“Oh?” LeRoyer said, his curiosity piqued.
“Have you given any thought to the assistant chief’s position?” Stanton asked.
“Hadn’t really thought about it,” LeRoyer lied. In fact, the department’s number two seat was all he had thought about, ever since the death of its previous occupant, Reginald Cross, nearly eight months prior. LeRoyer, feeling his excitement building, was trying hard to remain outwardly calm.
“City Hall finally agreed to allow me to fill the slot,” Stanton said. “Those tight-assed pricks on the finance committee made me wait so they could save a little money.”
“Well, you’ve got some great people to choose from, Chief. I think either one of your captains would do a fine job.”
Stanton looked thoughtfully across his desk at his CID lieutenant. “You think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“What would you say if I told you that I’ve been considering you for that role?”
LeRoyer was momentarily speechless. “I—I’m not sure. You’re serious?”
“Very much so,” Stanton said with a grin. “Marty, I’ve given this a great deal of thought. I want you to be my right hand. I need a good man to help me steer this ship, keep her on course. I need someone I can trust to handle things, even when I’m not around.”
“Don’t you have to go through a process to fill that spot, testing or interviews or something?” LeRoyer asked as he wiped his sweaty palms on the legs of his slacks.
“Not this time. I got the city’s blessing to go ahead and pick whomever I felt would do the best job.”
“I don’t know what to say, Chief.”
Stanton’s brow creased. “If you need time to think about it—”
"No, sir, I don’t,” LeRoyer said quickly, not wanting to show any indecisiveness. “I’d be honored to be your assistant, Chief.”
“Good,” Stanton said as he stood and came around from behind his desk to give his lieutenant a firm handshake. “Keep this between us for the time being, okay? I plan on making it official next month. After the start of the fiscal year.”
“You won’t be sorry, Chief.”
“Now, about the Ramsey case. I want you to keep Byron on a short leash on this one. Understand?”
“I’ll stay right on him.”
“There are some powerful people connected to this case, Marty. And I don’t want John stepping on their toes.”
“Not to worry,” LeRoyer said.
Stanton clapped him on the back. “I knew I picked the right man.”
Chapter Nine
Friday, 8:15 a.m., April 29, 2016
Diane knocked tentatively on the open door to the city manager’s office. She saw City Manager Clayton Perkins conversing with Councilor Sheila Cornwell.
“Detective Joyner,” Perkins said, rising from his chair and gesturing with his hand. “Please, come in.”
Cornwell turned her head and smiled but remained seated.
The large room was excessively ornate, suggesting the power held by its occupant. All of the doors and windows were trimmed in dark richly grained hardwood. Matching crown molding bordered the fifteen-foot plaster ceiling.
Diane walked to the center of the office where she was met by Perkins’s outstretched hand and a firm, enthusiastic shake.
Cornwell stood, slowly and deliberately smoothing her skirt before joining them in the center of the room.
“Councilor Cornwell and I were just discussing you.”
“Diane,” Cornwell said, dropping the formality of rank and extending a hand.
“Councilor,” Diane said, tightly gripping Cornwell’s hand. The chairwoman of the Public Safety Committee had either never learned the meaning of a firm grip or she was far less enthusiastic about Diane’s presence. Diane guessed it was the latter.
Perkins gestured again to the decorative wood captain’s chairs surrounding the expansive greeting area of the office. “Come, have a seat, Detective.”
Diane struggled to maintain her friendly smile, although she was certain it looked as painted on as it felt. Perkins’s smile appeared genuine but with career politicians you could never tell.
“How are things in the world of detectives?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Any interesting cases?”
“Well, we’re working on the Ramsey homicide.”
“Ah, Attorney Ramsey,” Cornwell said.
“And how’s it going?” Perkins asked.
“We’re following leads,” Diane said, still wondering why she’d been summoned.
“I suppose you’re curious about why I asked you here?” Perkins said.
“A little. Am I in some kind of trouble?”
Perkins laughed. “Goodness, no, Detective.”
Diane looked over at Cornwell. The councilor was wearing a grin on her face that was anything but genuine.
“It’s about the sergeant’s list,” Cornwell said.
“That’s right, Detective,” Perkins said. “We understand that you’ve made the top of the list.”
“Not exactly,” Diane said. “I’m number five, so you’d never even get to me.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Cornwell said.
“Afraid I’m not following,” Diane said. “There is only one vacancy in the department, right? Don’t you still take the top three names?”
“Correct,” Perkins said. “If there were only one opening.” He glanced at Cornwell.
“We’ve decided to create another sergeant’s position within the department,” Cornwell said.
“We want you for the new position,” Perkins said.
“There are still four good officers ahead of me on the list,” Diane said, not liking where things seemed to be headed. “I haven’t even interviewed yet.”
Perkins looked over at Cornwell and nodded.
“Diane, you’re the only female in the top five,” Cornwell said.
Don’t you mean, black female? she thought.
“This department needs to be brought in line with the current century,” Cornwell continued. “In the history of the Portland police, no woman has ever attained the rank of detective sergeant.”
