“That’s how I saw it,” Haggerty said.
Byron leaned in close to Fowler. “Ya know, for a guy who may well be the last person to have had contact with my murder victim, you’re not taking this all that seriously.”
“Why the fuck should I? I didn’t do anything.”
“No? Because you just admitted to knocking Ramsey out with one punch and leaving him without checking to see if he was okay.”
“I told you, it wasn’t Ramsey.”
Byron looked up at Nugent. “What’s that sound like to you, Nuge.”
“Sounds like negligence. Could be manslaughter.”
“Hey, fuck that,” Fowler protested as he started to get up from the chair.
Nugent grabbed on to his shoulders, shoving him back down. “Sit down, dickhead.”
“It wasn’t Ramsey and I didn’t kill him. I just punched the guy. I swear.”
“What about the gun?” Byron asked.
“What gun?”
“The one you told Bagley you threatened a guy with.”
Fowler swallowed nervously again. Byron could almost picture the unused gears struggling to turn inside of the gym rat’s head.
“Yeah, you know,” Nugent said. “That gun you won’t let us search for.”
“We already have enough to get a warrant,” Byron said. “You want to wait in jail while we get one?”
“In jail?” Fowler said, his voice rising two full octaves. “For what?”
“How about assaulting Detective Nugent for starters.” Byron looked up at Nugent. “What do you think, Nuge? Feel like pressing charges?”
“Okay,” Fowler said.
“Okay, what?” Byron asked.
“Okay, you guys can search my apartment.”
“And your gym locker and car?”
“What the fuck? Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because somebody killed that attorney and tossed him in the ocean. Was it you, Roger?”
“No. I swear.”
“It does sound like something he’d do, Sarge,” Nugent said, mocking him.
“Fuck it,” Fowler said, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Search whatever you want. I don’t give a fuck. I didn’t do anything to Paul Ramsey.”
Byron turned to Haggerty. “Got a consent form in your car?”
“Back in a minute,” Hags said.
Diane and Stevens located Babbage’s silver Hyundai parked behind the Unicorn. Standing beside it was Babbage herself, dressed in loose-fitting pink sweats and smoking a cigarette. She was talking animatedly on her cell and appeared upset. As soon as she noticed the detectives exit the car and start in her direction, she ended her call, tossed the butt away, and hurried toward the club’s back door.
“Joanne?” Stevens asked.
“Nope, it’s Candy,” she called out from over her shoulder. “I gotta get back inside.”
“Joanne, we’re police detectives and we just want to talk with you a minute,” Diane said. “I figured you’d rather talk out here than in front of your bosses.”
Babbage stopped walking and turned to face them. “Look, I don’t know what you want with me but I need this job. If my bosses see me talking to you, I’ll get fired.”
“We’re here to follow up on the break-in to your apartment,” Stevens said.
Babbage cocked her head, wearing a confused expression on her face. “My apartment wasn’t broken into,” she said.
“It was unless you want your bosses to know we’re here about your relationship with Paul Ramsey,” Diane said.
No sooner had Diane uttered those words than a short stocky man in a tight black T-shirt and tan slacks opened the door and stepped outside. He had dark short cropped hair with matching unibrow. “Everything okay out here, Candy?” he asked, casting a suspicious eye at the strangers.
Babbage looked back at Diane. “We’re fine,” she said. “I just gotta talk to these detectives about the break-in at my apartment.”
“Oh, okay,” Neanderthal said before stepping back inside and closing the door.
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Diane said. “Why don’t we chat in my car?”
Babbage followed them across the lot to Diane’s unmarked. Stevens motioned Babbage to sit in the front passenger seat as she slid into the back.
Once they were all inside the car, Diane began. “How long were you and Paul Ramsey seeing each other?”
“Who?” she said.
“Joanne, you know we already know, or else we wouldn’t be here,” Stevens said.
“Who told you? It was Rachael, wasn’t it? She can’t keep her fucking mouth shut.”
