by Gerry Boyle
Brandon stepped in.
“Hey, there,” he said, and he moved to the edge of the bed and leaned, gave her forehead a peck. She looked up at him and smiled her lopsided smile.
“Good movie,” Brandon said. “I remember watching it at home, on the VCR.”
On the TV Julie and the kids were a show, the boys in lederhosen. Julie and the dad had some kind of moment, their eyes meeting. Nessa reached for the remote, turned down the sound.
Brandon handed her the keypad.
“How are you doing? I’m sorry I haven’t been around. Work’s been busy.”
She typed.
I KNOW. IT’S OKAY.
“You know? You’ve been watching the news?”
AND READING THE PAPER. ON THE COMPUTER IN THE LOBBY.
“Aren’t you getting high-tech.”
YES.
“So did you read about the thing on the Eastern Prom?”
HORRIBLE.
“The woman who shot the man, that’s Mia’s friend. From her book club.”
SHE WAS IN THE PICTURE
“Right. She and Mia. Mia went to help her out, give her some support.”
MIA IS VERY KIND.
“Yes, she is. Kinder than me.”
YES.
Brandon looked at her, wondering if that was a joke. No sign of it. Then Nessa was typing again.
WORRIED ABOUT YOU.
“I’m fine. Really.”
I HATE TO SEE YOU IN TROUBLE.
“Oh, I’m not in trouble. Just been a lot happening and I think I need a little time off. Get away from it.”
YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BE FIRED, ARE YOU? BECAUSE THE PAPER SAID—
Brandon stopped her, mid-sentence.
“The paper said what?”
Nessa looked up, her lopsided face full of sympathy. Brandon said, “Excuse me, Nessa,” and left the room, went to the station, where Shardi was bent over, rummaging for something under the counter. She stood, saw Brandon, said, “Oh, my goodness. You scared me.” She patted her chest.
“Can I use a computer? I need to look at—”
“The story? Yeah, it wasn’t there this morning. You know the stories just show up all day long, with the Internet. I saw that, your picture, I said, ‘Well, he’s not having a good day.’ ”
Brandon was already at the desk.
“Log-in is ‘maple,’ ” Shardi said. “The password is ‘syrup.’ ”
Brandon logged on, went to the Tribune site. Saw himself staring back from the screen.
It was the photo from the dock, Bay Witch plainly shown. The caption said:
Patrolman Brandon Blake, Portland Police Department, put on paid administrative leave this week after his superiors reportedly questioned his off-duty investigations. Blake, then a civilian, was defending his girlfriend when he shot and killed Joel Fuller, 29, in a Portland hotel in 2008. Some experts are questioning whether current policies for psychological assessment of police involved in fatal shootings are adequate.
“Those bastards,” Brandon said. “Those fucking bastards.”
Shardi said, “You okay?”
The story went back ten years, discussing five fatal shootings by Portland police officers—six, if you counted Brandon. Estusa had interviewed psychologists in Maine and elsewhere, including two who worked with lawyers who had sued Portland PD on behalf of the families of shooting victims. The critics said the cops were put back on duty way too soon. A cop who had left the force declined to comment. A cop who had stayed said, “I’m fine.”
Estusa then rehashed the Joel Fuller fatal shooting—Fuller kidnapping Mia, holding her at gunpoint, Brandon shooting him five times in the chest as police closed in. “Blake,” it said, “emptied his weapon.”
And then there was the stuff attributed to “sources within the police department.” Some rehash. O’Farrell going to bat for Blake because, some said, Fuller had killed O’Farrell’s longtime partner and Blake had killed Fuller.
The complaints from Chantelle Anthony’s family. The guy in the domestic in the Old Port and his lawyer. The most recent situation on State Street, Brandon finding Paul Boekamp, twenty-one, badly beaten in his apartment. An unnamed source saying, “We can’t have cops running all over the city, doing independent investigations on their own time. It would be anarchy.”
