“How does that help us?” Diane asked. “It looks like she’s friends with half the high school.”
Tran turned in the chair to look at her. “Bethany is one of those teenagers who wears her heart on her sleeve. You know the type. Every single thought that pops into her head she posts on social media. Well, yesterday she posted this.”
Diane watched as Tran scrolled down past her recent posts to yesterday’s. The post in question read: “What should a person do if someone they really care about asks them to keep a secret, even if it’s something bad?”
“Then, of course, there are the usual responses from friends whenever somebody posts this kind of ambiguous and intriguing stuff. OMG. What happened? Who is it? What is the secret? Can you DM me? All the usual BS and emoji trains.”
“I still don’t see how you’re making the connection between Bethany’s post and the shooting of Tommy Plummer,” Diane said.
Tran wordlessly scrolled back to the top of Simpson’s page and clicked on the About link. “She’s listed herself as in a relationship. Guess who with?”
“Who?”
“Mohammed Sayed.”
Chapter 28
Friday, 2:55 p.m.,
January 27, 2017
Diane and Melissa Stevens drove straight to Portland High. The school day had been over for nearly an hour, but Diane was betting that Bethany Simpson would still be there, attending an after-school activity, like cheerleading. They found her at the gym in the middle of practice. After identifying themselves to Simpson’s coach and explaining their reason for the interruption, they pulled Bethany into a musty equipment room where they could talk undisturbed.
“Bethany, do you know why we’re here?” Diane began.
“No,” she responded with an innocent shake of her head.
“We understand that you’re dating Mohammed Sayed. How long have you been seeing each other?”
Simpson’s eyes widened noticeably. “Mo and I have been going out since September. Why are you asking about him?”
“Why do you think?” Stevens asked.
“I—I have no idea,” Simpson stammered. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two detectives.
“I don’t think that’s entirely true, Bethany,” Diane said.
“Tell me about the secret you were asked to keep,” Stevens said.
Simpson crossed her arms defensively. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“On your Facebook page,” Diane said. “You asked your friends a question about keeping a secret. What secret?”
Stevens handed the girl a printed copy of the posting.
Simpson studied the printout as if she hadn’t written it, then laughed nervously. “Oh, this. This is about a girlfriend of mine. She told me something in confidence.”
Diane wasn’t convinced by the young girl’s performance. “You’re sure it has nothing to do with Mo?” she asked.
“Positive.”
Diane saw the roses blooming on the young girl’s face, betraying her deceit.
“Bethany, has Mohammed, or anyone else, talked to you about the night Tommy Plummer was killed?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “And I don’t know anything about that either.”
Diane and Stevens exchanged a quick glance. She knew Stevens wasn’t buying the story either, but this wasn’t the time to press it. If Simpson was lying and they pushed her into a corner now, it was far less likely that they would be able to reapproach her for a second interview. Better to let her believe that her lie had deceived them.
Diane forced a smile. “Well, I’m so sorry we bothered you, Bethany. Thank you for clearing this up.”
“Any time,” Simpson said, a little too cheerfully.
Diane offered her hand and Simpson accepted it with a quick sweaty shake.
“Here’s my card if you do hear something,” Diane said. “I’ve written my number on the back.”
The Black Gull was located squarely in the center of Portland’s west end. It was the local watering hole for the middle-aged drinkers who just wanted to be left alone with their thoughts. Anyone dumb enough to violate another’s space at the Gull, and occasionally somebody was, might just get a punch in the mouth for their transgression. Byron sat alone at the bar for the first time in nearly two years. He’d returned to pay homage to the nectar of his forefathers. Sitting before him were three shot glasses topped with Lagavulin. The sixteen-year-old single malt was four times as old and twice as expensive as his usual poison. But if he was celebrating the end of his self-imposed exile from drunkenness he might as well do it in style.
