"Pretty damn well," said Henderson.
"For a suburban cop," said Demerit.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. So tell me, Detectives, what is this boy looking for?"
Henderson glanced at Ramirez, who shrugged. "We don't know," he said.
"Well, that boy does," said Demerit. "And whatever the reason, it just took out a house in my township and set off a fireworks display that had the phone banks clogged for hours, so you damn well know I'm going to find that boy and get the truth. Now let me ask again, Detective Ramirez: Do you have any idea where to find Kyle Byrne so I can ask him what the hell is going on?"
Ramirez gave Inspector Demerit Kyle Byrne's cell-phone number and a copy of the card of that friend of his, that Korean tax lawyer. In return, Henderson and Ramirez got to look into the file cabinet.
"It was his father's file cabinet," said Henderson as they drove east on Haverford Avenue back into the city. "And he took something from that bottom drawer, the one that was still open. And whatever it is, it is dangerous as hell."
"You figure Toth was killed for the same thing?"
"Maybe."
"By Kyle?" said Ramirez.
"Of course not. If he killed Toth in the office, he could have searched it then. Why would he go back later just so we could catch him? And you're right, why would he leave his car in the driveway so that it would go up with the house and the fireworks? No, the kid didn't do any killing, but I'd bet the killer is after him."
"The guy who put him in the hospital."
"Probably," said Henderson, "unless his problems are bigger than we can imagine."
"So who is it?"
"Don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was the same person that called in the burglary."
"I'll get hold of that tape." She thought for a moment. "We need to find Byrne and warn him."
"He already knows he's in trouble, he doesn't need our warning. But this whole thing seems to be about one of his father's old files, right?"
"I suppose."
"Which means it's at least fourteen years old. And if it was dangerous now, it must have been dangerous then, too. How'd the father die?"
"No one seems to know for sure," said Ramirez. "Well, then," said Detective Henderson, "don't you think you ought to find out?"
CHAPTER 32
A MOTEL ROOM IS where romance goes to die.
The two Byrnes were in unit 207 of a cheap roadside motel in Bellmawr, New Jersey, just over the bridge from Philadelphia. The dark room was lit only by a flash of neon that slipped through a gap in the curtains. It smelled of yesterday's urine, of indifferent adulterous sex, of the smoke that had permeated their skin and clothes from the night of fire they had passed through together.
Kyle sat in the tattered upholstered chair he had dragged across the floor so that it blocked the door, and he stared at his father, who lay sleeping on his back in one of the sagging beds. His father was wearing just his pants and socks, his thick torso was bare, his sagging breasts covered with gnarly gray hair. He was snoring loudly enough to drown out the strange goings-on in room 205 next door, which was just as well. Kyle sat in that chair, watching his father sleep the sleep of the unperturbed, the sleep of the innocent, and he brooded.
The love and astonishment that had overwhelmed him upon first seeing his father's face in the beam of his flashlight had turned into something dark and sour. He thought of his years of vainly searching crowds for the father who had died. He thought of his mother sitting on the porch, staring out at the lonely darkness that had become her life. He thought of his own failures, one after the other, failures he had always secretly and comfortingly attributed to his fatherlessness. He thought of his mother lying withered and gray in the hospital, alone except for her brother and son, forcing that ironic smile onto her shivering lips one last time.
Where the hell have you been, you son of a bitch?
The ride through the city and over the bridge in his father's green rental car had been tense and yet full of the excitement of their strange reunion and exhilarating escape. But as soon as they hit the room, Kyle's emotions began to turn, and he started asking questions.
"I'm too tired to talk about it now, boyo," said his father. "I've been following you around for days. I need to sleep. In the morning we'll talk it all through, in the morning. I promise." And just a few minutes later, the snoring began, a harsh, grabbing sound, like the endless emptying of a drain partially clogged with hair and globby deposits of fat.
So Kyle waited through the night in the chair, falling asleep for brief intervals, waking each time with a start, looking around desperately until he was sure the old man was still there, in the bed. There was a television on a stand, but he didn't feel like watching. He had left his cell phone in the car at his old house, which put him out of contact with the world, but considering who was asleep in the bed, he didn't much mind. He simply sat in the chair, and between fits of sleep he stared. He felt partly as if he were watching over his father like a protector and partly like a prison guard.
Because Kyle had to know.
The next time Kyle awoke, sunlight was streaming through the gap in the curtains and his father was gone. Kyle shot to his feet, dashed to the window, spread open the curtains. Light hit his face like a fist. Then, behind him, he heard the shower in the bathroom. A moment later the water shut off, and he could hear his father whistling, oblivious to the emotional turmoil bubbling in the bedroom. Kyle closed the curtains, sat down in the chair, and waited.
"Good morning, boyo," said Liam Byrne when he came out of the bathroom, still wet from the shower. He was naked except for a towel held around his waist with one hand while he scratched at a wildly unkempt head of hair with the other. "How'd you sleep?"
"Fitfully."
"You should have taken the other bed. I told you no one knows where we are."
"I needed to be sure."
"Well, you suited yourself as you always did, but I hope you obtained enough rest in that chair of yours, for we have much to do today, much to do."
