Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Nobody does.”

  “Fucking cancer. Not one of God’s better ideas.”

  Byron considered telling him God probably had nothing to do with it, but decided against it. “How about the job, Ray?” he asked, trying to get him back on topic. “Any regrets?”

  Humphrey looked over, studying him. “Plenty.”

  “Like?”

  He turned his head to look out at the skyline and changed the topic. “Think you’re getting close to solving this case?”

  “Feels like something’s gonna break soon.”

  He nodded, giving Byron a knowing glance, and took another long drink. “You know, you’ve always been like a son to me. The son I never had.”

  “I know about the money, Ray. And about the drug rips.” He waited for a reaction but Humphrey remained silent. “Perrigo told us everything. Why, Ray? How could you be a part of that?”

  “Is that really the question you want to ask?”

  “I know you were with Riordan the night he died,” Byron said, bluffing. “I know about the rental car. Tell me you’re not the one doing this.”

  Humphrey stood up, finished the remaining half of his beer in three quick gulps, and carefully placed the empty in the cardboard holder. “You’re a good detective, Sarge. No denying it. You’ll figure this thing out. Forgive me for leaving you here, but it’s been a long day. I’m going home.”

  He waited until Humphrey had departed before taking the brown paper bag out of his pocket and unfolding it. He hadn’t gotten the answers he’d wanted, but he had managed to accomplish one thing. Carefully, he placed Humphrey’s empty into the bag, then dumped his own beer in the grass. As he walked back to his car, he phoned Stevens, instructing her to follow Humphrey home and to await word from him. His next call was to Pritchard.

  “You still want in?” Byron asked.

  “Point me in the right direction.”

  During his short drive to 109, he filled Pritchard in on the latest developments, including the blown surveillance on Humphrey.

  “You think it’s Humphrey, John?”

  “I should know pretty quickly. Can you tail him without getting made?”

  “Like the man said, it’s tough to tail a cop, but I’ll do my best.”

  “Send me a text when you’re in position and I’ll pull Mel.”

  “Okay. What are you going to do?”

  “After I check out these prints, I’m gonna pay a visit to Diane at the hospital. Then I think I’ll pay one to Cross and totally fuck up his night.”

  “WELL?” BYRON ASKED.

  “Take a look for yourself,” Pelligrosso said, rolling his chair away from the lab’s computer screen.

  Byron bent forward and examined both images. They looked similar, but he didn’t know a whorl from a loop. “Are they from the same person?”

  Pelligrosso used the mouse to drag one image over the other. “You tell me.”

  “They look identical.”

  “They are. Maybe not good enough for the court’s standard seven-­point comparison, but they’ll pass my common sense test any day. So, you gonna tell me where you got the bottle?”

  “Those are Ray Humphrey’s prints.”

  “SO WHY WOULDN’T Ray tell you about visiting O’Halloran?” Diane asked.

  “Maybe because he killed him,” Byron said.

  “John, how long have you known him? Do you really think he could kill his old friends?”

  “I’m not sure how close any of these guys really were, Diane. And I don’t think he went over to O’Halloran’s intending to kill him. I think something happened.”

  “Like what?”

  “O’Halloran was dying. He knew it. Maybe he wanted to get something off his chest. Something he shared with Ray. Maybe he confessed to something Ray didn’t already know.”

  “Something that pissed him off enough to put a pillow over the man’s head and suffocate him?” she asked.

  Byron nodded. “Might be that simple.”

  “And what could’ve been bad enough to make him start killing the guys he worked with?”

  “I don’t know. But this is about a lot more than money. Whatever’s happening here, Ray and Cross are the key, I’m sure of it.”

  “But what about the attempt on Ray? Who was the police dog tracking from Ray’s house?”

  “I’ve thought a lot about that. What if the K–9 was tracking Ray?”

  “Huh?”

  “Who else saw the suspect Ray described at his back door?”

  “The officer on the detail. Ah, Hutchins.”

