29

“What time did Walt leave the bar?” Nicci asked. They were gathered around the assignment desk in the homicide unit, Nicci Malone, Eric Chavez, Kevin Byrne, Jessica Balzano, and Ike Buchanan.

“Not sure,” Byrne said. “Maybe two.”

“I’ve talked to a dozen detectives already. No one seems to have seen him leave. It was his party. Does that really sound right to you?” Nicci asked.

It didn’t. But Byrne shrugged. “It is what it is. We were all pretty loaded. Especially Walt.”

“Okay,” Nicci said. She flipped a few pages back in her notebook. “Walt Brigham shows up at Finnigan’s Wake at about 8 PM last night, where he proceeds to drink half the top shelf. Did you know him as a drinker?”

“He was a homicide cop. And this was his retirement party.”

“Point taken,” Nicci said. “Did you see him argue with anybody?”

“No,” Byrne said.

“Did you see him leave for a while, come back?”

“I did not,” Byrne replied.

“Did you see him make any phone calls?”

“No.”

“Did you recognize most of the people at the party?” Nicci asked.

“Just about everybody,” Byrne said. “I came up with a lot of those guys.”

“Any long-standing feuds, anything that goes back?”

“Nothing I know of.”

“So, you talked to the victim at the bar around one thirty, and you didn’t see him after that?”

Byrne shook his head. He thought about all the times he had done exactly what Nicci Malone was doing, how many times he had used the word “victim” instead of the person’s name. He had never really realized how it sounded. Until now. “No,” Byrne said, suddenly feeling completely useless. This was a new experience for him—that of being a witness—and he didn’t like it much. He didn’t like it at all.

“Anything to add, Jess?” Nicci asked.

“Not really,” Jessica said. “I was out of there around midnight.”

“Where did you park?”

“On Third.”

“Near the lot?”

Jessica shook her head. “Closer to Green Street.”

“Did you see anyone hanging around the lot behind Finnigan’s?”

“No.”

“Anyone walking up the street as you were leaving?”

“No one.”

A canvass had been conducted in a two-block radius. No one had seen Walt Brigham leave the bar, walk up Third Street, enter the lot, or drive away.

JESSICA AND BYRNE had an early dinner at the Standard Tap at Second and Poplar. They ate in a stunned silence over the news of Walt Brigham’s murder. The first report had come in. Brigham had suffered blunt-force trauma to the back of the head, and had then been doused with gasoline and set ablaze. A gas can was found in the woods near the crime scene, an ordinary two-gallon plastic model, available everywhere, no prints. The ME’s office would consult with a forensic odontologist, perform a dental ID on the body, but there was little doubt in anyone’s mind that the charred corpse was that of Walter Brigham.

“So, what’s up for Christmas Eve?” Byrne finally asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“My father’s coming over,” Jessica said. “It’ll just be him, me, Vincent, and Sophie. Christmas Day we’re going to my aunt’s house. Been that way forever. How about you?”

“I’m going to stop at my father’s, help him start to pack.”

“How’s your father doing?” Jessica had been meaning to ask. When Byrne had been shot, and was lying in an induced coma, she had visited the hospital every day for weeks. Sometimes she couldn’t make it until well after midnight, but as a rule, when a police officer was hurt in the line of duty, there were no formal visiting hours. Regardless of the time, Padraig Byrne had been there. He had not been emotionally able to sit in the ICU with his son, so they had put a chair in the hallway for him, where he sat vigil—plaid Thermos at his side, newspaper in hand—around the clock. Jessica had never spoken to the man at length, but the ritual of her rounding the corner, seeing him sitting there with his rosary, nodding a good morning, good afternoon, or good evening, had been a constant she came to look forward to during those shaky weeks, the bedrock on which she built the foundation of her hopes.

“He’s good,” Byrne said. “I told you that he’s moving to the Northeast, right?”

“Yeah,” Jessica said. “Can’t believe he’s leaving South Philly.”

“Neither can he. Later in the evening I’m having dinner with Colleen. Victoria was going to join us, but she’s still in Meadville. Her mother’s not well.”

“You know, you and Colleen are welcome to come over after dinner,” Jessica said. “I make one hell of a tiramisu. Fresh mascarpone from DiBruno’s. Trust me, it’s been known to make grown men weep uncontrollably. Plus, my Uncle Vittorio always sends a case of his homemade vino di tavola. We play the Bing Crosby Christmas album. It’s a wild time.”

“Thanks,” Byrne said. “Let me see what’s up.”

Kevin Byrne was as gracious at accepting invitations as he was at avoiding them. Jessica decided not to push. They fell silent again as their thoughts, like those of everyone else in the PPD this day, went to Walt Brigham.

“Thirty-eight years on the job,” Byrne said. “Walt put a lot of people away.”

“You think it was someone he sent up?” Jessica asked.

“That’s where I’d start.”

“When you talked to him before you left, did he give you any indication that something was wrong?”

“Not at all. I mean, I got the sense that he was a little depressed about retirement. But he seemed upbeat about the fact that he was going for his license.”

“License?”

“PI license,” Byrne said. “He said he was going to look into Richie DiCillo’s daughter’s case.”

“Richie DiCillo’s daughter? I don’t know what you mean.”

Byrne gave Jessica a quick rundown on the 1995 murder of Annemarie DiCillo. The story gave Jessica chills. She’d had no idea.

AS THEY DROVE across town, Jessica thought about how small Marjorie Brigham had looked in Byrne’s embrace. She wondered how many times Kevin Byrne had found himself in that position. He was intimidating as hell if you were on the wrong side of things. But when he brought you into his orbit, when he looked at you with those deep emerald eyes, he made you feel like you were the only other person in the world, and that your problems had just become his problems.

The hard reality was, the job went on.

There was a dead woman named Kristina Jakos to think about.