Stavros hesitated a long moment before answering. Avoiding eye contact, he appeared to be focused on an imaginary spot between the detectives. A safety zone. Byron could tell the question had caught him by surprise.
“How did you find out?” Stavros said at last, confirming that he had.
“Doesn’t really matter how, does it?” Byron said. “What is important is why you didn’t mention it to us earlier.”
“I didn’t think it was any of your business. Besides, as I told you before, I was out of town all weekend.”
“That’s right,” Byron said. “A conference, wasn’t it?”
“Northeast Restaurant Association Conference in Boston. It’s an annual event.”
“Anyone vouch for you being at this conference?” Stevens asked.
“George Martin. He owns a restaurant in Wellesley.” As he spoke, Stavros scribbled a name and number onto a notepad then tore the sheet off and handed it to Byron. “We shared a room at the hotel. You can check with him.”
“We will,” Byron said, pocketing the contact information. He would have Murray follow up with Martin in person.
Stavros slouched back in his chair. “I’m married, okay? I have two kids at home.”
“And a beautiful wife,” Stevens added.
Stavros ignored her comment. His attention remained fixed on Byron. “I’m not proud of it, okay? It just happened.”
“Do you own a gun, Alex?” Byron asked.
“What? No, I don’t own a gun. What do you want from me?”
“The truth,” Byron said. “Did you murder Danica Faherty?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not. Why would I?”
“Maybe she threatened to tell your wife about the affair,” Stevens said.
Stavros jumped up from the chair. “Look, I’ve been more than cooperative with your investigation, Detectives. I’ve answered all your questions. If you think I killed Dani, then charge me. Otherwise, get the hell out. I’ve got a business to run here.”
“Alex, we have a few more questions we’d like you to answer,” Byron said, remaining seated.
A female voice floated in from the hall. “Alex is finished answering any more of your questions, Sergeant Byron.”
The detectives turned to see a middle-aged woman in a dark-colored pantsuit standing behind them in the office doorway. She held a briefcase in one hand and the look of determination on her face.
“Who are you?” Byron said.
“That’s Courtney Levine,” Alex said. “She’s Lina’s personal attorney.”
“I am now representing Alex,” Levine said as she approached Byron and handed him a business card. “I am hereby informing you that this interview is over. If you wish to question Alex further, you will have to contact my office.”
Byron and Stevens retreated to the car. Byron was quietly fuming.
“That was interesting,” Stevens said. “I didn’t see that coming. Did you?”
“No,” Byron said. “I didn’t.”
“You think Lina knows something and is covering for Alex?”
“Or perhaps she doesn’t know but she’s circling the family wagons just to be safe.”
“What do you mean?”
“If Alex was screwing around with the help, and Lina discovered it, she has motive in the killing of Danica Faherty. Lina knows she’ll be added to our list of suspects. So, is she bringing in an attorney for Alex to keep us from questioning him or to keep us from questioning her?”
“I hadn’t considered that,” Stevens said. “Can she do that? Doesn’t that become like a conflict of interest?”
They were wading into muddy water and Byron didn’t have all the answers. But he knew someone who would. Assistant Attorney General Jim Ferguson.
Chapter 12
Thursday, 2:30 p.m.,
July 13, 2017
Byron carefully wove his way along the uneven cobblestone surface of Wharf Street, searching for the restaurant. He’d dropped Stevens off at 109 then circled the Old Port searching in vain for a parking spot, even an illegal one. Tourist season was in full swing, which meant there was zero street parking near Portland’s waterfront. Finally relenting, Byron parked in the lot at DiMillo’s on the Water and walked. Pausing slightly west of Dana Street, he pulled the cell from his pocket and rechecked the text from Ferguson.
Mash Tun on Wharf 2:30.
He scanned both sides of the street looking for a sign before his eyes finally settled on a series of small crowded picnic tables in front of a building to his right. The sidewalk sign read: Outdoor seating for Mash Tun only.
