Among the Shadows (17 page)

He'd spent countless hours at Diane's going over the FBI case file, but this was only his second time staying overnight. He was wondering what the sleeping arrangements would be when he heard the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back. Before he could rinse the soap from his face, he felt the tender caress of her fingertips on his back. Slowly, she traced around to the front of his torso.

“Thought you might need some help,” she said. “I always have such a hard time reaching my back when I shower.”

“What a coincidence,” he said, grinning as he turned and faced her, seeing her naked for the first time. “So do I.”

Her ebony skin glistened in the water. She toyed with the salt-­and-­pepper hair on his chest, the touch of her fingers electric.

“Like what you see?” she asked, gazing up at him with her big brown eyes.

“Very much.”

As she moved in toward him, he pulled back. “You really think this is a good idea?”

She leered at him. “They already think we're doing it. Right? What harm can come from taking it for a spin around the block?”

Given his current state, Byron couldn't argue with her logic. He nodded.

“Now shut up and kiss me.”

They embraced under the stream from the showerhead, exploring each other with hands and tongues. After several moments, she pulled back from him. “Have you ever made love to a black woman before, Sergeant Byron?”

His voice cracked, like a nervous teenager. “Ah, no. This is actually a first for me.”

“Well then, I guess this is a night for firsts.” She pulled him close again and pressed her lips to his.

B
YRON
AWOKE REFRESHED,
ready to take on whatever the day had in store. Only six-­thirty, but the sun was already shining brightly through the window. Following the evening's passionate activity, he'd slept better than he had in months. He stretched, yawned loudly, and looked over at Diane's side of the bed. Empty. He rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as he recalled the details of the previous night. A night that had started with someone trying to kill him. He remembered his life flashing before his eyes as the locomotive bore down on him, the flashing red lights of the crossing signal, and the air horn blast of the train. It was all so surreal. A near-­death experience was followed by the sweetness of having the night end sharing not only the shower but the bed of his partner. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. The pleasing aroma of coffee brewing wafted in from the kitchen.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Diane said from the bedroom doorway, already dressed, with a smile on her face and a steaming mug of coffee in her hand. “How're you feeling?”

He grinned. “Not too bad. A little stiff.”

“You can say that again. You fell asleep on me last night.”

He looked over at her. “Sorry,” he said, feeling his cheeks blush. He swung his feet out from under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed rubbing his neck and checking his head to see if the bandage was still in place. It was. The wound was already beginning to itch.

“Luckily for you, you managed to take care of some pressing business beforehand.”

“Did I?”

“Oh, yeah.” She handed him the coffee and bent down, delivering a lingering kiss.

His body, already reacting to her touch, was in conflict with his mind. He knew LeRoyer would come unglued if he found out what was going on. Fraternization within the same unit of the police department was a big no-­no. If their relationship was discovered, one of them would be transferred. “You know this is totally against the rules, right?”

“Uh-­huh,” she said, leaning in and giving him another prolonged kiss.

She pulled away and looked at him. “Relax, Romeo. I'm not looking for a committed relationship. We are two discreet and consenting adults. Friends with benefits.” She picked up his shirt and tossed it at him. “Now, stop teasing me and put some clothes on before I forget we've got a case to work and a bad guy to catch.”

Diane drove them to 109, stopping at his Danforth Street apartment long enough for Byron to brush his teeth and change clothes.

A
T EIGHT O
'
CLOCK
Byron walked into LeRoyer's office. “I need a car.”

“So I heard. How many does that make this year?”

“This one wasn't my fault.”

“That's what you always say. It's never your fault. Nice bandage,” he said, pointing at Byron's head.

“Itches like hell.”

“What happened this time, John? Overserved? Did you close down the Gull?”

“I was stone-­cold sober.”

“Uh-­huh.”

“Seriously. Somebody pushed me in front of a train, Lieu.”

“What'd you do, give 'em the finger?”

