Рыбаченко Олег Павлович
Alexander Iii - Russia's Great Hope

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  • Аннотация:
    Alexander II was assassinated in April 1866. Alexander III ascended the throne. He prevented the sale of Alaska and implemented a series of measures strengthening Tsarist Russia. A period of glorious victories and conquests for our great Motherland then began.
  Alexander III - Russia's Great Hope
  ANNOTATION
  Alexander II was assassinated in April 1866. Alexander III ascended the throne. He prevented the sale of Alaska and implemented a series of measures strengthening Tsarist Russia. A period of glorious victories and conquests for our great Motherland then began.
  PROLOGUE
  The assassination of Tsar Alexander II plunged Russia into mourning. But from the very first months of his son Alexander III's reign, a firm hand was felt. Unrest subsided, railroads and factories began to be built. New forts were erected in Alaska. The idea of selling this territory was immediately dismissed by the new, powerful Tsar: Russians don't give up their lands. And the order was given: build a city-a new Alexandria.
  With the advent of steamships, travel to Alaska became easier. And rich gold deposits were discovered. And it became clear that the wise king had done the right thing in not selling Alaska.
  But other countries began laying claim to it, most notably Britain, which shares a border with Alaska and Canada.
  The British army and navy laid siege to New Alexandria. But the boys and girls from the children's space special forces were right there.
  Oleg Rybachenko, a faithful servant of the Russian gods and commander of the children's space special forces, was sent to this fort on Russian territory and was supposed to take part in the battles to hold Russian territory.
  Barefoot and wearing shorts, the boy attacked the British battery positioned on the commanding heights above the fort. Oleg already had considerable experience carrying out various missions for the all-powerful Russian gods in various universes. Such was the destiny of this boy genius. As an adult writer, he desired to become immortal.
  And the Russian gods-demiurges made him immortal, but turned him into a boy-terminator who serves them and the people of Mother Russia. This suits the eternal boy just fine.
  He clamps a hand over an English guard's mouth and slits his throat. This isn't the first time he's done this, nor is it his first mission. From the very beginning, thanks to his childish body, the eternal boy perceived it all as a game, and therefore felt no remorse or discomfort in his soul.
  It became so natural for him that the boy was only happy about his latest success.
  Here he simply tore off another sentry's head. Our Englishmen should know: Alaska was and will always be Russian!
  Oleg Rybachenko, the brilliant and most prolific writer in the CIS, had long been outraged by the sale of Alaska for a pittance! But Tsar Alexander III was different! This monarch would not give up an inch of Russian land!
  Glory to Russia and the Russian tsars!
  The boy-terminator hit another Englishman in the back of the head with his bare heel. He broke his neck. Then he sang:
  - Alaska will be ours forever,
  Where the Russian flag is, the sun shines!
  May a great dream come true,
  And the girls' voices are very clear!
  It would be great if the legendary four witch girls, beautiful as the stars, could help right now. They would be a great help. But okay, fight alone for now.
  Now you light the smokeless powder and nitroglycerin. Now the entire British battery will blow up.
  Oleg Rybachenko sang:
  - There is no more beautiful Motherland than Russia,
  Fight for her and don't be afraid...
  There is no happier country in the universe,
  Rus', the torch of light for the whole universe!
  The battery exploded, like the eruption of a colossal volcano. Several hundred Englishmen were thrown into the air at once, and torn to pieces.
  After which, the boy, waving two sabers, began to hack at the Englishmen. The young Terminator-boy began to scream in English.
  - The Scots have risen! They want to tear the Queen apart!
  Then something started happening... Shooting broke out between ethnic Englishmen and Scots. A wild and brutal shootout.
  And so the fighting began. The Scots and the English clashed with each other.
  Several thousand soldiers besieging the fort now fought with the greatest frenzy.
  Oleg Rybachenko shouted:
  - They're cutting and killing! Shoot those!
  The battle continued on a colossal scale. Meanwhile, Oleg, possessing remarkable strength, grabbed several barrels of nitroglycerin into the boat, and in the confusion, they aimed it at the largest British battleship.
  The boy-terminator yelled:
  - For Rus', the gift of annihilation!
  And he pushed the boat away with his bare, childish feet, and it, accelerating, slammed into the battleship's side. The Englishmen on board fired their guns chaotically and to no avail.
  And here's the result: a ramming attack. Several barrels of nitroglycerin exploded. And the immortal boy aimed them so precisely that they exploded completely.
  And such destruction followed. And the battleship, without further ado, began to sink.
  And the Englishmen on board were drowning. Meanwhile, the boy was already on the cruiser, chopping down the sailors with his sabers, and running, splashing on his bare feet, to the wheelhouse.
  He quickly cuts down the sailors and squeals:
  - Glory to our beautiful country!
  Wonderful Russia under the wise Tsar!
  I won't give you Alaska, enemies!
  The boor will be torn to pieces in rage!
  And so the boy threw a grenade with his bare feet and tore the British to pieces.
  Then he broke through to the helm and started turning the cruiser. And two large British ships collided. And their armor would burst. And they would sink and burn at the same time.
  Oleg sang:
  - Glory to Russia, glory!
  The cruiser rushes forward....
  Tsar Alexander the Great,
  Will open the scoring!
  After which, the boy-terminator leaped with a single leap onto another cruiser. And there, too, he began hacking at the sailors and fighting his way to the helm.
  And then just turn everything around and push the ships together.
  The Terminator boy even started singing:
  - Black belt,
  I am very calm...
  Black Belt -
  One warrior in the field!
  Black belt,
  Lightning discharge -
  All the English are lying dead!
  And Oleg Rybachenko is smashing ships together again. What a guy - he's truly the coolest guy in the world!
  And another jump, and onto another cruiser. But the mistress of the seas had a bad idea - to fight Russia. Especially when such a tough and reckless boy was fighting.
  Oleg Rybachenko then cut down a mass of British and turned his ship around-or rather, the one he'd captured from the British. He then directed it to attack another cruiser. With a wild roar, he rammed the enemy.
  It was as if two monsters had collided and collided in wild outfits. They'd split each other's noses. Then they'd scooped up seawater and begun to drown, with no chance of survival.
  Oleg Rybachenko yelled:
  - Glory to Alexander III! The greatest of tsars!
  And again, with his bare toes, he tosses up a bomb with explosives. And the entire frigate, holed, sinks.
  Of course, the British didn't expect this. Did they think they'd stumble upon such a wild adventure?
  Oleg Rybachenko roared:
  - Glory to the Great Russia of the Tsars!
  And again, the boy seizes the wheel of another cruiser. Using his bare, childish feet, he turns it and rams the enemy. The two ships break apart and drown in sea vomit!
  Terminator boy screams:
  - For the glory of the holy Motherland!
  And then comes another long jump. And a flight over the waves. After which the boy slashes with his sabers again, breaking through to the steering wheel. He's a very combative and aggressive Terminator boy.
  He crushes the English sailors and sings:
  - Sparkles like a radiant star,
  Through the mist of impenetrable darkness...
  Our great Tsar Alexander,
  Knows neither pain nor fear!
  
  Your enemies retreat before you,
  The crowd of people rejoices...
  Russia accepts you -
  A mighty hand rules!
  And Oleg Rybachenko cut down another mass of Englishmen, and again smashed the ships head-on with all his might.
  This is a real Terminator boy. He looks about twelve, only five feet tall, yet his muscles are like cast iron and his physique is like a chocolate bar.
  And if such a guy hits you, it won't be honey at all.
  And here the boy is again, jumping from one cruiser to another. And again, without further ado, he pits them against each other.
  And he shouts to himself:
  - For the Romanovs' Rus'!
  The boy writer is truly on a roll. He'll show everyone his class. And he'll hack and smash everyone, like a giant with a club.
  Here comes the jump again, this time onto an armadillo.
  The boy's sabers are at work again. They try to shoot at him, but the bullets miss the immortal boy, and if they do, they bounce off.
  It's good to be an eternal child: not only are you young, but they can't kill you either. So you're thrashing Britain.
  You grab the steering wheel. And now you're spinning it, and now two battleships are about to collide, and they crash. And the metal breaks, sparks fly everywhere.
  Oleg Rybachenko shouts:
  - For Russia, everyone will be beaten!
  And with a bare, boyish heel he will toss a lethal gift of death. He will tear apart a mass of Englishmen, and another frigate will sink.
  Well, there are still four cruisers left. It's clear the British won't send their entire fleet to the shores of Alaska.
  Oleg Rybachenko grabs another steering wheel and spins it toward the enemy with all his might. And then both cruisers collide.
  There's a grinding sound and the snapping of metal. And both ships begin to sink with great relish.
  Oleg Rybachenko sang:
  - Near the Beer and Water store,
  There lay a happy man...
  He came from the people,
  And he went out and fell into the snow!
  Now we need to destroy the last cruisers and take on the smaller ships.
  Then the Englishmen on land, after the destruction of the fleet, will surrender to the mercy of the winner.
  And this will be such a lesson for Britain that they'll never forget it. And they'll also remember Crimea, where they trespassed during the reign of their great-grandfather, Nicholas I. However, Nicholas Palych didn't go down in history as a great man, but as a failure. But his grandson must now demonstrate the glory of Russian arms.
  And Oleg Rybachenko, a very cool and determined boy terminator, helps him with this.
  Oleg seizes another helm and slams both British cruisers into each other. He acts with great determination and sternness.
  After which the boy writer exclaims:
  - The ships are sinking to the bottom,
  With anchors, sails...
  And then yours will be,
  Golden chests!
  Golden chests!
  And another leap. Once four battleships and a dozen cruisers are destroyed, it's time to crush the frigates too. Britain will lose quite a few ships.
  And after this he will understand what it means to attack Russia.
  The boy-terminator sang:
  - For the miracle and our victory in the world!
  And he saddled the helm of another frigate, and directed the ship to ram, and with a powerful blow, how it hit!
  And both vessels will break and shatter into pieces. And that's great, really cool.
  Oleg Rybachenko jumps again and hops onto the next vessel. From there, he directs the process. He turns the ship again, and the frigates collide.
  Again there is the screech of breaking metal, a powerful explosion, and the surviving sailors fall into the water.
  Oleg shouts:
  - To the success of our weapons!
  And once again the brave boy is on the attack. He mounted the new frigate and aimed it at the destroyer.
  Steamships collide and explode. Metal breaks, and fire shoots up. And people burn alive.
  This is the most obvious nightmare. And the English are burning like barbecues.
  Among the dead was a cabin boy, a boy of about thirteen. It's a shame, of course, that someone like him was killed. But war is war.
  The boy-terminator sang:
  - There will be corpses, lots of mountains! Father Chernomor is with us!
  And the boy again threw a grenade with his bare foot, which sank another ship.
  The boy genius head-butted the British admiral, whose head exploded like a pumpkin hit by a pile. He then kicked the huge black man in the chin with his bare heel. He flew past and knocked down a dozen sailors.
  And then the boy turned the frigate around again and rammed his neighbor with it. He chirped aggressively:
  - I am a great star!
  And once again, the boy-terminator is on the attack. Crushing and swift. A whole volcano is seething within him, an eruption of colossal power. This is an invincible boy-genius.
  And he crushes them all without mercy. And then the boy-superman saddles another frigate. And destroys the enemy without any delay. Now that boy is a big star.
  Oleg Rybachenko again slammed the two ships together and yelled at the top of his lungs:
  - For great communism!
  And again, the brave boy fighter is on the offensive. You're fighting in a new way here. Not like another time-traveling story about World War II. Everything is beautiful and fresh here. You're fighting Britain for Alaska.
  The United States hasn't yet recovered from the civil war, and it doesn't share a border with Russia. So if they have to clash with the Yankees, it'll be later.
  Britain has a colony, Canada, and Russia shares a border with it. So the onslaught of mighty England must be repelled.
  But now another pair of frigates have collided. Soon there will be nothing left of the British fleet.
  And you can't really attack Alaska by land. Communications lines there are stretched thin, even for Britain.
  Oleg Rybachenko again pits the frigates against each other and roars:
  - A pirate doesn't need science,
  And it's clear why...
  We have both legs and arms,
  And hands...
  And we don"t need the head!
  And the boy hit the English sailor with his head so hard that he flew past and shot down a dozen soldiers.
  Oleg's on the attack again... He's pitted the frigates against each other again. And they're breaking, burning, and sinking.
  Oleg yelled:
  - For the soul of Russia!
  And now the boy's bare, round heel finds its target again. He crushes the enemy and roars:
  - For the sacred Fatherland!
  And he slammed his knee into the enemy's stomach, and his guts came out from behind his mouth.
  Oleg Rybachenko yelled:
  - For the greatness of the Fatherland!
  And he spun the helicopter in the air, tearing his enemies into small pieces with his bare feet.
  The boy is really killing things... He could have easily dealt with the enemies himself.
  But four girls from the children's space special forces showed up. And they were also beauties, barefoot and in bikinis.
  And they start crushing the British. They jump up, throw grenades with their bare, girlish feet, and tear Britain apart.
  And then there's Natasha, a muscular woman in a bikini. She just throws the disc with her bare toes... Several English sailors are cut down, and the frigate turns and rams its colleague.
  Natasha squeals:
  - Alexander the Third is a superstar!
  Zoya, this girl with golden hair, confirms:
  - Superstar and not old at all!
  Augustine, furiously crushing the English, this red-haired bitch said, baring her teeth:
  - Communism will be with us!
  And the girl's bare heel went and smashed the enemy into the cannon's muzzle. And the frigate split apart.
  Svetlana laughed, fired her gun, crushed the enemy, spun the steering wheel with her bare foot, and barked:
  - The kings are with us!
  The girls immediately went wild and began to smash the fleet with great aggression. Who could resist? The frigates quickly ran out, and now they were smashing smaller vessels instead.
  Natasha, crushing Britain, sang:
  - Russia has been celebrated as holy for centuries!
  And with his bare toes he will throw a bomb that splits the brig.
  Zoya, continuing to crush the enemy, squealed:
  - I love you with all my heart and soul!
  And again, with her bare toes, she tossed a pea. It split another English ship.
  Augustina also went and smashed the enemy. She smashed the ship, the red-haired bitch sank a ton of British enemies. And she squealed:
  - For Alexander the Third, who will become a great tsar!
  Svetlana readily agreed with this:
  - Of course it will!
  The blonde terminator's bare foot hit the side of the British ship with such force that the English ship split into three parts.
  Oleg Rybachenko, this invincible boy, also hit his opponent with such a blow, with his bare, round, childish heel, that the brig cracked and sank almost instantly.
  The boy-terminator sang:
  - We will sweep away the enemy with one blow,
  We will confirm our glory with a steel sword...
  It was not in vain that we crushed the Wehrmacht,
  We'll beat the English by playing!
  Natasha winked and noted with a laugh:
  - And of course we will do it with bare girlish feet!
  And the girl's bare heel crashed into another English ship.
  Zoya, baring her teeth, said aggressively:
  - For communism in its tsarist incarnation!
  And the girl, with her bare toes, took and threw something that has a deadly effect on enemies, literally sweeping them away and tearing them apart.
  Augustine, crushing the English, took and said:
  - Glory to Christ and Rod!
  After which her bare feet threw a bomb, tearing another submarine to pieces.
  And then, with a precise blow, a bare heel split the brigantine. And it did so quite nimbly.
  Svetlana is also on the move, destroying enemies. And with her bare heel, she sends another brig to the bottom.
  And the girl, with her bare toes and wild fury, throws the grenade again. She is an amazing warrior.
  Here's Natasha, on the attack, swift and very aggressive. She's attacking desperately.
  And a new English ship sinks when it is hit by a bomb thrown by a girl's bare toes.
  Natasha sang, baring her teeth:
  - I am a superman!
  Zoya kicked the brig in the bow with her bare knee. It cracked and began to sink.
  Oleg Rybachenko also split a smaller British ship with his bare heel and squeaked:
  - To my strength! We watered everything!
  And the boy is again on the move and aggressively attacking.
  Augustine continued to move like a cobra that stings Britain, and said with relish:
  - Communism! It's a proud word!
  And the bare toes of this desperate girl threw another gift of destruction.
  And a mass of Englishmen found themselves in a coffin, or at the bottom of the sea. But what kind of coffin, if they were torn apart?
  And the rest even sank!
  Oleg Rybachenko spat at the brig with a wild grin, and it burst into flames as if doused with napalm.
  The boy-terminator yelled:
  - To aqua regia!
  And he'll laugh and kick Britain's ship with his bare heel. It'll split and go sputter into the sea.
  Svetlana threw the bomb with her bare toes and squealed:
  - And the dashing girls go out to sea...
  And he will chop down his enemies with sabers.
  Oleg Rybachenko, crushing the English, confirmed:
  - Sea element! Sea element!
  And so the warriors parted ways. And the boy with them was so feisty. And so playful.
  Oleg Rybachenko, firing at the enemy from a British cannon and sinking another ship, declared:
  - Cosmic dream! Let the enemy be crushed!
  The girls and the boy were in a colossal frenzy, hacking at the enemy, leaving Britain with no way to withstand such pressure.
  Oleg, sinking yet another ship, remembered that in one of the parallel universes, a dwarf had decided to help the Germans design the Tiger II. And this technical genius had managed to create a vehicle with the armor thickness and armament of the King Tiger, weighing only thirty tons and standing just one and a half meters tall!
  Well, that's what he's called a dwarf! And he has a super designer! Of course, with such a machine, the Germans were able to defeat the Allies in Normandy in the summer of 1944, and in the fall, stop the Red Army's advance as it broke through to Warsaw.
  What was worse was that the dwarf didn't just design tanks. The XE-162 also turned out to be very successful: light, cheap, and easy to fly. And the Ju-287 bomber turned out to be a true superman.
  And then their five had to intervene. And so the war dragged on until 1947.
  If it weren"t for their five, the Fritzes could have won!
  Oleg Rybachenko then spoke harshly about the gnomes:
  - They are worse than elves!
  There really was such a time-traveling elf. He became a Luftwaffe pilot, shooting down over six hundred aircraft on both fronts between the fall of 1941 and June 1944. He received the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross with Silver Oak Leaves, Swords, and Diamonds when he became the first Luftwaffe pilot to shoot down two hundred aircraft. Then, for three hundred aircraft shot down, he received the Order of the German Eagle with Diamonds. For four hundred aircraft shot down, he received the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross, with Golden Oak Leaves, Swords, and Diamonds. For the jubilee five hundred aircraft shot down by April 20, 1944, the elf received the Grand Cross of the Iron Cross-the second in the Third Reich after Hermann Göring.
  And for the six hundredth aircraft, he was awarded a special award: the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross with platinum oak leaves, swords, and diamonds. The glorious ace-elf was never shot down-the magic of the gods' amulet was at work. And he worked alone like an entire air corps.
  But this had no impact on the course of the war. And the Allies landed in Normandy. And quite successfully, despite all the elf's efforts.
  So, this representative of the sorcerer nation decided to get the hell out of the Third Reich. What did he want anyway? To run up his bills to a thousand? Who would be with the enemy?
  Oleg sank another brigantine and roared:
  - For our Motherland!
  Their five had already sunk almost all the ships. As a final chord, they pushed five vessels together, completing the destruction of the English fleet.
  Oleg Rybachenko sang, baring his teeth:
  - May Russia be famous for centuries,
  There will soon be a change of generations...
  In joy there is a great dream,
  It will be Alexander, not Lenin!
  The girls seem pleased. England has been defeated at sea. Now all that remains is to finish off the battered enemy on land.
  And the five rushed to cut down the already disorganized and half-defeated enemy.
  The girls and the boy crushed the enemy. They hacked at them with sabers and threw grenades at them with their bare toes. And it turned out to be extremely cool.
  Natasha chopped and sang, her sabers so fast, slashing twenty times a second. With such speed, no one could stand against the witches. That's the power of the Russian gods!
  Oleg Rybachenko kicked the helmet of the British general with his bare heel, breaking his neck and saying:
  - One, two, three, four!
  Zoya threw the sharp, honed disk with her bare fingers and said with a laugh:
  - Legs higher, arms wider!
  Augustina acted extremely aggressively. Her bare feet were swift. And her copper-red hair fluttered like a proletarian battle flag.
  The girl took it and sang:
  - I'm a witch and there's no better profession!
  Svetlana, cutting down her opponents, agreed:
  - No! And I don't think there will be!
  And her bare feet hurled daggers. They flew past and cut down two dozen Englishmen.
  The extermination proceeded according to plan. Both the girls and the boy acted with obvious ferocity and stunning precision. The warriors destroyed with savage aplomb.
  Oleg Rybachenko cut another general in half as soon as he whistled.
  And a dozen crows suddenly collapsed from heart attacks. They fell and punched holes in the heads of half a hundred English soldiers.
  What a fight! The coolest of fights!
  The boy-terminator roared:
  - I am a great warrior! I am Schwarzenegger!
  Natasha growled sharply and stamped her bare foot:
  - You are the Fisherman!
  Oleg agreed:
  - I am the Fish-Banator, who tears everyone apart!
  The remnants of the English troops surrendered. Afterwards, the captured soldiers kissed the girls' bare, round heels.
  But that wasn't the end of it. After such a defeat, Britain signed a peace treaty. And the Tsarist army marched against the Ottoman Empire to take revenge for its previous defeats.
  
  Oleg Rybachenko and Margarita Korshunova completed another mission for the Russian demiurge gods. This time, they fought Devlet Giray, who marched on Moscow with a huge army in 1571.
  In real history, Devlet Giray's 200,000-strong army managed to burn Moscow to the ground and kill tens of thousands of Russians. But now a pair of immortal children and four beautiful maidens-daughters of the gods-barred the Crimean Tatars' path. And they decided to wage a great and decisive battle.
  Oleg Rybachenko was dressed only in shorts, revealing his muscular torso. He appeared to be about twelve years old, but his muscles were very defined and deeply defined. He was very handsome, his skin chocolate-brown from sunburn, resembling a young Apollo, gleaming with bronze, and his hair was light, slightly golden.
  With the bare toes of his childish feet the boy threw a deadly boomerang and sang:
  - There is no more beautiful homeland than Russia,
  Fight for them and don't be afraid...
  Let's make the world happy
  The torch of the Universe is the light of Russia!
  After this, Oleg held a reception at the mill using swords, and the defeated Tatars fell.
  Margarita Korshunova, too, was a grown, even elderly, writer in her past life. Now she's a twelve-year-old girl, barefoot, wearing a tunic. Her hair is curly, the color of gold leaf. Moving, like Oleg, faster than a cheetah, she slices through the hordes of Crimean steppe dwellers like helicopter blades.
  A girl throws a sharp steel puck with her bare toes, knocks off the heads of atomic bombs and sings:
  - One two three four five,
  Let's kill all the villains!
  After this, the immortal children took him and how they whistled. And the stunned crows fainted, smashing their beaks into the skulls of the advancing Horde troops.
  Devlet Giray had assembled a massive army. Almost all the men of the Rat Khanate, along with many other Nogais and Turks, participated in the campaign. So the battle would be very serious.
  Natasha is a very beautiful and muscular girl. She wears only a bikini, and her hair is blue.
  She cuts down the horde with swords, and her bare toes on her maiden feet throw discs that cut off their heads.
  But a bare, tanned knee hit the khan in the chin. And his jaw dropped.
  Natasha sang:
  - There will be new victories,
  The new shelves are up!
  Zoya also fights like the most warlike and aggressive Terminator. Her bare toes shoot poisonous needles from her girlish feet. And her swords, too, can easily chop off heads.
  Zoya chirped and bared her teeth:
  Everything is cool in our army,
  Let's beat the bad guys...
  The king has a servant named Malyuta,
   Um den Verrat aufzudecken!
  Auch Augustinus kämpft mit einem sehr großen Schwertschwung. Und ihre Waffen sind einfach tödlich und sehr zerstörerisch. Und nackte Zehen werfen Nadeln, die viele tatarische Krieger töten.
  Augustinus sang:
  - Malyuta, Malyuta, Malyuta,
  Großer und glorreicher Henker...
  Das Mädchen auf dem Ständer wurde geil aufgehängt -
  Bekomm es mit einer Peitsche, aber weine nicht!
  Und das kupferrote Haar des Mädchens flattert im Wind wie ein proletarisches Banner, mit dem sie den Winterpalast stürmen.
  Svetlana kämpft auch mit Schwertern und schlägt Atombomben die Köpfe ab. Und ihre nackten Zehen schleudern ein explosives Paket der Zerstörung. Und die Masse der Atomwaffen fällt zerrissen und getötet.
  Svetlana gurrte:
  - Ruhm den russischen Demiurg-Göttern!
  Und wieder wird er diesmal mit seinen nackten Zehen scharfe Sterne nehmen und werfen.
  Die sechs Krieger packten Devlet Girays Armee sehr fest. Und natürlich zerstören die nackten Füße von Kindern und Mädchen die Horde vollständig.
  Und auch die Schwerter in den Händen sind äußerst effektiv.
  Aber Oleg Rybachenko versteht mit seinem Verstand eines ewigen Jungen, dass dies nicht genug ist.
  Und hier pfeift er mit Margarita, und wieder bekommen Tausende von Krähen einen Herzinfarkt. Und sie stürzen betäubt und durchbohren die geschorenen Köpfe der Tataren mit ihren Schnäbeln.
  Und Natasha schlug mit Schwertern zu. Mit ihren nackten Zehen warf sie Erbsen mit Sprengstoff.
  Und riss eine Menge Atombomben.
  Dann warf sie ihren BH ab, und wie aus einer scharlachroten Brustwarze blitzte es auf. Also wird es vorbeifliegen und viele Atomwaffen verbrennen.
  Und so werden nur Skelette zu Pferd übrig bleiben.
  Natascha sang:
  - Ich bin das stärkste Baby
  Ich werde meine Feinde bis zum Ende vernichten!
  Auch Zoya kämpft im großen Stil. Und ihre Schwerter schneiden wie die Klingen eines Kultivators. Und machen Sie sehr scharfe Schwünge.
  Und nackte Zehen werfen Bumerangklingen in Form von Hakenkreuzen oder Sternen.
  Und dann flog ihr BH von ihrer Brust und entblößte purpurrote Brustwarzen.
  Dann quietschte das Mädchen:
  - Meine kolossale Kraft,
  Ich habe das Universum erobert!
  Augustina kämpft mit großem Enthusiasmus. Und ihre kladentsy Show verspielte Wendungen. Und das Mädchen schwenkt sie wie die Flügel einer Mühle während eines Orkans.
  Und kupferrote Haare flattern wie von Lenin. Und wenn der nackte Absatz ein Sprengpaket hochschleudert und alle in Stücke reißt.
  Und das Mädchen wird auch ihren BH abwerfen. Und ihre Rubinnippel schoss wie ein feuriger Pulsar und schwatzt:
  - Zum Kampf gegen Impulse!
  Svetlana kämpft mit viel Druck. Hier führte sie eine Technik mit Schwertern durch, die die Köpfe von einem Dutzend Nummern nahm und zerstörte.
  Dann nahm das Mädchen mit ihren nackten Zehen etwas, das wie ein fliegender Drachen aussah, und startete es. Und sie tötete und trug so viele Nomaden auf einmal.
  Und dann platzte ihr BH auf und entblößte ihre Erdbeerbrustwarzen. Und dann wird der Blitz schlagen und so aushöhlen.
  Und es wurde sehr schmerzhaft.
  Svetlana sang:
  Nur für Gottes Geschenk
  Der Priester erhielt ein Honorar...
  In den Vorstädten ein ganzer Hektar Koks,
  Aber jetzt war sein Schlag genug,
  Und um schreckliche Strafen zu vermeiden,
  Er diktiert eine Abhandlung über die Tataren!
  Oleg Rybachenko, dieser groovige Junge, hieb mit Schwertern, als wären es die Klingen eines Propellerjägers, und quietschte:
  - Oh, ruhige Melancholie,
  Zerreiße nicht meine Seele...
  Wir sind nur Jungs,
  Götter voraus!
  Und das unsterbliche Kind, als würde es mit seinen nackten Zehen eine Bombe werfen.
  Der eine wird explodieren, und die Masse der Krimtataren wird auseinander gesprengt.
  Dann pfeift der Junge. Die Augen der Krähen wurden genommen und ausgerollt.
  And the crows, unconscious, picked up the shaved heads of the horde and fell on them.
  And they rammed the skulls with their beaks.
  And that was the death blow... The boy sang:
  - Black raven, in the face of death,
  The victim awaits at midnight!
  The girl Margarita also came out with the help of a bare, round, childish heel, throwing up a destructive bag of coal.
  And he will take it and blow up the capital.
  After this, the girl performed a butterfly-shaped sword maneuver. Their heads were also chopped off and their necks broken.
  And sing:
  -Black warrior in the face of death,
  They will meet at the grave!
  Then the girl took it and whistled too. The crows were stunned and literally fainted. They also cracked the Horde's skulls.
  This is the complete route. And an extremely deadly one.
  Yes, these kids are immortal and very cool kids.
  But, of course, this is just the beginning of the fight. Here are a few more girls joining the fight.
  In this case, the impressive IS-17 tank. This vehicle has eight machine guns and up to three cannons.
  Alenka is here with her team. The girls are wearing only panties. It's especially hot in the tank. And the girls' muscular bodies are literally glistening with sweat.
  Alenka fired with her bare toes, knocked down mujahideen with high-explosive shells and sang:
  - Glory to the Russian gods!
  Anyuta also fired with her bare round heel and struck the enemy with a deadly projectile, chirping and gnashing her teeth:
  - Glory to our fatherland!
  Red-haired, fiery Alla will also go barefoot against the nukers and deliver a fatal blow to the enemy.
  Then he chirps:
  - Glory to the highest era in the world!
  And so Maria struck the enemy with her bare, graceful leg. And also how the machine gunners would fire at the enemy with whole streams of machine-gun bursts.
  Maria took it and hissed:
  - Russian gods are gods of war!
  Olympias was very active, striking at the Horde. She knocked them down with great force and nailed their coffins shut.
  And her bare, chiseled feet, despite her considerable height, pressed the buttons on the control panel, destroying Devlet's troops. This is a harsh environment of deadly and destructive force.
  Olympia sang:
  - For the victory of Kievan Rus!
  Elena corrects:
  - This is not Kievan Rus, but Muscovy!
  And the girl took and pressed the joystick button with her scarlet nipple, and again a deadly high-explosive fragmentation projectile flies.
  He breaks into the ranks of the Horde and breaks the Tatars into dozens.
  Alenka sang:
  - Communism and the tsar are strength!
  Anyuta also fights in a very original way. And her crimson nipple also exerts strong pressure on the joystick button. And now the projectile strikes the opponents again.
  And Anyuta chirped:
  - Glory to our homeland!
  And here comes Alla, that red-haired girl, striking the enemy with her ruby-red nipple. She'll smash the nukers and roar:
  - For higher communism!
  And now Maria fights with great enthusiasm, and she's also getting beaten up in a very entertaining way with a strawberry pacifier. Machine guns fire menacingly, and let's destroy the enemies.
  Maria tweeted:
  - Death to the rain dragon!
  Thus, Olympia also demonstrates her class. Specifically, a nipple the size of an overripe tomato pulls the trigger.
  And he poured streams of machine gun belts, like a line of fiery points.
  Olympia sang:
  - To the glory of the new era of communism!
  Here are the girls on a super tank!
  Here are the fights with the horde and a great team.
   Und hier kämpfen schöne und aggressive Mädchen am Himmel.
  Anastasia Vedmakova kämpft auch in einem Angriffskämpfer. Und er trifft die Horde aus der Luft.
  Und schießt tödliche Raketen. Sie fliegen und explodieren.
  The girl uses her bare, chiseled feet to shoot and hits her opponent very accurately.
  Although there are plenty of places for horseback riding, the damage is enormous, of course. And they tear off whole chunks of the horse hordes.
  Anastasia Vedmakova laughed and replied:
  - For the great Russian spirit!
  Mirabella Magnetic has also joined the fight. And let's destroy the enemy.
  Here's this girl, Mirabella, with golden hair. And with his bare fingers he cuts the enemy.
  Then she cooed:
  - For a powerful gift!
  And the girl stuck out her tongue again.
  Akulina Orlova went and struck the enemy again. And she hit nuclear weapons very hard with missile launchers.
  The girl also filmed herself using her bare, shapely legs and sang:
  - One two three four five,
  The whole horde - kill!
  This triumvirate is plotting a gigantic extermination of the opponents.
  Akulina Orlova sang:
  - There will be new victories,
  New shelves will appear...
  Here our grandfathers were resurrected,
  We don't need to be afraid!
  Anastasia Vedmakova also delivers blows and at the same time uses the scarlet nipples of her breasts, pressing them on the buttons.
  The witch girl sang:
  - I'm not an angel, but for the country,
  But for the country I became a saint!
  And her emerald green eyes sparkle.
  Then Akulina Orlova exploded. The girls also used strawberry nipples with the push of a button. And a whole cloud of dust rose, tearing apart entire echelons of nuclear weapons.
  Akulina screamed:
  - For the king of peas!
  Anastasia asked in surprise:
  - Why do we need royal peas?
  The girl then fired a lethal missile with her bare toes, sending it hurtling toward the target. It raised a cloud of dust, steel, and fire.
  Mirabella Magnetic also decided to keep up with her friends and pressed her ruby-red nipple to her magnificent bust.
  And he brought colossal power to the Horde. And so often the coffin is broken into pieces.
  And then the girl nudges her with her bare heel. And raise a barrage of fire.
  And so much blood spilled across the field.
  Mirabella sang in delight:
  - I serve an angel, I serve an angel,
  And I will successfully kill a large army!
  Anastasia Vedmakova also released a killer with such bare, tanned, and seductive legs. You can't get rid of them, no matter what!
  Anastasia squealed:
  - Angel, angel, angel,
  There will be victory for us!
  The girl laughed with all her pearly teeth. It was impossible to resist such brilliant theft.
  But the witch Anastasia has copper-red hair. And she loves men. He loves them very much, and before each flight, he gives his body to several males at once. That's why Anastasia, who is over a hundred years old, looks just like a girl. And no one can cope with it.
  Anastasia fought in World War I, the Civil War, the Spanish Civil War, and the Great Patriotic War, as well as in many other wars.
  This is a woman who simply needs to be loved.
  Anastasia took it and sang:
  - In space I flew like an angel,
  And this is how it turned out...
  And then the redhead stopped - a suitable rhyme didn"t come to her mind.
  Anastasia will press the pedal again with her bare, round, pink girlish heel, sending so much force.
  Akulina Orlova noted that the militants were expelled from the Crimean Khanate. And how many of them have already died?
  Oleg Rybachenko and Margarita Korshunova again took poisonous needles from children's feet and threw them with their bare toes, striking the nukers.
  And then Margarita would whistle with her right nostril, and Oleg Rybachenko with his left. And the stunned crows would fly up and fall like dandruff on shaved heads.
  And a blow with great capital, after which the immortal children sang in unison:
  - The petal color is fragile,
  when it was demolished for a long period...
  Although the world around us is cruel
  I want to do good!
  
  The child's thoughts are honest -
  Think about the world...
  Although our children are pure,
  Satan led them to evil!
  And again they chop with their swords as if they were propeller blades, and they exterminate the numerous nukers like mosquitoes in a hellish, cruel fire.
  Natasha growled and launched her bare feet into a leap, something utterly deadly and destructive. And an entire regiment of nuclear weapons exploded into the air, annihilated.
  Augustine noticed, sending lightning bolts from his bright ruby-red nipple, and screamed piercingly:
  - There is no one stronger than me!
  And she stuck out her tongue. And their tongue is extremely caustic.
  The IS-17 tank fires its machine guns and cannons. And it does so very effectively. The shells scatter a multitude of fragments and destroy the horde en masse.
  And now the tracks are still horse-like, and the riders are crushed.
  Anastasia Vedmakova appears out of thin air. The witch casts a spell and snaps her bare toes. And here, too, the missiles are upgraded, gaining additional, colossal, and almost infinite power.
  Anastasia pressed the button with her strawberry pacifier, and the missiles scattered in a destructive cesspool.
  And so began the indescribable destruction and extermination.
  Akulina Orlova also cast a spell, enhancing her missiles, and also used a ruby-red nipple.
  And how these incredible gifts of death will fly.
  Akulina, laughing, remarked:
  - Rocket, rocket, rocket,
  Fuck shamelessly!
  Rocket, rocket, rocket
  It's hard to understand you!
  Mirabella Magnetic also demonstrates her upgrade in battle, and then presses buttons with her ruby nipple. And so many missiles hit and fall.
  Mirabella took it and sang:
  - There will be a kangaroo fight,
  I don't like the world!
  Mirabella flashed her pearly teeth again.
  This girl is the greatest juice and a bright indicator of intelligence.
  And here are a few more warriors.
  Albina and Alvina entered the fray. The girls, naturally, arrived on a flying saucer.
  A large, disc-shaped device. So, Alvina pressed the joystick buttons with her bare fingers and fired a laser beam.
  And she dropped so many atomic bombs.
  Then she cooed:
  - For victory over the enemy!
  Albina also knocked her attacker down with masterful force. Again, with bare fingers.
  And she chirped:
  - A song about hares!
  Alvina did not agree with the very big idea and its power:
  - Not hares, but wolves!
  And this time, with the help of her scarlet nipples, the girl sent the gift of destruction.
  Warriors are simply champions when it comes to their magnificent bust. And how nice it is when men kiss your luxurious breasts? It must be so awesome!
  Albina also allows us to crush the enemy with a huge dose of aggression and unstoppable power.
  And her strawberry nipples pressed on the buttons and emitted something extreme, to the point of causing colic in the killer"s side.
  Albina took it and, laughing, said:
  - I am the strongest!
  And with her bare heel she pressed on that which brings extraordinary, inimitable and dystrophic destruction.
  The girls show their tongues and sing joyfully:
  - We all pee in the toilet,
  And the hara-kiri dragon!
  Such warriors stole with agility and inimitability. And her breasts were so luxurious and tanned. And girls are delicious. They love it when their entire body is covered in kisses.
  Alvina sang, sent gifts to the nukers and killed them like a big fly swatter.
  And the warrior hissed:
  - And kiss me everywhere,
  I'm eighteen everywhere!
  Albina agreed with this, gritting her teeth and chirping:
  - Poor Louis, Louis! Poor Louis, Louis...
  I don't need your kisses!
  And the warrior will drop it from the plane like a vacuum bomb, and then the entire regiment will be torn apart by nuclear weapons.
  Both legs and arms were found in the corners!
  Anastasia Orlova was delighted and winked at her partners, chattering her teeth and squealing:
  - Destruction is a passion,
  It doesn't matter what the government is!
  And the girl will show her long tongue.
  And this witch imagined how one could lick sweets and candies that smelled like honey with her tongue.
  And the warrior sang:
  - Devil, devil, devil - save me,
  A girl with poppy seeds sucks better!
  And here again is a new turn, and defeat, and death.
  And now very beautiful girls are attacking the nukers like eagles attack geese.
  And then there were the girls. Alice and Angelica. They attacked the nuclear weapons with sniper rifles.
  Alice fired, piercing the heads of three horde warriors at once, and chirped:
  - For the great Fatherland!
  Angelica also fired her rifle. Then she threw a grenade with deadly force on her bare toes, chirping:
  - For the Russian gods-demiurges!
  noticing Alice with a giggle, he remarked:
  - War can be very cruel.
  the gift of death with her bare toes from the destructive force.
  These girls are just super warriors.
  This is truly the coolest couple.
  Yes, Devlet-girey caused a showdown here. Besides, Alisa killed this khan with a shot from a sniper rifle, as accurate as Robin Hood's arrows.
  The girl sang and winked at her red-haired partner, handsome and muscular, noting:
  - This is our position! There will be a coalition!
  Many of the Tatar warriors' girls died, hindering the campaign and the future destruction of Moscow.
  Oleg Rybachenko, chopping with swords that either grew longer or, conversely, shorter, remarked very wittily:
  - It was not in vain that I was sent to you,
  Show Russia mercy!
  While performing the "squid" technique with swords, Margarita threw a pea of destruction with her bare toes, squealing and winking at her partner:
  - Briefly, briefly, briefly -
  Silence!
  The immortal children whistled at the top of their lungs. And the crows reacted so loudly that they fell into a stupor. And they swooped down, stunned, and rammed their sharp beaks into the skulls.
  And so many enemies fell at once with deadly force. And rammed through many skulls.
  Two sons of the Crimean Khan and three grandsons also died. So violently that the crows were killed by atomic bombs. No one can stand against such children, so rabid.
  Although there is a patriotic rage in them. They are the children of the Terminator.
  Oleg Rybachenko noticed and threw a pea with an annihilation particle with his bare heel:
  - War is a school of life, in which, when you yawn in class, you get into your hands not just a notebook, but a wooden box!
  Margarita Korshunova agreed, and a thin, round disc was dropped onto the girl's bare feet. And the girl chirped:
  - How we wanted to win!
  And now Tamara and Aurora are already in battle. The girls also ended up in the landing party of the Russian gods.
  The girls raised the flamethrower and grabbed the buttons with their teeth. A huge flame erupted from the six barrels. And it set the Horde ablaze.
  Tamara tossed a matchbox of poison back and forth with her bare fingers. And he spent several hundred nukers on it.
  Tamara sang:
  - Two Thousand Years' War,
  War without a good reason!
  Aurora also threw, but in this case a box of salt, and it jerked so hard that half of the Horde regiment collapsed.
  Aurora giggled and chirped:
  War of the Young Girls
  Wrinkles are healing!
  And how the warriors will perceive this and will laugh like crazy and very obscene pigs.
  Although beauties don't have very prominent muscles, they can't act against you in any way.
  Anastasia Vedmakova also launched a deadly torpedo from an airplane, causing colossal destruction and damage.
  The one that explodes, raising a deadly cloud of dust.
  The witch of the Russian demiurge gods noted:
  - We have missiles, planes,
  The strongest girl in the world...
  They are solar-powered pilots.
  The enemy is defeated, turned into ashes and destruction!
  Akulina Orlova confirmed this, winking at her partner and flashing her sapphire-blue eyes:
  - Turned into ashes and dirt!
  Mirabella Magnetic wittily remarked as she smashed the enemy with her colossal destructive and deadly power:
  - If you didn't hide, it's not my fault!
  Oleg Rybachenko and Margarita Korshunova will whistle. And thousands of crows will begin to fall from the sky like hail.
  The last nuclear weapon was destroyed and breached. And the two-hundred-thousand-strong Crimean army ceased to exist.
  A crushing victory was achieved, and without any losses on the part of the Tsarist army.
  Natasha sang:
  To be able to defend Holy Rus',
  and no matter how cruel and insidious the enemy may be...
  We will deal a strong blow to the enemy,
  And the Russian sword will become famous in battle!
  Oleg Rybachenko jumped, the boy-terminator spun in the air and said:
  - Russia laughed, cried and sang,
  In all age groups, that's why you and Russia!
  
  
  Palm Sunday, 11:55 PM
  There's a winter sadness to it, a deep-seated melancholy that belies her seventeen years, a laughter that never quite evokes any inner joy.
  Perhaps it doesn't exist.
  You see them all the time on the street: the one walking alone, books clutched tightly to her chest, eyes cast down, constantly lost in her thoughts. It's she who walks a few steps behind the other girls, content with the rare scrap of friendship thrown her way. The one who coddles her through every stage of adolescence. The one who renounces her beauty as if it were an option.
  Her name is Tessa Ann Wells.
  She smells like freshly cut flowers.
  "I can"t hear you," I say.
  "...Lordaswiddy," a thin voice comes from the chapel. It sounds as if I woke her, which is entirely possible. I picked her up early Friday morning, and it was almost midnight on Sunday. She had been praying in the chapel more or less nonstop.
  It is not a formal chapel, of course, but simply a converted closet, but it is equipped with everything necessary for reflection and prayer.
  "That won"t do," I say. "You know it"s crucial to extract meaning from every word, right?"
  From the chapel: "Yes."
  "Think about how many people around the world are praying at this very moment. Why should God listen to those who are insincere?"
  "There is no reason."
  I lean closer to the door. "Would you like the Lord to show you such contempt on Ascension Day?"
  "No."
  "Okay," I reply. "What decade?"
  It takes her a few minutes to answer. In the darkness of the chapel, she has to feel her way.
  Finally she says, "The third."
  "Start again."
  I light the remaining votives. I finish my wine. Contrary to what many believe, sacramental rites are not always solemn events, but rather, in many cases, a cause for joy and celebration.
  I am just about to remind Tessa when she begins to pray again with clarity, eloquence and gravity:
  "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. . ."
  Is there a sound more beautiful than the prayer of a virgin?
  "Blessed are you among women..."
  I look at my watch. It's just after midnight.
  "And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus..."
  The time has come.
  "Holy Mary, Mother of God...".
  I take the syringe out of its case. The needle glistens in the candlelight. The Holy Spirit is here.
  "Pray for us sinners..."
  Passions have begun.
  "Now and at the hour of our death..."
  I open the door and enter the chapel.
  Amen.
  OceanofPDF.com
  Part One
  OceanofPDF.com
  1
  MONDAY, 3:05
  THERE IS AN HOUR, well known to all who awaken to greet it, a time when darkness completely casts off the veil of twilight and the streets become still and silent, a time when shadows gather, merge, dissolve. A time when those who suffer cannot believe the dawn.
  Every city has its own quarter, its own neon Golgotha.
  In Philadelphia it is known as South Street.
  That night, while most of the City of Brotherly Love slept and the rivers flowed silently to the sea, a meat peddler rushed down South Street like a dry, scorching wind. Between Third and Fourth Streets, he squeezed through a wrought-iron gate, walked down a narrow alley, and entered a private club called Paradise. A handful of patrons scattered around the room met his gaze and immediately looked away. In the peddler's gaze, they saw a portal into their blackened souls, and they knew that if they dwelt upon it even for a moment, the realization would be unbearable.
  For those who knew their business, the merchant was a mystery, but not a mystery that no one wanted to solve.
  He was a large man, over six feet tall, with a broad stance and large, rough hands that promised retribution to those who crossed him. He had wheat-colored hair and cool green eyes-eyes that flashed a brilliant cobalt in the candlelight, eyes that could sweep the horizon in a single glance without missing a thing. Above his right eye was a shiny keloid scar-a ridge of viscous tissue shaped like an inverted V. He wore a long black leather coat that clung to the thick muscles of his back.
  He'd been coming to the club for five nights in a row and would meet his customer tonight. Making appointments in Paradise wasn't easy. Friendship was unknown.
  The peddler sat at the back of a dank basement room, at a table that, while not reserved for him, was by default his. Though Paradise was populated by players of all stripes and backgrounds, it was clear the peddler was a different breed.
  Speakers behind the bar offered Mingus, Miles, and Monk; the ceiling: dirty Chinese lanterns and rotating fans covered in woodgrain contact paper. Blueberry incense burned, mingling with cigarette smoke, filling the air with a raw, fruity sweetness.
  At three-ten, two men entered the club. One was a customer; the other, his guardian. They both met the merchant's eyes. And he knew.
  The buyer, Gideon Pratt, was a squat, balding man in his late fifties, with flushed cheeks, restless gray eyes, and cheekbones that drooped like melted wax. He wore an ill-fitting three-piece suit, and his fingers were crooked with arthritis. His breath was foul. He had ochre-colored teeth and spare teeth.
  Behind him walked a larger man-even larger than the merchant. He wore mirrored sunglasses and a denim jacket. His face and neck were adorned with an intricate web of tam moko, Maori tattoos.
  Without saying a word, the three men gathered and then walked down a short corridor into the storage room.
  The back room of the Paradise was cramped and hot, filled with boxes of bad liquor, a couple of worn metal tables, and a moldy, tattered sofa. An old jukebox flickered with a charcoal-blue light.
  Finding himself in a room with a locked door, a large man nicknamed Diablo roughly searched the dealer for weapons and wires, attempting to establish his authority. While doing so, the dealer noticed a three-word tattoo at the base of Diablo's neck. It read: MONGREL FOR LIFE. He also noticed the chrome stock of a Smith & Wesson revolver on the large man's belt.
  Satisfied that the merchant was unarmed and wearing no listening devices, Diablo moved behind Pratt, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched.
  "What do you have for me?" Pratt asked.
  The merchant studied the man before answering. They had reached the moment that occurs in every transaction, the moment when the supplier must confess and lay out his wares on the velvet. The peddler slowly reached into his leather coat (there would be no stealth here ) and pulled out a pair of Polaroids. He handed them to Gideon Pratt.
  Both photographs depicted fully clothed black teenage girls in provocative poses. Tanya, the one named, sat on the porch of her house, blowing kisses to the photographer. Alicia, her sister, was vamping on the beach in Wildwood.
  As Pratt examined the photographs, his cheeks flushed momentarily, his breath caught in his chest. "Just... beautiful," he said.
  Diablo glanced at the photos and saw no reaction. He turned his gaze back to the merchant.
  "What's her name?" Pratt asked, showing one of the photographs.
  "Tanya," the peddler answered.
  "Tan-ya," Pratt repeated, separating the syllables as if trying to get to the bottom of the girl. He handed back one of the photographs, then glanced at the one in his hand. "She's charming," he added. "Mischievous. I can tell."
  Pratt touched the photograph, running his finger gently over the glossy surface. He seemed momentarily lost in thought, then pocketed the photo. He returned to the present moment, to the matter at hand. "When?"
  "Right now," the merchant replied.
  Pratt reacted with surprise and delight. He hadn't expected this. "She's here?"
  The merchant nodded.
  "Where?" Pratt asked.
  "Near."
  Gideon Pratt straightened his tie, adjusted his vest over his bulging belly, and smoothed back the few hairs he had. He took a deep breath, finding his bearings, then pointed toward the door. "Shouldn't we ___?"
  The merchant nodded again, then turned to Diablo for permission. Diablo waited a moment, further cementing his status, and then stepped aside.
  The three men left the club and walked across South Street to Orianna Street. They continued along Orianna and found themselves in a small parking lot between buildings. There were two cars parked there: a rusty van with tinted windows and a late-model Chrysler. Diablo raised his hand, stepped forward, and peered into the Chrysler's windows. He turned and nodded, and Pratt and the salesman approached the van.
  "Do you have payment?" the merchant asked.
  Gideon Pratt tapped his pocket.
  The merchant glanced between the two men, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a set of keys. Before he could insert the key into the van's passenger door, he dropped the keys on the ground.
  Both Pratt and Diablo instinctively looked down, momentarily distracted.
  In the next, carefully considered moment, the dealer bent down to retrieve the keys. Instead of picking them up, he clutched the crowbar he'd placed behind the right front tire earlier that evening. Rising, he spun on his heel and slammed the steel rod into the center of Diablo's face, exploding the man's nose in a thick, crimson mist of blood and shattered cartilage. It was a surgically delivered blow, perfectly timed, designed to maim and incapacitate, but not kill. With his left hand, the dealer removed the Smith & Wesson revolver from Diablo's belt.
  Dazed, momentarily confused, acting not on reason but on animal instinct, Diablo lunged at the merchant, his vision now blurred by blood and involuntary tears. His forward thrust was met by the butt of the Smith & Wesson, which swung with all the force of the merchant's considerable strength. The impact sent six of Diablo's teeth flying into the cool night air, then falling to the ground like scattered pearls.
  Diablo collapsed onto the pitted asphalt, howling in agony.
  The warrior rolled to his knees, hesitated, then looked up, expecting the fatal blow.
  "Run," said the merchant.
  Diablo paused for a moment, his breathing ragged and shallow. He spat out a mouthful of blood and mucus. As the merchant cocked the weapon and placed the tip of the barrel to his forehead, Diablo saw the wisdom in obeying the man's command.
  With a great effort he rose, trudged down the road towards South Street and disappeared without once taking his eyes off the peddler.
  The merchant then turned to Gideon Pratt.
  Pratt tried to strike a threatening pose, but it wasn't his gift. He was confronted with the moment all murderers dread: the brutal reckoning of their crimes against man, against God.
  "W-who are you?" Pratt asked.
  The merchant opened the back door of the van. He calmly folded up his rifle and crowbar and removed his thick leather belt. He wrapped the hard leather around his knuckles.
  "Are you dreaming?" asked the merchant.
  "What?"
  "Do you... dream?"
  Gideon Pratt was speechless.
  For Detective Kevin Francis Byrne of the Philadelphia Police Department's Homicide Unit, the answer was debatable. He had been tracking Gideon Pratt for a long time and, with precision and care, lured him into this moment, a scenario that invaded his dreams.
  Gideon Pratt raped and murdered a fifteen-year-old girl named Deirdre Pettigrew in Fairmount Park, and the department had all but given up on solving the case. It was Pratt's first time killing one of his victims, and Byrne knew it wouldn't be easy to draw him out. Byrne had spent hundreds of hours and many nights of sleep waiting for this very moment.
  And now, when dawn in the City of Brotherly Love was just a vague rumor, when Kevin Byrne stepped forward and struck the first blow, his receipt arrived.
  
  Twenty minutes later, they were in the curtained emergency room of Jefferson Hospital. Gideon Pratt stood rooted to the spot: Byrne on one side, an intern named Avram Hirsch on the other.
  Pratt had a lump the size and shape of a rotten plum on his forehead, a bloody lip, a dark purple bruise on his right cheek, and what appeared to be a broken nose. His right eye was nearly swollen shut. The front of his formerly white shirt was dark brown and caked with blood.
  Looking at this man-humiliated, humiliated, disgraced, caught-Byrne thought of his partner in the homicide squad, a terrifying hunk of iron named Jimmy Purifey. Jimmy would have liked this, Byrne thought. Jimmy liked the kind of characters Philadelphia seemed to have an endless supply of: streetwise professors, drug-addicted prophets, prostitutes with hearts of marble.
  But most of all, Detective Jimmy Purifey enjoyed catching bad guys. The worse the person, the more Jimmy enjoyed the hunt.
  There was no one worse than Gideon Pratt.
  They tracked Pratt through a vast maze of informants, following him through the darkest veins of Philadelphia's underworld, rife with sex clubs and child pornography rings. They pursued him with the same single-mindedness, the same focus, and the same frenzied intent with which they had emerged from the academy all those years ago.
  That's what Jimmy Purifie liked.
  He said it made him feel like a kid again.
  Jimmy had been shot twice, knocked down once, and beaten too many times to count, but he was finally incapacitated by a triple bypass. While Kevin Byrne was so pleasantly occupied with Gideon Pratt, James "Clutch" Purifey rested in the recovery room at Mercy Hospital, tubes and IVs writhing from his body like Medusa's snakes.
  The good news was that Jimmy's prognosis looked good. The bad news was that Jimmy thought he'd go back to work. He didn't. None of the three ever did. Not at fifty. Not in homicide. Not in Philadelphia.
  "I miss you, Clutch," Byrne thought, knowing he'd be meeting his new partner later that day. "It just isn't the same without you, man."
  This will never happen.
  Byrne was there when Jimmy fell, less than ten limp feet away. They were standing at the register of Malik's, a modest sandwich shop on Tenth and Washington. Byrne was refilling their coffees with sugar while Jimmy teased the waitress, Desiree, a young, cinnamon-skinned beauty at least three musical styles younger than Jimmy and five miles away from him. Desiree was the only real reason they ever stopped at Malik's. It certainly wasn't the food.
  One minute Jimmy was leaning against the counter, his girlish rap blasting out, his smile beaming. The next, he was on the floor, his face contorted in pain, his body tense, the fingers of his enormous hands clenched into claws.
  Byrne frozen that moment in his memory, as he had soothed few others in his life. Over twenty years of police service, it had become almost routine for him to embrace moments of blind heroism and reckless bravery in people he loved and admired. He even accepted senseless, random acts of cruelty committed by and against strangers. These things came with the job: the high rewards of justice. Yet these were moments of naked humanity and the weakness of the flesh that he could not escape: images of body and spirit betraying what lurked beneath the surface of his heart.
  When he saw the big man on the dirty diner tile, his body struggling for death, a silent scream piercing his jaw, he knew he would never look at Jimmy Purifey the same way again. Oh, he would have loved him as he had become over the years, and listened to his ridiculous stories, and by the grace of God, he would have once again admired Jimmy's lithe and agile abilities behind a gas grill on those hot summer Sundays in Philadelphia, and he would have taken a bullet through the heart for this man without a second thought or hesitation, but he knew immediately that what they had done-an unwavering descent into the maw of violence and madness, night after night-was over.
  While it brought Byrne shame and regret, that was the reality of that long and terrible night.
  The reality of that night struck a dark balance in Byrne's mind, a subtle symmetry that he knew would bring Jimmy Purify peace. Deirdre Pettigrew was dead, and Gideon Pratt had to accept the full responsibility. Another family had been devastated by grief, but this time the killer had left behind his DNA in the form of gray pubic hairs that sent him to a small tiled room at SCI Greene. There, Gideon Pratt would have met the ice needle, had Byrne had anything to say about it.
  Of course, in such a justice system, there was a fifty-fifty chance that if convicted, Pratt would receive life without parole. If so, Byrne knew enough people in prison to complete the job. He would call the note. In any case, sand fell on Gideon Pratt. He was wearing a hat.
  "The suspect fell down a concrete staircase while attempting to evade arrest," Byrne told Dr. Hirsch.
  Avram Hirsch wrote this down. He may have been young, but he was from Jefferson. He had already learned that sexual predators were often quite clumsy, prone to tripping and falling. Sometimes they even suffered broken bones.
  "Isn't that right, Mr. Pratt?" Byrne asked.
  Gideon Pratt just stared straight ahead.
  "Isn't that right, Mr. Pratt?" Byrne repeated.
  "Yes," Pratt said.
  "Say it."
  "When I was running away from the police, I fell down the steps and got injured."
  Hirsch wrote this down too.
  Kevin Byrne shrugged and asked, "Doctor, do you think Mr. Pratt's injuries are consistent with a fall down a concrete staircase?"
  "Absolutely," Hirsch replied.
  More letters.
  On the way to the hospital, Byrne spoke with Gideon Pratt, imparting the wisdom that Pratt's experience in that parking lot was merely a taste of what he could expect if he pursued a police brutality charge. He also informed Pratt that three people were standing with Byrne at the time, willing to testify that they witnessed the suspect trip and fall down the stairs during the chase. All decent citizens.
  Byrne also stated that although it was only a few minutes' drive from the hospital to the police station, it would be the longest few minutes of Pratt's life. To prove his point, Byrne cited several tools in the back of the van: a reciprocating saw, a surgical rib knife, and electric scissors.
  Pratt understood.
  And now he was on the record.
  A few minutes later, when Hirsch pulled down Gideon Pratt's pants and soiled his underwear, what Byrne saw made him shake his head. Gideon Pratt had shaved his pubic hair. Pratt looked at his groin and then back at Byrne.
  "It's a ritual," Pratt said. "A religious ritual."
  Byrne exploded across the room. "So is the crucifix, dumbass," he said. "What do you say we run to Home Depot for some religious paraphernalia?"
  At that moment, Byrne caught the intern's eye. Dr. Hirsch nodded, implying that they would take a pubic hair sample. No one could shave that close. Byrne picked up the conversation and ran with it.
  "If you thought your little ceremony was going to stop us from getting a sample, you're officially an asshole," Byrne said. As if that was any doubt. He was inches from Gideon Pratt's face. "Besides, all we had to do was hold you until it grew back."
  Pratt looked at the ceiling and sighed.
  Apparently, it didn't occur to him.
  
  BYRNE sat in the police station parking lot, slowing down after a long day, sipping an Irish coffee. The coffee was rough, like the one you get in a police shop. Jameson had laid it out.
  The sky above the smeared moon was clear, black and cloudless.
  Spring whispered.
  He stole a few hours of sleep from a rented van, which he used to lure Gideon Pratt, then returned it later that day to his friend Ernie Tedesco, who owned a small meatpacking business in Pennsport.
  Byrne touched the wick to the skin above his right eye. The scar felt warm and yielding beneath his fingers, speaking of a pain that wasn't there at the time, of a ghostly grief that had first flared up many years ago. He rolled down the window, closed his eyes, and felt the beams of memory crumble.
  In his mind, in that dark place where desire and disgust meet, in that place where the icy waters of the Delaware River had raged so long ago, he saw the last moments of a young girl's life, saw the quiet horror unfolding. . .
  . . . sees the sweet face of Deirdre Pettigrew. She is small for her age, naive for her time. She has a kind and trusting heart, a protected soul. It is a muggy day, and Deirdre has stopped to drink water at the fountain in Fairmount Park. A man is sitting on a bench near the fountain. He tells her that he once had a granddaughter about her age. He tells her that he loved her very much and that his granddaughter was hit by a car and died. "It"s so sad," Deirdre says. She tells him that her cat, Ginger, was hit by a car. She also died. The man nods, tears welling up in his eyes. He says that every year for his granddaughter"s birthday, he comes to Fairmount Park, his granddaughter"s favorite place in the whole world.
  The man starts to cry.
  Deirdre throws the kickstand onto her bike and walks to the bench.
  Immediately behind the bench there are dense bushes growing.
  Deirdre offers the man a piece of fabric. . .
  Byrne sipped his coffee and lit a cigarette. His head was pounding, the images now trying to escape. He was beginning to pay a high price for them. For years, he had treated himself in various ways-legal and illegal, traditional and tribal. Nothing legal helped. He had visited a dozen doctors, listened to every diagnosis-until now, the prevailing theory was migraine with aura.
  But there were no textbooks describing his auras. His auras weren't bright, curved lines. He would have welcomed something like that.
  His auras contained monsters.
  When he first saw the "vision" of Deirdre's murder, he couldn't picture Gideon Pratt's face. The killer's face was a blur, a watery stream of evil.
  By the time Pratt entered Paradise, Byrne knew it.
  He popped a CD into the player-a homemade mix of classic blues. It was Jimmy Purify who got him into blues. And the real ones: Elmore James, Otis Rush, Lightnin' Hopkins, Bill Broonzy. You didn't want Jimmy to start telling the world about Kenny Wayne Shepherds.
  At first, Byrne couldn't tell Son House from Maxwell House. But long nights at Warmdaddy's and trips to Bubba Mac's on the beach corrected that. Now, by the end of the second bar, or at the latest the third, he could distinguish the Delta from Beale Street, Chicago, St. Louis, and every other shade of blue.
  The first version of the CD was Rosetta Crawford's "My Man Jumped Salty on Me."
  If it was Jimmy who gave him solace in the blues, it was also Jimmy who brought him back into the light after the Morris Blanchard affair.
  A year earlier, a wealthy young man named Morris Blanchard had murdered his parents in cold blood, blowing them to pieces with a single shot to the head each from a Winchester 9410. At least that's what Byrne believed, believed as deeply and completely as anything he'd ever realized was true over the course of his two decades of work.
  He interviewed eighteen-year-old Morris five times, and each time guilt flashed in the young man's eyes like a violent sunrise.
  Byrne repeatedly ordered the CSU team to comb Morris's car, his dorm room, and his clothing. They never found a single hair, fiber, or drop of liquid that would have placed Morris in the room when his parents were torn to pieces by that shotgun.
  Byrne knew his only hope for a conviction was a confession. So he pressed him. Hard. Every time Morris turned around, Byrne was there: concerts, cafes, classes at McCabe Library. Byrne even watched the horrific arthouse film Food, sitting two rows behind Morris and his companion, just to keep the pressure up. The real job of the police that night was staying awake during the film.
  One evening, Byrne parked outside Morris's dorm room, directly beneath a window on the Swarthmore campus. Every twenty minutes, for eight hours straight, Morris pulled back the curtains to see if Byrne was still there. Byrne made sure the Taurus window was open, the light from his cigarettes serving as a beacon in the darkness. Morris made sure that every time he peeked in, he extended his middle finger through the slightly parted curtains.
  The game continued until dawn. Then, around seven-thirty that morning, instead of going to class, instead of running down the stairs and throwing himself at Byrne's mercy, muttering a confession, Morris Blanchard decided to hang himself. He slung a piece of rope over a pipe in the basement of his dorm, tore off all his clothes, and then kicked the goat out. The last screw-up with the system. Taped to his chest was a note identifying Kevin Byrne as his tormentor.
  A week later, the Blanchards' gardener was found in an Atlantic City motel with Robert Blanchard's credit cards and bloody clothes stuffed in his duffel bag. He immediately confessed to the double murder.
  The door in Byrne's mind was locked.
  For the first time in fifteen years he was wrong.
  The haters came out in full force. Morris's sister, Janice, filed a wrongful death lawsuit against Byrne, the department, and the city. No single lawsuit amounted to much, but its gravity grew exponentially until it threatened to overwhelm him.
  The newspapers attacked him, vilifying him for weeks with editorials and reports. And though the Inquirer, Daily News, and CityPaper dragged him through the coals, they eventually moved on. It was The Report-a tabloid that billed itself as the alternative press but was really little more than a supermarket tabloid-and a particularly fragrant columnist named Simon Close, who, for no apparent reason, made it personal. In the weeks following Morris Blanchard's suicide, Simon Close wrote polemic after polemic about Byrne, the department, and the police state in America, finally concluding with a description of the man Morris Blanchard might have become: a combination of Albert Einstein, Robert Frost, and Jonas Salk, if you believe it.
  Before the Blanchard case, Byrne had seriously considered taking his twenties and heading to Myrtle Beach, perhaps starting his own security firm like all the other jaded cops whose wills had been broken by the savagery of city life. He'd served his time as a gossip columnist for the Circus of Goofs. But when he saw the pickets outside the Roundhouse, including clever quips like "BYRNE BYRNE!" he knew he couldn't. He couldn't go out like that. He'd given too much to the city to be remembered like that.
  That's why he stayed.
  And he waited.
  There will be another incident that will bring him back to the top.
  Byrne drained his Irish and settled into a comfortable position. There was no reason to go home. He had a full tour ahead of him, starting in just a few hours. Besides, these days he was just a ghost in his own apartment, a sad spirit haunting two empty rooms. There was no one there to miss him.
  He looked up at the windows of the police headquarters, at the amber glow of the unfading light of justice.
  Gideon Pratt was in this building.
  Byrne smiled and closed his eyes. He had his man, the lab would confirm it, and another stain would be washed from the sidewalks of Philadelphia.
  Kevin Francis Byrne was not the prince of the city.
  He was a king.
  OceanofPDF.com
  2
  MONDAY, 5:15
  This is a different city, one William Penn never imagined when he surveyed his "green country town" between the Schuylkill and Delaware rivers, dreaming of Grecian columns and marble halls rising majestically above the pines. This is not a city of pride, history, and vision, a place where the soul of a great nation was forged, but rather a section of North Philadelphia where living ghosts, empty-eyed and cowardly, hover in the darkness. This is a vile place, a place of soot, feces, ash, and blood, a place where people hide from the eyes of their children and forfeit their dignity for a life of relentless sorrow. A place where young animals grow old.
  If there are slums in hell, they will probably look like this.
  But in this vile place, something beautiful will grow. A Gethsemane amidst cracked concrete, rotten wood, and shattered dreams.
  I turned off the engine. Quiet.
  She sits next to me, motionless, as if suspended in this penultimate moment of her youth. In profile, she resembles a child. Her eyes are open, but she doesn't move.
  There's a time in adolescence when the little girl who once leaped and sang with abandon finally passes away, proclaiming her womanhood. It's a time when secrets are born, a body of hidden knowledge that will never be revealed. This happens at different times for different girls-sometimes at twelve or thirteen, sometimes only at sixteen or older-but it happens in every culture, in every race. This time is marked not by the arrival of blood, as many believe, but rather by the realization that the rest of the world, especially the men of their species, suddenly sees them differently.
  And from that moment on, the balance of power changes and never becomes the same.
  No, she is no longer a virgin, but will become one again. There will be a whip on the pillar, and from this defilement will come a resurrection.
  I get out of the car and look east and west. We are alone. The night air is cool, even though the days have been unseasonably warm.
  I open the passenger door and take her hand in mine. Not a woman, not a child. Certainly not an angel. Angels don't have free will.
  But nevertheless, it is a beauty that destroys peace.
  Her name is Tessa Ann Wells.
  Her name is Magdalena.
  She is the second.
  She won't be the last.
  OceanofPDF.com
  3
  MONDAY, 5:20 AM
  DARK.
  A breeze carried exhaust fumes and something else. The smell of paint. Kerosene, perhaps. Underneath it, trash and human sweat. A cat yelped, and then...
  Quiet.
  He carried her along the deserted street.
  She couldn't scream. She couldn't move. He'd injected her with a drug that left her limbs leaden and brittle; her mind was shrouded in a transparent gray fog.
  For Tessa Wells, the world rushed past in a swirling stream of muted colors and flickering geometric shapes.
  Time stood still. Freeze. She opened her eyes.
  They were inside. Descending wooden steps. The smell of urine and rotting dinner meat. She hadn't eaten in a long time, and the smell made her stomach churn and a trickle of bile rise in her throat.
  He placed her at the foot of the column, arranging her body and limbs as if she were some kind of doll.
  He put something into her hands.
  Rose garden.
  Time passed. Her mind drifted again. She opened her eyes again as he touched her forehead. She felt the cross-shaped mark he'd made there.
  Oh my God, is he anointing me?
  Suddenly, memories flashed silver in her mind, a fickle reflection of her childhood. She remembered...
  -horseback riding in Chester County, and the way the wind stung my face, and Christmas morning, and the way Mom's crystal caught the colored lights of the huge tree Dad bought every year, and Bing Crosby, and that silly song about Hawaiian Christmas and its-
  Now he stood before her, threading a huge needle. He spoke slowly, monotonously:
  Latin?
  - when he tied a knot in the thick black thread and pulled it tight.
  She knew she would not leave this place.
  Who will take care of her father?
  Holy Mary, Mother of God. . .
  He forced her to pray in that small room for a long time. He whispered the most terrible words in her ear. She prayed for it to end.
  Pray for us sinners. . .
  He lifted her skirt up to her hips, then all the way to her waist. He knelt down and spread her legs. The lower half of her body was completely paralyzed.
  Please God, make this stop.
  Now . . .
  Stop this.
  And at the hour of our death...
  Then, in this damp and decaying place, in this earthly hell, she saw the glimmer of a steel drill, heard the hum of a motor, and knew that her prayers had finally been answered.
  OceanofPDF.com
  4
  MONDAY, 6:50 AM.
  "COCOA PUFFS".
  The man stared at her, his mouth pressed into a yellow grimace. He stood a few feet away, but Jessica sensed the danger emanating from him, suddenly tasting the bitter aftertaste of her own terror.
  As he stared at her, Jessica felt the edge of the roof approaching behind her. She reached for her shoulder holster, but it was, of course, empty. She rummaged through her pockets. Left: what looked like a hair clip and a couple of quarters. Right: air. Big. On the way down, she'd be fully equipped to lift her hair and make a long-distance call.
  Jessica decided to use the one baton she'd used her entire life, the one formidable device that had gotten her into and out of most of her troubles. Her words. But instead of anything remotely clever or threatening, all she could manage was a shaky, "Oh, no!"
  "What?"
  And again the bandit said: "Cocoa puffs."
  The words seemed as absurd as the setting: a blindingly bright day, a cloudless sky, white seagulls forming a lazy ellipse overhead. It felt like it should be Sunday morning, but Jessica somehow knew it wasn't. No Sunday morning could contain so much danger or evoke so much fear. No Sunday morning would find her on the roof of the Criminal Justice Center in downtown Philadelphia with this terrifying gangster approaching.
  Before Jessica could speak, the gang member repeated his words one last time. "I made you some cocoa puffs, Mommy."
  Hello.
  Mother ?
  Jessica slowly opened her eyes. The morning sunlight pierced her from all directions like thin yellow daggers, jabbing at her brain. It wasn't a gangster at all. Instead, her three-year-old daughter, Sophie, was perched on her chest, her powder-blue nightgown enhancing the ruby flush of her cheeks, her face a picture of soft pink eyes set in a hurricane of chestnut curls. Now, of course, it all made sense. Now Jessica understood the weight that had settled on her heart and why the terrifying man from her nightmare had looked a bit like Elmo.
  - Cocoa puffs, dear?
  Sophie Balzano nodded.
  "What about cocoa puffs?"
  "I made you breakfast, Mommy."
  "Did you do it?"
  "Yeah."
  "All by yourself?"
  "Yeah."
  - Aren't you a big girl?
  "I."
  Jessica put on her sternest expression. "What did Mom say about climbing into the closets?"
  Sophie's face contorted into a series of evasive maneuvers, trying to come up with a story that would explain how she'd gotten the cereal from the top cabinets without climbing onto the countertop. In the end, she simply showed her mother a large, dark brown head of hair, and, as always, the discussion was over.
  Jessica had to smile. She imagined Hiroshima, which must have been the kitchen. "Why did you make me breakfast?"
  Sophie rolled her eyes. Wasn't it obvious? "You need breakfast on the first day of school!"
  "This is true."
  "This is the most important meal of the day!"
  Sophie, of course, was too young to understand the concept of work. From the moment she first attended kindergarten-an expensive institution in the city center called Educare-every time her mother left the house for any length of time, for Sophie, it was like going to school.
  As morning approached the threshold of consciousness, the fear began to melt. Jessica was unconstrained by the perpetrator-a dream scenario that had become all too familiar to her over the past few months. She was holding her beautiful baby. She was living in her heavily mortgaged twin home in Northeast Philadelphia; her well-financed Jeep Cherokee was parked in the garage.
  Safe.
  Jessica reached over and turned on the radio, and Sophie hugged her tightly and kissed her even harder. "It's getting late!" Sophie said, then slid off the bed and raced across the bedroom. "Come on, Mommy!"
  As Jessica watched her daughter disappear around the corner, she thought that in her twenty-nine years, she had never been so glad to welcome this day; never so glad to end the nightmare that had begun the day she learned she was being transferred to the homicide squad.
  Today was her first day as a homicide detective.
  She hoped that this would be the last day she saw this dream.
  For some reason she doubted it.
  Detective.
  Even though she had worked in the motor vehicle division for nearly three years and worn the badge the entire time, she knew it was the department's most select units-robbery, narcotics, and homicide-that carried the title's true prestige.
  Today, she was one of the elite. One of the chosen few. Of all the gold-badged detectives in the Philadelphia police force, the men and women of the homicide squad were regarded as gods. You couldn't aspire to a higher calling in law enforcement. While it's true that bodies were discovered during all sorts of investigations, from robberies and burglaries to botched drug deals and domestic disputes gone bad, whenever a pulse couldn't be found, the squad's detectives chose to pick up the phone and call homicide.
  From today on, she will speak for those who can no longer speak for themselves.
  Detective.
  
