Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  Byron ended the call and climbed back inside his car. It would be easy, he thought. I’ll just drive down to the package store on Portland Street and purchase a small bottle to set me straight. Something to give me a boost. Just a little edge.

  But he knew where it would lead. “A wee dram,” his father would’ve said. One or two belts sounded good, after which he’d hide the bottle under the seat. Or under the spare in the trunk. Or under the wad of parking citations in the glove box. But the bottle wouldn’t remain there and he knew it. Sure as shit, he’d wake up somewhere not remembering what had happened, drunk off his ass. Answering the sweet sirens’ call would undo everything he’d done to this point. Months of sobriety down the drain. Alcohol didn’t control him after all. That would make him no better than the drunks who roamed the streets looking for handouts. Drunks like Winn. And he was better than that, wasn’t he? Truth was, he was afraid of finding out. If he caved in now he’d know the answer. And he was pretty sure he already knew what that answer was.

  Leaning against the headrest, he closed his eyes. He needed to get his shit together. There was too much to do. Too much at stake. He was fucking things up with Diane. Confused about his feelings for Kay. And he had a case to work. A murder to solve. Ramsey’s murder.

  But the victim was an asshole, his inner voice reminded him. Right, John? Or was he just good at his job? Could it be that the only reason you didn’t like him was because he was an effective trial lawyer? Admit it. You’ve got more in common with him than you care to admit.

  “Fuck you,” Byron said, slamming his fist onto the steering wheel.

  His cell rang, startling him back to the here and now. Assistant Attorney General Ferguson.

  “Hey, Jim,” Byron said, quickly composing himself.

  “Hey, yourself. See you’re still hard at it.”

  “You know me.”

  “Figured I’d have heard from you by now if you were getting close.”

  Byron sighed. “Yeah, close isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe this mess.”

  “You getting pushback from the top?”

  “Always. Ramsey’s firm is playing politics too.”

  “You need me to make any calls for you? Rattle somebody’s cage a bit?”

  “Nah. Thanks. Nothing here I can’t handle.”

  “Well, my offer stands. Listen, I also want to let you know that I’ll be working from home this weekend. Trying to prep for a trial that starts next week. Picking a jury on Monday. Garcia homicide.”

  “The guy who killed his four-year-old stepson?” Byron remembered hearing the gory details from Lucinda Phillips, his state police CID counterpart. They were the kind of details that never made it into the papers.

  “Yup. Alonzo Garcia, real piece of work. If I had my way, we’d skip the trial and string him up by his testicles.”

  “Ferguson’s brand of justice, huh?”

  “You disapprove?”

  “Personally? No. But I swore an oath, remember?”

  “Shit, that’s right,” Ferguson said. “Guess I did too. Well then, I guess we’ll just have to try the son of a bitch.”

  As Byron laughed, something loosened in his chest. It felt good. Ferguson couldn’t have called at a better time.

  “Anyway, I wanted you to know I’ll be around should you need anything on the Ramsey case. Oh, and the wife still wants me to pin you down on when you’re coming to dinner?”

  Byron laughed again. “Tell her very soon. I promise. And give her a big hug for me.”

  “Get your ass up here, John, and hug her yourself.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Saturday, 11:35 p.m., April 30, 2016

  Darius Tomlinson cruised slowly down Cumberland Avenue in the darkness. His body tensed slightly as the BMW’s high-intensity headlights illuminated the reflective badge decal on the door of a black-and-white passing in the opposite direction. Cops. For a man who made his living selling illegal narcotics, the reflex was as natural as breathing. He monitored the police cruiser’s progress in the rearview mirror, watching for brake lights or a change in speed. Nothing. No indication the cop had taken the least bit of interest in him. Darius relaxed, double-checking his own speed. Twenty-five, right on the button. No reason to worry.

  Even if they did pull him over there’d be nothing to find. The rental had been returned an hour ago. The kilo already delivered. The money was secured in the trunk in a compartment hidden beneath the spare. He was strapped with his Glock 9 but they’d still need a reason to stop him. And a reason to search him. He rechecked the rearview. The cop had activated the cruiser’s right turn signal. He watched as the brake lights illuminated and the cruiser turned down Boyd into Kennedy Park.

