Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Great. I’ll be sure and let the chief know. He’ll be so happy. Where are we at?”

  “We were just discussing that. Gabe’s still processing Ramsey’s SUV. And we were about to try and find one of Ramsey’s girlfriends.”

  “Thought he was married.”

  Byron looked at Diane and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Marty, he was.”

  “Have you checked in with Ramsey’s employer yet?”

  “Been a little busy today. Why?”

  “Devon Branch has been calling the chief looking to talk to the lead investigator.”

  “Well, Devon Branch will just have to take a number. Don’t worry, Lieu. I plan to visit the law firm of Dewey, Fuckum & Howe in the morning. We’re still trying to establish a timeline for Tuesday.”

  “Any idea where Ramsey was Tuesday night?”

  “Looks like he was at the Red Fox until eleven. After that we still don’t know.”

  “Okay. Let me know if something breaks.”

  “You’ll be the first.”

  Byron ended the call and noisily finished his soda. He turned to Diane. “What do you say we pay a visit to the Unicorn.”

  “You read my mind.”

  Police beat reporter Davis Billingslea sat alone in his cubicle on the second floor of the Portland Herald building. Most of his coworkers had gone for the day, leaving him to slurp hot and sour soup and munch on wontons from the China Dragon on Exchange Street while staring at the blinking cursor on his desktop monitor. The young reporter had been covering the civil trial against Maine Medical Center in the weeks leading up to yesterday’s decision by the jury. Ramsey, who’d been plenty forthcoming with information when it looked like his clients, the Elwells, might actually win the ten-million-dollar suit, told Billingslea to “Fuck off” as he left the courthouse on Tuesday. Much as he would have loved to put that quote out to the general public, he knew it would never pass muster with his editor, or any editor for that matter. His attempts to get statements from either the aggrieved family or Ramsey’s firm had met similar resistance. But now that Ramsey had literally washed up, Billingslea had a whole new angle to pursue. Did the trial lawyer become despondent and take his own life? Did someone in the family seek retribution? Were the Elwells upset enough about the loss to go after their attorney? After all, winning that trial meant that someone would have finally paid for taking their son’s life. Or could it have been any number of victims’ families still suffering after Ramsey had successfully gotten a murderer off? Paul Ramsey was a wrecking ball. Losing this eight-figure case was the biggest blow the young reporter had ever seen Ramsey take. Actually, it was the only blow.

  Lieutenant LeRoyer hadn’t provided him with anything following the news conference and Billingslea knew better than to approach Byron. Once again he’d been shut out. He picked up his cell and scanned through the contact list until he found the name he was looking for. Amy Brennan. Amy worked as a paralegal in the law offices of Newman, Branch & DeWitt. She was single, very attractive, and late twenties, about his age. But most importantly, she’d despised Paul Ramsey.

  Billingslea sat up in his chair and cleared his throat like a DJ about to go on the air. He pressed in Amy’s number and waited.

  “Hello?” a feminine voice answered.

  “Amy, it’s Davis. Davis Billingslea.”

  Byron and Diane stood waiting in the lobby, exchanging awkward glances with the hostess and a very large barrel-chested guy sporting a gray suit and tie, with a neck the size of his waist. The music in the next room was barely discernible over the booming bass notes.

  They’d been waiting several minutes when a side door to the lobby swung open and out walked an olive-skinned man wearing a black Armani suit, white shirt, and maroon power tie.

  Armani approached them wearing a predatory smile. “Detectives,” he said. “Sorry to keep you both waiting. I am Vincenzo Kakalegian. How may I help you?”

  After making the introductions, Byron asked if there was somewhere private they could talk. Kakalegian led them back through the side door and up a flight of stairs to the second level.

  “Can I interest either of you in an adult beverage?” Kakalegian asked.

  “No thank you,” Byron said, noticing that Kakalegian’s eyes were roving over Diane. “We’re actually here on official business.”

