Port City Crossfire (A Brandon Blake Mystery, Book 1) Read online

  Port City Crossfire

  A Brandon Blake Mystery, Book 1

  Gerry Boyle

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 2018 by Gerry Boyle. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep

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  Published by ePublishing Works!

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-64457-054-8

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Before You Go…

  Port City Rat Trap

  Also by Gerry Boyle

  About the Author

  To the memory of Mary Catherine Boyle:

  loyal sister, devoted fan.

  “French said, ‘It’s like this with us, baby. We’re coppers and everybody hates our guts. And as if we didn’t have enough trouble, we have you. As if we didn’t get pushed around enough by the guys in the corner offices, the City Hall gang, the day chief, the night chief, the Chamber of Commerce, His Honor the Mayor in his paneled office four times as big as the three lousy rooms the whole homicide staff has to work out of. As if we didn’t have to handle one hundred and fourteen homicides last year out of three rooms that don’t have enough chairs for the whole duty squad to sit down in at once. We spend our lives turning over dirty underwear and sniffing rotten teeth. We go up dark stairways to get a gun punk with a skinful of hop and sometimes we don’t get all the way up, and our wives wait dinner that night and all the other nights. We don’t come home any more. And nights we do come home, we come home so goddam tired we can’t eat or sleep or even read the lies the papers print about us. So we lie awake in the dark in a cheap house on a cheap street and listen to the drunks down the block having fun. And just about the time we drop off the phone rings and we get up and start all over again.”

  Raymond Chandler, The Little Sister

  One

  Mid-September, not quite fall but the Maine summer slipping away. A chill rain had kept the Thursday night bar crowd subdued at closing time, guys pulling hoodies up, young women in heeled boots slipping on the slick cobblestones.

  No brawls tonight but Brandon and Kat, driving west on Fore Street a little after 2 a.m., keeping an eye out for stragglers, the drunks who figured the cops were gone and it was safe to make a run for home.

  A couple of blocks with just the radio talking, Brandon at the wheel, Kat riding shotgun, the actual shotgun racked to her left. She glanced over and said, “Quiet tonight, Blake.”

  “The weather,” Brandon said.

  “No, I mean you.”

  Brandon didn’t answer.

  “I rest my case,” Kat said.

  “Why I keep saying you should go to law school,” Brandon said. “At least you’d get to say that for real.”

  “I’d rather catch bad guys. Cling to my delusion that they all get what they deserve.”

  “You and your damn rose-colored glasses,” Brandon said.

  They were quiet for the next block. Brandon slowed and turned the cruiser onto Center Street.

  “Everything okay?” Kat said, giving him a longer look this time. She turned back to the street. Waited. Waited some more, knew something would come. Finally, a grudging reply.

  “Not everything.”

  Brandon slowed to watch a couple standing near the curb, the woman trying to hold the guy upright. A red Passat slowed and the woman waved. The car stopped. An Uber driver, gray in his hair, might be a moonlighting school teacher. He leaned over, looked at the drunk guy dubiously, picturing vomit on his back seat. He drove on. The woman flipped him off and peered at her phone.

  Kat glanced over at Brandon, felt him forming the first words in his head. He swung left onto Center Street, headed for Commercial and the piers. Brandon slowed as they passed Fianna, the Irish pub. The lights were dimmed, three cars left in the lot, workers closing up. Brandon took another left at the end of the block, Kat patient.

  “I don’t know,” Brandon began. “It’s just that—”

  A long, deep breath. Then Kat’s gentle prod.

  “Just that what?”

  “Mia, I think there’s this—I don’t know exactly how to say it. It just seems like there’s this distance between us.”

  “You’ve been working a lot of OT. Haven’t been around,” Kat said.

  “It’s not that. You undo that when you get back together. You know, a day or two, back to normal. No, this is like there’s this gap that we never quite make up, you know?”

  “Huh,” Kat said. “Maybe you need to go somewhere together. Some romance in your life. Maddie and I go to Camden. Stay in this cute Airbnb, sleep late, eat a delicious breakfast.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But it’s like lately we just don’t agree about some things. And neither of us will budge.”

  “Hey, nobody agrees all the time. Not on everything. If I had to agree with everything Maddie does or says, and vice versa, we’d have split up years ago.”

  “I know. I guess I’m not explaining it very well.”

  “Give me an example,” Kat said.

  Brandon pulled out, headed east on Commercial, back up the peninsula. “Okay, it rained Monday night. We’re sleeping and I hear this drip, drip, drip. I wake up, get up and go up on deck. The bow hatch is wide open. I come down, say, ‘The bow hatch was wide open. Did you open it?’ She says, ‘Yeah, I opened it so I could air the cabin out. It stunk like your boots.’”

