Among the Shadows (10 page)

“Sarge. It's good to see you,” he said as he stood, giving Byron an awkward combination of a handshake and bear hug.

“How've you been, Ray?”

“Never better, my friend. Never better. Take a seat.” He signaled the barmaid to their table. “Whatdaya have?”

Byron held up his hand. “Nothing for me. I'm on the clock.”

“What's this?” Humphrey said with a raised brow. “John Byron turning down a pint?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“At the risk of being hit by lightning—­
soda
?”

“Diet.”

Humphrey turned to the shapely, freckle-­faced girl. “Young lady, I'll have another Guinness and a
diet
for my friend.”

“Did you want to order some food?” she asked Byron.

He shook his head. “No, thanks. I'm fine.”

Humphrey leered at her as she walked away. “If only I was twenty years younger.”

“Don't you mean thirty?”

Humphrey turned to face him and winked.

“How's the PI business, Ray?”

“Great. Busy, busy, busy. Cheating spouses, corporate theft, background work, all the usual.”

“Pays the bills, huh?”

“It does a lot more than that, my friend. This business is a gold mine. Shoulda done this years ago.”

Shortly after retiring from the PD, Humphrey had gone into the private investigations business with an old military buddy.

“You're not gonna ask me to come work with you again, are you?” Byron asked.

“Nah. A guy can only take being rejected so many times.” Humphrey picked up the fresh pint from the table and motioned for Byron to do the same. “A toast. To friendship.”

“Sláinte.
”

“How's the love life? You and Kay patch things up yet?”

“Ah, hell no. It's over. She served the papers on me yesterday.”

“Jeez, I'm sorry. Always thought you kids were good for each other.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

Humphrey took a healthy swig from his glass, then wiped the foam from his upper lip. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

“A case.”

“Ah, this is official business,” he said, exaggerating the act of sitting up straight in his chair. “What can I do for my old sergeant?”

Byron reached into his suit pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and laid it on the table in front of Humphrey. “Think we've got a serial killer.”

Humphrey picked up the photocopy of the old SRT and studied it. “Someone's crossed out Jimmy O and Cleo. Are they—­?”

“Both dead.”

Humphrey looked up at Byron. “How?”

“O'Halloran was suffocated. Cleo was shot in the head.”

“Murdered?

Byron nodded.

“Holy shit.” Humphrey resumed studying the photo. “And you think what, I'm next?”

“I don't know, Ray. All I know is it looks like someone is targeting the guys in that picture.”

“Why?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Haven't got a clue, Sarge. I haven't seen most of them in years.”

“How about Cleo or Jimmy O?”

“Not since I left the job anyway. What's that, four years?”

“About.”

“And you have no idea why we're being targeted?”

“The only thing that stands out is that shooting in '85 with the armored car robbers. Same year the photo was taken.”

Humphrey returned the photo to the table and took another drink. “You think it could be the guy we didn't get? Maybe he's pissed about us killing his three buddies.”

“Andreas. It's possible.”

“Did he just get out or something?”

“No. They never found him.”

“Ever?”

“No.”

“Great. If the feds couldn't find this guy, how are you supposed to?”

“I'm working on it. We want to offer you protection.”

Humphrey shook his head. “I never needed protection before, Sarge. Not gonna start now.” He patted the bulge under his jacket. “I can take care of myself.”

Byron, anticipating his response, pressed on. “I know you can, Ray. But until I can get a handle on this, I'd feel better if we were watching all of you.”

“Have you spoken to any of the others?”

“You're the first.”

“Ten bucks says they won't want protection either. I'll help you anyway I can, you know that. But I won't be babysat like some damn civilian. How sure are you it's the guy who got away? I remember something at the time about the robbers being connected.”

“Organized crime?”

“Yeah. Being a Boston armored car job, talk in the bureau was that they might've worked for Riccio. He ran everything in Beantown.”

“We're talking with the feds. I'm considering every possibility.”

The two men chatted for several minutes before Humphrey finished his beer and stood up. “I appreciate the heads-­up, Sarge. I know you're trying to look out for me, but I'm a big boy.”

