“Here, swallow these,” she said, handing him a glass of water and three white caplets. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the album he’d closed.
“Nothing that matters now,” he said. He staggered to his feet without taking either offering and rushed toward the bathroom.
Byron dropped to the floor in front of the toilet and wretched up the sour remains of the prior evening. When he had finished he washed up at the sink. The mirror told the tale. Bloodshot eyes accompanied the deep dark circles of exhaustion. The salt and pepper in his once dark hair and unshaven face made him look more like his father than he’d ever realized.
Moving slowly and deliberately, to keep the room from spinning out beneath him, he returned to the living room where Diane stood waiting.
“Feel better?” she asked.
“No,” he said, gingerly lowering himself to the couch.
“Let’s try this again,” she said, handing him the water and Tylenol.
He washed the pills down.
“Coffee will be ready in a minute,” she said.
“Thanks.” He laid back on the couch and closed his eyes.
“I heard what happened at the reception.”
“It seemed like the thing to do,” he said.
“And I heard about your mom. I’m sorry. You could have told me, you know.”
He didn’t know how to respond.
“Wanna talk about it?” she asked.
“No.” He waited for her to share whatever else was on her mind.
“You couldn’t have saved him, you know. Hags.”
He forced his eyes to open and turned his head to look at her, but said nothing.
“Sean’s death wasn’t your fault any more than Tommy Plummer’s was,” Diane continued.
“I know that,” he said.
She bent down and picked up the empty bottle. “This won’t help either.”
“Spare me the sermon, okay?”
She snapped. “Oh, what? You’re hurting, John? I got a news flash for you. We’re all hurting. Hags was like a brother to all of us. Not just you.”
Byron said nothing. Her shouting wasn’t helping the pain in his head, but he thought mentioning it probably wouldn’t improve her mood.
“I get it,” she said. “It sucks, big-time. But you know what? We all have to keep going. We’re cops. It’s what we do, John. There are still cases to solve. Rapists, robbers, and murderers to put away. It doesn’t stop just because one of us is gone.”
She stormed out of the room with the empty whiskey bottle, but he knew she wasn’t finished with him. Not by a long shot.
His brain was fuzzy. There was something he’d wanted to share with her about the Plummer case, but he couldn’t quite recall what it was. He made an effort to focus his thoughts, but thinking only made his head hurt worse.
Diane returned to the living room a few moments later. “Here,” she said.
Carefully, he sat up and took the hot mug from her. His hands were visibly shaking.
“You wanna feel sorry for yourself?” she asked, picking up right where she’d left off. “Go right ahead. You’re a big boy. Go on and lose yourself in that damn bottle if it makes you feel better. Be a selfish prick if you want. No one gives a shit about John Byron anyway, right?”
He still didn’t know how to respond. She really was pissed at him. And if he was being honest, she had good reason. He was being selfish.
“Except your friends and family care, John. Kay cares.”
He looked at her, surprised that she had mentioned Kay. Had Diane spoken with her?
Diane crossed her arms defensively. Her eyes welled up with tears.
“And you know what? So do I. Okay? I fucking care, John. I care about what happens to you. A lot.”
Byron hadn’t thought he could feel any worse, but as he watched the tears streaming down her cheeks, he realized he was wrong.
“You keep this up and it will kill you,” she said. “Is that what you want?”
All he really wanted was for the pounding in his head to depart and for the room to stop spinning. When he didn’t respond, she turned on her heels and marched out of the condo, her exit punctuated by the slamming door.
It took Diane ten minutes to cool down and regain her composure. Was she doing the right thing? She didn’t know. Kay had suggested tough love might be the only way to reach John, and Diane had just dished out a shovelful. But she was already second-guessing the tactic.
She pulled into the lot across from the ball field at Payson Park to recheck her makeup. Working carefully, she did her best to remove any indication that she had been crying. Well, except for the puffiness around her eyes. There was nothing for that. She had returned the makeup to her pocketbook and was driving toward 109 to meet Nugent and Stevens when her cell rang. It was Assistant Attorney General Jim Ferguson.
“Morning, Jim,” she said, attempting to sound like she was back in control.
“Goooood morning, Diane,” he said, mimicking Robin Williams’s character from the movie about the DJ in Vietnam. “Didn’t know if you might be up for a cup o’ joe, on neutral ground.”
“I’d like that,” she said. “I’m in Portland now, headed to the station. Where were you thinking?”
“I’m still southbound on 95. I’m craving something greasy. How about Miss Portland Diner? Fifteen minutes?”
“I’ll grab us a table.”
Byron sat staring into the empty coffee mug, as if the answers might be contained therein. They weren’t. Diane was right, of course. And he knew it. Deep down he’d known it for a long time. He was stuck in a rut and no matter who he tried to blame for his problems it all came back to him. He was his own worst enemy. He’d always had trouble expressing his emotions. It had cost him his marriage to Kay, and now his relationship with Diane was floundering because of it. He cared about her a great deal, even more than he dared admit, but if grades were given out for showing it he would have scored a big fat F. The one thing he’d always been good at, even as a drunk, was being a cop. But now . . . He paused in mid-thought. A drunk. Is that what I am?
