Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “I think he may have found out, later.”

  “About the Christmas party?” Diane asked.

  Brennan shook her head. “About the affair.”

  “So, it wasn’t just a one-time thing,” Byron said.

  “No. It kept happening. It was one of those things that everyone in the office knew about but pretended wasn’t happening.”

  Byron made eye contact with Diane. He knew exactly what Brennan was talking about. They both did.

  Joanne Babbage paced about the hotel room nervously waiting. She checked the alarm clock on the bedside table—11:20. He was late. Had something happened? Had he changed his mind? She walked to the window and looked outside. Nothing. She went back to pacing.

  She’d done her part. Told the police exactly what she was supposed to. Those acting classes had paid off. Wasn’t really all that different than the acting she did each night. Pretending to want the attention of the customers while she danced half-naked around the stage. Then, every so often, pretending to be in love with one of the well-to-do patrons, like Paul Ramsey. Picking up a little more on the side as she pushed for Darius. It was all make-believe. Acting out the roles she was paid to play. And she had just nailed a new role, a top-notch performance with the police. Now she expected to be paid the rest of what she was owed.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and crossed her arms, tapping her foot nervously on the stained Berber carpeting. She glanced back at the plastic clock on the nightstand. The red LED display read twenty-two past. Where the hell was he?

  A sharp knock at the door startled her. She stood, went to the door, and opened it.

  “Well, it’s about fucking t—”

  “Hello, Candy.”

  “You did the right thing, you know,” Billingslea said as he steered the car onto the Washington Avenue off-ramp.

  “Why don’t I feel better knowing that?” Brennan asked.

  The truth was Billingslea was conflicted about it himself. He realized this was his first time actually helping the police instead of trying to beat them to the punch. It wasn’t sitting well with the reporter inside him, but he remembered what Paxton had said about gaining Byron’s trust. He was a long way from that yet, but perhaps this olive branch to Detective Joyner was a start.

  “You don’t think Devon would ever do anything to Lorraine, do you?” Billingslea asked.

  Brennan looked at him wide-eyed. “I’d never considered it.”

  Several minutes later, Billingslea pulled up in front of Brennan’s apartment and stopped.

  “Thank you for talking me into that, Davis.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I mean, at least I got it off my chest. Just because Ramsey was having an affair with Lorraine doesn’t mean that Branch killed him, right?”

  “Of course it doesn’t.” But even as he said it, Billingslea realized how hollow it sounded. It absolutely made Devon Branch a suspect. And they both knew it.

  “Well, good night, Davis,” she said as she reached for the door handle.

  Billingslea had been thinking about this moment all evening. He finally got the courage up and leaned over to kiss her. She pulled back slightly.

  “I’m s-s-sorry,” he stammered. “I thought—”

  Brennan smiled. “Don’t be sorry,” she said. She kissed him on the cheek then got out of the car. “Good night, Davis.”

  “Good night.”

  It was just after two Monday morning. Tomlinson stood beside the Beamer, at the rear of the deserted parking lot, waiting for his payday. He lit another cigarette, then pocketed the lighter. He didn’t like waiting for anyone, but with Crosby’s guys on him, he had to be more careful. This wasn’t like one of his drug deals. Normally, he’d have one of his couriers be the go-between. That way he wouldn’t get caught holding. The only time he ever got personally involved was with high-end customers, when the payment was made face-to-face. Cash only. Kept the bigwigs honest. Facing him on his turf outside of their ivory towers discouraged delinquency. A couple of former customers had made the mistake of taking delivery without paying. It was a mistake they only made once. This payment was different, however. It wasn’t for product. This payment was for services rendered. He’d need a new mule, but that wasn’t a big deal. Girls like Candy were a dime a dozen.

  Tomlinson looked up as a vehicle rounded the corner at the far end of the lot. He studied its profile. The car definitely wasn’t an unmarked, not with the low-profile high-intensity headlights. He knew a luxury when he saw it. He checked his watch. Eleven minutes late. He dropped the cigarette butt to the pavement, twisting it under a black Salvatore Ferragamo high-top. They’d be having a chat about price increases if this shit continued.

