Among the Shadows (16 page)

“So are we only gonna run surveillance on the others?”

“Hell no. I figure between Nuge, Mel, and the both of us we can watch all of them without their blessing. But, we've gotta be careful.”

“Think he'll keep coming after you?”

“Bet on it. It might not be so bad if he succeeds, though.”

“How do you figure?”

“If he suspends me, I'll have plenty of free time to work, unencumbered by the rules of law.”

“If Cross caught you working this case after being suspended, he'd have you fired.”

Byron grinned. “Gotta catch me first.”

 

Chapter Twenty-­One

T
H
E
U
NICORN ADVERTISED
itself as a gentleman's club. Byron had never truly understood the terminology associated with calling a strip club a gentleman's club any more than he'd understood the term adult entertainment. He'd never been able to figure out what was so mature about men and women shedding their clothing for money. He wasn't a prude, far from it; he found the sensuous curves of the opposite sex extremely enticing. It was the drugs and the prostitution he could do without. No matter how erotic the dancers appeared on stage, eventually, by the light of day, they all looked the same: hard miles, hard drugs, and bad endings.

Why a former cop would involve himself in a business as sleazy as the Unicorn, Byron couldn't guess. He assumed Beaudreau probably hadn't been all that ethically inclined when he was on the job. It takes all kinds.

He walked into the dimly lit lobby and was immediately ensconced in the deep repetitive bass notes of a DJ dance mix and the sultry feminine scent of perfume. A svelte blonde of undetermined age, wearing pasties and a leather miniskirt, stood by the entry door to the inner sanctum. She was flanked on both sides by muscle-­bound gym rats. Both wore T-­shirts, adorned with the Unicorn logo, at least two sizes too small. The woman greeted Byron with a well-­rehearsed seductive smile, comprised of twin rows of bleached teeth. “Good evening, handsome,” she said. “Are you here for the party?”

“Not really. I'm looking for someone,” Byron said, flashing his badge. “Dominic Beaudreau.”

Miniskirt looked to the rat on her right and nodded. The rat disappeared to the other side of the door, momentarily allowing some of the higher pitched musical notes to leak through. She turned her attention to Byron. “I'll see if he's available. Would you care for a beverage while you wait?”

“I'm fine, thank you.” He stepped aside as two well-­dressed men in their thirties walked in on the arms of a scantily clad boisterous and slightly drunk older woman. Byron gave her the once-­over. What little clothing there was appeared to be of the same caliber as the jewelry she wore. Expensive. He took a second look at the young men, escorts he imagined. She caught his eye and blew him a kiss. The ménage à trois continued through the lobby and Miniskirt repeated her well-­rehearsed greeting. As he waited, Byron turned his attention to the posters adorning each wall, depicting headliners from the video world of adult entertainment.

“I'm Dominic Beaudreau,” a male voice said from behind him. “May I help you?”

Byron turned and extended his hand. “Detective Sergeant John Byron.”

“What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

“I wonder if there's someplace we can talk?”

Beaudreau led the way to his private office on the upper level. The office was soundproof, with a large window overlooking the main stage below. “Can I get you something to whet your whistle, Sergeant Byron? Maybe some scotch?”

He looked at Beaudreau's well-­stocked private bar. “No, thank you,” he said, needing every ounce of his willpower not to accept. “This is quite an operation you've got here.”

“I'm only a partner, I'm afraid. Wish it were all mine.”

“Connected, are you?”

Beaudreau smiled politely, ignoring the question. “How can I help the police?”

“I know you were once a cop and I'm searching for information about a shooting you were involved in.”

Beaudreau sat down in a chair across from him. Byron noted the odor of expensive aftershave, the dyed black hair, and the heavy gold necklace gleaming from his open-­collared shirt. The man was a walking, talking cliché. “Had a few of those. Maybe you could be a little more specific?”

“The armored car robbery shootout in '85.”

Beaudreau stuck a finger in his drink, toying with the ice. “That was one for the books. Lost one of our own, as I'm sure you already know.”

“Bruce Gagnon.”

“Yeah, tough loss. Young guy, full of piss and vinegar. But, a win is still a win.”