  “No, he didn’t. I reread Hutchins’s report. He reported what Ray told him, but he never actually saw the other person. The K–9 tracked from the house right to where Hutchins picked Ray up.” Byron gave her a minute to process what he’d told her. “I think Ray may have been attempting to supply himself with an alibi for Williams.”

  “He has an alibi, John. He was home when it happened.”

  “Was he? Hutchins didn’t even know he was out of the house until the dispatcher told him. Why couldn’t he have slipped out earlier and come back right after killing Williams?”

  “But what about Riordan? There’s nothing linking Ray to his murder.”

  “Maybe there is. Ralph Polowski, the bartender from the AMVETS. The guy he saw with Cleo may very well have been Ray.” Byron studied her face. A face he now saw differently. Even the harsh hospital lighting couldn’t hide it. She was beautiful. He would have given anything to be with her at that moment, but he still had a job to do, and at least one killer to catch. He bent down and kissed her cheek. “Gotta run.”

  “Be careful, John.”

  IT WAS AFTER ten when Byron pulled in and parked in the dirt lot across from the Washington Avenue chapter of the AMVETS. As he exited the car, he wondered if Humphrey had also parked there. Before leaving 109, he’d made copies of the Bureau of Motor Vehicle photos of the remaining SRT members. It wasn’t nearly as good as a photo array would have been, but it would have to do. Time was running out.

  He was preparing to cross the street when his cell rang. “Byron.”

  “Sergeant, it’s Davis Billingslea. You got a minute?”

  “Not for you. And stay the fuck away from Detective Joyner.”

  “I know about the fire in Durham.”

  “What?” Byron snapped, momentarily taken aback by the reporter’s comment.

  “The state police said there were two victims.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about—­”

  “Was it the Perrigos? Does this have anything to do with Detective Joyner being attacked?”

  “Listen, Davis. I don’t know where you’re getting this crap, but I’m warning you—­stop fucking around with this case or I swear to God you’ll be sorry we ever met.”

  Byron hung up. “Fuck.” This was not what he needed right now. Billingslea snooping around again could really screw things up. Did Davis actually know about the Perrigos or was he guessing? Looking for a reaction. And if he did know, who might he have told?

  He pocketed the phone and opened the door to the AMVETS.

  The bar was thick with cigarette smoke and noise. Unlike the last time he’d been here, there were actual customers, about forty by his estimate. Ralph Polowski was right where Byron had hoped he’d be, tending bar. Not wanting to draw any attention, Byron sat down at an empty stool near the end of the bar, waiting until Polowski saw him.

  “Evenin’ friend.”

  Byron looked over at the inebriated old-­timer sitting to his right. The man had spittle forming at the corners of his mouth and breath that could stop a truck. “Evening, yourself.”

  “Hey, don’t I know you?” the drunk asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You ever serve?”r />
  He thought about it for a moment before answering. “Every day.”

  “What can I getcha?” Polowski asked before recognizing him. “Hey, Sarge. Didn’t think I’d see you again. I haven’t seen the guy you were askin’ about. The one who came in with Cleo.”

  “Actually, that’s why I’m here. I’ve got a few photos I want you to look at.” He set them on the bar in a stack, intentionally putting Humphrey’s at the bottom. “Take your time and tell me if you recognize anyone.”

  “ ’Kay.” Polowski flipped each picture face down as he finished with it. He either shook his head or said nope after each one. “I don’t think you—­ Wait. This is the guy.” He repeatedly tapped the photo of Humphrey with his index finger. “This is the guy who came in with Cleo right before he died.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. Had a goatee and was wearing a hat, but this is the same guy. I’m almost positive.”

  “Almost?”

  The bartender pursed his lips and looked back at the picture of Humphrey. “Ninety percent.”

  Byron left the bar feeling very conflicted. With Polowski’s ID, he had now linked Humphrey to two of the murders. Closing in on a killer usually came in the form of an excited knot in his stomach. While he definitely felt something in the pit of his stomach, there was nothing exciting about it. The thought that Ray was capable of murdering his fellow cops was sickening. He still couldn’t connect him to Williams or the Perrigos. He’d have to push forward with what he had. His first call was to Nugent.