  “In that case, please have a seat,” Kakalegian said, gesturing toward several plush low-backs near the two-way mirror that overlooked the club floor below.

  “This place is classier than I remember,” Byron said.

  Kakalegian raised a brow. “Oh, you’ve been a frequent guest?”

  “Not frequent, but I was here last year. When the previous owner was still here.”

  “Ah, Mr. Beaudreau. Well, Orsolini Holdings is an upscale entertainment corporation. We only go top class.”

  “Nothing classier than the exploitation of women, Mr. Kakalegian,” Diane said.

  Kakalegian’s smile faded a bit. “Miss, I can—”

  “Detective.”

  “I beg pardon. Detective. While I realize that dancing isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, I assure you that our girls are highly paid and treated well. We run a respectable business here.”

  “Actually, we’re here to discuss another matter,” Byron said, giving Diane the hairy eyeball. “We understand that one of your dancers may have had a relationship with the victim of a case we’re working.”

  “Oh? Who’s the victim?”

  “Paul Ramsey. He was somewhat of a local celebrity.”

  “Is that the man who was in the news this morning? Attorney? Lost some big civil case, right?”

  “That would be him,” Diane said. “Did you know him?”

  “Can’t say as I did. You say he was seeing one of our girls?”

  “That’s our understanding,” Byron said.

  “Well, I don’t know anything about that, but you’re welcome to accompany me downstairs to the dressing room. You can ask them yourselves.”

  “Ramsey? No, I don’t think so,” a statuesque brunette dancer said.

  Byron was having a hard time concentrating as he spoke with the scantily clad curvy woman. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five. He was also having a hard time taking her seriously due to the ostrich feathers being used to conceal her most intimate parts.

  “Got a picture?” the dancer asked.

  Diane pulled the newspaper clipping with Ramsey’s photo out of her suit-coat pocket and handed it over.

  “Nope. Don’t recognize him. You sure he was dating one of us?”

  They showed several other women, but each claimed not to know Ramsey.

  Byron left Kakalegian with a business card. Kakalegian promised to check with the other dancers.

  As they walked across the lot to Byron’s Chevy, he caught Diane staring at him.

  “What?” he said, trying hard to sound innocent and hide a grin.

  “Don’t what me. You were loving that, weren’t you?”

  He gave up trying to contain the grin and let out a full-blown smile. “Oh, okay. Like you never went to a male strip club when you were down in New York.”

  “That was different. It was my duty as a bridesmaid.”

  He raised his brows in disbelief.

  “All six times,” she said.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “And gotta tell ya, I’ve never seen such tight abs and buns.”

  “Okay, I get it. Don’t need the gory details.”

  “You started it.”

  They were getting into the car when Diane noticed a small white slip of paper stuck under the right-hand wiper blade. She snatched it up.

  “What is it?” Byron asked.

  “A note. ‘Talk to Joe.’”

  “Joe who?”

  “Don’t know. That’s all it says. Mean anything to you?”

  He shook his head. “No number?”

  “Just the name.” She showed him the note.

  �
��Maybe somebody knows more than they told us.”

  “Perhaps they weren’t comfortable talking to us in front of Mr. High Class.”

  “Maybe not,” he agreed as he started the car.

  It was after eleven by the time Diane and Byron arrived at his place. Diane stretched out on the sofa, a glass of merlot in her hand, her stockinged feet in Byron’s lap.

  Byron stared absently at the television while massaging the soles of her feet. He was exhausted but he knew his mind wasn’t about to let him fall asleep easily. It never did, not while he was working a homicide.

  “You have any idea how good that feels?” she cooed. “Think you missed your calling.”

