His head ached dully and his stomach grumbled.
His wipers began bouncing across the dry windshield. He realized that he’d passed through the rain shower. The sky was clearing once again. He flicked the wipers off.
His relationship with Diane was totally different from the one he’d had with Kay. She was a cop, for one. Like him. She understood the demands of the job. The cost of obtaining justice for the dead. The long hours, the frustration, the politics, the thrill of the hunt—Diane got it. All of it. It was something that he and Kay never had in common. Never would. Why then was he afraid of committing? Why were he and Diane keeping secrets from each other? She with the sergeant’s exam and he with Kay. Was this about trust? They had trusted each other as cops, as partners, with their lives. So why was this different? He didn’t know and he didn’t need the distraction. He needed to focus on Ramsey’s murder. And Branch’s stolen .380.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tuesday, 10:45 a.m., May 3, 2016
“What part of ‘tread lightly’ didn’t you understand?” LeRoyer barked. He was hot. All three detectives knew enough not to provoke him.
“Guess Stanton knows, huh?” Nugent said.
“Yeah, he fucking knows. Devon Branch called his office right after you and John left.” LeRoyer picked up the receiver on his desk phone and punched in the number for Byron’s cell. As he waited, LeRoyer turned his attention to Diane and Stevens. “What about you two? Am I gonna get my ass chewed out for something you did?”
Diane spoke up. “Mel and I spoke with Lorraine Davies, but she seemed fine about it. I’d be surprised if she made any trouble.”
“Well, Branch did. Wish I shared in your optimism, Detective. Why can’t you guys ever go easy, huh? Just one fuckin’ time.” LeRoyer turned his attention to the phone. “John, where the hell are you? Stanton is wild and so am I. Get your ass back here.” He slammed the receiver down and looked back at the three detectives standing in front of his desk. “And what’s this about a gun?”
Diane, Nugent, and Stevens filled the lieutenant in on each aspect of their interviews. Including what they knew about the burglary of Branch and Davies’s home.
“What was the caliber of the gun taken?” LeRoyer asked.
“A .380,” Stevens said.
“Same caliber as the hole in Ramsey’s head,” Nugent said.
“Goddammit,” LeRoyer said, combing the fingers of his right hand through his hair. “So what do you think? That one of them staged the break-in?”
“It is possible,” Diane said. “But, of course, we don’t have the gun, so there’s no way to match it to the round Ellis pulled out of Ramsey.”
LeRoyer glared at the three of them. “Why the hell am I hearing this from you and not your sergeant? Where the fuck is Byron!”
Byron turned into the paved lot at 100 Main Street. At its entrance stood a blue and white painted sign declaring it to be the Town of Topsham Municipal Complex. He parked next to a handsome two-story brick building. White block letters, attached to the building’s façade above the entryway, identified the structure as the Public Safety Building.
He displayed his credentials to the bored-looking dispatcher seated on the opposite side of the bulletproof glass. “Sergeant Byron, Portland PD. I’m here to see Detective Shaw.”
“Have a seat, Sergeant, and I’ll see if he’s in the building.”
Byron had barely gotten settled on one of the uncomfortable lobby benches when a security door to the inner offices swung open, revealing a short balding man with bushy eyebrows and an infectious smile, instantly reminding Byron of Dickens’s lovable Fezziwig. “Sergeant Byron, Gene Shaw.”
“Gene. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Not at all. Come on in.”
As they made small talk, Byron followed the fireplug of a man up a flight of worn carpeted stairs to the second floor and down a long corridor to a small office. The room was overflowing with metal cabinets, file boxes, and a single desk.
Shaw lifted a box from one of the visitor’s chairs and set it atop a file cabinet. “Here. Have a seat. Sorry about the mess. I don’t get many visitors up here.”
“Thank you. Not a problem.”
Detective Shaw sat down behind the metal desk with a dingy Formica top. Byron noted with some amusement that the desk was littered with the same pink message slips as his own.
“I took the liberty of pulling the file after you called. Not a lot to go on with this one, I’m afraid. Entry through the rear. Perp broke a window. Went through the house, grabbed some jewelry and a handgun. A .380 semiauto.”
“Mind if I have a look?”
“By all means. Here,” he said, handing the folder to Byron.
Byron leafed through the anorexic case file. “What can you tell me about the victims?”
“Devon Branch? I can tell you that he’s a big supporter of this department. Does a lot for the town as well.”
Byron felt a sense of déjà vu as Shaw ran down Branch’s bona fides as if this were an employment screening instead of a criminal investigation in which the victim, in Topsham’s case, might well become a suspect in Portland’s.
“Have you had much contact with either Devon Branch or his wife?” Byron asked.
Shaw blushed. “Lorraine Davies? Why, she’s just the most charming woman. She and her husband actually helped us to fund this new municipal complex. They’re big supporters.”
“So you said.” Byron continued scanning the file, only half listening as Shaw prattled on about what great benefactors Branch and his wife were. “Nice neighborhood?” Byron said, interrupting the detective in midprattle.
“How’s that?”
“Branch’s home. Is it located in a nice neighborhood?”
