“So he just drove an empty trailer all the way to Kansas City to pick up some tires and bring them back?” Stevens asked.
Skip grinned. “We’d never make any money operating like that. No, he picked up a load of flat-screen TVs in Portland for delivery to Ann Arbor. The tires were the return trip.” He turned his attention back to Diane. “You sure he’s not in some kind of trouble?”
“I want you to contact us as soon as he returns,” Diane said, handing him a business card.
A neatly stacked pile of pink phone message slips sat in the middle of Byron’s appointment calendar. A not so subtle reminder from Shirley Grant, the CID secretary, that he hadn’t been keeping up with his office work. Sliding them to one side, he flipped open his notebook and picked up the phone. He dialed the number Paula Elwell had provided for her sister-in-law, Meagan Metcalf.
“Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department,” a young-sounding male voice answered. “How may I direct your call?”
He’d been unprepared for such a greeting. “I’d like to speak with Meagan Metcalf, please.”
“Can I tell Lieutenant Metcalf who’s calling?”
Lieutenant? Something else Elwell had failed to mention. “Detective Sergeant John Byron, Portland PD.”
“Certainly, Sergeant. I’ll check and see if she’s in.”
“Well?” LeRoyer said from the office doorway. “Tell me about the Elwells.”
“Mrs. Elwell has an alibi,” Byron said, sitting back in his chair, rubbing his eyes, and wondering why the lieutenant was hovering so close on this one. “She was with her sister-in-law in Wiscasset Tuesday night.”
“How do we know the sister-in-law’s not just covering for her?”
There was nothing Byron enjoyed more than being second-guessed by his superiors. “She could be, I suppose, but it doesn’t seem likely.”
“Why?”
“Because her alibi happens to be a lieutenant for the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office,” he said, trying hard to hide his irritation. Byron pretended to reach for the phone. “You want me to call her back, Marty? See if she’ll admit to lying? Maybe I can ask her to submit to a polygraph?”
“What about the husband?” LeRoyer asked, ignoring the sarcasm.
“According to Diane and Mel, Justin Elwell was probably halfway to Michigan about the time Ramsey left the bar.”
“Michigan?”
“He’s a long haul trucker.”
“Have they spoken with him?”
“Isn’t back yet. Don’t worry. We’ll track him down.”
LeRoyer stepped into Byron’s office and closed the door. “John, about earlier. I just wanna say—”
Byron interrupted him. “Save it. You already know how I feel about the press. I told you, that leak didn’t come from here.”
“Yeah, I know how you feel, but that doesn’t mean one of the detectives wouldn’t throw it out there, just to give one last jab to Ramsey. He wasn’t thought of very highly around here, ya know.”
He wasn’t thought of highly anywhere, Byron thought. “The only people they’d be jabbing are the Ramsey family. And my people wouldn’t risk fucking up a case. Besides, leaks are Stanton’s thing, not mine.”
“So, now what?” LeRoyer asked, seemingly satisfied.
“We look harder at the Fox.”
“You really think McVail is responsible for Ramsey’s murder?”
Byron thought about it for a moment before answering. “I don’t know if he is or he isn’t, but he’s into a lot more shit than we thought.”
“I’m not following.”
“I just got back from County. They found coke hidden inside McVail’s shoe.”
“McVail sold to Ramsey?” LeRoyer asked.
“Not according to him. Said Ramsey got his stuff from some dealer named ‘D.’”
“‘D’? What the hell kinda name is ‘D’?”
“The kind of name Crosby would be familiar with.”
Byron was on the phone waiting for Kenny Crosby to pick up when he received a text from Tran in regards to the subpoena. After leaving a voicemail for the drug sergeant, Byron headed downstairs to the computer lab.
Byron found Tran under his desk doing something related to the maze of wires running back and forth among multiple computers. “Got your text, Dustin. How’d you make out?”
Tran stood up and brushed his hands against the legs of his trousers. “Hey, Striped One. Think I’ve got a few things you’ll find interesting.”
“Like?”
Tran plopped down in his chair, slid a printout over to the edge of his desk, and woke his desktop computer. “Like, how late do attorneys typically work at Newman, Branch & DeWitt?”
Byron shrugged. “No idea. I’m sure they work late sometimes. Why?”
“Well, I found some interesting late-night calls from Ramsey’s cell to one of the other attorneys.”
“How late?”
“Anywhere from ten until midnight, two to three times a week.”
“Whose phone was he calling?”
“Branch’s wife, Lorraine Davies.” Tran tapped the printout. “It’s listed as her condo number.”
“Let me see that,” Byron said, taking the printout from Tran. He compared the numbers on the screen to the numbers supplied by the firm. “How do we know whose condo it is? He may have been calling Branch.”
“Maybe. But the printout doesn’t say anything about it being Branch’s number.”
“Do we have an address?”
“Forty-five Eastern Prom. The Portland House. The last after-hours call Ramsey made to her was during the final week of April, and it was the only call he made to her during that week.”
“Nothing since?” Byron asked.
“Nope. Little late to be chatting up a married woman, Sarge. Looks like a booty call to me.”
“A booty call?”
“Yeah, you know. Hookin’ up.”
