Byron waited as the phone rang at the other end of the line.
“Parking Control,” a bored-sounding male answered following a half dozen rings.
“This is Byron over at the PD.”
“Oh, hello, Sergeant Byron. It’s Al Greene.” His voice dripped with condescension. “You calling to find out your balance?”
Greene was the biggest parking Nazi the city had. He’d personally written at least a dozen of the tags currently stuffed in Byron’s glove box. Byron was sure Greene intentionally sought out his unmarked when he was on the street tagging. “Got you inside today, huh, Al? That’s too bad.”
“Not to worry, Sarge. Be pounding the pavement tomorrow. Got a new box of pens.”
Byron could hear the glee in Greene’s voice.
“Need you to run a scoff check for me,” Byron said.
“Yours?”
“No. Maine vanity—’I Win.’”
“Gimme a sec.”
Byron listened to the clicks of a keyboard as Greene typed the request.
“Twelve outstanding tickets,” Greene said.
“Where?”
“Looks like they’re all in and around the Old Port. One on Spring Street, two on Union, three on State, one on Jacob’s Wharf, and five on Commercial.”
Byron knew the first three were next to Ramsey’s office. He didn’t have a clue about State Street but was fairly sure the Commercial Street and Jacob’s Wharf tags were all from visits to the Red Fox pub, a bar that Ramsey was known to frequent. “Would you email that list to me?”
“Of course. Serving you is why I’m here, Sergeant Byron.”
It took every ounce of restraint he had not to threaten the beady-eyed parking control officer with bodily harm. But he needed the list and pretending to be cordial seemed the most expedient way to get it. “Thanks.”
“See you soon, Sarge.”
Byron pressed the red button on his cell, mercifully ending the call, just as his phone chimed with an incoming text from Diane. It was the one he’d been waiting for.
“All signed.”
Byron hollered over to Pelligrosso, who was busy snapping pictures of the Lincoln from every angle. “Good to go on the search, Gabe.”
Pelligrosso gave him the thumbs-up and went back to work.
Byron instructed Haggerty to remain with Pelligrosso until Ramsey’s SUV was secured in the basement garage at 109. Then he headed off. Greene’s information had given him a clue about where Ramsey may have spent his last night among the living.
Having grown up in Portland, Byron had witnessed the Old Port change dramatically over the last five decades. No longer the rough-and-tumble streets of his youth. Gone were most of the dilapidated wooden piers, replaced by concrete and steel. Vanished, too, were the train tracks and cobblestone of Commercial Street, long since removed and paved over. The broken-down fishing shacks and storefronts that he and his childhood friends once explored had given way to upscale condos and bars. Buildings which once served the needs of a booming fishing industry now thrived on tourism. The Port City’s waterfront gentrification was in full swing.
It was nearly five, the workday over for most folks. Many were headed home to be with their families. But for others it was playtime, and their playground was the Old Port. Byron couldn’t locate an empty space near the Red Fox on Commercial Street and opted instead for a No Parking zone, half hoping that Greene and his ticket book would find him.
The Fox was a bit rougher around its edges than most of the Old Port establishments, reminding Byron of his formative rookie years when he’d broken up more fights than he could count in bars exactly like the Fox. No yuppie college kids would have been caught dead there. The clientele tended toward the thirtysomething to sixtysomething range, many of whom had criminal records. A foursome of nicotine addicts stood sentry on the sidewalk in front of the Fox. Byron walked past them, giving a nod, and entered the bar.
Inside, two flat-screen televisions were competing for the attention of a dozen or so patrons. One was blaring the Boston Red Sox pregame show, the other a local news broadcast. Byron still hoped to catch the story on Ramsey, knowing no real news would be shown until six. The local affiliate’s early editions were normally filled with nothing but commercials, teasers, and multiple looks at the weather.
Most of the tables were empty. Byron grabbed one in a corner farthest from the door, where he could sit with his back to the wall. He noticed the bartender signaling the leggy, bleached-blonde cocktail waitress. He watched as she made her way over to his table.
“What can I getcha, hon?” Blondie asked.
“I’ll take a diet soda and some information,” he said, fixing her with his most charming smile.
“On the wagon or working?”
He was immediately impressed with her powers of deduction. “Both actually.”
“You a cop?” she asked, placing a hand on one hip and raising a brow.
“Busted.”
“One diet coming right up. And I’ll bring a menu.”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“Handsome, I work for tips. You want information, you’ll order something from the menu.”
“A menu would be great, thank you.”
Byron enjoyed his drink, which was predominantly ice, while pretending to read the menu. He watched Blondie flit about the room in her short skirt and fishnets catering to other patrons. He also caught the occasional glance from the bartender. Byron figured she’d either outed him as a cop, or the barkeep and Blondie were an item.
Byron had only a hunch to go on, but knowing Ramsey and how much he hated to lose, Byron guessed it was likely he’d come to the Fox to drown his sorrows following the jury’s finding. It was exactly what Byron would have done.
He’d narrowed his choice to the foxy burger with curly fries, or a fresh catch fish sandwich with chips and a pickle, when Blondie reappeared.
“Well?” she asked.
