Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Will do. How’d you guys make out with Childress?”

  “He denies any involvement. Says he was at his brother-in-law’s Tuesday night, watching the Celtics game.”

  “Tough game. You happen to catch it, Sarge?”

  “Missed that one.”

  “What did he say about Ramsey being dead?”

  Byron looked over at Diane. “I think it made his day.”

  “Ha! I’ll bet.”

  “Listen, Nuge, we’re on our way back. Let me know as soon as you find him.” Byron hung up just as Diane reached Childress’s brother-in-law.

  “Hello, Everett?” Diane said, putting the phone on speaker. “Everett Mead?”

  “Yeah. You the detective who called?”

  “This is Detective Joyner. I’m from the Portland Police Department.”

  There was a brief pause at the other end of the line. “What can I help you with, Detective?”

  “Everett, I’m investigating a case and I need to know if you’re free to meet up with me so we can talk.”

  “Well, I’m kinda busy at work right now. How about I call you back later?”

  “Actually, it’s kind of important that I see you now. Are you still employed by Milford Chevrolet in Saco?”

  “Ah, yeah. But like I said, I’m working.”

  Byron could hear the wavering in Mead’s voice as he struggled to avoid meeting Diane.

  “That’s okay, Everett. It’ll only take a second. I’m right around the corner.”

  “Well, I, ah—”

  “See you in a minute,” Diane said as she disconnected the call. “Think he’s pissin’ his pants right now?”

  “Or worse,” Byron said, grinning as he signaled and coasted off the pike onto the Saco connector.

  They managed to hit every single one of the half dozen red lights between the off-ramp and the dealership.

  “So much for element of surprise,” Diane said as Byron swung into the lot of Milford Chevrolet. “Watch out!” she yelled as a large white F-250 cut directly in front of them without stopping.

  “What the fuck!” Byron stood on the brakes, making the antilock mechanism kick in. The front of the Malibu missed striking the side of the truck by inches.

  The male driver of the pickup never slowed as he continued north on Route 1. The sound of acceleration roared from the tuned exhaust.

  “You okay?” Byron asked.

  “Fine,” she said as she bent to retrieve several folders and an empty Styrofoam coffee cup from the floor beneath the dash. “What the fuck is wrong with people?”

  “Wonder how many times they’ve had a vehicle totaled during a test drive?” he asked.

  “I don’t care if he totals it, just as long as he doesn’t kill us.”

  Byron drove to the far end of the lot, parking the car near the rear of the building beside two large open bay doors. Hanging on the wall between the doors was a sign identifying the building as the Parts and Service Division.

  The sharp sputtering of air wrenches and revving engines was earsplitting as he and Diane strolled through the cavernous garage bay. A dozen vehicles of various makes and models were hoisted up on hydraulic lifts. He wondered how many of the mechanics would need hearing aids by the time they were his age, if not sooner.

  The counter was manned by two service technicians dressed in white smocks. Standing in their spotless outfits, they bore a closer resemblance to physicians than auto dealership employees. The detectives approached the younger of the techs who was bent over the counter scribbling out information on a form while his partner, the more seasoned of the two, was busy arguing with an unhappy balding male customer over the cost of a repair.

  “We’re looking for Everett,” Diane said, intentionally keeping her ID hidden.

  “He expecting you?” the dark-haired young man inquired as he looked up from his paperwork.

  “Yes,” she said. “We just spoke on the phone. He told me to come right in and ask for him.”

  “I don’t care what your bill says,” the customer barked angrily to the other tech. “You guys never called me to tell me it was gonna be more. I never authorized this repair.”

  The young tech glanced at Byron, rolled his eyes, then pointed to an office on the second level. “His office is upstairs. Go on up.”

  They climbed the metal grate steps to the upper level and entered through a heavy glass door. The administrative offices were much quieter. Byron guessed the glass windows overlooking the garage were thicker than normal, providing soundproofing.