“How was that a win?” Byron asked, barely masking his annoyance.

“Good guys three, bad guys one. You weren't in the military, were you Sergeant Byron?”

“Joined the department right out of college.”

“Ah, the pursuit of higher education. Well, I got my education in the jungles of Vietnam. Anytime we killed three to their one was a victory.”

Byron wondered if Beaudreau had really seen any combat or if he was one of those who enjoyed portraying himself as John Rambo. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“Why are you asking about the shooting anyway?”

“Because, as I'm sure you've heard, we're investigating the murders of two of your old partners, James O'Halloran and Cleophus Riordan.”

“Murder? I'd heard Jimmy was down with cancer and Riordan killed himself.”

“Not exactly,” Byron said. “Had you seen either of them recently?

“No.”

“Who told you that Riordan killed himself?”

“Hmm. You know I can't remember. Word on the street, I guess,” Beaudreau said, grinning.

Byron, not liking Beaudreau's smug attitude, switched to a more direct approach. “Well, regardless of what you heard, they were both murdered.”

“So what are you telling me, someone is coming after me?”

“Would they have reason to?”

Beaudreau's face twisted into a scowl. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“What happened to the money?”

“Money?”

“The money taken during the armored car robbery.”

“I don't think I like where this is going. If you've got something to say, I suggest you say it.”

“Did you guys take the money?”

“Pretty sure I remember answering that question years ago. When the FBI asked it.”

“Not really an answer.”

“Of course we didn't. I'm not saying I wouldn't have thought about it, but we never found any of it and we turned the house upside down. Believe me.”

Byron waited, creating the uncomfortable silence he'd learned to use so effectively. A silence some ­people couldn't stand, usually those ­people who had something to hide.

Beaudreau broke that silence. “Assuming you're right, and someone did kill Jimmy and Cleo, what does it have to do with the shooting? What makes you think it's related?”

Byron reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and handed it to Beaudreau. “We received this in the mail, right after the second murder.”

Beaudreau studied the photocopy of the article as he got up and walked over to his desk.

“Has anyone reached out to you recently, maybe one of the others on your team?”

“No.” He didn't even wait until Byron finished the question before answering. “I run in a slightly different circle now, Sergeant.”

“Organized circle, is it?”

Again, Beaudreau ignored the question.

“So you've had no contact with any of your old partners?”

“Didn't I just say that?” Beaudreau reached down and pushed an intercom button on the desk. “Send Freddie up here.”

“Guess this means we're done,” Byron said as he stood up from his chair.

The office door opened and in walked one of the gym rats from the lobby. “Unless you want a lap dance before you go? I could hook you up with one of my personal assistants.”

“No, thanks,” Byron said. “He's not really my type.” He turned his attention toward Freddie. “Let me guess, Thing One? Or are you Thing Two?”

“Here,” Beaudreau said. “You can take your article with you.”

“Keep it. I've got others.”

“Freddie, show Sergeant Byron the door.”

“My pleasure,” Freddie said with a grin.

“Good luck with your investigation, Sergeant. I hope you catch whoever is doing this.”

“Thanks. I'm sure I will.”

B
YRON SLID BEHIND
the wheel and started the car. He knew Beaudreau had lied to him about contact. But why? Why would each of them lie about having contact with the others? If someone really was trying to settle a score by killing all of them, wouldn't it make sense for them to reach out to one another? What were they hiding?

He drove back into Portland on Brighton Avenue, stopping prior to the St. John Street intersection as the red lights at the railroad crossing began to flash and the gates came down, blocking the roadway. He stopped the Taurus short of the gate. While he waited, he put the car in park, pulled out his cell, and dialed Diane.

He was waiting for her to pick up, aware of the rumble of the approaching train, when his head snapped back in the seat. Something had bumped his car from behind. He looked in the rearview but all he could see were high beams and the grille of a pickup. His car was jolted again. This time, the truck kept moving forward, pushing the Taurus toward the tracks. Byron pressed down firmly on the brake pedal, trying to hold his ground, but the truck was a much larger vehicle and the brakes weren't stopping his forward momentum.

