representative in here?'
The Police Benevolent Association provided legal advice and representation for police officers.
'Is this on the record?' Byrne knew the answer to that question — there was no court reporter, he had not been sworn in, and no one was writing anything down. He could confess to the Lindbergh kidnapping in this room, and it could not be used against him.
'No,' Drummond said.
Byrne looked over at Stansfield. He knew what the man was trying to do. This was payback. The two men locked eyes, matching wills. Stansfield looked away 'Then let's put it on the record,' Byrne said.
Drummond took a few seconds, looked at Inspector Mostow. Mostow nodded.
Drummond gathered a few papers, spirited them into his briefcase. 'Okay, we'll meet back here in the morning,' Drummond said. 'Eight o'clock sharp.'
Stansfield piped in. 'Inspector, I really think that we should-'
Mostow shot him a look. 'In the morning, detective,' he said. 'Are we clear?'
For a moment, Stansfield didn't answer. Then, 'Yes, sir.'
Byrne was out of Westbrook's office first. Every detective in the duty room had their eyes on him.
As Byrne crossed the room to get a cup of coffee, Stansfield followed him.
'Not so much fun, is it?' Stansfield said.
Byrne stopped, spun around. 'You don't want to talk to me right now.'
'Oh, now you don't want to talk? It seems you couldn't keep your mouth shut the past few days about me.' Stansfield got a little too close. 'What were you doing in Fishtown that night, detective?'
'Step away,' Byrne said.
'Doing a little cleanup work?'
'Last time. Step away.'
Stansfield put a hand on Byrne's arm. Byrne pivoted, lashed out with a perfectly leveraged left hook, his entire body behind it. It caught Stansfield square on the chin. The impact sounded like two rams butting heads, echoing off the walls of the duty room. Detective Dennis Stansfield spun in place, went down.
And out.
'Ah, fuck,' Byrne said.
The whole room shut down for a moment, drawing a collective breath. Stansfield didn't move. Nobody moved.
After a few moments Nick Palladino and Josh Bontrager slowly crossed the room to see if Stansfield was all right. Nobody really cared all that much — no one in the room would have denied that he'd had it coming — but it didn't serve the department too well to have one of its own sprawled spread-eagle on the floor in the middle of the homicide unit duty room. Witnesses, suspects, prosecutors, and defense attorneys came through this room day and night.
Jessica glanced at Byrne. He rubbed his knuckles, picked up his coat, grabbed his keys off the desk. When he got to the door, he turned, looked at Jessica, and said: 'Call me if he's dead.'
Chapter 69
The row house on 19th Street, near Callowhill, was immaculate. Beneath the front window was a pine flower-box. In the window was a candle.
Byrne rang the bell. A few seconds later the door opened. Anna Laskaris stood there, apron on, spoon in hand, a look of confusion and expectation on her face.
'Mrs. Laskaris, I don't know if you remember me. I'm-'
'God may have taken my looks and my ability to walk more than three blocks. He didn't take away my brain. Not yet, anyway. I remember you.'
Byrne nodded.
'Come, come.'
She held the door open for him. Byrne stepped inside. If the outside of the row house was immaculate, the inside was surgically precise. On every surface was some sort of knitted item: afghans, doilies, throws. The air was suffused with three different aromas, all of them tantalizing.
She sat him at a small table in the kitchen. In seconds there was a cup of strong coffee in front of him.
Byrne took a minute or so, adding sugar, stirring, stalling. He finally got to the point. 'There's no easy way to say this, ma'am. Eduardo Robles is dead.'
Anna Laskaris looked at him, unblinking. Then she made the sign of the cross. A few seconds later she got up and walked to the stove. 'We'll eat.'
Byrne wasn't all that hungry, but it wasn't a question. In an instant he had a bowl of lamb stew in front of him. A basket of fresh bread seemed to appear out of nowhere. He ate.
'This is fantastic.'
Anna Laskaris mugged, as if this was in any doubt. She sat across from him, watched him eat.
'You married?' she asked. 'You wear no ring, but these days..'
'No,' Byrne said. 'I'm divorced.'
'Girlfriend?'
'Not right now.'
'What size sweater you wear?'
'Ma'am?'
'Sweater. Like a cardigan, a pullover, a V-neck. Sweater.'
Byrne had to think about it. 'I don't really buy a lot of sweaters, to be honest with you.'
'Okay. I try another door. When you buy a suit, like this beautiful suit you wear today, what size?'
'A 46, usually,' Byrne said. 'A 46 long.'
Anna Laskaris nodded. 'So then, an extra large. Maybe extra-extra.'
'Maybe.'
'What's your favorite color?'
Byrne didn't really have a favorite color. It wasn't something that crossed his mind that much. He did, however, have least favorites. 'Well, anything but pink, I guess. Or yellow.'
'Purple?'
'Or purple.'
Anna Laskaris glanced at her huge knitting basket, back at Byrne. 'Green, I think. You're Irish, right?'
Byrne nodded.
'A nice green.'
Byrne ate his stew. It occurred to him that this was the first time in a long while he was not eating in a restaurant or out of a Styrofoam container. While he ate, Anna stared off in the distance, her mind perhaps returning to other times in this house, other times at this table, times before people like Byrne brought heartache to the door like UPS. After a while, she stood slowly. She nodded at Byrne's empty bowl. 'You have some more, yes?'
'Oh God, no. I'm stuffed. It was wonderful.'
She rounded the table, picked up his bowl, brought it to the sink. Byrne could see the pain in her eyes.
'The recipe was my grandmother's. Then her grandmother's. Of the many things I miss, it's teaching Lina these things.'
She sat back down.
'My Melina was beautiful, but not so smart always. Especially about the men. Like me. I never did too well in this area. Three husbands, all bums.'
She looked out the window, then back at Byrne.
'It's a sad job what you do?'
'Sometimes,' Byrne said.
'A lot of times you come to people like me, give us bad news?'
