At just after ten o'clock, the man for whom Byrne was waiting rounded the corner, a thick ring of keys in his hand.
"Hey, how ya doin'?" Byrne asked, cap brim pulled low, eyes hidden.
The man found him in the dim light, a little startled. He saw the PDW jumpsuit and relaxed. A little. "What's up, chief?"
"Same crap, different diaper."
The man snorted. "Tell me about it."
"You guys got any problems with the water pressure up there?" Byrne asked.
The man glanced at the bar, then back. "Not that I know of."
"Well, we got the call and they sent me," Byrne said. He glanced at the clipboard. "Yeah, this is the right place. Mind if I take a look at the pipes?"
The man shrugged, glanced down the steps to the access door that led to the cellar underneath the building. "Ain't my pipes, ain't my problem. Help yourself, bro."
The man walked down the rusting iron steps, unlocked the door. Byrne glanced up and down the alley, then followed.
The man flipped on the light-a bare 150-watt bulb in a metal mesh cage. In addition to the dozens of stacked upholstered bar stools, disassembled tables, and stage props were maybe a hundred cases of liquor.
"Holy crap," Byrne said. "I could stay down here for a while."
"Between you and me, this is all shit. The good stuff is locked in my boss's office upstairs."
The man pulled a pair of boxes off a stack, set them down by the door. He consulted a computer readout in his hand. He began to count some of the boxes that were left. He made a few notes.
Byrne put the toolbox down, quietly shut the door behind him. He assessed the man in front of him. The man was a little bit younger, without question faster. But Byrne had something he didn't. The element of surprise.
Byrne flicked the baton out, stepped from the shadow. The snick of the baton reaching its full length caught the man's attention. He turned to Byrne, a questioning look on his face. It was too late. Byrne swung the twenty-one-inch tactical steel rod as hard as he could. It caught the man perfectly, just below the right knee. Byrne heard the cartilage rip. The man barked once, then crumbled to the floor.
"What the… Jesus!"
"Shut up."
"Fuck… you." The man began to rock, holding his knee. "Motherfucker."
Byrne pulled the SIG. He dropped onto Darryl Porter with all his weight. Both knees on the man's chest, two-hundred-plus pounds. The blow knocked the air out of Porter. Byrne pulled off his ball cap. Recognition alit on Porter's face.
"You," Porter said between gasps. "I fuckin'… knew I knew you from somewhere."
Byrne held up the SIG. "I've got eight rounds in here. Nice even number, am I right?"
Darryl Porter just glared.
"Now, I want you to think about how many things you have on your body that comes in pairs, Darryl. I'm going to start with your ankles, and every time you fail to answer my question, another pair is mine. And you know where I'm heading with this."
Porter gasped for air. Byrne's weight on his chest didn't help.
"Here we go, Darryl. These are the most important moments of your rotten, pointless life. No second chances. No makeup exams. Ready?"
Silence.
"Question one: Did you tell Julian Matisse I was looking for him?"
Cold defiance. This guy was way too tough for his own good. Byrne put the barrel against the Porter's right ankle. Upstairs, the music pounded.
Porter squirmed, but the weight on his chest was too much. He couldn't move. "You're not gonna fucking shoot me," Porter yelled. "You know why? You know how I know that? I'm gonna tell you how I know that, motherfucker." His voice was high and crazy. "You're not gonna shoot me because-"
Byrne shot him. The blast was deafening in this small confined space. Byrne hoped the music covered it. Either way, he knew he had to wrap this up fast. The bullet had only grazed Porter's ankle, but Porter was way too jazzed to know that. He was sure Byrne had blown his foot off. He screamed again. Byrne put the barrel of the weapon against Porter's temple.
"Know what? I've changed my mind, shitbag. I am going to kill you after all."
"Wait!"
"I'm listening.
"I tuh-told him."
"Where is he?"
Porter gave him an address.
"He's there now?" Byrne asked.
"Yeah."
"Give me a reason not to kill you."
"I… didn't do anything."
"What, you mean today? You think that matters to someone like me? You're a pedophile, Darryl. A white slaver. A pimp and a pornographer. I think the city can survive without you."
