Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  Adams looked nothing like Byron had pictured. Petite and wholesome-looking, not much makeup, if any. She was smartly dressed and polite. Certainly not the kind of woman he imagined Childress stealing away to a cheap hotel room with. But as Byron knew too well, you couldn’t judge a book by its cover.

  After a brief introduction, Adams led him to a quiet area. The room, like the rest of the business, was painted in bright sunny tones, seemingly purposed as an employee lounge. It had a couch, several armless upholstered chairs, and a scattering of child development periodicals.

  “So, Sergeant,” Adams said after they were seated. “How can I help you?”

  “Matthew Childress,” Byron said matter-of-factly. “How do you know him?”

  The color drained from Adams’s youthful cheeks. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Yes.”

  Adams looked down at her left hand and fidgeted nervously with the gold wedding band.

  Byron continued. “I’m not here to cause you any trouble or embarrass you, Stacy. But you need to answer the question.”

  “Guess I knew this day might come,” Adams said, lifting her chin in an obvious attempt to regain some dignity. Her eyes shifted back toward Byron. “Yes, I know Matt Childress. We attended high school together.”

  “Tell me about your relationship with him,” Byron said. “And when you last saw him.”

  “Sure, you can check the videos,” the motel manager said with a sardonic grin, revealing teeth in dire need of dentistry. “I just need to see a subpoena.”

  “Sure,” Nugent said. “Why not? We’ve got nothing better to do than let you dick us around. I mean, it’s only a murder case.”

  “Let me guess, no-tell motel?” Tran quipped.

  “I assure you, we run a respectable business here for people who—”

  “Want to do drugs, drink under age, and hide out from the law,” Nugent said, finishing his sentence. “Yeah, we know. That’s precisely why we might have to start checking your register every night to see who’s in your rooms from now on.” He turned to Tran. “What do you think, Dustin?”

  “Sounds like a great idea. Might really impress the bosses to see just how many warrants we can clear.”

  “Ooh, maybe we start assigning the beat cars to check every registration in the lot for suspended drivers and warrants,” Nugent said.

  “Or have a black-and-white drive through the lot every hour,” Tran added.

  “Think all that police presence will have an effect on business?” Nugent asked the man behind the counter.

  The two detectives waited as the manager mulled it over, his forehead beading up with nervous perspiration.

  “Okay. I’ll show you the video.”

  Byron spoke in soothing tones to Adams, gradually extracting the information he needed. As he listened to her spill her guts, two things became obvious. The first was that she now genuinely regretted her decision to chase the bad boy, straying from her own marriage for a bit of excitement. The second, and more important thing, was that Adams’s Tuesday night rendezvous with “Bob the Builder” gave Childress an airtight alibi. Unless Nuge and Tran found something different. As if in response to his thoughts, his cellphone rang. He excused himself and stepped into the adjoining room to take the call.

  “Byron.”

  “Hey boss, it’s Nuge. We just finished looking at the videos.”

  “And?”

  “Unless Childress crawled out through an air-conditioning vent to the back of the building, it looks like Mr. and Mrs. Smith stayed the entire night in room 135. The video shows her checking in just after seven-thirty Tuesday evening, about an hour before Childress. They left together the following morning at six-thirty.”

  “Even French-kissed in the parking lot,” Tran hollered from the background.

  Billingslea waited anxiously as the newspaper’s managing editor, Douglas Paxton, read over the column he’d just written. Billingslea’s supervisor, Assistant Editor Will Draper, was off for the weekend, and Paxton had agreed to take a look at the piece. Paxton was a legend in the newspaper business, having been at it for close to fifty years. Legends are intimidating. Paxton answered only to the owners of the Portland Herald.

  After several minutes, Paxton removed his reading glasses and set them atop his desk. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb, massaging it. After he’d finished, Paxton fixed him with a look that Billingslea couldn’t quite read.

