HAWK WAS STANDING outside next to the building waiting when Riordan stepped out onto the sidewalk, pausing to light a cigarette. The nighttime air still felt warm and humid. Hawk was watching Riordan dig into his pocket for his keys, wondering how long it would take the old drunk to notice him, when Riordan looked over.
“Hey, Hawk,” Riordan said excitedly. “I’ve got a brand-new bottle at home that needs to be drunk.” He laughed at his own bad joke until the laughter tailed off into a series of raspy coughs.
“I don’t know, Cleo, it’s getting kinda late.”
“Nonsense, it’s still early. Whatdaya say? That bottle ain’t gonna drink itself, ya know.”
Hawk pretended to mull it over. “Okay, but I’m driving.”
“Done and done. Let’s take my car,” Riordan said, tossing him the keys.
“Be just as easy to take mine,” Hawk said, catching them easily.
“My bottle, my car.”
“You’re the boss,” Hawk said.
The two men walked across the street, although in Riordan’s case it was more of an unsteady shuffle, and got into Riordan’s LeSabre. Hawk pulled out of the lot and onto Washington Avenue. A faded bumper sticker affixed to the rear bumper read: “Drink Responsibly.”
IT WAS NEARLY one-thirty in the morning. Both men had been drinking at the kitchen table since they’d arrived. Hawk kept getting up to mix their drinks at the counter while Riordan regaled him with stories. Hawk had been giving Riordan nearly pure alcohol while his own glass was mainly soda.
Riordan, well past the point of constructing anything resembling an articulate sentence, was barely able to hold his head up. He didn’t seem to notice that the alcohol wasn’t affecting Hawk.
The sidearm Riordan had carried while fighting in Vietnam lay on the table next to his glass. “Home protection,” he called it. Hawk imagined the old man probably showed it off to anyone who cared to see it, and even a few who didn’t.
Hawk studied Riordan as they sat at the table. His eyes were glassy and the road map on his nose told a tale of years of self-abuse. Riordan exhibited the thousand-yard stare only an experienced alcoholic can master.
“Fuckin’-A right!” Riordan announced to no one in particular, before taking another drink.
Realizing that Riordan was close to passing out, and not wanting him to spoil the plan, Hawk excused himself, then headed for the bathroom.
He returned to the kitchen several minutes later, dressed from head to toe in a white Tyvek suit, complete with boots, gloves, and a hood.
“Hey, now, what in the hell are you up to?” Riordan croaked before he was once again overcome by a fit of laughter that gradually morphed into a body-racking cough.
“Just righting a wrong, old man. Righting a wrong.”
Hawk snatched the handgun from the table, pressed it against Riordan’s temple, and pulled the trigger.
Chapter Nine
LEROYER HAD BEEN hounding Byron about going down to the firing range all morning. “I know you’re working a case. I get it, okay? But Cross has been riding my ass about having the bureau qualify on time, for once. That’s how it works, John. He rides my ass and I ride yours.”
“Well, there’s a picture I’m gonna need therapy to get over,” Byron said. “You missed your calling, Lieu. You should’ve been a writer of porn.”
“Gay porn,” Diane added.
LeRoyer gave her a disapproving scowl. “Watch yourself, Detective. Look, I’m begging the both of you. Get your asses down there. Now!”
“Well, if you’re gonna get all sentimental about it, okay,” Byron said.
Sergeant Gary “Cowboy” Mullins was the PD’s senior range officer and armorer. Everyone called him Cowboy on account of the thick white handlebar mustache he sported. Too old to effectively work a beat, he was still one of the best sharpshooters on the department. Mullins had instructed Byron during his academy days, when the state’s basic police school was still located in the Central Maine town of Waterville.
“Well, as I live and breathe,” Mullins said.
“Morning, Cowboy,” they said in unison.
“Didn’t expect you two till sometime after Christmas.”
“We like to keep you on your toes,” Diane said.
“And I suspect you could, young lady,” Cowboy said with a wink. “You know the drill, empty your mags on the table and unload your guns down range. Grab some eye and ear protection and I’ll go hang your targets.”
“Thanks, Cowboy,” Byron said.
“I aim to please,” he said over his shoulder as he walked down to the far end of the range. “Hey, you guys know why there’ll never be a range officer named Will?”
Byron and Diane glanced at each other. They’d both heard him tell the joke countless times but neither wanted to burst his bubble. “Why?” Byron hollered down range.
“Ready on the right, ready on the left, fire at Will.” Mullins chuckled.
Byron was unloading his magazines when he noticed his hands were shaking. He clenched his fists to try and stop it.
“That happen very often?” Diane asked in a whisper.
He heard the concern in her voice. “Every once in a while. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
She frowned and placed her hands on her hips.
“Really, I’m fine.”
Mullins returned. “Jesus, John. When you gonna lose that forty-five caliber dinosaur and get a nine like the young’uns?”
“Can’t teach an old dog, I guess.”
“Ain’t it the truth?”
Mullins ran them through the qualification drills simultaneously, starting at fifty feet and working toward the targets until they’d each exhausted their fifty rounds.