“Doesn’t matter who,” Diane said. “You were seeing him, weren’t you?”
Babbage pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a green plastic lighter from the front pouch of her pullover.
“Uh-uh,” Diane said. “Not in this car.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope,” Diane said.
Babbage jammed the items back inside the pocket and sighed. “Yeah, I was seeing Paul.”
“How long?”
“Awhile.”
Stevens jumped into the conversation from the backseat. “You know, if you want us out of your hair you might consider being less vague.”
Babbage made eye contact with Diane. “Guess it must have been about eight months or so. It was kinda on and off.”
“Where did the two of you meet?” Diane asked.
“The Ritz. I always like to spend time at the high-class places.”
Diane kept her expression neutral as she awaited a real answer.
“We met here,” Babbage said. “Last fall. Paul came in with some work buddies, I guess. Bunch of suits, maybe someone’s retirement party.”
“And?” Diane said.
“And we just hit it off.”
“So a couple of lap dances later, and he’s in love, is that it?” Stevens asked.
Babbage shrugged the question off.
“Did you know he was married?” Diane asked.
Babbage rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and so are most of the guys who come here. I wasn’t looking for a husband, just a good time.”
“Where did you meet?” Diane asked.
“Here, there, wherever. We didn’t have a schedule.”
“Where, specifically?” Diane asked again.
“Sometimes we’d meet at a hotel room across the street, sometimes we’d hook up in a parking lot off of Riverside Street. One of the industrial parks. Couple of times on his boat.”
“His boat?” Diane said. “Where was that?”
“It’s at the marina, down on Commercial Street.”
“Did he ever come to your apartment?” Diane asked, scribbling a note about the boat while trying not to make it look like too big a deal.
“Maybe.”
“He either did or he didn’t,” Stevens said.
“He did. A couple of times.”
“Did he ever buy drugs off of you?” Diane said, trying to catch Babbage off guard.
“No.”
“No, you gave them to him? Or no, you never sold them to him?”
Babbage turned to look out the window.
“We’ve pulled your sheet, Joanne,” Diane said. “We know you were busted for dealing.”
“Yeah, well, that was the old me. Now I got a kid to look out for.”
“Would that be the daughter who lives with her father?” Stevens said.
“Shared custody,” Babbage snapped.
“When did you see him last?” Diane asked.
“Who? Paul?”
Diane nodded.
“I don’t know. Couple of weeks, I guess.”
“What about Tuesday night? Did you happen to see him then?”
“Nope.”
“How can you be so sure?” Stevens said.
“’Cause my daughter was staying with me Tuesday night. You can ask her. I was home all night.”
Searches of Fowler’s gym locker and
car turned up nothing. Byron called Tran to assist them in the search of Fowler’s Brackett Street apartment, while Haggerty transported the trainer by black-and-white. Byron also requested Pelligrosso’s presence in case they located something incriminating.
Fowler’s second-floor abode looked less like an apartment and more like a gym. A weight bench, squat station, and dumbbell rack were featured prominently in the living room along with a large flat screen and leather couch. Where an area rug would normally have graced the center of the room’s hardwood floor, Fowler had placed interlocking black foam workout mats. The walls in each of the rooms were decorated with framed pictures of Fowler competing at various weight-lifting events. Also hanging in each room was a large mirror.
“Jesus, Sarge,” Nugent said. “And I thought the chief was bad. Could this guy be any more into himself?”
Byron continued his search of the dining room while Haggerty kept an eye on Fowler, who sat at the table pouting. Tran pawed through the kitchen and bathroom while Nugent went to work on the bedroom and den. Each of the detectives worked methodically, starting in one corner of the room and working clockwise floor to ceiling so as not to overlook anything. They were only twenty minutes into the search when Nugent and Tran walked into the dining room where Byron and Haggerty were speaking with Fowler.
