The Killing Room (24 page)

When Margaret, one of the best bartenders in the city of Philadelphia, saw Byrne sit down, she knew it was a Bushmills night. There was a glass in front of him before he’d gotten his coat off.

Halfway through his first drink, he allowed himself to think about what had really happened in that dilapidated hallway, the real message he’d received when he laid hands on DeRon Wilson, the feeling of –

–
cold stone walls, the expression of The Boy in the Red Coat as he looks up in silence –

– the coming confrontation.

Byrne drained his glass. Before he could call for the next drink a shadow spilled across the bar next to him. There were four open stools to his right, so it was not someone looking for a spot.

‘Crazy days, huh?’ a female voice said.

Byrne turned to look. The woman was in her early thirties, dark-haired, pretty. She wore a black turtleneck sweater, tight jeans. Around her neck was a delicate silver chain. Byrne had the feeling they had met before. He couldn’t place her.

‘Well, we live in interesting times,’ he said. It sounded like the right response. He
hoped
it was, considering how pretty this woman was.

She smiled, and Byrne realized she was a little older than he had originally thought. He placed her in her mid- to late thirties.

‘We didn’t get to meet properly the other day,’ she said. ‘I’m Faith.’

The other day?
How could he not remember this woman?

And it hit him. She was
F. CHRISTIAN
. She was the female paramedic who had come to the scene at St Adelaide’s. On that day she’d had her hair in a ponytail, had no makeup on, and wore glasses. Not to mention a bulky parka. He had hardly noticed her that day, but that was not unusual, considering the circumstances.

‘Kevin Byrne.’

‘I know,’ she said. They shook hands. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Not at all.’ Byrne moved his coat to the stool on his left.
Faith slipped onto the stool, and Byrne caught her full profile. She was beyond attractive. She had a ring on her right-hand ring finger in the shape of a cross.

‘Wait a minute,’ Byrne said. ‘Your name is Faith Christian?’

She smiled, rolled her eyes at what had to be the ten-thousandth time she’d heard this. ‘Don’t ask.’

‘See, now I have to know,’ he said.

‘We just met. We’ll probably get to it.’

‘You think?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘In that case, what are you drinking?’ Byrne asked.

She smiled again, gave it a moment’s thought. ‘I think I’ll have an Old Fashioned tonight.’

Margaret, standing a few feet away, topping a Guinness, nodded her head. She’d heard. Margaret heard everything.

‘You know, I’ve never met a woman who ordered an Old Fashioned before,’ Byrne said. ‘It’s so Joan Crawford.’

Faith smiled. ‘You know, it’s odd. I don’t really have a drink.’

‘Then you’re not from Philadelphia, I take it.’

‘No. Not originally.’

‘See, it’s a city ordinance here.’

‘Well, I’ve been working on one since college, but I’m pretty fickle that way. I started watching that show
Mad Men
, and the main character drinks them. I thought I’d give it a try.’

‘Classy drink.’

‘Yeah, well, I need all the help I can get.’

Hardly, Byrne thought. He glanced over Faith’s shoulder, at the door that led to the stairway and the first floor. A few minutes before Faith showed up Byrne thought he had seen someone standing there, and now he could see he wasn’t
mistaken. Whoever it was stood in shadow. Byrne always felt safe at Finnigan’s Wake, but he had long ago acquired the habit of never sitting with his back to the door. Any door.

‘So, how long have you worked as a paramedic?’ Byrne asked.

‘About eight years,’ she said. Margaret delivered the Old Fashioned. Faith sipped, nodded her approval. ‘I can’t believe it’s been that long, but here I am.’

‘Is it something you always wanted to do?’

She ran the swizzle stick around the glass. ‘Not really. I thought about nursing school – I still think about nursing school. But you know how it is. Life intervenes, mortgages happen, car payments are due, your dreams run out of gas.’

Byrne flicked another glance to the doorway. The shadow was still there. Unmistakably a man, on the tall side. Byrne had the feeling they were being watched, and he was
rarely
wrong about that feeling.

‘What about you?’ Faith asked. ‘Did you always want to be a cop?’

‘Yeah. I don’t remember ever wanting to be anything else.’

