The Killing Room (38 page)

Jessica recalled the car from when she entered the church. ‘What about it?’

‘It looks like we’ve got a second victim.’

‘There’s a
body
in that car?’

‘Yeah.’

‘He’s DOA?’

‘Oh, he is definitely DOA. There’s something on the seat next to him you should see, though.’

Jessica jogged down the alley, turned the corner. She saw Maria a half-block away, standing near the car. She walked the remaining distance, thinking there was no need to run. A DOA tended to stay dead.

When she arrived she looked in the driver’s window. The victim was a white male, late twenties, early thirties. His head was back on the headrest. A thin trickle of vomit leaked from the corners of his mouth. Jessica shone her Maglite into the car.

‘Ah, Christ,’ she said.

‘What? You know him?’

‘His name is Shane Adams. He’s a reporter. He tried to shadow me earlier today.’

Jessica ran her Maglite around the inside of the car. The backseat was full of junk, the kind of stuff you’d have if you lived half your life inside your car – extra clothing, fast-food trash, Handi-Wipes.

‘You are not going to believe this,’ Maria said. With her gloved hands she took a digital video camera off the front seat
and put it on top of the car. ‘This was playing when I walked up to the car.’ She hit a button, turned the LCD screen to face them.

At first the image was out of focus. Soon it became clear. It was the image of a cross. It was hard to tell on the small screen what the cross was made of, but the closer Jessica looked at it, the more she realized it was made of glass.

‘Is that a window?’ Jessica asked.

‘I’m pretty sure it is,’ Maria said. She froze the image, pointed at the screen. ‘It looks like this is tinted glass, doesn’t it?’

The two detectives looked at each other at the same moment, understanding flowing between them.

‘Stained glass,’ they said in unison.

‘Keep playing it,’ Jessica said.

Maria hit the button. The video continued. The stained-glass image of the cruciform began to lose focus again, and Jessica soon realized what was happening. There was an image behind the glass that was starting to come in to focus. A few seconds later she saw what it was, and her heart skipped a beat. There, on the other side of the cross, was a person, perfectly framed, as if on the cross.

There could be no doubt. The person was Kevin Byrne.

Jessica ran back down the street, up the alley. She looked at the side window next to the door that gave entry into the church. There was a cross in the stained glass. It was identical to the crucifix in the video.

The killer had just shot this footage.

FIFTY-FIVE

Jessica paced the sidewalk in front of the church. There were police cars everywhere. Dana Westbrook had said that she wanted her back at the Roundhouse on the double.

‘Are you okay?’ Maria asked.

‘I’ve had better days.’ Although Jessica knew she was expected at Eighth and Race any minute, she knew she wouldn’t rest until Kevin Byrne was in her sight. ‘What I think we should do is –’

The envelope
, Jessica thought.
The envelope the woman had dropped off for Byrne
.

The envelope from Father Leone
.

Jessica reached into the car, retrieved the envelope from the back seat, tore it open. In it were pages from the Bible, along with other pages, handwritten on old, yellow-edged typing paper.

These were messages from Father Leone. Messages from beyond the grave.

As Jessica’s eyes scanned the pages, things began to make a clear, horrifying sense. It was about the seven churches of the Apocalypse:

Unto the angel of the church of Ephesus … thou has left thy first love …

Cecilia Rollins, Jessica thought.

Unto the angel of the church of Smyrna … ye shall have tribulation ten days …

Danny Palumbo was in that basement ten days.

To the angel of the church of Pergamos … give him a white stone, and in the stone a new name written …

Martin Allsop. The white stones. The name of the next crime scene written on a stone.

Unto the angel of the church in Thyatira … Jezebel … I will cast her into a bed …

Michelle Calvin was found on that bloody mattress.

Unto the angel of the church of Sardis … I will come unto thee as a thief …

DeRon Wilson had his hands cut off.

Jessica found that her own hands were shaking as she looked at the last two entries. The final two churches were Philadelphia and Laodicea.

Her eyes roamed the page, looking for a clue, a thought, a line that might help her penetrate the mind of a killer.

