Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Thanks, Nuge.”

  “Oh yeah, the Tran man said to tell you he’ll resume his search for the others first thing, Sarge,” Nugent said.

  “Sounds good.”

  “Night guys.” Diane ended the call and looked at Byron. “What do you say we grab the files, some dinner, and do some light reading?”

  The thought of going to his empty apartment and the unpacked moving boxes was nearly unbearable. “Your place?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re on.”

  They ate pizza and breadsticks and poured over the reports until well past midnight. Nothing they read seemed to provide any new information. Byron was having difficulty focusing on the task at hand. His distraction was mainly due to the outfit that Diane had changed into. Her tight-­fitting sweatpants and T-­shirt left little to the imagination. He knew it was time to leave when he noticed Diane yawning.

  As Byron drove into Portland, he forced his mind away from Diane and back to the case. Something had changed to bring about these murders. But what? Why now, after twenty years, was someone going after former Portland cops? If it was Andreas, where had he been all this time? It certainly wasn’t prison. Byron knew that even if Andreas had given a fake name, following an arrest, his fingerprints would have been cross-­checked against state and federal databases. Even the smallest of towns would have seen to that, and if not, the department of corrections surely would have. Unless he had gotten arrested outside of the U.S., in some other country. It was possible, especially if he had gotten away with the robbery money. But how could he have reentered the country without being detected? And why would he come back?

  Byron whipped the car into a Port City Savings Bank lot and jammed the gearshift into park. He opened the door and leaned out just as his stomach convulsed up the pizza. He pulled the car forward, grabbed a handful of napkins from the console, and stepped out. His head was pounding and he was sweating profusely. Something I ate? But he knew better. He leaned against the side of the car until the feeling passed, then got back into the car and exited the lot. He lowered the windows as he drove, letting the night air blow on his face. He didn’t need this right now. There were still too many unanswered questions. What he needed were answers. What he didn’t need were the DTs or another dead cop.

  Chapter Fifteen

  FRIDAY MORNING BROUGHT fog and a cold, steady drizzle. Autumn had finally arrived. At six-­thirty, Byron pulled up in front of 109, still a half hour before any of the other detectives were scheduled to arrive. Sleep had been sporadic. Thoughts of the investigation kept him awake for most of the night as did another bout of nausea. He felt tired but not nearly as tired as he should have. He credited this feeling to the adrenaline gun that went off each and every time he found himself on the hunt—­and with a cop-­killing psycho on the loose, he was definitely on the hunt.

  At his desk, he checked both voice and emails, impatiently waiting until seven before calling LeRoyer. “What time can I expect to interview Cross?” Byron asked.

  “And good morning to you too, Sergeant.”

  “Well?”

  “I’ll talk to him first thing. I promise.”

  “I don’t want him controlling this, Marty. He’s going to submit to an interview just like everyone else. We both know, if these guys did something they shouldn’t have, they’ll be circling the wagons.”

  LeRoyer let out an audible sigh. “John, at this very moment I’m driving my kids to school. After I drop them off, I’ll be heading in to work. When I get to 109, I’ll follow-­up with him. Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  As Byron was hanging up, Tran knocked on his open office door. “Morning, Sarge. Got a second?”

  He wondered why his tech-­savvy detective appeared so somber. It was unlike Tran not to lead with something witty like, “Hey, striped dude.”

  “Sure, Dustin. What’s up?”

  “I think I’ve located a ­couple more of the guys on the list.”

  “Good. Who’ve we got?” he asked with pen and notebook at the ready.

  “Falcone and Beaudreau. Falcone is living in Damariscotta at a place called Down East Senior Care. It’s an assisted-­living facility.”

  Byron scribbled down the info. “What about Beaudreau?”

  “I couldn’t find a home address for him, but it looks like he might be the owner of a Westbrook strip club called the Unicorn.”

  He looked up from his notes with a grin. “An unappreciated career path, I’m sure.”

  “I guess. Only thing is, it looks like he’s traveling at the moment. He’s not due back until Monday.”

  “How do we know that?”

  “TSA. He flew out of Portland yesterday, round-­trip to Atlanta.”

  “Thanks, Dustin.”

  “Sarge, I want to apologize again for yesterday. Sometimes I get a little too cavalier and say insensitive things without really thinking.”

  “If this is about my father, don’t worry about it.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Dustin, if I let it bother me every time someone made an insensitive remark, I’d have to find a new career path. And I don’t really see myself as the strip club type,” he said with a wink. “Thanks for the information, number one son.”

  Tran smiled. “My pleasure, striped dude.”

  BYRON WAS ON his way to the third floor to find Pelligrosso when his cell phone rang. “Byron.”

  “I knew you’d be hot on the trail already,” Collier said.

  “Been at it for hours, slacker. Not everyone gets to sleep in like you feds. You got something for me?”

  “Of course. I only call with good news. The case files you requested should be here on Saturday.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Probably not until late morning.”

  “That was quick.”