  "Want some of Mommy's cereal?" Jessica asked. She'd finished half of her enormous bowl of Cocoa Puffs-Sophie had poured her almost the entire box-which was quickly turning into something resembling a sweet beige mold.
  "No, a sled," Sophie said with her mouth full of cookies.
  Sophie sat across from her at the kitchen table, vigorously coloring what looked like an orange, six-legged version of Shrek, while indirectly making hazelnut cookies, her favorite.
  "Are you sure?" Jessica asked. "It's really, really good."
  - No, a sled.
  Damn, Jessica thought. The kid was just as stubborn as she was. Whenever Sophie made up her mind, she was unwavering. This, of course, was good news and bad news. Good news, because it meant Jessica and Vincent Balzano's little girl wasn't giving up easily. Bad news, because Jessica could imagine arguments with teenage Sophie Balzano that would make Desert Storm look like a sandbox brawl.
  But now that she and Vincent had broken up, Jessica wondered how it would affect Sophie in the long term. It was painfully clear that Sophie missed her father.
  Jessica glanced at the head of the table, where Sophie had prepared a place for Vincent. Sure, she'd chosen a small soup ladle and a fondue fork from the silverware, but the important thing was the effort. Over the past few months, whenever Sophie had done anything related to the family environment, including her Saturday afternoon teas in the backyard, parties usually attended by her menagerie of stuffed bears, ducks, and giraffes, she'd always reserved a place for her father. Sophie was old enough to understand that her small family's universe was upside down, but young enough to believe that a little girl's magic could make it better. It was one of a thousand reasons Jessica's heart ached every day.
  Jessica had just begun to devise a plan to distract Sophie so she could reach the sink with a salad bowl full of cocoa when the phone rang. It was Jessica's cousin Angela. Angela Giovanni was a year younger and the closest thing Jessica had to a sister.
  "Hello, Homicide Detective Balzano," Angela said.
  - Hi, Angie.
  "Were you sleeping?"
  "Oh, yes. I have two whole hours."
  "Are you ready for the big day?"
  "Not really."
  "Just put on your custom-made armor and you'll be fine," Angela said.
  "If you say so," Jessica said. "It just is."
  "What?"
  Jessica's fear was so vague, so general in nature, that she had trouble putting a name to it. It really was like her first day of school. Kindergarten. "It's just the first thing I've ever been afraid of."
  "Hi!" Angela began, her optimism rising. "Who graduated from college in three years?"
  It was an old routine for the two of them, but Jessica didn't mind. Not today. "Me."
  "Who passed the promotion exam on the first try?"
  "To me."
  "Who beat the living, screaming shit out of Ronnie Anselmo for dealing with his feelings during Beetlejuice?"
  "That would be me," Jessica said, though she remembered she hadn't really minded. Ronnie Anselmo was very sweet. Still, the principle was there.
  "Damn right. Our little Calista Braveheart," Angela said. "And remember what Grandma used to say: 'Meglio un uovo oggi che una Gallina Domani.'"
  Jessica recalled her childhood, holidays at her grandmother's house on Christian Street in South Philadelphia, the aromas of garlic, basil, Asiago, and roasted peppers. She remembered her grandmother sitting on her tiny porch in the spring and summer, knitting needles in hand, seemingly endlessly weaving afghans on the immaculate cement, always green and white, the colors of the Philadelphia Eagles, and unleashing her witticisms on anyone who would listen. She used this constantly. Better an egg today than a chicken tomorrow.
  The conversation escalated into a tennis match of family matters. Everything was fine, more or less. Then, as expected, Angela said:
  - You know, he asked about you.
  Jessica knew exactly who Angela meant by him.
  "Oh, yeah?"
  Patrick Farrell worked as an emergency room doctor at St. Joseph's Hospital, where Angela worked as a nurse. Patrick and Jessica had a brief, albeit rather chaste, affair before Jessica became engaged to Vincent. She met him one night when, as a uniformed police officer, she brought a neighbor boy to the emergency room-a boy who had lost two fingers with an M-80. She and Patrick dated casually for about a month.
  At the time, Jessica was dating Vincent, a uniformed officer from the Third District. When Vincent popped the question and Patrick was forced to commit, Patrick put it off. Now, after the breakup, Jessica has asked herself about a billion times whether she let a good man go.
  "He's pining, Jess," Angela said. Angela was the only person north of Mayberry who used words like pining. "Nothing more heartbreaking than a handsome man in love."
  She was right about the beautiful part, of course. Patrick belonged to that rare black Irish breed: dark hair, deep blue eyes, broad shoulders, dimples upon dimples. No one ever looked better in a white lab coat.
  "I'm a married woman, Angie."
  - Not exactly married.
  "Just tell him I said... hi," Jessica said.
  - Just hello?
  "Yeah. Right now. The last thing I need in my life right now is a man."
  "Those are probably the saddest words I've ever heard," Angela said.
  Jessica laughed. "You're right. That sounds pretty pathetic."
  - Is everything ready for this evening?
  "Oh yes," Jessica said.
  "What is her name?"
  "Are you ready?"
  "Hit me."
  "Sparkle Munoz".
  "Wow," Angela said. "Sparkle?"
  "Sparkle".
  - What do you know about her?
  "I saw footage of her last fight," Jessica said. "Powder puff."
  Jessica was one of a small but growing group of female boxers from Philadelphia. What began as a pastime at Police Athletic League gyms while Jessica was trying to lose weight gained during pregnancy had blossomed into a serious endeavor. With a 3-0 record, all three wins by knockout, Jessica was already starting to receive positive press. The fact that she wore dusty pink satin trunks with the words "JESSIE BALLS" embroidered on the waistband didn't hurt her image either.
  "You'll be there, right?" Jessica asked.
  "Absolutely."
  "Thanks, buddy," Jessica said, glancing at her watch. "Look, I have to run."
  "Me too."
  - I have one more question for you, Angie.
  "Fire."
  "Why did I become a police officer again?"
  "It's easy," Angela said. "Just stick it out and turn it around."
  "Eight o'clock."
  "I'll be there."
  "Love you."
  "I love you back."
  Jessica hung up and looked at Sophie. Sophie decided it would be a good idea to connect the dots on her polka-dot dress with an orange magic marker.
  How the hell is she going to survive this day?
  
  When Sophie changed clothes and moved in with Paula Farinacci-a godsend of a nanny who lived three doors down and was one of Jessica's best friends-Jessica returned home, her corn-green suit already starting to wrinkle. When she worked at Auto, she could choose jeans and leather, T-shirts and sweatshirts, and sometimes a pantsuit. She loved the look of a Glock slung over the hip of her best faded Levi's. All the cops did, to be honest. But now she needed to look a little more professional.
  Lexington Park is a stable neighborhood in Northeast Philadelphia, bordering Pennypack Park. It also housed a large number of law enforcement officers, which is why burglaries in Lexington Park weren't common these days. The men on the second floor seemed to have a pathological aversion to empty dots and slobbering Rottweilers.
  Welcome to Police Land.
  Enter at your own risk.
  Before Jessica reached the driveway, she heard a metallic growl and knew it was Vincent. Three years in the auto industry had given her a keen sense of engine logic, so when Vincent's throaty 1969 Harley Shovelhead rounded the corner and roared to a stop in the driveway, she knew her piston sense was still fully functional. Vincent also had an old Dodge van, but like most bikers, the minute the thermometer hit 105 degrees (and often earlier), he'd hop on the Hog.
  As a plainclothes narcotics detective, Vincent Balzano had unlimited freedom when it came to his appearance. With his four-day beard, scuffed leather jacket, and Serengeti-style sunglasses, he looked more like a criminal than a cop. His dark brown hair was longer than she'd ever seen it, pulled back into a ponytail. The ubiquitous gold crucifix he wore on a gold chain around his neck winked in the morning sunlight.
  Jessica has always had a thing for dark bad boys.
  She pushed the thought away and put on a sparkling face.
  - What do you want, Vincent?
  He took off his sunglasses and calmly asked, "What time did he leave?"
  "I don't have time for this shit."
  - It's a simple question, Jesse.
  - That's none of your business either.
  Jessica could see it hurt, but at the moment she didn't care.
  "You're my wife," he began, as if giving her a primer on their life. "This is my home. My daughter sleeps here. It's my damn business."
  Save me from an Italian-American man, Jessica thought. Was there ever a more possessive creature in nature? Italian-American men made silverback gorillas look intelligent. Italian-American police officers were even worse. Like herself, Vincent was born and raised on the streets of South Philadelphia.
  "Oh, is it your business now? Was it your business when you were fucking that whore? Hmm? When you were fucking that big, frozen slut from South Jersey in my bed?
  Vincent rubbed his face. His eyes were red, his posture a little tired. It was clear he was returning from a long tour. Or perhaps a long night of something else. "How many times do I have to apologize, Jess?"
  "A few more million, Vincent. Then we'll be too old to remember how you cheated on me."
  Every department has its badge bunnies, cop admirers who, upon seeing a uniform or badge, suddenly felt an uncontrollable urge to flop down and spread their legs. Drugs and vice were the most common, for obvious reasons. But Michelle Brown wasn't a badge bunny. Michelle Brown was having an affair. Michelle Brown fucked her husband in his own home.
  "Jesse."
  "I need this shit today, right? I really need it."
  Vincent's face softened, as if he'd just remembered what day it was. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jessica raised her hand, cutting him off.
  "Not necessary," she said. "Not today."
  "When?"
  The truth was, she didn't know. Did she miss him? Desperately. Would she show it? Never in a million years.
  "I don't know."
  Despite all his faults-and there were many-Vincent Balzano knew when it was time to leave his wife. "Come on," he said. "Let me at least give you a ride."
  He knew she would refuse, abandoning the Phyllis Diller image that a Harley ride to the Roundhouse would provide.
  But he smiled that damn smile, the same one that had gotten her into bed, and she almost... almost... gave in.
  "I have to go, Vincent," she said.
  She walked around the bike and continued toward the garage. As much as she wanted to turn around, she resisted. He'd cheated on her, and now she was the one feeling like crap.
  What's wrong with this picture?
  While she was deliberately fiddling with the keys, pulling them out, she eventually heard the motorcycle start, reverse, roar defiantly and disappear down the street.
  When she started the Cherokee, she dialed 1060. KYW told her I-95 was clogged. She glanced at her watch. She had time. She would take Frankford Avenue into town.
  As she pulled out of the driveway, she saw an ambulance in front of the Arrabiata house across the street. Again. She caught Lily Arrabiata's eye, and Lily waved. Apparently, Carmine Arrabiata was having his weekly false-alarm heart attack, a common occurrence for as long as Jessica could remember. It had gotten to the point where the city no longer sent ambulances. The Arrabiatas had to call in private ambulances. Lily's wave was twofold. One, to say good morning. The other, to tell Jessica that Carmine was okay. At least for the next week or so.
  As Jessica headed toward Cottman Avenue, she thought about the silly fight she'd just had with Vincent and how a simple answer to his initial question would have immediately ended the discussion. The night before, she'd attended the Catholic Cookout's organizational meeting with an old family friend, five-foot-one Davey Pizzino. It was an annual event Jessica had attended since she was a teenager, and it was the furthest thing from a date imaginable, but Vincent didn't need to know that. Davey Pizzino blushed at the Summer's Eve ad. Davey Pizzino, thirty-eight, was the oldest living virgin east of the Allegheny. Davey Pizzino left at nine-thirty.
  But the fact that Vincent was probably spying on her angered her to no end.
  Let him think what he wants.
  
  ON THE WAY TO THE CITY CENTER, Jessica watched the neighborhoods change. No other city she could think of had its identity been so divided between decay and splendor. No other city clung to the past with more pride or demanded the future with such fervor.
  She saw a pair of brave runners making their way through Frankford, and the floodgates swung wide. A flood of memories and emotions washed over her.
  She started running with her brother when he was seventeen; she was only thirteen, lanky, with thin elbows, sharp shoulder blades, and bony kneecaps. For the first year or so, she had no hope of matching his pace or stride. Michael Giovanni stood just under six feet tall and weighed a lean, muscular 180 pounds.
  Through summer heat, spring rain, and winter snow, they jogged through the streets of South Philadelphia, Michael always a few steps ahead; Jessica always struggling to keep up, always in silent awe of his grace. Once, on her fourteenth birthday, she beat him to the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral, a race in which Michael never wavered in his declaration of defeat. She knew he had let her win.
  Jessica and Michael lost their mother to breast cancer when Jessica was just five years old, and from that day on, Michael was there for every scraped knee, every broken heart of every young girl, every time she fell victim to some neighborhood bully.
  She was fifteen when Michael joined the Marine Corps, following in his father's footsteps. She recalled how proud they all were when he first came home in his dress uniform. All of Jessica's friends were desperately in love with Michael Giovanni, with his caramel eyes and easy smile, with the confident way he calmed the elderly and children. Everyone knew he would join the police after his service, and follow in his father's footsteps.
  She was fifteen when Michael, who served with the First Battalion, Eleventh Marines, was killed in Kuwait.
  Her father, a three-time decorated police veteran who still carried his late wife's ID card in his breast pocket, closed his heart completely that day, and now walks this path only in the company of his granddaughter. Despite his small stature, Peter Giovanni, in the company of his son, stood ten feet tall.
  Jessica was headed to law school, then to law school, but the night they got the news of Michael's death, she knew she would go to the police.
  And now, as she began what was essentially a completely new career in one of the most respected homicide departments of any police department in the country, it seemed like law school was a dream relegated to the realm of fantasy.
  Maybe one day.
  May be.
  
  By the time Jessica pulled into the Roundhouse parking lot, she realized she couldn't remember any of it. Not a single thing. All that memorizing of procedures, of evidence, of years on the streets-it had all drained her brain.
  Has the building gotten bigger? she wondered.
  At the door, she caught her reflection in the glass. She was wearing a rather expensive skirt suit and her best, sensible policewoman shoes. A far cry from the ripped jeans and sweatshirts she'd favored as a Temple student, those heady years before Vincent, before Sophie, before the academy, before everything... this. "Nothing in the world," she thought. Now her world was built on anxiety, framed by anxiety, with a leaky roof, covered in trepidation.
  Even though she'd entered this building many times, and even though she could probably find her way to the elevators blindfolded, it all felt foreign to her, as if she were seeing it for the first time. The sights, the sounds, the smells-all blended into the mad carnival that was this small corner of Philadelphia's justice system.
  It was the beautiful face of her brother Michael that Jessica saw when she reached for the doorknob, an image that would return to her many times over the next few weeks as the things she had based her entire life on began to be defined as madness.
  Jessica opened the door, walked inside and thought:
  Watch my back, big brother.
  Watch my back.
  OceanofPDF.com
  5
  MONDAY, 7:55
  The Philadelphia Police Department's Homicide Squad was housed on the ground floor of the Roundhouse, the police administration building-or PAB, as it was often called-at Eighth and Race Streets, nicknamed for the circular shape of the three-story structure. Even the elevators were round. Criminals liked to remark that from the air, the building looked like a pair of handcuffs. Whenever a suspicious death occurred anywhere in Philadelphia, the call came in here.
  Of the sixty-five detectives in the unit, only a few were women, and management was desperate to change that.
  Everyone knew that in a politically sensitive department like the NDP these days, it wasn't necessarily a person who was promoted, but quite often a statistic, a delegate from some demographic group.
  Jessica knew this. But she also knew that her career on the street was exceptional and that she had earned a spot in the homicide squad, even if she had arrived a few years earlier than the standard decade or so. She had a degree in criminal justice; she was a more than competent uniformed officer, having earned two commendations. If she had to knock down a few old-school heads on the squad, so be it. She was ready. She had never backed down from a fight, and she wasn't about to start now.
  One of the three heads of the homicide squad was Sergeant Dwight Buchanan. If homicide detectives spoke for the dead, then Ike Buchanan spoke for those who spoke for the dead.
  As Jessica entered the living room, Ike Buchanan noticed her and waved. The day shift started at eight, so the room was crowded at that hour. Most of the late shift was still working, which wasn't uncommon, turning the already cramped semicircle into a cluster of bodies. Jessica nodded to the detectives seated at desks, all men, all talking on the phone, and they all returned her greeting with cool, casual nods.
  I haven't been to the club yet.
  "Come in," Buchanan said, holding out his hand.
  Jessica shook his hand, then followed him, noticing his slight limp. Ike Buchanan had been shot during the Philadelphia gang wars of the late 1970s and, according to legend, had undergone half a dozen surgeries and a year of painful rehabilitation to become blue again. One of the last iron men. She'd seen him with a cane a few times, but not today. Pride and tenacity were more than luxuries in this place. Sometimes they were the glue that held the chain of command together.
  Ike Buchanan, now in his late fifties, was lean as a rail, strong and powerful, with a shock of cloud-white hair and thick white eyebrows. His face was flushed and pockmarked from nearly six decades of Philadelphia winters and, if another legend was true, more than his share of Wild Turkeys.
  She entered the small office and sat down.
  "Let's leave the details." Buchanan half-closed the door and walked behind his desk. Jessica could see him trying to hide his limp. He might be a decorated police officer, but he was still a man.
  "Yes sir."
  "Your past?"
  "Grew up in South Philadelphia," Jessica said, knowing Buchanan knew all this, knowing it was a formality. "Sixth and Katherine."
  "Schools?"
  "I went to St. Paul's Cathedral. Then N.A. did my undergraduate work at Temple."
  "You graduated from Temple in three years?"
  Three and a half, Jessica thought. But who's counting? "Yes, sir. Criminal justice."
  "Impressive."
  "Thank you, sir. That was a lot...
  "Did you work in the Third?" he asked.
  "Yes."
  "How was it working with Danny O'Brien?"
  What was she supposed to say? That he was a bossy, misogynistic, stupid jerk? "Sergeant O'Brien is a good officer. I learned a lot from him."
  "Danny O'Brien is a Neanderthal," Buchanan said.
  "That's one school of thought, sir," Jessica said, trying hard to suppress a smile.
  "So tell me," Buchanan said. "Why are you really here?"
  "I don't understand what you mean," she said. Buying time.
  "I've been a police officer for thirty-seven years. It's hard to believe, but it's true. I've seen a lot of good people, a lot of bad. On both sides of the law. There was a time when I was just like you. Ready to take on the world, punish the guilty, and take revenge on the innocent." Buchanan turned to face her. "Why are you here?"
  Be cool, Jess, she thought. He's throwing you an egg. I'm here because... because I think I can make a difference.
  Buchanan stared at her for a moment. Unreadable. "I thought the same thing when I was your age."
  Jessica wasn't sure if she was being patronized or not. An Italian appeared within her. South Philadelphia rose. "If you don't mind me asking, sir, have you changed anything?"
  Buchanan smiled. This was good news for Jessica. "I'm not retired yet."
  Good answer, Jessica thought.
  "How's your dad?" he asked, shifting gears as he drove. "Is he enjoying his retirement?"
  In fact, he was climbing the walls. The last time she stopped by his house, he was standing by the sliding glass door, looking out at his tiny backyard with a bag of Roma tomato seeds in his hand. "Very, sir."
  "He's a good man. He was a great police officer."
  - I'll tell him you said so. He'll be pleased.
  "The fact that Peter Giovanni is your father won't help or harm you here. If it ever gets in the way, come to me."
  Not in a million fucking years. "I will. I appreciate it."
  Buchanan stood, leaned forward, and looked at her intently. "This job has broken a lot of hearts, Detective. I hope you're not one of them.
  "Thank you, sir."
  Buchanan looked over her shoulder into the living room. "Speaking of heartbreakers."
  Jessica followed his gaze to the large man standing next to the assignment desk, reading a fax. They stood and walked out of Buchanan's office.
  As they approached him, Jessica assessed the man. He was about forty years old, about six-three inches tall, maybe 240, and built. He had light brown hair, winter-green eyes, enormous hands, and a thick, shiny scar above his right eye. Even if she hadn't known he was a homicide detective, she would have guessed. He ticked all the boxes: a nice suit, a cheap tie, shoes that hadn't been polished since leaving the factory, and a trio of de rigueur scents: tobacco, certificates, and a faint trace of Aramis.
  "How's the baby?" Buchanan asked the man.
  "Ten fingers, ten toes," the man said.
  Jessica spoke the code. Buchanan asked how the current case was progressing. The detective's answer meant, "All is well."
  "Riff Raff," Buchanan said. "Meet your new partner."
  "Jessica Balzano," Jessica said, holding out her hand.
  "Kevin Byrne," he replied. "Nice to meet you."
  The name immediately took Jessica back a year or so. The Morris Blanchard case. Every police officer in Philadelphia was following it. Byrne's picture was plastered all over the city, in every news outlet, newspaper, and local magazine. Jessica was surprised she didn't recognize him. At first glance, he seemed five years older than the man she remembered.
  Buchanan's phone rang. He apologized.
  "Same here," she replied. Her eyebrows raised. "Riff Raff?"
  "It's a long story. We'll get to it." They shook hands as Byrne registered the name. "Are you Vincent Balzano's wife?"
  Jesus Christ, Jessica thought. There are almost seven thousand police officers on the force, and they could all fit in a phone booth. She added a few more foot-pounds-or, in this case, pounds of hand-to her handshake. "In name only," she said.
  Kevin Byrne got the message. He winced and smiled. "Gotcha."
  Before letting go, Byrne held her gaze for a few seconds, the way only experienced cops can. Jessica knew all about it. She knew about the club, the division's territorial structure, how cops bond and protect. When she was first assigned to Auto, she had to prove herself daily. But within a year, she could hang with the best of them. Within two years, she could make a J-turn on two-inch-thick, hard-packed ice, tune up a Shelby GT in the dark, and read a VIN through a broken pack of Kools cigarettes on the dashboard of a locked car.
  When she caught Kevin Byrne's eye and looked straight at him, something happened. She wasn't sure it was a good thing, but it let him know she wasn't a newbie, not a boot, not a wet-seat newbie who'd gotten here thanks to her plumbing.
  They removed their hands when the phone on the assignment desk rang. Byrne answered and made a few notes.
  "We're driving," Byrne said. The wheel represented the routine task list for the line detectives. Jessica's heart sank. How long had she been working, fourteen minutes? Wasn't there supposed to be a grace period? "Dead girl in crack town," he added.
  I don't think so.
  Byrne looked at Jessica with something between a smile and a challenge. He said, "Welcome to Homicide."
  
  "HOW DO YOU KNOW VINCENT?" Jessica asked.
  After pulling out of the parking lot, they drove in silence for several blocks. Byrne was driving a standard Ford Taurus. It was the same uneasy silence they'd experienced on a blind date, which, in many ways, was what this was.
  "A year ago, we captured a dealer in Fishtown. We had our eye on him for a long time. He liked him for killing one of our informants. A real badass. He carried an axe on his belt.
  "Charming."
  "Oh, yeah. Anyway, that was our case, but Narcotics had staged a buy to lure the jerk out. When it was time to go in, around five in the morning, there were six of us: four from Homicide, two from Narcotics. We get out of the van, check our Glocks, adjust our vests, and head for the door. You know what to do. Suddenly, Vincent is gone. We look around, behind the van, under the van. Nothing. It was fucking quiet, and then suddenly we heard, "Ground yourself"... get on the ground... hands behind your back, motherfucker! from inside the house. Turns out Vincent had escaped, through the door and into the guy's ass before any of us could move.
  "Sounds like Vince," Jessica said.
  "How many times did he see Serpico?" Byrne asked.
  "Let's put it this way," Jessica said. "We have it on DVD and VHS."
  Byrne laughed. "He's a piece of work."
  "He's a part of something."
  Over the next few minutes, they repeated phrases like "who-do-you-know," "where did you go to school," and "who exposed you." All of this brought them back to their families.
  "So is it true that Vincent once attended seminary?" Byrne asked.
  "Ten minutes," Jessica said. "You know how things are in this town. If you're a man and Italian, you have three options. Seminary, power, or a cement contractor. He has three brothers, all in construction."
  "If you're Irish, it's plumbing."
  "That's it," Jessica said. Though Vincent tried to present himself as a smug househusband from South Philadelphia, he had a bachelor's degree from Temple and a minor in art history. On Vincent's bookshelf, next to "NDR," "Drugs in Society," and "The Addict's Game," sat a tattered copy of H.W. Janson's "History of Art." He wasn't all Ray Liotta and gilded malocchio.
  "So what happened to Vince and the calling?"
  "You've met him. Do you think he's cut out for a life of discipline and obedience?"
  Byrne laughed. "Not to mention celibacy."
  "No damn comments," Jessica thought.
  "So, you guys got divorced?" Byrne asked.
  "Broken up," Jessica said. "You?"
  "Divorced."
  It was a standard cop refrain. If you weren't in Splitsville, you were on the road. Jessica could count the happily married cops on one hand, leaving her ring finger empty.
  "Wow," Byrne said.
  "What?"
  "I'm just thinking... Two people working under the same roof. Damn it."
  "Tell me about it."
  Jessica knew all about the problems of a two-symbol marriage from the start-ego, clock, pressure, danger-but love has a way of obscuring the truth you know and shaping the truth you seek.
  "Did Buchanan give you his 'Why Are You Here?' speech?" Byrne asked.
  Jessica felt relieved that it wasn't just her. "Yeah."
  "And you told him you came here because you wanted to make a difference, right?"
  Was he poisoning her? Jessica considered. To hell with it. She looked back, ready to bare a few claws. He was smiling. She let it slip. "What is this, a standard?"
  - Well, that goes beyond the truth.
  "What is truth?"
  "The real reason we became police officers."
  "And what is this?"
  "The big three," Byrne said. "Free food, no speed limits, and a license to beat the crap out of big-mouthed idiots with impunity."
  Jessica laughed. She'd never heard it put so poetically. "Well, then let's just say I wasn't telling the truth."
  "What did you say?"
  "I asked him if he thought he had made any difference."
  "Oh, man," Byrne said. "Oh, man, oh man, oh man."
  "What?"
  - You attacked Ike on the very first day?
  Jessica thought about it. She imagined so. "I suppose so."
  Byrne laughed and lit a cigarette. "We'll get along great."
  
  The 1500 block of NORTH EIGHTH STREET, near Jefferson, was a desolate stretch of weed-choked vacant lots and weather-ravaged rowhouses-slanted porches, crumbling steps, sagging roofs. Along the rooflines, the eaves traced the wavy contours of swamp-swamped white pine; the dentils had rotted to toothless, sullen stares.
  Two patrol cars sped past the house where the crime had been committed, in the center of the block. Two uniformed police officers stood guard at the steps, both secretly holding cigarettes, ready to pounce and stamp as soon as a superior officer arrived.
  A light rain began to fall. Deep purple clouds in the west threatened a thunderstorm.
  Across the street from the house, three black children, wide-eyed and nervous, were jumping from foot to foot, excited, as if they needed to pee. Their grandmothers milled around, chatting and smoking, shaking their heads at this latest atrocity. For the children, however, it wasn't a tragedy. It was a live-action version of COPS, with a dose of CSI thrown in for dramatic effect.
  A pair of Latino teenagers milled around behind them-matching Rocawear hoodies, thin mustaches, and immaculate, unlaced Timberlands. They watched the unfolding scene with casual interest, writing it into the stories to come later that evening. They stood close enough to the action to observe, but far enough away to blend into the urban backdrop with a few quick brushstrokes if they were likely to be questioned.
  Hm? What? No, dude, I was sleeping.
  Shots? No, dude, I had phones, it was fucking loud.
  Like many other houses on the street, the façade of this rowhouse had plywood nailed over the entrance and windows-an attempt by the city to close it off to drug addicts and scavengers. Jessica pulled out her notepad, checked her watch, and noted their arrival time. They exited the Taurus and approached one of the badge-wielding officers just as Ike Buchanan appeared on the scene. Whenever there was a murder and two supervisors were on duty, one would go to the crime scene while the other remained at the Roundhouse to coordinate the investigation. Even though Buchanan was the senior officer, this was the Kevin Byrne show.
  "What have we got on this fine morning in Philadelphia?" Byrne asked in a fairly good Dublin accent.
  "There's a juvenile female killer in the basement," said the police officer, a stocky black woman in her early twenties. OFFICER J. DAVIS.
  "Who found her?" Byrne asked.
  "Mr. DeJohn Withers." She pointed to a disheveled, apparently homeless black man standing near the curb.
  "When?"
  "Sometime this morning. Mr. Withers is a little unclear on the timing."
  - He didn't check his Palm Pilot?
  Officer Davis just smiled.
  "Did he touch anything?" Byrne asked.
  "He says no," Davis said. "But he was there collecting copper, so who knows?"
  - Did he call?
  "No," Davis said. "He probably didn't have any change." Another knowing smile. "He gave us a signal, and we called the radio."
  "Hold on to him."
  Byrne glanced at the front door. It was sealed. "What kind of house is this?"
  Officer Davis pointed to a row house on the right.
  - And how do we get inside?
  Officer Davis pointed to a row house on the left. The front door was ripped off its hinges. "You'll have to go through."
  Byrne and Jessica walked through a rowhouse north of the crime scene, long abandoned and ransacked. The walls were covered in years of graffiti, and the drywall was riddled with dozens of fist-sized holes. Jessica noticed that not a single item of value remained. Switches, outlets, light fixtures, copper wire, and even baseboards were long gone.
  "There's a serious feng shui problem here," Byrne said.
  Jessica smiled, but a little nervously. Her main concern at the moment was not falling through the rotten beams into the basement.
  They emerged from the back and walked through the chain-link fence to the rear of the house, where the crime scene lay. The tiny backyard, adjacent to an alley running behind the block of houses, was littered with abandoned appliances and tires, overgrown with several seasons of weeds and brush. A small doghouse at the rear of the fenced area stood guardless, its chain rusted into the ground, and its plastic bowl filled to the brim with dirty rainwater.
  An officer in uniform met them at the back door.
  "Are you cleaning the house?" Byrne asked. House was a very vague term. At least a third of the building's back wall was gone.
  "Yes, sir," he said. His name tag read "R. VAN DYKK." He was about thirty, a blond Viking, muscular and ripped. His hands tugged at the fabric of his coat.
  They relayed their information to the officer who was taking the crime scene report. They entered through the back door, and as they descended the narrow stairs into the basement, the first thing they were greeted by was the stench. Years of mold and wood rot mingled beneath the odors of human waste-urine, feces, sweat. Beneath it all lay a monstrosity reminiscent of an open grave.
  The basement was long and narrow, echoing the layout of the rowhouse above, roughly fifteen by twenty-four feet, with three supporting columns. Running her Maglite through the space, Jessica saw it littered with rotting drywall, used condoms, bottles of crack, and a crumbling mattress. A forensic nightmare. There were probably a thousand muddy footprints in the wet mud, if only two; at first glance, none of them looked pristine enough to make a useful impression.
  In the middle of all this was a beautiful dead girl.
  A young woman sat on the floor in the center of the room, her arms wrapped around one of the supporting columns and her legs spread apart. It turned out that at some point, the previous tenant had attempted to transform the supporting columns into Roman Doric columns made of a material similar to polystyrene foam. Although the columns had a top and base, the only entablature was a rusty I-beam at the top, and the single frieze was a painting of gang badges and obscenities painted across the entire length. On one of the basement walls hung a long-faded fresco depicting what was likely intended to be the Seven Hills of Rome.
  The girl was white, young, about sixteen or seventeen. She had loose strawberry-blond hair cut just above her shoulders. She wore a plaid skirt, maroon knee-high socks, and a white blouse with a maroon V-neck emblazoned with the school logo. In the center of her forehead was a cross made of dark chalk.
  At first glance, Jessica couldn't discern the immediate cause of death: no visible gunshot or stab wounds. Although the girl's head had fallen to the right, Jessica could see most of the front of her neck, and it didn't look like she'd been strangled.
  And then there were her hands.
  From a few feet away, it looked like her hands were clasped in prayer, but the reality was far more grim. Jessica had to look twice to make sure her eyes weren't deceiving her.
  She glanced at Byrne. At the same moment, he noticed the girl's hands. Their gazes met and connected in the silent recognition that this was no ordinary murder in rage or run-of-the-mill crime of passion. They also silently communicated that they would not speculate for now. The terrifying certainty of what had been done to this young woman's hands could wait for the medical examiner.
  The girl's presence amidst this monstrosity was so out of place, so jarring to the eye, Jessica thought; a delicate rose poked through the musty concrete. The dim daylight filtering through the small bunker-shaped windows caught the highlights in her hair, bathing her in a dim, sepulchral glow.
  The only thing that was clear was that this girl was posing, which wasn't a good sign. In 99 percent of murders, the killer can't escape the scene quickly enough, which is usually good news for investigators. The concept of blood is simple: people get stupid when they see blood, so they leave behind everything necessary to convict them. From a scientific perspective, this usually worked. Anyone who stops to pose as a corpse is making a statement, offering a silent and arrogant message to the police who will investigate the crime.
  A couple of officers from the Crime Scene Unit arrived, and Byrne greeted them at the foot of the stairs. Moments later, Tom Weirich, a longtime veteran of forensic pathology, arrived with his photographer. Whenever a person died under violent or mysterious circumstances, or if it was determined that the pathologist might be required to testify in court at some later date, photographs documenting the nature and extent of external wounds or injuries were a routine part of the examination.
  The medical examiner's office had a full-time photographer who photographed the scenes of murders, suicides, and fatal accidents wherever requested. He was ready to travel to any location in the city at any time of day or night.
  Dr. Thomas Weyrich was in his late thirties, meticulous in every aspect of his life, right down to the razor lines on his tanned dockers and his perfectly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. He packed his shoes, donned his gloves, and cautiously approached the young woman.
  While Weirich conducted the preliminary exam, Jessica hung by the damp walls. She always believed that simply observing people doing their job well was far more informative than any textbook. On the other hand, she hoped her behavior wouldn't be perceived as reticence. Byrne took the opportunity to return upstairs to consult with Buchanan, determine the route of entry for the victim and her killer(s), and direct the intelligence gathering.
  Jessica assessed the scene, trying to get her training going. Who was this girl? What happened to her? How did she get here? Who did this? And, for what it's worth, why?
  Fifteen minutes later, Weirich had cleared the body, meaning detectives could move in and begin their investigation.
  Kevin Byrne returned. Jessica and Weirich met him at the bottom of the stairs.
  Byrne asked, "Do you have an ETD?"
  "No strictness yet. I'd say around four or five this morning." Weirich tore off his rubber gloves.
  Byrne glanced at his watch. Jessica made a note.
  "What about the reason?" Byrne asked.
  "It looks like a broken neck. I'll have to put it on the table to know for sure.
  - Was she killed here?
  "It's impossible to say at this point. But I think that's how it was."
  "What's wrong with her hands?" Byrne asked.
  Weirich looked grim. He tapped his shirt pocket. Jessica saw the outline of a pack of Marlboros there. He certainly wouldn't smoke at a crime scene, even at this crime scene, but the gesture told her the cigarette was justified. "It looks like a steel nut and bolt," he said.
  "Was the bolt made posthumously?" Jessica asked, hoping the answer would be affirmative.
  "I'd say that's what happened," Weirich said. "Very little bloodshed. I'll look into it this afternoon. Then I'll know more."
  Weirich looked at them and found no further pressing questions. As he climbed the steps, his cigarette went out, only to relight by the time he reached the top.
  For a few moments, silence fell over the room. Often at murder scenes, when the victim was a gang member gunned down by a rival gangster, or a tough guy taken down by an equally tough guy, the mood among the professionals tasked with investigating, investigating, researching, and cleaning up after the carnage was one of brisk politeness, and sometimes even lighthearted banter. Gallows humor, a lewd joke. Not this time. Everyone in this dank and disgusting place performed their tasks with grim determination, a shared purpose that said, "This is wrong."
  Byrne broke the silence. He held his hands out, palms facing the sky. "Ready to check the documents, Detective Balzano?"
  Jessica took a deep breath, focusing. "Okay," she said, hoping her voice wasn't as shaky as she felt. She'd been waiting for this moment for months, but now that it had arrived, she felt unprepared. Putting on latex gloves, she carefully approached the girl's body.
  She'd certainly seen her share of corpses on the street and in auto parts stores. She'd once cradled a corpse in the backseat of a stolen Lexus on a hot day on the Schuylkill Highway, trying not to look at the body, which seemed to swell with each passing minute in the stuffy car.
  In all these cases, she knew she was delaying the investigation.
  Now it's her turn.
  Someone asked her for help.
  Before her was a dead young girl, her hands bound together in eternal prayer. Jessica knew the victim's body at this point could yield a wealth of clues. She would never again be so close to the killer: his method, his pathology, his mindset. Jessica's eyes widened, her senses on high alert.
  The girl was holding a rosary. In Roman Catholicism, a rosary is a chain of beads arranged in a circle with a crucifix hanging from it. It typically consists of five sets of beads, called decades, each consisting of one large and ten smaller beads. The Lord's Prayer is recited on the large beads. The Hail Marys are recited on the smaller beads.
  Coming closer, Jessica saw that the rosary was made of black, carved wooden oval beads with what looked like a Madonna of Lourdes in the center. The beads hung from the girl's knuckles. They looked like standard, inexpensive rosaries, but upon closer inspection, Jessica noticed that two of the five decades were missing.
  She carefully examined the girl's hands. Her nails were short and clean, showing no signs of struggle. No breaks, no blood. There appeared to be nothing beneath her nails, though they would still have clogged her hands. The bolt that passed through her hands, entering and exiting from the center of her palms, was made of galvanized steel. The bolt looked new and was about four inches long.
  Jessica looked closely at the mark on the girl's forehead. The stain formed a blue cross, just as the ashes had on Ash Wednesday. Though Jessica was far from pious, she still knew and observed the major Catholic holy days. Almost six weeks had passed since Ash Wednesday, but the mark was fresh. It seemed to be made of a chalky substance.
  Finally, Jessica looked at the tag on the back of the girl's sweater. Sometimes dry cleaners left a tag with all or part of the customer's name on it. There was nothing.
  She stood up, a little unsteadily, but confident she'd performed a competent examination. At least for a preliminary examination.
  "Got ID?" Byrne remained against the wall, his intelligent eyes scanning the scene, observing and absorbing.
  "No," Jessica replied.
  Byrne winced. If the victim wasn't identified at the scene, the investigation took hours, sometimes days. Precious time that couldn't be regained.
  Jessica stepped away from the body as CSU officers began the ceremony. They donned Tyvek suits and mapped the area, taking detailed photographs and video. This place was a petri dish of inhumanity. It likely held the imprint of every abandoned house in North Philadelphia. The CSU team would be here all day, likely well past midnight.
  Jessica headed up the stairs, but Byrne remained behind. She waited for him at the top, partly because she wanted to see if he wanted her to do anything else, and partly because she genuinely didn't want to preempt the investigation.
  After a while, she walked a few steps down, peering into the basement. Kevin Byrne stood over the young girl's body, his head bowed and his eyes closed. He touched the scar above his right eye, then placed his hands on her waist and intertwined his fingers.
  After a few moments he opened his eyes, crossed himself and headed towards the steps.
  
  More people had gathered on the street, drawn to the flashing police lights like moths to a flame. Crime was a frequent visitor to this part of North Philadelphia, but it never ceased to fascinate and captivate its residents.
  Leaving the house at the crime scene, Byrne and Jessica approached the witness who had found the body. Though the day was overcast, Jessica drank in the daylight like a starving woman, grateful to be out of that sticky grave.
  DeJohn Withers might have been forty or sixty years old; it was impossible to tell. He had no lower teeth, only a few upper ones. He wore five or six flannel shirts and a pair of dirty cargo pants, each pocket stuffed with some mysterious urban junk.
  "How long should I stay here?" Withers asked.
  "You have urgent matters to attend to, yes?" Byrne replied.
  "I don't need to talk to you. I did the right thing by fulfilling my civic duty, and now I'm being treated like a criminal."
  "Is this your house, sir?" Byrne asked, pointing to the house where the crime scene had been.
  "No," Withers said. "It's not."
  "Then you are guilty of breaking and entering."
  - I didn't break anything.
  - But you came in.
  Withers tried to wrap his head around the concept, as if breaking and entering, like country and western, were inseparable. He remained silent.
  "I am now willing to overlook this serious crime if you answer me a few questions," Byrne said.
  Withers looked at his shoes in amazement. Jessica noted that he was wearing torn black high-top sneakers on his left foot and Air Nikes on his right.
  "When did you find her?" Byrne asked.
  Withers winced. He rolled up the sleeves of his many shirts, revealing thin, crusty arms. "Looks like I have a watch?"
  "Was it light or dark?" Byrne asked.
  "Light."
  - Did you touch her?
  "What?" Withers barked with genuine indignation. "I'm not a fucking pervert."
  "Just answer the question, Mr. Withers."
  Withers crossed his arms and waited a moment. "No. I didn't.
  - Was anyone with you when you found her?
  "No."
  - Have you seen anyone else here?
  Withers laughed, and Jessica's breath caught in her throat. If you mixed rotten mayonnaise and week-old egg salad, then added a lighter, runny vinaigrette, the smell would be a little better. "Who comes down here?"
  That was a good question.
  "Where do you live?" Byrne asked.
  "I'm working at The Four Seasons now," Withers replied.
  Byrne suppressed a smile. He held his pen an inch above the pad.
  "I'm staying at my brother's house," Withers added. "When they have room."
  - We may have to talk to you again.
  "I know, I know. Don't leave the city."
  "We would be grateful."
  "Is there a reward?"
  "Only in heaven," Byrne said.
  "I'm not going to heaven," Withers said.
  "Look at the translation when you get to Purgatory," Byrne said.
  Withers frowned.
  "When you bring him in for questioning, I want him thrown out and his entire record recorded," Byrne told Davis. Interviews and witness statements were conducted at the Roundhouse. Interviews with homeless people were typically brief due to the presence of lice and the shoebox-sized interview rooms.
  Accordingly, Officer J. Davis looked Withers up and down. The frown on her face practically screamed, "Am I supposed to touch this bag of disease?"
  "And take your shoes," Byrne added.
  Withers was about to object when Byrne raised his hand, stopping him. "We'll buy you a new pair, Mr. Withers."
  "They better be good," Withers said. "I walk a lot. I just hacked them.
  Byrne turned to Jessica. "We can do more research, but I'd say there's a pretty good chance she didn't live next door," he said rhetorically. It was hard to believe anyone lived in those houses anymore, let alone a white family with a child in a parochial school.
  "She went to Nazarene Academy," Jessica said.
  "How do you know?"
  "Uniform."
  "What about this?"
  "Mine's still in my closet," Jessica said. "Nazarene is my alma mater."
  OceanofPDF.com
  6
  MONDAY, 10:55
  NAZARETH ACADEMY was the largest Catholic school for girls in Philadelphia, enrolling over a thousand students in grades nine through twelve. Situated on a thirty-acre campus in Northeast Philadelphia, it opened in 1928 and has since produced a number of city luminaries, including industry leaders, politicians, doctors, lawyers, and artists. The administrative offices of five other diocesan schools were located in Nazareth.
  When Jessica was in high school, she was number one in town academically, winning every citywide academic competition she entered: locally televised College Bowl spoofs where a group of fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds with orthodontic impediments sit over oatmeal, drape tables, and rattle off the differences between Etruscan and Greek vases, or outline the timeline of the Crimean War.
  On the other hand, the Nazarene also finished last in every city sporting event it ever competed in. An unbroken record that's unlikely to ever be broken. Thus, among young Philadelphians, they were known to this day as the Spazarenes.
  As Byrne and Jessica walked through the main doors, the dark lacquered walls and moldings, combined with the sweet, doughy aroma of institutional food, transported Jessica back to ninth grade. Though she'd always been a good student and rarely gotten into trouble (despite her cousin Angela's numerous attempted thefts), the rarefied atmosphere of the academic environment and the proximity to the principal's office still filled Jessica with a vague, amorphous dread. A nine-millimeter pistol slung at her hip, she was almost thirty years old, and she was terrified. She imagined she'd always be like this when she entered that formidable building.
  They walked through the hallways toward the main office just as class ended, spilling out hundreds of girls dressed in plaid. The noise was deafening. Jessica was already five-eight inches tall, and in ninth grade she weighed 125 pounds-a figure she's mercifully maintained to this day, give or take five pounds, mostly . Back then, she was taller than 90 percent of her classmates. Now, it seemed like half the girls were her height or taller.
  They followed the group of three girls down the hallway toward the principal's office. Jessica polished off the years as she watched them. A dozen years ago, the girl on the left, who voiced her opinions too loudly, would have been Tina Mannarino. Tina was the first to get a French manicure, the first to smuggle a pint of peach schnapps into the Christmas assembly. The fat woman next to her, the one who rolled up the top of her skirt, defying the rule that the hem had to be an inch from the floor when kneeling, would have been Judy Babcock. At last count, Judy, who was now Judy Pressman, had four daughters. So much for the short skirts. Jessica could have been the girl on the right: too tall, too angular and skinny, always listening, watching, observing, calculating, afraid of everything but never showing it. Five parts attitude, one part steel.
  Girls now carried MP3 players instead of Sony Walkmans. They listened to Christina Aguilera and 50 Cent instead of Bryan Adams and Boyz II Men. They admired Ashton Kutcher instead of Tom Cruise.
  Okay, they're probably still dreaming about Tom Cruise.
  Everything changes.
  But nothing happens.
  In the principal's office, Jessica noted that little had changed either. The walls were still covered in dull eggshell enamel, and the air still smelled of lavender and lemon.
  They met the school's principal, Sister Veronica, a birdlike woman of about sixty with quick blue eyes and even quicker movements. When Jessica was a student at the school, Sister Isolde had been the principal. Sister Veronica could have been the head nun's twin-firm, pale, with a low center of gravity. She moved with a certainty of purpose that can only come from years of pursuing and educating young girls.
  They introduced themselves and sat down in front of her desk.
  "Can I help you with anything?" asked Sister Veronica.
  "I'm afraid we may have some disturbing news about one of your students," Byrne said.
  Sister Veronica grew up during the First Vatican Council. Back then, getting into trouble in a Catholic high school usually meant petty theft, smoking and drinking, and maybe even an accidental pregnancy. Now, there was no point in guessing.
  Byrne handed her a close-up Polaroid of the girl's face.
  Sister Veronica glanced at the photograph, then quickly looked away and crossed herself.
  "Do you recognize her?" Byrne asked.
  Sister Veronica forced herself to look at the photograph again. "No. I'm afraid I don't know her. But we have over a thousand students. About three hundred new this semester.
  She paused, then leaned over and pressed the intercom button on her desk. "Could you please ask Dr. Parkhurst to come into my office?"
  Sister Veronica was clearly shocked. Her voice trembled slightly. "She? . . ?"
  "Yes," Byrne said. "She's dead."
  Sister Veronica crossed herself again. "How is she... Who will... why?" she managed.
  - The investigation is just beginning, sister.
  Jessica looked around the office, which was almost exactly as she remembered it. She felt the worn arms of the chair she sat in and wondered how many girls had sat nervously in that chair over the past dozen years.
  A few moments later, a man entered the office.
  "This is Dr. Brian Parkhurst," said Sister Veronica. "He's our chief consultant."
  Brian Parkhurst was in his early thirties, a tall, slender man with fine features, short-cropped reddish-gold hair, and the faintest traces of childhood freckles. Dressed conservatively in a dark gray tweed sports jacket, a blue button-down Oxford shirt, and shiny tasseled kiltie loafers, he wore no wedding ring.
  "These people are from the police," said Sister Veronica.
  "My name is Detective Byrne," Byrne said. "This is my partner, Detective Balzano."
  Handshakes are everywhere.
  "Can I help you with anything?" Parkhurst asked.
  "Are you a consultant here?"
  "Yes," Parkhurst said. "I'm also the school psychiatrist."
  "Are you a doctor of medical sciences?"
  "Yes."
  Byrne showed him the Polaroid.
  "Oh my God," he said, and the color drained from his face.
  "Do you know her?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes," said Parkhurst. "That's Tessa Wells."
  "We'll need to contact her family," Byrne said.
  "Of course." Sister Veronica took a moment to compose herself before turning to the computer and typing a few keys. A moment later, Tessa Wells's school records appeared on the screen, along with her personal information. Sister Veronica looked at the screen as if it were an obituary, then pressed a key and started the laser printer in the corner of the room.
  "When did you last see her?" Byrne asked Brian Parkhurst.
  Parkhurst paused. "I think it was Thursday."
  "Thursday last week?"
  "Yes," Parkhurst said. "She came into the office to discuss college applications."
  - What can you tell us about her, Dr. Parkhurst?
  Brian Parkhurst took a moment to collect his thoughts. "Well, she was very smart. A bit quiet.
  "A good student?"
  "Very," Parkhurst said. "If I'm not mistaken, the average grade is 3.8."
  - Was she at school on Friday?
  Sister Veronica tapped a few keys. "No."
  "What time do classes start?"
  "Seven fifty," said Parkhurst.
  - What time do you let go?
  "It's usually around two forty-five," Sister Veronica said. "But in-person and extracurricular activities can sometimes keep students here for up to five or six hours."
  "Was she a member of any clubs?"
  Sister Veronica pressed a few more keys. "She's a member of the Baroque Ensemble. It's a small classical chamber group. But they only meet once every two weeks. There were no rehearsals last week."
  "Are they meeting here on campus?"
  "Yes," said Sister Veronica.
  Byrne turned his attention back to Dr. Parkhurst. "Is there anything else you can tell us?"
  "Well, her father is very ill," Parkhurst said. "Lung cancer, I believe."
  - Does he live at home?
  - Yes, I think so.
  - And her mother?
  "She's dead," Parkhurst said.
  Sister Veronica handed Byrne a printout of Tessa Wells' home address.
  "Do you know who her friends were?" Byrne asked.
  Brian Parkhurst seemed to think this over carefully again before answering. "No . . . offhand," Parkhurst said. "Let me ask around."
  The slight delay in Brian Parkhurst's response did not go unnoticed by Jessica, and if he was as good as she knew it to be, it did not go unnoticed by Kevin Byrne either.
  "We'll probably be back later today." Byrne handed Parkhurst a business card. "But if you think of anything in the meantime, please give us a call."
  "I will certainly do so," Parkhurst said.
  "Thank you for your time," Byrne told them both.
  When they reached the parking lot, Jessica asked, "Isn't that a bit much cologne for daytime, don't you think?" Brian Parkhurst was wearing Polo Blue. Lots of it.
  "A little," Byrne replied. "And why would a man over thirty smell so good in front of teenage girls?"
  "That"s a good question," Jessica said.
  
  The Wells House was a shabby Trinity on Twentieth Street, near Parrish, a rectangular rowhouse on a typical North Philadelphia street where working-class residents try to distinguish their homes from their neighbors with minute details-window casings, carved lintels, decorative numbers, pastel-colored awnings. The Wells house looked as if it was maintained out of necessity, not vanity or pride.
  Frank Wells was in his late fifties, a gangly, gaunt man with thinning gray hair that fell over his light blue eyes. He wore a patched flannel shirt, sun-bleached khaki pants, and a pair of hunting-colored corduroy slippers. His arms were dotted with liver spots, and his posture was thin and ghostly, like that of someone who had recently lost a lot of weight. His glasses had thick black plastic frames, the kind worn by math teachers in the 1960s. He also wore a nasal tube that led to a small oxygen tank on a stand next to his chair. They learned that Frank Wells had late-stage emphysema.
  When Byrne showed him a photograph of his daughter, Wells didn't react. Or rather, he reacted without really reacting. The crucial moment in all murder investigations is when the death is announced to key players-spouses, friends, relatives, colleagues. Reaction to the news is crucial. Few people are good enough actors to effectively conceal their true feelings upon receiving such tragic news.
  Frank Wells took the news with the stony aplomb of a man who had endured tragedy his entire life. He didn't cry, didn't curse, or rail against the horror. He closed his eyes for a few moments, handed the photograph back, and said, "Yes, that's my daughter."
  They met in a small, tidy living room. A worn, oval-shaped braided rug lay in the center. Early American furniture lined the walls. An ancient color television console hummed with a fuzzy game show at low volume.
  "When was the last time you saw Tessa?" Byrne asked.
  "Friday morning." Wells pulled the oxygen tube out of his nose and lowered the hose onto the armrest of the chair he was sitting in.
  - What time did she leave?
  - About seven.
  - Did you talk to her at all during the day?
  "No."
  "What time did she usually come home?"
  "Three-thirty or so," Wells said. "Sometimes later, when she had a band rehearsal. She played the violin."
  "And she didn't come home or call?" Byrne asked.
  "No."
  "Did Tessa have any brothers or sisters?"
  "Yes," Wells said. "One brother, Jason. He's much older. He lives in Waynesburg.
  "Have you called any of Tessa's friends?" Byrne asked.
  Wells took a slow, clearly painful breath. "No."
  "Did you call the police?"
  "Yes. I called the police around eleven o'clock on Friday night."
  Jessica made a note to check the missing person's report.
  "How did Tessa get to school?" Byrne asked. "Did she take the bus?"
  "Mostly," Wells said. "She had her own car. We got her a Ford Focus for her birthday. It helped her run errands. But she insisted on paying for gas herself, so she usually took the bus three or four days a week."
  "Is that a diocesan bus or did she take SEPTA?"
  "School Bus".
  "Where's the pickup?"
  - At 19th and Poplar. Several more girls are taking the bus from there.
  "Do you know what time the bus passes there?"
  "Five after seven," Wells said with a sad smile. "I know that time well. It was a struggle every morning."
  "Is Tessa's car here?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes," Wells said. "It's ahead."
  Both Byrne and Jessica took notes.
  - Did she have a rosary, sir?
  Wells thought for a few seconds. "Yes. She got one from her aunt and uncle for her First Communion." Wells reached over, picked up a small framed photograph from the coffee table, and handed it to Jessica. It was a photograph of eight-year-old Tessa, clutching a crystal bead rosary in her clasped hands. This was not the rosary she had held after her death.
  Jessica noted this when a new contestant appeared on the game show.
  "My wife Annie died six years ago," Wells said suddenly.
  Silence.
  "I'm very sorry," Byrne said.
  Jessica looked at Frank Wells. In those years after her mother's death, she had seen her father diminished in every way, except his capacity for grief. She glanced at the dining room and imagined wordless dinners, hearing the scrape of smooth-edged silverware against chipped melamine. Tessa probably cooked the same meals for her father as Jessica: meatloaf with sauce from a jar, spaghetti on Friday, fried chicken on Sunday. Tessa almost certainly ironed on Saturdays, growing taller with each passing year until she eventually stood on phone books instead of milk crates to reach the ironing board. Tessa, like Jessica, had probably learned the wisdom of turning her father's work pants inside out to press the pockets.
  Now, suddenly, Frank Wells was living alone. Instead of leftovers from home cooking, the refrigerator would be filled with half a can of soup, half a container of chow mein, and a half-eaten deli sandwich. Now Frank Wells bought individual cans of vegetables. Milk by the pint.
  Jessica took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. The air was stifling and muggy, almost physical with loneliness.
  "It's like clockwork." Wells seemed to hover a few inches above his La-Z-Boy, floating in fresh grief, his fingers tangled gingerly in his lap. It was as if someone were reaching out to him, as if such a simple task were alien to him in his dark melancholy. On the wall behind him hung a lopsided collage of photographs: family milestones, weddings, graduations, and birthdays. One showed Frank Wells in a fishing hat, hugging a young man in a black windbreaker. The young man was clearly his son, Jason. The windbreaker bore a company crest that Jessica couldn't immediately identify. Another photograph showed a middle-aged Frank Wells in a blue hard hat in front of a coal mine shaft.
  Byrne asked, "Excuse me? A watch?"
  Wells stood up and moved with arthritic dignity from his chair to the window. He studied the street outside. "When you have a clock in the same place for years and years and years. You walk into this room and if you want to know the time, you look at this spot, because that"s where the clock is. You look at this spot." He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt for the twentieth time. Checking the button, rechecking. "And then one day you rearrange the room. The clock is now in a new place, in a new space of the world. And yet for days, weeks, months-maybe even years-you look at the old spot, expecting to know the time. You know it"s not there, but you look anyway.
  Byrne let him talk. It was all part of the process.
  "This is where I am now, detectives. I"ve been there for six years. I"m looking at the place where Annie was in my life, where she"s always been, and she"s not there. Someone moved her. Someone moved my Annie. Someone rearranged. And now... and now Tessa." He turned to look at them. "Now the clock has stopped."
  Having grown up in a family of police officers, having witnessed the night's torment, Jessica knew all too well that there were moments like these, times when someone had to interrogate the next of kin of a murdered loved one, times when anger and fury became twisted, wild, a thing inside you. Jessica's father once told her he sometimes envied doctors because they could point to some incurable disease when they approached relatives in the hospital hallway with grim faces and somber hearts. Every cop investigating a homicide had dealt with a torn human body, and all they could point to were the same three things over and over again. Excuse me, ma'am, your son died of greed, your husband died of passion, your daughter died of revenge.
  Kevin Byrne took the lead.
  "Did Tessa have a best friend, sir? Someone she spent a lot of time with?
  "There was this girl who came to the house from time to time. Her name was Patrice. Patrice Regan."
  "Did Tessa have boyfriends? Was she dating anyone?
  "No. She was... You see, she was a shy girl," Wells said. "She saw this boy Sean for a while last year, but she stopped."
  - Do you know why they stopped seeing each other?
  Wells flushed slightly, but then regained his composure. "I think he wanted it... Well, you know how young boys are.
  Byrne glanced at Jessica, signaling her to take notes. People become self-conscious when police officers write down what they say exactly as they say it. While Jessica took notes, Kevin Byrne maintained eye contact with Frank Wells. It was police shorthand, and Jessica was pleased that she and Byrne, just a few hours into their collaboration, were already speaking its language.
  "Do you know Sean's last name?" Byrne asked.
  "Brennan."
  Wells turned away from the window and headed back to his chair. Then he hesitated, leaning against the windowsill. Byrne jumped to his feet and crossed the room in a few steps. Taking Frank Wells's hand, Byrne helped him back into the easy chair. Wells sat down, inserting the oxygen tube into his nose. He picked up the Polaroid and glanced at it again. "She's not wearing a necklace."
  "Sir?" Byrne asked.
  "I gave her a watch with an angel pendant when she was confirmed. She never took it off. Ever."
  Jessica looked at the Olan Mills-style photograph of the fifteen-year-old high school student on the mantelpiece. Her gaze fell on the sterling silver pendant around the young woman's neck. Oddly enough, Jessica remembered how, when she was very young, during that strange and confusing summer when her mother turned into a skeleton, her mother had told her she had a guardian angel who would watch over her throughout her life, protecting her from harm. Jessica wanted to believe that was true for Tessa Wells, too. The crime scene photograph made it even more difficult.
  "Can you think of anything else that might help us?" Byrne asked.
  Wells thought for a few moments, but it was clear he was no longer engaged in the conversation, but rather drifting through his memories of his daughter, memories that had not yet become the ghost of sleep. "You didn't know her, of course. You came to meet her in such a terrible way."
  "I know, sir," Byrne said. "I can't tell you how sorry we are."
  "Did you know that when she was really little, she would only eat her alpha bits in alphabetical order?"
  Jessica thought about how systematic her own daughter, Sophie, was about everything: how she lined up her dolls by height when she played with them, how she organized her clothes by color: red on the left, blue in the middle, green on the right.
  "And then she'd skip classes when she was sad. Isn't that something? I asked her about it once when she was about eight. She said she'd skip until she was happy again. What kind of person hoards when they're sad?"
  The question hung in the air for a moment. Byrne caught it and gently pressed the pedals.
  "A special man, Mr. Wells," Byrne said. "A very special man."
  Frank Wells stared blankly at Byrne for a moment, as if oblivious to the two police officers' presence. Then he nodded.
  "We're going to find whoever did this to Tessa," Byrne said. "You have my word."
  Jessica wondered how many times Kevin Byrne had said something like this and how many times he'd managed to fix it. She wished she could be that confident.
  Byrne, a seasoned policeman, moved on. Jessica was grateful. She didn't know how long she could sit in this room before the walls began to close in. "I have to ask you this question, Mr. Wells. I hope you understand."
  Wells watched, his face like an unpainted canvas, filled with heartache.
  "Can you imagine anyone wanting to do something like that to your daughter?" Byrne asked.
  A moment of silence followed, the time needed for deductive reasoning to take hold. The fact was, no one knew anyone who could have done what had happened to Tessa Wells.
  "No" was all Wells said.
  Of course, a lot went with that "no"; every side dish on the menu, as Jessica's late grandfather used to say. But for now, that's not mentioned here. And as the spring day raged outside the windows of Frank Wells's neat living room, as Tessa Wells's body lay cooling in the medical examiner's office, already beginning to hide its many secrets, that was a good thing, Jessica thought.
  Damn good stuff.
  