"Don't!"
"Who's going to miss you, Darryl?"
Byrne pulled the trigger. Porter screamed, then fainted. The chamber was empty. Byrne had emptied the rest of the magazine before coming down into the cellar. He didn't trust himself.
As Byrne mounted the steps, the mixture of smells nearly made him dry-heave. The reek of just-burned gunpowder mixed with that of mold and wood rot and the sugar of cheap booze. Beneath that, the smell of fresh urine. Darryl Porter had pissed in his pants.
It was five minutes after Kevin Byrne left that Darryl Porter was able to get to his feet. Partially because the pain was off the charts. Partially because he was certain that Byrne was waiting for him just outside the door, ready to finish what he had started. Porter really thought that the man had taken his foot off. He steadied himself for a moment or two, hobbled to the exit, and meekly poked out his head. He looked both ways. The alley was empty.
"Hey!" he yelled.
Nothing.
"Yeah," he said. "You better run, bitch."
He jerked his way up the stairs, one tread at a time. The pain was mind-scrambling. He finally reached the top step thinking that he knew people. Oh, he knew lots of people. People that made him look like a goddamn Boy Scout. Because, cop or no cop, this fucker was going down. You don't pull this shit on Darryl Lee Porter and get away with it. Hell no. Who said you can't kill a detective?
As soon as he got upstairs he would drop a dime. He glanced out onto the street. A police sector car sat on the corner, probably having responded to some bar disturbance. He didn't see an officer. Never around when you need them.
For a fleeting moment Darryl thought about going to the hospital, but how was he going to pay for it? There wasn't exactly a benefits package working at the X Bar. No, he'd patch himself up the best he could, check it in the morning.
He dragged himself behind the building then up the wobbly wrought- iron stairs, stopping twice to catch his breath. Most of the time, living in two cramped, shitty rooms above the X Bar was a pain in the ass. The smell, the noise, the clientele. Now it was a blessing, because it took all his strength just to make it to his front door. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, made his way to the bathroom, flipped on the fluorescent light. He poked around his medicine chest. Flexeril. Klonopin. Ibupro- fen. He took two of each, then started to fill the tub. The pipes rattled and clanked, spewing forth a gallon or so of rusty, briny-smelling water into the scum-ringed tub. When it ran as clear as it was going to run, he put the stopper in, turned the hot water on full blast. He sat on the edge of the tub, checked his foot. The blood had stopped flowing. Barely. His foot was starting to turn blue. Hell, it was turning black. He touched the area with a forefinger. The pain shot to his brain in a fiery comet.
"You are so fuckin' dead." He'd make the call as soon as he'd soaked his foot.
A few minutes later, after having eased his foot into the hot water, after the various drugs had started their magic, he thought he heard someone outside his door. Or did he? He turned the water off for a moment, listened, cocking his head toward the back of the apartment. Had that fucker followed him up? He glanced around the immediate area for a weapon. A crusty Bic disposable razor and a stack of porno mags.
Great. The closest knife was in the kitchen and that was ten agonizing steps away.
The music from the bar downstairs rumbled and thundered again. Had he locked the door? He thought so. Although, in the past, he had left it open a few drunken nights only to have a few of the fucking head cases who frequented the X Bar come waltzing in, looking for a place to rut. Fucking lowlifes. He had to get a new job. At least in the strip clubs, the spill wasn't bad. The only thing he could hope to pick up at closing time at the X was a dose of herpes or a pair of Ben Wa balls up the ass.
He turned off the water, which was already running cold. He eased himself to his feet, slowly extricated his foot from the tub, spun around, and was more than a little shocked to see another man standing in his bathroom. A man who seemed to have no footsteps.
This man had a question for him, too.
When he answered, the man said something Darryl did not understand. It sounded like a foreign language. It sounded like it might be French.
Then, in a motion almost too fast to detect, the man grabbed him by the neck. His hands were terribly strong. In a blur the man pushed his head beneath the surface of the filthy water. One of Darryl Porter's last sights was the corona of a tiny red light, burning in the dim radiance of his dying.
The tiny red light of a video camera.