The first thing Byron saw was the prone body of a uniformed South Portland officer, the second was Petri Stavros. Stavros was bent over and in the process of removing Moulton’s sidearm from its holster.
Byron took cover behind a monument and pointed his handgun at Petri. “Freeze,” Byron said.
Petri came up firing in Byron’s direction, while scrambling for cover.
Byron returned fire and watched as Petri stumbled to the ground then crawled behind a ten-foot hedgerow. Peeking around the stone, Byron quickly scanned the bushes for Petri.
Several rounds were fired in Byron’s direction from beyond the hedge. Byron ducked down just as one of the bullets ricocheted off the headstone he was using for cover. Petri continued to fire blindly in Byron’s direction, but each of the rounds sailed wide of the mark. Byron knew that there was a big difference between cover and concealment. Byron had the cover and protection afforded by a granite monument while Petri’s hedge offered only concealment. As soon as the shooting ceased, Byron popped up into a shooter’s stance, took aim and fired into the center of the hedge until his weapon was out of ammo. Byron’s heart was racing as he ducked behind the grave marker again, dropped the empty magazine, and slammed in a fresh one.
He turned his head slightly to the sound of footsteps on gravel rapidly approaching from behind.
“Police! Drop it,” a male voice commanded from Byron’s right.
“Drop the gun,” echoed a female voice from somewhere behind him.
“I’m a police officer,” he said. “Sergeant John Byron. One of yours has been shot and is down. He needs an ambulance.”
“Put your weapon down now,” the female officer repeated.
“Okay, okay, I’ll put it down,” Byron said “But I need one of you to cover that piece of shit behind the hedge. Not sure if I wounded him or not.”
Byron tossed his gun onto the grass then placed his hands behind his head.
“I’ll cover him, Jimmy, go check the hedge,” the female said, clearly outranking the other officer.
“There’s nobody here,” the officer shouted.
The female officer approached and saw the shield hanging from Byron’s jacket.
“Sorry, just needed to be sure,” she said, handing him his gun.
“Call for an ambulance,” Byron said as he hurried over to where Moulton was lying and checked for a pulse.
The female officer keyed her mic. “10-74, 10-74, officer down. Send a rescue 10-18. Suspect is at large.”
The dispatcher’s voice broke through the static, “Ten-four, fire rescue en route. 100, copy?”
“100, I’m pulling up to the scene now.”
“Fuck,” the officer named Jimmy said as he knelt over his fallen comrade. “It’s Dick Moulton.”
“I’ve got a weak pulse,” Byron said. “Here, put pressure on his leg.” He turned to the female officer as he began unbuttoning Moulton’s shirt. “Petri Stavros is still out here somewhere, and he’s armed. Stay alert. Can you get a K-9 out here?”
Byron and Jimmy assisted the EMS personnel and the South Portland shift commander, Lieutenant Johnston, as they hurriedly prepped Moulton for transport and loaded him into the back of the rescue. The air was thick with the smell of diesel exhaust and Byron’s ears were still ringing from the gunfire. They had managed to slow Moulton’s external bleeding, but one of the bullets had entered his stomach below the vest. Moulton needed a trauma team if he had any chance of surviving his wounds.
Several more unmarked cars pulled up behind the ambulance, stopping on the side of Clark Road. Byron saw Diane and LeRoyer approaching on foot.
“Christ, John,” Diane said. “You okay?”
“Yeah, but Petri got away.”
“He won’t get far,” Lieutenant Johnston said. “Between Portland and South Portland, we’ve got this whole area saturated.”
Byron didn’t share the lieutenant’s optimism.
LeRoyer looked at Byron. “What the fuck happened here?”
“Long story, Lieu.”
The EMS driver cranked up the siren as the rescue unit quickly pulled away toward the cemetery entrance. Two South Portland cruisers assisted in the transport, one led while the other followed.
“Did you hit him?” Diane asked.
“Not sure,” Byron said. “I may have. We found blood over there in the grass on the other side of the hedge. Petri has Moulton’s shotgun.”
“What about his sidearm?” Diane asked.
“No. Couldn’t get it out of the holster.”
