A Christmas Killing Read Free Page A

snow, and you beat her senseless. She’s fighting for her life at Graduate right now.”
    Farren took another step away, which put him closer to Frank Sheehan. Sheehan closed the gap with a step of his own.
    Byrne glanced at Danny. Danny Farren now had both hands in his pockets. The two boys huddled in a doorway behind him.
    “You…you got some balls, brother,” Patrick said. Despite the cold, sweat began to bead on his forehead. “You come down to my neighborhood, on Christmas Eve, with this shit? You got a wild fuckin’ imagination.”
    “Do I?” Byrne asked. “Then tell me where you tossed that can of STP, brother. Tell me where it is, I’ll go get it, and we can wrap this up. I’ll admit my mistake, I’ll buy you a Bushmills, and we can go about our lives, spend Christmas with our loved ones. Sound good?”
    Farren didn’t move, didn’t speak. Byrne nudged the hem of his coat back a few more inches.
    “See, you could tell me where that empty can is, but you won’t,” Byrne said. “You won’t tell me because we both know it’s in the back of your car right now. You know as well as I do that the lab can match that exact fluid to what’s in your car, and you also know that we’re going to find Miranda Sanchez’s fingerprints all over the can.”
    Patrick Farren stole a glance at his brother. Something silent passed between them. Something dark and violent. Something primal.
    “And I’ll bet that her blood is on the front seat of your car,” Byrne said. “Prove me wrong. Let’s go home early.”
    Patrick Farren unbuttoned his coat.
    “Don’t do it,” Byrne said. He eased his hand onto the grip of his weapon. “Let’s resolve this. Nobody has to get hurt.”
    “Fuck you.”
    A light came on in Byrne’s periphery. At first he thought someone had turned on their Christmas lights, but the light was too big, too bright. In that instant—the chasm between a thought and an action—Byrne realized it was the traffic light on the corner.
    And in that instant somebody screamed.
    Byrne glanced over to see that it was one of the boys, the smaller of the two. Before Danny Farren could stop the boy, he ran off the curb.
    “Uncle Pat! ”
    A second later Byrne saw the car coming around the corner, a big Delta 88 Royale. The driver had apparently anticipated the green light on Carpenter Street and had not slowed before making the turn.
    The car slammed into the boy, hitting him just below his waist, tossing him high into the air. Byrne heard the air punched from the boy’s lungs. His body came down on the icy street with a sickening thud, his head cracking on the pavement.
    The other boy screamed but, in that moment, all Byrne heard was his own heart.
    “You mother fucker, ” Patrick Farren yelled. He pulled his weapon from his waistband, and picked a target. Sheehan was closer.
    But Frank Sheehan had already drawn. He fired three times, hitting Patrick Farren in the center mass of his chest in a tight pattern. Farren never got off a shot. He was blown to the ground, falling next to the boy, the snow-dusted street now pooling with their blood.
    Byrne spun, leveled his weapon at Danny Farren. The older Farren brother slowly raised his hands into the air.
      
    The second EMS wagon left at just after midnight. There was no need to hurry for Patrick Farren. He was pronounced dead at the scene.
    Patrick’s ten-year-old nephew, Michael, sustained multiple injuries, as well as serious head trauma. He was currently in an induced coma at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital.
    As the Crime Scene Unit towed the Malibu to the police garage, where it would be processed for evidence, Detectives Kevin Byrne and Frank Sheehan gave their statements, and were cleared to go off duty.
    An all but empty can of STP brake fluid was found on the floor of the Malibu, just behind the driver’s seat.
      
    They sat at the bar at McGillin’s Old Ale House on Drury Street. Since leaving the station house, Byrne had called