Byron and Stevens stopped at the base of the stairs. The second-floor landing was faintly illuminated by what looked like a night-light casting baluster shadows on the wall. As Stevens covered the top of the stairs with her Glock, Byron bent down and checked for blood. The steps and risers were dotted with red. Petri was upstairs. Byron stood up and nodded to Stevens. Slowly, they ascended.
Lieutenant LeRoyer killed the siren. Using emergency lights only, he slalomed his way along Black Point Road. He gave the occasional blast of the unmarked’s air horn when they needed to wake up an inattentive driver. None of them had any idea what they were getting themselves into, but there was no advantage to tipping off Petri if Byron and Stevens were in trouble.
“Want me to try Byron’s cell again?” Rumsfeld asked from the back seat.
“What’s the point?” Lynds said. “He hasn’t answered my calls or returned the last two messages.”
“Dammit,” LeRoyer yelled as he dished out another burst of the electronic horn. “How can you people not see these lights?”
“Try calling Detective Stevens,” Lynds said. “Maybe she’s still thinking with a clear head.”
Rumsfeld dialed. She wasn’t.
The second floor of Lina Stavros’s house was divided by two perpendicular hallways. Byron signaled for Stevens to take the one on the right while he indicated that he would check the one leading toward the rear of the house.
Sticking close to the left side of the hall, Byron moved slowly and quietly. On every step he placed his heel down first then rolled his foot forward until the shoe was flat on the floor. The first door was open and, after performing a quick peek into the bedroom, he stepped inside.
Byron had just finished clearing the bedroom and the en suite when he heard gunshots coming from Stevens’s side of the house. Shit. Byron hurried back the way he had come. “Mel, where are you?”
“First door on the left,” Stevens said.
As Byron neared the landing, he heard the Scarborough officers forcing entry into the house from the first-floor rear.
“Sarge,” Pasquale shouted.
“Second floor,” Byron shouted back.
“Drop it, Lina,” Stevens said as Byron entered the room.
Angelina Stavros stood in front of a door to a walk-in closet. She was holding a handgun down by her side. Lina was facing away from Stevens toward the far corner of the dimly lit room where a badly wounded Petri sat slumped on the floor. Lina’s son had his back to the wall, cradling the shotgun in both arms, its barrel pointed up toward the ceiling.
“Lina, toss the gun on the floor,” Stevens commanded.
“Right behind you, Sarge,” Pasquale announced from the doorway.
Seeing that Stevens had Lina covered, Byron trained his Glock on Petri.
“Drop it,” Stevens said again. “Now.”
Lina finally let the gun slip from her grasp. It landed on the carpet with a thud.
Byron moved away from Stevens, his gun still pointed at Petri, finger snug against the trigger. “Put the gun down, Petri,” Byron said. “It’s over.”
“Is it?” Petri said in obvious pain, his lips forming into a grin. The blood around his mouth made the gesture look ghoulish.
Byron saw Stevens and Officer Kinney move farther into the room in his periphery. Stevens retrieved the gun Lina had tossed while Kinney grabbed Lina and backed her toward the hallway.
“I’ve got him, Sarge,” Stevens said.
“Me, too,” Pasquale said from the opposite side of the room.
“Petri, you can still end this without hurting anyone else,” Byron said. “Just lower the shotgun to the floor.”
“But I have hurt people. Lots of people. Been quite a disappointment around here for years, haven’t I, Mother?” Petri raised his voice to be sure Lina heard him.
Byron waited to see if Lina would say something that might help to defuse this situation, but she didn’t respond. Byron wasn’t sure she could respond. She was in shock.
“Put the gun down, Petri,” Byron said.
“Alex is only my half brother, Sergeant Byron. Did you know that? I was the byproduct of Mother’s affair with Gene Wagner. A fucking mistake. I wonder, did you ever tell Dad what you had done? Is that what drove him to his accident?”
Byron jumped in again, trying to control the direction and pace of what was happening. It was obvious that Petri wanted to get some things off his chest once and for all. “Your father died in a boating accident, Petri.”