“Yes. Well, it’s not really a traditional neighborhood. More like a dozen or so executive-style estates on the edge of town. It’s pretty nice. Lots of woods, close to the highway, but away from the shopping malls and such. They’ve got tennis courts and a spa,” Shaw said, obviously enamored.
“Had much of a problem with burglaries in that area?”
Byron noted that Shaw’s smile had vanished. The detective was evidently not liking the direction in which the conversation was headed. “Sergeant, if there’s some question as to the character of either Mr. Branch or Ms. Davies—”
Realizing his mistake, Byron quickly softened his approach. “No, not at all, Gene. I’m just trying to establish if they may have been victimized by someone they knew or if this was some random thing. Maybe a transient high on drugs?”
Shaw’s brow unfurled. His former cheery self returned. “See, that’s what I was thinking too. The drug problem is getting pretty bad down your way,” Shaw said, as if to suggest that Topsham was pure as the driven snow and entirely unlike the City of Portland with all of its evils. “Lot of those crazies come through here on their way to the ‘big city,’” he said, making air quotations. “Can’t keep track of ’em all.”
“Nope, I guess you can’t,” Byron agreed. “Any of the jewelry turn up? Maybe in one of the local pawn shops?”
“I checked the one at the Topsham Fair Mall a couple of times. No luck, though.”
“How about any of the surrounding towns?”
Shaw’s smile vanished again and his eyes narrowed. “This isn’t Portland, Sergeant Byron. I work alone, investigating every single crime that happens here. I don’t have the luxury of running down every possible lead. I entered the gun into NCIC, serial number and all, and I checked the pawn shop for the jewelry. Sorry if my methods don’t measure up to your standards. We’re a small department here. We do the best we can.”
“I wasn’t criticizing your investigation, Gene. I’m just trying to get a feel about whether or not this incident could be connected to our homicide.”
“Well, I just get a little defensive whenever some big city detective shows up and starts telling me what’s what.”
Byron, resisting the urge to cli
mb over the desk and pummel Shaw, gave him his most disarming smile. “Can I get a copy of this for my files, Gene?”
“Sure thing,” Shaw said sarcastically, reaching for the folder.
Ten minutes later Byron, finally free of Shaw, drove west toward Pine Bluff Estates. The myopic detective had halfheartedly offered to give Byron a guided tour of Branch’s neighborhood but Byron turned him down. He didn’t want Shaw reporting his every move back to Branch.
Pine Bluff was located exactly where Shaw had described, at the edge of town, in the middle of nowhere. A dozen or so grand homes were nestled back into the wooded foothills, reminding Byron of Maine’s many ski resorts, like Sugarloaf and Sunday River. The only thing missing was an actual mountain.
The road through Pine Bluff was a winding paved drive that circled up the hill through the subdivision and back to the entry road off Route 24 near Bowdoinham. Two things were immediately apparent to Byron as he drove slowly up the hill. The neighborhood wasn’t close enough to the highway to afford a quick B and E for some Portland-bound drifter. The burglar would need to be familiar with the area to even find this place. Secondly, if someone had cased out the home shared by Branch and Davies, they wouldn’t have stopped at one break-in. Each of the homes screamed money. The fact that the only things taken were jewelry and a gun was also troubling. Either this was a spoiled rich kid from Pine Bluff or something else entirely was happening here. Byron suspected the latter.
He pulled off to the side of the road, stopping near the entrance to Branch’s driveway, marked by a six-foot-high granite post into which had been carved the number seventeen. The home, blocked by trees, was invisible from the road. A red and white American Security Systems sign graced the bushes at the end of the drive. Byron pulled out the folder and checked for mention of an alarm. The report had been filed by Branch one night after coming home from work late. He’d found a basement window to the rear of the home broken. The report stated that the alarm hadn’t been set. According to Shaw’s supplement, Branch told him that Davies often left the residence forgetting to set the alarm. Convenient, Byron thought.
His cell rang. Pelligrosso.
“Hey, Gabe,” Byron said. “Tell me you’ve got something.”
“Ellis just dug three comparable rounds out of Tomlinson’s body.”
“And?”
“They match, Sarge. The bullet that killed Paul Ramsey was fired from the same gun used to kill Darius Tomlinson.”
Finally, something was going their way. Now all they needed was the gun. “Thanks, Gabe.”
He disconnected the call, slid the shifter back into gear, and headed up the drive.
The Branch-Davies home was a massive Tudor-style mansion. Byron guessed it to be close to five thousand square feet of stucco and darkly stained trim. The house was situated in the center of an acre-sized clearing in the woods. Lush green lawn graced both sides of the drive leading to an attached three-car garage. Opposite the garage sat a two-story carriage house. Byron parked between the two buildings and got out of the Chevrolet.
Both the residence and its landscaping were impeccably maintained. Not so much as a loose shutter or a single blade of grass out of place. Byron walked over to the carriage house and peeked in through the darkened windows. In the gloom he could only make out the shapes of two covered vehicles. He couldn’t distinguish a make or model but assumed them to be valuable. He turned and strolled toward the main house.
