Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “What would you like me to do, John?” LeRoyer said with a desperate sigh, running his fingers back through his hair.

  “How about your job.”

  “Check yourself, Sergeant,” LeRoyer snapped.

  “Let me work my case so we can catch this bastard.”

  “I’m not gonna give you permission to disobey a directive from the chief’s office.”

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  “What are you asking?”

  “Let me do my job. You said you’d let me run this case. So let me.”

  LeRoyer sat there staring at him. Byron knew he was weighing his options. “I’ve got a wife and two kids to feed, John. My daughter’s planning to go to college next fall. Fuckin’ Sacred Heart. Do you have any idea what it costs to go there?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. I went to Saint Joe’s.”

  “Ha-­ha, very funny. I need this job. And I’d like to work here long enough to collect my goddamned pension.”

  Byron didn’t say a word. He’d seen LeRoyer struggle with decisions such as this before. Byron knew if he waited him out, LeRoyer would do the right thing.

  LeRoyer slammed his hands down on top of his desk. “Dammit, John. You pull this shit all the time. And you think, what? I’m just gonna give in to your whims?”

  Byron kept eye contact and remained silent.

  “Okay, Sergeant,” LeRoyer said finally, nodding like a bobble head. “Do it your way. You always do. Do whatever you have to do to solve this case. But, if you’re planning on doing something you’ve been ordered not to, or something illegal, I don’t want to know about it. You got me? And if either Stanton or Cross finds out, you’re on your own.”

  Byron grinned. “You’re the best, Lieu. You know I love you, right?”

  “Get the hell out of my office.”

  BILLINGSLEA WAS PISSED. Pissed at Byron for getting him in trouble with his superiors and pissed at himself for letting Byron bully him. Following the interrogation at the police department, he got dressed down again by his editor, like some little kid. Didn’t they understand how big this story was? Couldn’t they see what was at stake? Byron certainly could. He paced back and forth inside his small cubicle at the Herald. He needed another in on this case. Someone who would give him the inside scoop. Hawk’s call had gotten him close but not close enough.

  Byron was the problem. Fucking Byron. He needed to find someone on the PD who had issues with Byron. Someone with knowledge of the case. Someone who would gladly spill the beans. Billingslea stopped in mid-­pace and grabbed for his desk phone. Crosby.

  “WHAT DO YOU mean he ordered it shut down?” Diane asked. “That’s crazy. We need to watch these guys now more than ever.”

  “And we’re going to,” Byron said.

  Stevens spoke up. “But you said—­”

  “I told you what Cross said, but now I’m telling you what we’re gonna do.”

  Nugent rubbed his hands together. “God, I love being insubordinate.”

  Stevens looked over at him. “Makes sense, you’re good at it.”

  BYRON SENT NUGENT to keep eyes on Perrigo, while he drove Stevens and Diane north on I–295, taking the Yarmouth exit. He backtracked on Route 1 and pulled into the lot of Royal River Ford.

  “You think they’re just gonna give us cars to use?” Diane said as they got out of the car.

  He turned to her and smiled. “Yup. Watch and learn.”

  “As I live and breathe, look at what the proverbial cat dragged in. If it isn’t my old mate, John Byron,” Grayson Timmons said with a fake Irish accent as he stood up and walked around the desk.

  Byron gave his old friend a hug. “How are you, Grayson?””

  “Never better, never better.” He turned his attention to the other detectives. “And are you going to introduce me to these lovely lasses, or do I have to do it myself?”

  “Grayson, I’d like you to meet Detective Diane Joyner and Detective Melissa Stevens. This is Grayson Timmons, my old academy mate.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Diane said, extending her hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Lassie.” Timmons bent in dramatic fashion and kissed her hand.

  He took Stevens’s hand next. “Is your accent real?” she asked.

  “Nothing about this guy is real,” Byron said with a grin. “He sells cars for a living.”

  “Except for my admiration of pretty ladies,” Timmons said, giving Stevens a wink. “It’s good to see you, John. Am I correct in assuming this visit is more than a social call?”

  “It is actually. We’re working a case and are in need of wheels.”

  “Doesn’t the PD still supply you guys with cars, or has the budget gotten that bad?”

  “They do,” Diane said. “But we need something a little less—­”

  “Five-­O?”

  “Exactly,” Stevens said.

  “Would this be the SRT murders?” Timmons asked.

  “It would,” Byron said.”

  “Well, let’s take a walk outside and see what we can see.”

  Timmons set them up with a silver Sentra and a light blue Outback.

  “When do you need these returned?” Byron asked.

  “When you’ve finished with them,” Timmons said. “They’re trade-­ins. They’ll be going to auction anyway. Afraid I can’t help you with plates, though. State’s a little funny about those.”

  “We’ve got it covered,” Diane said as she pulled two registration plates out of a paper bag.

  “Pretty and smart. Looks like you’ve got yourself some good detectives, John.”

  “Better than you?” Byron asked.

  “Hey, I never said that.”

  “Thanks, Grayson.”

  “Bring ’em back in one piece, okay?”

