Richard Montanari (61 page)

    Jessica
took a deep breath, rolled the corner, her weapon held low.

    Someone
stood at the foot of the grand staircase, not fifteen feet away from her. It
took Jessica a moment to adjust her eyes.

    Kevin
Byrne.

    He was
at the base of the steps, splendid in a dark suit, white shirt and deep
burgundy tie. Above him was an enormous crystal chandelier. Jessica looked at
Byrne's hands. He held a single white rose.

    
No,
Kevin.

    
Please,
no
.

    Before
she could speak, Jessica looked up to see Christa-Marie at the top of the
stairs. She wore a long black dress and a simple strand of pearls. Her hair was
soft and luminous, a brilliant silver. She was radiant. She descended slowly,
her slight hand on the railing, never once taking her stare from the man at the
foot of the staircase.

    When
she reached the final step Christa-Marie paused.

    Kevin
Byrne handed her the white rose.

    
There
is beauty so rare and ephemeral that it has confounded the
poets for
centuries. Byron, Shakespeare, Keats, Wordsworth - all failures. This is the
beauty that is Christa-Marie. From the first moment I saw her she has owned my
heart, taking it around the world, then into the deepest confines of hell.

    
I
have never asked for it back.

    
I've
always known that we would have this one last moment together, this moment when
our hearts would once again be joined.

    Christa-Marie
stood face to face with Byrne. Jessica watched, mesmerized by the tableau as
Byrne took Christa-Marie by the hand and led her to the center of the hall,
beneath the exquisite chandelier.

    A new
song began, a waltz. They danced.

    As
the strings played, Kevin Byrne and Christa-Marie Schönburg moved in beautiful,
fluid lines, as if they had danced together all their lives. When they were
finished, Byrne took Christa-Marie in his arms and kissed her.

    The
scene was so surreal, so unexpected, that Jessica found she had been holding
her breath the entire time. She snapped out of it. She had a job to do.

    She
opened her mouth to speak.

    She
didn't get the chance.

    The
front door burst open, the sound of the battering ram echoing through the
cavernous space. A pair of SWAT officers rolled into the foyer, their AR-15
assault rifles high. They were followed by Russell Diaz and two of his men, all
three of them with weapons drawn. They ran down the main hall toward Byrne and
Christa-Marie.

    Diaz
reached the couple first, stopping a few feet away. He pointed his weapon at
Kevin Byrne.

    'Down
on the ground!' Diaz shouted.

    Byrne
edged slowly away from Christa-Marie, his hands out to his sides.

    'Get
down ... on the fucking . . .
ground
!
'
Diaz repeated.

    Christa-Marie
stepped back, a look of horror and confusion on her face. The house was
suddenly filled with silence. Byrne eased himself to the floor, put his arms
out to the side. Two uniformed officers pinned him down and pulled his hands
behind his back. They handcuffed him.

    Seconds
later, more people streamed through the door - Michael Drummond and Dana
Westbrook among them. A dozen more officers spilled into the house.

    Byrne
was read his Miranda rights. As they took him into custody, Jessica put her
weapon on the floor. She stepped into the foyer, her hands held high.

    Lucy
felt her way back to the long bench. She had stopped a few moments earlier,
having heard muffled shouts from somewhere far away. Or had she? She didn't
know. But all was silent now, and she had to get on with her business.

    There
were two drawers. She opened them, felt around, discovered some sandpaper, an
oily rag, book matches, a pair of short screwdrivers. She felt the tips. One
slot head, one Phillip's.

    On
top of the bench were a few more rags, along with a small stack of papers, some
dried-out magazines. There was also an old lantern. Lucy picked it up, gave it
a shake. There was liquid inside - she immediately caught a whiff of old
kerosene.

    She
went back to the drawer, found the matches, opened one pack. They were damp.
She tried them anyway. One by one, they smeared on the flint strip. Not even a
spark. She found another pack, felt the matches. The top row seemed damp, the
back row less so. She peeled off the top row of matches. She picked up one of
the old magazines, tore off a page, rolled it up.

    She
tried the first match, got a spark, but the paper didn't light. On her third
try she got a flame. She held the lit match to the rolled-up paper, got a torch
going. She then pushed down the lift lever on the lantern. The wick caught, and
the room was suddenly bathed in a warm glow. Lucy had never been more grateful
for anything in her life.

    There
is a moment, almost sexual in its feeling of release, when a police detail
winds down. Most of the time during this period of deceleration, in the minutes
and hours after an arrest, there is a lot of handshaking and backslapping and
fist-pumping in the air; never a shortage of gallows humor. But not this time.
The personnel who made their way through this enormous Chestnut Hill mansion
found no joy or happiness in this arrest. This was one of their own.

    Before
long it was Jessica, Dana Westbrook, and Michael Drummond, along with a few
officers, searching and securing the house. Soon it would be November 1, All
Saints' Day, twenty years to the day when Christa-Marie had been arrested in
this very place.