  A middle-aged woman with horn-rimmed glasses sat behind a desk surrounded by metal file cabinets. She was just hanging up the phone as they entered. “Can I help you?” she said.

  “We’re here to see Everett,” Diane said. “Everett Mead.”

  “And you are?”

  They both produced their IDs for her examination.

  “Well, Detectives, he just stepped out for a moment. Not sure if he’s in the building. I’ll try paging him.”

  “Thank you,” Diane said.

  Byron walked over to the far wall where pictures and various awards were hung. He couldn’t help but be reminded of Chief Stanton’s office back at 109. The common denominator in each of the photos was a short, pudgy, heavily freckled man, glad-handing various NASCAR drivers and dignitaries. Byron guessed this was Mead.

  “Everett Mead, please report to the service office.” They could hear the secretary’s voice both within the confined space of the office and simultaneously reverberating throughout the building over a PA system.

  As they waited, Byron approached the windows that overlooked the entire garage bay. He was scanning the room below as Diane walked up and stood beside him.

  “Right there,” Byron said, pointing to an open bay door where a heavyset male in a gray suit was talking animatedly on a cellphone while looking up at them.

  “Mead?” she whispered.

  Byron shook his head then answered in his own quiet voice. “No.” He cocked his thumb toward the wall. “Mead’s the guy in those pictures. But I’ll bet a week’s pay that guy down there is talking to him. Probably reporting on what we’re doing.”

  The phone on the secretary’s desk rang, and she answered.

  “Milford Chevrolet, Parts and Service. Vicky speaking.”

  Both Byron and Diane turned to look.

  “Oh, Everett, yeah, there’s a couple of Portland detectives here to speak with you. Uh-huh.”

  Byron made eye contact with Mead’s secretary, trying to get a read. Her expression wasn’t giving away a thing.

  “Okay. Alright, then. I’ll tell them.” She returned the receiver to its cradle. “I’m sorry, Detectives. Mr. Mead’s been called away on an emergency.”

  Byron studied the faint roses blooming on Vicky’s face. There was no doubt she was covering for her boss. She was telling the same little white lie Byron himself had asked his own secretary, Shirley Grant, to tell countless times. It was a perfect way to avoid speaking with anyone he didn’t wish to.

  “Thanks,” Diane said. The word tinged with obvious sarcasm.

  Byron turned back to look at the suit on the phone, but the suit had vanished.

  “Mr. Mead said if you wanted to leave me your number he’ll get in touch with you later,” Vicky said, completing the fib.

  “Here,” Diane said, handing her a business card. “But don’t have him go to any trouble. We’ve already got his number.”

  They turned to leave but, as he was prone to doing, Byron stopped, hand on the doorknob, and turned back toward Vicky the secretary.

  “Just out of curiosity, does your boss drive a dealership car?”

  “Certainly,” she said. Her annoyed tone suggesting that Byron’s question was ludicrous. As if a man of Everett Mead’s stature would drive anything less. “All the management staff at Milford drive dealership cars.”

  “Let me guess,” Byron said. “He probably gets a flashy red Camaro?”

  Mead�
��s secretary laughed, momentarily dropping her guard. “Not since last summer. No, he drives a full-sized pickup now.”

  “A black one?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  “No, white. Why do you ask?”

  Byron and Diane exchanged glances.

  “Thanks again,” Diane said. “And tell Mario Andretti we’ll be in touch.”

  “Interesting,” Diane said, holding her phone to her ear as they walked back to the car.

  “What?” Byron asked.

  “Mead’s not answering his cell. Straight to voicemail.”

  “Go figure.”

  “Childress’s alibi already ducking us. Damn near killed us actually.”

  “Maybe Childress picked the wrong guy to give him an alibi.”

  “You wouldn’t have picked your brother-in-law?” she said smugly.

  “No, but mine was kind of an asshole anyway, so I’m probably not the best person to ask.”

  They climbed into the car and Byron backed out of the parking spot.

  “Shit,” she said, looking down at her phone.

  “What?”

