Within Plain Sight

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  Byron still didn’t see the significance. “I don’t see how that pertains to our case.”

  “Guess who the top remaining bidder to purchase the property is?”

  Byron fought the urge to grab Tran and shake the answer out of him. “No idea.”

  “Wagner Enterprises.”

  “As in Gene Wagner?” Byron said.

  “Yup.”

  Byron took a moment to process the news. Why hadn’t Wagner mentioned his connection to the property when they spoke before? It would be impossible not to see the conflict. If Wagner really had nothing to do with Danica Faherty’s murder, why keep it from Byron?

  “You said Wagner is now the top bidder for the property—”

  “Actually, he’s the only bidder now that Investacorp withdrew.”

  “Is there any way to know how much his company bid?”

  “No. But I can tell you he has submitted plans to the city to build a high-end hotel and restaurant on the property. Who do we know that might be interested in that?”

  Byron bypassed the front desk, ignoring the protests from both receptionists, and marched directly into Gene Wagner’s office.

  “What do you want me to say?” Wagner said as he glowered over his desk at Byron. “I didn’t mention it because I didn’t think it mattered.”

  “You didn’t think it mattered?” Byron said, working hard to control the anger building inside him. “A woman you’ve got the hots for suddenly turns up murdered, her body dumped in the middle of a property that your company is trying to purchase, and you didn’t think it was relevant to share that with the police?”

  “Look, Dani was a beautiful young woman. I’m sure I wasn’t the only person attracted to her.”

  “But you were the only one harassing her just before she went missing.”

  “I wasn’t harassing her. I was playing around. She enjoyed the attention. You can ask Lina.”

  “I thought you couldn’t remember what happened that night. You were over-served, remember?” Byron stood there waiting for an answer, leaving Wagner to dangle from the end of his own lie.

  “You can’t honestly think that I killed her,” Wagner said.

  “Did you?”

  “Of course not. Besides, if I were dumb enough to do what you’re implying, would I then turn around and leave her body for you to find on the very property I’m trying to acquire?”

  “I don’t know what you’re capable of. I guess it would depend on how much money was at stake. Looks like you’re the highest bidder now that Investacorp withdrew their offer.”

  “Lucky me.”

  Byron didn’t trust Wagner one bit, but even he had to admit dumping a body that would so easily be connected to him would’ve been a foolhardy move, even for a lecherous old prick.

  “Now, unless you’re planning to trump up some charge on me, inviting me to sue your ass out of existence, I have more important things to attend to. Have a nice day, Sergeant.”

  Byron fumed all the way out to the parking lot. The interview hadn’t gone at all the way he’d imagined. He’d gone to Wagner’s office intending to catch him by surprise, knock him off his high horse maybe, but the calculating businessman didn’t appear shaken in the least. Byron unlocked the Taurus and climbed inside. He slid the key into the ignition, fired up the engine, then sat staring through the windshield, allowing the air-conditioning to soothe him.

  Wagner was arrogant and way too confident for Byron’s liking, but that confidence seemed genuine. Stavros had described Wagner as intoxicated and belligerent the night she removed him from the restaurant. But it’s a long journey between belligerence and murder. Could he have killed Faherty during a blackout? Byron himself had managed to do some pretty messed-up things while blacked out. But this play had two acts. Even if Wagner could have pounced after waiting around for Faherty to leave the restaurant, decapitating a body was so far beyond human decency it was hard to fathom. Byron operated on facts and logic, and the facts were that nothing about this case seemed logical. Why had the killer chosen that spot to dump the body when there were so many other easier locations? The new lock had the appearance of preplanning. Did Dani have sex with her killer before being murdered or had it been someone else entirely? There were still too many unanswered questions. Maybe they were overlooking something. Maybe the answers they were after were closer to Faherty than they thought.

  Byron reached back, grabbed his seat belt, then clicked it into place. It was time to go back to the beginning.