“I wouldn’t be eligible for that job, even if there were an opening,” Diane said. “If I accepted a promotion, I’d be probationary for the first six months. Probationary supervisors aren’t eligible for specialty positions.”
“Unless the chief of police deems it necessary for the betterment of the department,” Perkins said, quoting the civil service language. “Detective, we’ve decided to create a new sergeant’s position that would handle all press releases. A media relations sergeant, if you will.”
“You would handle all of the inquiries from the press,” Cornwell said. “And you’d be the liaison between Chief Stanton’s office and the media.”
“That’s not exactly a detective sergeant’s position,” Diane said.
“You’re right,” Cornwell said. “It isn’t. But in six months your probationary period would be up.”
“And you’d be the new face of the department,” Perkins added.
Diane thought it over in silence. She hadn’t known why she’d been summoned to City Hall, but she certainly couldn’t have imagined this. She’d only taken the test to keep her options open. She hadn’t even told Byron. Things were happening much too quickly. “I’m not even sure I want a promotion,” she said. “I took the sergeant’s exam on a whim. I still enjoy working as a detective.”
“And you’re a good one,” Perkins said.
“Just think how good a detective sergeant you could be,” Cornwell said.
“What does Chief Stanton have to say about all of this?” Diane asked, looking from one to the other.
“Actually, it was his idea,” Perkins said.
Cornwell nodded in agreement, giving another weak smile.
“So, what do you say, Sergeant Joyner?” Perkins asked.
Byron rode the empty elevator to the tenth floor, the top of t
he Emerson Building. He stepped out into a brightly lit main lobby. The name of the firm was spelled out along the wall directly across from the elevator in garish chrome letters. Each of the letters was mounted away from the wall surface, far enough to cast a shadow beneath, creating the appearance that they were floating. Cream-colored Berber carpeting covered the floor and soft piano music drifted through the lobby from unseen speakers. A large window to his right overlooked Casco Bay, providing an impressive view of the harbor and islands beyond. He turned to his left where an attractive twentysomething brunette wearing a Bluetooth headset sat behind an ornate wooden counter bookended by two large potted ficus.
“May I help you?” Bluetooth asked, bestowing a warm and practiced smile.
“I hope so, Linda,” he said after glancing at the name plate atop the counter. “I’m here to see Devon Branch.”
“Actually, it’s Amy. Our receptionist is off today.” She glanced down at what he imagined was a day planner. “Is Attorney Branch expecting you?”
“He left a message requesting to speak with me. My name is John Byron,” he said, displaying his badge and police identification.
“Detective Sergeant Byron,” she said, reading from the ID. “If you’d care to take a seat, I’ll see if he’s in.”
“Thank you.”
Byron turned away from the desk and strolled over to one of four burgundy leather armchairs surrounding a chrome and glass coffee table. Briefly he perused an assortment of legal periodicals stacked upon the table before settling back empty-handed into a wingback to wait.
“Detective Sergeant,” Amy said as she came out from behind the counter. “Attorney Branch will see you now. If you’ll just follow me.”
Interesting, he thought. Demonstrating his importance by not coming out to greet me.
Byron followed her down a long zigzagging hallway. Amy was easily a foot shorter than Byron, even with the heels she was wearing. He couldn’t help but notice the tanned shapely legs protruding below her skirt. They passed at least a dozen other offices before finally stopping in front of a set of heavy-looking wooden double doors behind which, according to the brass plaque adorning the wall, sat the office of Devon Branch, Esquire.
She knocked before opening the right-hand door.
“Ah, Sergeant Byron,” Branch said as he stood and approached them. “Thank you, Amy.”
Branch looked to be midfifties, average height, slender build, receding sandy blond hair with a slight wave. The attorney’s features had an almost feminine quality and his voice was rather meek, not at all what Byron had conjured up for one of the managing partners of Portland’s most powerful law firm. He’d pictured someone more like Ramsey. Someone who exuded power. Byron wondered how many times during Branch’s formative years he’d had his ass kicked and his lunch money stolen.
“Attorney Branch,” Byron said, giving his hand a quick firm shake.
“Thank you for responding to my message so promptly,” Branch said.
Byron’s eyes shifted to the other man who also stood and walked toward them.
“This is Gerry DeWitt, one of the other principal partners in this firm. I invited him to join us.”
DeWitt stuck out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Sergeant.”
“Likewise,” Byron said.
“Here,” Branch said, gesturing toward a chair. “Have a seat, Sergeant Byron.”
DeWitt, the taller and more handsome of the two men, returned to his chair in front of Branch’s desk and Byron sat across from him.
Branch’s corner office had a view even more spectacular than the one in the lobby, featuring two adjacent window walls that looked out across Portland’s harbor and Casco Bay beyond. Byron noticed that unlike Chief Stanton’s self-serving shrines of accomplishment, not a single plaque or award appeared on either of the remaining walls; displayed instead were nautical maps and several black and white poster-sized prints of a large sailboat being put through her paces on the open sea.
“Can I offer you anything to drink, Sergeant?” Branch said after the three men were seated.
“Probably too early for scotch,” DeWitt said, addressing Byron.
