False Positive is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Andrew Grant
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Grant, Andrew
False positive : a novel / Andrew Grant.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-345-54075-1
ebook ISBN 978-0-345-54077-5
1. Police—Alabama—Birmingham—Fiction. 2. Missing children—Fiction. 3. Suspense fiction. I. Title.
PR6107.R366F35 2015
823′.92—dc23 2015036715
eBook ISBN 9780345540775
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Diane Hobbing, adapted for eBook
Cover design: Scott Biel
Cover image: © Joana Kruse/Arcangel Images
v4.1_r1
a
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Chapter Eighty-three
Chapter Eighty-four
Chapter Eighty-five
Chapter Eighty-six
Chapter Eighty-seven
Chapter Eighty-eight
Chapter Eighty-nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-one
Chapter Ninety-two
Chapter Ninety-three
Chapter Ninety-four
Chapter Ninety-five
Chapter Ninety-six
Chapter Ninety-seven
Chapter Ninety-eight
Chapter Ninety-nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred and One
Chapter One Hundred and Two
Chapter One Hundred and Three
Chapter One Hundred and Four
Chapter One Hundred and Five
Chapter One Hundred and Six
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
Chapter One Hundred and Nine
Chapter One Hundred and Ten
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
Chapter One Hundred and Twelve
Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Andrew Grant
About the Author
…within the core of each of us is the child we once were. This child constitutes the foundation of what we have become, who we are, and what we will be.
—Dr. Rhawn Joseph,
The Right Brain and the Unconscious:
Discovering the Stranger Within
Chapter One
Friday. Late Afternoon.
“I lied.” The woman leaned against the minivan and felt the warmth of the afternoon sun radiate into her back from the shiny white metal. She took a moment to imagine the impact her words were having at the other end of the line. Then she went back to watching the handful of cars and SUVs that were scattered throughout the lengthening shadows of Caffee Junction’s horseshoe-shaped parking lot. There were more of them than she’d have liked. More than there’d been the previous two Fridays. But that was a minor detail, she told herself. An irritation. No reason to pull the plug.
“I see.” Lieutenant Hale’s grip on the dull-gray plastic handset grew tighter, and she wrestled the urge to smash it to pieces on her paper-strewn desk. She’d been moments away from leaving her office when the phone rang. Now there’d be no chance of beating the afternoon rush. A fitting end to an already dire week, she thought, flipping her little robot-shaped clock facedown on a stack of files. She didn’t need to see the jagged second hand relentlessly taunting her as it swept around the dial. “You lied. Mind telling me why?”
“Simple. Money. I was paid to say what I said.”
“Who paid you?”
“I don’t know.”
“How much did you get?”
“Fifteen grand.”
“In one go?”
“No. Five grand before I made the call. Five after. And five when the guy’s suspension was confirmed.”
“That’s a lot of money for one phone call.”
“I guess.”
“Why are you changing your story now?”
“I’ve got the money now. A chance to start over. I’m driving to my sister’s, in San Diego. And I wanted to set the record straight before I get there.”
“OK. Then this is what I need you to do. Come to the precinct. Write down what you just told me. Sign it. And stick around a couple of days, while we get this straightened out.”
“Can’t. Already left town.”
“Then come back. Just for a couple days.”
“No way. It’s to
o dangerous. If whoever paid me finds out I’m talking to you…”
“They won’t. We can help you. Get you somewhere safe to stay. A hotel.”
“A hotel? Are you kidding me? I want a fresh start. A hotel’s the worst place for someone like me. I’m not coming back to Birmingham. Ever. I’m hanging up now and—”
“Wait. You want to start over, you need a clear conscience. If you don’t sign a statement, nothing will change. The detective will stay on suspension. There’ll be an investigation. His career will be ruined. And that’ll be on you.”
“Why? That doesn’t make sense. I’m telling the truth this time.”
“What does it matter when I was lying? Point is, I’m a liar. My word’s not worth shit, either way.”
“How do I know you’re even who you say you are? Do you know how many crank calls I’ve had since the story hit the papers?”
“You know who I am. I used those code words you gave me when I called before.”
