51

WEDNESDAY, 4:15 PM

WHEN BYRNE BROUGHT UP THE BOY’S NAME, Colleen went four shades of red.

“He is not my boyfriend,” his daughter signed.

“Uh, okay. Whatever you say,” Byrne signed back.

“He’s not.”

“Then why are you blushing?” Byrne signed, a huge smile on his face. They were on Germantown Avenue, heading to the Easter party at the Delaware Valley School for the Deaf.

“I’m not blushing,” Colleen signed, ever redder.

“Oh, okay,” Byrne said, letting her off the hook. “Somebody must have left a stop sign in my car.”

Colleen just shook her head, looked out the window. Byrne noticed that the vents on his daughter’s side of the car were blowing around her silky fine blond hair. When had it gotten so long? he wondered. And were her lips always this red?

Byrne got his daughter’s attention by waving his hand around, then signed: “Hey. I thought you guys went on a date. My mistake.”

“It wasn’t a date,” Colleen signed. “I’m too young to date. Just ask Mom.”

“Then what was it, if it wasn’t a date?”

Big eye roll. “It was two kids going to see the fireworks with, like, a hundred million adults around.”

“I’m a detective, you know.”

“I know, Dad.”

“I have sources and snitches all over town. Paid, confidential informants.”

“I know, Dad.”

“I just heard that you guys were holding hands and stuff.”

Colleen replied with a sign that was not to be found in The Handshape Dictionary but was well known to all deaf kids. Two hands shaped like razor-sharp tiger claws. Byrne laughed. “Okay, okay,” he signed. “Don’t scratch.”

They drove in silence for a while, enjoying each other’s nearness, despite their sparring. It wasn’t often that it was just the two of them. Everything was changing with his daughter, she was a teenager, and the idea scared Kevin Byrne more than any armed gangbanger in any dark alley.

Byrne’s cell phone rang. He answered. “Byrne.”

“Can you talk?”

It was Gauntlett Merriman.

“Yeah.”

“He’s at the old safe house.”

Byrne took it in. The old safe house was five minutes away.

“Who’s with him?” Byrne asked.

“He’s alone. At least for now.”

Byrne glanced at his watch, saw his daughter looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to the window. She could read lips better than any kid at the school, probably better than some of the deaf adults who taught there.

“You need some help?” Gauntlett asked.

“No.”

“Okay, then.”

“Are we good?” Byrne asked.

“All fruits ripe, my friend.”

He closed the phone.

Two minutes later, he pulled to the curb in front of the Caravan Serai deli.

 

ALTHOUGH IT WAS TOO EARLY for the dinner trade, there were a few regulars scattered about the twenty or so tables at the front of the deli, sipping the thick black coffee and nibbling on Sami Hamiz’s famous pistachio baklava. Sami was behind the counter, slicing lamb for what appeared to be a huge order he was preparing. When he saw Byrne he dried his hands and walked to the front of the restaurant, a grin on his face.

“Sabah al-hayri, Detective,” Sami said. “Good to see you.”

“How are you, Sami?”

“I am well.” The two men shook hands

“You remember my daughter, Colleen,” Byrne said.

Sami reached out, touched Colleen’s cheek. “Of course.” Sami then signed good afternoon to Colleen, who signed a dutiful hello back. Byrne had known Sami Hamiz since his days as a patrolman. Sami’s wife Nadine was also deaf, and both were fluent in sign language.

“Do you think you can keep an eye on her for a few minutes?” Byrne asked.

“No problem,” Sami said.

Colleen’s face said it all. She signed: “I don’t need anyone to keep an eye on me.”

“I shouldn’t be long,” Byrne said to both of them.

“Take all the time you need,” Sami said, as he and Colleen walked to the back of the restaurant. Byrne watched his daughter slip into the last booth near the kitchen. When he reached the door, he turned once again. Colleen waved a weak send-off, and Byrne’s heart fluttered.

When Colleen had been a mere toddler, she would rocket out onto the porch to wave goodbye as he left for his tours in the morning. He had always offered a silent prayer that he would see that shiny, beautiful face again.

As he stepped out onto the street, he found that, in the ensuing decade, nothing had changed.

 

BYRNE STOOD ACROSS THE STREET from the old safe house, which was not a house at all, nor, he thought, particularly safe at this moment. The building was a low-rise warehouse tucked between two taller buildings on a blighted section of Erie Avenue. Byrne knew that the P-Town Posse had at one time used the third floor as a refuge.

He walked to the back of the building, down the steps to the basement door. It was open. It faced a long narrow corridor that led to what was once an employee entrance.

Byrne moved down the corridor, slowly, silently. For a big man, he had always been light on his feet. He drew his weapon, the chrome Smith & Wesson he had taken from Diablo the night they met.

He made his way down the hallway to the stairway at the end, listened.

Silence.

Within a minute, he found himself at the landing before the turn to the third floor. At the top was the door leading to the safe house. He could hear the faint sounds of a rock station. Someone was definitely up there.

But who?

And how many?

Byrne took a deep breath, and started up the stairs.

At the top, he put his hand on the door and eased it open.

 

DIABLO STOOD NEAR THE WINDOW overlooking the alley between the buildings, completely oblivious. Byrne could see only half the room, but it didn’t look as if anyone else was there.

