“Thomas,” Childress had said. “Helluva night.” Byron was familiar with the name from the Portland Herald sports page, usually left in the stall in the CID locker room, jammed between the dual toilet paper dispenser and the wall.
He tapped the keyboard, bringing his computer back to life, and searched for the Boston Celtics webpage. Finding it, he clicked on the link recapping Tuesday’s playoff game against the Hawks.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” Shirley said from the doorway, pulling Byron out of his investigative trance.
“Shirley,” he said with a nod. “Thanks for coming in on a Saturday.”
“Of course. Those statements won’t type themselves. Wondering if Kay managed to get ahold of you?”
“Kay?”
She shot him a disapproving scowl. “Your ex-wife. I left you a message yesterday. You didn’t even look at them, did you?”
The stack of pink slips. He hadn’t taken the time to look through all of them. “Yes. She did. We’re meeting for—” He stopped himself. Why had he started to tell her about his lunch date? If Shirley knew, everyone else would too. She couldn’t help it. “I got it. Thanks.”
Shirley opened her mouth to say something but the ringing of Byron’s desk phone interrupted her. He glanced at the caller ID. Tran.
Saved by the bell.
“You ready for this, Obi-Wan?” Tran asked as Byron entered the cramped office of the Computer Crimes Unit.
Frustrated and looking for anything resembling progress, Byron hid his annoyance with his detective’s usual unprofessional greeting. “What’ve you got?”
“You were right about the building contractor’s alibi being bogus. What did Childress tell you he did Tuesday night?” Tran asked, dragging out his big reveal.
“Said he spent the evening at his brother-in-law’s, watching basketball.”
“In York County, right?”
“Correct.”
Tran passed a digital printout to Byron.
It was a chart of dates and times. “What’s this?”
“That is a printout from the E-ZPass account of Mr. ‘Bob the Builder’ Childress, showing a vehicle registered to him getting on the turnpike in Saco on Tuesday night at 8:05 p.m.”
“Childress owns a big construction company,” Byron countered, disappointed that Tran’s excitement had been for naught. “He has access to a fleet of vehicles. How do we know this was Childress and not one of his employees?”
Tran was beaming as he handed Byron yet another piece of paper, this one an inkjet photo. “Because, Striped Dude, here he is behind the wheel in black and white. This vehicle is registered to him personally. Maine vanity ‘Chill 1.’”
Byron studied the picture. It had been blown up to fit the page and was somewhat pixelated, but there was no doubt it was Matthew Childress. Alone and crammed in behind the wheel of the late model Dodge Challenger, he looked just as massive as he had inside the construction trailer.
“That photo matches up perfectly to the time and date stamp on Childress’s E-ZPass account,” Tran continued.
“Still doesn’t put him in Portland,” Byron said. “He could’ve driven north or south from there. How would we know where he exited?”
“We wouldn’t,” Tran said. “But we do know what time he got back onto the pike—6:44 Wednesday morning.”
“Where?” Byron asked.
Tran grinned and tapped his index finger on top of his desk. “Exit 48. Right here in Portland.”
Chapter Sixteen
Saturday, 11:30 a.m., April 30, 2016
Byron walked into interview room one with folder in hand, closed the door, and sat across the table from the burly contractor. Maintaining a painted-on smile, Byron dispensed the usual pleasantries before navigating Childress along the thorny path of Miranda.
Byron had always found the concept of Miranda ludicrous. It was like telling a heavyweight boxer to fight with both arms tied behind his back, as if he might talk his way to victory. He understood the importance of safeguarding people’s rights, even the scumbags that they routinely had to deal with. But he didn’t understand why his superiors, and ultimately the general public, were surprised whenever police detectives failed to obtain a confession. Miranda basically states that if you’ve broken the law and you agree to speak with the cops, they not only have the right to jam it up your ass sideways and break it off, they will. Luckily, not all criminals are as smart as they think they are. Some just can’t help themselves. God bless the stupid ones.
After obtaining a waiver, Byron opened the folder, carefully placing the signed document atop the growing pile of paperwork.
“You lied to me, Mr. Childress,” Byron said. “I’d like to know why.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Isaiah Thomas didn’t play worth a damn Tuesday night. In fact, he only scored seven points.”
“Maybe I got the games mixed up,” Childress said. “I watch so many of them.”
“Possibly,” Byron said. “But then there’s still the issue with the Maine Turnpike Authority.”
The skin between Childress’s eyes crinkled into a tight knot as he scowled. “What issue?”
Byron reached into the file folder and tossed a photograph on the table.
Childress looked down at the photo without touching it, as if it might bite. Deep creases formed upon his ruddy forehead. “What’s this?”
“That is a picture taken at the tollbooth on the Maine Turnpike in Saco, shortly after eight o’clock Tuesday night. Same time you told me you were at your brother-in-law’s house watching the Celtics.”