  “Not this time, fucker,” Darius said with a laugh. 2Pac was playing “Hit ’Em Up” on the Bluetooth. He moved his gaze from the darkened road long enough to crank up the stereo volume as he continued toward Munjoy Hill. His eyes returned to the road just in time to see the dark-colored sedan pull out directly in front of him. “Shit!” He stood on the pedal, causing the Beamer’s antilock brakes to pulse violently. The car jerked to a stop then settled back as its weight redistributed to all four wheels.

  “Motherfucker!” Tomlinson said as he slammed the transmission into Park and jumped out of the car without thinking. “Yo, what the fuck is your problem, you stupid fuck?”

  A lone male sat behind the wheel of the Camaro. His face pale in the glare of the BMW’s headlights.

  Darius slammed his fist onto the hood of the Chevy. “You know who the fuck I am?” He was about to issue a challenge when he felt cold hard steel pressing against his skull, behind his right ear. He had a fleeting thought about going for the Glock.

  “I know exactly who you are, asshole,” a male voice said. “Twitch and you’re dead. Hands behind your head, Darius.”

  Cops. Shit. Tomlinson did as he was told. Police cars seemed to come from every direction. The street was instantly awash with flashing strobes and flickering blues. Tires squealed, and lights blinded him.

  “Get on the fucking ground!” another voice commanded. “Now!”

  Again, he complied. He heard the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching. He felt a knee jammed roughly into his lower back, pressing him to the pavement. Both of his arms were grabbed and twisted behind him. The familiar pressure and clicks of cold metal cuffs.

  “Easy, motherfucker,” Tomlinson growled.

  “He’s secure,” another voice said.

  “Okay. Search him good.”

  Tomlinson knew the drill. He closed his eyes, remaining silent as hands roughly slid up and down his legs, torso, and arms.

  “Gun!”

  He felt the Glock being yanked from his shoulder holster. Then he was searched again, thoroughly from head to toe. The cop paid particular attention to his groin. Darius knew what he was looking for. Drugs. Hiding drugs in your pants was a rookie move. Darius was no rookie.

  They stood him up and continued checking his clothes, even removing his shoes. The strobes from the police cars were blinding, making the officers look like nothing more than blurry armed silhouettes. After the cops finished searching him, they moved away. A single shape stepped into view. Crosby.

  “Well, well, well. What do you know about this?” Crosby said, holding up Darius’s Glock. “Hello, D.”

  It was after midnight when Byron walked into the bureau. Every light in CID was burning brightly, as if it were a weekday instead of the middle of the night. Several of Crosby’s grungy-looking plainclothes detectives had commandeered desks next to the interview rooms. Were it not for the detective badges hanging from chains around their necks, Byron might’ve thought the bureau had been overrun by criminals. He had never worked the drug scene, but he still vaguely remembered LeRoyer back in the day. Bushy goatee, long hair dyed blond, diamond earring, not so much as a hint of the future CID commander in his appearance.

  “Where’s Crosby?” Byron asked the detective sporting a gre
asy ponytail.

  “In with Darius,” he said, pointing a disinterested thumb toward Interview Room Two.

  Byron knocked on the blue door then stepped inside.

  “Sergeant Byron, allow me to introduce Darius Tomlinson,” Crosby said in his usual wiseass tone. “D, meet Sergeant Byron.”

  Tomlinson, sporting a diamond earring and handcuffs, was seated off to the left; Crosby, with one foot up on the table, to the right. The room reeked of cheap aftershave. Byron couldn’t tell whose it was. Most likely an unpleasant mix of the two.

  Tomlinson fixed Byron with a look of disinterest, which Byron assumed was a well-rehearsed front. He lifted his arms. “I’d shake your hand, yo, but I’m wearing charm bracelets.”

  Byron nodded and sat down beside Crosby.

