“Break that shit up!” LeRoyer hollered.
Byron was grabbed roughly from behind by several pairs of hands and dragged off Crosby.
Crosby sat up slowly, then glared at Byron. Several of the officers tried to help Crosby to his feet, but he shook them off and stood on his own.
“Nice punches, John,” Crosby said as he rubbed the left side of his face and jaw. “Still doesn’t change the fact that you’re a rat fuck.” Crosby smiled, then took a cheap shot, jabbing out with his right fist and connecting squarely with Byron’s mouth as he passed.
“Knock it off, Kenny!” LeRoyer shouted. “Get him out of here.”
Byron, whose arms were still being held by several officers, stood his ground, maintaining eye contact with Crosby as he was led away.
Byron turned his attention to the officers holding him. “Thanks for the help, boys. I think you can let me go now.” The officers released him, then righted the table and chairs before returning to their own. Byron stood his ground for a moment, trying to act as though the punch hadn’t dazed him as badly as it had. He’d never wanted a drink so badly in his life.
“You’re bleeding,” LeRoyer said.
“Nothing gets by you, does it, Marty?” Byron said as he wiped the blood off his lips with the back of his hand. “I’ll bet the Emergency Broadcast System could use someone with your observational skills.”
“What the hell is your problem, John? Maybe I should’ve let Crosby go to work on you.”
“I don’t remember asking you to intervene.”
Byron turned and walked out of the reception.
Byron knew he was in a dangerous place, but he didn’t care. Crosby’s punch in the face had stirred something inside of him that once triggered couldn’t be undone. Byron had intended to drive back to his condo and change out of his dress blues, but now he had a different destination in mind. Portland High School. It was time to confront Abdirahman Ali directly. Ali might not have been involved, but Byron was pretty sure he knew something. Something he was afraid to tell.
“I’m sorry, Sergeant Byron, but Abdi is in the middle of history class right now,” the principals’ office assistant said from behind the counter. “Do you know your mouth is bleeding?”
“Yes, thank you. I was recently made aware. Would that be Mr. Galbraith’s class?” Byron asked, remembering the name from one of the placards he’d seen while walking through the hallway previously.
“No, Galbraith doesn’t teach history,” she said with a perplexed look on her face. “Rebecca Tarbox teaches history.”
“That’s right,” Byron said, completing the bluff. “Tarbox.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t—”
“Thanks very much,” Byron said as he turned on his heels and headed to search for Tarbox’s room.
Byron finally located the history teacher’s room on the second floor. He knocked on the closed door to the classroom, then opened it.
Rebecca Tarbox was standing at the front of the room by the blackboard. “May I help you?”
“Sorry to interrupt your class,” Byron said. “I need to speak with Abdi Ali for a minute.”
“This is highly irregular,” the teacher said, looking more than a little uneasy.
“I know,” Byron said. “But it’s very important. It’ll only take a minute.”
Tarbox looked over at Ali. The boy was staring at Byron, wide-eyed, as were all the students.
“My parents said I wasn’t supposed to talk with you,” Ali said.
“It’s okay, Abdi,” Byron lied. “I cleared it with your father.”
The boy didn’t budge. It was obvious that he didn’t know what to do.
“I promise, it will just take a second,” Byron said.
“Why don’t you go with the officer, Abdi,” Tarbox said at last.
“I tried to stop him, Dana,” the office assistant said to Principal Larrabee. “He just took off as soon as he knew which class Abdi was in.”
“It’s okay, Barbara,” Larrabee said. “It’s not your fault.” Larrabee pulled out her cell and went to her recent call list. “It’s time Sergeant Byron realizes he can’t do whatever he pleases in my school.” After finding the number she wanted, Larrabee pressed the redial button and waited. “Chief Rumsfeld? It’s Principal Dana Larrabee. We have a problem.”
“I know about the gun, Abdi,” Byron said.
Ali, who stood leaning against a bank of lockers with his hands jammed into the front pockets of his jeans, said nothing, but he didn’t need to. His falling gaze said it all. He did know something.
