Cross lit another cigarette.
Byron knew the chief was stalling.
“We’d been training all day. Everyone was in great spirits. We were celebrating Eric’s fortieth birthday. We starting talking about the Boston armored car robbery. It was all anyone was talking about. Grabbing almost a million and a half in broad daylight. These guys had huge balls. We were joking about it over beers down at Sporty’s, on Congress Street. You remember that place?”
“The Sportsman’s, yeah, I remember.”
The Sportsman’s had been the popular Congress Street haunt for Portland cops until closing its doors in 1999. Many officers would bring their families to eat at the restaurant on their off time, while others used it only for blowing off steam, proceeding directly to the bar side of the establishment following a “late out” shift (midnight to eight), where they would imbibe, sometimes until two or three in the afternoon. Byron’s own father had frequented Sporty’s, the bar side.
“Anyway, we were playing the ‘what if’ game. What if they fled to Maine? What if we were called to take them into custody? At first that’s all it was, talk. You know, the macho bullshit that comes out of all of us when we get together. But later on, well, some of us began talking about what we would do if they still had the money on them. I mean the money was insured, right?”
Byron said nothing.
Cross stubbed out what was left of his cigarette, finished off his whiskey, and poured another glass. Byron began to worry the chief might not remain coherent enough to finish the story.
“O’Halloran got a phone call after which he pulls Williams, Riordan, and me aside and tells us he’s got an informant who knows where the robbers are hiding, right here in Portland.”
“And you don’t know who the informant was?” Byron asked with incredulity.
“Good CI’s are hard to come by, you know. The lieutenant wasn’t sharing the source and we knew better than to ask.”
“What happened?” Byron asked.
“We rounded up the team and headed down to 109 for a briefing. Unmarked units from CID were already sitting down the street from the house. The black-and-whites all knew about the intel on the bad guys, but they’d been ordered not to make any attempt at either approaching the house or apprehending the robbers. This arrest was ours. The consensus was these guys were too unpredictable and too dangerous to fuck around with. The guys we were looking for were Warren, Ellis, Andreas, and Rotolo. I think the house on Ocean belonged to Warren’s girlfriend. Anyway, it was pretty standard. The detectives and MedCu staged down the street at a makeshift CP. Beaudreau, Humphrey, and your dad were our snipers. Perrigo and O’Halloran had containment, and the entry team consisted of me, Riordan, Williams, and Gagnon.”
Byron remembered Williams’s account of the event had been identical. A near impossibility even for officers at the same incident. People, as a result of their life experiences and individual biases, always tend to see things a little different. Byron was now sure that what he was hearing was the lie that the group had concocted thirty years ago. One big lie with enough sprinkles of truth to make it easy to remember.
“We took the door, used a stun grenade, and made entry. At first there was nothing as we cleared several rooms. But then I heard the sound of a shotgun blast coming from one of the bedrooms. The firefight started. They’d been lying in wait. It was crazy, it seemed like the shooting went on forever. When it was over, I found Williams kneeling over Gagnon’s body. Rotolo shot the kid in the throat with a shotgun. Eric’s hands were covered in Gagnon’s blood. I’ll never forget it as long as I live.”
Byron watched with fascination as the cigarette in Cross’s hand burned down to his fingers. There was an ash stump several inches in length protruding from what was left of it. The chief was so lost in his memories, he didn’t notice.
Cross took a moment to get his thoughts in order before continuing. Byron remained silent. The house was eerily quiet, Byron could hear the sound of a clock ticking in a nearby room.
“So O’Halloran came inside. We told him Gagnon was dead, along with Warren, Ellis and, Rotolo. Andreas was in the wind.”
As he spoke, Cross fortified himself with the Irish again.
“Tell me about the money.”
“We tore the place apart searching for it. Found nearly half of it. They’d hidden it everywhere—basement, attic, kitchen cupboards, and bedroom closets. Everywhere. I’d never seen so much money, none of us had. O’Halloran had your dad and Humphrey bring the SRT transport to the house. The rest of us loaded the money into our equipment bags and carried them out to the truck.”
Cross was clearly trying to elicit a reaction from Byron. He didn’t get one.
“After that, we split the money. In all we recovered a little under seven hundred grand. Everyone assumed Andreas must have gotten away with all of it. But if he did get away, he only got half.”
“You’re telling me this is the reason someone’s trying to kill all of you?”
“I’m not telling you anything. I’m only telling you what happened. It’s the only reason I can think of.”
“What about Gagnon?”
Cross’s eyes narrowed. “What about him?”
“Perrigo thinks you killed him.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Why would we kill one of our own? Sounds like you’ve been talking to someone who’s still pissed about not getting an equal share of the money.”
“Does Stanton know about this?”
“Of course not.”
Byron slowly shook his head for effect. “I can’t believe you assholes actually thought you’d get away with it.”
“Hey, news to you, we did get away with it,” Cross said, his arrogance returning.
“Really?”
