Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “The two long blond hairs I pulled out of Ramsey’s SUV,” Pelligrosso said.

  “Artificial blond hairs,” Byron corrected.

  Nugent chimed in with something helpful. “The stripper’s a ginger.”

  “Was a redhead,” Stevens said.

  “She could have been wearing a wig,” Nugent continued. “Maybe she slipped Ramsey the fentanyl-laced coke on the boat, then drove his SUV out to Veranda to dump it. Take our attention away from the marina. Maybe that’s why she was killed.”

  “What about Ramsey’s wife?” Stevens asked.

  Diane shook her head. “Short brown hair, no motive, and she’d never wear a wig.”

  “So that just leaves Davies and Brennan, right?” Nugent asked.

  “Right,” Byron said. “Only one of them isn’t a blond.” He looked at Stevens. “Mel, I want you and Nuge to dig up everything and anything you can find on Brennan and Davies.”

  “You got it,” Stevens said.

  Byron’s cell rang. It was Tran.

  “That was quick. Tell me you got something.”

  “I’ve got something,” Tran said.

  “Be right there.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Wednesday, 3:30 p.m., May 4, 2016

  Byron and Diane took the stairs down to the third-floor computer lab.

  “Well?” Byron said.

  Tran pulled up the list on his monitor. “From six o’clock the night Ramsey was murdered until 6:00 a.m. the following morning there were twenty-four outgoing calls and three incoming on the pay phone you gave me.” He turned the screen toward them. “Have a look.”

  “What are we looking for, John?” Diane asked.

  “That,” Byron said, pointing to the screen. “Someone called that TracFone number, the one we think might belong to Davies, at 11:37 p.m.”

  “Holy shit,” Diane said.

  “That’s not the best part,” Tran said.

  “What’s the best part?” Byron asked, knowing how much his tech-savvy detective was enjoying the drama.

  “Remember I told you that the calls between Davies and Brennan dropped substantially after the new number showed up?”

  “Seventy-five percent, you said.”

  “Well, I wondered if maybe Davies wasn’t the only one with a second cell. Look at this.”

  Byron studied the new screen.

  “Cellphone A, the one I believe might belong to Davies, has been in contact with another TracFone, which I dubbed cellphone B, repeatedly, including the evening Ramsey was killed.”

  “You think cellphone B might well be Brennan?”

  Tran nodded. “My educated guess.”

  “Can you go back to the pay phone screen?”

  “Sure.” Train clicked the mouse and the previous screen reappeared.

  Byron pointed out the number dialed after the TracFone. “Google this one, Dustin.”

  “You recognize that number, too?” Diane asked.

  “No,” Byron said. “But I’ve got a hunch.”

  “Portside Taxi,” Tran said.

  “That’s it,” Byron said. “The way out. We need to find the driver who picked up that fare.”

  “Yes, I remember her,” the Somali taxi driver said with a heavy accent. “She was standing in front of the store on Veranda Street.”

  “What did she look like, Mr. Ahmed?” Diane asked.

  “She was blonde, very pretty, but not real.”

  “Not real?” Byron asked.

  “Dark eyebrows.”

  “Bleached hair?” Byron asked.

  “Not bleached. Fake. Like—what do you call it?”

  “A wig?” Diane asked.

  “Yes, yes. A wig.”

  Byron could feel the excitement building as another piece clicked into place. “Was she alone?” Byron asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask her how she got there?” Diane asked.

  Ahmed nodded. “Yes. She told me she had car trouble.”

  “Did she say anything else?” Byron asked.

  “No. Just car trouble.”

  “Where did she ask to be taken?”

  “Washington Avenue and Ocean Avenue.”

  “Did she give you an actual address?” Diane asked.

  Ahmed looked confused. “No. She just said Washington and Ocean. At the gas station.”

  “Cumberland Farms?” Byron asked.

  “Yes, yes. The Cumberland Farms. I dropped her off on the sidewalk and she walked to the parking lot.”