The same source said he couldn’t tie Blake’s recent actions to the 2008 fatal shooting. “But it raises red flags,” the source said. “If a guy shoots someone, even with justification, as a civilian, what judgment will he have as a police officer?”
Blake, approached by a reporter and photographer Wednesday at the South Portland marina where he lives aboard a cabin cruiser, said he had no comment. “F—— off,” he said.
A police spokesman, public information officer Sandra Wooley, said she could not comment on Blake’s reported leave, saying all actions involving discipline are personnel matters and are confidential.
“Discipline,” Brandon exploded. “Who the hell is talking about discipline?” He pounded his fist once on the table, looked up to see Shardi watching him, wide-eyed.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” she said.
“Tell Nessa I had to go. Police business,” he said.
He got up from the table, walked to the doors, and banged them hard. They rattled but didn’t open, Shardi calling, “After eight I have to let you out.” The door buzzed, and Brandon pushed through. He strode out into the night, where the rain had dwindled to a drizzle. His truck sat alone under the pines, and he walked to it, climbed in, slammed the door shut. “That son of a bitch,” he said.
He started the truck, backed up, stomped the gas. The tires spun on the wet pavement and Brandon caught himself, slowed as he left the lot. He forced himself to stay under the 15 mph limit on the winding drive through the woods.
All he needed was to get stopped the same day he was on the front page as a wacko. But what was he supposed to do? Not care about a missing baby? Not want to find the kid? Ignore the lady when she says a bunch of guys went off to beat the crap out of somebody, a guy who was a witness in a suspicious death?”
Mia would see the story. Her father would see it. Everyone in the marina would see it—those people read the paper, every page. Everyone in the city would see it. Anyone who googled “Portland PD and Brandon Blake” would see him standing there, looking like he’d killed once, he’d like to it again. Maybe kill the reporter, the photographer, too.
F—— off.
He hadn’t been disciplined, not like they were implying. Perry just told him to take a break. Go relax, hang out. There was no hearing, no human resources person, no union rep taking his—
He slowed for a speed bump.
The windshield shattered.
The bullet hole was in front of his face, to the right. The truck hit the curb and bounced. Another crack, another hole in front of him, this one a foot to the left and down. The windshield was opaque, the truck half off the pavement, straddling the curb, exhaust scraping underneath.
A third shot, the passenger window, all of the glass spidered now, Brandon wrenching the wheel to the left, bouncing back onto the pavement, flooring the truck into a U-turn, the back end sliding around. He hit the gas, the curb. The motor stalled. Brandon had the door open, his radio up, gun out, safety off.
“This is three-twenty-three, three-twenty-three. I’m taking fire. South Portland, access road to Maple Grove rehab center. Repeat, I’m taking fire.”
Brandon slid off the seat as the truck rolled to a stop. Crouched behind the truck bed, listened. He heard Chooch’s voice, calm but tense, “All available units.” South Portland was on, a woman officer’s voice—he’d met her. Jennifer? Jessica?—saying, “I’m there, ETA five minutes.” Everybody from Portland, state troopers from the turnpike, the South Portland deputy chief, a game warden from somewhere—all of the radio traffic coming with the background roar of engines, cruisers running flat out.
Smack, another
shot, hearing it now, a deer-rifle sound echoing in the trees. The slug tore through the truck bed just to his right. He moved left, got behind the cab, the motor between him and the shooter. He eased up, peeked over, saw the muzzle flash in the trees, the whoof-clang of the slug hitting something heavy under the hood. He rose, aimed where the flash had been, got off three shots, shooting in a close spread.
He ducked back as another slug tore into the cab, this time high, just above his head. He moved to the bed, rose and fired twice, ducked back and scooched toward the front again. Another shot, the windshield shattering more, glass showering his head. He felt the sting, the warm ooze of blood on his forehead. He shot through the cab windows, fell back down, counted his shots. Six fired, four left. He heard distant sirens, then the cracking of someone running through the woods, the sound fading. Brandon radioed, “He’s running, he’s moving west. A deer rifle or assault rifle.”
