Among the Shadows (24 page)

Ellis and Cody climbed back into the ruins and resumed their careful digging.

“What's the plan, John?” Pritchard asked.

“I'm working on it. Got some interesting news, though.”

Pritchard raised a brow. “Oh? Do tell.”

“My whiz kid detective found a link between Cross and one of the armored car robbers. Cross busted Andreas around '82 for trafficking coke.”

“Coincidence?”

“No way. I don't believe in them. Cross was part of a regional DEA task force and Andreas got caught holding a lot of weight. A few months later, Andreas gets probation on the reduced charge of possession.”

“He flipped?”

“Most likely.”

“How did that not show up in our investigation?”

“The bust was in Massachusetts and they don't report to you guys. Even if you'd checked Triple I, it probably wouldn't have shown up. Besides, Cross worked for Portland. You wouldn't have been looking for him to be involved in an out-­of-­state grab.”

“Still, I can't believe I missed it.”

Byron's cell rang. Anxious for news on Diane, he pulled it out and checked the caller ID. It wasn't Stevens, only LeRoyer again. He ignored it, returning the phone to his pocket.

“The boss?” Pritchard asked.

“Who else?” he said. “I gotta head back to the barn. I'll check in with you later.”

“
A
ND WHERE THE
hell
have you been?” LeRoyer barked at Byron from behind his desk. “Don't you ever return messages? Cross and Stanton have been all over my shit. And what's this about you investigating an out-­of-­town fire and two bodies? The colonel of the state police just reamed me a new one. Something about jurisdiction. Or doesn't that mean anything to you?”

Byron waited until the lieutenant had finished his rant before speaking. “May I say something?”

“You'd damn well better.”

“Cross is involved in this.”

LeRoyer stood there staring at him to see if Byron was serious. “Can you prove it?”

“Who did you tell about my witness?”

“Only Cross.”

“Fuck, Marty!”

“He ordered me to. I only said you'd gotten someone to turn, and that you'd stashed them in some FBI safe house around here.”

“You used the words ‘FBI safe house'?”

“Yeah, I think so. Maybe.”

“Well, that's just great. The fire you asked about was my safe house and the bodies were my cooperating witness and his wife.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, Marty, shit.”

“Come on, John, even if you're right about Cross, he couldn't have known the location. Right?”

“How many safe houses you think the bureau has up here?”

“You've still got Perrigo's recorded confession.”

“No, I don't. Why do you think someone broke into my apartment and Diane's house last night?”

“Shit,” LeRoyer said again. He stared down at the top of his desk and ran both hands back through his hair. He removed a large bottle of antacid from his desk drawer and took a gulp. “What do you want me to do?”

“Stop talking to Cross! I need you to run interference for me. If you really want deniability when this thing breaks, then stop asking me questions. I need you to trust me, Marty. I'm gonna turn up the heat.”

“You sure you know what you're doing?”

The truth was he wasn't sure. But he was tired of feeling like he was always a step behind the killer, constantly playing catch-­up. It was time to push some buttons and make something happen. It was time to take the gloves off, time to go on offense. “Trust me.”

Byron's cell rang. He answered it without checking to see who it was. “Byron.”

“Sarge, it's Mel. Diane's awake.”

“On my way.”

Byron was heading for the door when LeRoyer stopped him. “Here,” he said, tossing him a set of keys.

“What's this?”

“Keys to the maroon Chevy repaint parked in the back garage.”

“Thought you didn't have anything else for me?”

“Take care of this one, John. We just had it painted.”

B
YRON
'
S MIND WAS
racing as he drove toward the hospital. How had things changed so fast? In the past twenty-­four hours, he'd gone from breaking the case wide open to losing everything. The confession was gone, the key witness, all of it. It was as if someone knew his every move. But who? Only a handful of ­people knew about stashing the Perrigos at the safe house. Diane hadn't given herself a concussion, which pretty much ruled her out. Pritchard had helped him place them at the safe house, and he'd been the primary robbery investigator for the bureau. Besides, Pritchard had no connection to Portland, and this was a Portland case. The SRT, Cross, everything pointed to Cross. But there was something else. Someone else. Something he was still missing.