“Thought you guys all wore name tags?”
“You know how many times I get hit on in a night? Last thing I wanna advertise is my name.”
“I’m trying to find out if someone might have come in here the past couple of nights.”
“Food first,” she said.
He chose the foxy burger, well done, and a refill on the soda then handed her the menu.
“Okay, who?” she asked, tucking the menu under one arm.
“Paul Ramsey.”
“The lawyer?”
Byron nodded.
“They just mentioned him on the news. He in some kind of trouble?”
Byron couldn’t imagine much bigger trouble than Ramsey was in. “You could say that. He’s dead.”
Blondie appeared to be trying to decide if he was serious or not. “I’ll put your order in and be back.”
Byron’s phone vibrated with a text from Diane. “Headin’ back from Yarmouth. Where R U?”
“Meet U at 109 by 6,” he texted back as the bartender approached.
“Lexi says you asked about Ramsey?”
Of course it’s Lexi, Byron thought. Or Candy or Dixie. Take your pick. The Huey, Dewey, and Louie of cocktail waitresses.
“You’re a cop, right?” the bartender asked.
“Detective sergeant actually,” he said without getting up. “And you are?”
“Tony the bartender,” he said, puffing out his chest.
Byron grinned at the lame attempt to intimidate. “Well, Tony. I must say that’s an unusual middle name.”
Tony’s face registered his confusion. “What?”
“Never mind. I’m investigating the death of Paul Ramsey. I understand he was a regular here.”
“Yeah, I knew Paul. Didn’t know he was dead, though. Not until I saw his picture on the news.”
“Has he been in here the last couple of nights?”
“Yeah, he was.”
Byron waited for more. “Both nights?”
“Nah, just Tuesday night.”
&nbs
p; “And?”
“And what? That’s it.”
Byron grinned again, the grin he reserved for assholes and Tony had just made the list. “See, Tony the bartender, this is why we police officers get such a bad rap. I came in here looking to find out if a guy, whose death I’m investigating, might have spent his last few hours in here, and if anything happened that might possibly point me in the right direction. I just had a nice little chat with Lexi the waitress. Hey, you guys have the same middle name.”
Tony’s confusion continued.
“Anyway, I ordered a nice meal, which should be here any moment, and I’m trying to politely get some information, or what we in the cop business call clues. Now, you’ve gone and ruined my appetite. Being all rude and trying to act like some hard case when clearly you’re not.”
Byron could see Tony was becoming antsy, shifting from one foot to the other and looking around at the other patrons.
Byron continued. “Now the way I see it, you have two options.”
Tony crossed his arms and glared at Byron. “And what might those be, Detective Sergeant?”
“Either sit down and tell me what I want to know, like a gentleman.”
“Or?”
“Or I’ll drag you out of here for questioning as a material witness to a homicide. Then I’ll make a phone call to another detective sergeant, the one who supervises all drug investigations in Cumberland County, and tell him about your lack of manners. By the time his guys are finished with this bar, your customers will have moved on to greener pastures, assuming they aren’t all in jail for distribution or possession, and you’ll be out of a job.”
Tony dropped the tough-guy façade, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “Okay, okay. What do you want to know?”
Lexi brought Byron’s order, then scurried off to tend bar.
Byron ate while Tony, whose last name turned out to be Regali, regaled him with tales from Tuesday evening.
“Who’s Donny?” Byron asked.
“Donny McVail,” Tony said. “He’s just a local yokel. Harmless. Likes to run his mouth a bit.”
“What happened?”
“Ramsey was complaining about getting passed over for some promotion or something and Donny called him a bitch.”
“What’d Ramsey do?” Byron asked, almost sorry he’d missed the interaction.
“I think he called him a name.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. He was kinda talking down to the kid. Making fun of him, I guess. Asked if Donny had a GED.”
“Then what happened?”
“Donny got up, like he was gonna fight him.”
“Did they fight?”
“No, I stopped it. I threatened to call the co—you guys, if Ramsey didn’t leave.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah. He said a couple more things to Donny and then he left.”
“And? What did Donny do?”
“Nothing. He sat back down and ordered another drink. He and the girl he was with left about an hour later.”
Chapter Seven
Thursday, 6:55 p.m., April 28, 2016
It was nearly 7:00 p.m. by the time Byron made it back to 109. The local news had long since ended. He found Diane in the CID conference room populating the whiteboard, which hung on one of the rectangular room’s long walls. She had affixed photos of Ramsey and his Lincoln at the center of the board and was filling in a timeline on the left. The television was on but muted.
“Hey,” Diane said.
“You get a chance to catch LeRoyer’s statement to the press?” he asked.
“I caught 13’s and the end of Channel 8’s broadcast. It was lead on all three of the local networks.”
“How’d it go?”
“Perfect. He said Ramsey’s body was recovered in the ocean and that we’re waiting on findings from the medical examiner.”
“No mention of an assault or shooting?”
“None.”
“Any speculation by the reporters?”
“The WGME reporter said it might be related to the loss of the civil trial.”
“Suicide?”
“She didn’t come right out and say that but it was implied. How about you? Anything from the bar?”
