“It’s no secret that I am a very financially well-to-do man,” Wagner continued, holding up his ringless left hand. “And single. Many young women are taken with me.”
As disgusting and unlikely as that idea was, Byron pressed on.
“According to Lina Stavros it was you who was fixated on Danica Faherty, not the other way around. An obsession that had evidently gone on for some time and was widely known by the restaurant employees.”
Byron watched as Wagner leaned back in his chair. Calculating his next move. “So what? I murdered her. Is that what you’re accusing me of?”
“No one is accusing you of anything, Gene. I’m only trying to get to the bottom of what occurred Saturday night. What happened after you left the restaurant?”
“I told you, I don’t remember.”
“How did you get home?”
Wagner opened his mouth as if to answer then closed it. He leaned over and punched a button on his desktop phone. After a moment Byron heard Hair Gel’s voice on the other end of the intercom.
“Yes, Mr. Wagner.”
“Chip, would you instruct Mr. Paulson to join us.”
Several moments later the door to Wagner’s office opened and a burly dark-haired man in a gray Armani suit stepped in. His eyes immediately fell on Byron. “Chip said you wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes, Joe. Sergeant Byron would like to know how I got home from Alessandro’s last Saturday night. Evidently, I need an alibi.”
“I drove you,” Paulson said.
“You see, I don’t drive, Sergeant. I decided, after a couple of unfortunate operating while intoxicated charges, that I should probably give up driving.”
Byron stopped himself from asking whether it might have been easier to quit drinking, already knowing the answer to that question.
Wagner continued, “Joe is my full-time driver.”
Byron couldn’t help but notice the telltale bulge beneath Paulson’s tailored suit coat. Paulson was armed.
“Driver or bodyguard?” Byron asked.
Paulson took another step toward Byron. “Whichever is required. I’m versatile like that.”
Paulson’s New York accent was unmistakable. “You from New York?” Byron asked.
“Here, there, everywhere. I’ve been all over.”
“Were you inside the bar with Gene on Saturday night?”
“Earlier in the evening, then I went out to the car to wait for him.”
Wagner inserted himself back into the conversation. “I’m afraid Joe missed all the alleged excitement inside the bar, Sergeant.”
“That’s right,” Paulson said. “I must have missed it.”
“And what did you do after you dropped your employer at his house?”
“I drove directly home. Got there about 11:30, I’d guess.”
“Anyone verify that?”
Paulson fixed Byron with a knowing grin. “I live alone.”
Byron pointed to the bulge under Paulson’s coat. “I assume you have a permit for that?”
“Of course. All registered and legal, Officer.”
Wagner stood up and checked his watch again. “Well, I’m afraid I am out of time, Sergeant Byron. If you’d like, I can write up a statement for you.”
Byron looked back at Paulson. “I’ll need one from both of you, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, Sergeant,” Wagner said. “Happy to help. Paulson will show you out.”
“Thanks, but I think I can manage,” Byron said.
Chapter 13
Thursday, 5:30 p.m.,
July 13, 2017
Byron was upset at himself for not having foreseen the possibility that Wagner would have had a driver. Angelina Stavros hadn’t mentioned it, had no reason to. But still, Byron couldn’t help feeling that he’d been played. Now Wagner had an alibi. But Paulson didn’t. Joseph Paulson from all over. Byron needed to do some checking up on the slick driver/bodyguard. He didn’t like the man, not one bit. Too confident, too aggressive, too pricy. Exactly the kind of troubleshooter that someone of Wagner’s means could afford to hire to clean up any spill or misstep. Was that what Faherty had been? A misstep? Had Wagner’s infatuation gone too far? Had being rebuffed in public embarrassed the man to the point where he’d want to do something to her? Teach her a lesson? Could he have returned to the restaurant and waited for Faherty to leave? Followed her?
Byron pulled out his phone as he walked back to his car and dialed Dustin Tran. 109’s computer virtuoso answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Striped Dude.”
“Dustin. You still at 109?”
