Among the Shadows
Page 13
“Oh, I guess I was wrong, then.”
“About what?”
“I just thought since you were one of the SRT supervisors, you might’ve been privy to more of the intel.” Cross’s irritating smirk vanished. Byron took some satisfaction in knocking him down a peg. “Take me through the information that led you to the Ocean Avenue address.”
Cross checked his watch. “I have an eleven o’clock appointment I won’t be late for.”
“I don’t expect this to take that long. Do you need me to repeat the question?”
Cross glared at him. “No, Sergeant. I think I’ve got it. The CI told us several of the men responsible for the First Bank of Boston armored car robbery were hiding out on Ocean Avenue in Portland. According to the CI, they needed help laundering the money. They were worried some of the bills had been marked.”
“Were they?”
“Not according to the feds. They told us they’d released misinformation to the media in an attempt to make it more difficult for the robbers to escape. Along with the reward.”
“That’s right,” Byron said, pretending he’d forgotten. “The reward. How much was it?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“Hmm. So, if your CI helped you find these guys—”
“I already told you, he wasn’t my CI.”
Byron jotted a quick note on his legal pad. “Wouldn’t he have been eligible to collect the reward?”
“I suppose.”
“But no one ever came forward to collect.” Byron tapped his pen on the table for emphasis. “Didn’t that seem a little strange?”
Cross unfolded his arms and leaned forward over the table. His big red jowls had darkened a shade or two. “I suppose it did. But as I’ve already told you, it wasn’t my CI.”
“Don’t you mean him?”
“What?” Cross asked, his irritation obvious.
Byron looked down at his note pad. “He wasn’t my CI” is what you said. If you didn’t know who the CI was, how do you know it was a male?”
Cross leaned back in his chair, trying to regain some of his composure. “I said he out of habit. I assumed it was a male CI, but I don’t know for sure. You could always check with Jimmy O,” he said, his smirk returning.
Byron had a sudden urge to climb over the table and knock some cooperation back into the Ass Chief, but he resisted the impulse. “That would seem unlikely, but I appreciate your keen insight.”
Cross’s eyes narrowed, never leaving Byron’s.
“Why didn’t anyone contact the FBI about this intel? It was their case after all.”
“Wasn’t my call to make. Like you, Sergeant, I was only a supervisor. I knew my place. Besides, we had no way of knowing if the intel was any good. The plan was to set up on the house and see what we could find out.”
“Didn’t work out too well, did it?”
“Once we confirmed the presence of armed and dangerous criminals we had no choice but to breach. They fired at us and we returned fire.”
“Kind of convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
“Convenient, Sergeant? Not really a word I’d use to describe losing one of our own.”
“And all three suspects.”
“They made that choice, not us.”
“And the money was never found?”
“I have no idea. We never found it. You’d have to check with the feds.”
“I did. It’s still missing.”
Cross shrugged indifferently.
“What do you think happened to it?”
“Not a clue. Word on the street was the last robber took off to Canada with it.”
“You’re talking about Andreas?”
“The one they never found,” Cross said in his most condescending tone.
Byron tried shifting gears. “Who do you think is responsible for murdering O’Halloran and Riordan?”
“Once again, you’re the detective. You tell me. Maybe it’s Andreas, seeking revenge for us killing his buddies.”
“Why would he wait thirty years?”
Cross seemed to consider the question. “Maybe he ran out of money. How the fuck would I know?” He checked his watch again and stood up. “Speaking of running out, I’m out of time. Sorry.” His smirk returned. “Gotta run to my eleven o’clock.”
Byron remained seated. “I’ll let you know if I think of any more questions.”
“I think I’m done with you,” Cross said as he headed toward the door.
“One more thing, Chief.”
Cross turned back to face him, his expression one of annoyance.
“Have you had recent contact with any of the others on the SRT?”
“No.” Cross turned toward the door, then stopped. “Oh, and before you ask, because I know how concerned you are about my safety, I don’t have any need of your protection detail. I hope, for your sake, you start making some progress on this case, Sergeant. Be a real shame to have to reassign it.”
BYRON STOPPED INTO the locker room to splash some cold water on his face. What he really wanted was a long hot shower to wash the stress away. But for now the locker room sink would have to do. As he dried his face and neck with a couple of paper towels, he could hear Kenny Crosby regaling one of the newer detectives on the property side of CID with his indefatigable wisdom. He’d never had much use for Crosby. The muscled-up drug detective had always been something of a wiseass, and everyone knew he was Cross’s errand boy. Doing the chief’s bidding was how he’d earned the coveted drug investigator’s job with the Maine Drug Enforcement Administration (MDEA).
“See, kid, if you’re not careful about splitting your time equally between work and home, you’ll wind up like Sergeant Byron over there. He’s a glory boy when it comes to solving high-profile cases, but it don’t mean shit at home.” The young detective didn’t say a word. “John spends so much time with New York’s finest, it’s no wonder his wife threw him out.”