  “D was a bad boy tonight, Sergeant. Caught him carrying a loaded Glock and a big ol’ bag o’ money. He outsmarted us on the delivery but we still got the cash.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Tomlinson said. “Told ya, I won that at the casino.”

  “Really?” Crosby said excitedly, as if he might actually believe him. “Which one?”

  Tomlinson hesitated a split second before answering. “Foxwoods.”

  Byron wondered if Tomlinson even knew in which state the tribal resort was located.

  “Wow. Ten grand. You must be one lucky guy. I wonder if you’ll be lucky enough to show up on their security video. And, in case you’re wondering, we’ll be requesting it.”

  “Whatever,” Tomlinson said. “Just keep playing the game.”

  Byron looked over at Crosby. Crosby nodded.

  Byron addressed Tomlinson. “D, is it?”

  “Yeah,” he said without looking at him.

  “D, seems like we both could use a little help tonight. Maybe we could help each other.”

  Tomlinson looked over warily. “How?”

  “I’ve got a murder to solve,” Byron said. “And you’ve got a possession rap.”

  “I carry that 9 for protection, yo,” Tomlinson blurted out.

  “Yo?” Byron said. “What does that even mean?”

  Crosby weighed in. “It means, he’s looking at some serious time. Possession of a firearm by a convicted felon. Ain’t that right, D.”

  “How am I supposed to protect myself? Ain’t you guys ever heard of the Second Amendment?”

  “You starting your own militia?” Crosby asked with a grin.

  “What?” Tomlinson asked, looking confused.

  “Never mind,” Byron said, tired of the banter. He leaned in over the table. “D, I need information. You help me and I’ll talk to the DA about probation on the gun charge.”

  “Guaranteed?”

  “I can’t guarantee anything. But I’ll talk to them.”

  Tomlinson’s eyes narrowed. “What about the cash?”

  Byron looked at Crosby.

  Crosby leaned back in his chair, smirking like he’d just hit every number on the Powerball jackpot. “Guess that depends on what you got for ol’ Crosby.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sunday, 8:45 a.m., May 1, 2016

  Manufactured by the Worcester Lunch Car Company in 1949, the Miss Portland Diner had been feeding the residents of the Port City and its summer tourists for more than sixty years. Byron was seated at a booth overlooking Marginal Way, enjoying the heady aroma of bacon wafting in from the kitchen grill and listening to a Rolling Stones live cover of “Midnight Rambler” through the ceiling speakers. He glanced at the wall clock behind the counter. Kay’s mystery patient was now fifteen minutes late.

  “More coffee?” the tattooed waitress asked, holding out the carafe.

  “Thanks,” he said, sliding the azure colored mug toward her and wondering what significance, if any, the colorful tribal sleeve on her right forearm held.

  She moved on to the next table before he could ask.

  Byron passed the time listening to the silver-haired couple seated in the booth directly behind him. The man was speaking louder than normal. Byron figured it was probably due to hearing loss, though he didn’t know which one of them might be afflicted.

  “Ya know,” the man said. “I was readin’ an interesting article the other day about libido.”

  “That so,” the woman responded.

  “Yup.”

  “What did it say?” she asked.

  “Said testosterone injections can help older women get their sex drive back.”

  “Well, ain’t that something,” the woman said, sounding mildly impressed. “What will they think of next, I wonder.”

  The man went on, explaining that testosterone was merely a derivative of estrogen.

  Byron hid a smile behind his cup, unsure if the man’s revelation was simply informative or if there was perhaps an ulterior motive. Then Byron noticed a husky, middle-aged man approaching. He was wearing faded blue jeans, dark glasses, and a teal windbreaker. The jacket could have been the man’s attempt at combatting the early-morning chill but Byron figured it was more likely he was trying to hide an ever expanding midsection. He stopped next to Byron’s table.

  “Sergeant Byron?” the man asked.

  Byron nodded. “That’s right. You’re Kay’s patient?”

  “I’m William Bagley,” he said, extending a sweaty hand. “You look exactly as Dr. Byron described.”

  “Probably look like my Internet picture too.”