“I am. What do you need?”
“I want you to check out a guy named Joseph Paulson. He’s Gene Wagner’s driver and bodyguard. Might be from New York.”
“I was just working on Wagner. I’ll add Paulson to the mix and let you know what I find. Also, there’s like four different people named Steve Holcolm in the Greater Portland area. Any idea which one you’re looking for?”
“The one with a connection to Morgan Bates. Anything useful from Dani Faherty’s laptop?”
“I’m still sifting through it using some of my special software.”
“Anything that might indicate she was involved in prostitution?”
“Nothing yet. But I’ll keep looking.”
LeRoyer caught Byron as he was exiting the back stairwell onto the fourth floor of 109. “How’s it going, John? Making any headway?”
“Fabulous,” Byron said. “Already got a confession.”
“Seriously?” LeRoyer asked excitedly.
“No,” Byron said. “Actually, we’re stacking up suspects like they were firewood and they’re lawyering up so fast you might think they knew each other.”
“So, you’re not close?” LeRoyer said, looking dejected.
“Gee, Marty. Sorry to ruin your day.”
LeRoyer followed Byron straight to his office. “Do you have to be such a dick all the time?”
“I don’t have to,” Byron said after pausing a moment to reflect. He tossed his briefcase into one of the visitor chairs then plopped down behind the desk. “Is this the part where you tell me that the Queen Mum is looking for another update?”
“That’s Chief Lynds to you, Sergeant. And maybe I just want to know what’s going on.”
Byron twisted up his face in disbelief.
“Okay, yeah,” LeRoyer said. “Lynds wants an update.”
“Tell her we’re working on it. When I have something worth sharing, I’ll share it.”
“Is this really the way you want to start off your relationship with a brand-new chief?”
“Relationship?”
“You know what I mean, John.”
Byron sighed. “I’m just tired, Marty. I’ve got a dead girl, mutilated and dumped like garbage. A pompous prick who thinks he can do whatever he wants because he has money. And who has an errand boy that looks like a psychopath. An ex-boyfriend who liked to beat up on our victim and took exception to her breaking up with him. A married television star who was getting it on with our victim and is now represented by his mother’s paid legal Rottweiler. A lying security guard who may have been using the lumberyard as a sex pad. Um, let’s see, am I forgetting anything? Oh yeah, I almost forgot, an overzealous newspaper reporter who thinks he’s Jimmy Fucking Olsen and couldn’t wait to tell the world that our victim was decapitated by the Horseman even before her parents knew. Guess that just about covers it.”
“This a bad time?” Nugent said from the doorway.
Byron needed a reality check. The stress of the investigation was building to a dangerous level, that and the guilt he was feeling about his last encounter with Diane. Having already skipped one meeting this week, the first he’d missed since becoming sober, Byron knew missing another would be unwise. Bad habits and all that. He sat in his usual spot at the back of the room, located in the basement of a church, thumbing through his text messages while waiting for the meeting to begin and
for his sponsor to arrive. Shaun Miller was never late. Byron was looking forward to their post-meeting conversation. In need of it. It felt like he got more from his discussions with Miller than he did from the actual group meet-up.
The speaker walked past the rows of folding metal chairs to the front of the room to signal the start of the meeting just as Miller strolled through the doorway and took the empty seat next to Byron.
“Missed you Wednesday,” Miller said, leaning in and speaking softly so as not to interrupt the proceedings. “Glad you made it tonight.”
Byron watched from across the table while Shaun Miller poured what seemed a ridiculous amount of sugar into his coffee. One packet after another, the old man concentrated on his task as if there were some science to it. Miller was Byron’s sponsor, and they met twice a week, usually immediately following a meeting.
