Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “I guess you would. Did you see the man leave?”

  “I did. He got there around eight. I’d say, give or take, and left a little after nine-­thirty.”

  “Was he alone both times you saw him?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Did you see or hear anything strange while he was there?”

  “No. He came, stayed for a little while, then left.”

  “And you’re sure this was last Tuesday night?”

  “Yes, because I left for my daughter’s house in Massachusetts first thing on Wednesday morning, about six o’clock. I can’t believe someone would hurt such a sweet man. He was a police officer you know.”

  After taking Mrs. Anderson’s information and walking her back to the elevators, Byron called Tran.

  “Dustin, I need you to run 10–28 checks on our list of former SRT. I want a list of every vehicle currently registered to them and their spouses.”

  “Sure thing, Sarge. What am I searching for?”

  “I want to know which one has a tan or silver Honda van.”

  “WHAT THE FUCK is your problem?” Diane said as she marched into the police gym.

  Crosby, who’d had the gym to himself, was doing standing curls in front of a large mirror. “You’d better not be talking to me, Detective.”

  “Can’t find anyone your own size to pick on?” she said, ignoring his warning.

  He set the barbell on the rack with a loud clang, picked up a towel, and wiped the perspiration from his face. “I can only assume you think I’ve slighted you somehow. And you’ve lost your good sense. That’s the only thing I can come up with to explain your insubordinate tone.”

  “Why are you fucking with John?”

  “If you’re talking about Sergeant Byron, I’ve done nothing to him. Don’t have any reason to.”

  “Really? The bruise on the side of your face says differently. Heard he knocked you on your ass.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear.” Crosby walked over to the bench, where he already had a bar loaded up with steel plates, and sat down.

  Diane followed him. “I thought you were tough, but I guess you’re nothing but a big pussy. Getting the chief to fight your battles for you?”

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I? I read your statement accusing John of assaulting you.”

  “So you read my statement, big deal. He attacked me.”

  “Huh. I’m curious why that would be? I noticed there wasn’t any mention of what led to you getting knocked on your ass.”

  “Call it a disagreement between sergeants. Nothing that concerns you, Detective.”

  “Doesn’t it? Who I decide to sleep with sure as hell sounds like my business.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t? That’s strange, because the way I heard it, you asked John if he was tapping my, quote, ‘sweet African ass,’ end quote.”

  Crosby blushed. “Look, I was only kidding. I wanted to get a reaction from him. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Well, congratulations, you got a reaction, from both of us. Now, Sergeant Crosby, I’ll tell you what’s gonna happen. You’ll go see Cross first thing in the morning and tell him you were mistaken about what happened. Then you’re going to drop your assault charge against John.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because if you don’t, by the time tomorrow is over I’ll have filed a complaint against you charging racial and sexual discrimination in the workplace.”

  “You’re bluffing. You won’t do it.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s my word against John’s, what happened in there.”

  “You’re forgetting about the new property detective.”

  Crosby laughed. “He won’t say anything.”

  She held up a handwritten statement. “He already did.” She watched as the color ran out of his face. “Don’t forget, Sergeant, first thing tomorrow morning.”

  RESPONDING TO THE lieutenant’s text, Byron walked to his office and sat down.

  “Stanton approved your overtime request for the surveillance,” LeRoyer said.

  “Great. I want to have those details up and running tonight.”

  “What did granny want?”

  “Might be a lead on O’Halloran.”

  “Seriously?”

  “So how many officers did he approve?”

  “One per night.”

  Byron sighed. It was about what he’d expected. “I guess it’s better than nothing. Did he approve all of them?”

  “All but one.”

  “Which one?”

  “Cross.”

  “What the fuck, Marty?”

  “Hey, you’re lucky you got Williams. Cross tried to nix that one too.”

  “This is total crap.”

  LeRoyer sat back in his chair, staring at Byron. “Gee, thanks, Lieutenant, for getting all but one of them approved. You’re awesome. I don’t know how you do it, but you always seem to come through for me. Oh, it’s nothing, John. I’m am here for you, after all.”

  “Thanks, Lieu.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Byron’s cell rang, it was Tran. “That was fast. What’ve you got?”

  “A big fat goose egg. None of our folks have anything close to an Odyssey.”

  Would’ve been too easy anyway, Byron thought.

  “Assuming she’s right,” Tran continued, “they either borrowed a vehicle or we’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Check the local rental companies,” Byron said.

  “Sure thing. Might take me a while.”

  “Let me know.” Byron hung up and got up to leave LeRoyer’s office.

  “Oh, John, before you go. You’re familiar with the department’s policy on fraternization, right?”

  BYRON HAD WRITTEN the surveillance OT request and was leaving the shift commander’s office when he received a text from Diane.

  “We need 2 talk. Pick U up out front in 5?”

  This can’t be good. He typed the letter K and hit send.

  “HE ASKED IF we were involved,” Diane said after filling him in on her meeting with Cross.

  “LeRoyer gave me some shit too,” Byron said. “What’d you say?”

  “I said we weren’t. It’s none of his damn business anyway. Think Cross put Kenny up to it?”

