Kevin Byrne understood the rush of crime.He knew well the adrenaline surge of larcenous or violent or antisocial behavior. He had arrested many a suspect still in the flush of the moment and knew that, in the grip of that rarefied feeling, criminals seldom considered what they had done, its consequence to the victim, its consequence to themselves. There was, instead, a bitter glow of accomplishment, a feeling that society had prohibited this behavior and they had done it anyway.
As Byrne prepared to leave his apartment-the ember of this feeling igniting inside him, against his better instincts-he had no idea how this evening would conclude, whether he would end up with Victoria safe in his arms, or with Julian Matisse at the end of his pistol sight.
Or, he was afraid to admit, neither.
Byrne pulled a pair of workman's overalls from his closet, a grimy jumpsuit belonging to the Philadelphia Water Department. His uncle Frank had recently retired from the PWD, and Byrne had gotten the overalls from him once when he needed to go undercover a few years earlier. Nobody looks at the guy working on the street. City workers, like street vendors, panhandlers, and the elderly, are part of the urban curtain. Human scenery. Tonight Byrne needed to be invisible.
He looked at the figurine of Snow White on his dresser. He had handled it carefully when he removed it from the hood of his car, placing it in an evidence bag as soon as he slipped back behind the wheel. He didn't know if it ever would be needed as evidence, or if Julian Matisse's fingerprints would be on it.
Nor did he know which side of the legal process he would come down on by the time this long night was over. He put the jumpsuit on, grabbed his toolbox, and left.
His car was bathed in darkness.
A group of teenagers-all about seventeen or eighteen, four boys and two girls-stood half a block away, watching the world go by, waiting for their shot at it. They smoked, shared a blunt, sipped from a pair of brown-paper-clad forties, snapped the dozens on each other, or whatever they called it these days. The boys competed for the girls' favors; the girls primped and preened, above it all, missing nothing. It was every urban summertime corner. Always had been.
Why was Phil Kessler doing this to Jimmy? Byrne wondered. He had stopped at Darlene Purify's house that afternoon. Jimmy's widow was a woman not yet beyond the reach of the tendrils of grief. She and Jimmy had divorced more than a year before Jimmy's death, but she had not stopped caring. They had shared a life. They shared the lives of three children.
Byrne tried to remember what Jimmy's face looked like when he was telling one of his stupid jokes, or when he got really serious at four in the morning, back in his drinking days, or when he was interrogating some asshole, or that time when he dried the tears of a little Chinese kid on the playground who had run right out of his shoes getting chased by some bigger kid. Jimmy took that kid over to Payless that day and hooked him up with a new pair of sneaks, out of his own pocket.
Byrne couldn't remember.
But how could this be?
He remembered every punk he had ever arrested. Every single one.
He remembered the day his father bought him a slice of watermelon from a vendor on Ninth Street. He was about seven years old; the day was hot and humid; the watermelon was ice cold. His old man had on a red-striped shirt and white shorts. His old man told a joke to the vendor-a dirty joke, because he whispered it out of Kevin's earshot. The vendor laughed high and loud. He had gold teeth.
He remembered every fold in the bottom of his daughter's tiny feet on the day she was born.
He remembered Donna's face when he had asked her to marry him, the way she cocked her head at that slight angle, as if skewing the world might give her some sort of insight into his true intentions.
But Kevin Byrne couldn't remember Jimmy Purify's face, the face of a man he had loved, a man who had taught him just about everything he knew about the city, the job.
God help him, he couldn't remember.
He looked up and down the avenue, scanning his three car mirrors. The teenagers had moved on. It was time. He got out, grabbed the toolbox and a clipboard. He felt as if he were swimming in the overalls, due to the weight he had lost. He pulled the ball cap down as low as he could.
If Jimmy were with him, this would be the moment he would flip up his collar, shoot his cuffs, and declare that it was showtime y'all.
Byrne crossed the avenue and stepped into the darkness of the alley.