  “What time was that, Mr. Ahmed?” Byron asked.

  “I am not sure, but I know it was after midnight.”

  “Would you recognize her if you saw her again?” Diane asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  Byron and Diane drove directly to the Cumberland Farms and waited the twenty minutes it took the grumbling store manager to retrieve the video.

  “Think we’ll be lucky enough to have caught her on this?” Diane asked as they drove back to 109.

  “I hope. We were so focused on Davies’s alibi that we missed Brennan,” Byron said.

  “You sure it’s Brennan?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “It’s hard to imagine, but it could be. If you’re right and it is Brennan, the only question remaining is, did she do it on her own or did Davies put her up to it?”

  “And how do we get either of them to admit it?” Byron said.

  “You are kidding, right?” LeRoyer said, running his hands through his hair. “You’re telling me we arrested an innocent man?”

  “I’m telling you it’s possible Branch was framed,” Byron said.

  Diane and Byron sat on either side of Tran, studying the security video from Davies’s apartment as the lieutenant nervously paced the floor in Tran’s cramped office.

  “Jesus,” LeRoyer said. “Stanton’s gonna go ballistic.”

  “We had probable cause,” Byron countered.

  “Yeah, but Jesus. And if he didn’t kill anyone why did he lawyer up?”

  “Did you seriously just ask that question, Marty? He’s a goddamned attorney—he’ll always try and get a look at the prosecution’s hand before he makes a play. Guilty or not. Besides, if he’s not the killer, he knows there is still someone on the outside setting him up as a patsy in all of this.”

  Tran wisely remained silent as he advanced the video.

  “Right there,” Diane said. “Back that up a little.”

  “What?” LeRoyer said, sounding anxious. “You got something?”

  “There,” Diane said, pointing at the screen. The outside camera had captured the front end of a vehicle stopping on Washington Avenue at the left edge of the frame.

  “Can’t tell if that’s a taxi or not,” Tran said.

  “We’ll be able to when it pulls away,” Byron said.

  “The inside light just came on,” LeRoyer said, stating the obvious.

  They watched as the dark vehicle pulled away from the curb and continued outbound on Washington, the taxi light now illuminated and clearly visible atop its roof.

  “Print a still of that,” Byron said.

  “You got it,” Tran said.

  “What’s the time?” Diane asked Tran.

  “Let’s see, the clock is off twenty-three minutes, so that makes it . . . 12:18 in the morning.”

  Byron recorded the time in his notebook.

  Still beyond reach of the building’s exterior lights, a dark figure approached the lighted plaza cutting through the gas pumps. The four detectives waited with bated breath as the figure moved closer to the building.

  “Freeze that,” Byron said.

  “Who is it?” LeRoyer asked.

  “That is Davies’s personal assistant,” Diane said. “Amy Brennan.”

  “Wearing a blond wig,” Byron said. He looked at Diane. “Let’s get eyes on Brennan. I wanna know everything there is to know about her. Do we have an address?”

  Tran spoke up. “The only thing the firm suppli
ed for Brennan was a P.O. box.”

  “What about her registration or license?”

  “Same,” Tran said.

  “I thought the state of Maine required a physical address now?” LeRoyer asked.

  “Apparently not,” Byron said.

  “Why don’t we just get it from the firm?” Tran asked.

  “If we did, we’d risk tipping Brennan,” Diane said.

  “You’re right,” Tran said.

  “What about the postal service investigator you’re friends with?” Byron asked Tran. “Can’t we get him to fast-track that for us?”

  “Already tried. He’s on vacation. His office told me at least a week to process my request.”

  “Fuck,” Byron said. He was way beyond tired of the bureaucratic hoops they were constantly forced to jump through.

  Diane spoke up. “I may know a way to get her address.”

