The Killing Room

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.’

‘Not a big fan of irony either, Roland.’

‘No. I imagine not.’

‘Are you ready?’

Roland Hannah didn’t respond. Byrne flipped on the light. Hannah was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed. He was fully dressed. He was not wearing his amber aviator sunglasses.

‘I hope you didn’t hurt him,’ Roland said.

‘He was a police officer,’ Byrne replied. ‘I don’t hurt cops.’

‘Just criminals?’

‘And those who would have me believe they are not.’

Byrne looked out the back window of the motel room. The lot behind the motel was empty.

‘Why have you come for me?’ Roland asked.

Byrne said nothing.

Before they left, Byrne took Anthony Colasanto’s cell phone and two-way radio, then cut the motel room’s phone line. It wouldn’t prevent Colasanto from putting the word out when he woke up, but it would slow him down a little. If Byrne knew anything about the pills he had dissolved into Colasanto’s coffee — and over the years Kevin Byrne had become quite the expert on sleeping pills — they had a few hours. Which was more than enough time.

Byrne led Roland Hannah to the door. There, he turned and did a quick sweep of the room. He had taken care of everything. He opened the door, checked the sidewalk and parking lot again. Silent and still. He walked the blind man over to his car, unlocked the back door. Roland Hannah slid in.

Byrne handcuffed Hannah to the door handle of the back seat.

Two minutes later, they drove into the night.