Bagley’s feelings betrayed him. Tears ran down his cheeks. “I care about him, Sergeant. Very much. I only told you about the assault because I was worried. Now you’ve gone and arrested him. He’ll probably never speak to me again.”
Byron tried consoling him. “You did the right thing coming forward. I know it doesn’t seem like it right now but—”
“Just save it. I don’t want to hear it.”
He watched as Bagley marched out through the vestibule double doors and down the steps to Middle Street. Then he turned and signaled the desk officer to buzz him in.
“Sorry, Sarge,” Johnson said.
Byron ignored him, proceeded directly to the elevator, and punched the up button with the side of his fist. As he waited, the promotional list caught his eye again. He tore it from the bulletin board, crumpled it up, and flung it toward a nearby trash can. He missed.
God, I need a drink.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sunday, 10:30 p.m., May 1, 2016
Byron sat on the darkened hillside, staring out at the cityscape below. Lit windows twinkled like stars. The air was still warm and the grass dewy. Nearby crickets harmonized in soprano. Highway traffic pulsed around Back Cove like an artery supplying Portland with a vital flow. A siren wailed in the distance. He came here to reflect, as his father had before him. As Ray Humphrey had. Byron missed his old friend, missed their conversations about life. The cop’s life. He sighed. How had things gotten so fucked up?
He wished he could go back in time. Back to the Portland of his youth. It was a different city then, a different time, when his father and Ray had shared this view. The waterfront had been a tougher place. People still dressed up and attended church every Sunday. Families still ate together at the dinner table. And later, when he and Ray had frequented this spot, Portland had changed yet again.
Byron wondered how many of the city’s seventy thousand ever stopped to smell the roses. How many ever came to this spot, or any spot, to pause and reflect? Take a brief respite from the working and living and dying on the coast of Maine. It was mostly the dying upon which he focused. After all, it was how he earned his money.
His gaze shifted to the paper bag lying on the ground beside him. Inside the bag was his old pal, his confident, Officer Jameson, ready for duty. Still sealed. He’d purchased the bottle at the variety store after leaving 109. He knew how dangerously close he was coming to ending nearly nine months of sobriety. But he also knew there was a big difference between buying a bottle and drinking one. This wasn’t the first time he’d found himself tested. There had been others. On each of the other occasions he’d managed to talk himself out of it, opting instead to smash the bottle on a rock or toss it out the window, unopened, on his way home. Though something about this time felt different. Maybe it was the way the clerk had eyed him as he wandered the store, like he was a shoplifter, wrestling with his conscience. Perhaps it was the tension between him and Diane, the first real problem they’d had since becoming involved. Or maybe it was seeing Kay again, and realizing that he still loved her. Byron didn’t know what it was but he could feel himself weakening by the moment. Slipping. And that’s the way it was, wasn’t it? The way it always was. Incremental. He tore his eyes away from the bag and forced his mind back to the case.
If Ramsey was killed at the SUV, why had the murderer bothered to dump him in the ocean? Why not just shoot him in the SUV and leave him? If they shot him on the boat, why drive his SUV to Veranda Street? It made no sense. But neither did the idea of three different people assaulting this guy independent of each other on the same night. Ramsey was a son of a bitch but it was still a hard explanation to swallow. Byron could understand McVail following Ramsey out of the bar to administer some street justice; he’d considered doing that himself on occasion. He could even believe that Fowler had come along and punched Ramsey as he staggered about on his feet. But the idea that Fowler would walk all the way to his apartment then return to shoot Ramsey was a stretch. And if it wasn’t Fowler, then a third person had to have driven him out to Veranda Street and shot him.
This third person would have to have been watching Ramsey, Byron thought. Maybe even following him.
His concentration was momentarily broken by the sound of a pair of slamming car doors from behind, back at CB Circle, at the intersection of North Street and the Eastern Prom where he had parked. Following the slamming doors came the unmistakable giggling of a young male and female. He’d forgotten about the other things, besides reflection, that the younger residents of Portland came here for. The giggling gradually faded as they moved away from him. Byron’s thoughts turned to Diane. Why had she taken the exam in the first place? Was she seriously considering leaving CID? Or was this some ill-contrived plan to get him to commit? He didn’t know. It seemed out of character. Either way, one of them would be forced out of the detective bureau. He was far too set in his ways to even consider lieutenant’s bars and the unit couldn’t afford to lose a detective as good as Diane. Truth be told, he couldn’t afford to lose Diane.
He glanced down at the bag, hearing the siren song of the bottle contained therein. It had solved so many problems. Hadn’t it? Or had it caused more than it ever solved? He closed his eyes tightly, trying to focus on his breathing.
“Thinking about throwing it all away?” the voice of his dead mentor, Ray Humphrey, said as clearly as if he were right beside him. “You really think the answer’s in that bottle, Sarge?”
“No. Not really,” Byron said aloud.
“Then why are you even considering it?”
“I don’t know. Habit, maybe. It’s familiar.”
“So’s hell.”