  Tomlinson watched as the car slowed and turned in next to him. The driver lowered the tinted power window.

  “Yo, you’re late,” Tomlinson said as he started toward the car. “If you’re gonna keep the D Man waiting, prices are goin’ up. You feel me?”

  Four gunshots rang out in rapid succession. He saw the muzzle flashes and felt burning lead ripping through his torso. There was a strange disconnect, no feeling from below his waist. His legs gave out beneath him and he collapsed to the asphalt. He struggled to reach the gun in his ankle holster but the pain was too intense. Each breath brought white-hot agony. Powerless, all he could do was watch as the car door opened and the driver stepped out.

  “Please,” he croaked, holding a hand up in a futile attempt to try and shield himself. The semiauto was pointed directly at him. The opening at the business end of its barrel looked as big around as that of a cannon. He could see the look of determination on his assailant’s face. There would be no mercy. He saw but did not hear the final flash from the gun.

  Byron awoke gradually to an annoying buzzing sound. He lifted his head from the pillow and saw the illuminated screen of his cellphone as it danced across the nightstand, the only light in the darkened room. He grabbed it and checked the time and incoming ID. Four-thirty. LeRoyer. He threw the covers back and forced himself to sit up on the edge of the bed. Unsure of the day, his mind was still wrapped in the gauzy fabric of slumber.

  “Morning, Marty,” he croaked. “What’s up?”

  “Rise and shine, John,” LeRoyer said. “Got another body. Get dressed.”

  It was nearly five by the time Byron and Diane pulled into the lot. Three black-and-whites formed a half circle around the crime scene. Sergeant Bobby Perry approached as they exited the unmarked.

  “Hey, guys,” Perry said. “Sorry to get you out of bed this early.”

  “No you’re not,” Byron said.

  “Bobby,” Diane greeted.

  “Why the wagon train?” Byron asked.

  Perry looked back at the cars surrounding the BMW. “Figured it was better than nothing. Couldn’t find anything to wrap the crime scene tape around.”

  “What’ve we got?” Byron said.

  “Black male, thirties. Multiple gunshot wounds to the body and face. Shell casings on the ground.”

  Byron nodded his understanding. “Who found him?”

  “Gibson. Slow night. He was checking businesses when he saw the car parked out here. Thought it was unusual. Drove up to take a look. Found this.”

  “He touch anything?”

  “Nah. Kid’s new but he’s bright.”

  “Refreshing,” Diane said.

  Perry grinned. “You guys even sound alike.”

  “No one called about the gunshots?” Byron asked.

  “Nope.”

  Byron wondered what it said about a city when someone could empty a gun into a person, in the middle of a parking lot, and nobody called the police. “E.T.?” Byron asked.

  “Gabe’s on his way. Just left 109.”

  “Any idea who this is?” Diane asked as they surveyed the scene.

  “Like I said, we didn’t touch anything.” Perry referred to his notebook. “Ran the plate on the Beamer, it’s registered to one Darius Tomlinson.”
/>
  “Oh, fuck,” Diane said.

  Perry looked up from his notebook. “Know him?”

  “We were just getting acquainted,” Byron said.

  Byron was holding the flashlight for Pelligrosso as the evidence tech focused the camera on a spent shell casing lying on the pavement next to Tomlinson, when he heard the sound of rapid acceleration. They both turned to look as LeRoyer’s Crown Vic sped across the empty lot toward them.

  “He’s up early,” Pelligrosso said.

  “You got this?” Byron asked as he passed the light back to Pelligrosso.

  “Yeah, I’ll get one of the rookies to help me. They should be out here anyway.”

  Byron walked over to meet the lieutenant.

  Byron noted LeRoyer’s disheveled appearance. “You didn’t have to come out for this, Marty,” Byron said.

  “Evidently Chief Stanton disagrees with you.”

  “Ah. Checking up on me?”