  “Trust us,” Stevens said with a wink.

  CROSBY’S BLACK PONTIAC was parked in the lot facing the Baxter Boulevard running path. Billingslea opened the passenger door, climbed inside, and handed a paper bag to the detective sergeant. The car reeked of sweaty gym clothes and aftershave.

  “Thanks for meeting up with me,” Billingslea said.

  “Don’t mention it,” Crosby said as he unwrapped the Italian sandwich that the reporter had bought to soften him up, spilling a ­couple of tomatoes on his lap. “Shit. Grab me a ­couple of napkins out of the glove box.”

  “Here. What happened to your face?”

  Crosby fixed him with a scowl. “I slipped in the shower.”

  “Huh,” the reporter said.

  “So, what can I do for you, Super Sleuth?”

  Billingslea realized that he despised this muscle-­bound detective almost as much as he did Byron. But he needed him, and if that meant putting up with Crosby’s machismo bullshit, then so be it.

  “Byron’s fucking up my life.”

  Crosby laughed, nearly choked on a mouthful of food. “Ha, welcome to my world, sport. What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I need information about the case he’s working on.”

  “The murders?

  “That would be the one.”

  A grin spread across Crosby’s face. “Gonna cost you.”

  “How much?”

  “More than this shitty excuse for a sandwich,” he said as he shoveled in another mouthful.

  “I don’t have access to money for sources.”

  “I’m thinking bigger picture, sport. Some good drug-­bust exposure in the press for yours truly.”

  “You got anything worth writing about?”

  “Not at the moment, but I’m picturing a feature story about an up-­and-­coming drug dick who has aspirations of becoming a lieutenant.”

  “You help me with this and I’ll make you look like a star.”

  IT WAS AFTER
one o’clock in the afternoon when Diane turned into the entrance to Evergreen Cemetery. She’d been following Beaudreau’s Cadillac since he’d left the Unicorn. She picked up her phone and called Byron.

  He answered on the first ring. “What’s up?”

  “I followed Beaudreau to Evergreen Cemetery. You think a guy who owns a strip club eats lunch in a cemetery to get away from all those naked women?”

  “It takes all kinds. Maybe women aren’t his preference.”

  “Maybe, but I’ll bet you dinner he’s meeting someone.”

  “You sure he hasn’t made you?”

  “Positive. Looks like he’s heading for the duck pond.”

  “You want backup?”

  “I think I can handle this pervo.”

  “Be careful.”

  “You’re such a nag. I’ll call you when I know something.”

  She pulled off the pavement onto a grassy side drive and parked the Outback. Still a distance from the pond, she wanted to make sure he didn’t notice her following. She got out of the car, stretched her legs, pulled up the hood on her sweatshirt, and began jogging toward the back side of the graveyard.

  She was making her way toward the pond when she saw Beaudreau. He was standing at the edge on the far side and throwing bread crumbs into the water for the ducks. Diane continued her run around to the rear of the pond, giving him a wide berth. She was beginning to think she might be shelling out for dinner after all when a familiar-­looking vehicle pulled up and parked near Beaudreau’s Cadillac. The driver and only occupant sat in the SUV for several moments before exiting and approaching the pond. She recognized him instantly. It was Cross.

  Diane worked her way toward them, pulling her hood further over her face. She could see the two men were talking. Beaudreau was gesturing with his hands. Whatever they were discussing, it looked like it was getting heated. She ran closer still, hoping to hear what was being said. For one terrifying moment, as she neared them, Cross looked right at her. She was sure he’d made her. Her heart was hammering like it might jump right out of her chest. Then he turned and looked away. He hadn’t recognized her. The anxiety left her as quickly as it had come. She continued her jog around the pond and headed toward the car.

  The meeting only lasted a few minutes. She watched as Cross drove away. Beaudreau returned to his car but waited several minutes before driving toward the exit. Diane pretended she was stretching near a large headstone as each vehicle passed by.

  She quickly dialed Byron. “I don’t know what that was all about, but I think I can guess.”

  “Did he meet someone?” he asked.

  “Cross. And it looked pretty heated.”

  “Interesting. What do you think it was about?”

  “I think Beaudreau was pissed about what happened to Williams. I think he’s worried.”

  “Are you still on him?”

  “No, I couldn’t make it back to my car in time. I was undercover as a jogger.”

  “Probably just as well. I don’t want to burn these cars by having them follow the same person too often. Take a casual spin out by the club. Let’s see if he went directly back.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’ll see if I can find Cross.”

  Chapter Twenty-­Four

  BYRON AND DIANE were keeping an eye on Beaudreau. They’d stopped at a sandwich shop on Riverside. She ran inside to grab some lunch while Byron waited in the car. Watching her through the store window, he couldn’t help but think how quickly things had changed between them.

  Sleeping with your partner will do that, John, his little voice said. God, how he despised that voice. He pictured the divorce documents lying unsigned on his apartment counter and felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe he hadn’t signed Kay’s papers yet, but sleeping with Diane had done more than any signature ever could. He’d pretty much sealed the deal on their failed marriage. It wasn’t like there hadn’t been a mutual attraction between he and Diane from the start. They’d had plenty of opportunities during their two years of working together, but neither of them had ever acted on it, until now. It was as if the women in his life had grown weary of waiting for him to make a move, any move, and had conspired to force his hand. His thoughts were broken by the ringing of his cell.

