Latelyhe found himself thinking obsessively about all the innocent, the unavenged. Hethought about the short, inconsequential life of Kitty Jo Morris, aged three,scalded to death by her mother's boyfriend, a man angered over the littlegirl's habit of taking the remote from the living room; of Bonita Alvarez, notquite eleven, who was pushed from the roof of a three-story building in NorthPhilly for hiding one of her older sister's Rice Krispie treats in the broomcloset; of Max Pearlman, aged eighteen months, left in a car overnight inJanuary while his father smoked crack underneath the Piatt Bridge.

    Noheadlines here. No NBC White Paper specials on the state of the Americanfamily. Just a little less space in the graveyards. Just a little slip.

    Now,in Byrne's head, it was 1970. Blues legend Willie Dixon was proclaiming that heain't superstitious. Neither was Kevin Byrne. He had seen too much to believein anything but good and evil.

    Andevil is in the house, Byrne thought as he considered the man sitting acrossthe bar from him at that moment, a man who had the blood of at least two peopleon his hands, a murderer named Eduardo Robles.

    On ahot summer afternoon in 2007, Eduardo Robles and his girlfriend were walkingdown a street in Fishtown. According to Robles, at around 1:30 p.m. a carcruised slowly by, the deep bass of a rap song rattling the windows of nearbybuildings. Someone in that car pointed a gun out the window and fired. Robles'sgirlfriend, a seventeen-year- old named Lina Laskaris, was struck three times.

    Roblescalled 911, and when he arrived at the police station, after having hisstatement taken by a patrol officer on the street, a divisional detectiveassumed that the young man was a suspect, not a witness. The detective cuffedRobles and stuck him in a holding cell.

    Byrnegot the call at eleven p.m. When Robles arrived at the Roundhouse - nearly tenhours after the incident - Byrne removed the cuffs, sat Robles down in one ofthe interrogation rooms. Robles said he was hungry and thirsty. Byrne sent outfor hoagies and Mountain Dew, then began to question Robles.

    They danced.

    Atthree o'clock the next morning Robles rolled, and admitted it had been he who'dshot Lina Laskaris. Byrne arrested Robles for murder at 3:06 a.m., read him hisMiranda warnings.

    Theproblem with the case was that, according to the law, the police had six hoursto determine someone's status as a witness or a suspect.

    Threedays later the grand jury came back with a no-bill because they believed,rightly so, that the arrest had begun the moment Robles was mistakenly put incuffs at the station house. In that moment Robles went from witness to suspect,and the clock began to tick.

    Fivedays after killing his girlfriend in cold blood, Eduardo Robles was a free man,courtesy of the astonishingly incompetent work of a divisional detective who,incredibly, due to some unfathomable political connection, had recently beenrewarded for his incompetence with a job in the Homicide Unit, at an increasein pay.

    Thatman's name was Detective Dennis Stansfield.

    Robleswent back to the life and within months was involved in the murder of a mannamed Samuel Reese, a night clerk at a bodega in Chinatown. Police believedthat Robles shot Reese twice, took the surveillance disk from the recorder inthe back room, and walked out with sixty-six dollars and a can of brake fluid.

    Itwas all circumstantial - no ballistics, no physical evidence, shaky witnessaccounts - nothing that would stand up in court. In terms of the reality of thelaw, bullshit.

    Byrnehad spent the past two days building a case against Robles, but it was notgoing well. Although they had not found the murder weapon, Byrne interviewedfour people who could put Robles in that bodega at that time. None of them werewilling to talk to police, at least not on the record. Byrne had seen the fearin their eyes. But he also knew that talking to a cop on the street corner, orin your living room, or even at your place of business was one thing. Talkingto a district attorney in front of a grand jury, under oath, was somethingelse. Everyone called to testify would understand that committing perjury infront of a grand jury carried a prison term of five months, twenty-nine days.And that was for each lie.

    Inthe morning Byrne would meet with Michael Drummond, the assistant districtattorney assigned to the Robles case. If they could get four people toimplicate Robles, they might be able to get a search warrant for Robles's carand apartment, perhaps finding something that would create a daisy chain, andthe evidence would roll in.

    Ormaybe it wouldn't get that far. Maybe something would happen to Robles.

    Younever knew about such things in a city like Philadelphia.

    Werethe police partially responsible for the death of Samuel Reese? In this casethey were. Robles should never have gotten back on the street.

    Slippage.

    Onthe day Robles was arrested, Byrne visited Lina Laskaris's grandmother. AnnaLaskaris was a Greek immigrant in her early seventies. She had raised Linaalone. Byrne told the woman that the man responsible for Lina's death was beingbrought to justice. He remembered the woman's tears, how she held him, how herhair smelled of cinnamon. She was making pantespani.

    WhatByrne remembered most was that Anna Laskaris had trusted him, and he had lether down.

    Byrnenow caught a glimpse of himself in the filmy mirror behind the bar. He wore aball cap, and the glasses he had been forced to start wearing lately. If Robleshad not been drinking he might have recognized Byrne. But Byrne was probablyjust a blur in the near distance to Robles, as well as to everyone else in thebar. This was no upscale Center City watering hole. This place was for harddrinkers, for hard men.

    At12:30 Robles stumbled out of the bar. He got into his car and drove downFrankford Avenue. When Robles reached York Street he turned east, drove a fewblocks, parked.

    Byrnesat in his car across the street, and watched. Robles got out of his car,stopped twice to talk to people. He was looking to score. Within minutes a manapproached.

    Roblesand the other man walked, a little unsteadily, down the alley. A moment laterByrne saw light flare against the dirty brick wall of the alley. Robles washitting the rock.

    Byrnegot out of his car, looked both ways up the street. Deserted. They were alone.Philadelphia was once again sliding into slumber, except for those who movedsilently through the harbor of night.

    Byrnestepped into shadow. From somewhere, perhaps deep inside him, a long-forgottenmelody began to play.

    Itsounded like a requiem.

Chapter 6

    Monday,October 25

    Theearly morning run through Pennypack Park had become a sacrament, one that Jessicawas not quite ready to relinquish. The people she saw every morning were notjust part of the landscape but part of her life.

    Therewas the older woman, always meticulously turned out in 1960s pillbox chic, whowalked her four Jack Russell terriers every morning, the dogs in possession ofa wardrobe more extensive and seasonal than Jessica's. There was the tai chigroup who, rain or shine, performed their morning rituals on the baseballdiamond near Holme Avenue. Then there were her buddies, the two Russians,half-brothers, both named Ivan. They were well into their sixties, butincredibly fit, as well as shockingly hirsute, given to jogging in theirmatching lime- green Speedos in summer. For half-brothers they looked almostidentically alike. At times Jessica could not tell them apart, but it didn'treally matter. When she saw one of them she simply said, 'Good morning, Ivan.'She always got a smile.