Among the Shadows (25 page)

He was preparing to cross the street when his cell rang. “Byron.”

“Sergeant, it's Davis Billingslea. You got a minute?”

“Not for you. And stay the fuck away from Detective Joyner.”

“I know about the fire in Durham.”

“What?” Byron snapped, momentarily taken aback by the reporter's comment.

“The state police said there were two victims.”

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about—­”

“Was it the Perrigos? Does this have anything to do with Detective Joyner being attacked?”

“Listen, Davis. I don't know where you're getting this crap, but I'm warning you—­stop fucking around with this case or I swear to God you'll be sorry we ever met.”

Byron hung up. “Fuck.” This was not what he needed right now. Billingslea snooping around again could really screw things up.
Did Davis actually know about the Perrigos or was he guessing? Looking for a reaction. And if he did know
,
who might he have told?

He pocketed the phone and opened the door to the AMVETS.

The bar was thick with cigarette smoke and noise. Unlike the last time he'd been here, there were actual customers, about forty by his estimate. Ralph Polowski was right where Byron had hoped he'd be, tending bar. Not wanting to draw any attention, Byron sat down at an empty stool near the end of the bar, waiting until Polowski saw him.

“Evenin' friend.”

Byron looked over at the inebriated old-­timer sitting to his right. The man had spittle forming at the corners of his mouth and breath that could stop a truck. “Evening, yourself.”

“Hey, don't I know you?” the drunk asked.

“I don't think so.”

“You ever serve?”

He thought about it for a moment before answering. “Every day.”

“What can I getcha?” Polowski asked before recognizing him. “Hey, Sarge. Didn't think I'd see you again. I haven't seen the guy you were askin' about. The one who came in with Cleo.”

“Actually, that's why I'm here. I've got a few photos I want you to look at.” He set them on the bar in a stack, intentionally putting Humphrey's at the bottom. “Take your time and tell me if you recognize anyone.”

“ 'Kay.” Polowski flipped each picture face down as he finished with it. He either shook his head or said nope after each one. “I don't think you—­ Wait. This is the guy.” He repeatedly tapped the photo of Humphrey with his index finger. “This is the guy who came in with Cleo right before he died.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah. Had a goatee and was wearing a hat, but this is the same guy. I'm almost positive.”

“Almost?”

The bartender pursed his lips and looked back at the picture of Humphrey. “Ninety percent.”

Byron left the bar feeling very conflicted. With Polowski's ID, he had now linked Humphrey to two of the murders. Closing in on a killer usually came in the form of an excited knot in his stomach. While he definitely felt something in the pit of his stomach, there was nothing exciting about it. The thought that Ray was capable of murdering his fellow cops was sickening. He still couldn't connect him to Williams or the Perrigos. He'd have to push forward with what he had. His first call was to Nugent.

“Stone, homicide,” Nugent said, jokingly.

“You still got eyes on Beaudreau?”

“Yup. He's still at the club. You want me to stay on him?”

“Right on him. Let him know you're there. When he leaves tonight, be on his bumper. Park right in front of his house.”

“Uh, okay. You're the boss.”

“Trust me, Nuge.”

Byron made the second call after receiving Pritchard's text.

“Mel, it's Byron.”

“Hey, Sarge. Nothing happening here.”

“Listen, I need you to pull off Humphrey and sit on Cross's house.”

“What about Humphrey?”

“I got it covered.”

“Okay,” she said. “He made me, didn't he?”

He could hear the disappointment in her voice. “It's okay, Mel. Don't beat yourself up about it. No one's harder to surveil than a former cop.”

“I'm sorry, Sarge.”

“Don't be, just get over to Cross's and let me know if he moves. Oh, and one more thing. He'll be getting a surprise visit later.”

“From whom?”

“Me.” Byron ended the call.
Time to poke the bear
.