  “Probably. Taught him to sit and stay too. He’s trying to trump up stuff so he can have me suspended.”

  “How the hell can he do this, John?”

  “He’s the Ass Chief. It would appear he can do most anything he wants. Besides it’s not like I haven’t given him plenty of ammunition.”

  “He can’t suspend you without due process.”

  “He hasn’t suspended me yet. And it’s not my suspension he’s after anyway. He’s trying to get me thrown off this case.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure, but he’s been blocking my every move. He convinced Stanton not to let us set up surveillance on him. Where are we going anyway?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “I just had to get out of there. This is total bullshit.”

  He turned to her and smiled. “There’s the New York ’tude I love.”

  “So are we only gonna run surveillance on the others?”

  “Hell no. I figure between Nuge, Mel, and the both of us we can watch all of them without their blessing. But, we’ve gotta be careful.”

  “Think he’ll keep coming after you?”

  “Bet on it. It might not be so bad if he succeeds, though.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “If he suspends me, I’ll have ple
nty of free time to work, unencumbered by the rules of law.”

  “If Cross caught you working this case after being suspended, he’d have you fired.”

  Byron grinned. “Gotta catch me first.”

  Chapter Twenty-­One

  THE UNICORN ADVERTISED itself as a gentleman’s club. Byron had never truly understood the terminology associated with calling a strip club a gentleman’s club any more than he’d understood the term adult entertainment. He’d never been able to figure out what was so mature about men and women shedding their clothing for money. He wasn’t a prude, far from it; he found the sensuous curves of the opposite sex extremely enticing. It was the drugs and the prostitution he could do without. No matter how erotic the dancers appeared on stage, eventually, by the light of day, they all looked the same: hard miles, hard drugs, and bad endings.

  Why a former cop would involve himself in a business as sleazy as the Unicorn, Byron couldn’t guess. He assumed Beaudreau probably hadn’t been all that ethically inclined when he was on the job. It takes all kinds.

  He walked into the dimly lit lobby and was immediately ensconced in the deep repetitive bass notes of a DJ dance mix and the sultry feminine scent of perfume. A svelte blonde of undetermined age, wearing pasties and a leather miniskirt, stood by the entry door to the inner sanctum. She was flanked on both sides by muscle-­bound gym rats. Both wore T-­shirts, adorned with the Unicorn logo, at least two sizes too small. The woman greeted Byron with a well-­rehearsed seductive smile, comprised of twin rows of bleached teeth. “Good evening, handsome,” she said. “Are you here for the party?”

  “Not really. I’m looking for someone,” Byron said, flashing his badge. “Dominic Beaudreau.”

  Miniskirt looked to the rat on her right and nodded. The rat disappeared to the other side of the door, momentarily allowing some of the higher pitched musical notes to leak through. She turned her attention to Byron. “I’ll see if he’s available. Would you care for a beverage while you wait?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” He stepped aside as two well-­dressed men in their thirties walked in on the arms of a scantily clad boisterous and slightly drunk older woman. Byron gave her the once-­over. What little clothing there was appeared to be of the same caliber as the jewelry she wore. Expensive. He took a second look at the young men, escorts he imagined. She caught his eye and blew him a kiss. The ménage à trois continued through the lobby and Miniskirt repeated her well-­rehearsed greeting. As he waited, Byron turned his attention to the posters adorning each wall, depicting headliners from the video world of adult entertainment.

  “I’m Dominic Beaudreau,” a male voice said from behind him. “May I help you?”

  Byron turned and extended his hand. “Detective Sergeant John Byron.”

  “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

  “I wonder if there’s someplace we can talk?”

  Beaudreau led the way to his private office on the upper level. The office was soundproof, with a large window overlooking the main stage below. “Can I get you something to whet your whistle, Sergeant Byron? Maybe some scotch?”

  He looked at Beaudreau’s well-­stocked private bar. “No, thank you,” he said, needing every ounce of his willpower not to accept. “This is quite an operation you’ve got here.”

  “I’m only a partner, I’m afraid. Wish it were all mine.”

  “Connected, are you?”

  Beaudreau smiled politely, ignoring the question. “How can I help the police?”

  “I know you were once a cop and I’m searching for information about a shooting you were involved in.”

  Beaudreau sat down in a chair across from him. Byron noted the odor of expensive aftershave, the dyed black hair, and the heavy gold necklace gleaming from his open-­collared shirt. The man was a walking, talking cliché. “Had a few of those. Maybe you could be a little more specific?”

  “The armored car robbery shootout in ’85.”

  Beaudreau stuck a finger in his drink, toying with the ice. “That was one for the books. Lost one of our own, as I’m sure you already know.”

  “Bruce Gagnon.”

  “Yeah, tough loss. Young guy, full of piss and vinegar. But, a win is still a win.”

  “How was that a win?” Byron asked, barely masking his annoyance.

  “Good guys three, bad guys one. You weren’t in the military, were you Sergeant Byron?”

  “Joined the department right out of college.”

  “Ah, the pursuit of higher education. Well, I got my education in the jungles of Vietnam. Anytime we killed three to their one was a victory.”