  He stood in the doorway of his home, his pain raw, red, and sharp, a million exposed nerve endings waiting to be infected by the silence. Later that day, he would conduct the official identification of the body. Jessica thought of the time Frank Wells had spent since his wife died, the two thousand or so days during which everyone else had lived their lives, living, laughing, and loving. She considered that fifty thousand or so hours of unquenchable grief, each consisting of sixty horrific minutes, themselves counted off at sixty agonizing seconds each. Now the cycle of grief began again.
  They searched through some of the drawers and cabinets in Tessa's room but found nothing particularly interesting. A methodical young woman, organized and tidy, even her junk drawer was tidy, organized into clear plastic boxes: matchboxes from weddings, movie and concert ticket stubs, a small collection of interesting buttons, a couple of plastic bracelets from the hospital. Tessa preferred satin sachets.
  Her clothes were simple and of average quality. There were a few posters on the walls, but not of Eminem, Ja Rule, DMX, or any of the current boy bands, but rather of independent violinists Nadja Salerno-Sonnenberg and Vanessa-Mae. An inexpensive "Lark" violin sat in the corner of her closet. They searched her car and found nothing. They'll check her school locker later.
  Tessa Wells was a working-class child who cared for her ailing father, got good grades, and likely would one day earn a scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania. A girl who kept her clothes in dry-cleaning bags and her shoes in boxes.
  And now she was dead.
  Someone walked the streets of Philadelphia, breathing in the warm spring air, smelling the daffodils bursting through the soil, someone took an innocent young girl to a dirty, rotten place and cruelly ended her life.
  While committing this monstrous act, this someone said:
  Philadelphia has a population of one and a half million people.
  I am one of them.
  Find me.
  OceanofPDF.com
  PART TWO
  OceanofPDF.com
  7
  MONDAY, 12:20 PM
  SIMON CLOSE, STAR REPORTER for Philadelphia's leading weekly shock tabloid, The Report, hadn't set foot in a church in more than two decades, and while he didn't quite expect the heavens to part and righteous lightning to split the sky and rip him in half, leaving him a smoldering pile of fat, bone, and gristle if he did, there was enough residual Catholic guilt inside him to give him a moment's pause if he ever entered a church, dipped his finger in holy water, and knelt.
  Born thirty-two years ago in Berwick-upon-Tweed in the Lake District, in the rugged north of England bordering Scotland, Simon, a first-class rascal, never believed in anything too strongly, not least of which was the church. The offspring of an abusive father and a mother too drunk to care or notice, Simon had long ago learned to believe in himself.
  By the time he was seven years old, he had lived in half a dozen Catholic group homes where he learned many things, none of which reflected the life of Christ, after which he was pawned off to the one and only relative willing to take him in, his spinster Aunt Iris, who lived in Shamokin, Pennsylvania, a small town about 130 miles northwest of Philadelphia.
  Aunt Iris took Simon to Philadelphia many times when he was little. Simon remembered seeing the tall buildings, the huge bridges, smelling the city, hearing the bustle of city life, and knowing-knew as well as knowing he would cling to his Northumbrian accent at any cost-that he would one day live there.
  At sixteen, Simon interned at the News-Item, Cole Township's local daily, and his eye, like anyone working at any newspaper east of the Alleghenies, was on the city editorial board at The Philadelphia Inquirer or The Daily News. But after two years of working copy from the editorial office to the typesetting room in the basement and writing the occasional list and schedule for the Shamokin Oktoberfest, he saw a light, a glow that has yet to fade.
  On a stormy New Year's Eve, Simon was sweeping the newspaper's offices on Main Street when he saw a glow coming from the newsroom. Peering inside, he saw two men. The newspaper's leading light, a man in his fifties named Norman Watts, was poring over a massive Pennsylvania Codex.
  Arts and entertainment reporter Tristan Chaffee wore a sleek tuxedo, tie loose, feet up, and a glass of white Zinfandel. He was working on a story about a local celebrity-an overrated, sappy love song singer, the lowbrow Bobby Vinton-who had apparently been caught committing child pornography.
  Simon pushed the broom, secretly watching the two men work. The serious journalist peered into the obscure details of land parcels, abstracts, and eminent domains, rubbing his eyes, stubbed out cigarette after cigarette, forgetting to smoke them, and making frequent trips to the toilet to empty what must have been a pea-sized bladder.
  And then there was entertainment: sipping sweet wine, chatting on the phone with producers, club owners, and fans.
  The solution came by itself.
  "To hell with the bad news," Simon thought.
  Give me white Zin.
  At eighteen, Simon enrolled at Luzerne County Community College. A year after graduation, Aunt Iris died quietly in her sleep. Simon packed his few belongings and moved to Philadelphia, finally pursuing his dream (that is, to become Britain's Joe Queenan). For three years, he lived on his small inheritance, unsuccessfully trying to sell his freelance writing to major national glossy magazines.
  Then, after three more years of freelancing music and film reviews for the Inquirer and Daily News, and eating his share of ramen noodles and hot ketchup soup, Simon landed a job at a new, up-and-coming tabloid called The Report. He quickly rose through the ranks, and for the past seven years, Simon Close has written a weekly, self-written column called "Close Up!", a rather lurid crime column that highlighted Philadelphia's most shocking crimes and, when so blessed, the misdeeds of its brighter citizens. In these areas, Philadelphia rarely disappointed.
  And although his home base at the Report (the label read "THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF PHILADELPHIA") was not the Inquirer, the Daily News, or even the CityPaper, Simon managed to place a number of major stories at the very top of the news cycle, much to the astonishment and consternation of his much higher-paid colleagues in the so-called legitimate press.
  So named because, according to Simon Close, there was no such thing as a legitimate press. They were all knee-deep in cesspools, every clunker with a spiral-bound notebook and acid reflux, and those who considered themselves solemn chroniclers of their time were gravely mistaken. Connie Chung, who spent a week shadowing Tonya Harding and the "reporters" from Entertainment Tonight covering the cases of JonBenét Ramsey and Lacey Peterson, was all the blurring needed.
  Since when did dead girls become entertainment?
  Since the serious news was flushed down the toilet with the OJ hunter, that's when.
  Simon was proud of his work at The Report. He had a keen eye and a near-photographic memory for quotes and details. He was at the center of a story about a homeless man found in North Philadelphia with his internal organs removed, as well as the crime scene. In this case, Simon bribed the night technician in the medical examiner's office with a piece of Thai stick in exchange for an autopsy photograph, which, unfortunately, was never published.
  He beat up the Inquirer newspaper to print a police department scandal about a homicide detective who drove a man to suicide after killing the young man's parents, a crime of which the young man was innocent.
  He even had a cover story for a recent adoption scam, in which a South Philadelphia woman, the owner of the shady agency Loving Hearts, charged thousands of dollars for ghostly children she never gave birth to. Although he would have preferred more victims in his stories and more gruesome photographs, he was nominated for an AAN Award for "Haunted Hearts," as this piece of adoption fraud was called.
  Philadelphia Magazine also published an exposé of the woman, a full month after Simon's article in The Report.
  When his articles became known after the newspaper's weekly deadline, Simon turned to the newspaper's website, which was now registering nearly ten thousand hits a day.
  And so, when the phone rang around noon, waking him from a rather vivid dream involving Cate Blanchett, a pair of Velcro handcuffs, and a whip, he was overcome with dread at the thought that he might have to return once again to his Catholic roots.
  "Yes," Simon managed to say, his voice sounding like a mile-long, dirty culvert.
  - Get the hell out of bed.
  He knew at least a dozen people who might have greeted him that way. It wasn't even worth shooting back. Not so early. He knew who it was: Andrew Chase, his old friend and accomplice in the journalistic expose. Although calling Andy Chase a friend was a huge stretch. The two men tolerated each other like mold and bread, an uncomfortable alliance that, for mutual benefit, occasionally yielded benefits. Andy was a boor, a slob, and an insufferable pedant. And those were his advantages. "It's the middle of the night," Simon countered.
  - Maybe in Bangladesh.
  Simon wiped the dirt from his eyes, yawned, and stretched. Close enough to wakefulness. He looked next to him. Empty. Again. "How are you?"
  "Catholic schoolgirl found dead."
  A game, Simon thought.
  Again.
  On this side of the night, Simon Edward Close was a reporter, and so the words sent a surge of adrenaline through his chest. Now he was awake. His heart pounded with that thrill he knew and loved, the noise that meant: story... He rummaged on the nightstand, found two empty packs of cigarettes, rummaged in the ashtray until he caught a two-inch butt. He straightened it, fired it, coughed. He reached over and pressed RECORD on his trusty Panasonic recorder with its built-in microphone. He had long since given up on taking coherent notes before his first ristretto of the day. "Talk to me."
  - They found her on Eighth Street.
  - Where on the Eighth?
  - Fifteen hundred.
  "Beirut," Simon thought. That's good. "Who found her?"
  "Some kind of alcoholic."
  "Outside?" Simon asked.
  "In one of the row houses. In the basement."
  "How old?"
  "House?"
  "Jesus, Andy. It's damn early. Don't mess around. Girl. How old was the girl?"
  "A teenager," Andy said. Andy Chase had been an EMT for eight years with the Glenwood Ambulance Squad. Glenwood handled much of the city's EMS contract, and over the years, Andy's advice had led Simon to several sensational news stories, as well as a wealth of inside information about the police. Andy never let him forget that fact. This would cost Simon his lunch at the Plow and Stars. If this story became a cover-up, he'd owe Andy another hundred.
  "Black? White? Brown?" Simon asked.
  "White."
  "Not as good a story as the little white story," Simon thought. Dead little white girls were a guaranteed cover. But the Catholic school angle was excellent. A bunch of silly comparisons to pick from. "Have they taken the body yet?"
  "Yeah. They just moved it."
  "What the hell was a white Catholic schoolgirl doing on that part of Eighth Street?"
  "Who am I, Oprah? How am I supposed to know?"
  Simon figured out the elements of the story. Drugs. And sex. Must be. Bread and jam. "How did she die?"
  "Not sure."
  "Murder? Suicide? Overdose?
  "Well, there were homicide police there, so it wasn't an overdose."
  "Was she shot? Stabbed?
  "I think she was mutilated."
  Oh God, yes, Simon thought. "Who's the lead detective?"
  "Kevin Byrne."
  Simon's stomach flipped, he pirouetted briefly, and then calmed down. He had a history with Kevin Byrne. The thought of fighting him again simultaneously excited and terrified him to death. "Who's with him, this Purity?"
  "Clear. No. Jimmy Purify is in the hospital," Andy said.
  "Hospital? Shot?
  "Acute cardiovascular disease."
  Damn, Simon thought. No drama there. "He works alone?"
  "No. He has a new partner. Jessica or something.
  "Girl?" Simon asked.
  "No. A guy named Jessica. Are you sure you're a reporter?
  "What does she look like?"
  "She's actually pretty damn hot."
  Fucking hot, Simon thought, the excitement of the story draining from his brain. No offense to female law enforcement, but some women on the force tended to look like Mickey Rourke in a pantsuit. "Blonde? Brunette?"
  "Brunette. Athletic. Big brown eyes and gorgeous legs. Major, baby.
  It was all coming together. Two cops, beauty and the beast, dead white girls in an alley. And he hadn't even lifted his cheek from the bed yet.
  "Give me an hour," Simon said. "I'll meet you at the Plow."
  Simon hung up the phone and swung his legs off the bed.
  He surveyed the landscape of his three-bedroom apartment. "What an eyesore," he thought. But, he mused, it was like Nick Carraway's rental in West Egg-a minor eyesore. One of these days, it would strike. He was sure of it. One of these days, he would wake up and not be able to see every room in his house from his bed. He would have a ground floor, a yard, and a car that wouldn't sound like a Ginger Baker drum solo every time he turned it off.
  Perhaps this story would do just that.
  Before he could reach the kitchen, he was greeted by his cat, a shaggy, one-eared brown tabby named Enid.
  "How's my girl?" Simon tickled her behind her one good ear. Enid curled up twice and rolled over in his lap.
  "Daddy's got a hotline, doll. No time for love this morning.
  Enid purred understandingly, jumped down to the floor, and followed him into the kitchen.
  The only flawless appliance in Simon's entire apartment, besides his Apple PowerBook, was his beloved Rancilio Silvia espresso machine. The timer was set to start at 9 a.m., even though its owner and chief operator never seemed to get out of bed before noon. However, as any coffee fanatic will attest, the key to a perfect espresso is a hot basket.
  Simon filled the filter with freshly ground espresso and made his first ristretto of the day.
  He peered out the kitchen window at the square ventilation shaft between the buildings. If he leaned over, craned his neck at a forty-five-degree angle, and pressed his face against the glass, he could see a sliver of sky.
  Gray and cloudy. Light rain.
  British sun.
  "He might as well go back to the Lake District," he thought. But if he went back to Berwick, he wouldn't have this juicy story, would he?
  The espresso machine hissed and rumbled, pouring a perfect shot into a heated demitasse cup, a precise measure in seventeen seconds, with a luscious golden crema.
  Simon pulled out his cup, savoring the aroma of the start of a wonderful new day.
  "Dead white girls," he mused, sipping his rich brown coffee.
  Dead White Catholic Women.
  In crack town.
  Beautiful.
  OceanofPDF.com
  8
  MONDAY, 12:50 PM
  They parted for lunch. Jessica returned to Nazarene Academy for the Taurus department. Traffic on I-95 was light, but the rain continued.
  At school, she briefly spoke with Dottie Takacs, the school bus driver who had picked up the girls in Tessa's neighborhood. The woman was still terribly upset by the news of Tessa's death, almost inconsolable, but she managed to tell Jessica that Tessa hadn't been at the bus stop on Friday morning, and that no, she didn't remember anyone strange hanging around the bus stop or anywhere along the route. She added that her job was to keep an eye on the road.
  Sister Veronica informed Jessica that Dr. Parkhurst had taken the day off, but gave her her home address and phone numbers. She also told her that Tessa's last class on Thursday was a second-year French class. If Jessica remembered correctly, all Nazarene students were required to study a foreign language for two consecutive years to graduate. Jessica wasn't at all surprised that her old French teacher, Claire Stendhal, was still teaching.
  She found her in the teachers' room.
  
  "TESSA WAS A WONDERFUL STUDENT," Claire said. "A dream. Excellent grammar, impeccable syntax. Her assignments were always submitted on time."
  Jessica's conversation with Madame Stendhal transported her back a dozen years, though she'd never been in the mysterious staff room before. Her image of the room, like that of many other students, was a combination of a nightclub, a motel room, and a fully stocked opium den. She was disappointed to discover that all along, it had been nothing more than a tired, ordinary room with three tables surrounded by shabby chairs, a small group of loveseats, and a couple of dented coffee pots.
  Claire Stendhal was a different story entirely. There was nothing tired or ordinary about her; she never had been: tall and elegant, with a stunning frame and smooth, parchment-like skin. Jessica and her classmates had always envied her wardrobe: Pringle sweaters, Nipon suits, Ferragamo shoes, Burberry coats. Her hair had a silvery sheen and was a little shorter than she remembered, but Claire Stendhal, now in her mid-forties, was still a striking woman. Jessica wondered if Madame Stendhal remembered her.
  "Does she seem at all anxious lately?" Jessica asked.
  "Well, as expected, her father's illness had a profound effect on her. I understand she was responsible for running the household. Last year, she took almost three weeks off to care for him. She never missed a single assignment."
  - Do you remember when it was?
  Claire thought for a moment. "If I'm not mistaken, it was just before Thanksgiving."
  "Did you notice any changes in her when she came back?"
  Claire looked out the window at the rain falling on the desert. "Now that you mention it, I suppose she was a little more introspective," she said. "Perhaps a little less willing to participate in group discussions."
  "Has the quality of her work deteriorated?"
  "Not at all. If anything, she was even more conscientious."
  "Did she have any friends in her class?"
  "Tessa was a polite and courteous young woman, but I don't think she had many close friends. I could ask around if you like.
  "I'd appreciate it," Jessica said. She handed Claire a business card. Claire glanced at it, then slipped it into her purse-a slim Vuitton Honfleur clutch. Nature.
  "She talked about going to France one day," Claire said.
  Jessica remembered saying the same thing. They all did it. She didn't know a single girl in her class who actually left.
  "But Tessa wasn't one to dream of romantic strolls along the Seine or shopping on the Champs-Élysées," Claire continued. "She talked about working with underprivileged children."
  Jessica made a few notes about this, though she wasn't entirely sure why. "Did she ever tell you about her personal life? About anyone who might be bothering her?"
  "No," Claire said. "But not much has changed in that regard since your high school days. And not mine, for that matter. We're adults, and that's how students see us. They don't really trust us any more than they trust their parents."
  Jessica wanted to ask Claire about Brian Parkhurst, but she only had a hunch. She decided against it. "Can you think of anything else that might help?"
  Claire gave it a few minutes. "Nothing comes to mind," she said. "I'm sorry."
  "It's okay," Jessica said. "You've been a great help."
  "It's just hard to believe it... there she is," Claire said. "She was so young."
  Jessica had been thinking about the same thing all day. Now she had no answer. Nothing that would comfort or satisfy her. She gathered her things and glanced at her watch. She needed to get back to North Philadelphia.
  "Late for anything?" Claire asked. Her voice was crooked and dry. Jessica remembered that tone very well.
  Jessica smiled. Claire Stendhal remembered her. Young Jessica was always late. "Looks like I'll miss lunch."
  "Why not get a sandwich from the cafeteria?"
  Jessica thought about it. Maybe it was a good idea. When she was in high school, she'd been one of those weird kids who actually liked the cafeteria food. She plucked up the courage to ask, "Qu'est-ce que vous... Are you offering?"
  If she wasn't mistaken-and she desperately hoped she wasn't-she asked, "What do you suggest?"
  The look on her former French teacher's face told her she'd gotten it right. Or close enough to school French.
  "Not bad, Mademoiselle Giovanni," Claire said with a generous smile.
  "Merci".
  "Avec plaisir," Claire replied. "And sloppy guys are still pretty good."
  
  TESSA WAS JUST SIX UNITS FROM Jessica's old locker. For a brief moment, Jessica wanted to check if her old combination still worked.
  When she attended Nazarene, Tessa's locker belonged to Janet Stephanie, the editor of the school's alternative newspaper and a local drug addict. Jessica half-expected to see a red plastic bong and a stash of Ho Hos when she opened the locker door. Instead, she saw a reflection of Tessa Wells's last day of school, her life after graduation.
  A Nazarene hoodie and what looked like a home-knitted scarf hung on a coat rack. A plastic raincoat hung on a hook. Tessa's clean, neatly folded gym clothes lay on the top shelf. Beneath them lay a small stack of sheet music. Behind the door, where most girls kept photo collages, Tessa had a cat calendar. Previous months had been torn out. Days had been crossed out, right up until the previous Thursday.
  Jessica checked the books in her locker against Tessa's class list she'd received from reception. Two books were missing: Biology and Algebra II.
  Where were they? Jessica thought.
  Jessica flipped through the pages of Tessa's remaining textbooks. Her Communications and Media textbook had a syllabus printed on bright pink paper. Inside her theology textbook, Understanding Catholic Christianity, were a couple of dry cleaning receipts. The rest of the books were blank. No personal notes, letters, or photographs.
  A pair of calf-high rubber boots lay at the bottom of the locker. Jessica was about to close the locker when she decided to pick up the boots and turn them over. The left boot was empty. When she turned the right boot over, something fell out onto the polished hardwood floor.
  Small diary made of calfskin with gold leaf trim.
  
  IN THE PARKING LOT, Jessica ate her sloppy joe and read Tessa's diary.
  Entries were sparse, with days, sometimes even weeks, between entries. Apparently, Tessa wasn't the type to feel compelled to record every thought, every feeling, every emotion, and every interaction in her journal.
  Overall, she gave the impression of a sad girl, usually looking on the dark side of life. There were notes about a documentary she'd seen about three young men who, in her opinion, like the filmmakers, were falsely convicted of murder in West Memphis, Tennessee. There was a long article about the plight of starving children in Appalachia. Tessa donated twenty dollars to the Second Harvest program. There were several notes about Sean Brennan.
  What did I do wrong? Why don't you call?
  There was one long and rather touching story about a homeless woman Tessa met. A woman named Carla lived in a car on 13th Street. Tessa didn't share how she met the woman, only how beautiful Carla was, how she could have become a model if life hadn't dealt her so many bad turns. The woman told Tessa that one of the worst parts of living out of her car was the lack of privacy, that she lived in constant fear that someone was watching her, someone intending to harm her. Over the next few weeks, Tessa thought long and hard about the problem, and then realized she could do something to help.
  Tessa paid a visit to her Aunt Georgia. She borrowed her aunt's Singer sewing machine and, at her own expense, sewed curtains for the homeless woman, which could be cleverly attached to the car's headliner.
  "This is a special young lady," Jessica thought.
  The last entry of the note read:
  
  Dad is very sick. I think he's getting worse. He's trying to be strong, but I know it's just a game to me. I look at his frail hands and think of the times when I was little, when he would push me on the swings. It felt like my feet could touch the clouds! His hands are cut and scarred from sharp slate and coal. His nails are dull from iron gutters. He always said he left his soul in Carbon County, but his heart is with me. And with Mom. I hear his terrible breathing every night. Even though I know how much it hurts, every breath comforts me, tells me he's still here. Still Dad.
  In the center of the diary, two pages were torn out, and then the very last entry, dated almost five months earlier, read simply:
  
  I'm back. Just call me Sylvia.
  Who is Sylvia? Jessica thought.
  Jessica looked through her notes. Tessa's mother was named Anne. She had no sisters. There was definitely no "Sister Sylvia" at the Nazarene.
  She flipped through the diary again. A few pages before the deleted section was a quote from a poem she didn't recognize.
  Jessica looked back at the last entry. It was dated just before Thanksgiving last year.
  
  I'm back. Just call me Sylvia.
  Where are you from, Tessa? And who is Sylvia?
  OceanofPDF.com
  9
  MONDAY, 1:00 PM
  In seventh grade, IMMY PURIFI was almost six feet tall, and no one ever called him skinny.
  Back in the day, Jimmy Purifie could walk into the grittiest white bars in Grays Ferry without saying a word, and conversations would be hushed; hard cases would sit a little straighter.
  Born and raised in West Philadelphia's Black Bottom, Jimmy has endured adversity both internally and externally, and dealt with it all with a poise and street smarts that would have broken a smaller man.
  But now, as Kevin Byrne stood in the doorway of Jimmy's hospital room, the man before him looked like a sun-bleached sketch of Jimmy Purify, a shell of the man he once was. Jimmy had lost thirty or so pounds, his cheeks were sunken, his skin ashen.
  Byrne found he had to clear his throat before speaking.
  - Hello, Clutch.
  Jimmy turned his head. He tried to frown, but the corners of his mouth turned up, giving away the game. "Jesus Christ. Aren't there guards here?"
  Byrne laughed, too loudly. "You look good."
  "Fuck you," Jimmy said. "I look like Richard Pryor."
  "Nope. Maybe Richard Roundtree," Byrne replied. "But all things considered..."
  "All things considered, I should be in Wildwood with Halle Berry."
  "You have a better chance of beating Marion Barry."
  "Fuck you again."
  "You don't look as good as he does, though, Detective," Byrne said, holding up a Polaroid photo of a battered and bruised Gideon Pratt.
  Jimmy smiled.
  "Damn, these guys are clumsy," Jimmy said, punching Byrne weakly.
  "It's genetic."
  Byrne propped the photograph against Jimmy's water jug. It was better than any get-well card. Jimmy and Byrne had been searching for Gideon Pratt for a long time.
  "How's my angel?" Jimmy asked.
  "Okay," Byrne said. Jimmy Purify had three sons, all bruised and all grown, and he lavished all his tenderness-what little he had-on Kevin Byrne's daughter, Colleen. Every year on Colleen's birthday, some shamefully expensive anonymous gift would arrive via UPS. No one was cheated. "She's having a big Easter party soon."
  "At the school for the deaf?"
  "Yeah."
  "You know, I've been practicing," Jimmy said. "It's getting pretty good."
  Jimmy made a few weak movements with his hands.
  "What was that supposed to be?" Byrne asked.
  "It was a birthday."
  "It actually looked a bit like Happy Sparkplug."
  "Is that how it happened?"
  "Yeah."
  "Shit." Jimmy looked at his hands as if it was their fault. He tried the hand shapes again, but the results were no better.
  Byrne plumped Jimmy's pillows, then sat down, shifting his weight onto the chair. A long, comfortable silence followed, the kind only achieved between old friends.
  Byrne gave Jimmy the opportunity to get down to business.
  "So, I heard you need to sacrifice a virgin." Jimmy's voice was hoarse and weak. This visit had already knocked a lot out of him. The cardiac nurses told Byrne he could only stay here for five minutes.
  "Yes," Byrne replied. Jimmy was referring to Byrne's new partner being a first-day homicide officer.
  "How bad?"
  "Not bad at all, actually," Byrne said. "She has good instincts."
  "She?"
  "Uh-oh," Byrne thought. Jimmy Purifie was as old school as it gets. In fact, according to Jimmy, his first badge was written in Roman numerals. If it were up to Jimmy Purifie, the only women on the force would be maids. "Yeah."
  - Is she a young-old detective?
  "I don't think so," Byrne replied. Jimmy was referring to the brave men who raided the station, implicated suspects, intimidated witnesses, and tried to get a clean slate. Veteran detectives like Byrne and Jimmy make choices. There's much less unraveling. It was something you either learned or you didn't.
  "Is she beautiful?"
  Byrne didn't have to think about it at all. "Yeah. Her."
  - Bring her sometime.
  "Jesus. Are you going to get a penis transplant too?
  Jimmy smiled. "Yeah. Big one too. I figured, what the hell. I'm here and I might as well go for a colossal amount.
  "She's actually Vincent Balzano's wife."
  The name didn't register right away. "That damn hothead from Central?"
  "Yeah. Same."
  - Forget what I said.
  Byrne saw a shadow near the door. The nurse peered into the room and smiled. Time to go. He stood, stretched, and glanced at his watch. He had fifteen minutes before his meeting with Jessica in North Philadelphia. "I gotta go. We ran into a delay this morning."
  Jimmy frowned, making Byrne feel like shit. He should have kept his mouth shut. Telling Jimmy Purify about a new case he wouldn't be working on was like showing a retired thoroughbred a picture of Churchill Downs.
  - Details, Riff.
  Byrne wondered how much he should say. He decided to just spill the beans. "Seventeen-year-old girl," he said. "Found in an abandoned rowhouse near Eighth and Jefferson."
  Jimmy's expression needed no translation. Part of it was how much he longed to be back in action. Another part was how much he knew these matters had reached Kevin Byrne. If you killed a young girl in front of him, there wasn't a rock big enough to hide under.
  - Drug?
  "I don't think so," Byrne said.
  - Was she abandoned?
  Byrne nodded.
  "What do we have?" Jimmy asked.
  "We," Byrne thought. It hurt a lot more than he thought. "A little."
  - Keep me posted, okay?
  "You got it, Clutch," Byrne thought. He grabbed Jimmy's hand and squeezed it lightly. "Need anything?"
  "A piece of ribs would be nice. The scrap side.
  "And Diet Sprite, right?"
  Jimmy smiled, his eyelids drooping. He was tired. Byrne walked toward the door, hoping he could reach the cool, green corridor before he heard him, wishing he was at the Mercy to question the witness, wishing Jimmy was right behind him, smelling of Marlboro and Old Spice.
  He didn't survive.
  "I'm not coming back, am I?" Jimmy asked.
  Byrne closed his eyes, then opened them, hoping something resembling faith appeared on his face. He turned. "Of course, Jimmy."
  "For a cop, you're a damn terrible liar, you know that? I'm amazed we even managed to solve Case Number One."
  "You're just getting stronger. You'll be back on the streets by Remembrance Day. You'll see. We'll fill up Finnigan's and raise a glass to little Deirdre.
  Jimmy waved his hand weakly, dismissively, then turned his head toward the window. A few seconds later, he fell asleep.
  Byrne watched him for a full minute. He wanted to say much, much more, but he would have time later.
  Isn't that right?
  He'll have time to tell Jimmy how much their friendship meant to him over the years and how he learned from him what real police work is. He'll have time to tell Jimmy that this city just isn't the same without him.
  Kevin Byrne paused for a few more moments, then turned and walked out into the hall and toward the elevators.
  
  BYRNE STOOD IN FRONT OF THE HOSPITAL, his hands shaking, his throat tight with anxiety. It took him five turns of the Zippo's wheel to light a cigarette.
  He hadn't cried in years, but the feeling in the pit of his stomach reminded him of the first time he'd seen his old man cry. His father had been as tall as a house, a two-faced mummer with a citywide reputation, an original stick fighter who could carry four twelve-inch concrete blocks up a flight of stairs without a zero. The way he cried made him look small to ten-year-old Kevin, made him look like the father of any other child. Padraig Byrne had broken down behind their house on Reid Street the day he learned his wife needed cancer surgery. Maggie O'Connell Byrne lived another twenty-five years, but no one knew it then. His old man stood by his beloved peach tree that day, shaking like a blade of grass in a thunderstorm, and Kevin sat by his second-story bedroom window, watching him and crying with him.
  He never forgot this image, never will.
  He hasn't cried since then.
  But he wanted it now.
  Jimmy.
  OceanofPDF.com
  10
  MONDAY, 1:10 PM
  Girl talk.
  Is there another mysterious language for males of this species? I think not. No man who has ever been privy to the conversations of young women for any length of time would admit that there is no task more difficult than trying to demystify a simple one-on-one conversation between a handful of American teenage girls. By comparison, the Enigma code of World War II was a piece of cake.
  I'm sitting in a Starbucks on Sixteenth and Walnut, a cooling latte on the table in front of me. At the next table are three teenage girls. Between bites of their biscotti and sips of white chocolate mochas, a torrent of machine-gun gossip, innuendo, and observations flows, so serpentine, so unstructured, that it's all I can do to keep up.
  Sex, music, school, cinema, sex, cars, money, sex, clothes.
  I'm tired of just listening.
  When I was younger, there were four clearly defined "grounds" associated with sex. Now, if I heard correctly, there are pit stops between them. Between the second and third, as I understand it, there's now "casual" second, which, if I'm not mistaken, involves touching a girl's breasts with your tongue. Then there's "casual" third, which involves oral sex. None of the above, thanks to the 1990s, is considered sex at all, but rather "bondage."
  Charming.
  The girl sitting closest to me is a redhead, about fifteen or so. Her clean, shiny hair is pulled back into a ponytail and secured with a black velvet headband. She's wearing a tight pink T-shirt and skinny beige jeans. Her back is to me, and I can see that her jeans are cut low, and the way she's positioned (leaning forward to show her friends something important) reveals a patch of white, downy skin beneath her top, a black leather belt, and the bottom of her shirt. She's so close to me-just inches, in fact-that I can see the tiny dimples of goosebumps caused by the air conditioning draft, the ridges at the base of her spine.
  Close enough for me to touch.
  She's blabbering on about something to do with her job, about how someone named Corinne is always late and leaves the cleaning to her, and how the boss is such a jerk and has really bad breath and thinks he's really hot but is really like that fat guy from The Sopranos who takes care of Uncle Tony or Dad or whoever.
  I love this age so much. No detail is so small or insignificant that it escapes their scrutiny. They know enough to use their sexuality to get what they want, but they have no idea that what they possess is so powerful and destructive to the male psyche that if they only knew what to ask for, it would be handed to them on a platter. The irony is that most of them, once this understanding dawns, will no longer have the strength to achieve their goals.
  As if on cue, they all manage to look at their watches at the same time. They collect the trash and head for the door.
  I will not follow.
  Not these girls. Not today.
  Today belongs to Bethany.
  The crown lies in a bag at my feet, and while I'm not a fan of irony (in the words of Karl Kraus, irony is a dog that barks at the moon and pees on graves), the fact that the bag is from Bailey is no small irony. Banks and Biddle.
  Cassiodorus believed that the crown of thorns was placed on Jesus's head so that all the thorns of the world could be gathered and broken, but I don't believe that's true. Bethany's crown isn't broken at all.
  Bethany Price leaves school at 2:20. Sometimes she stops at Dunkin' Donuts for a hot chocolate and cruller, sits in a booth, and reads a book by Pat Ballard or Lynn Murray, writers who specialize in romance novels featuring plus-size women.
  You see, Bethany is heavier than other girls and is terribly self-conscious about it. She buys her brands, Zaftique and Junonia, online, but she still feels awkward shopping in the plus-size departments at Macy's and Nordstrom for fear of being seen by her classmates. Unlike some of her thinner friends, she doesn't try to shorten the hem of her school uniform skirt.
  They say vanity blossoms but bears no fruit. Perhaps, but my girls attend Mary's School and therefore, despite their sins, will receive abundant grace.
  Bethany doesn't know it, but she's perfect just the way she is.
  Ideal.
  Except for one.
  And I will fix it.
  OceanofPDF.com
  11
  MONDAY, 3:00 PM
  They spent the day studying the route Tessa Wells took that morning to get to her bus stop. Although some houses didn't answer their knocks, they spoke with a dozen people who knew the Catholic schoolgirls who boarded the bus at the corner. No one recalled anything unusual on Friday or any other day.
  Then they caught a brief break. As often happens, he arrived at the last stop. This time, at a ramshackle rowhouse with olive-green awnings and a dirty brass door knocker shaped like a moose's head. The house was less than half a block from where Tessa Wells boarded the school bus.
  Byrne approached the door. Jessica stepped back. After half a dozen knocks, they were about to move on when the door opened an inch.
  "I"m not buying anything," a thin male voice suggested.
  "Not selling." Byrne showed the man his badge.
  - What do you want?
  "First, I want you to open the door more than an inch," Byrne replied as diplomatically as possible as he walked into his fiftieth interview of the day.
  The man closed the door, unhooked the chain, and swung it wide. He was in his seventies, dressed in plaid pajama bottoms and a bright purple tuxedo that might have been fashionable during the Eisenhower administration. He wore unlaced strollers and no socks. His name was Charles Noon.
  "We're talking to everyone in the area, sir. Did you happen to see this girl on Friday?
  Byrne offered a photograph of Tessa Wells, a copy of her high school portrait. He fished a pair of ready-made bifocals from his jacket pocket and studied the photograph for a few moments, adjusting the glasses up and down, back and forth. Jessica could still see the price sticker on the bottom of the right lens.
  "Yeah, I saw her," Noon said.
  "Where?"
  "She walked to the corner, just like every day."
  - Where did you see her?
  The man pointed to the sidewalk, then moved his bony index finger from left to right. "She came into the street, as always. I remember her because she always looks like she's gone somewhere."
  "Turned off?"
  "Yeah. You know. Like somewhere on her own planet. Eyes downcast, thinking about all sorts of nonsense.
  "What else do you remember?" Byrne asked.
  "Well, she stopped for a moment right in front of the window. About where this young lady is standing.
  No one pointed to where Jessica was standing.
  - How long was she there?
  - I didn't notice the time.
  Byrne took a deep breath, let it out, his patience walking a tightrope, without a net. "About."
  "I don't know," Noon said. He looked at the ceiling, closing his eyes. Jessica noticed his fingers twitch. It looked like Charles Noon was counting. If there were more than ten, she wondered if he'd take off his shoes. He looked back at Byrne. "Maybe twenty seconds."
  "What did she do?"
  "Do?"
  "While she was in front of your house. What did she do?"
  - She didn't do anything.
  - She just stood there?
  "Well, she was looking for something on the street. No, not exactly on the street. More like in the driveway next to the house." Charles Noon pointed to the right, to the driveway separating his house from the tavern on the corner.
  "Just watching?"
  "Yeah. Like she saw something interesting. Like she saw someone she knew. She kind of blushed. You know how young girls are.
  "Not exactly," Byrne said. "Why don't you tell me?"
  At the same time, his entire body language changed, influencing those subtle shifts that signal to both parties that they've entered a new phase of the conversation. No one backed up half an inch, and his tuxedo belt tightened, his shoulders tensing slightly. Byrne shifted his weight onto his right leg and peered past the man into the darkness of his living room.
  "I'm just saying," Noon said. "She just blushed for a second, that's all."
  Byrne held the man's gaze until he was forced to look away. Jessica had known Kevin Byrne for only a few hours, but she could already see the cold green fire in his eyes. Byrne moved on. Charles Noon wasn't their man. "Did she say anything?"
  "I don"t think so," Noon replied with a new dose of respect in his voice.
  - Did you see anyone in that driveway?
  "No, sir," the man said. "I don't have a window there. Besides, it's none of my business.
  Yes, that's right, Jessica thought. Do you want to come to the Roundhouse and explain why you watch young girls go to school every day?
  Byrne gave the man a card. Charles Noon promised to call if he remembered anything.
  The building next to Noon's was an abandoned tavern called the Five Aces, a square, one-story blot on the streetscape that offered access to both Nineteenth Street and Poplar Avenue.
  They knocked on the door of the Five Aces, but there was no answer. The building was boarded up and marked with graffiti depicting the five senses. They checked the doors and windows; they were all firmly nailed shut and locked from the outside. Whatever happened to Tessa, it didn't happen in this building.
  They stood in the driveway and looked up and down the street, and across the street. There were two rowhouses with a perfect view of the driveway. They interviewed both tenants. Neither recalled seeing Tessa Wells.
  On the way back to Roundhouse, Jessica pieced together the puzzle of Tessa Wells's last morning.
  Around 6:50 a.m. on Friday, Tessa Wells left her home and headed to the bus stop. She took the same route she always did: down Twentieth Street to Poplar, down the block, and then across the street. Around 7 a.m., she was seen in front of a rowhouse at Nineteenth and Poplar, where she hesitated for a moment, perhaps seeing someone she knew in the driveway of a shuttered tavern.
  Almost every morning she met her friends from Nazarene. At about five minutes past six, the bus would pick them up and take them to school.
  But on Friday morning, Tessa Wells didn't meet her friends. On Friday morning, Tessa simply disappeared.
  About seventy-two hours later, her body was found in an abandoned row house in one of Philadelphia's worst neighborhoods: her neck broken, her hands mangled, and her body hugging a mockery of a Roman column.
  Who was in that driveway?
  
  Back at the Roundhouse, Byrne checked the NCIC and PCIC records of everyone they'd encountered. That is, everyone of interest: Frank Wells, DeJohn Withers, Brian Parkhurst, Charles Noon, Sean Brennan. The National Crime Information Center is a computerized index of criminal justice information available to federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies and other criminal justice entities. The local version was the Philadelphia Crime Information Center.
  Only Dr. Brian Parkhurst produced results.
  At the end of the tour, they met with Ike Buchanan to give him a status report.
  "Guess who has the piece of paper?" Byrne asked.
  For some reason, Jessica didn't have to think about it too much. "Doctor. Cologne?" she replied.
  "You understand," Byrne said. "Brian Allan Parkhurst," he began, reading from a computer printout. "Thirty-five years old, single, currently residing on Larchwood Street in the Garden Court neighborhood. Received a bachelor's degree from John Carroll University in Ohio and an M.D. from the University of Pennsylvania."
  "What priors?" Buchanan asked. "Crossing in an unauthorized place?"
  "Are you ready for this? Eight years ago, he was charged with kidnapping. But there was no count."
  "A kidnapping?" Buchanan asked, a little incredulously.
  "He was working as a guidance counselor at a high school, and it turned out he was having an affair with a senior. They went away for the weekend without telling the girl's parents, and the parents called the police, and Dr. Parkhurst was arrested."
  "Why wasn't the invoice issued?"
  "Luckily for the good doctor, the girl turned eighteen the day before their departure, and she declared that she had consented voluntarily. The prosecutor's office was forced to drop all charges."
  "And where did this happen?" Buchanan asked.
  "In Ohio. Beaumont School."
  "What is the Beaumont School?"
  "Catholic School for Girls."
  Buchanan looked at Jessica, then at Byrne. He knew what they were both thinking.
  "Let's approach this carefully," Buchanan said. "Dating young girls is a far cry from what happened to Tessa Wells. It would be a high-profile case, and I don't want Monsignor Copperballs kicking my ass for stalking me."
  Buchanan was referring to Monsignor Terry Pacek, the very vocal, very telegenic, and some would say combative spokesman for the Philadelphia Archdiocese. Pacek oversaw all media relations for Philadelphia's Catholic churches and schools. He clashed with the department numerous times during the 2002 Catholic priest sex scandal and usually prevailed in PR battles. You didn't want to fight Terry Pacek unless you had a full quiver.
  Before Byrne could even raise the issue of surveillance on Brian Parkhurst, his phone rang. It was Tom Weirich.
  "How are you?" Byrne asked.
  Weirich said, "You better see something."
  
  The Medical Examiner's Office was a gray monolith on University Avenue. Of the roughly six thousand deaths reported annually in Philadelphia, nearly half required an autopsy, and all of them occurred in this building.
  Byrne and Jessica entered the main autopsy room just after six o'clock. Tom Weirich wore an apron and wore a look of deep concern. Tessa Wells lay on one of the stainless steel tables, her skin a pale gray, a powder-blue sheet pulled up to her shoulders.
  "I consider this homicide," Weirich said, stating the obvious. "Spinal shock due to spinal cord severance." Weirich inserted the X-ray into the light board. "The severance occurred between C5 and C6."
  His initial assessment was correct. Tessa Wells died of a broken neck.
  "On stage?" Byrne asked.
  "At the scene," Weirich said.
  "Any bruises?" Byrne asked.
  Weirich returned to the body and pointed out two small bruises on Tessa Wells's neck.
  "Here he grabbed her and then jerked her head to the right."
  "Anything useful?"
  Weirich shook his head. "The performer was wearing latex gloves."
  "What about the cross on her forehead?" The blue chalky material on Tessa's forehead was barely visible, but still there.
  "I took a swab," Weirich said. "It's in the lab."
  "Are there any signs of a struggle? Defensive wounds?
  "None," said Weirich.
  Byrne considered this. "If she was alive when they brought her into that basement, why were there no signs of a struggle?" he asked. "Why weren't her legs and thighs covered in cuts?"
  "We found a small amount of midazolam in her system."
  "What is this?" Byrne asked.
  "Midazolam is similar to Rohypnol. We're starting to see it appearing on the streets more and more these days because it's still colorless and odorless."
  Jessica knew through Vincent that Rohypnol's use as a date rape drug had begun to wane due to its formula now turning blue when it entered liquid, thus warning off unsuspecting victims. But leave it to science to replace one horror with another.
  - So you're saying that our activist put midazolam in the drink?
  Weirich shook his head. He lifted the hair on the right side of Tessa Wells's neck. There was a small puncture wound. "They injected her with this drug. A small-diameter needle.
  Jessica and Byrne locked eyes. That changed the situation. It was one thing to drug a drink. A madman roaming the streets with a hypodermic needle was quite another. He didn't care about luring his victims into his web.
  "Is it really that difficult to manage properly?" Byrne asked.
  "It takes some knowledge to avoid muscle damage," Weirich said. "But you can't learn that with a little practice. An LPN could do it without any problems. On the other hand, you could build a nuclear weapon using things you can find online these days."
  "What about the drug itself?" Jessica asked.
  "It's the same with the internet," Weirich said. "I get Canadian OxyContin spam every ten minutes. But the presence of midazolam doesn't explain the lack of defensive wounds. Even under the influence of a sedative, the natural instinct is to fight back. There wasn't enough of the drug in her system to completely incapacitate her."
  "So what are you saying?" Jessica asked.
  "I'm saying there's something else. I'll have to run some more tests."
  Jessica noticed a small evidence bag on the table. "What is this?"
  Weirich handed over an envelope. Inside was a small picture, a reproduction of an old painting. "It was between her hands."
  He extracted the image with rubber-tipped pliers.
  "It was folded between her palms," he continued. "Fingerprints were cleaned off it. There were none."
  Jessica looked closely at the reproduction, which was about the size of a bridge playing card. "Do you know what this is?"
  "CSU took a digital photo and sent it to the head librarian of the Free Library's fine arts department," Weirich said. "She recognized it immediately. It's a William Blake book called 'Dante and Virgil at the Gates of Hell.'"
  "Any idea what this means?" Byrne asked.
  "Sorry. I have no idea.
  Byrne stared at the photograph for a moment, then placed it back in the evidence bag. He turned back to Tessa Wells. "Was she sexually assaulted?"
  "Yes and no," Weirich said.
  Byrne and Jessica exchanged glances. Tom Weirich didn't like the theater, so there had to be a good reason he was putting off what he needed to tell them.
  "What do you mean?" Byrne asked.
  "My preliminary findings are that she was not raped and, as far as I can tell, she has not had sexual intercourse in the last few days," Weirich said.
  "Okay. That's not part of it," Byrne said. "What do you mean, 'yes'?"
  Weirich hesitated for a moment, then pulled the sheet up to Tessa's hips. The young woman's legs were slightly spread. What Jessica saw took her breath away. "Oh my God," she said before she could stop herself.
  Silence reigned in the room, its living inhabitants immersed in their thoughts.
  "When was this done?" Byrne finally asked.
  Weirich cleared his throat. He'd been doing this for a while, and it seemed like even to him it was something new. "At some point in the last twelve hours."
  "Deathbed?"
  "Before death," Weirich replied.
  Jessica looked at the body again: the image of this young girl's final humiliation had found and settled in a place in her mind where she knew it would live for a very long time.
  It wasn't enough that Tessa Wells was kidnapped off the street on her way to school. It wasn't enough that she was drugged and driven to a place where someone broke her neck. It wasn't enough that her hands were mutilated with a steel bolt, sealed in prayer. Whoever did it finished the job with a final shame that left Jessica's stomach churning.
  Tessa Wells's vagina was stitched shut.
  And the rough stitching, done with thick black thread, was in the sign of the cross.
  OceanofPDF.com
  12
  MONDAY, 6:00 PM
  If J. ALFRED PREFROCH measured his life in coffee spoons, Simon Edward Close measured his in deadlines. He had less than five hours to meet the next day's print deadline for The Report. And as for the opening credits of the evening local news, he had nothing to report.
  When he mingled with reporters from the so-called legal press, he was an outcast. They treated him like a mongoloid child, with expressions of false compassion and surrogate sympathy, but with an expression that said, "We can't expel you from the Party, but please leave the Hummels alone."
  The half-dozen reporters lingering near the cordoned-off crime scene on Eighth Street barely glanced at him as he pulled up in his ten-year-old Honda Accord. Simon would have liked to be a little more discreet in his arrival, but his muffler, attached to his manifold by a recent Pepsi-canectomy, insisted on being announced first. He could practically hear the smirks from half a block away.
  The block was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. Simon turned the car around, drove onto Jefferson, and exited onto Ninth Street. Ghost town.
  Simon went out and checked the batteries in his recorder. He smoothed out his tie and the wrinkles in his trousers. He often thought that if he didn't spend all his money on clothes, he could perhaps upgrade his car or apartment. But he always explained this by saying that he spent most of his time outside, so if no one saw his car or apartment, they'd think he was a wreck.
  After all, in this show business, image is everything, right?
  He found the access route he needed, cut through. When he saw a uniformed officer standing behind the house at the crime scene (but not a lone reporter, at least not yet), he returned to his car and tried a trick he'd learned from a wizened old paparazzo he'd known years ago.
  Ten minutes later, he approached an officer behind the house. The officer, a huge black linebacker with enormous arms, raised one hand, stopping him.
  "How are you?" Simon asked.
  "This is a crime scene, sir."
  Simon nodded. He showed his press badge. " Simon Close with The Report ".
   No reaction. He might as well have said, "Captain Nemo of the Nautilus."
  "You'll have to talk to the detective in charge of this case," the police officer said.
  "Of course," Simon said. "Who would it be?"
  - This must be Detective Byrne.
  Simon made a note as if the information was new to him. "What's her name?"
  The uniform distorted his face. "WHO?"
  "Detective Byrne."
  "Her name is Kevin."
  Simon tried to look suitably confused. Two years of high school drama classes, including playing Algernon in The Importance of Being Earnest, had helped somewhat. "Oh, sorry," he said. "I heard there was a female detective working on the case."
  "That must be Detective Jessica Balzano," the officer said with a punctuation and a furrowed brow that told Simon this conversation was over.
  "Thank you very much," Simon said, heading back down the alley. He turned and quickly snapped a photo of the police officer. The officer immediately turned on his radio, which meant that in a minute or two, the area beyond the row houses would be officially sealed off.
  By the time Simon returned to Ninth Street, two reporters were already standing behind the yellow tape blocking the way-yellow tape that Simon had put up himself a few minutes earlier.
  When he emerged, he saw the expressions on their faces. Simon ducked under the tape, ripped it from the wall, and handed it to Benny Lozado, an Inquirer reporter.
  The yellow tape read: "DEL-CO ASPHALT".
  "Fuck you, Close," Lozado said.
  - Dinner first, darling.
  
  Back in his car, Simon rummaged through his memory.
  Jessica Balzano.
  How did he know this name?
  He picked up a copy of last week's report and flipped through it. When he landed on the sparse sports page, he saw it. A small, quarter-column ad for prizefights at Blue Horizon. An all-female fight card.
  Down:
  Jessica Balzano vs. Mariella Munoz.
  OceanofPDF.com
  13
  MONDAY, 7:20 PM
  He found himself on the embankment before his mind had the opportunity or desire to say "no." How long had it been since he was here?
  Eight months, one week, two days.
  The day Deirdre Pettigrew's body was found.
  He knew the answer as clearly as he knew the reason for his return. He was here to recharge, to reconnect with the vein of madness pulsing just beneath the asphalt of his city.
  The Deuce was a secure crack house occupying an old building on the waterfront beneath the Walt Whitman Bridge, just off Packer Avenue, just a few feet from the Delaware River. The steel front door was covered in gang graffiti and was run by a mountain thug named Serious. No one wandered into the Deuce by accident. In fact, it had been over a decade since the public had called it "The Deuce." The Deuce was the name of the long-shuttered bar where, fifteen years earlier, a very bad man named Luther White had sat drinking on the night Kevin Byrne and Jimmy Purify walked in; the night both of them died.
  This is where Kevin Byrne's dark times began.
  It was in this place that he began to see.
  Now it was a drug den.
  But Kevin Byrne wasn't here for drugs. While it's true that he'd dabbled with every substance known to man over the years to stop the visions blaring in his head, none of them had ever truly taken control. It had been years since he'd dabbled in anything other than Vicodin and bourbon.
  He was here to restore the way of thinking.
  He broke the seal on the bottle of Old Forester and counted his days.
  On the day his divorce became final, almost a year ago, he and Donna vowed to have family dinner once a week. Despite numerous work obstacles, they haven't missed a single week in a year.
  That evening they mingled and mumbled through yet another dinner, his wife an uncluttered horizon, the chatter in the dining room a parallel monologue of superficial questions and standard answers.
  For the past five years, Donna Sullivan Byrne had been a hot property agent for one of Philadelphia's largest and most prestigious real estate firms, and the money was flowing in. They lived in a rowhouse on Fitler Square, not because Kevin Byrne was such a great cop. With his salary, they could have lived in Fishtown.
  During those summers of their marriage, they would meet for lunch in Center City two or three times a week, and Donna would tell him of her triumphs, her rare failures, her deft maneuvering through the escrow jungle, closing deals, expenses, depreciation, debt, and assets. Byrne was always oblivious to terms-he couldn't distinguish a single basis point from a cash payment-just as he always admired her energy, her zeal. She had started her career in her thirties, and she was happy.
  But about eighteen months ago, Donna simply cut off communication with her husband. The money was still coming in, and Donna was still a wonderful mother to Colleen, still actively involved in community life, but when it came to talking to him, sharing anything resembling a feeling, a thought, an opinion, she was no longer there. The walls were up, the turrets were armed.
  No notes. No explanation. No justification.
  But Byrne knew why. When they married, he'd promised her he had ambitions in the department and was well on his way to becoming a lieutenant, maybe even captain. Besides, politics? He'd ruled that out internally, but never externally. Donna had always been skeptical. She knew enough cops to know that homicide detectives get life sentences and that you serve on the squad until the very end.
  And then Morris Blanchard was found dangling from the end of a tow rope. That evening, Donna looked at Byrne and, without asking a single question, knew he would never give up the chase to get back to the top. He was Homicide, and that was all he would ever be.
  A few days later she filed an application.
  After a long and tearful conversation with Colleen, Byrne decided not to resist. They'd been watering the dead plant for a while already. As long as Donna didn't turn his daughter against him and as long as he could see her whenever he wanted, everything was fine.
  That evening, while her parents posed, Colleen sat obediently with them at the mime dinner, lost in a Nora Roberts book. Sometimes Byrne envied Colleen her inner silence, her soft refuge from childhood, whatever that might have been.
  Donna was two months pregnant with Colleen when she and Byrne married in a civil ceremony. When Donna gave birth a few days after Christmas that year, and Byrne saw Colleen for the first time, so pink, wrinkled, and helpless, he suddenly couldn't remember a second of his life before that moment. In that moment, everything else was prelude, a vague foreshadowing of the duty he felt at that moment, and he knew-knew, as if it were etched in his heart-that no one would ever come between him and this little girl. Not his wife, not his coworkers, and God help the first disrespectful asshole with baggy pants and a lopsided hat who showed up on her first date.
  He also remembered the day they'd learned Colleen was deaf. It had been Colleen's first Fourth of July. They were living in a cramped three-bedroom apartment. The eleven o'clock news had just come on, and a small explosion had gone off, apparently right outside the tiny bedroom where Colleen slept. Instinctively, Byrne drew his service weapon and strode down the hallway to Colleen's room in three giant strides, his heart pounding in his chest. As he pushed open her door, relief came in the form of a couple of kids on the fire escape throwing firecrackers. He'd deal with them later.
  However, horror came in the form of silence.
  As the firecrackers continued to explode less than five feet from where his six-month-old daughter slept, she didn't react. She didn't wake up. When Donna reached the door and realized the situation, she burst into tears. Byrne held her, feeling in that moment that the road before them had just been repaired by trials and that the fear he faced on the streets every day was nothing compared to this.
  But now Byrne often longed for his daughter's inner peace. She would never know the silvery silence of her parents' marriage, never mind Kevin and Donna Byrne-once so passionate they couldn't keep their hands off each other-saying "excuse me" as they passed through the narrow hallway of the house, like strangers on a bus.
  He thought of his pretty, distant ex-wife, his Celtic rose. Donna, with her enigmatic ability to force lies down his throat with a glance, her impeccable ear for the world. She knew how to extract wisdom from disaster. She taught him the grace of humility.
  Deuce was silent at that hour. Byrne sat in an empty room on the second floor. Most drugstores were dingy places, littered with empty crack bottles, fast-food trash, thousands of used kitchen matches, often vomit, and sometimes excrement. Pipeheads generally didn't subscribe to Architectural Digest. The customers who frequented the Deuce's-a shadowy consortium of police officers, state employees, and city officials never seen on the corners-paid a little extra for the atmosphere.
  He settled on the floor near the window, cross-legged, his back to the river. He sipped his bourbon. The sensation enveloped him in a warm, amber embrace, easing the oncoming migraine.
  Tessa Wells.
  She left home on Friday morning with a contract with the world, a promise that she would be safe, go to school, hang out with friends, laugh at stupid jokes, cry at some stupid love song. The world broke that contract. She was still a teenager, and she had already lived her life.
  Colleen had just become a teenager. Byrne knew that, psychologically, he was probably well behind the times, that his "teen years" had begun somewhere around eleven days old. He was also fully aware that he had long ago decided to resist this particular piece of sexual propaganda on Madison Avenue.
  He looked around the room.
  Why was he here?
  Another question.
  Twenty years on the streets of one of the most violent cities in the world led him to the chopping block. He didn't know a single detective who didn't drink, rehab, gamble, visit prostitutes, or raise a hand against his children or his wife. The job was full of excesses, and if you didn't balance excess horror with excess passion for anything-even domestic violence-the valves creaked and groaned until one day you exploded and put the gun to the roof of your mouth.
  During his time as a homicide detective, he stood in dozens of living rooms, hundreds of driveways, thousands of vacant lots, and the silent dead awaited him, like gouache in a rainy watercolor at close range. Such a bleak beauty. He could sleep at a distance. It was the details that darkened his dreams.
  He remembered every detail of that muggy August morning when he had been called to Fairmount Park: the thick buzz of flies overhead, the way Deirdre Pettigrew's skinny legs poked out from the bushes, her bloody white panties bunched around her ankle, the bandage on her right knee.
  He knew then, as he knew every time he saw a murdered child, that he had to step forward, no matter how shattered his soul, no matter how diminished his instincts. He had to endure the morning, no matter what demons had haunted him all night.
  In the first half of his career, it was about power, the inertia of justice, the rush to seize power. It was about him. But somewhere along the way, it became more. It was about all the dead girls.
  And now Tessa Wells.
  He closed his eyes and felt the cold waters of the Delaware River swirling around him again, taking his breath away.
  Gang warships cruised beneath him. The sounds of hip-hop bass chords shook the floors, windows, and walls, rising from the city streets like steel steam.
  The deviant's hour was approaching. Soon he would walk among them.
  The monsters crawled out of their lairs.
  And sitting in a place where people exchange their self-respect for a few moments of stupefied silence, a place where animals walk upright, Kevin Francis Byrne knew that a new monster was stirring in Philadelphia, a dark seraph of death that would lead him into unknown realms, calling him to depths that men like Gideon Pratt had only sought.
  OceanofPDF.com
  14
  MONDAY, 8:00 PM
  It's night in Philadelphia.
  I stand on North Broad Street, looking out over downtown and the commanding figure of William Penn, artfully lit on the roof of City Hall, feeling the warmth of a spring day dissolve in the hiss of red neon and the long shadows of de Chirico, and I marvel again at the two faces of the city.
  This isn't the egg tempera of daytime Philadelphia, the vibrant colors of Robert Indiana's "Love," or mural programs. This is nighttime Philadelphia, a city painted with thick, sharp brushstrokes and impasto pigments.
  The old building on North Broad has survived many nights, its cast-iron pilasters standing silent guard for nearly a century. In many ways, it's the stoic face of the city: the old wooden seats, the coffered ceiling, the carved medallions, the worn canvas where thousands of people have spat, bled, and fallen.
  We walk in. We smile at each other, raise our eyebrows, and clap on the shoulders.
  I can smell copper in their blood.
  These people may know my deeds, but they don't know my face. They think I'm crazy, that I pounce out of the darkness like a horror movie villain. They'll read about what I've done at breakfast, on SEPTA, in food courts, and they'll shake their heads and ask why.
  Maybe they know why?
  If someone were to peel back the layers of evil, pain, and cruelty, could these people do the same, given the chance? Could they lure each other's daughters to a dark street corner, an empty building, or the deep shadows of a park? Could they pick up their knives, guns, and clubs and finally vent their rage? Could they spend the currency of their anger and then rush off to Upper Darby, New Hope, and Upper Merion, to the safety of their lies?
  There is always a painful struggle in the soul, a struggle between disgust and need, between darkness and light.
  The bell rings. We rise from our chairs. We meet in the center.
  Philadelphia, your daughters are in danger.
  You're here because you know it. You're here because you don't have the courage to be me. You're here because you're afraid to become me.
  I know why I'm here.
  Jessica.
  OceanofPDF.com
  15
  MONDAY, 8:30 PM
  FORGET CAESAR'S PALACE. Forget Madison Square Garden. Forget the MGM Grand. The best place in America (and some would argue in the world) to watch prizefights was The Legendary Blue Horizon on North Broad Street. In a city that produced the likes of Jack O'Brien, Joe Frazier, James Shuler, Tim Witherspoon, Bernard Hopkins, not to mention Rocky Balboa, The Legendary Blue Horizon was a true treasure, and as are the Blues, so are Philadelphia pugilists.
  Jessica and her opponent, Mariella "Sparkle" Munoz, were dressing and warming up in the same room. While Jessica waited for her great-uncle Vittorio, a former heavyweight himself, to tape her hands, she glanced at her opponent. Sparkle was in her late twenties, with large hands and a seventeen-inch neck. A real shock absorber. She had a flat nose, scars over both eyes, and what seemed like a permanently sparkling face: a permanent grimace meant to intimidate her opponents.
  "I'm shaking here," Jessica thought.
  When she wanted, Jessica could change the posture and demeanor of a cowering violet, a helpless woman who would have difficulty opening a carton of orange juice without a big, strong man to help her. Jessica hoped it was just honey for the grizzly.
  What this actually meant was:
  Come on, baby.
  
  The first round began with what in boxing parlance is called "feeling out." Both women lightly poked and prodded, stalking each other. A clinch or two. A bit of mugging and intimidation. Jessica was a few inches taller than Sparkle, but Sparkle made up for it in height. In knee-high socks, she looked like a Maytag.
  About halfway through the round, the action began to pick up steam, and the crowd began to get involved. Every time Jessica landed a punch, the crowd, led by a group of police officers from Jessica's old neighborhood, went wild.
  When the bell rang at the end of the first round, Jessica moved away cleanly, and Sparkle landed a body punch, clearly and deliberately, too late. Jessica pushed her, and the referee had to step between them. The referee for this fight was a short black man in his late fifties. Jessica guessed that the Pennsylvania Athletic Commission had decided they didn't want a big guy in the fight because it was only a lightweight bout, and a women's lightweight bout at that.
  Wrong.
  Sparkle landed an overhead kick on the referee, coming off Jessica's shoulder; Jessica responded with a powerful punch that caught Sparkle in the jaw. Sparkle's corner rushed in with Uncle Vittorio, and despite the crowd cheering them on (some of the best fights in Blue Horizon history took place between rounds), they managed to separate the women.
  Jessica plopped down on a stool as Uncle Vittorio stood in front of her.
  "McKin' beege," Jessica muttered through her mouthpiece.
  "Just relax," Vittorio said. He pulled out his mouthpiece and wiped her face. Angela grabbed one of the water bottles from the ice bucket, removed the plastic cap, and held it to Jessica's mouth.
  "You drop your right hand every time you throw a hook," Vittorio said. "How many times do we do this? Keep your right hand up." Vittorio hit Jessica on the right glove.
  Jessica nodded, rinsed her mouth, and spat into the bucket.
  "Seconds down," the referee shouted from the center ring.
  "The fastest damn sixty seconds ever," Jessica thought.
  Jessica stood up as Uncle Vittorio exited the ring-when you're seventy-nine, you let go of everything-and grabbed a stool from the corner. The bell rang, and the two fighters approached.
  The first minute of the second round was much the same as the first. However, midway through, everything changed. Sparkle pinned Jessica against the ropes. Jessica took the opportunity to launch a hook and, of course, dropped her right hand. Sparkle responded with a left hook of her own, which started somewhere in the Bronx, traveled down Broadway, over the bridge, and onto I-95.
  The shot hit Jessica squarely on the chin, stunning her and driving her deep into the ropes. The crowd fell silent. Jessica always knew she would one day meet her match, but before Sparkle Munoz went in for the kill, Jessica saw the unthinkable.
  Sparkle Munoz grabbed her crotch and screamed:
  "Who's cool now?"
  As Sparkle stepped in, preparing to deliver what Jessica was sure would be a knockout blow, a montage of blurry images appeared in her mind.
  Just like that time, during a drunken and disorderly visit to Fitzwater Street, in the second week of work, the drunk vomited into his holster.
  Or as Lisa Chefferati called her "Gio-vanni Big Fanny" in the playground at St. Paul's Cathedral.
  Or the day she came home early and saw a pair of Michelle Brown's size 10 cheap, dog-pee-yellow Payless-looking shoes at the bottom of the stairs, next to her husband's.
  At that moment, the rage emanated from another place, a place where a young girl named Tessa Wells had lived, laughed, and loved. A place now hushed by the dark waters of her father's grief. This was the photograph she needed.
  Jessica gathered all 130 pounds of herself, dug her toes into the canvas, and threw a right cross that caught Sparkle on the tip of her chin, turning her head for a second like a well-oiled doorknob. The sound was powerful, echoing throughout the Blue Horizon, mixing with the sounds of every other great shot ever thrown in that building. Jessica saw Sparkle's eyes flash. Tilt! and returned to her head for a second before collapsing to the canvas.
  "Geddup!" Jessica screamed. "Geddafuggup!"
  The referee ordered Jessica to the neutral corner, then returned to Sparkle Munoz's prone form and resumed the count. But the count was disputed. Sparkle rolled onto her side like a beached manatee. The fight was over.
  The crowd at the Blue Horizon rose to their feet with a roar that shook the rafters.
  Jessica raised both arms up and did her victory dance as Angela ran into the ring and hugged her.
  Jessica glanced around the room. She spotted Vincent in the front row of the balcony. He'd been to every one of her fights when they'd been together, but Jessica wasn't sure if he'd be there this time.
  A few seconds later, Jessica's father entered the ring with Sophie in his arms. Sophie, of course, had never watched Jessica fight, but she seemed to enjoy the spotlight after a victory just as much as her mother did. That evening, Sophie was dressed in matching crimson fleece pants and a small Nike band, looking every inch the contender. Jessica smiled and winked at her father and daughter. She was fine. Better than fine. Adrenaline rushed through her, and she felt like she could conquer the world.
  She hugged her cousin tighter as the crowd continued to roar, chanting, "Balloons, balloons, balloons, balloons..."
  Jessica screamed into Angela's ear through her roar. "Angie?"
  "Yeah?"
  "Do me a favor."
  "What?"
  "Never let me fight that damn gorilla again."
  
  FORTY MINUTES LATER, on the sidewalk in front of Blue, Jessica signed a few autographs for a couple of twelve-year-old girls who looked at her with a mixture of admiration and idol worship. She gave them the standard rule: stay in school and refrain from preaching about drugs, and they promised to do so.
  Jessica was about to head to her car when she felt a presence nearby.
  "Remind me never to make you angry with me," a deep voice said behind her.
  Jessica's hair was damp with sweat and flying in six directions. After a mile and a half run, she smelled of Seabiscuit, and she could feel the right side of her face swollen to the size, shape, and color of a ripe eggplant.
  She turned around and saw one of the most handsome men she had ever known.
  It was Patrick Farrell.
  And he held a rose.
  
  While Peter drove Sophie to his house, Jessica and Patrick sat in a dark corner of the Quiet Man Pub on the ground floor of Finnigan's Wake, a popular Irish pub and cop hangout at Third and Spring Garden Streets, with their backs to the wall of Strawbridge.
  It wasn't dark enough for Jessica, though, although she quickly touched up her face and hair in the ladies' room.
  She drank a double whiskey.
  "It was one of the most amazing things I've ever seen in my life," Patrick said.
  He was wearing a dark gray cashmere turtleneck and black pleated trousers. He smelled wonderful, and it was one of the many things that took her back to the days when they were the talk of the town. Patrick Farrell always smelled wonderful. And those eyes. Jessica wondered how many women over the years had fallen head over heels for those deep blue eyes.
  "Thank you," she said, instead of anything remotely witty or even remotely intelligent. She raised the drink to her face. The swelling had gone down. Thank goodness. She didn't like looking like the Elephant Woman in front of Patrick Farrell.
  - I don't know how you do it.
  Jessica shrugged, "Oh, gosh." "Well, the hardest part is learning to take a picture with your eyes open."
  "Doesn't it hurt?"
  "Of course it hurts," she said. "Do you know what that feels like?"
  "What?"
  "It feels like I've been punched in the face."
  Patrick laughed. "Touché."
  "On the other hand, I can't remember any feeling quite like the feeling of smashing an opponent. God help me, I love that part."
  - So, you'll find out when you land?
  "Knockout punch?"
  "Yes."
  "Oh, yeah," Jessica said. "It's like catching a baseball with the thick part of a bat. Remember that? No vibration, no effort. Just... contact."
  Patrick smiled, shaking his head as if acknowledging that she was a hundred times braver than he was. But Jessica knew that wasn't true. Patrick was an emergency room doctor, and she couldn't think of a harder job than that.
  What took even more courage, Jessica thought, was that Patrick had long ago stood up to his father, one of Philadelphia's most renowned cardiac surgeons. Martin Farrell expected Patrick to pursue a career in cardiac surgery. Patrick grew up in Bryn Mawr, attended Harvard Medical School, completed his residency at Johns Hopkins University, and the path to fame was almost laid out before him.
  But when his younger sister, Dana, was killed in a drive-by shooting downtown, an innocent bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time, Patrick decided to dedicate his life to working as a trauma surgeon at a city hospital. Martin Farrell practically disowned his son.
  This was what separated Jessica and Patrick: their careers had chosen them out of tragedy, not the other way around. Jessica wanted to ask how Patrick was getting along with his father now that so much time had passed, but she didn't want to reopen old wounds.
  They fell silent, listening to the music, catching each other's eyes, and daydreaming like a couple of teenagers. Several police officers from the Third District came in to congratulate Jessica and drunkenly made their way to the table.
  Patrick finally turned the conversation to work. Safe territory for a married woman and an old partner.
  "How are things in the major leagues?"
  "The big leagues," Jessica thought. The big leagues have a way of making you seem small. "It's still early, but it's been a while since I spent time in the sector car," she said.
  "So, you don't miss chasing purse snatchers, breaking up bar fights, and rushing pregnant women to the hospital?"
  Jessica smiled slightly, thoughtfully. "Purse snatchers and bar fights? No love lost there. As for pregnant women, I think I retired with a track record of one-on-one experience in that department."
  "What do you mean?"
  "When I was driving in a sector car," Jessica said, "I had one baby born in the back seat. Lost."
  Patrick sat up a little straighter. Intrigued, now. This was his world. "What do you mean? How did you lose it?"
  It wasn't Jessica's favorite story. She already regretted bringing it up. It felt like she should have said it. "It was Christmas Eve, three years ago. Remember that storm?
  It was one of the worst snowstorms in a decade. Ten inches of fresh snow, howling winds, temperatures near freezing. The city practically shut down.
  "Oh, yes," Patrick said.
  "Anyway, I was the last one. It's just after midnight, and I'm sitting in Dunkin' Donuts, getting coffee for me and my partner."
  Patrick raised an eyebrow, meaning, "Dunkin' Donuts?"
  "Don"t even say it," Jessica said, smiling.
  Patrick pursed his lips.
  "I was about to leave when I heard this groan. Turns out there was a pregnant woman in one of the stalls. She was seven or eight months pregnant, and something was definitely wrong. I called paramedics, but all the ambulances were out, and they rolled out of control, and the fuel lines froze. Horrible. We were only a few blocks from Jefferson, so I put her in the patrol car and we drove off. We get to Third and Walnut and hit this patch of ice, smashing into a row of parked cars. We were stuck."
  Jessica sipped her drink. If telling the story had made her feel sick, finishing it made her feel even worse. "I called for help, but by the time they arrived, it was too late. The baby was stillborn."
  Patrick's look said he understood. Losing someone is never easy, no matter the circumstances. "I'm sorry to hear that."
  "Yeah, well, I made up for it a few weeks later," Jessica said. "My partner and I had a big baby boy down south. I mean big. Nine pounds and a half. Like having a calf. I still get Christmas cards from my parents every year. After that, I applied to Auto Unit. I was content with being an OB/GYN."
  Patrick smiled. "God has a way of evenin' the score, doesn't he?"
  "Yes," Jessica said.
  "If I remember correctly, there was a lot of madness that Christmas Eve, wasn't there?"
  It was true. Usually, when there's a snowstorm, the crazy ones stay home. But for some reason, that night, the stars aligned and all the lights went out. Shootings, arson, robberies, vandalism.
  "Yeah. We ran all night," Jessica said.
  "Did anyone spill blood on the door of some church or something like that?"
  Jessica nodded. "St. Catherine. In Torresdale.
  Patrick shook his head. "So much for peace on earth, huh?"
  Jessica had to agree, even though if peace suddenly came to the world, she would be left without a job.
  Patrick took a sip of his drink. "Speaking of madness, I heard you caught a murder on Eighth Street."
  "Where did you hear this?
  Winking: "I have sources."
  "Yes," Jessica said. "My first. Thank you, Lord."
  "Bad, as I heard?"
  "Worst."
  Jessica briefly described the scene to him.
  "Oh my God," Patrick said, reacting to the litany of horrors that befell Tessa Wells. "Every day I feel like I hear it all. Every day I hear something new."
  "I really feel for her father," Jessica said. "He's very ill. He lost his wife a few years ago. Tessa was his only daughter.
  "I can't imagine what he's going through. Losing a child."
  Jessica couldn't either. If she ever lost Sophie, her life would be over.
  "It's a pretty challenging task right out of the box," Patrick said.
  "Tell me about it."
  "Are you okay?"
  Jessica thought about it before answering. Patrick had a way of asking questions like that. It felt like he genuinely cared about you. "Yeah. I'm fine."
  - How is your new partner?
  It was easy. "Good. Really good."
  "How so?"
  "Well, he has this way of dealing with people," Jessica said. "It's a way of getting people to talk to him. I don't know if it's fear or respect, but it works. And I asked about his speed of decision-making. It's off the charts."
  Patrick glanced around the room and then back at Jessica. He gave her that half-smile, the one that always made her stomach look spongy.
  "What?" she asked.
  "Mirabile Visu," Patrick said.
  "I always say that," Jessica said.
  Patrick laughed. "It's Latin."
  "What does Latin mean? Who beat the crap out of you?"
  "Latin is beautiful to you in appearance."
  "Doctors," Jessica thought. Smooth Latin.
  "Okay... sono sposato," Jessica replied. "That's Italian for 'My husband would shoot us both in the fucking forehead if he walked in here right now.'"
  Patrick raised both hands in surrender.
  "Enough about me," Jessica said, silently scolding herself for even mentioning Vincent. He hadn't been invited to this party. "Tell me what's been going on with you these days."
  "Well, St. Joseph's is always busy. Never a dull moment," Patrick said. "Besides, I might have an exhibition planned at the Boyce Gallery."
  Besides being an excellent doctor, Patrick played the cello and was a talented artist. One evening, when they were dating, he drew Jessica in pastels. Needless to say, Jessica buried it well in the garage.
  Jessica finished her drink, and Patrick drank more. They were completely caught up in each other's company, flirting casually, like old times. A touch of a hand, the electric brush of a leg under the table. Patrick also told her he was dedicating his time to opening a new free clinic in Poplar. Jessica told him she was thinking about painting the living room. Whenever she was around Patrick Farrell, she felt drained of social energy.
  Around eleven, Patrick walked her to her car, parked on Third Street. And then the moment had arrived, just as she knew it would. The tape helped smooth things over.
  "So... dinner next week, maybe?" Patrick asked.
  "Well, I... you know..." Jessica chuckled and hesitated.
  "Just friends," Patrick added. "Nothing inappropriate."
  "Well, forget it then," Jessica said. "If we can't be together, what's the point?"
  Patrick laughed again. Jessica had forgotten how magical that sound could be. It had been a long time since she and Vincent had found something to laugh about.
  "Okay. Sure," Jessica said, trying unsuccessfully to find any reason not to go to dinner with her old friend. "Why not?"
  "Excellent," Patrick said. He leaned over and gently kissed the bruise on her right cheek. "Irish pre-op," he added. "It'll be better in the morning. Wait and see."
  "Thanks, Doc."
  "I'll call you."
  "Fine."
  Patrick winked, releasing hundreds of sparrows into Jessica's chest. He raised his hands in a defensive boxing stance, then reached out and smoothed her hair. He turned and walked toward his car.
  Jessica watched him drive away.
  She touched her cheek, felt the warmth of his lips, and wasn't at all surprised to find that her face was already starting to feel better.
  OceanofPDF.com
  16
  MONDAY, 11:00 PM
  I WAS IN LOVE WITH Eamon CLOSE.
  Jessica Balzano was simply incredible. Tall, slender, and sexy as hell. The way she dispatched her opponent in the ring gave him perhaps the wildest thrill he'd ever felt just by looking at a woman. He felt like a schoolboy watching her.
  She was going to make a great copy.
  She was going to create an even better work of art.
  He flashed a smile and showed his ID at Blue Horizon and got in with relative ease. It certainly wasn't like going to the Link for an Eagles game or the Wachovia Center to see the Sixers, but it nonetheless gave him a sense of pride and purpose, being treated like a member of the mainstream press. Tabloid writers rarely got free tickets, never attended press conferences, and had to beg for press kits. He'd misspelled many names throughout his career because he'd never had a proper press kit.
  After Jessica's fight, Simon parked half a block from the crime scene on North Eighth Street. The only other vehicles were a Ford Taurus parked inside the perimeter and a crime-fighting van.
  He was watching the eleven o'clock news on his Guardian. The main story was a young girl who had been murdered. The victim's name was Tessa Ann Wells, seventeen, from North Philadelphia. At that very moment, the white pages of Philadelphia lay open in Simon's lap, and Maglite was in his mouth. There were twelve possible variants of North Philadelphia: eight letters of "Wells," four words of "Wells."
  He took out his cell phone and dialed the first number.
  "Mr. Wells?
  "Yes?"
  "Sir, my name is Simon Close. I am a writer for The Report."
  Silence.
  Then yes?"
  "First, I just want to say how sorry I was to hear about your daughter."
  A sharp intake of breath. "My daughter? Did something happen to Hannah?"
  Oops.
  "Sorry, I must have the wrong number."
  He hung up and dialed the next number.
  Busy.
  Next. This time a woman.
  "Mrs. Wells?
  "Who is this?"
  "Madam, my name is Simon Close. I am a writer for The Report."
  Click.
  Bitch.
  Next.
  Busy.
  Jesus, he thought. Doesn't anyone in Philadelphia sleep anymore?
  Then Channel Six did a review. They identified the victim as "Tessa Ann Wells of Twentieth Street in North Philadelphia."
  "Thanks, Action News," Simon thought.
  Check this action .
  He looked up the number. Frank Wells on Twentieth Street. He dialed the number, but the line was busy. Again. Busy. Again. Same result. Redial. Redial.
  Curse.
  He had considered going there, but what happened next, like a clap of righteous thunder, changed everything.
  OceanofPDF.com
  17
  MONDAY, 11:00 PM
  DEATH CAME here uninvited, and in repentance, the neighborhood mourned in silence. The rain turned to a thin fog, rustling along the rivers and sliding along the sidewalk. Night buried its day in a parchment shroud.
  Byrne sat in his car across the street from Tessa Wells's crime scene, his fatigue now a living thing within. Through the fog, he could see a faint orange glow emanating from the basement window of a rowhouse. The CSU team would be there all night and likely most of the next day.
  He popped a blues CD into the player. Soon, Robert Johnson was scratching his head and crackling through the speakers, telling of a hellhound hot on his trail.
  "I hear you," Byrne thought.
  He surveyed a small block of dilapidated row houses. The once-elegant facades had crumbled under the weight of weather, time, and neglect. Despite all the drama that had unfolded behind these walls over the years, both small and grand, the stench of death lingered. Long after the footers were dug back into the ground, madness would dwell here.
  Byrne saw movement in the field to the right of the crime scene. A slum dog peered at him from the cover of a small pile of discarded tires, his only concern the next piece of spoiled meat and another sip of rainwater.
  Lucky dog.
  Byrne turned off the CD and closed his eyes, soaking in the silence.
  In the weed-overgrown field behind the house of death, there were no fresh footprints or recently broken branches on the low bushes. Whoever killed Tessa Wells likely didn't park on Ninth Street.
  He felt his breath catch in his throat, just like that night he dove into the icy river, locked in death's embrace with Luther White...
  The images were etched into the back of his head - cruel, vile and mean.
  He saw the last moments of Tessa's life.
  The approach is from the front. . .
  The killer turns off the headlights, slows down, and rolls slowly and carefully to a stop. He kills the engine. He gets out of the car and sniffs the air. He believes this place is ripe for his madness. A bird of prey is most vulnerable when feeding, covering its prey, exposed to attack from above. He knows he is about to expose himself to immediate risk. He has chosen his prey carefully. Tessa Wells is what he lacks; the very idea of beauty he must destroy.
  He carries her across the street to an empty rowhouse on the left. Nothing with a soul stirs here. It's dark inside, the moonlight unabated. The rotten floor is dangerous, but he's not taking any chances with a flashlight. Not yet. She's light in his arms. He's filled with a terrible power.
  He comes out of the back of the house.
  (But why? Why not leave her in the first house?)
  He is sexually aroused but does not act on it.
  (Again, why?)
  He enters the house of death. He leads Tessa Wells down the stairs into a damp and stinking basement.
  (Has he been here before?)
  Rats scurry about, having frightened away their meager carrion. He's in no hurry. Time no longer comes here.
  At this moment he is in complete control of the situation.
  He . . .
  He-
  Byrne tried, but could not see the killer's face.
  Not yet.
  The pain flared with a bright, wild intensity.
  It was getting worse.
  