Byron entered the establishment, pausing in the doorway to give his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimly lit interior.
“John. Over here!”
He peered to the far wall where Ferguson sat at yet another wooden picnic table directly under a large wall mounted chalkboard. Byron crossed the room, passing a long bar that appeared to have been constructed from a piece of a reclaimed bowling alley, and approached the AAG.
“I was afraid you got called away,” Ferguson said, speaking loudly to be heard above the Led Zeppelin track emanating from ceiling speakers.
Byron slid onto the bench seat across from him.
Ferguson wore a big dopey grin. “Well, what do you think?”
Byron frowned. “What the hell, Jim?”
Ferguson’s face reddened slightly. “What? You don’t like it?”
“Why would you meet me in a bar?”
“This isn’t just any old bar, my cranky friend. I come here for lunch whenever I’m in Portland. Or as Paul Doiron likes to call it, ‘Maine’s big little city’.”
“Who?” Byron asked.
“He’s a mystery writer. Anyway, I love the blues music they play and the smells.”
“The smells?”
“Yeah.” Ferguson inhaled through his nose, deep and loud. “Beer still smells great even if I can’t imbibe. And the grill. Oh man. Have you ever tried Parmesan Ranch Fries?”
“Can’t say that I have.” Byron turned and looked across the bar top to where a middle-aged man was dropping a basket into the Fryolator. He turned back to Ferguson. “I thought your doc told you to avoid greasy food?”
“You gonna rat me out to Betty?” Ferguson asked.
“Hey, they’re your arteries.”
Ferguson tilted his head back to look at the chalkboard hanging on the wall behind him. The beer offerings were written in neat columns, each designated by a different colored chalk. “Nearly thirty beers on tap. I like to pretend I’m sampling each one.”
“This some kind of test?” Byron said, wondering why Ferguson, also a recovering alcoholic, would subject himself to the temptation.
Ferguson cocked his head to one side, reminding Byron of a German shepherd. “Do you need one?”
“Not really.”
“Good. Me neither. Besides, I didn’t think bars were your trigger.”
“They’re not,” Byron said. “But I think 109 might be.”
Ferguson held up his glass of soda water, a slice of lime perched on its brim. “Cheers.” He took several large gulps before returning the glass to the table. “Ahh. That really quenches my thirst.”
“Are you done?” Byron said, wanting to move on to the case.
“Okay. Okay. Must be the heat. Tell me what you’ve got?”
Byron ran down the most recent developments while Ferguson listened in silence.
“So?” Byron said after he had finished. “What do you think?”
“What I think is, you don’t need any more suspects in this case. Jesus. You could make a case for damn near all of them. Is there anyone who hasn’t lawyered up yet?”
“And you wonder why lawyers get a bad rap.”
Ferguson lifted his glass. “Touché.”
“So, what about Lina Stavros?” Byron asked.
“The movie star?”
“Yeah. Can this Courtney Levine represent her son?”
“Jesus, is that who she sen
t after you?” Ferguson asked.
“You’re familiar?”
“Levine is a pit bull of the highest order.”
“Great.”
“Technically, Lina Stavros can hire anyone she wants to represent her son.”
“Yeah, but it sounds like Lina’s got her on a permanent retainer. Doesn’t that present a conflict?”
“Depends. Do you consider Lina a suspect?”
“Maybe. If Sheila Vickers is right, and Lina Stavros knew about Alex’s affair with Dani, she, too, would have motive.”
Before Ferguson could render an opinion, the cook slid a basket of heavily spiced hot fries in front of him.
“Enjoy,” the cook said.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Ferguson said as he dug in. “I will.”
Byron departed Mash Tun with more questions than answers. Assistant Attorney General or not, Jim Ferguson was still an attorney. Ambiguity, it seemed, was the legal profession’s middle name.
He was on his way back to retrieve his car from the DiMillo’s lot when his cell rang with a call from Stevens.
“You’re never gonna believe what Gabe found in the Security Incorporated car,” Stevens said.