“Ramsey was at the Fox Tuesday night, left around eleven. Got into an argument with a local shithead named McVail. Donald McVail.”
“What happened?”
“According to the bartender, Tony Regali, it was just verbal. Ramsey was goading McVail. McVail wanted to fight.”
“Did they?”
“Regali said he made Ramsey leave. Said he threatened to call the police.”
“McVail follow him?”
“Not according to Regali. Said he sat down and ordered another drink. Left with some girl about midnight.”
“Think he’s being straight with you?” Diane asked, grinning.
“Add McVail to the board. I wanna talk to him and the girl to confirm.”
“Ask me about my conversation with Julia,” Diane said as she carefully added the new name to the whiteboard.
“First name basis now?”
“Yup. See? You remove one over-dominant male detective sergeant from the room and the widow opens right up.”
“You’re saying I’m not good with the ladies?”
“Oh, you’re good with one lady.”
“What’d she tell you?”
“Apparently, our victim liked to chase skirt, to include a local stripper and maybe even someone at the firm.”
Byron raised an eyebrow. “She say who?”
“Said she wasn’t sure, but the infidelity thing had been going on for quite a while. She also knew about the cocaine.”
“She know where he got it?”
“Not a clue. But she made him keep it out of the house. As far as she knows, he did.”
“She let you look around?”
“A little. I didn’t want to push.”
Diane finished filling him in on the way to 109’s basement garage, where Pelligrosso was busy searching the SUV.
“How’s it going, Gabe?” Byron asked.
Pelligrosso backed awkwardly out of the front passenger’s side doorway. “Slow.”
“Anything yet?” Diane asked.
The evidence tech peeled off his rubber gloves and took a swig from his water bottle. “Yeah, fucking heat stroke. Why is it that they can’t keep the heater working down here in the winter but can’t shut it down when it’s nearly May?”
“Seriously,” Byron said. “Have you found anything?”
“Well, so far I’ve checked for prints on all the door handles, inside and out, the rearview mirror, the steering wheel, and the shift lever.”
“And?”
“Got a ton of prints. The guy was kind of a slob. Nice ride but he didn’t keep it very good.”
“Don’t suppose you found a gun or a shell casing?” Byron said.
Pelligrosso shook his head.
“Or a phone?” Diane said.
“Nope.”
“Anything else?” Byron asked.
“Yeah, I recovered two long blond hairs, one from the left front seat and one from the right. No idea who any of it belongs to but I’ll go out on a limb and say they weren’t Ramsey’s.”
“Any blood?” Diane asked.
“Possibly. Found a smudge on the inside of the left front door glass and another on the steering wheel.”
“Any chance the shooting occurred inside the SUV?” Byron asked.
“Won’t be able to tell for sure until I light the inside of this thing up with Luminol, but I’d bet against it.”
“Anything else?” Byron asked.
“Yeah, I found three pharmaceutical folds between the driver’s seat and the center console.”
“Residue?” Diane asked.
“A white powdery substance,” Pelligrosso said.
“Field-test it?” Byron asked.
“Not like I had anything else to do.”
Byron frowned.
Pelligrosso backed down. “Sorry, Sarge. Guess the heat’s making me cranky. It’s coke.”
Byron wasn’t the least bit surprised. Even before Ellis’s findings during the autopsy, and Mrs. Ramsey’s admission to Diane, there had been rumors of Ramsey having a bad cocaine habit. He’d never been charged, but attorneys are slippery creatures. Hard to catch.
“You need any help on this?” Byron asked. “Mel’s still working with Nuge on last week’s bank robbery but I’ll drag her in if you want. Or I can get one of the new guys if you think they’re up for it?”
Pelligrosso considered it for a moment. “Nah, I’m good. It’s only one vehicle. Better for continuity if it’s just me anyway.”
Byron knew he was right. Murder trials were a bear. So many things could go wrong. The last thing they needed was to unnecessarily lengthen the chain of custody.
“I’m gonna talk with Huntress about getting his team back in the water,” Byron said. “I want to be sure the gun didn’t get tossed near the bridge.”
“That reminds me, I plan on going back to recheck the wooded area more thoroughly tomorrow. Okay to call in some help for that?”
“Whatever you need, Gabe.”
“I’ll let you guys know if I can match any of this stuff to someone.”
Byron and Diane grabbed a couple of drive-through burgers at the Burger King on Forest Avenue. They sat in the car eating and discussing their next move.
“We need to fill in the rest of Ramsey’s timeline for Tuesday,” Byron said. “And maybe part of Wednesday morning.”
“Well, we know he was in court until early afternoon on Tuesday. I’ll try and find out from the clerks or the news reporters what time he left the courthouse.”
“And we know he was at the Fox until eleven or so.”
“The bartender say what time he got there?”
“He wasn’t sure but he thought it was around seven.”
Byron’s cell rang. LeRoyer.
He stuck it in the dash-mounted charger and pushed the speaker button. “Byron.”
“John, just checking in. Making any headway?”
Diane rolled her eyes.
“Actually, we are,” Byron said. “Diane is sitting here with me. She’s about halfway through her fries and I just finished a Whopper.”
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