“Watch your back, Ray,” he said as he stood and embraced his old friend.

B
YRON HAD HOPED
to get more from Humphrey, something that might point them in the right direction. As he drove to the station, he took out his cell and dialed a number from memory. Information was what they needed to piece this thing together, and he knew exactly where to look.

“Collier.”

“Sam? It's John Byron.”

“John, you old hound dog. What are you up to?”

FBI Special Agent Sam Collier, a staple in the Portland law enforcement community for more years than Byron could remember, was his go-­to guy in the bureau. Tall and thin with wire-­rimmed glasses, Collier looked more like an investment banker or an accountant than an FBI Agent. He'd always displayed an easygoing demeanor, but beneath his pleasant and calm veneer was a tenacious investigator. When he sank his teeth into a case, he never let go. His specialty was white-­collar crime, but his investigations ran the gamut. In addition to Collier's tenacity, the quality Byron most admired was his trustworthiness. Whenever Byron had needed to run something sensitive by Collier, it had always remained between them. The same could not always be said for some of his coworkers at 109.

“You know me, Sam, working my tail off. How high are those stacks on your desk now?”

“About two feet and rising,” Collier said, laughing out loud. “You know me too well. And what about your caseload? Rumor has it you're into something pretty big.”

“Actually, that's why I'm calling.”

“Anything you can gift wrap and send over so I can take all the credit?” Collier said.

“Not this time, I'm afraid. I've got two dead former officers and no clear motive.”

“Shit. Anything I can do?”

“Any chance you might be able to lay your hands on a 1985 Boston armored-­car robbery case file?”

“I remember that one. Might take me a few days. All of the 302s on a case that old would most likely be at headquarters in D.C., but I can put in a request if you want.” A 302 was the federal government's document-­designation number for case-­agent supplements associated with all criminal investigations.

“I need this to stay quiet, Sam. None of my superiors know I'm reaching out and I'd like it to stay that way, if you know what I mean.”

“Indeed, I do. Don't want to see this on the front page, huh? Actually, I'm good friends with one of the section chiefs at HQ. I might be able to backdoor the request and keep it off the books. Make sure I get it back in the same condition as I gave it, my friend, or we will both, quite literally, be screwed.”

“You don't happen to remember who the lead was on the case, do you?”

“Actually, I do. Name's Pritchard, bigwig. Worked most of his career out of the Boston field office. He worked his way up to Organized Crime Section Chief in D.C. Retired from the bureau last year as an Assistant Special Agent in Charge in Boston. Moved up here to Maine. Lives in Cape Elizabeth.”

“Good guy?”

“From what I hear. Don't really know him. He was pretty dialed-­in back in the day. Solved quite a few high-­profile Boston cases. Made quite a name for himself. Ex-­military.”

“Jarhead like you?”

“Ha! Nothing so squared away. He's an old army dog. You want me to get you his contact info?”

“That'd be great.”

“Okay, I'll get back to you on both.”

“Thanks, Sam. I owe ya.”

Byron pulled into the rear garage of 109 and parked his car. He hoped he was wrong about this being only the beginning. But if he was right, if this was the work of some twisted ex-­con seeking revenge, who was next on the killer's list?

 

Chapter Fourteen

D
USTIN
T
RAN HAD
only managed to find addresses for Perrigo and Williams. Both were local. Diane and Byron drove to Falmouth to interview Perrigo while Tran and Nugent went searching for Williams.

It was seven-­thirty by the time Byron and Diane pulled into the Falmouth Foreside driveway of Casa de Perrigo. They got out and surveyed the small two-­story estate.

“Looks like someone does pretty well on a police pension,” Diane said. “It's a little bigger than your apartment.”

“Hey, my apartment's nothing to sneeze at.”

Byron rang the doorbell. A well-­kept middle-­aged woman wearing a tan pantsuit opened the door. Her bright orange hair matched her manicured nails.

“Mrs. Perrigo?” Byron asked.

“Yes. May I help you?”

