Among the Shadows (23 page)

“Take all the time you need. This takes priority over everything else. If her attacker wasn't wearing gloves, we may get lucky.” Although he knew it was a long shot.

“You think this guy could be our serial?” Stevens asked.

“I don't know, but if you find one that doesn't belong to any of us, make sure you check it against our partial. Call me if you get anything.”

B
YRON
WAITED UNTIL
six before calling Pritchard. He wasn't sure what kind of hours the retired agent kept but he figured six o'clock was late enough. Pritchard was already awake and readily agreed to meet him for breakfast.

Byron was on his second cup of coffee, wishing like hell it was whiskey, when Pritchard walked into the Foreside Diner on Main Street in Falmouth.

“John, you look like hell,” Pritchard said as he slid into the booth across from Byron.

“At least my outward appearance matches how I feel.”

“When was the last time you got any sleep?”

“Been a while. I'll rest after we catch this son of a bitch.”

“How's Diane?”

“Sedated. Doc said she suffered a pretty serious concussion.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Someone broke into her house and turned the place upside down. Looks like she surprised them and got bashed in the head for her trouble.”

“She get a look at who did it?”

“Don't know. She was barely able to call for help.”

“Think it's related?”

“I know it is. They went through my apartment as well.”

“What do you think they were searching for?”

“The recording we made of Perrigo's confession.”

“Tell me they didn't get it,” he said, signaling the waitress with his mug.

“Won't know for sure until I can speak with her.”

“How would anyone even know about it? Who else knew you had the recording?”

“Besides the three of us, only AAG Jim Ferguson and Lieutenant LeRoyer.”

“You think one of them is in on it?”

Byron considered his question. His brain was fuzzy. He didn't know what to think at this point. “I don't know. The only remaining member of the original team still working at the PD is Cross.
Shit
.”

“What is it?”

“LeRoyer might have told Cross. Dammit, I shouldn't have told the lieutenant anything.”

“What exactly
did
you tell him?”

Byron tried hard to focus. “I said we got one of them to flip. Told him that we stashed the witness in a safe house.”

“A
bureau
safe house?”

“Fuck. I'm not sure. Maybe.”

“You think Cross might be the killer?”

Byron shook his head. “No. But I think he might be trying to tie up loose ends and Perrigo is a loose end.”

“Have you checked in on him?”

“Not since—­” Byron's eyes widened. “Fuck.” He pulled out his cell and dialed Tony's number. If someone had gone to all that trouble to get at the recording, wouldn't the Perrigos be next? “Pick up, come on.” He let it ring a dozen times but there was no answer.

Byron grabbed his jacket and threw a five on the table for the coffee. “He's not answering. Let's go.”

Pritchard hopped in with Byron, continually trying both cell numbers while Byron focused on the driving. It took the better part of twenty minutes to reach the safe house. They were still several hundred feet short of the driveway entrance when they were flagged down by a man wearing a reflective jacket and holding a flashlight. Byron could see a kind of glow above the tree line. He stopped the car and lowered his window.

“Sorry, folks, but you'll have to turn around. Road's blocked up ahead.”

“What's going on?” Byron asked.

“Got a structure fire down the road apiece. Used to be somebody's camp. Three alarm,” he said proudly.

Byron didn't know exactly what a three alarm meant in firefighter parlance, but he knew it wasn't good and there was only one camp he was concerned with. He displayed his ID and explained where they were headed.

“Down here on the right, you say?”

Byron nodded.

“ 'Bout a quarter mile off the main road?”

With a sinking feeling, he nodded again. “Yes.”

“Sounds like the place.”

Byron parked the car on the shoulder and they made their way in on foot. The two men walked in silence. Gradually, the dark shadows of the wooded driveway were replaced by dozens of angry-­looking red high-­intensity strobes. It looked as if the entire fire department had come out for this one. The air was thick with the acrid smell of wood smoke and diesel exhaust from the idling trucks.

They stopped and stared at the smoking remains of the camp. It was a total loss. The roof and second floor had collapsed. Blackened timbers poked out of the pile at impossible angles, resembling some twisted pyro's version of the game Pick Up Sticks. Several firemen wearing bright yellow coats and helmets stood around the steaming pyre directing streams of water here and there.

Byron grabbed one of the young volunteers who was running by and identified himself. “I'm looking for the chief.”

The fireman turned around, pointing across the yard. “Parked over there, in the red SUV.”

Byron and Pritchard both introduced themselves to the fire chief. “Wayne Fifield,” he said as he shook hands with both men. “FBI?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“Retired,” Pritchard said.

“What can I do for you guys?”

“Were there any survivors?” Byron asked.

“Didn't know anyone was staying here.”

“Yes, a husband and wife,” Pritchard said.

