Except pray.
* * *
BYRNE DID HIS best to maintain calm. It was difficult. The wrath inside him, at this moment, was bright and brass and savage.
He had to calm down. Had to think.
Now was the moment when all crimes went bad, when the science went on the record, the moment when the smartest of the criminals screwed up, the moment that investigators live for.
Investigators like himself.
He thought of the items in the bag in the trunk of his car, the artifacts of dark purpose he had purchased from Sammy DuPuis. He would take all night with Julian Matisse. There were many things, Byrne knew, that were worse than death. He intended to explore each and every one of them before the night was out. For Victoria. For Gracie Devlin. For everyone Julian Matisse had ever hurt.
There was no way back from this. For the rest of his life, no matter where he lived, no matter what he did, he would wait for the knock on the door; he would suspect the man in the dark suit who approached him with grim determination, the car that slowly pulled to the curb as he walked up Broad Street.
Surprisingly, his hands were steady, his pulse even. For now. But he knew that there was a world of distance and difference in that hairbreadth between pulling the trigger and staying your finger.
Could he pull the trigger?
Would
he?
As he watched the taillights of the EMS rescue disappear up Montgomery Drive, he felt the weight of the SIG-Sauer in his hand, and had his answer.
54
“THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH MR. DIAMOND OR HIS BUSINESS. I’m a homicide detective.”
Cedric had hesitated after finding the wire. He had patted her down roughly, torn it off. It was clear what was coming next. He had put the gun to her forehead, and made her get down on her knees.
“You’re pretty fucking hot for a cop, you know that?”
Jessica just stared. Watched his eyes. His hands. “You’re going to kill a gold-badge detective where you work?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t betray her fear.
Cedric smiled. Incredibly, he wore a retainer. “Who says we’d leave your body here, bitch?”
Jessica considered her options. If she could get to her feet, she could land one shot. It would have to be well placed— the throat or the nose— and even then might only give her a few seconds to get out of the room. She did not take her eyes off the gun.
Cedric stepped forward. He unbuttoned his pants. “You know, I never fucked a cop before.”
As he did this, the barrel of the gun pointed away from her momentarily. If he took his pants off, it would be the last opportunity to make her move. “You might want to think this through, Cedric.”
“Oh, I’m thinking about it, baby.” He began to unzip his zipper. “I been thinking about it since you walked in.”
Before he got his zipper all the way down, a shadow crossed the floor.
“Drop the gun, Sasquatch.”
It was Nicci Malone.
From the look on Cedric’s face, Nicci had a gun to the back of his head. His face drained of all color, his attitude of all menace. He slowly put the weapon on the floor. Jessica picked it up. She trained it on him. It was a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver.
“Very good,” Nicci said. “Now put your hands on top of your head, and interlace your fingers.”
The man shook his head slowly, side-to-side. But he didn’t comply. “You ain’t gonna make it out of here.”
“No? And why is that?” Nicci asked.
“They’re gonna miss me any minute now.”
“Why, because you’re so lovable? Shut the fuck up. And put your hands on top of your head. Last time I’m going to tell you.”
Slowly, reluctantly, he put his hands on his head.
Jessica got to her feet, keeping the .38 pointed at the man, wondering where Nicci got
her
weapon. They had been searched with the metal detector on the way in.
“Now on your knees,” Nicci said. “Pretend you’re on a date.”
With no small effort, the big man got down on his knees.
Jessica got behind him and saw that it wasn’t a gun in Nicci’s hand. It was a steel towel rack. This girl was
good.
“How many other security guards are here?” Nicci asked.
Cedric remained silent. Perhaps it was because he fancied himself as so much more than a security guard. Nicci whacked him on the side of the head with the pipe.
“
Ow.
Jesus.”
“I don’t think you’re focusing here, Moose.”
“
Damn,
bitch. There’s just me.”
“I’m sorry, what did you call me?” Nicci asked.
Cedric began to sweat. “I’m . . . I didn’t mean—”
Nicci nudged him with the rod. “Shut up.” She turned to Jessica. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Jessica said.
Nicci nodded toward the door. Jessica crossed the room, looked into the hallway. Empty. She walked back to where Nicci and Cedric were. “Let’s do it.”