They both displayed their IDs. “Mrs. Perrigo, my name is Detective Sergeant John Byron and this is my partner Detective Diane Joyner.”

“Vickie Perrigo,” she said as she shook hands with both of them.

“Pleased to meet you, Vickie,” Diane said.

“We'd like to speak to your husband, if he's around?” Byron asked.

“He is. Come right in, Detectives.”

“I hope we're not catching you at a bad time,” Diane said.

“Nonsense,” she said with a wave of her hand. “We're just watching television.”

“You have a lovely home, Vickie,” Diane said.

“Thank you, it was left to us by my parents.” Mrs. Perrigo led them through the foyer down a hallway into the living room. “Honey, we have company. This is Detective Sergeant Byron and Detective—­”

“Joyner.”

“That's right,” Perrigo said. “This is my husband, Tony.”

Byron immediately recognized the tanned, rugged face as one he'd seen at O'Halloran's funeral ser­vice.

After they'd been introduced, Vickie suggested they move into the dining room. “Can I get either of you something to drink?” she asked. “Wine or a beer?”

“We're still on the clock,” Byron said.

“Coffee?”

“That would be great,” Diane said as they sat down at the dining room table.

“You're Reece's son, aren't you?” Perrigo asked.

“I am.”

“He was a cop's cop.”

“So I've heard. Thank you.”

The mutual pleasantries and small talk continued until they were all seated at the table and the two detectives began to fill them in as to the reason for their visit.

“Jesus, I just attended Jimmy O'Halloran's funeral,” Perrigo said. “I thought it was the cancer?”

“That's what we all thought initially,” Byron said.

“So, what, you think I'm in some kind of danger?” Perrigo asked.

“It's a distinct possibility,” Diane said.

“We believe someone may be targeting every member of the Special Reaction Team, as it existed in 1985,” Byron said.

“Who would want to kill my Tony?” Vickie asked.

“We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on that,” Byron said, addressing Perrigo.

“Me? I have no idea. The guys on my team were all hard chargers. We put our share of criminals in prison and a few in the morgue.”

“We think it may have something to do with a shooting you were involved in that year,” Byron said.

“The only shooting any of us had in '85 was on Ocean Avenue. When Gagnon was killed.”

“That's right,” Byron said. “We think it could be the catalyst for what's happening now. Can you think of a reason someone might want all of you dead?”

Perrigo shook his head. “Nothing I can think of. We were trying to arrest four assholes wanted in connection with an out-­of-­state armored car robbery when the shooting happened. There were only three men in the house and we shot and killed them all. Maybe it's the other guy. The one who got away.”

“We're checking into that,” Byron said. “News reports of the incident said no money was recovered when you guys raided the house.”

“Correct. We never found it.”

“How much money was taken?” Vickie asked.

“One point four million,” Diane said.

Byron had been casually observing the highly accessorized Vickie Perrigo. One adjective came to mind: high-­maintenance. Dangling from her lobes were a pair of expensive diamond earrings and adorning one ring finger was a large rock mounted in a gold setting, which Byron guessed was at least a carat. He couldn't even imagine the weekly cost of maintaining her hair and nails. “A lot of money, even by today's standards. Any idea what might've happened to it?”

Perrigo cocked his head slightly. “Sort of an antagonistic question isn't it, Sergeant Byron? You're not insinuating we helped ourselves, are you?”

“I'm not insinuating anything, Mr. Perrigo. We are looking at this from every angle, trying to establish motive. That much money might motivate some folks to do almost anything. We're only trying to determine where it went.”

“I'm afraid I can't help you with that,” Perrigo said curtly. “Perhaps the other robber made off with it.”

“Maybe.” Byron studied Perrigo's face, wondering why the former cop wasn't protesting more forcefully. Perrigo seemed much too calm.

“Have any of the other members of the team reached out to you, Mr. Perrigo?” Diane asked, trying to relieve some of the tension from the room.

He shifted his gaze toward Diane. “No, I haven't talked with any of them.”