  “Sarge, it’s Mel.”

  “Hey, Mel. What’s up?”

  “Perrigo has been acting squirrelly all morning. He’s been U-­turning me to death, and I’m pretty sure he made me on the last one.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He pulled into the lot of a Mobile Mart on Route 1 in Yarmouth.”

  Byron’s phone began to chime with an incoming call. “Hang on a sec, I’m getting another call.”

  He checked the ID. Perrigo.

  “Mel, I’ll call you right back; it’s him.”

  “Sergeant Byron, Tony Perrigo.”

  Byron reached through the open car window waving his hand at Diane, trying to get her attention. “What can I do for you, Mr. Perrigo?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Not on the phone. Can you meet me?”

  “Where and when?”

  PERRIGO CHOSE A picnic area off of Route 88 in Yarmouth. Neither Byron nor Diane had any idea what had happened to change his mind, but there was no question he was scared. Perrigo had arrived ahead of them and was already seated at one of the tables as they pulled in to the gravel parking area.

  Byron parked Diane’s Outback near Perrigo’s silver Mercedes, the only car in the lot. “I want to pat him down for weapons or recorders before we start,” Byron said as they exited the car.

  “You think he’s up to something?” she asked.

  He stopped and looked at her. “When it comes to this case, you’re about the only one I trust.” They both unholstered their guns as they neared Perrigo.

  “What the hell is this?” Perrigo asked, getting to his feet. “I called you for help.”

  “And we want to help you,” Byron said. “But first I need you get down off the table and assume the position.” Perrigo did as he was instructed, placing his hands on the tabletop and spreading his legs out behind him.

  “You said I could trust you guys.”

  “You can, but seeing as how you lied to us the last time we met, you’re going to have to earn ours.”

  Byron holstered his semiauto and nodded to Diane, who kept hers trained on Perrigo. He moved in and gave the former cop a thorough pat down. The only thing he found were Perrigo’s keys, cigarettes, and lighter in opposite pockets of his windbreaker.

  “He’s clean,” Byron said to Diane as he placed the items on the table.

  She reholstered her weapon.

  “Okay, you can get up.”

  “May I?” Perrigo asked, sounding indignant. “I called you, remember?” He reached for his smokes and looked toward Byron. “Okay if I smoke?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Both detectives noticed his hands were shaking badly as he lit up. Perrigo kept glancing nervously toward the parking lot entrance.

  “Expecting company?” Diane asked.

  “I’m pretty sure someone’s been following me.” His eyes widened in fear. “Who knows we’re meeting here?”

  “No one,” Byron said.

  “You didn’t tell anyone I called you?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know you weren’t followed?”

  “We weren’t,” Diane said.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Perrigo.”

  The three of them sat at a picnic table near the far end of the lot. Perrigo sat on one side, Byron and Diane on the other, allowing them a view of the entrance. “You said you had something to tell us,” Byron said as he pulled out a small digital recorder and activated it.

  “You’re not taping this,” Perrigo s
aid, his eyes darting from one of them to the other.

  “Mr. Perrigo,” Diane said. “That’s how this works. You were a cop. If you want our help, we’re gonna need yours as well, and it’s all on the record.”

  Perrigo shifted his gaze to Byron. “You’ll protect us? Me and Vickie.”

  “Who do you need protection from? Do you know who’s doing this?”

  “No, I don’t,” he said, taking a long drag off his cigarette and slowly exhaling a cloud of bluish smoke. “But I think I may know why.”

  “We’re listening,” Byron said.

  “I was a good cop once, a long time ago. I think most of us on the team were. But things kinda got screwed up. I don’t know how it happened, but it did.” He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, took another long drag and held it in.

  Diane leaned over and put a hand on his forearm. “You can do this, Mr. Perrigo.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her as he exhaled smoke from his nose. “We were ripping off drug dealers.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” Byron asked.

  “Us, the entire Special Reaction Team. We’d do the raids in conjunction with the drug unit whenever there were warrants for a high-­level dealer. At first it was just a little bit and only money, but later—­”

  “My father was on that team.”

  “I know. Hey, you asked and I’m telling you.”

  “Who set up the rips?” Byron asked.

  “O’Halloran ran CID. Cross and Williams were running the drug unit. I don’t know exactly who made the decisions or where the intel came from, it didn’t work that way. Most of us on the team only did what we were told. A need-­to-­know kinda thing. You know?”

  Diane nodded. A gust of wind shook the leaves violently and Perrigo’s head whipped around toward the parking lot entrance. “Mr. Perrigo, it’s only the wind.”

  “Tony. Call me Tony, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze.

  “You were saying, Tony,” Byron said, liking the former cop less by the minute.

  “Like I was saying, we only knew what we needed to.”

  “How much money are we talking?” Byron asked.