 

Chapter Twenty-­Nine

B
YRON ALTERNATED BE
TWEEN
pounding on the front door and ringing the doorbell until he finally heard Cross lumbering down the stairs to the first floor. The porch light came on as Cross looked through the sidelights at Byron. Cross opened the door, his black semiautomatic firmly in his right hand.

“Jesus Christ, John, you scared the shit out of me. What the hell are you doing here?” Cross asked as he slid the Glock inside the pocket of his robe.

“Didn't think I'd find out, did you?” Byron asked.

“I don't know what you're—­”

“Don't play stupid with me, Reggie.”

“Sergeant, in case you need reminding, I'm still Assistant Chief of Police and I don't care for your insolent tone or your accusations.” Cross's ever-­expanding forehead reddened in anger.

“And I don't appreciate being lied to.”

“And what is it you think you know?”

“I know about the dealers you were ripping off. I know about the money from the armored car robbery.”

“Keep your goddamned voice down.”

“Afraid your wife will find out?” Byron said, glancing up the stairs.

“She's not here. I sent her to her mother's. Figured she'd be safer there.”

Byron stared at Cross, sizing him up, waiting for any tells in his demeanor. A twitch of the lips, a break in eye contact, anything that gave him away. Then he saw it—­Cross's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed nervously. Byron pushed ahead. “Did you really think you'd get away with it?”

Cross dropped both his gaze and the bullying façade he'd unsuccessfully attempted to use. Byron saw a beaten man standing in front of him. “Come inside, John.”

Cross turned and shuffled slowly toward the dining room. Byron stepped inside, closed the door, and followed Cross. As they reached the dining room, Cross removed two glasses and a bottle of Jameson's from a large antique mahogany hutch.

“Have a seat,” Cross said as he sat down at the dining room table and poured whiskey into both glasses. His hands were visibly shaking.

Byron remained standing, averting his eyes from the whiskey. “You've known what this was about the whole time, haven't you?”

“You're right about the money, but I have no idea why we're being killed,” Cross said, taking a sizable swig out of his glass. “I've been sleeping with my gun under my pillow for two weeks.”

“Why the hell didn't you say something? Do you have any idea how many ­people might still be alive if you had come forward?”

“And told you what? We took some money? Please. What difference would it have made? You still don't have a clue who's after us. Please, sit down.”

Byron didn't budge.

“Please,” Cross said, gesturing toward a chair.

Byron reluctantly sat in one of the chairs across the table. Cross no longer bore any resemblance to the overbearing second in command of Maine's largest municipal police agency. He looked like a scared old man whose years of lying and secrets had finally caught up with him.

“How did you find out?” Cross asked.

“The FBI provided me with the case files from the armored car robbery. It wasn't too hard to figure out what had most likely happened. But I wasn't a hundred percent sure until Perrigo spilled his guts.”

“Perrigo, huh? Funny, I always thought it would've been Beaudreau who'd shoot his mouth off.” Cross pulled a glass ashtray over in front of him and reached into the pocket of his robe.

Byron sprung up out of the chair and drew his gun, pointing it at the chief.

“Jesus Christ, I'm only reaching for my cigarettes. You mind not pointing that thing at me?”

“Not at all, Reggie. You mind taking your hands out of your pockets? Slowly.”

“Take it easy. I'm on your side,” Cross said as he set both of his shaky hands on the table in front of him.

“I doubt that,” Byron said. “Someone connected to the SRT is killing cops, Reggie. How do I know it isn't you?”

“If you want my gun, take it.”

Byron walked behind him and removed the gun from the pocket of Cross's robe.

“Stand up so I can pat you down,” Byron said. Cross did as he was told. Byron found a pack of cigarettes in the right pocket of the robe and a lighter in the left, but nothing else.

“Here,” Byron said as he tossed the cigarettes and lighter on the table in front of Cross.

“May I?” Cross gestured to his chair.

“Certainly.”