“Look what I found,” Nugent said, holding out a flat plastic container for the others to see. “It was hidden up in the suspended ceiling in the bedroom.”
Byron looked inside. The box contained a baggie of what appeared to be a couple of ounces of marijuana, several glass vials containing a clear liquid, a large full pill bottle with no label, and a black semiauto handgun. A .380 handgun. “Thought you didn’t own a gun,” Byron said.
“Uh-oh,” Nugent said. “Someone’s a big fibber.”
“That’s not mine,” Fowler said.
“It isn’t?” Nugent asked. “Weird, ’cause it was above your bed.”
“I’ve never seen it before.”
“Get some photos and seize all of it,” Byron said to Pelligrosso. He turned his attention to Fowler. “Just spitballing here but it looks like you’ve been supplementing your gym job.”
“Whatever you think,” Fowler said dismissively.
“What I think is, you lied to me about owning a gun and it looks like you’re dealing weed, prescription drugs, and anabolic steroids.”
“Think I’d like to talk with my attorney now. Oh, and I’m revoking my consent to search too.”
“Not a problem. We’ll just get a warrant. Hags, why don’t you and Nuge give Mr. Fowler a ride to County?”
“It’d be our pleasure,” Haggerty said as he placed cuffs on Fowler.
Following their departure, Byron turned to Pelligrosso. “How soon before you can tell me if that is the same .380 that killed Ramsey?”
“Should have something by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll run the serial number through NCIC, check the gun, magazine, and casings for prints and fire a test round to see if it matches the round that Doc Ellis dug out of him.”
Attorney Gerald DeWitt was sitting in his car, waiting patiently out in front of the Cumberland County Jail, when he saw Darius Tomlinson strut through the front doors a free man. Tomlinson gave a halfhearted wave before walking in his direction.
DeWitt popped the door lock and Tomlinson got in.
“Yo, Gerry. Thanks for springing me. Gray bars cramp my style.” Tomlinson held up his right hand in a fist bump gesture, which DeWitt did not return.
“You know what cramps my style, Darius? Having to put up fifty thousand for the likes of you.”
“Yeah, well, cost of doing business, G. Ramsey never had a problem with it.”
DeWitt reached down and shifted the car into Drive. “I’m not Paul Ramsey.”
“Chill, Big G. We’re cool.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sunday, 2:00 p.m., May 1, 2016
Byron was just pulling away from the curb in front of Fowler’s apartment when his cell rang. Diane.
“How’d you two make out?” Byron asked.
“Babbage admits she’s been seeing him since late last fall,” Diane said.
“She see him Tuesday night?”
“Said she didn’t. Said she was at her apartment all night with her daughter.”
“You believe her?”
“If she was lying, she’s good at it. Mel and I will head to Gorham to try and find the daughter right after we talk to Elwell. We’re meeting him at Portland Transport on Warren Avenue.”
“Okay, good.”
“Did you know Ramsey owned a boat?”
“What?” he said, sounding as blindsided as he felt.
“Babbage said they occasionally hooked up on it.”
“She know where the boat is?”
“She didn’t know the name, but she described DiMillo’s Marina to us.”
“I’ll put Dustin on it. What about drugs?”
“Said she’s clean. Told us she’d seen Ramsey snort before but claimed to have no knowledge of where he got his drugs.”
Byron filled Diane in on the search of Fowler’s apartment and the discovery of the .380.
“Wow,” Diane said. “That could be big.”
“Maybe, but Fowler doesn’t act much like a guy who just shot someone in the face.”
“So, what are you thinking?”
“I’ve got Gabe on ballistics but I’m having Nugent run down a possible assault victim from the Old Port.”
“From Tuesday night?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t reported as an assault. Came in as a casualty. That’s why we didn’t see it. MedCu transported the guy to the hospital after he was found lying in the street. The paramedics just assumed he’d fallen.”
“Think it could be the guy Fowler punched out?”
