19

Byrne made himself a plate from the small buffet, put the food on the bar. Before he could take a bite, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, saw the boozy eyes, the damp lips. Before Byrne knew it, Walt Brigham had him in a bear hug. Byrne found the gesture a little strange because they had never been that close. On the other hand, this was a special night for the man.

They finally broke, did the manly, postemotional things: cleared throats, straightened hair, smoothed ties. Both men stepped back, scanned the room.

“Thanks for coming, Kevin.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it.”

Walt Brigham was as tall as Byrne, a little round-shouldered. He had a thicket of pewter gray hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, big nicked hands. His ocean blue eyes had seen a lot, and all of it floated there.

“Can you believe this collection of thugs?” Brigham asked.

Byrne looked around. Richie DiCillo, Ray Torrance, Tommy Capretta, Joey Trese, Naldo Lopez, Mickey Nunziata. All longtimers.

“How many sets of brass knuckles you figure there are in this room?” Byrne asked.

“Counting mine?”

Both men laughed. Byrne ordered a round for the two of them. The barmaid, Margaret, brought over a pair of drinks Byrne didn’t recognize.

“What are these?” Byrne asked.

“These are from the two young ladies at the end of the bar.”

Byrne and Walt Brigham looked over. Two female patrol officers—fit and pretty and still in uniform, somewhere in their mid-twenties—stood at the end of the bar. They each raised a glass.

Byrne looked back at Margaret. “You sure they meant us?”

“Positive.”

Both men looked at the concoction in front of them. “I give up,” Brigham said. “What are they?”

“Jager Bombs,” Margaret said with a smile, the one that always signaled a challenge in an Irish pub. “Part Red Bull, part Jägermeister.”

“Who the hell drinks this?”

“All the kids,” Margaret said. “Gives them a boost so they can keep partying.”

Byrne and Brigham looked at each other, mugged. They were Philly detectives, which meant they were nothing if not game. The two men raised their glasses in thanks. They both downed a few inches of the drink.

“Holy shit,” Byrne said.

“Slainte,” Margaret said. She laughed as she made her way back to the taps.

Byrne glanced at Walt Brigham. He was handling the strange potion with a little more ease. Of course, he was knee-shot drunk already. Maybe the Jager Bomb would help.

“Can’t believe you’re putting in your papers,” Byrne said.

“It’s time,” Brigham said. “The street is no place for an old man.”

“Old man? What are you talking about? Two twenty-somethings just bought you a drink. Pretty twenty-somethings, at that. Girls with guns.”

Brigham smiled, but it sank fast. He got that remote look all retiring cops get. The look that all but shouted I’m never going to saddle up again. He spun his drink a few times. He started to say something, checked himself. Finally he said, “You never get them all, you know?”

Byrne knew exactly what he meant.

“There’s always that one case,” Brigham continued. “The one that won’t let you be.” He nodded across the room. At Richie DiCillo.

“You’re talking about Richie’s daughter?” Byrne asked.

“Yeah,” Brigham said. “I was the primary. Worked that case for two straight years.”

“Oh, man,” Byrne said. “I didn’t know that.”

Richie DiCillo’s nine-year-old daughter Annemarie had been found murdered in Fairmount Park in 1995. She had been attending a birthday party with a friend, who was also killed. The brutal case had made headlines in the city for weeks. The file was never closed.

“Hard to believe all these years have passed,” Brigham said. “I’ll never forget that day.”

Byrne glanced over at Richie DiCillo. He was telling another of his stories. When Byrne had met Richie, back in the Stone Age, Richie was a monster, a street legend, a drug cop to be feared. You said the name DiCillo on the streets of North Philadelphia with a hushed reverence. After his daughter was killed he got smaller somehow, an abridged version of his former self. These days, he was just going through the motions.

“Ever catch a lead?” Byrne asked.

Brigham shook his head. “Got close a few times. I think we interviewed everyone in the park that day. Must have got a hundred statements. No one ever came forward.”

“What happened to the other girl’s family?”

Brigham shrugged. “Moved away. Tried to track them down a few times. No luck.”

“What about the forensics?”

“Nothing. But that was back in the day. Plus there was that storm. It rained like crazy. Whatever might have been there was washed away.”

Byrne saw the deep pain and regret in Walt Brigham’s eyes. He understood, having a folder of the bad ones tucked away on the blind side of his heart himself. He waited a minute or so, tried to change the subject. “So, what’s in the fire for you, Walt?”

Brigham looked up, fixed Byrne with a stare he found a little unsettling. “I’m gonna get my license, Kevin.”

“Your license?” Byrne asked. “Your private investigator license?”

Brigham nodded. “I’m gonna start working the case on my own,” he said. He lowered his voice. “In fact, between you, me, and the barmaid, I’ve been working it off the books for a while now.”

“Annemarie’s case?” Byrne had not expected this. He’d thought he was going to hear about some fishing boat, some RV plans, or maybe that standard setup that all cops have about one day buying a bar somewhere tropical—somewhere bikini-clad nineteen-year-old girls went to party on spring break—the plan on which no one ever seemed to pull the pin.

“Yeah,” Brigham said. “I owe Richie. Hell, the city owes him. Think about it. His little girl is murdered on our beat and we don’t close it?” He slammed his glass on the bar, raised an accusatory finger to the world, to himself. “I mean, every year we pull the file, make a few notes, put it back. It ain’t fair, man. It ain’t fucking fair. She was just a kid.”

“Does Richie know your plans?” Byrne asked.

“No. I’ll tell him when the time is right.”

For a minute or so they fell silent, listening to the chatter, the music. When Byrne looked back at Brigham, he saw that far-off look again, the shine in his eyes.

“Ah, Christ,” Brigham said. “They were the prettiest little girls you’ve ever seen.”

All Kevin Byrne could do was put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

They stood that way for a long time.

BYRNE LEFT THE bar, turned onto Third Street. He thought about Richie DiCillo. He wondered how many times Richie had held his service weapon in his hand, consumed by anger and rage and grief. Byrne wondered how close the man had come, knowing that if someone took his own daughter away, he would have to search far and wide for a reason to go on.

As he reached his car he asked himself how long he was going to pretend it hadn’t happened. He had been lying to himself about it a lot lately. This night, the feelings had been strong.

He had felt something when Walt Brigham hugged him. He saw dark things, had even smelled something. He would never admit any of this to anyone, not even to Jessica, with whom he had shared just about everything over the past few years. He had never smelled anything before, not as a component of his vague prescience.

When he’d hugged Walt Brigham he smelled pine needles. And smoke.

Byrne slipped behind the wheel, strapped in, put a Robert Johnson disk into the CD player, and drove into the night.

Jesus, he thought.

Pine needles and smoke.