Among the Shadows (22 page)

He waited several minutes before driving off, making sure that he wasn't seen. As he started the Accord to leave, a gray-­primed four-­wheel-­drive pickup whipped into the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust and blocking him in. A bearded man of considerable girth, wearing tan Carhartt overalls and a pissed-­off look on his face, jumped down from the cab and approached Billingslea's car.

“Can I help you with something, asshole?” Carhartt shouted.

“Fuck,” Billingslea said.

“
I
CAN
'
T BEL
IEVE
all that just happened,” Diane said as they drove back toward the station. “It's crazy.”

“I know,” Byron agreed.

“The entire SRT? What the hell kind of cops were those?”

“Were? Don't forget about Cross.”

“Damn, that's right. No wonder he's been stonewalling this investigation. I thought he was just being his usual pain-­in-­the-­ass self. So now what?”

“I've got Ferguson checking to see what kind of charges he can file against all of them, and we've got the Perrigos' cell phones.”

“What good is his phone?”

“We can find out who he's been talking to and whether or not any of them lied to us about being in contact. Also, when they discover Perrigo has gone off the grid, they're all bound to get nervous, especially the killer.”

“We're using the Perrigos as bait?”

“Not exactly bait, more like motivation. If the killer is connected to the SRT, he's got as much to lose as the rest of them. Turning up the heat might be enough to cause him to trip up. To make the mistake we've been waiting on.”

“Why don't I take the recorder,” she said. “I'll get Dustin to make a copy and I'll put it someplace safe.”

“Guard this with your life,” he said, handing it to her. “If Perrigo changes his mind, this recording is all we've got.”

“It's in good hands,” she said, placing the digital recorder in her briefcase.

C
ROSS WAS PULL
ING
out of the basement garage of 109 when his cell phone began vibrating with an incoming call. The caller ID showed blocked. He answered, “Chief Cross.”

“Remember what I told you?”

He recognized the voice immediately. “I do, and I told you I'm handling it.” He waited for a response.

“If you were handling it, would we be having this conversation?”

“Has something happened? Something I don't know about?”

There was another agonizingly long pause.

“Have you spoken to Perrigo lately?”

Nervously, Cross began licking his lips. Perrigo hadn't checked in since his interview with Byron. “Not in the last few days, but he's on board. He won't say anything.”
But was he on board?
Cross wasn't sure. Williams had said Perrigo was shaky at best, scared about the murders. But scared enough to implicate himself? It didn't seem likely.

“On board is he? Team player?” Why don't you try calling him?”

“I don't want to risk leaving a trail for anyone to—­”

The phone disconnected.

“Dammit.” He licked his lips again.

C
ARHARTT HAD
B
ILLINGSLEA
by the collar of his shirt, bending him backward over the fender of the Accord. “You'd better have a damn good reason for being here, asshole,” Carhartt said.

Billingslea scrambled to think of anything that might get him out of his predicament. “It was the cops,” he blurted out. He flinched as Carhartt leaned toward him and drew back his meaty fist.

“What cops? I didn't see no cops.”

“I thought they were following me. I pulled in here to lose them.”

His sweaty brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Suspended license. They catch me again, they'll arrest me.” He watched as the big man thought it through. The body odor was making it hard to breathe. Finally, Carhartt's frown disappeared. He lowered his fist and released Billingslea's collar.

“Well, why didn't you just say so?” He laughed and playfully slapped the reporter in the back hard enough to snap his head back.

Billingslea forced a smile.

“Like to drink, do ya?” Carhartt asked.

“Yeah, a little.”

“Wanna come inside and have a cold one?”

This is where he tells me he plays the banjo.
“Ah, maybe some other time. I'm late for work.”

I
T WA
S AFTER
dark by the time Byron and Diane got back to 109. He needed to check in with LeRoyer, who'd left several messages on his phone during the course of the afternoon, but first he needed to see Tran.

“Hey, commander,” Tran said. “I was about to call you.”

Byron stepped into Tran's office and closed the door, handing him both cell phones. “What's up?”

“Nothing yet on the taxi, but there are so many independents we may never know for sure. As for the rentals, I found fifteen Honda Odysseys leased locally.”

“Same time frame as Riordan's death?”

“The week of.”

“Any connection?”

“None I could find.”

“All right, I've got something else for you anyway, and it's a big one.”

