49

Last night, after leaving Byrne’s house, Darby had called Heather and asked to meet in person, unaware that the woman had already moved to New York. What Darby wanted to discuss with her was something that was best handled in person. It was easy to hang up on a phone call, harder to walk away from a face-to-face conversation – although Heather, Darby was sure, would have no trouble in doing such a thing. A shuttle flight was cheap and convenient, Darby told her, and she had no problem going to her. Heather had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to meet.

To Darby, New York City always felt like Boston on steroids: taller and wider, meaner, ready to devour you if you were careless or clumsy or just plain stupid. The first time she had gone there had been on a junior-high-school field trip that took place over two days, the big highlight being a stay in an actual New York hotel that, to her, seemed as tall as a skyscraper. The rule she had learned then still applied now: make every effort not to look like a tourist. That meant keeping up with foot traffic and watching where the hell you were going – not like the country bumpkin across the street, who was trying to divide his attention between reading street signs and finding his location on his phone while his family looked around, slightly nervous about the sheer number of people, how fast they were moving, and the homeless-looking person standing few feet away with a big white sign that read THE TIME FOR REDEMPTION IS NOW, ASSHOLE!

That was the great thing about New York. They were never short of free entertainment.

The day was unnaturally warm for winter, in the low sixties, and sunny, not a cloud in the sky. Everyone on the Upper East Side seemed to be out, enjoying the weather. Darby had Kennedy on the phone.

‘Can you hear me okay?’

‘I can hear you fine,’ he replied. ‘What’s up?’

‘Reason I’m calling is that I got in touch with Glassman this morning. He was on vacation. His daughter’s wedding, down in Texas.’

‘And what did he have to say?’ Kennedy’s tone made it crystal clear that he didn’t have much interest in the answer.

‘Cause of death is acute mechanical asphyxiation. The physical markers that Glassman found were all consistent with a case of strangulation: presence of a discontinuous groove on the neck and petechial haemorrhages in the skin of the face and beneath the conjunctivae; a frothy, blood-stained fluid in the air passages; mucus in the back of the mouth and slight acute emphysema, from years of smoking; and oedema of the lungs, with scattered areas of atelectasis. Glassman listed the death as accidental and not suicidal.’

‘And, what, you don’t buy it?’

‘How much do you know about auto-erotic asphyxiation?’ Darby, threading her way through the crowds on the sidewalk, saw more than one person glance in her direction.

‘I know I don’t want to do it,’ Kennedy replied.

‘Good to know. But I was referring to actual cases.’

‘Byrne would be the first one.’

‘Okay. I’ve had experience.’

‘Professional or personal?’

‘You’re on a roll today.’

‘My way of blowing off steam. You were saying?’

‘Asphyxia is a form of sexual masochism. It’s a paraphilic disorder, which means a recurring disorder that involves intense, sexually arousing urges, behaviours and complex fantasies. The key word here is “recurring”. Men – and they’re predominantly men, and white – who engage in this activity have a history of it.’

‘And, I’m guessing, judging by your tone, you found something you didn’t like.’

‘Glassman found no evidence of prior trauma during the autopsy. No bruising beneath the skin, nothing. A person with a history of this disorder would have it. Before the autopsy, I specifically asked Glassman to look for it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I wanted to be sure,’ Darby said. ‘Which brings me to what I found in Byrne’s bedroom last night.’ She turned a corner, stopped and glanced around the streets. She got her bearings and continued walking. ‘I examined all the ceiling beams. There weren’t any grooves in the wood or slight abrasions left from repeated usage of rope.’

‘That’s not exactly a smoking gun.’

‘Men who perform this act do it repeatedly, and often in the same place. There would be evidence – rope abrasions on the wood, grooves, like I said. There was nothing, Chris. Byrne hasn’t engaged in this activity before. The crime scene was staged. Everything points to it. The physical evidence I found, the fact that the pictures scattered on the floor weren’t sexual, that handwritten note he gave me about having had nothing to do with those girls –’

‘Don’t tell me you honestly bought that shit.’

‘Why would he mention it? What’s the reasoning?’

‘I’ll tell all of this to Blake.’

‘He’s not going to do anything with it.’

‘Well, what do you expect me to do with it?’

‘I think we need to look into the possibility that someone framed Byrne.’

‘We can’t look into anything. I’m off the case, which means you are too. Besides –’

‘Byrne’s toxicology screen said he had a lot of morphine in his system. Person with his levels wouldn’t be able to put up a fight. He would be totally out of it. The other important thing is his bedroom door. It didn’t have a lock on it.’

‘The guy lived alone.’

‘I know. But men who engage in this activity do it behind locked –’

‘Darby, the man was dying. He probably didn’t give two shits if someone caught him. And who, exactly, was going to catch him? Oh, that’s right, he lived alone.’

‘He wouldn’t want to get caught. He wouldn’t want a secret like that to get out. He’d go out of his way to protect it even if he were dying.’

‘Has anyone ever told you that you have an uncanny ability to induce a migraine-level headache?’

‘Someone staged the crime scene. I’d bet my reputation on it – and that’s not something I say often.’

‘The Byrne case is closed. Blake’s there to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. And, even if you find a smoking gun – which the autopsy info, while interesting, is not – Blake isn’t going to listen to you or, by extension, me.’

‘The night Byrne called in the jacket. Were his bodyguards with him?’

‘No. He gave them the night off.’

‘And that just happens to be the night the jacket is found.’ She spotted the restaurant where she was meeting Heather and crossed the street.

‘Darby, do you consider me a friend?’

‘The guy who attacked me is still out there. He’s involved in this.’

‘Let this go. They can’t all be winners. Cash your cheque and move on to … whatever.’

‘I’ll relay that to Mickey Flynn and the others.’

‘Darby –’

She hung up.

Darby got a table near a large window that overlooked the street. The waiter came by for her drink order.

She was sipping her soda water and watching another out-of-towner trying to find out where he was when she saw Mickey’s ex-wife heading her way.