Byron opened his eyes and looked around. He was alone. Humphrey wasn’t there, of course. Only the grassy hill and the city lights beyond. Humphrey was only a memory, a ghost, like so many others. An imaginary voice in Byron’s head.
His cellphone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket. It was a text from his niece.
“Missed U 2day, Uncle John:(“
Fuck. He’d missed her graduation party. It was official. He was now the world’s worst uncle. How could he have forgotten about her party? What in hell was he thinking?
He was rereading Katie’s text through watery eyes when the cell began to ring and the screen changed. He expected it to be Katie but the ID identified the caller as Pelligrosso. Byron cleared his throat then answered.
“Hey, Gabe.”
“Sarge. Just finished comparing the bullet from Fowler’s gun to the one taken from Ramsey’s head.”
Byron closed his eyes, hoping, praying. “And?”
“They don’t match.”
Byron powered the phone off and reached for the bag.
With the live band’s bass notes booming in her ear, Diane sat alone at the far right end of the bar. She was upset for allowing herself to get into this position in the first place. Why had she taken that damn test? For that matter, why had she started sleeping with John? Because he’s sexy as hell. She knew how stupid bedding her supervisor was, but she’d done it anyway. Certainly there is no such thing as casual sex between coworkers. Sooner or later someone gets hurt, no two ways about it. Either it becomes serious, in which case the job is fucked, or it ends badly, in which case the job is also fucked. Maybe she’d be better off accepting the city manager’s offer. Take the bullshit PR sergeant’s position, ride it out for six months, and see what happens. At least then, if she and John kept seeing each other, nobody would care.
She finished her Boston lager and was about to signal the bartender for another when a young man slid onto the stool to her left.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the music.
“Save your lame pickup line for someone who’s—Davis?” She’d expected to see some hard luck loser, looking to get lucky with a stranger. She hadn’t been expecting the Portland Herald’s most dogged crime beat reporter. “What the fuck do you want?”
&nb
sp; “I just want to talk.”
“So you can print some more BS in that rag of a paper? Take something else out of context?” She furrowed her brow, appraising him suspiciously. “Are you following me again, you little dweeb?”
“Relax, Detective. You’re not that hard to find.”
“Yeah, well, you found me, now you can just go find your way out of here.”
“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
“What could we possibly have to talk about?”
“The Ramsey murder.”
She glared at him. “You’re not gonna get me to say anything about the case.”
“I’m not here to get info.”
She cocked her head to one side. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just hear me out,” Billingslea said. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He held up both hands in mock surrender. “Please.”
“One drink. After that, if you’re still annoying me, I’ll have you thrown out of here. Or, better yet, I’ll throw you out myself.”
Billingslea turned as the bartender approached.
“What can I getcha?” the bartender asked.
“I’ll have a glass of Pinot and a refill for my friend.”
“Don’t push it, Davis. We aren’t friends.”
The bartender shot Diane a worried look.
“It’s okay,” she said. “He’s buying.”
The bartender wandered off to get their drinks.
“The clock’s already started,” Diane said. “You got something to say, I suggest you say it.”
“I know we’ve had our differences, Diane, but I’d like to try and fix that.”
“It’s ‘Detective.’ You’re a long way from ‘Diane.’ How can you fix it?”
“I think I can help you guys with the Ramsey case.”
Again, Diane eyed him suspiciously.
“I’m serious.”
“Why the hell would you want to help us?”
“Let’s just say my bosses haven’t exactly been supportive on this case. I’ve been getting good information but they won’t let me print any of it.”
She cupped her hand behind her ear. “Hear that, Davis? That’s me not giving a fuck. If this intel of yours is so great, why haven’t you approached Sergeant Byron? Why come to me?”
“Truthfully? Because I’m afraid he’d kick my ass.”
Diane hid a faint smile. “And you think I won’t?”
The bartender returned, placing the drinks on the bar in front of them.
Diane watched Davis as he sat on the stool, sulking and sipping his wine.
“Okay,” Diane said finally. “I’ll play along. Where are you getting this bullshit information you think is important enough to share with the police?”
“I have an inside source.”
“At the firm?”
Billingslea nodded.
“Does your source know you’re approaching me?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know that this isn’t just some employee with an axe to grind, Davis?”
“I don’t think she is.”
Diane’s eyes widened. “A woman?”
He nodded again.
“Let me guess, someone Ramsey slept with?”
“No. She’s not like that.”
Diane took another drink from her pint glass.
“Getting this from you, whatever it is, won’t help me much, even if it’s true. I’m gonna need to speak with your source.”
Billingslea’s expression brightened. “I was hoping you’d say that. She’s here.”
Diane pivoted on the stool, scanning the tables until she spotted an attractive young woman seated alone. She looked back at Billingslea. “That her?”
“Yes.”
Diane grabbed her drink and accompanied the reporter over to the table.
Billingslea made the introductions. “Detective Joyner, I’d like you to meet Amy Brennan.”
Brennan stood up and the two women shook hands.
“Ms. Brennan,” Diane said.
“Amy, please.”
