Byrne’s solve rate was one of the highest in the unit, partially, he knew, because of the synergy he’d had with Jimmy Purify, partially due to the waking dreams he’d begun having, courtesy of four slugs from Luther White’s pistol and a trip beneath the surface of the Delaware.

The organized killer, by nature, believed himself superior to most people, but especially superior to the people tasked with finding him. It was this egotism that drove Kevin Byrne, and in this case, the Rosary Girl case, it was becoming an obsession. He knew that. He had probably known that the moment he had walked down those rotted steps on North Eighth Street and seen the brutal humiliation that had befallen Tessa Wells.

But he knew it was as much a sense of duty as it was the horror of Morris Blanchard. He had been wrong many times earlier in his career, but it had never led to the death of an innocent. Byrne wasn’t sure if the arrest and conviction of the Rosary Girl killer would expiate the guilt, or if it would square him once again with the city of Philadelphia, but he hoped it would fill an emptiness inside.

And then he could retire with his head held high.

Some detectives follow the money. Some follow the science. Some follow the motive. Kevin Byrne trusted the door at the end of his mind. No, he couldn’t predict the future, nor divine the identity of a killer just by laying hands. But sometimes it felt like he could, and maybe that was what made the difference. The nuance detected, the intention discovered, the path chosen, the thread followed. In the past fifteen years, ever since he had drowned, he had only been wrong once.

the Rosary girls 189

He needed sleep. He paid his tab, said goodbye to a few of the regulars, stepped out into the endless rain. Gray’s Ferry smelled clean.

Byrne buttoned his raincoat, assessed his driving ability, considering the five bourbons. He pronounced himself fit. More or less. When he approached his car, he knew that something didn’t look right, but the image didn’t register immediately.

Then it did.

The driver’s window was smashed in, broken glass shimmering on the front seat. He looked inside. His CD player and CD wallet were gone.

“Motherfucker,” he said. “This fucking city.”

He walked around the car a few times, a rabid dog chasing his tail in the rain. He sat down on the hood, actually considering the folly of calling this in. He knew better.You’d have as much chance of recovering a stolen radio in Gray’s Ferry as Michael Jackson had of getting a job at a day care center.

The stolen CD player didn’t bother him as much as the stolen CDs. He had a choice collection of classic blues in there. Three years in the making.

He was just about to leave when he noticed someone watching him from the vacant lot across the street. Byrne couldn’t see who it was, but there was something about the posture that told him all he needed to know.

“Hey!” Byrne yelled.

The man took off, rabbiting behind the buildings on the other side of the street.

Byrne took off after him.

The Glock felt heavy in his hand, like a deadweight.

By the time Byrne got across the street, the man was lost in the miasma of pouring rain. Byrne still-hunted through the debris-strewn lot, then up to the alley that ran behind the row houses that spanned the length of the block.

He did not see the thief.

Where the hell did he go?

Byrne holstered his Glock, sidled up to the alleyway, peered to the

left.

Dead end. A Dumpster, a pile of garbage bags, broken wooden crates. He eased into the alley. Was someone standing behind the Dumpster? A crack of thunder made Byrne spin, his heart trip-hammering in his chest.

Alone.

He continued, minding every night-shadow. The machine gun of raindrops on the plastic garbage bags obscured every other sound for a moment.

Then, beneath the rain, he heard a whimper, a rustling of plastic.

Byrne looked behind the Dumpster. It was a black kid, maybe eighteen or so. In the moonlight Byrne could see the nylon cap, Flyers jersey, a gang tat on his right arm that identified him as a member of JBM: Junior Black Mafia. He had tats of prison sparrows on his left arm. He was kneeling, bound, and gagged. There were bruises on his face from a recent beating. His eyes were ablaze with fear.

What the hell is going on here?

Byrne sensed movement to his left. Before he could turn, a huge arm reached around him from behind. Byrne felt the ice of a razor-sharp knife blade at his throat.

Then, in his ear: “Don’t fuckin’ move.”

32

TUESDAY, 9:10 PM

Jessica waited. People came and went, hurrying through the rain, hailing cabs, running to the subway stop.

None of them was Brian Parkhurst.

Jessica reached under her rain slicker, keyed her rover twice.

At the entrance to Center Square Plaza, less than fifty feet away, a disheveled man came out of the shadows.

Jessica looked at him, hands out, palms up.

Nick Palladino shrugged back. Before leaving the Northeast, Jessica had tried Byrne twice more, then called Nick on her way into the city; Nick had instantly agreed to back her play. Nick’s vast experience working undercover in Narcotics made him a natural for covert surveillance. He wore a ratty hooded sweatshirt and stained chinos. For Nick Palladino, this was the true sacrifice to the job.

John Shepherd was under the scaffolding on the side of city hall, directly across the street, binoculars in hand.A pair of uniformed officers were stationed at the Market Street subway stop, both carrying the yearbook faculty photo of Brian Parkhurst, in case he showed up via that route. He had not showed. And it looked as if he wasn’t going to.

Jessica called the station house. The team sitting on Parkhurst’s house reported no activity.

Jessica ambled over to where Palladino stood.

“Still can’t reach Kevin?” he asked.

“No,” Jessica said.

“He’s probably crashed. He could use the rest.”

Jessica hesitated, not knowing how to ask. She was new to this club and didn’t want to step on any toes. “He seem okay to you?”

“Kevin’s tough to read, Jess.”

“He seems completely exhausted.”

Palladino nodded, lit a cigarette. They were all tired. “He tell you about his... experience?”

“You mean about Luther White?”

From what Jessica could glean, Kevin Byrne had been involved in an arrest gone bad fifteen years earlier, a bloody confrontation with a rape suspect named Luther White. White had been killed; Byrne had nearly died himself.