criminal investigation into exactly what had caused the death of Angelika Butler three years earlier, and what role in her death Ian Whitestone might have played.
Mark underwood had been seeing Angelika Butler for almost a year when she had drifted into the life. The photo albums found at Nigel Butler's house depicted a number of photographs of the two of them at family functions. When Underwood had kidnapped Nigel Butler, he had defaced the photos in the albums, as well as gluing all those photographs of movie stars onto Angelika's body.
They would never know exactly what drove Underwood to do what he did, but it was clear that he knew from the start who was involved in the making of Philadelphia Skin, and whom he held responsible for Angelika's death.
It was also clear that he blamed Nigel Butler for what he had done to Angelika.
There was a good chance that Underwood had been stalking Julian Matisse the night Matisse killed Gracie Devlin. I secured a crime scene for him and his partner in South Philly a couple of years ago, Underwood had said of Kevin Byrne at Finnigan's Wake. On that night, Underwood had taken Jimmy Purify's glove, soaked it in the blood, and held it, perhaps not knowing at the time what he would do with it. Then Matisse went away for twenty-five to life, Ian Whitestone became an international celebrity, and everything changed.
A year ago Underwood broke into Matisse's mother's house, stealing the gun and the blue jacket, putting his strange and terrible plan in motion.
When he learned that Phil Kessler was dying, he knew it was time to act. He had reached out to Phil Kessler, knowing the man was strapped for money to pay his medical bills. Underwood's only chance of getting Julian Matisse out of prison was to trump a charge against Jimmy Purify. Kessler had jumped on the opportunity.
Jessica learned that Mark Underwood had volunteered to work the film shoot, knowing it would put him close to Seth Goldman, Erin Halli- well, and Ian Whitestone.
Erin Halliwell was Ian's mistress, Seth Goldman was his confidant and co-conspirator, Declan was his son, White Light Pictures was a multimillion-dollar enterprise. Mark Underwood tried to take away everything that Ian Whitestone cared about.
He had come very close.
97
Three days after the incident, Byrne stood at the foot of the hospital bed, watching Victoria sleep. She looked so small beneath the covers. The doctors had removed all of the tubes. Only a single IV drip was left.
He thought about the night they had made love, how right she had felt in his arms. It seemed like so long ago.
She opened her eyes.
'Hi,' Byrne offered. He hadn't told her anything of the events in North Philly. There would be time enough. 'Hi.'
'How are you feeling?' Byrne asked.
Victoria weakly butterflied her hands. Not good, not bad. Her color had returned. 'Could I have some water, please?' she asked.
'Are you allowed?'
Victoria glared at him.
'Okay, okay,' he said. He skirted the bed, lifted the glass with the straw to her mouth. She sipped, laid her head back on the pillow. Each movement caused her pain.
'Thank you.' She looked at him, the question poised on her lips. Her silver eyes were touched with hazel in the early-evening light streaming through the window. He had never noticed that before. She asked. 'Matisse is dead?'
Byrne wondered how much he should tell her. He knew she would learn the full truth eventually. For now he said, simply: 'Yes.'
Victoria nodded slightly, closed her eyes. She bowed her head for the moment. Byrne wondered what the gesture meant. He couldn't imagine that Victoria was offering a blessing for the man's soul-he couldn't imagine that anyone would-but then again he knew that Victoria Lindstrom was a better person than he could ever hope to be.
After a moment, she looked back up at him. 'They say I can go home tomorrow. Will you be here?'
'I'll be here,' Byrne said. He peeked into the hallway for a moment, then stepped forward, opened the mouth of the mesh bag over his shoulder. A wet snout poked through the opening; a pair of lively brown eyes peered out. 'He will be, too.'
Victoria smiled. She reached out. The puppy licked her hand, his tail thrashing around inside the bag. Byrne had already decided on a name for the puppy. They would call him Putin. Not for the Russian president, but rather Rasputin, because the dog had already proven himself a holy terror around Byrne's apartment. Byrne had resigned himself to buying his slippers by the case from now on.
He sat on the edge of the bed, watched Victoria as she drifted off to sleep. He watched her breathe, grateful for every rise and fall of her chest. He thought about Colleen, how resilient she was, how strong. He had learned a great deal about life from Colleen in the past few days. She had reluctantly agreed to enter a program of victim's counseling. Byrne had arranged for a counselor who was fluent in sign language. Victoria and Colleen. His sunrise and sunset. They were so much alike.
Later, Byrne looked at the window, surprised to find that it had gotten dark. He saw their reflection in the glass.
Two damaged people. Two people who found each other by touch. Together, he thought, they might make one whole person.
Maybe that was enough.
98
The rain was slow and steady, the type of gentle summer storm that could last all day. The city felt clean.
They sat by the window overlooking Fulton Street. A tray sat between them. A tray bearing a pot of herbal tea. When Jessica had arrived, the first thing she noticed was that the bar cart she had seen the first time she had visited was now empty. Faith Chandler had spent three days in a coma. Doctors had slowly brought her out of it, and predicted no lasting effects.
'She used to play right out there,' Faith said, pointing to the sidewalk beneath the rain-dappled window. 'Hopscotch, hide and seek. She was a happy little girl.'
Jessica thought of Sophie. Was her daughter a happy little girl? She thought so. She hoped so.
Faith turned to look at her. She may have been gaunt, but her eyes were clear. Her hair was clean and shiny, pulled back into a ponytail. Her color was better than the first time they'd met. 'Do you have children?' she asked.
'Yes,' Jessica said. 'One.'
'A daughter?'
Jessica nodded. 'Her name is Sophie.'
'How old is she?'
'She's three.'
Faith Chandler moved her lips slightly. Jessica was sure the woman had silently said three, perhaps recalling the toddling Stephanie running through these rooms; Stephanie singing her Sesame Street songs over and over, never quite hitting the same note twice; Stephanie asleep on this very couch, her little pink face angelic in slumber.
Faith lifted the pot of tea. Her hands were shaking, and Jessica considered helping the woman, then decided