  “I missed a text from LeRoyer. He needs to see me ASAP.”

  “What the fuck? Not like we’re working a homicide or anything.”

  “We’re heading back to Portland anyway, right?”

  “Let me guess, another secret meeting?”

  Diane glared at him. “I don’t know yet, do I?”

  He stopped at the edge of the lot, where it met the roadway, waiting for a break in traffic.

  “How we doing your way?” he asked Diane.

  “Clear if you go right now.”

  He accelerated out onto Route 1, merging into the passing lane back toward Portland.

  “So,” Diane said. “Assuming Childress’s and Mead’s wives actually were in Boston shopping, what do think has Mr. Parts and Service so spooked?”

  Before Byron could answer, his cell rang. Tran.

  “Hey, Dustin.”

  “Striped One, think I located McVail.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday, 12:45 p.m., April 29, 2016

  Byron dropped Diane at 109 for her meeting with LeRoyer. He then met up with Nugent and Stevens. After a brief strategy session, the three detectives drove directly to Union Wharf, just off Commercial Street. McVail worked at Mercer Seafood, whose fish processing facility was housed in a large orange two-story warehouse that ran the length of the wharf. Byron knew the business well, having served many arrest warrants there. Publicly, Mercer Seafood touted themselves as hirers of Portland’s most diverse workforce, making them golden in the eyes of the city council. In reality, they habitually employed less than savory characters who, due to criminal records, weren’t likely to find employment elsewhere. The only thing more diverse than Mercer’s workforce were the crimes they’d committed.

  Byron parked his car off to the left side of the corrugated steel building; Stevens and Nugent pulled in beside him.

  He stepped out of the Malibu directly into an oil-slicked fishy-smelling puddle. “Fuck,” he said as the cold water entered his shoe, saturating his sock.

  “Puddle?” Nugent asked, taking a page out of LeRoyer’s book, stating the obvious.

  “How’d you guess,” Byron growled. “Dammit. Right in it.” He glanced at them and saw both detectives attempting to hide their amusement. As Byron leaned against his car and removed the shoe, he hoped the puddle wasn’t an omen.

  Tran had described Donald McVail as a two-bit punk with priors for aggravated assault, criminal threatening, and carrying a concealed weapon. He was also currently on probation and had a reputation for fleeing whenever the police showed up. Armed with this information, Byron figured they’d use McVail’s reputation against him.

  The three detectives sidestepped the front office, not wanting to take a chance on McVail being tipped to their presence until they were ready, opting instead for the open loading dock doors along the building’s east side.

  They climbed rusty grated metal steps onto a cement platform where a beefy-looking guy, wearing a filthy white Mercer Seafood smock and matching hard hat, was busy moving stacks of opaque plastic tubs onto a box truck, which had been backed up to the loading dock.

  “Excuse me,” Byron said, pulling out his ID. “We’re—”

  “Cops, right?”

  “Right,” Byron said, glancing at the other two detectives and returning the unopened ID case to his jacket pocket.

  “Suits gave you away.” He removed a glove and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Who you lookin’ for today?”

  “Donald McVail,” Stevens said.

  “Donny, huh? Figures.” Beefy pointed inside the warehouse, toward the back of the loading area. “Through those double doors. He’s down back, on the processing line.”

  Byron looked wordlessly at Nugent.

  “We’ll take the back,” Nugent said as he and Stevens walked back down the stairs toward the far end wharf.

  Byron paused a moment, giving his detectives time to get into position.

  “Expecting trouble?” Beefy asked.

  “Always,” Byron said.

  Diane plodded down 109’s back stairwell to the plaza. Her mind swirled like river whitewater. LeRoyer hadn’t pressured her, but he had added his two cents to the mix. She knew Ramsey’s murder was supposed to be occupying most of her gray matter but the possibility of promotion had now wedged its way in, along with her guilt at not telling John about the sergeant’s exam.

