— Pork Chop Hill . . . the last few meters to the summit of Everest . . . the mound at Veterans Stadium . . . the Canadian border, protected by—
Mounties.
He
knew.
ADI. ION.
“Over here!” Byrne yelled into his two-way.
He ran toward the tracks near Pattison Avenue. Within moments his lungs were on fire, his back and legs a network of raw nerve endings and searing pain. He scanned the ground as he ran, running the beam of the Maglite a few feet ahead. Nothing looked fresh. Nothing overturned.
He stopped, his lungs now spent, hands on his knees. He couldn’t run anymore. He was going to let the baby down like he had let Angelika Butler down.
He opened his eyes.
And saw it.
At his feet was a square of recently overturned gravel. Even in the gathered dusk, he could see that it was darker than the surrounding earth. He glanced up to see a dozen cops racing his way, led by Bryant Paulson and Clarence. By the time the dog came within twenty feet, he began to bark and paw the ground, indicating that he had located his quarry.
Byrne fell to his knees, tearing the dirt and gravel away with his hands. Within seconds he came across loose, damp soil. Soil that had recently been turned over.
“Kevin.” Jessica came over, helped him to his feet. Byrne backed off, breathing heavily, his fingers already raw from the sharp stones.
Three uniformed officers stepped in with shovels. They began to dig. A few seconds later they were joined by a pair of detectives. Suddenly they hit something solid.
Jessica looked up. There, less than thirty feet away, in the dim light thrown from the sodium lamps on I-95, she saw a rusted freight car. The two words were stacked, one atop the other, broken into three segments, separated by the battens on the steel boxcar.
CANADIAN
NATIONAL
On the center of the three sections were the letters ADI over the letters ION.
* * *
THE PARAMEDICS RUSHED over to the hole. They pulled out the small casket and began to pry it open. All eyes were on them. Except Kevin Byrne’s. He couldn’t bring himself to look. He closed his eyes, waited. It seemed like minutes. All he could hear was the sound of the nearby freight train, its drone a somnolent hum in the evening air.
In that moment between life and death Byrne recalled the day Colleen was born. She was about a week early, even then a force of nature. He recalled her tiny pink fingers curled against the white of Donna’s hospital gown. So small . . .
When Kevin Byrne was absolutely certain they had been too late, that they had failed Declan Whitestone, he opened his eyes and heard the most beautiful noise. A little cough, then a thin cry that soon grew to a loud throaty wail.
The baby was alive.
The paramedics rushed Declan Whitestone to the EMS rescue. Byrne looked over at Jessica. They had won. They had trumped evil this time. But they both knew that this lead came from somewhere other than databases and spreadsheets, or psychological profiles, or even the highly attuned senses of the dogs. This came from a place about which they would never speak.
* * *
THEY SPENT THE rest of the night investigating the crime scene, writing out their reports, catching a few minutes’ sleep as they could. As of 10:00 AM, the detectives had been on for twenty-six hours straight.
Jessica sat at a desk, wrapping up her report. As primary detective on the case, it was her responsibility. She had never been so exhausted in her life. She looked forward to a long bath and a full day and night’s sleep. She hoped that sleep would not be invaded by dreams of a small baby buried in a pine box. She had called Paula Farinacci, her babysitter, twice. Sophie was fine. Both times.
Stephanie Chandler, Erin Halliwell, Julian Matisse, Darryl Porter, Seth Goldman, Nigel Butler.
And then there was Angelika.
Would they ever get to the bottom of what happened on the set of
Philadelphia Skin
? There was one man who could tell them, and there was a very good chance that Ian Whitestone would take that knowledge to his grave.
At ten thirty, while Byrne was in the bathroom, someone put a small box of Milk-Bones on his desk. When he returned, he saw it and began to laugh.
No one in this room had heard Kevin Byrne laugh in a long time.
77
LOGAN CIRCLE IS ONE OF WILLIAM PENN’S ORIGINAL FIVE squares. Situated on Benjamin Franklin Parkway, it is surrounded by some of the city’s most impressive institutions: the Franklin Institute, the Academy of Natural Sciences, the Free Library, the art museum.
The three figures of Swann Fountain, at the center of the circle, represent the main waterways of Philadelphia: the Delaware, the Schuylkill, and the Wissahickon rivers. The area beneath the square was once a burial ground.
Talk about your subtext.
Today the area around the fountain is packed with summertime revelers and cyclists and tourists. The water sparkles: diamonds against a cerulean sky. Children chase each other in lazy figure eights. Vendors hawk their wares. Students read their textbooks, listen to their MP3 players.
I come upon the young woman. She is sitting on a bench, reading a book by Nora Roberts. She looks up. Recognition dawns on her pretty face.