“Okay, let’s see how we did,” Mullins said. “John, you scored eighty-four percent and Diane, I’ve got you at ninety. You’re both clear to carry.”
“God, I’m so relieved,” Diane said, holding a hand up to her chest for effect.
“There’s cleaning supplies in the next room if you want to take care of it here,” Mullins said.
“Thanks, Cowboy,” Byron said. But I’ve got a funeral to attend. “You coming?” he asked Diane.
“I’m gonna give my gun a quick once over. Besides, I’ve got to catch up on some paperwork.”
“Suit yourself.”
AFTER BYRON LEFT the firing range, Mullins turned to Diane. “You know you’re not doing him any favors.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
Mullins crossed his arms and stood facing her. “Young lady, Byron carries a Glock 30 and you carry a 26. You think I can’t tell the difference between a hole made by a forty-five and one made by a nine? I could go and study them if you’d like, but my guess is you gave John the five rounds you missed. I know you, Detective. You almost never miss. Why are you helping him?”
“Because, he’s my partner.” Diane quickly reassembled and loaded her gun, then headed for the door.
“I hope you don’t live to regret that decision,” he said.
She stopped at the door and looked back. “Don’t worry about me, Cowboy.”
“Not you I’m worried about.”
IT WAS A couple of minutes after eleven Tuesday morning and Byron stood in dress uniform at the sparsely attended graveside service of former Lieutenant James O’Halloran. The sky was overcast and the air was still thick with summerlike humidity. He counted maybe a dozen current Portland officers and half as many retirees. Only half listening to the familiar words of the priest as they drifted by on a warm breeze, his thoughts were occupied by other things, not the least of which were the murder and why Kay wasn’t returning his calls. She’d obviously wanted something, so why not leave a message saying what it was? He didn’t have time for a prolonged game of phone tag
.
“A warrior for peace, both here and abroad,” the priest said. “James O’Halloran answered the call. Serving his country overseas, then returning stateside where he defended the peace.”
Byron had attended many police funerals during the course of his career, but he’d never quite been able to stomach them. Truth was he hated going. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to show respect for a fallen officer or to honor their service to the community, because he did. His disdain for these funerals went much deeper. Dark thoughts of his own mortality and of those he worked with and cared about would inevitably come creeping in, thoughts he could do without. Memories of his Irish Catholic upbringing intertwined with his father’s suicide, the one event that most clearly marked the end of his faith, left behind only anger and distrust for all religion.
Byron had been seventeen years old the day his father committed suicide. It was a warm sunny afternoon, and he had grabbed his bike and peddled over to pop in on old dad. His parents had already split by then. He knew his father would be at home, it was his day off. Byron grabbed his father’s uncollected mail from the box out front, then entered the apartment. He yelled out a greeting but got no response. Worried that his father might either be in the midst of an afternoon tryst or drunk, he quietly searched each room. He found his father slumped over the dining room table, his revolver was lying on the floor. The image never left him.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” the priest continued.
Byron tried to refocus on the murder. The weekend had been largely uneventful, save for two more pharmacy robberies and Frankie Mathers’s decision not to submit to a polygraph test, effectively closing the door on his cooperation in the O’Halloran case. Byron didn’t really believe the simpleton stoner was up to the task of a mercy killing anyway, but it might have been nice to put that theory to the test seeing as how St. John had already done her part. Mathers felt like unfinished business and Byron despised anything left undone.
“Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me . . .”
Byron didn’t know about anyone’s cup running over, but he was pretty sure he could relate to walking in the valley of the shadow of death. It was after all, his job.
The priest passed along the traditional invite to the home of one of the other retirees for fellowship and refreshment. Byron knew the obligatory post-party was really an excuse to tell war stories, and refreshment meant getting drunk—and while he was never totally averse to the latter, today he wasn’t in the mood for either. He walked alone through the cemetery to his car, then drove to the Public Works garage to get the Taurus’s air-conditioner recharged.
HE WAS STANDING in the CID locker room changing out of his sweaty dress uniform and into a wrinkled but dry suit and tie when his phone, still on silent from the service, began to vibrate. He looked at the caller ID. It was dispatch.
“Byron,” he answered.
“Hey, handsome, it’s Mary.”
Police Dispatcher Mary O’Connell was a sweetheart of a lady. She’d been with the department far longer than Byron. Aside from Humphrey, O’Connell was probably the closest thing to family he had. She had taken him under her wing dating back to his first day on the job. When he was a rookie cop, still wet behind the ears and still two years from having earned the respect afforded the officers who’d already completed their probationary period. On more than one occasion, Byron had ended up in the emergency room while O’Connell was working the board. Barroom brawls, motor vehicle accidents, or trying to take a crazed suspect into custody. Each time, after learning O’Connell was beside herself with worry, Byron would stop by dispatch to see her before he went off duty.
“Hey, Mare, what’s up?”
“Didn’t know if you were tied up at the reception or not. I can call one of your detectives if you’d rather.”
“No, I’m available, just changing.”
“I’d pay to see that,” she said in her deepest, sexiest voice.
Byron laughed.
