Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

“Well, he’s safe here for now.”

  “So, he confessed to class A robberies, committed by police officers, but there’s still the statute of limitations to consider. I’ll have to do some research. Which officers did he implicate, specifically?”

  “All of them.”

  “Including your deputy chief, Cross?”

  “Assistant Chief. Yes, including him.”

  “Did he say why he’s coming forward with this now?”

  “He’s scared.”

  “Sounds like he should be. You think he’s holding anything back?”

  “Wouldn’t you? He’s gonna want protection and some kind of deal.”

  “Don’t share this with anyone else, okay?”

  “I have other ­people working on this case with me. I’ve got to give them enough to keep working.”

  “Okay, but keep the information compartmentalized. Don’t tell anybody more than they need to know. Jesus, John, this is gonna get messy.”

  “Already is.”

  “All right, so do we have any idea how this ties in with the three murders?”

  “Nothing solid, but ideas? Yes. Looks like someone is either seeking retribution or trying to tie up some loose ends.”

  “Have you been able to match up the print yet? The one from the O’Halloran scene.”

  “It’s only a partial, and we’re still trying.”

  “Ya know, what we need are cell records. If we could tie Cross to any of the others before you interviewed him, it would at least mean he lied to you about contact. We need to start building a conspiracy case here. If you can do that, you might flush out the killer.”

  “I’ll start on it as soon as I’ve taken possession of Perrigo’s phone.”

  “Okay, and I’ll start trying to plan a legal strategy. Wow. This is unbelievable.” Ferguson sounded positively giddy. “Watch yourself, John, and keep me up to date.”

  FORTY-­FIVE MINUTES LATER, Pritchard returned with the throwaway cell phones and two cases of bottled water. Diane and Vicky uncovered the rest of the furniture and swept out the first floor. Byron had to admit the place was starting to look pretty comfortable. The kind of a place he wouldn’t have minded vacationing in. But this wasn’t a vacation hideaway, it was a safe house. Period.

  Perrigo was the key to unraveling the case, Byron knew it. Tony didn’t seem to know enough to lead them to the killer, but maybe he could lead the killer to them.

  Byron handed the phones to Perrigo. “Here. They’ve been activated and we’ve already programmed all three of our numbers into speed dial. Either of you get any indication something’s wrong, you can call one of us.”

  “What about cell coverage?” Diane asked.

  “It’s not great,” Pritchard said. “But you should have a ­couple of bars. Enough to get through if you need to.”

  “I’ll take your old phones now,” Byron said.

  Perrigo handed them over.

  “Any questions before we go?”

  “I’d feel better if we had a car,” Perrigo said.

  “We’re trying to keep both of you alive,” Byron said. “If you’re out driving around, someone is bound to see you. We can’t chance it. One of us will check in on you daily. If you need anything, we’ll arrange it.”

  “You’re gonna be okay, Vickie,” Diane said, gently placing a hand on her back.

  “Thank you for helping us,” Vickie said, prodding Tony.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  IT WAS GETTING LATE. Billingslea had nearly given up waiting when he saw Joyner’s Outback pull out of a dirt drive about a hundred yards down the road on his left, followed closely by a dark-­colored Lexus SUV that he had seen driving by earlier. He scooted down in the driver’s seat, trying to further conceal himself as the two vehicles approached. Joyner was in the passenger seat and Byron was driving. Only two ­people, he thought. He was positive four had been in the Subaru when it arrived. Did they drop someone off? The Perrigos?

  He watched the car pass by. Neither detective seemed aware of his presence. He looked closely at the approaching SUV. It was the same older gentleman he’d seen driving away earlier and he was alone. Billingslea squinted at the rear plate and quickly copied it on his notepad. He’d have one of his dispatcher friends run the registration to get an ID on the owner.

  He waited several minutes before driving off, making sure that he wasn’t seen. As he started the Accord to leave, a gray-­primed four-­wheel-­drive pickup whipped into the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust and blocking him in. A bearded man of considerable girth, wearing tan Carhartt overalls and a pissed-­off look on his face, jumped down from the cab and approached Billingslea’s car.

