TWENTY-TWO
Byrne was hungry, but he did not feel like eating. He wanted a drink, but he did not feel like drinking. When he felt this way, he always drove down to the river. This time he parked in the lot of an old warehouse in Port Richmond.
What was the connection between Danny Palumbo and Cecilia Rollins? Byrne thought. Was Danny the baby’s father? Byrne and Jessica had discussed this and dismissed it. Danny Palumbo could not have killed the little girl. When the baby was placed in that tub in the basement of St Damian’s, Danny Palumbo was strapped to that chair.
Or was he? They didn’t have a precise time of death on the baby. They might never have this data.
Byrne had called Loretta Palumbo, and she said she’d never heard Danny mention a girl named Adria.
The two victims were from different parts of the city, different worlds. Were they both selected at random?
No. These killings were not random.
Byrne looked down the street. Sometimes it seemed like the blight didn’t end. He had seen good neighborhoods go bad, burn to the ground, then rebuild, only to go bad again. Block after block; mile after mile. And, if that were the case, what was he doing with his life if he knew it would never end?
They were all gone, all the old school cops. Jimmy Purify, Byrne’s rabbi when he first came to the unit, was in the ground more than five years now. The retirements of Nick Palladino, Ike Buchanan, Rocky Wade and Sal Aspite over in Major Crimes. And then there was Marcus Haines.
The future belonged to detectives like Jessica, Josh Bontrager, and Maria Caruso.
Maria reminded Byrne a lot of Jessica when Jessica first came up. He remembered the day he walked into the duty room and saw Jessica standing there for the first time, the South Philly in her stance, her attitude. At the time she seemed too young to be doing the job, but Byrne realized then, as he did now, that this was just arrogance on his part. He wasn’t all that much older than Jessica or Maria Caruso when he had come up. The two of them, as it turned out, knew a lot more about the job than he did.
Homicide work was about instinct, the ability to divine motive in a desert of evidence, a wasteland of bullshit. Jessica was as good as, or better than, anyone he had ever met at this. The good cops could walk into a room full of citizens and pick out the one bad actor every time.
An unnerving thought suddenly occurred to him. Was he the oldest detective still on the Line Squad? He probably was. There were a couple of guys on the Fugitive Squad and in SIU that had a few years on him, but as far as the Line Squad went – the unit that handled the new homicide cases as they came in – Detective Kevin Francis Byrne was The Sphinx.
Great.
He opened the glove compartment, was happy to find a pint of Old Forester in there. He opened it, took a long pull.
Two churches. Two closed churches.
Byrne shut his eyes, laid his head back on the head rest. It was impossible to shake the image of that child in the wash tub. He thought about the strength, the commitment, it must have taken to do something like that. Every human instinct must fight the urge to carry out such an act.
Byrne took out his phone, dialed. The woman answered, and Byrne asked for Gabriel. A few seconds later the boy came on the line.
‘Hey, Gabriel. How’s it going?’
Pause. ‘I’m okay.’
He wasn’t. ‘Something wrong?’ No answer. ‘Listen, the reason I’m calling is that I might be able to wrangle a pair of courtside tickets. Sixers and Lakers. This guy I know owes me big time. What do you say?’
Silence. Something was wrong. Byrne glanced at the screen on the phone. Yes, they were still connected.
‘Gabriel?’
‘I … I don’t know.’
‘Okay, man, now I know something is up. Why don’t you tell me? Maybe I can help.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t hang out no more.’
The words stung. ‘What do you mean? Why not?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I thought we had fun. Didn’t we have fun?’
‘Yeah,’ Gabriel said. ‘It’s just …’
Byrne waited for the next words. There were divides between them – race, class, heritage – that might not ever be bridged. Byrne had known this going in. It had not stopped him.
‘It’s just what?’ he asked.
‘It’s just not … a good idea.’
And suddenly Byrne knew. ‘Gabriel, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth. Okay?’
Silence.
‘Gabriel?’
‘Okay.’
Byrne had to get the words right, or he would lose the boy forever. And that could not happen.
‘Has someone told you not to see me?’ Byrne asked. ‘And I don’t mean someone from social services, or someone from Philly Brothers, I mean someone from the neighborhood.’
Gabriel didn’t answer.
‘Listen to me. If someone told you that you should not hang out with me, if someone threatened you, you have to tell me. We’ll deal with it.’
Byrne flashed on the first time he had dropped Gabriel off, on the thugs on the corner. He also flashed on the second time, when he braced the punk standing behind his car. He thought of Gabriel’s brother Terrell, and the notes on the activity sheet about Terrell’s suicide. The name on the activity sheet. DeRon Wilson. It all fell into place.
‘Someone told you to stay away from me, right?’ Byrne asked.
After a long, silent eternity, Gabriel said, softly, ‘Yeah.’
Byrne gripped the steering wheel. He felt as if he could rip it from the column. ‘Were you threatened?’
‘No. I don’t know. Not really.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Byrne said. ‘Here’s what we’ll do. I don’t want you to say his name. I’ll say his name, and you just tell me if I’m right. Okay?’
Nothing.
‘Gabriel, is it this guy DeRon Wilson? Is it DeRon Wilson who told you to stay away from me?’
No response.
Byrne had his answer.