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Shane pulled back into the traffic, already thinking of how soon he would be sending his reel to CNN.

TWENTY-FIVE

Byrne sat at the bar in the Quiet Man pub on the lower level of Finnigan’s Wake complex, named for the famous John Ford film starring John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara.

He wanted to be all right with what he had done, but wasn’t. He had lost his cool. Pure and simple. The fact that he had a relatively short fuse was no secret, but the point of it all was to never let it control your behavior. He had felt the rage building all day. When he heard the fear in Gabriel’s voice it had all come out.

Good work, Kevin.

When Margaret, one of the best bartenders in the city of Philadelphia, saw Byrne sit down, she knew it was a Bushmills night. There was a glass in front of him before he’d gotten his coat off.

Halfway through his first drink, he allowed himself to think about what had really happened in that dilapidated hallway, the real message he’d received when he laid hands on DeRon Wilson, the feeling of -

— cold stone walls, the expression of The Boy in the Red Coat as he looks up in silence -

— the coming confrontation.

Byrne drained his glass. Before he could call for the next drink a shadow spilled across the bar next to him. There were four open stools to his right, so it was not someone looking for a spot.

‘Crazy days, huh?’ a female voice said.

Byrne turned to look. The woman was in her early thirties, dark-haired, pretty. She wore a black turtleneck sweater, tight jeans. Around her neck was a delicate silver chain. Byrne had the feeling they had met before. He couldn’t place her.

‘Well, we live in interesting times,’ he said. It sounded like the right response. He hoped it was, considering how pretty this woman was.

She smiled, and Byrne realized she was a little older than he had originally thought. He placed her in her mid- to late thirties.

‘We didn’t get to meet properly the other day,’ she said. ‘I’m Faith.’

The other day? How could he not remember this woman?

And it hit him. She was F. CHRISTIAN. She was the female paramedic who had come to the scene at St Adelaide’s. On that day she’d had her hair in a ponytail, had no makeup on, and wore glasses. Not to mention a bulky parka. He had hardly noticed her that day, but that was not unusual, considering the circumstances.

‘Kevin Byrne.’

‘I know,’ she said. They shook hands. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Not at all.’ Byrne moved his coat to the stool on his left. Faith slipped onto the stool, and Byrne caught her full profile. She was beyond attractive. She had a ring on her right-hand ring finger in the shape of a cross.

‘Wait a minute,’ Byrne said. ‘Your name is Faith Christian?’

She smiled, rolled her eyes at what had to be the ten-thousandth time she’d heard this. ‘Don’t ask.’

‘See, now I have to know,’ he said.

‘We just met. We’ll probably get to it.’

‘You think?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘In that case, what are you drinking?’ Byrne asked.

She smiled again, gave it a moment’s thought. ‘I think I’ll have an Old Fashioned tonight.’

Margaret, standing a few feet away, topping a Guinness, nodded her head. She’d heard. Margaret heard everything.

‘You know, I’ve never met a woman who ordered an Old Fashioned before,’ Byrne said. ‘It’s so Joan Crawford.’

Faith smiled. ‘You know, it’s odd. I don’t really have a drink.’

‘Then you’re not from Philadelphia, I take it.’

‘No. Not originally.’

‘See, it’s a city ordinance here.’

‘Well, I’ve been working on one since college, but I’m pretty fickle that way. I started watching that show Mad Men, and the main character drinks them. I thought I’d give it a try.’

‘Classy drink.’

‘Yeah, well, I need all the help I can get.’

Hardly, Byrne thought. He glanced over Faith’s shoulder, at the door that led to the stairway and the first floor. A few minutes before Faith showed up Byrne thought he had seen someone standing there, and now he could see he wasn’t mistaken. Whoever it was stood in shadow. Byrne always felt safe at Finnigan’s Wake, but he had long ago acquired the habit of never sitting with his back to the door. Any door.

‘So, how long have you worked as a paramedic?’ Byrne asked.

‘About eight years,’ she said. Margaret delivered the Old Fashioned. Faith sipped, nodded her approval. ‘I can’t believe it’s been that long, but here I am.’

‘Is it something you always wanted to do?’

She ran the swizzle stick around the glass. ‘Not really. I thought about nursing school — I still think about nursing school. But you know how it is. Life intervenes, mortgages happen, car payments are due, your dreams run out of gas.’

Byrne flicked another glance to the doorway. The shadow was still there. Unmistakably a man, on the tall side. Byrne had the feeling they were being watched, and he was rarely wrong about that feeling.

‘What about you?’ Faith asked. ‘Did you always want to be a cop?’

‘Yeah. I don’t remember ever wanting to be anything else.’

‘Not even a fireman?’

‘Please. Especially a fireman.’

The friendly rivalry — and sometimes not so friendly rivalry — between police and firefighters was alive and well in Philly.

‘I know a lot of guys at the 10th Battalion,’ Faith said. ‘I’m telling them you said that.’

‘Bring it on.’

Faith smiled, took another sip. They spent the next twenty minutes talking about the city, their jobs, their favorites. Another round of drinks came and went. They finally got around to the important things.

‘So, do you have any kids?’ Faith asked.

Byrne nodded. ‘One daughter. Colleen. She’s away at college. Somehow.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean about two months ago I was putting together a Big Wheel for her third birthday.’

Byrne went on to tell Faith about Colleen, about what her deafness meant to her, how she had never treated it as a disability, and how that had always been an inspiration to him.

‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Do you have any kids?’

Faith seemed to hesitate before answering, but maybe it was Byrne’s imagination. Or maybe it was the Bushmills. ‘I do,’ she said. ‘I have a son.’

Byrne looked at her for a few moments. When she didn’t add anything he got the feeling it was making her uncomfortable. He decided to make light of it.

‘So, is your son having trouble in kindergarten or something?’

Faith laughed, wagged a finger at him. ‘You are good.’

‘It’s a gift.’

‘He’s a lot older than that, my friend.’ With this she playfully slugged Byrne on the shoulder. It stung. Faith was stronger than she looked, but then again she had to be. She had to lift dead weight every day. ‘I wish he was still in kindergarten.’

They sipped from their glasses. Byrne glanced back at the door. The shadow was still there. He took out his phone.

‘Excuse me one second,’ he said.

‘Sure.’

He sent a text to the bar manager, Mickey. Mickey would send two of the mountainous guys that worked the doors at Finnigan’s Wake to see what was what with the mysterious figure in the shadows of the lower-level landing.

A minute later Mickey texted him back to tell him that by the time the boys got down there, whoever had been lurking was gone.

Paranoia, Kevin.

‘Everything okay? Faith asked.

Byrne put his phone away. ‘Never better.’

‘You are such a good liar. I like that in a man.’

Byrne smiled, drained his Bushmills. ‘You know, you keep talking like that, you’re never going to get me into bed.’