“Conversations can be overheard. Code words can be bought. Or given away. Or stolen. They’re a good start, but they’re not conclusive. I need more.”
“You’ve got my caller ID. You can see I’m using the same phone. And you record all your calls, right? You can compare the tapes.”
“I will. Count on it. But I still need more.”
“OK. I can give you more. When I called, Tuesday, I had this all planned out. I figured the story would leak. So I added something on top of what I’d been told to say. As insurance. I told you the detective had bitten me. Somewhere private. Remember? You wanted pictures. Doctors’ reports.”
Lieutenant Hale didn’t reply. When she’d first spoken to this woman, her head had told her to reach for the rule book. As squad commander, she’d done what she was required to do. But as an exstreet cop, every nerve in her body had screamed. She’d felt like she was back in uniform, tiptoeing into an alley at night. And now, with this second call, it was as if an invisible hand was shoving her deeper into the darkness.
“And I was right.” The woman walked to the front of the van, taking care not to snag her heels in the cracks in the sun-bleached pavement. “You were loyal to your guy. You kept that part out of the papers. No one else but me could know about it.”
“That’s not—”
“Goodbye, Lieutenant.”
“Wait!”
“I can’t. I’m going now. I’ve got a lot of ground to cover. You’re the police. I’m trusting you. Do the right thing.”
The woman ended the call. She broke the old-style flip-phone in half. Dropped the pieces on the ground. Climbed into the van. Scowled at the shiny, goalpost-shaped H in the center of the steering wheel. Fired up the engine. Looped around the squat redbrick building, keeping her speed low as the van bounced clumsily across the pitted blacktop. Kept her distance from a blue Ford station wagon that was looking for a space in the shade. Then she left the parking lot. Followed the road back toward the interstate. And took the first on-ramp she reached.
The one that led northeast.
Back to the Magic City.
Chapter Two
Saturday. Early Morning.
I’m in the closet. In the hallway. Two boards are loose. In the floor. I pull them up. Wriggle into the space below. Slide one back in place, above me. Hook my arm through the gap. Grab Daddy’s spare boots. Put them on the board, so it’ll look like it hasn’t been moved. Slide the other board back. Then settle down in the dark, to wait.
Just me and the bugs and the spiders.
Why’s Daddy so late? I want him to come home. I want him to find me, so I can come out. I’m hungry. And I need the bathroom. Real bad.
The front door opens, but the creaks don’t sound the way they’re supposed to. The door doesn’t close all the way. Daddy doesn’t step into the hall. He doesn’t kick off his boots. He doesn’t start looking for me. He doesn’t begin our game, the way he always does.
Someone shouts: “This is the police.”
But it can’t be the police, because Daddy’s the police and it isn’t Daddy’s voice. It’s another man’s. A stranger’s. Coming to hurt me?
“Police! Show yourself. Whoever’s in the house, show yourself. Right now.”
I know the rules. Never come out. Wait for Daddy to find me. Whatever anyone says. It’s the only way to stay safe. I hold my breath. Lie extra still.
“Come on.” Another voice that isn’t Daddy’s. “The kid’s got to be here, somewhere. We’ve got to find him…”
—
Cooper Devereaux’s subconscious took the sound of the blows raining down on his cabin door and merged them into his dream. They became footsteps. Invading his house. Heading down the hallway. Reaching the closet. He was seconds away from being discovered…
But the noise kept on getting louder. It didn’t stop. Ten seconds thundered by. Twenty. And that wasn’t right. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Something stirred, deep inside Devereaux’s brain. It dragged him back to wakefulness, chasing away the unwelcome echoes from the past, leaving him blinking and disoriented on his moldering leather couch.
“Hello?” Devereaux reached down, picked his gun up from the floor, and pulled it back beneath his empty, stained, patchwork comforter cover. “Who is it?”
Chapter Three
Saturday. Early Morning.
Jan Loflin took the outfit off the hanger and held it against her slender body.
