By my neighbor. We use the same housekeeping service. They come every Wednesday, and he called and told me that one of the women told him that there’d not been much to do in my house today—which is true, it was very tidy when I left for work this morning—so she’d taken my cavies outside to the back yard so the little guys could have a change of scene and somewhere new to explore. Can you imagine? Long-haired Peruvians? Guinea pigs? Outside? In this climate? They’d all be dead! It’s crazy, but I was halfway to my house before I realized he was pulling my leg.”