“You’ve no proof of anything. The money is long gone and most of the guys who benefited from it are dead now, anyhow. Maybe you need to brush up on your Criminal Code, John. The statute of limitations on a class A crime has long since expired.”
“Not on murder.”
“You can’t prove I had anything to do with any of these deaths. Tell anyone about the money and I’ll only deny it. It’ll be your word against mine.”
“What about Perrigo?”
“What about him?” Cross asked with a knowing smirk. “Thought he was dead.”
“I’ve still got his taped confession.”
Cross’s smirk vanished.
“Why are you telling me any of this?” Byron asked, knowing that Cross was still trying to play him. He’d never seen Cross do anything without some kind of angle from which only he would benefit.
“Because, I need you to catch whoever is doing this. For Christ’s sake, I may well be their next victim.”
“You deserve to be the next victim.” Byron stood up abruptly, intentionally knocking his chair into the wall.
“What are you gonna do?” Cross asked as he stood and followed.
“My job.”
“Before you go and do anything stupid, Mr. High-and-Mighty, don’t forget your father took his share of the money too.” Cross smiled, having played his ace in the hole.
Byron stopped as he reached the front door and turned to face Cross. “It’s not my father I’m coming after.” Byron stormed out of the house and down the front steps.
CROSS PACED BACK and forth nervously, trying to decide what to do. He poured himself another whiskey to calm his frazzled nerves. He picked up his Glock from the dining room table, reinserted the magazine and chambered round before placing it back into the pocket of his robe. He lit another cigarette, grabbed his cell phone, and dialed.
He sat down at the table, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples, listening to the distant ringing. At last the person on the other end of the line picked up.
“I thought my instructions were clear. You were never to call me unless it was an emergency.”
Cross exhaled the smoke he’d been holding in. “We’ve got a big problem.”
BYRON DROVE TO 109. He had done all he could to set things in motion. All of his remaining targets were covered, at least he hoped they were, and he’d poked the proverbial bear with a stick to see what would happen. He liked Humphrey for the first two murders, but a partial print and a drink with a friend would hardly make the case. They were in fact the kinds of flimsy circumstantial evidence any first-year court-appointed hack would poke holes in. They needed more, something concrete. Besides, he was certain something else was happening here, something he still couldn’t see.
Byron didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until his cell phone rang, startling him. He looked around the conference room, trying to get his bearings. The clock on the wall read two-fifteen. “Byron,” he mumbled as he sat up in the chair, rubbing his stiff neck.
“Sarge, it’s Mike. Looks like Beaudreau and his old lady are heading out of town.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m on ninety-five southbound, following his Caddy. We just passed the Saco exit. I was watching the club when I saw someone come outside and load a couple of suitcases into the trunk. I started following them about ten minutes ago. What do you want me to do?”
Byron tried to clear his head as he thought it through. They had no legal reason to detain either of them. Beaudreau wasn’t a suspect in the murders. If anything, he was probably wise to get out of Dodge while the getting was still good. But Beaudreau had lied to him, he was sure of it. And after losing Perrigo, he needed another source. Someone he could keep alive to testify.
“Sarge, you still there?” Nugent asked.
“Nuge, do you have Statewide Car-to-Car on your radio?”
“Think so.”
“Get ahold of the nearest trooper on the turnpike. Tell them you need a car stopped. I’m leaving 109 right now. Text me with your location as soon as they’re pulled over.”
A LIGHT RAIN was falling as Byron pulled up behind Nugent’s unmarked and a light blue state police unit, a mile south of the Kennebunk service area. He could see a figure silhouetted in the backseat of the trooper’s Chevy. Nugent and the trooper were standing beside the light-colored Caddy, talking with a very animated female. Byron stepped out of his car and approached them.
“Is that him?” the intoxicated female yelled. “Are you the fuck-stick who ordered this?”
Byron saw Nugent lean in close to her and say something back. Whatever he’d said quieted her, for the moment. Nugent left her in the trooper’s care and walked back to meet Byron.
“Beaudreau’s girlfriend?” Byron asked, recognizing her as the party girl from the Unicorn.
“In the flesh. Belinda Gee, and she’s a piece of work.”
“What’s Beaudreau told you?”
“About the case, nothing, and Belinda’s shit-faced. She offered to perform a service if I let her go, but I turned her down.
“Wise decision.”
“I thought so. Evidently, she doesn’t hear the word no very often. She’s called trooper Edwards and me every name in the book and threatened to sue us at least a dozen times.”
“What about Beaudreau? Why is he in the backseat of the cruiser?”
“Ah, Dominic was threatening to kick our asses. We had to restrain him. You wanted them, they’re all yours.”
“What the fuck gives you the right to detain me, Sergeant?” Beaudreau barked as he stepped out of the state police car.
“We’re gonna sue all of your asses,” Belinda shouted.
“Belle, shut the fuck up,” Beaudreau yelled back.
Byron remained calm. “You’re right. I don’t have a good reason. But we’ve been working hard to keep you alive. You leaving town will make that impossible.”