You did say it, John, the voice in his head said.
“Actually, I thought it,” he said to an empty room. “I am a drunk.” It was the first time he’d ever said it aloud. “I am a drunk.” He said it again, putting more emphasis on the present tense of being. It rang true. He was. Sadly he realized that the only things separating him from the men he’d seen on the street were his job and his condo. Pretty damn thin. He had never wanted to face it. But Diane was right. If he didn’t get help now he’d risk losing everything. Including Diane, the one, perhaps the only, good thing in his life.
He glanced at the clock on the wall; it was nearly ten. The painkiller Diane had given him was beginning to work its magic. The banging inside of his head had dulled somewhat. No longer did it feel like baseball bats smashing against a metal trash can; it was more like drumsticks on a plastic bucket. He forced himself up from the couch and staggered into the kitchen. He brewed another cup of coffee, leaning against the counter while he waited for the Keurig to spit its last. He closed his eyes and sipped the hot beverage, relishing the soothing warmth flowing into his belly. He opened his eyes again, waited for them to focus, then slowly climbed the stairs to his bedroom.
Diane managed to score a booth at the far end of the dining car, allowing her a view of the entire space. While the stick-built addition protruding from the rear of the restaurant was far more comfortable, there was something magical about sitting in the original steel structure, next to the long counter and its many chrome stools with inviting padded tops. The Miss P was pure Americana.
It was closer to twenty-five minutes before Ferguson’s head appeared at the far end of the diner. Diane exchanged a wave with him. She watched him navigate around the waitstaff and up the narrow aisle toward her table.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he slid onto the bench across from her. “Any word on our missing lau
ndromat magnate?”
“No. It’s like he vanished without a trace.”
“Or someone vanished him. Permanently.”
They ordered breakfast, then Diane filled him in on the latest.
“So you’re still pursuing the Plummer shooting?” Ferguson asked as he sopped up the yoke on his plate with a piece of wheat toast.
“Yes,” she said. “The lieutenant has assigned me as John’s temporary replacement while he’s on suspension.”
“Good. Glad to hear it. I tried calling him, but I think his phone is off. How’s he doing?”
Not wanting the emotion to show through in her voice, she hesitated a moment before answering. “Not well.”
Ferguson pushed his empty plate away, then picked up his mug. “Has he fallen?”
Diane studied his face a moment before answering. She was surprised that he knew and was so casual about it. “Headfirst.”
“I was afraid of that,” Ferguson said with a sigh. “Haggerty’s death has really knocked him back, hasn’t it?”
“Not just Haggerty’s,” she said.
Ferguson cocked his head to one side. “There was another?”
“Molly, John’s mother.”
“Oh shit.”
It was past noon by the time Diane arrived at 109. She hadn’t so much as stepped into CID when Melissa Stevens and Mike Nugent appeared, each sporting a grin on their face.
“What is it?” Diane asked.
Nugent spoke up first. “Remember the douchebag from South Portland who gave the television exclusive about how he witnessed Plummer surrendering before Haggerty shot him?”
“Yeah, Perez, wasn’t it?” Diane asked.
“Lucas Perez,” Stevens said as she held up the Cumberland County Jail prisoner list. “The drug guys locked him up for possession last night.”
“How does that help us?” Diane asked.
“He couldn’t make bail,” Stevens said, her grin widening. “He’ll be in at least until he goes in front of a judge Monday morning.”
“Perez wouldn’t let the sarge and me anywhere near his baby mama,” Nugent said. “This might be the perfect opportunity to punch a hole in that a-hole’s story.”
“Go,” Diane said. “And good luck.”
Stevens knocked on the storm door to the Perez/Gomez unit for the third time, then waited to see if Ms. Gomez would answer.
“She just peeked out the window,” Nugent said from the sidewalk. “She knows we’re here.” Nugent joined his partner on the steps.
The inside door swung open, and as before Maria Gomez stood there holding her baby. “Yes?” she said.
Both detectives held up their identification for her to see.
Stevens took the lead. “Ms. Gomez, my name is Detective Stevens and I believe you already met my partner, Detective Nugent.”
Nugent gave a silent nod.
“If you’re looking for Lucas, he’s not here,” Gomez said.
“Actually, Maria, it’s you we’d like to speak with,” Stevens said. “Do you mind if we talk inside?”
Gomez hesitated a moment, then stepped back. “Come in,” she said.
By two o’clock that afternoon, Byron had managed to shake off most of the effects of his hangover. A long hot shower and shave made him feel almost human. But he still couldn’t remember what he’d wanted to tell Diane, and given their last conversation, if it could even be called a conversation, he wasn’t sure she’d take his call anyway.