  “This isn’t half-bad,” Paxton said, his expression softening ever so slightly. “Adds a bit of spice to Ramsey’s murder. Spice is good for readership.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Paxton held up the page. “It does, however, leave the mildest aftertaste of a gossip column.”

  Billingslea felt his heart sink.

  “And we’re not in that business, are we, Davis?”

  “Mr. Paxton, I can assure you my story is not gossip. Byron and Ramsey have a past. I got the information from a reliable source inside the PD.”

  “And you confirmed everything with your own research, did you?”

  “I did. Our own records confirmed it.”

  Paxton held up the printed page that Billingslea had given him. “I’m not signing off on this.”

  “Why not?” Billingslea asked, his voice sounding far more whiny than he had intended.

  Paxton pulled out his top desk drawer, removing a pack of cigarettes and lighter. With an experienced hand, he tapped a single cigarette out of the pack and popped it between his lips. He paused a moment before lighting it, looking back at Billingslea. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Billingslea knew that smoking inside the building was expressly prohibited but he also knew that Paxton occasionally violated the rule. Hell, truth be told, everyone knew about the editor’s secret habit. He even kept one desk drawer empty, using it only as an ashtray. Billingslea watched as Paxton slid the drawer out, pulled a long drag off the lit cigarette, then exhaled slowly, eyes closed as if it were an orgasmic experience. Billingslea, who’d never picked up the habit, save for some recreational marijuana use in college, wondered if maybe it was. Paxton leaned back in his creaky leather chair and opened his eyes.

  “Son, how long have you worked here now?” Paxton asked.

  “Almost three years,” he said, hating how much this felt like a dressing-down. Why hadn’t he just waited until Monday to run it by Will?

  “I remember when I was just starting out. Starry-eyed. Looking to break the biggest story of the century. Wanted to be the next Woodward or Bernstein, even before I, or anyone else, knew who they were.”

  “Mr. Paxton, I—”

  Paxton held up the weathered hand holding the cigarette. “You’ll want to hear me out, Davis.”

  “Yes, sir.” Billingslea shifted nervously in his chair as Paxton stared over the desk at him, as if appraising him.

  “You’re a good writer. You have a way with words. And you’re tenacious, a necessary attribute for any investigative reporter.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But you’re the newspaper’s police beat reporter, not an investigative journalist. You understand the difference?”

  Billingslea waited to see if this was a rhetorical question. It was.

  Paxton continued. “You seem to be at odds with Sergeant Byron quite frequently. Ever wonder why that is?”

  Davis said nothing, knowing that anything he said wouldn’t stop the lesson’s progress.

  “Well, I’ll tell you. It’s because he doesn’t trust you.”

  “But I—”

  Paxton raised his hand again. “I’ve been in this business a long time. Known a number of cops like Sergeant Byron. He’s driven. Goal-oriented. Thorough. He’s tough, but he’s fair. I can work with someone who’s fair. And so can you, Davis. But if you want Byron to trust you, you must stop trying to beat him to the punch.” Paxton raised an eyebrow, as if checking to see that he was understood.

  Billingslea no
dded, resigning himself to the fact that this wasn’t a discussion.

  “Like you, Byron is tenacious. Unlike you, he has the experience to achieve his goal without getting in his own way. It’s our job to report the news, not create it. Never lose sight of that.”

  Paxton sat upright and stubbed the remainder of his cigarette out in the ashtray that was his top right drawer. He closed the drawer then handed the story back to Billingslea.

  “My advice to you, son, try and reach an accord with Sergeant Byron. Perhaps extending an olive branch of some sort. The sooner he begins to trust you, the sooner you’ll start to become an effective reporter.”

  Byron was headed back to 109 to release Childress when his cell rang. It was Diane. “Byron.”

  “Hey,” Diane said in a voice devoid of emotion.

  “Shirley said you and Mel were following up on a lead?”

  “Yeah, we just spoke with one of the dancers from the club. She says that Joanne Babbage, one of her coworkers, had been seeing Ramsey for a few months.”