  “Stone, homicide,” Nugent said, jokingly.

  “You still got eyes on Beaudreau?”

  “Yup. He’s still at the club. You want me to stay on him?”

  “Right on him. Let him know you’re there. When he leaves tonight, be on his bumper. Park right in front of his house.”

  “Uh, okay. You’re the boss.”

  “Trust me, Nuge.”

  Byron made the second call after receiving Pritchard’s text.

  “Mel, it’s Byron.”

  “Hey, Sarge. Nothing happening here.”

  “Listen, I need you to pull off Humphrey and sit on Cross’s house.”

  “What about Humphrey?”

  “I got it covered.”

  “Okay,” she said. “He made me, didn’t he?”

  He could hear the disappointment in her voice. “It’s okay, Mel. Don’t beat yourself up about it. No one’s harder to surveil than a former cop.”

  “I’m sorry, Sarge.”

  “Don’t be, just get over to Cross’s and let me know if he moves. Oh, and one more thing. He’ll be getting a surprise visit later.”

  “From whom?”

  “Me.” Byron ended the call. Time to poke the bear.

  Chapter Twenty-­Nine

  BYRON ALTERNATED BETWEEN pounding on the front door and ringing the doorbell until he finally heard Cross lumbering down the stairs to the first floor. The porch light came on as Cross looked through the sidelights at Byron. Cross opened the door, his black semiautomatic firmly in his right hand.

  “Jesus Christ, John, you scared the shit out of me. What the hell are you doing here?” Cross asked as he slid the Glock inside the pocket of his robe.

  “Didn’t think I’d find out, did you?” Byron asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re—­”

  “Don’t play stupid with me, Reggie.”

  “Sergeant, in case you need reminding, I’m still Assistant Chief of Police and I don’t care for your insolent tone or your accusations.” Cross’s ever-­expanding forehead reddened in anger.

  “And I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

  “And what is it you think you know?”

  “I know about the dealers you were ripping off. I know about the money from the armored car robbery.”

  “Keep your goddamned voice down.”

  “Afraid your wife will find out?” Byron said, glancing up the stairs.

  “She’s not here. I sent her to her mother’s. Figured she’d be safer there.”

  Byron stared at Cross, sizing him up, waiting for any tells in his demeanor. A twitch of the lips, a break in eye contact, anything that gave him away. Then he saw it—­Cross’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed nervously. Byron pushed ahead. “Did you really think you’d get away with it?”

  Cross dropped both his gaze and the bullying façade he’d unsuccessfully attempted to use. Byron saw a beaten man standing in front of him. “Come inside, John.”

  Cross turned and shuffled slowly toward the dining room. Byron stepped inside, closed the door, and followed Cross. As they reached the dining room, Cross removed two glasses and a bottle of Jameson’s from a large antique mahogany hutch.

  “Have a seat,” Cross said as he sat down at the dining room table and poured whiskey into both glasses. His hands were visibly shaking.

  Byron remained standing, averting his eyes from the whiskey. “You’ve known what this was about the whole time, haven’t you?”

  “You’re right about the money, but I have no idea why we’re being killed,” Cross said, taking a sizable swig out of his glass. “I’ve been sleeping with my gun under my pillow for two weeks.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you say something? Do you have any idea how many ­people might still be alive if you had come forward?”

  “And told you what? We took some money? Please. What difference would it have made? You still don’t have a clue who’s after us. Please, sit down.”

  Byron didn’t budge.

  “Please,” Cross said, gesturing toward a chair.

  Byron reluctantly sat in one of the chairs across the table. Cross no longer bore any resemblance to the overbearing second in command of Maine’s largest municipal police agency. He looked like a scared old man whose years of lying and secrets had finally caught up with him.

  “How did you find out?” Cross asked.

