some out-of-control frat kegger.
Byrne sensed someone approaching on his right. He looked around to see his daughter walking across the square, dressed in a navy blue suit. She didn't look like a college student, she looked like a businesswoman. Had he missed something? Had he been asleep for four years?
She looked heart-stoppingly beautiful, but something was wrong. She was holding hands with a guy who had to be at least thirty. And they weren't just holding hands, they were doing that wrap-aroundat-the-wrist thing, and brushing up against each other as they walked.
When they got closer Byrne saw that the kid was younger than he had first thought, perhaps around twenty- two, which was still far too old and worldly for his taste.
Unfortunately, in matters such as these Kevin Byrne's taste didn't matter in the least.
Colleen let go of the guy and kissed Byrne on the cheek. She was wearing perfume. This was getting worse by the second.
'Dad, I'd like you to meet my friend Laurent,' Colleen signed.
Of course, Byrne thought. It wasn't Lauren. It wasn't even a girl. It was Laurent. His daughter was going on an overnighter with a man.
'How are you?' Byrne asked, not meaning it or caring, extending his hand. The kid shook his hand. Good grip, not too firm. Byrne thought about taking the kid to the ground and cuffing him, arresting him for daring to touch Colleen Byrne right in front of him, for daring to think of his only daughter as a woman. He put the impulse on hold for the moment.
'I'm quite well, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you.'
Not only was Laurent a guy, he had an accent.
'You're French?' Byrne asked.
'French Canadian,' Laurent said.
Close enough, Byrne thought. His daughter was being romanced by a foreigner.
They chatted about nothing at all for a while, the sorts of things young men talk about while on the one hand trying to impress a girl's father and on the other trying not to embarrass the girl. As
Byrne recalled, it was always a delicate balancing act. The kid was doing all right, Byrne thought, seeing as the routine was complicated by his having to speak out loud to Byrne, and sign everything to Colleen.
When the small talk was exhausted, Laurent said: 'Well, I know you two have things to talk about. I'll leave you to it.'
Laurent wandered a few feet off. Byrne could see the young man's shoulders relax, heard a loud sigh of relief.
Byrne understood. Maybe the kid was okay.
Colleen looked at her father, both eyebrows raised. What do you think?
Byrne butterflied a hand, smiled. Eh.
Colleen gave him a pretty good shot on the upper arm.
Byrne reached into his pocket, handed Colleen the check that was discreetly contained in a small envelope. Colleen spirited it away in her purse.
'Thanks, Dad. A couple of weeks, tops.'
Byrne waved another hand. 'How many times have I told you that you don't have to pay me back?'
'And yet I will.'
Byrne glanced at Laurent, then back. 'Can I ask you something?' he signed. He had learned to sign when Colleen was about seven and had taken to it surprisingly well, considering what a lousy student he had been in school. As Colleen got older and a lot of their communication became nonverbal, relying on body language and expression, he stopped studying. He could hold his own, but found himself completely lost around two or more deaf people blazing away.
'Sure,' Colleen signed. 'What is it?'
'Are you in love with this guy?'
Colleen gave him the look. Her mother's look. The one that said you just encountered a wall, and if you have any thoughts or dreams or hopes of getting over it you better have a ladder, a rope, and rappeling hooks.
She touched his cheek, and the battle was over. 'I'm in love with you,' she signed.
How did she manage to do this? Her mother had done the same thing to him two decades earlier. In his time on the job he had been shot on two different occasions. The impact of those two incidents was nothing compared to a single look from his ex-wife or daughter.
'Why don't you just ask me the question you're dying to ask?' she signed.
Byrne did his best to look confused. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
Colleen rolled her eyes. 'I'll just go ahead and answer the question anyway. The one you were not going to ask me.'
Byrne shrugged. Whatever.
'No, we're not staying in the same room, Dad. Okay? Laurent's aunt has a big house in Stanton Park, and there are a million extra bedrooms. That's where I'll be sleeping. Locks on the door, guard dogs around the bed, honor and virtue intact.'
Byrne smiled.
Suddenly, the world was once again a wonderful place.
Byrne stopped at the Starbuck's on Walnut Street. As he was paying, his cellphone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out, checked the screen. It was a text message from Michael Drummond, the assistant district attorney handling the Eduardo Robles grand jury investigation.
Where are you?
Byrne texted Drummond his location. A few seconds later he received a reply.
Meet me at Marathon.
Ten minutes later Byrne stood in front of the restaurant at 18th and Walnut. He looked up the street, saw Drummond approaching, talking on his cellphone. Michael Drummond was in his mid-thirties, trim and athletic, well-dressed. He looked like the archetypal Philadelphia defense attorney, yet he had somehow stayed in the prosecutor's office for almost ten years. That was about to change. After being courted for years by every high- powered defense firm in the city, he was finally moving on. There was a going-away party scheduled for him at Finnigan's Wake in a few days, a soiree at which Drummond would announce which white-shoe firm he had chosen.
'Counselor,' Byrne said. They shook hands.
'Good morning, detective.'
'How does it look today?'
Drummond smiled. 'Do you remember the tiger scene in Gladiator?'
'Sure.'
'Something along those lines.'
'I'm just a flatfoot,' Byrne said. 'You might have to explain that one to me.'
Drummond looked over Byrne's shoulder, then over his own. He turned back. 'Eddie Robles is missing.'
Byrne just stared at Drummond, trying to keep all expression from his face. 'Is that a fact?'
'Facts are my life,' Drummomd said. 'I called over there this morning, and Robles's mother said Robles didn't come home last night. She said his bed is still made.'
'This guy has two bodies on him and he lives with his mother?'
'That does have a little bit of a Norman Bates vibe to it, now that you mention it.'
'We don't really need him to indict him, do we?' The question was rhetorical. The DA, as the saying went, could indict a ham sandwich. The sandwich did not need to be present.
'No,' Drummond said. 'But the jury is hearing another case today. That triple at the Fontana.'
The Fontana was a recently opened luxury condominium in Northern Liberties, a 100-million-dollar renovation project that had taken more than four years to complete. Three people had been shot, gangland style, in one of the units. It turned out that one of the victims was a former debutante who'd had a secret life that involved exotic dancing, drug dealing, and trysts with local sports celebrities. It was about as lurid as it got, which meant the story went viral within hours.
As of that morning, police had seven suspects in custody. The singing at the Roundhouse would commence
