Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “So where are we at?” LeRoyer asked, wiping cheese and marinara from his chin.

  “We’ve got more suspects than you can shake a stick at,” Nugent said as he poured himself a cup of soda.

  “We’re still trying to catch up with Childress’s alibi,” Byron said.

  “That the car dealer guy?” LeRoyer asked. “Relative or something, right?”

  “Brother-in-law,” Diane said. “We’ll pay an unannounced visit on him tomorrow.”

  “What else?” LeRoyer said.

  “We’re still looking for the stripper Ramsey may have been seeing,” Byron said. “We were hoping she danced at the Unicorn.”

  “Have we even ID’d her yet?” LeRoyer asked.

  “Not yet,” Byron said. “Diane and I were out there last night. We got the distinct impression that the owners frown on any police cooperation from their staff.”

  “Figure if we can ID her, we’ll have better luck talking to her away from the club,” Diane said. “Mel and I will swing out there again tomorrow.”

  “Maybe I should have a talk with those girls,” Nugent said. “Ya know, work my charm.”

  “Yeah, your wife would love that,” Stevens said.

  Nugent pretended to pout.

  “What about the name Joe?” LeRoyer asked.

  “Nothing yet, Boss Man,” Tran said. “No Joes work at the Unicorn.”

  “What about the dive? Did we turn up anything there?” LeRoyer asked.

  “Nothing,” Byron said.

  The conversation continued until the pizza had been reduced to gobs of mozzarella and rust-colored smudges on the cardboard. They were preparing to call it a night when Sergeant Crosby strolled into the room.

  “Hey, guys,” Crosby said. He turned and addressed LeRoyer. “You wanted to see me, Lieu?”

  Byron and Crosby sat side by side in LeRoyer’s office discussing the next move. Byron wasn’t a fan of Crosby’s. Too much had passed between them. He’d asked LeRoyer to set up the meeting hoping Crosby could help, but he knew how guarded the muscled-up drug sergeant was about giving up any inside information. In addition to their mutual history, Byron also didn’t care for Crosby’s arrogance, which wafted off him like cheap aftershave.

  “The Fox is well-known for drug activity,” Crosby said in response to a question from Byron. “But we don’t spend much time on it.”

  “Why the hell not?” LeRoyer asked.

  Crosby shrugged indifferently as he checked the text messages on his cellphone. “It’s an older crowd in there. They tend to police themselves.”

  “Didn’t know we got to pick and choose which drug dealers we went after,” Byron said, intentionally trying to provoke a reaction.

  Crosby looked up from his phone, glaring at Byron. “Hey, I only have five agents, John. How the fuck am I supposed to take care of Cumberland County with five agents? I prioritize. Like you could do any better.”

  “Knock it off, you two,” LeRoyer said. “Let’s just focus on this case, okay? Tell me about the Fox.”

  “We know a couple of guys who deal out of there regular,” Crosby said.

  “We grabbed a little coke off Donny McVail. Is he one of them?” Byron asked, already knowing he wasn’t, but wanting to see what Crosby would give up in the way of intel.

  “Nah, he’s strictly small-time. Mostly just a user. One of the dealers is Alonzo Gutierrez. He slings a little weed, a little rock, mostly to the aging hippy crowd.”

  “Who’s the other?” LeRoyer asked.

  “Guy by the name of Darius Tomlinson. Goes by ‘D.’”

  “What’s his specialty?” Byron asked.

  “Coke, H, pills.”

  “Sounds like your guy, John,” LeRoyer said.

  “Would he have mixed with Ramsey?” Byron asked.

  “D? Probably. He’s a player. Dresses sharp, drives a BMW, wears a lot of bling. D likes to make a statement.”

  Byron wondered if Crosby realized that he’d just described himself.

  “Sounds like they were made for each other,” LeRoyer said, looking at Byron.

  “Brothers from another mother,” Crosby agreed.

  “How soon can you get something on Tomlinson?” Byron asked Crosby.

  “How’s tomorrow sound?”