Both detectives also noticed a brief but obvious exchange of eye contact between husband and wife. The kind of nonverbal communication that meant: “Don't say a word, I've got this.”

“Well, I wish I could be of more help to you both,” Perrigo said as he stood up, sending a clear signal his participation in the interview was over. “But I'm afraid I don't know any more than I've already told you.”

Byron remained seated and looked toward Vickie for help, but she also got up and began clearing the table, refusing to make eye contact with either one of them.

“We'd like to offer you both some protection, as a precaution,” Diane said.

“Don't you mean surveillance?” Perrigo asked.

“Not at all,” Byron said. “We want to protect you.”

“Thanks, but we don't need any protection,” Perrigo said. “I'm fully capable of protecting myself and my family.”

“Here's my card in case either of you think of anything.” Byron stood and attempted to hand the card to Vicki but she was staring out the window, ignoring him.

“Just leave it on the table, Sergeant,” Perrigo said coldly.

“
W
HAT DO YOU THINK?”
Diane asked as Byron backed the Taurus out of the driveway and onto Route 88.

“He's lying. He knew we'd be coming. They both knew.”

“How would he know?”

“He was a cop. He's not as stupid as he'd have us believe.”

“You think he's spoken to one of the others?” she asked.

“Probably.” Byron turned to look at her. “I would.”

“You're such a cynic.”

“Took me twenty years.”

“Think there's any hope for me?”

He grinned. “None.”

Byron and Diane were headed to 109 when her cell rang.

“Hey, Nuge,” she said as she put it on speaker. “How did you guys make out?”

“Williams wasn't home. I left a card in the door. You?”

“Perrigo knows more than he's saying,” Byron said. “I actually think the wife knows, too.”

“Did he want protection?” Nugent asked.

“Nope,” Diane said. “Too damned proud.”

“Yeah. Until the next one gets killed,” Byron said.

“We're heading in to 109. What do you want us to do?” Nugent asked.

Byron glanced at the dashboard clock. Eight-­thirty. “Why don't you and Dustin call it a night? We'll regroup in the morning.”

“You're the boss. Oh, I left the PD-­shooting file box in your office.”

“Thanks, Nuge.”

“Oh yeah, the Tran man said to tell you he'll resume his search for the others first thing, Sarge,” Nugent said.

“Sounds good.”

“Night guys.” Diane ended the call and looked at Byron. “What do you say we grab the files, some dinner, and do some light reading?”

The thought of going to his empty apartment and the unpacked moving boxes was nearly unbearable. “Your place?”

“Of course.”

“You're on.”

They ate pizza and breadsticks and poured over the reports until well past midnight. Nothing they read seemed to provide any new information. Byron was having difficulty focusing on the task at hand. His distraction was mainly due to the outfit that Diane had changed into. Her tight-­fitting sweatpants and T-­shirt left little to the imagination. He knew it was time to leave when he noticed Diane yawning.

As Byron drove into Portland, he forced his mind away from Diane and back to the case. Something had changed to bring about these murders. But what? Why now, after twenty years, was someone going after former Portland cops? If it was Andreas, where had he been all this time? It certainly wasn't prison. Byron knew that even if Andreas had given a fake name, following an arrest, his fingerprints would have been cross-­checked against state and federal databases. Even the smallest of towns would have seen to that, and if not, the department of corrections surely would have. Unless he had gotten arrested outside of the U.S., in some other country. It was possible, especially if he had gotten away with the robbery money. But how could he have reentered the country without being detected? And why would he come back?

Byron whipped the car into a Port City Savings Bank lot and jammed the gearshift into park. He opened the door and leaned out just as his stomach convulsed up the pizza. He pulled the car forward, grabbed a handful of napkins from the console, and stepped out. His head was pounding and he was sweating profusely.
Something I ate?
But he knew better. He leaned against the side of the car until the feeling passed, then got back into the car and exited the lot. He lowered the windows as he drove, letting the night air blow on his face. He didn't need this right now. There were still too many unanswered questions. What he needed were answers. What he didn't need were the DTs or another dead cop.