  “Told you, I know ­people. I’ll call you as soon as they arrive. Also, I’ve got Terry Pritchard’s home number. He’s expecting your call. Prepared to copy?”

  “Go with it.”

  Byron wrote the number on his palm and thanked Collier for the quick response. He ended the call as he was walking into the lab. Pelligrosso was seated in front of the AFIS computer.

  “Hey, Gabe.”

  “Sarge.”

  “Any luck matching our partial?”

  “Not yet. I did manage to locate Williams’s and Beaudreau’s prints on file in the old concealed-­weapon permit files. Neither are a match.”

  “What about Ray Humphrey? He’s a P.I. He must be licensed to carry.”

  “Probably carrying as a retired officer, no prints required. The state most likely has his prints on file, but it’s gonna take some time. I’ve submitted dozens of requests I’m still waiting on. Some I made months ago.”

  “Do the best you can.”

  “Any idea where I might find Falcone’s prints?”

  “No, but I found out he’s in assisted living. Probably not O’Halloran’s mystery guest anyway.”

  “You planning to meet this morning?”

  “Eight-­thirty, conference room.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “HAPPY FRIDAY, SERGEANT,” Shirley said as Byron walked by her desk.

  “Morning, Shirley.”

  “Need anything typed?”

  He knew she was only reminding him to keep up with the paperwork. She complained whenever any of his detectives dumped a pile of reports in her in-­bin for typing. He also knew she hated being out of the loop. If Grant had her way, he’d be giving her the case updates before LeRoyer. “I’m all set right now, thanks. But you might want to check with Nuge and Diane.”

  “Okay. Because you know how much I hate getting behind, right?”

  “I hear you.” He disappeared around the corner and out of her sight. He was walking tow
ard LeRoyer’s office when he caught a quick glimpse of Cross scurrying down the rear hallway.

  LeRoyer was seated at his desk checking voicemail. Before Byron could ask, he held up his hand like a traffic cop. “Don’t start. I just spoke with him, John.”

  “Yeah, I saw him sneaking out.”

  “He’s got appointments all morning, but said he’d come by your office at ten-­thirty.”

  “Probably because he knows it’s easier to leave my office than to kick me out of his.”

  LeRoyer didn’t respond to the comment.

  “What’s the word on delaying the chief’s press conference?” Byron asked.

  “You might be in luck.”

  “How so?”

  “Stanton is considering waiting until Monday.”

  “At the risk of looking a gift horse in the mouth, why?”

  “Big news always plays better on Mondays. Friday’s are shitty days for press conferences. ­People are already thinking about or starting their weekends. Everybody watches the news on Monday night.”

  “So this fortuitous decision to wait is all about his friggin’ ratings?”

  “Like you said, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, now you’ve got the whole weekend to solve this case.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You okay, John? You’re kinda pale.”

  “I’m fine,” Byron snapped without meaning to, worried that his stomach might have another surprise in store. “Think maybe I’m fighting something off. I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’d you make out with last night’s interviews?”

  “O and one. Williams wasn’t home and Perrigo wasn’t talking.”

  “He wouldn’t talk to you?”

  “No, he talked. But he didn’t say anything.”

  “You think he’s got something to hide?”

  “I think somebody does. We’re meeting at eight-­thirty to go over the case. Wanna sit in?”

  “I’d love to, but I’ve got to meet with the City Appropriations Committee about some budget changes. You wanna keep chasing bad guys, I’ve gotta keep beggin’ for scraps. I’ll catch up with you later.” Byron turned to leave. “Oh, and John.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Play nice with Cross, okay?”

  “You know me.”

  “Yeah. That’s exactly why I said it.”

  The rain had stopped. The sun was fighting to burn through the shroud of fog still holding Portland in its grip. Byron ran across the street to the Middle Street Delicatessen. He wanted to recaffeinate, thinking coffee might help settle his stomach. He also wanted to check the Portland Herald. Billingslea had been ghosting him all week, and it would be so like him to try and break a story before everyone else. Even if it meant being reckless. A quick scan of the headlines on both the front page and local section turned up nothing. Satisfied, he placed the paper back in the rack, grabbed a large coffee, and returned to 109.

  IT WAS NINE o’clock by the time they’d wrapped up the meeting. Each of them was up to speed on the latest developments, or lack thereof. Diane and Nugent headed out to try and locate Williams again while Tran returned to his office to try and locate a work address for Williams on the off chance he still wasn’t at home. Pelligrosso and Stevens returned to the mountain of work awaiting them in the lab, to include finding a match for the partial print. Byron returned to his office and closed the door. He was feeling quite a bit better. He still had Cross’s interview to prepare for as well as a pile of mildew-­covered officer-­involved shooting reports to slog through, but first he had a phone call to make to former Special Agent Terry Pritchard.

  “Terry, it’s John Byron. I appreciate your taking my call.”

  “Not at all, Sergeant Byron. Happy to help, if I can.”

  “And John is fine. Okay if I put you on speaker? I wanna take some notes while we talk.”