A brick walkway, set in a basket weave pattern, led past several tarnished brass lanterns atop granite posts up to the front entryway and its granite steps. He pressed the doorbell and waited, half expecting to see a butler, dressed in a black coat with tails, answer the door. After several minutes with no answer, he resumed his inspection of the home’s exterior.
The back of the property was as well landscaped as the front. A finished daylight basement made the rear of the home appear as three stories. There were two windows on either side of the entryway, each affixed with stickers bearing the American Security logo. And yet, according to the report, the burglar had thought it prudent to smash through one of them.
Byron was leaning in to look through the window when a voice startled him from behind.
“Find what you’re looking for?”
He whirled around, instinctually reaching for his gun, and found himself face-to-face with a uniformed Topsham police officer.
“Whoa. Easy there, Sarge.”
“Fuck. You scared me.”
“Name’s Jim Mason,” the officer said, extending a hand toward Byron.
“John Byron,” he said, shaking it.
“Detective Shaw told me you were headed out here to check out Attorney Branch’s place. Figured I’d say hello.”
“This your area?”
“Part of it. Topsham is over thirty-four square miles.”
“How many other officers work patrol with you?”
Mason laughed. “There’s only eight full-time patrolmen. Sometimes it’s just me out here.”
As he listened to Mason talk, Byron realized that the odds of catching a burglar in the act out here were a million to one.
“Shaw says you’re working a homicide. Think this burglary is connected?”
“Too early for me to think anything,” Byron said, wondering if Mason was as taken with Branch and Davies as Shaw seemed to be. “I’m still running down leads. Don’t want to overlook something.”
Mason nodded. “Don’t s’pose you would.”
“A lot of reported burglaries out here?” Byron asked.
“Not really. In town mostly. Not so many out this way. All these homes are alarmed.”
“You must have some trouble spots, though.”
“Oh yeah. Like any small town, there’s pockets of trouble. The majority of our homegrown idiots would be too lazy to come all the way out here. Easier to bust out a store window and pry open the register. Not too many escape routes out of here either. It’s either east or west on 24. Easier to get busted.”
Byron resumed walking the home’s exterior with Mason. “How long have you been on the job here, Jim?”
“Oh, I’ve been a cop for ten years, but only here for the last six. Started in Oakland.”
“You know much about the people who live here?”
“Branch? Only that he’s some bigwig attorney down in Portland. Think the wife is too.”
“Shaw seems pretty enamored with him.”
Mason laughed again. “Shaw’s pretty enamored by anyone with money. Branch donates a shitload of money to the town.”
“You ever deal with him?”
“Me? I’m just a lowly patrolman.”
They completed the circle, arriving back at the driveway where Mason’s cruiser was parked in front of Byron’s unmarked.
“You ever get sent out here for any domestic type calls?” Byron asked.
Mason grinned and shook his head. “This is a small town, Sarge. None of these rich folks are from here originally. They tend to keep to themselves. If there were some trouble on the home front, likely we’d be the last to hear about it.”
Byron nodded in agreement then reached out and shook Mason’s hand again. “Nice meeting you, Jim. Thanks for the info.”
“Good to meet you, Sarge. Best of luck with your investigation.”
Byron jumped back on the interstate southbound toward Portland. He pulled out his cell and punched Diane’s number on speed dial.
“Hey, lover,” she said. “How’d you make out?”
“I hope you’re alone,” he said.
“Actually, you caught me in the middle of a three-way with Stanton and the city manager. You want to speak to either of them?”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Jealous?”
“Nauseous.”
Diane gave a hearty laugh. It was good to hear. Maybe the tension between them really was beginning to loosen.
“By the way, LeRoyer is looking for you.”
“I heard. He
won’t have to wait much longer. I’m heading back now.”
“So, are you gonna share what you found out?” she said.
“This whole burglary thing stinks. I’m not buying it. Branch has his tentacles into this town too.”
“Seriously?”
“According to this Gene Shaw, the detective I spoke with, Branch donated money to help them build their new public safety facility. Police, fire, town hall, the works.”
“Spreading cheer and buying goodwill wherever he goes.”
“Or control freak. I imagine Topsham’s chief is just as starstruck as our own. I wonder how many favors he’s owed?”
“Shaw give you anything useful?”
“I imagine the words Shaw and useful don’t often coincide. He’s so far up his own ass he could use it as a hat.”
Diane laughed again.
“I managed to get a copy of the report and the follow-up investigation, if you can call it that. Looks like Shaw did the absolute minimum on this one.”
“Anything recovered?”
“Nothing. Only jewelry and the gun were taken. The report confirms the gun was a .380. Branch’s statement says he kept it in a box in a bureau drawer.”
“Prints?”
“Doesn’t look like Shaw even tried.”
“No alarm?”
“They have one. Apparently, Lorraine Davies routinely forgets to set it.”
“Convenient.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
LeRoyer intercepted Byron as soon as he exited the stairwell into the hallway of the fourth floor. Byron figured he had been lying in wait.
Beneath the Depths Page 27