  Diane knew Byron wouldn’t be happy when he found out how Brennan’s information had come to light. She didn’t trust Davis Billingslea any more than John did. But the information about Davies’s marital infidelity was important and, at the time, it had seemed legitimate. But if John was right, if Branch had been set up to be a patsy in Ramsey’s murder, and now Tomlinson’s, Brennan may have used Billingslea to get what she wanted. Fed him information for a purpose. If that was true, she’d most likely be finished with him.

  Billingslea picked up on the second ring.

  “Newsroom. Billingslea.”

  “Davis, it’s Diane Joyner.”

  “Hey,” he said, sounding anything but chipper.

  “I need a favor.”

  “You and everyone else,” he snapped. “What am I, a fucking rug? Everyone thinks they can just walk all over me?”

  “Davis, what’s wrong?” Diane asked.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. What’s the favor?”

  “I need to know where Amy Brennan lives.”

  “Ha! That’s great. Why do you think I’d know that?”

  “I just assumed you were seeing each other.”

  “Yeah, so did I.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She just dumped me.”

  Brennan was done with him, Diane thought. She had cut him loose, realizing she no longer needed him. “I’m sorry,” she said, trying her best to sound sympathetic.

  “She said helping me was the reason Devon Branch got arrested. Can you believe that?”

  “Davis, I really am sorry, but I need your help. Where does Amy live?”

  “Where are we headed, John?” Diane asked as Byron pulled out onto Middle Street and headed up Franklin.

  “The overnight security guard from Davies’s building lives out in North Deering. I want to ask him about visitors to Davies’s apartment.”

  “Didn’t we already talk with him?”

  “No. The video was from the day security supervisor. We never talked to this guy.”

  Max Keller wore his hair high and tight. His neatly pressed security uniform hung from a wooden wall hanger, above a pair of gleaming black Corcoran leather boots, in the spotless kitchen of his tiny Auburn Terrace apartment.

  “I just took the test again for Portland,” Keller said proudly.

  “Well, we wish you the best of luck, Mr. Keller,” Diane said.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’m really hoping to get on the force this time.”

  “Yeah, good luck,” Byron said.

  He knew the type. Keller had most likely purchased every study guide he could get his hands on, worked out every day, kept his gear spotless, dying for his law enforcement break to come. Provided he had the intelligence to score high on the test, he’d probably make it, as long as there were no historical skeletons in his closet. Four years of high school and two to four years of college allowed plenty of time for the youthful indiscretions and missteps made by many police candidates. Hopefully, Keller had been smarter than some.

  Byron also knew that Keller likely took his security job very seriously, wanting to make a good impression. Byron assumed that when it came to the routines of the building’s tenants, Keller probably missed very little.

  “Are you familiar with Lorraine Davies, Mr. Keller?” Byron asked.

  “Yes, sir. Fourteenth floor, apartment D, overlooks the ocean.”

  His instincts had been right about Keller.

  “Does she get many visitors?” Diane asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. A few.”

  “Male? Female?”

  “Both.”

  “Any regulars?” Byron asked.

  “Yes, sir. The most frequent visitor is a pretty brunette named Amy. Amy Brennan.”

  “You know her last name?” Diane asked with a raised brow.

  “As I said, she’s very pretty.”

  And possibly very deadly, Byron thought.

  “And they have to show ID to get into the building,” Keller said.

  “Any other regulars?” Byron asked.

  “For a few months she got the occasional nighttime visit from that attorney who was murdered. Mr. Ramsey.”

  “Nighttime visit?” Diane asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. He’d show up late, like ten or eleven, then leave around midnight.”

  “Ramsey come by lately?” Byron asked.

  “No, he stopped coming to see Ms. Davies a few weeks before he died. Maybe even a month.”

  “You ever see her husband, Devon Branch, pay her a visit?” Byron asked.

  Keller thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t believe I’ve ever met him.”

  “How long have you worked security at the tower?” Diane asked.

  “Eighteen and a half months, ma’am.”