Byron picked up one of the glasses and clinked it against the others for luck, then sipped. He had downed the first few shots just to set himself right, but given the price and the quality of his upgrade he decided that savoring it might be the more prudent option. Byron let his eyes wander about the bar as he took it all in. He enjoyed the fact that the Black Gull remained constant. The smell of stale beer, the dark oak plank flooring worn from years of sliding stools, the cork dartboard in the corner; nothing ever changed. The Gull wasn’t a cop bar, far from it. The cop bar had always been the Sportsman’s on Congress Street, where Byron’s dad and many of the other old-time police officers had hung out, until it closed in 1999.
Byron had been coming to the Black Gull since his first days as a detective. The Gull had been Ray Humphrey’s bar, precisely because it wasn’t a cop bar. It was where he and Ray had solved all of the world’s problems. Byron wished Ray was still around to help with the current problem. Although technically it wasn’t his problem any longer, since Haggerty was dead and Byron was on suspension. What did he care if the rest of the city thought of Haggerty as a trigger-happy cowboy?
Not my circus, not my monkey, he thought, recalling a phrase that his father, Reece, had often bandied about when talking about department politics, and a phrase that Byron had never truly understood until he began working at 109. The problem was that he did care. Fuck the job, this was personal.
It was true—Haggerty was gone and nothing Byron nor anyone else could do would ever change that. But his name had been sullied. Hags’s good reputation had been stripped away. And a cop without a good reputation wasn’t a cop at all.
Byron cared because it did matter. It mattered to Haggerty’s mom and dad, and to every cop who put the uniform on and went to work each day, and to every spouse who worried that their warrior in blue might not make it home again, and to every kid who believed there was good in the world and that it always triumphed over evil. It mattered because Haggerty was a good cop who had been let down by the very people he protected. It mattered to Byron because Hags was his friend.
Maybe I did let this case get too personal, he thought.
Perhaps he had run a bit roughshod over some people trying to get at the truth. Byron was used to people lying to him. They did it every day. But this time it had been different. Byron had always worked hard to see that only the guilty paid the price for their crimes. All Hags was guilty of was doing his job and for that he had been thrown to the wolves.
Byron emptied the shot glass and placed it on the bar beside the other empty. He slid the last one over and held it up in front of his face, studying it.
The bartender swung by as if on autopilot. “You good, Sarge?”
“Since you’re here.” He watched as Nick recharged the glasses. “Thanks, Nick.”
Byron stared at the glass in his hand as if the answers might be contained therein. There had to be answers somewhere, he thought. This was just another case, albeit a very personal one. But pushing that aside, it was still just a case. Like the hundreds of cases he’d investigated before. Had they missed something? Had he? He had located Erlene Jackson, the reluctant witness to the shooting. And they had found the bullet. The bullet, intended for Haggerty that had sailed wide of its mark. But they hadn’t located the gun, or the second robber. No proof. All he had were theories and roadblocks. Each time he had approached th
e case from a different direction he met with resistance. Detour signs had been erected at every turn, all directing him toward dead ends. What he needed was a way back. Back to the start.
“Remember what I always told you, Sarge,” the voice of his mentor, Ray Humphrey, said as clearly as if he’d been bellied up to the bar right beside Byron. “When you get stuck on a case, go back to the beginning.”
Byron turned to look, but of course Ray wasn’t there. Ray was never there. Only two empty stools and an unshaven guy wearing brown coveralls staring slack-jawed at the television behind the bar. Ray was dead.
Back to the beginning. Back to the night Haggerty had shot Tommy Plummer. Back to the robbery at the laundromat.
“I guess I shouldn’t have taken that overtime, huh, Sarge?” Haggerty had said, his voice still bouncing around inside Byron’s head.
“No, Hags, I guess you shouldn’t have,” Byron said aloud.
Coveralls glanced in Byron’s direction for a moment before turning his attention back to the television.
“You shoulda spent more time taking the theft report,” Byron said. “Had another cup of coffee at the 7-Eleven.”