Byron saw red. He threw the wet towels into the trash and marched around the bank of lockers. Crosby was just out of the shower and stood wrapped only in a towel. The barrel-chested detective sergeant lived in the PPD gym and it showed. Big arms, big chest. And a midsection showing the effects of too much beer.
“Hey, John. I didn’t know you were in here,” he said.
Byron walked up until their noses were nearly touching. “What’d you say, Kenny?”
“What?” Crosby wore a shit-eating grin. He held his hands up in a mock surrender. “I didn’t say anything, Johnny boy. No need to get your panties all in a bunch.”
Byron maintained eye contact until Crosby looked away. “Just as I thought,” he said as he turned to walk away.
“I was only explaining to the new kid here how you were probably tapping that sweet African ass.”
Byron didn’t think or hesitate, he reacted. Stepping in so his weight would be behind it, he delivered the first punch to the large detective’s beer-softened midsection. His second punch connected with Crosby’s jaw, knocking him backward over the wooden bench. Crashing into the lockers, his is feet slipping out from under him on the wet floor, he fell hard, momentarily pinned between the bench and lockers. Byron knew he’d gotten lucky. He also knew if Crosby got back on his feet, the second round wasn’t likely to go as well as the first.
The door to the locker room burst open and LeRoyer stormed in. “What the hell is going on in here?”
Neither Byron nor Crosby said a word as they scowled at each other. The junior detective stood wide-eyed.
“Well?” LeRoyer shouted. “I asked you both a question.”
Crosby was the first to speak as he struggled to regain his feet and straighten his towel. “Nothing’s going on, Lieu. I was just talking to the rookie here. Guess I musta slipped on the wet floor. Clumsy, huh?”
L
eRoyer turned to the new kid on the block. “Is that what happened, Detective?”
“I—I didn’t see anything, Sir.”
“Of course you didn’t. Get the hell outta here.”
The rookie detective disappeared out the door like a shot. LeRoyer looked from Byron to Crosby, then back to Byron. “Well?”
“Like Kenny said Lieu, he musta slipped.”
BYRON WAS TURNING left onto Middle Street from the parking garage when he saw Diane walking down the steps of 109. He pulled the car up next to the curb and stopped.
“How did it go with Cross?” Diane asked, as she leaned in the open window.
“How do you think?” Byron asked.
“He didn’t tell you anything we didn’t already know. And he was arrogant.”
“Don’t forget prick. He was an arrogant prick.” Byron inhaled, held it for a moment, and then tried to expel his frustration.
“Where you headed, sailor?” she asked.
“Lunch. Need to get out of here before I punch someone.”
“Mind if I join you? For the lunch not the punch.”
He smiled. “Sure. Hop in.”
She pointed to his hand as he pulled away from the curb. “You’re bleeding.”
He lifted his fingers off the steering wheel and saw she was right. “I cut myself in the kitchen this morning.”
She tilted her head in disbelief.
“Before I left for work.”
“Huh. I don’t recall seeing it.” She dug through the console for a napkin and handed one to him. “You sure it’s not from your school yard altercation with Kenny?”
He raised his eyebrows, surprised. “How’d you hear about that?”
“I’m a detective, remember? Wanna tell me what it was about?”
“Nope.”
“Are you crazy?”
“How do you mean?”
“The guy’s huge, John. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Guess I wasn’t.”
“Word is you took him down with one punch.”
A smile crept across his face in spite of his attempt to hide it. “If you must know, it was two.”
“My hero,” she said, batting her lashes. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“I’m Irish, remember? There are two things the Irish do well.”
“I’ll bet in your case it’s three,” she said, giving him a seductive grin. She reached for her seat belt. “What were you thinking for lunch?”
“Hadn’t really. You have a preference?”
“I could go for a really greasy burger and fries.”
“I know a place.”
DOTTY’S LUNCH WAS a greasy spoon located in West Falmouth, just outside of Portland, well known for tasty food and reasonable prices. The drive allowed Byron a chance to cool down a bit before giving himself indigestion.
They took their food and drinks outside, taking advantage of the cooler weather and bright sunshine. There were a half-dozen picnic tables scattered across the rear lawn. They commandeered the one closest to the wood line and sat next to each other, facing the road.
“So what to do you think?” she asked, sucking the melted cheese from her thumb.
Byron swallowed the large bite of burger he’d been chewing. “About the burger?”
“No, silly. About Cross?”
“Ah.” He took a long drink from his soda straw. “I think he’s lying. Or at the very least holding back.”
“About?”
“How they came by the information in the first place. He said the same thing about the CI we read in the reports.”
“It did look like they’d intentionally glossed over it.”
“That’s what I mean. He put it on O’Halloran. Said it was one of the lieutenant’s snitches who gave them the info. Told me he didn’t know who the CI was.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“Nope. Felt like he was toying with me. Like he knew I couldn’t prove otherwise.” Byron took another handful of fries. “Pretty sure he slipped up at one point.”
“How so?”
“He referred to the CI as he.”
“Did you call him on it?”
“I did. Told me he was only generalizing. Said he didn’t know who gave the information to O’Halloran. Any luck finding Williams?”