“I’m fine, thank you. My condolences on the loss of your friend, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” DeWitt said, giving a nod.
Branch fixed Byron with a perplexed look as if he hadn’t understood Byron’s gesture of goodwill. “Paul and I weren’t friends, Sergeant Byron. We were merely associates in the same law firm.”
“All the same.”
“I appreciate your attempt at civility. However, I’m all too familiar with Paul’s reputation within law enforcement circles. And I suspect you weren’t a fan.”
Byron got the feeling he was being tested. “I wasn’t. But, personal feelings aside, I still have a case to solve.”
“Ah, the case. Precisely why I contacted you,” Branch said, leaning back in his chair as if waiting for Byron to enlighten him. “What can you tell us so far?”
“Nothing.”
Branch lowered his brows disapprovingly. A gesture Byron took as an attempt to seem intimidating. It wasn’t.
“How did Paul die?” Branch asked.
“Mr. Branch, this is an active investigation. My detectives and I aren’t in the habit of giving out information. I’m here to gather information, from you. Specifically, I want to know if Ramsey had any enemies, if there had been any threats directed at him or the firm.”
“Only one person I’m aware of. He’d left threatening messages on Paul’s voicemail and occasionally on his email. But as you acknowledged, you weren’t a fan and I suspect there were many who felt similarly.”
“Tell me about the messages,” Byron said.
Branch lay his hands across his stomach, interlocking his fingers. “Several years before Paul joined our firm he made a name for himself defending people on trial for murder. He was very successful getting defendants off either completely or convicted on a reduced charge like manslaughter.”
“I assume that’s why you hired him,” Byron said, watching as the two attorneys exchanged a quick glance.
“Good litigators are hard to come by, Sergeant,” Branch said. “Not only did Paul know how to pick a jury, he also knew how to manipulate its members. A skill which has paid great dividends to this firm.”
“If he was so important to the firm, why wasn’t he being considered for full partnership?” Byron asked in an attempt to verify Mrs. Ramsey’s story.
“Actually, he was,” DeWitt piped up.
“As I said, Paul had a pretty impressive track record at successfully defending murder suspects,” Branch continued. “One of those cases was a twenty-three-year-old man accused of vehicular manslaughter in the death of his fiancée. Paul convinced the jury there was a possibility the victim was driving instead of the very intoxicated defendant.”
“Reasonable doubt,” Byron said.
“It’s one of the ways we keep the lights on,” DeWitt said.
“I remember reading about it. Is that case related to the threats against Ramsey?”
“It is,” Branch said. “The victim’s father, a man by the name of Matthew Childress, has struggled greatly in coping with her death. He has also taken umbrage with Ramsey’s convincing the jury that Childress’s daughter may have caused the accident.”
“Why blame Ramsey?” Byron asked. “Why not the defendant that Childress’s daughter was engaged to?”
“The defendant’s family whisked him away from here,” Branch said. “Rumor has it they got him out of the country. Childress probably doesn’t know how to locate them.”
“What about the threats from Childress?” Byron asked. “Did Ramsey take them seriously?”
“Not really,” DeWitt said. “Mr. Childress gets liquored up every so often and starts leaving messages and emails. It’s understandable.”
Byron could relate. Alcohol and grief had caused sufficient damage to his own life. “Even so, I’ll need his n
ame and contact info. We’ll need to speak with him.”
“I’ll make sure you have them before you leave,” Branch said.
“Also, I’ll need a list of all the firm’s employees and contact info, including phone numbers.”
“Why would you need that?” DeWitt asked.
“We’ve subpoenaed Ramsey’s cell records. We want to know who he was in communication with before he died.”
“You think he knew the killer?” Branch asked.
“It’s always something we look at. More often than not, murderers tend to exist within the victim’s circle of acquaintances. Will you provide me with a list?”
“I’ll have a PDF printed for you before you leave.”
“I’d also like a look at his email communications.”
Branch shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Too much sensitive information. Besides, unlike his cellphone, Ramsey’s email and computer belong to this firm. They’re protected.”
“What about personal emails?” Byron asked. “They wouldn’t fall under that umbrella. There may well be something helpful contained in them.”
Branch looked over at DeWitt and nodded.
“We’d have to scour his account to see if there were any such emails,” DeWitt said. “That will take some time.”
“I’ll need you to do that as soon as possible,” Byron said. “In cases like this, time is of the essence.”
“I’ll assign one of the paralegals to go through his electronic files today,” Branch said. “Okay?”
Byron nodded. It wasn’t the best scenario but he figured it was as much as he could hope for. “What about the civil trial your firm just lost?”
Branch frowned again and turned to DeWitt.
“You think there could be a link between our wrongful death suit and Ramsey’s death?” DeWitt asked.
“According to yesterday’s paper, the family you were representing, the Elwells, just lost ten million dollars, and Ramsey was the lawyer of record. I’d say it might be a motive.”
“I’m afraid the details of that suit are also privileged information,” Branch said.
“But not for the plaintiffs. I want to speak with the family.”
Beneath the Depths Page 8