  “No doubt,” Kat said.

  “I say, ‘Well, didn’t you know it was gonna rain?’ She says, ‘No. I haven’t been looking at weather reports.’ I’m tired and wet and grumpy. And I say, ‘We live on a freakin’ boat. Weather is kind of important.’ She says, ‘Then why didn’t you check it?’ I say, ‘I just did. But I didn’t open the hatch cover and just leave it.’ She said, ‘
If you knew it was going to rain, why didn’t you check sooner?’”

  He stopped talking, glanced to his right. Kat looked unconvinced, confirmed it by saying, “So she’s not a boat person. What’s the big deal? I’d last about two hours in that thing.”

  Brandon drove, the two of them seeing two women making out in front of a condom shop. “Irony there,” Kat said, but Brandon hadn’t given up. He said, “Okay, the other day Mia came home with this book. She’s always bringing books home.”

  “She’s a writer. They read a lot. Maddie’s like this book hoarder. It’s an English professor thing.”

  “No, that’s fine,” Brandon said. “Except when you live on a boat. The space is limited.”

  “What about you and all your history stuff? Don’t I keep telling you to get your head out of the past?”

  She looked at him and grinned. “Get it? Get you head out—”

  “I’m using my Kindle more. But whatever. It wasn’t that. It was just that this book, it was this diary. Like an old-fashioned thing. Before my time but I’ve heard about it. Nessa had one when she was a kid.”

  “Sure, your grandmother would. Girls, mostly,” Kat said. “Dear Diary and all that. You’d write in it every day, say what was on your mind.”

  “Right,” Brandon said. “Harry Truman wrote in one and all that. This has a flowery cover made of cloth, like a cushion.”

  “Did it have one of those straps on it, with the little lock? My mother had one like that. I picked the lock.”

  “No, no lock. So maybe it was more of a journal than a diary. Anyway, this girl, she wrote these long sort of letters to herself in it.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Her name was Danni Moulton. That’s what it says, anyway. She’s in high school, or she was, and she’s writing about who she’s in love with, who she wants to ask her out, who she slept with, who dumped her after she slept with them.

  “Guys suck,” Kat said. “Have I told you that?”

  “Reading this thing it’s hard to argue.”

  An oncoming pickup with a headlight out. It passed, three young guys, a good stop. Brandon wheeled the cruiser around.

  “So Mia, she reads every word. I mean, fine. It’s interesting, I guess. But then she brings it to her writer’s group and they take turns reading it out loud.”

  “Huh.”

  “They said it was a very authentic voice, or something like that. But to me it didn’t seem right. An invasion of privacy. It’s this girl’s innermost thoughts, you know? I mean, she’s pouring her heart out.”

  Brandon eased up behind the pickup, an old Ford with a dented tailgate, a bumper sticker that said, EAT MAINE LOBSTER. Brandon hit the blue lights.

  The driver braked, only the left light going on as the truck pulled over. Brandon swung in behind, called it in. They waited for Choo-Choo, the dispatcher, to reply with the driver’s name and record. It was a long one.

  They’d just unsnapped their seat belts when Choo-Choo said, “Units in the area of Center and Spring. Report of masked subject exiting Fianna bar, showed a gun.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Brandon said. “Rock and roll.”

  Kat reached for the radio, said, “Five-three. We’re right there, ten seconds.”

  Brandon pulled around the pickup, accelerated hard. Kat reached over and killed the blues. On the radio, she said, “Direction?”

  “Caller said he went behind the building, last seen running through the parking lot, east bound.”

  The radio noise had units converging, Tommy Park saying, “We’re on Middle. Thirty seconds.”

  Kat murmured into the mic, “Five-three out coming up out front. Nobody showing.”

  Brandon slowed at the entrance to the gravel lot, hit the right-side floodlight. Nothing moving.

  “Trying to get somebody inside. No answer,” Choo said.

  Brandon looked up at the rearview, saw a dark figure flash by, said, “There he goes.”

  He whipped the cruiser around, tires squealing, Kat calling in, “Subject in sight, running down Center, headed for Commercial.”

  Other cops converging, the sound of roaring motors behind the radio traffic.

  “Subject dressed in black,” Kat barked. “Handgun showing.”

  The guy was running hard, the gun swinging like a baton. The cruiser was almost alongside, Brandon on the P.A. shouting, “Stop! Police! Drop your weapon.”

  The guy went left, into a gravel lot. Brandon turned hard, jumped the curb, slid the cruiser to a stop in front of a concrete barrier. They flung the doors open, Kat saying, “We’re in foot pursuit. Subject headed for that Mexican place.”

