Among the Shadows (12 page)

“Sounds like he's avoiding us,”

“Did you talk to Pritchard?”

“I did,” Byron said, wiping the ketchup from his chin with a napkin.

“And?”

“And, I think he may be able to help.”

F
ORMER
P
ORTLAND
P
OLICE
Sergeant Eric Williams was killing time with a cigarette as he waited for Ray Humphrey to arrive. Williams stood leaning against the front end of a dark blue Escalade SUV, with chrome rims and dealer plates. He had parked here, at the Westbrook commuter lot between exits 47 and 48 off the Maine Turnpike, an hour after he had telephoned Humphrey at his office on Commercial Street and requested a face-­to-­face. Humphrey had readily agreed. It was nearly one o'clock when Humphrey drove into the lot and parked beside him.

“Ray,” Williams said as his former colleague got out of the car. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

“I'm glad you reached out, Eric,” Humphrey said as they shook hands. “So, you wanna fill me in on what the hell is happening here?”

“I don't know. But someone is sending a pretty clear message.” Williams dropped the cigarette butt on the pavement and twisted it under his black wing-­tip, then pulled a fresh one from the pack in his suit coat and lit it. “So far they've taken out O'Halloran and Riordan. Byron approach you yet?” Williams watched his reaction closely, knowing he was tight with the younger Byron.

“He did.”

“What did he ask you?”

“He asked about the shooting. Showed me the group SRT photo he took from Jimmy O's house.”

Williams shoved the lighter back in his pocket.

“What did you tell him?”

“Only what I had to.”

“Does he know anything?”

“I don't think so. Sounds like he only knows what was reported. Has he talked with you?”

“Not yet. But one of his ­people stuck a business card in the door at my house. It won't be long.” He inhaled then blew out a smoke ring. “I know I don't have to remind you what's at stake here. Right?”

“You don't. But what the hell are we supposed to do? I'm not gonna wait around and see if I'm next. Someone's coming after us, Eric, and we don't have a fucking clue who.”

“I'm working on it. In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut. Remember, if one of us says anything stupid, we all go down.”

“Do you want me to reach out to any of the others?”

“No. I'll be your contact,” Williams said, handing him a business card. “My personal cell is on the back. And don't reach out to me unless you hear something.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, one more thing, if Byron asks, you haven't seen me.”

I
T W
AS SEVEN-
­
THIRTY.
Margaret and Reginald Cross were finishing dinner.

“Did you want seconds, hon?” she said as she got up from the table.

“Did you make anything for desert?

“I made apple crisp. Your favorite.”

“Then, no, on the seconds,” he said, rubbing his stomach. “I've gotta save room.”

The home phone rang. “I got it,” Margaret hollered from the kitchen. “It's probably our Wendy. Said she'd call tonight.”

Cross finished the last ­couple of bites. He could hear his wife talking in the next room but couldn't make out what she was saying.

“Hon,” she said, “it's for you.”

“Who is it?”

“Jimmy from dispatch.”

“Okay, I'll pick it up in the other room.” He made his way to his study. “All right, Marge, I've got it,” he said, picking up the receiver. He waited until she'd hung up before speaking. “This is Chief Cross.”

“It's been too long, Reg.”

“Who is this?” But he recognized the voice immediately.

“Oh, I think you know who this is, and you should know why I'm calling. One question. Do you have control of this thing or not?”

“I do,” he said, the pitch of his voice increasing by two full octaves. He turned and closed the door to the den. “I've got wheels in motion as we speak. There's nothing to worry about.” Cross waited nervously, holding his breath. He heard nothing but silence from the other end of the line. “Did you hear me?”

“Let me assure you, Reggie, if I'm forced to get involved you will not like how things turn out.”

“You won't. I'm handling every—­” He heard a click as the line was disconnected.