“The AG’s office is en route, John,” LeRoyer said. “I’m gonna need you to—”
The South Portland lieutenant’s portable radio crackled. “Dispatch to 100.”
“Go,” the lieutenant said, reaching up to the mic clipped to the epaulet on his uniform shirt.
“Can you give me a 10-21, Lieutenant?”
“Ten-four.” Lieutenant grabbed his cellphone out of the holder on his gun belt and dialed Dispatch. He put the phone in speaker mode then looked at the others. “Might as well all hear this.”
“911, Operator Jennings speaking. What is your emergency?”
“Paula, it’s Johnston.”
“Hang on, Lieutenant. Let me transfer you to the other operator.”
“Lieu?” the dispatcher said.
“What’s up, Robbie?”
“Didn’t want to put this out over the air. The K-9 tracked that Stavros guy out toward Broadway and that’s where the track ended.”
“He got into a vehicle?” the lieutenant asked.
“Looks like he may have stolen Moulton’s cruiser, sir. It’s missing.”
“Fuck,” the lieutenant barked. He looked at Byron. “He must have grabbed Dick’s keys, too. Any idea where he’d run?”
“Yeah,” Byron said. “I do.” He turned and pointed at Stevens. “Let’s go.”
“John, you were just involved in a shooting,” LeRoyer said in protest. “You’re not going any—”
“Petri just shot a cop, Marty. It’s my fault he got away. I’m going after him with or without your permission.”
LeRoyer looked at Stevens. “I don’t suppose anything I say is gonna matter to you either, is it?”
“Nope,” Stevens said as she shook her head and stepped closer to Byron.
“Time’s wasting, Marty,” Byron said.
LeRoyer sighed deeply. “Go. Just go.”
“Where are you going?” the South Portland lieutenant asked.
“Prouts Neck,” Byron shouted back. “Petri’s going home. Call Scarborough and tell them to meet us at Lina’s house.”
Chapter 37
Tuesday, 7:45 p.m.,
July 25, 2017
It was nearing twilight as Byron and Stevens arrived at the entrance to Angelina Stavros’s estate. Stevens slowed and turned into the driveway where two Scarborough officers awaited them. Large evergreens blocked what little sunlight there was, enveloping everything in shadow. The stolen South Portland cruiser, now abandoned and stuck between two twisted sections of iron fencing, appeared to have been rammed repeatedly into the gate. It was obvious that they would need to climb over the vehicle to gain entry to the property beyond.
“Wouldn’t Petri have known the access code?” Stevens said as they exited her unmarked.
“I’m guessing Lina changed it,” Byron said, but he couldn’t help wondering if maybe Lina had known about Petri’s dangerous infatuation with Deborah all along.
“Hey, guys,” the older dark-haired cop carrying the rifle said. He wore the chevrons of a supervisor on his uniform and given his timeworn appearance, Byron imagined that the long-sleeved shirt he donned during cold weather probably carried with it enough hashmarks to connect wrist to elbow. “We found it just like this and called it in to our Dispatch. Hasn’t been here that long. Tires are still warm.”
“John Byron,” he said, extending a hand. “This is Detective Melissa Stevens.”
“Tim Pasquale,” the sergeant said. “And
this is Officer Kinney.”
“Anyone go in yet?” Byron asked, reaching into the trunk of Mel’s unmarked and removing a spare Kevlar vest, like the one he should have been wearing before he pursued Petri into the cemetery.
“Nope,” Pasquale said. “Waiting on you.”
“How’s Dick Moulton?” Kinney asked.
“No word yet,” Stevens said.
“How do you want to do this?” Pasquale asked.
Byron thought for a moment. He knew that in addition to taking the keys Petri had also disarmed Moulton at the graveyard. “Stavros is armed with at least one handgun and Moulton’s shotgun,” Byron said as he adjusted and secured the last of the Velcro straps on his vest. “We haven’t been able to contact Lina, but we have to assume she’s home. And given Petri’s state of mind, it’s a good bet that Lina may well be in danger.”
“Petri’s wounded, too,” Pasquale said.