Unto the angel of the church of the Laodiceans … I counsel thee to buy of me gold tried in the fire … and white raiment …

To the angel of the church in Philadelphia … he that hath the key of David … but do lie …

The final page was a single piece of old onion-skin typing
paper. On it was a hand-scrawled note from Father Leone, perhaps the last thing he ever wrote. To Jessica, it was just as cryptic as the pages of
Revelation
. It read:

IT WAS A VESTMENT, KEVIN. THE FIRE OF THE HOLY SPIRIT
.

What did he mean by this? What vestment?

Jessica considered calling Byrne again, but she knew she would get his voicemail. She looked at her key ring.

‘I’ll be back,’ Jessica said.

‘Where are you going?’ Maria asked.

‘I’m going to Kevin’s house.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

Jessica glanced at the swarm of PPD personnel descending upon St Simeon’s. They had both given their statements, and neither of them were going to be the lead investigator on the case.

‘Let’s go,’ Jessica said.

FIFTY-SIX

Jessica and Maria parked on Third Street, around the corner from Byrne’s second-floor apartment. Jessica did not see her partner’s car, but that was not unusual. Sometimes he was forced to park more than a block away.

Within a minute they were in front of Byrne’s door. Jessica knocked, listened. Silence. She knocked again. They heard no movement within.

Jessica took out the key, gently slid it into the lock, turned it. She opened the door an inch. ‘Kevin?’

No answer.

The apartment was dark. The only light was from the green digital clock on the kitchen stove. Jessica flipped the switch, and three lamps came on. The apartment was exactly the way she had seen it the last time she had been there.

‘Kevin?’

Nothing. She edged over to the bedroom. Empty. The bathroom was empty, too.

‘Jessica,’ Maria said.

Jessica crossed the apartment. Maria was standing at the dining-room table. There, neatly arrayed, were three things Kevin Byrne never left home without. His weapon, his shield, and his cell phone. Next to Byrne’s phone was a blue flip phone Jessica had not seen before.

She picked up the blue flip phone, navigated the menu.

There were two text messages: One was the address of St Simeon’s. The second message made her blood run cold.

IF YOU ENTER THE BUILDING THE BOY WILL DIE
.

What boy?

Jessica then picked up Byrne’s cell phone. She knew she was invading his privacy, but she had no choice. She checked his voicemail messages, and she was right. Eighty percent of the messages were from her. Then she saw an SMS message with a photo attached.

The subject read:
how u lik me now???!!!

The accompanying picture was of a young black boy tied to a chair. Jessica looked closely at the boy’s face. She knew who it had to be. Gabriel Hightower.

She looked at the last number Byrne had dialed. She wasn’t familiar with it. Or was she?

‘Do me a favor,’ Jessica said.

‘Sure,’ Maria replied.

‘Could you run down to the car and get my portfolio?’ Jessica handed the keys to Maria, who was out the door in a flash.

Jessica launched the browser on her phone and did a reverse lookup on the second-to-last number Byrne had called. It was an all-night pharmacy around the corner. She did the same
thing for the last number, but hit a dead end. There was no listing.

Maria returned with Jessica’s portfolio. Jessica opened it, pulled out the contents. She soon found the item she was looking for. It was a photocopy of a piece of paper they had found in Danny Palumbo’s backpack.

Jessica put the paper down on the table, with the maddening feeling that what she was looking for was right in front of her but she could not see it. None of the numbers lined up.

She closed her eyes for a moment, recalled going into Danny’s room at Loretta Palumbo’s rowhouse. The answer was there. Why couldn’t she see it? She recalled the neatly made bed, the empty closet, the magazines arrayed on the shelves, the acrostic number puzzles of which Danny Palumbo was a fan.

Jessica opened her eyes, glanced back at Danny’s handwritten square of numbers, looked diagonally, and saw it. It was the same number as Byrne’s last phone call. Danny Palumbo had this phone number in his possession.

Jessica looked again at the picture of Gabriel Hightower, and the last piece of the puzzle snapped into place. She crossed the room, found the box containing the framed photograph. She held up the picture of Byrne with Marcus Haines next to the picture of Gabriel Hightower. There could be no mistake.

Gabriel Hightower was Marcus’s son. Marcus had taken a bullet meant for Byrne. That’s why Byrne was doing all of this.