  A month prior he’d moved out of the shitty little one-bedroom apartment on Danforth Street and into the recently renovated Forest Avenue condo. New flooring and new paint made the place feel as if it was recently constructed. It even smelled new. Quite a step up from his last. Following the divorce, Kay, his ex, refinanced what had been their home, then gave him a check for half of the equity. The money wasn’t enough to purchase a house, not on a detective sergeant’s salary, but it did allow him to make a healthy down payment on the condo, healthy enough to keep his monthly expenses manageable.

  “You know, John,” Diane said, scanning the room, “you really should unpack.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said absently.

  “Earth to John.”

  “Sorry. Just thinking about Ramsey.”

  “Oh, I see. So a dead attorney is more important than me?”

  Byron leaned over and kissed her on the neck. “Hardly.”

  She reached down, caressing him through his slacks. “I’ll say.”

  He kissed her deeply, exploring the softness of her mouth, tasting the sweetness of the wine. After a moment, he came up for air.

  “Hey, have we made it in your spare bedroom yet?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “There’s no furniture in there.”

  “So?” she said as she got up from the sofa, gulped the remainder of the merlot, and began to unbutton her blouse. “What do those dancers have that I don’t have?”

  “Don’t know. I haven’t seen you dance,” Byron said, getting up and following her as she danced seductively back toward the stairs.

  “They say it’s good luck to christen every room in a new house.”

  “Is that what they say?”

  “You wouldn’t want to have bad luck, now would you?”

  “This coming from a black cat,” he said as he reached for her.

  “Ah, excuse me? A sexy black cat.” She laughed then turned and took the stairs two at a time up to the second floor.

  Byron was hot on her heels.

  Billingslea was already seated at a table, nursing a beer, when Brennan walked in. He waved her over.

  “Hey, Amy,” he said. “Wasn’t sure you’d come on such short notice.”

  “Oh yeah, me being such a social butterfly and all.”

  She was dressed to the nines, wearing high heels, a knee-length pleated brown skirt, and a light colored low-cut sweater, revealing just enough cleavage to make him strain to keep his eyes fixed on hers. Billingslea felt his heart skip a beat as she smiled and sat down. He reminded himself that this was work and not a date.

  “Surprised to hear from me?” Billingslea asked.

  “Pleased is more like it.” She smiled again.

  “Get you something to drink?”

  “That’d be great. How about an Appletini?”

  “What brand of vodka?”

  “Absolut.”

  “Be right back,” he said. Billingslea stood and strolled to the bar, trying hard to hide his nervousness.

  While waiting for the bartender to mix the drink he glanced back at Brennan. She waved at him. His heart fluttered again.

  Billingslea returned to the table, walking gingerly so as not to spill her drink.

  “Thank you so much, Davis,” she said, taking the glass from him. “You didn’t need to do that. I could have ordered it myself.”

  “I thought it was the least I could do after the way you helped me during the trial.”

  She sipped the emerald liquid. “Mmm.”

  He took long swig of beer while thinking of something to say that wouldn’t betray his purpose in meeting her. “Do you get out to the Old Port much?”

  She took another sip then shook her head. Her dark curls danced at the side of her face. “Not as often as I’d like. Ms. Davies keeps me pretty busy.”

  “I’ll bet. What’s it like to work at such an important firm?”

  She laughed. “Probably not much different than working at a newspaper, I imagine. There’s always a deadline and more work than time to do it.”

  “Is Lorraine Davies good to you?”

  “She’s very good to me. Not sure where I’d be without her.”

  “Tell me about Paul Ramsey.”

  “Why, Mr. Billingslea, did you lure me out here under false pretenses?” she said, giving him a wink.

  He could feel the blood rush to his cheeks. “No, I . . . I—”

  “Relax,” she said, sliding her hand over his. “I’m only teasing. I know you’ve got a job to do.”

  Billingslea let out a sigh of relief. “You’re not mad?”

  “Of course not, silly.” She gave him a mischievous grin as she took another sip. “What would you like to know?”

  A half hour later, Byron and Diane both lay spent in the dark, on the soft Saxony carpet in the spare room, arms and legs entwined.