  Byron climbed the stairs to Danica Faherty’s former apartment and let himself inside. The space possessed that strange emptiness that Byron had experienced so many times when investigating the life of the deceased. Once the spark of life is removed from a living space everything else goes with it. Even his footfalls seemed muted as he walked to the center of the kitchen and turned slowly, surveying the room. Nothing stood out. They’d pored over everything looking for any indication that someone new had entered Dani Faherty’s life. Tran had scoured her laptop, but nothing had revealed itself. Not even the prostitution angle that Murray had believed they would find. Faherty’s contacts were all known to them. Everyone had been questioned. Byron couldn’t link anyone as having been with her the night she was believed to have been killed. Even Alex Stavros, her boyfriend on the down-low, had an alibi. He’d spent the weekend in Boston a hundred and twenty miles away, attending a restaurant conference. Something had happened to her after she left work early Sunday morning, but what? And who were the two people the neighbor saw dropping her car off in the driveway? Had she spent the night at someone else’s place?

  Byron walked over to the refrigerator, studying the post-its and photos again. There were photos of Dani and Destiny Collins, some together, back in college, some more recent. His eyes scanned the pictures looking for anyone who stood out. Nothing. He reached out and slid one from beneath a colorful butterfly magnet. The solo shot of Faherty depicted her perched on the arm of a couch, dressed in a sexy white negligee and wearing a come-hither expression on her face. He had viewed the photo numerous times but seen nothing helpful. It was impossible to know even how long ago the picture had been taken. This time he looked past Dani, past the couch, to the wall behind her. Had he seen the wallpaper before? It was unusual. Perhaps a bit dated. He closed his eyes and scanned through the past several days trying to recall if he had seen it and if so where. After several moments he opened them again. Still nothing. He replaced the photo on the fridge and walked into the next room.

  Twenty minutes later Byron was beginning to think he was wasting his time. He’d found nothing new, and truth be told was beginning to feel like a creeper. Permission or not, he was snooping around in the apartment where Dani had once lived. It seemed wrong somehow. He was headed back down the stairs to the first floor when his cell buzzed with a call from Tran.

  Byron answered. “Hey, Dustin.”

  “Striped One, I think I might have found something.”

  Byron could hear the breathless excitement in his detective’s voice. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What is it?”

  “I just got Dani Faherty’s cell history from the provider, and I’ve been going through it.”

  “Good. Anything helpful?”

  “Maybe. I was focusing on the history leading up to her death, then I happened to think, what if something new came in? You know, a voicemail or call after she was killed.”

  “And?”

  “She received a bunch of voicemails over the last few days. The messages are all from the same number. The number comes back to a collision repair company out of South Portland.”

  Byron had been waiting for something, anything, to come from the subpoena that Tran had sent to Faherty’s phone company. The cellular provider hadn’t been in any rush since, in their view, there was no immediacy. Byron, who didn’t share their opinion, wondered if things might have appeared more urgent had Faherty been related to one of their shareholders.

  Scanning the ca
ll list on Tran’s computer monitor, Byron saw three repeat calls from the same number during the previous week. He didn’t recognize the number as belonging to anyone associated with the investigation. “Are these the voicemail numbers?” Byron asked Tran.

  “Yes. I ran the number and it comes back to Casco Collision in South Portland. Remember I told you that Danica had been involved in an accident a few weeks back?”

  Byron did recall Tran telling him that, but at the time he couldn’t see how it might be relevant to their investigation. He looked at the duration of each call. The shortest was the first, lasting only seven seconds. Each subsequent call increased in length, culminating with the last which had gone on a full twenty seconds.

  “Can we play the voicemails?” Byron asked.

  “They’re wave files,” Tran said.

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s just a type of formatting. Controls which devices you can listen to them on.”

  “How about your computer?”

  “Oh yeah, they’ll play here,” Tran said proudly, missing Byron’s point completely.

  “May I hear them?”

  “Oh sure, of course.”