    Jessica
just nodded.

    'Kevin's
arrest warrant came from on high,' Westbrook added. 'I had no choice but to
serve it. You know that, right?'

    Jessica
said nothing. She could not get the image of Kevin Byrne in handcuffs out of
her mind. The two of them had made so many arrests over the years, hunted down
and brought to justice so many bad people, that she could not fathom Byrne
being on that side of it all. The thought was beyond nauseating.

    'So,
I'll see you at the Roundhouse?' Westbrook asked.

    Jessica
looked at her watch. 'Give me an hour.'

    'You
got it.'

    Westbrook
took a few more moments, placed a hand on Jessica's shoulder and, perhaps
trying and failing to find words, crossed the large atrium, stepped through the
front doors and left.

    Jessica
glanced across the hall, at the steps which she had seen Christa- Marie descend
earlier. She had to clear her mind. She had to think.

    'Do
you want me to drop you somewhere?'

    Jessica
turned around. It was Michael Drummond.

    'Josh
has my car,' Jessica said.

    'Okay,'
Drummond said. 'As soon as that scene is clear I'll send him back.'

    Drummond
stepped away, made a quick phone call. When he was finished he made his way
over to where Jessica stood.

    'I'm
sorry it came down this way,' he said.

    'I
don't have much to say to you.'

    'What
are you talking about?'

    'I
just needed a little time, Michael. That's all. A little time.'

    'I
didn't make the call, Jessica.'

    Jessica
looked up sharply. 'You didn't? Then how did the fucking cavalry just happen to
show up?'

    'Police
work, detective.'

    'What
are you talking about?'

    'Russ
Diaz followed up with Kevin's cousin Patrick. It turns out that Mr. Connolly's
van had a Lojack installed.'

    The
Lojack was a recovery system that allowed police to track and recover a stolen
vehicle.

    'Russ
called it in as a routine stolen vehicle, and got this location,' Drummond
continued. 'I had nothing to do with it.'

    Jessica's
anger and rage did battle with her embarrassment for assuming that Drummond had
dropped a dime.

    'And
just so you know, I talked to Detective Diaz,' Drummond said. 'Kevin is going
to be handled with respect. I won't stand for any cowboy shit.'

    Jessica
had so much to say that nothing would come out. What she really wanted to do
was scream.

    'We're
going to need your full statement tonight,' Drummond added.

    Jessica
nodded. She picked up her service weapon, slipped it into her holster.

    'I
know this is hard for you, detective, but the good news, for the people of
Philadelphia anyway, is that this nightmare is over.'

    The
feelings inside Jessica began to swell. The one feeling missing from all of it
was doubt. She had no doubts about her partner. Her work, the task of proving
Kevin Byrne's innocence, started right now. Before she could make a move she
noticed someone standing to her left.

    'Ma'am?'

    Jessica
turned. Standing there were two patrol officers from the Fourteenth District.
The one talking to her was a big kid, twenty- three or so. He was pale as a
ghost, but his hands were steady. 'The house is clear, ma'am.'

    Jessica
looked overhead, at the high ceiling, the large rooms. 'Are you sure? It's a
big house, officer.'

    The
kid looked a little unnerved, then turned to look behind him. Four more officers
stood there, and a pair of detectives from North that Jessica recognized. The
kid was saying that a total of eight police officers had searched the house and
that it was empty.

    'I'm
sorry,' Jessica said. 'It's not a good night.'

    'No,
ma'am,' the kid said. 'There are two locked doors - one in the attic, one in
the cellar. Other than that, the structure is clear.'

    He
waited a few moments, perhaps to see if there was anything else. Jessica shook
her head. The officer touched the brim of his cap, and together, single file,
the eight cops walked out.

    As
the sound of the sector cars disappeared down the driveway, Michael Drummond
put on his coat. He looked at Jessica, but remained silent. He walked through
the door, closed it behind him.

    The
house was still.

    Jessica
was alone.

    Lucy
put the lantern on the bench and got her first real look at the room. It was
smaller than she'd thought. There was no window. It had been bricked in a long
time ago. Dust and cobwebs were everywhere. There were mouse droppings along
the wall.

    Peggy.

    Lucy
closed her eyes, tried to blot it all out.

    She
looked at the doorknob. It too was caked with dust. She picked up an old rag,
cleaned it off. It was an old-fashioned white porcelain knob, set into a
cast-metal plate. She felt along the neck behind the knob, and found the set
screw. She angled the screwdriver behind the knob found the slot, gently
turned. A few seconds later the set screw fell out. She carefully pulled off
the knob, holding the spindle tightly. She didn't need the knob on the other
side falling to the floor and making a racket. Then she went to work removing
the plate. Four screws. Although she could not see that well, it looked like
the screws in the plate were nearly stripped. She'd have one chance to get them
out.