What he could see, though, sent a quick shiver through him. On a card table, not two feet from where Diablo stood, next to Byrne’s service Glock, was a full-auto mini Uzi.

Byrne felt the weight of the revolver in his hand and it suddenly felt like a cap gun. If he made his move and didn’t get the drop on Diablo, he would not get out of this building alive. The Uzi fired six hundred rounds a minute, and you didn’t exactly have to be a marksman to annihilate your prey.

Fuck.

After a few moments Diablo sat down at the table with his back to the door. Byrne knew he had no choice. He would get the drop on Diablo, confiscate the weapons, have a little heart-to-heart with the man, and this sad and sorry mess would be over.

Byrne made a quick sign of the cross, then stepped inside.

 

KEVIN BYRNE HAD TAKEN only three strides into the room when he realized his mistake. He should have seen it. There, on the far side of the room, was an old dresser with a cracked mirror above it. In it he saw Diablo’s face, which meant that Diablo could see him. Both men froze for that serendipitous second, knowing that their immediate plans—one of safety, one of surprise—had been changed. Their eyes met, as they had in that alley. This time they both knew that, one way or another, things were going to end differently.

Byrne had only meant to explain to Diablo the wisdom of leaving town. He now knew that would not happen.

Diablo sprang to his feet, Uzi in hand. Without a word, he spun and fired the weapon. The first twenty or thirty rounds tore up the old sofa that sat less than three feet from Byrne’s right leg. Byrne dove to his left, mercifully landing behind an old cast-iron bathtub. Another two-second burst from the Uzi nearly cut the sofa in two.

God no, Byrne thought, his eyes shut tight, waiting for the hot metal to rip into his flesh. Not here. Not like this. He thought about Colleen, sitting in that booth, watching the door, waiting for him to fill it, waiting for him to return so she could continue her day, her life. Now he was pinned down in a filthy warehouse, about to die.

The last few slugs caught the cast-iron tub. The ringing hung in the air for a few moments.

Sweat stung his eyes.

Then came silence.

“Just want to fucking talk, man,” Byrne said. “This doesn’t have to happen.”

Byrne estimated that Diablo was no more than twenty feet away. Dead center in the room, probably behind the huge support column.

Then, with no warning, came another burst from the Uzi. The roar was deafening. Byrne screamed, as if he’d been hit, then slammed his foot on the wood floor, as if he’d fallen. He moaned.

The room was again silent. Byrne could smell the burned ticking from the hot lead in the upholstery just a few feet away. He heard a noise on the other side of the room. Diablo was on the move. The scream had worked. Diablo was coming to finish him off. Byrne closed his eyes, remembering the layout. The only path across the room was down the middle. He would have one chance, and the time to take it was now.

Byrne counted to three, leapt to his feet, spun and fired three times, head high.

The first shot hit Diablo dead center in his forehead, slamming into his skull, rocking him back on his heels, exploding the back of his head into a crimson blast of blood and bone and brain matter that sprayed halfway across the room. The second and third bullets caught him in his lower jaw and throat. Diablo’s right arm jerked upward, reflexively firing the Uzi. The burst threw a dozen rounds into the floor, just inches to the left of Kevin Byrne. Diablo collapsed, a few more rounds smashing into the ceiling.

And in that instant it was over.

Byrne held his position for a few moments, weapon out front, seemingly frozen in time. He had just killed a man. His muscles slowly relaxed and he cocked his head to the sounds. No sirens. Yet. He reached into his back pocket, retrieved a pair of latex gloves. From his other pocket he removed a small sandwich bag with an oil rag inside. He wiped down the revolver, then placed it on the floor, just as the first siren rose in the distance.

Byrne found a can of spray paint and tagged the wall next to the window with JBM gang graffiti.

He looked back at the room. He had to move. Forensics? This would not be high priority for the team, but they would show. As far as he could tell, he was covered. He grabbed his Glock off the table and ran for the door, carefully skirting the blood on the floor.

He made his way down the back stairs as the sirens drew nearer. Within seconds he was in his car and heading toward the Caravan Serai.

That was the good news.

The bad news was, of course, that he had probably missed something. He had missed something important, and his life was over.

 

THE MAIN BUILDING of the Delaware Valley School for the Deaf was an early American design, constructed of fieldstone. The grounds were always well groomed.

As they approached the grounds, Byrne was once again struck by the silence. There were more than fifty kids between the ages of five and fifteen, all running around, expending more energy than Byrne could remember ever having at their age, and it was all completely quiet.

When he had learned to sign, Colleen had been nearly seven and already proficient in the language. Many times, at night, when he tucked her in, she had cried and decried her fate, wishing she could be normal, like the hearing kids. Byrne had just held her at those times, not knowing what to say, not being able to say it in his daughter’s language even if he had. But a funny thing happened when Colleen turned eleven. She stopped wishing she could hear. Just like that. Total acceptance and, in some odd way, arrogance about her deafness, proclaiming it to be an advantage, a secret society composed of extraordinary people.

It was more of an adjustment for Byrne than it was for Colleen, but this day, when she kissed him on the cheek and ran off to play with her friends, his heart almost burst with love and pride for her.

She would be fine, he thought, even if something terrible happened to him.

She was going to grow up beautiful and polite and decent and respectable, despite the fact that one year, on Holy Wednesday, while she sat in a pungent Lebanese restaurant in North Philadelphia, her father had left her there, and gone off to commit murder.