“Is that what Lina told you?” Petri laughed out loud but there was no humor in it. “My father was an expert sailor. He was the best at everything he put his hand to. Do you really think he would have been out on the ocean in those conditions if he hadn’t meant to end it? People believe what they want to believe, Sergeant Byron. Whatever makes them feel safe. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
Byron could hear Lina sobbing in the hallway.
“That’s right,” Petri said. “Have a good cry. Want to know what I believed, Sergeant? For years I told myself that Lina loved Alex more because he was better looking, more charming, maybe even because he was smarter. But none of that was true, was it, Mother?”
Lina said nothing.
“No, the truth is that she loves Alex more because she loved his father. Still loves him. I’m nothing more than a reminder that she cheated. Does Alex even know, Mother? Does he? Or was he like me, stupid enough to believe you?”
“I still don’t understand why you had to kill Danica Faherty, Petri,” Byron said, stalling for time and attempting to build a rapport in the hope that Petri would surrender. “What did Dani have to do with any of this?”
“I killed her because I wanted Alex to pay. Pay for everything. For the years that I had to play second fiddle to him, had to watch as he was given everything while I worked my ass off. I’m a world-class chef, too, but do I get credit for that? No. I’m the one who runs everything. I ran the restaurant in New York then, when Lina wanted to open another one up here, she sent me to make it happen. Then, after it was up and running, she brought little old Alex to take over while Petri got relegated to the fucking back burner. Banished from the limelight once again. Alex gets all the glory while I spend my days hiring and firing snot-nosed undergrads and drop-outs to wait tables. I might as well be scrubbing the pots and pans.”
Byron could see that Petri was winded, growing weaker. He was using the barrel of the shotgun to hold himself upright, but his hands kept slipping. The longer this went on the more likely it was that Petri might simply pass out from blood loss.
“I followed Dani that night after she left the restaurant. I knew she was sneaking off to meet Alex, and I knew where they’d been having their little rendezvous. I knew Alex would find some way to sneak back to Portland to be with her, and he did. I waited all night for Alex to leave our old house. After he did, I snuck in and confronted Dani.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” Byron said.
“What are you talking about?”
“You never had any intention of confronting her, Petri. You snuck up on her from behind and buried that hammer in the back of her skull. You wanted to set your brother up, to make him pay. You were pissed because Deborah married Alex and not you. She was just one more thing that Alex had that you couldn’t.”
Petri grimaced in pain. “That’s right, I love Deborah, and she could love me. She’s too good for my philandering half brother. He doesn’t give a damn about her. Deborah is just one more thing that Alex takes for granted.”
“And you think you’d make a good husband, Petri?” Byron said, intentionally goading him. “She doesn’t love you. Deborah’s terrified of you.”
“And whose fault is that, Sergeant? You’re no better than Lina the Great. You both turned Debbie against me. You ruined my life.”
“Oh please,” Byron said. “You really think Deborah would have any interest in marrying a cold-blooded killer?”
A crooked grin spread across Petri’s face. “You th
ink you’re pretty smart, don’t you, Sergeant Byron?”
“I don’t know about that,” Byron said. “My current situation would tend to suggest otherwise, but I figured you out.”
“Well, good for you. It took you long enough to figure out that it wasn’t me who cut off her head and dumped her body at the lumberyard. Uncle Dennis should have stayed out of it. This was supposed to have been easy. You should have suspected Alex from the start, not that damn Horseman.”
“The more we dug into Dani’s past, the more we found she didn’t fit the profile. She wasn’t a prostitute like the Horseman’s other victims. Then, I began to wonder who could hate Alex enough to kill his girlfriend? Who could hate him enough to set him up for murder?”
“Me!” Petri shouted. “I could. I still do. I knew if I could just get Alex out of the way, my life would be better. They’d find Dani’s body in our old house, and Alex would take the fall. Maybe even drag Lina into it. It was so simple. But then Dennis got involved. I couldn’t believe it when you showed up at the restaurant asking about Dani. It wasn’t until I found out that she’d been moved that I knew I was in trouble.”
“Put the gun down, Petri,” Byron repeated. “We can work all of this out.”