Jessica put the photograph down. She had no choice. With
a trembling hand she picked up Byrne’s phone, hit redial, calling the last number Byrne had dialed.

In a moment the phone was answered.

‘
You’ve reached the voicemail of Dr Sarah Goodwin
…’

FIFTY-SEVEN

The Bridgeview Motel was located just a mile or so from Philadelphia International Airport, the city’s main airport, located in the southwest part of the city. Just a few blocks from both the Delaware River and I-95, the motel was used by the business traveler who wanted two or three hours’ sleep between flights, but wanted to avoid the exorbitant rates charged by the big chain hotels.

It was also used by both the city police and county sheriff’s department to hold prisoners en route to other locations.

Byrne parked at the far end of the rear parking lot, farthest away from the light. The room in which he was interested was number 209, the nearest room on the end. The curtains were closed, the lights were on.

He got out of the car, crossed the lot, knocked on the door. A few seconds later he saw the curtains part, then heard the chain being moved. The door opened.

‘Kevin,’ the man said.

‘What’s up, Tony?’

Anthony Colasanto was a veteran detective, a few years older than Byrne. He had come up in three of the South Philly districts, had spent time in Major Crimes, and now was assigned, through the DA’s office, to various details, including protection details.

‘What brings you out here?’ Colasanto asked.

‘Restless night,’ Byrne said. ‘Plus, you know this was originally my case.’

Colasanto nodded. ‘Sure. Of course. Come on in.’

He opened the door wide. Byrne stepped through. Colasanto gave another visual sweep of the parking lot, the surrounding area, then closed, locked, and chained the door.

Byrne took in the room. A queen-sized bed in the center. Beyond that, a small round table, one chair. To the left was a dresser and desk. Atop the dresser was an old 23-inch portable showing the news. Colasanto had a game of solitaire in the works on the table.

Byrne held up the cardboard carry tray he had gotten from Starbucks, containing a pair of large coffees.

‘Thought you could use some real coffee.’

‘You are a fucking mensch,’ Colasanto said. ‘Or whatever the Irish call a mensch.’

‘I think we call it a mensch, too.’

Byrne took one of the cups from the tray, put it on the table. Next to the cup he placed a handful of creamers, sugar packets, Equal packets, and stirrers. ‘I didn’t know how you take it,’ he said.

‘Like my women,’ Colasanto replied.

Colasanto opened the coffee, took a small sip. Byrne had
waited in the parking lot long enough for the coffee to cool down to a drinkable temperature. Colasanto raised the cup. ‘Thanks, buddy.’

Byrne took his coffee, pulled the other chair up to the table. The two men caught up – who retired, who had what ailment, who got divorced.

‘Saw that fucking video,’ Colasanto said. ‘Did I hear this right? That POS in the tape got killed in North Philly tonight?’

‘Yeah,’ Byrne said. ‘Shame.’

‘Guess he won’t be pressing charges.’

‘Not unless there’s a DA in hell.’

‘I know a few who belong there.’

Byrne laughed. ‘When’s your relief coming?’

Colasanto looked at his watch. ‘Not until seven tomorrow morning.’

Byrne nodded toward the adjoining room, which had its door half open. The room was dark. ‘How is it going?’

‘Easy tour, Kev,’ he said. ‘I mean, what’s he going to do, right?’ Colasanto drained his coffee.

‘Do you know the details?’

‘Not all of them.’

Byrne told the story from the beginning. He knew he needed a little time. About ten minutes into his routine he saw Colasanto’s lids start to droop. Three minutes later the man was out cold. Before he could sag to the floor, Byrne got up, caught the man mid-slide. Byrne then picked him up, put him on the bed. Anthony Colasanto was not a big man, and Byrne handled him with ease.

Byrne took out the small plastic trash bag in his pocket, bagged everything in the room he had touched – the coffee
cups, lids, tray, creamers. Unless a federal team did a million-dollar sweep of the room, he had never been here.

He moved over to the windows, parted the curtains an inch or so. The parking lot was exactly the same as it had been when he’d left it.

He stepped into the second bedroom.

‘Detective Byrne,’ Roland Hannah said. ‘It’s nice to see you again. If you’ll pardon.’