No one in this room had heard Kevin Byrne laugh in a long time.
77
Logan Circle is one of William Penn's original five squares. Situated on Benjamin Franklin Parkway, it is surrounded by some of the city's most impressive institutions: the Franklin Institute, the Academy of Natural Sciences, the Free Library, the art museum.
The three figures of Swann Fountain, at the center of the circle, represent the main waterways of Philadelphia: the Delaware, the Schuyl- kill, and the Wissahickon rivers. The area beneath the square was once a burial ground.
Talk about your subtext.
Today the area around the fountain is packed with summertime revelers and cyclists and tourists. The water sparkles: diamonds against a cerulean sky. Children chase each other in lazy figure eights. Vendors hawk their wares. Students read their textbooks, listen to their MP3 players.
I come upon the young woman. She is sitting on a bench, reading a book by Nora Roberts. She looks up. Recognition dawns on her pretty face.
'Oh, hi,' she says.
'Hi.'
'Nice to see you again.'
'Mind if I sit down?' I ask, wondering if I've expressed myself correctly.
She brightens. She understood me after all. 'Not at all,' she replies. She bookmarks her book, closes it, slips it into her bag. She smooths the hem of her dress. She is a very precise and proper young lady. Well mannered and raised.
'I promise I won't talk about the heat,' I say.
She smiles, looked at me quizzically. 'The what?'
'Heat?'
She smiles. The fact that the two of us are speaking another language draws the attention of people nearby.
I study her for a moment, sifting her features, her soft hair, her demeanor. She notices.
'What?' she asks.
'Has anyone ever told you that you look like a movie star?'
There is a momentary flicker of concern on her face, but when I smile at her the apprehension dissipates.
'A movie star? I don't think so.'
'Oh, I don't mean a current movie star. I'm thinking of an older star.'
She screws up her face.
'Oh, that's not what I meant!' I say, laughing. She laughs with me. 'I didn't mean old. What I meant was, there is a certain… understated glamour about you that reminds me of a movie star from the forties. Jennifer Jones. Do you know Jennifer Jones?' I ask.
She shakes her head.
'That's okay,' I say. 'I'm sorry. I've embarrassed you.'
'Not at all,' she says. But I can tell that she is just being polite. She glances at her watch. 'I'm afraid I have to get going.'
She stands, looks at all the items she had to carry. She glances toward the Market Street subway station.
'I'm going that way,' I say. 'I'd be happy to give you a hand.'
She scrutinizes me again. It seems at first she is going to decline, but when I smile again, she asks: 'Are you sure it wouldn't be out of your о» way?'
'Not at all.'
I pick up her two large shopping bags, and slip her canvas tote over my shoulder. 'I'm an actor myself,' I say.
She nods. 'I'm not surprised.'
When we reach the crosswalk, we stop. I place my hand on her forearm, just for a moment. Her skin is pale and smooth and soft.
'You know, you've gotten a lot better.' When she signs, she makes her handshapes slowly, deliberately, just for my benefit. I sign back: 'I've had inspiration.' The girl blushes. She is an Angel.
From some angles, in certain lights, she looks just like her father.
78
At just after noon a uniformed officer walked into the duty room of the Homicide Unit, a FedEx envelope in hand. Kevin Byrne was at a desk, feet up, eyes closed. In his mind, he found himself at the train yards of his youth, garbed in a strange hybrid costume of pearl- handled six-guns, army helmet liner, and silver space suit. He smelled the deep brine of the river, the lush redolence of axle grease. The smell of safety. In this world there were no serial killers, no psychopaths who would cut a man in half with a chain saw or bury a baby alive. The only danger that lurked was your old man's belt if you showed up late for dinner.
'Detective Byrne?' the uniformed officer asked, shattering the dream.
Byrne opened his eyes. 'Yes?'
'This just came for you.'
Byrne took the envelope, looked at the return address. It was from a Center City law firm. He opened it. Inside was another envelope. Attached was a letter from the law firm explaining that the sealed envelope was from the estate of Phillip Kessler, to be sent on the occasion of his death. Byrne opened the inner envelope. As he read the letter, a whole new set of questions was asked, the answers to which were lying in the morgue.
'I don't fucking believe this,' he said, drawing the attention of the handful of detectives in the room. Jessica walked over.
'What is it?' she asked.
Byrne read aloud the contents of the letter from Kessler's lawyer. No one knew what to make of it.
'Are you telling me that Phil Kessler was paid to get Julian Matisse out of prison?' Jessica asked.
'That's what the letter says. Phil wanted me to know it, but not until after his death.'
'What are you talking about? Who paid him?' Palladino asked.
'The letter doesn't say. But what it does say is that Phil received ten grand to bring the charge against Jimmy Purify to get Julian Matisse out of prison pending his appeal.'
Everyone in the room was appropriately stunned.
'You think it was Butler?' Jessica asked.
'Good question.'
The good news was that Jimmy Purify could rest in peace. His name would be cleared. But now that Kessler and Matisse and Butler were all dead, it didn't seem likely that they would ever get to the bottom of this.
Eric Chavez, who had been on the phone the whole time, finally hung up. 'For what it's worth, the lab figured out what movie that sixth lobby card is from.'
'What's the movie?' Byrne asked.
'Witness. The Harrison Ford movie.'
Byrne glanced at the television. Channel 6 now had a live shot of the corner of Thirtieth and Market streets. They were interviewing people about how exciting it was that Will Parrish was making a movie at the train station.
'My God,' Byrne said.
