Among the Shadows (11 page)

 

Chapter Fifteen

F
RID
AY MORNING BROUGHT
fog and a cold, steady drizzle. Autumn had finally arrived. At six-­thirty, Byron pulled up in front of 109, still a half hour before any of the other detectives were scheduled to arrive. Sleep had been sporadic. Thoughts of the investigation kept him awake for most of the night as did another bout of nausea. He felt tired but not nearly as tired as he should have. He credited this feeling to the adrenaline gun that went off each and every time he found himself on the hunt—­and with a cop-­killing psycho on the loose, he was definitely on the hunt.

At his desk, he checked both voice and emails, impatiently waiting until seven before calling LeRoyer. “What time can I expect to interview Cross?” Byron asked.

“And good morning to you too, Sergeant.”

“Well?”

“I'll talk to him first thing. I promise.”

“I don't want him controlling this, Marty. He's going to submit to an interview just like everyone else. We both know, if these guys did something they shouldn't have, they'll be circling the wagons.”

LeRoyer let out an audible sigh. “John, at this very moment I'm driving my kids to school. After I drop them off, I'll be heading in to work. When I get to 109, I'll follow-­up with him. Okay?”

“Fine.”

As Byron was hanging up, Tran knocked on his open office door. “Morning, Sarge. Got a second?”

He wondered why his tech-­savvy detective appeared so somber. It was unlike Tran not to lead with something witty like, “Hey, striped dude.”

“Sure, Dustin. What's up?”

“I think I've located a ­couple more of the guys on the list.”

“Good. Who've we got?” he asked with pen and notebook at the ready.

“Falcone and Beaudreau. Falcone is living in Damariscotta at a place called Down East Senior Care. It's an assisted-­living facility.”

Byron scribbled down the info. “What about Beaudreau?”

“I couldn't find a home address for him, but it looks like he might be the owner of a Westbrook strip club called the Unicorn.”

He looked up from his notes with a grin. “An unappreciated career path, I'm sure.”

“I guess. Only thing is, it looks like he's traveling at the moment. He's not due back until Monday.”

“How do we know that?”

“TSA. He flew out of Portland yesterday, round-­trip to Atlanta.”

“Thanks, Dustin.”

“Sarge, I want to apologize again for yesterday. Sometimes I get a little too cavalier and say insensitive things without really thinking.”

“If this is about my father, don't worry about it.”

“You're not mad?”

“Dustin, if I let it bother me every time someone made an insensitive remark,
I'd
have to find a new career path. And I don't really see myself as the strip club type,” he said with a wink. “Thanks for the information, number one son.”

Tran smiled. “My pleasure, striped dude.”

B
YRON WAS ON
his way to the third floor to find Pelligrosso when his cell phone rang. “Byron.”

“I knew you'd be hot on the trail already,” Collier said.

“Been at it for hours, slacker. Not everyone gets to sleep in like you feds. You got something for me?”

“Of course. I only call with good news. The case files you requested should be here on Saturday.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Probably not until late morning.”

“That was quick.”

“Told you, I know ­people. I'll call you as soon as they arrive. Also, I've got Terry Pritchard's home number. He's expecting your call. Prepared to copy?”

“Go with it.”

Byron wrote the number on his palm and thanked Collier for the quick response. He ended the call as he was walking into the lab. Pelligrosso was seated in front of the AFIS computer.

“Hey, Gabe.”

“Sarge.”

“Any luck matching our partial?”

“Not yet. I did manage to locate Williams's and Beaudreau's prints on file in the old concealed-­weapon permit files. Neither are a match.”

“What about Ray Humphrey? He's a P.I. He must be licensed to carry.”

“Probably carrying as a retired officer, no prints required. The state most likely has his prints on file, but it's gonna take some time. I've submitted dozens of requests I'm still waiting on. Some I made months ago.”

“Do the best you can.”

“Any idea where I might find Falcone's prints?”

“No, but I found out he's in assisted living. Probably not O'Halloran's mystery guest anyway.”

“You planning to meet this morning?”

“Eight-­thirty, conference room.”

“I'll be there.”

“
H
AP
PY
F
RIDAY,
S
ERGEANT,
”
Shirley said as Byron walked by her desk.

“Morning, Shirley.”

“Need anything typed?”

He knew she was only reminding him to keep up with the paperwork. She complained whenever any of his detectives dumped a pile of reports in her in-­bin for typing. He also knew she hated being out of the loop. If Grant had her way, he'd be giving her the case updates before LeRoyer. “I'm all set right now, thanks. But you might want to check with Nuge and Diane.”