The lieutenant was obviously enjoying this. Not believing for a second that someone had really tried to punch his ticket. “I need the keys to another car.”

LeRoyer stood up and walked over to the metal wall cabinet where the fleet keys were stored. He scanned the rows with his finger before finally making a selection. “Here,” he said, tossing him a pair of keys.

“What do these go to?” Byron asked, not recognizing the shape of them.

LeRoyer grinned. “You know the old gray Jetta the drug guys seized?”

“You're kidding, right?”

LeRoyer shook his head and returned to his chair. “Nope.”

“Come on, Lieu. The car's a piece of shit. It's got an inch of dust on it from sitting in the garage. It probably won't even start.”

“So, get someone to jump it. Look, you wanted a car, that's a car. It's all I've got. Take it or leave it.”

“That's just fucking dandy.”

“Hey, look at it this way, at least you won't get towed by Parking Control. You've got a clean plate, John. Given your track record for never listening to me when I've told you to stay out of no-­parking zones, I figure you've probably got till the end of the week before you're in violation of the scofflaw again.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“You're welcome.”

B
YR
ON WAS IN
the rear garage pouring a bottle of Poland Spring water over the Jetta's windshield, attempting to rinse off enough of the grime to get to a car wash, when Diane pulled up next to him.

“What are you doing with that piece of crap?” she asked.

He turned to look at her. “You don't like it? It's my good-­driving award from LeRoyer.”

“I don't know where you're planning on going in that thing, but if I were you I'd rather walk.”

“Trust me, I've thought about it, but Harvard, Massachusetts, is a bit too far for me to hoof it.”

“What's in Harvard?”

“Jack Riccio.”

“Do you really think he was behind what happened last night?”

“Only one way to find out.”

“Okay, hop in sailor. I'll give you a ride.”

“Mind if I drive?” he said, tossing the bottle at the Jetta.

“Yeah, I do. I've seen the way you drive.”

F
EDERAL
M
EDICAL
C
ENTER,
Devens, located less than forty miles west of Boston, is a federal prison housing male inmates with special medical needs. FMC Devens houses everything from minimum security–status prisoners to those serving multiple life sentences. Jack “The Velvet Hammer” Riccio was firmly in the latter category. A high-­ranking boss in the Regalli crime family, with operations based in Boston and New York City, Riccio was convicted in 2005 of racketeering and for his involvement in the murders of several ­people including one prominent Boston attorney. The U.S. attorney hadn't been able to prove he'd actually pulled the trigger, but the beauty of the federal racketeering law was he didn't have to. Conspiracy is far easier to prove.

It was nearly noon by the time they reached Harvard. Byron figured the prison would be in lock-­down until after the lunch hour, so he allowed Diane to talk him into stopping for food.

She took a bite of her sandwich, then set it down. “Have you thought about how you'll ask him?”

“No.”

“Hello, Mr. Riccio. I'm curious, did you try and have me whacked?”

“Okay, you're so smart. How would you ask him?”

“I'd bat my eyes at him and be as cute as I could.” She proceeded to demonstrate the procedure. “He'd be so enamored with me, he'd have to call it off.”

Byron was feeling pretty enamored with her himself. “Only a guess, but it probably won't work for me.”

“Oh, I don't know, John, he's been in for a while. You might just light the old boy's candle.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes before Diane broke the spell.

“Something on your mind?” she asked.

“Yeah. I know you drove me all the way down here, but I'd rather you didn't sit in on the interview.”

“You afraid I'll distract him?”

“No, I'm serious. If he really was behind what happened last night, I don't want to risk you becoming a target.”

“You really think he could have done it?”

“I know he could. You've read the same files I have. They always suspected he was behind the robbery. Riccio's a bad guy, Diane. Even having you with me today may have exposed you.”

“I am second on this case, John. Are you ordering me not to sit in?”

“No, I'm asking you. Please, sit this one out.”

“So what am I supposed to do, sit on my thumbs?”