  “As in Joe?”

  “Exactly. Guess she didn’t know how to spell the female variant of that nickname.”

  “You talk with Babbage yet?” he asked.

  “Not yet. She gave us an address. Mel and I are headed over there now.”

  “Let me know.”

  “Childress still hiding behind his lawyer?”

  “Actually, no. He’s got an alibi. Turns out he was sneaking around with his girlfriend at a local hotel.”

  “Well, we can check him off.” Diane paused for a beat. “Anything come out of your noontime meeting?”

  “Yeah, I got a lead on someone who might have had a beef with Ramsey. Some guy from his gym. A trainer. Oh yeah, and I also found out you tested for sergeant. When were you planning to mention that?”

  It slipped out before he could stop himself. Challenging her wasn’t what he’d intended. And doing it over the phone was plain stupid.

  “Wasn’t aware I needed your permission,” she snapped.

  “You don’t.” he said, backing down a bit. “Obviously. I’m just surprised you never said anything.”

  “Kind of like you failing to mention your mystery lunch date with Kay, huh?”

  He was left momentarily speechless. How the hell had she found out about Kay? He thought for a moment. Shirley. Of course. “It wasn’t a date,” he said at last.

  “Oh, really? Then why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  Realizing she had him on that one, he ignored the comment and moved on. “So, what are you going to do if they get to your name on the list?”

  “I’m keeping my options open,” she said.

  “What does that mean?” he asked, unsure if she was still talking about the promotion.

  “It means I haven’t decided yet.”

  He opened his mouth to say something. Watch it, John, his inner voice cautioned. He closed it again.

  “I’ll call you back if we get something,” Diane said before hanging up.

  Byron held his phone up, staring at it. He wasn’t sure he liked Diane’s newfound habit of hanging up on him. He could feel the blood warming his cheeks.

  He was about to slip the phone back into his jacket pocket when it rang again.

  “Byron.”

  “Hey, John,” LeRoyer said. “Just got off the horn with Crosby. They’ve got some good stuff on Tomlinson. Think they’ll be able to grab him up tonight.”

  “Great,” Byron said, sounding far less than enthusiastic.

  “I thought you’d be happy about it. Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s peachy, Lieu. Just fucking peachy.”

  “By the way, heard you had lunch with Kay.”

  “That didn’t sound like it went very well,” Stevens said.

  Diane slipped the phone back into the pocket of her suit coat. “It didn’t.”

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay.”

  They rode in silence for a while. “He knows I’m on the list,” Diane said at last.

  “I’m guessing he didn’t find out from you?”

  “I hadn’t told him yet.”

  Stevens stayed quiet.

  Diane glanced over at her. “Yeah, I know. I should’ve listened to you.”

  Stevens held up her hands in surrender. “I didn’t say a word.”

  “You didn’t have to. Where the hell are we going anyway?”

  “Babbage lives on State. Somewhere near Danforth. But I did tell you so.”

  They both laughed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Saturday, 4:45 p.m., April 30, 2016

  CID was a ghost town, same with the fourth-floor administration offices. The only people still working were his detectives. He’d even sent Shirley Grant home. Byron headed for the rear garage. He grabbed his unmarked, needing to gas up as the needle on the fuel gauge was tickling E. He was hoping the short trip down to the pumps at Public Works might just clear his head. Stopping for the red light at Pearl and Congress, he lowered both front windows, letting in some much needed fresh air.

  Why are you such an asshole, John? He didn’t know.

  What he did know was that he needed to talk to this patient of Kay’s. At the moment, that was far more important than Diane being pissed at him for having lunch with Kay. Actually, that isn’t why she’s pissed, John. She’s pissed about you not telling her. The ever popular lie of omission.

  “You think I don’t know that?” he said aloud to an empty car.

  A woman passing by on the sidewalk, with a dog about the size of a hamster, turned her head, eyeing him suspiciously. She looked away, quickening her pace.