All three of them sat down.
“Davis says that you work at Newman, Branch & DeWitt.”
“I’m a paralegal.”
“How long?”
“Three years.”
“Ask her about—”
“If you don’t mind, Davis, I usually do my own interviews.”
“Sorry.”
Diane continued. “You know I’m one of the investigators working on Ramsey’s murder, right?”
Brennan nodded.
“Do your bosses know that you’re talking to a reporter, and now the police?”
She shook her head. “No. I’d be fired if she found out.”
“She?”
“I’m Attorney Lorraine Davies’s assistant.”
“So why are you talking out of school?”
Brennan looked down at the table. “I don’t know.”
“You’re pissed at your boss? Is that why you’re here?”
Brennan reestablished eye contact. “No. She’s very good to me.”
“Why, then?”
Brennan looked to Billingslea for help.
He nodded. “Go ahead. Tell her.”
Brennan looked back at Diane. “Paul Ramsey was having an affair with Branch’s wife.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sunday, 11:00 p.m., May 1, 2016
Byron drove directly to 109. Once again he’d bested his demons, smashing the bottle on a rock before returning to his car. Katie’s text had pushed him back. He’d let her down and he knew it. It made him feel like shit. He was letting his weakness control his life. It was time to take back control. He would refocus on catching the killer. Start over. Go back to the beginning. That’s what Humphrey had always pounded into his head. When you find yourself lost, unable to find a way forward, go back to the beginning. Figure out what you missed.
He sat in the conference room staring at the whiteboard. A maze of names, times, and dates written in red and black marker. At the center was Paul Ramsey, attorney, stepfather, husband, drug addict, asshole. But now only a dead asshole. Murdered by someone even more loathsome than himself. Someone who wanted Ramsey out of the way. Removed from the equation, permanently. But who? Certainly not Darius Tomlinson. Oh, Tomlinson might have killed Ramsey, but if he had it was at someone else’s behest. Maybe someone used Tomlinson to get to Ramsey. Was it blackmail gone bad? Had Ramsey decided not to play ball?
And there were other names circled, with arrows pointing to and away from them. Devon Branch, Lorraine Davies, Gerry DeWitt, Donny McVail. Just pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit together. They were still missing something. But what? Something they hadn’t found yet. Or maybe they had found it but were overlooking its importance.
So many people could have wanted Ramsey dead. He had enemies. Too many to count. Byron couldn’t really bring himself to care that Ramsey was dead. Had it happened in another jurisdiction he wouldn’t have been involved. But it hadn’t. It happened right in Byron’s backyard. Right smack in the middle of his city. And that made it his problem. His murder to solve. He would never grieve for the deceased attorney, but until Ramsey’s killer was brought to justice, Byron would never rest.
His cellphone began vibrating across the table. He picked up and checked the ID. Diane. “Byron,” he answered.
“Where are you?” Diane asked.
“109. CID conference room. Making my eyes cross looking for a piece that joins this puzzle. You?”
“On my way in. And I may have found a great big piece.”
Byron and Diane sat across from Brennan at the worn wooden interview room table. Billingslea waited outside in the CID waiting room.
“Thank you for coming forward, Amy,” Byron said.
“I don’t know if it has anything to do with Mr. Ramsey’s murder but I thought you should know,” Brennan said.
“Why did you go to Davis Billingslea in the first place?” Diane asked. “Why not come directly to us?”
“I didn’t dare come to you with this. I already knew Davis. He actually contacted me. I’d met him during the civil trial. Davis had come by the office several times to try and get information for his trial coverage.”
“Are the two of you seeing each other?” Byron asked.
Brennan flushed at the question. “Not really. We’ve been out a couple times.”
“Tell me about the affair between Branch’s wife and Ramsey,” Byron said.
“I think it started around the time of the firm’s Christmas party, last year.”
“You think?” Byron asked.
“Devon Branch and Lorraine Davies host an annual Christmas party at their house in Topsham. Last year’s was the second one I’ve been invited to. Anyway, I was feeling a little tipsy and needed to use the bathroom but someone was already using it. So I wandered up to the second floor to try and find another bathroom. I accidentally walked in on them.”
“Ramsey and Davies?” Diane asked.
Brennan nodded. “Yes.”
“What happened?” Byron asked.
“I opened a door thinking it might have been a bathroom but it led to a spare bedroom. It was dark but I could tell what they were doing.”
“What were they doing?” Diane asked.
“Ms. Davies’s shirt was off and Ramsey’s pants were down and they were making out next to the bed.”
“What did you do?” Diane asked.
“Got the hell out of there. I was afraid I’d get in trouble for seeing that.”
“Did either of them ever approach you about what you’d seen?” Byron asked.
“Mr. Ramsey didn’t but Lorraine did. A couple of days after the party. She said that she was sorry that it happened. Told me it was a one-time thing and asked for my discretion. I said I hadn’t really seen anything.”
“That was it?” Byron asked.
“Yes. She thanked me and we never spoke of it again.”
“Amy, did Branch know?” Diane asked.
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