 

Chapter Seventeen

S
ATURDAY MORNING CAME
with a quick meeting at 109. Following the meeting, Byron sent Diane and Nugent north to Damariscotta to try their luck with Falcone while he paid a visit to Williams. Tran had finally located the former SRT supervisor, working at a car dealership in York County. Byron figured the former sergeant would be far less likely to try bullying tactics if another supervisor conducted the interview.

At one in the afternoon, Byron was seated in a maroon faux-­leather chair across from Williams's secretary, Dixie. Dixie sported the shortest skirt, longest legs, and blondest hair to ever come out of a bottle. Byron suspected she was a bit more than Williams's personal assistant.

He sipped coffee, which tasted suspiciously like thirty-­weight motor oil. He was perusing, but not actually reading, a magazine from the glass coffee table. The glossy cover depicted a showdown between the newest Cadillac Escalade and Lincoln Navigator. Byron, who'd never have a financial portfolio worthy of either, wondered how anyone could possibly care.

As air tools whirred noisily in the nearby ser­vice bays, Byron scanned a wall covered in awards of excellence for sales and ser­vice. Hiding a knowing smile, he wondered how every dealership he'd ever been in had earned the exact same awards from their corporate entities.

Dixie was doing her best to look seductive, twirling her pen through her dyed curls while she talked on the phone. Based on what little he could hear, her call was of a personal nature. Growing impatient, he checked the time again. Ten past the hour. Power play, plain and simple. Williams was projecting his importance.

At precisely one-­fifteen, the general sales manager of southern Maine's largest Cadillac dealership walked in. “My apologies for making you wait, Sergeant,” Williams said in a booming baritone as he stuck out his hand.

Byron stood and firmly shook his hand. “Not at all. I appreciate your willingness to meet with me, Mr. Williams.”

In the time it took the two men to shake hands, Byron had sized him up. Williams wore dark gray suit pants and a white dress shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up. The suit coat and tie he'd long since discarded, in favor of the down-­to-­business look. He was sporting a gold Rolex watch, too much aftershave, and a pair of glossy black dress shoes. He maintained eye contact and flashed a smile of bleached teeth. Byron didn't like him, not one bit.

“Please, call me Eric,” he said, gesturing for Byron to follow him into his private office. “Dixie, hold my calls, would you, hon?”

Williams grabbed a ­couple of bottled waters out of a small fridge, handing one to Byron. When they were seated, he said, “So, what can I do for my brothers at the police department?”

“Well, Eric, we're looking into two murders. We have reason to believe they're connected.”

“Really, John? Is it okay if I call you John?” Williams asked, cozying up to Byron as if they were embarking on a newfound friendship.

“That's fine,” Byron said.

“How exactly can I help?”

Everything about the guy screamed fake. Something below the surface of this well-­rehearsed former cop's act was all wrong. It felt like something more than a typical car salesman persona.

“The victims were both former colleagues of yours.”

“You're kidding? Who?”

“James O'Halloran and Cleophus Riordan. I'm surprised you haven't heard about it.”

“Working seventy to eighty hours a week, I don't have time to keep up on the news. Jeez, Cleo and Jimmy O, I haven't thought about either of them in years. Murdered? I can't believe it. What do you need from me?”

“We believe these murders are connected to the 1985 Boston armored car robbery and the SRT shooting that followed. You were a part of that, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I was. It was a long time ago, though; some days I have trouble remembering what I ate for breakfast.” Williams flashed another a fake smile. “What do you want to know?”

He bet Williams didn't have any trouble remembering bottom line cost to the dealership on the gold Cadillac CTS parked out on the showroom floor or, for that matter, the length of Ms. Dixie Rose's inseam. “Anything you can recall might be helpful.”

“Sure, sure, let me think.” Mr. Snake Oil leaned back and stared up at the suspended ceiling. “Well, the entire team was there that night. We were pretty jacked up. These guys we were after were real desperadoes, robbed an armored car in broad daylight. We'd been training on the outdoor range all day. Got the call-­out early evening. The robbers were holed up in a house on Ocean Avenue. Lieutenant O'Halloran briefed us at 109. That's what we used to call police headquarters.”