“Okay. Because you know how much I hate getting behind, right?”

“I hear you.” He disappeared around the corner and out of her sight. He was walking toward LeRoyer's office when he caught a quick glimpse of Cross scurrying down the rear hallway.

LeRoyer was seated at his desk checking voicemail. Before Byron could ask, he held up his hand like a traffic cop. “Don't start. I just spoke with him, John.”

“Yeah, I saw him sneaking out.”

“He's got appointments all morning, but said he'd come by your office at ten-­thirty.”

“Probably because he knows it's easier to leave my office than to kick me out of his.”

LeRoyer didn't respond to the comment.

“What's the word on delaying the chief's press conference?” Byron asked.

“You might be in luck.”

“How so?”

“Stanton is considering waiting until Monday.”

“At the risk of looking a gift horse in the mouth, why?”

“Big news always plays better on Mondays. Friday's are shitty days for press conferences. ­People are already thinking about or starting their weekends. Everybody watches the news on Monday night.”

“So this fortuitous decision to wait is all about his friggin' ratings?”

“Like you said, don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, now you've got the whole weekend to solve this case.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You okay, John? You're kinda pale.”

“I'm fine,” Byron snapped without meaning to, worried that his stomach might have another surprise in store. “Think maybe I'm fighting something off. I'll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“How'd you make out with last night's interviews?”

“O and one. Williams wasn't home and Perrigo wasn't talking.”

“He wouldn't talk to you?”

“No, he talked. But he didn't say anything.”

“You think he's got something to hide?”

“I think somebody does. We're meeting at eight-­thirty to go over the case. Wanna sit in?”

“I'd love to, but I've got to meet with the City Appropriations Committee about some budget changes. You wanna keep chasing bad guys, I've gotta keep beggin' for scraps. I'll catch up with you later.” Byron turned to leave. “Oh, and John.”

“Yeah?”

“Play nice with Cross, okay?”

“You know me.”

“Yeah. That's exactly why I said it.”

The rain had stopped. The sun was fighting to burn through the shroud of fog still holding Portland in its grip. Byron ran across the street to the Middle Street Delicatessen. He wanted to recaffeinate, thinking coffee might help settle his stomach. He also wanted to check the
Portland Herald
. Billingslea had been ghosting him all week, and it would be so like him to try and break a story before everyone else. Even if it meant being reckless. A quick scan of the headlines on both the front page and local section turned up nothing. Satisfied, he placed the paper back in the rack, grabbed a large coffee, and returned to 109.

I
T WAS NINE
o'clock by the time they'd wrapped up the meeting. Each of them was up to speed on the latest developments, or lack thereof. Diane and Nugent headed out to try and locate Williams again while Tran returned to his office to try and locate a work address for Williams on the off chance he still wasn't at home. Pelligrosso and Stevens returned to the mountain of work awaiting them in the lab, to include finding a match for the partial print. Byron returned to his office and closed the door. He was feeling quite a bit better. He still had Cross's interview to prepare for as well as a pile of mildew-­covered officer-­involved shooting reports to slog through, but first he had a phone call to make to former Special Agent Terry Pritchard.

“Terry, it's John Byron. I appreciate your taking my call.”

“Not at all, Sergeant Byron. Happy to help, if I can.”

“And
John
is fine. Okay if I put you on speaker? I wanna take some notes while we talk.”

“Fine by me.”

Byron opened his notepad and changed the setting on the phone. “Can you hear me okay?”

“Five by five. Collier told me you've requested the Boston armored-­car case file.”

“A little light reading.”

Pritchard laughed. “Until your eyes cross, you mean. You forget, I know how many man hours went into that case. For the first two months there was a team of us, after that, when the trail went cold, it was only me and one other agent. I literally worked that case for a year. At least officially.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, I continued to work it on my own time until I retired. You know what it's like when you've got that case, the itch you can't seem to scratch.”

Byron knew exactly what he meant.

“I couldn't let it go. The powers that be wouldn't let me continue to log any more hours on it, not after the Beirut bombings at the end of '83.”

“I don't understand what Beirut has to do with it.”

“Resources. Everything became about fighting terrorists after Lebanon. No one gave a damn about an armored car robbery. I was lucky to get as much time as I got. Do your bosses know you've reached out?”

“No. And they wouldn't understand. I'm already getting too much resistance.”

“Not surprised. You and I might've worked well together, John. So, where do you want to start?”

“What have you got that's not in the file?”

“Ha. You're asking me if I kept my own private notes outside of the case file, which would have been in direct violation of bureau policy?”