Tran held up the cells. “Phone stuff, I'm guessing.”

“I need you to download the information from both of those.”

“Sure, what am I searching for?”

“I want complete lists of all incoming and outgoing calls along with the corresponding contact phone numbers and duration of the calls.”

“Could be quite a list depending on how frequently these are used. How far do you want me to go back?”

“All of the history. If it's on the phone, I want it.” Byron provided him with the phone access codes he'd gotten from Perrigo.

“Okay, boss. No biggie. I'm on it.”

“That wasn't the favor.”

Tran turned back toward him.

“And this one's way outside of protocol.” Byron could see he now had the young detective's undivided attention.

“You talkin' black-­bag kinda stuff?”

“I'm talking off-­the-­books kinda stuff. Cell phone records from all of them.”

Tran whistled between his teeth. “You know we'd need a court order, right? We could both be up to our gluteus maximus if anyone found out.”

“I'll worry about that. Can you do it or not?”

“This is real important, right?”

“I wouldn't ask otherwise.”

“Okay. What numbers do you need checked?”

“I want you to cross-­check each of these numbers for calls they might've made to each other,” he said, handing him the handwritten list.

“Ah, what you want is a phone tree.”

“A what?”

“Phone tree. You want a comparative search done to show who's contacting who, when, and with what frequency.”

Byron nodded. He was never quite sure when talking with Tran if the young detective completely understood what Byron needed. But this was exactly what he wanted, and more than he'd thought possible. “Sounds like a phone tree is exactly what I want. Can you do it?”

“It won't be admissible in court.”

“I don't need it to be. But I need an edge. I want to know who's had contact with the others and is lying about it.”

“How far should I go back?”

“At least a month.”

“These numbers are for the former officers?”

“And Cross.”

Tran whistled again. “I have an acquaintance who can get me what you want, but there's always a risk of getting caught.”

“I'll take full responsibility if that happens. But do me one favor?”

“What's that?”

“Don't get caught.”

Tran grinned. “Fear not, striped dude. The D Man is on the case.”

Byron headed upstairs to deal with LeRoyer.

“Goddammit, John, I'm your lieutenant. I want to know what's going on with this case. Just once it'd be nice if you could be a team player.”

“I told you, I can't give you specifics. I've discussed a number of developments with Ferguson, and he doesn't want me dragging more ­people into this.”

“Last I checked, Ferguson doesn't work for this department, you do.”

“But he does have prosecutorial authority over the investigation. Trust me, Lieu, it's better if you don't know everything. I'll fill you in as soon as I can.”

The lieutenant's face was flushed as he ran his fingers back through his hair. “This is total bullshit, John. I've got Stanton and Cross breathing down my neck. What the hell am I supposed to tell them?”

“Tell them you gave me the authority to run this free from internal interference. Remember?”

“I'm regretting it more every minute. Can you at least give me a friggin synopsis?”

“Perrigo turned.”

“Turned?”

“Confessed to a bunch of stuff. We stashed him and his wife in a bureau safe house.”

“Did he ID the killer?”

“No. He said he doesn't know who it is.”

“So what did he give you?”

“Like I said, it's better you don't know.”

“This thing's giving me a goddamned ulcer. You'd better get me something, John, and soon.”

B
ILLINGSLEA
SAT AT
the kitchen table of his in-­town apartment, staring at the screen on his laptop, wondering how he had managed to talk his way out of sure death at the hands of his new redneck friend. He dropped the last half piece of pizza back into the box on the floor. Simba, his ten-­year-­old Siamese, lapped appreciatively at the cheese stuck to the cardboard.

“Hey, old girl, you're gonna end up with high cholesterol. You shouldn't be eating that stuff at your age.”

Simba looked up at him and gave a verbal protest.

“Your funeral.”

He returned to his Internet search for town properties in the area he had last seen Byron and Joyner. Tax records indicated that there was a structure at the other end of the road, at the edge of Thompson Pond. The owner of record was listed as the SinTech Corporation.

Simba jumped up in his lap, purring loudly.

He scratched the underside of her chin.

“That's odd, Sim. All of the other properties are listed to individuals or ­couples. Maybe someone is trying to hide personal property.”

He printed the information, then queried SinTech. While scrolling through the results, he slid his notepad closer, flipped to the back page, then picked up his cell and dialed.

“You working?” Billingslea asked the female dispatcher on the other end of the line.