Byron pushed on. “How did it happen? Was it a dare? Was it Tommy’s idea? Was Mohammed Sayed involved? Did he know what he was getting into? Were you there?”
Abdi said nothing.
“I know how hard this must be for you. These are your friends. But two people are dead because of this. I can’t help you unless you tell me what happened.”
Ali raised his head and looked at Byron.
“Let me help you, Abdi.”
“That’s enough, Sergeant Byron!” Rumsfeld’s voice barked from behind him.
Byron turned and saw the acting chief standing beside an equally furious-looking Principal Larrabee.
“Abdi and I were just having a quick chat,” Byron said.
“In direct violation of my order, Sergeant,” Rumsfeld said.
Byron grinned and stepped toward the acting chief. “Actually, it’s Detective Sergeant, Acting Chief.”
“Yeah? Well, we’ll see about that.”
Byron watched as Larrabee gathered her stray sheep. She accompanied Ali down the hall, leaving Byron and Rumsfeld alone.
“As of this moment you can consider yourself on suspension, pending an internal affairs investigation into your conduct. I can already think of several charges that I intend to file as I stand here.”
“Really?” Byron said. “What might those be?”
“For starters? Conduct unbecoming. I just heard about your little display at the reception.”
“If you’d bother checking your facts you might find that was self-defense.”
“How about violating the rights of a juvenile witness?”
“Witness? He might well be a goddamned suspect.”
“Don’t push me, Sergeant,” Rumsfeld said.
“A push wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Byron said, leaning in closer. “But while you’re at it, why not add insubordination to your list of charges?”
“Done.”
Byron began to walk away, then stopped. He turned back toward Rumsfeld. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Go fuck yourself, Chief.”
Chapter 26
Thursday, 3:00 p.m.,
January 26, 2017
Byron slouched on the secondhand sofa amid the growing gloom of dusk in the open area of his condo that passed for a living room. On the coffee table in front of him sat not one but two bottles of Jameson Irish whiskey. Twin emerald-colored vessels of problem-solving elixir. Nectar of the gods. He glanced at the empty glass standing at the ready, sans ice. His new fridge was equipped with an ice maker, which meant a full complement of cubes were waiting in the freezer, but Byron didn’t see the need. Experience had taught him that the pain-numbing properties of his favorite prescription worked just as well uncut, at room temperature.
He was about to break the seal on the first bottle when his cell rang. He paused long enough to pull the phone from his pocket and check the caller ID. It was Diane. His thumb hovered over the Accept Call button while he debated. What would he say when she asked how he was doing? Would he lie to her? Diane wasn’t stupid. By now, word of his reception donnybrook with Crosby had no doubt made its way around 109. And if she hadn’t heard about his run-in with Rumsfeld, and subsequent suspension, she would soon enough. He moved his thumb to the Ignore button and pressed down, returning the phone to its main menu. He tossed the phone onto the far end of the couch and reached for a bottle. Sweet release.
Diane Joyner
sat in her office, listening to the ringing of John’s phone at the other end of the line until his voicemail picked up. “You have reached Sergeant Byron’s voicemail. Leave a message at the beep.”
“John, it’s Di. I heard about what happened. Please call me as soon as you get this, okay? I’m worried about you.”
She ended the call and stared at her phone. “Dammit, John. Don’t you pull away from me. Not now.”
LeRoyer appeared in the hallway outside her office door, startling her.
“You got a second?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, quickly composing herself.
The lieutenant stepped in and closed the door.
“What’s up?” she asked.
He sat down across from her. “I imagine by now you know about John’s suspension.”
She nodded. “I just heard. What happened?”
“It wasn’t one thing actually. Disobeying the chief’s order to stay away from Abdi Ali was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back. John has been struggling to let the Plummer shooting go.”
“You don’t think he should have kept pursuing it?” Diane asked.
“Doesn’t matter what I think. John broke the rules. He let his passions get the better of him.”