Byron knew if Pritchard was half the investigator Collier said he was, he'd never show all his cards to his superiors. “Yes, I am.”

“Of course I did. Dug them out before you called. Got 'em right here.”

The two men dissected the investigation, discussing everything from the missing money, the missing robber, and the seemingly impenetrable thin blue line.

“What do you think happened to the money?” Byron asked.

“I really don't know, but my gut always told me some of the cops might've taken it.”

“You don't think the missing robber made off with it?”

“Andreas? It's certainly possible.”

“But? You don't sound like you believe it.”

“I just don't think it's all that likely.”

“Why?”

“A ­couple of reasons. Not one of those four could spell Mensa, even if you'd handed them the letters in the right order. They were strictly small-­time thugs, lucky to pull off a job like that in the first place. Who knows, two different guards and maybe they never even get their hands on the money. But even an idiot would know better than to let one guy leave the safe house with all the money.”

“But suppose they were dumb enough. With that much money, couldn't he have simply disappeared?”

“Perhaps, but it's more likely he went to the wrong ­people for help and was killed for it.”

“Did you ever find any evidence to suggest it was the cops?”

“No, but I couldn't find anything to exonerate them either. The cops on that team were as tight a group as I've ever seen.”

“The department reports mentioned a confidential informant, did you ever find out who it was?”

“No. O'Halloran was in charge of the detectives, and he made his case to the U.S. attorney, telling him the CI was too valuable to the department to take a chance on divulging the identity. The U.S. attorney agreed, saying unless the matter was going to trial, there was no need to release the name to the FBI.”

“Three dead suspects and one missing doesn't make for much of a trial, I guess.”

“Exactly.”

“Was there ever a reward offered?”

“You'll see all of this in our files when you get them, but the short answer is yes. The First Bank of Boston put up fifty thousand.”

“Was there ever any attempt to claim the money by the CI or anyone else?”

“Oddly enough, no.”

Byron's hand was beginning to cramp from note-­taking. He checked his watch. Ten-­thirty. “Terry, I hate to end our conversation, but I've gotta get to an interview.”

“No problem. You've got my number. Let me know if I can be of any further help to you.”

Byron hung up the phone and grabbed his notepad.
Time for the Ass Chief
to answer a few questions.

 

Chapter Sixteen

“
T
HANKS FOR AGREEI
NG
to speak with me, Chief,” Byron said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“Let's cut the crap, Byron,” Cross said, his arms crossed defensively. “I'm here because Stanton ordered me to talk to you, period. Don't fool yourself into thinking you have any influence with me. I'm a busy man. If you've got questions, ask them.”

Outwardly, Byron maintained his poker face, but inside he wore a smile a mile wide, enjoying the reversal of roles and the irony that accompanied getting Cross into an interview room. “What can you tell me about the night of October nineteenth, 1985?”

Cross shrugged. “What's to tell? You've read the reports.”

Byron nodded. “I've read them. But as we both know, not everything ends up on paper. I'm trying to establish a motive. Why, after more than thirty years, would someone start killing the cops who were involved in a shooting?”

“I've no idea. You're the detective. You tell me.” Cross gave no indication he was nervous, but Byron always found it difficult to get a glimpse past his pompous and arrogant façade.

“The reports indicate you were acting on information from a confidential informant. Whose CI was it?”

“I don't remember. O'Halloran was the CID lieutenant at the time. I assume it was one of his contacts.”

“Who else would know?”

“I've no idea,” he said, his mouth twisting into the smug little smirk that Byron hated. Cross had predicted the question in advance and Byron knew it. Giving the one answer he couldn't follow-­up on, as O'Halloran was dead.

“Oh, I guess I was wrong, then.”

“About what?”

“I just thought since you were one of the SRT supervisors, you might've been privy to more of the intel.” Cross's irritating smirk vanished. Byron took some satisfaction in knocking him down a peg. “Take me through the information that led you to the Ocean Avenue address.”

Cross checked his watch. “I have an eleven o'clock appointment I won't be late for.”

“I don't expect this to take that long. Do you need me to repeat the question?”

Cross glared at him. “No,
Sergeant
. I think I've got it. The CI told us several of the men responsible for the First Bank of Boston armored car robbery were hiding out on Ocean Avenue in Portland. According to the CI, they needed help laundering the money. They were worried some of the bills had been marked.”

“Were they?”

“Not according to the feds. They told us they'd released misinformation to the media in an attempt to make it more difficult for the robbers to escape. Along with the reward.”

“That's right,” Byron said, pretending he'd forgotten. “The reward. How much was it?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“Hmm. So, if your CI helped you find these guys—­”

“I already told you, he wasn't my CI.”

