Beyond the Truth
Page 34
“That goes double for me,” Diane said. “Thank you, God.”
Lieutenant Price switched the speaker off and responded to both snipers by radio in private. He turned and gave Diane and LeRoyer the thumbs-up.
“How close was it?” LeRoyer asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Price said. “Trust me, you do not want to know.”
Byron put his good arm around Abdi and led him slowly down Freshman Alley toward the command post. He could only imagine the heartache and guilt the boy was probably feeling. The same emotions Haggerty had experienced after killing Tommy Plummer. Regret for actions that couldn’t be undone. Sadness for the lives lost. And as Byron knew too well, being justified, as Haggerty had been, never trumps the inevitable deep-seated feelings of remorse. Being a juvenile meant Abdi might not pay the full legal price for his role in all that had happened, but actions always come with consequences. Byron knew that Abdi would have to live with the consequences of his actions for the rest of his life.
As they neared the cluster of people clogging the Chestnut Street entrance to the alley, two uniformed officers broke from the crowd and took custody of Abdi. As the boy was being handcuffed he turned to look at Byron. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Byron nodded wordlessly. He stood and watched as the officers led Abdi toward a marked unit.
Diane ran up to Byron. “That was way more excitement than I needed today. We thought you’d been shot.”
“I couldn’t be that lucky.”
“Are you okay?”
Byron winced as he held up his right arm. His hand had swollen to nearly twice its normal size. “Pretty sure my arm is broken.”
“Let me see,” she said, wearing a genuine look of concern on her face. “Jesus, you did a number on yourself. MedCu is still here. I’ll get the paramedics.”
Diane turned to leave but he stopped her.
“What?” she asked.
He handed her the gun. “Here. Tell Mayor Gilcrest she owes the Haggertys a fucking apology.”
“I’ll make sure she knows.”
“The backpack is in Abdi’s locker. The drugs, money, and the revolver they took from Micky Cavallaro are all inside it.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m ready,” he said.
“This isn’t really the place, John,” she said, grinning. “Have a little class. There are kids here.”
“You know what I mean.”
She studied his face. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah. You’re right. I need help. I can’t do this by myself.”
She reached over and took his left hand in hers. “You’re one stubborn SOB, John Byron. How the hell did I ever get mixed up with a salty old dog like you?”
“Bad luck?”
“Not in my book.” She leaned in close and kissed him on the cheek.
“Remember, Sergeant, there are kids here,” he said.
“Too bad. Guess that will have to wait.”
“Thank you for not giving up on me,” he said.
She squeezed his hand in hers. “Never.”
Epilogue
The engine was idling, and warm air flowed from the vents. Byron rode shotgun beside Diane in her unmarked Ford. The dashboard lights illuminated their faces in the darkness. Outside it was raining lightly, the arctic-like temperatures having finally departed. The two detectives watched in silence as vehicles gradually populated the parking lot, and people entered the church.
Byron’s broken wrist was throbbing badly. He knew the surgeon would be pissed if he found out Byron wasn’t wearing the sling. C’est la vie, he thought. He’d never been very good at taking orders from anyone, not even doctors.
“Wished I’d been there to see the assistant principal’s face when they pulled him over,” Byron said.
“Yeah, the K-9 practically tore the emblem off the trunk lid,” Diane said. “They’ve estimated the street value of the drugs at about fifty thousand. And there was a stainless revolver in the bag. Abdi identified it as the gun Plummer took from Cavallaro’s safe. The same gun Tommy fired at Haggerty.”
“How did they know Rogers was the one who took the pack from Abdi’s locker?”
“Aside from the SRT, Paul Rogers was the only other person inside the school while it was being cleared. He had keys to everything. After the incident was over, one of the teachers reported seeing Rogers remove a Patriots pack back from a student’s locker and place it inside a black gym bag. The teacher followed him and watched him place the bag in the trunk of his car.”
“What about Micky Cavallaro?” Byron asked.
“I spoke to Collier. He danced around any specifics, but it sounds like they suspect that the out-of-state players in their OC investigation made an example of Cavallaro. They found his Cadillac abandoned in Boston’s north end. I asked him to let me know if they find his body. Sam suggested that I shouldn’t hold my breath.”
Byron stared at the church, knowing what it represented.
Diane held his left hand gently in hers. Her contact was both warm and comforting and the only thing keeping him from fleeing to the nearest bar.
He looked over at her. “Thanks,” he said.
“You’re not doing this for me, John. This is something you need to do for yourself.”
He knew she was right. But he also knew he likely wouldn’t have reached this point without her.
“Thank you anyway.”
She smiled. “What are partners for, right?”
Their eyes met. “You’re more than that,” he said. “And we both know it.”
Her smile widened, and she gripped his hand a little tighter.