A former Boston police chaplain, Miller was a shade over seventy, making him a generation Byron’s senior. Miller’s close-cropped white beard and the twinkle in his eyes only added to his distinguished, sage-like appearance. Despite the age difference, the two men had bonded in a way Byron had never experienced. A bond of faith. Unusual, given that Byron was miserly with his trust, his faith was shaky at best, and he had only known Miller a mere six months. Although their occupations differed, their life experiences certainly overlapped. But beyond the call to serve, they shared something even more elemental. Addiction. Both had known the sharp sting and unyielding pull of the bottle, as if alcohol was a baited hook waiting for some unsuspecting soul to come along and bite down. And both men had bitten. Hard.
“Thought the meeting went well tonight, John,” Miller said matter-of-factly as he tore open another packet. “What’d you think?”
Byron nodded. “Yeah. Good meeting.” He knew what Miller was doing of course, trying to get him to open up, but Byron played along anyway.
“How’s your week been?” Miller asked.
Byron shrugged.
“Based solely on the newspaper reporting, I’d guess it’s been rather stressful.”
Byron took a sip of the hot black coffee as he pondered his answer. He regretted not waiting for decaf. The waitress had said she’d be happy to brew another pot, but Byron had declined her offer. The caffeine would likely keep him up all night, and even if it didn’t the Faherty case would. “I haven’t slipped if that’s what you’re asking.”
Miller gave his trademark deep throaty laugh. “You know, I think that’s one of the reasons I like you. John. Your directness.”
“You weren’t direct as a chaplain?”
“You were raised Catholic. Ever met a man of the cloth who comes right out and says what he means?”
Byron hadn’t.
Miller finished stirring the hot liquid in his mug then took a sip. He closed his eyes and loudly smacked his lips together. “Ah, that’s good.”
“How can you stand that much sweetener?” Byron asked, looking at the pile of empty sugar packets on the table. “It’s gotta be pure syrup.”
Miller lowered his mug and fixed Byron with an impish grin. “A man’s got to have some vices, doesn’t he? Besides, isn’t substitution the name of the game?”
Byron supposed that it was.
Miller produced a dark blue coin seemingly out of thin air and placed it gently on the table in front of Byron.
“What’s this?” Byron asked.
“The next step. Your six-month sobriety coin. Congratulations, my friend.”
Byron studied the coin for a moment without touching it. Apart from its color, it looked the same as the others he’d earned. Inscribed around the coin’s circumference was the phrase: To Thine Own Self Be True, and at its center was the number 6 surrounded by a triangle bearing the words: unity service recovery.
“It’s not going to bite you, John. The group wanted me to present it to you at tonight’s meeting, but since I know you’re not one for making a fuss, I saved it until now.”
Byron picked it up then flipped it over to look at the other side. Just a coin. No more, no less. It meant nothing really, no more than the others had, and yet he knew it meant everything. The shiny piece of metal signified six months of fighting the urges, the habit, the craving, the demon. His demon. Half a year of sleepless nights without that reliable elixir to dull the pain within him. And yet it was only a medallion. Byron noticed Miller eyeing the coin. The former chaplain regarded it with a kind of reverence, as if it were a talisman. Perhaps it was, Byron thought. Not all that different from the torn scrap of paper bearing the policeman’s prayer that Byron’s father, Reece, had worn, tucked behind the Miranda card inside the clear plastic sleeve on the underside of his uniform cap. The same sweat-stained prayer bearing the watercolor image of Saint Michael, patron saint of police officers, that Byron once wore inside his own uniform cap and now carried in his badge holder. Nothing and everything.
“Thanks,” Byron said as he pocketed the coin.
“You’re most welcome, young man,” Miller said before taking another swig of the syrup masquerading as coffee inside his mug. “You know you can ask me anything, right? I have, after all, been at this far longer than you.”
After a moment Byron asked, “What’s the trick?”
“To sobriety? There really isn’t one. It’s different for everyone. I have a system that works for me.”
“And that is?”
“Addiction is a monster, John. In your line of work, you should know that better than anyone. Some of the monsters you meet weren’t born that way, they were created by addiction. I wake up every morning, put both feet on the floor, and begin my day by making a choice.”
“A choice?”
“Yup.”
“And that is?”