  Byron begrudgingly dragged himself to his own office. They’d been going nonstop for nearly two days and it seemed like all they’d managed to do was expand the list of possible suspects in the Ramsey murder. He couldn’t wait to see what tomorrow would bring. He picked up the desk phone receiver and punched in Diane’s cell as he sorted through the tower of pink phone message slips left on his desk by Shirley.

  “Hey,” she answered. Diane’s tone was a clear indicator of whether or not she was still pissed at him from earlier. She was.

  “Where are you?” he asked as softly as he could, not wishing to escalate the tension.

  “On my way home to get some sleep. Thought we were done for the day.”

  “We are. I was just . . . hoping to catch up with you before you’d left.”

  “John, I don’t want to do this right now.”

  “Do what?”

  “I just don’t agree with how you handled questioning Mrs. Elwell. Okay?”

  “Really? That’s what’s eating you?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You sure it isn’t about your secret meetings and errands for LeRoyer?”

  “I’m not doing this now.”

  “What the hell, Diane?” he said, raising his voice. “Think I deserve a friggin’ explanation.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Byron heard the click as she disconnected the call. He removed the receiver from his ear, staring at it in disbelief. He was about to slam the phone down when LeRoyer stuck his head through the door.

  “G’night, John.”

  He looked up, trying to hide his frustration. “Yeah.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”

  “Go home. Get some sleep.”

  Byron forced a weak smile. “Night, Lieu.”

  Following LeRoyer’s departure, Byron reached for the redial button on the desk phone. He paused, his finger hovering above it.

  Don’t do something you’ll regret, his inner voice cautioned. He hated that voice, but for once it was right. He pulled his hand away.

  This is why you don’t get involved with a subordinate, John.

  Byron slammed the receiver down.

  “Fuck you,” he said to the voice.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Saturday, 6:05 a.m., April 30, 2016

  Saturday morning dawned gloomy and gray, in perfect harmony with Byron’s mood. He’d spent the night tossing and turning and was still at a loss to comprehend what had Diane so worked up. She wasn’t normally given to brooding. He walked down to the end of his driveway where someone’s trash bin was lying on its side. He dragged it over to the curb next to an empty recycling bin. Since moving into the condo he had only met two of his neighbors: a pretty young divorcée who, even in their brief encounters, had already shared far more information about her ex than Byron was comfortable knowing, and a paunchy middle-aged cop groupie who always wanted to know what Byron “had on.” As if he were some television supersleuth who only required an hour to solve a murder, less if you counted commercials. Not only did Byron not care to know about the personal lives of his neighbors, he also had no interest in sharing his, especially given the sensitive nature of his relationship with Diane. After establishing his neighbors’ schedules, Byron worked hard at avoiding them. He was genuinely surprised to hear his name being called from behind.

  “Good morning, Officer Byron,” said a male voice with a heavy Middle Eastern accent. The odd pacing of the words, betraying that English was not his first language, gave a Christopher Walken–esque quality to the man’s delivery.

  Byron turned, observing a tall, slim, dark-skinned man walking toward him with purpose. The ma
n’s hand was extended and he wore a smile on his face. “Morning,” Byron said, wondering which of his neighbors had been gossiping about him to the others.

  “How are you doing today, Officer Byron?”

  “I’m well,” Byron said, giving the man a firm handshake.

  “I am Khalid Muhammad. I live two doors down with my family. I have wanted to say hello since you moved in, but I never see you.”

  “I keep crazy hours.”

  “So, you are the policeman?”

  He wondered if that meant that Muhammad had already met the construction worker, the cowboy, and the rest of the Village People. “That’s the rumor.” Byron’s joke only generated a perplexed look from Muhammad. Evidently, Muhammad had never danced to “YMCA.” “Yes, I’m a detective sergeant with Portland PD.”

  “Ah, yes. An investigator. I am most pleased to be making your acquaintance,” he said, giving a slight bow of his head.

  “And what do you do for work, Mr. Muhammad?” Byron asked, trying hard to project that it mattered.

  “Please, call me Khalid. I’m an accountant.”

  “One of the local firms?”

  “No, no. How do you say, employed for myself?”

  “Self-employed.”

  “Yes, yes. That is it.” Muhammad beamed with pride. “Self-employed. Many people of the Somali community come to me for help with their finances.”