“We haven't seen anyone, but we never got inside. The roof had already started to collapse by the time we got here. Had a bitch of a time getting our trucks down this narrow drive. Took us some time to get the lines run out. We had to pump from the pond. No hydrants around here.”

Byron could tell the chief felt bad as he rattled off his list of excuses, but it didn't change anything. None of this was Fifield's fault. This was all about loose ends.

The chief was still spouting technical jargon about how they'd fought the blaze when Byron cut him off. “How long before we can go through the rubble and find out if they are still in there?”

Fifield turned around and surveyed the ruins. In spite of the water volume, flames kept them at bay, reigniting in several different spots. He turned back to them. “Afraid it's gonna be a while. I just got off the horn with the State Fire Marshall's Office, said they'd have someone down here by lunchtime.”

“Thanks,” Byron said. “We'll be back.”

“Friends of yours?” Fifield asked.

Byron considered the question. “Acquaintances.”

“Well, their car wasn't here. Maybe they left for the night,” Fifield said, trying to sound hopeful.

“We'll be back,” Byron said.

They trudged back toward the main road in silence.

Byron felt like he'd won the bad-­luck trifecta. In one fell swoop, all of their momentum was lost. He was pissed at himself for making mistakes, exhaustion was no excuse. He had to consider every possibility. Ferguson knew about the Perrigos, but his knowledge of the case was limited, and he worked out of Augusta, not exactly nearby. Obviously Pritchard knew, but he'd been the one to actually get them into a safe house, and he had no connection to any of the Portland officers. LeRoyer knew, but Byron had worked with him for far too long to suspect the lieutenant. Byron was pretty sure he knew LeRoyer better than anyone. He still didn't know who was responsible, but he was beginning to think there might be more than one killer.

The silence continued as Byron drove Pritchard back to his car.

“What do you need me to do, John?” Pritchard asked as he climbed out of the Jetta.

“Meet me back at the safe house at noon.”

“Okay. Where are you going?”

“The hospital.”

“Want me to come with you?”

Byron shook his head. “Thanks anyway, but I need some time to think.”

“All right. I'll see you later.”

Pritchard had started walking toward his car when Byron stopped him. “Hey, Terry.”

“Yeah?” he said, turning back.

“How are your surveillance skills?”

“A little rusty I imagine, but still better than some. Why?”

“Someone just took out my partner. I might need your help.”

Pritchard nodded. “Anything you need.”

Byron backed out of his space and drove toward Portland.

 

Chapter Twenty-­Seven

B
ILLINGSLEA DROVE HIS
aging Honda up Deering Avenue toward Maine Med. His editor had phoned him at home about an overnight attack on an off-­duty police detective in the town of Westbrook. A Portland police detective named Joyner.

He'd jumped into the shower almost before hanging up the phone. He was already imagining headlines for the unwritten story as he quickly dressed, then headed out to the car.

Did it have something to do with yesterday's clandestine meeting in Durham? Or Terrance Pritchard, former FBI agent and registered owner of the Lexus he'd seen coming out of the driveway behind Byron and Joyner? He'd have wagered a week's salary it did.

He sat in traffic at the intersection of Deering and Congress, his fingers impatiently drumming on the steering wheel.

And what about SinTech Corporation? He'd spent an hour online and managed to find out zip about the company. SinTech's website was one of those designed to look professional while saying absolutely nothing about what the company did. There were no pictures aside from stock images, probably copied from a photo site; and no phone numbers, only an email and a post-­office box in Manhattan. He wondered if this mysterious company had something to do with the FBI agent. And what, if anything, did it have to do with the murders?

Billingslea drove around the block, finding an empty space two blocks up from the hospital. He fed the parking meter with the loose change he scrounged from his console, then hoofed it to the main entrance. He breezed past the friendly smile of the elderly female manning the information desk and headed toward the Special Care Unit (SCU).

I
T WAS ALMOST
ten by the time Byron made it back to 22 Bramhall Street. He parked the beat-­up VW in a no-­parking zone near the hospital's main entrance, hoping someone would tow it. Once inside, he made the long walk down the hospital's central corridor past the Richards Wing to the Bean Building where SCU was located.

He made his way to the SCU nursing station. He was about to ask what room Diane was in when someone called out to him.

“Sarge.”

He turned and saw Stevens and Nugent walking in his direction. Mike was holding a bright-­colored bouquet of artificial flowers.

“Hey, guys,” Byron said. “How's she doing?”

“Still sedated,” Stevens said. “We're headed up to the cafeteria for coffee, then we'll check back. Care to join us?”

“What's going on, Sarge?” Nugent asked. The LT told us someone broke into both of your places last night.”

Byron looked around and observed a number of ­people staring in their direction. “Why don't I meet you guys in the cafeteria? I'm gonna stop in to see her for a sec.”

“We'll see you there,” Stevens said.

