Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

“I also know he entrusted you with some dirty laundry from a long time ago, which might not be sitting all that well with you.”

  “Dirty laundry, Chief? Is that what we’re calling it? Funny, I would’ve thought the theft of over a half million dollars in evidence might warrant a more fitting description.” Cross glared at him. LeRoyer went back to studying the carpet.

  “We all know you’re an ethical man, John, and as such I’m sure this is difficult for you. The story Chief Cross shared with you happened in a different time, back when the police, even your own father, sometimes operated outside of the law in order to get the job done.”

  “Leave my father out of this,” Byron snapped.

  “I’m afraid he’s not a separate issue,” Cross said calmly, shaking his head.

  “What’s important now,” Stanton continued, “is that we all stay focused on this case and stopping this lunatic before he can kill again. Airing out some moldy old skeleton from the Portland Police Department’s historical closet won’t do anybody any good. It’ll only serve to distract ­people from what’s really happening here.”

  “Are you ordering me to cover up a crime, Chief?” Byron asked.

  “I’m doing no such thing, Sergeant.”

  “What I am asking is for you to see the big picture, and to use a bit of discretion.”

  Byron wordlessly stared at him.

  “I know this isn’t a small thing I am asking.”

  He had that right, suggesting Byron become a co-­conspirator was no small thing. And bringing his father into it wasn’t helping Stanton’s cause or Byron’s mood. But the chief wasn’t finished. “I need you to do me a personal favor and keep the past to yourself.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “You might find yourself in need of my help one day, and I’ll be sure to remember what you’ve done for me, and for the department.”

  Byron wondered if Stanton knew the difference between a bribe and a threat.

  “Do we have an understanding, Sergeant?”

  Byron looked over at Cross, who was smirking at him once again. He wondered exactly what kind of dirt Cross had on the chief. Byron looked back at Stanton. “I guess we do, Chief.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it,” Stanton said, giving Byron a phony grin.

  “So that’s it? We’re finished?”

  “That’s it,” Stanton said as he stood, sending a clear signal to all that the discussion was over. “This chapter of our history is closed. No good can come from digging up the past and possibly tarnishing the reputation of some damn fine police officers. Let’s keep our eyes on the prize, shall we? And catch us a killer.”

  Byron stood up and headed for the door, Stanton followed, clapping Byron on the back as he opened the door. “Keep up the good work, Sergeant.”

  Byron left the office quickly, before saying or doing anything he’d regret. He was trying very hard to outwardly appear unshaken, but inside he was knotted up and ready to punch something, or someone. He heard the door to the chief’s office close behind him. Post strategy session. The point at which Stanton would threaten LeRoyer’s position as the head of CID, and likely Byron’s job as well, unless he could get his rogue detective sergeant under control. The political game was as predictable as it was timeless.

  What had just happened? Was Stanton only protecting the department’s reputation or was there something else happening? Had Byron missed some connection to Stanton?

  He pulled out his cell and dialed Pritchard.

  “Morning, John,” Pritchard said, sounding chipper.

  “Making sure you’re still awake.”

  “Still on the case, my friend. No movement here,” Pritchard said. “You?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve done everything I can to stoke the fire. Now we wait. You need relief?”

  “Nah, I’ve had so much coffee I wouldn’t be able to sleep now anyway. I’m good for the time being.”

  “Okay, keep in touch,” Byron said.

  “Will do.”

  Byron hung up and headed for the stairs. Time to relieve Stevens.

  Chapter Thirty

  IT WAS NEARLY one in the afternoon. Cross got up from behind his desk, walked over and closed the office door. He returned to the desk, picked up the phone, and dialed Ray Humphrey’s cell.

  “Hello,” Humphrey said, answering on the first ring.

  “We need to meet.”

  “I was wondering when I’d hear from you, Reg.”

  “One-­thirty.”

  “Where?”

  “Fort Williams.”

  “How will I find you?” Humphrey asked.

  “Walk to the ruins. I’ll find you. Come alone.”

  Cross returned the phone to its cradle. He reached into his top desk drawer and removed his snub-­nosed .38. He held it in his hand and flipped open the cylinder. Fully loaded. He snapped it shut and slid it back into its holster.

  “One way or another this ends today.”

  BYRON’S PHONE RANG. It was Pritchard. “Talk to me, Terry.”

  “Anything on your end, John?”

  “Yeah, Cross is on the move. He just left 109. I’m following him south on Middle Street, but I’ve got no idea where he’s going.”

  “I think I know. I just tailed Humphrey out to Fort Williams. Pretty sure something’s about to go down. Looks like you’re right about them being in this together.”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  Byron hung up and dialed Nugent.

  Nugent’s cell rang a dozen times. Byron was about to hang up when his groggy-­sounding detective answered.

  “Nugent. This better be good.”

  “Mike, it’s Byron. Get dressed.”

  NORMALLY, FORT WILLIAMS Park made a great public meeting place. It was safe, open, and well populated by locals and tourists alike, all coming to see the famed Portland Headlight, but not today. Byron knew the combined effects of it being midweek, post Labor Day, and wind-­swept with rain meant the ninety-­acre park would be deserted. If this was a trap, he wondered which one of them had set it.