  “Don’t start, John. It’s too goddamned early for jousting,” LeRoyer said. Dressed in a light sweatshirt and jeans, he shivered and rubbed his upper arms. “Fuck, it’s cold. Thought it was supposed to be summer.”

  “Not for another month or so,” Byron said. “Besides, this is what it’s like when the sun goes down. You must not remember working the street at night?”

  “Funny.” LeRoyer pointed to the body. “So, who’s the stiff?”

  “Ramsey’s supplier, Darius Tomlinson.”

  LeRoyer’s eyes grew wide. “The guy we just brought in?”

  “Yeah, Crosby grabbed him up for us.”

  “Thought he was still in jail.”

  “So did I. Evidently it’s easier to make bail than it used to be.”

  “He give us anything?”

  “Didn’t think what he told us was all that valuable.” Byron turned to look back at Tomlinson’s body. “I’m rethinking that.”

  As they watched Pelligrosso working with one of the uniformed officers, Byron ran down what little information they had.

  “My guess, he was probably waiting here to meet someone when he was shot,” Byron said in summation.

  “Drug rip?” LeRoyer asked.

  “Maybe. Too soon to say.”

  “Any indication someone was waiting with him?”

  “No sign of anyone. We checked for shell casings and blood trails leading from the area but it all seems compartmentalized around Darius. Either way, if there was someone else, they beat feet.”

  “Witnesses?”

  Byron shook his head. “No one even called in the shots. Beat cop found him.”

  “Have you called Crosby yet?”

  Byron frowned. “This is a homicide, Marty. Last I checked, Crosby’s a drug guy. I don’t see any trafficking going on here. Do you?”

  “Where’s Diane?” LeRoyer asked, looking around for Byron’s partner and ignoring the comment.

  “I sent her and Mel to pull the security tapes from every business facing this lot.”

  “It’s not even five-thirty in the morning, John. Nobody’s gonna be up at this hour.”

  “They are now. I had Dispatch call every one of their emergency numbers.”

  LeRoyer ran his hand through his hair. “Great.”

  “Hey, Sarge,” Pelligrosso hollered over. “Got a sec?”

  “What’s up?” Byron asked.

  The evidence tech held up a pen. A brass shell casing hung atop it. “I just started collecting the casings. Thought you’d be interested in the caliber. They’re .380s.”

  Byron, Diane, and Nugent hovered over Tran’s desk. Byron had called in the department’s computer specialist as soon as they realized they might have something on one of the security cameras.

  “I thought this desperado was in jail,” Tran said.

  “He was,” Byron growled.

  “Okay, got a couple of things for you,” Tran said. “Here goes. The time stamp in the upper right of the screen is slow by sixty-two minutes. Figure they missed daylight savings. The date is obviously right.”

  “Is this black and white?” Nugent asked.

  “No, but it might as well be,” Tran said. “Low light kills all the color.”

  “Anything happen before Tomlinson arrived?” Byron asked.

  “No. And I went back an hour just to make sure. Here’s his BMW coming in.”

  “Looks like he’s alone,” Diane said as they watched Tomlinson park and exit the car.

  “It’s a little grainy,” Byron said. “Can you clean that up?”

  “I’d love to, Sarge, but this camera is crap. They’ve got a state of the art recorder but never bothered to upgrade the camera.”

  “Typical,” Nugent said.

  “Some of the reason it’s so pixelated is because I’ve zoomed in as far as I can. If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t be able to see it very well.”

  “Can you print out stills?” Byron asked.

  “Sure can. I’ll go back and print some after I show you.” Tran used the mouse to skip ahead in time. “Okay, Tomlinson stands there doing something for about fifteen minutes before the other car shows up.”

  “He was smoking,” Byron said. “We recovered three cigarette butts.”

  “And there’s your mystery guest,” Tran said, pointing.

  On the screen a dark sedan drove toward Tomlinson, slowly.

  “I can’t tell what kind of car it is,” Nugent said.

  “Might be a Lexus,” Diane said.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Tran said. “Either that or a Jag. It’s tough to tell.”

  Byron leaned in closer to the monitor for a better look. It didn’t help.

