check and walk out into the night, gazing at the Christmas decorations on the street. Byrne saw a half-opened individual creamer next to the woman's coffee. She was going to put cream in her coffee, then five minutes later she was dead.
Byrne had witnessed the grief dealt by homicide many times, but rarely this soon after the act. This man had just seen his wife brutally murdered. He had been only a few feet away. The man glanced up at Byrne. In his eyes was an anguish far deeper, and darker, than Byrne had ever known.
'I'm sorry,' Byrne said. The moment the words left his lips, he wondered why he'd said them. He wondered what he meant.
'You killed her,' the man said.
Byrne was incredulous. He felt gut-punched. He couldn't begin to process what he was hearing. 'Sir, I-'
'You… you could have shot him, but you hesitated. I saw. You could have shot him and you didn't.'
The man slid from the booth. He took a moment, steadied himself, and slowly approached Byrne. Nick Palladino made a move to get between them. Byrne waved Nick off. The man got closer. Just a few feet away now.
'Isn't that your job?' the man asked.
'I'm sorry?'
'To protect us? Isn't that your job?'
Byrne wanted to tell the man that there was a blue line, yes, but when evil stepped into the light, there was nothing any of them could do. He wanted to tell the man that he had stayed his trigger because of his wife. For the life of him, he couldn't think of a single word to begin to express any of this.
'Laura,' the man said.
'Pardon me?'
'Her name was Laura.'
Before Byrne could say another word, the man swung his fist. It was a wild shot, poorly thrown, inexpertly leveraged. Byrne saw it coming at the last instant, and managed to sidestep it with ease. But the look in the man's eyes was so full of rage and hurt and sorrow, Byrne almost wished he had taken the hit. It may have, for the moment, filled a need in both of them.
Before the man could take another swing, Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez grabbed him, held him. The man did not struggle, but began to sob. He went limp in their grasp.
'Let him go,' Byrne said. 'Just… let him go.'
The shooting team wrapped up around 3 AM. A half dozen detectives from the homicide unit had shown up for support. In a loose circle they stood around Byrne, protecting him from the media, even from the brass.
Byrne gave his statement and was debriefed. He was free to go. For a while, he didn't know where to go, where he wanted to be. The idea of getting drunk wasn't even appealing, though it just might blot out the horrible events of the evening.
Just twenty-four hours earlier he had been sitting on the cold, comfortable porch of a cabin in the Poconos, feet up, and a few inches of Old Forester in a plastic mug. Now two people were dead. It seemed as if he brought death with him.
The man's name was Matthew Clarke. He was forty-one. He had three daughters-Felicity, Tammy, and Michele. He worked as an insurance broker for a large national firm. He and his wife had been in the city to see their oldest daughter, a freshman at Temple University. They had stopped at the diner for coffee and lemon pudding, his wife's favorite.
Her name was Laura.
She had hazel eyes.
Kevin Byrne had a feeling he would see those eyes for a long time to come.
3
Two days lаtег.
The book sat on the table. It was constructed out of harmless cardboard, benign paper, nontoxic ink. It had a dust jacket, an ISBN number, blurbs on the back, a title along the spine. It was similar in all ways to just about every other book in the world.
Except it was different.
Detective Jessica Balzano, a ten-year veteran of the Philadelphia Police Department, sipped her coffee and stared at the terrifying object. In her time she had squared off with killers, muggers, rapists, Peeping Toms, burglars, other model citizens; had once looked down the barrel of a 9mm weapon, aimed point-blank at her forehead. She had punched and been punched by a select group of thugs, creeps, whackos, punks, and gangsters; had chased psychopaths down dark alleys; had once been threatened by a man wielding a cordless drill.
And yet the book on her dining room table scared her more than all of that combined.
Jessica had nothing against books. Nothing at all. As a rule, she loved books. In fact, rare was the day she didn't have a paperback in her purse for those down times on the job. Books were great. Except this book-the bright, cheerful, yellow and red book on her dining room table, the book with a menagerie of grinning cartoon animals on the front-belonged to her daughter, Sophie.
Which meant that her daughter was going to school.
Not preschool, which to Jessica had seemed like a glorified day-care center. Regular school. Kindergarten. Granted, it was only a get- acquainted day for the real thing that began next fall, but all the trappings were there. On the table. In front of her. Book, lunch, coat, mittens, pencil case.
School.
Sophie came out of her bedroom dressed and primed for her first official day of academe. She wore a navy blue accordion-pleat skirt and crewneck sweater, a pair of lace-up shoes, and a wool beret-and-scarf set. She looked like a miniature Audrey Hepburn.
Jessica felt sick.
'You okay, Mom?' Sophie asked. She slid onto her chair.
'Of course, sweetie,' Jessica lied. 'Why wouldn't I be okay?'
Sophie shrugged. 'You've been sad all week.'
'Sad? What have I been sad about?'
'You've been sad about me going to school.'
My God, Jessica thought. I have a five-year-old Dr. Phil living in my house. 'I'm not sad, honey.'
'Kids go to school, Mom. We talked about it.'
Yes we did, my darling daughter. Except I didn't hear a word. I didn't hear a word because you are just a baby. My baby. A tiny, helpless, pink-fingered little soul who needs her mommy for everything.
Sophie poured herself some cereal, added milk. She dug in.
'Morning, my lovely ladies,' Vincent said, walking into the kitchen, tying his tie. He planted a kiss on Jessica's cheek, and one on top of Sophie's beret.
Jessica's husband was always cheerful in the morning. He brooded almost all the rest of the time, but in the morning he was a ray of sunshine. Exactly the opposite of his wife.
Vincent Balzano was a detective working out of Narcotics Field Unit North. He was trim and muscular, still the most devastatingly sexy man Jessica had ever known-dark hair, caramel eyes, long lashes. This morning his hair was still damp, swept back from his broad forehead. He wore a dark blue suit.
During six years of marriage, they'd hit a few rough patches-had been separated for nearly six months-but they were back together and making a go of it. Two-badge marriages were an extremely rare commodity. Successful ones, that is.
Vincent poured himself a cup of coffee, sat at the table. 'Let me look at you,' he said to Sophie.
Sophie jumped up from her chair, standing at rigid attention in front of her father.
'Turn around,' he said.
Sophie spun in place, vamped, giggled, hand on hip.
'Va-va-voom,' Vincent said.