‘Not even a fireman?’

‘Please. Es
pecially
a fireman.’

The friendly rivalry – and sometimes not so friendly rivalry – between police and firefighters was alive and well in Philly.

‘I know a lot of guys at the 10th Battalion,’ Faith said. ‘I’m telling them you said that.’

‘Bring it on.’

Faith smiled, took another sip. They spent the next twenty minutes talking about the city, their jobs, their favorites.
Another round of drinks came and went. They finally got around to the important things.

‘So, do you have any kids?’ Faith asked.

Byrne nodded. ‘One daughter. Colleen. She’s away at college. Somehow.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean about two months ago I was putting together a Big Wheel for her third birthday.’

Byrne went on to tell Faith about Colleen, about what her deafness meant to her, how she had never treated it as a disability, and how that had always been an inspiration to him.

‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Do you have any kids?’

Faith seemed to hesitate before answering, but maybe it was Byrne’s imagination. Or maybe it was the Bushmills. ‘I do,’ she said. ‘I have a son.’

Byrne looked at her for a few moments. When she didn’t add anything he got the feeling it was making her uncomfortable. He decided to make light of it.

‘So, is your son having trouble in kindergarten or something?’

Faith laughed, wagged a finger at him. ‘You are good.’

‘It’s a gift.’

‘He’s a
lot
older than that, my friend.’ With this she playfully slugged Byrne on the shoulder. It stung. Faith was stronger than she looked, but then again she had to be. She had to lift dead weight every day. ‘I
wish
he was still in kindergarten.’

They sipped from their glasses. Byrne glanced back at the door. The shadow was still there. He took out his phone.

‘Excuse me one second,’ he said.

‘Sure.’

He sent a text to the bar manager, Mickey. Mickey would send two of the mountainous guys that worked the doors at Finnigan’s Wake to see what was what with the mysterious figure in the shadows of the lower-level landing.

A minute later Mickey texted him back to tell him that by the time the boys got down there, whoever had been lurking was gone.

Paranoia
, Kevin.

‘Everything okay? Faith asked.

Byrne put his phone away. ‘Never better.’

‘You are such a good liar. I like that in a man.’

Byrne smiled, drained his Bushmills. ‘You know, you keep talking like that, you’re never going to get me into bed.’

Faith smiled, put a hand on his leg. ‘Yes, I will.’

‘Oh, yeah? What makes you so sure?’

She leaned in, kissed him gently on the lips. ‘I’ve had much tougher cases.’

‘Have you now?’

Their eyes met, and it all came down to that second. You are connecting, or you’re not.

They did.

Byrne stood, dropped a pair of twenties on the bar. Margaret, at the other end, knocked the bar twice, smiled.

As Byrne and Faith walked down Green Street, toward their cars, Byrne couldn’t shake the feeling they were being observed. He was sure of it, but he had no idea why.

‘I like your place,’ she said.

‘I’m glad you’re not wearing your glasses.’

She looked beautiful in the soft candlelight. The first time
they’d made love it had been manic – clothes everywhere, barely making it to the bed. The second time was slower, sweeter, as if they’d known each other for years.

Byrne pointed at the candle. ‘You always bring your own candles with you?’

She had reached into her bag when they arrived, taken out a large, scented pillar candle, put it on the nightstand, lighted it.

‘I’m getting into aromatherapy. This is clary sage and nectarine. Do you like it?’

‘I do.’

She turned in his bed, pulled the sheet around her, rested her head on his chest. Byrne tried to remember the last time he’d been in this position. It had been a while.

‘You know, our jobs are not all that different in a lot of ways,’ she said. ‘What I mean is, we see a lot. Does it ever get to you?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘I mean, do you ever want to just walk away from it. Say enough is enough?’

Byrne didn’t know any detective with twenty-five years in who didn’t think about retiring, sometimes on a daily basis. ‘I’ve been doing this job a long time,’ he said. ‘Longer than most. At least in homicide. I’ve learned to move on.’

‘Always?’

There was no point in lying, in trying to be the macho cop. ‘Not always. In all this time there have been a few cases that have stuck with me. So, yeah. Sometimes it gets to me.’

‘Open cases?’