She closed her eyes and tried not to retch as a wave of vulgar perfume and spilled beer and someone else’s sweat washed over her. She recalled how it felt to pull the flimsy strips of shiny material over her head. How the neckline plunged obscenely toward her midriff. How the skirt barely reached the tops of her thighs. How it made her small, thin frame look a decade younger than her twenty-four years. How it made the men—those men—stare at her. Leer at her. Paw at her…
For a month after her meltdown she hadn’t been able to open the closet door. For another two weeks she hadn’t been able to touch the dress, or any of the other half-dozen similar ones that hung next to it. Or any of the wigs, lined up over their stands like hunting trophies on the shelf above. Now she was up to handling these things, but she still couldn’t bear to put any of the slut-rags on.
Would she ever be able to?
Maybe she wouldn’t ever have to, if she did this next job right.
Loflin replaced the dress. Lifted up a box of sparkly, five-inch-heeled pumps from the closet floor. Pulled out the folder she’d stored there since it arrived unexpectedly in the mail the previous week. And moved back to the bed. She had ten minutes before she needed to leave. Fifteen probably, given that it was so early in the morning. And it was a Saturday. The I-65 should be slightly less insane than it was on a weekday.
Fifteen minutes. Enough time for her to check the facts for the thousandth time, before coming face-to-face with the next monster she was going to have to slay.
Chapter Four
Saturday. Early Morning.
“Police. This is Officer Jackson. Is anyone inside?”
“Jackson?” Devereaux hauled himself into a sitting position. “Come on in. It’s not locked.”
The ancient hinges screeched, then a man in a Birmingham PD uniform stepped inside and looked around the small, rectangular room. The only permanent fixture was a hulking iron furnace to his left. It completely dominated the space, and the way its giant metal chimney extended up into the pitched roof put him in mind of an organ in a crude, rural church. A camping stove was set up on the rough wooden floor, next to the furnace. Four empty baked bean cans lay on one side of it, and another ten fresh ones were lined up on the other. There were a dozen bottles of water. A stack of six-packs of Devereaux’s favorite beer—Avondale Battlefield IPA. And three large glass flasks full of some kind of clear liquid that, given his profession, Jackson decided not to ask any questions about.
“What?” Devereaux caught the expression on the officer’s face as he took in the decrepit state of the walls and the ceiling. Jackson risked another cautious step forward. The shaft of light from the door joined a line of cracks and gaps in the floor and the officer was hit by a sudden vision of a laser beam cutting the building in two. Although, given the condition the place was in, he figured a flashlight beam could probably do the job. The metallic blue Porsche gleaming in the sunshine outside the half-derelict cabin was the only external sign that Jackson had found his way to the right place. It left him thinking that Devereaux must have a very strange set of priorities.
“Officer?” Devereaux slid his legs out from under the comforter and slipped his bare feet into his scuffed brown boots. He was careful to make sure the gun remained concealed. “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s Lieutenant Hale. She wants you in her office. Immediately. If not sooner. Those were her exact words, Detective.”
—
Devereaux followed Jackson’s squad car at a distance, nursing his Porsche over the bumps and exposed tree roots in the rough forest track until he reached the start of the paved road. He knew from experience that a cell signal usually became available at around that point, but he allowed himself a couple of fast miles before easing off the gas and reaching for his phone.
“Devereaux.” Lieutenant Hale picked up on the first ring. “Where are you?”
“On my way in, as ordered.” Devereaux changed lanes and left a chrome-encrusted RV dawdling in his wake. “What am I being blamed for this time? Global warming?”
Hale was one of the few people who knew anything about Devereaux’s past. She knew he had skeletons. She knew that being a detective helped him keep them buried. And beyond that, she understood that the police department was more than just a job to him. It had taken the place of his family, with all the sensitivities and raw nerves that came with the package. If she’d been dealing with any of the other detectives in her squad, her approach would have been different. More robust, given the urgency of the situation. But with Devereaux, she figured she needed to show a little patience. She couldn’t afford for him to walk away, back to the only other “family” he’d known since he was a kid.
“You’re not being blamed for anything, Cooper.” Hale kept her voice deliberately calm and level. “In fact, it’s the opposite. The accusation that was made against you? It’s been dropped. Your suspension’s been lifted.”