“Check the prison visitor logs for me.”

“You're gonna owe me.”

They finished eating and drove to the prison.

Byron didn't really expect Riccio to spill his guts if he was involved, but after the obvious attempt at derailing his life, he figured a face-­to-­face visit with the crime boss himself was in order. Riccio was in his late seventies and living on borrowed time. He'd had two heart attacks and was now suffering from high blood pressure, diabetes, and rheumatoid arthritis. A normal man in his condition wouldn't have been seen as a threat to anyone, but the Velvet Hammer was no ordinary man. The reach of his tentacles was impressive, and, incarcerated or not, he was still extremely dangerous. Byron knew if Riccio had ordered the hit on him, it was only a matter of time.

Inmates were only allowed six visitors per month, but visits by law enforcement weren't counted against the tally. Wanting his visit to be a surprise, Byron hadn't called ahead. After nearly three hours of driving and thirty minutes of the usual corrections red tape, he was finally seated inside the locked interview room. He looked around, wondering how many confessions he'd have obtained if Portland's interview rooms were as cold and bare as this. It had no windows, a concrete floor, gray cinder block walls, stainless steel table and chairs. The table and one of the chairs were bolted to the floor. A security camera hung from the ceiling.

A shackled Jack Riccio shuffled into the room, accompanied by two large, no-­nonsense prison guards. Dressed in a bright orange jump suit, the frail inmate bore little resemblance to the slick-­talking gangster in the three-­piece suit Byron had seen during news coverage of the trial. His once raven-­colored hair had grayed and receded. Brown age spots tattooed the backs of his hands. The only thing that hadn't changed were Riccio's steel blue eyes. Sharp and calculating, they already appeared to be sizing up his unexpected visitor.

“Holler if you need us,” the bald guard said after seating Riccio in the chair directly across from Byron. He nodded his understanding as both guards stepped out of the room, closing the heavy steel door behind them with a loud clang.

Riccio's expression remained stoic, even as Byron introduced himself.

“Mr. Riccio, my name is Detective Sergeant John Byron. I'm from the Portland Police Department.”

“Oregon?”

“Portland, Maine.”

“I imagine the foliage is nice right about now.”

“It's getting there,” Byron said. Each man sized up the other, like a mongoose and a cobra, neither one breaking eye contact.

“Little out of your jurisdiction, aren't you, Detective Sergeant Byron?”

“I go where the case takes me.”

“You're here about a case, then?”

“A murder.”

“Interesting. But, as I'm sure you're aware, I've been a guest in here for some time. Reason would dictate you've come here about a historic case.”

“Actually, no.”

Riccio raised an eyebrow. “No? A recent case, then. And you believe I possess some knowledge that might be beneficial.”

“I believe you may have ordered a hit on someone.”

“A hit. I'm flattered you'd think I still have that kind of pull, Sergeant. However, I can assure you I'm just an old man living out his last few years in solitude.”

“Maybe. And maybe not. Forgive me if I don't find your assurances have much merit.”

“An interesting quandary. You've driven all this way for my help but doubt what I'm telling you. I'm curious, who is it you think I want dead?”

“Me.”

Riccio's eyes widened in genuine surprise. “You? I've never even met you.”

“Why would that stop you?”

“Forgive my impertinence, Sergeant, but you look much healthier than any of my other alleged victims. Perhaps you will enlighten me. Why do you think I'd want to kill you?”

“I'm investigating the murders of several former Portland police officers. Last night, someone tried to push my car in front of a train. Doesn't feel like a coincidence.”

“Why would I care about your investigation into the deaths of former cops?”

“These
cops
were all involved in a shootout with three robbery suspects in the mid-­eighties. The robbers in question were suspected of having robbed an armored car during broad daylight in Boston, making off with nearly one and a half million dollars. These police officers were attempting to apprehend the men when the shooting occurred. When it was over, three robbers and one of the officers were dead.”