Broken Angels

33

By 6 AM, Byrne had all but given up on sleep. He drifted in and out of consciousness, the nightmares creeping, the faces accusing.

Kristina Jakos. Walt Brigham. Laura Clarke.

At seven thirty the phone rang. Somehow he had drifted off. The sound jolted him upright. Not another body, he thought. Please. Not another body.

He answered. "Byrne."

"Did I wake you up?"

Victoria's voice brought a burst of sunshine to his heart. "No," he said. It was marginally true. He had been on the rock-face of sleep.

"Merry Christmas," she said.

"Merry Christmas, Tori. How's your mom?"

Her slight hesitation told him a lot. Marta Lindstrom was only sixty-six, but she suffered from early-stage dementia.

"Good days and bad days," Victoria said. A long pause. Byrne read it. "I think I have to move back home," she added.

There it was. While both had wanted to deny it, they knew it was coming. Victoria had already taken an extended leave from her job at the Passage House, a runaway shelter on Lombard Street.

"Hey. Meadville isn't all that far away," she said. "It's kind of nice here. Kind of quaint. You could look at it is a vacation. We could do a B and B."

"I've never actually been in a bed and breakfast," Byrne said.

"We probably wouldn't get to the breakfast part. We could have an illicit assignation."

Victoria could turn her mood on a dime. It was one of the many things Byrne loved about her. No matter how down she was, she could make him feel better.

Byrne glanced around his apartment. Although they had never officially moved in together-neither was ready for that step, each for their own reasons-in the time Byrne had been seeing Victoria she had transformed his apartment from the prototype bachelor pizza box into something resembling a home. He hadn't been ready for lace curtains, but she had talked him into honeycomb window blinds, their pastel gold color amplifying the morning sunlight.

There was an area rug on the floor, end tables where they were supposed to be: at the end of the couch. Victoria had even managed to sneak in two houseplants that, miraculously, had not only survived, but grown.

Meadville, Byrne thought. Meadville was only 285 miles from Philadelphia.

It seemed like the other side of the world.

Because it was Christmas Eve, Jessica and Byrne were both on duty for only half a day. They probably could have fudged it out on the street, but there was always something to wrap up, some report to read or file.

By the time Byrne entered the duty room, Josh Bontrager was already there. He had gotten three pastries and three coffees for them. Two creams, two sugars, a napkin, and a stirrer each-all laid out on the desk with geometric precision.

"Good morning, Detective," Bontrager said, smiling. His brow narrowed when he saw Byrne's swollen face. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm fine." Byrne slipped off his coat. He was bone weary. "And it's Kevin," he said. "Please." Byrne uncapped his coffee. He held it up. "Thanks."

"Sure," Bontrager said. All business now. He flipped open his notebook. "I'm afraid I struck out with the Savage Garden CDs. The big stores carry it, but no one remembers anyone specifically asking for it in the last few months."

"It was worth a shot," Byrne said. He took a bite of the pastry Josh Bontrager had bought. It was a nut roll. Very fresh.

Bontrager nodded. "I'm not done yet. There are still the independent stores."

At that moment Jessica stormed into the duty room, sparks in her wake. Her eyes were blazing, her color was high. It wasn't from the weather. She was not a happy detective.

"What's up?" Byrne asked.

Jessica paced back and forth, the Italian invectives just beneath her breath. She finally slammed down her purse. Heads popped up over partitions around the duty room. "Channel Six caught me in the fucking parking lot."

"What did they ask?"

"The usual fucking bullshit."

"What did you tell them?"

"The usual fucking bullshit."

Jessica related how they had cornered her before she could even get out of her car. Cameras shouldered, lights on, questions flying. The department really didn't like detectives getting on camera unscheduled, but it always looked much worse seeing footage of a detective shielding their eyes and yelling "No comment." It didn't really inspire confidence. So she'd stopped and done her bit.

"How does my hair look?" Jessica asked.

Byrne took a step back. "Um, good."

Jessica threw both hands out. "God, what a silver-tongued devil you are! I swear I'm going to faint."

"What'd I say?" Byrne looked at Bontrager. Both men shrugged.

"However my hair looks, I'll bet it looks better than your face," Jessica said. "Gonna tell me about it?"

Byrne had iced his face down, cleaned it up. Nothing broken. It was slightly swollen, but the swelling was already starting to go down. He related the story of Matthew Clarke and their confrontation.

"How far do you think he might take this?" Jessica asked.

"I have no idea. Donna and Colleen are heading out of town for a week. At least that will be off my mind."

"Anything I can do?" Jessica and Bontrager said simultaneously.

"I don't think so," Byrne said, looking at both of them, "but thanks."

Jessica picked up her messages, moved toward the door.

"Where are you headed?" Byrne asked.

"I'm off to the library," Jessica said. "See if I can find this moon drawing."

"I'll finish the list of secondhand clothes stores," Byrne said. "Maybe we can find where he bought that dress."

Jessica held up her cell phone. "I'm mobile."

"Detective Balzano?" Bontrager asked.

Jessica turned around, her face a twist of impatience. "What?"

"Your hair looks very nice."

Jessica's anger slid away. She smiled. "Thank you, Josh."