He dressed in a clean pair of jeans and the wool sweater that Diane had given him for Christmas, then went downstairs to fix something to eat. As he entered the kitchen he saw the empty whiskey bottle standing on the counter next to a sink full of dirty dishes. He was starving, but something else was vying for his attention. A quick peek inside the fridge confirmed that he might be better off going out for food. He found his keys and cellphone, then slipped into his shoes and peacoat. It wasn’t until he opened the front door and stepped out into the cool afternoon air that he remembered how he’d gotten home. Shit, he thought. His car was still parked on the West End.
Diane was camped out in the CID conference room poring over everything in the case again when Stevens and Nugent walked in.
“Perez’s story was total bullshit, Sarge,” Nugent said.
“Gomez actually spoke with you?” Diane asked.
“And then some,” Stevens said. “Perez wasn’t in Kennedy Park last Sunday night. He was making a drug run from Lowell, Massachusetts, back to Portland, with his girlfriend.”
“Yeah. Apparently, Perez’s baby mama doesn’t approve of him catting around.”
“Don’t call her that,” Stevens said as she gave Nugent a punch in the shoulder. “It’s Maria Gomez.”
“Sorry,” Nugent said. “Didn’t know you were so sensitive.”
“Want another one?” Stevens said, drawing her arm back and balling up her fist.
“Did she say why he went on camera?” Diane asked.
“Can’t help himself,” Nugent said. “Wanted his fifteen minutes.”
“Did she provide a written statement?” Diane asked.
“Right here,” Stevens said, pulling the paper out of a folder.
“So, the one damning statement to the media that got everyone whipped up into a frenzy is debunked,” Diane said as much to herself as the two detectives.
“Yeah,” Nugent said. “Want me to call the news channels?”
If only it were that easy, Diane thought.
Byron’s food run had led him straight back to the Gull. As he watched the bartender top off the glass, Byron wondered when his need for the Irish had transformed itself from social to medicinal. In his early days with the police department it had just been a part of being a cop. Toasting to one another’s good health or to an important arrest or successful prosecution was part and parcel to the culture. District attorneys, assistant attorney generals, detectives, even the occasional judge would gather to blow off a little steam. But as he sat there alone on the barstool beside the so-called dregs of society it occurred to him that he had no success to toast. Nor anyone to toast it with. Haggerty was gone, and Byron was wallowing in self-pity. Was Diane right? Did he need help? He’d never needed anyone’s help before. Or had he? Perhaps he’d just been too damned stubborn to notice, or admit it.
“Is this seat taken?” a familiar voice said from behind him.
“Is that the famous homicide trial attorney James Ferguson?” Byron asked without turning to look.
“None other,” Ferguson said. He gestured toward the empty stool next to Byron. “May I?”
“By all means, Counselor,” Byron said, fully aware of the slur in his voice and not particularly caring. He signaled the bartender over. “What are you doing slumming around Portland on a weekend?”
“Thought I’d give barhopping a shot. I’m told it’s the latest thing.”
“My barhopping is limited to hopping up on a stool,” Byron said as the bartender approached them. “What are you drinking?”
“Soda water with a lime.”
“You’re kidding?” Byron said, turning away from the barkeep to look at the AAG.
“Nope.”
Byron turned back to the bartender. “You heard the man. Soda water and lime.”
The bartender frowned and addressed the newcomer. “We don’t have any fresh fruit. Lime juice okay?”
“Fine,” Ferguson said. He removed his coat, then settled onto the stool to Byron’s left. “So, how you doin’, John?”
“Who sent you?” Byron asked.
“What makes you think that I didn’t come here of my own volition?”
“For soda water? With lime juice?”
“Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
“Was it Diane?”
“I’m bound by a sacred vow not to say.”
“What are you now, a priest?” Byron said.
Ferguson chuckled. “Hardly. I’m an attorney, remember?”
“One of the good ones.”
The bartender set the full glass carefully in front of Ferguson. Ferguson picked up the glass and held it out toward Byron. “What should we drink to?”
Byron thought for a moment before raising his own glass. “Better days.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Ferguson said as they clinked the glasses together.
Byron knocked the remainder of his whiskey back and set the empty glass on the bar. He looked over at his friend. “Why are you really here, Jim?”
“I came to listen.”
“To what?”
“Whatever’s on your mind.”
“I’ve got some nosy friends,” Byron said.
“No, John. You’ve got some friends who care about you. More importantly, they care about what happens to you.”
Byron said nothing as he raised his hand, signaling to the bartender that he was in need of a refill. He turned back to Ferguson. “Is this the part where you lecture me about alcohol being the devil’s workshop and how I need to get a handle on this before it kills me?”
Ferguson picked up his glass and nodded. “You said it. Not me.”
Byron looked at what his friend was drinking. “That your normal beverage of choice?”
“It’s not normal, but it is my choice.”
“How long?” Byron asked.
Ferguson checked his watch. “Fourteen years, eleven months, and seventeen days.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Easy. In less than two weeks I’ll get my fifteen-year coin.”
Byron looked at the whiskey in his glass and willed himself not to reach for it. “So, what, now you’re gonna try to talk me into joining AA?”
“Not up to me.”
“Who is it up to?”
“You, my friend. It’s all up to you.”
Beyond the Truth Page 29