“Don’t know. It’s possible. Listen, I’m sorry I went off on you about the test. I had no right.”
“Yup,” she said. “I’ll let you know what Elwell and Babbage’s daughter have to say.”
Byron looked down at the phone after Diane had hung up. Yup? What the hell? He’d been hoping his apology might prompt her to do the same, but it hadn’t. He pocketed the cell and slid the car into a vacant spot on Middle Street directly across from 109.
Byron decided his need for food couldn’t wait. After making a quick call to Tran, asking him to find out whether there were any boats registered to the Ramseys, he walked down to Calluzo’s Bistro on Middle Street, hoping to grab a Boston Italian and soda. It would be the first thing besides coffee he’d had all day. He took the order to go and returned to 109. He was climbing the stairs to the fourth floor and stepping into the hallway when he nearly collided with LeRoyer.
“Didn’t expect to see you still here,” Byron said.
“I heard you made an arrest on Ramsey,” LeRoyer said.
“Who told you that?”
“Did you?”
“No. We arrested some gym rat named Roger Fowler for trafficking.”
“Who’s he?”
“Long story, Marty.”
After bringing the lieutenant up to speed, Byron walked down the back hallway to his own office, tossed the wrapped sub on his desk, and cracked open the soda, taking a long swig. It wasn’t as good as a Guinness would have tasted, but it was carbonated and it was cold. It hit the spot. He looked down and found a new pink message slip from Tran. Stapled to it was the registration printout for the Ramseys’ boat. It was in Mrs. Ramsey’s name. Hopefully, she would continue to cooperate.
He picked up the phone and called AAG Jim Ferguson’s cell.
“You think this Fowler guy might’ve killed him, John?” Ferguson asked after he was briefed.
“I don’t know if he did or didn’t but at this very moment Fowler’s my most viable suspect.”
“Who’s working on the search warrant?”
“We handed it off to Crosby’s guys. My people are running all over the place on Ramsey. Can’t afford to tie them up on
a drug case.”
Anna Jacobson, one of Sergeant Peterson’s weekend property crime detectives, poked her head in through the doorway.
“Hang on a second, Jim,” Byron said. “What’s up, Anna?”
“Sorry to interrupt you, Sarge, but I’ve got one of Sergeant Crosby’s detectives on the line. They’re just double-checking the information for the affidavit. It was Bagley who led you to Fowler, right?”
“Yes. He’s the one who witnessed Fowler knock the guy out in the Old Port. Fowler also made the comment about having taken care of Ramsey as they were watching the news about Ramsey’s death.”
“Okay, they’re also asking how we found out about Bagley in the first place.”
“His psychologist approached me.”
“They need his name for the affidavit,” Jacobson said.
“Her name,” he corrected. “Dr. Kay Byron.”
Anna raised her eyebrows. “Kay?”
“Sorry about that,” Byron said after Jacobson had departed.
“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full, John. How many balls are you trying to juggle anyway?”
“More than I’d like. Speaking of which, now I’ve got a boat to search.”
“Mr. Elwell?” Diane asked as she and Stevens approached the silver-haired man seated in the waiting area of Portland Transport.
The lanky Elwell stood up. “Detective Joyner?”
After the introductions were made, the three of them walked outside where they could talk without being overheard.
“I found out you were looking for me as soon as I got back from my run,” Elwell said.
“When did you leave on this run, Mr. Elwell?” Diane asked.
Elwell dug around in his pants pocket, pulling out several folded pieces of paper, and handed them to Diane. “What’s this?” she asked as she unfolded them.
“These are the run sheets. You can see the dates and times that I checked in. My boss said there was some question about where I was when our attorney, Paul Ramsey, was killed.”
“Mr. Elwell, we’re just trying to establish alibis for anyone who might have had a reason to want to kill Paul Ramsey,” Stevens said as Diane flipped through the documents. “At the warehouse they told us you were supposed to be back earlier. Why were you delayed returning to Maine?”
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