Jessica shook her head. "Closer to Green Street."
"Did you see anyone hanging around the lot behind Finnigan's?"
"No."
"Anyone walking up the street as you were leaving?"
"No one."
A canvass had been conducted in a two-block radius. No one had seen Walt Brigham leave the bar, walk up Third Street, enter the lot, or drive away.
Jessica and Byrne had an early dinner at the Standard Tap at Second and Poplar. They ate in a stunned silence over the news of Walt Brigham's murder. The first report had come in. Brigham had suffered blunt-force trauma to the back of the head, and had then been doused with gasoline and set ablaze. A gas can was found in the woods near the crime scene, an ordinary two-gallon plastic model, available everywhere, no prints. The ME's office would consult with a forensic odon- tologist, perform a dental ID on the body, but there was little doubt in anyone's mind that the charred corpse was that of Walter Brigham.
"So, what's up for Christmas Eve?" Byrne finally asked, trying to lighten the mood.
"My father's coming over," Jessica said. "It'll just be him, me, Vincent, and Sophie. Christmas Day we're going to my aunt's house. Been that way forever. How about you?"
"I'm going to stop at my father's, help him start to pack."
"How's your father doing?" Jessica had been meaning to ask. When Byrne had been shot, and was lying in an induced coma, she had visited the hospital every day for weeks. Sometimes she couldn't make it until well after midnight, but as a rule, when a police officer was hurt in the line of duty, there were no formal visiting hours. Regardless of the time, Padraig Byrne had been there. He had not been emotionally able to sit in the ICU with his son, so they had put a chair in the hallway for him, where he sat vigil-plaid Thermos at his side, newspaper in hand- around the clock. Jessica had never spoken to the man at length, but the ritual of her rounding the corner, seeing him sitting there with his rosary, nodding a good morning, good afternoon, or good evening, had been a constant she came to look forward to during those shaky weeks, the bedrock on which she built the foundation of her hopes.
"He's good," Byrne said. "I told you that he's moving to the Northeast, right?"
"Yeah," Jessica said. "Can't believe he's leaving South Philly."
"Neither can he. Later in the evening I'm having dinner with Colleen. Victoria was going to join us, but she's still in Meadville. Her mother's not well."
"You know, you and Colleen are welcome to come over after dinner," Jessica said. "I make one hell of a tiramisu. Fresh mascarpone from Di- Bruno's. Trust me, it's been known to make grown men weep uncontrollably. Plus, my Uncle Vittorio always sends a case of his homemade vino di tavola. We play the Bing Crosby Christmas album. It's a wild time."
"Thanks," Byrne said. "Let me see what's up."
Kevin Byrne was as gracious at accepting invitations as he was at avoiding them. Jessica decided not to push. They fell silent again as their thoughts, like those of everyone else in the PPD this day, went to Walt Brigham.
"Thirty-eight years on the job," Byrne said. "Walt put a lot of people away."
"You think it was someone he sent up?" Jessica asked.
"That's where I'd start."
"When you talked to him before you left, did he give you any indication that something was wrong?"
"Not at all. I mean, I got the sense that he was a little depressed about retirement. But he seemed upbeat about the fact that he was going for his license."
"License?"
"PI license," Byrne said. "He said he was going to look into Richie DiCillo's daughter's case."
"Richie DiCillo's daughter? I don't know what you mean."
Byrne gave Jessica a quick rundown on the 1995 murder of Anne- marie DiCillo. The story gave Jessica chills. She'd had no idea. As they drove across town, Jessica thought about how small Marjorie Brigham had looked in Byrne's embrace. She wondered how many times Kevin Byrne had found himself in that position. He was intimidating as hell if you were on the wrong side of things. But when he brought you into his orbit, when he looked at you with those deep emerald eyes, he made you feel like you were the only other person in the world, and that your problems had just become his problems.
The hard reality was, the job went on.
There was a dead woman named Kristina Jakos to think about.
30
Moon stands naked in the moonlight. It is late. It is his favorite time.
When he was seven, and his grandfather was taken ill for the first time, he thought he would never see the man again. He had cried for days, until his grandmother relented and took him to the hospital for a visit. On that long and confusing night, Moon stole a glass vial of his grandfather's blood. He sealed it tightly and hid it in the basement of his house.
On his eighth birthday, his grandfather died. It was the worst thing that ever happened to him. His grandfather had taught him many things, reading to him in the evenings, telling him stories of ogres and fairies and kings. Moon remembers long summer days when families would visit. Real families. Music played, and children laughed.
Then the children stopped coming.
His grandmother lived in silence after that, until the day she took Moon to the forest, where he watched the girls play. With their long necks and smooth white skin they were like the swans in the story. That day there was a terrible storm, thunder and lightning crashed over the forest, filling the world. Moon tried to protect the swans. He built them a nest.
When his grandmother learned of what he had done in the forest she took him to a dark and frightening place, a place where other children like himself lived.
Moon looked out the window for many years. The moon came to him every night, telling him of its travels. Moon learned of Paris and Munich and Upsala. He learned of the Deluge and the Street of Tombs.
When his grandmother took ill, they let him come home. He returned to a quiet and empty place. A place of ghosts.
His grandmother is gone now. Soon the king will tear everything down.
Moon makes his seed in the soft blue light of the moon. He thinks about his nightingale. She sits in the boathouse, waiting, her voice stilled for the moment. He mixes his seed with a single drop of blood. He arranges his brushes.
Later he will dress in his finery, cut a length of rope, and make his way to the boathouse.
He will show the nightingale his world.
31
Byrne sat in his car on Eleventh Street, near Walnut. He'd had every intention of making it an early night, but his car had brought him here.
He was restless, and he knew why.
All he could think about was Walt Brigham. He thought about Brigham's face as he talked about the Annemarie DiCillo case. There had been real passion there.
Pine needles. Smoke.
Byrne got out of his car. He was going to head into Moriarty's for a quick one. Halfway to the door he decided against it. He walked back to his car in a sort of fugue state. He had always been a man of instant decision, of lightning reaction, but now he seemed to be walking in circles. Maybe the murder of Walt Brigham had gotten to him more than he realized.
As he opened the car he heard someone approaching. He turned around. It was Matthew Clarke. Clarke looked agitated, red-eyed, on edge. Byrne watched the man's hands.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Clarke?"
Clarke shrugged his shoulders. "This is a free country. I can go where I want."
"Yes, you can," Byrne said. "However, I'd prefer it if those places were not around me."
Clarke reached slowly into his pocket, pulled out a camera phone. He turned the screen toward Byrne. "I can even go to the twelve hundred block of Spruce Street if I feel like it."