He turned and looked out through the windshield just as another person headed toward the church entrance. The rain had blurred the glass, preventing him from being able to distinguish whether the figure was a man or woman. The wipers cleared his vision, but the figure was gone.
“What time is it?” he asked, licking his dry lips.
“You can do this,” Diane said.
Byron looked back at her, unsure. His stomach was in knots, his palms sweating.
“I’ll be right here for you,” she said. “I promise.”
He lifted her hand and gently kissed it before letting go. He reached across his body, opened the door, and stepped out of the car.
Once inside the church, Byron followed several people down a flight of stairs, into what appeared to be a basement cafeteria. About two dozen people were scattered about the room in small clusters chatting and laughing. He’d been worried that he might see someone he knew. He didn’t. A circle of metal folding chairs had been arranged in the center of the room. The siren call of strong coffee filled the air. Resisting the urge to run back up the stairs, he approached a side table and poured himself a cup. On either side of the coffee urn was a large tin of sugar cookies and half of a pound cake. Hanging from the wall above the table was a faded purple banner with gold lettering that read You Are Not Alone. Byron considered that for a moment before turning back toward the room. He made eye contact with a young bearded man of about thirty. The man smiled and nodded. People began walking toward the chairs. Byron followed suit, selecting a chair that afforded him a view of the exit.
The meeting started at precisely seven o’clock, led by the same young bearded man.
“I see we have a couple of new faces in the group tonight. Why don’t we begin with introductions?” He looked directly at Byron. “Would you like to go first?”
Byron hesitated as he looked around the room at the faces of strangers. Strangers who appeared not to have any commonalities outside of their reason for being there.
“You’re among friends here,” the young man said, giving Byron another nod.
Byron cleared his throat. “My name is John and—and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Welcome, John,” they all said in unison.
“Welcome, John,”
the group leader repeated with a smile.
Acknowledgments
Beyond the Truth, novel number three in the Detective Byron Mystery Series, is a milestone I wouldn’t have dared imagine only a few short years ago. In 2012, I left my old life behind, retiring after nearly three decades in law enforcement, to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming a successful published novelist. In 2016, my first novel, Among the Shadows, was published, and its publication meant I had achieved my first goal. It was then that I realized I still had no idea how to define success. That, dear readers, is where you came in. I’ve learned that success is an intangible that writers have no control over. Writers depend upon readers to enjoy our stories, and to keep coming back in large enough numbers to sustain us in our creative endeavors. Because of you, John Byron lives on, and for that both John and I are eternally grateful.
As always, I must give thanks to many special folks without whom I might never have gotten this far: Paula Munier and Gina Panettieri at Talcott Notch Literary for continuing to believe in me and my stories; Nick Amphlett, Christine Langone, Kaitlyn Kennedy, Jessica Lyons, Gena Lanzi, Guido Caroti, and the rest of the Witness Impulse Team at HarperCollins; fellow bloggers at Maine Crime Writers and Murder Books; and the great folks at the many New England libraries and bookstores, too numerous to list.
My beta readers and fact checkers: Kate Flora, Heather Sage, Michael Bennis, Brian MacMaster, Steve Gotlieb, Sara Perrigo, Mike Mercer, Judy LaBonte, and Pat Larrabee. Any mistakes were my own.
My immediate family and friends for their constant encouragement and support along the way.
The many men and women in the field of criminal justice, true professionals, I was fortunate to have served with, as well as those who continue to serve (these are their stories).
John Byron, Diane Joyner, and the rest of the fictional 109 team, who have become as much a part of my life as those with whom I once worked.
Lastly, and most importantly, my wife, Karen, for her love, inspiration, and infinite patience. Without you in my life, there would be no story.
About the Author
BRUCE ROBERT COFFIN retired from the Portland, Maine, police department in 2012, after more than twenty-seven years in law enforcement. As a detective sergeant, he supervised all homicide and violent crime investigations for Maine’s largest city. Following the terrorist attacks of September 11, he worked for four years with the FBI, earning the Director’s Award (the highest honor a nonagent can receive) for his work in counterterrorism.
Bruce’s fiction has been shortlisted twice for the Al Blanchard Award. His story Foolproof appears in the Level Best Books anthology Red Dawn, Best New England Crime Stories, 2016, and in Houghton Mifflin Harcourt’s Best American Mystery Stories, 2016. He lives and writes in Maine.
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Also by Bruce Robert Coffin
Among the Shadows
Beneath the Depths
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
beyond the truth. Copyright © 2018 by Bruce Robert Coffin. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-256951-6
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-256953-0
Cover design by Guido Caroti
Cover photograph © DenisTangneyJr/iStock /Getty Images (background); © rangizzz/Malivan_Iuliia/nevodka/ Shutterstock (three images)
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