"I thought we'd start by talking about the last fourteen years."
There was a pause as Liam Byrne drew underwear from a small, shabby suitcase. He started to collect the rest of his clothes scattered all about the room even as he collected his thoughts. When he spoke, finally, he did so without looking at his son.
"They were years in the wilderness, boyo. Fallow years. And believe it or not, I missed you more than you missed me."
"I doubt it."
"No, it's truth, believe me." He began to dress, a pair of boxers, his rumpled suit pants. "And your mother, I was so sad to hear of her passing. I loved her mightily."
"Not enough to be there when she died."
"Would it have helped? Would my presence have given her one more day?"
"She never dated, never saw another man."
"One of a kind, your mother."
"How could you leave her like that, by pretending to be dead? How could you leave me?"
Liam Byrne, still shirtless, stopped dressing and stared at his son for a moment before walking around to sit on the edge of the bed closest to Kyle. His face was drawn with seriousness. He leaned forward to put his hand on Kyle's knee.
Kyle recoiled.
"I had no choice," Liam Byrne said softly. "Believe me when I say this. They would have killed me if I stayed."
"Who?"
"The same people who came after us last night. That's why I left, that's why I ran. You've seen them at work now, so you must understand. It was the file, don't you understand? Now and then. Fourteen years ago they were killing everyone connected to it, and I was next."
And then, in the somber tones of a lawyer laying out a case for a jury, he told Kyle the sad and harrowing truth behind the O'Malley file.
CHAPTER 33
IT BEGAN WITH A MEETING in his office. An older couple he knew from his old church, a fine upstanding couple, the O'Malleys, childless unti
l they were graced in their later years with a daughter, a gift from God, Colleen.
Colleen had been dating a rich boy from the suburbs, but their romance was frowned on by both the families. The O'Malleys thought he was too fast, the boy's parents thought she wasn't good enough for him. The pressure grew too much for Colleen, and she broke it off. The boy wanted it to continue. He grew crazy, calling her at all hours, holding vigils outside her house, following her home from school, home from basketball games, following. Stalking, they call it now. And then one night he seized her arm. She struggled. It turned ugly. And with a hand pressed upon her mouth and amid whispers that she was trash and no one else would have her if he couldn't, he pulled her into an alley.
"That was in 1979," said Liam Byrne. "The parents wanted protection for their daughter and some sort of justice. But in those days it wasn't the thing to testify. Reputations were easily ruined. Neither family wanted that. And the boy's family had money. We could get far more by keeping it quiet than by making it public. So instead of going to the police and bringing charges, I advised a settlement, and the parents agreed. The amount was generous, more than enough for Colleen's education, and as part of the settlement the boy was sent to counseling. I thought that was best for all, to set right two lives that had listed. I thought I was doing the correct thing. But I was wrong. Fifteen years later the boy, now working in the family's investment bank, made his first run for public office."
"Truscott," said Kyle.
"Yes, that's right," said Liam Byrne. "This was in 1994, when the Republicans took over Congress and Truscott was aiming to be part of that wave, using a scad of his money to buy the seat. I thought the republic was in danger from a reactionary cadre of the moneyed elite and thought myself obligated to do something about it. So I went to that Truscott, no longer a kid but a hard and ambitious politician, and told him if he didn't back out of the campaign, I would have no choice but to release the file. I thought I was doing the right thing for the country, but I didn't anticipate the consequences. He didn't back out of the campaign. He didn't confess and move on. What he did was to start the killing."
"Killing?"
"Colleen O'Malley, no longer a girl but a mother with two children living in Ohio. She drowned in a lake under unusual circumstances. I had kept in contact with her—both her parents had passed by then, and I felt a paternal obligation—and was horrified at the news. The funeral was a sad affair, such youth lost. But as I left the funeral, driving back to the airport, a car came from behind and rammed me off the road. My car tumbled twice before coming to rest in a ravine. I barely clambered out before it exploded. That's when I finally understood what had happened to Colleen. And I knew that the next time I wouldn't be so lucky."
"Did you go to the police?"
"And say what? What did I know? The boy wasn't doing it himself. He was all the time in Philadelphia, giving speeches. I would have been taken for a crackpot and been just as vulnerable."
"What about the press? Why not just tell the story to the press and get it over with?"
"No one would print it. His family was too powerful. And without the girl there'd be no proof. I also knew that if I went to the press, it wasn't just myself I'd be endangering but everyone close to me, including your mother and you."
"And your wife."
"Yes, well, her, too, of course. Maybe I panicked, maybe I was a fool, but I believed then that if ever I showed my face again in Philadelphia, I'd be killed right off. I found a man who could feign my death for a price, and I paid it. I paid it, and I ran, and I've been running ever since. Oh, boyo, you don't know the torture of it to be an exile from your own life. But it was the only way."
Kyle stared at his father, tried to see him fresh. For so long he had loomed huge over Kyle's life. To see him reappear was almost fitting, as if he were a superman who could accomplish anything. But this tale about his fear and his decision to run from his former life brought him down to scale. Less than scale. For a moment he looked small and tragic, and Kyle's heart reached out to him. But then Kyle thought of his mother.