  Byrne lit a cigarette and smoked it down to the filter, without criticizing a single thought or blessing a single idea. The rain began to fall again in earnest.
  "Why Tessa Wells?" he wondered, turning her photograph over and over in his hands.
  Why not the next shy young woman? What did Tessa do to deserve this? Did she refuse the advances of some teenage Lothario? No. No matter how crazy each new generation of young people seems, marking each successive generation with some hyperbolic level of theft and violence, this was far beyond the bounds of decency for some abandoned teenager.
  Was she chosen at random?
  If that were the case, Byrne knew it was unlikely to stop.
  What was so special about this place?
  What didn't he see?
  Byrne felt his rage rising. The pain of a tango pierced his temples. He split the Vicodin and swallowed it dry.
  He hadn't slept more than three or four hours in the last forty-eight hours, but who needed sleep? There was work to do.
  The wind picked up, fluttering the bright yellow crime scene tape-the pennants that ceremoniously opened the Death Auction Hall.
  He glanced in the rearview mirror; he saw the scar above his right eye and the way it glinted in the moonlight. He ran his finger over it. He thought of Luther White and the way his .22 had shimmered in the moonlight the night they both died, the way the barrel had exploded and painted the world red, then white, then black; the whole palette of madness, the way the river had embraced them both.
  Where are you, Luther?
  I could help with a little assistance.
  He got out of the car and locked it. He knew he should go home, but somehow this place filled him with the sense of purpose he needed right now, the peace he felt when he sat in the living room on a clear autumn day watching the Eagles game, Donna reading a book next to him on the couch, Collin studying in his room.
  Maybe he should go home.
  But go home and where? His empty two-room apartment?
  He'd have another pint of bourbon, watch a talk show, maybe a movie. At three o'clock, he'd go to bed, waiting for sleep that never came. At six, he'd allow the pre-anxiety dawn to rise and get up.
  He looked at the glow of light from the basement window, saw the shadows moving purposefully, and felt the attraction.
  These were his brothers, his sisters, his family.
  He crossed the street and headed towards the house of death.
  This was his home.
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  18
  MONDAY, 11:08 PM
  SIMON KNEW about the two cars. The blue and white CSI van was pulled up against the wall of a row house, and parked outside was a Taurus, containing, so to speak, his nemesis: Detective Kevin Francis Byrne.
  After Simon told the story of Morris Blanchard's suicide, Kevin Byrne was waiting for him one night outside Downey's, a rowdy Irish pub on Front and South Streets. Byrne cornered him and tossed him around like a rag doll, finally grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and pinning him against the wall. Simon wasn't a big man, but he was six feet, eleven stone, and Byrne lifted him off the ground with one hand. Byrne smelled like a distillery after a flood, and Simon braced himself for a serious donnybrook. Okay, a serious beating. Who was he kidding?
  But fortunately, instead of knocking him down (which, Simon had to admit, he might have intended), Byrne simply stopped, looked up at the sky, and dropped him like used tissue, sending him away with sore ribs, a bruised shoulder, and a jersey shirt stretched so thin that it couldn't be resized.
  For his repentance, Byrne received another half-dozen scathing articles from Simon. For a year, Simon traveled with the Louisville Slugger in his car, with an over-the-shoulder watchman. Still got it done.
  But all this was ancient history.
  A new wrinkle has appeared.
  Simon had a couple of stringers he used from time to time-Temple University students with the same ideas about journalism that Simon once had. They did research and the occasional stalking, all for pennies, usually enough to keep them on iTunes and X downloads.
  The one with some potential, the one who could actually write, was Benedict Tsu. He called at ten minutes past eleven.
  Simon Close.
  "This is Tsu."
  Simon wasn't sure if it was an Asian phenomenon or a student one, but Benedict always referred to himself by his last name. "How are you?"
  "The place you asked about, the place on the embankment?"
  Tsu spoke of a dilapidated building under the Walt Whitman Bridge, where Kevin Byrne had mysteriously disappeared a few hours earlier that night. Simon followed Byrne but had to keep a safe distance. When Simon had to leave to get to Blue Horizon, he called Tsu and asked him to look into it. "What about it?"
  "It's called Deuces."
  "What are deuces?"
  "This is a crack house."
  Simon's world began to spin. "Crack house?"
  "Yes sir."
  "Are you sure?"
  "Absolutely."
  Simon let the possibilities wash over him. The excitement was overwhelming.
  "Thanks, Ben," Simon said. "I'll be in touch."
  "Bukeki".
  Simon passed out, reflecting on his luck.
  Kevin Byrne was on the line.
  And this meant that what had started as a casual attempt-following Byrne in search of a story-now became a full-blown obsession. Because every now and then, Kevin Byrne had to take drugs. This meant Kevin Byrne had a whole new partner. Not a tall, sexy goddess with fiery dark eyes and the right-hand cross of a freight train, but rather a skinny white boy from Northumberland.
  A skinny white boy with a Nikon D100 and a Sigma 55-200mm DC zoom lens.
  OceanofPDF.com
  19
  TUESDAY, 5:40 AM.
  JESSICA huddled in a corner of the dank basement, watching a young woman kneeling in prayer. The girl was about seventeen, blonde, freckled, blue-eyed, and innocent.
  The moonlight streaming through the small window cast sharp shadows across the wreckage of the basement, creating hills and chasms in the darkness.
  When the girl finished praying, she sat down on the damp floor, took out a hypodermic needle, and without ceremony or preparation, stuck the needle into her arm.
  "Wait!" Jessica cried out. She moved through the rubble-strewn basement with relative ease, given the shadows and the clutter. No bruised shins or bruised toes. It was as if she were floating. But by the time she reached the young woman, the girl was already pushing the plunger.
  "You don't have to do that," Jessica said.
  "Yes, I know," the girl answered in her dream. "You don't understand."
  I understand. You don't need this.
  But I do. There's a monster chasing me.
  Jessica stood a few feet away from the girl. She saw that the girl was barefoot; her feet were red, scraped, and covered in blisters. When Jessica looked up again...
  The girl was Sophie. Or, more accurately, the young woman Sophie would become. Her daughter's plump little body and chubby cheeks were gone, replaced by the curves of a young woman: long legs, a slender waist, a noticeable bust beneath a ripped V-neck sweater emblazoned with the Nazarene crest.
  But it was the girl's face that horrified Jessica. Sophie's face was haggard and haggard, with dark purple marks under her eyes.
  "Don't, darling," Jessica begged. God, no.
  She looked again and saw that the girl's hands were now bound together and bleeding. Jessica tried to take a step forward, but her feet seemed frozen to the ground, and her legs felt like lead. She felt something in her chest. She looked down and saw the angel pendant hanging around her neck.
  And then the bell rang. Loud, intrusive, and insistent. It seemed to come from above. Jessica looked at Sophie. The drug had only just begun to affect her nervous system, and as her eyes rolled back, her head snapped back. Suddenly, there was no ceiling or roof above them. Just black sky. Jessica followed her gaze as the bell pierced the sky again. A sword of golden sunlight cut through the night clouds, catching the pure silver of the pendant, blinding Jessica for a moment, until...
  Jessica opened her eyes and sat up straight, her heart pounding in her chest. She looked out the window. It was pitch black. It was the middle of the night, and the phone was ringing. At this hour, only bad news reached us.
  Vincent?
  Dad?
  The phone rang for the third time, offering neither details nor comfort. She reached for it, disoriented, frightened, her hands shaking, her head still throbbing. She picked it up.
  - H-hello?
  "This is Kevin."
  Kevin? Jessica thought. Who the hell was Kevin? The only Kevin she knew was Kevin Bancroft, the weird kid who lived on Christian Street when she was growing up. Then it hit her.
  Kevin.
  Job.
  "Yeah. Right. Good. How are you?"
  "I think we should catch the girls at the bus stop."
  Greek. Maybe Turkish. Definitely some foreign language. She had no idea what these words meant.
  "Can you wait a minute?" she asked.
  "Certainly."
  Jessica ran to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Her right side was still slightly swollen, but much less painful than it had been the night before, thanks to an hour of ice packs when she'd gotten home. Along with Patrick's kiss, of course. The thought made her smile, and smiling made her face hurt. It was a good kind of pain. She ran back to the phone, but before she could say anything, Byrne added,
  "I think we'll get more out of them there than at school."
  "Of course," Jessica replied, and suddenly realized he was talking about Tessa Wells's friends.
  "I"ll pick you up in twenty," he said.
  For a moment, she thought he meant twenty minutes. She glanced at her watch. Five forty. He meant twenty minutes. Luckily, Paula Farinacci's husband had left for work in Camden at six, and she was already up. Jessica could drive Sophie to Paula's and have time to shower. "Right," Jessica said. "Okay. Big. No problem. See you then."
  She hung up the phone and swung her legs over the side of the bed, ready for a nice, quick nap.
  Welcome to the homicide department.
  OceanofPDF.com
  20
  TUESDAY, 6:00 AM.
  BYRNE was waiting for her with a large coffee and a sesame bagel. The coffee was strong and hot, the bagel fresh.
  Bless him.
  Jessica hurried through the rain, slipped into the car, and nodded hello. To put it mildly, she wasn't a morning person, especially not a six o'clock person. Her fondest hope was that she'd be wearing the same shoes.
  They rode into town in silence. Kevin Byrne respected her space and her wakefulness ritual, aware that he had unceremoniously thrust the shock of a new day upon her. He, on the other hand, seemed alert. A little ragged, but wide-eyed and alert.
  "It's so easy," Jessica thought. A clean shirt, a shave in the car, a drop of Binaki, a drop of Visine, ready to go.
  They quickly reached North Philadelphia. They parked at the corner of Nineteenth and Poplar. Byrne turned on the radio at half past midnight. The story of Tessa Wells came up.
  After waiting for half an hour, they crouched down. From time to time, Byrne turned on the ignition to turn on the windshield wipers and heaters.
  They tried to talk about the news, the weather, work. The subtext kept moving forward.
  Daughters.
  Tessa Wells was someone's daughter.
  This realization anchored them both in the cruel soul of this crime. Perhaps it was their child.
  
  "HE'LL BE THREE NEXT MONTH," Jessica said.
  Jessica showed Byrne a photo of Sophie. He smiled. She knew he had a marshmallow center. "She looks like a handful."
  "Two hands," Jessica said. "You know how it is when they're that age. They rely on you for everything."
  "Yeah."
  - Do you miss those days?
  "I missed those days," Byrne said. "I worked double tours back then."
  "How old is your daughter now?"
  "She's thirteen," Byrne said.
  "Oh, oh," Jessica said.
  "Oh-oh, that's putting it mildly."
  "So... she has a house full of Britney CDs?"
  Byrne smiled again, weakly this time. "No."
  "Oh, man. Don't tell me she's into rap."
  Byrne swirled his coffee around a few times. "My daughter is deaf."
  "Oh, God," Jessica said, suddenly distressed. "I... I'm sorry."
  "It's okay. Don't be."
  "I mean... I just don't...
  "It's okay. It really is. She hates sympathy. And she's much stronger than you and I combined.
  - I meant...
  "I know what you mean. My wife and I have lived through years of regret. It's a natural reaction," Byrne said. "But honestly, I've never met a deaf person who considers themselves disabled. Especially not Colleen."
  Seeing that she'd begun this line of questioning, Jessica decided she should continue. She did so cautiously. "Was she born deaf?"
  Byrne nodded. "Yeah. It was something called Mondini dysplasia. A genetic disorder."
  Jessica's thoughts drifted to Sophie dancing in the living room to a Sesame Street song. Or to Sophie singing at the top of her lungs amidst the bubbles in her bathtub. Like her mother, Sophie couldn't tow a car with a tractor, but she had made a serious attempt. Jessica thought of her smart, healthy, beautiful little girl and thought how lucky she was.
  They both fell silent. Byrne turned on the windshield wipers and heater. The windshield began to clear. The girls hadn't yet reached the corner. Traffic on Poplar began to pick up.
  "I watched her once," Byrne said, a little melancholy, as if he hadn't spoken about his daughter in a long time. The melancholy was evident. "I was supposed to pick her up from the school for the deaf, but I was a little early. So I stopped on the side of the street to smoke and read the newspaper.
  "Anyway, I see a group of kids on the corner, maybe seven or eight of them. They"re twelve, thirteen years old. I don"t really pay any attention to them. They"re all dressed like homeless people, right? Baggy pants, big shirts that hang loose, untied sneakers. Suddenly, I see Colleen standing there, leaning against the building, and it"s like I don"t know her. Like she"s some kid who looks like Colleen.
  "Suddenly, I became genuinely interested in all the other kids. Who was doing what, who was holding what, who was wearing what, what their hands were doing, what was in their pockets. It was like I was searching them all from across the street."
  Byrne sipped his coffee and glanced into the corner. Still empty.
  "So she"s hanging around with these older boys, smiling, yapping in sign language, flipping her hair," he continued. "And I"m thinking, Jesus Christ. She"s flirting. My little girl is flirting with these boys. My little girl, who just a few weeks ago climbed into her Big Wheel and pedaled down the street in her little yellow I HAD A WILD TIME IN WILD WOOD T-shirt, is flirting with boys. I wanted to kill those horny little idiots right then and there.
  "And then I saw one of them light a joint, and my fucking heart stopped. I actually heard it fade in my chest, like a cheap watch. I was about to get out of the car with handcuffs in my hand when I realized what that was going to do to Colleen, so I just watched.
  "They"re handing this stuff out everywhere, randomly, right on the corner, like it"s legal, right? I"m waiting, watching. Then one of the kids offers Colleen a joint, and I knew, I knew she"d take it and smoke it. I knew she"d grab it and give it a long, slow stab with that blunt object, and suddenly I saw the next five years of her life. Weed, and booze, and cocaine, and rehab, and Sylvan to improve her grades, and more drugs, and a pill, and then... then the most incredible thing happened."
  Jessica found herself staring at Byrne, waiting raptly for him to finish. She snapped out of it, nudged him. "Okay. What happened?"
  "She just... shook her head," Byrne said. "Just like that. No, thank you." I doubted her in that moment, I completely broke my faith in my little girl, and I wanted to rip my eyes out of my head. I was given the opportunity to trust her completely unnoticed, but I didn't. I failed. Not her.
  Jessica nodded, trying not to think about the fact that she would have to experience this moment with Sophie in ten years, and she hadn't been looking forward to it at all.
  "And suddenly it occurred to me," Byrne said, "after all these years of worrying, all these years of treating her like she was fragile, all these years of walking on the sidewalk, all these years of staring at her, 'Get rid of the idiots watching her gestures in public and thinking she's ugly,' it was all unnecessary. She's ten times stronger than me. She could kick my ass."
  "Kids will surprise you." Jessica realized how inadequate it sounded when she said it, how completely ignorant she was on the subject.
  "I mean, of all the things you fear for your child-diabetes, leukemia, rheumatoid arthritis, cancer-my little girl was deaf. That"s all. Otherwise, she"s perfect in every way. Heart, lungs, eyes, limbs, mind. Perfect. She can run like the wind, jump high. And she has that smile... that smile that could melt glaciers. All this time, I thought she was disabled because she couldn"t hear. That was me. I"m the one who needed a damn telethon. I didn"t even realize how lucky we were."
  Jessica didn't know what to say. She'd mistakenly characterized Kevin Byrne as a streetwise guy who'd made his way in life and work, a guy who acted on instinct rather than intellect. There was much more to it than she'd imagined. She suddenly felt like she'd won the lottery, being his partner.
  Before Jessica could respond, two teenage girls approached the corner with their umbrellas raised and open against the rain.
  "Here they are," Byrne said.
  Jessica finished her coffee and buttoned her coat.
  "This is more your territory." Byrne nodded to the girls, lit a cigarette, and settled into a comfortable-read: dry-seat. "You should sort out your questions."
  True, Jessica thought. I suppose it has nothing to do with standing in the rain at seven in the morning. She waited for a break in the traffic, got out of the car, and crossed the street.
  Two girls in Nazarene school uniforms stood on the corner. One was a tall, dark-skinned African-American woman with the most intricate cornrow braid Jessica had ever seen. She was at least six feet tall and stunningly beautiful. The other girl was white, petite, and fine-boned. They both carried umbrellas in one hand and crumpled napkins in the other. Both had red, puffy eyes. Clearly, they had heard of Tessa.
  Jessica approached, showed them her badge, and said she was investigating Tessa's death. They agreed to talk to her. Their names were Patrice Regan and Ashia Whitman. Ashia was Somali.
  "Did you see Tessa at all on Friday?" Jessica asked.
  They shook their heads in unison.
  "She didn't come to the bus stop?"
  "No," said Patrice.
  - Did she miss many days?
  "Not that much," Ashiya said between sobs. "Sometimes."
  "Was she one of those who went to school?" Jessica asked.
  "Tessa?" Patrice asked incredulously. "No way. Like, never."
  - What did you think when she didn"t show up?
  "We just figured she wasn't feeling well or something," Patrice said. "Or it had something to do with her father. You know, her father is very sick. Sometimes she has to take him to the hospital."
  "Did you call her or talk to her during the day?" Jessica asked.
  "No."
  - Do you know anyone who could talk to her?
  "No," Patrice said. "Not that I know of."
  "What about drugs? Was she involved with drugs?"
  "Oh, God, no," Patrice said. "She looked like Sister Mary Nark."
  "Last year, when she was gone for three weeks, did you talk to her much?"
  Patrice glanced at Ashiya. There were secrets in that look. "Not quite."
  Jessica decided not to press. She consulted her notes. "Do you guys know a boy named Sean Brennan?"
  "Yes," Patrice said. "I do. I don't think Asia ever met him."
  Jessica looked at Asha. She shrugged.
  "How long had they been dating?" Jessica asked.
  "I"m not sure," Patrice said. "Maybe a couple of months or so."
  - Tessa was still dating him?
  "No," Patrice said. "His family left."
  "Where?"
  - I think Denver.
  "When?"
  "I'm not sure. I think about a month ago.
  - Do you know where Sean went to school?
  "Neumann," Patrice said.
  Jessica was taking notes. Her pad was wet. She put it in her pocket. "They broke up?"
  "Yes," Patrice said. "Tessa was very upset."
  "What about Sean? Did he have a temper?
  Patrice just shrugged. In other words, yes, but she didn't want anyone to get into trouble.
  -Have you ever seen him harm Tessa?
  "No," Patrice said. "Nothing like that. He was just... just a guy. You know."
  Jessica waited for more. Nothing came. She moved on. "Can you think of anyone Tessa didn't get along with? Anyone who might have wanted to harm her?
  The question started the water pipes again. Both girls burst into tears, wiping their eyes. They shook their heads.
  "Did she date anyone else after Sean? Anyone who could bother her?
  The girls thought for a few seconds and again shook their heads in unison.
  - Did Tessa ever see Dr. Parkhurst at school?
  "Of course," said Patrice.
  - Did she like him?
  "Maybe."
  "Did Dr. Parkhurst ever see her outside of school?" Jessica asked.
  "Outside?"
  "As in social terms."
  "What, like a date or something?" Patrice asked. She winced at the thought of Tessa dating a man in his thirties or so. As if... "Uh, no."
  "Have you guys ever gone to him for counseling?" Jessica asked.
  "Of course," Patrice said. "Everyone does."
  "What things are you talking about?"
  Patrice thought about this for a few seconds. Jessica could tell the girl was hiding something. "Mostly school. College applications, SATs, that sort of thing."
  - Have you ever talked about anything personal?
  Eyes to the ground. Again.
  Bingo, Jessica thought.
  "Sometimes," Patrice said.
  "What personal things?" Jessica asked, remembering Sister Mercedes, the counselor at Nazarene, when she was there. Sister Mercedes was as complex as John Goodman, and always frowned. The only personal thing you ever discussed with Sister Mercedes was your promise not to have sex until you were forty.
  "I don't know," Patrice said, turning his attention back to his shoes. "Things."
  "You talked about boys you were dating? Things like that?"
  "Sometimes," Asia answered.
  "Has he ever asked you to talk about things that embarrassed you? Or maybe it's too personal?"
  "I don't think so," Patrice said. "Not that I could, you know, remember."
  Jessica could see she was losing it. She pulled out a couple of business cards and handed one to each girl. "Look," she began. "I know it"s hard. If you can think of anything that might help us find the guy who did this, give us a call. Or if you just want to talk. Whatever. Okay? Day or night."
  Asia took the card and remained silent, tears welling up in her eyes again. Patrice took the card and nodded. In unison, like synchronized mourners, the two girls picked up a wad of tissues and dabbed at their eyes.
  "I went to Nazarene," Jessica added.
  The two girls looked at each other as if she had just told them that she had once attended Hogwarts.
  "Seriously?" Asia asked.
  "Sure," Jessica said. "Are you guys still carving anything under the stage in the old hall?"
  "Oh yes," said Patrice.
  "Well, if you look just underneath the pillar on the stairs that go under the stage, on the right side, there's a carving that says JG AND BB 4EVER."
  "Was that you?" Patrice looked questioningly at the business card.
  "I was Jessica Giovanni back then. I cut this out in tenth grade.
  "Who was BB?" Patrice asked.
  "Bobby Bonfante. He went to Father Judge.
  The girls nodded. The judge father's boys were, for the most part, quite irresistible.
  Jessica added: "He looked like Al Pacino."
  The two girls exchanged glances, as if to say: Al Pacino? Isn't he an old grandfather? "Is that the old man who starred in The Recruit with Colin Farrell?" Patrice asked.
  "Young Al Pacino," Jessica added.
  The girls smiled. Unfortunately, but they smiled.
  "So it went on forever with Bobby?" Asia asked.
  Jessica wanted to tell these young girls that this would never happen. "No," she said. "Bobby lives in Newark now. Five kids.
  The girls nodded again, deeply understanding the love and loss. Jessica had brought them back. It was time to cut this off. She would try again later.
  "By the way, when are you guys going on Easter break?" Jessica asked.
  "Tomorrow," Ashiya said, her sobs almost dried up.
  Jessica pulled up her hood. The rain had already messed up her hair, but now it was starting to fall heavily.
  "Can I ask you a question?" Patrice asked.
  "Certainly."
  "Why... why did you become a police officer?"
  Even before Patrice's question, Jessica had a feeling the girl was about to ask her. That didn't make the answer any easier. She wasn't entirely sure herself. There was a legacy; Michael's death. There were reasons even she didn't yet understand. In the end, she said modestly, "I like helping people."
  Patrice wiped her eyes again. "Do you know if that ever scared you?" she asked. "You know, being around..."
  Dead people, Jessica finished silently. "Yes," she said. "Sometimes."
  Patrice nodded, finding common ground with Jessica. She pointed to Kevin Byrne, sitting in a Taurus across the street. "He's your boss?"
  Jessica looked back, looked back, and smiled. "No," she said. "He's my partner."
  Patrice got it. She smiled through her tears, perhaps realizing Jessica was her own woman, and said simply, "Cool."
  
  JESSICA SUFFERED from the rain as much as she could and slipped into the car.
  "Anything?" Byrne asked.
  "Not exactly," Jessica said, checking her notepad. It was wet. She tossed it into the backseat. "Sean Brennan's family moved to Denver about a month ago. They said Tessa wasn't dating anyone anymore. Patrice said he was a hot-tempered man.
  "Is it worth seeing?"
  "I don't think so. I'll call the Denver City Council, Ed. See if young Mr. Brennan has missed any days lately.
  - What about Dr. Parkhurst?
  "There's something there. I can feel it."
  "What's on your mind?"
  "I think they're talking to him about personal things. I think they think he's too personal."
  - Do you think Tessa saw him?
  "If she did, she didn't tell her friends," Jessica said. "I asked them about Tessa's three-week break from school last year. They freaked out. Something happened to Tessa the day before Thanksgiving last year."
  For a few moments the investigation stalled, their separate thoughts meeting only in the staccato rhythm of the rain on the roof of the car.
  Byrne's phone chirped as he started the Taurus. He opened the camera.
  "Byrne... yeah... yeah... standing," he said. "Thank you." He closed the phone.
  Jessica looked at Byrne expectantly. When it became clear he wasn't going to share, she asked. If secrecy was his nature, then curiosity was hers. If this relationship was going to work, they would have to find a way to connect the two of them.
  "Good news?"
  Byrne glanced at her as if he'd forgotten she was in the car. "Yeah. The lab just presented me with a case. They matched the hair to evidence found on the victim," he said. "That bastard's mine."
  Byrne briefly briefed her on Gideon Pratt's case. Jessica heard the passion in his voice, a deep sense of suppressed rage, as he spoke of the brutal, senseless death of Deirdre Pettigrew.
  "We need to stop quickly," he said.
  A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of a proud but distressed rowhouse on Ingersoll Street. Rain was falling in broad, cold sheets. As they got out of the car and approached the house, Jessica saw a frail, fair-skinned black woman of about forty standing in the doorway. She wore a quilted purple housecoat and oversized tinted glasses. Her hair was braided into a multicolored African cape; on her feet were white plastic sandals at least two sizes too big.
  The woman pressed her hand to her chest when she saw Byrne, as if the sight of him had robbed her of her breath. It seemed like a lifetime of bad news was climbing those steps, and it was likely all coming from the mouths of people like Kevin Byrne. Large white men who were police officers, tax collectors, welfare agents, landlords.
  As Jessica climbed the crumbling steps, she noticed a sun-bleached eight-by-ten-inch photograph in the living room window-a faded print taken on a color photocopier. It was an enlarged school photo of a smiling black girl, about fifteen years old. Her hair was tucked into a loop of thick pink yarn, and beads were threaded through her braids. She wore a retainer and appeared to be smiling despite the serious hardware in her mouth.
  The woman didn't invite them in, but luckily there was a small canopy over her porch that protected them from the downpour.
  "Mrs. Pettigrew, this is my partner, Detective Balzano.
  The woman nodded to Jessica, but continued to clutch her housecoat to her throat.
  "And you..." she began, falling silent.
  "Yes," Byrne said. "We got him, ma'am. He's in custody."
  Althea Pettigrew's hand covered her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes. Jessica saw the woman was wearing a wedding ring, but the stone was missing.
  "What... what's happening now?" she asked, her body trembling with anticipation. It was clear she had been praying for a long time and dreading this day.
  "That's up to the prosecutor and the man's lawyer," Byrne replied. "He'll be charged and then have a preliminary hearing."
  "Do you think he can... . . ?"
  Byrne took her hand in his and shook his head. "He's not getting out. I'll do everything I can to make sure he never gets out again."
  Jessica knew how much could go wrong, especially in a capital murder case. She appreciated Byrne's optimism, and at the moment, it was the right thing to do. When she worked at Auto, she had a hard time telling people she was confident they'd get their cars back.
  "Bless you, sir," the woman said, then practically threw herself into Byrne's arms, her whimpers turning into adult sobs. Byrne held her gently, as if she were made of porcelain. His eyes met Jessica's, and he said, "That's why." Jessica glanced at the photograph of Deirdre Pettigrew in the window. She wondered if the photograph would appear today.
  Althea pulled herself together a little and then said, "Wait here, okay?"
  "Of course," Byrne said.
  Althea Pettigrew disappeared inside for a few moments, reappeared, and then placed something in Kevin Byrne's hand. She wrapped her hand around his, closing it. When Byrne released his grip, Jessica saw what the woman had offered him.
  It was a worn twenty dollar bill.
  Byrne looked at her for a moment, a little confused, as if he'd never seen American currency before. "Mrs. Pettigrew, I... I can't stand it."
  "I know it's not much," she said, "but it would mean a lot to me."
  Byrne adjusted the bill, collecting his thoughts. He waited a few moments, then handed back the twenty. "I can't," he said. "Knowing that the man who committed this terrible act against Deirdre is in custody is enough for me, believe me."
  Althea Pettigrew studied the large policeman standing before her, a look of disappointment and respect on her face. Slowly and reluctantly, she took the money back. She placed it in the pocket of her dressing gown.
  "Then you'll have this," she said. She reached behind her neck and pulled off a thin silver chain. On the chain was a small silver crucifix.
  When Byrne tried to decline the offer, Althea Pettigrew's gaze told him she wouldn't be refused. Not this time. She held onto him until Byrne took it.
  "I, uh... thank you, ma'am," was all Byrne could say.
  Jessica thought: Frank Wells yesterday, Althea Pettigrew today. Two parents, worlds and just a few blocks apart, united in unimaginable grief and sorrow. She hoped they would achieve the same results with Frank Wells.
  Though he probably tried his best to hide it, as they walked back to the car, Jessica noticed a slight spring in Byrne's step, despite the downpour, despite the grim nature of their current case. She understood it. All police officers did. Kevin Byrne was riding a wave, a small wave of satisfaction familiar to law enforcement professionals, when after long, hard work the dominoes fall and form a beautiful pattern, a pure, boundless image called justice.
  But there was another side to the matter.
  Before they could board the Taurus, Byrne's phone rang again. He answered, listened for a few seconds, his face expressionless. "Give us fifteen minutes," he said.
  He slammed the phone shut.
  "What is this?" Jessica asked.
  Byrne clenched his fist, about to slam into the windshield, but stopped. Barely. Everything he'd just felt vanished in an instant.
  "What?" Jessica repeated.
  Byrne took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, "They found another girl."
  OceanofPDF.com
  21
  TUESDAY, 8:25
  BARTRAM'S GARDENS was the oldest botanical garden in the United States, often visited by Benjamin Franklin, after whom John Bartram, the garden's founder, named a genus of plants. Located at 54th Street and Lindbergh, the forty-five-acre property boasted wildflower meadows, river trails, wetlands, stone houses, and farm buildings. Today, there was death here.
  When Byrne and Jessica arrived, a police car and an unmarked vehicle were parked near River Trail. A perimeter had already been established around what looked like a half-acre of daffodils. As Byrne and Jessica approached the scene, it was easy to see how the body could have been missed.
  The young woman lay on her back among bright flowers, her hands clasped prayerfully at her waist, holding a black rosary. Jessica immediately noticed that one of the decades-old beads was missing.
  Jessica looked around. The body had been placed about fifteen feet into the field, and except for a narrow path of trampled flowers, likely created by the medical examiner, there was no obvious entry into the field. The rain had surely washed away all traces. If there had been much opportunity for forensic analysis in the rowhouse on Eighth Street, there wouldn't have been any here, after hours of pouring rain.
  Two detectives stood at the edge of the crime scene: a slender Latino in an expensive Italian suit and a short, stocky man Jessica recognized. The officer in the Italian suit seemed preoccupied not only with the investigation but also with the rain, which had ruined his Valentino. At least for the moment.
  Jessica and Byrne approached, examining the victim.
  The girl wore a navy blue and green plaid skirt, blue knee-high socks, and penny loafers. Jessica recognized the uniform as belonging to Regina High School, an all-girls Catholic school on Broad Street in North Philadelphia. She had jet-black hair cut in a pageboy style, and, as far as Jessica could see, she had about half a dozen piercings in her ears and one in her nose, a piercing without any jewelry. It was clear this girl played the goth role on weekends, but due to her school's strict dress code, she didn't wear any of her accessories to class.
  Jessica looked at the young woman's hands, and though she didn't want to accept the truth, there it was. Her hands were clasped together in prayer.
  Out of earshot of the others, Jessica turned to Byrne and quietly asked, "Have you ever had a case like this before?"
  Byrne didn't have to think about it long. "No."
  The other two detectives approached, fortunately bringing their large golf umbrellas with them.
  "Jessica, this is Eric Chavez, Nick Palladino."
  Both men nodded. Jessica returned the greeting. Chavez was a handsome Latino boy, with long eyelashes and smooth skin, about thirty-five. She'd seen him at the Roundhouse the day before. It was clear he was the unit's calling card. Every station had him: the type of cop who, while on stakeout, carried a thick wooden coat rack in the backseat, along with a beach towel he'd tuck into his shirt collar while eating the crap food they'd forced you to eat while on stakeout.
  Nick Palladino was also well dressed, but in a South Philadelphia style: a leather coat, tailored trousers, polished shoes, and a gold ID bracelet. He was in his forties, with deep-set dark chocolate eyes and a stony face; his black hair was slicked back. Jessica had met Nick Palladino several times before; he had worked with her husband in the narcotics unit before transferring to the homicide unit.
  Jessica shook hands with both men. "Nice to meet you," she said to Chavez.
  "Similarly," he replied.
  - Nice to see you again, Nick.
  Palladino smiled. There was a lot of danger in that smile. "How are you, Jess?"
  "I'm fine."
  "Family?"
  "Everything is fine."
  "Welcome to the show," he added. Nick Palladino had been on the team for less than a year, but he was completely blue. He'd probably heard about her divorce from Vincent, but he was a gentleman. Now was neither the time nor the place.
  "Eric and Nick work for the escape squad," Byrne added.
  The Fugitive Squad made up one-third of the Homicide Squad. The other two were the Special Investigations Unit and the Line Squad-a unit that handled new cases. When a major case arose or the wheels began to spin out of control, every homicide officer was caught.
  "Do you have ID?" Byrne asked.
  "Nothing yet," Palladino said. "Nothing in her pockets. No purse or wallet."
  "She went to Regina's," Jessica said.
  Palladino wrote this down. "Is this the school on Broad?"
  "Yeah. Broad and CC Moore."
  "Is this the same MO as in your case?" Chavez asked.
  Kevin Byrne just nodded.
  The thought, the very thought, that they might be confronted with a serial killer clenched their jaws, casting an even heavier shadow over them for the rest of the day.
  Less than twenty-four hours had passed since that scene had played out in the damp and foul basement of a row house on Eighth Street, and now they found themselves again in a lush garden of cheerful flowers.
  Two girls.
  Two dead girls.
  All four detectives watched as Tom Weirich knelt down next to the body. He lifted the girl's skirt and examined her.
  When he stood and turned to look at them, his face was grim. Jessica knew what it meant. This girl had suffered the same humiliation after her death as Tessa Wells.
  Jessica looked at Byrne. A deep anger was rising within him, something primal and unrepentant, something that went far beyond work and duty.
  A few moments later, Weirich joined them.
  "How long has she been here?" Byrne asked.
  "At least four days," Weirich said.
  Jessica counted, and a cold chill ran through her heart. This girl had been abandoned here around the time Tessa Wells was kidnapped. This girl had been killed first.
  This girl's rosary was missing beads for ten years. Tessa's were missing two.
  It meant that out of the hundreds of questions hovering above them like thick grey clouds, there was one truth, one reality, one terrifying fact evident in this swamp of uncertainty.
  Someone was killing Catholic schoolgirls in Philadelphia.
  It looks like the mayhem has only just begun.
  OceanofPDF.com
  PART THREE
  OceanofPDF.com
  22
  TUESDAY, 12:15
  By midday, the Rosary Killers task force had been assembled.
  Typically, task forces were organized and sanctioned by senior agency officials, always after assessing the political clout of the victims. Despite all the rhetoric about all murders being created equal, manpower and resources are always more readily available when the victims are important. Robbing drug dealers, gangsters, or street prostitutes is one thing. Killing Catholic schoolgirls is quite another. Catholics vote.
  By midday, much of the initial work and preliminary laboratory work had been completed. The rosaries that both girls held after their deaths were identical and available at a dozen religious retail stores in Philadelphia. Investigators are currently compiling a customer list. The missing beads have not been found anywhere.
  The preliminary forensic report concluded that the killer used a graphite drill bit to drill the holes in the victims' hands, and that the bolt used to fasten their hands was also a common item-a four-inch galvanized bolt. A carriage bolt can be purchased at any Home Depot, Lowe's, or corner hardware store.
  No fingerprints were found on any of the victims.
  A cross was drawn on Tessa Wells' forehead in blue chalk. The lab has not yet determined the type. Traces of the same material were found on the second victim's forehead. In addition to a small William Blake imprint found on Tessa Wells, another victim had an object clutched between her hands. It was a small piece of bone, approximately three inches long. It was extremely sharp, and its type or species has not yet been identified. These two facts have not been reported to the media.
  It didn't matter that both victims were under the influence of drugs. But now new evidence has emerged. In addition to midazolam, the lab confirmed the presence of an even more insidious drug. Both victims had Pavulon, a powerful paralytic agent that paralyzed the victim but did not relieve pain.
  Reporters at the Inquirer and The Daily News, as well as local television and radio stations, had so far been cautious about calling the murders the work of a serial killer, but The Report, published on a birdcage liner, was not so cautious. The report, published from two cramped rooms on Sansom Street, was not.
  WHO'S KILLING THE ROSARY GIRLS? screamed the headline on their website.
  The task force met in a common room on the first floor of the Roundhouse.
  There were six detectives in total. Besides Jessica and Byrne, there were Eric Chavez, Nick Palladino, Tony Park, and John Shepherd, the last two detectives from the Special Investigations Unit.
  Tony Park was a Korean-American, a longtime veteran of the Major Case Squad. The Auto Unit was part of Major Case, and Jessica had worked with Tony before. He was about forty-five years old, quick and intuitive, a family man. She always knew he would end up in Homicide.
  John Shepard was a star point guard at Villanova in the early 1980s. Handsome and barely graying at the temples, Denzel had his conservative suits custom-made at Boyd's on Chestnut Street for the daunting price of six-eight inches. Jessica never saw him without a tie.
  Whenever the task force was assembled, they tried to staff it with detectives who possessed unique abilities. John Shepard was good "in the room," a seasoned and experienced investigator. Tony Park was a wizard at working databases-NCIC, AFIS, ACCURINT, PCBA. Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez were good outside. Jessica wondered what she brought to the table, hoping it was something other than her gender. She knew she was a natural organizer, skilled at coordinating, organizing, and scheduling. She hoped this would be an opportunity to prove it.
  Kevin Byrne led the task force. Despite being clearly qualified for the job, Byrne told Jessica it took all his powers of persuasion to convince Ike Buchanan to give him the job. Byrne knew it wasn't a matter of self-doubt, but rather that Ike Buchanan had to consider the bigger picture-the possibility of another firestorm of negative press if, God forbid, things went wrong, as they had in the Morris Blanchard case.
  Ike Buchanan, as the manager, was responsible for liaising with the big bosses, while Byrne held briefings and presented status reports.
  While the team assembled, Byrne stood at the task table, taking up any available space in the cramped space. Jessica thought Byrne looked a little shaky and his handcuffs were slightly scorched. She hadn't known him long, but he didn't strike her as the kind of cop who would be flustered in such a situation. It had to be something else. He looked like a hunted man.
  "We have over thirty sets of partial fingerprints from the Tessa Wells crime scene, but none from the Bartram crime scene," Byrne began. "There are no hits yet. Neither victim has provided DNA in the form of semen, blood, or saliva."
  As he spoke, he placed images on the whiteboard behind him. "The main caption here is of a Catholic schoolgirl being taken off the street. The killer inserts a galvanized steel bolt and nut into a drilled hole in the center of her arm. He uses thick nylon thread-likely the kind used to make sails-to sew their vaginas shut. He leaves a cross-shaped mark on their foreheads, made with blue chalk. Both victims died from broken necks.
  "The first victim found was Tessa Wells. Her body was discovered in the basement of an abandoned house on Eighth and Jefferson. The second victim, found in a field in Bartram Gardens, had been dead for at least four days. In both cases, the perpetrator wore non-porous gloves.
  "Both victims were administered a short-acting benzodiazepine called midazolam, which is similar in effect to Rohypnol. Additionally, there was a significant amount of the drug Pavulon. We have someone currently checking the availability of Pavulon on the street.
  "What is this Pavulon doing?" asked Pak.
  Byrne reviewed the medical examiner's report. "Pavulon is a paralytic. It causes paralysis of skeletal muscles. Unfortunately, according to the report, it has no effect on the victim's pain threshold."
  "So our boy struck and loaded that midazolam and then administered the pavulon after the victims were sedated," John Shepard said.
  "That's probably what happened."
  "How affordable are these medications?" Jessica asked.
  "It appears this Pavulon has been around for a long time," Byrne said. "The background report states that it was used in a series of animal experiments. During the experiments, the researchers assumed that since the animals couldn't move, they weren't in pain. They weren't given any anesthetics or sedatives. It turns out the animals were in agony. It appears the role of drugs like Pavulon in torture is well known to the NSA/CIA. The amount of mental horror you can imagine is as extreme as it gets."
  The meaning of Byrne's words began to sink in, and it was terrifying. Tessa Wells felt everything her killer was doing to her, but she couldn't move.
  "Pavulon is available to some extent on the streets, but I think we need to look to the medical community to find a connection," Byrne said. "Hospital workers, doctors, nurses, pharmacists."
  Byrne pasted a couple of photographs onto the board.
  "Our perpetrator also leaves an object on each victim," he continued. "On the first victim, we found a small piece of bone. In the case of Tessa Wells, it was a small reproduction of a William Blake painting."
  Byrne pointed to two photographs on the board-images of rosary beads.
  "The rosary found on the first victim was missing one set of ten beads, called a decade. A typical rosary has five decades. Tessa Wells's rosary had been missing for two decades. While we don't want to get into the math here, I think what's going on is obvious. We need to shut this bad actor down, guys."
  Byrne leaned against the wall and turned to Eric Chavez. Chavez was the lead investigator in the Bartram Gardens murder investigation.
  Chavez stood up, opened his notebook, and began, "Bartram's victim was Nicole Taylor, seventeen, a resident of Callowhill Street in Fairmount. She attended Regina High School on Broad and C.B. Moore Avenues."
  "According to the preliminary DOE report, the cause of death was identical to Tessa Wells's: a broken neck. Regarding the other signatures, which were also identical, we are currently running them through VICAP. Today, we learned about the blue chalk material on Tessa Wells's forehead. Due to the impact, only traces remained on Nicole's forehead.
  "The only recent bruise on her body was on Nicole's left palm." Chavez pointed to a photograph pinned to the whiteboard-a close-up of Nicole's left hand. "These cuts were caused by the pressure of her fingernails. Traces of nail polish were found in the grooves." Jessica looked at the photograph, subconsciously digging her short nails into the fleshy part of her hand. Nicole's palm had half a dozen crescent-shaped indentations, with no discernible pattern.
  Jessica imagined the girl clenching her fist in fear. She banished the image. This was no time for rage.
  Eric Chavez has begun reconstructing Nicole Taylor's past.
  Nicole left her home on Callowhill around 7:20 a.m. Thursday. She walked alone along Broad Street to Regina High School. She attended all her classes and then ate lunch with her friend, Dominie Dawson, in the cafeteria. At 2:20 a.m., she left school and headed south on Broad. She stopped at Hole World, a piercing parlor. There, she looked at some jewelry. According to owner Irina Kaminsky, Nicole seemed happier and even more chatty than usual. Ms. Kaminsky did all of Nicole's piercings and said Nicole had her eye on a ruby nose stud and had been saving up for it.
  From the salon, Nicole continued down Broad Street to Girard Avenue, then to Eighteenth Street, and entered St. Joseph's Hospital, where her mother worked as a cleaner. Sharon Taylor told detectives that her daughter was in a particularly good mood because one of her favorite bands, the Sisters of Charity, was performing Friday night at the Trocadero Theatre, and she had tickets to see them.
  Mother and daughter shared a bowl of fruit in the dining room. They talked about the wedding of one of Nicole's cousins, which was scheduled for June, and Nicole's need to "look like a lady." They were constantly arguing over Nicole's penchant for gothic looks.
  Nicole kissed her mother and walked out of the hospital through the Girard Avenue exit at about four o'clock.
  At that moment, Nicole Teresa Taylor simply disappeared.
  As far as the investigation could determine, she was next seen when a Bartram Gardens security guard found her in a field of daffodils almost four days later. The search of the area around the hospital continued.
  "Did her mother report her missing?" Jessica asked.
  Chavez flipped through his notes. "The call came in at one twenty on Friday morning."
  "Has anyone seen her since she left the hospital?"
  "Nobody," Chavez said. "But there are surveillance cameras in the entrances and in the parking lot. The footage is already on its way."
  "Guys?" Shepard asked.
  "According to Sharon Taylor, her daughter did not have a current boyfriend," Chavez said.
  - What about her father?
  "Mr. Donald P. Taylor is a truck driver, currently located somewhere between Taos and Santa Fe.
  "Once we're done here, we're going to visit the school and see if we can get a list of her friends," Chavez added.
  There were no more immediate questions. Byrne moved forward.
  "Most of you know Charlotte Summers," Byrne said. "For those of you who don't, Dr. Summers is a professor of criminal psychology at the University of Pennsylvania. She occasionally consults with the department on profiling matters."
  Jessica knew Charlotte Summers only by reputation. Her most famous case was her detailed description of Floyd Lee Castle, a psychopath who preyed on prostitutes in and around Camden in the summer of 2001.
  The fact that Charlotte Summers was already in the spotlight told Jessica that the investigation had expanded significantly in the last few hours, and that it could only be a matter of time before the FBI was called in to either help with manpower or assist with the forensic investigation. Everyone in the room wanted to gain a solid lead before the suits showed up and took all the credit.
  Charlotte Summers stood and walked up to the board. She was in her late thirties, graceful and slender, with pale blue eyes and a short haircut. She wore a smart chalk-striped suit and a lavender silk blouse. "I know it's tempting to assume that the person we're looking for is some kind of religious fanatic," Summers said. "There's no reason to think otherwise. With one caveat. The tendency to think of fanatics as impulsive or reckless is incorrect. This is a highly organized killer."
  "Here's what we know: he picks up his victims right off the street, holds them for a while, and then takes them to a location where he kills them. These are high-risk abductions. Bright daylight, public places. There are no bruises from ligatures on the wrists and ankles.
  "Wherever he took them initially, he doesn't restrain or restrain them. Both victims were given a dose of midazolam, as well as a paralytic agent, which facilitated the vaginal suturing. The suturing is done before death, so it's clear he wants them to know what's happening to them. And to feel it."
  "What is the significance of the hands?" asked Nick Palladino.
  "Perhaps he positions them to correspond with some religious iconography. Some painting or sculpture he's fixated on. The bolt could indicate an obsession with the stigmata, or the crucifixion itself. Whatever the meaning, these specific actions are significant. Usually, if you want to kill someone, you walk up to them and strangle them or shoot them. The fact that our subject spends time on these things is remarkable in itself."
  Byrne glanced at Jessica, and she read it loud and clear. He wanted her to look at the religious symbols. She made a note.
  "If he doesn't sexually assault the victims, what's the point?" Chavez asked. "I mean, with all this rage, why isn't there rape? Is it about revenge?
  "We may be seeing some manifestation of grief or loss," Summers said. "But it's clearly about control. He wants to control them physically, sexually, emotionally-three areas that are most perplexing for girls that age. Perhaps he lost a girlfriend to a sex crime at that age. Perhaps a daughter or sister. The fact that he's sewing their vaginas shut could mean he believes he's returning these young women to some twisted state of virginity, a state of innocence."
  "What could have made him stop?" Tony Park asked. "There are a lot of Catholic girls in this town."
  "I don't see any escalation of violence," Summers said. "In fact, his method of killing is quite humane, all things considered. They don't linger in death. He's not trying to take away these girls' femininity. Quite the opposite. He's trying to protect it, preserve it for eternity, if you will.
  "It looks like his hunting grounds are in this part of North Philadelphia," she said, gesturing to a designated twenty-block area. "Our unidentified subject is likely white, between twenty and forty years old, physically strong, but probably not fanatical about it. Not the bodybuilder type. He was likely raised Catholic, of above-average intelligence, likely with at least a bachelor's degree, maybe more. He drives a van or station wagon, possibly an SUV of some sort. That will make it easier for the girls to get in and out of his car."
  "What do we get from crime scene locations?" Jessica asked.
  "I'm afraid I have no idea at this point," Summers said. "The house on Eighth Street and Bartram Gardens are about as different places as you can imagine."
  "So you believe they're random?" Jessica asked.
  "I don't believe that's the case. In both cases, the victim appears to have been carefully posed. I don't believe our unknown subject is doing anything haphazard. Tessa Wells wasn't chained to that column by accident. Nicole Taylor wasn't thrown into that sphere by chance. These places are definitely significant.
  "At first, it might have been tempting to think that Tessa Wells was placed in that rowhouse on Eighth Street to hide her body, but I don't believe that's the case. Nicole Taylor was discreetly placed on display a few days earlier. There was no attempt to hide the body. This guy works in daylight. He wants us to find his victims. He's arrogant and wants us to think he's smarter than us. The fact that he placed objects between their hands supports that theory. He's clearly challenging us to understand what he's doing.
  "As far as we can tell at this point, these girls didn't know each other. They moved in different social circles. Tessa Wells loved classical music; Nicole Taylor was into the gothic rock scene. They attended different schools and had different interests."
  Jessica looked at the photos of the two girls standing next to each other on the chalkboard. She remembered how remote the environment had been when she went to Nazarene. The cheerleader type had nothing in common with the rock 'n' roller type, and vice versa. There were the nerds who spent their free time on the library computers, the fashion queens always immersed in the latest issue of Vogue, Marie Clare, or Elle. And then there was her group, a band from South Philadelphia.
  At first glance, Tessa Wells and Nicole Taylor seemed to have a connection: they were Catholic and attended Catholic schools.
  "I want every corner of these girls' lives to be turned inside out," Byrne said. "Who they hung out with, where they went on weekends, their boyfriends, their relatives, their acquaintances, what clubs they belonged to, what movies they went to, what churches they belonged to. Somebody knows something. Somebody saw something.
  "Can we keep the injuries and items found from the press?" Tony Park asked.
  "Maybe for twenty-four hours," Byrne said. "After that, I doubt it."
  Chavez spoke up. "I spoke with the school psychiatrist who consults in Regina. He works in the Nazarene Academy office in the northeast. Nazarene is the administrative office for five diocesan schools, including Regina. The diocese has one psychiatrist for all five schools, who rotates weekly. Perhaps he can help."
  Jessica felt her stomach drop at the thought. There was a connection between Regina and the Nazarene, and now she knew what that connection was.
  "They only have one psychiatrist for that many kids?" Tony Park asked.
  "They have half a dozen counselors," Chavez said. "But only one psychiatrist for five schools."
  "Who is this?"
  While Eric Chavez was reviewing his notes, Byrne found Jessica's eyes. By the time Chavez found the name, Byrne had already left the room and was talking on the phone.
  OceanofPDF.com
  23
  TUESDAY, 2:00 PM
  "I REALLY appreciate you coming," Byrne said to Brian Parkhurst. They stood in the middle of the wide, semicircular room that housed the homicide squad.
  "Anything I can do to help." Parkhurst was dressed in a black and gray nylon tracksuit and what looked like brand-new Reebok sneakers. If he was nervous about being called to speak to the police about this, it didn't show. Then again, Jessica thought, he was a psychiatrist. If he could read anxiety, he could write composure. "Needless to say, we're all devastated at Nazarene."
  "Are students finding this difficult?"
  "I'm afraid so."
  There was increased movement around the two men. It was an old trick-to make a witness look for a place to sit. The door to Interrogation Room A was wide open; every chair in the common room was occupied. On purpose.
  "Oh, sorry." Byrne's voice was full of concern and sincerity. He was good, too. "Why don't we sit here?"
  
  Brian Parkhurst sat in an upholstered chair across from Byrne in Interrogation Room A, a small, dingy room where suspects and witnesses were questioned, testified, and provided information. Jessica watched through a two-way mirror. The door to the interview room remained open.
  "Again," Byrne began, "we appreciate you taking the time."
  There were two chairs in the room. One was an upholstered armchair; the other was a worn metal folding chair. The suspects never got a good chair. Witnesses did. Until they became suspects.
  "It's not a problem," Parkhurst said.
  Nicole Taylor's murder dominated the midday news, and the break-ins were broadcast live on all local television stations. A camera crew was stationed at Bartram Gardens. Kevin Byrne didn't ask Dr. Parkhurst if he'd heard the news.
  "Are you any closer to finding the person who killed Tessa?" Parkhurst asked in his usual conversational tone, the kind he might use to begin a therapy session with a new patient.
  "We have several leads," Byrne said. "The investigation is still in its early stages."
  "Excellent," Parkhurst said, the word sounding cold and somewhat harsh, given the nature of the crime.
  Byrne let the word ripple around the room a few times before dropping to the floor. He sat down across from Parkhurst and dropped the folder onto the worn metal table. "I promise not to keep you too long," he said.
  - I have all the time you need.
  Byrne took the folder and crossed his legs. He opened it, carefully concealing its contents from Parkhurst. Jessica saw it was number 229, a basic biographical report. Brian Parkhurst was in no danger, but he didn't need to know that. "Tell me a little more about your work at Nazarene."
  "Well, it's mostly educational and behavioral consulting," Parkhurst said.
  "Do you advise students on their behavior?"
  "Yes."
  "How so?"
  "All children and teenagers face challenges from time to time, detective. They're afraid of starting a new school, they're depressed, they often lack self-discipline or self-esteem, they lack social skills. As a result, they often experiment with drugs or alcohol or contemplate suicide. I let my girls know my door is always open to them."
  "My girls," Jessica thought.
  "Is it easy for the students you advise to open up to you?"
  "I like to think so," Parkhurst said.
  Byrne nodded. "What else can you tell me?"
  Parkhurst continued, "Part of what we do is try to identify potential learning difficulties in students and also develop programs for those who might be at risk of failure. Things like that."
  "Are there many students at Nazarene who fall into that category?" Byrne asked.
  "What category?"
  "Students at risk of failure."
  "I don't think it's any more than any other parochial high school," Parkhurst said. "Probably less."
  "Why is this?"
  "Nazarene has a legacy of academic excellence," he said.
  Byrne jotted down a few notes. Jessica saw Parkhurst's eyes wander over the notebook.
  Parkhurst added: "We also try to equip parents and teachers with skills to deal with disruptive behaviour and to promote tolerance, understanding and appreciation of diversity."
  "It's just a copy of a brochure," Jessica thought. Byrne knew it. Parkhurst knew it. Byrne shifted gears without even trying to hide it. "Are you a Catholic, Dr. Parkhurst?"
  "Certainly."
  "If you don"t mind me asking, why do you work for the archdiocese?"
  "I'm sorry?"
  "I think you could make a lot more money in private practice."
  Jessica knew it was true. She called an old classmate who worked in the archdiocese's human resources department. She knew exactly what Brian Parkhurst had done. He earned $71,400 a year.
  "The church is a very important part of my life, detective. I owe a lot to it."
  "By the way, what is your favorite William Blake painting?"
  Parkhurst leaned back, as if trying to better focus on Byrne. "My favorite William Blake painting?"
  "Yes," Byrne said. "I like Dante and Virgil at the Gates of Hell."
  "I... well, I can't say I know a lot about Blake."
  "Tell me about Tessa Wells."
  It was a shot to the stomach. Jessica watched Parkhurst carefully. He was smooth. Not a tic.
  "What would you like to know?"
  "Did she ever mention anyone who might be bothering her? Someone she might be afraid of?
  Parkhurst seemed to consider this for a moment. Jessica wasn't buying it. And neither was Byrne.
  "Not that I can remember," Parkhurst said.
  - Has she seemed especially worried lately?
  "No," Parkhurst said. "There was a period last year when I saw her a little more often than some of the other students."
  - Have you ever seen her outside of school?
  Like, right before Thanksgiving? Jessica thought.
  "No."
  "Were you a little closer to Tessa than some of the other students?" Byrne asked.
  "Not really."
  "But there was some connection."
  "Yes."
  "So it all started with Karen Hillkirk?"
  Parkhurst's face flushed, then instantly turned cold. He'd clearly been expecting this. Karen Hillkirk was the student Parkhurst had been having an affair with in Ohio.
  - It wasn't what you think, detective.
  "Enlighten us," Byrne said.
  At the word "we," Parkhurst glanced in the mirror. Jessica thought she saw the slightest smile. She wanted to wipe it off his face.
  Then Parkhurst lowered his head for a moment, now remorseful, as if he had told this story many times, if only to himself.
  "It was a mistake," he began. "I... I was young myself. Karen was mature for her age. It just... happened."
  - Were you her advisor?
  "Yes," said Parkhurst.
  "Then you can see that there are those who will say that you have abused your position of power, right?"
  "Of course," said Parkhurst. "I understand that."
  "Did you have a similar relationship with Tessa Wells?"
  "Absolutely not," Parkhurst said.
  "Do you know a student at Regina named Nicole Taylor?"
  Parkhurst hesitated for a second. The interview's pace had begun to quicken. It seemed Parkhurst was trying to slow it down. "Yes, I know Nicole."
  You know, Jessica thought. Present tense.
  "Did you give her advice?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes," Parkhurst said. "I work with students from five diocesan schools."
  "How well do you know Nicole?" Byrne asked.
  - I saw her several times.
  - What can you tell me about her?
  "Nicole has some self-esteem issues. Some... issues at home," Parkhurst said.
  "What are the problems with self-esteem?"
  "Nicole is a loner. She's really into the goth scene, and that's made her a little isolated in Regina."
  "Goth?"
  "The goth scene is mostly made up of kids who, for one reason or another, are rejected by 'normal' kids. They tend to dress differently and listen to their own music."
  "Dress differently how?"
  "Well, there are different gothic styles. Typical or stereotypical goths dress all in black. Black nails, black lipstick, lots of piercings. But some kids dress Victorian or, if you prefer, industrial. They listen to everything from Bauhaus to old-school bands like the Cure and Siouxsie and the Banshees."
  Byrne simply stared at Parkhurst for a moment, holding him in his chair. In response, Parkhurst shifted his weight and adjusted his clothes. He waited for Byrne to leave. "You seem to know a lot about these things," Byrne finally said.
  "That's my job, Detective," Parkhurst said. "I can't help my girls if I don't know where they're from."
  "My girls," Jessica noted.
  "In fact," Parkhurst continued, "I admit myself to owning several Cure CDs."
  I bet so, Jessica mused.
  "You mentioned Nicole was having problems at home," Byrne said. "What kind of problems?"
  "Well, first of all, there's a history of alcohol abuse in her family," Parkhurst said.
  "Any violence?" Byrne asked.
  Parkhurst paused. "Not that I remember. But even if I did, we're getting into confidential matters here.
  "Is this something students will definitely share with you?"
  "Yes," said Parkhurst. "Those who are predisposed to it."
  "How many girls are inclined to discuss intimate details of their family life with you?"
  Byrne gave the word a false meaning. Parkhurst caught it. "Yes. I like to think I have a way of calming young people."
  "Now I'm defending myself," Jessica thought.
  "I don't understand all these questions about Nicole. Did something happen to her?
  "She was found murdered this morning," Byrne said.
  "Oh my God." Parkhurst's face went white. "I saw the news... I don't have..."
  The news did not release the victim's name.
  - When was the last time you saw Nicole?
  Parkhurst considered several crucial points. "It's been a few weeks."
  -Where were you on Thursday and Friday mornings, Dr. Parkhurst?
  Jessica was sure Parkhurst knew the interrogation had just crossed the barrier separating witness from suspect. He remained silent.
  "It's just a routine question," Byrne said. "We need to cover all the bases."
  Before Parkhurst could answer, there was a soft knock on the open door.
  It was Ike Buchanan.
  - Detective?
  
