Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  Dixie was doing her best to look seductive, twirling her pen through her dyed curls while she talked on the phone. Based on what little he could hear, her call was of a personal nature. Growing impatient, he checked the time again. Ten past the hour. Power play, plain and simple. Williams was projecting his importance.

  At precisely one-­fifteen, the general sales manager of southern Maine’s largest Cadillac dealership walked in. “My apologies for making you wait, Sergeant,” Williams said in a booming baritone as he stuck out his hand.

  Byron stood and firmly shook his hand. “Not at all. I appreciate your willingness to meet with me, Mr. Williams.”

  In the time it took the two men to shake hands, Byron had sized him up. Williams wore dark gray suit pants and a white dress shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up. The suit coat and tie he’d long since discarded, in favor of the down-­to-­business look. He was sporting a gold Rolex watch, too much aftershave, and a pair of glossy black dress shoes. He maintained eye contact and flashed a smile of bleached teeth. Byron didn’t like him, not one bit.

  “Please, call me Eric,” he said, gesturing for Byron to follow him into his private office. “Dixie, hold my calls, would you, hon?”

  Williams grabbed a ­couple of bottled waters out of a small fridge, handing one to Byron. When they were seated, he said, “So, what can I do for my brothers at the police department?”

  “Well, Eric, we’re looking into two murders. We have reason to believe they’re connected.”

  “Really, John? Is it okay if I call you John?” Williams asked, cozying up to Byron as if they were embarking on a newfound friendship.

  “That’s fine,” Byron said.

  “How exactly can I help?”

  Everything about the guy screamed fake. Something below the surface of this well-­rehearsed former cop’s act was all wrong. It felt like something more than a typical car salesman persona.

  “The victims were both former colleagues of yours.”

  “You’re kidding? Who?”

  “James O’Halloran and Cleophus Riordan. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it.”

  “Working seventy to eighty hours a week, I don’t have time to keep up on the news. Jeez, Cleo and Jimmy O, I haven’t thought about either of them in years. Murdered? I can’t believe it. What do you need from me?”

  “We believe these murders are connected to the 1985 Boston armored car robbery and the SRT shooting that followed. You were a part of that, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I was. It was a long time ago, though; some days I have trouble remembering what I ate for breakfast.” Williams flashed another a fake smile. “What do you want to know?”

  He bet Williams didn’t have any trouble remembering bottom line cost to the dealership on the gold Cadillac CTS parked out on the showroom floor or, for that matter, the length of Ms. Dixie Rose’s inseam. “Anything you can recall might be helpful.”

  “Sure, sure, let me think.” Mr. Snake Oil leaned back and stared up at the suspended ceiling. “Well, the entire team was there that night. We were pretty jacked up. These guys we were after were real desperadoes, robbed an armored car in broad daylight. We’d been training on the outdoor range all day. Got the call-­out early evening. The robbers were holed up in a house on Ocean Avenue. Lieutenant O’Halloran briefed us at 109. That’s what we used to call police headquarters.”

  “Still do. Do you remember where the information came from?”

  “Sure, it was one of . . . No, wait, different case. I can’t remember exactly. But I do remember that one of the bad guys’ girlfriends owned the house where they were hiding, or something like that. Anyway, once we were all in place, O’Halloran gave the signal to take the house. I was part of the four-­man entry team. We used flash bangs, to distract them, before breaching the door.”

  “Who else was on the entry team?”

  “Reg, Dom, and Bruce.”

  “You’re talking about Cross, Beaudreau, and Gagnon, correct?”

  “Yeah, sorry. So, we took the door and went in hot. Immediately everything turned to shit. It was like a fucking war zone. They were shooting at us and we dove for cover and returned fire. The smoke was so thick you could barely see.”

  Byron watched Williams’s eyes glaze over as he relayed the story. He knew from experience the former sergeant was now back in the house on Ocean Avenue and no longer seated in his office. Officers recalling traumatic events often find themselves on a time-­travel trip of the mind.

  “After it was over, Bruce was dead, shot in the throat. We’d killed three of the robbers. The fourth guy was missing.”

  Williams’s recall was far better than he’d been led to believe. “What happened after that?”

  “We secured everything, searched the house, and put out an ATL for the missing robber,” he said, referring to an attempt to locate.

  “Did you find any of the money?”

  He shook his head. “No. It wasn’t in the house. We figured the other robber took off with it.”

  Byron noted a change in his demeanor. The glazed eyes were gone, replaced by the predatory look of a salesman. Williams had returned to the here and now, his former smooth façade up and running. “Anything else?” Byron asked.

  “That’s about all I can really remember.”

  “Have you had contact with any of the other members of your team recently?”

  “No, not recently. Once or twice at Christmas parties after I retired, I guess, but it’s been years since I’ve run into any of them.”

  “Really, not even a phone call?”

  “Nope, not even a call, John.”

