fromthe Chinese restaurant. After watching footage from the time frame in question,and running the plates on the six vehicles parked on the street, he contactedand interviewed the owners. All but one checked out, and had solid alibis forwhere they were that night at that time.'

    Byrnesaid nothing.

    'Thesixth vehicle, a black Kia Sedona, belongs to a man named Patrick Connolly.'Drummond fixed him with a stare. 'Do you know a Patrick Connolly?'

    Byrneknew that Drummond, along with everyone else in the room, knew the answer tothat question, along with most of the questions he had not yet heard. Byrne hadbeen on the other side of the table too many times not to know the game. 'Yes,'he said. 'He's my cousin.'

    'WhenDetective Stansfield interviewed Mr. Connolly, Connolly told him that he hadloaned the minivan out, that he had loaned the vehicle to you. Is that true?'

    'Yes,'Byrne said. 'I borrowed the van six days ago.'

    'Wereyou driving it the night in question?'

    'Iwas.'

    'Wereyou in Fishtown that night?'

    Again,Byrne knew that everyone knew the answer to this question. No doubt they hadspoken to patrons of The Well, people who had put him in the bar that night.'Yes.'

    'Doyou recall seeing Mr. Robles that night?'

    'Yes.'

    'Didyou have a conversation or interact in any way with Mr. Robles on that night?'

    Byrnehad begun to answer the question when Inspector Mostow interrupted. 'Kevin, doyou want your PBA representative in here?'

    ThePolice Benevolent Association provided legal advice and representation forpolice officers.

    'Is thison the record?' Byrne knew the answer to that question - there was no courtreporter, he had not been sworn in, and no one was writing anything down. Hecould confess to the Lindbergh kidnapping in this room, and it could not beused against him.

    'No,'Drummond said.

    Byrnelooked over at Stansfield. He knew what the man was trying to do. This waspayback. The two men locked eyes, matching wills. Stansfield looked away 'Thenlet's put it on the record,' Byrne said.

    Drummondtook a few seconds, looked at Inspector Mostow. Mostow nodded.

    Drummondgathered a few papers, spirited them into his briefcase. 'Okay, we'll meet backhere in the morning,' Drummond said. 'Eight o'clock sharp.'

    Stansfieldpiped in. 'Inspector, I really think that we should-—'

    Mostowshot him a look. 'In the morning, detective,' he said. 'Are we clear?'

    For amoment, Stansfield didn't answer. Then, 'Yes, sir.'

    Byrnewas out of Westbrook's office first. Every detective in the duty room had theireyes on him.

    AsByrne crossed the room to get a cup of coffee, Stansfield followed him.

    'Notso much fun, is it?' Stansfield said.

    Byrnestopped, spun around. 'You don't want to talk to me right now.'

    'Oh,now you don't want to talk? It seems you couldn't keep your mouth shut the pastfew days about me.' Stansfield got a little too close. 'What were you doing inFishtown that night, detective?'

    'Stepaway,' Byrne said.

    'Doinga little cleanup work?'

    'Lasttime. Step away.'

    Stansfieldput a hand on Byrne's arm. Byrne pivoted, lashed out with a perfectly leveragedleft hook, his entire body behind it. It caught Stansfield square on the chin.The impact sounded like two rams butting heads, echoing off the walls of theduty room. Detective Dennis Stansfield spun in place, went down.

    Andout.

    'Ah,fuck,' Byrne said.

    Thewhole room shut down for a moment, drawing a collective breath. Stansfielddidn't move. Nobody moved.

    Aftera few moments Nick Palladino and Josh Bontrager slowly crossed the room to seeif Stansfield was all right. Nobody really cared all that much - no one in theroom would have denied that he'd had it coming - but it didn't serve thedepartment too well to have one of its own sprawled spread-eagle on the floorin the middle of the homicide unit duty room. Witnesses, suspects, prosecutors,and defense attorneys came through this room day and night.

    Jessicaglanced at Byrne. He rubbed his knuckles, picked up his coat, grabbed his keysoff the desk. When he got to the door, he turned, looked at Jessica, and said:'Call me if he's dead.'

Chapter 69

    Therow house on 19th Street, near Callowhill, was immaculate. Beneath the frontwindow was a pine flower-box. In the window was a candle.

    Byrnerang the bell. A few seconds later the door opened. Anna Laskaris stood there,apron on, spoon in hand, a look of confusion and expectation on her face.

    'Mrs.Laskaris, I don't know if you remember me. I'm—'

    'Godmay have taken my looks and my ability to walk more than three blocks. Hedidn't take away my brain. Not yet, anyway. I remember you.'

    Byrnenodded.

    'Come,come.'

    Sheheld the door open for him. Byrne stepped inside. If the outside of the rowhouse was immaculate, the inside was surgically precise. On every surface wassome sort of knitted item: afghans, doilies, throws. The air was suffused withthree different aromas, all of them tantalizing.

    Shesat him at a small table in the kitchen. In seconds there was a cup of strongcoffee in front of him.

    Byrnetook a minute or so, adding sugar, stirring, stalling. He finally got to thepoint. 'There's no easy way to say this, ma'am. Eduardo Robles is dead.'

    AnnaLaskaris looked at him, unblinking. Then she made the sign of the cross. A fewseconds later she got up and walked to the stove. 'We'll eat.'

    Byrnewasn't all that hungry, but it wasn't a question. In an instant he had a bowlof lamb stew in front of him. A basket of fresh bread seemed to appear out ofnowhere. He ate.

    'Thisis fantastic.'

    AnnaLaskaris mugged, as if this was in any doubt. She sat across from him, watchedhim eat.

    'Youmarried?' she asked. 'You wear no ring, but these days . . .'

    'No,'Byrne said. 'I'm divorced.'

    'Girlfriend?'

    'Notright now.'

    'Whatsize sweater you wear?'

    'Ma'am?'

    'Sweater.Like a cardigan, a pullover, a V-neck. Sweater.'

    Byrnehad to think about it. 'I don't really buy a lot of sweaters, to be honest withyou.'

    'Okay.I try another door. When you buy a suit, like this beautiful suit you weartoday, what size?'

    'A46, usually,' Byrne said. 'A 46 long.'

    AnnaLaskaris nodded. 'So then, an extra large. Maybe extra-extra.'

    'Maybe.'

    'What'syour favorite color?'

    Byrnedidn't really have a favorite color. It wasn't something that crossed his mindthat much. He did, however, have least favorites. 'Well, anything butpink, I guess. Or yellow.'

    'Purple?'

    'Orpurple.'

    Anna Laskarisglanced at her huge knitting basket, back at Byrne. 'Green, I think. You'reIrish, right?'

    Byrnenodded.

    'Anice green.'

    Byrneate his stew. It occurred to him that this was the first time in a long while hewas not eating in a restaurant or out of a Styrofoam container. While he ate,Anna stared off in the distance, her mind perhaps returning to other times inthis house, other times at this table, times before people like Byrne broughtheartache to the door like UPS. After a while, she stood slowly. She nodded atByrne's empty bowl. 'You have some more, yes?'

    'OhGod, no. I'm stuffed. It was wonderful.'

    Sherounded the table, picked up his bowl, brought it to the sink. Byrne could seethe pain in her eyes.

    'Therecipe was my grandmother's. Then her grandmother's. Of the many things I miss,it's teaching Lina these things.'