  “Good for you.” Byron checked his watch. “Well, I gotta get to work.”

  “Yes, I know you are a busy man. It is good to be making your acquaintance, Detective Sergeant Byron.”

  “Likewise, Khalid. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

  With a nod of his head, Muhammad was gone. Byron watched him stroll across the lawn toward his own condo, pleasantly surprised that his new immigrant neighbor seemed to grasp the concept of boundaries far better than the homegrown had. Perhaps Khalid won’t be someone I’ll have to avoid, he thought.

  John Byron’s fourth-floor office was situated at the end of a back hallway, at the opposite end from LeRoyer’s. The hall ran the length of the northeast side of the building, perpendicular to the main corridor, connecting the offices of CID’s command and supervisory staff. The walls of Byron’s modest work space were devoid of the awards and recognition found in other supervisors’ offices. Their absence wasn’t because he hadn’t earned them; he had. They were missing because he didn’t believe in “walls of me.” A simple metal desk, with a navy blue laminate top, three chairs, two filing cabinets, and a desktop computer were all he needed. The eggshell-colored walls were spare: a large round black framed clock, a lithograph of a police funeral painted by a cop, and a black and white photo of Byron and his late father, Reece, taken when John was just a boy. The fourth wall held a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on Franklin Arterial and Casco Bay beyond.

  Byron was deeply engrossed in the details of Evidence Technician Pelligrosso’s supplement on the Ramsey murder when his desk phone rang.

  “CID, Byron,” he said, grabbing it on the second ring.

  “Hello, John,” a familiar female voice said. “It’s Kay.”

  His throat tightened at the sound of her voice. He remembered the smell of her skin, the fiery look of her auburn hair in the morning sun. He hadn’t spoken to his ex in nearly eight months. The same amount of time, coincidentally, that his relationship with Diane had been gestating. He’d been attempting to move on with his life. He thought the new condo might help. A change of venue from his shabby little Danforth Street flat and the months he’d wasted there lying to himself about the temporary nature of their separation. It all came flooding back in an instant. Like he’d been injected by some mind-altering, time-traveling hypodermic.

  “How are you?” she asked, breaking the silence.

  “I’m good,” he croaked after realizing he hadn’t spoken.

  “Nice to hear your voice.”

  Was it? Or was she simply being polite? “Good to hear yours as well,” he said.

  “I wondered if you might be available to meet me this afternoon? For lunch? Say around noon?”

  Byron hated that their marriage had ended so badly. Several times he’d considered reaching out, hoping for a more amicable relationship with the woman he’d shared a home, a bed, a life with, for nearly two decades, but he hadn’t. Now, here she was affording him the opportunity to reconnect and he was neck-deep in a murder investigation. Again. The job, having played such a large part in eroding their marriage, was standing in the way once more.

  “I’m in the middle of a homicide, Kay. Hard for me right now.”

  She paused a moment without speaking. Byron was beginning to think she hadn’t heard him, when at last she spoke up.

  “Is it the attorney?” she asked. “The one found in the ocean?”

  “Yeah. Paul Ramsey.”

  Kay paused again. “That’s why I need to see you.”

  Diane checked the clock on the wall. It was 9:15. She was growing impatient, having played this same game with Mead only the day before. Melissa Stevens had her face buried in a dog-eared fitness magazine, featuring a shirtless ripped-ab Matthew McConaughey on its cover, from the outdated stack on the table between them.

  “Excuse me,” Diane said to Mead’s dutiful secretary. “Any idea how much longer he’ll be?”

  The secretary glanced at her desk phone then fixed Diane with a polite smile. “He’s still on the phone, Detective. I’m sure it won’t be much longer though.” Her mouth was smiling but her eyes were not. Her eyes said, Bitch.

  Five minutes later, the door to the back office opened and out strolled Mead.

  “Sorry to keep y’all waiting,” Mead said, extending a meaty paw toward Diane. “I’m Everett Mead.”

  After the obligatory introductions, Mead led them down a short corridor into his office.

  “Have a seat, ladies. Getcha some java?”

  “No thanks,” Diane said for both of them.