LeRoyer said he'd told Cross that Byron had gotten someone to turn. Would Cross have known who? Would he really have gone in search of them? Or would he have gotten someone else to do his bidding? Humphrey? But Humphrey hadn't known about Perrigo turning.
Not unless Cross had told him.

Byron parked the Chevy in front of the hospital's main entrance and got out.

“
T
HERE
'
S A SIGHT
for sore eyes,” he said as he walked into Diane's hospital room.

“Hey, John,” she said, still sounding a bit groggy.

“How you feelin'?”

“Like someone used my head for batting practice. Jeez, John, you don't look so good. When was the last time you slept?”

“Can't remember,” he said as he pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down.

“I could call room ser­vice and have them bring in a cot.”

“Don't bother. They'd only charge you for a double. When are they releasing you?”

“Doc said if I make it through the night okay, I might be able to leave here tomorrow.”

“I'll have someone bring your car up and some clothes.”

“Thanks, but I've already got that covered. I'm not staying here one minute longer than I have to.”

“Everyone was worried about you.”

“Aw, even you?” she said.

“Of course.”

“You big softy.”

“Anyone fill you in yet?”

“Not all of it. They said you would. Did you catch the asshole who tuned me up?”

“Not yet,” he said with a concerned look on his face. “Did you get a look at who attacked you?”

“No.”

“Perrigo's dead.”

“What? How?”

“Someone torched the safe house. We found two bodies in the rubble.”

Diane stared at him, as if he was joking.

“We don't even have the confession,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“The recording. I checked with Dustin. He said you never gave it to him to copy.”

“I didn't. I decided not to involve anyone else, so I copied it to my computer instead.”

“Where's the recorder?”

“Under the spare in my unmarked.”

“Oh, man, I thought we lost it. I could kiss you right now.”

“What's stopping you?”

Byron spent the next twenty minutes bringing Diane up to speed on the fire, the break-­ins, and the links to Cross.

“This sounds more like a friggin' mystery novel,” she said. “What did Ferguson say?”

“I spoke with him on the way over here. He said even with the recording, minus a witness, it's only hearsay. No judge in their right mind would ever think about issuing a warrant based on what we've got. There's no way of proving what Perrigo told us wasn't bullshit. Not unless we can turn one of the others. Get someone to confirm what Perrigo said.”

“I'd say we can rule out Cross as ever being helpful. What about Beaudreau or Humphrey?”

“Beaudreau's as greasy as they come. Ray may be our only shot.”

“What does Terry think? Any chance this is still Andreas?”

“I highly doubt it. Terry's pissed about missing the link between Andreas and Cross. I think Riccio was right. The weeds are growing right in our own backyard.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I've got an idea.”

“Care to share it?”

B
YRON HEADED HOME
to get a few hours of sleep. On the way he called Nugent.

“Mike, it's Byron.”

“Hey, Sarge. Heard the patient is alive and well.”

“She's gettin' there. Listen, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Name it.”

“Find Mel and grab the two cars we got from Royal River Ford. I want you to locate and stay on Beaudreau and Humphrey.” He checked his watch, nearly three. “Humphrey will most likely be at his office on Commercial Street and Beaudreau should be on the way to his club in Westbrook.”

“What about Cross?”

“I'll worry about Cross.”

“Want me to let Westbrook PD know what we're up to?”

Fresh off the loss of a witness, one he was supposed to protect, the last thing they needed was more ­people knowing what they were up to. “No, I don't. And stay off the radio. Keep in contact with each other by phone only. Let me know if either of them move.”

“You got it, boss.”

“Nuge.”

“Yeah.”

“Keep your eyes open.”

Byron hung up and was about to pocket the phone when he stopped. Something about the Perrigos was nagging at him. A loosely formed thought, as discorporate as mist but still troubling. He had attempted to place them out of harm's way only to see both of them dispatched as swiftly as if he'd shoved them in front of a speeding bus. O'Halloran, Riordan, Williams, and now Perrigo, four ex-­cops had been murdered so far, the last two while in his care. Someone was toying with him, always a step ahead. But who? He kept thinking about something Perrigo had said about their intel.