  “Yup, that’s me,” he called after her. “Batshit crazy. Just sitting here talking to myself.”

  It suddenly dawned on him that he wanted a drink. No, check that. Needed a drink. It had been several weeks since he’d felt his last craving. He tried to force the thought out of his head to no avail. Was it this little spat with Diane? Was it the Ramsey murder? Was it Kay? Or was it just the same old John Byron trying to come out? The one who always looked for answers at the bottom of a glass?

  Mercifully, the traffic light changed from red to green and Byron accelerated through the intersection. Driving down Pearl Street toward Public Works, he pushed the thoughts, and the accompanying urge to wet his whistle, way down deep inside. Right where he hoped they would remain.

  Diane and Stevens stood in the vestibule of the State Street apartment building, their surprise visit thwarted by a glass security door. Abandoned junk mail and department store fliers were scattered about on the honeycomb tile floor. Most of the correspondence was addressed to “current resident,” and none of it was for Joanne Babbage. Trixie hadn’t known Babbage’s apartment number, only the building address. There were eight buzzers on the directory panel but only four were labeled, meaning that the spaces were vacant, the tenants hadn’t gotten around to it yet, or they didn’t wish to be bothered. Diane, who’d spent years in the Big Apple tracking down people in multiunit buildings, pressed all eight.

  They were preparing to leave when a disheveled-looking young man descended the stairs and opened the security door. He was wearing boxers and a cream-colored tee that Diane guessed had once been white.

  “What?” he said.

  Diane displayed her credentials. “Sorry to bother you. We’re looking for Joanne Babbage.”

  He stared at her ID. “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Do you know any of your neighbors, Mr. . . . ?” Stevens asked.

  “No, I don’t. Not by name anyway.”

  “What is your name?” Diane asked.

  “Why?” he said, sounding indignant. “Have I done something wrong?”

  “No,” Diane said. “But we are trying to locate a possible witness on a murder case and it would be nice if you chose to help us.”

  He reached up and scratched his head through a greasy mop of hair as he considered it.
“Sorry,” he said, extending the same hand. “I’m Billy Wheeler.”

  Diane shook his hand. Resisting the urge to grimace, she thought about the brand-new bottle of hand sanitizer in her glove box.

  “I live in apartment 7, top floor, but like I said, I don’t really know anyone.”

  “The woman we’re looking for might live alone,” Stevens added.

  “Besides me, there might be a couple like that,” Wheeler said.

  “She has a young daughter who might stay with her on occasion,” Diane added.

  Wheeler’s eyes widened in recognition. “Ah, that’s probably the woman in apartment 5. Babe.”

  Byron was returning the nozzle to the gas pump when his cell rang. It was Kay.

  “Hey,” he said. “Tell me you’ve got good news.”

  “I do. He’s willing to speak with you.”

  “Great. When and where?”

  “He’ll meet you at eight-thirty tomorrow morning at the Miss Portland Diner.”

  His heart sank at the delay. “I was thinking more like now.”

  “Tomorrow is what we agreed on, John.”

  It wasn’t what he’d hoped for. If this guy was legit and his boyfriend was responsible for Ramsey’s murder, time was of the essence. “How will I recognize him?”

  “He’ll find you. He pulled your picture off the Internet.”

  Byron sighed. “Any chance we could dispense with the cloak and dagger stuff? I’m the detective, remember? It would be easier if you just told me who he is.”

  “Easier for you, you mean. Then you’ll do what? Run his name through the system? Find out where he lives, or works? Nice try but I know you too well, John Byron. Besides, I’m bound by an oath to protect my patients.”

  “Except this one wants to talk with me.”

  “Yes, and if he decides to follow through, he will.”

  Byron could feel his anger rising. He knew Kay was doing all she could to help him, but he didn’t like feeling helpless.

  “John, this is something he has to do on his own. I’ve nudged him all I can. He’s scared. Please go easy on him, okay?”