  “Can I help you with something, asshole?” Carhartt shouted.

  “Fuck,” Billingslea said.

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE all that just happened,” Diane said as they drove back toward the station. “It’s crazy.”

  “I know,” Byron agreed.

  “The entire SRT? What the hell kind of cops were those?”

  “Were? Don’t forget about Cross.”

  “Damn, that’s right. No wonder he’s been stonewalling this investigation. I thought he was just being his usual pain-­in-­the-­ass self. So now what?”

  “I’ve got Ferguson checking to see what kind of charges he can file against all of them, and we’ve got the Perrigos’ cell phones.”

  “What good is his phone?”

  “We can find out who he’s been talking to and whether or not any of them lied to us about being in contact. Also, when they discover Perrigo has gone off the grid, they’re all bound to get nervous, especially the killer.”

  “We’re using the Perrigos as bait?”

  “Not exactly bait, more like motivation. If the killer is connected to the SRT, he’s got as much to lose as the rest of them. Turning up the heat might be enough to cause him to trip up. To make the mistake we’ve been waiting on.”

  “Why don’t I take the recorder,” she said. “I’ll get Dustin to make a copy and I’ll put it someplace safe.”

  “Guard this with your life,” he said, handing it to her. “If Perrigo changes his mind, this recording is all we’ve got.”

  “It’s in good hands,” she said, placing the digital recorder in her briefcase.

  CROSS WAS PULLING out of the basement garage of 109 when his cell phone began vibrating with an incoming call. The caller ID showed blocked. He answered, “Chief Cross.”

  “Remember what I told you?”

  He recognized the voice immediately. “I do, and I told you I’m handling it.” He waited for a response.

  “If you were handling it, would we be having this conversation?”

  “Has something happened? Something I don’t know about?”

  There was another agonizingly long pause.

  “Have you spoken to Perrigo lately?”

  Nervously, Cross began licking his lips. Perrigo hadn’t checked in since his interview with Byron. “Not in the last few days, but he’s on board. He won’t say anything.” But was he on board? Cross wasn’t sure. Williams had said Perrigo was shaky at best, scared about the murders. But scared enough to implicate himself? It didn’t seem likely.

  “On board is he? Team player?” Why don’t you try calling him?”

  “I don’t want to risk leaving a trail for anyone to—­”

  The phone disconnected.

  “Dammit.” He licked his lips again.

  CARHARTT HAD BILLINGSLEA by the collar of his shirt, bending him backward over the fender of the Accord. “You’d better have a damn good reason for being here, asshole,” Carhartt said.

  Billingslea scrambled to think of anything that might get him out of his predicament. “It was the cops,” he blurted out. He flinched as Carhartt leaned toward him and drew back his meaty
fist.

  “What cops? I didn’t see no cops.”

  “I thought they were following me. I pulled in here to lose them.”

  His sweaty brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “Suspended license. They catch me again, they’ll arrest me.” He watched as the big man thought it through. The body odor was making it hard to breathe. Finally, Carhartt’s frown disappeared. He lowered his fist and released Billingslea’s collar.

  “Well, why didn’t you just say so?” He laughed and playfully slapped the reporter in the back hard enough to snap his head back.

  Billingslea forced a smile.

  “Like to drink, do ya?” Carhartt asked.

  “Yeah, a little.”

  “Wanna come inside and have a cold one?”

  This is where he tells me he plays the banjo. “Ah, maybe some other time. I’m late for work.”

  IT WAS AFTER dark by the time Byron and Diane got back to 109. He needed to check in with LeRoyer, who’d left several messages on his phone during the course of the afternoon, but first he needed to see Tran.

  “Hey, commander,” Tran said. “I was about to call you.”

  Byron stepped into Tran’s office and closed the door, handing him both cell phones. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing yet on the taxi, but there are so many independents we may never know for sure. As for the rentals, I found fifteen Honda Odysseys leased locally.”