The headlight of the approaching train illuminated the interior of his car like a searchlight. Dropping the phone, Byron struggled to move the transmission lever out of park. Helpless, he watched the front end of the car inching closer to the tracks. The Ford's windshield snapped off the red and white crossing gate. The broken board clattered down the hood onto the ground. The train was nearly on top of him now and the nose of his car was well out over the rails. The sound of the train's horn split the air. He'd never heard anything so loud before. He knew the time for jumping out had passed. “Come on, come on,” he shouted as he pressed both feet on the brake and slammed the shifter into drive. The train was less than thirty feet away as he stomped down on the accelerator. The drive wheel squealed on the pavement until finally it caught and the Taurus shot forward over the tracks just as the train struck. The big diesel tore off the rear bumper and sent the car spinning like a child's toy. Byron gripped the steering wheel as hard as he could until the spinning ceased and the front end of his car rolled back toward the tracks. He slammed his foot down on the brake pedal again. Sparks flew from the tracks as the engineer applied the train's emergency brakes. Finally, the car came to a halt, mere feet from the giant steel wheels of the passing train. Byron sat in the stalled car shaking, his face illuminated by the instrument panel warning lights, his heart hammering in his chest.

“John, are you there?” It was Diane. He'd forgotten all about the phone. “John, can you hear me?”

With trembling hands, he felt around blindly on the floor until he located it.

“Diane,” he said as his lifted the cell to his ear.

“What's all the noise? You okay?”

He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. “I lost a game of chicken with the Boston-­Maine.”

B
YRON WAS LEANING
against the side of a black-­and-­white in the lot of Izzy's Sandwich Shop, getting checked out by a MedCu attendant, when Diane pulled in and jumped out of her car. She hurried over to where he stood.

“Holy hell, John. Are you all right?”

“I'm okay.”

“You're bleeding,” she said as the paramedic cleaned the wound on his forehead.

“Only a scratch. Didn't think a little thing like a train would stop me, did you?”

“Will he need stitches?” she asked the young attendant.

“It's up to him,” he said, looking at Byron. “I can put a butterfly bandage on it or we can transport you up to the hospital and have it properly stitched.”

“I'll take the bandage.”

“You are one hardheaded man, John Byron,” Diane said, disapproving of his decision. “Did they find the other driver?”

“No, and I couldn't give them much to go on. I know it was a dark full-­sized pickup, but beyond that I couldn't tell.”

“It's gotta have some front-­end damage,” she said.

“Doubt it. Not enough to identify it anyway. Pretty sure it had one of those crash bars on the front.”

Diane sighed as she scanned the surrounding area. “What about the gas station?” she asked, pointing across the street. “Don't they have a security camera?”

“Already had a uniform check it. Outside camera only gets the pumps, it doesn't pick up the street.”

“Of course it doesn't,” she said, her frustration obvious.

“Sarge, the wrecker's here,” a uniformed officer said. “You need to retrieve anything before they take it?”

“Yeah, I've got some things in the trunk. Or what's left of it. And my briefcase is on the floor on the passenger side.”

“John, why don't I grab that stuff while the paramedic finishes up with you?” Diane said.

“Thanks.”

B
YRON LET HER
talk him into crashing at her place for the night. If someone was trying to send him into early retirement, the last thing he wanted was to make himself easier to find.

“What time is it anyway?” he asked as she pulled into the driveway.

“Almost eleven.”

“God, all I want is a shower and a few hours of sleep.”

She unlocked the side door and led him inside.

“Make yourself at home,” she said as she closed the door behind him. “Towels are in the hall closet.”

“Thanks.”

“You want me to fix us something to eat?”

“Don't go to any trouble.”

“It's no trouble. I'll see if I can find something you'd like.”

Byron closed the bathroom door and started the shower to give the water time to get nice and hot. His skin felt clammy, the way it used to when the sweat dried following a strenuous workout, something he realized he desperately needed to get back to. He shed his clothes, dropping them on the floor and wishing he had clean socks and underwear to change into. He stepped into the tub, the water spray was strong and hot. It felt great as it cascaded down his body, soothing his tired and aching muscles. He was careful not to wet the handiwork of Portland's Bravest.