“Could be they were just working a case together,” Byron said, trying out the idea. “Maybe they were just spitballing some ideas after work.”
“Maybe,” Tran said, grinning. “Only one problem with that theory, Sarge.”
“What’s that?”
“The average length of the calls is about thirty seconds. Sounds more like ballin’ than spitballin’, Boss Man.”
He knew Tran might be right. Either way it necessitated a visit to the condo.
“What’s this number?” Byron asked, pointing to the last number dialed.
“That’s the very last number Ramsey ever called. Made it at 11:15 Tuesday night.”
“Do we know who it belongs to?”
“No. Doesn’t match any of the numbers listed for the firm employees. It is a number he’s called before and it’s a cell but that’s all I can tell you.”
Byron considered the time and duration of the call. A late-night outbound call only twenty-six seconds long, and Ramsey’s last. Another late-night hookup? His dealer? Either one was possible. And it was also possible that he’d been murdered as a result of that call. “We’ll need another subpoena.”
“Yup.”
Byron looked up from the printout. “Any luck with the name Joe? Maybe connected to the Unicorn?”
“I checked every call and follow-up we’ve had there. No Joes, no Josephs, nothing.”
Chapter Fourteen
Friday, 7:05 p.m., April 29, 2016
Byron stood inside the vestibule between the glass entry doors of the Portland House, waiting for the security guard in the navy blue blazer to buzz him inside.
“Help you?” the guard said as Byron pulled the door open and stepped into the lobby.
“I’m here to see Lorraine Davies.”
“Your name?”
“Detective Sergeant Byron.” He held out his credentials, waiting as the olive-skinned man copied down his name.
“She expecting you?”
“No.”
Byron waited as the guard dialed her number.
A
fter a very brief conversation, the guard said, “Sergeant Byron, you’re all set. Head down this hallway and take the elevator to the top floor. Ms. Davies is in apartment D.”
Of course it’s the top floor, he thought. Nothing but the best for Branch’s princess.
“Thanks,” Byron said as he started toward the far end of the hall.
Several minutes later, Byron stepped out of the elevator onto the carpeted hallway of the fourteenth floor. To his right the hall angled out of sight. To his left it ran the length of the building to a dead end several hundred feet from where he stood. Absent windows, the space was illuminated by recessed lighting and fancy bronze sconces, reminding him of the Caribbean cruise he and Kay had taken when they were first married. The door to Davies’s apartment, located at the far end of the hall, was the last door on the left. Byron stopped next to her entryway where a large ornamental mirror hung directly above an antique side table. He checked his appearance then knocked on the door.
He was about to knock again when he heard the faint sound of heels clicking across an uncarpeted floor.
Davies opened the door. “Sergeant Byron,” she said, greeting him with a warm smile.
“Ms. Davies.”
She was even more radiant than he’d remembered from their brief encounter in Branch’s office. Dressed in a painted-on pair of faded designer jeans, a white cashmere pullover, and bloodred high heels. Byron, unsure of himself, felt more like a nervous schoolboy come to collect his date than a detective sergeant following up on a lead.
But Davies didn’t appear the least bit nervous. Standing behind her was the receptionist from the law office, holding a stack of file folders. “I believe you’ve already met my assistant, Amy Brennan.”
“Yes,” Byron said. “We met this morning.”
“Nice to see you again, Sergeant,” Amy said.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Byron said.
“Not at all. Amy was just leaving.”
“Night, Ms. Davies,” Amy said as she brushed by Byron. “Good night, Sergeant.”
“Won’t you come in?” Davies said, stepping back slightly so he could enter.
“Thank you,” he said.
She closed the door behind him then led him through the marbled tile foyer and into the main living space.
“Have a seat, Sergeant,” Davies said, gesturing toward a large, expensive-looking leather sectional. “Can I interest you in something to drink? I have wine, whiskey, even beer if you’d prefer.”
“No thanks. I don’t drink.”
“Ever?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Well, I think I’ll just freshen mine.” She picked up a pair of drinking glasses from the coffee table then paused a second. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Byron said with a wave of his hand.
“Make yourself at home,” Davies said, before flitting off toward the kitchen.
The open concept apartment had a large sunken living room, decorated with lots of dark hardwood and brass, giving it a nautical feel. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the choppy waters of the Atlantic. An open sliding glass door led out to a metal balcony. Byron stepped outside and gazed to the horizon. He imagined being able to see Nova Scotia from this height as he stared down at the bird’s-eye view of Fort Gorges and the islands of Casco Bay.
Byron turned and reentered the condo. He crossed the room toward the leather couch as he heard Davies’s footfalls returning from the kitchen.
“Like what you see?” she asked, heading over toward the bar.
“Very much. How long have you and Mr. Branch lived here?” he asked, putting Tran’s theory to the test.
Davies laughed as she returned with a fresh drink. She kicked off her shoes and took a seat beside him on the couch. “Devon doesn’t live here. Guess you’d call this my home away from home. I have no interest in driving to Topsham every night.”
“Topsham?”
“That’s where our family home is. I spend most weeknights here.”
“Weekends too, I guess.”