“What do you need?” she asked.

“I need you to run a plate number for me.”

“
W
ELL?
H
OW
DID
you make out?” Byron asked Tran.

“Take a look for yourself,” Tran said, pulling it up on the computer screen.

“All I see is a bunch of numbers and lines. Looks like a constellation map.”

“This is your phone tree. Each of the numbers you gave me are shown here. I've included all incoming and outgoing calls for the last thirty days. I've color-­coded them with incoming calls showing in red and outgoing in blue.”

“It's too hard to decipher what I'm seeing.”

“That, boss dude, is because I'm showing you everything for the entire period. Now watch as I remove the calls not pertinent to your query.”

“The circle in the middle is Cross's number.”

“Correct. And see, his number becomes the focus.”

“I'm not following.”

“Look here,” Tran said, pointing at the monitor. “His number calls the numbers belonging to . . . Williams and Beaudreau. Williams in turn calls Humphrey and Perrigo. Finally, Williams calls Cross again. Cross's number is the epicenter. If this was a drug case or an organized crime case, he'd be your logical boss.”

“Looks like he's still running the show.”

“According to the phone tree, he is. And didn't you say they all claimed not to have been in touch with one another.”

“That's what each of them said.”

“Yeah, well their cell records say something very different.”

“Thanks, Dustin.”

“But remember, you can't use any of this, Sarge.”

Byron tousled the young detective's mop of hair. “No worries, D Man.”

He left the computer lab and headed upstairs to check in on the surveillance details.

 

Chapter Twenty-­Six

I
T WAS AFTER
ten-­thirty by the time Diane pulled into the driveway of her Westbrook home. All she could think about was crawling into bed and getting something resembling a full night's sleep. She couldn't remember the last time it had happened.

Like all committed detectives, she knew what real exhaustion felt like. Being so tired that, when the opportunity finally presents itself—­or, in this case, your partner makes you—­you are unable to actually fall asleep. She hoped it wouldn't be necessary, but, with everything that had transpired over the last twelve hours, she was prepared to pop a ­couple of little helpers.

Grabbing her briefcase off the passenger seat, she removed her holster and stashed it inside. She pushed the lock button on the remote and made her way up the steps to the yellow ranch's side door. After several moments of fumbling about in the dark, she finally managed to slip the key into the lock. She opened the door and stepped inside.

She laid her belongings on the kitchen table and collected the mail from the floor. As she was sorting through it, she walked around the corner into the living room. Even before turning on a light, she saw it. Someone had been inside her house. Couch cushions and pillows had been thrown about and furniture upended, like they were searching for something. She froze. What if they were still here? Instinctively, she reached for her sidearm, the sidearm she'd placed in her briefcase, which was now lying on the table.
Dammit
,
girl
.
You're such a numbskull
. Quickly, and as stealthily as possible, she backtracked to the kitchen. As she reached for the bag, she heard the telltale squeak of the hardwood floor right where it always squeaked at the end of the hallway, where it intersected the kitchen. She sensed as much as heard the rustling sound of something quickly approaching. Her fingers closed around the familiar handle of her Glock. She was turning her head to look when the blow landed.

B
YRON DEPARTED 109
about an hour after Diane, realizing there was little else they could do tonight. The Perrigos were on ice, Ferguson was working on a game plan, and they had two nonpolice surveillance rides for tomorrow. He walked to the rear garage, climbed into his car, and drove home. He was tired and frustrated. They were searching for answers and finding nothing but more questions. Was this really about the money? Were they all as dirty as Perrigo claimed? It was still hard to believe. They were definitely hiding something more than the rip-­offs, but what? He didn't believe Perrigo had told them everything. What secret could be so important, they'd risk their lives to keep it?

He parked a block down the street from his apartment in a no-­parking zone. He'd forgotten to leave the outside light on again and was fiddling around in the dark with his keys when he realized the front door to his apartment wasn't latched. He might have forgotten the light, but he wouldn't have left without locking up. He drew his gun and nudged the door open with his hip. Reaching around the corner with his left hand, he flipped on the inside lights and forcefully shoved the door all the way open, in case someone might've decided to conceal themselves behind it. The door crashed into the wall, no one there. He entered the apartment with his gun in the lead.