  All of the evidence, circumstantial as it was, pointed to Humphrey as the murderer. But Byron knew that Cross was still somehow part of what was happening. Based on Tran’s phone tree, Cross might have been the one giving the orders to kill, but nothing linked him directly. The unanswered question bothering Byron the most was why? If Byron was interpreting this correctly, if O’Halloran had said something to Humphrey that made him kill the old man, setting this whole thing in motion, what was it?

  He hung back several hundred yards, taking care to keep a handful of cars between them as he followed the SUV across the Casco Bay Bridge into South Portland. Tailing Cross was much easier when he already knew where the Ass Chief was likely headed. He lost sight of the SUV only once as it passed through a curve on Shore Road, the winding thoroughfare that led to the park. As Byron rounded the corner, he saw the black Mercury already halfway down the park’s main road. Byron drove past the entrance, pulling into a U-­shaped private drive about a hundred yards further down Shore Road, and stopped. If he followed him in, Cross would make him easily. Besides, he knew Pritchard already had eyes on. He removed his Glock from its holster, double-­checking both the magazine and chamber as he waited for Terry’s call. He was returning the gun to its holster when his cell rang. It was Diane.

  “John, I got your message. I’m leaving the hospital now. What’s up?”

  “They released you already?” he asked, sounding surprised.

  “Nope. I released myself. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “It looks like Humphrey and Cross are about to meet up.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t suppose I can talk you out of coming here?

  “Not a chance. Where?”

  “Fo
rt Williams.”

  “On my way. Is Pritchard with you?”

  “He’s already inside the park. He followed Humphrey here and I tailed Cross to the same place. I’m waiting on his call.”

  “I can’t believe this is really happening. You think they’re both responsible for these murders?”

  “Either that or only one of them is, and this thing’s about to come to a head. We’ll know soon enough. Nugent is headed out here too.” Byron’s cell vibrated with an incoming call. Pritchard. “Terry’s calling, I gotta let you go.”

  “John, please be careful.”

  “You too.”

  CROSS ARRIVED A little past one. The rain had let up some but it was still falling steadily as he pulled into the deserted lot nearest the ruins. Further up the hill, in the other parking areas, only a handful of cars were scattered about. He checked his weapons before exiting the SUV. He lifted the hood on his parka and headed toward the ruins on foot.

  Cross heard the automated foghorn moaning in the distance as he entered the woods. He was searching for a secure spot to hide, hoping he had beaten Humphrey to the park, when he heard someone approaching from behind.

  “That’s Goddard Mansion, built in 1857. Named after Colonel John Goddard, First Maine Cavalry. Did you know the First Maine fought in more campaigns than any other regiment in the Union Army? Thirty-­five battles to be exact.”

  Cross, recognizing the voice, slowly inched his hand toward the Glock on his belt.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Reggie.”

  He heard the familiar metallic click of a hammer being pulled back. Cross dropped his hands back to his sides.

  “I see you haven’t lost your flair for the dramatic, Ray. Now what?”

  “Now you’ll slowly take out your gun and toss it on the ground.”

  Cross did as he was told.

  “Now your cell.”

  Again Cross complied.

  “Don’t forget the .38 you always carried in your ankle holster.”

  “I’m not wearing it.”

  “Pardon me if I don’t believe you. But I don’t. Now lose it.”

  “Had to try, didn’t I?” Cross asked.

  “I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t.”

  He reached down, lifted his right pant leg, unholstered the revolver, and tossed it on the ground. “That’s the last of them.”

  “Is it? Let’s see. Step two paces forward, get down on your knees, put your hands behind your head, and interlock your fingers. You know the drill.”

  “Is all this really necessary?”

  “No. We can skip right to the good part if you’d like.”

  Cross followed his instructions and Humphrey recovered the guns and patted him down.

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Humphrey asked as he removed a stainless Raven .25 semiauto from the inside pocket of Cross’s raincoat.

  “You never said anything about that one.”

  “Didn’t I?” Humphrey pocketed the Raven while keeping his own firearm trained on Cross. “Stand up. Let’s take a walk.”

  BYRON PULLED INTO one of the upper lots and parked beside Pritchard’s Lexus. The former special agent was already out of the car and waiting for him.

  “Any chance he made you?” Byron asked.

  “None.” Pritchard pointed toward one of the lower lots near the water. “That’s Cross’s SUV parked down there.”

  “Where is Ray’s car?” Byron asked, looking around.

  “Up there behind us. Humphrey walked down toward the ruins and into the woods about ten minutes ago. Cross went in the same way.”

  “You want to call in some backup?” Byron asked.

  “Who do you trust at this point?”

  “Fair enough.” Byron unlocked the trunk and reached inside. “I brought an extra vest for you.”

  Pritchard looked at the offering and shook his head. “No, thanks. I appreciate the offer, but after retiring I told myself I’d never wear one of those damn things again.”

  Byron looked down at his own vest. After brief consideration, he tossed both vests back into the trunk and slammed the lid.