Byron jotted a quick note on his legal pad. “Wouldn't he have been eligible to collect the reward?”

“I suppose.”

“But no one ever came forward to collect.” Byron tapped his pen on the table for emphasis. “Didn't that seem a little strange?”

Cross unfolded his arms and leaned forward over the table. His big red jowls had darkened a shade or two. “I suppose it did. But as I've already told you, it wasn't my CI.”

“Don't you mean him?”

“What?” Cross asked, his irritation obvious.

Byron looked down at his note pad. “
He
wasn't my CI” is what you said. If you didn't know who the CI was, how do you know it was a male?”

Cross leaned back in his chair, trying to regain some of his composure. “I said
he
out of habit. I assumed it was a male CI, but I don't know for sure. You could always check with Jimmy O,” he said, his smirk returning.

Byron had a sudden urge to climb over the table and knock some cooperation back into the Ass Chief, but he resisted the impulse. “That would seem unlikely, but I appreciate your keen insight.”

Cross's eyes narrowed, never leaving Byron's.

“Why didn't anyone contact the FBI about this intel? It was their case after all.”

“Wasn't my call to make. Like you, Sergeant, I was only a supervisor. I knew my place. Besides, we had no way of knowing if the intel was any good. The plan was to set up on the house and see what we could find out.”

“Didn't work out too well, did it?”

“Once we confirmed the presence of armed and dangerous criminals we had no choice but to breach. They fired at us and we returned fire.”

“Kind of convenient, wouldn't you say?”

“Convenient, Sergeant? Not really a word I'd use to describe losing one of our own.”

“And all three suspects.”

“They made that choice, not us.”

“And the money was never found?”

“I have no idea.
We
never found it. You'd have to check with the feds.”

“I did. It's still missing.”

Cross shrugged indifferently.

“What do you think happened to it?”

“Not a clue. Word on the street was the last robber took off to Canada with it.”

“You're talking about Andreas?”

“The one they never found,” Cross said in his most condescending tone.

Byron tried shifting gears. “Who do you think is responsible for murdering O'Halloran and Riordan?”

“Once again, you're the detective. You tell me. Maybe it's Andreas, seeking revenge for us killing his buddies.”

“Why would he wait thirty years?”

Cross seemed to consider the question. “Maybe he ran out of money. How the fuck would I know?” He checked his watch again and stood up. “Speaking of running out, I'm out of time. Sorry.” His smirk returned. “Gotta run to my eleven o'clock.”

Byron remained seated. “I'll let you know if I think of any more questions.”

“I think I'm done with you,” Cross said as he headed toward the door.

“One more thing, Chief.”

Cross turned back to face him, his expression one of annoyance.

“Have you had recent contact with any of the others on the SRT?”

“No.” Cross turned toward the door, then stopped. “Oh, and before you ask, because I know how concerned you are about my safety, I don't have any need of your protection detail. I hope, for your sake, you start making some progress on this case, Sergeant. Be a real shame to have to reassign it.”

B
YRON ST
OPPED INTO
the locker room to splash some cold water on his face. What he really wanted was a long hot shower to wash the stress away. But for now the locker room sink would have to do. As he dried his face and neck with a ­couple of paper towels, he could hear Kenny Crosby regaling one of the newer detectives on the property side of CID with his indefatigable wisdom. He'd never had much use for Crosby. The muscled-­up drug detective had always been something of a wiseass, and everyone knew he was Cross's errand boy. Doing the chief's bidding was how he'd earned the coveted drug investigator's job with the Maine Drug Enforcement Administration (MDEA).

“See, kid, if you're not careful about splitting your time equally between work and home, you'll wind up like Sergeant Byron over there. He's a glory boy when it comes to solving high-­profile cases, but it don't mean shit at home.” The young detective didn't say a word. “John spends so much time with New York's finest, it's no wonder his wife threw him out.”

Byron saw red. He threw the wet towels into the trash and marched around the bank of lockers. Crosby was just out of the shower and stood wrapped only in a towel. The barrel-­chested detective sergeant lived in the PPD gym and it showed. Big arms, big chest. And a midsection showing the effects of too much beer.

“Hey, John. I didn't know you were in here,” he said.

Byron walked up until their noses were nearly touching. “What'd you say, Kenny?”

“What?” Crosby wore a shit-­eating grin. He held his hands up in a mock surrender. “I didn't say anything, Johnny boy. No need to get your panties all in a bunch.”

Byron maintained eye contact until Crosby looked away. “Just as I thought,” he said as he turned to walk away.

“I was only explaining to the new kid here how you were probably tapping that sweet African ass.”