“Okay,” Nicci said. “You can put your hands down now.”
Cedric thought that she was letting him go. He smirked.
But Nicci wasn’t letting him off the hook. What she really wanted was a clean shot. When he dropped his hands, Nicci wound up and cracked the rod into the back of his head. Hard. The impact echoed off the grimy tile walls. Jessica wasn’t sure it was hard enough, but after a second she saw the man’s eyes roll up in his head. He folded. Within a minute they had him facedown inside a stall, with a fistful of paper towels in his mouth and his hands bound behind him. It was like dragging an elk.
“I can’t believe I’m leaving a Jil Sander belt in this fucking shithole,” Nicci said.
Jessica almost laughed. Nicolette Malone was her new role model.
“Ready?” Jessica asked.
Nicci gave the gorilla one more shot with the club for good measure and said: “Let’s bounce.”
* * *
LIKE ALL STAKEOUTS, after the first few minutes or so the adrenaline eased off.
They had left the warehouse and driven across town in the Lincoln Town Car, Bebe and Nicci in the backseat. Bebe had given them directions. When they arrived at the address, they identified themselves to Bebe as law enforcement. She was surprised but not shocked. Bebe and Kilbane were now in temporary custody at the Roundhouse, where they would remain until the operation was over.
The target house was on a dark street. They did not have a search warrant for the premises, so they could not enter. Not yet. If Bruno Steele had told a group of porno actresses to meet him here at midnight, chances were good he’d be back.
Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez were in the van, half a block away. In addition, two sector cars with two uniformed officers each were nearby.
While they waited for Bruno Steele, Nicci and Jessica changed back into street clothes. Jeans and T-shirts and running shoes and Kevlar vests. Jessica felt an enormous sense of relief having her Glock back on her hip.
“Ever partner with a woman before?” Nicci asked. They were alone in the lead car, a few hundred feet from the target house.
“No,” Jessica said. In all her time on the street, from her training officer to the veteran cop who had showed the ropes of walking the beat in South Philly, she had always been paired with a man. When she was in the Auto Unit, she was one of two women, and the other had worked the desk. It was a new experience, and— she had to admit— a good one.
“Same here,” Nicci said. “You’d think more women would be drawn to Narcotics, but after a while the glamour sort of wears off.”
Jessica couldn’t tell if Nicci was kidding or not. Glamour? She could understand a man wanting to go cowboy on such a detail. Hell, she was married to one of them. She was just about to answer when headlights washed the rearview.
From the radio: “Jess.”
“I see it,” Jessica said.
They watched the car slowly approach in the side mirrors. Jessica could not immediately tell the make or model of the car from that distance and in that light. It looked to be a midsize.
The car passed them. It had a single occupant. It rolled slowly to the corner, turned, and was gone.
Had they been made? No. It didn’t seem likely. They waited. The car didn’t double back.
They stood down. And waited.
55
IT IS LATE, I AM TIRED. I NEVER WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT this sort of work was so physically and spiritually draining. Think of all the film monsters over the years, how hard they must have labored. Think of Freddy, of Michael Myers. Think of Norman Bates, Tom Ripley, Patrick Bateman, Christian Szell.
I have much to do in the next few days. And then I will be done.
I gather my belongings from the backseat, my plastic bag full of bloody clothes. I will burn them first thing in the morning. For now I will take a hot bath, make a cup of chamomile tea, then probably be asleep before my head hits the pillow.
“A hard day’s work makes a soft bed,” my grandfather used to say.
I get out of the car, lock it. I breathe deeply the midsummer night air. The city smells clean and fresh, charged with promise.
Weapon in hand, I begin to make my way to the house.
56
AT JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT, THEY SAW THEIR MAN. BRUNO STEELE was walking across the vacant lot behind the target house.
“I’ve got a visual,” came the radio.
“I see him,” Jessica said.
Steele hesitated near the door, looking both ways up and down the street. Jessica and Nicci slid slowly down in the seat, just in case another car rolled up the street and silhouetted them in the headlights.
Jessica picked up her two-way radio, keyed it, whispered: “Are we good?”
“Yeah,” Palladino said. “We are good.”
“Uniforms ready?”
“Ready.”