  “How do you want to do this?” Pritchard asked.

  “Hoods up. Neither one of them will recognize us if we’re seen. We’ll look like two ­people just out for a stroll. Make sure you kill the ringer on your cell—­we’ll text if we get separated.”

  The two men started down the hill toward the ruins.

  “Haven’t done this in a while, John,” Pritchard said with a grin.

  “How’s it feel?”

  “Didn’t realize how much I missed it.”

  “SO WHAT DO you want, Ray? More money?”

  Humphrey laughed. “You trying to buy your way out of this, Reg?”

  “What then?”

  “Justice.”

  “Justice? For who? The three shit-­heads we killed?” Cross said. “Maybe you need reminding, you were in on that too. If memory serves, you didn’t have any problem taking your share of the money either.”

  “That was before I knew you killed one of ours.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know what you did, Reggie. I know you killed Reece. O’Halloran told me everything.”

  Cross stopped walking. “Reece Byron was gonna blow the whistle, you fucking idiot. On all of us. I did what I had to.”

  “You didn’t have to murder a cop. He was one of us.”

  “That’s pretty rich coming from you, Ray. How many cops have you killed now? I’ve lost track.”

  “Keep moving,” Humphrey said, prodding Cross in the back with the barrel of his gun.

  “I should have known it was you all along,” Cross said as he resumed walking, stumbling slightly on an exposed tree root

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you always were a fucking coward.”

  Humphrey grinned. “Keep walking.”

  CAUTIOUSLY, BYRON AND Pritchard advanced down the muddy path with guns drawn, under a canopy of trees, past the ruins, toward the ocean. Byron could see two figures walking about fifty yards ahead. Byron recognized Cross’s burnt orange parka. The other had to belong to Humphrey. They were headed directly toward the fort’s main battery. The rain was still falling, pattering on the leaves, although it was now more of a drizzle.

  Byron’s overtaxed brain raced through the facts of the case. He was having trouble focusing again. Had Humphrey and Cross been together on this thing since the start? Had they turned on each other? Was this about money or revenge? Who else was involved? There were still too many unanswered questions. He felt as if he were still missing something. Something important.

  Byron felt his phone vibrating. He pulled it out and checked the ID. Tran. Now’s not the time, Dustin. Whatever it was, it would have to wait. He pocketed the phone.

  Byron and Pritchard continued forward, stepping silently and carefully like two hunters tracking their prey, along the rain-­slicked trail.

  DIANE PACED NERVOUSLY back and forth in the paved lot near Byron and Pritchard’s cars. Neither of them were anywhere in sight. Her stomach was in knots and her head was already throbbing. Where the hell was Nuge? He should have been here by now. She pulled out her phone and dialed Nugent’s cell. The call went directly to voicemail.

  “Damn it.”

  She thought about calling police dispatch to request backup but remembered what John had said about involving anyone else. He was right. Cops were being killed, and now it looked like two of their own might be responsible.

  She checked her cell, hoping for a text from John. Nothing. She was looking in the direction of Cross’s SUV when she saw it. In the distance, two figures exiting the woods, walking toward the battery. One wearing an orange jacket the other dark green. Diane pocketed her ph
one and hurried on foot toward the battery.

  THE TWO MEN had moved around to the ocean side of the battery at the edge of the rocks when Humphrey ordered Cross to stop. “That’s far enough,” Humphrey said, motioning with his gun. “Turn around.”

  “What are you gonna do, shoot me and leave me here?”

  “Nope. I got something else in mind,” Humphrey said. “Something I’ve always wondered about.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever happened to Andreas, Reggie?”

  “Where the fuck do you think the safe house information came from?”

  “So he was your informant? You killed him, too, didn’t you?” Humphrey said.

  “I didn’t see you complaining when you took your share of the money.”

  “I didn’t know we were murdering ­people for it.”

  DAVIS BILLINGSLEA TAILED Diane out of the hospital. A Westbrook cop had given him the details about the break-­in at her house. Billingslea’s keen investigative instincts told him it was most likely related to the murders. He’d sweet-­talked one of the night-­duty nurses into telling him when Detective Joyner might be released, then he waited, knowing if something broke she’d likely lead him directly to it. He’d followed her into South Portland and out to Fort Williams.

  Billingslea had driven up the hill past Joyner’s parking lot to the next and was now sitting in his Accord, watching her pace back and forth.

  What are you up to, Detective?

  As if in answer to his question, she took off toward the Goddard ruins.

  Billingslea jumped out of his car, locked it, and hurried after her.

  BYRON AND PRITCHARD concealed themselves in the bushes on the ocean side of the battery, off the path, as they observed both men stop. Cross was facing Humphrey. They’d managed to close the gap without being detected and were now within fifty feet. It was obvious that whatever Humphrey had planned for Cross was imminent. Byron knew he was close enough to shoot if he had to, but not close enough to guarantee he wouldn’t miss once he’d settled on a target. They’d need to leave cover. He turned to Pritchard and whispered. “Hang back for a minute, Terry. Let me make the initial approach. If things go to shit, you’ll have my back.”