Patrick smiled. “I couldn’t get over the fence at Morris Arboretum,” he said. “But not for lack of effort.”

Jessica helped him take his dripping raincoat off. His black hair was mussed from the wind, glistening with droplets of rain. Even windblown and wet, Patrick was dangerously sexy. Jessica tried to derail the thought, although she had no idea why.

“How’s your sister?” she asked.

Claudia Farrell Spencer was the cardiac surgeon Patrick was supposed to become, a force of nature that had fulfilled every one of Martin Farrell’s ambitions. Except the part about being a boy.

“Pregnant and bitchy as a pink poodle,” Patrick said.

“How far along is she?”

“According to her, about three years,” Patrick said. “In reality, eight months. She’s about the size of a Humvee.”

“Gee, I hope you told her that. Pregnant women simply adore being told they’re huge.”

Patrick laughed. Jessica took the wine and the chocolates and put them on the foyer table. “I’ll get some glasses.”

As she turned to go, Patrick grabbed her hand. Jessica turned back, facing him. They found themselves face to face in the small foyer, a past between them, a present hanging in the balance, a moment drawing out in front of them.

“Better watch it, Doc,” Jessica said. “I’m packin’ heat.”

Patrick smiled.

Somebody better do something, Jessica thought.

Patrick did.

He slipped his hands around Jessica’s waist and pulled her closer. The gesture was firm, but not forceful.

The kiss was deep, slow, perfect. At first, Jessica found it hard to believe that she was kissing someone in her house other than her husband. But then she reconciled that Vincent hadn’t had too much trouble getting over that hurdle with Michelle Brown.

There was no point to wondering about the right or wrong of it.

It felt right.

When Patrick led her over to the couch in the living room, it felt even better.

41

WEDNESDAY, 1:40 A M

Ocho Rios, a small reggae spot in Northern Liberties, was winding down. The DJ was spinning music more as background at the moment. There were only a few couples on the dance floor.

Byrne crossed the room and talked to one of the bartenders, who disappeared through a door behind the bar. After a short while, a man emerged from behind the plastic beads. When the man saw Byrne, his face lit up.

Gauntlett Merriman was in his early forties. He had flown high with the Champagne Posse in the eighties, at one time owning a row house in Society Hill and a beach house on the Jersey shore. His long dreadlocks, streaked with white, even in his twenties, had been a staple on the club scene, as well as at the Roundhouse.

Byrne recalled that Gauntlett had once owned a peach Jaguar XJS, a peach Mercedes 380 SE, and a peach BMW 635 CSi, all at the same time. He would park them all in front of his place on Delancey, resplendent in their gaudy chrome wheel covers and custom gold hood ornaments in the shape of a marijuana leaf, just to drive the white people crazy. It appeared he had not lost the taste for the color. This night he wore a peach linen suit and peach leather sandals.

Byrne had heard the news, but he was not prepared for the specter that was Gauntlett Merriman.

Gauntlett Merriman was a ghost.

He had bought the whole package, it seemed. His face and hands were dotted with Kaposi’s, his wrists emerged like knotted twigs from the sleeves of his coat. His flashy Patek Phillipe watch looked as if it might fall off at any second.

But, despite it all, he was still Gauntlett. Macho, stoic, rude bwoi Gauntlett. Even at this late date, he wanted the world to know he had ridden the needle to the virus. The second thing Byrne noticed, after the skeletal visage of the man crossing the room toward him, arms outstretched, was that Gauntlett Merriman wore a black T-shirt with big white letters proclaiming:

i’m not fucking gay!

The two men embraced. Gauntlett felt brittle beneath Byrne’s grasp. Like dry kindling, about to snap with the slightest pressure. They sat at a corner table. Gauntlett called over a waiter, who brought Byrne a bourbon and Gauntlett a Pellegrino.

“You quit drinking?” Byrne asked.

“Two years,” Gauntlett said. “The meds, mon.”

Byrne smiled. He knew Gauntlett well enough. “Man,” he said. “I remember when you could snort the fifty-yard line at the Vet.”

“Back in the day, I could fuck all night, too.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

Gauntlett smiled. “Maybe an hour.”

The two men adjusted their clothing, felt out each other’s company. It had been a while. The DJ spun into a song by Ghetto Priest.

“How about all dis, eh?” Gauntlett asked, wanding his spindly hand in front of his face and sunken chest. “Some fuckery, dis.”

Byrne was at a loss for words. “I’m sorry.”

Gauntlett shook his head. “I had my time,” he said. “No regrets.”

They sipped their drinks. Gauntlett fell silent. He knew the drill. Cops were always cops. Robbers were always robbers. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Detective?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

Gauntlett nodded again. This much he had figured.

“Punk named Diablo,” Byrne said. “Big fucker, tats all over his face,” Byrne said. “You know him?”

“I do.”

“Any idea where I can locate him?”

Gauntlett Merriman knew enough not to ask why.

“Is this in the light or the shadow?” Gauntlett asked.

“Shadow.”

Gauntlett looked out over the dance floor, a long, slow scan that endowed his favor with the weight it deserved. “I believe I can help you in this matter.”

“I just need to talk to him.”

Gauntlett held up a bone-thin hand. “Ston a riva battan nuh know sun hat,” he said, slipping deep into his Jamaican patois.

Byrne knew this one. A stone at the bottom of the river doesn’t know the sun is hot.

“I appreciate this,” Byrne added. He didn’t bother to add that Gauntlett should keep all this to himself. He wrote his cell phone number on the back of a business card.

“Not at all.” He sipped his water. “Ever’ting cook and curry.”