“It was like we had someone on the inside
,
”
Perrigo had said.
“We never came up empty. You ever heard of anything like that?”

Byron never had. He dialed the PD's computer lab. There was something else he wanted Tran to check.

 

Chapter Twenty-­Eight

T
HROUGH GAUZY LAYE
RS
of sleep, Byron's conscious mind gradually became aware of a phone ringing. He struggled to open his eyes and sat up, knocking his cell off the bedside table. “Fuck,” he said as he scrambled onto the floor after it. “Byron.”

“Top o' the evening to you. Hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

Ellis
. “No, Doc, you're good. What's up?”

“Well, I finished emergency surgery on Mr. Anthony Perrigo, but in spite of my best efforts he didn't pull through. Think it might have something to do with the burn he got.”

Byron checked the time, impatient for Ellis to get to the point. It was nearly seven. He stood and was shuffling toward the bathroom when his stubbed his bare foot on a picture frame lying upside down on the floor. He reached down, picked up the frame, and turned it over. Beneath the broken glass was a photo of him and Kay, mugging for the camera. They had taken a Caribbean cruise to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary and Byron's promotion to detective. A painful image from his past, cast aside like refuse by a recently departed burglar.

“John, you still there?”

“Right here, Doc, but I'm pressed for time,” he said, gently placing the picture atop an overturned cardboard box and continuing toward the bathroom. “Do you have a cause of death or not?”

“You're the kind of guy who reads the last page of a book first, aren't you?”

“I'm begging you,” he said as he reached into the shower and turned on the water.

“Oh, all right. He was dead before the fire.”

“How?”

“Gunshot to the head. Close range.”

“The wife?”

“Haven't done hers yet.”

“Caliber?”

“Can't say with any certainty because we didn't recover the round or casing, but if I had to hazard a guess, I'd say a nine millimeter.”

The same caliber that killed Williams.

After the call with Ellis, and a hot shower that did little to wake him up, he checked in on Stevens and Nugent. According to Nugent, Beaudreau was still at the club. Stevens reported Humphrey had driven home around five-­thirty, before leaving again twenty minutes ago.

“Where is he now, Mel?”

“I followed him into town. He stopped at the 7-­Eleven on Washington, came out carrying a paper bag, and drove up to CB Circle,” she said, referring to the nickname given to the intersection of North Street and the Eastern Promenade.

“Is he still in the car?”

“Nope. He locked it up and walked down the hill toward the highway. Do you want me to go and look for him?”

Humphrey had made the surveillance. Byron knew the significance of that location and was pretty sure Ray was sending him a message. “Stay put. I'll be right there.”

B
YRON TURNED
INTO
the circle, the headlights of his Chevy illuminating Humphrey's empty SUV. He parked behind it and got out. About a hundred feet down the embankment, he found his former detective, mentor, and friend seated on the darkened hillside in the grass.

“Sarge.” Humphrey greeted him without turning.

“Ray.”

“I wondered how long it would take for you to show up. Pull up a seat, best view in the house.” He handed Byron a bottle. “Here. Bought a six pack, thought we could split it.”

Byron took the cold beer and sat down on the grass. He paused before opening the bottle. It was the first alcohol he'd had in days, and he wasn't sure he wanted to push his luck. He twisted off the cap but didn't drink.

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

Byron looked out over Portland's skyline. From their vantage point, they could see the entire north side of Portland's peninsula, Back Cove, and the edge of Deering. Far below, the interstate wound toward them, the cars resembled lightning bugs on a racetrack. “It is.”

“Fort Sumner once stood here. Built in 1794 under orders from George Washington. It was Maine's first federal fort until it was torn down in the 1840s. Lotta history here, Sarge.”

“So you've said.”

“Seeing the city from up here, you'd never guess anything was wrong out there, would you? It's so damn peaceful.”

