Among the Shadows by Bruce Robert Coffin Page B

window. Diane was leaning against her car, parked directly behind his. “Come on in.”
    â€œAny idea what we’re looking for?” Diane asked as she stepped into the kitchen and closed the door.
    â€œNope. How did you make out with St. John’s hospital records?”
    â€œNothing to indicate she was capable of killing her patients. Highly rated employee is the standard jargon on her monthly performance reports.”
    â€œYou?” Byron asked. “Any luck with Frankie’s girlfriend?”
    â€œSunny Day?”
    Byron turned and made eye contact. “You’re kidding?”
    â€œNope, Sunny Day. And she alibied Nurse Mathers.”
    â€œOf course she did. So here we are back at square one.”
    â€œOkay, talk me through the case again,” she said.
    They both knew the trick. Detailing the facts of a case out loud to another person added a fresh perspective. Occasionally, something previously overlooked would become apparent.
    Byron summarized everything they knew. “Elderly male dying of cancer, lives alone. Family disowns him. He’s former military and former cop. Doctor says they can’t do anymore for him at the hospital so they send him home. He receives in-­home hospice care from a reputable local company. Only two nurses have contact with him. The home is never locked. He may have had a ­couple of unidentified male visitors during his remaining weeks. Who are we looking for?”
    â€œFamily members?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
    â€œVery doubtful. He burned a lot of bridges. And I had Tran check, none are local.”
    â€œFriends. Ex-­military buddies or cops.”
    â€œGood. Where?”
    â€œAddress book, fridge notes, or business cards. Something along those lines.”
    â€œSee, you’re not just a pretty face.”
    Diane smiled. “Damn straight. I’m a lot more than that.”
    They searched methodically through drawers, cabinets, and tabletops in each room. Diane located a handful of business cards in O’Halloran’s top bureau drawer. The refrigerator yielded a lawn care rep, an oil burner ser­viceman, and garage mechanic. Byron found a tattered address book inside a desk drawer in O’Halloran’s study.
    â€œHey, look at this,” Diane said, holding up a framed photograph. “Looks like an old PPD team photo.”
    â€œIt’s the old SRT,” Byron said, referring to Special Reaction Team, PPD’s version of a SWAT team.
    â€œHow do you know that?”
    â€œThat’s my dad,” he said, pointing to one of the men in the photo.
    O N THE WAY back to 109, Byron got a call from Tran.
    â€œSarge, I just heard from the Transportation Security Administration. If Susan Atherton made any recent trips to Maine it must have been by car.”
    â€œNo record of any flights?”
    â€œNegative, mon capitaine . Not for the past two years. Last trip she took was to Phoenix—­about as far from Maine as you can get.”
    â€œThanks, Dustin.”
    â€œI’m here to serve. Over and out.”
    Byron hung up and slid the phone into his jacket pocket.
    â€œWell, Lieutenant O’Halloran, if not your daughter, who were you getting visits from?”

 
    Chapter Eight
    T HE C HARLES J . L ORING AMVETS Post, chartered in 1955, is located on the in-­town side of Interstate 295 on Washington Avenue in Portland. Post 25, as it’s known to the senior members of the club, is an odd-­shaped structure built into the side of a hill that slopes sharply away from the street toward Kennedy Park. The only exception to its flat roof is the peak protruding from the right side where a lighted AMVETS sign is attached to clapboard siding. Two steel doors bookend a long windowless brick-­and-­mortar façade, separated from the paved road by only a sidewalk.
    It was getting late and Cleophus Riordan, or “Cleo” as he was known to his