‘Detective Kevin Byrne?’
‘Yes.’ Byrne had no idea why she was asking. All he wanted to do was run as fast as he could out of this place of sickness, old age, and crippling illness, to put miles between himself and these thoughts of slow, lingering death.
‘He left a package for you.’
‘Father Leone did?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was on his nightstand. It was addressed to you.’
‘Do you have it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said. ‘One of the volunteers here had an appointment near the Roundhouse. I sent it along with her. I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘Do you know what is in the package?’
Now the woman looked offended. She took a half-step back, started to cross her arms, stopped. She smoothed the front of her colorful floral smock, looked Byrne straight in the eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t open it. It wasn’t addressed to me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Byrne said. ‘That was rude of me.’
The woman’s expression softened.
‘Did you say he has not yet been transferred?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Would it be okay if I saw him?’ Byrne asked. ‘Just to …’
For some reason, the words say goodbye could not come out. It had been a long time since emotion stole his ability to speak.
‘Sure,’ Sandi said, picking up a phone. ‘I’ll have an attendant bring you down.’
‘Thanks,’ Byrne said. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘You take your time. You just take your time.’
The room was on the ground floor, near the back. Byrne walked in, closed the door behind him. The walls were bare, with a simple wooden crucifix over the bed.
The body beneath the sheet looked so small. How was this possible? Father Thomas Angelo Leone was a man who put the fear and grace of God into hundreds, if not thousands, of South Philly kids, a man who not only taught you to fight your battles inside the ring — with rules — but sometimes slipped on the 16-ounce gloves himself. Byrne recalled that there were a couple of pictures in the priest’s house at St Gedeon’s of ‘Battling’ Tommy Leone in his late teens, clad in just-pressed satin trunks, sleek and muscular, the way only young men can be, giving his best John Garfield to the lens.
Now he was a small body under a sheet that had been washed so many times it was almost translucent. Byrne wondered if it had originally been blue or green. There was no way to tell.
Byrne steeled himself, took a deep breath, pulled back the sheet. It was an action he had performed many times in his career in homicide, but this was different. This was personal.
He looked down. Father Leone’s old and weather-worn face was at peace, he thought.
Byrne closed his eyes for a moment, remembered his first confession. It had not occurred to him at the time — or to any of them for that matter, any of the rough-and-tumble kids in his class — that Father Leone knew them all by their voices, would forever know them by their sins.
Byrne opened his eyes, wondered what Father Leone’s sins were, if the old man had gotten his last rites.
He took the old man’s hand and -
— saw the darkness rise up in front of him, a tidal wave of blackness so large it dwarfed the city of his birth, a wave given rise by -
— The Boy in the Red Coat.
Byrne shook off the feeling, bent over, kissed the old man gently on his forehead. He covered the body, stepped into the hallway, closed the door. He put his hand on the glass pane. ‘Rest well, Father,’ he said. ‘Rest well.’
By the time Byrne stepped back outside the temperature had dropped another few degrees. He looked up. Overhead, dark clouds gathered. That was okay with Byrne. The sun shouldn’t shine on a day such as this.
In the parking lot Byrne called in, got an update. The Crime Scene Unit had scoured every inch of St Ignatius’s, checking for loose stones, unscrewing switch plates, overturning tiles. Bontrager said the team had found nothing that might point to the next crime scene, the next victim.
It had to be there, Byrne thought. He was sure of it.
He stood in the cold of the parking lot, letting the frigid air numb the grief he felt over the death of his old friend. It was still hard to believe.
What was in the package Father Leone had left him?
Byrne was just about to head back to the Roundhouse when his cell phone beeped. He took it out. It was an SMS message.
The message took a few moments to download, but when it did Byrne had to look twice to make sure he was seeing it right.
The text line read:
HOW U LIK ME NOW???!!!
Beneath the subject line was a photograph, a picture of a young boy tied to a chair. The boy’s eyes were wide with fear. It was someone Byrne knew.
The message was from DeRon Wilson.
The boy in the chair was Gabriel Hightower.
FORTY-FOUR
Jessica knew she would be pulling a double tour, and since she didn’t have time for even a power nap, she decided the next best thing was a workout.
By the time she gloved up she had put in thirty hard minutes on the treadmill and weights. She would be doing two rounds of sparring with her pal Valentine Rhames, who had consented to come in after her classes at Temple. Or kindergarten. Or whatever the hell it was she did during the day. As Jessica stepped into the ring she noticed that the skin of the young woman across from her was bone dry.
Oh, the arrogance of youth, Jessica thought.
The thought of youth brought Jessica’s mind to Cecilia Rollins, and everything that the little girl would never know. She would never know her first kiss. She would never know her first heartbreak.
The fact that Roland Hannah would be walking out of Graterford any minute — granted, in the custody of a county detective — made Jessica even angrier.
The sound of the bell brought her back. Jessica moved to center ring, dropped her left shoulder. The feint drew the kid in, seeing the opportunity to launch a lead right hand. Jessica was perfectly positioned. She shifted her weight and threw a monstrous left hook. When she made contact she knew. It was like when baseball players hit the ball on the sweet spot. They don’t even have to watch it go sailing over the fence. They knew.
Valentine Rhames dropped to the canvas.
Down. And. Out.
‘Jesus Christ, Jess,’ Joe Hand said, stepping into the ring. ‘It’s supposed to be a workout.’
Jessica walked to a neutral corner. A minute later Valentine’s trainer had the girl seated on the stool, headgear off. Valentine was sweating, puffing hard, but fine.
Jessica bounced across the ring, looked into the young woman’s dazed eyes, bumped gloves and said, ‘Thanks for the workout, ma’am.’
Philadelphia, Jessica thought as she pulled off the gloves and headed for the shower, don’t fuck with me tonight.
She stood at the counter at Starbucks, fixing her coffee, her mind a deadfall of thoughts about the case. It was one of the reasons she did not see the person who came up next to her. This was not good. She was distracted.
‘All the best-looking women read the Daily News.’
She turned to the voice. It was a young man, twenties, well dressed, nice looking. He was pointing at Jessica’s folded copy of the News on the counter.
‘Oh, I don’t read it,’ Jessica said. ‘I just use it to sneak my handguns onto the bus. Easier than using the Inquirer.’
The young man laughed. He put his coffee down, took off the lid, added two sugars. ‘I have a little bit of a problem. Would it be terribly rude of me to ask your advice on something?’
‘Not terribly,’ Jessica said. ‘Only somewhat.’
Another smile. ‘Okay. Well. It’s my daughter’s birthday today. I have to get her something, and I’m totally clueless.’ He took out his wallet, removed a picture. It was a photograph of a girl of about eight standing in front of Sacred Heart of Jesus school.