Byron knew Humphrey only came up here when he had something weighing on his mind. They'd come here together after Reece's suicide and again when Ray's wife died. “What's going on, Ray?

“Your dad and I used to come up here all the time. Did you know that?”

“You told me.”

Humphrey nodded. “Reece was the one who taught me to take a step back when shit got too heavy. He said coming up here always put it back into perspective.”

“Is shit getting too heavy, Ray?”

Humphrey ignored the question. “You ever imagine your life turning out differently, Sarge?”

“There's only the two of us here, Ray. Why won't you call me John? We go back a long ways. You trained me, for Christ's sake.”

Humphrey looked at him. “I trained you to be a good detective. You became a good sergeant on your own. Had nothing to do with me.”

Byron didn't feel much like a good anything at the moment. “I had some help there too.”

“Maybe, but you've earned the respect some never do. You earned my respect, and you'll always be my sergeant. No matter what.” He took another swig of his beer. “So, did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Ever hope it would be different.”

“What are we talking about, Ray, regrets?”

Humphrey nodded.

“I guess. Always thought I'd be a better husband than my old man was.”

Humphrey looked over at him.

“Definitely didn't fuck up my kids, though. Not having any took care of that.”

“I know you don't believe this, Sarge, but Reece was a man worthy of respect. Taught me a lot about being a cop.”

“Reece Byron was a fucking coward. Suicide? Really? Who did he think would find his body?” He eyed the open beer again, fighting the urge to gulp the entire bottle. “That's not something a teenaged son is supposed to see. That's not something anyone should see. Don't call me John if you don't want, that's fine, but don't lecture me about my goddamned father. Okay?”

For the next several minutes neither of them spoke. They sat listening to the sounds of the night while watching the flow of traffic on the highway below. Nearby crickets kept cadence. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed.

“How long have you known about the surveillance?” Byron asked.

“Mel? Ah, she's a good kid. Don't be too hard on her. It's pretty tough to tail a cop.” Humphrey finished his beer, tossing the empty into the bushes. He grabbed another and handed it to Byron.

“I'm still nursing this one.”

Humphrey shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He opened it and took a long drink before continuing. “Me, I've got a boatload of regrets.”

“Like?”

“I wish I'd been a better husband to my Wendy.”

“I know the feeling,” Byron said.

“You ever fuck around on Kay?”

“Not until after we separated. But, I guess I cheated on her plenty, all the same.”

“I don't follow.”

“The job. Like having a girl on the side, isn't it? Think about her all the time, can't wait to get back to her, sneak out to see her when she calls in the middle of the night. Maybe you don't come home to your wife for days.”

“Never thought about it like that.”

“Maybe it's not infidelity in the physical sense, but it's still cheating.”

Humphrey nodded his understanding. “I guess I fucked around on my Wendy plenty, then. Between the ponies, the job, and the women. I still miss her, Sarge. She didn't deserve to suffer like that.”

“Nobody does.”

“Fucking cancer. Not one of God's better ideas.”

Byron considered telling him God probably had nothing to do with it, but decided against it. “How about the job, Ray?” he asked, trying to get him back on topic. “Any regrets?”

Humphrey looked over, studying him. “Plenty.”

“Like?”

He turned his head to look out at the skyline and changed the topic. “Think you're getting close to solving this case?”

“Feels like something's gonna break soon.”

He nodded, giving Byron a knowing glance, and took another long drink. “You know, you've always been like a son to me. The son I never had.”

“I know about the money, Ray. And about the drug rips.” He waited for a reaction but Humphrey remained silent. “Perrigo told us everything. Why, Ray? How could you be a part of that?”

“Is that really the question you want to ask?”

“I know you were with Riordan the night he died,” Byron said, bluffing. “I know about the rental car. Tell me you're not the one doing this.”

Humphrey stood up, finished the remaining half of his beer in three quick gulps, and carefully placed the empty in the cardboard holder. “You're a good detective, Sarge. No denying it. You'll figure this thing out. Forgive me for leaving you here, but it's been a long day. I'm going home.”