Byron holstered his own weapon, then removed both the magazine and chambered round from Cross's gun. He laid them on the table, far from Cross, taking some pleasure in watching Cross make several nervous attempts at lighting up before he was finally successful. It was amazing how quickly command presence dissipated when the suit was replaced by a bathrobe. Byron wondered if this was what it was like for Cross, watching his subordinates fumble about during CompStat each week.

Cigarette finally lit, Cross inhaled deeply, closing his eyes like a junkie getting his fix. The nicotine seemed to have the desired calming effect. He opened bloodshot eyes and looked across the table through a haze of bluish smoke, awaiting Byron's questions.

“Okay, Reggie, let's say it isn't you. You must know who it is.”

“I honestly don't know.”

Byron had been at this a long time, and if there was one word criminals loved to throw around, it was the word
honestly
. “Are you gonna sit there and tell me you had nothing to do with the death of the Perrigos?”

“I didn't, John. I swear to you.”

“Marty told me you knew about the safe house.”

“He told me you'd stashed a witness in a safe house, but I didn't know who it was or where.”

“He said he told you it was an FBI safe house.”

“Which means what to me?”

He studied Cross's face. If the chief was lying, he was good at it. His nervousness was obvious, but beyond that Byron couldn't get a read.

“What have you been telling Billingslea about this case?”

“The
Herald
reporter? Nothing. Why?”

Cross appeared legitimately surprised at the question. Byron let it drop.

The chief had finished his glass of whiskey and was eyeing Byron's untouched glass. “Are you going to drink that?”

“Be my guest,” Byron said, sliding the glass toward him.

Cross took a large gulp before resuming his story and his cigarette. Byron was growing impatient, waiting for the chief to help him put the pieces together. “Tell me about the night of October nineteenth.”

“There were so many things that led to what happened,” Cross said. “I guess what I mean to say is, it wasn't just one event gone wrong, John. It's important for you to understand that. We were good cops, but back then none of us made much money. Christ, the rookies coming on the force were eligible for food stamps. Can you believe it?”

“And that's supposed to make it all right?”

“No. I'm only telling you how it was.”

“As you know there were ten of us on the Special Reaction Team in 1985. Jim O'Halloran was the Lieutenant, Riordan, Williams, Falcone and I were the sergeants, the rest of the team was comprised of Officers Dominic Beaudreau, Ray Humphrey, Anthony Perrigo, Bruce Gagnon, and your dad, Reece Byron. Our core group had worked together for a long time, John. Years. We knew we could count on and trust each other no matter what. The only new addition was Gagnon. He'd only been with us a year.”

Cross lit another cigarette.

Byron knew the chief was stalling.

“We'd been training all day. Everyone was in great spirits. We were celebrating Eric's fortieth birthday. We starting talking about the Boston armored car robbery. It was all anyone was talking about. Grabbing almost a million and a half in broad daylight. These guys had huge balls. We were joking about it over beers down at Sporty's, on Congress Street. You remember that place?”

“The Sportsman's, yeah, I remember.”

The Sportsman's had been the popular Congress Street haunt for Portland cops until closing its doors in 1999. Many officers would bring their families to eat at the restaurant on their off time, while others used it only for blowing off steam, proceeding directly to the bar side of the establishment following a “late out” shift (midnight to eight), where they would imbibe, sometimes until two or three in the afternoon. Byron's own father had frequented Sporty's, the bar side.

“Anyway, we were playing the ‘what if' game. What if they fled to Maine? What if we were called to take them into custody? At first that's all it was, talk. You know, the macho bullshit that comes out of all of us when we get together. But later on, well, some of us began talking about what we would do if they still had the money on them. I mean the money was insured, right?”

Byron said nothing.

Cross stubbed out what was left of his cigarette, finished off his whiskey, and poured another glass. Byron began to worry the chief might not remain coherent enough to finish the story.

“O'Halloran got a phone call after which he pulls Williams, Riordan, and me aside and tells us he's got an informant who knows where the robbers are hiding, right here in Portland.”