  “Mmm,” Diane said.

  “Think I’ll have good luck now?” Byron asked.

  “If you don’t, it won’t be my fault.”

  They remained that way for several minutes, listening to each other breathing.

  Diane rolled to one side, resting her head on his chest. “What did Mrs. Ramsey mean today when she said, ‘I know you didn’t get along with my husband’?”

  Byron sighed. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Is it because he was better looking?” she teased.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “John, I’m not even sure which floor my pants are on. We’ve got plenty of time. Did something happen between you and Ramsey?”

  He’d known this subject might come up as soon as he realized who the floater was. He’d expected that she might bring it up before. “Yeah, it was a long time ago. Before you left New York City to come to Portland. I was still a young detective.”

  “Before you became a dashingly handsome detective sergeant?”

  “Way before. I was still working with Ray Humphrey at the time. He mentored me in the bureau.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ray and I caught a case. Home invasion. An elderly couple lived out in Deering. The Simpsons, Betty and Gene. One night a meth-head with a gun broke into their house looking for drugs. He was tweaked out of his mind. Turns out he had the right street but the wrong house. The dealer lived three doors down but the asshole didn’t know that. He duct taped both of them to chairs in the kitchen and beat Gene senseless. Broke his arm and gave him a concussion. The asshole turned the house upside down, stole some money and jewelry, then fled, leaving them tied up.”

  “Did you catch him?”

  “Eventually. The lab guys recovered prints and we were able to ID him. Local shit bag named Dwayne Travers with priors for trafficking and armed robbery. I got one of my snitches to tell me where I could find the guy. I should’ve waited for Ray, but I didn’t. I found him alone in his apartment and he resisted. Anyway, I got him to confess, recovered the gun and some of the jewelry.”

  “Let me guess, Ramsey defended him.”

  “Ramsey argued that I beat a confession out of him, making everything I obtained after inadmissible.”

  Diane nodded her understanding. “Fruit of the poisonous tree.”

  “Yeah. And the judge agreed with him. Turned Travers loose.”

  “I’m sorry, John.�
��

  “Doesn’t matter much now.”

  “What happened to the victims?”

  “The husband died a few months later from a blood clot. Complications from his injuries. Betty Simpson moved down to Florida.”

  “What about Travers?” she asked.

  “Son of a bitch died six months later. Drug overdose.”

  “I can see why Mrs. Ramsey would be worried.”

  “You don’t really think I’d put less effort into investigating his murder because Paul Ramsey was an asshole?”

  Diane lifted her head and faced him. “Of course not.”

  “In this city we’d have a tough time ever investigating a murder if that were true.”

  “I know that, John.”

  “It’s our job to speak for the dead.” But he wondered, in Ramsey’s case, if that were really true.

  “I’m sorry I said it. Okay?” She leaned in and kissed him on the lips. “We good?”

  “Yeah,” he said, kissing her back. “We’re good.”

  Diane ran her fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair.

  “You really think Ramsey was better looking?” Byron asked, pretending to pout.

  “Hardly,” she said. She kissed him again.

  “You’re kidding,” Billingslea said.

  “Not at all,” Brennan said.

  Billingslea watched as she picked up her drink and took another sip, leaving a trace of her lipstick on the rim of the glass. “So then why go through with the trial? I would think a settlement of one million dollars would have been more than enough for the Elwells.”

  Brennan shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe they wanted the hospital to pay more. The suit was for ten million. Maybe they didn’t think one was enough.”

  He mulled that over for a bit. “Tell me more about Ramsey.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, I know he cut his teeth doing mostly court-appointed work. He became famous, at least around Southern Maine. Then he began charging an arm and a leg to defend people in criminal court. How did he end up working for Newman, Branch & DeWitt?”

  She laughed. “I don’t know. That was way before I began working there. He’s a really gifted trial lawyer. I assume that’s why they brought him on.”