  Everyone lies to cops. It’s an indisputable fact. Their reasons might vary, but the end result is always the same. The lies make every investigation infinitely more difficult. Some ­people lie to cover up involvement, some because they’re asked to, some lie by embellishing the truth in their own misguided attempt at being helpful, but most lie because they think it’s their duty to fuck with the police, no matter what. Byron, who knew this better than most, knew Williams was lying. What he didn’t know was why. He wasn’t surprised, the guy was in charge of a car dealership after all. If his lips were in motion, it meant he was probably slinging the bull.

  Was Williams behind these deaths, or was it something else entirely? He decided not to challenge him right now. He’d save it for a later conversation.

  “You really think someone is targeting everyone who was there that night?” Williams asked.

  “Yes, we do. Any idea who we should be looking at?”

  “I remember there was some talk about Jack Riccio, the mobster. They thought he might’ve been behind the robbery. That the guys who ripped off the armored car may have worked for him.”

  “Do you remember where you heard that?”

  He shook his head. “No. It could have been the feds or our guys in CID. I can’t really remember.”

  “Anyone else you can think of?”

  “What about the other robber? I can’t remember his name. That’s probably who you’re searching for. Was he ever caught?”

  “Andreas. No, he’s still missing.” He studied Williams’s face for a reaction but saw none. “You mentioned earlier that one of the robbers’ girlfriends owned the house on Ocean Avenue. Was she ever interviewed?”

  “Dunno. You’d have to check with one of the guys who worked CID.”

  Byron made a mental note to do exactly that. “Can you think of any other reason someone might want you guys dead?”

  “Jeez, no.” Williams fidgeted with the plastic cap from his open water bottle. “So, you think this guy is going to try and come after me too?”

  “It would seem likely. Until we know why this is happening, we have to assume you’re all possible targets. We’re recommending each of you allow us to set up a protection detail.” />
  “You mean surveillance.”

  “Yes. To try and protect you.” He watched as Williams pretended to ponder the idea, but Byron already knew what his answer would be.

  “No, John. I really appreciate the offer, but I think I can handle it myself. I’ve still got my permit to carry. I like my chances.”

  Williams’s desk phone rang. “Okay, tell him I’ll be right there.” He hung up. “Sorry about this, John, but duty calls. I’ve got to go put out a fire for Mr. Dushambeaux, the GM.” His toothy bleached smile reappeared as he stood. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  “I appreciate your time. Let me know if you think of anything else.”

  “I will.”

  Williams walked Byron out of the dealership, shook hands with him, and reentered the business.

  Byron waited for a minute or two before walking back inside. As he approached Dixie’s desk, she looked up and smiled.

  “Well, hello again, Officer.”

  “Sorry to bother you, but I forgot to give Mr. Williams my card and I don’t want to interrupt him while he’s in with the GM,” Byron said, motioning toward the empty office.”

  Dixie gave him a puzzled look. “Mr. Dushambeaux? But he’s vacationing in the Caribbean.”

  “Oh, perhaps I misunderstood,” he said, giving her his most disarming smile. “Could you see he gets this?”

  DOWN EAST SENIOR CARE, located less than a mile from the picturesque seaside village of Damariscotta on the banks of the river bearing the same name, was the assisted-­living facility Tran had identified as Falcone’s address. It was nearly two by the time Diane parked the car in the lot and walked inside with Nugent.

  Falcone, it turned out, was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. Neither detective knew what to expect from the former Portland cop, but Diane was hoping his dementia hadn’t progressed too far.

  The first thing she noticed upon entering his room was the absence of any sign of family visitors or friends. There were no flowers, no cards, no photos, and no homey touches of any kind. He’d either outlived his friends and family or was on the outs with all of them. Given what she knew about cops, Diane guessed it was the latter.

  Falcone was lying propped up in an adjustable stainless steel hospital bed, watching television. The elderly, white-­haired ex-­cop turned his head and looked at the two detectives but remained silent.

  “Mr. Falcone,” she began, “my name is Detective Joyner and this is my partner Detective Nugent.” They both showed him their gold badges.

  “Like Columbo?” Falcone asked, his eyes widening with childlike fascination.

  “Yes, like Columbo,” Nugent said with only a hint of his usual sarcasm.

  “Piss off, cop,” Falcone said, staring directly at him.

  “Mr. Falcone, we aren’t here to upset you,” Diane said softly, attempting to calm him. She pulled a chair up close to his bed and sat down.

  Falcone looked over at her and smiled. “Pretty lady, you can call me Joe.”

  “All right, Joe. We’re from the Portland Police Department and we’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay with you.”

  “You can ask me anything, beautiful,” he said, patting her hand.

  “Your name is Christopher,” Nugent corrected.

  Falcone looked up at Nugent, squinting until his eyes were barely open. “I don’t like you, copper. Get out of my room.”

  Nugent looked at Diane. She nodded her approval. “I’ll be right outside the door, if you need me.”

  As soon as Nugent had retreated to the hall, she began again. “I want to ask you about your time on the job, Joe.”

  “Job?” Falcone asked with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Yes, when you were a police officer in Portland.”

  “I don’t remember. Was I a police officer?”