Byron didn't think or hesitate, he reacted. Stepping in so his weight would be behind it, he delivered the first punch to the large detective's beer-­softened midsection. His second punch connected with Crosby's jaw, knocking him backward over the wooden bench. Crashing into the lockers, his is feet slipping out from under him on the wet floor, he fell hard, momentarily pinned between the bench and lockers. Byron knew he'd gotten lucky. He also knew if Crosby got back on his feet, the second round wasn't likely to go as well as the first.

The door to the locker room burst open and LeRoyer stormed in. “What the hell is going on in here?”

Neither Byron nor Crosby said a word as they scowled at each other. The junior detective stood wide-­eyed.

“Well?” LeRoyer shouted. “I asked you both a question.”

Crosby was the first to speak as he struggled to regain his feet and straighten his towel. “Nothing's going on, Lieu. I was just talking to the rookie here. Guess I musta slipped on the wet floor. Clumsy, huh?”

LeRoyer turned to the new kid on the block. “Is that what happened, Detective?”

“I—­I didn't see anything, Sir.”

“Of course you didn't. Get the hell outta here.”

The rookie detective disappeared out the door like a shot. LeRoyer looked from Byron to Crosby, then back to Byron. “Well?”

“Like Kenny said Lieu, he musta slipped.”

B
YRON WA
S TURNING
left onto Middle Street from the parking garage when he saw Diane walking down the steps of 109. He pulled the car up next to the curb and stopped.

“How did it go with Cross?” Diane asked, as she leaned in the open window.

“How do you think?” Byron asked.

“He didn't tell you anything we didn't already know. And he was arrogant.”

“Don't forget prick. He was an arrogant prick.” Byron inhaled, held it for a moment, and then tried to expel his frustration.

“Where you headed, sailor?” she asked.

“Lunch. Need to get out of here before I punch someone.”

“Mind if I join you? For the lunch not the punch.”

He smiled. “Sure. Hop in.”

She pointed to his hand as he pulled away from the curb. “You're bleeding.”

He lifted his fingers off the steering wheel and saw she was right. “I cut myself in the kitchen this morning.”

She tilted her head in disbelief.

“Before I left for work.”

“Huh. I don't recall seeing it.” She dug through the console for a napkin and handed one to him. “You sure it's not from your school yard altercation with Kenny?”

He raised his eyebrows, surprised. “How'd you hear about that?”

“I'm a detective, remember? Wanna tell me what it was about?”

“Nope.”

“Are you crazy?”

“How do you mean?”

“The guy's huge, John. What the hell were you thinking?”

“Guess I wasn't.”

“Word is you took him down with one punch.”

A smile crept across his face in spite of his attempt to hide it. “If you must know, it was two.”

“My hero,” she said, batting her lashes. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“I'm Irish, remember? There are two things the Irish do well.”

“I'll bet in your case it's three,” she said, giving him a seductive grin. She reached for her seat belt. “What were you thinking for lunch?”

“Hadn't really. You have a preference?”

“I could go for a really greasy burger and fries.”

“I know a place.”

D
OTTY
'
S
L
UNCH WAS
a greasy spoon located in West Falmouth, just outside of Portland, well known for tasty food and reasonable prices. The drive allowed Byron a chance to cool down a bit before giving himself indigestion.

They took their food and drinks outside, taking advantage of the cooler weather and bright sunshine. There were a half-­dozen picnic tables scattered across the rear lawn. They commandeered the one closest to the wood line and sat next to each other, facing the road.

“So what to do you think?” she asked, sucking the melted cheese from her thumb.

Byron swallowed the large bite of burger he'd been chewing. “About the burger?”

“No, silly. About Cross?”

“Ah.” He took a long drink from his soda straw. “I think he's lying. Or at the very least holding back.”

“About?”

“How they came by the information in the first place. He said the same thing about the CI we read in the reports.”

“It did look like they'd intentionally glossed over it.”

“That's what I mean. He put it on O'Halloran. Said it was one of the lieutenant's snitches who gave them the info. Told me he didn't know who the CI was.”

“You don't believe him?”

“Nope. Felt like he was toying with me. Like he knew I couldn't prove otherwise.” Byron took another handful of fries. “Pretty sure he slipped up at one point.”

“How so?”

“He referred to the CI as
he
.”

“Did you call him on it?”

“I did. Told me he was only generalizing. Said he didn't know who gave the information to O'Halloran. Any luck finding Williams?”

“Nope. We left another business card. Nuge's card was gone, so he's probably been home and gone already. Tran's still trying to find out where he works.”