“Which room?” Byron asked.

Before either detective could answer, a middle-­aged woman working at the nursing station spoke up. “Detective Joyner's in room 1043, Sarge,” she said with a wink.

He turned to Stevens and Nugent with raised eyebrows. “Looks like I'm headed to 1043.”

A uniformed female officer Byron didn't recognize was seated in the hallway beside the door to Diane's room. Her auburn hair was tucked up underneath her hat. She didn't look old enough to drive let alone be a cop. He flashed her his badge and they exchanged nods.

“You're Sergeant Byron?” the officer asked as she stood.

“I am.”

“I'm supposed to give you this,” she said, handing him a slightly crinkled business card.

It was Billingslea's.

“Has that piece of shit been in there?” Byron demanded.

She shook her head. “No, sir. I wouldn't let him.”

“Good. Under any circumstances. Did he ask you anything?”

“He wanted to know if the attack on the detective had anything to do with the murder investigation.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him—­‘No comment.' He started whining about freedom of information. I told him to call the shift commander if he wanted information.”

Satisfied, Byron opened the door to 1043, then paused to look at the officer. “Thank you, Officer. If he bothers you again, arrest him.”

A faint smile appeared on her lips. “Yes, sir.”

The window drapes had been closed in Diane's room. She was the sole occupant. Byron pulled a plastic chair over to the side of her bed and sat down, listening to the steady cadence of her breathing. She looked so peaceful except for the large bandage taped on the left side of her head. Once again the image of O'Halloran came to him. The IV tube inserted into her arm, the hospital bedding, it was all too close to home for his liking.
What was it she had said?
“Relax
,
silly. I'm not looking for a relationship.”
Neither was he. It was the last thing he needed as his twenty-­year marriage to Kay was ending. But here he sat, knowing he was already in over his head. Complicating his life even more. It wasn't just sex. It never was. That was only a lie some guys told themselves. Truth was, he cared deeply for Diane.

His eyes were watering as he reached out and gently took her hand. “This isn't your fault.” He sniffed loudly and wiped his bloodshot eyes with the back of his hand. “I'll make this right, I promise. I'm gonna get this fucker if it's the last thing I do.”

Ten minutes later he entered the elevator and was turning to push the button for the cafeteria level when he was nearly overcome with dizziness. He reached out for the wall and closed his eyes until it passed. When had he eaten last? He couldn't remember. When had he slept last? Also a distant memory. He couldn't do anything about the sleep, but he could eat.

He grabbed a random assortment of food from the warming trays. After being rung up by the cashier, he walked to the table occupied by Nugent and Stevens, observing that Tran had joined them.

Tran greeted him in his usual manner. “Hey, striped one, we saved you a seat.”

“Thanks.” Byron sat down carefully, not wanting to repeat his earlier trick in the elevator, and unwrapped one of three lukewarm breakfast sandwiches on the tray.

“You don't look so good yourself, Sarge,” Nugent said.

He finished chewing, then washed it down with some harsh black coffee before he answered, giving himself time for the witty comeback he didn't have. “This coming from a guy toting a bouquet of plastic flowers?”

Nugent frowned and looked at Stevens. “Mel wouldn't let me leave them in the room. Said we have to give them to her personally.”

Stevens laughed, playfully punching Nugent in the shoulder.

“They bring out your sensitive side, Nuge,” Tran said, grinning.

“Watch it, pencil neck.”

“What's up with the burglaries, Sarge?” Stevens asked.

Byron swallowed the last bite of the sandwich and unwrapped the next. Having something in his stomach made him feel a little better. “This thing is getting really messy. I've been trying to protect you guys from it as much as I can. What happened to Diane last night is precisely why.”

“The hell with that, Sarge,” Nugent said. “We're a team here, good or bad.”

Stevens chimed in. “Nuge is right. What's going on?”

Tran nodded in agreement.

Byron felt an overwhelming sense of pride as he looked at the three of them. He took a large swig of coffee, then filled them in on the events of the last sixteen hours. He told them about Pritchard and about Perrigo's confession and the safe house.

“Holy shit,” Nugent said when Byron had finished.

Stevens looked over at her bald partner. “Eloquent as always, Nuge. But I gotta say, ‘holy shit' is right. These guys were ripping off dealers? I thought I'd seen everything.”

“Are you sure the Perrigos are dead?” Tran asked.

“At this point, I'm not sure of anything,” Byron said. “But I'm betting I already know what they're gonna find at the safe house.”

“You really think Cross is behind this? Stevens asked.

“Maybe not all of it, but he's involved.” Byron looked directly at Tran. “Did Diane ask you to copy anything last night?”

Tran shook his head. “No. Should she have?”

Byron's heart sank. He shook his head. “Doesn't matter.”

“This is probably as good a time as any to tell you this,” Tran said. “I found another connection to the armored car robbery suspects late last night.”

