Standing just a few feet away, Byrne gave Jessica a look of concern, as if to ask: Everything okay? At moments like this, considering what they were there for, everyone was a little on edge, a little less trustful of the strange face.
'Patrick Farrell, my partner, Kevin Byrne,' Jessica said a little stiffly.
The two men shook hands. For an odd instant, Jessica was apprehensive about their meeting, although she had no idea why. This was compounded by a momentary flicker in Kevin Byrne's eyes as the two men shook hands, a fleeting misgiving that dissolved as quickly as it had appeared.
'I was on my way to my sister's house in Manayunk. I saw flashing lights, I stopped,' Patrick said. 'It's Pavlovian, I'm afraid.'
'Patrick is an ER physician at St. Joseph's,' Jessica said to Byrne.
Byrne nodded, perhaps acknowledging the difficulties of a trauma room doctor, perhaps conceding their common ground as two men who patched the bloodied wounds of the city on a daily basis.
'A few years ago I saw an EMS rescue on the Schuylkill Expressway. I stopped and did an emergency trach. Ever since, I've never been able to pass a strobing rack.'
Byrne stepped closer, lowered his voice. 'When we catch this guy, and if he just happens to get seriously injured in the process, and he just happens to get sent to your ER, take your time fixing him up, okay?'
Patrick smiled. 'No problem.'
Buchanan approached. He looked like a man with the weight of a ten- ton mayor on his back. 'Go home. Both of you,' he said to Jessica and Byrne. 'I don't want to see either of you until Thursday.'
He got no arguments from either detective.
Byrne held up his cell phone, said to Jessica: 'Sorry about this. I turned it off. It won't happen again.'
'Don't worry about it,' Jessica said.
'You want to talk, day or night, you call.'
'Thanks.'
Byrne turned to Patrick. 'Nice to meet you, Doctor.'
'Pleasure,' Patrick said.
Byrne turned on his heels, ducked under the yellow tape, and walked to his car.
'Look,' Jessica said to Patrick. 'I'm going to stick around here for a little while, in case they need a warm body to canvass.'
Patrick glanced at his watch. 'That's cool. I'm off to my sister's house anyway.'
Jessica touched his arm. 'Why don't you call me later? I shouldn't be too long.'
'You sure?'
Absolutely not, Jessica thought.
'Absolutely.'
Patrick had a bottle of Merlot in one hand, a box of Godiva chocolate truffles in the other.
'No flowers?' Jessica asked with a wink. She opened her front door, let Patrick in.
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 AM
Ocho Rlos, 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.