“How do you know that?” Stevens said.
“There’s blood all over the driver’s seat,” Pasquale said, pointing toward Moulton’s cruiser.
“Shouldn’t we call out our SWAT guys?” Kinney asked.
“Probably,” Byron said. “But I’m not waiting. Petri killed Danica Faherty, kidnapped a friend of mine, put two in Dick Moulton, and fired a half dozen rounds at me. And now he may well have taken his own mother hostage. I want this fucker.
“You guys want to call out the cavalry and wait right here, that’s up to you,” Byron continued. “But I’m going in.”
“Me, too,” Stevens said.
Pasquale paused a moment as he thought it through. “Technically this is Scarborough, not your jurisdiction, Sarge. But the way I see it, you and Detective Stevens here are still in fresh pursuit.”
“And?” Byron said, hopeful that he’d see it Byron’s way.
“And, we’re going in with you.”
“You two gonna be able to face the consequences for this?” Stevens asked.
Pasquale grinned. “Detective, I’ve been doing this job for twenty-five years. Trust me, this isn’t the first dumb thing I’ve done. Hopefully it won’t be the last.”
Byron turned to Kinney. “You good?”
Kinney nodded. “If you think he has a hostage up there, that’s good enough for me. I’d rather deal with the fallout for going in than live with Stavros hurting or killing anyone else. You think he knows we’re here?”
Byron pointed to the security cameras. “If he’s watching those, he does.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Stevens said. “There are four of us and only one of him. Besides, he knew it was a matter of time until we got here.”
The mic clipped to Pasquale’s epaulet crackled with static. “Car 5, status report.” He made eye contact with Byron.
“That you?” Byron asked.
“Yup.”
“Well?” Byron said.
Pasquale grinned as he reached down to the portable radio hanging from his gun belt and switched it off. “Damn radio service has always been a bit spotty out this way.”
“All right, let’s do this,” Byron said. He turned and grabbed onto the roof rack of the South Portland SUV and stepped up onto the right rear tire. “Cover me.”
LeRoyer had just finished briefing Rumsfeld when he saw Chief Lynds hurrying past the gravestones directly toward them.
“Fuck, here she comes,” Rumsfeld said under his breath. “Chief.”
Lynds ignored her second in command and focused directly on LeRoyer.
“Lieutenant, I see people from the Attorney General’s Office, Portland and South Portland PD are well represented, even the media big top has arrived, but I’ve noticed that one thing is glaringly absent from my scene.”
“What’s that, Chief?” LeRoyer asked, trying his best to sound convincing.
“Where the hell is Sergeant Byron?”
Byron jumped down off the heavily damaged SUV, careful to avoid the jagged metal protruding at odd angles from the crumpled hood. Stevens followed, while Pasquale and Kinney continued to provide cover, aiming down the driveway through the fence. After Stevens was safely on the other side of the obstacle, they swapped duties with the detectives providing cover for the Scarborough officers.
As soon as all four officers had made it over the SUV they continued on. Realizing that Petri might well be lying in wait, they availed themselves of the cover offered by the undergrowth, sticking as close as possible to the trees lining both sides of the darkened drive.
It took them several minutes to traverse the wooded section of the property and arrive at the clearing. Byron stopped then, holding up a hand to signal to the others to do the same. They crouched at the edge of the woods, Byron on the right flanked by Pasquale, while Stevens covered the left side of the drive with Kinney right behind her. Slowly, Byron scanned the expanse. The open space between where they were holed up and the house appeared empty. No Lina sitting by the lake. No grandbabies terrorizing ducks. No au pair. All seemed peaceful. A light breeze coming off the ocean kept the mosquitoes at bay. Small victories, Byron thought. They’d take all the help they could get.
“What do you think?” Pasquale asked.
“Looks clear,” Byron said. “But from here on out we’ll be totally exposed until we get to the house.”
“Darkness should help a little,” Pasquale said.
Byron hoped it would be enough.
“Let’s spread out as we cross open ground,” Byron said. “I don’t want to make it easy in case Petri starts shooting. As we get closer, I want you and Kinney to make your way around to the rear of the house. Mel and I will take the front and hopefully make entry from there.”