He waited until Humphrey had departed before taking the brown paper bag out of his pocket and unfolding it. He hadn't gotten the answers he'd wanted, but he had managed to accomplish one thing. Carefully, he placed Humphrey's empty into the bag, then dumped his own beer in the grass. As he walked back to his car, he phoned Stevens, instructing her to follow Humphrey home and to await word from him. His next call was to Pritchard.

“You still want in?” Byron asked.

“Point me in the right direction.”

During his short drive to 109, he filled Pritchard in on the latest developments, including the blown surveillance on Humphrey.

“You think it's Humphrey, John?”

“I should know pretty quickly. Can you tail him without getting made?”

“Like the man said, it's tough to tail a cop, but I'll do my best.”

“Send me a text when you're in position and I'll pull Mel.”

“Okay. What are you going to do?”

“After I check out these prints, I'm gonna pay a visit to Diane at the hospital. Then I think I'll pay one to Cross and totally fuck up his night.”

“
W
ELL?
”
B
YRON
ASKED.

“Take a look for yourself,” Pelligrosso said, rolling his chair away from the lab's computer screen.

Byron bent forward and examined both images. They looked similar, but he didn't know a whorl from a loop. “Are they from the same person?”

Pelligrosso used the mouse to drag one image over the other. “You tell me.”

“They look identical.”

“They are. Maybe not good enough for the court's standard seven-­point comparison, but they'll pass my common sense test any day. So, you gonna tell me where you got the bottle?”

“Those are Ray Humphrey's prints.”

“
S
O WHY WOU
LDN
'
T
Ray tell you about visiting O'Halloran?” Diane asked.

“Maybe because he killed him,” Byron said.

“John, how long have you known him? Do you really think he could kill his old friends?”

“I'm not sure how close any of these guys really were, Diane. And I don't think he went over to O'Halloran's intending to kill him. I think something happened.”

“Like what?”

“O'Halloran was dying. He knew it. Maybe he wanted to get something off his chest. Something he shared with Ray. Maybe he confessed to something Ray didn't already know.”

“Something that pissed him off enough to put a pillow over the man's head and suffocate him?” she asked.

Byron nodded. “Might be that simple.”

“And what could've been bad enough to make him start killing the guys he worked with?”

“I don't know. But this is about a lot more than money. Whatever's happening here, Ray and Cross are the key, I'm sure of it.”

“But what about the attempt on Ray? Who was the police dog tracking from Ray's house?”

“I've thought a lot about that. What if the K–9 was tracking Ray?”

“Huh?”

“Who else saw the suspect Ray described at his back door?”

“The officer on the detail. Ah, Hutchins.”

“No, he didn't. I reread Hutchins's report. He reported what Ray told him, but he never actually saw the other person. The K–9 tracked from the house right to where Hutchins picked Ray up.” Byron gave her a minute to process what he'd told her. “I think Ray may have been attempting to supply himself with an alibi for Williams.”

“He has an alibi, John. He was home when it happened.”

“Was he? Hutchins didn't even know he was out of the house until the dispatcher told him. Why couldn't he have slipped out earlier and come back right after killing Williams?”

“But what about Riordan? There's nothing linking Ray to his murder.”

“Maybe there is. Ralph Polowski, the bartender from the AMVETS. The guy he saw with Cleo may very well have been Ray.” Byron studied her face. A face he now saw differently. Even the harsh hospital lighting couldn't hide it. She was beautiful. He would have given anything to be with her at that moment, but he still had a job to do, and at least one killer to catch. He bent down and kissed her cheek. “Gotta run.”

“Be careful, John.”

I
T WAS AFTER
ten when Byron pulled in and parked in the dirt lot across from the Washington Avenue chapter of the AMVETS. As he exited the car, he wondered if Humphrey had also parked there. Before leaving 109, he'd made copies of the Bureau of Motor Vehicle photos of the remaining SRT members. It wasn't nearly as good as a photo array would have been, but it would have to do. Time was running out.