  Bagley’s face flushed with color.

  “I almost gave up on you, Mr. Bagley.”

  “I’ve been sitting in my car, outside in the parking lot, for the past fifteen minutes. I almost didn’t come in.”

  Byron gestured to the other side of the table. “Have a seat.”

  Bagley was nothing like what Byron had pictured. Kay had never mentioned an age, but Byron had assumed she was talking about a younger man. Byron guessed Bagley was pushing sixty, and the decades were pushing back. His thinning white hair was parted on one side and the ruddy complexion suggested hypertension. Byron imagined Bagley would have looked much more at home in a suit and tie than his ridiculous attempt at a disguise.

  “I have to tell you, I’m a little nervous,” Bagley said. “I’ve never spoken to a detective before. How does this work?”

  Byron wondered how many episodes of Law and Order Bagley had watched. “Have you eaten?” Byron asked, trying to put him at ease.

  “I’m not particularly hungry. Maybe some coffee?”

  Byron signaled the waitress. After she departed, Byron began the interview. “Kay tells me you might know something about the Ramsey murder.”

  Bagley looked down at the table, nodding almost imperceptibly.

  “Does this have something to do with your boyfriend?”

  Bagley nodded again and began playing with a sugar packet. “Roger.”

  “Tell me about Roger,” Byron said, wondering if he would have to work this hard for every piece of information.

  “He’s a good person, really. But he’s got a temper. Sometimes he can’t control it.”

  Byron couldn’t count the number of times he’d heard battered lovers say the exact same thing. He wondered how many times Bagley had been the target of Roger’s ire. How many fat lips or black eyes had Kay’s patient suffered at Roger’s hands?

  “What happened?” Byron asked.

  Bagley sipped from his mug and continued. “The other night we, me and Roger, were out having drinks in the Old Port. Barhopping, I guess they call it. We were both feeling pretty good and decided to head back to my apartment. Roger agreed to spend the night. He keeps some personal stuff at my place. Toothbrush, clothes, things like that.”

  A creature of habit, Byron wanted to take notes but he was afraid to do anything that might prevent his fragile witness from continuing, so he held off.

  “We’d just left the oyster bar on Commercial Street when Roger ran into this guy wearing a suit.”

  “Ran into?” Byron asked.

  “Yeah, you know. They ki
nda bumped into each other as we were walking past.”

  “Did you get a good look at the guy your boyfriend ran into?”

  Bagley shook his head. “No. I was more than a little drunk.”

  “You told Kay it was Paul Ramsey.”

  “I’m pretty sure it was. Roger said it was.”

  “Paul Ramsey?”

  “Yes, the bigwig defense attorney. Always in the news.”

  “What happened?”

  “Roger got pissed, started swearing at him. Told the guy, Ramsey, to watch where the hell he was going.”

  “What did Ramsey do?”

  “He said something like, ‘Fuck off.’”

  Original, Byron thought. One might have expected something a little more from most prominent members of the bar, but not Paul Ramsey. “And then?”

  “Roger punched him in the face.”

  “How many times?”

  “Just once. Roger’s really strong.”

  “Did Ramsey fight back?”

  Bagley shook his head and began to fidget with his spoon. “He couldn’t. Roger knocked him out.”

  “Where was this?”

  “On Silver Street, I think. Between Commercial and Fore. Not too far from that hotel.”

  “Which hotel?”

  “I always forget the name. Used to be an armory.”

  “The Old Port Regency?” Byron said.

  “Yeah. Not far from there,” Bagley said.

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know exactly. It was getting late. I told you, I was tipsy.”

  “What happened next?”

  “A woman ran toward us. I grabbed Roger and pulled him out of there.”

  “Did you get a look at the woman?”

  Bagley shook his head. “I just wanted to get out of there.”

  “What was Ramsey doing when you last saw him?”

  “Nothing. He was lying on his back.”

  “Was he breathing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m gonna need Roger’s full name.”

  “You’re not gonna tell him I said anything, are you?” Bagley asked with a worried look on his face. “I don’t want him to get mad at me.”