“And you don't know who the informant was?” Byron asked with incredulity.

“Good CI's are hard to come by, you know. The lieutenant wasn't sharing the source and we knew better than to ask.”

“What happened?” Byron asked.

“We rounded up the team and headed down to 109 for a briefing. Unmarked units from CID were already sitting down the street from the house. The black-­and-­whites all knew about the intel on the bad guys, but they'd been ordered not to make any attempt at either approaching the house or apprehending the robbers. This arrest was ours. The consensus was these guys were too unpredictable and too dangerous to fuck around with. The guys we were looking for were Warren, Ellis, Andreas, and Rotolo. I think the house on Ocean belonged to Warren's girlfriend. Anyway, it was pretty standard. The detectives and MedCu staged down the street at a makeshift CP. Beaudreau, Humphrey, and your dad were our snipers. Perrigo and O'Halloran had containment, and the entry team consisted of me, Riordan, Williams, and Gagnon.”

Byron remembered Williams's account of the event had been identical. A near impossibility even for officers at the same incident. ­People, as a result of their life experiences and individual biases, always tend to see things a little different. Byron was now sure that what he was hearing was the lie that the group had concocted thirty years ago. One big lie with enough sprinkles of truth to make it easy to remember.

“We took the door, used a stun grenade, and made entry. At first there was nothing as we cleared several rooms. But then I heard the sound of a shotgun blast coming from one of the bedrooms. The firefight started. They'd been lying in wait. It was crazy, it seemed like the shooting went on forever. When it was over, I found Williams kneeling over Gagnon's body. Rotolo shot the kid in the throat with a shotgun. Eric's hands were covered in Gagnon's blood. I'll never forget it as long as I live.”

Byron watched with fascination as the cigarette in Cross's hand burned down to his fingers. There was an ash stump several inches in length protruding from what was left of it. The chief was so lost in his memories, he didn't notice.

Cross took a moment to get his thoughts in order before continuing. Byron remained silent. The house was eerily quiet, Byron could hear the sound of a clock ticking in a nearby room.

“So O'Halloran came inside. We told him Gagnon was dead, along with Warren, Ellis and, Rotolo. Andreas was in the wind.”

As he spoke, Cross fortified himself with the Irish again.

“Tell me about the money.”

“We tore the place apart searching for it. Found nearly half of it. They'd hidden it everywhere—­basement, attic, kitchen cupboards, and bedroom closets. Everywhere. I'd never seen so much money, none of us had. O'Halloran had your dad and Humphrey bring the SRT transport to the house. The rest of us loaded the money into our equipment bags and carried them out to the truck.”

Cross was clearly trying to elicit a reaction from Byron. He didn't get one.

“After that, we split the money. In all we recovered a little under seven hundred grand. Everyone assumed Andreas must have gotten away with all of it. But if he did get away, he only got half.”

“You're telling me this is the reason someone's trying to kill all of you?”

“I'm not telling you anything. I'm only telling you what happened. It's the only reason I can think of.”

“What about Gagnon?”

Cross's eyes narrowed. “What about him?”

“Perrigo thinks you killed him.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Why would we kill one of our own? Sounds like you've been talking to someone who's still pissed about not getting an equal share of the money.”

“Does Stanton know about this?”

“Of course not.”

Byron slowly shook his head for effect. “I can't believe you assholes actually thought you'd get away with it.”

“Hey, news to you, we did get away with it,” Cross said, his arrogance returning.

“Really?”

“You've no proof of anything. The money is long gone and most of the guys who benefited from it are dead now, anyhow. Maybe you need to brush up on your Criminal Code, John. The statute of limitations on a class A crime has long since expired.”

“Not on murder.”

“You can't prove I had anything to do with any of these deaths. Tell anyone about the money and I'll only deny it. It'll be your word against mine.”

“What about Perrigo?”

“What about him?” Cross asked with a knowing smirk. “Thought he was dead.”