Play dead

FIFTY-ONE

The tenth floor of the Denison smelled like wet smoke, wet lumber, wet dog. Byrne was six bourbons into his plot, and should be home. He should be sleeping.

But here he was. At Laura Somerville's apartment. The walls in the hallway were still warm. The wallpaper was peeled and cracked, some of it charred.

He pulled out his knife, slit the seal on the door, picked the lock, and entered the apartment.

The odor of burned upholstery and paper was overwhelming. Byrne put his tie over his mouth and nose. He had an old friend, Bobby Dotrice, who had retired from the PFD fifteen years earlier, and Byrne would swear under oath that man still smelled like smoke. Bobby had all new clothes, a new car, a new wife, even a new house. It never left you.

Byrne wondered if he smelled like the dead.

Even though the tenants of the building had been reassured there was no structural damage, Byrne stepped lightly through the space, his Maglite bouncing on overturned tables, chairs, bookcases. He wondered what had done more damage, the fire or the fire brigade.

He stood before the partially opened bedroom door. It seemed a lifetime ago he had been there. He pushed into the bedroom.

The window had been boarded up. The mattress and box spring were gone, as was the dresser. He saw blackened Scrabble tiles all over the room.

He opened the closet. It was mostly untouched, except for the water damage. On one side was a canvas garment bag. Byrne unzipped it, peered inside. Old dresses. Very old, very theatrical. She -sees the countryside from a cracked and taped truck window… she knows…

Byrne shut his eyes to the pain in his head.

She knows…he looked at the top shelf. The strongbox was still there. He put his flashlight under his arm, took down the box. It was warm. There was no latch. The box was perfectly smooth. He shook it. Something shifted inside. It sounded like paper.

When Byrne left the apartment, just a few minutes later, he took the box with him. Out in the hallway he closed the door, reached into his pocket, took out a fresh police seal. He peeled off the back, smoothed it over the doorjamb, and pocketed the backing.

He drove back to South Philly. As he stepped onto the sidewalk in front of his apartment building his phone beeped. It was a text message. Before reading the message, Byrne looked at his watch. It was 2:45 AM. Just about the only person who sent him text messages was Colleen. But not in the middle of the night.

He retrieved the message, looked at the LCD screen.

It read: 9IOJHOME.

Byrne knew what it meant. It was a little-used code he had established a long time ago with Jessica. JHOME meant she was at her house; 910 meant that she needed him, but it was not an emergency.

That would be 911.

Byrne got back into his car and headed to the Northeast.