“There’s nothing to work out. I love Debbie, and I thought she loved me. I thought she’d come back to me if Alex was gone.” Petri’s breathing was coming in loud ragged gasps now as he fought to pull air into his dying lungs.
“Can’t seem to do anything right,” Petri said. “Even at birth I was nothing more than a mistake. Right Mom? The bastard child.”
Lina let out an audible groan.
“Petri,” Byron said. “For the last time, lay the gun on the floor.”
“You know how I found out, Mom? Gene told me. One night at the restaurant, when he was soused, Gene told me that he was my real father. I wonder if Dad ever knew what a bitch you were?”
“Stop!” Officer Kinney shouted from the hallway.
Byron caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. Lina was on the move, charging into the room toward Petri. A scream of anguish was building from somewhere deep inside her. As Byron moved to cut her off, he saw Petri’s blood-soaked hand slide down the barrel toward the trigger. Petri raised the weapon and lowered the barrel toward Lina.
“Don’t do it, Petri!” Stevens yelled.
Byron dove across the room, wrapping his arms around Lina and dragging her backward to the floor where he covered her with his body.
Byron heard Petri scream like a wounded animal as the room erupted in gunfire.
By the time the smoke had cleared, Petri lay dead on the floor. Three rounds from Stevens’s Glock and two rounds from Pasquale’s rifle had ended the nightmare that had begun two weeks prior.
Byron retreated to the home’s rear deck where he found Nugent sitting next to Stevens, keeping her company.
“You okay?” Byron asked Stevens.
“I’m good,” she said. “Thanks. Just thinking what a waste that Dani was caught up in this.”
“Fucker got what was coming to him anyway,” Nugent said.
Byron couldn’t argue with that sentiment, but he also didn’t imagine the Fahertys’ grief would be lessened by the fact that Petri was dead.
“How’s it going in there, boss?” Nugent asked.
“About like you’d imagine,” Byron said. “Marty’s out in the driveway briefing Lynds and Rumsfeld, while all three of them are trying to placate a very disgruntled Scarborough police chief.”
“What do you think will happen?” Stevens asked.
“My guess? Same thing that always happens. They’ll be more concerned with how it looks than my break in protocol. In the end, they’ll most likely decide to hold a joint press conference, giving Scarborough PD kudos for their part in the apprehension of Faherty’s killer. And Lynds will talk about the importance of inter-agency cooperation in this time of financial uncertainty.”
“Jeez, boss,” Nugent said. “That’s good. You should be the chief.”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
“So, all’s well that ends well?” Nugent said.
“Something like that,” Byron said.
“What happens now with Alex?” Stevens said.
“I just spoke to Jim Ferguson,” Byron said. “Based on Petri’s confession and the evidence against him, the AG will be dropping the charges against Alex, and he’ll be released.”
“What about Dennis Stavros?” Stevens said. “Will he still be charged?”
“Probably,” Byron said. “But he has no priors. I imagine the court will go easy on him.”
“He still tried to cover up a murder,” Nugent said. “Man, this is one fucked-up family.”
Byron sat down beside Stevens. “You sure you’re good, Mel?”
“I heard the shotgun wasn’t loaded,” Stevens said. “Is that true?”
Byron chose his words carefully before answering. “Not entirely. It was loaded, but the only thing in the chamber was the spent cartridge from the round Moulton fired in the cemetery.”
“I don’t get it,” Stevens said.
“I don’t think Petri knew how to operate a pump shotgun,” Byron said. “Probably why he bashed Wagner in the head with it instead of shooting him.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Nugent said. “There’s no way you could have known that, Mel. Isn’t that right, Sarge?”
“Nuge is right. None of us could have known. He was holding and pointing a deadly weapon and ignoring commands. You did what you had to do. Period. I’m proud of you, Mel.”
“Yup, my partner is a bad-ass, Sarge,” Nugent said, putting an arm around her and giving her an awkward hug.
“Thanks, partner,” Stevens said. “Does this mean your bromance with Bernie is off?” Stevens asked.
“Thank Christ.”