  “Does the shooter get out?” Nugent asked.

  “Wait for it,” Tran said. “There. See the muzzle flashes?”

  “Yeah,” Byron said.

  They watched as Tomlinson fell to the ground and the driver’s door on the second vehicle opened. A shadowy figure emerged and approached Tomlinson.

  “And there’s the final shot,” Tran said, freezing the image at the point of the flash.

  Diane turned toward Byron. “So, Tomlinson doesn’t react to the threat.”

  “Must have known who it was,” Nugent said.

  “He was waiting for them,” Byron said.

  “Easy way to ambush someone,” Tran said.

  “Does the shooter go into Tomlinson’s car?” Byron asked.

  “Nope. Just gets back into their own car and drives away,” Tran said.

  “There goes the drug rip theory,” Diane said. “So he was executed by someone he knew?”

  “Sure looks that way,” Byron said. “And we’ve got a grainy video that doesn’t help us at all. What about when the car leaves?” he asked Tran. “Any chance we get a look at the driver? Or the plate?”

  “I’ll play it for you,” Tran said. “But the short answer is no. Plate’s not visible and the sodium arc lights in the parking lot actually reflect off the windshield. Nothing but a glare.”

  Byron stood upright, staring at the still image, hoping something would materialize that they could use. Nothing did. “You said you had two things for us.”

  “Indeed I do, kemosabe,” Tran said. “Gabe found something interesting while searching through Tomlinson’s clothing.” He held up two small rectangular pieces of plastic.

  “SIM cards,” Diane said.

  “Yup,” Tran said. “And he still had one inside the phone tray. Our drug lord had three different SIM cards.”

  “Why didn’t Crosby’s guys find them?” Nugent asked Byron.

  “Don’t know. Maybe he didn’t have them on him when he was busted.” Byron looked back at Tran.

  “How long will it take you to process whatever’s on those?”

  Tran shrugged. “Depends on how much activity and contacts there are on each. Guy is—excuse me—was a dealer. Could be a lot.”

  “Then don’t waste any more time on the video,” Byron said.

  “Nice work, geek boy,” Nugent said. />
  “Good work, Dustin,” Diane agreed.

  “Thanks, Soon to Be Striped One.”

  Byron said nothing as he walked out of the lab.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Monday, 11:18 a.m., May 2, 2016

  Juanita Rodriguez struggled to push the heavily loaded cart along the cracked gray asphalt of the hotel’s front walkway. The Vacationland Inn on Riverside Street in Portland owned several of the molded plastic cleaning supply carts and she always seemed to get the only one with the bum wheel, causing it to pull to the left. She had to fight to keep it from slipping off the curb.

  Rodriguez had been cleaning rooms for as long as she could remember. She’d begun working full-time after dropping out of high school in Plano, Texas. Four years ago she’d come to Maine to live with her aunt, hoping for a better life than the one her drugged-out parents had provided. She had taken a job as a housekeeper at the inn. Some of her friends worked in town at high-class hotels. The Vacationland was not one of those, and never would be.

  During her time at the inn, Rodriguez had seen it all: high school kids passed out in their own vomit, love juice on the pillowcases and walls, even feces smeared all over a bathroom mirror. She pushed the cart up the sidewalk, stopping at room 121. She removed the brightly colored Do Not Disturb sign from the knob and knocked on the door.

  “Housekeeping,” she said.

  The room’s shades were drawn. She waited and checked her watch. It was 11:20. The rental board located in the office had listed this room as a one-night rental and whoever had rented it was supposed to have checked out at ten-thirty. She knocked once more, for good measure, then inserted her passkey and opened the door.

  The window shades made the room as dark as a tomb. “Hello,” she said with a thick Venezuelan accent. “Housekeeping.” There was no response.

  She stepped inside, pulling her cart in with her, using it as a makeshift doorstop. She reached out with her left hand and flipped the wall switch on, illuminating the room.

  Her eyes widened in fear. On the unmade bed was the nude body of a woman. She was covered in blood. Her eyes were wide open and her throat had been cut from ear to ear.