  As Jessica approached Buchanan's office, she saw a man standing with his back to the door. He was about five or eleven years old, wearing a black coat and holding a dark hat in his right hand. He was athletically built, broad-shouldered. His shaved head gleamed under the fluorescent lights. They entered the office.
  "Jessica, this is Monsignor Terry Pasek," Buchanan said.
  Terry Pacek was, by reputation, a fierce defender of the Philadelphia Archdiocese, a self-made man hailing from the rugged hills of Lackawanna County. Coal country. In an archdiocese with nearly 1.5 million Catholics and some 300 parishes, no one was more vocal and staunch than Terry Pacek.
  He came to light in 2002 during a brief sex scandal that resulted in the dismissal of six Philadelphia priests, as well as several from Allentown. While the scandal paled in comparison to what happened in Boston, it nonetheless rocked Philadelphia, with its large Catholic population.
  For those few months, Terry Pacek was the center of media attention, appearing on every local talk show, every radio station, and in every newspaper. At the time, Jessica imagined him as a well-spoken, well-educated pit bull. What she wasn't prepared for now that she met him in person was his smile. One moment, he looked like a compact version of a WWF wrestler, ready to pounce. The next, his entire face transformed, lighting up the room. She saw how he captivated not only the media but also the vicarage. She had a feeling Terry Pacek might carve his future in the ranks of the church's political hierarchy.
  "Monsignor Pachek." Jessica extended her hand.
  - How is the investigation progressing?
  The question was addressed to Jessica, but Byrne stepped forward. "It's too early," Byrne said.
  - As I understand it, a task force has been formed?
  Byrne knew that Pacek already knew the answer to that question. Byrne's expression told Jessica-and perhaps Pacek himself-that he didn't appreciate it.
  "Yes," Byrne said. Flat, laconic, cool.
  - Sergeant Buchanan informed me that you had brought Dr. Brian Parkhurst?
  "That's it," Jessica thought.
  "Doctor. Parkhurst has volunteered to assist us with the investigation. It turns out he knew both victims."
  Terry Pacek nodded. "So Dr. Parkhurst is not a suspect?"
  "Absolutely not," Byrne said. "He's just here as a material witness."
  Bye, Jessica thought.
  Jessica knew Terry Pasek was walking a tightrope. On the one hand, if someone was murdering Catholic schoolgirls in Philadelphia, he had an obligation to stay informed and ensure the investigation was a high priority.
  On the other hand, he could not stand aside and invite employees of the archdiocese for questioning without advice or, at least, without a demonstration of support from the church.
  "As a representative of the archdiocese, you can certainly understand my concern about these tragic events," Pachek said. "The archbishop himself communicated with me directly and authorized me to place all the resources of the diocese at your disposal."
  "It's very generous," Byrne said.
  Pachek handed Byrne a card. "If there's anything my office can do, please don't hesitate to call us."
  "I certainly will," said Byrne. "Just out of curiosity, Monsignor, how did you know Dr. Parkhurst was here?"
  - He called me at the office after you called him.
  Byrne nodded. If Parkhurst had warned the archdiocese about the witness's questioning, it was clear he knew the conversation could escalate into an interrogation.
  Jessica glanced at Ike Buchanan. She saw him glance over her shoulder and make a subtle head movement-the kind of gesture one might make to tell someone that whatever they were looking for was in the room to the right.
  Jessica followed Buchanan's gaze into the living room, just beyond Ike's door, and found Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez there. They headed for Interrogation Room A, and Jessica knew what the nod meant.
  Free Brian Parkhurst.
  OceanofPDF.com
  24
  TUESDAY, 3:20 PM
  The Free Library's main branch was the largest library in the city, located at Vine Street and Benjamin Franklin Parkway.
  Jessica sat in the fine arts department, poring over the vast collection of Christian art folios, searching for anything, anything, that resembled the paintings they'd found at two crime scenes, scenes where they had no witnesses, no fingerprints, and also like two victims who, as far as they knew, were unrelated: Tessa Wells, sitting against a pillar in that dingy basement on North Eighth Street; Nicole Taylor, lounging in a field of spring flowers.
  With the help of one of the librarians, Jessica searched the catalog using various keywords. The results were stunning.
  There were books on the iconography of the Virgin Mary, books on mysticism and the Catholic Church, books on relics, the Shroud of Turin, The Oxford Handbook of Christian Art. There were countless guides to the Louvre, the Uffizi, and the Tate. She looked through books on the stigmata, on Roman history as it relates to the crucifixion. There were illustrated Bibles, books on Franciscan, Jesuit, and Cistercian art, sacred heraldry, Byzantine icons. There were color plates of oil paintings, watercolors, acrylics, woodcuts, pen-and-ink drawings, frescoes, frescoes, sculptures in bronze, marble, wood, and stone.
  Where to start?
  When she found herself leafing through a book on ecclesiastical embroidery sitting on her coffee table, she realized she was a little off course. She tried keywords like prayer and rosary and got hundreds of results. She learned some basics, including that the rosary is Marian in nature, centered on the Virgin Mary, and should be recited while contemplating the face of Christ. She took as many notes as she could.
  She checked out a few of the circulating books (many of which were reference books) and headed back to the Roundhouse, her mind reeling with religious imagery. Something in these books pointed to the source of the madness behind these crimes. She just had no idea how to find out.
  For the first time in her life, she wanted to pay more attention to her religious lessons.
  OceanofPDF.com
  25
  TUESDAY, 3:30 PM
  The blackness was complete, unbroken, an eternal night that defied time. Beneath the darkness, very faint, was the sound of the world.
  For Bethany Price, the veil of consciousness came and went like waves on a beach.
  Cape May, she thought through a deep haze in her mind, images wafting up from the depths of her memory. She hadn't thought about Cape May in years. When she was little, her parents would take the family to Cape May, a few miles south of Atlantic City, on the Jersey Shore. She'd sit on the beach, her feet buried in the wet sand. Dad in his crazy Hawaiian swim trunks, Mom in her modest onesie.
  She remembered changing in a beach cabin, even then terribly self-conscious about her body and weight. The thought made her touch herself. She was still fully clothed.
  She knew she'd been driving for about fifteen minutes. Maybe it was longer. He'd stuck a needle into her, which had sent her into the arms of sleep, but not quite into his arms. She could hear the sounds of the city all around her. Buses, car horns, people walking and talking. She wanted to call out to them, but she couldn't.
  It was quiet.
  She was afraid.
  The room was small, about five feet by three. In fact, it wasn't really a room at all. More like a closet. On the wall opposite the door, she felt a large crucifix. On the floor lay a soft confessional. The carpeting was new; she smelled the petroleum scent of new fiber. Under the door, she saw a meager sliver of yellow light. She was hungry and thirsty, but she didn't dare ask.
  He wanted her to pray. He entered the darkness, gave her the rosary, and told her to begin with the Apostles' Creed. He didn't touch her sexually. At least, she didn't know it.
  He left for a while, but now he's back. He was coming out of the restroom, seemingly upset about something.
  "I can't hear you," he said from the other side of the door. "What did Pope Pius VI say about this?"
  "I... I don't know," Bethany said.
  "He said that without contemplation, the rosary is a body without a soul, and its reading risks turning into a mechanical repetition of formulas, in violation of Christ"s teaching."
  "I'm sorry."
  Why did he do this? He had been kind to her before. She had been in trouble, and he had treated her with respect.
  The sound of the car became louder.
  It sounded like a drill.
  "Now!" the voice thundered.
  "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you," she began, probably for the hundredth time.
  "God be with you," she thought, and her mind began to cloud over again.
  Is the Lord with me?
  OceanofPDF.com
  26
  TUESDAY, 4:00 PM
  The black-and-white video footage was grainy, but clear enough to make out what was happening in the St. Joseph's Hospital parking lot. The traffic-both vehicular and pedestrian-was as expected: ambulances, police cars, medical and repair vans. Most of the staff were hospital employees: doctors, nurses, orderlies, and housekeepers. A few visitors and a few police officers entered through this entrance.
  Jessica, Byrne, Tony Park, and Nick Palladino huddled in a small room that doubled as a snack bar and video room. At 4:06:03, they spotted Nicole Taylor.
  Nicole emerges from a door marked "SPECIAL HOSPITAL SERVICES," hesitates for a moment, and then slowly walks toward the street. She has a small purse slung over her right shoulder, and in her left hand, she holds what appears to be a bottle of juice or perhaps a Snapple. Neither the purse nor the bottle were found at the Bartram Gardens crime scene.
  Outside, Nicole seems to notice something at the top of the frame. She covers her mouth, perhaps in surprise, then approaches a car parked at the far left of the screen. It appears to be a Ford Windstar. No occupants are visible.
  As Nicole reaches the passenger side of the car, a truck from Allied Medical pulls between the camera and the minivan.
  "Shit," Byrne said. "Come on, come on..."
  Time on film: 4:06:55.
  The Allied Medical truck driver gets out of the driver's seat and heads to the hospital. A few minutes later, he returns and gets into a taxi.
  When the truck starts moving, Windstar and Nicole are gone.
  They kept the tape on for another five minutes, then rewound it. Neither Nicole nor the Windstar returned.
  "Can you rewind it to where she approaches the van?" Jessica asked.
  "No problem," said Tony Park.
  They watched the footage over and over again. Nicole exits the building, passes under the awning, approaches the Windstar, each time freezing it just as the truck pulls up and blocks their view.
  "Can you come closer to us?" Jessica asked.
  "Not on this machine," Pak replied. "However, you can do all sorts of tricks in the lab."
  The AV unit located in the Roundhouse basement was capable of all kinds of video enhancement. The tape they watched was dubbed from the original, as surveillance tape is recorded at a very slow speed, making it impossible to play on a regular VCR.
  Jessica leaned over the small black-and-white monitor. It turned out the Windstar's license plate was a Pennsylvania number ending in 6. It was impossible to tell what numbers, letters, or combinations of them preceded it. If the plate had had initial numbers, it would have been much easier to match the plate to the make and model of the car.
  "Why don't we try matching Windstars to this number?" Byrne asked. Tony Park turned and left the room. Byrne stopped him, wrote something on a notepad, tore it off, and handed it to Park. With that, Park walked out the door.
  The other detectives continued to watch the footage as movement came and went, as employees sauntered to their desks or quickly left. Jessica was tormented by the realization that behind the truck, obscuring her view of the Windstar, Nicole Taylor was likely talking to someone who would soon commit suicide.
  They watched the recording six more times but were unable to glean any new information.
  
  TONY PARK WAS RETURNING, a thick stack of computer printouts in his hand. Ike Buchanan followed him.
  "There are 2,500 Windstars registered in Pennsylvania," Pak said. "Two hundred or so end in a six."
  "Shit," Jessica said.
  Then he held up the printout, beaming. One line was highlighted in bright yellow. "One of them is registered to Dr. Brian Allan Parkhurst of Larchwood Street."
  Byrne was on his feet instantly. He glanced at Jessica. He ran his finger over the scar on his forehead.
  "That's not enough," Buchanan said.
  "Why not?" Byrne asked.
  "Where do you want me to start?"
  "He knew both victims, and we can point him to the location where Nicole Taylor was last seen..."
  "We don't know it was him. We don't know if she even got into that car."
  "He had opportunity," Byrne continued. "Maybe even motive."
  "Motive?" Buchanan asked.
  "Karen Hillkirk," Byrne said.
  "He didn't kill Karen Hillkirk."
  "He shouldn't have done that. Tessa Wells was underage. She might have been planning to make their affair public.
  "What business?"
  Buchanan was, of course, right.
  "Look, he's an M.D.," Byrne said, selling hard. Jessica got the impression that even Byrne wasn't convinced Parkhurst was the man behind the whole thing. But Parkhurst knew a thing or two. "The medical examiner's report says both girls were sedated with midazolam and then injected with paralytics. He drives a minivan, and it's also drivable. He fits the profile. Let me put him back in his chair. Twenty minutes. If he doesn't tip, we'll let him go."
  Ike Buchanan considered the idea briefly. "If Brian Parkhurst ever steps foot in this building again, he'll be bringing a lawyer from the archdiocese. You know that, and I know that," Buchanan said. "Let's do a little more work before we connect the dots. Let's find out if that Windstar belongs to a hospital employee before we start bringing people in. Let's see if we can account for every minute of Parkhurst's day."
  
  POLICE OFFICE is AMAZINGLY boring. We spend most of our time at a rickety gray desk with sticky boxes stuffed with papers, a phone in one hand and cold coffee in the other. Calling people. Calling people back. Waiting for people to call you back. We hit dead ends, race through dead ends, and dejectedly emerge. People interviewed have seen no evil, heard no evil, spoken no evil-only to discover they remember a key fact two weeks later. Detectives contact funeral homes to find out if they had a procession on the street that day. They talk to newspaper delivery people, school crossing guards, landscapers, artists, city workers, street cleaners. They talk to drug addicts, prostitutes, alcoholics, dealers, beggars, salesmen - anyone who has a habit or a calling to just hang around the corner, whatever interests them.
  And then, when all the phone calls prove fruitless, the detectives begin driving around the city, asking the same questions to the same people in person.
  By midday, the investigation had devolved into a sluggish hum, like a dugout in the seventh inning of a 5-0 loss. Pencils tapped, phones remained silent, and eye contact was avoided. The task force, with the help of a few uniformed officers, managed to contact all but a handful of Windstar owners. Two of them worked at St. Joseph's Church, and one was a housekeeper.
  At five o'clock, a press conference was held behind the Roundhouse. The police commissioner and the district attorney were the center of attention. All the expected questions were asked. All the expected answers were given. Kevin Byrne and Jessica Balzano were on camera and told the media they were leading the task force. Jessica had hoped she wouldn't have to speak on camera. She didn't.
  At five-twenty, they returned to their desks. They scrolled through local channels until they found a recording of the press conference. A close-up of Kevin Byrne was met with brief applause, boos, and shouts. The local anchor's voiceover accompanied footage of Brian Parkhurst leaving the Roundhouse earlier that day. Parkhurst's name was plastered on the screen beneath a slow-motion image of him getting into a car.
  Nazarene Academy called back and reported that Brian Parkhurst had left early the previous Thursday and Friday and that he hadn't arrived at school until 8:15 a.m. Monday. That would have given him plenty of time to kidnap both girls, dump both bodies, and still maintain his schedule.
  At 5:30 a.m., just after Jessica received a call back from the Denver Board of Education, effectively eliminating Tessa's ex-boyfriend Sean Brennan from the suspect list, she and John Shepherd drove to the forensic lab, a new, state-of-the-art facility just a few blocks from the Roundhouse on Eighth and Poplar. New information had emerged. The bone found in Nicole Taylor's hands was a piece of lamb leg. It appeared to have been cut with a serrated blade and sharpened on an oilstone.
  So far, their victims have been found with a sheep bone and a reproduction of a William Blake painting. This information, while useful, sheds no light on any aspect of the investigation.
  "We also have identical carpet fibers from both victims," said Tracy McGovern, the lab's deputy director.
  Fists clenched and pumped the air all around the room. They had proof. The synthetic fibers could be traced.
  "Both girls had the same nylon fibers along the hem of their skirts," Tracy said. "Tessa Wells had more than a dozen. Nicole Taylor's skirt only had a few frays from being in the rain, but they were there."
  "Is this residential? Commercial? Automotive?" Jessica asked.
  "Probably not automotive. I'd say it's middle-class residential carpeting. Dark blue. But the grain pattern has run all the way down to the hem. It wasn't anywhere else on their clothes."
  "So they weren't lying on the carpet?" Byrne asked. "Or sitting on it?"
  "No," Tracy said. "For that kind of model, I'd say they were..."
  "On my knees," Jessica said.
  "On my knees," Tracy repeated.
  At six o'clock, Jessica sat at the table, swirling a cup of cold coffee and leafing through books on Christian art. There were some promising leads, but nothing that matched the poses of the victims at the crime scene.
  Eric Chavez was having dinner. He stood in front of a small two-way mirror in Interview Room A, tying and retying his tie in search of the perfect double Windsor. Nick Palladino was finishing calls to the remaining Windstar owners.
  Kevin Byrne stared at the wall of photographs like Easter Island statues. He seemed fascinated, absorbed in the minutiae, running through the timeline over and over in his mind. Images of Tessa Wells, images of Nicole Taylor, pictures of the Eighth Street Death House, pictures of the daffodil garden in Bartram. Arms, legs, eyes, hands, legs. Images with rulers for scale. Images with grids for context.
  The answers to all of Byrne's questions were right in front of him, and to Jessica, he seemed catatonic. She would have given a month's salary to be privy to Kevin Byrne's private thoughts at that moment.
  The evening wore on. And yet Kevin Byrne stood motionless, scanning the board from left to right, top to bottom.
  Suddenly, he put away the close-up photograph of Nicole Taylor's left hand. He held it up to the window and held it up to the gray light. He looked at Jessica, but it seemed as if he were looking right through her. She was just an object in the path of his thousand-meter gaze. He removed the magnifying glass from the table and turned back to the photograph.
  "Oh, my God," he finally said, drawing the attention of the handful of detectives in the room. "I can't believe we didn't see that."
  "See what?" Jessica asked. She was glad Byrne had finally spoken. She was starting to worry about him.
  Byrne pointed out indentations on the fleshy part of his palm, marks that Tom Weirich said were caused by pressure from Nicole's fingernails.
  "These marks." He picked up the medical examiner's report on Nicole Taylor. "Look," he continued. "There were traces of burgundy nail polish in the indentations on her left hand."
  "What about it?" Buchanan asked.
  "On her left hand, the polish was green," Byrne said.
  Byrne pointed to a close-up of Nicole Taylor's left fingernails. They were forest green. He showed a photo of her right hand.
  "The polish on her right hand was burgundy."
  The other three detectives looked at each other and shrugged.
  "Can't you see? She didn't make those grooves by clenching her left fist. She made them with her opposite hand."
  Jessica tried to see something in the photograph, as if examining the positive and negative elements of an Escher print. She saw nothing. "I don't understand," she said.
  Byrne grabbed his coat and headed for the door. "You will."
  
  BYRNE AND JESSICA STOOD in the crime lab's small digital imaging room.
  An imaging specialist worked to enhance photographs of Nicole Taylor's left hand. Most crime scene photographs were still taken on 35mm film and then converted to digital format, where they could be enhanced, enlarged, and, if necessary, prepared for trial. The area of interest in this photograph was a small, crescent-shaped depression on the lower left side of Nicole's palm. The technician enlarged and clarified the area, and when the image became clear, a collective gasp was heard in the small room.
  Nicole Taylor sent them a message.
  The small cuts were not at all accidental.
  "Oh my God," Jessica said, her first rush of adrenaline as a homicide detective beginning to buzz in her ears.
  Before her death, Nicole Taylor began writing a word on her left palm with the nails of her right hand-a dying woman's plea in the final, desperate moments of her life. There could be no debate. The abbreviations stood for PAR.
  Byrne opened his cell phone and called Ike Buchanan. Within twenty minutes, the probable cause affidavit would be typed and submitted to the chief of the District Attorney's Homicide Unit. With any luck, within an hour they would have a search warrant for Brian Allan Parkhurst's home.
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  27
  TUESDAY, 6:30 PM
  SIMON CLOSE LOOKED at the front page of the Report from his Apple PowerBook screen.
  WHO KILLS THE ROSARY GIRLS?
  What could be better than seeing your signature under a screaming, provocative headline?
  "Maybe one or two things, tops," Simon thought. And both of those things cost him money, not filled his pockets.
  Girls from the Rosary.
  His idea.
  He kicked a few more people. This one kicked back.
  Simon loved this part of the night. The pre-game grooming. Although he dressed well for work-always a shirt and tie, usually a blazer and trousers-at night his tastes turned to European tailoring, Italian craftsmanship, and exquisite fabrics. If he was Chaps by day, then at night he was a true Ralph Lauren.
  He tried on Dolce & Gabbana and Prada, but bought Armani and Pal Zileri. Thank goodness for the mid-year sale at Boyd's.
  He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. What woman could resist? While Philadelphia was full of well-dressed men, few truly displayed European style with any panache.
  And there were also women.
  When Simon struck out on his own after Aunt Iris's death, he spent time in Los Angeles, Miami, Chicago, and New York. He even briefly considered moving to New York, but after a few months, he returned to Philadelphia. New York was too fast-paced, too crazy. And while he thought Philadelphia girls were every bit as sexy as Manhattan girls, there was something about Philadelphia girls that New York girls never had.
  You had a chance to win the affections of the girls from Philadelphia.
  He had just gotten the perfect dimple in his tie when there was a knock at the door. He crossed the small apartment and opened the door.
  It was Andy Chase. A perfectly happy, terribly disheveled Andy.
  Andy was wearing a dirty Phillies cap backwards and a royal blue Members Only jacket-they still made Members Only? Simon wondered-complete with epaulets and zipped pockets.
  Simon pointed to his burgundy jacquard tie. "Does this make me look too gay?" he asked.
  "No." Andy plopped down on the couch, picked up a Macworld magazine, and munched on a Fuji apple. "Just gay."
  "Back off."
  Andy shrugged. "I don't know how anyone can spend that much money on clothes. I mean, you can only wear one suit at a time. What's the point?"
  Simon turned and walked across the living room like he was on a catwalk. He twirled, posed, and fashioned. "Can you look at me and still ask that question? Style is its own reward, my brother."
  Andy gave a huge fake yawn and then took another bite of his apple.
  Simon poured himself a few ounces of Courvoisier. He opened a can of Miller Lite for Andy. "Sorry. No beer nuts."
  Andy shook his head. "Mock me all you want. Beer nuts are way better than that crap you're eating."
  Simon made a grand gesture, covering his ears. Andy Chase was offended on a cellular level.
  They were aware of the day's events. For Simon, these conversations were part of the overhead of doing business with Andy. Repentance had been given and said: time to go.
  "So how's Kitty?" Simon asked casually, with as much enthusiasm as he could feign. "Little cow," he thought. Kitty Bramlett had been a petite, almost cute Walmart checkout clerk when Andy fell in love with her. She was seventy pounds and three chins back. Kitty and Andy had sunk into the childless nightmare of an early-midlife marriage based on habit. Microwave dinners, birthday parties at Olive Garden, and twice-monthly sex in front of Jay Leno.
  "Kill me first, Lord," Simon thought.
  "She's exactly the same." Andy dropped the magazine and stretched. Simon caught a glimpse of the top of Andy's pants. They were pinned together. "For some reason, she still thinks you should try to meet her sister. Like she has anything to do with you."
  Kitty's sister, Rhonda, looked like a copy of Willard Scott, but not nearly as feminine.
  "I'll definitely call her soon," Simon replied.
  "Whatever."
  It was still raining. Simon would have had to ruin the whole look with his stylish but woefully functional "London Fog" raincoat. It was the only detail that desperately needed updating. Still, it was better than the rain that had caught Zileri's eye.
  "Not in the mood for your crap," Simon said, gesturing for the exit. Andy took the hint, stood up, and headed for the door. He left the apple core on the couch.
  "You can't ruin my mood tonight," Simon added. "I look good, I smell great, I have a cover story, and life is good."
  Andy winced: Dolce?
  "Oh, my God," Simon said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to Andy. "Thanks for the tip," he said. "Let them come."
  "Anytime, bro," Andy said. He pocketed the bill, walked out the door, and headed down the stairs.
  Bro, Simon thought. If this is Purgatory, then I really am afraid of Hell.
  He took one last look at himself in the full-length mirror inside his wardrobe.
  Ideal.
  The city belonged to him.
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  28
  TUESDAY, 7:00 PM
  BRIAN PARKHURST WAS NOT HOME. Neither was his Ford Windstar.
  Six detectives lined up in a three-story house on Garden Court. The ground floor contained a small living room and dining room, with a kitchen at the rear. Between the dining room and kitchen, a steep staircase led to the second floor, where a bathroom and bedroom had been converted into offices. The third floor, once home to two small bedrooms, had been converted into the master bedroom. None of the rooms had the dark blue nylon carpeting.
  The furnishings were mostly modern: a leather sofa and armchair, a teak checkered table, and a dining table. The desk was older, likely pickled oak. Its bookshelves suggested eclectic taste. Philip Roth, Jackie Collins, Dave Barry, Dan Simmons. Detectives noted the presence of a copy of "William Blake: The Complete Illuminated Books."
  "I can't say I know very much about Blake," Parkhurst said during an interview.
  A quick glance at Blake's book showed that nothing had been cut out.
  A scan of the refrigerator, freezer, and kitchen trash revealed no trace of the leg of lamb. "The Joy of Cooking in the Kitchen" added the caramel flan to my bookmarks.
  There was nothing unusual in his closet. Three suits, a couple of tweed jackets, half a dozen pairs of dress shoes, a dozen dress shirts. Everything was conservative and high-quality.
  His office walls were adorned with three of his college diplomas: one from John Carroll University and two from the University of Pennsylvania. There was also a well-designed poster for the Broadway production of The Crucible.
  Jessica took over the second floor. She passed through a closet in the office, which seemed to be dedicated to Parkhurst's athletic achievements. It turned out he played tennis and racquetball, and also did a little sailing. He also had an expensive wetsuit.
  She rummaged through his desk drawers and found all the expected supplies: rubber bands, pens, paper clips, and cross-stamps. Another drawer held LaserJet toner cartridges and a spare keyboard. All the drawers opened without a problem, except for the file drawer.
  The file box was locked.
  "Strange for someone who lives alone," Jessica thought.
  A quick but thorough scan of the top drawer yielded no key.
  Jessica peeked out the office door and listened to the chatter. All the other detectives were busy. She returned to her desk and quickly pulled out a set of guitar picks. You can't work in the auto division for three years without mastering some metalworking skills. A few seconds later, she was inside.
  Most of the files related to household and personal matters: tax returns, business receipts, personal receipts, insurance policies. There was also a stack of paid Visa bills. Jessica wrote down the card number. A quick review of the purchases revealed nothing suspicious. The house hadn't charged for religious goods.
  She was about to close and lock the drawer when she saw the tip of a small envelope peeking out from behind the drawer. She reached back as far as she could and pulled the envelope out. It was taped shut, out of sight, but not properly sealed.
  The envelope contained five photographs. They were taken in Fairmount Park in the fall. Three of the photographs depicted a fully clothed young woman, posing shyly in a pseudo-glamorous pose. Two of them were of the same young woman, posing with a smiling Brian Parkhurst. The young woman was sitting on his lap. The photographs were dated October of last year.
  The young woman was Tessa Wells.
  "Kevin!" Jessica shouted down the stairs.
  Byrne was up in an instant, taking four steps at a time. Jessica showed him the photographs.
  "Son of a bitch," Byrne said. "We had him, and we let him go."
  "Don't worry. We'll catch him again. They found a full set of luggage under the stairs. He wasn't on the trip.
  Jessica summarized the evidence. Parkhurst was a doctor. He knew both victims. He claimed to have known Tessa Wells professionally, only as her consultant, yet he possessed personal photographs of her. He had sexual relationships with students. One of the victims began writing her last name on her palm shortly before her death.
  Byrne connected to Parkhurst's landline and called Ike Buchanan. He put the phone on speakerphone and informed Buchanan of their findings.
  Buchanan listened, then spoke the three words Byrne and Jessica had been hoping and waiting for: "Get him up."
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  29
  TUESDAY, 8:15 PM
  If SOPHIE BALZANO was the most beautiful little girl in the world when she was awake, she was simply angelic at that moment when day turned to night, in that sweet twilight of half-sleep.
  Jessica volunteered for her first shift at Brian Parkhurst's house in Garden Court. She was told to go home and rest. So was Kevin Byrne. Two detectives were on duty at the house.
  Jessica sat on the edge of Sophie's bed, watching her.
  They took a bubble bath together. Sophie washed and conditioned her hair. No help needed, thank you very much. They dried off and shared pizza in the living room. It was against the rules-they were supposed to eat at the table-but now that Vincent was gone, many of those rules seemed to slip by the wayside.
  Enough of this, Jessica thought.
  As Jessica prepared Sophie for bed, she found herself hugging her daughter a little tighter and a little more often. Even Sophie gave her a fish-eye look, as if to say, "How are you, Mom?" But Jessica knew what was going on. What Sophie felt in those moments was her salvation.
  And now that Sophie had gone to bed, Jessica allowed herself to relax, to begin to move on from the horrors of the day.
  A little.
  "History?" Sophie asked, her tiny voice floating on the wings of a large yawn.
  - Do you want me to read the story?
  Sophie nodded.
  "Okay," Jessica said.
  "Not Hawk," Sophie said.
  Jessica had to laugh. Hawk had been Sophie's biggest terrifying presence all day. It all started with a trip to the King of Prussia mall about a year earlier and the presence of a fifteen-foot inflatable green Hulk they'd erected to promote the DVD release. One look at the giant figure, and Sophie immediately hid, shivering, behind Jessica's legs.
  "What is this?" Sophie asked, her lips trembling and her fingers clutching Jessica's skirt.
  "It's just the Hulk," Jessica said. "It's not real."
  "I don't like Hawk."
  It got to the point where anything green and over four feet tall was a cause for panic these days.
  "We don't have any stories about Hawk, dear," Jessica said. She assumed Sophie had forgotten about Hawk. It seemed some monsters died hard.
  Sophie smiled and buried herself under the covers, ready to sleep without Hawk.
  Jessica walked over to the closet and pulled out a box of books. She scanned the current list of featured children: Runaway Bunny; You're the Boss, Duckling!; Curious George.
  Jessica sat on her bed and looked at the spines of the books. They were all for children under two. Sophie was almost three. In fact, she was too old for The Runaway Bunny. My God, Jessica thought, she was growing up too fast.
  The book at the bottom was called "How to Put This On?", a dressing manual. Sophie could easily dress herself, and had been doing so for months. It had been a long time since she had put her shoes on the wrong feet or put her Oshkosh overalls on backwards.
  Jessica settled on "Yertle the Turtle," a Dr. Seuss story. It was one of Sophie's favorites. Jessica, too.
  Jessica began reading, describing the adventures and life lessons of Yertle and the gang on the island of Salama Sond. After reading a few pages, she glanced at Sophie, expecting a wide smile. Yertle was usually a riotous laugher. Especially the part where he becomes the King of Mud.
  But Sophie was already fast asleep.
  "Easy," Jessica thought with a smile.
  She switched the three-way light bulb to its lowest setting and covered Sophie with a blanket. She put the book back in the box.
  She thought about Tessa Wells and Nicole Taylor. How could she not? She had a feeling those girls wouldn't be far from her conscious thoughts for a long time.
  Did their mothers sit like this on the edges of their beds, marveling at the perfection of their daughters? Did they watch them sleep, thanking God for every inhalation and exhalation?
  Of course they did.
  Jessica looked at the picture frame on Sophie's nightstand, a "Precious Moments" frame decorated with hearts and bows. There were six photos. Vincent and Sophie on the beach, when Sophie was just over a year old. Sophie wore a soft orange hat and sunglasses. Her plump feet were covered in wet sand. In the backyard hung a photo of Jessica and Sophie. Sophie held the single radish they'd pulled from the container garden that year. Sophie had planted the seed, watered the plant, and harvested it. She insisted on eating the radish, even though Vincent had warned her she wouldn't like it. Being trouped and stubborn as a little mule, Sophie tried the radish, trying not to wince. Eventually, her face darkened with bitterness, and she spat it out onto a paper towel. That put an end to her agricultural curiosity.
  In the lower right corner was a photograph of Jessica's mother, taken when Jessica was a baby. Maria Giovanni looked striking in a yellow sundress, her tiny daughter on her lap. Her mother looked so much like Sophie. Jessica wanted Sophie to recognize her grandmother, though Maria was a barely perceptible memory to Jessica these days, more like an image glimpsed through a glass block.
  She turned off Sophie's light and sat in the dark.
  Jessica had been on the job for two full days, but it felt like months had passed. Throughout her time on the force, she'd viewed homicide detectives the same way many police officers did: they had only one job. The detectives in the department investigated a much broader range of crimes. As the saying goes, murder is simply an aggravated assault gone wrong.
  Oh my god, she was wrong.
  If it were just one job, it would be enough.
  Jessica wondered, as she had every day for the past three years, whether it was fair to Sophie that she was a police officer, that she risked her life every day by leaving her home. She had no answer.
  Jessica went downstairs and checked the front and back doors of the house for the third time. Or was it the fourth?
  Wednesday was her day off, but she had no idea what to do with herself. How was she supposed to relax? How was she supposed to live after two young girls had been brutally murdered? Right now, she couldn't care less about the steering wheel or the list of duties. She didn't know a cop who could do it. At this point, half the squad would sacrifice overtime to take down this son of a bitch.
  Her father always held his annual Easter gathering on Wednesday of Easter week. Perhaps that would take her mind off things. She'd go and try to forget about work. Her father always had a way of keeping things in perspective.
  Jessica sat down on the couch and cycled through the cable channels five or six times. She turned off the TV. She was about to go to bed with a book when the phone rang. She really hoped it wasn't Vincent. Or maybe he hoped it was.
  This is wrong.
  - Is this Detective Balzano?
  It was a man's voice. Loud music in the background. Disco beat.
  "Who's calling?" Jessica asked.
  The man didn't answer. Laughter and ice cubes in glasses. He was at the bar.
  "Last chance," Jessica said.
  "This is Brian Parkhurst."
  Jessica glanced at her watch and wrote down the time in the notepad she kept next to her phone. She glanced at her caller ID screen. Personal number.
  "Where are you?" Her voice was high and nervous. Reedy.
  Relax, Jess.
  "It doesn't matter," Parkhurst said.
  "Sort of," Jessica said. Better. Conversational.
  "I speak".
  "That's good, Dr. Parkhurst. Really. Because we'd really like to talk to you."
  "I know."
  "Why don't you come to the Roundhouse? I'll meet you there. We can talk."
  "I wouldn't prefer it."
  "Why?"
  "I'm not a stupid man, detective. I know you were at my house.
  He slurred his words.
  "Where are you?" Jessica asked a second time.
  No answer. Jessica heard the music change to a Latin disco beat. She made another note. Salsa club.
  "I'll see you," Parkhurst said. "There's something you need to know about these girls."
  "Where and when?"
  "Meet me at the Clothespin. Fifteen minutes."
  Near the salsa club she wrote: within 15 minutes of the city hall.
  "Clothespin" is a huge sculpture by Claes Oldenburg in Central Square, next to City Hall. In the old days, people in Philadelphia used to say, "Meet me at the eagle at Wanamaker's," a large department store with a mosaic eagle on the floor. Everyone knew the eagle at Wanamaker's. Now it was "Clothespin."
  Parkhurst added: "And come alone."
  - That won't happen, Dr. Parkhurst.
  "If I see anyone else there, I'll leave," he said. "I'm not talking to your partner."
  Jessica didn't blame Parkhurst for not wanting to be in the same room with Kevin Byrne at that moment. "Give me twenty minutes," she said.
  The line went dead.
  Jessica called Paula Farinacci, who helped her again. Paula certainly had a special place in nanny heaven. Jessica wrapped a sleepy Sophie in her favorite blanket and carried her down three doors. Returning home, she called Kevin Byrne on his cell phone and heard his voicemail. She called him at home. Same thing.
  "Come on, partner," she thought.
  I need you.
  She put on jeans, sneakers, and a raincoat. She grabbed her cell phone, inserted a fresh magazine into her Glock, holstered it, and headed downtown.
  
  JESSICA WAITED on the corner of Fifteenth and Market Streets in the pouring rain. She'd decided not to stand directly beneath the Clothespin sculpture for obvious reasons. She didn't want to be a sitting target.
  She glanced around the square. Few pedestrians were out because of the storm. The lights on Market Street created a shimmering red and yellow watercolor on the sidewalk.
  When she was little, her father used to take her and Michael to Center City and Reading Terminal Market for cannoli from Termini. Sure, the original Termini in South Philadelphia was just a few blocks from their house, but there was something about riding SEPTA downtown and strolling to the market that made the cannoli taste better. It happened anyway.
  In those days after Thanksgiving, they strolled along Walnut Street, window-shopping the exclusive shops. They could never afford anything they saw in the windows, but the beautiful displays set her childish fantasies adrift.
  "So long ago," Jessica thought.
  The rain was merciless.
  The man approached the sculpture, startling Jessica out of her reverie. He was wearing a green raincoat, the hood up, his hands in his pockets. He seemed to pause at the base of the gigantic work of art, surveying the surroundings. From Jessica's position, he looked about as tall as Brian Parkhurst. As for his weight and hair color, it was impossible to tell.
  Jessica pulled out her gun and held it behind her back. She was about to leave when the man suddenly descended into the subway station.
  Jessica took a deep breath and holstered her weapon.
  She watched the cars circle the square, their headlights cutting through the rain like cats' eyes.
  She called Brian Parkhurst's mobile phone number.
  Voicemail.
  She tried Kevin Byrne's cell phone.
  The same.
  She pulled the hood of her raincoat tighter.
  And waited.
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  30
  TUESDAY, 8:55 PM
  He is drunk.
  It would make my job easier. Slowed reflexes, decreased performance, poor depth perception. I could wait for him at the bar, walk up to him, announce my intentions, and then cut him in half.
  He won't know what hit him.
  But where's the fun in that?
  Where is the lesson?
  No, I think people should know better. I understand there's a good chance I'll be stopped before I can finish this passionate game. And if one day I find myself walking down that long corridor to the antiseptic room and strapped to a gurney, I'll accept my fate.
  I know that when my time comes, I will be judged by a far greater power than the state of Pennsylvania.
  Until then, I'll be the one who sits next to you at church, the one who gives you his seat on the bus, the one who holds the door for you on a windy day, the one who bandages your daughter's scraped knee.
  This is the grace of living in the long shadow of God.
  Sometimes the shadow turns out to be nothing more than a tree.
  Sometimes the shadow is all you fear.
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  31
  TUESDAY, 9:00 PM
  BYRNE sat at the bar, oblivious to the music and the noise of the pool table. All he could hear at the moment was the roar in his head.
  He was in a seedy tavern on the corner of Gray's Ferry called Shotz's, the furthest thing from a police bar he could imagine. He could have gone to the hotel bars downtown, but he didn't like paying ten dollars for a drink.
  What he really wanted was a few more minutes with Brian Parkhurst. If he could get his hands on him again, he'd know it for sure. He finished his bourbon and ordered another.
  Byrne had turned off his cell phone earlier, but left his pager on. He checked it, seeing the number for Mercy Hospital. Jimmy had called for the second time that day. Byrne checked his watch. He'd been to Mercy and persuaded the cardiac nurses for a quick visit. When a police officer is at the hospital, there are never visiting hours.
  The rest of the calls were from Jessica. He'd call her in a little while. He just needed a few minutes to himself.
  Right now he just wanted some peace and quiet in the noisiest bar in Grays Ferry.
  Tessa Wells.
  Nicole Taylor.
  The public thinks that when a person is murdered, the police show up at the scene, take a few notes, and then go home. Nothing could be further from the truth. Because the unavenged dead never stay dead. The unavenged dead are watching you. They watch you when you go to the movies, have dinner with your family, or have a few pints with the guys at the corner tavern. They watch you when you make love. They watch, wait, and ask questions. What do you do for me? they whisper softly in your ear as your life unfolds, as your children grow and thrive, as you laugh, cry, feel, and believe. Why are you having a good time? they ask. Why are you living while I lie here on the cold marble?
  What do you do for me?
  Byrne's speed of discovery was one of the fastest in the unit, partly, he knew, because of the synergy he had with Jimmy Purify, partly because of the daydreams he began having thanks to four bullets from Luther White's gun and a trip beneath the surface of Delaware.
  An organized killer, by nature, considered himself superior to most people, but especially to the people tasked with finding him. It was this egotism that drove Kevin Byrne, and in this case, the "Rosary Girl," it became an obsession. He knew it. He probably knew it the moment he walked down those rotten steps on North Eighth Street and witnessed the brutal humiliation that had befallen Tessa Wells.
  But he knew it wasn't just a sense of duty, but also the horror of Morris Blanchard. He'd made many mistakes in his career, but never once had it resulted in the death of an innocent person. Byrne wasn't sure whether the arrest and conviction of the "Rosary Girl" killer would atone for his guilt or re-align him with the city of Philadelphia, but he hoped it would fill the void inside him.
  And then he will be able to retire with his head held high.
  Some detectives follow the money. Some follow science. Some follow motive. Kevin Byrne, deep down, trusted the door. No, he couldn't predict the future or determine the identity of a killer simply by laying his hands on it. But sometimes he felt like he could, and maybe that's what mattered. A nuance discovered, an intent detected, a path chosen, a thread followed. In the fifteen years since his drowning, he'd been wrong only once.
  He needed sleep. He paid the bill, said goodbye to a few regulars, and stepped out into the endless rain. Grays Ferry smelled clean.
  Byrne buttoned his coat and assessed his driving skills while examining five bottles of bourbon. He declared himself fit. More or less. As he approached his car, he realized something was wrong, but the image didn't immediately register.
  Then it happened.
  The driver's window was smashed, and broken glass glistened on the front seat. He peered inside. His CD player and CD wallet were gone.
  "Bastard," he said. "This fucking town."
  He circled the car several times, the rabid dog chasing his tail in the rain. He sat on the hood, truly reflecting on the stupidity of his claim. He knew better. You'd have about as much chance of getting a stolen radio back in Grays Ferry as Michael Jackson had of getting a job at a daycare center.
  The stolen CD player didn't bother him as much as the stolen CDs. He had a select collection of classic blues there. Three years in the making.
  He was about to leave when he noticed someone watching him from the vacant lot across the road. Byrne couldn't see who it was, but something about their posture told him everything he needed to know.
  "Hello!" Byrne shouted.
  The man ran behind the buildings on the other side of the street.
  Byrne rushed after him.
  
  IT WAS HEAVY IN MY HANDS, like dead weight.
  By the time Byrne crossed the street, the man had vanished into the miasma of the pouring rain. Byrne continued through the trash-strewn lot and then to the alley that ran behind the rows of houses that stretched the length of the block.
  He didn't see the thief.
  Where the hell did he go?
  Byrne holstered his Glock, crept into the alley, and looked left.
  A dead end. A dumpster, a pile of trash bags, broken wooden crates. He disappeared into an alley. Was someone standing behind the dumpster? A clap of thunder made Byrne roll over, his heart pounding in his chest.
  One.
  He continued, paying attention to every shadow in the night. The machine gun of raindrops hitting plastic garbage bags momentarily drowned out all other sounds.
  Then, in the rain, he heard a sobbing sound and the rustling of plastic.
  Byrne looked behind the dumpster. It was a black guy, about eighteen years old. In the moonlight, Byrne could see a nylon cap, a Flyers jersey, and a gang tattoo on his right arm, identifying him as a member of JBM: Junior Black Mafia. On his left arm were tattoos of prison sparrows. He was kneeling, bound and gagged. His face bore bruises from a recent beating. His eyes blazed with fear.
  What the hell is going on here?
  Byrne felt movement to his left. Before he could turn, a huge arm grabbed him from behind. Byrne felt the cold of a razor-sharp knife at his throat.
  Then in his ear: "Don't move, damn it."
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  TUESDAY, 9:10 PM
  JESSICA WAITED. People came and went, hurried in the rain, hailed taxis, ran to the subway stop.
  None of them were Brian Parkhurst.
  Jessica reached under her raincoat and pressed the key on her ATV twice.
  At the entrance to the Central Square, less than fifty feet away, a disheveled man emerged from the shadows.
  Jessica looked at him, holding out her hands, palms up.
  Nick Palladino shrugged. Before leaving Northeast, Jessica called Byrne twice more, then called Nick on her way into town; Nick immediately agreed to back her up. Nick's extensive experience working undercover in the narcotics unit made him ideal for undercover surveillance. He was dressed in a worn hoodie and dirty chinos. For Nick Palladino, this was a real sacrifice for the job.
  John Shepherd was under some scaffolding on the side of City Hall, just across the street, binoculars in hand. At Market Street subway station, a pair of uniformed officers stood guard, both holding a yearbook photo of Brian Parkhurst, in case he happened to be on that route.
  He didn't show up. And it looked like he had no intention of doing so.
  Jessica called the station. The team at Parkhurst's house reported no activity.
  Jessica walked slowly to where Palladino stood.
  "Still can't get in touch with Kevin?" he asked.
  "No," Jessica said.
  "He probably crashed. He'll need the rest.
  Jessica hesitated, unsure how to ask. She was new to this club and didn't want to step on anyone's toes. "Does he seem okay to you?"
  - Kevin is hard to read, Jess.
  "He seems completely exhausted."
  Palladino nodded and lit a cigarette. They were all tired. "Will he tell you about his... experiences?"
  - Do you mean Luther White?
  As far as Jessica could determine, Kevin Byrne had been involved in a botched arrest fifteen years earlier, a bloody confrontation with a rape suspect named Luther White. White was killed; Byrne nearly died himself.
  This was the biggest part that confused Jessica.
  "Yes," said Palladino.
  "No, he didn't," Jessica said. "I didn't have the courage to ask him about it."
  "It was a close call for him," Palladino said. "As close as it gets. From what I understand, he's been, well, dead for a while."
  "So I heard you right," Jessica said incredulously. "So, he's like a psychic or something?"
  "Oh, God, no." Palladino smiled and shook his head. "Nothing of the sort. Never even utter that word in front of him. In fact, it would be better if you never even brought it up."
  "Why is this?"
  "Let me put it this way. There's a fast-talking detective at the Centre who gave him the cold shoulder one night at Finnigan's Wake. I think that guy still eats his dinner through a straw."
  "Gotcha," Jessica said.
  "It's just that Kevin has a... sense about the really bad ones. Or at least he used to. The whole Morris Blanchard thing was really bad for him. He was wrong about Blanchard, and it almost destroyed him. I know he wants out, Jess. He's got a twenty. He just can't find the door.
  The two detectives surveyed the rain-drenched square.
  "Look," Palladino began, "it's probably not my place to say this, but Ike Buchanan took a risk with you. You know that's the right thing to do?"
  "What do you mean?" Jessica asked, although she had a pretty good idea.
  "When he formed that task force and handed it over to Kevin, he could have moved you to the back of the pack. Hell, maybe he should have. No offense."
  - Nothing was taken.
  "Ike's a tough guy. You might think he's allowing you to stay at the forefront for political reasons-I don't think it'll come as a shock to you that there are a few idiots in the department who think that way-but he believes in you. If he didn't, you wouldn't be here.
  "Wow," Jessica thought. Where the hell did all this come from?
  "Well, I hope I can live up to that belief," she said.
  "You can do it."
  "Thanks, Nick. That means a lot." She meant it too.
  - Yeah, well, I don't even know why I told you.
  For some unknown reason, Jessica hugged him. A few seconds later, they broke apart, smoothed their hair, coughed into their fists, and overcame their emotions.
  "So," Jessica said a little awkwardly, "what do we do now?"
  Nick Palladino searched the block: City Hall, South Broad, the central square, and the market. He found John Shepard under an awning near the subway entrance. John caught his eye. The two men shrugged. It was raining.
  "To hell with it," he said. "Let's close this."
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  TUESDAY, 9:15 PM
  BYRNE didn't need to look to know who it was. The wet sounds coming from the man's mouth-a missing hiss, a broken explosive, and a deep, nasal voice-indicated that this was a man who had recently had several upper teeth removed and his nose blown off.
  It was Diablo. Gideon Pratt's bodyguard.
  "Be cool," Byrne said.
  "Oh, I'm cool, cowboy," Diablo said. "I'm fucking dry ice."
  Then Byrne felt something far worse than a cold blade at his throat. He felt Diablo caress him and take his service Glock from him: the worst nightmare in a police officer's bad dreams.
  Diablo put the barrel of the Glock to the back of Byrne's head.
  "I'm a police officer," Byrne said.
  "No fucking way," Diablo said. "Next time you commit aggravated assault, you should stay away from the TV."
  A press conference, Byrne thought. Diablo had seen the press conference, then staked out the Round House and followed him.
  "You don't want to do that," Byrne said.
  - Shut the hell up.
  The bound child glanced back and forth between them, his eyes darting about, searching for a way out. The tattoo on Diablo's forearm told Byrne he belonged to the P-Town Posse, a strange conglomerate of Vietnamese, Indonesians, and disgruntled thugs who, for one reason or another, didn't fit in anywhere else.
  P-Town Posse and JBM were natural enemies, a ten-year feud. Now Byrne knew what was going on.
  Diablo set him up.
  "Let him go," Byrne said. "We'll work this out between us."
  "This issue won't be resolved for a long time, bastard."
  Byrne knew he had to make a move. He swallowed hard, tasted Vicodin in his throat, felt a spark in his fingers.
  Diablo made the move for him.
  Without warning, without a shred of conscience, Diablo circled around him, aimed Byrne's Glock, and fired point-blank at the boy. One shot to the heart. Instantly, a spray of blood, tissue, and bone fragments hit the dirty brick wall, forming a dark red foam, then washing away to the ground in the pouring rain. The child fell.
  Byrne closed his eyes. In his mind's eye, he saw Luther White pointing a gun at him all those years ago. He felt the icy water swirling around him, sinking deeper and deeper.
  Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed.
  Time crawled.
  Stopped.
  When the pain didn't come, Byrne opened his eyes and saw Diablo turn the corner and disappear. Byrne knew what would happen next. Diablo was throwing his weapons nearby-a dumpster, a trash can, a drainpipe. The police would find him. They always did. And Kevin Francis Byrne's life would be over.
  I wonder who will come for him?
  Johnny Shepherd?
  Will Ike volunteer to bring him?
  Byrne watched as the rain fell on the dead child's body, washing his blood onto the broken concrete, leaving him unable to move.
  His thoughts were stumbling down a tangled dead end. He knew that if he called, if he wrote this down, it would all only begin. Questions and answers, the forensic team, detectives, district attorneys, a preliminary hearing, the press, charges, a witch hunt within the police, administrative leave.
  Fear pierced him-shiny and metallic. Morris Blanchard's smiling, mocking face danced before his eyes.
  The city will never forgive him for this.
  The city will never forget.
  He stood over a dead black child, without witnesses or a partner. He was drunk. A dead black gangster, executed by a bullet from his service Glock, a weapon he couldn't explain at the moment. For a white Philadelphia cop, the nightmare couldn't get much deeper.
  There was no time to think about it.
  He crouched down and felt for a pulse. There was nothing. He pulled out his Maglite and held it in his hand, hiding the light as best he could. He examined the body carefully. Judging by the angle and appearance of the entry wound, it looked like a through-and-through. He quickly found a shell casing and pocketed it. He searched the ground between the child and the wall, looking for a slug. Fast food trash, wet cigarette butts, a couple of pastel-colored condoms. No bullet.
  A light came on above his head in one of the rooms facing the alley. A siren would soon sound.
  Byrne sped up his search, throwing trash bags around, the foul smell of rotting food nearly making him choke. Soggy newspapers, damp magazines, orange peels, coffee filters, eggshells.
  Then the angels smiled at him.
  A slug lay next to the shards of a broken beer bottle. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. It was still warm. Then he pulled out a plastic evidence bag. He always kept a few in his coat. He turned it inside out and placed it over the entry wound on the child's chest, making sure it caught a thick smear of blood. He stepped away from the body and turned the bag right-side out, sealing it.
  He heard a siren.
  By the time he turned to run, Kevin Byrne's mind was consumed by something other than rational thought, something far darker, something that had nothing to do with academy, textbook, or work.
  Something called survival.
  He walked down the alley, absolutely certain he had missed something. He was sure of it.
  At the end of the alley, he looked both ways. Deserted. He ran across the vacant lot, slipped into his car, reached into his pocket, and turned on his cell phone. It rang immediately. The sound almost made him jump. He answered.
  "Byrne".
  It was Eric Chavez.
  "Where are you?" Chavez asked.
  He wasn't here. He couldn't be here. He wondered about cell phone tracking. If it came down to it, would they be able to track where he was when he got the call? The siren was getting closer. Could Chavez have heard it?
  "Old Town," Byrne said. "How are you?"
  "We just got a call. Nine-one-one. Someone saw a guy carrying a body to the Rodin Museum."
  Jesus.
  He had to go. Now. No time to think. This is how and why people got caught. But he had no choice.
  "I'm already on my way."
  Before leaving, he glanced down the alley, at the dark spectacle on display there. At its center lay a dead child, thrown into the very center of Kevin Byrne's nightmare, a child whose own nightmare had just emerged at dawn.
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  TUESDAY, 9:20 PM
  HE FELL ASLEEP. Ever since Simon was a child in the Lake District, where the sound of rain on the roof was a lullaby, the rumble of a thunderstorm had soothed him. He was awakened by the rumble of a car.
  Or maybe it was a gunshot.
  It was Grays Ferry.
  He looked at his watch. One o'clock. He'd been asleep for an hour. Some kind of surveillance expert. More like Inspector Clouseau.
  The last thing he remembered before waking up was Kevin Byrne disappearing into a rough Grey's Ferry bar called Shotz, the kind of place where you have to go down two steps to enter. Physically and socially. A rundown Irish bar full of people from House of Pain.
  Simon parked in an alley, partly to avoid Byrne's line of sight, and partly because there was no space in front of the bar. His intention was to wait for Byrne to leave the bar, follow him, and see if he'd stop on a dark street to light a crack pipe. If all went well, Simon would sneak up to the car and snap a photo of legendary detective Kevin Francis Byrne with a five-inch glass shotgun in his mouth.
  Then he will own it.
  Simon took out his small folding umbrella, opened the car door, unfolded it, and sidled to the corner of the building. He looked around. Byrne's car was still parked there. It looked like someone had smashed the driver's window. "Oh, my God," Simon thought. "I pity the fool who chose the wrong car on the wrong night."
  The bar was still crowded. He could hear the pleasant strains of an old Thin Lizzy tune jingling through the windows.
  He was about to return to his car when a shadow caught his eye-a shadow darting across the vacant lot directly opposite Shotz. Even in the dim neon light of the bar, Simon could recognize Byrne's enormous silhouette.
  What the hell was he doing there?
  Simon raised his camera, focused, and took several shots. He wasn't sure why, but when you followed someone with a camera and tried to assemble a collage of images the next day, each image helped establish a timeline.
  Plus, digital images could be erased. It wasn't like the old days, when every shot from a 35mm camera cost money.
  Back in the car, he checked the images on the camera's small LCD screen. Not bad. A little dark, sure, but it was clearly Kevin Byrne, emerging from the alley across the parking lot. Two photos were placed on the side of a light-colored van, and the man's massive profile was unmistakable. Simon made sure the date and time were imprinted on the image.
  Made.
  Then his police scanner-a Uniden BC250D, a portable model that had repeatedly gotten him to crime scenes before detectives-springed to life. He couldn't make out any details, but a few seconds later, as Kevin Byrne walked away, Simon realized that whatever it was, it belonged there.
  Simon turned the ignition key, hoping the work he'd done securing the muffler would hold. And it did. He wouldn't be like a Cessna trying to track down one of the city's most experienced detectives.
  Life was good.
  He put it into gear. And followed.
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  TUESDAY, 9:45 PM
  JESSICA SAT IN THE DRIVEWAY, fatigue beginning to take its toll. Rain pounded the roof of the Cherokee. She thought about what Nick had said. It occurred to her that she hadn't read "The Conversation" after the task force had been formed and the sit-down conversation that was supposed to begin: "Look, Jessica, this has nothing to do with your detective abilities."
  This conversation never happened.
  She turned off the engine.
  What did Brian Parkhurst want to tell her? He didn't say he wanted to tell her what he'd done, but rather that there was something about these girls she needed to know.
  What do you mean?
  And where was he?
  If I see anyone else there, I'll leave.
  Did Parkhurst appoint Nick Palladino and John Shepherd as police officers?
  Most likely not.
  Jessica got out, locked the Jeep, and ran to the back door, splashing through puddles along the way. She was soaking wet. It seemed like she'd been soaking wet forever. The back porch light had burned out weeks ago, and as she fumbled for her house key, she chided herself for the hundredth time for not replacing it. The branches of the dying maple tree creaked above her. It really needed trimming before the branches crashed into the house. These things were usually Vincent's responsibility, but Vincent wasn't around, was he?
  Get it together, Jess. Right now, you're a mom and dad, as well as a cook, a repairman, a landscaper, a driver, and a tutor.
  She picked up the house key and was about to open the back door when she heard a noise above her: the creaking of aluminum, twisting, splitting, and groaning under the enormous weight. She also heard leather-soled shoes squeak on the floor and saw a hand reaching out.
  Get your gun out, Jess...
  The Glock was in her purse. Rule number one: never keep a gun in your purse.
  The shadow formed a body. The body of a man.
  Priest.
  He grabbed her hand.
  And pulled her into the darkness.
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  TUESDAY, 9:50 PM
  The scene around the RODIN Museum resembled a madhouse. Simon hung behind the gathered crowd, clinging to the unwashed. What attracted ordinary citizens to scenes of poverty and chaos, like flies to a pile of manure, he wondered.
  "We need to talk," he thought with a smile.
  And yet, in his defense, he felt that, despite his penchant for the macabre and his predilection for the morbid, he still retained a shred of dignity, still carefully guarded that shred of greatness regarding the work he had done and the public's right to know. Like it or not, he was a journalist.
  He made his way to the front of the crowd. He turned up his collar, put on tortoiseshell glasses, and combed his hair over his forehead.
  Death was here.
  The same thing happened with Simon Close.
  Bread and jam.
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  TUESDAY, 9:50 PM
  IT WAS FATHER CORRIO.
  Father Mark Corrio was the pastor of St. Paul's Church when Jessica was growing up. He was appointed pastor when Jessica was about nine, and she remembered how all the women at the time swooned over his grim appearance, how they all commented on what a waste it was that he became a priest. His dark hair had grayed, but he was still a handsome man.
  But on her porch, in the dark, in the rain, he was Freddy Krueger.
  What happened was this: one of the gutters above the porch was precariously suspended overhead and was about to break under the weight of a submerged branch that had fallen from a nearby tree. Father Corrio grabbed Jessica to keep her out of harm's way. A few seconds later, the gutter broke free from the gutter and crashed to the ground.
  Divine intervention? Perhaps. But that didn't stop Jessica from being scared out of her wits for a few seconds.
  "I'm sorry if I scared you," he said.
  Jessica almost said, "Sorry, I almost knocked out your damn light, Padre."
  "Come inside," she suggested instead.
  
  They finished their meal, made coffee, sat down in the living room and finished the pleasantries. Jessica called Paula and said she'd be there soon.
  "How is your father?" asked the priest.
  "He's great, thank you."
  - I haven't seen him at St. Paul's Church lately.
  "He's kind of short," Jessica said. "He could be in the back."
  Father Corrio smiled. "How do you like living in the Northeast?"
  When Father Corrio said it, it sounded like this part of Philadelphia was a foreign country. Then again, Jessica thought, in the insular world of South Philadelphia, it probably was. "I can't buy good bread," she said.
  Father Corrio laughed. "I wish I knew. I would have stayed with Sarcone.
  Jessica recalled eating warm Sarcone bread as a child, DiBruno cheese, Isgro baked goods. These thoughts, along with the closeness of Father Corrio, filled her with deep sadness.
  What the hell was she doing in the suburbs?
  And more importantly, what was her old parish priest doing here?
  "I saw you on TV yesterday," he said.
  For a moment, Jessica almost told him he must be mistaken. She was a police officer. Then, of course, she remembered. A press conference.
  Jessica didn't know what to say. Somehow, she knew Father Corrio had come because of the murders. She just wasn't sure she was ready to preach.
  "Is this young man a suspect?" he asked.
  He was referring to the circus surrounding Brian Parkhurst's departure from the Roundhouse. He left with Monsignor Pachek, and-perhaps as the opening salvo in the PR wars to come-Pachek deliberately and abruptly declined to comment. Jessica saw the scene at Eighth and Race Street replayed over and over again. The media managed to get Parkhurst's name and plaster it all over the screen.
  "Not exactly," Jessica lied. Still to her priest. "However, we'd like to talk to him again."
  - As I understand it, he works for the archdiocese?
  It was a question and a statement. Something that priests and psychiatrists were really good at.
  "Yes," Jessica said. "He advises students from Nazarene, Regina, and a few others."
  "Do you think he is responsible for this? . . ?"
  Father Corrio fell silent. He was clearly having difficulty speaking.
  "I really don't know for sure," Jessica said.
  Father Corrio took it in. "It's such a terrible thing."
  Jessica just nodded.
  "When I hear of such crimes," Father Corrio continued, "I have to wonder how civilized we are. We like to think we've become enlightened over the centuries. But this? This is barbarism."
  "I try not to think about it that way," Jessica said. "If I think about the horrors of it all, I won't be able to do my job." When she said it, it sounded easy. It wasn't.
  "Have you ever heard of Rosarium Virginis Mariae?"
  "I think so," Jessica said. It sounded like she'd stumbled across it while researching at the library, but like most information, it was lost in a bottomless abyss of data. "What about this?"
  Father Corrio smiled. "Don't worry. There won't be a quiz." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out an envelope. "I think you should read this." He handed it to her.
  "What is this?"
  "Rosarium Virginis Mariae is an apostolic letter about the rosary of the Virgin Mary."
  - Is this somehow connected with these murders?
  "I don't know," he said.
  Jessica glanced at the papers folded inside. "Thank you," she said. "I'll read it this evening."
  Father Corrio drained his cup and looked at his watch.
  "Would you like more coffee?" Jessica asked.
  "No, thank you," said Father Corrio. "I really should get back."
  Before he could get up, the phone rang. "Sorry," she said.
  Jessica answered. It was Eric Chavez.
  As she listened, she looked at her reflection in the window, dark as night. The night threatened to open up and swallow her whole.
  They found another girl.
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  TUESDAY, 10:20 PM
  The RODIN Museum was a small museum dedicated to the French sculptor, located at Twenty-second Street and Benjamin Franklin Boulevard.
  When Jessica arrived, several patrol cars were already on the scene. Two lanes of the road were blocked. A crowd was gathering.
  Kevin Byrne hugged John Shepherd.
  The girl sat on the ground, leaning her back against the bronze gates leading into the museum courtyard. She looked about sixteen. Her hands were bound together, like the others. She was plump, red-haired, and pretty. She wore Regina's uniform.
  In her hands were black rosaries, from which three dozen beads were missing.
  On her head she wore a crown of thorns made from an accordion.
  Blood ran down her face in a thin scarlet web.
  "Damn it," Byrne yelled, slamming his fist on the hood of the car.
  "I put all my points on Parkhurst," Buchanan said. "In the BOLO van."
  Jessica heard it go out as she drove into town, her third trip of the day.
  "A crow?" Byrne asked. "A damn crown?"
  "He's getting better," John Shepherd said.
  "What do you mean?"
  "See the gate?" Shepard pointed the flashlight at the inner gate, the gate leading to the museum itself.
  "What about them?" Byrne asked.
  "These gates are called the Gates of Hell," he said. "This bastard is a real work of art."
  "A painting," Byrne said. "A Blake painting."
  "Yeah."
  "It tells us where the next victim will be found."
  For a homicide detective, the only thing worse than running out of leads is a game. The collective rage at the crime scene was palpable.
  "The girl's name is Bethany Price," Tony Park said, consulting his notes. "Her mother reported her missing this afternoon. She was at the Sixth Precinct station when the call came. That's her there."
  He pointed to a woman in her late twenties, dressed in a brown raincoat. She reminded Jessica of those shell-shocked people you see on foreign news reports right after a car bomb explodes. Lost, speechless, devastated.
  "How long has she been missing?" Jessica asked.
  "She didn't come home from school today. Anyone with daughters in high school or elementary school is very nervous."
  "Thanks to the media," Shepard said.
  Byrne began to pace.
  "What about the guy who called 911?" Shepard asked.
  Pak pointed to a man standing behind one of the patrol cars. He was about forty years old and well dressed: a dark blue three-button suit and a club tie.
  "His name is Jeremy Darnton," Pack said. "He said he was going 40 miles an hour when he passed. All he saw was the victim being carried on a man's shoulder. By the time he was able to stop and turn around, the man was gone."
  "No description of this man?" Jessica asked.
  Pak shook his head. "White shirt or jacket. Dark pants.
  "That's it?"
  "That's all."
  "That's every waiter in Philadelphia," Byrne said. He returned to his tempo. "I want this guy. I want to finish this bastard."
  "We all do it, Kevin," Shepard said. "We'll get him."
  "Parkhurst played me," Jessica said. "He knew I wouldn't come alone. He knew I'd bring the cavalry. He was trying to distract us.
  "And he did," Shepherd said.
  A few minutes later, they all approached the victim as Tom Weirich entered to do a preliminary examination.
  Weirich checked her pulse and pronounced her dead. Then he looked at her wrists. Each had a long-healed scar-a serpentine gray ridge, roughly cut down the side, about an inch below the heel of her hand.
  At some point over the past few years, Bethany Price attempted suicide.
  As the lights of a half-dozen patrol cars flickered across the statue of The Thinker, as the crowd continued to gather and the rain grew heavier, washing away precious knowledge, one man in the crowd looked on, a man who carried deep and secret knowledge of the horrors that had befallen the daughters of Philadelphia.
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  TUESDAY, 10:25 PM
  The lights on the statue's face are beautiful.
  But not as beautiful as Bethany. Her delicate white features give her the appearance of a sad angel, shining like the winter moon.
  Why don't they cover it up?
  Of course, if they only realized how tormented Bethany's soul was, they wouldn't be so upset.
  I must admit that I feel a great deal of excitement as I stand among the good citizens of my city and watch all this.
  I've never seen so many police cars in my life. Flashing lights illuminate the boulevard like a carnival in progress. The atmosphere is almost festive. About sixty people have gathered. Death always attracts. Like a roller coaster. Let's get closer, but not too close.
  Unfortunately, one day we all become closer, whether we want it or not.
  What would they think if I unbuttoned my coat and showed them what I had with me? I look to the right. A married couple is standing next to me. They look about forty-five years old, white, wealthy, well-dressed.
  "Do you have any idea what happened here?" I ask my husband.
  He looks at me, quickly up and down. I'm not insulting. I'm not threatening. "I'm not sure," he says. "But I think they found another girl."
  "Another girl?"
  "Another victim of this... psycho beads.
  I cover my mouth in horror. "Seriously? Right here?"
  They nod solemnly, mostly out of a smug sense of pride that they were the ones to break the news. They're the kind of people who watch Entertainment Tonight and immediately rush to the phone to be the first to tell their friends about a celebrity's death.
  "I really hope they catch him soon," I say.
  "They won't," says the wife. She's wearing an expensive white wool cardigan. She's carrying an expensive umbrella. She has the tiniest teeth I've ever seen.
  "Why did you say that?" I ask.
  "Between you and me," she says, "the police aren't always the sharpest knife in the drawer."
  I look at her chin, at the slightly sagging skin on her neck. Does she know that I could reach out right now, take her face in my hands, and in one second, break her spinal cord?
  I want to. I really do.
  Arrogant, smug bitch.
  I should. But I won't.
  I have a job.
  Maybe I'll go get them home and pay her a visit when this is all over.
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  TUESDAY, 10:30 PM
  The crime scene stretched for fifty yards in all directions. Traffic on the boulevard was now limited to one lane. Two uniformed officers directed traffic.
  Byrne and Jessica watched as Tony Park and John Shepherd gave instructions
  The Crime Scene Unit. They were the primary detectives on this case, though it was clear it would soon be taken over by the task force. Jessica leaned against one of the patrol cars, trying to make sense of this nightmare. She glanced at Byrne. He was in the zone, on one of his mental jaunts.
  At that moment, a man stepped forward from the crowd. Jessica saw him approaching out of the corner of her eye. Before she could react, he attacked her. She turned defensively.
  It was Patrick Farrell.
  "Hello," Patrick said.
  At first, his presence at the scene was so out of place that Jessica thought he was a man who looked like Patrick. It was one of those moments when someone representing one part of your life enters another part of your life, and suddenly everything feels a little off, a little surreal.
  "Hi," Jessica said, surprised by the sound of her own voice. "What are you doing here?"
  Standing just a few feet away, Byrne glanced at Jessica with concern, as if to ask, "Is everything okay?" At times like these, given their purpose here, everyone was a little on edge, a little less trusting of the strange face.
  "Patrick Farrell, my partner Kevin Byrne," Jessica said a little dryly.
  The two men shook hands. For a strange moment, Jessica felt a sense of apprehension at their meeting, though she had no idea why. This was compounded by the brief glint in Kevin Byrne's eyes as the two men shook hands, a fleeting premonition that vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
  "I was heading to my sister's house in Manayunk. I saw flashing lights and stopped," Patrick said. "I'm afraid it was Pavlovsky."
  "Patrick is an emergency room physician at St. Joseph's Hospital," Jessica told Byrne.
  Byrne nodded, perhaps acknowledging the trauma doctor's difficulties, perhaps acknowledging that they shared a common vision as the two men daily healed the city's bloody wounds.
  "A few years ago, I saw an ambulance rescue on the Schuylkill Expressway. I stopped and performed an emergency tracheal. I've never been able to pass a strobe light since."
  Byrne stepped closer and lowered his voice. "When we catch this guy, if he gets seriously injured in the process and ends up in your ambulance, take your time fixing him, okay?"
  Patrick smiled. "No problem."
  Buchanan approached. He looked like a man with the weight of a ten-ton mayor on his back. "Go home. Both of you," he said to Jessica and Byrne. "I don't want to see either of you until Thursday.
  He received no arguments from any of the detectives.
  Byrne picked up his cell phone and said to Jessica, "Sorry. I turned it off. It won't happen again."
  "Don't worry about it," Jessica said.
  "If you want to talk, day or night, call."
  "Thank you."
  Byrne turned to Patrick. "Nice to meet you, Doctor."
  "Pleasure," Patrick said.
  Byrne turned, ducked under the yellow tape and walked back to his car.
  "Look," Jessica said to Patrick. "I'm going to stick around here for a while, in case they need a warm body to gather information."
  Patrick glanced at his watch. "That's cool. I'm still going to see my sister."
  Jessica touched his arm. "Why don't you call me later? I shouldn't be too long."
  "Are you sure?"
  "Absolutely not," Jessica thought.
  "Absolutely."
  