  Byron wondered if Beaudreau had really seen any combat or if he was one of those who enjoyed portraying himself as John Rambo. “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Why are you asking about the shooting anyway?”

  “Because, as I’m sure you’ve heard, we’re investigating the murders of two of your old partners, James O’Halloran and Cleophus Riordan.”

  “Murder? I’d heard Jimmy was down with cancer and Riordan killed himself.”

  “Not exactly,” Byron said. “Had you seen either of them recently?

  “No.”

  “Who told you that Riordan killed himself?”

  “Hmm. You know I can’t remember. Word on the street, I guess,” Beaudreau said, grinning.

  Byron, not liking Beaudreau’s smug attitude, switched to a more direct approach. “Well, regardless of what you heard, they were both murdered.”

  “So what are you telling me, someone is coming after me?”

  “Would they have reason to?”

  Beaudreau’s face twisted into a scowl. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

  “What happened to the money?”

  “Money?”

  “The money taken during the armored car robbery.”

  “I don’t think I like where this is going. If you’ve got something to say, I suggest you say it.”

  “Did you guys take the money?”

  “Pretty sure I remember answering that question years ago. When the FBI asked it.”

  “Not really an answer.”

  “Of course we didn’t. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have thought about it, but we never found any of it and we turned the house upside down. Believe me.”

  Byron waited, creating the uncomfortable silence he’d learned to use so effectively. A silence some ­people couldn’t stand, usually those ­people who had something to hide.

  Beaudreau broke that silence. “Assuming you’re right, and someone did kill Jimmy and Cleo, what does it have to do with the shooting? What makes you think it’s related?”

  Byron reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and handed it to Beaudreau. “We received this in the mail, right after the second murder.”

  Beaudreau studied the photocopy of the article as he got up and walked over to his desk.

  “Has anyone reached out to you recently, maybe one of the others on your team?”

  “No.” He didn’t even wait until Byron finished the question before answering. “I run in a slightly different circle now, Sergeant.”

  “Organized circle, is it?”

  Again, Beaudreau ignored the question.

  “So you’ve had no contact with any of your old partners?”

  “Didn’t I just say that?” Beaudreau reached down and pushed an intercom button on the desk. “Send Freddie up here.”

  “Guess this means we’re done,” Byron said as he stood up from his chair.

  The office door opened and in walked one of the gym rats from the lobby. “Unless you want a lap dance before you go? I could hook you up with one of my personal assistants.”

  “No, thanks,” Byron said. “He’s not really my type.” He turned his attention toward Freddie. “Let me
guess, Thing One? Or are you Thing Two?”

  “Here,” Beaudreau said. “You can take your article with you.”

  “Keep it. I’ve got others.”

  “Freddie, show Sergeant Byron the door.”

  “My pleasure,” Freddie said with a grin.

  “Good luck with your investigation, Sergeant. I hope you catch whoever is doing this.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure I will.”

  BYRON SLID BEHIND the wheel and started the car. He knew Beaudreau had lied to him about contact. But why? Why would each of them lie about having contact with the others? If someone really was trying to settle a score by killing all of them, wouldn’t it make sense for them to reach out to one another? What were they hiding?

  He drove back into Portland on Brighton Avenue, stopping prior to the St. John Street intersection as the red lights at the railroad crossing began to flash and the gates came down, blocking the roadway. He stopped the Taurus short of the gate. While he waited, he put the car in park, pulled out his cell, and dialed Diane.

  He was waiting for her to pick up, aware of the rumble of the approaching train, when his head snapped back in the seat. Something had bumped his car from behind. He looked in the rearview but all he could see were high beams and the grille of a pickup. His car was jolted again. This time, the truck kept moving forward, pushing the Taurus toward the tracks. Byron pressed down firmly on the brake pedal, trying to hold his ground, but the truck was a much larger vehicle and the brakes weren’t stopping his forward momentum.

  The headlight of the approaching train illuminated the interior of his car like a searchlight. Dropping the phone, Byron struggled to move the transmission lever out of park. Helpless, he watched the front end of the car inching closer to the tracks. The Ford’s windshield snapped off the red and white crossing gate. The broken board clattered down the hood onto the ground. The train was nearly on top of him now and the nose of his car was well out over the rails. The sound of the train’s horn split the air. He’d never heard anything so loud before. He knew the time for jumping out had passed. “Come on, come on,” he shouted as he pressed both feet on the brake and slammed the shifter into drive. The train was less than thirty feet away as he stomped down on the accelerator. The drive wheel squealed on the pavement until finally it caught and the Taurus shot forward over the tracks just as the train struck. The big diesel tore off the rear bumper and sent the car spinning like a child’s toy. Byron gripped the steering wheel as hard as he could until the spinning ceased and the front end of his car rolled back toward the tracks. He slammed his foot down on the brake pedal again. Sparks flew from the tracks as the engineer applied the train’s emergency brakes. Finally, the car came to a halt, mere feet from the giant steel wheels of the passing train. Byron sat in the stalled car shaking, his face illuminated by the instrument panel warning lights, his heart hammering in his chest.