  “Same time frame as Riordan’s death?”

  “The week of.”

  “Any connection?”

  “None I could find.”

  “All right, I’ve got something else for you anyway, and it’s a big one.”

  Tran held up the cells. “Phone stuff, I’m guessing.”

  “I need you to download the information from both of those.”

  “Sure, what am I searching for?”

  “I want complete lists of all incoming and outgoing calls along with the corresponding contact phone numbers and duration of the calls.”

  “Could be quite a list depending on how frequently these are used. How far do you want me to go back?”

  “All of the history. If it’s on the phone, I want it.” Byron provided him with the phone access codes he’d gotten from Perrigo.

  “Okay, boss. No biggie. I’m on it.”

  “That wasn’t the favor.”

  Tran turned back toward him.

  “And this one’s way outside of protocol.” Byron could see he now had the young detective’s undivided attention.

  “You talkin’ black-­bag kinda stuff?”

  “I’m talking off-­the-­books kinda stuff. Cell phone records from all of them.”

  Tran whistled between his teeth. “You know we’d need a court order, right? We could both be up to our gluteus maximus if anyone found out.”

  “I’ll worry about that. Can you do it or not?”

  “This is real important, right?”

  “I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

  “Okay. What numbers do you need checked?”

  “I want you to cross-­check each of these numbers for calls they might’ve made to each other,” he said, handing him the handwritten list.

  “Ah, what you want is a phone tree.”

  “A what?”

  “Phone tree. You want a comparative search done to show who’s contacting who, when, and with what frequency.”

  Byron nodded. He was never quite sure when talking with Tran if the young detective completely understood what Byron needed. But this was exactly what he wanted, and more than he’d thought possible. “Sounds like a phone tree is exactly what I want. Can you do it?”

  “It won’t be admissible in court.”

  “I don’t need it to be. But I need an edge. I want to know who’s had contact with the others and is lying about it.”

  “How far should I go back?”

  “At least a month.”

  “These numbers are for the former officers?”

  “And Cross.”

  Tran whistled again. “I have an acquaintance who can get me what you want, but there’s always a risk of getting caught.”

  “I’ll take full responsibility if that happens. But do me one favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t get caught.”

  Tran grinned. “Fear not, striped dude. The D Man is on the case.”

  Byron headed upstairs to deal with LeRoyer.

  “Goddammit, John, I’m your lieutenant. I want to know what’s going on with this case. Just once it’d be nice if you could be a team player.”

  “I told you, I can’t give you specifics. I’ve discussed a number of developments with Ferguson, and he doesn’t want me dragging more ­people into this.”

  “Last I checked, Ferguson doesn’t work for this department, you do.”

  “But he does have prosecutorial authority over the investigation. Trust me, Lieu, it’s better if you don’t know everything. I’ll fill you in as soon as I can.”

  The lieutenant’s face was flushed as he ran his fingers back through his hair. “This is total bullshit, John. I’ve got Stanton and Cross breathing down my neck. What the hell am I supposed to tell them?”

  “Tell them you gave me the authority to run this free from internal interference. Remember?”

  “I’m regretting it more every minute. Can you at least give me a friggin synopsis?”

  “Perrigo turned.”

  “Turned?”

  “Confessed to a bunch of stuff. We stashed him and his wife in a bureau safe house.”

  “Did he ID the killer?”

  “No. He said he doesn’t know who it is.”

  “So what did he give you?”

  “Like I said, it’s better you don’t know.”

  “This thing’s giving me a goddamned ulcer. You’d better get me something, John, and soon.”

  BILLINGSLEA SAT AT the kitchen table of his in-­town apartment, staring at the screen on his laptop, wondering how he had managed to talk his way out of sure death at the hands of his new redneck friend. He dropped the last half piece of pizza back into the box on the floor. Simba, his ten-­year-­old Siamese, lapped appreciatively at the cheese stuck to the cardboard.

