“I’m meeting her at eleven to get her statement,” Nugent said.
“Good. Did we check Brackett Street for video?”
“Yup. Nothing so far. Bernie and I left business cards at all the addresses where we couldn’t make contact. Who knows, maybe some weirdo tech geek like Dustin has a camera aimed at the street.”
Byron’s cell chimed. He answered it. “Byron.”
“Hey, Sarge,” a raspy male voice said. “It’s Breslin. You in the building?”
Officer Mark Breslin might have been the laziest cop Byron had ever worked with. Maybe the laziest Portland had ever seen, although Bernie Robbins could give him a run for his money. Breslin had been assigned to light duty status, manning the front desk, or “riding the pine” as the assignment was more commonly referred to, following a work-related injury. As was his habit, Breslin paid an annual visit to Dr. Summer Off, but this time the brass had outsmarted the wily old veteran, sticking him on the information desk, as far from the poolside utopia Breslin most likely envisioned as possible.
“What do you need, Mark?” Byron said.
“Got a girl down here who wishes to speak with you, Sergeant.”
“Girl got a name?” Byron asked, making no attempt to hide his annoyance.
“Um, Sheila—Vickers. Says she works at some restaurant called Alexanders. Something like that.”
“Alessandro’s,” Byron said, rising to his feet.
“That’s the one.”
“Be right down.”
Chapter 11
Thursday, 10:30 a.m.,
July 13, 2017
Sheila Vickers sat alone on the long padded wooden bench abutting 109’s tinted lobby windows. She was dressed in a knee-length tan skirt, sleeveless top, and sandals. Backlit by the sun, her shadow fell across the tile floor. Byron studied her for a moment through the one-way glass of the inner lobby. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t recall whether they had met, or if he’d just seen her somewhere in passing. Portland is a small city.
“Ms. Vickers?” Byron asked as he pushed open the security door and stepped out into the main lobby.
“Sergeant Byron?” she said, rising from the bench.
They met in the middle and shook hands.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
Her eyes flicked about nervously, as if someone she knew might see her talking to the police. “I saw you at the restaurant yesterday. I need to talk to you—about Dani.”
“Dani?”
“Dani Faherty. The woman who was murdered.”
Byron looked toward the IO desk waiting for Breslin to buzz them inside. Officer Injured on Duty was engaged in a telephone call, oblivious. Byron punched in the security code to the inner lobby door, then led Vickers inside the station along the hallway to the elevators. They rode the lift to the fourth floor, to CID, where he could videotape the interview.
Detective Stevens was standing behind her desk, talking on the phone as Byron and Vickers walked through the detective bureau. Byron made eye contact with Stevens and gestured toward the conference room, signaling for her to monitor the interview. Stevens nodded her understanding.
He opened the door to Interview Room Two, flipped on the light, then stepped to one side. “Have a seat.”
Vickers entered the room and sat down in the chair farthest from the door, setting her purse on the floor beside her.
“Can I get you anything?” Byron asked. “Water?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
Byron stepped in and closed the door. He sat down across the table from her, then removed a notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his suit coat. “Mind if I take some notes?”
Vickers shook her head. “Not at all.”
Byron didn’t know what information she might possess that would cause her to show up unannounced at 109, but he’d learned long ago never to assume anything. The most important leads often came from the unlikeliest of sources.
Vickers fidgeted absently with a thin gold bracelet as she waited for him to begin.
“So, you’ve got some information about Danica Faherty?”
Vickers said nothing, continuing to fidget.
“Something about her murder?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe.”
“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt Dani?”
Vickers let out a loud sigh. “I really don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
During his years as a detective, Byron had observed literally hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people wrestle with the exact same dilemma. For some people doing the right thing often proved difficult when measured against maintaining some imagined loyalty to a possible murderer. Vickers had already taken the first step by walking into 109, and it was now Byron’s job to help her take the next. He placed his pen on the table and sat back in the chair.
“Sheila. May I call you Sheila?”
Vickers nodded.
“I’m investigating Dani’s murder. I’m not interested in anything else that someone may have done. Catching her murderer is all I’m concerned with. Do you understand?”
She nodded again.
“I know this is difficult, Sheila, but I can tell you from experience that until you get whatever this is off your chest, it will continue to eat at you. What did you come here to tell me?”
She hesitated for another moment before blurting it out. “Dani was having an affair with someone at the restaurant.”
“Who?”
“Do I have to say? Couldn’t you just talk to everyone who worked with her and find out that way?”
“And what if nobody wants to tell us?”
Vickers maintained eye contact with Byron but didn’t respond.
“Sheila, you obviously thought this was important, or you wouldn’t be here. Who was Dani having an affair with?”
“Alex,” she said at last.
“Alex Stavros?” Byron asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you know that for a fact, or did you just hear about it?”
“Dani talked to me about it.”
“How long had they been seeing each other?” Byron asked.
“A few months, I think.”
“Did Mrs. Stavros know?” Byron asked, meaning Alex’s wife, Deborah.
“I don’t know, but I think Lina might have.”