  Byron noted the exactness of his tenure, as if every day counted. Like a child saying four and a half when referring to their age.

  “How long has Brennan been stopping by to see Davies?” Diane asked.

  “For as long as I’ve been working there.”

  “Were Brennan’s visits like Ramsey’s?” Byron asked.

  “Sir?” Keller said, obviously not understanding the question.

  “You described Ramsey’s visits as arriving late and leaving around midnight. Are Brennan’s like that?”

  “No, sir. When she visits it’s usually for the night.”

  “Anything unusual about her recent visits?” Diane asked.

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “And Brennan parks in the rear visitor’s lot, correct?” Byron asked.

  “Yes. Only the tenants can park in the underground garage,” Keller said. “There’s an automatic computerized record whenever a tenant enters or exits using their opener.”

  A thought popped into Byron’s head. “Can we obtain a printout of the tenants and their corresponding garage IDs?”

  “Sure. My boss can get that for you.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with Davies?” Byron asked.

  “A few days ago. She called down by phone about a visitor.”

  “That visitor was me, right?” Byron asked.

  “Yes, sir. That was the evening you stopped by to see her.”

  “Can you remember the last time you saw her in person?”

  “Yeah, it was the Tuesday before last. She called down to the desk and asked me to take a look at the door to her apartment. She said she thought it had been tampered with. Swore she heard someone in the hallway.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Around midnight, I think. I’d have to check the logbook. She was dressed in a nightgown,” Keller said, blushing.

  “Did you find anything?” Diane asked.

  “No, ma’am. I told her that I’d keep an extra eye out. Make a few extra rounds of the building.”

  “Was this the first time she’d ever complained of anything like this?” Byron asked.

  “No. She called a few weeks ago about her sliding glass doors. They wouldn’t lock.”

  “What did you do?” Diane asked.

&nb
sp; “Nothing I could do. I logged it in a report but I wasn’t really too concerned about it. The doors only open onto her balcony. She’s fourteen stories up. No way to get to it from outside the building.

  “Well, Mr. Wannabe certainly is taken with Amy Brennan,” Diane said as Byron started the car and pulled away from Keller’s apartment.

  “Interesting that she spends the night with Davies,” Byron said.

  “As opposed to Ramsey’s hit and run sessions, you mean.”

  “Odd having a personal assistant for sleepovers.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, John. Look at us,” she said with a wink. “So, what are you thinking?”

  “Maybe they’re lovers and Ramsey got in between them?”

  “Okay, so let’s say Davies does swing from both sides of the plate, and she’s married. If you’re saying that Brennan killed Ramsey out of jealousy, wouldn’t she also be jealous of Branch?”

  Byron looked over at her, waiting for her own question to sink in.

  “You think Davies orchestrated the whole thing?”

  “The thought had occurred to me. Makes a lot more sense than Branch killing Ramsey without an alibi, and being dumb enough to hide the murder weapon in his car.”

  “But why would Brennan risk using a public pay phone to call for a taxi?” Diane asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe her cell died. Maybe she forgot to charge it. She might not have had a choice.”

  They drove in silence. Each thinking it through. Looking for holes in the theory.

  At last Diane spoke up. “Let’s say you’re right. Why wouldn’t Davies just pick her up after Brennan dumped Ramsey’s SUV?”

  “She couldn’t,” Byron said. “Davies had to go back to the high-rise to establish her alibi with Max. Someone tampering with her locks? And she just happens to report it at midnight?”

  “I’ve gotta say, this theory of yours is pretty sound. But as good as it is, it’s still just a theory. How do we prove it?”

  Byron turned to her and grinned. “How fast can you write an affidavit?”

  “You have got to be kidding!” LeRoyer said as he jumped up from behind his desk.

  Byron remained stoic, waiting until the lieutenant finished his brass tantrum.

  “Do you realize what the fuck is going to happen if you were wrong in charging Branch?” LeRoyer continued.