  PATRICK HAD A BOTTLE OF MERLOT IN ONE OF THE GLASSES, AND IN THE OTHER A BOTTLE OF GODIVAS CHOCOLATE TRUFFLES.
  "No flowers?" Jessica asked with a wink. She opened the front door and let Patrick in.
  Patrick smiled. "I couldn't climb the fence at the Morris Arboretum," he said. "But not for lack of trying."
  Jessica helped him take off his wet coat. His black hair was tangled by the wind, glistening with raindrops. Even windswept and wet, Patrick was dangerously sexy. Jessica tried to push the thought aside, though she had no idea why.
  "How's your sister?" she asked.
  Claudia Farrell Spencer was the heart surgeon Patrick was destined to become, a force of nature who fulfilled all of Martin Farrell's ambitions. Except for the part about being a boy.
  "Pregnant and bitchy as a pink poodle," Patrick said.
  "How far has she gone?"
  "She said about three years," Patrick said. "Actually, eight months. She's about the size of a Humvee."
  "Gee, I hope you told her that. Pregnant women just love being told they're huge."
  Patrick laughed. Jessica took the wine and chocolate and set them on the table in the hall. "I'll take the glasses."
  As she turned to leave, Patrick grabbed her arm. Jessica turned to face him. They found themselves face to face in the small hallway, the past between them, the present hanging by a thread, the moment stretching before them.
  "Better watch out, Doc," Jessica said. "I'm collecting heat."
  Patrick smiled.
  "Someone better do something," Jessica thought.
  Patrick did.
  He wrapped his arms around Jessica's waist and pulled her closer, the gesture firm but not insistent.
  The kiss was deep, slow, and perfect. At first, Jessica found it hard to believe she was kissing anyone in her own home other than her husband. But then she came to terms with the fact that Vincent had no trouble overcoming this obstacle with Michelle Brown.
  There was no point in wondering whether it was right or wrong.
  It felt right.
  When Patrick led her to the sofa in the living room, she felt even better.
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  41
  WEDNESDAY, 1:40 AM
  O CHO RIOS, a small reggae pot in the North Liberties, was closing. The DJ was currently playing background music. There were only a few couples on the dance floor.
  Byrne crossed the room and spoke to one of the bartenders, who disappeared through a door behind the counter. After a moment, a man emerged from behind the plastic beads. When the man saw Byrne, his face lit up.
  Gauntlett Merriman was in his early forties. He had achieved great success with the Champagne Posse in the 1980s, at one point owning a rowhouse in Community Hill and a beach house on the Jersey Shore. His long, white-streaked dreadlocks, even in his early twenties, were a fixture at clubs and the Roundhouse.
  Byrne recalled that Gauntlett once owned a peach-colored Jaguar XJS, a peach-colored Mercedes 380 SE, and a peach-colored BMW 635 CSi. He parked them all in front of his house on Delancey, resplendent in bright chrome hubcaps and custom-made gold marijuana-leaf hood ornaments, just to drive white people crazy. Apparently, he hadn't lost his eye for color. That evening, he was wearing a peach-colored linen suit and peach-colored leather sandals.
  Byrne heard the news, but was not prepared to meet the ghost that was Gauntlett Merriman.
  Gauntlett Merriman was a ghost.
  He seemed to have bought the entire bag. His face and arms were covered in Kaposi's wrists, which stuck out like twigs from the sleeves of his coat. His flashy Patek Philippe watch looked as if it might fall off at any second.
  But despite all this, he was still Gauntlett. Macho, stoic, and tough guy Gauntlett. Even at this late date, he wanted the world to know he'd gotten to the virus. The second thing Byrne noticed after the skeletal face of the man walking across the room toward him with outstretched arms was that Gauntlett Merriman was wearing a black T-shirt with large white letters that read:
  I'M NOT GAY!
  The two men embraced. Gauntlett felt fragile under Byrne's grip, like dry kindling, ready to crack under the slightest pressure. They sat at a corner table. Gauntlett called over a waiter, who brought Byrne a bourbon and Gauntlett a Pellegrino.
  "Have you quit drinking?" Byrne asked.
  "Two years," Gauntlett said. "Medication, man."
  Byrne smiled. He knew Gauntlett well enough. "Man," he said. "I remember when you could smell the fifty-meter line at the vet's."
  "I used to be able to fuck all night too."
  - No, you couldn't.
  Gauntlett smiled. "Maybe an hour."
  The two men adjusted their clothes, taking in each other's company. A long moment passed. The DJ played a song by Ghetto Priest.
  "What about all this, huh?" Gauntlett asked, waving a thin hand in front of his face and sunken chest. "Some bullshit, dis."
  Byrne was speechless. "I'm sorry."
  Gauntlett shook his head. "I had time," he said. "No regrets."
  They sipped their drinks. Gauntlett fell silent. He knew the drill. Cops were always cops. Robbers were always robbers. "So to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Detective?"
  "I'm looking for someone."
  Gauntlett nodded again. He had expected as much.
  "A punk named Diablo," Byrne said. "Big bastard, he's got tattoos all over his face," Byrne said. "You know him?"
  "I do."
  - Any ideas where I can find him?
  Gauntlett Merriman knew enough not to ask why.
  "Is it in the light or in the shadow?" Gauntlett asked.
  "Shadow."
  Gauntlett glanced around the dance floor-a long, slow glance that gave his favor the weight it deserved. "I believe I can help you with that."
  - I just need to talk to him.
  Gauntlett raised a bone-thin hand. "Ston a riva battan nuh Know sunhat," he said, immersing himself deeply in his Jamaican patois.
  Byrne knew it. A stone at the bottom of a river doesn't know the sun is hot.
  "I appreciate it," Byrne added. He neglected to mention that Gauntlett should keep it to himself. He wrote his mobile number on the back of the business card.
  "Not at all." He took a sip of water. "I always make curry too."
  Gauntlett rose from the table a little unsteadily. Byrne wanted to help him, but he knew Gauntlett was a proud man. Gauntlett regained his composure. "I'll call you."
  The two men hugged again.
  As Byrne reached the door, he turned to find Gauntlett in the crowd, thinking, "A dying man knows his future."
  Kevin Byrne was jealous of him.
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  42
  WEDNESDAY, 2:00 AM
  "I AM MR. MASS?" asked the sweet voice on the phone.
  "Hello, love," Simon said, pouring out North London. "How are you?"
  "Okay, thank you," she said. "What can I do for you this evening?"
  Simon used three different outreach services. In this case, StarGals, he was Kingsley Amis. "I'm terribly lonely."
  "That's why we're here, Mr. Amis," she said. "Have you been a naughty boy?"
  "Terribly naughty," Simon said. "And I deserve to be punished."
  While waiting for the girl to arrive, Simon skimmed an excerpt from the first page of the next day's report. He had a cover story, as he had until the Rosary Killer was caught.
  A few minutes later, sipping a Stoli, he imported the photos from his camera into his laptop. God, how he loved this part, when all his equipment was synced and working.
  His heart beat a little faster as individual photographs appeared on the screen.
  He'd never used the motor drive feature on his digital camera before, which allowed him to take rapid bursts of photos without reloading. It worked perfectly.
  In total, he had six photographs of Kevin Byrne emerging from a vacant lot in Grays Ferry, as well as several telephoto shots in the Rodin Museum.
  No behind-the-scenes meetings with crack dealers.
  Not yet.
  Simon closed his laptop, took a quick shower, and poured himself a few more inches of Stoli.
  Twenty minutes later, as he prepared to open the door, he wondered who would be on the other side. As always, she would be blonde, long-legged, and slender. She would be wearing a plaid skirt, a dark blue jacket, a white blouse, knee socks, and penny loafers. She even carried a book bag.
  He really was a very naughty boy.
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  43
  WEDNESDAY, 9:00 AM.
  "EVERYTHING YOU NEED," said Ernie Tedesco.
  Ernie Tedesco owned a small meatpacking company, Tedesco and Sons Quality Meats, in Pennsport. He and Byrne had become friends several years earlier when Byrne solved a series of truck thefts for him. Byrne went home intending to shower, grab a bite to eat, and get Ernie out of bed. Instead, he showered, sat on the edge of his bed, and the next thing he knew, it was six in the morning.
  Sometimes the body says no.
  The two men embraced each other in macho fashion: clasping hands, stepping forward, and slapping each other hard on the back. Ernie's factory was closed for renovations. Once he left, Byrne would be left there alone.
  "Thanks, man," Byrne said.
  "Anything, anytime, anywhere," Ernie replied. He stepped through the huge steel door and disappeared.
  Byrne had been listening to the police band all morning. There had been no call about the body found in Gray's Ferry Alley. Not yet. The siren he'd heard the night before was just another call.
  Byrne walked into one of the huge meat lockers, a cold room where cuts of beef were hung on hooks and secured to ceiling rails.
  He put on gloves and moved the beef carcass a few feet away from the wall.
  A few minutes later, he opened the front door and walked to his car. He stopped at a demolition site in Delaware, where he picked up about a dozen bricks.
  Returning to the processing room, he carefully stacked the bricks on an aluminum dolly and positioned the dolly behind the hanging frame. He stepped back and examined the trajectory. Everything was wrong. He rearranged the bricks again and again until he got it right.
  He removed his wool gloves and put on latex ones. He pulled his weapon from his coat pocket, the silver Smith & Wesson he'd taken from Diablo the night he'd brought Gideon Pratt in. He glanced around the processing room again.
  He took a deep breath, stepped back a few feet, and assumed a shooting stance, aligning his body with the target. He cocked the hammer and fired. The explosion was loud, reverberating off the stainless steel reinforcement and echoing off the ceramic tile walls.
  Byrne approached the swaying corpse and examined it. The entry wound was small, barely visible. The exit wound was impossible to find in the folds of fat.
  As planned, the bullet hit a pile of bricks. Byrne found him on the floor, right next to the sewer.
  Just then, his portable radio crackled to life. Byrne turned on the volume. It was the radio call he'd been waiting for. The radio call he'd been dreading.
  Report of a body found in Grays Ferry.
  Byrne rolled the beef carcass back to where he'd found it. He washed the slug off first with bleach, then with the hottest water his hands could handle, and then dried it. He was careful, loading the Smith & Wesson pistol with a full metal jacket bullet. A hollow point would have carried fibers as it passed through the victim's clothing, and Byrne couldn't replicate that. He wasn't sure how much effort the CSU team was planning to put into killing another bandit, but he had to be careful nonetheless.
  He pulled out a plastic bag, the one he'd used to collect the blood the night before. He dropped the clean bullet inside, sealed the bag, gathered up the bricks, looked around the room again, and left.
  He had an appointment in Grays Ferry.
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  44
  WEDNESDAY, 9:15
  The trees bordering the trail that snaked through Pennypack Park were straining their buds. It was a popular jogging path, and on this crisp spring morning, runners were gathering in droves.
  As Jessica jogged, the events of the previous night flashed through her mind. Patrick had left a little after three. They had gone as far as two mutually committed adults could without making love-a step they both silently agreed they weren't ready for.
  Next time, Jessica thought, she might not be so grown-up about it all.
  She could still smell him on her body. She could still feel him on her fingertips, on her lips. But these sensations were suppressed by the horrors of work.
  She quickened her pace.
  She knew that most serial killers had a pattern-a cooling-off period between murders. Whoever did it was in a rage, in the final stages of a binge, a binge that would, in all likelihood, end in their own death.
  The victims couldn't have been more different physically. Tessa was thin and blonde. Nicole was a goth girl with jet-black hair and piercings. Bethany was heavy.
  He should have known them.
  Add to this the photographs of Tessa Wells found in his apartment, and Brian Parkhurst becomes the prime suspect. Was he dating all three women?
  Even if there had been, the biggest question remained. Why did he do it? Had these girls rejected his advances? Threatened to go public? No, Jessica thought. Somewhere in his past, there was surely a pattern of violence.
  On the other hand, if she could understand the monster's mindset, she would know why.
  However, anyone whose pathology of religious madness ran this deep has likely acted in this way before. And yet, no crime database has revealed even a remotely similar MO in the Philadelphia area, or anywhere nearby, for that matter.
  Yesterday, Jessica drove along Frankford Avenue Northeast, near Primrose Road, and passed St. Catherine of Siena Church. St. Catherine's Church had been stained with blood three years ago. She made a note to look into the incident. She knew she was grasping at straws, but straws were all they had at the moment. Many cases had been filed over such a tenuous connection.
  In any case, their perpetrator was lucky. He picked up three girls on the streets of Philadelphia, and no one noticed.
  Okay, Jessica thought. Start at the beginning. His first victim was Nicole Taylor. If it was Brian Parkhurst, they knew where he met Nicole. At school. If it was someone else, he must have met Nicole somewhere else. But where? And why was she targeted? They interviewed two people from St. Joseph who owned a Ford Windstar. Both were women; one in her late fifties, the other a single mother of three. Neither fit the profile exactly.
  Was it someone on the road Nicole took to school? The route was carefully planned. No one saw anyone hanging around Nicole.
  Was it a family friend?
  And if so, how did the performer know the other two girls?
  All three girls had different doctors and dentists. None of them played sports, so they had no coaches or physical education instructors. They had different tastes in clothing, music, and practically everything.
  Each question brought the answer closer to one name: Brian Parkhurst.
  When had Parkhurst lived in Ohio? She made a mental note to check with Ohio law enforcement to see if there were any unsolved murders with a similar pattern during that time. Because if there had been...
  Jessica never finished that thought because, as she turned a bend in the trail, she tripped over a branch that had fallen from one of the trees during the night's storm.
  She tried, but couldn't regain her balance. She fell face-first and rolled onto her back across the wet grass.
  She heard people approaching.
  Welcome to the Village of Humiliation.
  It had been a long time since she'd spilled anything. She found that her appreciation for being on wet ground in public hadn't grown over the years. She moved slowly and carefully, trying to determine if anything was broken or at least strained.
  "Are you okay?"
  Jessica looked up from her perch. The man asking the questions approached with a pair of middle-aged women, both with iPods strapped to their fanny packs. They were all dressed in high-quality running gear, identical suits with reflective stripes and zippers at the hems. Jessica, in her fuzzy sweatpants and worn Pumas, felt like a slob.
  "I'm fine, thank you," Jessica said. She was. Of course, nothing was broken. The soft grass had cushioned her fall. Other than a few grass stains and a bruised ego, she was unharmed. "I'm the city's acorn inspector. Just doing my job."
  The man smiled, stepped forward, and extended his hand. He was about thirty, fair-haired, and handsome in a collective way. She accepted the offer, rose to her feet, and brushed herself off. Both women smiled knowingly. They had been running in place the whole time. When Jessica shrugged, we all got a thump on the head, didn't we? In response, they continued on their way.
  "I had a bad fall myself recently," the man said. "Downstairs, near the band building. I tripped over a child's plastic bucket. I thought I'd broken my right arm for sure."
  "It's a shame, isn't it?"
  "Not at all," he said. "It gave me the opportunity to be one with nature."
  Jessica smiled.
  "I got a smile!" the man said. "I'm usually much more clumsy with beautiful women. It usually takes months to get a smile."
  Here comes the turn, Jessica thought. Still, he looked harmless.
  "Do you mind if I run with you?" he asked.
  "I'm almost done," Jessica said, though that wasn't true. She had a feeling this guy was talkative, and besides the fact that she didn't like talking while running, she had plenty to think about.
  "No problem," the man said. His face said otherwise. It looked as if she'd hit him.
  Now she was feeling ill. He stopped to help, and she stopped him rather unceremoniously. "I've got about a mile left," she said. "What pace are you keeping?"
  "I like to keep a glucometer just when I have a myocardial infarction."
  Jessica smiled again. "I don't know CPR," she said. "If you clutch your chest, I'm afraid you'll be alone."
  "Don't worry. I have the Blue Cross," he said.
  And with these words, they slowly moved along the path, deftly dodging the apples on the road, warm, dappled sunlight flickering through the trees. The rain had stopped for a moment, and the sun had dried the earth.
  "Do you celebrate Easter?" the man asked.
  If he could have seen her kitchen with half a dozen egg-dyeing kits, bags of Easter grass, gummy candies, cream eggs, chocolate bunnies, and little yellow marshmallows, he never would have asked the question. "Of course, yes."
  "Personally, this is my favorite holiday of the year."
  "Why is this?"
  "Don't get me wrong. I like Christmas. It's just that Easter is a time of... rebirth, I suppose. Growth.
  "That's a good way to look at it," Jessica said.
  "Oh, who am I kidding?" he said. "I'm just addicted to Cadbury's chocolate eggs."
  Jessica laughed. "Join the club."
  They ran in silence for about a quarter of a mile, then turned a gentle curve and headed straight down a long road.
  "Can I ask you a question?" he asked.
  "Certainly."
  - Why do you think he chooses Catholic women?
  The words were like a sledgehammer in Jessica's chest.
  In one fluid motion, she pulled the Glock from its holster. She turned, kicked with her right leg, and knocked the man's legs out from under him. In a split second, she slammed him into the dirt, hitting him in the face, pressing the gun to the back of his head.
  - Don't move, damn it.
  "I just-"
  "Shut up."
  Several more runners caught up with them. The expressions on their faces told the whole story.
  "I'm a police officer," Jessica said. "Back off, please."
  The runners became sprinters. They all looked at Jessica's gun and ran down the path as fast as they could.
  - If you just let me...
  "Did I stutter? I told you to shut up."
  Jessica tried to catch her breath. When she did, she asked, "Who are you?"
  There was no point in waiting for a response. Besides, the fact that her knee was on the back of his head and his face was smashed into the grass probably prevented any response.
  Jessica unzipped the back pocket of the man's sweatpants and pulled out a nylon wallet. She opened it. She saw the press card and wanted to pull the trigger even harder.
  Simon Edward Close. Report.
  She knelt on the back of his head a little longer, a little harder. At times like these, she wished she weighed 210 pounds.
  "Do you know where the Roundhouse is?" she asked.
  "Yes, of course. I-"
  "Okay," Jessica said. "Here's the deal. If you want to talk to me, go through the press office there. If it's too big a deal, stay out of my face."
  Jessica eased the pressure on his head by a few ounces.
  "Now I'm going to get up and go to my car. Then I'll leave the park. You will remain at this post until I leave. Do you understand me?"
  "Yes," Simon replied.
  She put all her weight on his head. "I'm serious. If you move, if you even lift your head, I'll take you in for questioning about the rosary murders. I can lock you up for seventy-two hours without explaining anything to anyone. Capiche?"
  "Ba-buka," Simon said, the fact that he had a pound of wet turf in his mouth hampering his attempt to speak Italian.
  A little later, as Jessica started the car and headed toward the park exit, she glanced back at the trail. Simon was still there, face down.
  God, what an asshole.
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  45
  WEDNESDAY, 10:45
  CRIME SCENES ALWAYS LOOKED DIFFERENT IN DAYLIGHT. The alley looked kind and peaceful. A couple of uniforms stood at the entrance.
  Byrne alerted the officers and slipped under the tape. When both detectives saw him, they each waved the murder sign: palm down, slightly tilted toward the ground, and then straight up. All good.
  Xavier Washington and Reggie Payne had been partners for so long, Byrne thought, that they had begun to dress alike and finish each other's sentences like an old married couple.
  "We can all go home," Payne said with a smile.
  "What do you have?" Byrne asked.
  "Just a slight thinning of the gene pool." Payne pulled back the plastic sheet. "That's the late Marius Green."
  The body was in the same position it had been in when Byrne left it the previous night.
  "It's all the way through." Payne pointed at Marius's chest.
  "Thirty-eight?" Byrne asked.
  "Maybe. Although it looks more like a nine. I haven't found any copper or a bullet yet.
  "Is he JBM?" Byrne asked.
  "Oh yes," Payne replied. "Marius was a very bad actor."
  Byrne glanced at the uniformed officers searching for the bullet. He checked his watch. "I have a few minutes."
  "Oh, now we can really go home," Payne said. "Face in the game."
  Byrne walked a few feet toward the dumpster. A pile of plastic garbage bags obscured his view. He picked up a small piece of lumber and began rummaging around. After making sure no one was watching, he pulled a baggie from his pocket, opened it, turned it upside down, and dropped the bloody bullet on the ground. He continued sniffing the area, but not too carefully.
  About a minute later he returned to where Paine and Washington were standing.
  "I need to catch my psycho," Byrne said.
  "I'll see you at home," Payne replied.
  "Got it," roared one of the police officers standing near the dumpster.
  Payne and Washington exchanged high fives and walked over to where the uniforms were. They found the slug.
  Facts: The bullet had Marius Green's blood on it. It chipped off a brick. End of story.
  There would be no reason to look further or dig deeper. The bullet would now be packaged, marked, and sent to the ballistics service, where a receipt would be issued. It would then be compared to other bullets found at crime scenes. Byrne had a distinct feeling that the Smith & Wesson he'd removed from Diablo had been used in other dubious endeavors in the past.
  Byrne exhaled, looked up at the sky, and slid into his car. Just one more detail worth mentioning. Find Diablo and impart to him the wisdom to leave Philadelphia forever.
  His pager rang.
  Monsignor Terry Pacek called.
  The hits keep coming.
  
  THE SPORTS CLUB was Downtown's largest fitness club, located on the eighth floor of the historic Bellevue, a beautifully decorated building at Broad and Walnut Streets.
  Byrne found Terry Pacek in one of his life cycles. About a dozen exercise bikes were arranged in a square facing each other. Most of them were occupied. Behind Byrne and Pacek, the slap and squeal of Nikes on the basketball court below offset the whir of treadmills and the hiss of bicycles, as well as the grunts, groans, and grumbles of the fit, the nearly fit, and the never-to-be-fit.
  "Monsignor," Byrne said in greeting.
  Pachek didn't break rhythm and didn't seem to acknowledge Byrne in any way. He was sweating, but not breathing heavily. A quick glance at the cycle showed he'd already worked forty minutes and was still maintaining a tempo of ninety rpm. Incredible. Byrne knew Pachek was about forty-five, but he was in excellent shape, even for a man ten years younger. Here, without his cassock and collar, in stylish Perry Ellis sweatpants and a sleeveless T-shirt, he looked more like a slowly aging tight end than a priest. In fact, a slowly aging tight end-that's exactly what Pachek was. As far as Byrne knew, Terry Pachek still held the Boston College single-season receptions record. It wasn't for nothing that they nicknamed him "Jesuit John Mackey."
  Looking around the club, Byrne spotted a prominent news anchor puffing away on a StairMaster, and a couple of city council members making plans on parallel treadmills. He found himself consciously sucking in his stomach. Tomorrow he would start cardio. Definitely tomorrow. Or maybe the next day.
  First he needed to find Diablo.
  "Thank you for meeting with me," Pachek said.
  "It's not a problem," Byrne said.
  "I know you're a busy man," Pachek added. "I won't keep you too long."
  Byrne knew that "I won't keep you long" was code for "Make yourself comfortable, you'll be here for a while." He simply nodded and waited. The moment ended empty. Then: "What can I do for you?"
  The question was as rhetorical as it was mechanical. Pasek pressed the "COOL" button on his bike and rode out. He slid off the seat and draped a towel around his neck. And although Terry Pasek was much more toned than Byrne, he was at least four inches shorter. Byrne found this to be a cheap consolation.
  "I'm a person who likes to cut through bureaucracy whenever possible," Pachek said.
  "What makes you think that's possible in this case?" Byrne asked.
  Pasek stared at Byrne for a few awkward seconds. Then he smiled. "Walk with me."
  Pachek led them to the elevator, which took them to the third-floor mezzanine and the treadmill. Byrne found himself hoping that's what the words "Walk with me" meant. Walk. They emerged onto the carpeted path that circled the fitness room below.
  "How's the investigation going?" Pachek asked as they began their walk at a reasonable pace.
  "You didn't call me here to report on the status of the case."
  "You're right," Pachek replied. "I understand another girl was found last night."
  "It's no secret," Byrne thought. It was even on CNN, which meant the people in Borneo undoubtedly knew. A great advertisement for the Philadelphia Tourism Board. "Yes," Byrne said.
  "And I understand that your interest in Brian Parkhurst remains high."
  An understatement. - Yes, we would like to talk to him.
  "It's in everyone's best interests-especially the families of these grief-stricken young girls-that this madman be caught. And justice has been served. I know Dr. Parkhurst, Detective. I find it hard to believe he had anything to do with these crimes, but that's not for me to decide."
  "Why am I here, Monsignor?" Byrne was in no mood for palace politics.
  After two full laps of the treadmill, they found themselves back at the door. Pachek wiped the sweat from his head and said, "Meet me downstairs in twenty minutes."
  
  Z ANZIBAR BLUE WAS A GORGEOUS JAZZ CLUB AND RESTAURANT IN THE BASE OF THE BELLEVEUE, DIRECTLY UNDER THE PARK HYATTT LOBBY, NINE FLOORS BELOW THE SPORTS CLUB. Byrne ordered coffee at the bar.
  Pasek entered with clear eyes, flushed after training.
  "The vodka is amazing," he told the bartender.
  He leaned against the counter next to Byrne. Without saying a word, he reached into his pocket. He handed Byrne a piece of paper. On it was an address in West Philadelphia.
  "Brian Parkhurst owns a building on Sixty-first Street, near Market. He's renovating it," Pachek said. "He's there now."
  Byrne knew nothing in this life was free. He considered Pachek's point. "Why are you telling me this?"
  - That's right, detective.
  "But your bureaucracy is no different from mine."
  "I have done justice and judgment: do not abandon me to my oppressors," said Pachek with a wink. "Psalms one hundred and ten."
  Byrne took the piece of paper. "Thank you."
  Pachek took a sip of vodka. "I wasn't here."
  "I understand."
  "How are you going to explain receiving this information?"
  "Leave it to me," Byrne said. He asked one of his informants to call the Roundhouse and register it in about twenty minutes.
  I saw him... the guy you're looking for... I saw him in the Cobbs Creek area.
  "We all fight the good fight," Pachek said. "We choose our weapons at an early age. You chose the gun and the badge. I chose the cross."
  Byrne knew Pacek was having a hard time. If Parkhurst had been their enforcer, Pacek would have been the one to bear the brunt of the criticism for the Archdiocese having hired him in the first place-a man who had an affair with a teenage girl, and who was being placed alongside, perhaps, several thousand others.
  On the other hand, the sooner the Rosary Killer is caught-not only for the sake of Philadelphia Catholics, but for the sake of the Church itself-the better.
  Byrne slid off the stool and towered over the priest. He dropped a tenner on the crossbar.
  "Go with God," said Pachek.
  "Thank you."
  Pachek nodded.
  "And, Monsignor?" Byrne added, pulling on his coat.
  "Yes?"
  "This is Psalm One Nineteen."
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  46
  WEDNESDAY, 11:15
  JESSICA WAS IN HER FATHER'S KITCHEN, washing dishes, when the "conversation" broke out. As in all Italian-American families, anything important was discussed, analyzed, reconsidered, and resolved in only one room of the house. The kitchen.
  This day will be no exception.
  Peter instinctively picked up a tea towel and sat down next to his daughter. "Are you having a good time?" he asked, the real conversation he wanted to have hidden just beneath his policeman's tongue.
  "Always," Jessica said. "Aunt Carmella's Cacciatore takes me back." She said it, lost for a moment in the pastel nostalgia of her childhood in this house, in memories of those carefree years spent at family gatherings with her brother; of Christmas shopping at May's, of Eagles games in cold Veterans Stadium, of the first time she saw Michael in uniform: so proud, so afraid.
  God, she missed him.
  ". . . sopressata?
  Her father's question brought her back to the present. "I'm sorry. What did you say, Dad?"
  "Have you tried sopressata?"
  "No."
  "From this world. From Chika. I'll make you a plate.
  Jessica never left a party at her father's house without a plate. And no one else, for that matter.
  - Do you want to tell me what happened, Jess?
  "Nothing."
  The word floated around the room for a moment, then dropped abruptly, as it always did when she tried it with her father. He always knew.
  "Yes, dear," Peter said. "Tell me."
  "It's nothing," Jessica said. "You know, the usual. Work."
  Peter took the plate and dried it. "Are you nervous about this matter?"
  "Nope."
  "Good."
  "I guess I'm nervous," Jessica said, handing her father another plate. "More scared to death."
  Peter laughed. "You'll catch him."
  "You seem to be missing the fact that I've never worked in homicide in my life."
  "You can do it."
  Jessica didn't believe it, but somehow when her father said it, it rang true. "I know." Jessica hesitated, then asked, "Can I ask you something?"
  "Certainly."
  - And I want you to be completely honest with me.
  "Of course, dear. I'm a policeman. I always tell the truth."
  Jessica looked at him intently over her glasses.
  "Okay, that's settled," Peter said. "How are you?"
  - Did you have anything to do with my ending up in the homicide department?
  - It's okay, Jess.
  "Because if you did... ."
  "What?"
  "Well, you may think you're helping me, but you're not. There's a good chance I'll fall flat on my face here."
  Peter smiled, reached out a squeaky clean hand, and cupped Jessica's cheek, as he had done since she was a child. "Not this face," he said. "This is the face of an angel."
  Jessica blushed and smiled. "Dad. Hey. I'm almost thirty here. Too old for the Bell visa routine."
  "Never," said Peter.
  They were silent for a moment. Then, as he'd feared, Peter asked, "Do you get everything you need from the labs?"
  "Well, I guess that's it for now," Jessica said.
  "Do you want me to call?"
  "No!" Jessica answered a little more firmly than she intended. "I mean, not yet. I mean, I'd like to, you know..."
  "You would like to do it yourself."
  "Yeah."
  - What, did we just meet here?
  Jessica blushed again. She'd never been able to fool her father. "I'll be fine."
  "Are you sure?"
  "Yeah."
  "Then I'll leave it up to you. If anyone's dragging their feet, call me."
  "I will."
  Peter smiled and kissed Jessica lightly on the top of her head, just as Sophie and her second cousin Nanette burst into the room, both little girls wild-eyed from all the sugar. Peter beamed. "All my girls under one roof," he said. "Who does it better than me?"
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  WEDNESDAY, 11:25
  A little girl giggles as she chases a puppy through a small, crowded park on Catherine Street, weaving through a forest of legs. We adults watch her, circling nearby, ever vigilant. We are shields from the world's evil. Thinking about all the tragedy that could have befallen such a little one boggles the mind.
  She pauses for a moment, reaches into the ground, and pulls out some little girl's treasure. She examines it carefully. Her interests are pure and untainted by greed, possession, or self-indulgence.
  What did Laura Elizabeth Richards say about cleanliness?
  "A beautiful light of holy innocence shines like a halo around her bowed head."
  Clouds threaten rain, but for now, South Philadelphia is blanketed in a blanket of golden sunshine.
  A puppy runs past a little girl, turns, and nibbles her heels, perhaps wondering why the play has stopped. The little girl doesn't run or cry. She has her mother's firmness. And yet, inside her, there's something vulnerable and sweet, something that speaks of Mary.
  She sits on a bench, primly adjusts the hem of her dress, and pats her knees.
  The puppy jumps onto her lap and licks her face.
  Sophie laughs. It's a wonderful sound.
  But what if one day soon her little voice is silenced?
  Surely all the animals in her plush menagerie will cry.
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  WEDNESDAY, 11:45
  Before leaving her father's house, Jessica slipped into his small basement office, sat down at the computer, went online, and Googled it. She quickly found what she was looking for and then printed it out.
  While her father and aunts watched Sophie in the small park next to the Fleischer Art Memorial, Jessica walked down the street to a cozy café called Dessert on Sixth Street. It was much quieter here than the park, full of sugar-fueled toddlers and Chianti-fueled adults. Besides, Vincent had arrived, and she really didn't need another hell.
  Over Sachertorte and coffee, she reviewed her findings.
  Her first Google search was lines from a poem she found in Tessa's diary.
  Jessica received an immediate response.
  Sylvia Plath. The poem was called "Elm."
  Of course, Jessica thought. Sylvia Plath was the patron saint of melancholy teenage girls, a poet who committed suicide in 1963 at the age of thirty.
  
  I'm back. Just call me Sylvia.
  What did Tessa mean by this?
  The second search she conducted concerned the blood spilled on the door of St. Catherine's Church that wild Christmas Eve three years earlier. The Inquirer and Daily News archives contained little about it. Unsurprisingly, the Report wrote the longest article on the subject. Written by none other than her favorite muckraker, Simon Close.
  It turned out the blood wasn't actually splashed on the door, but rather painted on with a brush. And it was done while the parishioners were celebrating Midnight Mass.
  The photograph accompanying the article showed double doors leading into the church, but it was blurry. It was impossible to tell whether the blood on the doors symbolized something or nothing. The article didn't say.
  According to the report, police investigated the incident, but when Jessica continued searching, she found no further action.
  She called and learned that the detective investigating the incident was a man named Eddie Casalonis.
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  49
  WEDNESDAY, 12:10 PM
  EXCEPT FOR THE PAIN IN MY RIGHT SHOULDER AND THE GRASS STAGS ON MY NEW JOGGLE, IT HAD BEEN A VERY PRODUCTIVE MORNING.
  Simon Close sat on the sofa, considering his next move.
  While he hadn't expected the warmest welcome when he revealed himself to Jessica Balzano as a reporter, he had to admit he was a little surprised by her intense reaction.
  Surprised and, he had to admit, extremely aroused. He spoke in his best East Pennsylvania accent, and she suspected nothing. Until he asked her the bombshell question.
  He fished a tiny digital recorder out of his pocket.
  "Good... if you want to talk to me, go through the press office there. If it's too big a deal, then stay out of my face.
  He opened his laptop and checked his email-more spam about Vicodin, penis enlargement, high mortgage rates, and hair restoration, as well as the usual letters from readers ("rot in hell, fucking hacker").
  Many writers resist technology. Simon knew many who still wrote in yellow legal pads with ballpoint pens. A few others worked on ancient Remington manual typewriters. Pretentious, prehistoric nonsense. Try as he might, Simon Close couldn't understand it. Perhaps they thought it would allow them to connect with their inner Hemingway, their inner Charles Dickens, trying to get out. Simon was completely digital all the time.
  From his Apple PowerBook to his DSL connection and Nokia GSM phone, he was at the forefront of technology. Go ahead, he thought, write on your slates with a sharpened stone, I don't care. I'll be there first.
  Because Simon believed in two core principles of tabloid journalism:
  It is easier to obtain forgiveness than permission.
  It's better to be first than to be precise.
  This is why amendments are needed.
  He turned on the TV and scanned the channels. Soaps, game shows, screaming, sports. Yawn. Even the venerable BBC America was playing some idiotic third-generation clone of Trading Spaces. Maybe there was an old movie on AMC. He looked it up. Criss Cross with Burt Lancaster and Yvonne De Carlo. Handsome, but he'd seen it. Besides, it was already halfway through.
  He spun the dial again and was about to turn it off when a breaking news story came on the local channel. Murder in Philadelphia. What a shock.
  But this was not another victim of the Rosary Killer.
  The camera at the scene showed something completely different, which made Simon's heart beat a little faster. Okay, a lot faster.
  It was Gray's Ferry Lane.
  The alley from which Kevin Byrne emerged the previous evening.
  Simon pressed the RECORD button on his VCR. A few minutes later, he rewound and froze the shot of the alley entrance and compared it with the photo of Byrne on his laptop.
  Identical.
  Kevin Byrne was in that same alley last night, the night the black kid was shot. So it wasn't retaliation.
  It was so incredibly delicious, so much better than catching Byrne in a den. Simon paced his small living room dozens of times, trying to figure out how best to play it.
  Did Byrne commit cold-blooded execution?
  Was Byrne in the throes of a cover-up?
  Did a drug deal go wrong?
  Simon opened his email program, calmed down a bit, organized his thoughts, and began typing:
  Dear Detective Byrne!
  Long time no see! Well, that's not exactly true. As you can see from the attached photo, I saw you yesterday. Here's my proposal. I'll ride with you and your amazing partner until you catch this really bad guy who's been killing Catholic schoolgirls. Once you catch him, I want exclusive sex.
  For this I will destroy these photographs.
  If not, look for the photographs (yes, I have a lot of them) on the front page of the next issue of the Report.
  Have a good day!
  As Simon looked through it (he always cooled down a bit before sending his most inflammatory emails), Enid meowed and jumped up into his lap from her perch on top of the file cabinet.
  - What happened, doll?
  Enid appeared to be looking over the text of Simon's letter to Kevin Byrne.
  "Too harsh?" he asked the cat.
  Enid purred in response.
  "You're right, kitty-kitty. It's impossible."
  Still, Simon decided he'd reread it a few more times before sending it off. He might wait a day, just to see how big a story about a dead black boy in an alley would get. He might even allow himself another twenty-four hours if it meant he could get a gangster like Kevin Byrne under control.
  Or maybe he should email Jessica.
  Excellent, he thought.
  Or maybe he should just copy the photos to a CD and get the paper going. Just publish them and see if Byrne likes it.
  In any case, he should probably make a backup copy of the photos just in case.
  He thought of the headline printed in large type over the photograph of Byrne emerging from Gray's Ferry Alley.
  A VIGILANT POLICEMAN? I would have read the headline.
  DETECTIVE IN DEATH ALLEY ON THE NIGHT OF THE MURDER! I would have read the deck. God, he was good.
  Simon walked over to the hallway closet and pulled out a blank CD.
  When he closed the door and returned to the room, something was different. Maybe not so much different as off-center. It was like the feeling you get when you have an inner ear infection, your balance slightly off. He stood in the archway leading to his tiny living room, trying to capture it.
  Everything seemed to be just as he'd left it. His PowerBook on the coffee table, an empty demitasse cup next to it. Enid purring on the rug near the heater.
  Perhaps he was mistaken.
  He looked at the floor.
  First, he saw a shadow, a shadow reflecting his own. He knew enough about key lighting to understand that it takes two light sources to cast two shadows.
  Behind him there was only a small ceiling light.
  Then he felt hot breath on his neck, and caught a faint scent of peppermint.
  He turned, his heart suddenly lodged in his throat.
  And he looked straight into the eyes of the devil.
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  50
  WEDNESDAY, 1:22 PM
  Byrne made several stops before returning to the Roundhouse and informing Ike Buchanan. He then arranged for one of his registered confidential informants to call him with information on Brian Parkhurst's whereabouts. Buchanan faxed the district attorney's office and obtained a search warrant for Parkhurst's building.
  Byrne called Jessica on her cell phone and found her at a cafe near her father's home in South Philadelphia. He walked past and picked her up. He briefed her at the Fourth District headquarters at Eleventh and Wharton.
  
  The building Parkhurst owned was a former flower shop on Sixty-first Street, converted from a spacious brick rowhouse built in the 1950s. The stone-façade structure was a few battered doors down from the Wheels of Soul clubhouse. The Wheels of Soul was a long-established and venerable motorcycle club. In the 1980s, when crack cocaine hit Philadelphia hard, it was the Wheels of Soul MC, as much as any other law enforcement agency, that kept the city from burning to the ground.
  If Parkhurst were taking these girls somewhere short, Jessica thought as she approached the house, this would be the perfect place. The back entrance was large enough to partially accommodate a van or minivan.
  Upon arriving, they drove slowly behind the building. The rear entrance-a large corrugated steel door-was padlocked from the outside. They circled the block and parked on the street below El Street, about five addresses west of the scene.
  They were met by two patrol cars. Two uniformed officers would cover the front; two would cover the rear.
  "Ready?" Byrne asked.
  Jessica felt a little unsure. She hoped it wouldn't show. She said, "Let's do it."
  
  BYRNE AND JESSICA WENT TO THE DOOR. The front windows were whitewashed, and nothing could be seen through them. Byrne punched the door three times.
  "Police! Search warrant!"
  They waited five seconds. He hit again. No response.
  Byrne turned the handle and pushed the door. It opened easily.
  The two detectives locked eyes and rolled a joint.
  The living room was a mess. Drywall, paint cans, rags, scaffolding. Nothing to the left. To the right, a staircase leading upstairs.
  "Police! Search warrant!" Byrne repeated.
  Nothing.
  Byrne pointed to the stairs. Jessica nodded. He would take the second floor. Byrne climbed the stairs.
  Jessica walked to the back of the building on the first floor, checking every nook and cranny. Inside, the renovations were half-done. The hallway behind what had once been the service counter was a skeleton of exposed studs, exposed wiring, plastic plumbing, and heating ducts.
  Jessica walked through the doorway into what had once been the kitchen. It was gutted. No appliances. It had recently been drywalled and taped. Behind the pasty smell of drywall tape, there was something else. Onions. Then Jessica saw a sawhorse in the corner of the room. A half-eaten takeout salad lay on it. A full cup of coffee sat next to it. She dipped her finger in the coffee. Icy cold.
  She left the kitchen and walked slowly toward the room at the back of the row house. The door was only slightly open.
  Beads of sweat rolled down her face, her neck, and then trickled down her shoulders. The hallway was warm, stuffy, and suffocating. The Kevlar vest felt tight and heavy. Jessica walked to the door and took a deep breath. With her left foot, she slowly opened the door. She saw the right half of the room first. An old dining chair on its side, a wooden toolbox. Smells greeted her. Stale cigarette smoke, freshly cut knotty pine. Underneath was something ugly, something disgusting and wild.
  She flung the door wide open, stepped into the small room, and immediately spotted a figure. Instinctively, she turned and aimed her gun at the silhouette silhouetted against the whitewashed windows behind her.
  But there was no threat.
  Brian Parkhurst hung from an I-beam in the center of the room. His face was purple-brown and puffy, his limbs were swollen, and his black tongue lolled from his mouth. An electrical cord was wrapped around his neck, cutting deep into his flesh, then looped over a support beam above his head. Parkhurst was barefoot and shirtless. The sour smell of drying feces filled Jessica's sinuses. She dried herself once, twice. She held her breath and cleared the rest of the room.
  "Clear upstairs!" Byrne shouted.
  Jessica nearly jumped at the sound of his voice. She heard Byrne's heavy boots on the stairs. "Here," she shouted.
  A few seconds later, Byrne walked into the room. "Oh, damn."
  Jessica saw the look in Byrne's eyes and read the headlines. Another suicide. Just like in the Morris Blanchard case. Another suspect attempting suicide. She wanted to say something, but this wasn't her place or time.
  A painful silence fell over the room. They were back on track, and in their own ways, they both tried to reconcile this fact with everything they'd been thinking along the way.
  Now the system will do its thing. They'll call the medical examiner's office, the crime scene. They'll hack Parkhurst to death, transport him to the medical examiner's office, where they'll perform an autopsy while waiting to notify the family. There will be a newspaper ad and a service at one of Philadelphia's finest funeral homes, followed by burial on a grassy hillside.
  And exactly what Brian Parkhurst knew and what he did will forever remain in the dark.
  
  They'd wander around the homicide department, lounging in an empty cigar box. It was always a mixed bag when a suspect cheated the system by committing suicide. There would be no highlighting, no admission of guilt, no punctuation. Just an endless Möbius strip of suspicion.
  Byrne and Jessica sat at adjacent desks.
  Jessica caught Byrne's eye.
  "What?" he asked.
  "Say it."
  "What, what?"
  - You don't think it was Parkhurst, do you?
  Byrne didn't answer right away. "I think he knew a lot more than he told us," he said. "I think he was dating Tessa Wells. I think he knew he was going to jail for statutory rape, so he went into hiding. But do I think he killed those three girls? No. I don't know."
  "Why not?"
  "Because there wasn't a single piece of physical evidence anywhere near him. Not a single fiber, not a single drop of liquid."
  The Crime Squad combed every square inch of Brian Parkhurst's two properties, but came up empty. They based much of their suspicion on the possibility (or rather, the certainty) that incriminating scientific evidence would be found in Parkhurst's building. Everything they hoped to find there simply didn't exist. Detectives interviewed everyone in the vicinity of his home and the building he was renovating, but came up empty. They still had to find his Ford Windstar.
  "If he was bringing these girls to his home, someone would have seen something, heard something, right?" Byrne added: "If he was bringing them to the building on Sixty-first Street, we would have found something."
  During a search of the building, they discovered a number of items, including a hardware box containing a variety of screws, nuts, and bolts, none of which exactly matched the bolts used on the three victims. There was also a chalk box-a carpenter's tool used for marking lines during the rough construction phase. The chalk inside was blue. They sent a sample to a lab to see if it matched the blue chalk found on the victims' bodies. Even if it did, carpenter's chalk could be found at every construction site in the city and in half the toolboxes of home remodelers. Vincent had some of it in his garage toolbox.
  "What about him calling me?" Jessica asked. "What about telling me there are 'things we need to know' about these girls?"
  "I've been thinking about it," Byrne said. "Maybe they all have something in common. Something we don't see."
  - But what happened between the time he called me and this morning?
  "I don't know."
  "Suicide doesn't quite fit that profile, does it?"
  "No. That's not true.
  "This means that there is a good chance that... ."
  They both knew what this meant. They sat in silence for a while, surrounded by the cacophony of the bustling office. There were at least half a dozen other murders under investigation, and these detectives were making slow progress. Byrne and Jessica envied them.
  There's something you need to know about these girls.
  If Brian Parkhurst wasn't their killer, then there was a chance he was killed by the man they were looking for. Perhaps because he was the center of attention. Perhaps for some reason, it spoke to the underlying pathology of his insanity. Perhaps to prove to the authorities that he was still out there.
  Neither Jessica nor Byrne had yet mentioned the similarity between the two "suicides," but it permeated the air in the room like a toxic cloud.
  "Okay," Jessica broke the silence. "If Parkhurst was killed by our criminal, how did he know who he was?"
  "There are two ways," Byrne said. "Either they knew each other, or he recognized his name on television when he left the Roundhouse the other day."
  "Score another point for the media," Jessica thought. They'd spent some time arguing about Brian Parkhurst being another victim of the Rosary Killer. But even if he had been, it didn't help them figure out what would happen next.
  The timeline, or lack thereof, made the killer's movements unpredictable.
  "Our agent picks up Nicole Taylor on Thursday," Jessica said. "He drops her off at Bartram Gardens on Friday, just as he's picking up Tessa Wells, who he's keeping until Monday. Why the delay?"
  "Good question," Byrne said.
  "Then Bethany Price was seized on Tuesday afternoon, and our only witness saw her body dumped at the museum on Tuesday evening. There's no pattern. No symmetry."
  "It's like he doesn't want to do that stuff on the weekends."
  "It may not be as far-fetched as you think," Byrne said.
  He stood up and walked over to the board, which was now covered with photographs and notes from the crime scene.
  "I don't think our boy is motivated by the moon, the stars, voices, dogs named Sam, and all that nonsense," Byrne said. "This guy has a plan. I say, we'll figure out his plan and we'll find him."
  Jessica glanced at her stack of library books. The answer was somewhere there.
  Eric Chavez walked into the room and caught Jessica's attention. "Got a minute, Jess?"
  "Certainly."
  He picked up the file folder. "There's something you should see."
  "What is this?"
  "We ran a background check on Bethany Price. It turns out she had a prior.
  Chavez handed her an arrest report. Bethany Price had been arrested in a drug bust about a year earlier, where she was found with nearly a hundred doses of Benzedrine, an illegal diet pill favored by overweight teens. That was the case when Jessica was in high school, and it remains the case today.
  Bethany confessed and received two hundred hours of community service and a year of probation.
  None of this was surprising. The reason Eric Chavez brought this to Jessica's attention was because the arresting officer in the case was Detective Vincent Balzano.
  Jessica took it into account, took the coincidence into account.
  Vincent knew Bethany Price.
  According to the sentencing report, it was Vincent who recommended community service instead of prison.
  "Thank you, Eric," Jessica said.
  "You got it."
  "It's a small world," Byrne said.
  "I wouldn't want to draw it anyway," Jessica replied absently, reading the report in detail.
  Byrne glanced at his watch. "Listen, I need to pick up my daughter. We'll start over in the morning. Rip this whole thing apart and start over."
  "Okay," Jessica said, but she saw the look on Byrne's face, the worry that the firestorm that had erupted in his career since Morris Blanchard's suicide might flare up again.
  Byrne put his hand on Jessica's shoulder, then put on his coat and left.
  Jessica sat at the table for a long time, looking out the window.
  Though she hated to admit it, she agreed with Byrne. Brian Parkhurst was not the Rosary Killer.
  Brian Parkhurst was a victim.
  She called Vincent on his cell phone and got his voicemail. She called Central Detective Services and was told that Detective Balzano was outside.
  She didn't leave a message.
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  WEDNESDAY, 4:15 PM
  WHEN BYRNE SAID THE BOY'S NAME, Colleen turned four shades red.
  "He's not my boyfriend," his daughter captioned the photo.
  "Well, fine. Whatever you say," Byrne replied.
  "He is not."
  "Then why are you blushing?" Byrne signed the letter with a wide grin. They were on Germantown Avenue, heading to an Easter party at the Delaware Valley School for the Deaf.
  "I don't blush," Colleen signed, blushing even more.
  "Oh, okay," Byrne said, letting her off the hook. "Someone must have left a stop sign in my car."
  Colleen just shook her head and looked out the window. Byrne noticed the air vents on the side of his daughter's car blowing around her silky blonde hair. When had it gotten this long? he wondered. And were her lips always this red?
  Byrne got his daughter's attention with a wave, then motioned, "Hey. I thought you guys were going on a date. My bad."
  "That wasn't a date," Colleen captioned the post. "I'm too young to date. Just ask my mom."
  - Then what was it if not a date?
  Big eye roll. "Two kids were about to watch fireworks surrounded by hundreds of millions of adults."
  - You know, I'm a detective.
  - I know, dad.
  "I have sources and informers all over the city. Paid confidential informants.
  - I know, dad.
  "I just heard you guys were holding hands and stuff."
  Colleen responded with a sign not found in the Handshape Dictionary but familiar to all deaf children. Two hands shaped like razor-sharp tiger claws. Byrne laughed. "Okay, okay," he signed. "Don't scratch."
  They rode in silence for a while, enjoying each other's closeness despite their arguments. It wasn't often they were alone together. Everything had changed with his daughter; she was a teenager, and the idea scared Kevin Byrne more than any armed bandit in any dark alley.
  Byrne's cell phone rang. He answered. "Byrne."
  "Can you talk?"
  It was Gauntlett Merriman.
  "Yeah."
  - He's at the old safe house.
  Byrne took him in. The old safe house was a five-minute walk away.
  "Who's with him?" Byrne asked.
  "He's alone. At least for now."
  Byrne glanced at his watch and saw his daughter looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head toward the window. She could read lips better than any child in the school, perhaps better than some of the deaf adults who taught there.
  "Do you need help?" Gauntlett asked.
  "No."
  "Okay then."
  "Are we okay?" Byrne asked.
  "All the fruits are ripe, my friend."
  He closed the phone.
  Two minutes later, he pulled up to the side of the road in front of the Caravan Serai grocery store.
  
  Although it was still too early for lunch, several regulars were seated at about twenty tables in the front of the deli, sipping thick black coffee and nibbling on Sami Hamiz's famous pistachio baklava. Sami sat behind the counter, slicing lamb for the seemingly enormous order he was preparing. Seeing Byrne, he wiped his hands and approached the restaurant entrance with a smile on his face.
  "Sabah al-Khairy, Detective," Sami said. "Good to see you."
  - How are you, Sammy?
  "I'm fine." The two men shook hands.
  "You remember my daughter Colleen," Byrne said.
  Sami reached out and touched Colleen's cheek. "Of course." Sami then wished Colleen a good afternoon, and she responded with a dutiful hello. Byrne had known Sami Hamiz from his patrol days. Sami's wife, Nadine, was also deaf, and both spoke sign language fluently.
  "Do you think you could keep an eye on her for at least a few minutes?" Byrne asked.
  "No problem," Sami said.
  Colleen's face said it all. She signed off: "I don't need anyone watching me."
  "I won't be long," Byrne told them both.
  "Take your time," Sami said as he and Colleen walked toward the back of the restaurant. Byrne watched his daughter slip into the last booth near the kitchen. As he reached the door, he turned back. Colleen waved weakly, and Byrne's heart fluttered.
  When Colleen was a little girl, she would run out onto the porch to wave goodbye when he left for morning excursions. He always silently prayed to see that brilliant, beautiful face again.
  When he went outside, he found that nothing had changed in the next decade.
  
  Byrne stood across the street from an old safe house that wasn't really a house at all and, he thought, wasn't particularly safe right now. The building was a low-rise warehouse, tucked between two taller buildings on a crumbling stretch of Erie Avenue. Byrne knew the P-Town squad had once used the third floor as a hideout.
  He walked to the back of the building and down the steps to the basement door. It was open. He opened onto a long, narrow corridor that led to what had once been the employee entrance.
  Byrne moved slowly and silently down the corridor. For a large man, he was always light on his feet. He drew his weapon, the chrome Smith & Wesson he had taken from Diablo the night they met.
  He walked down the corridor to the stairs at the end and listened.
  Silence.
  A minute later, he found himself on the landing before the turnoff to the third floor. At the top was a door leading to the shelter. He could hear the faint sounds of a rock station. Someone was definitely there.
  But who?
  And how much?
  Byrne took a deep breath and began to climb the stairs.
  At the top he put his hand on the door and opened it easily.
  
  Diablo stood by the window, looking out onto the alley between the buildings, completely oblivious. Byrne could only see half the room, but it seemed there was no one else there.
  What he saw sent a shudder through him. On the card table, less than two feet from where Diablo stood, next to Byrne's service Glock, sat a fully automatic mini-Uzi.
  Byrne felt the weight of the revolver in his hand, and suddenly he felt like a cap. If he made his move and failed to defeat Diablo, he wouldn't make it out of this building alive. The Uzi fired six hundred rounds a minute, and you didn't have to be a marksman to take out your prey.
  Fuck.
  A few moments later, Diablo sat down at the table with his back to the door. Byrne knew he had no choice. He would attack Diablo, confiscate his weapons, have a little heart-to-heart talk with the man, and this sad, depressing mess would end.
  Byrne quickly crossed himself and went inside.
  
  Evyn Byrne had taken only three steps into the room when he realized his mistake. He should have seen it. There, at the far end of the room, stood an old chest of drawers with a cracked mirror above it. In it, he saw Diablo's face, which meant Diablo could see him. Both men froze for that happy second, knowing their immediate plans-one for safety, the other for surprise-had changed. Their eyes met, just as they had in that alley. This time, they both knew it would end differently, one way or another.
  Byrne had simply wanted to explain to Diablo why he should leave the city. Now he knew that wouldn't happen.
  Diablo jumped to his feet, Uzi in hand. Without a word, he spun around and fired the weapon. The first twenty or thirty shots ripped through an old sofa less than three feet from Byrne's right foot. Byrne dove left and landed mercifully behind an old cast-iron bathtub. Another two-second burst from the Uzi nearly cut the sofa in half.
  "God, no," Byrne thought, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for the hot metal to rip into his flesh. Not here. Not like this. He thought of Colleen, sitting in this stall, staring at the door, waiting for him to fill it, waiting for him to return so she could get on with her day, her life. Now he was pinned in a filthy warehouse, about to die.
  The last few bullets grazed the cast-iron bathtub. The ringing sound hung in the air for a few moments.
  Sweat stung my eyes.
  Then there was silence.
  "I just want to talk, man," Byrne said. "This shouldn't happen."
  Byrne estimated that Diablo was no more than twenty feet away. The blind spot in the room was probably behind the enormous support column.
  Then, without warning, another burst of Uzi fire erupted. The roar was deafening. Byrne screamed as if he'd been hit, then kicked the wooden floor as if he'd fallen. He groaned.
  Silence fell over the room again. Byrne could smell the scorched ticking of hot lead in the upholstery just a few feet away. He heard a noise from across the room. Diablo was moving. The scream had worked. Diablo was going to finish him off. Byrne closed his eyes, remembering the layout. The only way through the room was down the middle. He would have one chance, and now was the time to take it.
  Byrne counted to three, jumped to his feet, turned around and fired three times, holding his head high.
  The first shot hit Diablo squarely in the forehead, slamming into his skull, knocking him back onto his heels, and exploding the back of his head in a crimson stream of blood, bone, and brain matter that sprayed half the room. The second and third bullets struck him in the lower jaw and throat. Diablo's right hand jerked upward, reflexively firing the Uzi. A burst of fire sent a dozen bullets flying toward the floor just inches to the left of Kevin Byrne. Diablo collapsed, and several more shells slammed into the ceiling.
  And at that moment it was all over.
  Byrne held his position for a few moments, gun in front, as if frozen in time. He had just killed a man. His muscles slowly relaxed, and he tilted his head toward the sounds. No sirens. Still. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. From another pocket, he pulled out a small sandwich bag with an oily rag inside. He wiped the revolver and placed it on the floor just as the first siren sounded in the distance.
  Byrne found a can of spray paint and tagged the wall next to the window with JBM gang graffiti.
  He glanced back at the room. He'd had to move. Forensics? It wouldn't be a priority for the team, but they'd show their stuff. As far as he could tell, he had his back. He grabbed his Glock from the table and ran for the door, carefully avoiding the blood on the floor.
  He descended the back stairs as the sirens drew closer. A few seconds later, he was in his car and heading toward the Caravanserai.
  This was good news.
  The bad news, of course, was that he'd probably missed something. He'd missed something important, and his life was over.
  
  The main building of the Delaware Valley School for the Deaf was constructed of fieldstone, following the design of early American architecture. The grounds were always well-kept.
  As they approached the compound, Byrne was struck again by the silence. More than fifty children, aged between five and fifteen, were running around, all expending more energy than Byrne could ever remember seeing at their age, and yet everything was completely silent.
  When he learned to sign, Colleen was almost seven, and already fluent in language. Many nights, when he put her to bed, she would cry and berate her fate, wishing she were normal, like hearing children. At such moments, Byrne would simply hold her in his arms, unsure of what to say, unable to say it in his daughter's language even if he had. But when Colleen turned eleven, a funny thing happened. She stopped wanting to hear. Just like that. Complete acceptance and, in some strange way, arrogance about her deafness, proclaiming it an advantage, a secret society made up of extraordinary people.
  For Byrne, it was more of an adjustment than for Colleen, but that day, when she kissed him on the cheek and ran off to play with her friends, his heart almost burst with love and pride for her.
  She would be fine, he thought, even if something terrible happened to him.
  She will grow up beautiful, polite, decent and respectable, despite the fact that one Holy Wednesday, while she was sitting in a spicy Lebanese restaurant in North Philadelphia, her father left her there and went off to commit murder.
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  52
  WEDNESDAY, 4:15 PM
  She's summer, this one. She's water.
  Her long, blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail and secured with an amber cat-eye bolo. It falls to the middle of her back in a shimmering cascade. She's wearing a faded denim skirt and a burgundy wool sweater. She's wearing a leather jacket slung over her arm. She just left the Barnes & Noble in Rittenhouse Square, where she works part-time.
  She's still quite thin, but she seems to have gained some weight since I last saw her.
  She's doing well.
  The street is crowded, so I'm wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. I walk straight up to her.
  "Remember me?" I ask, lifting my sunglasses for a moment.
  At first, she's unsure. I'm older, so I belong to that world of adults who can and usually do imply authority. Like, party's over. A few seconds later, recognition flashes.
  "Of course!" she says, her face lighting up.
  "Your name is Christy, right?"
  She blushes. "Aha. You have a good memory!"
  - How do you feel?
  Her blush deepens, transforming from the demure demeanor of a confident young woman to the embarrassment of a little girl, her eyes blazing with shame. "You know, I feel much better now," she says. "What was-"
  "Hey," I say, raising my hand to stop her. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. Not a single thing. I could tell you stories, believe me.
  "Really?"
  "Absolutely," I say.
  We're walking down Walnut Street. Her posture changes a little. A little shy now.
  "So, what are you reading?" I ask, pointing to the bag she"s carrying.
  She blushes again. "I'm embarrassed."
  I stop walking. She stops next to me. "So, what did I just tell you?"
  Christy laughs. At that age, it's always Christmas, always Halloween, always the Fourth. Every day is a day. "Okay, okay," she admits. She reaches into the plastic bag and pulls out a couple of Tiger Beat magazines. "I get a discount."
  Justin Timberlake is on the cover of one of the magazines. I take the magazine from her and examine the cover.
  "I don't like his solo stuff as much as NSYNC," I say. "Do you?"
  Christy looks at me with her mouth half open. "I can't believe you know who he is."
  "Hey," I say in mock fury. "I'm not that old." I hand the magazine back, mindful that my fingerprints are on the glossy surface. I mustn't forget that.
  Christy shakes her head, still smiling.
  We continue climbing Walnut.
  "Is everything ready for Easter?" I ask, rather inelegantly changing the subject.
  "Oh, yes," she says. "I love Easter."
  "Me too," I say.
  "I mean, I know it's still very early in the year, but Easter always means summer is coming to me. Some people wait for Remembrance Day. Not me."
  I stay a few steps behind her, letting people pass. From behind my sunglasses, I watch her walk as discreetly as I can. In a few years, she would have become the long-legged beauty people call a foal.
  When I make my move, I'll have to act quickly. Leverage will be paramount. The syringe is in my pocket, its rubber tip securely fastened.
  I look around. To all the people on the street, lost in their own dramas, we might as well be alone. It never ceases to amaze me how, in a city like Philadelphia, one can go virtually unnoticed.
  "Where are you going?" I ask.
  "Bus stop," she says. "Home."
  I pretend to search my memory. "You live in Chestnut Hill, right?"
  She smiles, rolls her eyes. "Close. Nicetown.
  "That's what I meant."
  I'm laughing.
  She laughs.
  I have it.
  "Are you hungry?" I ask.
  I look at her face when I ask this. Christy has struggled with anorexia before, and I know questions like these will always be a challenge for her in this life. A few moments pass, and I fear I've lost her.
  I don't.
  "I could eat," she says.
  "Great," I say. "Let"s get a salad or something, and then I"ll drive you home. It"ll be fun. We can catch up."
  For a split second, her fears subside, hiding her beautiful face in the darkness. She looks around us.
  The curtain lifts. She puts on a leather jacket, braids her hair, and says, "Okay."
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  53
  WEDNESDAY, 4:20 PM
  ADDY KASALONIS WAS RELEASED IN 2002.
  Now in his early sixties, he had been on the force for nearly forty years, much of it in the zone, and had seen it all, from every angle, in every light, working twenty years on the streets before moving to detective duty in the South.
  Jessica found him through the FOP. She hadn't been able to contact Kevin, so she went to meet Eddie alone. She found him where he was every day at this time: a small Italian joint on Tenth Street.
  Jessica ordered coffee; Eddie, a double espresso with lemon zest.
  "I've seen a lot over the years," Eddie said, apparently prefacing a walk down memory lane. He was a large man with moist gray eyes, a dark blue tattoo on his right forearm, and shoulders rounded with age. Time slowed his tales. Jessica wanted to jump straight to the case of the blood on the door of St. Catherine's Church, but out of respect, she deferred. Finally, he finished his espresso, asked for more, and then asked, "So. How can I help you, Detective?"
  Jessica pulled out her notebook. "I understand you investigated the incident in St. Catherine's a few years ago."
  Eddie Kasalonis nodded. "You mean the blood on the church door?"
  "Yes."
  "I don't know what I can tell you about it. It wasn't really an investigation.
  "Can I ask how you ended up getting involved in this? I mean, it's far from your favorite places.
  Jessica asked around. Eddie Kasalonis was a boy from South Philadelphia. Third and Wharton.
  "A priest from St. Casimir's Cathedral was just transferred there. A good kid. Lithuanian, like me. He called, and I said I'd look into it."
  "What did you find?"
  "Not much, Detective. Someone smeared blood on the lintel above the main doors while the parishioners were celebrating midnight mass. When they came out, water was dripping on an elderly woman. She freaked out, called it a miracle, and called an ambulance."
  "What kind of blood was that?"
  "Well, it wasn't human, I can tell you that. Some kind of animal blood. That's about as far as we've come."
  "Has this ever happened again?"
  Eddie Kasalonis shook his head. "As far as I know, that's how it happened. They cleaned the door, kept an eye on it for a while, and then eventually moved on. As for me, I had a lot to do in those days." The waiter brought Eddie coffee and offered Jessica another. She declined.
  "Has this happened in any other churches?" Jessica asked.
  "I have no idea," Eddie said. "Like I said, I saw it as a favor. Desecrating a church wasn't really my business."
  - Are there any suspects?
  "Not exactly. This part of the northeast isn't exactly a hotbed of gang activity. I woke up a few local punks, threw some weight around. Nobody could handle it."
  Jessica put her notebook down and finished her coffee, a little disappointed that it hadn't led to anything. Then again, she hadn't even expected it.
  "It's my turn to ask," Eddie said.
  "Of course," Jessica replied.
  "What is your interest in the three-year-old vandalism case in Torresdale?"
  Jessica told him. There was no reason not to. Like everyone else in Philadelphia, Eddie Casalonis was well-informed about the Rosary Killer case. He didn't press her for details.
  Jessica glanced at her watch. "I really appreciate your time," she said, standing and reaching into her pocket to pay for her coffee. Eddie Kasalonis raised his hand, meaning, "Put it away."
  "Glad to help," he said. He stirred his coffee, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. Another story. Jessica waited. "You know how at the racetrack you sometimes see old jockeys hanging over the railing, watching the workouts? Or like when you pass a construction site and see old carpenters sitting on a bench, watching the new buildings go up? You look at those guys and realize they're just dying to get back into the game."
  Jessica knew where he was going. And she probably knew about the carpenters. Vincent's father had retired a few years ago, and these days he sat in front of the TV, beer in hand, criticizing lousy renovations on HGTV.
  "Yes," Jessica said. "I know what you mean."
  Eddie Kasalonis put sugar in his coffee and sank deeper into his chair. "Not me. I'm glad I don't have to do this anymore. When I first heard about the case you were working, I knew the world had passed me by, Detective. The guy you're looking for? Hell, he's from somewhere I've never been." Eddie looked up, his sad, teary eyes falling on her just in time. "And I thank God I don't have to go there."
  Jessica wished she hadn't had to go there, either. But it was a little late. She took out her keys and hesitated. "Can you tell me anything else about the blood on the church door?"
  Eddie seemed to be debating whether to say anything or not. "Well, I'll tell you. When I looked at the bloodstain the morning after it happened, I thought I saw something. Everyone else told me I was imagining things, like people seeing the Virgin Mary's face in oil stains on their driveways and stuff. But I was sure I saw what I thought I saw."
  "What was that?"
  Eddie Kasalonis hesitated again. "I thought it looked like a rose," he finally said. "An upside-down rose."
  