Byron reached for his glass, then froze. Where was the shoplifting report? He thought back to every piece of paper he’d seen generated on this case. Every statement, every supplement, every piece of evidence—he had looked at all of it. But he’d never seen anything from the 7-Eleven. He pulled out his cell intending to call Diane, then stopped. Calling her now, in his current condition, after ignoring her calls, was at best foolhardy. He replaced the cellphone and polished off the remaining Irish.
Diane’s workday was over. And it felt as though it had been nothing but a series of starts and stops. Khalid’s visit had given her some hope, but the waiting game for a DNA comparison was a familiar one and, as Ferguson had so aptly pointed out, futile. Tran’s lead on Bethany Simpson had also looked promising, but the interview had gotten them nowhere. She was confident that the student was holding back information, but getting her to admit it would take time.
Diane sat in her unmarked, parked at the curb, a good ten minutes before finally approaching the house. She climbed the steps and rang the doorbell, then stood waiting on the front porch. After several moments the porch light came on and the inside door swung open.
“Diane?” Kay said, sounding as surprised as she looked.
“Hello, Kay. Bet you didn’t expect to see me.”
“Is everything all right?” Kay asked.
Diane forced a smile. “I was hoping we could sit down and talk.” She held up a bottle of red wine. “About John.”
Kay pushed the storm door open. “I’ll get the glasses.”
Diane sat at the kitchen table making awkward small talk while Kay poured the wine. “Your home is beautiful.”
“Thank you. I haven’t been here that long. I’m still trying to decide how I want to decorate it.” Kay approached the table, handing Diane her glass, before sitting down in the chair at the end of the table to Diane’s left. “Every space speaks with a different voice, don’t you think?”
“I guess that’s probably true,” she said as she wondered what her ramshackle Westbrook home was trying to tell her. Diane took a sip of the fragrant liquid.
“So, what else should we discuss while waiting for you to get your courage up?” Kay asked.
“You think I’m stalling?”
“I know you are.”
“I forgot, you’re a shrink. I’ll have to be more careful what I give away.”
Kay smiled politely. “I was also John’s wife for twenty years. What’s going on, Diane?”
Diane let out a long sigh. “I guess you probably know by now that John and I have been seeing each other, on and off, for a while. And I think—” She couldn’t figure out how to continue. It felt wrong to even be here. Like she was doing something behind John’s back. Like she had opened a door that shouldn’t have been opened.
“Do you care about him?” Kay asked, following Diane’s silence.
“Very much.”
“But?” The word hung there, punctuating the silence.
“He’s impossible to understand sometimes,” Diane said at last. “He drives me so goddamned crazy.” Then she couldn’t help herself. It all came spilling out. All the things she was afraid of: John’s drinking, his explosive temper, his dark side. When at last she finished she was emotionally exhausted. And yet it felt like a great weight had been lifted. She had never shared her feelings about John with anyone but Melissa Stevens. And never to this depth. Diane swallowed the remnants in her glass, then set it on the table. “I don’t know why I told you any of that. I have no right. I shouldn’t have come here.”
“Nonsense.” Kay picked up Diane’s glass and refilled it. “Here.”
“Thank you.”
“How is John?”
“Not good. He’s been suspended.”
“For what? Is this about the officer who was killed? Haggerty?”
Diane nodded. “John was working on the shooting Sean Haggerty was involved in. It was going badly even before Sean was killed. He’s in a dangerous place, Kay.”
Diane could feel her emotions bubbling to the surface again as the first tear streamed down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, then looked up, making eye contact with Kay. “And I don’t know how to reach him.”
It was quarter after one in the morning as Byron staggered down the sidewalk from the Black Gull toward his car. After several failed attempts to retrieve his keys from his pocket he stopped walking. His coordination was impaired to the point that he couldn’t perform both tasks at once.
“Maybe they should add that roadside test to the OUI training at the Maine Criminal Justice Academy.”
Byron turned toward the voice and saw LeRoyer with his arms crossed leaning against the door of his SUV.