  To Brandon she called, “I’ll go left, cut him off on Fore. Blake, the camera?”

  But Brandon was gone, running hard. The sound of shoes crunching gravel, the chink of the guy hitting a chain link fence. He was up and over like a pole vaulter, Brandon thinking, “Shit, he’s in shape.”

  He went over the fence, hit the ground and stumbled, got to his feet and sprinted down the alley. He called in, “Subject going north now, headed for Fore. Still in sight.”

  Cops calling in, murmurs and motor noise. The guy flying, disappearing behind corners, reappearing on the straightaways. They were behind a sports bar now. Strike Two. A dumpster overflowing, cars parked in the lot, the window lights dim. Brandon caught a look as the guy went right around the corner of the building, saw he still had the mask on. Brandon drew his gun.

  He heard Christianson, his K-9, Laser, barking in the background. Other units chiming in with locations, the sergeant saying he was at Center and Free, almost on scene. Brandon slowed, drew his gun.

  No footsteps.

  A sudden and eerie silence.

  Brandon slipped his finger inside the trigger guard.

  It was the back side of the bar. A brick wall. A motorcycle parked against a chain link fence, the seat wrapped in a clear plastic bag. Cars and a pickup parked to the left. Brandon eased along the wall. A doorway to his right. He stepped to the corner, flicked his flashlight in. Recycling bins. Empty beer cases in a jumbled pile. Darkness to the right at the back of the alcove, a passageway.

  Brandon stood still.

  Listened.

  Nothing.

  He called, “Come out, hands above your head.”

  Nothing.

  He listened another five seconds. The guy was trapped in there in the dark, a good spot for the dog, go in and flush him out. Brandon decided to wait for Christiansen. Backed out of the alcove, toward the cars. He leaned to his mic, said, “Need the K-9. He’s holed up, back side of The Finish Line bar.” Blurted responses, Christiansen on his way.

  Brandon stood and listened. Nothing from the doorway. From the back of the bar, a door slammed. Then a clank. A digital melody, three notes. Then a whooshing sound.

  A dishwasher.

  He listened harder, moved slowly. There was a box truck parked along the wall, just past the opening. Gun raised, Brandon bent and checked underneath. Nothing. He swiveled, the gun trained on the darkness. From the other side of the building he heard radio traffic, tires scrunching and chirping, cruisers pulling in, Laser barking. Brandon reached for his shoulder mic to direct them in—and heard a scratching sound.

  A shuffle.

  He looked to his right. The guy was standing by the wall, fifteen feet away. He had his gun clenched in two hands.

  It was aimed at the ground at Brandon’s feet.

  Brandon turned, a half step, his gun coming up. Everything had slowed, his breathing, his heart pounding like a gong. The guy still had the mask on. Something was strapped on his head, a faint red light glowing like a headlamp. The gun still aimed at Brandon’s feet.

  “Put it down,” he said. “Just toss it.”

  There was a moment of silence, neither of them breathing. And then the guy made a sound, somewhere between a cough and a chuckle. The gun was still pointed at the pavement, the barrel wavering, an almost imperceptible jiggle. It was all he could s
ee, the gun, the guy’s masked face.

  “Put the gun down, dude,” Brandon said. “Just drop it right there. And we can all go home. Call it a night.”

  There was movement around the guy’s mouth—a smile?—and then he shook his head slowly, the red dot on his forehead moving back and forth like a firefly. He was muttering. “You can do this, you can do this.”

  “Just let it go. Drop the gun and we can figure the rest of it out later,” Brandon said.

  “Oh, god,” the guy said, still muttering. “Okay, you can do this.”

  “Don’t need to do anything, dude,” Brandon said. “Just put the freakin’ gun down. Easy as that. Right now. Just pull your fingers apart and it’ll fall. Easy.”

  The guy looked at him, the gun still pointed low. And then he took a deep breath and said, “I didn’t want to hurt anyone at the bar.”

  “That was good,” Brandon said. “Really. You’re a good guy. I can tell.”

  “No such thing, dude. It’s all fake. Everything. Everybody. It’s all this fucking show.”

  “Maybe,” Brandon said, “but let’s put the gun down and really talk about it. It’s the guns make it hard to really talk, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Show’s over, dude. Tell them I didn’t want to play any more,” the guy said.

  “No,” Brandon said. “We can tell them. You can tell—”

  The guy took another deep breath, then clenched his teeth, his jaw moving the mask. He swung the gun up, saying, “You’re dead, cop, and so am—”

  Brandon lunged right, firing as he moved. Once. Twice. Three times, the shots coming in slow motion. The guy staggered, eyes wide under the mask. He stood for a moment, then went over backwards, the gun flying, hitting the wall, clattering on the ground.