Diane wisely kept her feelings on the subject to herself until she knew the purpose for LeRoyer’s visit. “John is a passionate man.”
“That brings me to the point of my being here. I know you’ve been talking with John and that you’re up to speed on the cases his people are working.”
“Lieutenant, if there’s some—”
LeRoyer raised a hand. “Just hear me out, Sergeant.”
“All right.”
“Chief Rumsfeld and I have been talking about a temporary replacement for John. The department can’t afford to leave his position vacant even for a few days and Sergeant Peterson has enough on his plate at the moment. Diane, we want you to step up and fill in for John.”
“Temporarily?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Because I’m not about to—”
“And no one is asking you to. Look, John needs some time to get his head on straight. His detectives respect you. Hell, I respect you. I’m asking you to step in temporarily, okay?”
Diane didn’t know what to say. She’d been worried about this exact scenario from the start. It had been nine months since City Manager Clayton Perkins had called her into his office about the promotional list for sergeant, dangling the CID carrot in front of her face. Perkins had told her about the creation a new public relations sergeant, the very position she now held. At the time she’d had no interest in being someone’s PR puppet and the city manager knew it. But Perkins had also flattered her, saying that “down the road” she would make a great CID sergeant, the very job she had always dreamed of having. Now here was the CID lieutenant, sitting in her office, assuring her that filling in for John would only be temporary. But that was always how these things started, wasn’t it? Even in New York City the police department had been like this.
Could she trust LeRoyer? The truth was, she didn’t know. She knew that John had always trusted him, even when the two men had been on opposite sides of an issue. But John and LeRoyer shared a history together, a history she and LeRoyer did not have. At least, not yet.
She sat up straight, making direct eye contact with LeRoyer. “I have your word, this is only temporary?”
LeRoyer didn’t flinch. “You have my word.”
“Then I’ll do it.”
“Thank y—”
“On one condition.”
LeRoyer arched an eyebrow. “I’m not much on conditions, Diane. What is it?”
“I want your word that you’ll allow me to continue to follow up on the Plummer shooting.”
LeRoyer opened his mouth to protest but this time it was Diane’s turn to raise her hand and stop him.
“I won’t cross the line. But I am going to do my job.”
LeRoyer paused a beat before answering. “The administration doesn’t think this case is worthy of continuing.”
“What?” she asked, stunned. “How can anyone feel that way? What about the witness John found? Or the bullet Gabe pulled out of the Jeep?”
LeRoyer didn’t respond.
“Tell me you don’t agree with Rumsfeld on this,” Diane said. “Tell me you believe clearing Haggerty’s name still matters.”
“Of course it matters,” LeRoyer said.
“If you want me to fill in for John, temporarily, then you’ll have to let me continue to pursue the robbery case.”
He studied her but said nothing.
“I know where the line is, Lieutenant, and I won’t cross it.”
“And I have your word on that?” LeRoyer asked.
“You do.”
“All right. Keep working the case, but do it quietly. You make any waves and it will be all over. For both of us.”
Before Byron could do more than inhale the intoxicating scent of the whiskey, his cellphone rang again. Dammit, Diane, he thought. His guilt got the better of him. He set the bottle down on the coffee table, then leaned over and grabbed the phone off the other end of couch. But it wasn’t Diane. It was a 617 number. Massachusetts. Against his better judgment he answered it.
“Byron,” he said.
“John, it’s Colin.”
Byron instantly recognized the voice, and it made his skin crawl. Colin Donnelly was the shill his mother had married following the death of John’s father, Reece. Reece was barely in the ground before Donnelly showed up. The voice sounded older, more gravelly than Byron remembered, but it was unmistakably Donnelly. It had been years since the two men had spoken.
“I thought I made it clear that I never wanted to speak with you again,” Byron said. “And how the hell did you get this number?”
“John, your mother’s gone. She passed away.”
