Among the Shadows (26 page)

“I've still got his taped confession.”

Cross's smirk vanished.

“Why are you telling me any of this?” Byron asked, knowing that Cross was still trying to play him. He'd never seen Cross do anything without some kind of angle from which only he would benefit.

“Because, I need you to catch whoever is doing this. For Christ's sake, I may well be their next victim.”

“You deserve to be the next victim.” Byron stood up abruptly, intentionally knocking his chair into the wall.

“What are you gonna do?” Cross asked as he stood and followed.

“My job.”

“Before you go and do anything stupid, Mr. High-­and-­Mighty, don't forget your father took his share of the money too.” Cross smiled, having played his ace in the hole.

Byron stopped as he reached the front door and turned to face Cross. “It's not my father I'm coming after.” Byron stormed out of the house and down the front steps.

C
ROSS PAC
ED BACK
and forth nervously, trying to decide what to do. He poured himself another whiskey to calm his frazzled nerves. He picked up his Glock from the dining room table, reinserted the magazine and chambered round before placing it back into the pocket of his robe. He lit another cigarette, grabbed his cell phone, and dialed.

He sat down at the table, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples, listening to the distant ringing. At last the person on the other end of the line picked up.

“I thought my instructions were clear. You were never to call me unless it was an emergency.”

Cross exhaled the smoke he'd been holding in. “We've got a big problem.”

B
YRON DROVE TO
109. He had done all he could to set things in motion. All of his remaining targets were covered, at least he hoped they were, and he'd poked the proverbial bear with a stick to see what would happen. He liked Humphrey for the first two murders, but a partial print and a drink with a friend would hardly make the case. They were in fact the kinds of flimsy circumstantial evidence any first-­year court-­appointed hack would poke holes in. They needed more, something concrete. Besides, he was certain something else was happening here, something he still couldn't see.

Byron didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until his cell phone rang, startling him. He looked around the conference room, trying to get his bearings. The clock on the wall read two-­fifteen. “Byron,” he mumbled as he sat up in the chair, rubbing his stiff neck.

“Sarge, it's Mike. Looks like Beaudreau and his old lady are heading out of town.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm on ninety-­five southbound, following his Caddy. We just passed the Saco exit. I was watching the club when I saw someone come outside and load a ­couple of suitcases into the trunk. I started following them about ten minutes ago. What do you want me to do?”

Byron tried to clear his head as he thought it through. They had no legal reason to detain either of them. Beaudreau wasn't a suspect in the murders. If anything, he was probably wise to get out of Dodge while the getting was still good. But Beaudreau had lied to him, he was sure of it. And after losing Perrigo, he needed another source. Someone he could keep alive to testify.

“Sarge, you still there?” Nugent asked.

“Nuge, do you have Statewide Car-­to-­Car on your radio?”

“Think so.”

“Get ahold of the nearest trooper on the turnpike. Tell them you need a car stopped. I'm leaving 109 right now. Text me with your location as soon as they're pulled over.”

A
LIGHT RAIN
was falling as Byron pulled up behind Nugent's unmarked and a light blue state police unit, a mile south of the Kennebunk ser­vice area. He could see a figure silhouetted in the backseat of the trooper's Chevy. Nugent and the trooper were standing beside the light-­colored Caddy, talking with a very animated female. Byron stepped out of his car and approached them.

“Is that him?” the intoxicated female yelled. “Are you the fuck-­stick who ordered this?”

Byron saw Nugent lean in close to her and say something back. Whatever he'd said quieted her, for the moment. Nugent left her in the trooper's care and walked back to meet Byron.

“Beaudreau's girlfriend?” Byron asked, recognizing her as the party girl from the Unicorn.

“In the flesh. Belinda Gee, and she's a piece of work.”

“What's Beaudreau told you?”

“About the case, nothing, and Belinda's shit-­faced. She offered to perform a ser­vice if I let her go, but I turned her down.

“Wise decision.”