“Oh, hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
“Nice to see you again.”
“Mind if I sit down?” I ask, wondering if I’ve expressed myself correctly.
She brightens. She understood me after all. “Not at all,” she replies. She bookmarks her book, closes it, slips it into her bag. She smooths the hem of her dress. She is a very precise and proper young lady. Well mannered and raised.
“I promise I won’t talk about the heat,” I say.
She smiles, looked at me quizzically. “The what?”
“Heat?”
She smiles. The fact that the two of us are speaking another language draws the attention of people nearby.
I study her for a moment, sifting her features, her soft hair, her demeanor. She notices.
“What?” she asks.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like a movie star?”
There is a momentary flicker of concern on her face, but when I smile at her the apprehension dissipates.
“A movie star? I don’t think so.”
“Oh, I don’t mean a current movie star. I’m thinking of an older star.”
She screws up her face.
“Oh, that’s not what I meant!” I say, laughing. She laughs with me. “I didn’t mean old. What I meant was, there is a certain . . . understated glamour about you that reminds me of a movie star from the forties. Jennifer Jones. Do you know Jennifer Jones?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’ve embarrassed you.”
“Not at all,” she says. But I can tell that she is just being polite. She glances at her watch. “I’m afraid I have to get going.”
She stands, looks at all the items she had to carry. She glances toward the Market Street subway station.
“I’m going that way,” I say. “I’d be happy to give you a hand.”
She scrutinizes me again. It seems at first she is going to decline, but when I smile again, she asks: “Are you sure it wouldn’t be out of your way?”
“Not at all.”
I pick up her two large shopping bags, and slip her canvas tote over my shoulder. “I’m an actor myself,” I say.
She nods. “I’m not surprised.”
When we reach the crosswalk, we stop. I place my hand on her forearm, just for a moment. Her skin is pale and smooth and soft.
“You know, you’ve gotten a lot better.” When she signs, she makes her handshapes slowly, deliberately, just for my benefit.
I sign back: “I’ve had inspiration.”
The girl blushes. She is an Angel.
From some angles, in certain lights, she looks just like her father.
78
AT JUST AFTER NOON A UNIFORMED OFFICER WALKED INTO THE duty room of the Homicide Unit, a FedEx envelope in hand. Kevin Byrne was at a desk, feet up, eyes closed. In his mind, he found himself at the train yards of his youth, garbed in a strange hybrid costume of pearl-handled six-guns, army helmet liner, and silver space suit. He smelled the deep brine of the river, the lush redolence of axle grease. The smell of safety. In this world there were no serial killers, no psychopaths who would cut a man in half with a chain saw or bury a baby alive. The only danger that lurked was your old man’s belt if you showed up late for dinner.
“Detective Byrne?” the uniformed officer asked, shattering the dream.
Byrne opened his eyes. “Yes?”
“This just came for you.”
Byrne took the envelope, looked at the return address. It was from a Center City law firm. He opened it. Inside was another envelope. Attached was a letter from the law firm explaining that the sealed envelope was from the estate of Phillip Kessler, to be sent on the occasion of his death. Byrne opened the inner envelope. As he read the letter, a whole new set of questions was asked, the answers to which were lying in the morgue.
“I don’t fucking believe this,” he said, drawing the attention of the handful of detectives in the room. Jessica walked over.
“What is it?” she asked.
Byrne read aloud the contents of the letter from Kessler’s lawyer. No one knew what to make of it.
“Are you telling me that Phil Kessler was
paid
to get Julian Matisse out of prison?” Jessica asked.
“That’s what the letter says. Phil wanted me to know it, but not until after his death.”
“What are you talking about? Who paid him?” Palladino asked.
“The letter doesn’t say. But what it does say is that Phil received ten grand to bring the charge against Jimmy Purify to get Julian Matisse out of prison pending his appeal.”
Everyone in the room was appropriately stunned.
“You think it was Butler?” Jessica asked.
“Good question.”
The good news was that Jimmy Purify could rest in peace. His name would be cleared. But now that Kessler and Matisse and Butler were all dead, it didn’t seem likely that they would ever get to the bottom of this.
Eric Chavez, who had been on the phone the whole time, finally hung up. “For what it’s worth, the lab figured out what movie that sixth lobby card is from.”
“What’s the movie?” Byrne asked.
“
Witness.
The Harrison Ford movie.”
Byrne glanced at the television. Channel 6 now had a live shot of the corner of Thirtieth and Market streets. They were interviewing people about how exciting it was that Will Parrish was making a movie at the train station.
“My God,” Byrne said.
“What?” Jessica asked.
“This isn’t over.”