  “Fine by me.”

  Byron opened his notepad and changed the setting on the phone. “Can you hear me okay?”

  “Five by five. Collier told me you’ve requested the Boston armored-­car case file.”

  “A little light reading.”

  Pritchard laughed. “Until your eyes cross, you mean. You forget, I know how many man hours went into that case. For the first two months there was a team of us, after that, when the trail went cold, it was only me and one other agent. I literally worked that case for a year. At least officially.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, I continued to work it on my own time until I retired. You know what it’s like when you’ve got that case, the itch you can’t seem to scratch.”

  Byron knew exactly what he meant.

  “I couldn’t let it go. The powers that be wouldn’t let me continue to log any more hours on it, not after the Beirut bombings at the end of ’83.”

  “I don’t understand what Beirut has to do with it.”

  “Resources. Everything became about fighting terrorists after Lebanon. No one gave a damn about an armored car robbery. I was lucky to get as much time as I got. Do your bosses know you’ve reached out?”

  “No. And they wouldn’t understand. I’m already getting too much resistance.”

  “Not surprised. You and I might’ve worked well together, John. So, where do you want to start?”

  “What have you got that’s not in the file?”

  “Ha. You’re asking me if I kept my own private notes outside of the case file, which would have been in direct violation of bureau policy?”

  Byron knew if Pritchard was half the investigator Collier said he was, he’d never show all his cards to his superiors. “Yes, I am.”

  “Of course I did. Dug them out before you called. Got ’em right here.”

  The two men dissected the investigation, discussing everything from the missing money, the missing robber, and the seemingly impenetrable thin blue line.

  “What do you think happened to the money?” Byron asked.

  “I really don’t know, but my gut always told me some of the cops might’ve taken it.”

  “You don’t think the missing robber made off with it?”

  “Andreas? It’s certainly possible.”

  “But? You don’t sound like you believe it.”

  “I just don’t think it’s all that likely.”

  “Why?”

  “A ­couple of reasons. Not one of those four could spell Mensa, even if you’d handed them the letters in the right order. They were strictly small-­time thugs, lucky to pull off a job like that in the first place. Who knows, two different guards and maybe they never even get their hands on the money. But even an idiot would know better than to let one guy leave the safe house with all the money.”

  “But suppose they were dumb enough. With that much money, couldn’t he have simply disappeared?”

  “Perhaps, but it’s more likely he went to the wrong ­people for help and was killed for it.”

  “Did you ever find any evidence to suggest it was the cops?”

  “No, but I couldn’t find anything to exonerate them either. The cops on that team were as tight a group as I’ve ever seen.”

  “The department reports mentioned a confidential informant, did you ever find out who it was?”

  “No. O’Halloran was in charge of the detectives, and he made his case to the U.S. attorney, telling him the CI was too valuable to the department to take a chance on divulging the identity. The U.S. attorney agreed, saying unless the matter was going to trial, there was no need to release the name to the FBI.”

  “Three dead suspects and one missing doesn’t make for much of a trial, I guess.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Was there ever a reward offered?”

  “You’ll see all of this in ou
r files when you get them, but the short answer is yes. The First Bank of Boston put up fifty thousand.”

  “Was there ever any attempt to claim the money by the CI or anyone else?”

  “Oddly enough, no.”

  Byron’s hand was beginning to cramp from note-­taking. He checked his watch. Ten-­thirty. “Terry, I hate to end our conversation, but I’ve gotta get to an interview.”

  “No problem. You’ve got my number. Let me know if I can be of any further help to you.”

  Byron hung up the phone and grabbed his notepad. Time for the Ass Chief to answer a few questions.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “THANKS FOR AGREEING to speak with me, Chief,” Byron said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  “Let’s cut the crap, Byron,” Cross said, his arms crossed defensively. “I’m here because Stanton ordered me to talk to you, period. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you have any influence with me. I’m a busy man. If you’ve got questions, ask them.”

  Outwardly, Byron maintained his poker face, but inside he wore a smile a mile wide, enjoying the reversal of roles and the irony that accompanied getting Cross into an interview room. “What can you tell me about the night of October nineteenth, 1985?”

  Cross shrugged. “What’s to tell? You’ve read the reports.”

  Byron nodded. “I’ve read them. But as we both know, not everything ends up on paper. I’m trying to establish a motive. Why, after more than thirty years, would someone start killing the cops who were involved in a shooting?”

  “I’ve no idea. You’re the detective. You tell me.” Cross gave no indication he was nervous, but Byron always found it difficult to get a glimpse past his pompous and arrogant façade.

  “The reports indicate you were acting on information from a confidential informant. Whose CI was it?”

  “I don’t remember. O’Halloran was the CID lieutenant at the time. I assume it was one of his contacts.”

  “Who else would know?”

  “I’ve no idea,” he said, his mouth twisting into the smug little smirk that Byron hated. Cross had predicted the question in advance and Byron knew it. Giving the one answer he couldn’t follow-­up on, as O’Halloran was dead.