“I thought so. Evidently, she doesn't hear the word
no
very often. She's called trooper Edwards and me every name in the book and threatened to sue us at least a dozen times.”

“What about Beaudreau? Why is he in the backseat of the cruiser?”

“Ah, Dominic was threatening to kick our asses. We had to restrain him. You wanted them, they're all yours.”

“What the fuck gives you the right to detain me, Sergeant?” Beaudreau barked as he stepped out of the state police car.

“We're gonna sue all of your asses,” Belinda shouted.

“Belle, shut the fuck up,” Beaudreau yelled back.

Byron remained calm. “You're right. I don't have a good reason. But we've been working hard to keep you alive. You leaving town will make that impossible.”

“I already told you, I don't want your help. Besides, you haven't exactly done a bang-­up job keeping all of us alive, have you?”

“You also said you didn't know why someone was trying to kill each of you. But we both know differently, don't we?”

Beaudreau shook his head in denial. “I don't have the slightest idea what in hell you're talking about. I'm telling you, for the second time, I don't know why this is happening. But I'm not stupid, Sergeant. I'm not gonna wait around and become the next victim.”

“I know about the money,” Byron said, trying to gauge his response. Beaudreau's eyes widened ever so slightly. A reaction Byron might've missed in the flashing light of the trooper's strobes, had he not been watching for it.

The former cop returned Byron's stare. “What money?”

“The drug rips, the armored car money. Perrigo told us everything.”

Beaudreau broke eye contact, unconsciously rubbing the stubble on his chin.

“I can't help you unless you talk to me.”

Beaudreau's eyes locked back on Byron's. “Let's assume that we had anything to talk about, how does that help
me
?”

“Give me your statement, tell me everything that happened, and I'll get you into protective custody.”

“Sounds more like being
in
custody to me.” Beaudreau looked back toward Belinda.

“At least you'll be alive,” Byron said.

“Why do you think I'm leaving this Christly state? Seems like that might keep me alive too.”

“You really think you can hide from this? You know who you're running from. How far do you think you'll get. Talk to me, Dominic. Let me help you.”

Byron saw Beaudreau's expression soften. The former cop, no longer adversarial, looked scared.

“What if—­?”

“How much longer are you guys gonna stand around pulling your puds?” Belinda yelled. “I gotta pee.”

Beaudreau turned briefly to look at her before turning back. Byron could see the fear was gone. The spell was broken. Whatever momentary progress he'd made toward gaining Beaudreau's cooperation had disappeared, thanks to Belinda's big mouth.

“I think we're done here, Sergeant Byron.”

“Cross told me everything,” Byron said in a desperate attempt to pull Beaudreau back.

Beaudreau stared at him, unblinking for several seconds, before his mouth curled up into a knowing grin.

Byron knew instantly he'd overplayed his hand.

“Now I know you're lying,” Beaudreau said. “Are you charging me with something or not?”

Byron shook his head. “No.”

“Good, so you've got no reason to detain either of us. We're leaving.” Beaudreau turned and walked toward his car. “Come on, Belle. We're going.” Nugent looked at Byron for guidance.

“Let 'em go,” Byron said with a backhand wave.

Bathed in flickering blue light, the three cops stood in the breakdown lane of the Maine Turnpike and watched as Beaudreau and Belle drove away.

Byron knew he'd almost had Beaudreau. He'd come so close to reeling him in, only to lose him. Maybe for good. Beaudreau hadn't believed for a second that Cross had come clean.

“Well, maybe your killer won't get to him if he's out of state,” Trooper Edwards said.

“Don't think it's gonna make much difference,” Byron said.

“Why not?” Nugent asked.

“The way this case is going, he's dead already.”

B
YRON SENT
N
UGENT
home to get some sleep, then drove to his own apartment, hoping to squeeze in a two-­hour nap. He set the alarm on his nightstand for six o'clock along with a cell phone backup.

He awoke a ­couple of minutes before either alarm went off. His internal clock keeping him on edge in spite of his exhaustion.