“Blood in the trunk?”
“Nope. Try semen on the back seat.”
Byron paused to consider what that might mean for their investigation. Had Hopkins used the lumberyard for sex as they suspected? And if so, who had he been with? “Let’s get a list of employees from S.I. who regularly used that vehicle in case the semen isn’t from Hopkins.”
“I’m on it.”
“Also, tell Dustin to look for any connection between Dani Faherty and Hopkins while he’s looking through her computer. Hopkins told us he didn’t know Dani. Let’s see if he’s telling the truth.”
“You got it, Sarge. So, what did Ferguson say?”
“He said it depends.”
“Of course he did,” Stevens said. “Friggin’ attorneys. Everything is a gray area.”
“If it turns out that Danica’s murder was connected to her affair with Alex, and any other Stavros family members move into our crosshairs as suspects, it will be up to Lina’s attorney how to parse out representation.”
“And in the meantime?” Stevens asked.
“In the meantime, we need to take a closer look at Lina and see if she has an alibi.”
“Good. I’ll get with Dustin and see what I can find out about her beforehand. You headed back?”
“Not yet. I’m gonna pay a visit to Gene Wagner.”
Byron’s frustration was increasing. The ever-growing list of suspects was keeping pace with the roadblocks being erected. He felt like a tourist caught in some evil summertime repaving project in which every possible route to his destination was blocked off.
He locked up his unmarked in a no-parking zone on Federal Street near the rear of Central Fire Station, as close as he was likely to get to One City Center, then walked several blocks to Gene Wagner’s office. The waves of heat radiating up off the sidewalk left him coated in a thin layer of sweat by the time he entered the air-conditioned building.
Wagner Enterprises was located one floor down from the top of the Bank of America building. Evidently, the well-to-do entrepreneur hadn’t yet managed to unseat the banking industry, Byron thought. The elevator doors opened directly into the lobby, a bright and cheery sunlit space. A long counter manned by two young receptionists, one male and one female, sat across from him. Both were speaking into Bluetooth headsets which, combined with their youthfulness, made them resemble a pair of stage performers, as if they might suddenly leap up and start singing and dancing.
Byron approached the reception desk. The pale-skinned male, sporting spiky heavily gelled dark hair, made eye contact and nodded, acknowledging Byron without breaking stride in his phone conversation. Byron turned and wandered through the air-conditioned lobby. A bright, nearly full, waiting area positioned next to a twenty-foot span of floor-to-ceiling windows afforded an unobstructed view of Monument Square and Congress Street running westerly toward High. He gazed down at the crowd of pedestrians moving ant-like around the square. Some walked briskly, appearing to have clear destinations, while others meandered about toting shopping bags and searching for the next store. The remaining group, camped out on the grass around the base of the monument, were people-watching or sunbathing.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,” the male receptionist called out from behind him. “May I help you?”
Byron turned away from the window and re-approached the counter. He removed the ID and badge case from his jacket pocket. “Detective Sergeant Byron. I’m here to see Gene Wagner.”
The young man studied Byron’s credentials for a moment as if he might know a genuine police ID from a fake. “Is Mr. Wagner expecting you, Detective? Or is it Sergeant?”
Byron had never been able to figure out why that rank was so difficult for people to comprehend. Surely it wasn’t more confounding than say sergeant major or lieutenant colonel. “Either is fine,” he said, returning the wallet to his pocket. “And no, I don’t have an appointment.”
“Well, he is a very busy man.”
“Makes two of us,” Byron said, admiring the young receptionist’s attempt at running interference for his employer. “You might mention that I’m here investigating a homicide.” Byron hadn’t thought it possible, but at the mention of murder Hair Gel’s face became a whiter shade of pale. Here’s to Procol Harum, he thought.
“He’s in the middle of a conference call. If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat in our waiting area. I’ll check and see if he’ll make time for you as soon as he’s finished with the call.”