  “Isn’t this you, Joe?” she asked, handing him a copy of the SRT photograph and pointing to his face.

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember. Do you like my flowers?” he asked, pointing at the windowsill.

  She glanced around the room again, reaffirming it was devoid of plant life.

  “I raised them all myself,” he said. “I think the bougainvillea are my favorite. Do you like them?”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  Falcone smiled again and continued patting her hand.

  She spent the next twenty minutes unsuccessfully trying to get him to remember his time on the job. Finally, she excused herself, telling him she had to get back to work.

  “Your new boyfriend provide anything useful?” Nugent asked after they were down the hall and out of earshot.

  “No, and he doesn’t appear to have enough of his memory left to be of any help to us. It’s so sad, Mike. He has no idea who or even what he was.”

  “I don’t know,” Nugent said. “He may not remember who he was, but he seemed pretty happy to me.”

  “He’s tending imaginary flowers. It’s just so sad,” she repeated.

  He opened the lobby door for her. “Well, there’s one good thing about Falcone.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, stepping out onto the front walkway.

  “He’ll be easy to surveil.”

  “WHAT DO YOU mean he called to complain about me?” Byron asked incredulously. “Did you talk to him?”

  “No,” LeRoyer said. “He called and spoke directly to Stanton, who is now furious with you. In fact, Sergeant, so am I.”

  “Lieu, I have absolutely no idea what the hell you’re talking about. I just came from Williams’s office. We spoke for about a half hour, tops. No problem whatsoever.”

  As their voices raised, so did the curiosity of the two weekend property detectives whose desks were located in close proximity to LeRoyer’s office.

  “You’re telling me you didn’t harass him or threaten him with a warrant or surveillance?”

  “Of course I didn’t. Jesus Christ. I mentioned surveillance to him but only in the context of protection. The same conversation we’ve had with all the others. I’m telling you, nothing happened. This guy’s full of shit. Do you want me to call the chief?” Byron asked.

  “No, I don’t. You’ll only make it worse. I’ll talk with him myself after he’s had a chance to cool down a little.”

  “This is total bullshit, Lieu. Maybe there’s a reason Williams doesn’t want us poking around. Did you think of that?” Byron stormed out of the office before he said or did something he could be reprimanded for.

  Both nearby property detectives pretended to be on the phone as Byron flew by.

  Williams was manipulating things, that much was clear. Did he have a direct link to the chief? Or had he just decided to go directly to the top of the food chain? Regardless, Byron knew he must have hit a nerve when he interviewed Williams.

  He was just getting back to his office when his cell rang. “Byron.”

  “Ask and ye shall receive,” Special Agent Collier said.

  “Hey, Sam. You’ve got my files, I assume.”

  “Four boxes, ready and waiting.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  BYRON STASHED TWO of the boxes at his apartment, burying them in the bedroom closet. The other two he left in his trunk, figuring he’d have Diane take them and split the reading. He was sweating profusely and his stomach was churning. He sat down on the bed for a second and closed his eyes, waiting for it to pass. He hadn’t heard from either Diane or Nugent yet and knew it would still be a ­couple more hours before they returned to Portland.

  Jack Riccio. That name kept coming up. Could he have something to do with these murders?

  He opened his eyes and made a quick call to Pritchard.

  “Hey, John. I was thinking about you. How goes the hunt?”

  “Slow and steady. Listen, I’ve got someth
ing I want to run by you. You available for a quick meet?”

  “Sure. Where were you thinking?”

  “Sam told me you’re out in the Cape. How about someplace near you?”

  “I know just the place.”

  IT WAS THREE-­FIFTEEN as Byron walked into the Route 77 Diner. “Wooly Bully” was playing on the sound system. He found Pritchard seated alone at a booth.

  “Terry?”

  “You must be Sergeant Byron,” Pritchard said as he stood and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  At six foot three, Pritchard was every inch as tall as Byron but at least forty pounds heavier and none of it was flab. Byron guessed him to be a very fit early sixties. His jet-­black hair was parted in the middle with just a trace of gray creeping around the sides.

  “Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice.”

  “Happy to help.” Both men sat down. “Can I get you something?” he asked, pointing to his coffee.

  “No, I’m good thanks.”

  Pritchard waved off the waitress who’d started in their direction. He pointed up at a ceiling speaker. “You know who this is?”

  “Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs,” Byron said without hesitation.

  Pritchard grinned and nodded. “I’m likin’ you already. So, you said you had something to run by me. Shoot.”

  “We’ve started interviewing everyone in earnest. I spoke with Williams this afternoon and Humphrey and Cross the other day. One name keeps coming up. They keep mentioning Riccio.”

  “Ah, Jack Riccio.”

  “You’ve dealt with him?”

  “Our paths have crossed. Currently serving consecutive life sentences in a federal pen. Badass mob boss, worked primarily in the greater Boston area. Prostitution, loan-­sharking, drugs, guns, bribing public officials, murder—­you name it and Riccio was probably running it.”

  “A ­couple of the ex-­cops theorized Riccio might’ve been the brains behind the robbery.”