Gretchen upended Byrne's cup, poured coffee. She may not have poured the best cup in town, but nobody ever looked better doing it. 'Haven't seen you in a while,' she said.
'Just got back,' Byrne replied. 'Took a week in the Poconos.'
'Must be nice.'
'It was,' Byrne said. 'Funny thing though, for the first three days I couldn't sleep. It was too damned quiet.'
Gretchen shook her head. 'You city boys.'
'City boy? Me?' He caught a glimpse of himself in the night- blackened window-seven-day growth of beard, L.L.Bean jacket, flannel shirt, Timberland boots. 'What are you talking about? I thought I looked like Jeremiah Johnson.'
'You look like a city boy with a vacation beard,' she said.
It was true. Byrne was born and bred a Two-Streeter. And he'd die one.
'I remember when my mama moved us here from Somerset,' Gretchen added, her perfume maddeningly sexy, her lips a deep burgundy. Now in her mid-thirties, Gretchen Wilde's teenaged beauty had softened into something far more striking. 'I couldn't sleep either. Way too noisy.'
'How's Brittany?' Byrne asked.
Gretchen's daughter Brittany was fifteen, going on twenty-five. She had gotten busted a year earlier at a rave in West Philly, caught with enough Ecstasy to pull a charge of possession with intent. Gretchen had called Byrne that night, at wit's end, not really realizing the walls that existed between the divisions in the police department. Byrne had reached out to a detective who owed him a favor. The charge was reduced to simple possession by the time it got to municipal court, and Brittany had gotten community service.
'I think she's gonna be okay,' Gretchen said. 'Her grades are up, she's getting home at a respectable hour. At least on weeknights.'
Gretchen had been married and divorced twice. Both of her exes were drug-addled, violent losers. But somehow, against the odds, Gretchen had managed to keep her head up through it all. There was no individual on earth Kevin Byrne admired more than the single mother. It was, hands down, the hardest job in the world.
'And how's Colleen?' Gretchen asked.
Byrne's daughter Colleen was the lighthouse at the end of his soul. 'She's amazing,' he said. 'Absolutely amazing. A brand-new world every day.'
Gretchen smiled. They were two parents who, for the moment, had no worries. Give it another minute. Everything could change.
'I've been eating cold sandwiches for a week,' Byrne said. 'And lousy cold sandwiches at that. What do you have that's warm and sweet?'
'Present company excluded?'
'Never.'
She laughed. 'I'll see what we've got.'
She sashayed into the back room. Byrne watched. In her tight pink tricot uniform, it was impossible not to.
It was good to be back. The country was for other people: country people. The closer he got to retirement, the more he thought about leaving the city. But where would he go? The past week had all but ruled out the mountains. Florida? He wasn't big on hurricanes either. The southwest? Didn't they have Gila monsters there? He'd have to give this more thought.
Byrne glanced at his watch, a huge chronograph with a thousand dials. It seemed to do everything but tell the time. It had been a present from Victoria.
He had known Victoria Lindstrom for more than fifteen years, ever since they'd met during a vice raid at a massage parlor where she had been working. At the time she was a confused and stunningly beautiful seventeen- year-old, not long from her home in Meadville, Pennsylvania. She had continued in the life until one day a man attacked her, viciously cutting her face with a box cutter. She had endured a number of painful surgeries to repair the muscles and tissue. No surgeries could repair the damage inside.
They had recently found each other again. This time with no expectations.
Victoria was spending time with her ailing mother in Meadville. Byrne had been meaning to call. He missed her.
Byrne glanced around the restaurant. There were only a handful of other diners. A middle-aged couple in a booth. A pair of college girls sitting together, both on cell phones. A man at the booth nearest the door, reading a newspaper.
Byrne stirred his coffee. He was ready to get back to work. He had never been one to flourish in the down times between jobs, or on those rare occasions when he took his vacation time. He wondered what new cases had come into the unit, what progress had been made in ongoing investigations, what arrests, if any, had been made. The truth was, he'd thought about these things the entire time he'd been away. It was one of the reasons he hadn't brought his cell phone with him. He would have been on the horn to the unit twice a day.
The older he got, the more he came to terms with the fact that we are all here for a very short time. If he'd made even the slightest difference as a police officer, then it was worth it. He sipped his coffee, content with his dime-store philosophies. For the moment.
Then it hit him. His heart picked up a beat. His right hand involuntarily formed a pistol grip. That was never good news.
He knew the man sitting by the door, a man named Anton Krotz. A few years older than the last time Byrne had seen him, a few pounds heavier, a little more muscular, but there was no doubt it was Krotz. Byrne recognized the elaborate scarab tattoo on the man's right hand. He recognized the mad-dog eyes.
Anton Krotz was a cold-blooded killer. His first documented murder had come as a result of a botched robbery at a variety store in South Philly. He had shot the cashier point blank for thirty-seven dollars. They had brought him in for questioning on that case, but had to let him go. Two days later he robbed a jewelry store in Center City and shot the man and woman who owned the store-execution style. It was caught on video. A massive manhunt nearly shut down the city that day, but somehow Krotz slipped through.
As Gretchen made her way back with a full Dutch apple pie, Byrne slowly reached over to his duffel on the adjoining stool, casually unzipped it, watching Krotz out of the corner of his eye. Byrne eased his weapon out, slipped it onto his lap. He had no two-way radio, no cell phone. For the moment, he was on his own. And you didn't want to take down a man like Anton Krotz on your own.
'You have a phone in the back?' Byrne asked Gretchen softly.
Gretchen stopped slicing the pie. 'Sure, there's one in the office.'
Byrne grabbed her pen, wrote a note on her check pad:
Call 911. Tell them I need assistance at this address. Suspect is
Anton Krotz. Send SWAT. Back entrance. After you read this, laugh.
Gretchen read the note, laughed. 'Good one,' she said.
'I knew you'd like it.'
She looked into Byrne's eyes. 'I forgot the whipped cream,' she said, loud enough, no louder. 'Hang on.'
Gretchen walked away, betraying no urgency in her stride. Byrne sipped his coffee. Krotz had not moved. Byrne wasn't sure if the man had made him or not. Byrne had interrogated Krotz for more than four hours the day they'd brought him in, trading a lot of venom with the man. It had even gotten physical. Neither party tended to forget the other after something like that.
Whatever, there was no way Byrne could let Krotz out that door. If Krotz left the restaurant he would disappear again, and they might never get another shot at him.
Thirty seconds later, Byrne looked to his right, saw Gretchen in the pass-through to the kitchen. Her look said she had made the call. Byrne grabbed his weapon and eased it down, and to his right, away from Krotz.
At that moment, one of the college girls shrieked. At first Byrne thought it was a cry of distress. He spun on his stool, looked over. The girl was still on her cell phone, reacting to some unbelievable college- girl news. When Byrne glanced back around, Krotz was out of his booth.
He had a hostage.
The hostage was the woman from the booth behind Krotz's booth. Krotz stood behind her, one arm around her waist. He held a six-inch knife to her neck. The woman was petite, pretty, perhaps forty. She wore a navy