Nugent’s cell chimed with an incoming text message. “Holy shit.”
“What?” Stevens asked.
“It’s happening,” Nugent said, jumping to his feet. “Like right now.”
“The baby?” Byron asked.
“Yeah. Jesus, I gotta go.”
“Then go,” Byron said.
“Hey, Nuge,” Stevens said.
Nugent, who was halfway across the deck, stopped. “Yeah?”
A smile spread across her lips. “Congrats, partner.”
Epilogue
Sunday, 12:45 p.m.,
August 6, 2017
Sunlight shone down on Portland from a cloudless, cerulean sky. The previous evening’s thunderstorms had departed along with the humidity, leaving the air crisp and warm. Byron slid his car into a no-parking zone on Park Avenue directly across from Hadlock Field. He removed the gun and holster from his belt and locked them inside the console. Sporting a new pair of Ray-Bans, he climbed out of the Ford, then fell into step with the crowd of people crossing the street toward the ballpark.
As he passed the uniformed cop working the gravy detail manning the crosswalk, Byron cocked a thumb back over his shoulder in the direction of the unmarked. “Keep an eye on it for me, would you?”
“Worried about vandals?” the cop asked.
“Parking Nazis.”
The cop laughed. “Leave it to me, Sarge.”
Nearing the stadium, Byron spotted his niece standing on the sidewalk beneath the bronze statue of a family on game day. Katherine’s long auburn hair was threaded through the back of the Sea Dogs cap she wore. She was up on her tiptoes peering through the throng of people walking toward her from the east on Park Avenue and hadn’t spotted him yet.
He snuck up behind her, resisting the urge to shout out “Katie.” She had always been his Katie, but she was a young woman now, preparing for her sophomore year of college. His niece had cast off the childhood moniker.
“Happy birthday, Katherine,” he said.
Katherine spun around surprised. “Uncle John!” She embraced him tightly.
Byron released her. “Great to see you, young lady.
”
“It’s great to see you, too. I’m so excited for you to meet Carlos.”
“Carlos?”
She rolled her eyes. “My boyfriend. He’s the Sea Dogs catcher. Didn’t Aunt Kay tell you?”
“Must have slipped her mind,” Byron said, realizing that she really had grown up.
“Isn’t that totally cool?”
He kept the smile painted on his face. “Totally. Can’t wait to meet him. So, you got the tickets okay?”
“Sure. They had them in an envelope at the Will Call window, with my name on them.”
“Whoa, you must be pretty important with that kind of clout.”
“I know people,” she said, handing him his ticket. She turned and headed for the entrance to the ballpark. “Come on. I don’t want to miss the first pitch.”
As they neared the turnstiles Byron’s cell rang. The number was blocked.
Katherine turned and looked at him, the shadow of disappointment clouding her face. “I thought you said you weren’t going back to work until tomorrow?”
“I’m not. Diane’s still covering for me, but I gotta take this call. You go on ahead and I’ll catch up, okay?”
Katherine hesitated. She didn’t look convinced.
“Honest,” Byron said. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“Okay,” Katherine said, her smile returning as she bounded past the checkpoint and inside the stadium.
He stepped off to one side, so as not to be mowed over by the fans, and answered the call. “Byron.”
“Sergeant Byron,” a somber male voice said.
There was something vaguely familiar about the voice. “Who is this?”
“Elmer Faherty.”
Byron wasn’t sure he would ever hear from either of the Fahertys again. “What can I do for you, Elmer?”
“Guess I just wanted to thank you for—that is, Denise and I want to thank you for getting justice for—our Dani.”
Byron paused a moment before speaking. Had he? Is that what killing Stavros had been? Justice for Dani? Not to Byron it hadn’t. To him it had been about saving Lina from her deranged son, saving Alex from a fate he didn’t deserve, and it had been to prevent Petri from killing anyone else. But to Elmer Faherty, the aggrieved father who had lost his only daughter to the sick and twisted jealousies of Petri Stavros, maybe justice had been served. Maybe justice, like so many other things, is simply in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps Petri’s death at the hands of the police was enough to bring the Fahertys a little peace.
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