'2:52.'

    Thenthere was the snap of the lamp being turned off, more rustling, then silencefor the rest of the recording. Although he had no memory of it, he must haveawakened, turned on the light, looked at the clock, spoken the time aloud, andgone back to sleep.

    Exceptthere was no clock in his bedroom. And his watch and cellphone were always onthe dresser.

    Sohow did he know what time it was?

    Byrneplayed it all back, one last time, just to be certain that he was not imaginingall of it. He was not.

     2:52.

    Youknow.

    AsByrne waited in the park, he thought about another moment in this place, a timewhen his heart had been intact. His daughter Colleen had been four years old,and was trying desperately to get a kite in the air. She ran in circles, backand forth, her blonde hair trailing, arms raised high, repeatedly gettingtangled in the string. She stamped her feet, shook a fist at the sky, untangledherself, tried again and again. But she never asked him for help. Not once.

    Itseemed as if it were just a few weeks ago. But it was not. It was a long timeago. Somehow, Colleen, who had been deaf since birth, the result of a conditioncalled Mondini Dysplasia, was going to Gallaudet University, thecountry's first and most preeminent college for deaf and hard-of-hearingundergraduate students.

    Todayshe was off on an overnighter to the Gallaudet campus in Washington D.C. withher friend Lauren, ostensibly to scope out the campus and the possibilities forliving quarters, but quite possibly to scope out the nightlife and the youngmen. Byrne knew the tuition fees were steep, but he had been saving andinvesting for a long time, and Colleen had a partial scholarship.

    Byrnehad wanted Colleen to stay nearer to Philadelphia, but it had been ages sincehe had been able to talk her out of anything once she set her mind to it.

    Hehad never met Lauren, but Colleen had good taste in friends. He hoped Laurenwas sensible too, and that he wouldn't be getting a phone call from the D.C.police telling him that the two of them had been picked up at someout-of-control frat kegger.

    Byrnesensed someone approaching on his right. He looked around to see his daughterwalking across the square, dressed in a navy blue suit. She didn't look like acollege student, she looked like a businesswoman. Had he missed something? Hadhe been asleep for four years?

    Shelooked heart-stoppingly beautiful, but something was wrong. She was holdinghands with a guy who had to be at least thirty. And they weren't just holdinghands, they were doing that wrap-around- at-the-wrist thing, and brushing upagainst each other as they walked.

    Whenthey got closer Byrne saw that the kid was younger than he had first thought,perhaps around twenty-two, which was still far too old and worldly for histaste.

    Unfortunately,in matters such as these Kevin Byrne's taste didn't matter in the least.

    Colleenlet go of the guy and kissed Byrne on the cheek. She was wearing perfume. Thiswas getting worse by the second.

    'Dad,I'd like you to meet my friend Laurent,' Colleen signed.

    Ofcourse, Byrne thought. It wasn't Lauren. It wasn't even a girl. It wasLaurent. His daughter was going on an overnighter with a man.

    'Howare you?' Byrne asked, not meaning it or caring, extending his hand. The kidshook his hand. Good grip, not too firm. Byrne thought about taking the kid tothe ground and cuffing him, arresting him for daring to touch Colleen Byrneright in front of him, for daring to think of his only daughter as a woman. Heput the impulse on hold for the moment.

    'I'mquite well, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you.'

    Not onlywas Laurent a guy, he had an accent.

    'You'reFrench?' Byrne asked.

    'FrenchCanadian,' Laurent said.

    Closeenough, Byrne thought. His daughter was being romanced by a foreigner.

    Theychatted about nothing at all for a while, the sorts of things young men talkabout while on the one hand trying to impress a girl's father and on the othertrying not to embarrass the girl. As

    Byrnerecalled, it was always a delicate balancing act. The kid was doing all right,Byrne thought, seeing as the routine was complicated by his having to speak outloud to Byrne, and sign everything to Colleen.

    Whenthe small talk was exhausted, Laurent said: 'Well, I know you two have thingsto talk about. I'll leave you to it.'

    Laurentwandered a few feet off. Byrne could see the young man's shoulders relax, hearda loud sigh of relief.

    Byrneunderstood. Maybe the kid was okay.

    Colleenlooked at her father, both eyebrows raised. What do you think?

    Byrnebutterflied a hand, smiled. Eh.

    Colleengave him a pretty good shot on the upper arm.

    Byrnereached into his pocket, handed Colleen the check that was discreetly containedin a small envelope. Colleen spirited it away in her purse.

    'Thanks,Dad. A couple of weeks, tops.'

    Byrnewaved another hand. 'How many times have I told you that you don't have to payme back?'

    'Andyet I will.'

    Byrneglanced at Laurent, then back. 'Can I ask you something?' he signed. He hadlearned to sign when Colleen was about seven and had taken to it surprisinglywell, considering what a lousy student he had been in school. As Colleen gotolder and a lot of their communication became nonverbal, relying on bodylanguage and expression, he stopped studying. He could hold his own, but foundhimself completely lost around two or more deaf people blazing away.

    'Sure,'Colleen signed. 'What is it?'

    'Areyou in love with this guy?'

    Colleengave him the look. Her mother's look. The one that said you just encountered awall, and if you have any thoughts or dreams or hopes of getting over it youbetter have a ladder, a rope, and rappeling hooks.

    Shetouched his cheek, and the battle was over. 'I'm in love with you,' shesigned.

    How didshe manage to do this? Her mother had done the same thing to him two decadesearlier. In his time on the job he had been shot on two different occasions.The impact of those two incidents was nothing compared to a single look fromhis ex-wife or daughter.

    'Whydon't you just ask me the question you're dying to ask?' she signed.

    Byrnedid his best to look confused. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

    Colleenrolled her eyes. 'I'll just go ahead and answer the question anyway. The one youwere not going to ask me.'

    Byrneshrugged. Whatever.

    'No,we're not staying in the same room, Dad. Okay? Laurent's aunt has a big housein Stanton Park, and there are a million extra bedrooms. That's where I'll besleeping. Locks on the door, guard dogs around the bed, honor and virtueintact.'

    Byrnesmiled.

    Suddenly,the world was once again a wonderful place.

    Byrnestopped at the Starbuck's on Walnut Street. As he was paying, his cellphonevibrated in his pocket. He took it out, checked the screen. It was a textmessage from Michael Drummond, the assistant district attorney handling theEduardo Robles grand jury investigation.

    Whereare you?

    Byrnetexted Drummond his location. A few seconds later he received a reply.

    Meetme at Marathon.

    Tenminutes later Byrne stood in front of the restaurant at 18th and Walnut. Helooked up the street, saw Drummond approaching, talking on his cellphone.Michael Drummond was in his mid-thirties, trim and athletic, well-dressed. He lookedlike the archetypal Philadelphia defense attorney, yet he had somehow stayed inthe prosecutor's office for almost ten years. That was about to change. Afterbeing courted for years by every high-powered defense firm in the city, he wasfinally moving on. There was a going-away party scheduled for him at Finnigan'sWake in a few days, a soiree at which Drummond would announce which white-shoefirm he had chosen.