Childress shrugged. “So, maybe I was late getting there.”
“That would certainly explain it,” Byron said. “I mean, going through the tollbooth doesn’t mean anything, right?”
Childress gave him a smug look and tilted the chair back on its rear legs. “That’s right, it doesn’t.”
“Sure,” Byron said. “I mean, all this proves is you passed through the tolls. Doesn’t mean you came to Portland, right? You could’ve gone southbound to your brother-in-law’s just like you said.”
Childress eyed Byron warily without answering. The chair groaned in protest.
“Only trouble is, the toll cameras caught you getting back onto the pike.” Byron threw a second photo on the table. “Bright and early the following morning. Exit 48 in Portland.”
Childress picked this one up and studied it.
“Check the date and time on the bottom,” Byron said. “Why did you lie to me?”
Childress returned the photo to the tabletop, setting it beside the other one. He looked up at Byron. “Think I’d like to speak with my lawyer now.”
Davis Billingslea sat on a wooden bench in Tommy’s Park checking his Twitter feed as he waited. On the phone, Crosby had made it sound as if he’d be right over to pick him up, but that was twenty minutes ago. He was wondering if he’d been stood up when he heard the throaty sound of a high-performance engine. He looked over toward Exchange Street where a charcoal-colored Charger was parked at an odd angle next to the curb. Crosby, who was behind the wheel, revved the V-8 engine again.
“Come on, come on, let’s go. I can’t be seen talking to you,” Crosby said as Billingslea opened the door and climbed in.
Billingslea wisely clicked on his seat belt as Crosby chirped the tires rounding the corner from Exchange onto Middle, causing the rear of the Dodge to fishtail wildly.
“So, what’s this big scoop?” Billingslea asked. “You got something new on Ramsey?”
“Not directly. Hell, I already gave you stuff on that.”
Yeah, Billingslea thought, that he’d been murdered. Big deal. He would have gotten that sooner or later. “What, then?”
“Well, it is related to Ramsey. A juicy little byline for you, after we make a quick stop.”
“Where are we going?”
“Lunch. I’m starving and you’re buying.”
Once again Billingslea was rem
inded of why he hated dealing with this egocentric bully. A bully who reminded him a bit too much of Danny Simonelli, the too-big-for-his-age kid who had tormented him throughout grade school. But he had to admit, Crosby’s information was always solid.
Billingslea pressed his feet against the floor, pushing himself back into the plush leather seat, and held on as the crazy drug detective wound his way through the streets of downtown Portland.
Byron exited the interview room, closing the door behind him. He addressed the uniform who was seated just outside. “Stay with him, okay? He’s still in custody.”
The officer nodded.
Byron checked his watch then headed to the conference room where Diane was monitoring the interview.
“So, now what?” Diane asked as he entered the room.
“We let him make a call to his attorney. Maybe he’ll want to talk with us after.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I’ll run it by Ferguson. Can you do me a favor and keep an eye on him?”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“I’ve got a twelve o’clock meeting with someone who might actually have information on this case.”
Diane frowned. “So why am I stuck babysitting this asshole? We are partners on this, right?”
Byron carefully considered his response. The conversation wasn’t going at all as he’d planned. It was his fault. He should have told her right up front about Kay. But he hadn’t and now that she was worked up about it, he couldn’t. A half-truth would have to suffice.
“Of course we are,” he said. “It’s just that the person I’m meeting with doesn’t want anyone to know where the information came from. It’s kinda sensitive.”
“Well, you could’ve told me that,” she said.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I mean, you don’t have to get all secretive about it. Jeez. ‘Sorry, Diane,’” she said, making her voice deeper to sound like him. “‘I have to meet a CI. You can’t come.’”
“Sorry, Di, but I’ve gotta meet a CI. You can’t come.”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
DiMillo’s on the Water was located on Long Wharf at the center of Portland’s waterfront. In the 1940s, before being converted into a restaurant, the boat had gone by the name New York, and was operated as a car ferry between her namesake and New Jersey. It was bought and sold by several other states before the DiMillo family purchased the vessel in 1982, opening the only floating restaurant on the Upper East Coast.
Byron hurried down the long ramp connecting the pier to the restaurant. Running ten minutes late of the noontime meeting time she had requested, he entered the foyer and headed down the corridor to the right of the reception desk, away from the bar lounge, toward the restaurant side of the boat.
“May I help you?” the young female maître d’ asked as he mounted the steps.
“I’m meeting someone,” he said, peering over her shoulder into the dining area.
“A lady?”
“Yes. She may already be here.”
“A very pretty lady?” the maître d’ asked, giving him a sly grin.
Realizing that she was toying with him, Byron returned the smile. “Yes. A very pretty lady.”