  The first message came from a gruff-sounding male.

  “Danica Faherty, this is Joe Crump at Casco Collision. I’m calling to let you know that your car has been repaired and is ready to pick up. Thanks.”

  “That one came in at 9:06 Monday morning, July 10th,” Tran said.

  The subsequent voicemails were also from Crump.

  “This is the last one,” Tran said. “Came in on Friday.”

  “Ms. Faherty, Joe Crump again, at Casco Collision. You have your car back now, and I want that loaner car returned today. We have other customers who need it. Please contact me as soon as you get this message. If I don’t hear back from you, I’ll be forced to contact the police. Call me.”

  Crump’s increasing exasperation at not having his calls returned was obvious. Just as obvious was the fact that Byron had overlooked an important piece of the puzzle. Faherty had been using a loaner car that none of them knew about.

  “Can you save all of that information for me?” Byron asked as he hurried from the computer lab.

  “Consider it done,” Tran hollered over his shoulder.

  Chapter 22

  Monday, 11:35 a.m.,

  July 17, 2017

  Byron and Stevens found a short middle-aged bantam rooster of a man pacing around outside Casco Collision on Western Avenue in South Portland. With a cigar in one hand and a cellphone in the other, the man was talking animatedly to someone at the other end of the phone.

  “Are you Joseph Crump?” Byron asked as the man ended the call.

  “Yup,” Crump said. “Who wants to know?”

  Both detectives displayed their identification.

  “You guys sure take your time about shit. I filed that bad check report two friggin’ weeks ago. You think I can afford to take a hit like that?”

  “We’re not here about a bad check, Mr. Crump,” Stevens said. “We’re from Portland PD.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “We came to speak with you about a car you loaned to a woman named Danica Faherty,” Byron said.

  “Goddammit, don’t you tell me she smashed up my car,” Crump said. “I knew something was wrong. She’s been avoiding my calls.”

  “She isn’t avoiding you,” Byron said. “She’s dead.”

  Crump paused for a moment, making direct eye contact with Byron as if trying to make sure he was serious. “Jesus, she’s not the woman who was found decapitated?”

  “Actually, she is,” Byron said, pleased to see he now had Crump’s full attention.

  Crump puffed on the cigar until the tip glowed brightly, then exhaled a long plume of smoke before speaking again. “Any idea where my Camry is?”

  “That’s why we came to see you,” Stevens said. “The car you repaired for her was parked at her apartment in the driveway. Any idea how it got there?”

  “Couple of my guys dropped it off at her place on Monday. Left the keys in it per Miss Faherty’s instructions. She was supposed to return my loaner the following day.” Crump took another puff from his stogie before continuing. “But I guess she couldn’t, could she?”

  “Can we see the paperwork on the loaner?” Byron asked.

  “When do I get my car back?”

  “Assuming it wasn’t used in the commission of her murder, or some other crime, soon as we can find it,” Stevens said.

  “At a minimum we will probably want to process the vehicle, Mr. Crump,” Byron added.

  “I don’t suppose the Toyota was equipped with GPS?” Stevens asked hopefully.

  Crump let out a laugh and dropped what remained of the cigar, grinding it out beneath his boot. “Yeah, right. That’s a good one.”

  “May we see the paperwork?” Byron asked.

  “Sure, sure. Come on inside.”

  Byron and Stevens spoke with the two employees who had dropped Faherty’s car at her apartment, confirming Crump’s account. They departed the body shop armed with the description and registration of the loaner. Stevens telephoned PPD Dispatch and relayed the vehicle info along with the plate number for an attempt to locate.

  “What do you think, Sarge?” Stevens asked after ending the call to Dispatch. “Maybe the killer used the loaner to transport her body to the dump site?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Let’s recheck there and the area around Alessandro’s. It’s possible that she never made it to her car after leaving work Saturday night.”

  “Jeez, I wonder if it was one of the cars parked near the dump site from the list we made,” Stevens said.