“You haven’t got enough shit piled on your plate, John?” LeRoyer asked. “Thinking of adding a drunk driving charge to your CV?”
“What are you, my—?” Byron stopped himself.
“Hop in, sailor,” LeRoyer said. “I’ll give you a ride.”
Several minutes later they were cruising through downtown with LeRoyer behind the wheel. Byron couldn’t shake the feeling that he was the kid who got caught sneaking out of the house late at night.
“Do you have to Armor All everything in this damn car?” Byron asked as his ass slid around on the vinyl seat.
LeRoyer looked over at him. “I heard about your mother, John. I’m sorry.”
He opened his mouth to say something spiteful until he saw the sincerity in his lieutenant’s face. “Thanks.”
“I don’t remember giving you permission to self-destruct though,” LeRoyer said.
Too drunk to conjure up a witty comeback, Byron ignored the comment. “How’d you know where to find me?”
“You’re not so hard to find, John. I heard about Molly, and when Diane told me she couldn’t reach you, I knew you’d stop by the Gull eventually.”
“You paid the bartender, didn’t you?” Byron asked, already knowing the answer. “How much?”
“Twenty bucks.”
Byron couldn’t stop a silly grin from spreading across his face. “You here to read me the riot act, Marty? Gonna tell me how bad I’ve fucked up my career?”
LeRoyer glanced at Byron again. “You don’t need me for that.” His eyes returned to the road. “I’m here as a friend, John. A friend who doesn’t want to see you fuck up your life.”
Byron said nothing.
“I assigned Diane to cover your duties in your absence,” LeRoyer said.
“My absence? You make it sound like I’m out with the flu.” Byron wondered if that meant she was still pursuing the laundromat robbery.
The two men rode in silence until they reached the end of Byron’s driveway. LeRoyer slid the transmission into Park and waited for Byron to get out.
“I went to see him a few days after the
shooting,” Byron said.
“Hags?”
Byron nodded. “He was pretty messed up in the head. And starting to doubt his own memory of what had happened.”
“What did you do?”
“I took the gun he was playing with. Didn’t like the things he was saying.”
LeRoyer gave a silent nod.
“But after I left him, I began to wonder whether it was a good shoot or not.”
LeRoyer sighed. “Just makes you a good investigator, John.”
“Yeah? But what kind of friend does it make me?”
LeRoyer said nothing.
Byron fumbled with the door handle until he finally managed to get it open and stepped out of the SUV. He leaned in and looked back at LeRoyer, supporting himself by placing his forearm against the roof. “Thanks for the ride, LT. Does your wife know what you were doing out so late?”
“Yup.”
“Square this with her for me?”
“Screw you, John,” LeRoyer said. “Square it with her yourself. Oh, and you owe me a Jackson.”
Chapter 29
Saturday, 9:30 a.m.,
January 28, 2017
Byron gradually awoke to a gentle shaking and a woman’s voice. “John, wake up.” It was Diane. She’d come by to check on him. Slowly he opened his eyes. Daylight. The harsh glare of sunlight streaming through the windows felt like someone was driving spikes into his eyeballs. His head was pounding, keeping time with his pulse.
“Jesus, you look like hell,” she said. “I was worried. I couldn’t reach you on your cell.”
“I shut it off,” he said as he slowly swung his legs over the edge of the sofa and sat up. Immediately the room began to spin. He closed his eyes and held his head in his hands to steady it. He was still a little drunk.
“I’ll make some coffee,” she said as she headed toward the kitchen. “Where do you keep the Tylenol?”
“Bathroom cabinet,” he croaked, noticing that he was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes and wondering if something stronger than coffee might be more useful. Scanning the room, he saw the empty bottle of Jameson lying on the floor beside the couch, along with an overturned glass and several photo albums, one of which was open. He couldn’t remember having taken the albums out or even looking at them, but he knew what they contained. He reached down and flipped the open album closed just as Diane returned to the living room.
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