He cleared the entire apartment, ignoring the obvious disarray in which someone had left his belongings until after he'd finished. His apartment was empty. He reholstered his weapon and looked around. The boxes he'd never gotten around to unpacking, in the nine months he'd lived there, had been upended, their contents scattered everywhere. It wasn't exactly the way he'd have done it, but at least they were finally unpacked. The kitchen and bathroom cupboard doors were all standing open, the contents also strewn about. This was more than some neighborhood delinquent looking for drug money. What did he have that someone might be searching for?

The FBI case files.
He hurried into the bedroom. The closet door was wide open. Scattered about the room were the contents of both file boxes. There was no way of knowing if any of the files were missing. If someone had wanted the files, they could've taken the boxes. Why hadn't they? The other files were at Diane's. And what had she done with Perrigo's recorded confession? Had she backed it up as he'd asked?
Shit.

He was reaching for his cell when it began ringing.

“John, it's Marty.”

The hair on the back of his neck bristled. The sense of foreboding was overpowering. He'd known LeRoyer long enough to know the sound of bad news even before it was delivered.

“What happened?”

“It's Diane.”

B
YRON PARKED IN
one of the spaces reserved for ambulances, then hurried across the lot toward the emergency room doors. He saw the security guard, who couldn't have been much older than twenty, trying to intercept him from the guard shack.

“Sir. Sir, you can't park there. That's reserved parking for ambulances only.”

Byron kept walking, ignoring the guard who was gaining on him.

“Sir, if you don't move your vehicle, I'll be forced to tow it.”

Byron stopped suddenly and spun toward the young guard, causing him to take a defensive step back. He stuck his badge about an inch from the guard's face. “I'm a cop. My partner's been attacked. If that's not good enough, then go ahead and tow it,” he growled.

Byron continued on toward the emergency room doors.

He found LeRoyer pacing back and forth near the nursing station. “How is she?”

“They're doing a CAT scan.”

“Is she conscious?”

“In and out. They gave her something to put her out.”

“What the fuck happened?”

“Sounds like she walked in on a burglar.”

Byron tilted his head back slightly and closed his eyes, knowing full well this was his fault. He'd made her a target the second he gave her the audio recorder. “Tell me they got him.”

“Westbrook PD attempted a track, but the K–9 lost the scent a ­couple of blocks away. Probably had a car waiting.”

“Goddammit!” he said, punching the wall.

The duty nurse turned to look.

LeRoyer continued. “Someone hit her on the side of her head with something. Doc said at a minimum, she's got a pretty nasty concussion.”

I
T TOOK
B
YRON
a total of twenty agonizing minutes of pacing like a caged animal, ready to tear into anyone who even looked at him wrong, to realize he wasn't doing anyone any good at the ER.

“I'll be back,” he told LeRoyer.

“Where are you going?”

“Westbrook.”

Fifteen minutes later, Byron pulled up in front of Diane's house. Uniformed Westbrook officers were still on scene. He looked around for stripes until he found the patrol supervisor.

“You the guy in charge?” Byron asked.

“Jim Rodway. You must be John Byron.” Byron gave him a puzzled look. “Your lieutenant called ahead.”

“Take me through what happened.”

“Well, the victim, your partner, called 911 and told the dispatcher she'd been attacked in her home and she needed an ambulance. My officers got here as quick as they could. They found her lying on the kitchen floor. She was really out of it. Someone clocked her pretty good. We swept the entire house, but the perp had already fled. We helped the paramedics get her into the ambulance. They tell you about the track?”

Byron nodded. “You think whoever it was got into a car?”

“Yeah. The dog was really pulling. Good strong scent, then nothing. The track ended at the side of the road, ­couple of blocks from here.”

“Did Diane give a description of her attacker to your dispatcher?”

Rodway shook his head. “She did well to call for help. We had to trace the location of her cell to find her. Your PD gave us the exact address.”

“Mind if I take a look inside?”

“Be my guest. But be careful, one of yours is still inside processing everything.”

“One of mine?”

“None of our E.T.'s were available tonight. Officer Pelligrosso responded.”

Byron stepped inside the kitchen door and stopped. “Gabe.”

“In the living room.”

Carefully, he stepped around the blood stain on the floor and entered the living room. Pelligrosso was dusting for prints.

“How is she, Sarge?”

“Too early to tell. They're still running tests.”

“This fucker better hope I don't find him.”

Byron could see by the look on Pelligrosso's face that he meant it. Get in line, he thought. “Any luck?”