“Still do. Do you remember where the information came from?”

“Sure, it was one of . . . No, wait, different case. I can't remember exactly. But I do remember that one of the bad guys' girlfriends owned the house where they were hiding, or something like that. Anyway, once we were all in place, O'Halloran gave the signal to take the house. I was part of the four-­man entry team. We used flash bangs, to distract them, before breaching the door.”

“Who else was on the entry team?”

“Reg, Dom, and Bruce.”

“You're talking about Cross, Beaudreau, and Gagnon, correct?”

“Yeah, sorry. So, we took the door and went in hot. Immediately everything turned to shit. It was like a fucking war zone. They were shooting at us and we dove for cover and returned fire. The smoke was so thick you could barely see.”

Byron watched Williams's eyes glaze over as he relayed the story. He knew from experience the former sergeant was now back in the house on Ocean Avenue and no longer seated in his office. Officers recalling traumatic events often find themselves on a time-­travel trip of the mind.

“After it was over, Bruce was dead, shot in the throat. We'd killed three of the robbers. The fourth guy was missing.”

Williams's recall was far better than he'd been led to believe. “What happened after that?”

“We secured everything, searched the house, and put out an ATL for the missing robber,” he said, referring to an attempt to locate.

“Did you find any of the money?”

He shook his head. “No. It wasn't in the house. We figured the other robber took off with it.”

Byron noted a change in his demeanor. The glazed eyes were gone, replaced by the predatory look of a salesman. Williams had returned to the here and now, his former smooth façade up and running. “Anything else?” Byron asked.

“That's about all I can really remember.”

“Have you had contact with any of the other members of your team recently?”

“No, not recently. Once or twice at Christmas parties after I retired, I guess, but it's been years since I've run into any of them.”

“Really, not even a phone call?”

“Nope, not even a call, John.”

Everyone lies to cops. It's an indisputable fact. Their reasons might vary, but the end result is always the same. The lies make every investigation infinitely more difficult. Some ­people lie to cover up involvement, some because they're asked to, some lie by embellishing the truth in their own misguided attempt at being helpful, but most lie because they think it's their duty to fuck with the police, no matter what. Byron, who knew this better than most, knew Williams was lying. What he didn't know was why. He wasn't surprised, the guy was in charge of a car dealership after all. If his lips were in motion, it meant he was probably slinging the bull.

Was Williams behind these deaths, or was it something else entirely? He decided not to challenge him right now. He'd save it for a later conversation.

“You really think someone is targeting everyone who was there that night?” Williams asked.

“Yes, we do. Any idea who we should be looking at?”

“I remember there was some talk about Jack Riccio, the mobster. They thought he might've been behind the robbery. That the guys who ripped off the armored car may have worked for him.”

“Do you remember where you heard that?”

He shook his head. “No. It could have been the feds or our guys in CID. I can't really remember.”

“Anyone else you can think of?”

“What about the other robber? I can't remember his name. That's probably who you're searching for. Was he ever caught?”

“Andreas. No, he's still missing.” He studied Williams's face for a reaction but saw none. “You mentioned earlier that one of the robbers' girlfriends owned the house on Ocean Avenue. Was she ever interviewed?”

“Dunno. You'd have to check with one of the guys who worked CID.”

Byron made a mental note to do exactly that. “Can you think of any other reason someone might want you guys dead?”

“Jeez, no.” Williams fidgeted with the plastic cap from his open water bottle. “So, you think this guy is going to try and come after me too?”

“It would seem likely. Until we know why this is happening, we have to assume you're all possible targets. We're recommending each of you allow us to set up a protection detail.”

“You mean surveillance.”

“Yes. To try and protect you.” He watched as Williams pretended to ponder the idea, but Byron already knew what his answer would be.