  Jessica had four stops to make before heading home. She had to go to the bank, pick up dry cleaning, pick up dinner at Wawa, and mail a package to Aunt Lorrie in Pompano Beach. The bank, grocery store, and UPS were all a few blocks away on Second and South.
  As she parked the Jeep, she thought about what Eddie Casalonis had said.
  I thought it looked like a rose. An inverted rose.
  From her readings, she knew that the very term "Rosary" was based on Mary and the rosary. Thirteenth-century art depicted Mary holding a rose, not a scepter. Did this have any relevance to her cause, or was she simply in despair?
  Desperate.
  Definitely.
  However, she will tell Kevin about it and listen to his opinion.
  She took the box she was taking to UPS out of the trunk of the SUV, locked it, and walked down the street. As she passed Cosi, the salad and sandwich shop on the corner of Second and Lombard Streets, she glanced in the window and saw someone she recognized, though she didn't really want to.
  Because that someone was Vincent. And he was sitting in a booth with a woman.
  Young woman.
  More accurately, a girl.
  Jessica could only see the girl from behind, but that was enough. She had long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and was wearing a motorcycle-style leather jacket. Jessica knew that badge bunnies came in all shapes, sizes, and colors.
  And, obviously, age.
  For a brief moment, Jessica experienced that strange feeling you get when you're in a new city and see someone you think you recognize. There's a sense of familiarity, followed by the realization that what you're seeing can't be exact, which in this case translates to:
  What the hell is my husband doing in a restaurant with a girl who looks about eighteen?
  Without thinking twice, the answer flashed through her head.
  You son of a bitch.
  Vincent saw Jessica, and his face told the whole story: guilt, tinged with embarrassment, with a hint of a smirk.
  Jessica took a deep breath, looked at the ground, and continued walking down the street. She wasn't going to be that stupid, crazy woman who confronted her husband and his mistress in a public place. No way.
  A few seconds later, Vincent burst through the door.
  "Jess," he said. "Wait."
  Jessica paused, trying to rein in her anger. Her anger wouldn't hear it. It was a frenzied, panicked herd of emotions.
  "Talk to me," he said.
  "Fuck you."
  - It's not what you think, Jess.
  She placed the package on the bench and turned to face him. "Gee. How did I know you were going to say that?" She looked down at her husband. It always amazed her how different he could look depending on how she was feeling at any given moment. When they were happy, his bad-boy swagger and tough-guy stance were downright sexy. When she was angry, he looked like a thug, like some streetwise Nice Guy wannabe she wanted to handcuff.
  And God bless them both, it made her as angry as she had ever been at him.
  "I can explain," he added.
  "Explain? How did you explain Michelle Brown? Sorry, what was that again? A little amateur gynecology in my bed?
  "Listen to me."
  Vincent grabbed Jessica's hand, and for the first time since they had met, for the first time in all their fickle, passionate love, it felt like they were strangers arguing on a street corner, the kind of couple you swear you'll never be when you're in love.
  "Don"t," she warned.
  Vincent held on tighter. "Jess."
  "Take... you fucking... hand... away from me." Jessica wasn't surprised to find herself clenching both hands into fists. The thought scared her a little, but not enough to make her unclench them. Would she lash out at him? She honestly didn't know.
  Vincent stepped back and raised his hands in surrender. The expression on his face at that moment told Jessica they had just crossed a threshold into dark territory from which they might never return.
  But at the moment it didn't matter.
  All Jessica could see was the blonde tail and Vincent's goofy grin as she caught it.
  Jessica picked up her bag, turned on her heel, and headed back to the Jeep. Fuck UPS, fuck the bank, fuck dinner. The only thing she could think about was getting out of here.
  She jumped into the Jeep, started it, and pressed the pedal. She half-hoped that some rookie cop would be nearby, pull her over, and try to kick some ass.
  Bad luck. There's never a policeman around when you need one.
  Besides the one she was married to.
  Before turning onto South Street, she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Vincent still standing on the corner with his hands in his pockets, a receding, lonely silhouette against the red brick of Community Hill.
  Her marriage was also going downhill along with him.
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  54
  WEDNESDAY, 7:15 PM
  THE NIGHT BEHIND THE DUCT TAPE was a Dalí landscape: black velvet dunes rolling toward the distant horizon. Every now and then, fingers of light crept through the lower part of his visual plane, teasing him with the thought of safety.
  His head ached. His limbs felt dead and useless. But that wasn't the worst of it. If the tape over his eyes was annoying, the tape over his mouth was driving him crazy, and that was beyond discussion. For someone like Simon Close, the humiliation of being tied to a chair, bound with duct tape, and gagged with something that felt and tasted like an old rag was a distant second to the frustration of not being able to speak. If he lost his words, he lost the battle. It always was. As a little boy in a Catholic home in Berwick, he managed to talk his way out of almost every scrape, every terrible scrape.
  Not this one.
  He could barely make a sound.
  The tape was wrapped tightly around his head, just above his ears, so he could hear.
  How do I get out of this? Deep breath, Simon. Deep.
  He frantically thought about the books and CDs he'd acquired over the years, devoted to meditation and yoga, the concepts of diaphragmatic breathing, and yogic techniques for dealing with stress and anxiety. He'd never read a single one or listened to a CD for more than a few minutes. He wanted quick relief from his occasional panic attacks-Xanax made him too sluggish to think clearly-but yoga offered no quick fix.
  Now he would like to continue doing this.
  Save me, Deepak Chopra, he thought.
  Help me, Dr. Weil.
  Then he heard the door to his apartment open behind him. He was back. The sound filled him with a sickening mixture of hope and fear. He heard footsteps approaching from behind, felt the weight of the floorboards. He smelled something sweet, floral. Faint, but present. A perfume for a young girl.
  Suddenly the tape came off his eyes. The searing pain felt like his eyelids were being torn off along with it.
  As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw an Apple PowerBook open on the coffee table in front of him, displaying an image of The Report's current web page.
  A MONSTER is stalking girls from Philadelphia!
  Sentences and phrases were highlighted in red.
  . . . a depraved psychopath. . .
  . . . deviant butcher of innocence. . .
  Simon's digital camera was propped up on a tripod behind the laptop. It was turned on and pointed directly at him.
  Then Simon heard a click behind him. His tormentor was holding an Apple mouse and scrolling through documents. Soon, another article appeared. It had been written three years earlier, about blood spilled on the door of a church in the northeast. Another phrase was highlighted:
  . . . listen, the heralds, the idiots, are throwing...
  Behind him, Simon heard a backpack being unzipped. A few moments later, he felt a slight pinch on the right side of his neck. A needle. Simon struggled against his bonds, but it was no use. Even if he managed to free himself, whatever was in the needle would take effect almost instantly. Warmth spread through his muscles, a pleasant weakness that, had he not been in this situation, he might have savored.
  His mind began to fragment, to float. He closed his eyes. His thoughts drifted away over the last decade or so of his life. Time leaped, fluttered, stopped.
  When he opened his eyes, the brutal buffet laid out on the coffee table before him stole his breath. For a moment, he tried to imagine some kind of favorable scenario for them. There was none.
  Then, as his bowels emptied, he recorded one last visual entry in his reporter's mind - a cordless drill, a large needle with thick black thread.
  And he knew.
  Another injection brought him to the brink of disaster. This time, he willingly agreed.
  A few minutes later, when he heard the sound of a drill, Simon Close screamed, but the sound seemed to come from somewhere else, a disembodied wail echoing off the damp stone walls of a Catholic house in the time-worn north of England, a plaintive sigh across the ancient face of the moors.
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  55
  WEDNESDAY, 7:35 PM
  JESSICA AND SOPHIE sat at the table, devouring all the goodies they'd brought home from her father's house: panettone, sfogliatelle, tiramisu. It wasn't exactly a balanced meal, but she'd escaped from the grocery store, and there was nothing in the fridge.
  Jessica knew it wasn't the best idea to let Sophie eat so much sugar at such a late hour, but Sophie had a sweet tooth the size of Pittsburgh, just like her mother, and, well, she had such a hard time saying no. Jessica had long since concluded that she'd better start saving for dental bills.
  Besides, after seeing Vincent hanging out with Britney, or Courtney, or Ashley, or whatever the hell her name was, tiramisu was almost the cure. She tried to push the image of her husband and the blonde teenager out of her head.
  Unfortunately, it was immediately replaced by a photograph of Brian Parkhurst's body hanging in a hot room that smelled of death.
  The more she thought about it, the more she doubted Parkhurst's guilt. Had he met Tessa Wells? Possibly. Was he responsible for the murders of three young women? She didn't think so. It was virtually impossible to commit any kidnapping or murder without leaving a trace.
  Three of them?
  It just seemed impossible.
  What about PAR on Nicole Taylor's hand?
  For a moment, Jessica realized that she had taken on far more than she thought she could handle in this job.
  She cleared the table, sat Sophie down in front of the TV, and turned on the DVD of Finding Nemo.
  She poured herself a glass of Chianti, cleared the dining room table, and filed away all her notes. She mentally ran through the timeline of events. There was a connection between these girls, something other than their attendance at Catholic schools.
  Nicole Taylor, kidnapped off the street and abandoned in a flower field.
  Tessa Wells, abducted from the street and abandoned in an abandoned row house.
  Bethany Price, kidnapped off the street and dumped in the Rodin Museum.
  The choice of landfills, in turn, seemed random and precise, carefully orchestrated and mindlessly arbitrary.
  No, Jessica thought. Dr. Summers was right. Their actions weren't at all illogical. The location of these victims mattered as much as the method of their murder.
  She looked at the crime scene photographs of the girls and tried to imagine their last moments of freedom, tried to drag these unfolding moments from the dominion of black and white into the rich colors of a nightmare.
  Jessica picked up Tessa Wells's school photo. It was Tessa Wells that troubled her most; perhaps because Tessa was the first victim she'd ever seen. Or perhaps because she knew Tessa was the outwardly shy young girl Jessica had once been, a doll always yearning to become an imago.
  She walked into the living room and kissed Sophie's shiny, strawberry-scented hair. Sophie giggled. Jessica watched a few minutes of a film about the colorful adventures of Dory, Marlin, and Gill.
  Then her gaze found the envelope on the coffee table. She forgot all about it.
  Rosary of Virginis Marie.
  Jessica sat at the dining room table and scanned a long letter that appeared to be a message from Pope John Paul II reaffirming the relevance of the holy rosary. She skipped the headings, but one section caught her eye-a passage titled "The Mysteries of Christ, the Mysteries of His Mother."
  As she read, she felt a small flame of understanding light within her, the realization that she had crossed a barrier that had been unknown to her until that moment, a barricade that could never be crossed again.
  She read that there are five "Sorrowful Mysteries" of the Rosary. She knew this, of course, from her Catholic school upbringing, but she hadn't thought about it for many years.
  Agony in the garden.
  A whip at the post.
  Crown of thorns.
  Carrying the cross.
  Crucifixion.
  This revelation was a crystalline bullet, piercing the center of her brain. Nicole Taylor was found in the garden. Tessa Wells was tied to a post. Bethany Price wore a crown of thorns.
  This was the killer's master plan.
  He is going to kill five girls.
  For several anxious moments, she seemed unable to move. She took a few deep breaths and calmed herself. She knew that if she was right, this information would completely change the course of the investigation, but she didn't want to present her theory to the task force until she was sure.
  It was one thing to know the plan, but it was equally important to understand the why. Understanding the why was crucial to understanding where the perpetrator would strike next. She pulled out a notepad and drew a grid.
  A piece of sheep bone found on Nicole Taylor was supposed to lead investigators to Tessa Wells' crime scene.
  But how?
  She leafed through the indexes of some of the books she'd borrowed from the Free Library. She found a section on Roman customs and learned that the practice of flagellation in the time of Christ involved a short whip called a flagrum, often attached to leather thongs of varying lengths. Knots were tied at the ends of each thong, and sharp sheep bones were inserted into the knots at the ends.
  A sheep's bone meant that the pillar would have a whip.
  Jessica wrote notes as quickly as she could.
  A reproduction of Blake's "Dante and Virgil at the Gates of Hell," found in the hands of Tessa Wells, was obvious. Bethany Price was found at the gate leading to the Rodin Museum.
  An examination of Bethany Price revealed two numbers written on the insides of her hands. On her left hand was the number 7. On her right hand, the number 16. Both numbers were written in black magic marker.
  716.
  Address? License plate? Partial postal code?
  Until now, no one on the task force had any idea what these numbers meant. Jessica knew that if she could solve this mystery, they would have a chance of predicting where the killer's next victim would be. And they could wait for him.
  She stared at the huge stack of books on the dining room table. She was sure the answer was somewhere in one of them.
  She went into the kitchen, poured a glass of red wine, and put on the coffee pot.
  It's going to be a long night.
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  WEDNESDAY, 11:15 PM
  The headstone is cold. The name and date are obscured by time and windblown debris. I brush it away. I run my index finger over the carved numbers. This date takes me back to a time in my life when anything was possible. A time when the future glimmered.
  I think about who she could be, what she could do with her life, who she could become.
  Doctor? Politician? Musician? Teacher?
  I watch young women and I know that the world belongs to them.
  I know what I lost.
  Of all the holy days in the Catholic calendar, Good Friday is perhaps the most sacred. I've heard people ask: if it's the day Christ was crucified, why is it called Good Friday? Not all cultures call it Good Friday. Germans call it Charfreitag, or Sorrowful Friday. In Latin, it was called Paraskeva, meaning "preparation."
  Christy is getting ready.
  Christy is praying.
  When I left her in the chapel, safe and comfortable, she was reciting her tenth rosary. She is very conscientious, and from the serious way she speaks for decades, I can tell that she wants to please not only me-after all, I can only influence her earthly life-but also the Lord.
  Cold rain slides down the black granite, joining my tears, filling my heart with a storm.
  I take a shovel and start digging the soft earth.
  The Romans believed that the hour marking the end of the working day, the ninth hour, the time of the beginning of the fast, was significant.
  They called it "Nothing Hour."
  For me, for my girls, this hour is finally near.
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  THURSDAY, 8:05.
  THE PARADE OF POLICE CARS, both marked and unmarked, that snaked down the glass-walled West Philadelphia street where Jimmy Purifie's widow made her home seemed endless.
  Byrne received a call from Ike Buchanan just after six.
  Jimmy Purify was dead. He'd coded it at three in the morning.
  As Byrne approached the house, he hugged the other detectives. Most people thought it was difficult for police officers to show emotion-some said it was a prerequisite for the job-but every police officer knew better. At times like these, nothing could be easier.
  When Byrne entered the living room, he saw a woman standing before him, frozen in time and space in her own home. Darlene Purifey stood by the window, her thousand-yard stare stretching far beyond the gray horizon. In the background, a television blared a talk show. Byrne considered turning it off, but realized the silence would be far worse. The television showed that life, somewhere, went on.
  "Where do you want me, Darlene? You tell me, I'll go there."
  Darlene Purifey was in her early forties, a former R&B singer in the 1980s who had even recorded a few records with the girl group La Rouge. Now her hair was platinum, and her once-slim figure had succumbed to time. "I fell out of love with him a long time ago, Kevin. I don't even remember when. It's just... the idea of him that's missing. Jimmy. Gone. Damn."
  Byrne crossed the room and hugged her. He stroked her hair, searching for words. He'd found something. "He was the best cop I ever knew. The best."
  Darlene wiped her eyes. Grief is such a heartless sculptor, Byrne thought. In that moment, Darlene looked a dozen years older than her age. He thought of their first meeting, those happier times. Jimmy had brought her to the Police Athletic League dance. Byrne watched Darlene interact with Jimmy and wondered how a player like him had managed to get a woman like her.
  "You know, he liked it," Darlene said.
  "Job?"
  "Yeah. Work," Darlene said. "He loved it more than he ever loved me. Or even the kids, I think.
  "That's not true. That's different, you know? Loving your job is... well... different. After the divorce, I spent every day with him. And many nights after that. Believe me, he missed you more than you could ever imagine.
  Darlene looked at him as if it was the most incredible thing she had ever heard. "He did?"
  "Are you kidding me? Remember that monogrammed scarf? Your little one with the flowers in the corner? The one you gave him on your first date?
  "What...what about this?"
  "He never went on tour without it. In fact, one night we were halfway to Fishtown, heading out for a stakeout, and we had to go back to the Roundhouse because he'd forgotten about it. And believe me, you didn't tell him about it.
  Darlene laughed, then covered her mouth and began crying again. Byrne wasn't sure if he was making things better or worse. He placed his hand on her shoulder until her sobs began to subside. He searched his memory for a story, any story. For some reason, he wanted Darlene to keep talking. He didn't know why, but he sensed that if she did, she wouldn't be grieving.
  "Did I ever tell you about Jimmy going undercover as a gay prostitute?"
  "Many times." Now Darlene smiled through the salt. "Tell me again, Kevin."
  "Well, we were working backwards, right? Middle of summer. Five detectives were on the case, and Jimmy's number was bait. We'd been laughing about it for a week, right? Like, who the hell would believe they were selling him for a big slab of pork? Forget selling, who the hell would buy?
  Byrne told her the rest of the story by heart. Darlene smiled at all the right places, and finally laughed her sad laugh. Then she melted into Byrne's large arms, and he held her for what seemed like minutes, waving away several police officers who had come to pay their respects. Finally, he asked, "Do the boys know?"
  Darlene wiped her eyes. "Yeah. They'll be here tomorrow."
  Byrne stood in front of her. "If you need anything, anything at all, you pick up the phone. Don't even look at your watch."
  "Thank you, Kevin."
  "And don't worry about the arrangements. The Association is to blame for everything. It will be a procession, like the Pope's."
  Byrne looked at Darlene. The tears were welling up again. Kevin Byrne held her close, feeling her heart pounding. Darlene was resilient, having survived the slow deaths of both her parents from protracted illnesses. He worried about the boys. Neither had their mother's courage. They were sensitive children, very close to each other, and Byrne knew that one of his jobs in the next few weeks would be supporting the Purify family.
  
  As Byrne walked out of Darlene's house, he had to look both ways. He couldn't remember where he'd parked his car. A headache pierced his eyes. He tapped his pocket. He still had a full supply of Vicodin.
  Kevin, you have a full plate, he thought. Clean yourself up.
  He lit a cigarette, paused for a few minutes, and got his bearings. He looked at his pager. There were three more calls from Jimmy, all of which he hadn't answered.
  There will be time.
  Finally, he remembered he'd parked on a side street. By the time he reached the corner, the rain had started again. Why not, he thought. Jimmy was gone. The sun didn't dare show its face. Not today.
  All over the city-in restaurants, taxis, beauty salons, boardrooms, and church basements-people talked about the Rosary Killer, about how the madman had feasted on young Philadelphia girls and how the police had been unable to stop him. For the first time in his career, Byrne felt impotent, completely inadequate, an impostor, as if he couldn't look at his paycheck with any sense of pride or dignity.
  He walked into Crystal Coffee, the 24-hour coffee shop he often visited in the mornings with Jimmy. The regulars were dejected. They'd heard the news. He grabbed a newspaper and a large cup of coffee, wondering if he'd ever return. As he emerged, he saw someone leaning against his car.
  It was Jessica.
  The emotion almost took away his legs.
  This kid, he thought. This kid is something.
  "Hello," she said.
  "Hello."
  "I was sorry to hear about your partner."
  "Thank you," Byrne said, trying to keep everything under control. "He was... he was one of a kind. You would have liked him.
  "Is there anything I can do?"
  "She has a way," Byrne thought. A way that made such questions sound genuine, not the kind of nonsense people say just to make a statement.
  "No," Byrne said. "Everything is under control."
  "If you want to take advantage of this day..."
  Byrne shook his head. "I'm fine."
  "Are you sure?" Jessica asked.
  "One hundred percent."
  Jessica picked up Rosary's letter.
  "What is this?" Byrne asked.
  "I think that's the key to our guy's mind."
  Jessica told him what she'd learned, as well as the details of her meeting with Eddie Casalonis. As she spoke, she saw several things creep across Kevin Byrne's face. Two of them were particularly significant.
  Respect for her as a detective.
  And, more importantly, determination.
  "There's someone we should talk to before we brief the team," Jessica said. "Someone who can put this all in perspective."
  Byrne turned and glanced at Jimmy Purifie's house. He turned and said, "Let's get going."
  
  They sat with Father Corrio at a small table near the front window of Anthony's Coffee Shop on Ninth Street in South Philadelphia.
  "There are twenty mysteries of the Rosary," Father Corrio said. "They are grouped into four sets: Joyful, Sorrowful, Glorious, and Luminous."
  The idea that their executor was planning twenty murders didn't escape the attention of anyone at the table. Father Corrio didn't seem to think so.
  "Strictly speaking," he continued, "the mysteries are distributed according to the days of the week. The Glorious Mysteries are celebrated on Sunday and Wednesday, the Joyful Mysteries on Monday and Saturday. The Luminous Mysteries, which are relatively new, are observed on Thursday."
  "What about the Sorrowful One?" Byrne asked.
  "The Sorrowful Mysteries are celebrated on Tuesdays and Fridays. On Sundays during Lent."
  Jessica mentally counted the days since Bethany Price's discovery. It didn't fit the pattern of observance.
  "Most of the mysteries are celebratory in nature," Father Corrio said. "These include the Annunciation, the Baptism of Jesus, the Assumption, and the Resurrection of Christ. Only the Sorrowful Mysteries deal with suffering and death."
  "There are only five Sad Secrets, right?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes," said Father Corrio. "But keep in mind that the rosary is not universally accepted. There are opponents."
  "How so?" asked Jessica.
  "Well, there are those who consider the rosary to be non-cumenical."
  "I don't understand what you mean," Byrne said.
  "The Rosary glorifies Mary," Father Corrio said. "It honors the Mother of God, and some believe that the Marian nature of the prayer does not glorify Christ."
  "How does this apply to what we're facing here?"
  Father Corrio shrugged. "Perhaps the man you seek doesn't believe in Mary's virginity. Perhaps he's trying, in his own way, to return these girls to God in this state."
  The thought made Jessica shudder. If that was his motive, when and why would he stop?
  Jessica reached into her folio and pulled out photographs of the insides of Bethany Price's palms, the numbers 7 and 16.
  "Do these numbers mean anything to you?" Jessica asked.
  Father Corrio put on his bifocals and looked at the photographs. It was clear the drill wounds on the young girl's arms troubled him.
  "It could be many things," Father Corrio said. "Nothing comes to mind immediately."
  "I checked page 716 in the Oxford Annotated Bible," Jessica said. "It was in the middle of the Book of Psalms. I read the text, but nothing jumped out."
  Father Corrio nodded but remained silent. It was clear the Book of Psalms in this context hadn't touched him.
  "What about the year? Does the year seven sixteen have any significance in the church that you know of?" Jessica asked.
  Father Corrio smiled. "I studied a little English, Jessica," he said. "I'm afraid history wasn't my best subject. Other than the fact that the First Vatican convened in 1869, I'm not very good at dating."
  Jessica looked over the notes she'd made the night before. She was running out of ideas.
  "Did you happen to find a shoulder pad on this girl?" asked Father Corrio.
  Byrne reviewed his notes. Essentially, a scapular was two small square pieces of woolen cloth, joined together by two strings or ribbons. It was worn so that when the ribbons rested on the shoulders, one segment was in front and the other in back. Scapulars were typically given for First Communion-a gift set that often included a rosary, a pin-shaped chalice with the host, and a satin pouch.
  "Yes," Byrne said. "When she was found, she had a shoulder blade around her neck."
  "Is this a brown spatula?"
  Byrne looked over his notes again. "Yes."
  "Perhaps you should take a closer look at him," Father Corrio said.
  Quite often, shoulder blades were encased in clear plastic for protection, as was the case with Bethany Price. Her shoulder pad had already been cleaned of fingerprints. None were found. "Why is that, Father?"
  "Every year, the Feast of the Capular is celebrated, a day dedicated to Our Lady of Mount Carmel. It commemorates the anniversary of the day when the Blessed Virgin Mary appeared to Saint Simon Stock and gave him a monastic scapular. She told him that whoever wears it will not suffer from eternal fire."
  "I don't understand," Byrne said. "Why is this relevant?"
  Father Corrio said: "The Feast of the Capular is celebrated on July 16th."
  
  The scapular found at Bethany Price was indeed a brown scapular dedicated to Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Byrne called the lab and asked if they had opened the clear plastic case. They had not.
  Byrne and Jessica returned to the Roundhouse.
  "You know, there's a chance we won't catch this guy," Byrne said. "He might get to his fifth victim and then crawl back into the slime forever."
  The thought crossed Jessica's mind. She tried not to think about it. "Do you think this could happen?"
  "I hope not," Byrne said. "But I've been doing this for a long time. I just want you to be prepared for the possibility."
  This possibility didn't appeal to her. If this man wasn't caught, she knew that for the rest of her career in the homicide department, for the rest of her time in law enforcement, she would judge every case on what she considered a failure.
  Before Jessica could respond, Byrne's cell phone rang. He answered. A few seconds later, he closed the phone and reached into the backseat for a strobe light. He placed it on the dashboard and lit it.
  "How are you?" Jessica asked.
  "They opened the shovel and wiped the dust from the inside," he said. He floored the gas pedal. "We have a fingerprint."
  
  They waited on a bench near the printing house.
  There are all kinds of waiting in police work. There's the variety of surveillance and the variety of verdicts. There's the kind of waiting where you show up in a municipal courtroom to testify on some bullshit DUI case at 9 a.m., and at 3 p.m. you're on the stand for two minutes, just in time for the four-hour tour.
  But waiting for a fingerprint to appear was the best and worst of both worlds. You had evidence, but the longer it took, the more likely you were to miss a suitable match.
  Byrne and Jessica tried to get comfortable. There were plenty of other things they could have done in the meantime, but they were committed and determined to do none of them. Their primary goal at the moment was to lower their blood pressure and heart rate.
  "Can I ask you a question?" Jessica asked.
  "Certainly."
  - If you don't want to talk about it, I completely understand.
  Byrne looked at her with almost black green eyes. She had never seen a man so exhausted.
  "You want to know about Luther White," he said.
  "Okay. Yes," Jessica said. Was she that transparent? "Sort of."
  Jessica asked around. The detectives were protecting themselves. What she heard added up to a pretty crazy story. She decided she'd just ask.
  "What do you want to know?" Byrne asked.
  Every detail. - Everything you want to tell me.
  Byrne sank slightly onto the bench, distributing his weight. "I worked for about five years or so, in plain clothes for about two. There was a series of rapes in West Philadelphia. The perpetrator targeted parking lots of places like motels, hospitals, and office buildings. He'd strike in the middle of the night, usually between three and four in the morning."
  Jessica remembered it vaguely. She was in ninth grade, and the story scared the hell out of her and her friends.
  "The subject wore a nylon stocking over his face, rubber gloves, and always wore a condom. Never left a hair, not a fiber. Not a drop of fluid. We had nothing. Eight women in three months, and we had zero. The only description we had, other than the guy was white and somewhere between thirty and fifty, was that he had a tattoo on the front of his neck. An intricate tattoo of an eagle, extending to the base of his jaw. We canvassed every tattoo parlor between Pittsburgh and Atlantic City. Nothing.
  So, I'm out one night with Jimmy. We'd just busted a suspect in Old Town and were still in gear. We'd stopped briefly at a place called Deuce's, near Pier 84. We were about to leave when I saw a guy at one of the tables by the door wearing a white turtleneck pulled high. I didn't think anything of it right away, but as I was walking out the door, for some reason I turned around and saw it. The tip of a tattoo was peeking out from under the turtleneck. An eagle's beak. It couldn't have been more than half an inch, right? It was him.
  - Did he see you?
  "Oh yeah," Byrne said. "So Jimmy and I just leave. We huddle outside, right by this low stone wall that"s next to the river, figuring we"ll make a call since we only had a few and we didn"t want anything to stop us from taking this bastard out. This is before cell phones, so Jimmy heads to the car to call for backup. I decide I"ll stand next to the door, figuring if this guy tries to leave, I"ll get him. But as soon as I turn around, there he is. And his twenty-two points are pointed straight at my heart.
  - How did he create you?
  "No idea. But without a word, without a second thought, he unloaded. He fired three shots in quick succession. I put them all in my vest, but they knocked the wind out of me. His fourth shot grazed my forehead." Byrne touched the scar above his right eye. "I went back, over the wall, into the river. I couldn't breathe. The slugs had broken two ribs, so I couldn't even try to swim. I just started sinking to the bottom, like I was paralyzed. The water was freezing cold."
  - What happened to White?
  "Jimmy hit him. Two in the chest.
  Jessica tried to process those images, every cop's nightmare when faced with a two-time loser with a gun.
  "As I was drowning, I saw White surface above me. I swear, before I lost consciousness, we had a moment where we were face to face underwater. Just inches apart. It was dark and cold, but our eyes met. We were both dying, and we knew it."
  "What happened next?"
  "They caught me, did CPR, the whole routine."
  "I heard that you..." For some reason, Jessica had a hard time saying the word.
  "Drowned?"
  "Well, yes. What? And you?
  - That's what they tell me.
  "Wow. You've been here for so long, um..."
  Byrne laughed. "Dead?"
  "Sorry," Jessica said. "I can confidently say I've never asked that question before."
  "Sixty seconds," Byrne replied.
  "Wow."
  Byrne looked at Jessica. Her face was a press conference of questions.
  Byrne smiled and asked, "You want to know if there were bright white lights, angels, golden trumpets and Roma Downey floating overhead, right?"
  Jessica laughed. "I think so."
  "Well, there was no Roma Downey. But there was a long hallway with a door at the end. I just knew I shouldn't open that door. If I did, I'd never come back."
  - Did you just find out?
  "I just knew. And for a long time after I came back, whenever I went to a crime scene, especially a murder scene, I got . . . a feeling. The day after we found Deirdre Pettigrew"s body, I went back to Fairmount Park. I touched the bench in front of the bushes where she was found. I saw Pratt. I didn"t know his name, I couldn"t see his face clearly, but I knew it was him. I saw her see him.
  - Have you seen him?
  "Not in a visual sense. I just... knew." It was clear this hadn't come easy to him. "It happened many times over a long period of time," he said. "There was no explanation for it. No prediction. In fact, I did a lot of things I shouldn't have tried to stop to stop it."
  "How long have you been an IOD?"
  "I was gone for almost five months. A lot of rehab. That's where I met my wife."
  "Was she a physical therapist?"
  "No, no. She was recovering from a torn Achilles tendon. I actually met her a few years ago in my old neighborhood, but we reconnected at the hospital. We hobbled up and down the hallways together. I'd say it was love from the start, Vicodin, if that weren't such a bad joke."
  Jessica laughed anyway. "Have you ever received any professional mental health help?"
  "Oh, yes. I worked in the psychiatric department for two years, on and off. I did dream analysis. I even attended a few IANDS meetings."
  "YANDS?"
  "International Association for Near-Death Research. It wasn't for me."
  Jessica tried to take it all in. It was too much. "So how are things now?"
  "It doesn't happen that often these days. It's like a distant television signal. Morris Blanchard is proof that I can no longer be sure of that."
  Jessica could see there was more to the story, but she felt she had pushed him enough.
  "And to answer your next question," Byrne continued, "I can't read minds, I can't tell fortunes, I can't see the future. There's no blind spot. If I could see the future, believe me, I'd be in Philadelphia Park right now."
  Jessica laughed again. She was glad she'd asked, but still a little scared by the whole thing. Stories of clairvoyance and the like always freaked her out. When she'd read The Shining, she'd slept with the lights on for a week.
  She was just about to try one of her awkward transitions when Ike Buchanan burst through the print shop door. His face was flushed, the veins in his neck throbbed. For the moment, his limp had disappeared.
  "Got it," Buchanan said, waving the computer readout.
  Byrne and Jessica jumped to their feet and walked alongside him.
  "Who is he?" Byrne asked.
  "His name is Wilhelm Kreutz," Buchanan said.
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  THURSDAY, 11:25
  According to DMV records, Wilhelm Kreutz lived on Kensington Avenue. He worked as a parking attendant in North Philadelphia. The task force traveled to the scene in two vehicles. Four SWAT team members rode in a black van. Four of the six detectives on the task force followed in a squad car: Byrne, Jessica, John Shepherd, and Eric Chavez.
  A few blocks away, a cell phone rang in the Taurus. All four detectives checked their phones. It was John Shepard. "Uh-huh...how much...okay...thanks." He folded the antenna and folded the phone. "Kreutz hasn't been to work for the last two days. No one in the parking lot has seen him or spoken to him."
  The detectives took this in and remained silent. There's a ritual associated with knocking on the door, any door; a personal inner monologue, unique to every law enforcement officer. Some fill this time with prayer. Others with stunned silence. All of this was intended to cool the anger, calm the nerves.
  They learned more about their subject. Wilhelm Creutz clearly fit the profile. He was forty-two years old, a loner, and a graduate of the University of Wisconsin.
  And while he had a lengthy rap sheet, it contained nothing resembling the level of violence or the depth of depravity of the Rosary Girl murders. And yet, he was far from a model citizen. Kreutz was a registered Level II sex offender, meaning he was considered a moderate risk of reoffending. He spent six years in Chester and registered with Philadelphia authorities after his release in September 2002. He had contact with underage females between the ages of ten and fourteen. His victims were both known and unknown to him.
  Detectives agreed that, although the Rose Garden Killer's victims were older than Kreutz's previous victims, there was no logical explanation for why his fingerprint was found on a personal item belonging to Bethany Price. They contacted Bethany Price's mother and asked if she knew Wilhelm Kreutz.
  She is not.
  
  K. Reitz lived on the second floor of a three-room apartment in a dilapidated building near Somerset. The street entrance was next to a dry cleaner's with long shutters. According to the building department's plans, there were four apartments on the second floor. According to the housing department, only two were occupied. Legally, this is true. The building's back door opened onto an alley that ran the length of the block.
  The target apartment was located at the front, with two windows overlooking Kensington Avenue. A SWAT sniper took up a position across the street, on the roof of a three-story building. A second SWAT officer covered the rear of the building, positioned on the ground.
  The remaining two SWAT officers were to breach the door using a Thunderbolt CQB battering ram, a heavy-duty cylindrical battering ram they used whenever a risky and dynamic entry was required. Once the door was breached, Jessica and Byrne would enter, while John Shepard would cover the rear flank. Eric Chavez was positioned at the end of the hallway, near the stairs.
  
  They checked the lock on the front door and quickly entered. As they passed through the small vestibule, Byrne checked a row of four mailboxes. Apparently, none of them had been used. They had been broken into long ago and had never been repaired. The floor was littered with numerous advertising flyers, menus, and catalogs.
  A moldy cork board hung above the mailboxes. Several local businesses displayed their products in faded dot-matrix print on curling, hot neon paper. Special offers were dated nearly a year earlier. It seemed the people who sold flyers in the area had long since abandoned the space. The walls of the lobby were covered with gang tags and obscenities in at least four languages.
  The stairwell to the second floor was littered with trash bags, torn and scattered by the city's menagerie of animals, both two-legged and four-legged. The stench of rotting food and urine was everywhere.
  The second floor was worse. A heavy veil of sour smoke from the pots was obscured by the smell of excrement. The second-floor corridor was a long, narrow passageway with exposed metal grates and dangling electrical wires. Peeling plaster and flaking enamel paint hung from the ceiling like damp stalactites.
  Byrne quietly approached the target door and pressed his ear to it. He listened for a few moments, then shook his head. He tried the handle. It was locked. He stepped back.
  One of the two special forces officers looked into the eyes of the entry group. The other special forces officer, the one with the battering ram, took up position. He silently counted them.
  It was included.
  "Police! Search warrant!" he shouted.
  He pulled back the battering ram and slammed it into the door, just below the lock. Instantly, the old door split from the frame, then tore off at the top hinge. The officer with the battering ram backed away, while another SWAT officer rolled the frame, raising his AR-15 .223 rifle high.
  Byrne was next.
  Jessica followed her, her Glock 17 pointed low at the floor.
  A small living room was on the right. Byrne moved closer to the wall. The smells of disinfectant, cherry incense, and rotting flesh enveloped them first. A pair of frightened rats scurried along the nearest wall. Jessica noticed dried blood on their graying muzzles. Their claws clicked on the dry wooden floor.
  The apartment was eerily quiet. Somewhere in the living room, a spring clock ticked. Not a sound, not a breath.
  Ahead lay a unkempt living area. A wedding chair, upholstered in crumpled velvet and stained with gold, cushions on the floor. Several Domino's boxes, disassembled and chewed. A pile of dirty clothes.
  No people.
  To the left was a door, likely leading to a bedroom. It was closed. As they approached, they heard the faint sounds of a radio broadcast from inside the room. A gospel channel.
  The special forces officer took up a position, raising his rifle high.
  Byrne walked over and touched the door. It was locked. He slowly turned the handle, then quickly pushed the bedroom door open and slid back in. The radio was a little louder now.
  "The Bible says without question that one day everyone... will give an account of himself... to God!"
  Byrne looked Jessica in the eye. He nodded his chin and began the countdown. They rolled into the room.
  And I saw the inside of hell itself.
  "Oh, my God," the SWAT officer said. He crossed himself. "Oh, Lord Jesus."
  The bedroom was bare of furniture and furnishings. The walls were covered with peeling, water-stained floral wallpaper; the floor was littered with dead insects, small bones, and fast-food scraps. Cobwebs clung to the corners; the baseboards were coated with years of silky gray dust. A small radio stood in the corner, near the front windows, which were covered with torn, moldy sheets.
  There were two residents in the room.
  Against the far wall, a man hung upside down on a makeshift cross, apparently fashioned from two pieces of a metal bed frame . His wrists, feet, and neck were bound to the frame in an accordion-like fashion, cutting deep into his flesh. The man was naked, and his body had been cut down the center from groin to throat-fat, skin, and muscle had been pulled apart, creating a deep furrow. He had also been cut sideways on his chest, creating a cross-shaped formation of blood and shredded tissue.
  Below him, at the foot of the cross, sat a young girl. Her hair, which might once have been blond, was now a deep ocher. She was covered in blood, a glistening pool of it spreading down the knees of her denim skirt. The room was filled with a metallic taste. The girl's hands were clasped together. She held a rosary made of only ten beads.
  Byrne was the first to come to his senses. This place was still dangerous. He slid along the wall opposite the window and peered into the closet. It was empty.
  "I see," Byrne finally said.
  And even though any immediate threat, at least from a living person, had passed, and the detectives could holster their weapons, they hesitated, as if they could somehow overcome the mundane vision before them with deadly force.
  This wasn't supposed to happen.
  The killer came here and left behind this blasphemous picture, a picture that will surely live in their minds as long as they breathe.
  A quick search of the bedroom closet yielded little. A pair of work uniforms and a pile of dirty underwear and socks. Two of the uniforms were from Acme Parking. A photo tag was pinned to the front of one of the work shirts. The tag identified the hanged man as Wilhelm Kreutz. The identification card matched his photo.
  Finally, the detectives holstered their weapons.
  John Shepherd called the CSU team.
  "That's his name," the still-shocked SWAT officer told Byrne and Jessica. The officer's dark blue BDU jacket had a tag that read "D. MAURER."
  "What do you mean?" Byrne asked.
  "My family is German," Maurer said, struggling to compose himself. It was a difficult task for everyone. "Kreuz" means "cross" in German. In English, his name is William Cross.
  The Fourth Sorrowful Mystery is the bearing of the cross.
  Byrne left the scene for a moment, then quickly returned. He flipped through his notebook, searching for a list of young girls who had been reported missing. The reports also contained photographs. It didn't take long. He crouched down next to the girl and held the photograph up to her face. The victim's name was Christy Hamilton. She was sixteen. She lived in Nicetown.
  Byrne stood up. He saw the horrific scene unfolding before him. In his mind, deep in the catacombs of his terror, he knew he would soon meet this man, and together they would walk to the edge of the void.
  Byrne wanted to say something to the team, the team he'd been chosen to lead, but at that moment he felt anything but a leader. For the first time in his career, he found that words weren't enough.
  On the floor, next to Christy Hamilton's right foot, sat a Burger King cup with a lid and straw.
  There were lip prints on the straw.
  The cup was half full of blood.
  
  Byrne and Jessica walked aimlessly for a block or so through Kensington, alone, imagining the shrieking madness of the crime scene. The sun peeked out briefly between a pair of thick gray clouds, casting a rainbow across the street but not their mood.
  They both wanted to talk.
  They both wanted to scream.
  They remained silent for now, but a storm raged inside.
  The general public operated under the illusion that police officers could observe any scene, any event, and maintain a clinical detachment. Of course, many police officers cultivated an image of an untouchable heart. This image was for television and film.
  "He's laughing at us," Byrne said.
  Jessica nodded. There was no doubt about it. He'd led them to the apartment in Kreuz with a planted fingerprint. She realized the hardest part of this job was pushing the desire for personal revenge to the back of her mind. It was becoming more and more difficult.
  The level of violence escalated. The sight of Wilhelm Kreutz's disemboweled body told them that a peaceful arrest would not end the matter. The Rosary Killer's rampage was destined to culminate in a bloody siege.
  They stood in front of the apartment, leaning against the CSU van.
  A few moments later, one of the uniformed officers leaned out of Kreutz's bedroom window.
  - Detectives?
  "How are you?" Jessica asked.
  - You might want to come up here.
  
  The woman appeared to be around eighty. Her thick glasses reflected a rainbow in the dim light from the two bare bulbs on the hallway ceiling. She stood right by the door, leaning over an aluminum walker. She lived two doors down from Wilhelm Kreutz's apartment. She smelled of kitty litter, Bengay, and kosher salami.
  Her name was Agnes Pinsky.
  The uniform read, "Tell this gentleman what you just told me, ma'am."
  "Hm?"
  Agnes wore a tattered seafoam terrycloth housecoat, fastened with a single button. The left hem was higher than the right, revealing knee-length support stockings and a blue wool calf-length sock.
  "When did you last see Mr. Kreutz?" Byrne asked.
  "Willie? He's always kind to me," she said.
  "That's great," Byrne said. "When was the last time you saw him?"
  Agnes Pinsky looked from Jessica to Byrne and back again. It seemed she'd just realized she was talking to strangers. "How did you find me?"
  - We just knocked on your door, Mrs. Pinsky.
  "Is he sick?"
  "Sick?" Byrne asked. "Why did you say that?"
  - His doctor was here.
  - When was his doctor here?
  "Yesterday," she said. "His doctor came to see him yesterday."
  - How do you know it was a doctor?
  "How should I know? What happened to you? I know what doctors look like. I don't have any old-timers.
  - Do you know what time the doctor arrived?
  Agnes Pinsky looked at Byrne with distaste for a moment. Whatever she'd been talking about had slipped back into the dark corners of her mind. She had the air of someone impatiently awaiting change at the post office.
  They would send an artist to sketch the images, but the chances of getting a workable image were slim.
  However, based on what Jessica knew about Alzheimer's and dementia, some of the images were often very sharp.
  A doctor came to see him yesterday.
  "There's only one Sad Secret left," Jessica thought as she walked down the steps.
  Where will they go next? What area will they reach with their guns and battering rams? Northern Liberties? Glenwood? Tioga?
  Whose face will they look into, sullen and speechless?
  If they were late again, none of them had any doubts.
  The last girl will be crucified.
  
  Five of the six detectives gathered upstairs in Lincoln Hall at Finnigan's Wake. The room was theirs and temporarily closed to the public. Downstairs, the jukebox played The Corrs.
  "So, are we dealing with a fucking vampire now?" Nick Palladino asked. He stood by the tall windows overlooking Spring Garden Street. The Ben Franklin Bridge hummed in the distance. Palladino was a man who thought best when he was standing, rocking back on his heels, his hands in his pockets, jingling change.
  "I mean, give me a gangster," Nick continued. "Give me a homeowner and his Mac-Ten setting some other idiot on fire over a lawn, over a short bag, over honor, a code, whatever. I understand that shit. This one?"
  Everyone knew what he meant. It was much easier when motives hung on the surface of the crime like pebbles. Greed was the easiest thing. Follow the green trail.
  Palladino was on a roll. "Payne and Washington heard about that JBM gunman in Grays Ferry the other night, right?" he continued. "Now I hear the gunman's been found dead on Erie. That's how I like it, nice and neat."
  Byrne closed his eyes for a second and opened them to the new day.
  John Shepard climbed the stairs. Byrne pointed to Margaret, the waitress. She brought John a neat Jim Beam.
  "All the blood belonged to Kreutz," Shepard said. "The girl died of a broken neck. Just like the others."
  "And is there blood in the cup?" Tony Park asked.
  "This belonged to Kreutz. The medical examiner believes he was fed blood through a straw before he bled to death.
  "He was fed his own blood," Chavez said, feeling a shudder run through his body. It wasn't a question; simply a statement of something too complex to comprehend.
  "Yes," Shepherd replied.
  "It's official," Chavez said. "I saw it all."
  The six detectives learned this lesson. The entangled horrors of the Rosary Killer case grew exponentially.
  "Drink of this, all of you; for this is my blood of the covenant, which is shed for many for the forgiveness of sins," Jessica said.
  Five pairs of eyebrows rose. Everyone turned their heads in Jessica's direction.
  "I read a lot," she said. "Maundy Thursday was called Holy Thursday. It's the day of the Last Supper."
  "So this Kreuz was our leader's Peter?" asked Palladino.
  Jessica could only shrug. She was thinking about it. The rest of the night would likely be spent ruining Wilhelm Kreutz's life, searching for any connection that might turn into a lead.
  "Did she have anything in her hands?" Byrne asked.
  Shepherd nodded. He held up a photocopy of the digital photograph. The detectives gathered around the table. They took turns examining the photograph.
  "What is this, a lottery ticket?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes," Shepherd said.
  "Oh, this is fucking great," Palladino said. He walked over to the window, hands in his pockets.
  "Fingers?" Byrne asked.
  Shepherd shook his head.
  "Can we find out where this ticket was purchased?" Jessica asked.
  "I've already gotten a call from the commission," Shepherd said. "We should be hearing from them anytime."
  Jessica stared at the photograph. Their killer had handed the Big Four ticket over to his latest victim. Chances were good it wasn't just a taunt. Like the other items, it was a clue to where the next victim would be found.
  The lottery number itself was covered in blood.
  Did this mean he was going to dump the body at the lottery agent's office? There had to be hundreds of them. There was no way they could claim them all.
  "This guy's luck is incredible," Byrne said. "Four girls off the street and no eyewitnesses. He's a piece of smoke."
  "Do you think it's luck or do we just live in a city where no one cares anymore?" Palladino asked.
  "If I believed it, I'd take my twenty and go to Miami Beach today," said Tony Park.
  The other five detectives nodded.
  At Roundhouse, the task force plotted the abduction sites and burial sites on a massive map. There was no clear pattern, no way to predict or identify the killer's next move. They had already returned to basics: serial killers start their lives close to home. Their killer lived or worked in North Philadelphia.
  Square.
  
  BYRNE WALKED JESSICA TO HER CAR.
  They stood around for a moment, searching for words. At moments like these, Jessica longed for a cigarette. Her trainer at Frasers Gym would have killed her for even thinking about it, but that didn't stop her from envying Byrne the comfort he seemed to find in Marlboro Light.
  A barge idled upriver. Traffic moved in fits and starts. Philadelphia survived despite this madness, despite the grief and horror that befell these families.
  "You know, whatever this ends up being, it's going to be terrible," Byrne said.
  Jessica knew this. She also knew that before it was over, she would likely learn a huge new truth about herself. She would likely discover a dark secret of fear, rage, and torment that she would immediately ignore. As much as she didn't want to believe it, she would emerge from this passage a different person. She hadn't planned for this when she took this job, but like a runaway train, she was hurtling toward the abyss, and there was no way to stop.
  OceanofPDF.com
  PART FOUR
  OceanofPDF.com
  59
  GOOD FRIDAY, 10:00.
  The drug almost took the top of her head off.
  The stream hit the back of her head, ricocheted for a moment in time with the music, and then sawed her neck into jagged up-and-down triangles, like you might cut the lid off a Halloween pumpkin.
  "Righteous," Lauren said.
  Lauren Semanski failed two of her six classes at Nazarene. If she were threatened with a gun, even after two years of algebra, she couldn't tell you what a quadratic equation was. She wasn't even sure that a quadratic equation was algebraic. It might have been geometry. And although her family was Polish, she couldn't point to Poland on a map. She once tried, digging her polished fingernail somewhere south of Lebanon. She'd received five tickets in the past three months, and the digital clock and VCR in her bedroom had been set to 12:00 for almost two years, and she once tried to bake a birthday cake for her younger sister, Caitlin. She nearly burned down the house.
  At sixteen, Lauren Semansky-and she might be the first to admit it-knew little about a lot of things.
  But she knew good meth.
  "Kryptonite." She threw the mug on the coffee table and leaned back on the couch. She wanted to howl. She looked around the room. Wiggers everywhere. Someone turned on music. Sounded like Billy Corgan. Pumpkins were cool in the old school. The ring sucks.
  "Low rent!" Jeff yelled, barely audible over the music, using his stupid nickname for her, ignoring her wishes for the millionth time. He played a few choice licks on his guitar, drooling all over his Mars Volta T-shirt and grinning like a hyena.
  God, how strange, Lauren thought. Sweet, but an idiot. "We have to fly," she screamed.
  "Nah, come on, Lo." He handed her the bottle, as if she hadn't already smelled all the Ritual Aid.
  "I can't." She had to be at the grocery store. She had to buy cherry icing for that stupid Easter ham. As if she needed food. Who needed food? No one she knew. And yet she had to fly. "She'll kill me if I forget to go to the store."
  Jeff winced, then leaned over the glass coffee table and snapped the rope. He was gone. She was hoping for a goodbye kiss, but when he leaned back from the table, she saw his eyes.
  North.
  Lauren stood up, grabbed her purse and umbrella. She surveyed the obstacle course of bodies in various states of superconsciousness. The windows were tinted with thick paper. Red bulbs glowed in all the lamps.
  She will come back later.
  Jeff had enough for all the improvements.
  She stepped outside, her Ray-Bans firmly in place. It was still raining-would it ever stop?-but even the overcast sky was too bright for her. Besides, she liked the way she looked in the sunglasses. Sometimes she wore them at night. Sometimes she wore them to bed.
  She cleared her throat and swallowed. The meth burn in the back of her throat gave her a second hit.
  She was too scared to go home. At least these days, it was Baghdad. She didn't need grief.
  She pulled out her Nokia, trying to think of an excuse she could use. All she needed was an hour or so to get down. Car trouble? With the Volkswagen in the shop, it wouldn't work. Sick friend? Please, Lo. At this point, Grandma B was asking for doctors' notes. What hadn't she used in a while? Not much. She'd been to Jeff's about four days a week in the past month. We were late almost every day.
  I know, she thought. I get it.
  I'm sorry, Grams. I can't come home for dinner. I've been kidnapped.
  Haha. Like she didn't care.
  Since Lauren's parents staged a real-life crash test scene with a dummy last year, she's been living among the living dead.
  Damn it. She'll go and deal with this.
  She looked around the display case for a moment, lifting her sunglasses to get a better look. The bands were cool and all, but damn, they were dark.
  She crossed the parking lot behind the shops on the corner of her street, bracing herself for her grandmother's attack.
  "Hi, Lauren!" someone shouted.
  She turned around. Who had called her? She looked around the parking lot. She saw no one, just a few cars and a couple of vans. She tried to recognize the voice, but couldn't.
  "Hello?" she said.
  Silence.
  She moved between the van and the beer delivery truck. She took off her sunglasses and looked around, turning 360 degrees.
  The next thing she knew, there was a hand over her mouth. At first, she thought it was Jeff, but even Jeff wouldn't have pulled a joke that far. It was so unfunny. She struggled to get free, but whoever had played this (not at all) funny trick on her was strong. Really strong.
  She felt a prick in her left arm.
  Hm? "Oh, that's it, you bastard," she thought.
  She was about to attack Vin Diesel, this guy, but instead her legs gave way and she fell against the van. She tried to stay alert as she rolled to the ground. Something was happening to her, and she wanted to piece it all together. When the cops arrested this bastard-and they would definitely arrest this bastard-she would be the best witness in the world. First of all, he smelled clean. Too clean, if you ask her. Plus, he was wearing rubber gloves.
  Not a good sign, from a CSI perspective.
  The weakness spread to the stomach, chest, and throat.
  Fight it, Lauren.
  She had her first drink at nine, when her older cousin Gretchen gave her a wine cooler during the Fourth of July fireworks display on Boat House Row. It was love at first call. From that day on, she ingested every substance known to mankind, and some that might only have been known to aliens. She could handle anything that needle held. The world of wah-wah pedals and rubber edges was old crap. One day, she was driving home from the air conditioning, one-eyed, drunk on Jack, feeding a three-day-old amp.
  She lost consciousness.
  She's back.
  Now she was lying on her back in the van. Or was it an SUV? Either way, they were moving. Fast. Her head was spinning, but this wasn't a good swim. It was three in the morning, and I shouldn't have been swimming on X and Nardil.
  She was cold. She pulled the sheet over herself. It wasn't really a sheet. It was a shirt, or a coat, or something like that.
  From the far corners of her mind, she heard her cell phone ring. She heard it ring out Korn's stupid tune, and the phone was in her pocket, and all she had to do was answer it, like she'd done a billion times before, and tell her grandma to call the fucking police, and this guy would be so ruined.
  But she couldn't move. Her arms felt like they weighed a ton.
  The phone rang again. He reached out and started to pull it out of her jeans pocket. Her jeans were tight, and he had a hard time reaching the phone. Good. She wanted to grab his hand, stop him, but she seemed to be moving in slow motion. He slowly pulled the Nokia out of her pocket, keeping his other hand on the steering wheel and glancing back at the road every now and then.
  From somewhere deep inside, Lauren felt her anger and fury begin to rise, a volcanic wave of rage that told her that if she didn't do something, and soon, she wouldn't get out of this alive. She pulled her jacket up to her chin. She suddenly felt so cold. She felt something in one of the pockets. A pen? Probably. She pulled it out and clutched it as tightly as she could.
  Like a knife.
  When he finally pulled the phone from her jeans, she knew she had to act. As he pulled away, she swung her fist in a huge arc, the pen catching him in the back of his right hand, the tip breaking off. He screamed as the car swerved left and right, throwing her body first into one wall, then the other. They must have gone over the curb, because she was thrown violently into the air, then crashed back down. She heard a loud pop, then felt a huge rush of air.
  The side door was open, but they kept moving.
  She felt the cool, damp air swirling inside the car, bringing with it the smell of exhaust fumes and freshly cut grass. The rush revived her a little, taming the growing nausea. Sort of. Then Lauren felt the drug he'd injected her take hold again. She, too, was still using meth. But whatever he'd injected her with, it had clouded her thoughts, dulling her senses.
  The wind continued to blow. The ground screamed right at her feet. It reminded her of the twister from The Wizard of Oz. Or the twister in Twister.
  They were driving even faster now. Time seemed to recede for a moment, then return. She looked up as the man reached for her again. This time, he held something metallic and shiny in his hand. A gun? A knife? No. It was so hard to concentrate. Lauren tried to focus on the object. The wind blew dust and debris around the car, blurring her vision and stinging her eyes. Then she saw the hypodermic needle coming toward her. It looked huge, sharp, and deadly. She couldn't let him touch her again.
  I couldn't.
  Lauren Semansky mustered the last of her courage.
  She sat up and felt strength building in her legs.
  She pushed away.
  And she discovered that she could fly.
  OceanofPDF.com
  60
  FRIDAY, 10:15
  The Philadelphia Police Department operated under the watchful eye of the national media. Three television networks, as well as Fox and CNN, had film crews all over the city, releasing updates three or four times a week.
  The local television news featured the Rosary Killer story heavily, complete with its own logo and theme song. They also provided a list of Catholic churches holding Mass on Good Friday, as well as several churches that held prayer vigils for the victims.
  Catholic families, especially those with daughters, whether they attended parochial schools or not, were proportionally frightened. Police expected a significant increase in shootings of strangers. Postal carriers, FedEx, and UPS drivers were particularly at risk, as were people with grudges against others.
  I thought it was the Rosary Killer, Your Honor.
  I had to shoot him.
  I have a daughter.
  The department kept news of Brian Parkhurst's death from the media for as long as possible, but it eventually leaked, as it always does. The district attorney addressed the media gathered in front of 1421 Arch Street, and when asked if there was evidence that Brian Parkhurst was the Rosary Killer, she had to tell them "no." Parkhurst was a key witness.
  And so the carousel began to spin.
  
  The news of a fourth victim threw them all for a loop. As Jessica approached the Roundhouse, she saw several dozen people with cardboard signs milling about on the sidewalk on Eighth Street, most of them proclaiming the end of the world. Jessica thought she saw the names JEZEBEL and MAGDALENE on some of the signs.
  Inside, it was even worse. Even though they all knew there would be no credible leads, they were forced to withdraw all their statements. The B-movie Rasputins, the necessary Jasons and Freddys. Then they had to deal with ersatz Hannibals, Gacys, Dahmers, and Bundys. In total, over a hundred confessions were made.
  In the homicide department, as Jessica began gathering notes for the task force meeting, she was caught by a rather shrill female laugh coming from across the room.
  What kind of madman is this? she wondered.
  She looked up, and what she saw stopped her in her tracks. It was a blonde with a ponytail and a leather jacket. The girl she'd seen with Vincent. Here. In the Round House. Although now that Jessica had gotten a good look at her, it was clear she wasn't nearly as young as she'd initially thought. And yet, seeing her in such a setting was completely unreal.
  "What the hell?" Jessica said, loud enough for Byrne to hear. She threw her notebooks on the desk.
  "What?" Byrne asked.
  "You've got to be kidding me," she said. She tried, unsuccessfully, to calm herself. "This... this bitch has the nerve to come here and punch me in the face?
  Jessica took a step forward, and her posture must have taken on a slightly threatening tone because Byrne stepped between her and the woman.
  "Whoa," Byrne said. "Wait. What are you talking about?"
  - Let me through, Kevin.
  - Not until you tell me what's going on.
  "I saw that bitch with Vincent the other day. I can't believe she..."
  - Who, the blonde?
  "Yeah. She...
  "This is Nikki Malone."
  "WHO?"
  "Nicolette Malone."
  Jessica processed the name but found nothing. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
  "She's a narcotics detective. She works in Central.
  Something suddenly shifted in Jessica's chest, a frozen pang of shame and guilt that turned cold. Vincent was at work. He was working with this blonde.
  Vincent tried to tell her, but she wouldn't listen. Once again, she made herself look like a complete asshole.
  Jealousy, your name is Jessica.
  
  THE READY GROUP IS READY TO MEETING.
  The discovery of Christy Hamilton and Wilhelm Kreutz prompted a call to the FBI's Homicide Division. A task force was scheduled to convene the following day with a pair of agents from the Philadelphia field office. Jurisdiction over these crimes had been in question since the discovery of Tessa Wells, given the very real possibility that all the victims had been kidnapped, making at least some of the crimes federal. As expected, the usual territorial objections were raised, but not overly vehement. The truth was, the task force needed all the help it could get. The Rosary Girls murders were escalating rapidly, and now, after the murder of Wilhelm Kreutz, the FPD promised to expand into areas it simply couldn't handle.
  In Kreutz's Kensington Avenue apartment alone, the crime scene unit employed half a dozen technicians.
  
  AT ELEVEN THIRTY Jessica received her email.
  There were a few spam emails in her inbox, as well as a few emails from GTA idiots she'd hidden in the car squad, with the same insults, the same promises to see her again someday.
  Among the same old stuff was one message from sclose@thereport.com.
  She had to check the sender's address twice. She was right. Simon Close in The Report.
  Jessica shook her head, realizing the enormity of this guy's audacity. Why on earth did this piece of shit think she wanted to hear everything he had to say?
  She was about to delete it when she saw the attachment. She ran it through a virus scanner, and it came back clean. Probably the only clean thing about Simon Close.
  Jessica opened the attachment. It was a color photograph. At first, she had trouble recognizing the man in the picture. She wondered why Simon Close had sent her a photo of some guy she didn't know. Of course, if she'd understood the tabloid journalist's mind from the start, she would have started to worry about herself.
  The man in the photograph sat in a chair, his chest covered in duct tape. His forearms and wrists were also wrapped in duct tape, securing him to the chair's armrests. The man's eyes were tightly closed, as if expecting a blow or desperately wishing for something.
  Jessica doubled the size of the picture.
  And I saw that the man"s eyes weren"t closed at all.
  "Oh, God," she said.
  "What?" Byrne asked.
  Jessica turned the monitor towards him.
  The man in the chair was Simon Edward Close, a star reporter for Philadelphia's leading shock tabloid, The Report. Someone had tied him to the dining room chair and sewn both his eyes shut.
  
  When Byrne and Jessica approached the City Line apartment, a pair of homicide detectives, Bobby Lauria and Ted Campos, were already on the scene.
  When they entered the apartment, Simon Close was in exactly the same position as in the photograph.
  Bobby Lauria told Byrne and Jessica everything they knew.
  "Who found him?" Byrne asked.
  Lauria looked through his notes. "His friend. A guy named Chase. They were supposed to meet for breakfast at the Denny's on City Line. The victim didn't show up. Chase called twice, then stopped to see if anything was wrong. The door was open, he called 911.
  - Have you checked the phone records from the pay phone at Denny's?
  "That wasn't necessary," Lauria said. "Both calls went to the victim's answering machine. The caller ID matched Denny's phone. It's legitimate."
  "This is the POS terminal you had a problem with last year, right?" Campos asked.
  Byrne knew why he was asking, just as he knew what would happen. "Uh-huh."
  The digital camera that had taken the photo was still on its tripod in front of Close. A CSU officer was wiping down the camera and tripod.
  "Look at this," Campos said. He knelt down next to the coffee table, his gloved hand manipulating the mouse attached to Close's laptop. He opened iPhoto. There were sixteen photographs, each named sequentially KEVINBYRNE1.JPG , KEVINBYRNE2.JPG , and so on. Except none of them made sense. It looked as if each one had been run through a painting program and corrupted by a painting tool. The painting tool was red.
  Both Campos and Lauria looked at Byrne. "We need to ask, Kevin," Campos said.
  "I know," Byrne said. They wanted to know his whereabouts for the past twenty-four years. None of them suspected him of anything, but they had to get it out of the way. Byrne, of course, knew what to do. "I'll put it in a statement at home."
  "No problem," Lauria said.
  "Is there a reason yet?" Byrne asked, happy to change the subject.
  Campos stood up and followed the victim. There was a small hole at the base of Simon Close's neck. This was likely caused by a drill bit.
  As the CSU officers performed their work, it became clear that whoever had sewn Close's eyes shut-and there was no doubt who it was-hadn't paid attention to the quality of their work. A thick black thread alternately pierced the soft skin of his eyelid and trailed about an inch down his cheek. Thin streams of blood trickled down his face, giving him the appearance of Christ.
  Both skin and flesh were pulled taut, lifting the soft tissue around Close's mouth, exposing his incisors.
  Close's upper lip was raised, but his teeth were closed. From a few feet away, Byrne noticed something black and shiny just behind the man's front teeth.
  Byrne took out a pencil and pointed at Campos.
  "Help yourself," Campos said.
  Byrne picked up a pencil and carefully pulled Simon Close's teeth apart. For a moment, his mouth appeared empty, as if what Byrne thought he saw was a reflection in the man's bubbling saliva.
  Then a single object fell out, rolled down Close's chest, across his knees, and onto the floor.
  The sound it made was a faint, thin click of plastic on hard wood.
  Jessica and Byrne watched as he stopped.
  They looked at each other, and in that moment, the significance of what they were seeing sank in. A second later, the remaining missing beads fell from the dead man's mouth like a slot machine.
  Ten minutes later, they counted the rosaries, carefully avoiding contact with surfaces so as not to damage what could be a useful piece of forensic evidence, although the likelihood of the Rosary Killer tripping at that point was low.
  They counted twice, just to be sure. The significance of the number of beads shoved into Simon Close's mouth did not escape the attention of everyone present.
  There were fifty beads. All five decades.
  And this meant that the rosary for the last girl in this madman's passionate play had already been prepared.
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  FRIDAY, 1:25 PM
  At noon, Brian Parkhurst's Ford Windstar was found parked in a locked garage a few blocks from the building where he was found hanged. The crime scene team spent half a day combing the car for evidence. There were no traces of blood or any indication that any of the murder victims had been transported in the vehicle. The carpeting was bronze-colored and did not match the fibers found on the first four victims.
  The glove compartment contained what was expected: registration, owner's manual, a couple of maps.
  The most interesting thing was the letter they found in the visor: a letter containing the typewritten names of ten girls. Four of the names were already familiar to the police: Tessa Wells, Nicole Taylor, Bethany Price, and Christy Hamilton.
  The envelope was addressed to Detective Jessica Balzano.
  There was little debate about whether the killer's next victim would be among the remaining six names.
  There has been much room for debate as to why these names came into the possession of the late Dr. Parkhurst and what it all meant.
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  FRIDAY, 2:45 PM
  The white board was divided into five columns. At the top of each was a Sorrowful Mystery: AGONY, SCOURGE, CROWN, CARRYING, CRUCIFIXION. Under each heading, except the last, was a photograph of the corresponding victim.
  Jessica briefed the team on what she had learned from her research from Eddie Casalonis, as well as what Father Corrio had told her and Byrne.
  "The Sorrowful Mysteries are the final week of Christ's life," Jessica said. "And although the victims were discovered out of order, our figure appears to be following the strict order of the mysteries."
  "I'm sure you all know that today is Good Friday, the day Christ was crucified. There's only one mystery left. The crucifixion."
  Each Catholic church in the city had a sector car assigned to it. By 3:25 a.m., reports of incidents had come in from all over. Three o'clock in the afternoon (believed to be the time between noon and three o'clock when Christ hung on the cross) passed without incident in all Catholic churches.
  By four o'clock, they had contacted all the families of the girls on the list found in Brian Parkhurst's car. All the remaining girls were accounted for, and, without causing unnecessary panic, the families were told to be on guard. A car was sent to each of the girls' homes to guard them.
  Why these girls ended up on the list and what they had in common that would have earned them a spot on the list remains unknown. The task force attempted to match the girls based on the clubs they belonged to, the churches they attended, their eye and hair color, and their ethnicity; nothing came up.
  Each of the six detectives on the task force was assigned to visit one of the six girls remaining on the list. They were confident that the answer to the mystery of these horrors would be found with them.
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  FRIDAY, 4:15 PM
  The SEMANSKY HOUSE sat between two vacant lots on a dying street in North Philadelphia.
  Jessica spoke briefly with two officers parked out front, then climbed the sagging ladder. The inner door was open, the screen door unlocked. Jessica knocked. A few seconds later, a woman approached. She was in her early sixties. She wore a blue cardigan with pills on it and worn black cotton pants.
  "Mrs. Semansky? I'm Detective Balzano. We spoke on the phone."
  "Oh, yes," the woman said. "I'm Bonnie. Please come in."
  Bonnie Semansky opened the screen door and let her in.
  The interior of the Semansky house seemed like a throwback to another era. "There were probably a few valuable antiques here," Jessica thought, "but to the Semansky family, they were probably just functional, still-good furniture, so why throw them out?"
  To the right was a small living room with a worn sisal rug in the center and a group of old waterfall furniture. A thin man of about sixty sat in a chair. Beside him, on a folding metal table beneath the television, sat a multitude of amber pill bottles and a pitcher of iced tea. He was watching a hockey game, but it seemed as if he was watching next to the television rather than at it. He glanced at Jessica. Jessica smiled, and the man raised his hand slightly to wave.
  Bonnie Semansky led Jessica into the kitchen.
  
  "LAUREN SHOULD BE HOME ANY MINUTE. Of course, she's not at school today," Bonnie said. "She's visiting friends."
  They sat at the red and white chrome and Formica dining table. Like everything else in the rowhouse, the kitchen looked vintage, straight out of the 1960s. The only modern touches were a small white microwave and an electric can opener. It was clear the Semanskys were Lauren's grandparents, not her parents.
  - Did Lauren call home at all today?
  "No," Bonnie said. "I called her cell phone a while ago, but all I got was her voicemail. Sometimes she turns it off.
  - You said on the phone that she left the house around eight o'clock this morning?
  "Yes. That's about it.
  - Do you know where she was heading?
  "She went to visit friends," Bonnie repeated, as if it were her mantra of denial.
  - Do you know their names?
  Bonnie just shook her head. It was obvious that whoever these "friends" were, Bonnie Semansky didn't approve.
  "Where are her mom and dad?" Jessica asked.
  "They died in a car accident last year."
  "I'm so sorry," Jessica said.
  "Thank you."
  Bonnie Semansky looked out the window. The rain had given way to a steady drizzle. At first, Jessica thought the woman might be crying, but upon closer inspection, she realized she'd likely exhausted her tears long ago. The sadness seemed to have settled in the lower half of her heart, undisturbed.
  "Can you tell me what happened to her parents?" Jessica asked.
  "Last year, a week before Christmas, Nancy and Carl were driving home from Nancy's part-time job at Home Depot. You know, they used to hire people for the holidays. Not like now," she said. "It was late and very dark. Carl must have been driving too fast around a curve, and the car went off the road and fell into a ravine. They say they didn't live long in death."
  Jessica was a little surprised the woman didn't burst into tears. She imagined Bonnie Semansky had told this story to enough people, enough times, that she'd gained some distance from it.
  "Was it very hard for Lauren?" Jessica asked.
  "Oh, yes."
  Jessica wrote a note noting the timeline.
  "Does Lauren have a boyfriend?"
  Bonnie waved her hand dismissively at the question. "I can't keep up with them, there are so many of them."
  "What do you mean?"
  "They always come. Every hour. They look like homeless people."
  "Do you know if anyone has threatened Lauren lately?"
  "Did they threaten you?"
  "Anyone she might have problems with. Someone who might bother her.
  Bonnie thought for a moment. "No. I don't think so."
  Jessica took a few more notes. "Is it okay if I take a quick look around Lauren's room?"
  "Certainly."
  
  LORENA SEMANSKI was at the top of the stairs, at the back of the house. A faded sign on the door read "BEWARE: WIRLING MONKEY ZONE." Jessica knew enough drug jargon to know that Lauren Semansky probably wasn't "visiting friends" to organize a church picnic.
  Bonnie opened the door, and Jessica entered the room. The furniture was high-quality, French Provincial style, white with gold accents: a canopy bed, matching nightstands, a chest of drawers, and a desk. The room was painted lemon yellow, long and narrow, with a sloping ceiling reaching knee-high on both sides and a window at the far end. Built-in bookshelves were on the right, and on the left were a pair of doors cut into half the wall, presumably a storage area. The walls were covered with rock band posters.
  Luckily, Bonnie left Jessica alone in the room. Jessica really didn't want her looking over her shoulder while she rummaged through Lauren's things.
  On the table sat a series of photographs in inexpensive frames. A school photo of Lauren, aged about nine or ten. One showed Lauren and a scruffy teenage boy standing in front of an art museum. One was a photo of Russell Crowe from a magazine.
  Jessica rummaged through her dresser drawers. Sweaters, socks, jeans, shorts. Nothing of note. Her closet yielded the same. Jessica closed the closet door, leaned against it, and looked around the room. Thinking. Why was Lauren Semansky on this list? Besides the fact that she'd gone to Catholic school, what was in this room that could fit into the mystery of these strange deaths?
  Jessica sat down at Lauren's computer and checked her bookmarks. There was one call to hardradio.com, dedicated to heavy metal, another to Snakenet. But what caught her eye was the website Yellowribbon.org. At first, Jessica thought it might be about prisoners of war and missing persons. When she connected to the network and then visited the site, she saw that it was about a teenage suicide.
  Was I so fascinated by death and despair when I was a teenager? Jessica wondered.
  She imagined that this was true. It was probably due to hormones.
  Returning to the kitchen, Jessica found Bonnie had made coffee. She poured Jessica a cup and sat down across from her. There was also a plate of vanilla wafers on the table.
  "I need to ask you a few more questions about the accident last year," Jessica said.
  "Okay," Bonnie replied, but her downturned mouth told Jessica it wasn't okay at all.
  - I promise I won't keep you too long.
  Bonnie nodded.
  Jessica was gathering her thoughts when a look of gradually mounting horror appeared on Bonnie Semansky's face. It took Jessica a moment to realize Bonnie wasn't looking directly at her. Instead, she was looking over her left shoulder. Jessica slowly turned, following the woman's gaze.
  Lauren Semansky stood on the back porch. Her clothes were torn; her knuckles were bleeding and sore. She had a long contusion on her right leg, and a pair of deep lacerations on her right hand. A large patch of scalp was missing on the left side of her head. Her left wrist appeared to be broken, the bone protruding from the flesh. The skin on her right cheek was peeled away in a bloody flap.
  "Darling?" Bonnie said, rising to her feet, pressing a trembling hand to her lips. All the color had drained from her face. "Oh my God, what... what happened, baby?"
  Lauren looked at her grandmother, at Jessica. Her eyes were bloodshot and glistening. A deep defiance shone through the trauma.
  "The bastard didn't know who he was dealing with," she said.
  Lauren Semansky then lost consciousness.
  
  Before the ambulance arrived, Lauren Semansky lost consciousness. Jessica did everything she could to prevent her from going into shock. After confirming there was no spinal injury, she wrapped her in a blanket and then slightly elevated her legs. Jessica knew that preventing shock was far preferable to treating its aftereffects.
  Jessica noticed Lauren's right hand was clenched into a fist. Something was in her hand-something sharp, something plastic. Jessica carefully tried to pry the girl's fingers apart. Nothing happened. Jessica didn't press the issue.
  While they waited, Lauren spoke incoherently. Jessica received a fragmented account of what had happened to her. The sentences were disjointed. The words slipped between her teeth.
  Jeff's House.
  Tweakers.
  Scoundrel.
  Lauren's dry lips and broken nostrils, as well as her brittle hair and somewhat translucent appearance of her skin, told Jessica that she was probably a drug addict.
  Needle.
  Scoundrel.
  Before Lauren was loaded onto a gurney, she opened her eyes for a moment and said one word that made the world stop for a moment.
  Rose garden.
  The ambulance drove off, taking Bonnie Semanski to the hospital with her granddaughter. Jessica called the station and reported what had happened. A pair of detectives were en route to St. Joseph's Hospital. Jessica gave the ambulance crew strict instructions to preserve Lauren's clothing and, to the extent possible, any fibers or liquids. Specifically, she told them to ensure the forensic integrity of what Lauren was clutching in her right hand.
  Jessica remained at the Semansky house. She walked into the living room and sat next to George Semansky.
  "Your granddaughter will be fine," Jessica said, hoping she sounded convincing, wanting to believe it was true.
  George Semansky nodded. He continued wringing his hands. He scrolled through the cable channels as if it were some kind of physical therapy.
  "I need to ask you one more question, sir. If that's okay.
  After a few minutes of silence, he nodded again. It turned out the abundance of pharmaceuticals on the TV tray had sent him into a drug binge.
  "Your wife told me that last year, when Lauren's mom and dad were killed, Lauren took it very hard," Jessica said. "Can you tell me what she meant?"
  George Semansky reached for the pill bottle. He took it, turned it over in his hands, but didn't open it. Jessica noted that it was clonazepam.
  "Well, after the funeral and everything, after the funeral, about a week or so later, she's almost... well, she's... ."
  - Is she Mr. Semansky?
  George Semansky paused. He stopped fiddling with the pill bottle. "She tried to kill herself."
  "How?"
  "She... well, one night she went to the car. She ran a hose from the exhaust pipe to one of the windows. I think she was trying to inhale carbon monoxide.
  "What's happened?"
  "She passed out because of the car horn. It woke Bonnie up, and she went there."
  - Did Lauren have to go to the hospital?
  "Oh, yes," said George. "She was there for almost a week."
  Jessica's pulse quickened. She felt a piece of the puzzle fall into place.
  Bethany Price tried to cut her wrists.
  Tessa Wells's diary contained a mention of Sylvia Plath.
  Lauren Semansky tried to kill herself with carbon monoxide poisoning.
  "Suicide," Jessica thought.
  All these girls tried to commit suicide.
  
  "Mr. R. WELLS? This is Detective Balzano." Jessica was talking on her cell phone, standing on the sidewalk in front of the Semansky house. It was more like a tempo.
  "Did you catch anyone?" Wells asked.
  "Well, we're working on it, sir. I have a question for you about Tessa. It was around Thanksgiving last year."
  "Last year?"
  "Yes," Jessica said. "It may be a little difficult to talk about, but trust me, it won't be any more difficult for you to answer than it was for me to ask."
  Jessica remembered the trash can in Tessa's room. It contained hospital bracelets.
  "What about Thanksgiving?" Wells asked.
  - By any chance, Tessa was hospitalized at that time?
  Jessica listened and waited. She found herself clenching her fist around her cell phone. She felt like she might break it. She calmed down.
  "Yes," he said.
  "Can you tell me why she was in the hospital?"
  She closed her eyes.
  Frank Wells took a deep, painful breath.
  And he told her.
  
