Byrneshrugged. 'I don't know. The murder was pretty brutal, and she went through abattery of psychological tests at the time of the hearings. I saw some of thereports. Chronic depression. Borderline bipolar. It never came to anythingbecause she pled out. There never was a trial.'

    'Wereyou called at the hearing?'

    'Iwas.'

    'Didyou testify?'

    Byrnehesitated before answering. Jessica sensed a feeling of regret. 'Yes.'

    Jessicatried to arrange the timeline in her mind. 'When was that card postmarked?'

    Byrnelooked at the envelope. 'Last Thursday.'

    Jessicadid the math. 'So she sent it—'

    'Beforethe murders.'

    Jessicafelt her breath catch. She tried to process all this. It wasn't often that shewas thrown such a curve. 'Is she capable of something like this? I mean,physically capable?'

    Jessicaknew that at least part of her question was rhetorical. The woman was aconvicted murderer, after all. Obviously she was capable of violence. Butviolence committed in the throes of rage or passion didn't necessarily lead tocold blooded, well-calculated murder. And then there were the physicalelements.

    'She'scapable,' Byrne said. 'The logistics? She's not a big woman, Jess, and she'sobviously a lot older now. I don't think she could have done all this withoutsome help.'

    Jessicawas silent for a moment. 'Okay. Maybe it's just a coincidence. The lion and therooster and the swan.'

    Byrnejust glared.

    'Okay,it was worth a shot.' Jessica glanced at her watch. 'Do you want to go now orin the morning?'

    'Gowhere?'

    'Kevin.We need to talk to her.'

    Byrnetook the note card from her, slipped it back into the envelope. 'I shouldprobably talk to her alone.'

    Byrnewas probably right, but that didn't make Jessica want to go along any less.'You have to tell the boss, Kevin. You have to share it with the team.'

    Byrneglanced around the small, cramped room. There wasn't really anything to look atbesides a beaten-up coffee maker and the two-way mirror looking into one of theinterview rooms. He looked back at his partner.

    'Tomorrow,'he said.

    Jessicastarted to object, but Byrne continued.

    'Look,this is connected with the Kenneth Beckman case, and I'm working that case. Howit's connected, I have no idea. But if it turns out to be something, I'll postit. If it doesn't, then there's no need to drag all this into the mix.'

    'Howcould it not be connected, Kevin? It's not as if Christa-Marie couldhave just now learned any of this from anyone here. She wrote the notebefore the murders happened.'

    'If Itell Dana right now, what is she going to do? Send a couple of detectives tointerrogate Christa-Marie? I know Christa-Marie. I'm the one Dana wouldsend, anyway. There's no reason to turn this woman's life upside down until weknow what this is all about.'

    'Soyou're going to talk to her off the record?'

    Byrnesaid nothing.

    Jessicawanted to remind her partner that Christa-Marie Schönburg was a confessedmurderer, a woman who had spent more than fifteen years in prison. If he didn'thave some sort of as-yet-unidentified emotional attachment to the woman and hercase, and he'd heard that a confessed murderer had information on freshhomicides, he'd be charging that way with the cavalry and more.

    'Besides,'Byrne began, moving on to his closing argument, 'who's to say I didn't readthis note tomorrow? Everyone knows I never open my mail.'

    KevinByrne's secrets were safe with Jessica, as were hers with him. She trusted hisjudgment more than anyone else she knew.

    'Okay,'Jessica said. 'Where do you want me on this?'

    'I'lldrive up to Chestnut Hill first thing in the morning. I'll call you after.'

    Jessicanodded. They both went silent for a long time.

    FinallyJessica asked, 'Are you okay, Kevin?'

    Byrneopened the door of the coffee room, glanced out. The duty room was a ghosttown. He turned back to his partner and said softly: 'I really don't know.'

    Twentyminutes later Jessica watched Byrne gather his things, close his briefcase,retrieve his weapon from the file cabinet, grab his coat and keys. He stoppedat the door, turned, gave her a sad smile and a wave. As he disappeared aroundthe corner Jessica knew there was something else going on with him, somethingother than the job, something other than the horror of the four bodies dumpedceremoniously around their city.

    Somethinghe wasn't telling her.

Chapter 40

    Hesits across the table from me, a trembling wreck of a man. In his hands is anold photograph, its colors long faded, its edges folded and creased.

    Wehave had our coffee, shared our pleasantries. I am not one seduced bynostalgia. It means nothing to me.

    'Ididn't think you were coming back,' he says.

    'Butyou know why I am here,' I say. 'Don't you?'

    Henods.

    'Everythinghas changed now,' I say. 'We can never go back.'

    Henods again, this time with a tear in his eye.

    Iglance at my watch. It is time, and time is short. I stand, bring my coffee cupto the sink, rinse it in scalding water. I dry the cup, return it to the cupboard.I am wearing gloves, but one can never be too careful. I return to the table.We fall silent. There is always a calm before the truth.

    'Willit hurt?' he asks.

    Ilisten to the voices of the dead swirling around me. I would love to ask themthis question. Alas, I cannot. 'I don't know.'

    'It'sall so Cho Cho San, is it not?'

    'Without the baby,' I say.

    'Without the baby.'

    Afew moments pass. Clouds shade his eyes. 'Remember how it was?' he asks.

    'Ido. All things were possible then, n'est-ce pas.^? All futures.'

    WhenI think of those times, I am saddened. I realize how much of it is goneforever, lost in the ductwork of memory. I stand. 'Do you want me to wait?'

    Helooks at the table for a moment, then at his hands. 'No,' he says softly.

    Itake the photograph from him, put it into my pocket. At the door I stop, turn.I see myself in the mirror at the end of the hall. It reminds me of the shinycrimson mirror of blood on the floor.

    Beforeleaving I turn up the music. It is not Chopin this time, but rather Hoist'sPlanets Suite, a movement called 'Venus, The Bringer of Peace'.

    Peace.

    Sometimes,I think, as I step through the door for the last time, the music exalts themoment.

    Sometimesit is the other way around.

Chapter 41

    ThePenn Sleep Center, part of the University of Pennsylvania Hospital system, waslocated in a modern steel and glass building on Market Street near 36th.

    Byrnecrossed the river about six, found a parking space, checked in at the desk,presented his insurance card, sat down, speed-skimmed a copy of NeurologyToday, one of his all-time favorite magazines. He covertly checked thehandful of people scattered around the waiting room. Not surprisingly, everyonelooked exhausted, beat-up, dragged- out. He hoped everyone there was a newpatient. He didn't want to think they were on their twentieth appointment andstill looked this bad.

    'Mr.Byrne?'

    Byrnelooked up. Standing at the end of the long desk was a blonde woman, no morethan five feet tall. She was in her early forties and wore pink-rimmed glasses.She was perky and full of energy. Insomniacs hate perky.