He ran to the edge of the woods, crouched and listened. The crashing was faint now, the guy coming out on the far side. He called that in, and in minutes cops were everywhere, like a movie. Cruisers and SUVs were on the drive, fore and aft of his battered truck. Blue lights showed through the trees; a tracking dog barked in one of the cruisers. The other side of the woods was a road that bordered the Maine Mall, a steady stream of traffic. Brandon could hear them closing it off, asking whether the command post thought the shooter could have gotten past them.
“What do you think?” a voice behind Brandon said.
It was Perry, one hand on his weapon, the other on his mic.
“I don’t know. He really booked it. If a car was waiting, took right off, maybe . . .”
“I want this fucker,” another voice said.
It was Kat. She touched his shoulder, then started across the drive, following Christiansen, the jump-booted handler running behind the dog, SWAT cops following with night-vision goggles, assault rifles.
“And there’s no indication you hit him?” Perry said.
“Why they call it a shot in the dark,” Brandon said.
The dogs tracked the shooter to the road along the mall, the turnpike access-road side. The track ended on the pavement fifty yards from the Hampton Inn.
“Car waiting,” said Christiansen, on the radio. “Track stopped like he stepped off a cliff.”
“Any mall surveillance cameras out that far?” a South Portland SWAT officer said.
The patrol commander, the woman Brandon had heard on the radio, shook her head. “Negative,” she said.
The driveway was cordoned as evidence techs swept the area. Brandon’s pickup was hoisted onto a ramp truck, to be hauled back to the crime lab. After Brandon had told the story three times, he told it twice more. And then Kat was back, led him back to the cruiser, parked where the road was cordoned off and the press waited, baying like the dog.
“Did you get a look at him?”
“Who has it in for you, Officer Blake?”
“Was there more than one shooter?”
Brandon waited as Kat unlocked the door from inside. And then Estusa, the group parting for him as he pushed his way to the front, pressed the crime-scene tape back to lean close to Brandon, holding out his recorder. The lock thunked, Brandon yanked the door open, Kat still shoving her stuff out of the way, unlocking the laptop swivel arm to make room for him.
Estusa again. “Do you feel you’re a liability to your fellow officers? What do you know, Officer Blake, that someone would kill for?”
Brandon slammed the front door shut, opened the back door and heaved himself in. Strobes flashed. The police tape broke and the reporters moved closer, getting his picture as he sat in the back of the cruiser, stone-faced, facing forward, like he’d just been arrested. Kat eased through the scrum, and then they were away, moving along the road in the dark. Brandon looked out at the black shadows that were the trees.
“What do you know, Brandon?” Kat said, glancing at him. “I mean, are you keeping something from me or what?”
“I’ve told you everything,” Brandon said.
“South Portland will watch the nursing home.”
“I know, they told me.”
“Who knew where you were going?” Kat said.
“Nobody. But all they had to do was follow me, set up in the woods, and wait for me to come back out.”
“Why you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fuller’s friends?” Kat said.
“After more than a year? And anyway, I don’t know that he had any—not any who would kill for him.”
They were crossing the bridge into the West End, the yellow glow of the oil docks on their right, a lighter at the terminal, spotlights glaring.
Brandon was quiet as the cruiser turned onto Commercial Street, the dark and lonely end. He had a moment of deja vu, riding this same stretch of road with Griffin, a week before he was killed, Griffin asking him what it was like to live on a boat. Brandon shook it off, the injustice of it all, a death for a death coming up horribly short.
“I made some inquiries,” he said.
“Like what?” Kat said.
“Called the cruise line, requested the crew list.”
“Saying you were—”
“An investigator. Same with Brooklyn detective division.”
“Playing detective?”
“Not playing,” Brandon said. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are,” Kat said.
“I can’t stand for them to get away with it.”
“With what?”
“Any of it. The baby. Killing Fatima. Coming from New York to kill Lily. Maybe Mia.”