“I already told you, I don’t want your help. Besides, you haven’t exactly done a bang-up job keeping all of us alive, have you?”
“You also said you didn’t know why someone was trying to kill each of you. But we both know differently, don’t we?”
Beaudreau shook his head in denial. “I don’t have the slightest idea what in hell you’re talking about. I’m telling you, for the second time, I don’t know why this is happening. But I’m not stupid, Sergeant. I’m not gonna wait around and become the next victim.”
“I know about the money,” Byron said, trying to gauge his response. Beaudreau’s eyes widened ever so slightly. A reaction Byron might’ve missed in the flashing light of the trooper’s strobes, had he not been watching for it.
The former cop returned Byron’s stare. “What money?”
“The drug rips, the armored car money. Perrigo told us everything.”
Beaudreau broke eye contact, unconsciously rubbing the stubble on his chin.
“I can’t help you unless you talk to me.”
Beaudreau’s eyes locked back on Byron’s. “Let’s assume that we had anything to talk about, how does that help me?”
“Give me your statement, tell me everything that happened, and I’ll get you into protective custody.”
“Sounds more like being in custody to me.” Beaudreau looked back toward Belinda.
“At least you’ll be alive,” Byron said.
“Why do you think I’m leaving this Christly state? Seems like that might keep me alive too.”
“You really think you can hide from this? You know who you’re running from. How far do you think you’ll get. Talk to me, Dominic. Let me help you.”
Byron saw Beaudreau’s expression soften. The former cop, no longer adversarial, looked scared.
“What if—?”
“How much longer are you guys gonna stand around pulling your puds?” Belinda yelled. “I gotta pee.”
Beaudreau turned briefly to look at her before turning back. Byron could see the fear was gone. The spell was broken. Whatever momentary progress he’d made toward gaining Beaudreau’s cooperation had disappeared, thanks to Belinda’s big mouth.
“I think we’re done here, Sergeant Byron.”
“Cross told me everything,” Byron said in a desperate attempt to pull Beaudreau back.
Beaudreau stared at him, unblinking for several seconds, before his mouth curled up into a knowing grin.
Byron knew instantly he’d overplayed his hand.
“Now I know you’re lying,” Beaudreau said. “Are you charging me with something or not?”
Byron shook his head. “No.”
“Good, so you’ve got no reason to detain either of us. We’re leaving.” Beaudreau turned and walked toward his car. “Come on, Belle. We’re going.” Nugent looked at Byron for guidance.
“Let ’em go,” Byron said with a backhand wave.
Bathed in flickering blue light, the three cops stood in the breakdown lane of the Maine Turnpike and watched as Beaudreau and Belle drove away.
Byron knew he’d almost had Beaudreau. He’d come so close to reeling him in, only to lose him. Maybe for good. Beaudreau hadn’t believed for a second that Cross had come clean.
“Well, maybe your killer won’t get to him if he’s out of state,” Trooper Edwards said.
“Don’t think it’s gonna make much difference,” Byron said.
“Why not?” Nugent asked.
“The way this case is going, he’s dead already.”
BYRON SENT NUGENT home to get some sleep, then drove to his own apartment, hoping to squeeze in a two-hour nap. He set the alarm on his nightstand for six o’clock along with a cell phone backup.
He awoke a couple of minutes before either alarm went off. His internal clock keeping him on edge in spite of his exhaustion.
Wipers on high, Byron drove through a torrent of rain, his
mind replaying the previous night’s interactions, first with Cross, then Beaudreau, and the ever so-charming Belle. First stop the drive-through at D & D for an extra-large dose of caffeine, then on to 109.
He was attempting to catch up on his reports when he got a call from the chief’s secretary, summoning him to Stanton’s office. He knew precisely what it was about and wasn’t surprised in the least when he found Cross and LeRoyer already seated there. Cross smirking was bad, but LeRoyer staring at the floor was worse.
“Have a seat, John,” Stanton said in a warm and inviting way that could only signify he wanted something.
Byron sat down apprehensively as Stanton got up and closed the door to the office. The chief returned and sat down with the others in one of the brown leather guest chairs, effectively removing the obstacle of his mahogany desk. Byron knew the game as well as anyone. He could see where the whole show was headed, entirely scripted and designed to convince him to play ball.
“How are you, John?” Stanton asked, removing his glasses and placing them in the pocket of his dress shirt. “Case going well?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said, attempting to remain calm. Byron despised Stanton’s manipulative and cozy use of his first name. Being referred to as sergeant suited him just fine. “We’re making progress.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it. John, I won’t beat around the bush.”
Sure you will, he thought. It was the name of this game, after all.
“I understand Assistant Chief Cross shared some sensitive information with you last night in an attempt to help you with your case.”
“Is that your understanding, Chief?” Byron asked, his sarcasm obvious.
LeRoyer shifted uneasily in his chair. His gaze moved from the floor to Byron.
Among the Shadows Page 29