“I can either start the day committed to sobriety, or I can succumb to that monster, hightail it down to the local watering hole, and get drunk off my ass. Thus far I’ve managed to choose commitment.”
“That’s it?” Byron said. “That’s your secret?”
“Hey, don’t knock it,” Miller said with a wink.
Byron picked up his own mug and held it in his hands, relishing the warmth radiating through the ceramic. He’d hoped there might be more to it than that. Six months. Jesus, he couldn’t imagine starting over.
“Tell me about the case you’re working,” Miller said. “What’s the girl’s name again?”
“Faherty,” Byron said. “Danica Faherty.”
“Any good suspects?”
Byron sighed heavily. “More than I know what to do with. This is a bad one, Shaun.”
“Saw more than my share of those when I was chaplain.”
“You ever see someone decapitated?”
Miller grimaced. “No, I never saw that. Not during my watch.” He shook his head and took another sip from his mug. “Feels like people are becoming angrier.”
Byron was too wired after meeting with Miller to go directly home. The coffee hadn’t helped. He turned the radio to 96.3 FM, hoping to catch the Red Sox game. He hadn’t followed the Sox since his father, Reece, had died. But Shaun Miller was a big fan, and it gave them something to talk about. According to Joe Castiglione, the Sox were up on the Phillies three runs to two in the fourth.
Byron stopped at a traffic light and pulled out his cell to check for new voicemail messages, but there weren’t any. He hadn’t managed to catch up with Diane during the day, and she hadn’t returned the single message he had left. The light changed to green and he pocketed his phone.
The Red Sox broadcast faded into the background while his mind returned to the case. He knew it was important to give equal weight to all of the possibilities. Every suspect and every angle deserved a hard look. Anything short of that was the equivalent of tunnel vision, the same myopic tendency that could get an officer killed on the street. Looking one way while the real threat, or a secondary threat, lurked in an entirely different direction, took another good cop down. An open mind was the key to solving homicides. Allowing the
facts to create the narrative, not the other way around. Suspects are ruled out, not ignored. If Faherty really had fallen prey to the Horseman, the facts would eventually bear that out. And if not, then she likely knew her killer. Which meant that everyone in the growing list of possible suspects had to be looked at closely.
Only vaguely aware of his destination, Byron drove toward Portland’s waterfront. He threaded the unmarked through the traffic on Fore Street, which at this hour was mainly comprised of pedestrians, local taxis, and Uber drivers. And the pedestrians mostly seemed to be drunk. He drove west past the fray onto the quieter York Street. The car seemed to be leading the way, and he wasn’t surprised in the least to find himself turning left onto Maple. He pulled to the side of the road beside the abandoned lumberyard and parked.
Byron killed the ignition, and the radio, then sat for a while inside the car enjoying the solitude. Running down the case details in his head, he stared through the windows listening to the tick of the engine as it cooled. After several minutes, he exited the car and approached the cyclone fence surrounding the property. He walked along its length toward Commercial Street until he reached the section that had been cut by trespassers. As he had guessed, the previously damaged section was gaping open once again. The wire repair hadn’t lasted twenty-four hours. He stepped through the opening and into the darkened yard.
The streetlights didn’t penetrate much beyond the fence and it took Byron’s eyes several moments to acclimate to the gloom. Unsure of his footing, he stepped forward slowly and deliberately. The crumbling asphalt and plentiful scrub were both equally capable of wrenching an ankle. When at last he reached the drying shed that had served as Danica Faherty’s final resting place, he stopped and stood perfectly still. He wanted to see what the killer had seen, to feel what they had felt as they abandoned the young woman’s body like so much trash. Had they driven a vehicle into the lot, or simply carried her body in and laid it on the ground? The mystery padlock suggested the former. An image of Katherine, his niece, suddenly appeared in his mind. Instead of Faherty, what if it had been Katherine’s torso left on the ground to rot? He closed his eyes tightly, pushing the horrible vision away. When he opened them again there was only darkness inside the shed. Darkness and bare ground.
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