They slipped under the bridge, saw the glow of a campfire down by the harbor’s edge, not far from where Fatima’s body had been found. Brandon saw her eyes, the light gone out, dead as glass. He looked up at Kat, her face illuminated by the laptop’s icy glow.
“Lil Messy. That little girl in Cawley’s apartment.”
“We’ll get them.”
“But what if we don’t?” Brandon said.
“You’re not the only cop in Portland,” Kat said.
“I know. Besides, they just took my gun.”
“But you really don’t know it, do you. You don’t trust anybody. You won’t let yourself depend on anyone. Not good, Brandon, if you’re supposed to be part of a team.”
Brandon watched the harbor lights, his boat out there, across the black water. Where he lived alone. Where he’d grown up alone. Maybe this team thing just wasn’t going to work. Not the PD, not Mia.
“We could do bonding exercises,” he said. “I fall backwards, you catch me.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Kat said. “Catch you before you hit the ground.”
Kat said Brandon could stay with her. Roberta would be locked away, working on her dissertation—all Milton, all the time. Brandon said he’d be fine; better to have some quiet, clear his head. He asked Kat to drive him to Atlantic Street to Mia’s apartment. Brandon needed transportation and had a key to her Saab.
“When’s Mia coming back to Portland?” Kat said.
“I don’t know,” Brandon said.
“I’d tell her to wait. Until things settle down.”
“I’ll call her.”
“We’ll talk in the a.m.,” Kat said.
“Yes,” Brandon said, standing by the cruiser.
“You be careful.”
“You, too.”
“And let us do our work,” Kat said. “You’re not alone.”
Brandon turned toward the dark driveway. “Right,” he said.
Kat hit the side spot, flooded the driveway with light. She waited until Brandon had pulled away, heading for the Prom. Kat took a right, headed downtown to meet up with Perry, the rest of the team, talk this thing over.
“Brandon Blake,” she said, as she swung back toward Congress. “What are we gonna do with you?”
Brandon took a right at the Prom, back down Commercial through the Old Port. Couples and kid
s were crossing, hitting the bars, the restaurants. Cars inched along, looking for parking spaces. BMWs, Volvos, new SUVs with college stickers. In the Saab with the Colby sticker, Brandon blended.
His radio squawked. Reflexively, he reached for his missing gun. Felt naked without it, vulnerable. He was out of the Old Port traffic, hit the gas, ran a light and swung up onto the bridge. Crossing, he looked out on the harbor, saw a few lights flickering on boats, but mostly a deep, enveloping darkness. All the way off the bridge, out to the marina, he felt an urge to disappear, take Bay Witch out into the bay right now, past the harbor markers, find a cove on Peaks, even out to Chebeague, anchor and hide.
It had been his refuge in the past, when things had gotten bad—with Nessa, with the shooting. He and Mia had gone out to the back side of Chebeague, on a southwest wind. Anchored and sat on deck in the sun, until the wind swung around to the southeast and brought rain and a stiff chop, and they’d pulled anchor and headed back in, Mia close beside him at the helm.
Back when she needed him, when she thought he could do no wrong.
No more.
It was after ten, breeze out of the southeast again. The yard lights reflected off the fog, welling up off the water. Brandon parked in the back of the lot in the shadows, watched and waited. It was quiet, muffled voices, someone calling from boat to boat. He looked the cars and trucks over in the lot, nobody showing. Then he reached up, turned the dome light off, popped the door open. Got out and closed it, locked the car. Waited and watched, listened hard.
The traffic rumble on the bridge. A foghorn out on the harbor. Quiet.
Brandon let himself in, shut the gate firmly behind him. He walked through the boatyard, full of places to hide, watching the shadows. Down the ramp, a few lights showing. He stood near Bay Witch, watched and listened, then stepped to the stern, reached over the gunwale, and disabled the motion alarm. Hopping aboard, he walked up the side deck, checked the bow. Back to the stern, he went below, moving slowly in the darkness. Up the steps to the salon, lights glowing at the helm. Back down the steps, he listened, then slipped below.