“No, John. I really appreciate the offer, but I think I can handle it myself. I've still got my permit to carry. I like my chances.”

Williams's desk phone rang. “Okay, tell him I'll be right there.” He hung up. “Sorry about this, John, but duty calls. I've got to go put out a fire for Mr. Dushambeaux, the GM.” His toothy bleached smile reappeared as he stood. “Sorry I couldn't be of more help.”

“I appreciate your time. Let me know if you think of anything else.”

“I will.”

Williams walked Byron out of the dealership, shook hands with him, and reentered the business.

Byron waited for a minute or two before walking back inside. As he approached Dixie's desk, she looked up and smiled.

“Well, hello again, Officer.”

“Sorry to bother you, but I forgot to give Mr. Williams my card and I don't want to interrupt him while he's in with the GM,” Byron said, motioning toward the empty office.”

Dixie gave him a puzzled look. “Mr. Dushambeaux? But he's vacationing in the Caribbean.”

“Oh, perhaps I misunderstood,” he said, giving her his most disarming smile. “Could you see he gets this?”

D
OWN
E
AST
S
ENIOR
C
ARE,
located less than a mile from the picturesque seaside village of Damariscotta on the banks of the river bearing the same name, was the assisted-­living facility Tran had identified as Falcone's address. It was nearly two by the time Diane parked the car in the lot and walked inside with Nugent.

Falcone, it turned out, was suffering from Alzheimer's disease. Neither detective knew what to expect from the former Portland cop, but Diane was hoping his dementia hadn't progressed too far.

The first thing she noticed upon entering his room was the absence of any sign of family visitors or friends. There were no flowers, no cards, no photos, and no homey touches of any kind. He'd either outlived his friends and family or was on the outs with all of them. Given what she knew about cops, Diane guessed it was the latter.

Falcone was lying propped up in an adjustable stainless steel hospital bed, watching television. The elderly, white-­haired ex-­cop turned his head and looked at the two detectives but remained silent.

“Mr. Falcone,” she began, “my name is Detective Joyner and this is my partner Detective Nugent.” They both showed him their gold badges.

“Like Columbo?” Falcone asked, his eyes widening with childlike fascination.

“Yes, like Columbo,” Nugent said with only a hint of his usual sarcasm.

“Piss off, cop,” Falcone said, staring directly at him.

“Mr. Falcone, we aren't here to upset you,” Diane said softly, attempting to calm him. She pulled a chair up close to his bed and sat down.

Falcone looked over at her and smiled. “Pretty lady, you can call me Joe.”

“All right, Joe. We're from the Portland Police Department and we'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's okay with you.”

“You can ask me anything, beautiful,” he said, patting her hand.

“Your name is Christopher,” Nugent corrected.

Falcone looked up at Nugent, squinting until his eyes were barely open. “I don't like you, copper. Get out of my room.”

Nugent looked at Diane. She nodded her approval. “I'll be right outside the door, if you need me.”

As soon as Nugent had retreated to the hall, she began again. “I want to ask you about your time on the job, Joe.”

“Job?” Falcone asked with a puzzled look on his face.

“Yes, when you were a police officer in Portland.”

“I don't remember. Was I a police officer?”

“Isn't this you, Joe?” she asked, handing him a copy of the SRT photograph and pointing to his face.

“I don't know. I can't remember. Do you like my flowers?” he asked, pointing at the windowsill.

She glanced around the room again, reaffirming it was devoid of plant life.

“I raised them all myself,” he said. “I think the bougainvillea are my favorite. Do you like them?”

“They're beautiful.”

Falcone smiled again and continued patting her hand.

She spent the next twenty minutes unsuccessfully trying to get him to remember his time on the job. Finally, she excused herself, telling him she had to get back to work.

“Your new boyfriend provide anything useful?” Nugent asked after they were down the hall and out of earshot.

“No, and he doesn't appear to have enough of his memory left to be of any help to us. It's so sad, Mike. He has no idea who or even what he was.”