“Lina? What makes you say that?”
“Because Lina and Alex had a big fight about it.”
“A fight?” Byron said.
Vickers nodded. “A really loud argument. In the kitchen at Alessandro’s.”
“When was this?”
“A few days before Dani went missing.”
Diane stood off to the right of Chief Lynds at the podium in 109’s first-floor interview room. Despite the building’s air-conditioning, the room was uncomfortably warm, due largely to the lighting set up in advance by several television crews. Among the crowd of reporters, Diane recognized the usual suspects from the local network affiliates of NBC, CBS, and ABC. Additionally, front and center, was the Portland Herald’s own Snoop Dog Davis Billingslea. Diane gave the young reporter the coldest glare she could muster. He seemed unfazed.
“Good morning,” Chief Lynds began. “Thank you all for coming out this morning. As you are all aware by now, the Portland Police Department is currently investigating the suspicious death of a young woman whose body was recovered yesterday morning in a vacant lot off Commercial Street. As I’m sure you can all appreciate, this is an ongoing investigation and as such I am not at liberty to discuss many aspects of the case.
“The victim, Danica Faherty, was found by a security guard while conducting a routine check on the property early yesterday morning. Ms. Faherty was a Portland resident, employed at Alessandro’s Restaurant. She was last seen leaving work early Sunday morning. We are working to piece together her last hours. The owner of Alessandro’s, Angelina Stavros, has graciously offered up a reward of ten thousand dollars for informa
tion leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for Ms. Faherty’s death. We are asking anyone with information about this case to contact the Portland Police Department’s Criminal Investigation Division directly. That’s all I am prepared to say at this point.”
“Chief! Chief Lynds,” a chorus of voices shouted. It sounded to Diane as if the entire room was vying for attention.
The first question was barked from the back of the room. Diane couldn’t see the reporter’s face due to the blinding lights. “Chief, there has been some reporting that would tend to indicate that this murder may be connected to the Horseman cases in Boston. Can you confirm the condition of Ms. Faherty’s body? Was she in fact decapitated?”
“As I have already said, this is an active investigation, and I am not able to discuss certain aspects of the case,” Lynds responded.
The chief took several more questions, dodging specifics as necessary. Diane wondered if it was as obvious to everyone else in the room as it was to her that Lynds was intentionally avoiding calling on Billingslea.
“That’s all I have at this time,” Lynds said. “Sergeant Joyner will continue to update all of you with information as it becomes available. Thank you.”
As Diane and Lynds were stepping into the elevator Billingslea stuck his foot in the door to keep it from closing. “Chief, is there some reason you wouldn’t let me ask a question?”
“I’m glad you asked me that,” Lynds said. “Truthfully, I wanted to give some of the other reporters a chance. From what I’ve seen, you already have all the answers.”
Diane fought to suppress a grin.
“No disrespect to you, Chief,” Billingslea said, meaning that he was about to do exactly that. “But the public has a right to know.”
“I’m sure Ms. Faherty’s parents will be delighted to learn of your passionate ideals. It’s unfortunate that you didn’t give any thought to their rights before running your little story. Good day, Mr. Billingslea.”
The doors to the elevator closed, effectively shutting Davis Billingslea out for the second time in a matter of minutes.
Sergeant Kenny Crosby sat in his unmarked Charger parked in the Back Cove lot off Preble Street Extension. The engine’s custom-tuned exhaust was rumbling, and the air conditioner was cranked. The battleship-gray muscle car had been seized in a drug raid. The hapless previous owner, having paid cash, hadn’t had the foresight to jump on the latest drug dealer bandwagon of simply leasing the car to avoid the inevitable government seizure. Crosby loved the tinted windows. Made him feel important. He had strategically backed up to the rear of the lot so that he was facing Hannaford Plaza, allowing him to observe every vehicle entering or leaving the parking lot popular with Portland’s outdoor exercise crowd. And with the Back Cove jogging path passing directly behind him, he had an excellent view of the scantily clad women passing by in the field of his rearview mirror.
Crosby had been sitting there for all of ten minutes when Portland Police Commander Ed Jennings drove up beside him.
“What’s up?” Crosby said as he lowered the window on the driver’s door.
“I see you put it out there already.”
“Why Commander Jennings, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Crosby said in a high-pitched falsetto.
“Good. Here’s something else you need to know. Joyner had a little private time with Chief Lynds yesterday.”
“You mean Sergeant All That and a Bag of Chips left Byron and switched to the other team?”
Jennings grinned. “No, I mean Lynds is maneuvering to have Diane submit her name for consideration for Sergeant Peterson’s CID spot.”
“Fuck that,” Crosby snapped. “I’ve been a detective sergeant longer than Joyner’s been here. That job is mine. Everyone knows it. If she wasn’t banging Lord Byron, she’d still be pushing a cruiser. Exactly where she should be anyway.”
“Well, be that as it may, Lynds is pushing for her to throw her hat in the ring before Monday’s deadline.”
Crosby mulled it over for a minute. “What the hell can I do about it? You’re the commander.”
