“This is your case, isn’t it?” she signed.

Byrne hated to talk about the ugliness of his job with Colleen, but he had to constantly remind himself of late that she was no longer a child. Far from it. She would be in college before he knew it.

He nodded.

“The girl was a runaway?”

“Yes,” Byrne signed. “She was from Lancaster.”

Colleen looked at the article for a few moments, then folded the paper and put it into her tote bag.

Byrne thought about how blessed he was, how bright, and capable and resourceful his daughter was. He then thought of Robert O’Riordan, and the four months of hell through which the man had lived. Byrne had no idea if they were ever going to close the O’Riordan case. About this Kevin Byrne had a number of hopes, as well.

When they reached the building, Byrne looked at his daughter, she at him. He must have looked exactly the way he felt.

Colleen rolled her eyes, swatted him on the arm. “You are such a baby.”

Byrne silently agreed and held open the door.

BYRNE AND COLLEEN were seated at a table at Bistro St. Tropez, near the windows overlooking the Schuylkill River. The sun had come out again, and the water sparkled. They sat without conversing for a while, just enjoying their nearness.

Soon a shadow crossed the table. Byrne looked up. A woman stood next to their table, a butterscotch blond with a slender figure and a beautiful smile. She wore a pale-lemon linen suit.

The woman was his ex-wife, the love of his life. Byrne stood. Donna kissed him on the cheek. She thumbed off her lipstick—an old endearment—and his legs wobbled.

Big city cop, Byrne thought. Real tough guy. He’d been shot, stabbed, and punched more times than he could count. The slightest touch of his wife’s thumb and he was down for the count.

THEY SIPPED THEIR WATERS, glanced around at the well-dressed clientele, made their small talk. They perused the menus. Okay, Byrne did. It seemed Donna and Colleen had been here before, and knew what they wanted long before he did. They both ordered salads—one Poulet Moroccan, one Belle Mer—and Byrne ordered the Burger St. Tropez.

No one was surprised.

While they waited for their food, Byrne tried to keep up with the gossip, but he was really lost in a fog. Donna Sullivan was still the most beautiful and vibrant woman he had ever met. From the moment he first laid eyes on her next to a 7-Eleven, when they were both teenagers, he had always been in her thrall. He’d had many affairs since the divorce, had even thought he felt the real thing a few times, but his heart still stuttered every time they met.

Donna had worked as a real-estate agent for the past five years, but had recently joined a small interior design firm. She had always been creative, had taken design courses in college, but had never found the proper outlet. Now, it seemed, she had.

The lunch hour passed far too quickly. At least a dozen times as they ate and talked and laughed, Byrne thought, I’m with my wife and daughter. I’m actually sitting in a restaurant with the two girls who actually mean something to me on this planet.

Okay, two of the three. Jessica would kill him.

At just before two o’clock Donna glanced at her watch. She grabbed the check. Byrne objected, but just a little. She made a lot more than he did.

She signed, the leatherette notebook was whisked away, they finished their coffees. She then reached into her bag, pulled out a photo, showed it to Byrne.

“We’re redoing a house in Bryn Mawr. They want us to reupholster this couch. Isn’t it fabulous?”

Byrne looked at the picture. It was an antique red velvet backless couch, with one end raised. He had no idea how anyone could actually sit on it. “Where’s Cate Blanchett?”

Colleen laughed, signed, “You are so hip, Dad.”

“It’s called a fainting couch,” Donna said. “I think they paid about fourteen thousand dollars for it.”

“I understand the fainting part, then.”

“Look, I have to go check out some fabrics for it,” Donna said as they were getting ready to leave. “It’s just upstairs. Why don’t you come up with us? It will be fun.”

Fabrics. Fun.

“You know, as much as I would love to do this—you know me and fabrics—I really have to get back,” he said.

Byrne made eye contact with Colleen. Colleen’s eyes said that she knew he was talking about the Caitlin O’Riordan case. She gave a slight nod, meaning it was okay. She could not only read his lips like an expert, she could read his heart.

Byrne immediately felt bad about taking the rest of the day off. He’d head back to the Roundhouse from here. Either that or lie to his daughter. It was no contest.

“Oh all right, macho man,” Donna said. They left the bistro, stood in the fourth floor hallway, waiting for the elevator. Then, completely out of the blue, Donna kissed him. Not on the cheek. Not a two-peck Euro style kiss. It was a full-blown, let’s-get-a-room-sailor French kiss, the first in years. Many years. Donna pulled back, looked deep into his eyes. Kevin Byrne tumbled, teetered on the edge of saying something stupid, caught himself, then said it anyway.

“Yeah. Well. I didn’t feel a thing,” he said. “You?”

Donna shrugged. “I think one toe may have curled just a little, but that’s about it.”

They both laughed.

“We’ll walk you down,” she said.

Byrne, still reeling, watched his ex-wife and daughter step into the elevator ahead of him. They were the same height now. They looked so much alike that his heart ached. From behind, they were almost indistinguishable. Two women.

In the lobby, Colleen took out her digital camera, took a picture of Byrne and Donna.

Byrne hugged them both again, made his good-byes. Donna walked toward the elevators, cell phone out. Colleen lingered for a moment.

Byrne pushed through the huge doors, into the bright afternoon sun. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his lips. Donna’s lipstick glanced seductively back. For some reason he stopped, turned. Colleen was watching him. She was perfectly framed in the lobby’s square front window. She smiled her melancholy, teenage smile, held up her hand.

I love you, Dad, she signed.

Byrne’s heart flew.

TWENTY-THREE

FROM THE MOMENT Jessica lowered herself into the crawlspace she was confronted with the smell of old death. All around her she heard vermin scurrying through dry trash.

She thought of Eve Galvez in her shallow grave.

The crawlspace was at one time a storage area for whatever enterprises had occupied the first floor of the building. In the corners were dusty wooden crates, stacks of flattened and twined cardboard boxes, plastic milk crates.

Jessica Maglite around the corners. The crawlspace measured the approximate size of the building above, that being sixteen by twenty-five or so. Rusted iron pipes and commercial-gauge electrical wire ran overhead. To her left, near the front of the building, was a sanitary stack. Between the joists overhead a spider had spun a silken, silvery web, spanning the trusses. Small carcasses hung from its outer edges.

In the center of the crawlspace were three large wooden boxes.

The boxes were not aligned in a row. The center box was off to one side, forming, from Jessica’s perspective, a blocky letter C. Each cube measured about thirty inches, each a different color—one yellow, one blue, one red.

The three marks on the page of the Bible, she thought. The red, blue, and yellow squares.

She looked at the first box, the one painted yellow. She knew this one had been opened. There was a slight gap between the door on top and the sides, a gap of an inch or so. Jessica was concerned that the person who opened it had been Officer Caruso, a clear breach of procedure. In a situation such as this, all kinds of precautions could have, and should have, been taken.