She took the book from him and flipped to the front. She pointed out some of the basics.
He skimmed the section, nodding. He glanced up, formed a hand, roughly, into: 'Thanks.' Then added: 'If you ever want to teach, I'll be your first pupil.'
She smiled and said: 'You're very welcome.'
A minute later, she got on the bus. He did not. Apparently he was waiting for another route.
Teaching, she thought as she found a seat near the front. Maybe someday. She had always been patient with people, and she had to admit she got a good feeling when she was able to impart wisdom to others. Her father, of course wanted her to be president of the United States. Or at least attorney general.
A few moments later, the man who would be her student got up from the bus stop bench, stretched. He tossed the book into a trash can.
It was a scorcher of a day. He slipped into his car, glanced at the LCD screen of his camera phone. He had gotten a good image. She was beautiful.
He started the car, carefully pulled out into traffic, and followed the bus down Walnut Street.
5
The apartment was quiet when byrne returned. what else would it be? Two hot rooms over a former print shop on Second Street, nearly Spartan in furnishings: a worn love seat and distressed mahogany coffee table, a television, a boom box, and a stack of blues CDs. In the bedroom, a queen-size bed and a small, thrift-store night- stand.
Byrne flipped on the window air conditioner, made his way to the bathroom, split a Vicodin in half, swallowed it. He splashed cool water on his face and neck. He left the medicine cabinet open. He told himself it was to avoid splashing water on it, thereby avoiding the necessity to wipe it down, but the real reason was that he wanted to avoid seeing himself in the mirror. How long had he been doing that, he wondered?
When he returned to the living room he slipped a Robert Johnson disc into the boom box. He was in the mood for 'Stones in My Passway.'
After the divorce, he had come back to the old neighborhood: the Queen Village section of South Philadelphia. His father had been a longshoreman, a Mummer of citywide fame. Like his father and uncles, Kevin Byrne was, and would always remain, a Two-Streeter at heart. And although it took a while to get back into the rhythms of the neighborhood, the older residents wasted no time in making him feel at home with the three standard South Philly questions:
Where you from?
Did you buy or rent?
Do you have any children?
He had thought, briefly, of plunking down a chunk for one of the recently rehabbed homes at Jefferson Square, a newly gentrified area nearby, but he wasn't sure that his heart, unlike his mind, was still in Philadelphia. For the first time in his life, he was a man untethered. He had a few dollars put away-over and above Colleen's college fund-and he could go and do whatever he pleased.
But could he leave the force? Could he turn in his service weapon and badge, turn in his papers, take his retirement ID, and simply walk away?
He honestly did not know.
He sat on the love seat, ran through the cable channels. He thought about pouring himself a tumblerful of bourbon and just riding the bottle until nightfall. No. He wasn't a very good drunk these days. These days, he was one of those morbid, ugly drunks you see with four empty stools on either side of him in a crowded tavern.
His cell phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket, stared at it. It was a new camera phone that Colleen had gotten him for his birthday, and he wasn't quite familiar with all the settings yet. He saw the flashing icon and realized that a text message had come in. He had just gotten a handle on sign language, now there was a whole new vernacular to learn. He looked at the LCD screen. It was a text message from Colleen. Text messaging was the hottest thing among teenagers these days, but especially for deaf teenagers.
This was an easy one. It read:
TY 4 LUNCH:)
Byrne smiled. Thank You For Lunch. He was the luckiest man in the world. He typed:
YW LUL
The message meant: You're Welcome Love You Lots. Colleen messaged back:
LUL 2
Then, as always, she signed off by typing:
CBOAO
The message stood for Colleen Byrne Over And Out.
Byrne closed the phone, his heart full.
The air conditioner finally began to cool off the room. Byrne considered what to do with himself. Maybe he'd take a ride down to the Roundhouse, hang around the unit. He was just about to talk himself out of that idea when he saw that there was a message on his answering machine.
What was it, five steps away? Seven? At the moment, it looked like the Boston Marathon. He grabbed his cane, braved the pain.
The message was from Paul DiCarlo, a star ADA in the district attorney's office. Over the past five years or so, DiCarlo and Byrne had made a number of cases together. If you were a criminal on trial, you didn't want to look up one day and see Paul DiCarlo enter the courtroom. He was a pit bull in Perry Ellis. If he got you in his jaws, you were fucked. Nobody had sent more killers to death row than Paul DiCarlo.
But the message Paul had for Byrne this day was not good. One of his quarry, it seemed, had loosed itself: Julian Matisse was back on the street.
The news was impossible, but it was true.
It was no secret that Kevin Byrne took a special interest in cases involving the murders of young women. He had felt this way ever since the day Colleen was born. In his mind and heart, every young woman was forever somebody's daughter, somebody's baby girl. Every young woman, at one time, had been that little girl who learned to hold a cup with two hands, had learned to stand up, sea-legged, five tiny fingers on the coffee table.
Girls like Gracie. Two years earlier, Julian Matisse had raped and murdered a young woman named Marygrace Devlin.
Gracie Devlin was nineteen years old the day she was killed. She had curly brown hair that fell in soft ringlets to her shoulders, a light dusting of freckles. She was a slight young woman, a freshman at Villanova. She favored peasant skirts and Indian jewelry and nocturnes by Chopin. She died on a frigid January night in a filthy, abandoned movie theater in South Philadelphia.
And now, by some profane twist of justice, the man who took her dignity and her life was out of prison. Julian Matisse had been sentenced to twenty-five years to life and he was being released after two years.
Two years.
The grass had only grown fully on Gracie's grave this past spring.
Matisse was a small-time pimp, a sadist of the first order. Before Gra- cie Devlin, he had spent three and a half years in prison for cutting a woman who had refused his advances. Using a box cutter, he had slashed her face so savagely that she had required ten hours of surgery to repair the muscle damage, and nearly four hundred stitches.
Following the box cutter attack, when Matisse was released from Curran-Fromhold prison-after serving only forty months of a ten-year sentence-it didn't take long for him to graduate to homicide. Byrne and his partner Jimmy Purify had liked Matisse for the murder of a Center City waitress named Janine Tillman, but they were never able to find any physical evidence tying him to the crime. Her body was found in Harrow- gate Park, stabbed and mutilated. She had been abducted from an underground parking lot on Broad Street. She had been sexually assaulted both pre- and postmortem.
An eyewitness from the parking lot came forward and picked Matisse out of a photo lineup. The witness was an elderly woman named Mar- jorie Samms. Before they could find Matisse, Marjorie Samms disappeared. A week