  “The FBI provided me with the case files from the armored car robbery. It wasn’t too hard to figure out what had most likely happened. But I wasn’t a hundred percent sure until Perrigo spilled his guts.”

  “Perrigo, huh? Funny, I always thought it would’ve been Beaudreau who’d shoot his mouth off.” Cross pulled a glass ashtray over in front of him and reached into the pocket of his robe.

  Byron sprung up out of the chair and drew his gun, pointing it at the chief.

  “Jesus Christ, I’m only reaching for my cigarettes. You mind not pointing that thing at me?”

  “Not at all, Reggie. You mind taking your hands out of your pockets? Slowly.”

  “Take it easy. I’m on your side,” Cross said as he set both of his shaky hands on the table in front of him.

  “I doubt that,” Byron said. “Someone connected to the SRT is killing cops, Reggie. How do I know it isn’t you?”

  “If you want my gun, take it.”

  Byron walked behind him and removed the gun from the pocket of Cross’s robe.

  “Stand up so I can pat you down,” Byron said. Cross did as he was told. Byron found a pack of cigarettes in the right pocket of the robe and a lighter in the left, but nothing else.

  “Here,” Byron said as he tossed the cigarettes and lighter on the table in front of Cross.

  “May I?” Cross gestured to his chair.

  “Certainly.”

  Byron holstered his own weapon, then removed both the magazine and chambered round from Cross’s gun. He laid them on the table, far from Cross, taking some pleasure in watching Cross make several nervous attempts at lighting up before he was finally successful. It was amazing how quickly command presence dissipated when the suit was replaced by a bathrobe. Byron wondered if this was what it was like for Cross, watching his subordinates fumble about during CompStat each week.

  Cigarette finall
y lit, Cross inhaled deeply, closing his eyes like a junkie getting his fix. The nicotine seemed to have the desired calming effect. He opened bloodshot eyes and looked across the table through a haze of bluish smoke, awaiting Byron’s questions.

  “Okay, Reggie, let’s say it isn’t you. You must know who it is.”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  Byron had been at this a long time, and if there was one word criminals loved to throw around, it was the word honestly. “Are you gonna sit there and tell me you had nothing to do with the death of the Perrigos?”

  “I didn’t, John. I swear to you.”

  “Marty told me you knew about the safe house.”

  “He told me you’d stashed a witness in a safe house, but I didn’t know who it was or where.”

  “He said he told you it was an FBI safe house.”

  “Which means what to me?”

  He studied Cross’s face. If the chief was lying, he was good at it. His nervousness was obvious, but beyond that Byron couldn’t get a read.

  “What have you been telling Billingslea about this case?”

  “The Herald reporter? Nothing. Why?”

  Cross appeared legitimately surprised at the question. Byron let it drop.

  The chief had finished his glass of whiskey and was eyeing Byron’s untouched glass. “Are you going to drink that?”

  “Be my guest,” Byron said, sliding the glass toward him.

  Cross took a large gulp before resuming his story and his cigarette. Byron was growing impatient, waiting for the chief to help him put the pieces together. “Tell me about the night of October nineteenth.”

  “There were so many things that led to what happened,” Cross said. “I guess what I mean to say is, it wasn’t just one event gone wrong, John. It’s important for you to understand that. We were good cops, but back then none of us made much money. Christ, the rookies coming on the force were eligible for food stamps. Can you believe it?”

  “And that’s supposed to make it all right?”

  “No. I’m only telling you how it was.”

  “As you know there were ten of us on the Special Reaction Team in 1985. Jim O’Halloran was the Lieutenant, Riordan, Williams, Falcone and I were the sergeants, the rest of the team was comprised of Officers Dominic Beaudreau, Ray Humphrey, Anthony Perrigo, Bruce Gagnon, and your dad, Reece Byron. Our core group had worked together for a long time, John. Years. We knew we could count on and trust each other no matter what. The only new addition was Gagnon. He’d only been with us a year.”