“Christ, Kenny, I can only do so much. I thought derailing Byron was your goal.”
“It is.”
“Oh, and Lynds is talking about pulling you back from MDEA sooner rather than later.”
Crosby hammered the top of the dashboard with his fist. “Fuck. What’s this chick’s problem?”
“I don’t know. But, unless you want to be pushing a cruiser yourself, you’d better think of something.”
An hour later, after Byron had finished with Vickers, he and Stevens drove directly to Alessandro’s in search of Alex, only to learn that he wasn’t due in until later in the afternoon. While speaking with one of the kitchen staff, Byron observed Sheila Vickers scurry by. She appeared to be intentionally avoiding his gaze. He wondered how long it would be before she spilled the beans to a coworker about her visit to 109.
“We could interview him at home,” Stevens said as they returned to their unmarked.
“I’d like to avoid that if possible,” Byron said.
“Because of Deborah Stavros?”
“That’s one reason.”
“And the other?”
“Alex and Deborah are temporarily living with Lina.”
“No kidding? Oh man, I’d love to see her place. It’s beautiful, right? I’ll bet she’s got a butler like Mr. Carson.”
“Who?” Byron said.
“Oh, come on. Downton Abbey. Mr. Carson.”
“Let me guess, Netflix?”
“No, silly. Amazon Prime.”
Byron cast a glance at his star-struck detective and grinned. “I’ll take you with me the next time I go, okay?”
“Deal. How about lunch? I’m starving.”
Byron and Stevens had to wait nearly twenty minutes before they were able to be seated at Becky’s Diner. Some establishments have a very narrow window when it comes to their lunch crowd. Becky’s wasn’t one of those. They were seated in a booth on the right-hand side of the restaurant all the way in the back and quickly placed their orders. As the waitress was departing, Byron’s cell vibrated with an incoming call from Ellis.
“Greetings and salutations, Sergeant,” Ellis said. “Catch you at a bad time?”
“Not at all,” Byron said. “Whaddya got?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything more than I had yesterday.”
“The tox was negative?” Byron said. Stevens’s expression mirrored the dejection Byron heard in his own voice.
“Indeed, it was. I still can’t tell you what caused this girl’s death, but something external caused her heart to stop beating.”
“Best guess?”
“That’s all it would be, I’m afraid. Head trauma. Bludgeoned, maybe. Or shot.”
Byron considered this for a moment. “In which case the missing head might be nothing more than an attempt to cover up the manner of death.”
“Might just be that simple, my boy. Who was it that said the simplest explanation is usually the right one? Was that Inspector Holmes?”
“Actually, that was William of Ockham,” Byron said.
“Ah, the razor guy. I always get those logical types confused. Anyway, as I told you previously, the appendage was removed postmortem. It certainly wasn’t to prevent identification, nor was it the cause of death. So, unless our boy is a collector, I can’t see any other reason.”
Byron ended the call just as the waitress arrived with their food.
“Well, that sucks,” Stevens said before heavily salting then shoving a handful of fries into her mouth.
Byron nodded his agreement.
They both ate in silence while dissecting the information. Assuming the killer wasn’t Boston’s serial murderer, the Horseman, and if Ellis was right about Faherty having been bludgeoned to death, perhaps there was something unique about the weapon they’d used that would connect the killer to the crime. And if she’d been sho
t, the bullet might not have exited. The killer would have been forced to remove the head to thwart any possibility of a ballistics match coming back on them. Of course, coming to either conclusion involved a great many assumptions. Still, the word collector hung out there in front of Byron like a red neon sign. Could it be the Horseman? According to Murray, there were more similarities connecting the three cases than differences. Did the use of a different tool to remove the head signify that the killer was evolving, or had he or she simply been forced to improvise? Perhaps an equipment malfunction? Byron didn’t know. And why come to Maine? Had they hunted a specific victim, or moved for some other reason and the opportunity simply presented itself? Had Danica Faherty simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time? And who had Dani’s neighbor seen dropping off Dani’s car?
There were still too many loose threads for Byron’s liking. Too many unresolved possibilities.
“You gonna eat your fries?” Stevens asked, pulling Byron out of his thoughts.
He slid the basket across the table. “Have at it. Lost my appetite.”
“Well, if Ellis is right about our guy being a collector, this might be the Horseman after all.”
He closed his eyes and gently rubbed his temples. It was exactly what he was afraid of.
It was nearly one-thirty before Byron and Stevens caught up with Alex Stavros. Gone was the self-confidence and air of superiority that the young restaurateur had exuded only the day before. They were seated in Petri’s office at the back of the restaurant, and Byron could read the nervousness in the man’s dark eyes.
“Have you made any progress toward identifying Dani’s killer?” Alex asked.
“Inching forward,” Byron said, giving nothing away.
“Glad to hear it. So, what can I do for the two of you?”
“We were hoping that you could clear a few things up,” Stevens said.
“If I can. What would you like to know?”
“For starters, we’d like to know why you didn’t mention that you’d been having an affair with Danica Faherty,” Byron said.
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