They all looked at him.

“Well? Spit it out,” Byron said.

“I did some cross-­checking on each of their criminal histories.”

“I thought you checked those already,” Nugent said.

“I did, on what we got from Triple I,” Tran said, referring to the Interstate Identification Index. “But not every state reports arrests and convictions to the feds, so I checked further. Andreas, the missing robber, was arrested in Massachusetts in 1982 for trafficking in cocaine. He got hooked up by a drug task force after they found him in possession of nearly a kilo of cocaine. His charge was reduced to simple possession and he was given one year of probation.”

“What the fuck?” Nugent said.

“Sounds like they got him to flip on someone,” Stevens said.

“That's what it sounded like to me,” Tran said.

“I'm not following you, Dustin,” Byron said. “What's the connection to this case?”

“The arresting officer was on loan from our department. Guess who?”

Byron shook his head. “I'm too tired for guessing games. Just tell me.”

“Detective Reginald Cross.”

I
T WAS ELEVEN-
­
FIF
TEEN
by the time Byron departed from the hospital. He'd stayed as long as he could, but Doctor Iselbach had decided to keep Diane sedated a little longer. He headed off to meet Pritchard with the promise from Stevens she'd let him know if anything changed, and a promise from all of them they wouldn't discuss the new information with anyone.

He dialed the number for Pelligrosso. “Gabe, it's Byron.”

“Hey, Sarge. How's she doing?”

“No change. Listen, I want you to double-­check something for me. Did you compare the partial from the O'Halloran scene with Cross's prints?”

“Yeah. Didn't match.”

“You're sure?”

“Not even close. Why?”

Of course they didn't, he thought. It would have been too easy. “And we ruled out Andreas too?”

“Yup.”

“Who haven't we been able to eliminate?” He listened as Pelligrosso shuffled some papers.”

“Looks like the only ­people I don't have prints from are Falcone and Humphrey. You told me not to worry about Falcone and my request for Humphrey's haven't come back from the state.”

Had he intentionally been overlooking Ray as a suspect in all of this? Was he so blinded by his friendship, he hadn't wanted to look? What had Arthur Conan Doyle written about eliminating the impossible? “I'll get them for you, Gabe.”

The road was no longer blocked and the crowded driveway had cleared as Byron navigated his way toward what remained of the camp. He recognized Pritchard's Lexus parked beside the bright red SUV belonging to the state fire marshal. What he no longer recognized was the pile of blackened timbers and ash where the FBI safe house had stood the previous day. He'd hoped not to see anyone wearing a rock concert T, but alas there was Ellis, in classic Def Leppard, poking around with a shovel, assisted by a young man wearing yellow fireman's pants, red suspenders, and black rubber boots.

“Hey, John,” Pritchard greeted. “Afraid it's bad news.”

“So I gathered. How many bodies?”

Pritchard held up two fingers.

“Dammit,” Byron said.

“How's Diane?”

“Still under.”

“Sergeant Byron,” Ellis hollered over. “Top o' the afternoon.”

Byron forced a smile as he made his way over. “Hey, Doc.”

“You know Fire Marshal Cody?”

“Don't think we've met.” Although, they could've been related for all he knew. The sheer exhaustion was beginning to affect his recall.

“Steve Cody,” the soot-­covered marshal said as he jumped down from the pile, removed a glove, and extended his hand. “You're Byron?”

“I am.” He paused to look around. “I don't see the state police here. Didn't anyone call them?”

“I did, a minute ago,” Cody said. “Agent Pritchard told us these were witnesses on a case of yours, so we held back on notifying them. Wanted you to have a chance to see it for yourself first. Sorry I don't have better news.”

“Any idea what caused the fire?” Byron asked.

“Tough to say when there's this amount of destruction. Old place like this is a tinder box. As far as the propane tanks go, it looks like they exploded because of the fire, not the other way around. Had Daisy go through the debris already.”

“Daisy?”

“My partner,” he said, pointing to his vehicle, where the smiling, panting, and drooling head of a lab was poking out of a window.

“She find anything?”

“Didn't hit on any of the usual accelerants.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, if an accelerant was used it was something exotic, something Ms. Daisy isn't trained to detect.”

“Heard Perrigo was a smoker,” Ellis said.

Byron nodded, shooting a glance at Pritchard. “Pretty much of the chain variety as of late.”

“Looks like they might've been in bed, John,” Ellis said. “Seen a lot of smoking-­in-­bed deaths. They fall asleep with one lit and next thing you know the bedding is on fire and it's already too late. You wanna take a look?”

“Sarge, I've got extra gear in the truck if you wanna climb up and have a look,” Cody said.

“Think I'm gonna pass,” Byron said. “The way this day is going, I'm liable to fall and break my neck.”