Wipers on high, Byron drove through a torrent of rain, his mind replaying the previous night's interactions, first with Cross, then Beaudreau, and the ever so-­charming Belle. First stop the drive-­through at D & D for an extra-­large dose of caffeine, then on to 109.

He was attempting to catch up on his reports when he got a call from the chief's secretary, summoning him to Stanton's office. He knew precisely what it was about and wasn't surprised in the least when he found Cross and LeRoyer already seated there. Cross smirking was bad, but LeRoyer staring at the floor was worse.

“Have a seat, John,” Stanton said in a warm and inviting way that could only signify he wanted something.

Byron sat down apprehensively as Stanton got up and closed the door to the office. The chief returned and sat down with the others in one of the brown leather guest chairs, effectively removing the obstacle of his mahogany desk. Byron knew the game as well as anyone. He could see where the whole show was headed, entirely scripted and designed to convince him to play ball.

“How are you, John?” Stanton asked, removing his glasses and placing them in the pocket of his dress shirt. “Case going well?”

“I'm fine, thanks,” he said, attempting to remain calm. Byron despised Stanton's manipulative and cozy use of his first name. Being referred to as sergeant suited him just fine. “We're making progress.”

“Good. I'm glad to hear it. John, I won't beat around the bush.”

Sure you will, he thought. It was the name of this game, after all.

“I understand Assistant Chief Cross shared some sensitive information with you last night in an attempt to help you with your case.”

“Is that your understanding, Chief?” Byron asked, his sarcasm obvious.

LeRoyer shifted uneasily in his chair. His gaze moved from the floor to Byron.

“I also know he entrusted you with some dirty laundry from a long time ago, which might not be sitting all that well with you.”

“Dirty laundry, Chief? Is that what we're calling it? Funny, I would've thought the theft of over a half million dollars in evidence might warrant a more fitting description.” Cross glared at him. LeRoyer went back to studying the carpet.

“We all know you're an ethical man, John, and as such I'm sure this is difficult for you. The story Chief Cross shared with you happened in a different time, back when the police, even your own father, sometimes operated outside of the law in order to get the job done.”

“Leave my father out of this,” Byron snapped.

“I'm afraid he's not a separate issue,” Cross said calmly, shaking his head.

“What's important now,” Stanton continued, “is that we all stay focused on this case and stopping this lunatic before he can kill again. Airing out some moldy old skeleton from the Portland Police Department's historical closet won't do anybody any good. It'll only serve to distract ­people from what's really happening here.”

“Are you ordering me to cover up a crime, Chief?” Byron asked.

“I'm doing no such thing, Sergeant.”

“What I am asking is for you to see the big picture, and to use a bit of discretion.”

Byron wordlessly stared at him.

“I know this isn't a small thing I am asking.”

He had that right, suggesting Byron become a co-­conspirator was no small thing. And bringing his father into it wasn't helping Stanton's cause or Byron's mood. But the chief wasn't finished. “I need you to do me a personal favor and keep the past to yourself.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“You might find yourself in need of
my
help one day, and I'll be sure to remember what you've done for me, and for the department.”

Byron wondered if Stanton knew the difference between a bribe and a threat.

“Do we have an understanding, Sergeant?”

Byron looked over at Cross, who was smirking at him once again. He wondered exactly what kind of dirt Cross had on the chief. Byron looked back at Stanton. “I guess we do, Chief.”

“Good. I'm glad to hear it,” Stanton said, giving Byron a phony grin.

“So that's it? We're finished?”

“That's it,” Stanton said as he stood, sending a clear signal to all that the discussion was over. “This chapter of our history is closed. No good can come from digging up the past and possibly tarnishing the reputation of some damn fine police officers. Let's keep our eyes on the prize, shall we? And catch us a killer.”

Byron stood up and headed for the door, Stanton followed, clapping Byron on the back as he opened the door. “Keep up the good work, Sergeant.”