  Byron was wondering the very same thing. A quick call to Tran confirmed that it wasn’t.

  They spent the next twenty minutes checking every street and parking lot in the vicinity of those two locations but came up empty.

  “This sure would be a whole lot easier if the loaner had GPS,” Stevens said. “Any ideas?”

  Byron thought about it for a moment. It was entirely possible that Faherty had been grabbed while driving the loaner, but if the killer had used the car to flee, it could be anywhere by now, even out of state. He pulled out his cell and dialed.

  “Police Dispatch, Operator Thomas speaking.”

  “Ben, John Byron.”

  “Hey, Sarge. What can I do you for?”

  “Can you transfer me to Parking Control at city hall?”

  “Sure thing. Hang on.”

  Stevens grinned. “You never miss a trick, do ya?”

  Byron knew if there was one department in city government that could always be counted on to get the job done, it was Parking Control.

  “Parking Control, Green speaking.”

  Al Green, parking Nazi extraordinaire, was the one person Byron had hoped wouldn’t answer the call. Green was responsible for the lion’s share of the parking tickets Byron had received, a number of which remained unpaid and crammed inside the glove box of his unmarked. Byron often wondered whether Green followed him around intentionally trying to catch him, as if he received bonuses for writing up city vehicles or, more specifically, unmarked police cars.

  “It’s John Byron, Al. I need a favor.”

  “Sergeant Byron. Let me guess, you’ve decided to pay off your outstanding violations, and you’d like to know if we’ll accept a personal check.”

  Byron glanced over at Stevens to see if she’d heard Green’s half of the conversation. The look on her face confirmed that she had and was enjoying every moment of this.

  “Actually, that’s not it,” Byron said, resisting the urge to say something snarky. He did need Green’s help after all.

  “I’m shocked,” Green said. “So, what is this favor you require from moi?”

  “I need you to check the scoff computer to see if a vehicle has been recently ticketed.”

  “No can do.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “The scof
f computer has been down all week. I can’t check diddly. Don’t worry, though, I’ve been writing as many tickets as I can. Just wait until that system comes back up, baby. Woo boy. I’ll be towing or slapping a boot on every car I see. Maybe even yours.”

  The image of a uniformed and jackbooted Green suddenly popped into Byron’s head. “And when might that be?”

  “Who knows? Check with the computer geeks over at MIS. Maybe you’ll get further with them than we have.”

  Byron, who’d never written a parking ticket in his life, couldn’t understand how it was that the only time the system was down was when he really needed it. With no way to take the new information further, they returned to 109 to regroup.

  Byron had been thinking about his late-night visit to the lumberyard where Dani Faherty’s remains had been disposed of. Recalling the commercial cleaner he’d seen on a smoke break, he followed up with Detective Robbins and Stevens.

  “What do you mean you didn’t check?” Byron shouted at Robbins.

  “You told Nuge and me to canvass the hotel because you thought someone might have seen something,” Robbins said.

  “I told you to take a couple of uniforms and canvass the area,” Byron said. “The entire area. I never said anything about limiting the canvass to the hotel, Bernie. Did you speak to anyone at the businesses on York Street?”

  “I knew they would have been closed on Tuesday night, so I didn’t bother.”

  Byron could feel the rage building inside him. “You didn’t bother? What the fuck kind of half-assed canvass is that? Did it ever occur to you that commercial cleaners work at night, Detective?”

  Byron wasn’t sure who he was more pissed at, Robbins for being lazy and disinterested, LeRoyer for sticking him with the second-rate detective, or himself for trusting that Robbins would follow a simple order.

  Stevens stepped in, attempting to save him. “We can go out there now, Sarge. Can’t we, Bernie?”

  “I guess,” Robbins said.

  “We’ll check with all of them about nighttime cleaner schedules, too. Let’s go.” Stevens grabbed Robbins by the arm, literally dragging him from Byron’s office.