“Sometimes.” She gestured with her free hand toward the room like Vanna White. “Cozy, don’t you think?”
Byron agreed, but he wondered how cozy her marriage to Branch was if they never spent any time together. Perhaps Tran was right.
Davies stared seductively at Byron as she dipped a finger in her glass and stirred the liquid. She removed her finger from the drink, placed it between her lips, then slowly withdrew it.
“So, Sergeant Byron,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
In spite of her obvious attempt to rattle him, Byron maintained his composure. “We’ve been going over Ramsey’s cellphone records.”
“And?”
“Several of the numbers he frequently called matched the contact numbers your firm provided.”
She smiled coyly. “Oh? Anyone I might know?”
“Specifically? He called you, Ms. Davies.”
“Well, as you said, Paul and I work—excuse me—worked for the same law firm.”
“Were you and Ramsey working on a case together recently?”
“Not that I can recall, but we often run scenarios by each other. You know, for a second opinion.”
Byron was picturing several possible scenarios, and none of them concerned the law. “So it wouldn’t be unusual for you to telephone one another after hours?”
“Not at all.”
“Do you remember getting any specific calls from him? Say, within the last couple of months.”
“I remember him calling occasionally, but I don’t recall the subject matter,” she said.
“But it definitely would have been case-related advice, right?”
“Most definitely.”
“Huh. See, that’s interesting, because the phone records show he made several dozen calls to your cell and your apartment during the months leading up to April. None of the calls lasted longer than about a minute. I can’t imagine Ramsey running much by you in such a short amount of time. You must have met up to have these discussions.”
“Sometimes we did.”
“I’m curious. Where would the two of you meet? Especially given the time of night these calls were made. Did you ever meet here?”
Byron caught a faint flicker of something on her face as she reacted to his question. Then it was gone.
“Of course. I frequently work here at night.”
“With Ramsey?”
“Occasionally. And as you’ve already seen, my assistant and I work here as well. What exactly are you implying, Sergeant?”
“Were you and Ramsey having an affair?”
Byron drove back to 109, happy to be out of Davies’s condo/love pad or whatever it was she was keeping. She hadn’t admitted to anything other than meeting with Ramsey occasionally to discuss cases. Byron didn’t care how she chose to live her life, as long as those choices hadn’t led to Ramsey’s demise. Were she and Ramsey having an affair? She’d denied it, of course. But if they had been having an affair, had Branch found out? Branch hadn’t been the least bit bashful in telling Byron that he and Ramsey weren’t friends. Certainly Branch must have been suspicious about his young wife needing a separate place to spend time away from him. Byron would have had concerns had he been in Branch’s shoes. Not wanting to make the thirty-mile drive to Topsham every night sounded like a pretty hollow excuse. And why did the frequent phone calls between Davies and Ramsey cease so abruptly? Davies said the cases she and Ramsey were discussing had been resolved. Were they really discussing cases? Or was it possible she was telling the truth? Maybe they’d worked so closely on a case, things just went too far. A common scenario in the workplace. Certainly he and Diane were a testament to how something like that could happen.
He slowed as he approached 109 then turned right onto the ramp that led down to the police department’s basement garage.
He reached out and keyed the radio mic. “Seven-twenty. Raise the door, please.
”
“Ten-four, 720,” the dispatcher responded.
He waited on the ramp as the huge steel door trundled slowly up on its tracks, squeaking and groaning in protest. Byron wondered how many times that door had been raised and lowered over the course of 109’s forty-five-year existence. Back in the 1970s, when his father had worked here, the basement of Portland’s police headquarters had been equipped with a half dozen prisoner cells. One officer was assigned to monitor the inmates around the clock. The cells were only meant to house short-term weekend offenders, mostly for minor violations like drunken driving and disorderly conduct. Men who’d gotten drunk and started a bar fight, or assaulted an officer, or even a spouse. They’d be transported to 109 and held until Monday morning when they would be marched over to court to face a magistrate. Some would be released, sentenced to time served; others might earn their release by paying a fine. But the more serious offenders would be shipped off to the Cumberland County Jail to await trial or until they could make bail. Byron wondered how many thousands of men had spent time in 109’s now defunct Gray Bar Hotel.
He drove the rest of the way down the steep concrete ramp and into the well-lit basement, taking care not to bottom out the Chevy where the exaggerated angle of the ramp met the metal grill of the water drain and the basement floor. He swung the car to the left, into one of the diagonal command staff parking spaces. Attached to the wall above each space was a small blue and white metal sign designating which member of the department it belonged to. Byron parked in the only unmarked spot. A pale rectangle of discolored concrete was the only reminder that a sign once marked the parking spot for Assistant Chief Cross. Reginald Cross, the Ass Chief. The man who’d caused more grief for two generations of Byrons than could be measured. And not just the Byrons but countless other Portland officers as well. Byron, who took a certain satisfaction in occupying this particular space, climbed out of the car and began to whistle. He strolled over to the support column where the garage door controls were mounted and pressed the down button.
It was after eight o’clock by the time everyone had gathered in the CID conference room. LeRoyer had sprung for pizza out of petty cash.
Beneath the Depths Page 14