“Do you want to set up some kind of signal?” Pasquale asked. “You know, in case you guys run into trouble.”
“If we do run into trouble, I imagine you’ll have no trouble identifying our signal.”
“Roger that,” Pasquale said.
Byron’s cell vibrated. He checked the caller ID, saw it was LeRoyer, then pressed Ignore. Better to ask for forgiveness than for permission. He couldn’t remember where he’d first heard that, but it’d proved invaluable. He looked at the others. “Ready?”
They each responded accordingly.
“And kill your ringers,” Byron said. “I don’t want to get shot because of a text message.”
LeRoyer navigated his unmarked through the snarl of evening traffic using the lights and siren. He drove as fast as he dared toward Prouts Neck. Chief Lynds, who sat in the passenger seat, cellphone pressed to her ear, was fuming. The chief disconnected the call again.
“Byron’s still not answering,” Lynds said.
Nothing unusual there, LeRoyer thought.
Rumsfeld, on the phone to Scarborough PD, sat alone in the back seat. “What do you mean you can’t reach them?” Rumsfeld hollered. “You’ve got two officers on the scene and neither one is answering the radio? What kind of department are you running?”
LeRoyer, fighting back the urge to point out the obvious, knew all too well who was probably behind the radio silence. He knew whenever Byron set his sights on something, neither rank, nor chain of command, and certainly not the threat of discipline ever seemed to matter. Byron wanted Petri, period. LeRoyer knew that, one way or another, this thing would play itself out tonight at Angelina Stavros’s Scarborough home.
Byron had lost sight of Pasquale and Kinney several minutes before. Darkness was falling quickly as he and Stevens approached the front of the house from opposite corners. The windows were dark, no visible lights inside, only the lamps on either side of the main entry were illuminated. In the driveway was a white Porsche Macan, a vehicle Byron recognized only from its vanity plate. Wagner 5. It was Gene Wagner’s, probably one of many he owned. Was Wagner part of this? Byron wondered. Or had Lina telephoned him when she realized what was happening, that their dirty little secret had gone off the rails? And where was Wagner’s errand boy, Paulson? Would Wagner have involved him, or come alone?
As
they mounted the granite steps, Byron observed that the front door to the home was ajar. The damage around the latch was obvious. Someone had forced it. He waited until Stevens arrived at his side before giving the heavy oak a shove. The door swung the rest of the way open, revealing the gloom of the home’s interior.
Byron and Stevens stepped inside, moving as slowly as possible to give their eyes a chance to adjust. They crept through the entryway into the main living space.
They skirted either side of the dining room, pausing outside the kitchen door. Byron silently signaled for Stevens to hang back. He wanted her out of harm’s way, out of sight as his backup while he faced whatever awaited them in the next room. Stevens nodded and Byron slid into the kitchen. The room was dark except for the pendant lights suspended above a large granite-topped island, reminding Byron of some old-time noir interrogation scene.
In the light, Byron saw fresh blood drops glistening on the tile floor.
Byron’s heart was racing as he surveyed the room. He adjusted his breathing, attempting to bring it down a notch.
Cautiously, he skirted the island. The first thing he saw was Gene Wagner’s motionless body lying faceup on the floor. Wagner was bleeding from a head wound. Byron checked the other darkened corners of the room, but there was only Wagner. He returned to Wagner and knelt down. Pressing his fingers against the carotid artery on the side of Wagner’s neck, Byron felt for a pulse. He found one, but it was weak. Wagner was still alive, but for how long?
“Is he dead?” Stevens whispered from behind him.
“Jesus, Mel,” Byron said, startled. “I thought you were still in the dining room.”
“Sorry. Got bored.”
“No, he’s not dead. Looks like someone knocked him a good one, though.” Byron looked closely and saw the knot forming on the side of Wagner’s head.
“He’ll have to wait,” Byron said as he stood up and headed back toward the dining room. “Let’s go.”
They checked the remainder of the first floor, including the library and several bathrooms, but there was no sign of either Lina or Petri.
Within Plain Sight Page 33