‘Open cases,’ Byrne said. ‘Every so often I pull out the
activity sheets, make a few notes. I read over the evidence, check the witness statements, hoping that I’ll see something that I never saw before.’ Byrne wanted to tell her more, much more, about how he sometimes picked up a piece of evidence and got a feeling about the killer. But they’d just met. He didn’t need to scare her off.

‘Do you think it’s real?’ she asked.

‘Do I think what is real?’

‘Evil.’

‘That’s a tough one. If you’re asking whether or not I think a person can be born bad, the answer is yes. I didn’t always, but I do now.’

They fell silent. Byrne drifted in and out of sleep. He’d gotten about four hours a night for the past week. Add the Bushmills, and it was no wonder he was fatigued. He felt himself floating, floating. He opened his eyes, looked at the clock. It wasn’t yet eleven. Somehow he thought it was morning. He felt the bed next to him, but Faith wasn’t there.

He looked up and saw her standing at the foot of his bed. She wore a red coat. Next to her stood a tall young man in a pointed hood. Byrne knew it was the same man who had been watching them in Finnigan’s Wake, the same man they had seen in the surveillance video across from St Adelaide’s. Byrne tried to get out of bed, but his hands and feet were tied to the bed posts.

‘You were right, detective,’ she said.

‘Right?’

‘Evil is flesh.’

Byrne woke in a sweat. He turned, sat up, his heart pounding in his chest. Faith was gone. On the pillow was a note. He
flipped on the light, read it. In the note she said she was on midnight to eight. She left her phone number.

Byrne slipped on a pair of jeans, walked to the kitchen, shaking off the nightmare, still in the grip of broken sleep. He flipped on the TV, poured himself a short one. Then poured the rest of a tall one. He checked the TV screen.

It was a recap of the day’s news. He found the lead story very interesting. The caption pretty much said it all.

VIDEO OF PHILLY COP GOES VIRAL

It was a grainy hand-held video, the kind you saw showing up more and more often these days, a video of him bracing DeRon Wilson.

‘This is Shane Adams reporting.’

Byrne turned off the TV, walked over to the fridge, opened it. The feeling of dread that had been building inside him since the moment he had walked into St Adelaide’s was growing by the minute. He opened a beer, swallowed most of it.

He looked out the window, at the glow of Center City and beyond. He then sat at his small dinette table, turned on his phone. He looked at the screen. There were thirty-nine messages. He turned it off, walked back to the bedroom, smoothed the sheets and blanket, wondering if he’d get back to sleep this night. He doubted it. The room still smelled of sex, of Faith Christian, of sage and nectarine. He sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the candle, blew it out.

I will come to thee quickly, and will remove thy candlestick
.

The words were almost shouted in his head.

*

There were no sector cars deployed at St Damian’s any longer; the yellow tape had been removed. It was no longer an active crime scene. The window pane that had been broken to gain entry had been covered over by plywood.

Byrne had anticipated this. He brought with him a large iron crow bar. The plywood square came off with ease, and within seconds he was inside.

Like St Adelaide’s, the interior was covered in black fingerprint dust which, at this hour, served to make the space even darker, seemed to absorb the beam of Byrne’s flashlight.

I will come to thee quickly, and will remove thy candlestick
.

He moved to a section to the right of where the altar once stood. It was an area devoted to the lighting of memorial votive candles. Although the three-tiered table was still there, the glass candleholders were boxed up beneath. Byrne pulled the boxes out. Most of the candleholders were broken. Byrne could see that a number of the glasses were imprinted with a cross. Some of the larger shards of glass had been dusted for prints, but not bagged.

Byrne snapped on a glove, aligned the glass holders on the old oaken table. They were identical. Some still had paraffin clinging to the sides. Even with the flashlight and naked eye, Byrne could see dozens of fingerprints. A glass surface – a glass surface coated with wax residue – was just about the perfect surface to leave a textbook exemplar of a fingerprint.

Byrne looked at the three dozen glasses, examined them, then saw something he had not noticed before. One of the glasses was a deep amber color, not red. He picked up the amber glass. The cross on the front was slightly different as well.

He turned it over. There, on the bottom, was a small metal plate that read:

Property of St Regina