“She’s waiting for you, seated at a table on the far left.”
He thanked her and entered the dining room, where Dr. Kay Byron was seated by a window overlooking Portland Harbor. As Byron approached her table, she rose and greeted him with a warm smile. Tall and trim, with piercing hazel eyes, she wore navy blue pantsuit and a white blouse open at the collar. Her long auburn hair was pulled back neatly into a ponytail.
“It’s good to see you, John,” she said.
Byron hugged her. It was the kind of awkward embrace two people, once very intimate, give to each other when they’re no longer sure what they are.
“I’m glad you called,” he said. It was all he could think to say.
They settled into chairs across from each other as the waiter appeared at their table carrying a silver pitcher and charged Byron’s water glass.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “My name is Nunzio and I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I interest either of you in something from the bar?”
“I’ll have a glass of merlot,” Kay said.
“Coffee, please,” Byron said.
Nunzio smiled and nodded, then he was gone, leaving the two of them alone.
Kay raised a brow. “Coffee? Are you—?”
He nodded. “Six months.”
“Really?” she asked.
“Self-imposed exile, I guess you’d call it.”
“I’m impressed. Any reason?”
He considered her question. “Guess I needed my control back.”
She smiled and took a sip of her water.
She didn’t ask how it was going; for that he was grateful. He wondered what she was thinking. Being married to a psychotherapist had always left him feeling exposed. It was a feeling he didn’t like. “You look great,” he said, trying hard to make conversation but itching to know more about why she had called.
“Surprised to hear from me?”
“A little. It has been a while.”
“I know and for that I am sorry,” she said. “Guess I needed some distance and a little perspective.”
They continued to make small talk as Nunzio brought their drinks and took their orders.
“So, as I mentioned on the phone, I need to talk to you about the case you’re working,” she said.
“The Ramsey case.”
“Yes. How exactly was he murdered, John?”
“You know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation,” he said, carefully taking another sip from the hot mug.
“They said on the news he was found in the ocean.”
Byron nodded. “He was.”
“He didn’t drown, did he?”
Diane sat at the conference room table going over her case notes. The monitor was still on but was muted. She had stopped the recording as soon as Childress’s attorney entered the interview room. Everything discussed between the two men was privileged communication. Diane stood up to stretch her back when her cell rang.
“Detective Joyner.”
“Detective, this is Justin Elwell calling. I got a message saying you wanted to talk to me.”
“Thank you for responding so quickly, Justin. Yes, we need to talk. Where are you?”
“I’m on my way to Bangor at the moment but I’ll be in Portland tomorrow afternoon. I’m bringing my truck down for service. Portland Transport, out on Warren Avenue.”
Diane copied down the address from Elwell and agreed to meet him there the following afternoon. She was just hanging up as Shirley Grant walked by and deposited several mustard-colored interoffice envelopes on the table in front of her.
“Thanks,” Diane said. She resumed checking her notes without bothering to look at the mail.
“Got anything that needs to be entered or transcribed?” Grant asked.
“Yeah, I’ve still gotta download the audio file of my last interview. I’ll email it to you shortly.”
“Oh, okay.”
Diane, sensing that Grant was still standing there waiting for something, stopped what she was doing and turned to face her. She’d known Grant long enough to know the middle-aged office assistant was bursting with some news she desperately needed to share. Some dirty little secret that needed telling.
“What?” Diane asked.
Grant looked around as if making sure no one was listening. Diane didn’t understand the point of her gesture as she’d soon be telling everyone her newfound secret.
“Well?” Diane asked.
“It’s about Sergeant Byron,” she said, her voice an excited whisper.
Diane felt a dark cloud materializing above her head. Had John learned about the promotion? Shit. Mel had warned her. She should’ve told him before now.
“I think he and Kay are getting back togethe
r,” Grant said, nearly breathless.
Byron cocked his head to one side. “What makes you say that?”
Kay glanced over at the table directly across from theirs, where two young women were seated and deeply engrossed in their respective love lives. Satisfied that no one was listening in on their conversation, she continued. “My work puts me in contact with a great many troubled people.”
“Well, there’s something we still have in common,” he said, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.
She looked at him as if wounded. She turned to look through the window at a passing watercraft.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Pay no attention to the asshole seated across the table. He’s new at this.”
She turned back to face him. Her smile reappeared. “As am I.”
“Please. Continue.”
“I’ve been treating a man for the past six months, a number of different problems. Yesterday he came to see me without an appointment. He’s never done that before. I could see something had really upset him.”
Byron took another drink of coffee, waiting for her to get to the point.
“My patient has an abusive boyfriend. It’s one of the reasons I’m treating him.”
Byron nodded but remained silent. The thought occurred to him that he and Kay might still have been married had he been this good at listening when she wasn’t providing information on a case.
Beneath the Depths Page 16