“Really? Why is that, dear?”

“Because I purposely made contact with the boy and mentioned the O’Malley file. He’s simply looking for it as I intended him to.”

“But, Bobby dear, why ever in the world would you do something so stupid?”

“Our friend indicated that the lawyer Byrne might have taken some files out of the office before he died. I was concerned the boy might know where they were, so I set him on the trail. But his showing up at the office means he doesn’t know anything more than we do.”

“Don’t get too clever, Bobby. It doesn’t suit you.”

“My guess is he’s given up already. But even if he tries to break in, he’ll find nothing and slink off. Either way he won’t cause a problem.”

“Make sure that he doesn’t,” she said. “Make sure that he disappears. And don’t be afraid of giving him a nudge. This is no time for gentleness.” The click of her hanging up on him was like the disapproving cluck of her tongue. No matter how many times he heard it, it never failed to bite.

And it was that bite that chased him here in the middle of the night, here in the shadows, outside the rear door of the building that housed the offices of Byrne & Toth where just a few days before he had killed a man and tasted anew the sweet acid of his obeisance toward her, waiting now for the son of Liam Byrne.

Robert had been impressed by the Byrne boy’s size—he was a big, handsome kid with broad shoulders—and admired the way he flirted with the pretty cop, but close up there had been something wet in the eyes and soft in the mouth. Realistically, they didn’t have much to fear from such weakness, but it was hard to make her appreciate that. She never understood people, only the geometry of things. The boy was loose, he was a threat, and so she would have her Bobby deal with him. Just a nudge, she had said, a nudge to make him disappear, and Robert knew very well what she meant by that. And even if she didn’t expect him to go so far, a nudge might only serve to waken him. And if he did awaken, it would have to end in the same way.

But Robert didn’t want to go through it again, didn’t want that taste in his mouth anymore. He had thought it through and come up with an idea that might just satisfy them both. Which was why he was here, sitting in the shadows, hoping the boy fell into his little trap.

Wait, there, by the door, what was that? A pair of silhouettes, a flash of something, and then a beam wavering as it directed itself up and down and over and around until it focused on the doorknob and the lock above it.

Robert had to say this for the boy, he had more initiative than Robert had given him credit for. And he hadn’t made Robert wait long.

CHAPTER 13

SKITCH WAS DRUNK. You could tell by the way he laughed when one of his lock-picking tools fell to the cement in front of the door.

And when Kyle tipped the flashlight down, bent over to help the search for the missing implement, and banged his head into Skitch’s— resounding like two coconuts smashing one against the other—you could figure that Kyle was a little drunk, too.

“Ow, bro.”

“Dude,” said Kyle.

“Just hold the light steady.”

“I’m trying. What’s taking so long?”

“This lock is just kinda tricky.”

“I guess they’re all tricky after six beers.”

“No, bro, the beer helps. It sensitizes the fingers. What time is it

anyway?”

“Two.”

“Still early. You want to hit a club after this?”

“Whatever.”

“Okay, got it. Now just hold the light steady and stop breathing.” “Breathing?”

“You’re breathing too loud. I need to hear the clicks.” “The clicks of the wheels turning in your head?”

“The pins, bro. Now, shut up and hold your breath.”

Skitch was squatting on his haunches. His eyes were scrunched

closed as he manipulated the picks carefully in the lock of the rear door of the stone building that housed the offices of Byrne & Toth. This wasn’t the most brilliant idea, Kyle knew, breaking into a crime scene in which a murder had occurred only a few nights before, especially with the way that cop had questioned Kyle at Laszlo Toth’s funeral. But when he told Skitch how that little creep Malcolm with the hot wife had barred him from Kyle’s own father’s office, Skitch had turned righteously indignant, and no one did righteous indignat ion better t han Sk itch. “Bastards,” he’d shouted, loud enough to draw stares from all over the bowling alley where they were drinking. And even though Kyle was ready to let the whole thing disappear, after a long bout of fortification with liquid courage and urging by Skitch, he found himself at the rear door of the office building, holding the flashlight as Skitch worked the picks.

You would think it was a fool’s errand, waiting on someone like Skitch, drunk no less, to open a locked door, but Skitch had some surprising skills. He could play the “Too Fat Polka” on the accordion. He could wipe out DiNardo’s on all-you-can-eat crab night. He had once downed a pack of Mentos and half a quart of Diet Coke at the same time, the calamitous results of which showed up on YouTube and went viral. And—twist, click—he could pick a lock like nobody’s business.

“My uncle taught me well,” said Skitch.

“What was he, a locksmith?”

“Hell no,” said Skitch, still squatting as he slowly pushed the door open. “He’s doing time now in West Virginia.”

“Isn’t family a wonderful thing?” said Kyle. “Are we really going to do this?”

“Hell yes,” said Skitch. “This is your father’s office. We’re not going to let that bastard keep you out.”

Kyle stood on the outside of the now-open door, peering through the doorway, wondering at what kinds of feral creatures from his past might lurk there. With a push from Skitch, he stumbled through the doorway. Inside, he took a deep breath, tried to sense his father’s ancient mélange of aromas, smelled only dust and cleaning fluid. Skitch, still squatting, waddled in after him and closed the door.

“Keep the flashlight off for now,” said Skitch. “Nothing looks more suspicious than the beam of a flashlight waving around. You said second floor, right?”

“There are stairs next to the elevator. I think the lobby’s this— Ow! Fricking box.”

“Go slow, bro. Be one with the hall and feel your way.”

“One with the hall,” said Kyle. “I am the hall. Okay, follow me.”

Kyle put his arms in front of him and slowly felt his way along the corridor, moving as quietly as possible. Behind him, Skitch sounded like a drunken mariachi band, banging here, cursing there, tripping his way forward.

The faintest hint of light slipped around the thin edges of a doorframe just ahead of Kyle. He reached out until he felt the wood, lowered his hand to the knob, opened the door, and stepped into the front lobby, where he had been so rudely rebuffed the morning before. Light brushed faintly through the gauze-covered windows, illuminating the space enough so that Kyle could get his bearings. The door there, the reception desk there, the elevator and stairs there. “Up this way,” said Kyle, heading past the gleam from the ornate elevator door and toward the stairs.