"So you deserted us."
"It was the only way, boyo. Otherwise you all would have been at risk. I gave up my life here to protect you."
"How did you live?" said Kyle. "What did you do?"
"I wandered, picked up the documentation I needed to make a new life, settled down in California. I made do."
"Were you alone?"
"What is this, a cross-examination?"
"Answer the question. Were you alone?"
"Have you ever thought of law school? It's clearly in your blood. But think, boyo. Do you really want to be asking that question?"
"So you found another woman. Or maybe had one already waiting, maybe someone as insanely loyal as my mother. Maybe you even started a new family. Do you coach your new kid in Little League, Dad?"
There was a pause as father and son stared at each other and the missing years tumbled between them like clothes in a Laundromat dryer.
"He's a got a swing, he does," Liam Byrne said finally. "Almost as pretty as yours."
"You're still with her and the boy?"
"It didn't work out, it never does. I'm fated to pick women too good for me. Like your mother."
"How do you live? Are you still a lawyer?"
"Couldn't finagle myself a license. So it's real estate instead. I dabble and get by."
"With the money you stole from Sorrentino?"
Liam Byrne nodded as if Kyle's possession of the name were not a surprise. "What did that foul little monster tell you?"
"He beat the hell out of me looking for what you stole. He wants the file, too. He thinks he can make his money back with it. He says you owe it to him."
"That thief. We were in the middle of a partnership dispute when I left, that's all it was. What I took was my share only."
"You better tell him that before he comes after me again."
"I'll deal with him, don't worry."
"How, Dad? How are you going to deal with anything? You're dead, remember? And tell me, if life is so damn good in California, why did you bother to come back? And why now?"
"Because of Laszlo. I saw word of his murder on the Internet, and I knew I had to be at that funeral."
"You came to pay your respects?"
"No, you're not getting it. When I heard about his murder, I figured he had found a copy of the file and tried to weasel some money for himself. He was always a crook. He couldn't help himself. What's the opening line of every Hungarian recipe? 'First, steal a chicken.' And I remembered the cabinet I left in your house, which meant you, too, were at risk. So I came back, boyo. I came back to save you. You must believe me."
"How can I?"
"And I want to tell you, watching you hit that baseball from afar . . ."
"So it was you."
"Of course it was. I always loved watching you play ball. And now, spending this time with you, even if on the run, boyo, it fills my heart. You and me, together again, Byrne and son. We make a hell of a team, yes we do. The way we got out of that burning house, it was magical."
"It was pretty good, wasn't it?"
"So are we settled on the issue?"
"No," said Kyle.
"But someday, maybe? Someday you'll forgive the old man for doing only what he had to do?"
"I don't know."
Liam Byrne looked at his son with bright eyes, as if a jury had just come back in his favor.
"Well, that's all I can ask for," he said in a cheery voice. "It's all I deserve. I made mistakes, I know it. I've loved and lost and played the fool. But I did it all on my terms, and that made all the difference. Son, listen. I learned something in this life that has kept me on the right side of things. You need to be true to yourself, boyo. Be true to yourself and you'll be true to me, too. That's all I can ask."
He patted Kyle's knee before standing and resuming his dressing. "Come now, boyo, we have work to do."
"What are you talking about
?"
"It's time to trap a senator. We're going to stomp on that rogue like a cockroach in the kitchen."
"Why are we going to do anything? Let's just go to the cops with the file and our story. There's a detective I met that I think I trust."
"We can't, boyo, don't you see? It wouldn't any longer be about him, it would be about you and about me. Your car is still at the house. They'll blame you for the fire. And then they'd pick me up, too. There was insurance involved in my leaving, with death benefits to your mother and my wife. We'd both end up in jail, and our senator would weasel his way out of trouble. You have to promise me. No one can know I'm back. I must at all times remain dead. That's rule one. Promise me."
"I don't know, Dad."
"Well, figure it out," he said angrily. "And fast. You might never forgive your poor father, and he might not deserve forgiving, but you surely wouldn't send him to jail, would you?"
Kyle looked at his father, felt some deeply held sense of misplaced loyalty well inside. "No," he said. "I wouldn't do that."
"Good boy. Now, with the file in our hands, we can go on offense. The stakes were high fourteen years ago, but they've been raised radically. It's not just a seat in Congress anymore, the assassin has his sights on the White House. He'll do anything to make sure every trace of his boyhood crime is destroyed. And that, finally, will be his undoing."
CHAPTER 34
FOR THE FIRST TIME in his life, Bobby Spangler's world seemed perfectly balanced, as if he were dancing on the edge of a cleaver.
There had always been a disparity between his hopes and his realities, between his vision of himself and the way she viewed him. But the fire had cleansed him, burning off not just his eyebrows, or the lank hair he combed over his skull, but also his most puerile fantasies. Through the healing power of fire, he could, for the first time, see himself and his place in the world clear. The sulfurous landscape of his inner life now matched perfectly the burned and smoking wasteland he had trudged through all his days.
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