Byron glanced at the receptionist’s gold magnetic name tag. “Thanks, Chip,” he said, accentuating the name as if it was a derogatory term.
Only two of the half dozen identical and uncomfortable-looking retro waiting area chairs were unoccupied. Hoping to keep the pressure on, he chose the one facing Chip. Eventually, Byron grew bored with staring at the receptionist. He grabbed a periodical from the glass table and began to leaf through it.
“Sergeant Byron?” a masculine voice boomed from the far end of the lobby.
Byron stood as Wagner approached, tossing the Men’s Health magazine back onto the table.
“Gene Wagner,” he said, giving a Byron a large, predatory smile along with a hearty handshake-elbow grab combination, a subtle power play used by business types and political figures to establish dominance. “Hope I didn’t keep you.”
“Not at all,” Byron said, retrieving his arm. “I just finished five-minute abs and was moving on to how to improve my sex life.”
Wagner’s smile faltered. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
“I’m conducting a murder investigation and need to ask you a few questions.”
Wagner checked his watch, a garish metallic appendage that probably cost more than Byron made in two months. Maybe three. “I only have about ten minutes before my next appointment.”
“The victim is Danica Faherty,” Byron said, speaking a bit louder than necessary. “Worked as a maître d’ at Alessandro’s. I believe you knew her.”
Wagner glanced nervously toward those seated around the waiting area and then at the counter. Both receptionists were listening intently.
Wagner wasted no time in hustling Byron into his office, away from the lobby. Byron took a quick glance around the room trying to get a feel for this man. Every square inch of the wall behind Wagner was hung with professionally framed and matted photographs, depicting various pairings of Wagner and every conceivable celebrity, a veritable who’s who of Hollywood. It was his own “wall of me” and exactly what Byron had expected from Wagner.
Byron was offered a chair in front, while Wagner retreated to the safety afforded by the barrier of his large chrome and beveled glass desk.
“I assume you saw the story in the paper,” Byron said after they were seated.
“About the body being recovered. Y
es. Dreadful business.”
It’s a living, Byron thought. “And you knew the victim, correct?”
“Of course. I am a regular at Alessandro’s. The owner is an old friend of mine.”
“Angelina Stavros,” Byron said.
“Yes. I’ve known Lina for decades.” He turned and pointed to an autographed movie still hanging on the wall behind him. “I financed several of her films.”
Byron imagined that Wagner never missed an opportunity to point that out to anyone who would listen.
“Tell me about Danica Faherty,” Byron said.
“Not much to tell, really. As you said, she works—worked at Alessandro’s as the maître d’. I would see her from time to time when I came in.”
“See her or engage her in conversation?”
“Both. As I did with all of the restaurant employees.”
Byron nodded and made a notation in his notebook.
“Am I missing something?” Wagner said, craning his neck to try and get a look at what Byron had written. “Why are you asking all these questions?”
“Because, Gene, you were asked to leave Alessandro’s Saturday night after making a scene. My understanding is that you laid your hands on Ms. Faherty.”
“I don’t remember much about Saturday night. I was somewhat inebriated.” Wagner leaned forward as if sharing a secret. “The truth is, I may have been over-served.”
It wasn’t the truth, and both men knew it. Byron noted how quickly Wagner shifted the blame to someone else. He wondered how long it would be before the overbearing ass blamed Danica Faherty for what had happened to her.
Wagner continued. “I can assure you that whatever may have happened, and I’m not saying anything did, was not instigated by me.”
“You’re telling me that Danica Faherty made advances toward you?” Byron said, raising his brows, making no attempt to hide his disbelief.
“Is that so difficult to imagine, Sergeant?”
It was incredibly difficult to imagine. Despite the three-piece suit, expensive jewelry, and dyed hair, the bloated middle-aged boor of a man couldn’t hide the bad skin, or the road map of veins tattooed across his bulbous nose. Byron knew all the telltale signs of long-term alcoholism, having only recently admitted to his own addiction.
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