  She’d told herself that she was taking the test to keep her options open, options she’d need if her relationship with John were ever found out. Forced transfer from CID for one or both of them would be the likely punishment. Besides, what was her relationship with John, anyway? An occasional dinner out, under the guise of friendship, followed by the occasional romp in the proverbial hay, under the guise of lovers. If taking the test had only been a way to keep her options open, why then did it feel as if those options were quickly evaporating? And what the hell was up with City Manager Perkins and that bitch Cornwell? What did they think they were doing, dangling the first female detective sergeant carrot in front of her? Were they expecting her to just jump at the chance to be, what? The department’s token spokesmodel? Neither of them said it, but they hadn’t needed to. Her being black would be a double coup for the city. An African-American woman promoted to the rank of detective sergeant. That’s what this was really all about, she thought. The city was dealing her the race card from the bottom of the deck, expecting her to play it. Fuck that. I’ve never even been to Africa. I’d be the token American Black Woman. She’d never considered herself to be anyone’s token anything. And, dammit, she wasn’t about to start now.

  Byron quickly scanned the processing lines in the noisy production room. Dozens of men and women cutting, filleting, and packing various varieties of seafood. He stepped back to allow a forklift carrying a full pallet to pass. He spotted Donny McVail gutting fish in the last row just as the young man looked up.

  McVail lowered his hands slightly while maintaining eye contact with Byron. He paused for only a moment, then spun to his right and bolted toward the back end of the warehouse.

  “He’s rabbiting,” Byron yelled into the portable radio as he gave chase. “Dispatch copy?”

  “Ten-four, 720,” the dispatcher said. “One-oh-one copy?”

  “One-oh-one, negative!”

  “Respond to Union Wharf. 720 is in foot pursuit.”

  “En route!”

  Diane punched the remote entry button on her key, unlocking the door to her unmarked, and slid inside. She sat in solitude, keys in hand, letting her thoughts wander. Where would the CID opening come from? Six months, Perkins had said. None of the CID sergeants had tested for lieutenant, at least as far as she knew. Did they mean John? Perkins said it was the chief’s idea. LeRoyer implied the same thing. Was Stanton planning to force John out?

  This was becoming absurd. He
r emotions threatened to overtake her. She could feel the hot sting of tears. How could she have allowed herself to be manipulated like this? Why had she taken that damned test in the first place? Or gotten involved with John? Where had that thought come from?

  She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath. After composing herself, she inserted the key into the ignition and turned it forward.

  The base crackled with distorted radio traffic. People were frantically covering each others’ transmissions. Something was going on.

  “One-oh-one, negative!”

  “Respond to Union Wharf. 720 is in foot pursuit.”

  “En route!”

  McVail. Diane slammed the shift lever into Drive, activated the blues and siren, and tromped on the accelerator, tires screeching as she maneuvered out of the garage toward the waterfront.

  Byron was doing his best to keep up, but the smooth soles of his dress shoes provided little in the way of traction on the damp concrete as he dodged pallets of seafood. He briefly lost sight of McVail as the young man passed through a heavy plastic thermal curtain into the back of the warehouse. Byron slowed and pulled his sidearm. He hadn’t seen whether or not McVail tossed the knife but it didn’t matter. Best to assume he was armed. Whoever murdered Ramsey had shot him, and Byron had no intention of being the next victim. Cautiously, but quickly, Byron parted the curtain, leading with the barrel of his Glock 9 mm. He caught a flash of movement to his left, turning to look just as McVail hit the metal crash bar on an exterior door. One moment McVail was silhouetted in the open doorway, the next he was gone. The door slammed shut.

  Fuck. Byron sprinted toward the door while keying the portable mic. “He made it out the back.”

  Diane slowed for the red light at Union and Commercial, her siren still blaring, just as a black-and-white came screeching into the intersection from her left, turning onto the wharf. She eased the Ford out onto Commercial Street, eyes darting left, right, and left again, trying to avoid being T-boned by one of her own or some civilian with their head up their ass. All clear. She mashed the accelerator pedal and shot through the intersection.