“Well, since you’re available I’ve got patrol units out at a possible suicide. They’re requesting CID.”
He copied down the address and asked her to contact Pelligrosso and Joyner.
“Gabe’s already on scene and Diane’s en route with Nugent. Let me know if you need anything else when you get there, Sarge. I’m on till six.”
“Thanks, Mare.”
IT WAS ONE-TWENTY by the time Byron pulled up in front of the Osgood Street address. The short dead-end street in the Libby Town section of Portland was only a stone’s throw from the Westgate Shopping Center. The home, a small gray-shingled Cape, was in serious disrepair. Several faded red shutters had fallen off and were now sitting among the weeds up against the house. Peeling paint gave the siding a distinct brindle-like appearance. The evidence van was parked in the driveway, two unmarks and a black-and-white lined the street in front.
Byron was very aware of unseen eyes peering out from neighbors’ windows. They were always there. Others, far less subtle, stood gawking in a small cluster, down the street, hoping to get a good look at whatever had happened. In the great train wreck of life, some folks couldn’t get their fill of tragedy.
Officer Sean Haggerty appeared as Byron pried himself from the car. Built like a linebacker, Hags would’ve been handy to have as a partner during Byron’s early years on the beat. If Hags had been at his side, he likely wouldn’t have come out on the losing end of so many fights.
“Afternoon, Sarge. We’ve got to stop meeting like this. People are beginning to talk.”
“What do we have?”
“Looks like the homeowner killed himself in the kitchen. Handgun. A real mess.”
“Who called it in?”
“Victim’s daughter.” He looked down at his notepad. “Amy Rubio. Says she came by to visit and found him.”
Byron ran the surname through the memory bank in his head but came up empty. “How’d she get in?”
“Key.”
“Victim married?”
“Divorced.”
“Where’s the daughter now?”
“Down the street at a neighbor’s,” he said, pointing. “She’s pretty shaken up. Both Detective Joyner and the victim advocate are with her.”
“Good. Let’s make sure she doesn’t come back here.” He knew her statement might have to wait. “Pelligrosso inside?”
“Pelligrosso and Detective Nugent.”
“Who else has been in there?”
He checked the log. “Other than the one MedCu attendant and me, only your folks.”
More people than he would have liked, but he’d had to contend with worse. Too often his scenes were trampled by firefighters and paramedics alike. People who only wanted to see the body. CID was fond of referring to the EMS folks as the “Evidence Eradication Unit.”
“I want supplements from everyone.”
“Already on it. Working on mine. Vickers, the paramedic, told me he’d call when his is ready. Holler if you need anything else. I’ll be out here writing.”
“Thanks, Hags.”
The home’s front door was standing open, and Byron walked toward it, taking care to watch where he stepped. Evidence can exist anywhere. He visually inspected the doorframe, as he always did, checking for any signs of forced entry. The casing was intact.
“Gabe, you back there?” he hollered.
“In the kitchen, Sarge.”
“Okay to walk in?”
“Yes. I left a box of Tyvek booties inside the front door on the living room floor. You’re gonna want them. Hold up when you get to the kitchen doorway.”
“Okay.”
Byron slipped on the foot protection along with a pair of rubber gloves from his back pocket, deliberately making his way through the living room, careful not to disturb anything as he went. He knew Pelligrosso would’ve alread
y photographed every room in detail, prior to working the scene where the body was located, but protocol was everything, especially at a suspicious death scene. And suicides by their very nature were suspicious deaths, each one a potential crime. He’d taken more than one officer aside at a crime scene to lecture them on the importance of leaving everything exactly as they’d found it. “There are no mulligans in evidence collection,” he’d tell them. What he wouldn’t do was tell them twice.
Pelligrosso was busy photographing the kitchen. The victim was seated in a wooden ladder-back. His head was flopped over the back of the chair, like a broken Pez dispenser. The man looked as though he’d simply passed out in the chair, were it not for the blood spatter on everything. In addition to the spatter, there were pieces of skull and brain matter clinging to the cupboard doors, counter, and wall to the victim’s left. His arms hung by his sides, nearly touching the floor. A semiautomatic handgun lay on the once-white linoleum beneath his right hand.
Byron noted none of the usual signs of decomposition, and that the larger pools of blood were still reflective, suggesting that the event had probably occurred within the last day or so.
On the table stood a half-empty bottle of Bacardi and a single drinking glass, containing a small amount of liquid, which two houseflies were busy surveying from the rim. Aside from the carnage and the corpse, the kitchen was unremarkable. The scene was typical of a bachelor of advancing years who had opted out of this world, by his own design, rather than waiting to see what the Almighty had in store. Byron had witnessed this ending before.
“What can you tell me so far?” Byron asked.
“Entry wound at the right temple complete with contact burn. Bullet exited out the left side of his skull. I might’ve found a bullet hole in the wall, above the counter, hard to tell until I remove some sheetrock.”
“What kind of semiauto is that?”
“Browning Hi Power, nine millimeter. I found a spent casing over in the corner by the door. Haven’t checked the gun yet. I want to see if there’s any other rounds left in it.”
Among the Shadows Page 6