“I'm lifting a bunch of good prints, but there's no way to tell yet whose I'm getting. Might only be hers.”

Or mine, he thought, wondering how he'd explain the ones undoubtedly left in Diane's bedroom.

“What can you tell me so far?”

“There's no sign of forced entry. They either had a key or picked the lock.”

Exactly like my own apartment
.

“As far as what's missing, I've no idea. Looks like they turned the place upside down searching for something. I can tell you what they didn't take. They didn't take her gun, her phone, her pocketbook, her money, or her jewelry. Everything you'd expect to be missing is still here.”

A knot tightened in Byron's stomach. He knew exactly what they were searching for, and it wasn't the FBI case files.

I
T WAS NEARLY
four
A.M.
by the time Byron returned to the hospital. Diane had been wheeled to a quiet room in the ER. Her head was bandaged and there was an IV connected to her arm. She was sleeping. He couldn't help but be reminded of the scene inside O'Halloran's bedroom. LeRoyer was seated in a bedside chair, trying desperately to stay awake.

“How is she, Marty?” Byron whispered.

“I haven't had a chance to talk to the doc yet. They're working a cardiac patient an EMS transported in from Falmouth.”

“How long has she been back?”

“About twenty minutes. What did you find out about the break-­in?”

“Not much. Gabe finished processing and headed to 109 to go over the prints. I called Mel in to help him. Didn't think you'd mind.”

LeRoyer nodded. “Any idea what they were after?”

“I might.”

“What?”

The ER doctor came to the door and signaled for them to come out into the hall. “Sorry to keep you two waiting. It's been a little crazy this morning.”

“What's the prognosis, Doc?” Byron asked for both of them. “Is she gonna be okay?”

“She's your partner?”

“Yes.”

“She's suffered a fairly serious concussion. Somewhere between what we refer to as stage two and stage three. I was told she was struck in the head. Do either of you know what she was struck with?”

“No, only that she was attacked in her home by an intruder,” LeRoyer said.

“Why?” Byron asked.

“The reason I ask is because I've seen injuries similar to the one suffered by Detective Joyner when someone is pistol whipped. Her CAT scan was inconclusive. But I want to monitor her closely. She might still experience some swelling of the brain near the impact point. If that happens, we may have to drill a small hole to relieve the pressure. It's too soon to say.”

Byron felt the knot in his stomach tighten.

“I've consulted with the on call neurologist, Dr. Iselbach, and he'll be taking over her treatment from here.”

“When do you expect her to wake up?”

“We're intentionally keeping her under for the time being. If we brought her around right now, she'd be very agitated and have one hell of a headache. Best if we let her rest now. We'll be moving her to the Special Care Unit shortly.”

“How long do you think before we can speak with her?” LeRoyer asked.

“I wouldn't plan on talking to her for at least eight hours.”

Byron sighed and stood looking in at her from the doorway.

The doctor placed a hand on Byron's shoulder. “Look, it's still too early to give you a definitive answer, but if I were a betting man, based on her age and physical condition, I'd say she'll probably be fine.”

“Thanks, Doc,” LeRoyer said for both of them.

B
YRON LEFT THE
hospital pissed off, at himself mostly. He never should've handed over the recording to her. But who was the burglar? Certainly not the killer, or she'd be dead. This felt like someone else. Someone trying to prevent them from uncovering the truth. Diane's attacker was most likely a cop. But who? Only a handful of ­people even knew about Perrigo. He needed answers and fast. He drove to 109 to check in with Pelligrosso and Stevens. At the moment they were his best hope.

He took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. As he reached the landing, he stopped. His head was spinning. He realized he'd missed another night's sleep and couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything. He waited for the feeling to pass, then unlocked the steel door to the third-­floor hallway.

“Well?” Byron asked as he entered the lab. “What have you got?”

“How is she?” Stevens asked, looking concerned.

“They're keeping her sedated until the swelling goes down, but the doc thinks she'll probably be okay. How are you two making out?”

“Well, I lifted a shitload of prints from every room in her house” Pelligrosso said. “We also took elimination prints from the Westbrook officers who entered the house.”

“And I pulled Sergeant Joyner's to rule her out,” Stevens added.

“You'd better pull mine for elimination as well,” Byron said.

Stevens raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Byron pretended not to notice.

“You know this is going to take us a while, right?” Pelligrosso asked.