“Nope. We left another business card. Nuge’s card was gone, so he’s probably been home and gone already. Tran’s still trying to find out where he works.”
“Sounds like he’s avoiding us,”
“Did you talk to Pritchard?”
“I did,” Byron said, wiping the ketchup from his chin with a napkin.
“And?”
“And, I think he may be able to help.”
FORMER PORTLAND POLICE Sergeant Eric Williams was killing time with a cigarette as he waited for Ray Humphrey to arrive. Williams stood leaning against the front end of a dark blue Escalade SUV, with chrome rims and dealer plates. He had parked here, at the Westbrook commuter lot between exits 47 and 48 off the Maine Turnpike, an hour after he had telephoned Humphrey at his office on Commercial Street and requested a face-to-face. Humphrey had readily agreed. It was nearly one o’clock when Humphrey drove into the lot and parked beside him.
“Ray,” Williams said as his former colleague got out of the car. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
“I’m glad you reached out, Eric,” Humphrey said as they shook hands. “So, you wanna fill me in on what the hell is happening here?”
“I don’t know. But someone is sending a pretty clear message.” Williams dropped the cigarette butt on the pavement and twisted it under his black wing-tip, then pulled a fresh one from the pack in his suit coat and lit it. “So far they’ve taken out O’Halloran and Riordan. Byron approach you yet?” Williams watched his reaction closely, knowing he was tight with the younger Byron.
“He did.”
“What did he ask you?”
“He asked about the shooting. Showed me the group SRT photo he took from Jimmy O’s house.”
Williams shoved the lighter back in his pocket.
“What did you tell him?”
“Only what I had to.”
“Does he know anything?”
“I don’t think so. Sounds like he only knows what was reported. Has he talked with you?”
“Not yet. But one of his people stuck a business card in the door at my house. It won’t be long.” He inhaled then blew out a smoke ring. “I know I don’t have to remind you what’s at stake here. Right?”
“You don’t. But what the hell are we supposed to do? I’m not gonna wait around and see if I’m next. Someone’s coming after us, Eric, and we don’t have a fucking clue who.”
“I’m working on it. In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut. Remember, if one of us says anything stupid, we all go down.”
“Do you want me to reach out to any of the others?”
“No. I’ll be your contact,” Williams said, handing him a business card. “My personal cell is on the back. And don’t reach out to me unless you hear something.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, one more thing, if Byron asks, you haven’t seen me.”
IT WAS SEVEN-THIRTY. Margaret and Reginald Cross were finishing dinner.
“Did you want seconds, hon?” she said as she got up from the table.
“Did you make anything for desert?
“I made apple crisp. Your favorite.”
“Then, no, on the seconds,” he said, rubbing his stomach. “I’ve gotta save room.”
The home phone rang. “I got it,” Margaret hollered from the kitchen. “It’s probably our Wendy. Said she’d call tonight.”
Cross finished the last couple of bites. He coul
d hear his wife talking in the next room but couldn’t make out what she was saying.
“Hon,” she said, “it’s for you.”
“Who is it?”
“Jimmy from dispatch.”
“Okay, I’ll pick it up in the other room.” He made his way to his study. “All right, Marge, I’ve got it,” he said, picking up the receiver. He waited until she’d hung up before speaking. “This is Chief Cross.”
“It’s been too long, Reg.”
“Who is this?” But he recognized the voice immediately.
“Oh, I think you know who this is, and you should know why I’m calling. One question. Do you have control of this thing or not?”
“I do,” he said, the pitch of his voice increasing by two full octaves. He turned and closed the door to the den. “I’ve got wheels in motion as we speak. There’s nothing to worry about.” Cross waited nervously, holding his breath. He heard nothing but silence from the other end of the line. “Did you hear me?”
“Let me assure you, Reggie, if I’m forced to get involved you will not like how things turn out.”
“You won’t. I’m handling every—” He heard a click as the line was disconnected.
Chapter Seventeen
SATURDAY MORNING CAME with a quick meeting at 109. Following the meeting, Byron sent Diane and Nugent north to Damariscotta to try their luck with Falcone while he paid a visit to Williams. Tran had finally located the former SRT supervisor, working at a car dealership in York County. Byron figured the former sergeant would be far less likely to try bullying tactics if another supervisor conducted the interview.
At one in the afternoon, Byron was seated in a maroon faux-leather chair across from Williams’s secretary, Dixie. Dixie sported the shortest skirt, longest legs, and blondest hair to ever come out of a bottle. Byron suspected she was a bit more than Williams’s personal assistant.
He sipped coffee, which tasted suspiciously like thirty-weight motor oil. He was perusing, but not actually reading, a magazine from the glass coffee table. The glossy cover depicted a showdown between the newest Cadillac Escalade and Lincoln Navigator. Byron, who’d never have a financial portfolio worthy of either, wondered how anyone could possibly care.
As air tools whirred noisily in the nearby service bays, Byron scanned a wall covered in awards of excellence for sales and service. Hiding a knowing smile, he wondered how every dealership he’d ever been in had earned the exact same awards from their corporate entities.