‘Let’s go,’ Jessica said.
FIFTY-SIX
Jessica and Maria parked on Third Street, around the corner from Byrne’s second-floor apartment. Jessica did not see her partner’s car, but that was not unusual. Sometimes he was forced to park more than a block away.
Within a minute they were in front of Byrne’s door. Jessica knocked, listened. Silence. She knocked again. They heard no movement within.
Jessica took out the key, gently slid it into the lock, turned it. She opened the door an inch. ‘Kevin?’
No answer.
The apartment was dark. The only light was from the green digital clock on the kitchen stove. Jessica flipped the switch, and three lamps came on. The apartment was exactly the way she had seen it the last time she had been there.
‘Kevin?’
Nothing. She edged over to the bedroom. Empty. The bathroom was empty, too.
‘Jessica,’ Maria said.
Jessica crossed the apartment. Maria was standing at the dining-room table. There, neatly arrayed, were three things Kevin Byrne never left home without. His weapon, his shield, and his cell phone. Next to Byrne’s phone was a blue flip phone Jessica had not seen before.
She picked up the blue flip phone, navigated the menu.
There were two text messages: One was the address of St Simeon’s. The second message made her blood run cold.
IF YOU ENTER THE BUILDING THE BOY WILL DIE.
What boy?
Jessica then picked up Byrne’s cell phone. She knew she was invading his privacy, but she had no choice. She checked his voicemail messages, and she was right. Eighty percent of the messages were from her. Then she saw an SMS message with a photo attached.
The subject read: how u lik me now???!!!
The accompanying picture was of a young black boy tied to a chair. Jessica looked closely at the boy’s face. She knew who it had to be. Gabriel Hightower.
She looked at the last number Byrne had dialed. She wasn’t familiar with it. Or was she?
‘Do me a favor,’ Jessica said.
‘Sure,’ Maria replied.
‘Could you run down to the car and get my portfolio?’ Jessica handed the keys to Maria, who was out the door in a flash.
Jessica launched the browser on her phone and did a reverse lookup on the second-to-last number Byrne had called. It was an all-night pharmacy around the corner. She did the same thing for the last number, but hit a dead end. There was no listing.
Maria returned with Jessica’s portfolio. Jessica opened it, pulled out the contents. She soon found the item she was looking for. It was a photocopy of a piece of paper they had found in Danny Palumbo’s backpack.
Jessica put the paper down on the table, with the maddening feeling that what she was looking for was right in front of her but she could not see it. None of the numbers lined up.
She closed her eyes for a moment, recalled going into Danny’s room at Loretta Palumbo’s rowhouse. The answer was there. Why couldn’t she see it? She recalled the neatly made bed, the empty closet, the magazines arrayed on the shelves, the acrostic number puzzles of which Danny Palumbo was a fan.
Jessica opened her eyes, glanced back at Danny’s handwritten square of numbers, looked diagonally, and saw it. It was the same number as Byrne’s last phone call. Danny Palumbo had this phone number in his possession.
Jessica looked again at the picture of Gabriel Hightower, and the last piece of the puzzle snapped into place. She crossed the room, found the box containing the framed photograph. She held up the picture of Byrne with Marcus Haines next to the picture of Gabriel Hightower. There could be no mistake.
Gabriel Hightower was Marcus’s son. Marcus had taken a bullet meant for Byrne. That’s why Byrne was doing all of this.
Jessica put the photograph down. She had no choice. With a trembling hand she picked up Byrne’s phone, hit redial, calling the last number Byrne had dialed.
In a moment the phone was answered.
‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Dr Sarah Goodwin …’
FIFTY-SEVEN
The Bridgeview Motel was located just a mile or so from Philadelphia International Airport, the city’s main airport, located in the southwest part of the city. Just a few blocks from both the Delaware River and I-95, the motel was used by the business traveler who wanted two or three hours’ sleep between flights, but wanted to avoid the exorbitant rates charged by the big chain hotels.
It was also used by both the city police and county sheriff’s department to hold prisoners en route to other locations.
Byrne parked at the far end of the rear parking lot, farthest away from the light. The room in which he was interested was number 209, the nearest room on the end. The curtains were closed, the lights were on.
He got out of the car, crossed the lot, knocked on the door. A few seconds later he saw the curtains part, then heard the chain being moved. The door opened.
‘Kevin,’ the man said.
‘What’s up, Tony?’
Anthony Colasanto was a veteran detective, a few years older than Byrne. He had come up in three of the South Philly districts, had spent time in Major Crimes, and now was assigned, through the DA’s office, to various details, including protection details.
‘What brings you out here?’ Colasanto asked.
‘Restless night,’ Byrne said. ‘Plus, you know this was originally my case.’
Colasanto nodded. ‘Sure. Of course. Come on in.’
He opened the door wide. Byrne stepped through. Colasanto gave another visual sweep of the parking lot, the surrounding area, then closed, locked, and chained the door.
Byrne took in the room. A queen-sized bed in the center. Beyond that, a small round table, one chair. To the left was a dresser and desk. Atop the dresser was an old 23-inch portable showing the news. Colasanto had a game of solitaire in the works on the table.
Byrne held up the cardboard carry tray he had gotten from Starbucks, containing a pair of large coffees.
‘Thought you could use some real coffee.’
‘You are a fucking mensch,’ Colasanto said. ‘Or whatever the Irish call a mensch.’
‘I think we call it a mensch, too.’
Byrne took one of the cups from the tray, put it on the table. Next to the cup he placed a handful of creamers, sugar packets, Equal packets, and stirrers. ‘I didn’t know how you take it,’ he said.
‘Like my women,’ Colasanto replied.
Colasanto opened the coffee, took a small sip. Byrne had waited in the parking lot long enough for the coffee to cool down to a drinkable temperature. Colasanto raised the cup. ‘Thanks, buddy.’
Byrne took his coffee, pulled the other chair up to the table. The two men caught up — who retired, who had what ailment, who got divorced.
‘Saw that fucking video,’ Colasanto said. ‘Did I hear this right? That POS in the tape got killed in North Philly tonight?’
‘Yeah,’ Byrne said. ‘Shame.’
‘Guess he won’t be pressing charges.’
‘Not unless there’s a DA in hell.’
‘I know a few who belong there.’
Byrne laughed. ‘When’s your relief coming?’
Colasanto looked at his watch. ‘Not until seven tomorrow morning.’
Byrne nodded toward the adjoining room, which had its door half open. The room was dark. ‘How is it going?’
‘Easy tour, Kev,’ he said. ‘I mean, what’s he going to do, right?’ Colasanto drained his coffee.
‘Do you know the details?’
‘Not all of them.’
Byrne told the story from the beginning. He knew he needed a little time. About ten minutes into his routine he saw Colasanto’s lids start to droop. Three minutes later the man was out cold. Before he could sag to the floor, Byrne got up, caught the man mid-slide. Byrne then picked him up, put him on the bed. Anthony Colasanto was not a big man, and Byrne handled him with ease.