Byron opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Like someone had stabbed him through the heart, he felt physical pain. He had known this day would come eventually, but like all the other unpleasantnesses in his life, Byron had managed to bury this one down deep.
It had been four years since he’d seen Molly and at least ten since they had partaken in an actual conversation. The last time he had seen her was during a midweek visit to the high-priced care facility she’d been placed in after the Alzheimer’s had gotten bad. The news of her institutionalization had also come by way of a telephone call. It was the last time Byron had spoken to Colin Donnelly. Three weeks after receiving Donnelly’s call, Byron had driven to Massachusetts, telling no one. Molly hadn’t recognized him during his brief visit. He’d meant no more to her than a new orderly would have. Byron never told her who he was and as he made the return trip to Maine he wondered why he’d even driven down to see her in the first place.
Now here he was being informed of his mother’s death by a man he despised. Although if he was being truthful with himself, Byron didn’t even know the man. He only knew that Donnelly, and all his money, had taken Molly away, stepping into the role that Reece, Byron’s real father, used to play.
“When?” Byron croaked out. It was all he could think to ask.
“Last week,” Donnelly said. “The service is tomorrow morning. I almost didn’t call you, but I thought you’d want to know.”
Last week? Byron thought. And the bastard is just calling now? It was just one more reason to dislike the man. Not that he needed one.
“Where and when?” Byron asked matter-of-factly.
“The Church of the Advent on Beacon Hill. The service starts at ten o’clock.”
Byron couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I’m sorry, John,” Donnelly said after the pause in conversation grew even more uncomfortable.
Byron hung up.
Byron was mired in self-pity, but he didn’t care. The rest of society seemed to embrace the idea of self-medicating. Some chose pills, others marijuana, or co
ke, or heroin. At least his chosen drug was legal. Besides, if he didn’t do something to dull his senses, and numb the guilt, he would go crazy. The two losses coupled with his suspension and the feeling that he’d failed Haggerty were too much. He wondered if he had failed his mother as well.
Following the death of his father, Byron and Molly had suffered a falling-out. Byron had grown tired of listening to her denigrate Reece. And, if he was being totally honest with himself, he may have held her partially responsible for his father’s death, back when he’d still believed it was suicide. Molly remarried, taking her new husband’s last name, and moved to Boston, back to the neighborhood of her youth. The rift between them had been so wide that she hadn’t bothered to attend his graduation from Saint Joseph’s College. The final indignity had been her refusal to support his decision to enter the field of law enforcement. Now she was dead and there would be no fixing what had broken between them. Ever.
He sat alone on the couch, still half-clothed in his dress blues, two fingers of Jameson in one hand and an open photo album on his lap. The album was a hodgepodge of moments in his life. There were pictures of his parents. Photos of Byron and Ray Humphrey when they’d worked together as detectives. He and Kay, back when they were still united in holy matrimony, and content to be so. He even found a picture of himself fishing with his niece, Katie. Only now she was grown, and the childlike moniker had been replaced by her given name, Katherine. The photographs, placed in the album in no particular order, conjured memories that now felt distant and jumbled. Byron turned the page and paused a moment before gently removing one of the photos from behind the album’s yellowed protective film and placing it atop the page. It was a group photograph taken at a meeting of the Maine Police Emerald Society on the second floor of Bull Feeney’s pub in Portland’s Old Port, the same pub he and Diane had shared a meal at nearly a week ago. The color photo, now at least six years old, depicted the culmination of a successful fundraising event. The Emerald Society had held a golf tournament at the Riverside Municipal Golf Course, the sole purpose of which had been to raise money to help Ray and Wendy Humphrey with their medical bills. In addition to being Byron’s on the job mentor, Ray Humphrey had been like a second father. Wendy had been battling cancer for more than two years and the Humphreys desperately needed financial help. Byron ran his index finger over the photograph’s smooth surface, stopping when he got to where he stood sandwiched between Sean Haggerty and Ray Humphrey. The three of them stood together at the end of the bar with glasses raised, toasting to the good health of Mrs. H.
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