No. Then again, the binder never did.
He rose from the chair, noticing that the pain in his back and legs was almost gone. He hadn't taken a Vicodin in two days. He wasn't ready to play tight end for the Eagles, but he wasn't hobbling around like an old man, either.
He put the binder on the shelf, wondering what he'd do with the rest of the day. Hell, with the rest of his life.
He put his coat on. There was no brass band, no cake, no streamers, no cheap sparkling wine in paper cups. Oh, there would be a blowout at Finnigan's Wake in the next few months, but today there was nothing.
Could he leave it all behind? The warrior code, the joy in the battle. Was he really about to leave this building for the last time?
'Are you Detective Byrne?'
Byrne turned around. The question came from a young officer, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old. He was tall and broad- shouldered, muscular in the way only young men can be. He had dark hair and eyes. Good-looking kid. 'Yes.'
The young man extended his hand. 'I'm Officer Gennaro Malfi. I wanted to shake your hand, sir.'
They shook hands. The kid had a firm, confident grip. 'Nice to meet you,' Byrne said. 'How long have you been on the job?'
'Eleven weeks.'
Weeks, Byrne thought. 'Where do you work out of?'
'I'm out of the Sixth.'
'That's my old beat.'
'I know,' Malfi said. 'You're kind of a legend around there.'
More like a ghost, Byrne thought. 'Believe half of it.'
The kid laughed. 'Which half?'
'I'll leave that up to you.'
'Okay.'
'Where are you from?'
'South Philly, sir. Born and raised. Eighth and Christian.'
Byrne nodded. He knew the corner. He knew all the corners. 'I knew a Salvatore Malfi from that neighborhood. Cabinetmaker.'
'He's my grandfather.'
'How is he these days?'
'He's fine. Thanks for asking.'
'Is he still working?' Byrne asked.
'Only on his bocce game.'
Byrne smiled. Officer Malfi glanced at his watch.
'I'm on in twenty,' Malfi said. He extended his hand again. They shook once more. 'It's an honor to meet you, sir.'
The young officer began to make his way to the door. Byrne turned and looked into the duty room.
Jessica was sending a fax with one hand, eating a hoagie with the other. Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez were poring over a pair of DD5s. Tony Park was running a PDCH on one of the computers. Ike Buchanan was in his office, working up the duty roster.
The phone was ringing.
He wondered if, in all the time he had spent in this room, he had made a difference. He wondered if the diseases that infect the human soul could be cured, or if they were merely destined to patch and repair the damage people did to each other on a daily basis.
Byrne watched the young officer walk out the door, his uniform so crisp and pressed and blue, his shoulders squared, his shoes buffed to a high gloss. He had seen so much when he had shaken the young man's hand. So much.
It's an honor to meet you, sir.
No, kid, Kevin Byrne thought as he took off his coat and walked back into the duty room. The honor is mine.
The honor is all mine.