  “Okay,” Mead said. “You said on the phone yesterday that you wanted to speak with me about something. I’m all ears.”

  Actually, you’re all belly, Diane thought.

  “Who were you just talking with on the phone, Mr. Mead?” Diane asked, trying to catch him off guard.

  She studied Mead as he looked at her. The pause was barely noticeable but long enough to give Mead time to come up with a lie. The truth wouldn’t have required such a pause.

  “Oh, th-that was one of our parts suppliers,” Mead said, stammering slightly.

  “Everything okay?” Stevens said, playing along.

  “Yeah, they been giving us a bit of trouble, but I sorted ’em out.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Stevens said.

  “Mr. Mead, do you remember where you were Tuesday night?” Diane asked without any warning.

  “Sure. I was at home watching the Celtics game with my brother-in-law, Matt.”

  “Matt Childress?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Just the two of you?” she asked.

  “Yup, couple of bachelors,” Mead said. “The little women snuck off down to Boston to do some shopping.”

  “Little women?” Stevens asked, her disapproval obvious.

  Mead flushed.

  “Your wives?” Diane asked.

  “Yup. They spent the night in Beantown, so Matt and I stayed in and had some beers and watched the game.” Mead turned his attention toward Stevens. “Either of you happen to catch it?”

  “Missed that one,” Stevens said.

  “Well, I never miss the Celtics when they’re in the playoffs.”

  “You remember what time Mr. Childress left your house?” Diane asked.

  “Can’t say for sure. I know he was there for the tip-off at eight-thirty. We had a couple more beers and shot some pool after the game. Musta been about midnight when Matt headed home.”

  Diane jotted something in her notebook. She caught Mead craning his neck to try and see what she’d written.
r />   “Y’all mind if I ask what this is about?” Mead said, sitting back and folding his hands over his belly.

  “Not at all,” Diane said. “Detective Stevens and I are investigating a suspicious death that occurred Tuesday night. We’re checking on Mr. Childress’s alibi for that night.”

  “Well, he was with me,” Mead said, beaming his most insincere smile.

  “So you said,” Diane continued. “We’ll need contact information for you and your wife, Mr. Mead.”

  “Of course,” he said. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and began to jot names and numbers on company letterhead.

  “When was the last time you spoke with your brother-in-law, Mr. Mead?” Stevens asked.

  Diane watched Mead exaggerate the act of squinting as if he were actually struggling to recollect their last conversation. “Guess that woulda been Tuesday night, or Wednesday morning if it was after midnight when he left.”

  Diane made another note. “So you haven’t spoken to him by phone since Tuesday?”

  “Nope,” Mead said, passing her the information.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Diane flipped her notebook closed and looked at Stevens. “Well, looks like we’re finished here.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Mead,” Stevens said.

  “Pleasure meetin’ you both,” Mead said, standing and extending his hand again. “Hope this helped you out.”

  Neither detective spoke until they were outside of the building, not that the noise inside the garage would have let them.

  “What do you think?” Diane said, already knowing the answer, as they reached the car. “Think Mead was lying?”

  “Lying his ass off,” Stevens said. “He services cars and his lips were moving. Couldn’t wait to tell you who he was with Tuesday night. Think he would’ve volunteered Childress’s name if he hadn’t been coached?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Diane unlocked the doors and they both got in. “Especially when the only question I asked is where he was Tuesday night.”

  “Exactly.”

  Byron sat staring through his office window at the jam of weekend commuters on Franklin Arterial. Both southbound lanes were backed up halfway to Congress Street with a sparkling assortment of brightly colored metal boxes. His eyes were on the cars but his thoughts were occupied by other things. Ramsey, Diane, Kay, and another large coffee, although not particularly in that order. He was also thinking about Childress and his alibi. Watching the Celtics with his brother-in-law, he’d said. Must be nice. Byron’s crazy life didn’t allow for such leisurely pursuits. In fact, he hadn’t watched or even listened to a game since the late Johnny Most was still calling the shots in his signature raspy tone. He grinned, fondly remembering how Johnny would often lose his voice as the excitement built to a crescendo when Bird or maybe Ainge drained a three late in a close game.