  “Hey, old girl, you’re gonna end up with high cholesterol. You shouldn’t be eating that stuff at your age.”

  Simba looked up at him and gave a verbal protest.

  “Your funeral.”

  He returned to his Internet search for town properties in the area he had last seen Byron and Joyner. Tax records indicated that there was a structure at the other end of the road, at the edge of Thompson Pond. The owner of record was listed as the SinTech Corporation.

  Simba jumped up in his lap, purring loudly.

  He scratched the underside of her chin.

  “That’s odd, Sim. All of the other properties are listed to individuals or ­couples. Maybe someone is trying to hide personal property.”

  He printed the information, then queried SinTech. While scrolling through the results, he slid his notepad closer, flipped to the back page, then picked up his cell and dialed.

  “You working?” Billingslea asked the female dispatcher on the other end of the line.

  “What do you need?” she asked.

  “I need you to run a plate number for me.”

  “WELL? HOW DID you make out?” Byron asked Tran.

  “Take a look for yourself,” Tran said, pulling it up on the computer screen.

  “All I see is a bunch of numbers and lines. Looks like a constellation map.”

  “This is your phone tree. Each of the numbers you gave me are shown here. I’ve included all incoming and outgoing calls for the last thirty days. I’ve color-­coded them with incoming calls showing in red and outgo
ing in blue.”

  “It’s too hard to decipher what I’m seeing.”

  “That, boss dude, is because I’m showing you everything for the entire period. Now watch as I remove the calls not pertinent to your query.”

  “The circle in the middle is Cross’s number.”

  “Correct. And see, his number becomes the focus.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Look here,” Tran said, pointing at the monitor. “His number calls the numbers belonging to . . . Williams and Beaudreau. Williams in turn calls Humphrey and Perrigo. Finally, Williams calls Cross again. Cross’s number is the epicenter. If this was a drug case or an organized crime case, he’d be your logical boss.”

  “Looks like he’s still running the show.”

  “According to the phone tree, he is. And didn’t you say they all claimed not to have been in touch with one another.”

  “That’s what each of them said.”

  “Yeah, well their cell records say something very different.”

  “Thanks, Dustin.”

  “But remember, you can’t use any of this, Sarge.”

  Byron tousled the young detective’s mop of hair. “No worries, D Man.”

  He left the computer lab and headed upstairs to check in on the surveillance details.

  Chapter Twenty-­Six

  IT WAS AFTER ten-­thirty by the time Diane pulled into the driveway of her Westbrook home. All she could think about was crawling into bed and getting something resembling a full night’s sleep. She couldn’t remember the last time it had happened.

  Like all committed detectives, she knew what real exhaustion felt like. Being so tired that, when the opportunity finally presents itself—­or, in this case, your partner makes you—­you are unable to actually fall asleep. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, but, with everything that had transpired over the last twelve hours, she was prepared to pop a ­couple of little helpers.

  Grabbing her briefcase off the passenger seat, she removed her holster and stashed it inside. She pushed the lock button on the remote and made her way up the steps to the yellow ranch’s side door. After several moments of fumbling about in the dark, she finally managed to slip the key into the lock. She opened the door and stepped inside.

  She laid her belongings on the kitchen table and collected the mail from the floor. As she was sorting through it, she walked around the corner into the living room. Even before turning on a light, she saw it. Someone had been inside her house. Couch cushions and pillows had been thrown about and furniture upended, like they were searching for something. She froze. What if they were still here? Instinctively, she reached for her sidearm, the sidearm she’d placed in her briefcase, which was now lying on the table. Dammit, girl. You’re such a numbskull. Quickly, and as stealthily as possible, she backtracked to the kitchen. As she reached for the bag, she heard the telltale squeak of the hardwood floor right where it always squeaked at the end of the hallway, where it intersected the kitchen. She sensed as much as heard the rustling sound of something quickly approaching. Her fingers closed around the familiar handle of her Glock. She was turning her head to look when the blow landed.