  "Tessa Wells took a handful of pills last November. Lauren Semansky locked herself in the garage and started her car. Nicole Taylor slashed her wrists," Jessica said. "At least three of the girls on this list attempted suicide."
  They returned to the Roundhouse.
  Byrne smiled. Jessica felt an electric shock run through her body. Lauren Semansky was still heavily sedated. Until they could talk to her, they'd have to fly with what they had.
  There was no word yet on what was clutched in her hand. According to hospital detectives, Lauren Semansky hadn't yet given up on it. Doctors told them they'd have to wait.
  Byrne held a photocopy of Brian Parkhurst's list in his hand. He tore it in half, giving one piece to Jessica and keeping the other for himself. He pulled out his cell phone.
  They soon received an answer. All ten girls on the list had attempted suicide within the past year. Jessica now believed that Brian Parkhurst, perhaps as punishment, was trying to tell the police he knew why these girls had been targeted. As part of his counseling, all of these girls had confessed to him that they had attempted suicide.
  There's something you need to know about these girls.
  Perhaps, by some twisted logic, their executor was trying to finish the job these girls started. They'll be wondering why all this is happening when he's in chains.
  What was clear was this: their perp had kidnapped Lauren Semansky and drugged her with midazolam. What he hadn't taken into account was that she was full of meth. Speed counteracted the midazolam. Plus, she was full of piss and vinegar, man. He'd definitely picked the wrong girl.
  For the first time in her life, Jessica was glad that a teenager was using drugs.
  But if the killer was inspired by the five sorrowful mysteries of the rosary, then why were there ten girls on Parkhurst's list? Besides the suicide attempt, what did all five of them have in common? Did he really intend to stop at five?
  They compared their notes.
  Four girls overdosed on pills. Three of them tried to cut their wrists. Two girls attempted suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning. One girl drove her car through a fence and across a ravine. She was saved by an airbag.
  It was not a method that bound all five together.
  What about the school? Four girls went to Regina, four to Nazaryanka, one to Marie Goretti, and one to Neumann.
  As for age: four were sixteen, two were seventeen, three were fifteen, and one was eighteen.
  Was this a neighborhood?
  No.
  Clubs or extracurricular activities?
  No.
  Gang affiliation?
  Hardly.
  What was that?
  "Ask and you shall receive," Jessica thought. The answer was right in front of them.
  It was a hospital.
  They are united by the Church of St. Joseph.
  "Look at this," Jessica said.
  On the day they attempted suicide, five girls were being treated at St. Joseph's Hospital: Nicole Taylor, Tessa Wells, Bethany Price, Christy Hamilton and Lauren Semansky.
  The rest were treated elsewhere, in five different hospitals.
  "Oh my God," Byrne said. "That's it."
  This was the break they were looking for.
  But the fact that all these girls were being treated in the same hospital didn't make Jessica shudder. The fact that they all attempted suicide didn't make her shudder either.
  Because the room lost all its air, this happened:
  They were all treated by the same doctor: Dr. Patrick Farrell.
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  FRIDAY, 6:15 PM
  PATRIK sat in the interview room. Eric Chavez and John Shepard conducted the interview, while Byrne and Jessica observed. The interview was videotaped.
  As far as Patrick knew, he was merely a material witness in the case.
  He recently had a scratch on his right hand.
  Whenever they could, they scratched under Lauren Semansky's fingernails, searching for DNA evidence. Unfortunately, the CSU believes this will likely yield little. Lauren was lucky to have fingernails at all.
  They looked through Patrick's schedule for the previous week and, to Jessica's dismay, learned that there was not a single day that would have prevented Patrick from abducting victims or dumping their bodies.
  The thought made Jessica feel physically ill. Had she really considered Patrick having something to do with these murders? With each passing minute, the answer was getting closer to "yes." The next minute dissuaded her. She truly didn't know what to think.
  Nick Palladino and Tony Park headed to the scene of Wilhelm Kreutz's crime with a photo of Patrick. It was unlikely that old Agnes Pinsky remembered him-even if she had picked him out of the photo shoot, her credibility would have been shattered, even by a public defender. Nevertheless, Nick and Tony campaigned up and down the street.
  
  "I'm afraid I haven't been following the news," Patrick said.
  "I can understand that," Shepherd replied. He sat on the edge of a battered metal desk. Eric Chavez leaned against the door. "I'm sure you see enough of the ugly side of life where you work."
  "We have our triumphs," Patrick said.
  - So you mean to say that you didn"t know that any of these girls had once been your patients?
  "An emergency room physician, especially in a downtown trauma center, is a triage physician, a detective. The first priority is the patient requiring emergency care. Once treated and sent home or hospitalized, they are always referred to their primary care physician. The concept of a "patient" doesn't really apply. People arriving at the emergency room can only be patients of any physician for an hour. Sometimes less. Very often less. Thousands of people pass through St. Joseph's Emergency Room every year."
  Shepard listened, nodding at every appropriate remark, absentmindedly adjusting the already perfect folds of his pants. Explaining the concept of triage to the seasoned homicide detective was completely unnecessary. Everyone in Interview Room A knew it.
  "That doesn"t quite answer my question, though, Dr. Farrell."
  "I thought I knew Tessa Wells' name when I heard it on the news. However, I didn't check whether St. Joseph's Hospital had provided emergency care for her.
  "Nonsense, nonsense," Jessica thought, her anger growing. They had been discussing Tessa Wells that night while drinking at Finnigan's Wake.
  "You talk about St. Joseph's Hospital as if that was the institution that treated her that day," Shepherd said. "That's your name on the case."
  Shepard showed the file to Patrick.
  "The records don't lie, Detective," Patrick said. "I must have treated her."
  Shepard showed the second folder. "And you treated Nicole Taylor."
  - Again, I really don't remember.
  Third file. - And Bethany Price.
  Patrick stared.
  Now he has two more files in his possession. "Christy Hamilton spent four hours under your supervision. Lauren Semansky, five.
  "I'm relying on protocol, Detective," Patrick said.
  "All five girls were kidnapped, and four of them were brutally murdered this week, Doctor. This week. Five female victims who happened to pass through your office over the last ten months.
  Patrick shrugged.
  John Shepard asked, "You can certainly understand our interest in you at this point, can't you?"
  "Oh, absolutely," Patrick said. "As long as your interest in me is as a material witness. As long as that's the case, I'll be happy to help in any way I can."
  - By the way, where did you get that scratch on your hand?
  It was clear Patrick had a well-prepared answer for this. However, he wasn't about to blurt anything out. "It's a long story."
  Shepard looked at his watch. "I have all night." He looked at Chavez. "And you, Detective?"
  - Just in case, I cleared my schedule.
  They both turned their attention to Patrick again.
  "Let's just say you should always be wary of a wet cat," Patrick said. Jessica saw the charm shine through. Unfortunately for Patrick, the two detectives were invulnerable. For now, so was Jessica.
  Shepherd and Chavez exchanged glances. "Were truer words ever spoken?" Chavez asked.
  "Are you saying the cat did it?" Shepard asked.
  "Yes," Patrick replied. "She was outside in the rain all day. When I came home this evening, I saw her shivering in the bushes. I tried to pick her up. Bad idea."
  "What is her name?"
  It was an old interrogation trick. Someone mentions a person connected to an alibi, and you immediately pepper them with a name question. This time, it was a pet. Patrick wasn't prepared.
  "Her name?" he asked.
  It was a stall. Shepherd had it. Then Shepherd came closer, looking at the scratch. "What is this, a pet lynx?"
  "I'm sorry?"
  Shepard stood up and leaned against the wall. Friendly, now. "You see, Dr. Farrell, I have four daughters. They love cats. Love them. Actually, we have three. Coltrane, Dizzy, and Snickers. Those are their names. I"ve been scratched, oh, at least a dozen times over the last few years. Not one scratch like yours."
  Patrick looked at the floor for a moment. "She's not a lynx, Detective. Just a big old tabby."
  "Huh," said Shepherd. He rolled on. "By the way, what kind of car do you drive?" John Shepherd, of course, already knew the answer to that question.
  "I have several different cars. I mainly drive a Lexus."
  "LS? GS? ES? SportCross?" Shepard asked.
  Patrick smiled. "I see you know your luxury cars."
  Shepard smiled back. At least, half of her did. "I can tell a Rolex from a TAG Heuer, too," he said. "I can't afford either of those, either."
  "I drive a 2004 LX."
  "It's an SUV, right?"
  - I guess you could call it that.
  "What would you call it?"
  "I would call it LUV," Patrick said.
  "Like in 'Luxury SUV', right?"
  Patrick nodded.
  "Gotcha," Shepard said. "Where is that car now?"
  Patrick hesitated. "It"s here, in the back parking lot. Why?"
  "Just curious," Shepherd said. "It's a high-end car. I just wanted to make sure it was safe."
  "I appreciate it."
  - And other cars?
  "I have a 1969 Alfa Romeo and a Chevy Venture."
  "Is this a van?"
  "Yes."
  Shepherd wrote it down.
  "Now, on Tuesday morning, according to the records at St. Joseph, you weren't on duty until nine o'clock this morning," Shepard said. "Is that accurate?"
  Patrick thought about it. "I believe that's true."
  "And yet your shift started at eight. Why were you late?"
  "It actually happened because I had to take the Lexus in for service."
  "Where did you get this?"
  There was a light knock on the door, then the door swung open.
  Ike Buchanan stood in the doorway next to a tall, imposing man in an elegant pinstriped Brioni suit. The man had perfectly coiffed silver hair and a Cancun tan. His briefcase was worth more than any detective earned in a month.
  Abraham Gold represented Patrick's father, Martin, in a high-profile medical malpractice suit in the late 1990s. Abraham Gold was as expensive as they come. And as good as they come. As far as Jessica knew, Abraham Gold had never lost a case.
  "Gentlemen," he began in his best courtroom baritone, "this conversation is over."
  
  "WHAT DO YOU THINK?" Buchanan asked.
  The entire task force looked at her. She searched her mind not only for what to say, but also for the right words to say it. She was truly at a loss. From the moment Patrick had entered the Roundhouse an hour or so earlier, she'd known this moment would come. Now that it was here, she had no idea how to cope. The thought that someone she knew could be responsible for such a horror was terrifying enough. The thought that it was someone she knew well (or thought she knew) seemed to paralyze her brain.
  If the unthinkable were true, that Patrick Farrell really was the Rosary Killer from a purely professional standpoint, what would that say about her as a judge of character?
  "I think it's possible." There. It was said out loud.
  They, of course, checked Patrick Farrell's background. Other than a marijuana offense during his sophomore year of college and a penchant for speeding, his record was clean.
  Now that Patrick has hired a lawyer, they'll have to step up their investigation. Agnes Pinsky said he could be the man she saw knocking on Wilhelm Kreutz's door. The man, who worked at the shoe repair shop across from Kreutz's house, thought he remembered a cream-colored Lexus SUV parked in front of the house two days earlier. He wasn't sure.
  Either way, Patrick Farrell will now have a pair of detectives on duty 24/7.
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  FRIDAY, 8:00 PM
  The pain was exquisite, a slow, rolling wave that slowly crept up the back of his head and then down. He took a Vicodin and washed it down with rancid tap water in the men's room at a North Philadelphia gas station.
  It was Good Friday. The day of the crucifixion.
  Byrne knew that, one way or another, it would probably all end soon, perhaps tonight; and with that, he knew that he would be confronted with something inside himself that had been there for fifteen years, something dark and cruel and disturbing.
  He wanted everything to be okay.
  He needed symmetry.
  First he had to make one stop.
  
  The cars were parked in two rows on both sides of the street. In this part of town, if the street was closed, you couldn't call the police or knock on doors. You definitely didn't want to blow your horn. Instead, you calmly put the car in reverse and found another way.
  The storm door of a dilapidated rowhouse in Point Breeze was open, a light on inside. Byrne stood across the street, sheltered from the rain by the tattered awning of a closed bakery. Through a bay window across the street, he could see three paintings adorning the wall above a modern Spanish sofa in strawberry velvet. Martin Luther King, Jesus, Muhammad Ali.
  Directly in front of him, in a rusty Pontiac, a child sat alone in the backseat, completely oblivious to Byrne, smoking a joint and rocking gently to the sound of what was coming through his headphones. A few minutes later, he butted the blunt, opened the car door, and got out.
  He stretched, lifted the hood of his sweatshirt, and adjusted his bags.
  "Hello," Byrne said. The pain in my head had become a dull metronome of agony, loudly and rhythmically clicking in both temples. Yet, it felt as if the mother of all migraines was just a car horn or flashlight away.
  The boy turned around, surprised but not frightened. He was about fifteen, tall and slender, with the kind of build that would serve him well on the playground but wouldn't take him much further. He was dressed in full Sean John uniform-wide-leg jeans, a quilted leather jacket, and a fleece hoodie.
  The boy assessed Byrne, weighing the danger and the opportunity. Byrne kept his hands visible.
  "Yo," the child finally said.
  "Did you know Marius?" Byrne asked.
  The guy gave him a double whammy. Byrne was too big to mess with.
  "MG was my boy," the boy finally said. He made the JBM sign.
  Byrne nodded. "This kid could still go either way," he thought. Intelligence glimmered in his bloodshot eyes. But Byrne had the feeling the kid was too busy living up to the world's expectations of him.
  Byrne slowly reached into his coat pocket-slowly enough to let this guy know nothing was going to happen. He pulled out an envelope. It was of such a size, shape, and weight that it could only mean one thing.
  "His mother's name is Delilah Watts?" Byrne asked. It was more like a statement of fact.
  The boy glanced at the row house, at the brightly lit bay window. A slender, dark-skinned African-American woman in oversized, tinted sunglasses and a dark brown wig was dabbing at her eyes as she received the mourners. She couldn't have been more than thirty-five.
  The guy turned back to Byrne. "Yeah."
  Byrne absently ran a rubber band across the thick envelope. He never counted its contents. When he'd picked it up from Gideon Pratt that evening, he'd had no reason to think it was a penny short of the agreed-upon five thousand dollars. There was no reason to count it now.
  "This is for Mrs. Watts," Byrne said. He held the child's gaze for a few seconds, a gaze they had both seen in their time, a gaze that needed no embellishment or footnote.
  The little boy reached out and carefully took the envelope. "She'll want to know who it's from," he said.
  Byrne nodded. The child soon realized there was no answer.
  The boy stuffed the envelope into his pocket. Byrne watched him strut across the street, approach the house, enter, and hug several young men standing guard at the door. Byrne glanced out the window as the child waited in the short line. He could hear the strains of Al Green's "You Bring the Sunshine."
  Byrne wondered how many times this scene would be played out across the country that night - too-young mothers sitting in too-hot living rooms, watching the wake of a child given over to the beast.
  Despite all that Marius Greene had done wrong in his short life, despite all the suffering and pain he might have caused, there was only one reason he was in that alley that night, and that play had nothing to do with him.
  Marius Green was dead, as was the man who murdered him in cold blood. Was it justice? Perhaps not. But there was no doubt it all began that day when Deirdre Pettigrew encountered a terrible man in Fairmount Park, a day that ended with another young mother clutching a damp cloth and a living room full of friends and family.
  "There is no solution, only resolution," Byrne thought. He wasn't a man who believed in karma. He was a man who believed in action and reaction.
  Byrne watched as Delilah Watts opened the envelope. After the initial shock had set in, she placed her hand over her heart. She composed herself, then looked out the window, straight at him, straight into Kevin Byrne's soul. He knew she couldn't see him, that all she could see was the black mirror of night and the rain-stained reflection of her own pain.
  Kevin Byrne bowed his head, then turned up his collar and walked into the storm.
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  FRIDAY, 8:25 PM
  As Jessica drove home, the radio predicted a severe thunderstorm. Warnings included high winds, lightning, and flooding. Parts of Roosevelt Boulevard were already flooded.
  She thought about the night she met Patrick all those years ago. That night, she watched him work in the emergency room and was so impressed by his grace and confidence, his ability to comfort the people who came through those doors seeking help.
  People responded to him, believing in his ability to ease their pain. His appearance, of course, was unaffected. She tried to think about him rationally. What did she really know? Was she capable of thinking of him the same way she thought of Brian Parkhurst?
  No, she wasn't.
  But the more she thought about it, the more possible it became. The fact that he was an M.D., the fact that he couldn't account for his timing at crucial moments during the murders, the fact that he'd lost his younger sister to violence, the fact that he was Catholic, and inevitably the fact that he'd treated all five girls. He knew their names and addresses, their medical histories.
  She looked again at the digital photos of Nicole Taylor's hand. Could Nicole have written FAR instead of PAR?
  It was possible.
  Despite her instincts, Jessica finally admitted it to herself. If she hadn't known Patrick, she would have led the charge to arrest him based on one incontrovertible fact:
  He knew all five girls.
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  FRIDAY, 8:55 PM
  BYRNE STOOD IN THE ICU, watching Lauren Semansky.
  The emergency room crew told him that Lauren had a lot of methamphetamine in her system, that she was a chronic drug addict, and that when her abductor injected her with midazolam, it did not have the effect it might have had if Lauren had not been full of the powerful stimulant.
  Although they hadn't yet been able to speak with her, it was clear that Lauren Semansky's injuries were consistent with those sustained from jumping from a moving car. Incredibly, while her injuries were numerous and severe, with the exception of the toxicity of the medications in her system, none of them were life-threatening.
  Byrne sat down next to her bed.
  He knew Patrick Farrell was Jessica's friend. He suspected there was probably more to their relationship than just friendship, but he left it to Jessica to tell him.
  There had been so many false leads and dead ends in this case so far. He also wasn't sure Patrick Farrell fit the mold. When he met the man at the crime scene in the Rodin Museum, he hadn't felt anything.
  But these days, it didn't seem to matter much. Chances were good he could shake Ted Bundy's hand and have no clue. Everything pointed to Patrick Farrell. He'd seen plenty of arrest warrants issued for far lesser cases.
  He took Lauren's hand in his. He closed his eyes. Pain settled above his eyes, high, hot, and deadly. Soon, images exploded in his mind, choking the breath from his lungs, and the door at the back of his mind swung wide. . .
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  FRIDAY, 8:55 PM
  Scholars believe that on the day of Christ's death, a storm arose over Golgotha, and that the sky over the valley darkened as He hung on the cross.
  Lauren Semansky was incredibly strong. Last year, when she attempted suicide, I looked at her and wondered why such a determined young woman would do such a thing. Life is a gift. Life is a blessing. Why would she try to throw it all away?
  Why did any of them try to throw it away?
  Nicole lived under the ridicule of her classmates and her alcoholic father.
  Tessa endured the lingering death of her mother and faced the slow decline of her father.
  Bethany was the object of scorn because of her weight.
  Christy had problems with anorexia.
  When I treated them, I knew I was deceiving the Lord. They had chosen a path, and I had rejected them.
  Nicole, Tessa, Bethany and Christy.
  Then there was Lauren. Lauren survived her parents' accident only to go to the car one night and start the engine. She brought with her Opus, the stuffed penguin her mother had given her for Christmas when she was five.
  She was resisting the midazolam today. She was probably on meth again. We were going about thirty miles an hour when she opened the door. She jumped out. Just like that. There was too much traffic for me to turn around and grab her. I had to just let her go.
  It's too late to change plans.
  This is the Hour of Nothing.
  And although the final mystery was Lauren, another girl would have been suitable, with shiny curls and an aura of innocence around her head.
  The wind picks up as I stop and turn off the engine. They're predicting a severe storm. Tonight there will be another storm, a dark reckoning for the soul.
  Light in Jessica's house...
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  FRIDAY, 8:55 PM
  . . . bright, warm and inviting, a lonely ember among the dying embers of twilight.
  He sits outside in the car, sheltered from the rain. He holds a rosary in his hands. He thinks about Lauren Semansky and how she managed to escape. She was the fifth girl, the fifth mystery, the final piece of his masterpiece.
  But Jessica is here. He has business with her too.
  Jessica and her little girl.
  He checks the prepared items: hypodermic needles, carpenter's chalk, a needle and thread for making sails.
  He prepares to step into the evil night...
  The images came and went, teasing in their clarity, like the vision of a drowning man peering up from the bottom of a chlorinated pool.
  The pain in Byrne's head was excruciating. He left the intensive care unit, walked into the parking lot, and got into his car. He checked his gun. Rain splattered the windshield.
  He started the car and headed towards the expressway.
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  FRIDAY, 9:00 PM
  SOPHIE WAS AFRAID of thunderstorms. Jessica knew where she got it, too. It was genetic. When Jessica was little, she'd hide under the steps of their house on Catherine Street whenever thunder rumbled. If it got really bad, she'd crawl under the bed. Sometimes she'd bring a candle. Until the day she set fire to the mattress.
  They were eating dinner in front of the TV again. Jessica was too tired to object. It didn't matter anyway. She picked at her food, uninterested in such a mundane event as her world was falling apart. Her stomach churned with the day's events. How could she have been so wrong about Patrick?
  was I wrong about Patrick?
  The images of what had been done to these young women haunted her.
  She checked her answering machine. There were no messages.
  Vincent stayed with his brother. She picked up the phone and dialed a number. Well, two-thirds. Then she hung up.
  Shit.
  She washed the dishes by hand, just to keep her hands occupied. She poured a glass of wine and poured it out. She brewed a cup of tea and let it cool.
  Somehow she survived until Sophie went to bed. Thunder and lightning raged outside. Inside, Sophie was terrified.
  Jessica tried all the usual remedies. She offered to read her a story. No luck. She asked Sophie if she wanted to watch Finding Nemo again. No luck. She didn't even want to watch The Little Mermaid. That was rare. Jessica offered to color her Peter Cottontail coloring book with her (no), offered to sing songs from The Wizard of Oz (no), offered to put stickers on the painted eggs in the kitchen (no).
  Eventually, she simply tucked Sophie into bed and sat next to her. Every time thunder rumbled, Sophie looked at her as if it were the end of the world.
  Jessica tried to think about anything but Patrick. So far, she hadn't succeeded.
  There was a knock on the front door. It was probably Paula.
  - I'll be back soon, sweetie.
  - No, mom.
  - I won't be more than...
  The power went out and then came back on.
  "That's all we need." Jessica stared at the table lamp as if she wished it would stay on. She was holding Sophie's hand. The guy had her in a death grip. Luckily, the light stayed on. Thank you, Lord. "Mom just needs to open the door. It's Paula. You want to see Paula, don't you?"
  "I do."
  "I'll be back soon," she said. "Will everything be okay?"
  Sophie nodded, even though her lips were trembling.
  Jessica kissed Sophie on the forehead and handed her Jules, the little brown bear. Sophie shook her head. Then Jessica grabbed Molly, the beige one. Nope. It was hard to keep track. Sophie had good bears and bad bears. Finally, she said yes to Timothy the panda.
  "Be right back."
  "Fine."
  She was walking down the stairs when the doorbell rang once, twice, three times. It didn't sound like Paula.
  "Everything is fine now," she said.
  She tried to peer through the small, angled window. It was heavily fogged. All she could see were the taillights of an ambulance across the street. It seemed even typhoons couldn't keep Carmine Arrabbiata from her weekly heart attack.
  She opened the door.
  It was Patrick.
  Her first instinct was to slam the door. She resisted. For a moment. She looked outside, looking for the surveillance car. She didn't see it. She didn't open the storm door.
  - What are you doing here, Patrick?
  "Jess," he said. "You have to listen to me."
  Anger began to build, fighting against her fears. "See, that's the part you don't seem to understand," she said. "Actually, you don't."
  "Jess. Come on. It's me." He shifted from one foot to the other. He was completely wet.
  "Me? Who the hell am I? You treated every one of these girls," she said. "It didn't occur to you to come forward with this information?"
  "I see a lot of patients," Patrick said. "You can't expect me to remember them all."
  The wind was loud. Howling. They both almost screamed to be heard.
  "That's nonsense. This all happened last year."
  Patrick looked at the ground. "Maybe I just didn't mean to..."
  "What, interfere? Are you fucking kidding me?"
  "Jess. If you could just...
  "You shouldn't be here, Patrick," she said. "This is putting me in a very awkward situation. Go home."
  "Oh my God, Jess. You really don't think I have anything to do with this, this... ."
  "That's a good question," Jessica thought. In fact, that was the question.
  Jessica was about to answer when there was a clap of thunder and the power went out. The lights flickered, went out, then came back on.
  "I... I don't know what to think, Patrick.
  - Give me five minutes, Jess. Five minutes and I'll be on my way.
  Jessica saw a world of pain in his eyes.
  "Please," he said, soaking wet, pathetic in his pleas.
  She thought wildly about her gun. It was kept in the closet upstairs, on the top shelf, where it always was. What she was really thinking about was her gun and whether she'd be able to get to it in time if she needed it.
  Because of Patrick.
  None of this seemed real.
  "Can I at least go inside?" he asked.
  There was no point in arguing. She opened the storm door just as a heavy column of rain blew through. Jessica opened the door all the way. She knew Patrick had a team, even if she couldn't see the car. She was armed and she had backup.
  No matter how hard she tried, she simply couldn't believe Patrick was guilty. They weren't talking about some crime of passion, but some moment of madness when he lost his temper and went too far. This was the systematic, cold-blooded murder of six people. Maybe more.
  Give her forensic evidence and she won't have a choice.
  Until then...
  The power went out.
  Sophie howled upstairs.
  "Jesus Christ," Jessica said. She looked across the street. Some houses seemed to still have electricity. Or was it candlelight?
  "Maybe it's the switch," Patrick said, walking inside and past her. "Where's the panel?"
  Jessica looked at the floor, placing her hands on her hips. It was too much.
  "At the bottom of the basement stairs," she said, resigned. "There's a flashlight on the dining room table. But don't think we..."
  "Mom!" from above.
  Patrick took off his coat. "I"ll check the panel and then I"ll leave. I promise."
  Patrick grabbed a flashlight and headed to the basement.
  Jessica shuffled toward the steps in the sudden darkness. She climbed the stairs and entered Sophie's room.
  "It's okay, honey," Jessica said, sitting on the edge of the bed. Sophie's face looked tiny, round, and scared in the darkness. "Do you want to go downstairs with Mom?"
  Sophie shook her head.
  "Are you sure?"
  Sophie nodded. "Is Dad here?"
  "No, honey," Jessica said, her heart sinking. "Mommy...Mommy will bring candles, okay? You like candles.
  Sophie nodded again.
  Jessica left the bedroom. She opened the linen closet next to the bathroom and rummaged through the box of hotel soaps, shampoo samples, and conditioners. She remembered how, in the Stone Age of her marriage, she'd taken long, luxurious bubble baths with scented candles scattered around the bathroom. Sometimes Vincent would join her. Somehow, at that moment, it felt like a different life. She found a pair of sandalwood candles. She took them out of the box and returned to Sophie's room.
  Of course, there were no matches.
  "I'll be back soon."
  She went down to the kitchen, her eyes adjusting slightly to the darkness. She rummaged through the junk drawer for matches. She found a pack. Matches from her wedding. She could feel the gold embossing "JESSICA AND VINCENT" on the glossy cover. Just what she needed. If she believed in such things, she might think there was a conspiracy to drag her into a deep depression. She turned to go upstairs when she heard lightning strike and the sound of breaking glass.
  She jumped from the impact. Finally, a branch broke off from a dying maple tree next to the house and smashed against the back window.
  "Oh, it just keeps getting better," Jessica said. Rain poured into the kitchen. There was broken glass everywhere. "Son of a bitch."
  She retrieved a plastic trash bag from under the sink and some pushpins from the kitchen corkboard. Fighting the wind and gusty rain, she secured the bag to the door frame, careful not to cut herself on the remaining shards.
  What the hell happened next?
  She looked down the basement stairs and saw Maglight's beam dancing in the darkness.
  She grabbed the matches and headed to the dining room. She rummaged through the cage drawers and found a multitude of candles. She lit half a dozen or so, placing them around the dining room and living room. She returned upstairs and lit two candles in Sophie's room.
  "Better?" she asked.
  "Better," Sophie said.
  Jessica reached out and wiped Sophie's cheeks. "The lights will come on in a little while. Okay?"
  Sophie nodded, not at all convinced.
  Jessica glanced around the room. The candles had done a good job of banishing the shadow monsters. She adjusted Sophie's nose and heard a light chuckle. She had just reached the top of the stairs when the phone rang.
  Jessica walked into her bedroom and answered.
  "Hello?"
  She was greeted by an unearthly howl and hiss. With difficulty, she said: "This is John Shepard."
  His voice sounded like he was on the moon. "I can barely hear you. How are you?"
  "Are you there?"
  "Yes."
  The phone line crackled. "We just got a message from the hospital," he said.
  "Tell me again?" Jessica said. The connection was terrible.
  - Do you want me to call you on your cell phone?
  "Okay," Jessica said. Then she remembered. The camera was in the car. The car was in the garage. "No, it"s fine. Go ahead, keep going."
  "We just received a report of what Lauren Semansky had in her hand."
  Something about Lauren Semansky. "Okay."
  "It was part of a ballpoint pen."
  "What?"
  "She had a broken ballpoint pen in her hand," Shepard shouted. "From St. Joseph's Church."
  Jessica heard it clearly enough. She didn't mean it. "What do you mean?"
  "It had the logo and address of St. Joseph on it. The pen was from the hospital.
  Her heart sank. This couldn't be true. "Are you sure?"
  "There's no doubt about it," Shepherd said, his voice breaking. "Listen... the observation team has lost Farrell... Roosevelt is flooded all the way to..."
  Quiet.
  "John?"
  Nothing. The phone line was disconnected. Jessica pressed a button on the phone. "Hello?"
  She was greeted by a thick, gloomy silence.
  Jessica hung up and walked to the closet in the hallway. She glanced down the stairs. Patrick was still in the basement.
  She climbed into the closet, onto the top shelf, her thoughts whirling.
  "He asked about you," Angela said.
  She pulled the Glock from its holster.
  "I was heading to my sister's house in Manayunk," Patrick said, "not more than twenty feet from the still-warm body of Bethany Price."
  She checked the gun magazine. It was full.
  A doctor came to see him yesterday, Agnes Pinsky said.
  She slammed the magazine shut and inserted a round. And began to descend the stairs.
  
  The wind continued to blow outside, shaking the cracked windowpanes.
  "Patrick?"
  No answer.
  She reached the bottom of the stairs, crossed the living room, opened the drawer in the cage, and grabbed an old flashlight. She flicked the switch. Dead. Of course. Thank you, Vincent.
  She closed the drawer.
  Louder: "Patrick?"
  Silence.
  The situation was quickly spiraling out of control. She wasn't going to go into the basement without power. No way.
  She climbed the stairs and then climbed as quietly as she could. She grabbed Sophie and a few blankets, carried her up to the attic, and locked the door. Sophie would be miserable, but she would be safe. Jessica knew she had to take control of herself and the situation. She locked Sophie in, pulled out her cell phone, and called for backup.
  "It's okay, sweetie," she said. "It's okay."
  She picked Sophie up and hugged her tightly. Sophie shuddered. Her teeth chattered.
  In the flickering candlelight, Jessica thought she saw something. She had to be mistaken. She picked up the candle and held it close.
  She wasn't mistaken. There, on Sophie's forehead, was a cross drawn in blue chalk.
  The killer was not in the house.
  The killer was in the room.
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  FRIDAY, 9:25 PM
  BYRNE WAS DRIVING OFF ROOSEVELT BOULEVARD. The street was flooded. His head was pounding, images roaring past one after another: a maddening slide show carnage.
  The killer stalked Jessica and her daughter.
  Byrne looked at the lottery ticket the killer had placed in Christy Hamilton's hands and didn't notice it at first. Neither of them did. When the lab uncovered the number, everything became clear. The key wasn't the lottery agent. The clue was the number.
  The lab determined that the Big Four number chosen by the killer was 9-7-0-0.
  The parish address of St. Catherine's Church was 9700 Frankford Avenue.
  Jessica was close. The Rosary Killer had sabotaged the door to St. Catherine's Church three years ago and intended to end his madness tonight. He intended to take Lauren Semansky to the church and perform the last of the five Sorrowful Mysteries there on the altar.
  Crucifixion.
  Lauren's resistance and escape only delayed him. When Byrne touched the broken ballpoint pen in Lauren's hand, he realized where the killer was ultimately headed and who would be his final victim. He immediately called the Eighth Precinct, which dispatched half a dozen officers to the church and a couple of patrol cars to Jessica's house.
  Byrne's only hope was that they weren't too late.
  
  The streetlights were out, as were the traffic lights. Consequently, as always when such things happened, everyone in Philadelphia forgot how to drive. Byrne pulled out his cell phone and called Jessica again. He got a busy signal. He tried her cell phone. It rang five times and then went to her voicemail.
  Come on, Jess.
  He stopped on the side of the road and closed his eyes. For anyone who had never experienced the brutal pain of a relentless migraine, there was no sufficient explanation. The headlights of oncoming cars burned his eyes. Between the flashes, he saw bodies. Not the chalky outlines of a crime scene after the investigation had been deconstructed, but people.
  Tessa Wells wraps her arms and legs around a column.
  Nicole Taylor is buried in a field of vibrant flowers.
  Bethany Price and her razor crown.
  Christy Hamilton, soaked in blood.
  Their eyes were open, questioning, pleading.
  Begging him.
  The fifth body was completely incomprehensible to him, but he knew enough to shake him to the depths of his soul.
  The fifth body was just a little girl.
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  FRIDAY, 9:35 PM
  JESSICA SLAMMED the bedroom door. Locked it. She had to start from the immediate area. She searched under the bed, behind the curtains, in the closet, her gun in front.
  Empty.
  Somehow, Patrick climbed up and made the sign of the cross on Sophie's forehead. She tried to ask Sophie a gentle question about it, but her little girl seemed traumatized.
  The idea filled Jessica not only with nausea but also with rage. But at the moment, rage was her enemy. Her life was in danger.
  She sat down on the bed again.
  - You have to listen to your mom, okay?
  Sophie looked as if she was in shock.
  "Darling? Listen to your mother."
  The daughter's silence.
  "Mom's going to make the bed in the closet, okay? Like camping. Okay?"
  Sophie didn't react.
  Jessica made her way to the closet. She pushed everything back, stripped the bedclothes, and created a makeshift bed. It broke her heart, but she had no choice. She pulled everything else out of the closet and threw everything that could harm Sophie onto the floor. She lifted her daughter from the bed, fighting back tears of rage and terror.
  She kissed Sophie, then closed the closet door. She turned the church key and pocketed it. She grabbed her gun and left the room.
  
  All the candles she had lit in the house had gone out. The wind howled outside, but the house was deathly silent. It was an intoxicating darkness, a darkness that seemed to consume everything it touched. Jessica saw everything she knew in her mind, not with her eyes. As she descended the stairs, she considered the layout of the living room. The table, the chairs, the armoire, the cabinet with the TV, audio and video equipment, the sofas. It was all so familiar and yet so alien at the same time. Every shadow held a monster; every outline a threat.
  She qualified at the range every year as a police officer, completing tactical training with live fire. But this was never meant to be her home, her refuge from the mad world outside. It was a place where her little girl played. Now it has become a battlefield.
  As she touched the last step, she realized what she was doing. She had left Sophie alone upstairs. Had she really cleared the entire floor? Had she looked everywhere? Had she eliminated all possible threats?
  "Patrick?" she said. Her voice sounded weak, plaintive.
  No answer.
  Cold sweat covered her back and shoulders, flowing down to her waist.
  Then, loudly, but not so loud as to scare Sophie: "Listen. Patrick. I have a gun in my hand. I'm not fucking. I need to see you here right now. We'll go downtown, we'll sort this out. Don't do this to me."
  Cold silence.
  Just the wind.
  Patrick took her Maglight. It was the only working flashlight in the house. The wind rattled the windowpanes, causing a low, shrill whine, like that of a wounded animal.
  Jessica entered the kitchen, struggling to focus in the darkness. She moved slowly, keeping her left shoulder pressed against the wall, the side opposite her firing arm. If she had to, she could press her back against the wall and rotate her weapon 180 degrees, protecting her rear flank.
  The kitchen was clean.
  Before rolling the door frame into the living room, she paused and listened, listening for the sounds of the night. Was someone moaning? Crying? She knew it wasn't Sophie.
  She listened, searching the house for the sound. It passed.
  From the back doorway, Jessica smelled the rain on the early spring soil, earthy and damp. She stepped forward in the darkness, her foot crunching on broken glass on the kitchen floor. A wind blew, flapping the edges of the black plastic bag pinned to the opening.
  Returning to the living room, she remembered her laptop was sitting on the small table. If she was right, and if she was lucky that night, the battery was fully charged. She walked over to the table and opened the laptop. The screen came to life, flickered twice, and then bathed the living room in a milky blue light. Jessica closed her eyes tightly for a few seconds, then opened them. There was enough light to see. The room opened up before her.
  She checked behind the double bench seats, in the blind spot next to the closet. She opened the coat closet near the front door. Everything was empty.
  She crossed the room and approached the cabinet where the television stood. If she wasn't mistaken, Sophie had left her electronic walking puppy in one of the drawers. She opened it. A bright plastic face stared back.
  Yes.
  Jessica took some D batteries out of the trunk and went into the dining room. She shoved them into the flashlight. It burst into life.
  "Patrick. This is serious business. You have to answer me.
  She didn't expect an answer. She received none.
  She took a deep breath, focused, and gradually descended the steps to the basement. It was dark. Patrick turned off the MagLight. Halfway down, Jessica stopped and swept the flashlight beam across the entire width of the room, arms crossed. What was usually so innocuous-the washer and dryer, the sink, the furnace and water softener, the golf clubs, the outdoor furniture, and all the other jumble of their lives-now lurked with danger, looming in the long shadows.
  Everything was exactly as she expected.
  Except Patrick.
  She continued down the steps. To her right was a blind alcove-an alcove that contained the circuit breakers and electrical panel. She shone the light as far into the alcove as she could and saw something that took her breath away.
  Telephone distribution box.
  The phone didn't turn off because of the thunderstorm.
  The wires hanging from the junction box told her the line was down.
  She placed her foot on the concrete basement floor. She swept the flashlight around the room again. She started to back away toward the front wall when she almost tripped over something. Something heavy. Metallic. She turned around and saw it was one of her free weights, a ten-pound barbell.
  And then she saw Patrick. He was lying face down on the concrete. Next to his feet lay another ten-pound weight. It turned out he had fallen on it while backing away from the phone booth.
  He didn't move.
  "Get up," she said. Her voice was hoarse and weak. She pulled the trigger back on the Glock. The click echoed off the block walls. "Get... damn... up."
  He didn't move.
  Jessica stepped closer and nudged him with her foot. Nothing. No response. She lowered the hammer back, pointing it at Patrick. She leaned down, wrapped her arm around his neck. She felt his pulse. It was there, strong.
  But there was also dampness.
  Her hand drew out blood.
  Jessica recoiled.
  It turned out that Patrick had cut the phone line and then tripped over the barbell and lost consciousness.
  Jessica grabbed the Maglite from where it lay on the floor next to Patrick, then ran upstairs and out the front door. She needed to get to her cell phone. She stepped out onto the porch. The rain continued to pound the awning overhead. She glanced down the street. There was no power on the entire block. She could see branches lining the street like bones. The wind picked up, drenching her in seconds. The street was empty.
  Except for the ambulance. The parking lights were off, but Jessica heard the engine and saw the exhaust. She holstered her gun and ran across the street, through the stream.
  The medic stood behind the van, about to close the doors. He turned to Jessica as she approached.
  "What's the matter?" he asked.
  Jessica saw the ID tag on his jacket. His name was Drew.
  "Drew, I want you to listen to me," Jessica said.
  "Fine."
  "I'm a police officer. There's a wounded man in my house."
  "How bad?"
  - I'm not sure, but I want you to listen to me. Don't talk.
  "Fine."
  "My phone's out, the power's out. I need you to call 911. Tell them the officer needs help. I need every cop here and his mother. Call, then come to my house. He's in the basement.
  A strong gust of wind blew rain across the street. Leaves and debris swirled around her feet. Jessica found herself having to shout to be heard.
  "Do you understand?" Jessica screamed.
  Drew grabbed his bag, closed the rear doors of the ambulance, and picked up the radio. "Let's go."
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  FRIDAY, 9:45 PM
  TRAFFIC CREEPED DOWN Cottman Avenue. Byrne was less than half a mile from Jessica's house. He approached several side streets and found them blocked by branches and electrical wires or too flooded to navigate.
  Cars cautiously approached the flooded sections of the road, almost idling. As Byrne approached Jessica Street, his migraine intensified. The sound of a car horn made him grip the steering wheel tightly, realizing he'd been driving with his eyes closed.
  He needed to get to Jessica.
  He parked the car, checked his weapon and got out.
  He was just a few blocks away.
  The migraine intensified as he raised his collar against the wind. Struggling with the gusts of rain, he knew it...
  He is in the house.
  Close.
  He didn't expect her to invite anyone else inside. He wants her to be his alone. He has plans for her and her daughter.
  When another man walked through the front door, his plans changed. . .
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  FRIDAY, 9:55 PM
  . . . changed, but not changed.
  Even Christ had his challenges this week. The Pharisees tried to trap Him, forcing Him to utter blasphemy. Judas, of course, betrayed Him to the chief priests, telling them where to find Christ.
  This did not stop Christ.
  I won't hold back either.
  I will deal with the uninvited guest, this Iscariot.
  In this dark basement, I will make this intruder pay with his life.
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  FRIDAY, 9:55 PM
  AS THEY ENTERED THE HOUSE, Jessica pointed Drew to the basement.
  "He's at the bottom of the stairs and on the right," she said.
  "Can you tell me anything about his injuries?" Drew asked.
  "I don't know," Jessica said. "He's unconscious."
  As the paramedic walked down the basement stairs, Jessica heard him call 911.
  She climbed the stairs to Sophie's room. She opened the closet door. Sophie woke up and sat up, lost in a forest of coats and trousers.
  "Are you okay, baby?" she asked.
  Sophie remained indifferent.
  "Mommy's here, sweetie. Mommy's here.
  She picked Sophie up. Sophie wrapped her little arms around her neck. They were safe now. Jessica could feel Sophie's heart beating next to hers.
  Jessica walked through the bedroom to the front windows. The street was only partially flooded. She waited for reinforcements.
  - Ma'am?
  Drew called her.
  Jessica walked up the stairs. "What's the matter?"
  - Uh, well, I don"t know how to tell you this.
  "Tell me what?"
  Drew said, "There's no one in the basement."
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  FRIDAY, 10:00 PM
  BYRNE TURNS THE CORNER, emerging into the pitch-black street. Fighting the wind, he had to navigate around the huge tree branches lying across the sidewalk and road. He saw flickering lights in some windows, darting shadows dancing on the blinds. In the distance, he saw a sparking electrical wire running through a car.
  There were no patrol cars from the Eighth. He tried calling on his cell phone again. Nothing. No signal at all.
  He'd only been to Jessica's house once. He had to look closely to see if he remembered what house it was. He didn't.
  Of course, it was one of the worst parts of living in Philadelphia. Even Northeast Philadelphia. At times, everything looked the same.
  He stood before a twin who looked familiar. With the lights off, it was hard to tell. He closed his eyes and tried to remember. Images of the Rosary Killer eclipsed everything else, like hammers falling on an old manual typewriter, soft lead on bright white paper, smeared black ink. But he was too close to make out the words.
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  FRIDAY, 10:00 PM
  D. Ryu waited at the bottom of the basement stairs. Jessica lit candles in the kitchen, then sat Sophie down on one of the dining room chairs. She placed her gun on the refrigerator.
  She walked down the steps. The blood stain on the concrete was still there. But it wasn't Patrick.
  "Dispatch said there were a couple of patrol cars on the way," he said. "But I'm afraid there's no one here."
  "Are you sure?"
  Drew lit the basement with his flashlight. "Well, well, unless you have a secret exit from here, he must have gone up the stairs."
  Drew pointed the flashlight up the stairs. There were no bloodstains on the steps. Putting on latex gloves, he knelt down and touched the blood on the floor. He intertwined his fingers.
  "You mean he was just here?" he asked.
  "Yes," Jessica said. "Two minutes ago. As soon as I saw him, I ran up and down the driveway."
  "How did he get injured?" he asked.
  "I have no idea."
  "Are you okay?"
  "I'm fine."
  "Well, the police will be here any second. They can give this place a good overview." He stood up. "Until then, we'll probably be safe here."
  What? Jessica thought.
  Are we likely to be safe here?
  "Is your daughter okay?" he asked.
  Jessica stared at the man. A cold hand squeezed her heart. "I never told you I had a little girl."
  Drew took off his gloves and threw them into his bag.
  In the beam of the flashlight, Jessica saw blue chalk stains on his fingers and a deep scratch on the back of his right hand, at the same moment she noticed Patrick's feet coming out from under the stairs.
  And she knew. This man never called 911. No one came. Jessica ran. To the stairs. To Sophie. For safety. But before she could move her hand, a shot rang out from the darkness.
  Andrew Chase was next to her.
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  FRIDAY, 10:05 PM
  IT WAS NOT PATRICK FARRELL. When Byrne reviewed the hospital files, everything fell into place.
  Aside from their treatment by Patrick Farrell at St. Joseph's Emergency Department, the only thing the five girls had in common was ambulance service. They all lived in North Philadelphia and all used Glenwood Ambulance Group.
  They were all initially treated by Andrew Chase.
  Chase knew Simon Close, and Simon paid for that closeness with his life.
  On the day she died, Nicole Taylor wasn't trying to write "PARKHURST" on her palm. She was trying to write "PHARMA MEDIC."
  Byrne opened his cell phone and called 911 one last time. Nothing. He checked the status. No bars. He wasn't getting a signal. The patrol cars hadn't made it in time.
  He will have to act alone.
  Byrne stood in front of his twin, trying to shield his eyes from the rain.
  Was this the same house?
  Think about it, Kevin. What sights did he see the day he picked her up? He couldn't remember.
  He turned and looked back.
  The van parked in front of the house. Glenwood Ambulance Squad.
  It was a house.
  He pulled out his gun, loaded a round, and hurried down the driveway.
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  FRIDAY, 10:10 PM
  JESSICA EMERGED from the depths of an impenetrable fog. She sat on the floor of her own basement. It was almost dark. She tried to factor both facts into the equation, but got no acceptable results.
  And then reality came roaring back.
  Sophie.
  She tried to get to her feet, but her legs wouldn't respond. She wasn't bound by anything. Then she remembered. She'd been injected with something. She touched her neck where the needle had pierced her and pulled back a drop of blood from her finger. In the dim light of the lantern behind her, the dot began to blur. Now she understood the horror the five girls had endured.
  But she wasn't a girl. She was a woman. A police officer.
  Her hand instinctively went to her hip. It was empty. Where was her weapon?
  Up the stairs. On top of the refrigerator.
  Shit.
  For a moment she felt sick: the world was swimming, the floor seemed to sway beneath her.
  "You know, it shouldn't have come to this," he said. "But she fought it. She tried to throw it out herself once, but then she fought it. I saw it over and over again."
  A voice came from behind her. It was low, measured, filled with the melancholy of deep personal loss. He was still holding the flashlight. The beam danced and flickered around the room.
  Jessica wanted to react, to move, to pounce. Her spirit was ready. Her flesh was incapable.
  She was alone with the Rosary Killer. She thought reinforcements were on the way, but they weren't. No one knew they were there together. Images of his victims flashed through her mind. Christy Hamilton soaked in all that blood. Bethany Price's crown of barbed wire.
  She had to make him talk. "What... what do you mean?"
  "They had every opportunity in life," Andrew Chase said. "All of them. But they didn't want it, did they? They were bright, healthy, whole. That wasn't enough for them."
  Jessica managed to glance at the top of the stairs, praying she wouldn't see Sophie's small figure there.
  "These girls had everything, but they decided to throw it all away," Chase said. "And for what?"
  The wind howled outside the basement windows. Andrew Chase began pacing, the beam of his flashlight bouncing in the darkness.
  "What chance did my little girl have?" he asked.
  "He has a child," Jessica thought. That's good.
  "Do you have a little girl?" she asked.
  Her voice sounded distant, as if she were speaking through a metal pipe.
  "I had a little girl," he said. "She never even made it out of the gate."
  "What happened?" It was becoming increasingly difficult to find the words. Jessica didn't know if she should put this man through some kind of tragedy, but she didn't know what else to do.
  "You were there."
  Was I there? Jessica thought. What the hell is he talking about?
  "I don"t understand what you mean," Jessica said.
  "It's okay," he said. "It wasn't your fault."
  "My... fault?"
  "But the world went mad that night, didn't it? Oh, yes. Evil unleashed itself on the streets of this city, and a great storm broke out. My little girl was sacrificed. The righteous were rewarded." His voice rose in pitch and frequency. "Tonight I will pay off all debts."
  "Oh my God," Jessica thought, and the memories of that cruel Christmas Eve came flooding back to her in a wave of nausea.
  He was talking about Catherine Chase. The woman who miscarried in her patrol car. Andrew and Catherine Chase.
  "At the hospital, they said something like, 'Oh, don't worry, you can always have another baby.' They don't know. For Kitty and me, it's never been the same. Despite all the so-called miracles of modern medicine, they couldn't save my little girl, and God refused us another child."
  "It... it wasn't anyone's fault that night," Jessica said. "It was a terrible storm. You remember."
  Chase nodded. "I remember it all well. It took me almost two hours to get to St. Catherine's. I prayed to my wife's patron saint. I made my sacrifice. But my little girl never returned."
  "Saint Catherine," Jessica thought. She was right.
  Chase grabbed the nylon bag he'd brought with him. He dropped it on the floor next to Jessica. "And do you really think society would miss a man like Willy Kreutz? He was a faggot. A barbarian. He was the lowest form of human life."
  He reached into his bag and began taking things out. He placed them on the floor next to Jessica's right foot. She slowly lowered her eyes. There was a cordless drill. Inside was a spool of sail thread, a huge curved needle, and another glass syringe.
  "It's amazing what some men tell you like they're proud of it," Chase said. "A few pints of bourbon. A few Percocets. All their terrible secrets come out."
  He began threading the needle. Despite the anger and fury in his voice, his hands were steady. "And the late Dr. Parkhurst?" he continued. "A man who used his position to prey on young girls? Please. He was no different. The only thing that set him apart from people like Mr. Kreutz was his pedigree. Tessa told me all about Dr. Parkhurst.
  Jessica tried to speak, but couldn't. All her fear had vanished. She felt herself drifting in and out of consciousness.
  "You'll understand soon enough," Chase said. "There will be a resurrection on Easter Sunday."
  He placed the needle and thread on the floor, standing inches from Jessica's face. In the dim light, his eyes were burgundy. "God asked Abraham for a child. And now God has asked me for yours."
  "Please no," Jessica thought.
  "The time has come," he said.
  Jessica tried to move.
  She couldn't.
  Andrew Chase walked up the steps.
  Sophie.
  
  JESSICA OPENED HER EYES. How long had she been gone? She tried to move again. She could feel her arms, but not her legs. She tried to roll over, but couldn't. She tried to crawl to the bottom of the steps, but the effort was too great.
  Was she alone?
  Is he gone?
  Now a single candle burned. It sat on the drying rack, casting long, flickering shadows on the unfinished basement ceiling.
  She strained her ears.
  She nodded again, waking up a few seconds later.
  Footsteps behind her. It was so hard to keep her eyes open. So hard. Her limbs felt like stone.
  She turned her head as far as she could. When she saw Sophie in the arms of this monster, an icy rain washed over her insides.
  No, she thought.
  No!
  Take me.
  I'm right here. Take me!
  Andrew Chase laid Sophie on the floor next to her. Sophie's eyes were closed, her body limp.
  The adrenaline in Jessica's veins warred with the drug he'd given her. If she could just stand up and shoot him just once, she knew she could hurt him. He was heavier than her, but about the same height. One blow. With the fury and anger raging inside her, that was all she needed.
  When he turned away from her for a moment, she saw that he had found her Glock. He was now holding it in the waistband of his pants.
  Out of his sight, Jessica moved an inch closer to Sophie. The effort seemed to have completely exhausted her. She needed to rest.
  She tried to check if Sophie was breathing. She couldn't tell.
  Andrew Chase turned back to them, drill in hand.
  "It's time to pray," he said.
  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a square-head bolt.
  "Get her hands ready," he told Jessica. He knelt down and placed the cordless drill in Jessica's right hand. Jessica felt bile rise in her throat. She was going to feel sick.
  "What?"
  "She's just sleeping. I only gave her a small amount of midazolam. Drill her hands, and I'll let her live." He took a rubber band from his pocket and slipped it around Sophie's wrists. He placed a rosary between her fingers. A rosary without decades. "If you don't do it, I will. Then I'll send her to God right before your eyes."
  "I... I can't..."
  "You have thirty seconds." He leaned forward and pressed the trigger of the drill with the index finger of Jessica's right hand, testing it. The battery was fully charged. The sound of steel twisting through the air was nauseating. "Do it now, and she'll live."
  Sophie looked at Jessica.
  "She's my daughter," Jessica managed to say.
  Chase's face remained implacable and unreadable. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across his features. He pulled a Glock from his belt, pulled the hammer back, and pointed the gun at Sophie's head. "You have twenty seconds."
  "Wait!"
  Jessica felt her strength ebb and flow. Her fingers trembled.
  "Think about Abraham," Chase said. "Think about the determination that brought him to the altar. You can do it."
  "I... I can't.
  "We all have to sacrifice."
  Jessica had to stop.
  Should have.
  "Okay," she said. "Okay." She gripped the drill handle. It felt heavy and cold. She tested the trigger several times. The drill responded, the carbon bit humming.
  "Bring her closer," Jessica said weakly. "I can't reach her."
  Chase walked over and picked Sophie up. He placed her just inches away from Jessica. Sophie's wrists were bound together, her hands clasped in prayer.
  Jessica slowly lifted the drill and rested it on her lap for a moment.
  She remembered her first medicine ball workout at the gym. After two or three reps, she wanted to quit. She lay on her back on the mat, holding the heavy ball, completely exhausted. She couldn't do this. Not another rep. She would never be a boxer. But before she could give in, the wizened old heavyweight sitting there watching her-a longtime member of Frazier's gym, the man who once took Sonny Liston the distance-told her that most people who fail lack strength, they lack will.
  She never forgot him.
  As Andrew Chase turned to walk away, Jessica gathered all her will, all her determination, all her strength. She would have one chance to save her daughter, and now was the time to take it. She pulled the trigger, locking it in the "ON" position, then pushed the drill upward, hard, fast, and powerful. The long drill bit sank deep into Chase's left groin, piercing skin, muscle, and flesh, tearing deep into his body, finding and severing the femoral artery. A warm stream of arterial blood rushed into Jessica's face, momentarily blinding her and causing her to gag. Chase cried out in pain, staggered back, spinning, his legs giving way, his left hand clutching the hole in his pants, trying to stem the flow. Blood flowed between his fingers, silky and black in the dim light. Reflexively, he fired the Glock at the ceiling, the roar of the weapon enormous in the confined space.
  Jessica struggled to her knees, her ears ringing, now fueled by adrenaline. She had to stand between Chase and Sophie. She had to move. She had to somehow get to her feet and plunge the drill into his heart.
  Through the crimson film of blood in her eyes, she saw Chase collapse to the floor and drop his gun. He was halfway to the basement. He screamed, removing his belt and throwing it over his upper left thigh, blood now coating his legs and spreading across the floor. He tightened the tourniquet with a piercing, wild howl.
  Will she be able to drag herself to the weapon?
  Jessica tried to crawl toward him, her hands slipping in blood, fighting for every inch. But before she could close the distance, Chase raised the bloody Glock and slowly rose to his feet. He staggered forward, now frantic, like a mortally wounded animal. Just a few feet away. He waved the gun in front of him, his face a tortured death mask of agony.
  Jessica tried to get up. She couldn't. She could only hope that Chase would come closer. She lifted the drill with both hands.
  Chase walked in.
  Stopped.
  He wasn't close enough.
  She couldn't reach him. He would kill them both.
  At that moment, Chase looked up at the sky and screamed, an unearthly sound filling the room, the house, the world, and just as that world came to life, a bright and hoarse spiral suddenly appeared.
  Power has returned.
  The television blared upstairs. The stove clicked next to them. The lamps burned above them.
  Time stood still.
  Jessica wiped the blood from her eyes and found her attacker engulfed in a crimson miasma. Oddly enough, the drug's effects had destroyed her eyes, splitting Andrew Chase into two images, blurring them both.
  Jessica closed her eyes, opened them, adjusting to the sudden clarity.
  They weren't two images. They were two men. Somehow, Kevin Byrne was standing behind Chase.
  Jessica had to blink twice to make sure she wasn't hallucinating.
  She wasn't.
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  FRIDAY, 10:15 PM
  Throughout his years in law enforcement, Byrne was always amazed to finally see the size, stature, and demeanor of the people he sought. Rarely were they as large and grotesque as their actions. He had a theory that the size of someone's monster was often inversely proportional to their physical size.
  Without a doubt, Andrew Chase was the ugliest, blackest soul he had ever met.
  And now, as the man stood before him, less than five feet away, he seemed small and insignificant. But Byrne wasn't lulled or fooled. Andrew Chase certainly hadn't played an insignificant role in the lives of the families he'd destroyed.
  Byrne knew that even though Chase was gravely wounded, he couldn't catch the killer. He had no advantage. Byrne's vision was clouded; his mind was a swamp of indecision and rage. Rage over his life. Rage over Morris Blanchard. Rage over how the Diablo case had unfolded, and how it had transformed him into everything he had fought against. Rage that, if he had done a little better at this job, he could have saved the lives of several innocent girls.
  Like a wounded cobra, Andrew Chase sensed it.
  Byrne lip-synced to the old Sonny Boy Williamson track "Collector Man Blues" about how it was time to open the door because the collector man was here.
  The door swung wide. Byrne formed a familiar shape with his left hand, the first he'd learned when he began learning sign language.
  I love you.
  Andrew Chase turned, red eyes blazing, Glock raised high.
  Kevin Byrne saw them all in the monster's eyes. Every innocent victim. He raised his weapon.
  Both men fired.
  And, as before, the world became white and silent.
  
  For Jessica, the twin explosions were deafening, deafening. She fell to the cold basement floor. Blood was everywhere. She couldn't lift her head. Falling through the clouds, she tried to find Sophie in the crypt of torn human flesh. Her heart slowed, her vision deteriorated.
  Sophie, she thought, fading, fading.
  My heart.
  My life.
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  EASTER SUNDAY, 11:05.
  Her mother sat on a swing, her favorite yellow sundress highlighting the deep purple flecks in her eyes. Her lips were burgundy, her hair a lush mahogany color in the rays of the summer sun.
  The air filled with the aroma of freshly lit charcoal briquettes, carrying with it the sounds of Phyllis's playing. Beneath it all, the giggles of her cousins, the scent of Parodi cigars, and the aroma of vino di tavola.
  Dean Martin's raspy voice crooned softly, singing "Return to Sorrento" on vinyl. Always on vinyl. Compact disc technology hadn't yet penetrated the mansion of her memories.
  "Mom?" Jessica said.
  "No, dear," Peter Giovanni said. Her father's voice was different. Older, somehow.
  "Dad?"
  "I'm here, baby."
  A wave of relief washed over her. Her father was there, and everything was fine. Wasn't it? You know, he's a police officer. She opened her eyes. She felt weak, completely drained. She was in a hospital room, but as far as she could tell, she wasn't hooked up to any machines or IVs. Her memory returned. She remembered the roar of gunfire in her basement. Apparently, she hadn't been shot.
  Her father stood at the foot of the bed. Behind him stood her cousin Angela. She turned her head to the right and saw John Shepard and Nick Palladino.
  "Sophie," Jessica said.
  The ensuing silence tore her heart into a million pieces, each a burning comet of fear. She looked from face to face, slowly, dizzily. Eyes. She needed to see their eyes. In hospitals, people are always saying things; usually what they want to hear.
  There is a good chance that...
  With proper therapy and medication...
  He is the best in his field. . .
  If she could just see her father's eyes, she would know.
  "Sophie is fine," her father said.
  His eyes didn't lie.
  - Vincent is with her in the dining room.
  She closed her eyes, and now the tears flowed freely. She could survive any news that came her way. Come on.
  Her throat felt raw and dry. "Chase," she managed to say.
  The two detectives looked at her and at each other.
  "What happened...Chase?" she repeated.
  "He's here. In intensive care. In custody," Shepard said. "He was in surgery for four hours. The bad news is he's going to make it. The good news is he's going to stand trial, and we have all the evidence he needs. His home was a petri dish."
  Jessica closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the news. Were Andrew Chase's eyes really burgundy? She had a feeling they would haunt her nightmares.
  "But your friend Patrick didn't survive," Shepherd said. "I'm sorry."
  The madness of that night slowly seeped into her consciousness. She truly suspected Patrick of these crimes. Perhaps, if she had believed him, he wouldn't have come to her that evening. And that meant he would still be alive.
  An overwhelming sadness burned deep within her.
  Angela picked up a plastic cup of ice water and held the straw to Jessica's lips. Angie's eyes were red and puffy. She smoothed Jessica's hair and kissed her forehead.
  "How did I get here?" Jessica asked.
  "Your friend Paula," Angela said. "She came to see if your power was back on. The back door was wide open. She came down and... she saw everything." Angela burst into tears.
  And then Jessica remembered. She could barely bring herself to say the name. The very real possibility that he had traded his life for hers gnawed at her insides, a hungry beast trying to get out. And in this large, sterile building, there would be no pills or procedures that could heal that wound.
  "What about Kevin?" she asked.
  Shepherd looked at the floor, then at Nick Palladino.
  When they looked at Jessica again, their eyes were gloomy.
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  Chase entered a guilty plea and received a life sentence.
  Eleanor Marcus-DeChant,
  Staff writer for The Report
  Andrew Todd Chase, the so-called "Rosary Killer," pleaded guilty Thursday to eight counts of first-degree murder, ending one of the bloodiest crime sprees in Philadelphia history. He was immediately committed to the State Correctional Institution in Greene County, Pennsylvania.
  In a plea agreement with the Philadelphia District Attorney's Office, Chase, 32, pleaded guilty to killing Nicole T. Taylor, 17; Tessa A. Wells, 17; Bethany R. Price, 15; Christy A. Hamilton, 16; Patrick M. Farrell, 36; Brian A. Parkhurst, 35; Wilhelm Kreutz, 42; and Simon E. Close, 33, all of Philadelphia. Mr. Close was a staff reporter for this newspaper.
  In exchange for this plea, numerous other charges, including kidnapping, aggravated assault, and attempted murder, were dropped, as was the death penalty. Chase was sentenced by Municipal Court Judge Liam McManus to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
  Chase remained silent and impassive during the hearing, where he was represented by Benjamin W. Priest, a public defender.
  Priest said that given the horrific nature of the crimes and the overwhelming evidence against his client, the plea bargain was the best decision for Chase, a paramedic with the Glenwood Ambulance Squad.
  "Mister. Now Chase will be able to get the treatment he so desperately needs."
  Investigators discovered that Chase's 30-year-old wife, Katherine, had recently been admitted to the Ranch House psychiatric hospital in Norristown. They believe this event may have triggered the mass celebration.
  Chase's so-called signature included leaving rosary beads at the scene of each crime, as well as mutilating female victims.
  OceanofPDF.com
  83
  May 16, 7:55
  There's a principle in sales called the "Rule of 250." They say a person meets approximately 250 people in a lifetime. Make one client happy, and it could lead to 250 sales.
  The same can be said about hatred.
  Create one enemy...
  It is for this reason, and perhaps for many others, that I am separated from the general population here.
  Around eight o'clock, I hear them approaching. Around that time, I'm taken to a small exercise yard for thirty minutes every day.
  An officer comes into my cell. He reaches through the bars and cuffs my hands. He's not my usual guard. I've never seen him before.
  The guard isn't a large man, but he looks in excellent physical condition. He's about my size, my height. I could have known he'd be unremarkable in everything except his determination. In that respect, we're certainly related.
  He calls for the cell to be opened. My door opens and I step out.
  Rejoice, Mary, full of grace...
  We walk down the corridor. The sound of my chains echoes off the dead walls, steel talking to steel.
  Blessed are you among women. . .
  Every step resonates with a name. Nicole. Tessa. Bethany. Christy.
  And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. . .
  The pain pills I take barely mask the agony. They're brought to my cell one at a time, three times a day. I'd take them all today if I could.
  Holy Mary, Mother of God. . .
  This day came to life just a few hours ago, a day I had been on a collision course with for a very long time.
  Pray for us sinners. . .
  I stand at the top of a steep iron staircase, as Christ stood on Golgotha. My cold, gray, lonely Golgotha.
  Now . . .
  I feel a hand in the center of my back.
  And at the hour of our death...
  I close my eyes.
  I feel a push.
  Amen.
  OceanofPDF.com
  84
  May 18, 1:55 PM
  Jessica traveled to West Philly with John Shepherd. They had been partners for two weeks and were planning to interview a witness to a double murder in which the owners of a South Philadelphia general store were shot execution-style and dumped in the basement beneath their store.
  The sun was warm and high. The city had finally thrown off the shackles of early spring and greeted a new day: windows open, convertible roofs lowered, fruit vendors open for business.
  Dr. Summers' final report on Andrew Chase contains a number of interesting findings, not the least of which is the fact that workers at St. Dominic's Cemetery reported that a grave had been dug up on Wednesday of that week, a plot belonging to Andrew Chase. Nothing was recovered-a small casket remained untouched-but Dr. Summers believed Andrew Chase had genuinely expected his stillborn daughter to be resurrected on Easter Sunday. She theorized that the motive for his madness was to sacrifice the lives of five girls to bring his daughter back from the dead. In his twisted reasoning, the five girls he chose had already attempted suicide and had already welcomed death into their lives.
  About a year before he killed Tessa, Chase, as part of his job, moved a body from a rowhouse near Tessa Wells's crime scene on North Eighth Street. That's likely when he saw the pole in the basement.
  As Shepherd parked on Bainbridge Street, Jessica's phone rang. It was Nick Palladino.
  "What happened, Nick?" she asked.
  "Have you heard the news?"
  God, she hated conversations that started with that question. She was pretty sure she hadn't heard any news that would warrant a phone call. "No," Jessica said. "But give it to me carefully, Nick. I haven't had lunch yet."
  "Andrew Chase is dead."
  At first, the words seemed to swirl around in her head, as they often do with unexpected news, good or bad. When Judge McManus sentenced Chase to life in prison, Jessica expected forty years or more, decades to reflect on the pain and suffering he had caused.
  Not weeks.
  According to Nick, the details of Chase's death were a bit sketchy, but Nick heard that Chase fell down a long steel ladder and broke his neck.
  "Broken neck?" Jessica asked, trying to hide the irony in her voice.
  Nick read it. "I know," he said. "Karma comes with a bazooka sometimes, huh?"
  "It's her," Jessica thought.
  This is her.
  
  FRANK WELLS stood in the doorway of his house, waiting. He looked small, frail, and terribly pale. He wore the same clothes he'd worn the last time she'd seen him, but now he seemed even more lost in her than before.
  Tessa's angel pendant was found in Andrew Chase's bedroom dresser and had just navigated miles of bureaucratic red tape in serious cases like this. Before getting out of the car, Jessica pulled it out of the evidence bag and pocketed it. She checked her face in the rearview mirror, not so much to make sure she was okay, but to make sure she hadn't been crying.
  She had to be strong here one last time.
  
  "Is there anything I can do for you?" Wells asked.
  Jessica wanted to say, "What you can do for me is get better." But she knew that wouldn't happen. "No, sir," she said.
  He invited her in, but she declined. They stood on the steps. Above them, the sun warmed the corrugated aluminum awning. Since she had been here last, she noticed that Wells had placed a small flower box under the second-story window. Bright yellow pansies grew toward Tessa's room.
  Frank Wells took the news of Andrew Chase's death the same way he had taken the news of Tessa's death-stoically and impassively. He simply nodded.
  When she handed him back the angel pendant, she thought she saw a brief flash of emotion. She turned to look out the window, as if waiting for a ride, giving him privacy.
  Wells looked at his hands. He held out the angel pendant.
  "I want you to have this," he said.
  "I... I can't accept this, sir. I know how much this means to you."
  "Please," he said. He placed the pendant in her hand and hugged her. His skin felt like warm tracing paper. "Tessa would have wanted you to have this. She was so much like you."
  Jessica opened her hand. She looked at the inscription engraved on the back.
  Behold, I send an angel before you,
  to protect you on the way.
  Jessica leaned forward. She kissed Frank Wells on the cheek.
  She tried to contain her emotions as she walked to her car. As she approached the curb, she saw a man getting out of a black Saturn parked a few cars behind her on Twentieth Street. He was about twenty-five years old, of average height, slim but trim. He had thinning dark brown hair and a trimmed mustache. He wore mirrored aviators and a brown uniform. He headed toward the Wells house.
  Jessica put it down. Jason Wells, Tessa's brother. She recognized him from the photo on the living room wall.
  "Mr. Wells," Jessica said. "I'm Jessica Balzano."
  "Yes, of course," Jason said.
  They shook hands.
  "I'm so sorry for your loss," Jessica said.
  "Thank you," Jason said. "I miss her every day. Tessa was my light."
  Jessica couldn't see his eyes, but she didn't need to. Jason Wells was a young man in pain.
  "My father has the utmost respect for you and your partner," Jason continued. "We're both incredibly grateful for everything you've done."
  Jessica nodded, unsure of what to say. "I hope you and your father can find some solace."
  "Thank you," Jason said. "How"s your partner doing?"
  "He's hanging in there," Jessica said, wanting to believe it.
  - I'd like to go and see him sometime, if you think that would be good.
  "Of course," Jessica replied, though she knew the visit would in no way be acknowledged. She glanced at her watch, hoping it didn't seem as awkward as it looked. "Well, I have a few errands to run. It was nice meeting you."
  "Same here," Jason said. "Take care."
  Jessica walked to her car and got in. She thought about the healing process that would now begin in the lives of Frank and Jason Wells, as well as the families of all of Andrew Chase's victims.
  As she started the car, a shock struck her. She remembered where she'd seen the crest before, the crest she'd first noticed in the photograph of Frank and Jason Wells on the living room wall, the crest on the black windbreaker the young man was wearing. It was the same crest she'd just seen on the patch sewn onto the sleeve of Jason Wells's uniform.
  Did Tessa have any brothers or sisters?
  One brother, Jason. He's much older. He lives in Waynesburg.
  SCI Green was located in Waynesburg.
  Jason Wells was a correctional officer at SCI Greene.
  Jessica glanced at the Wells' front door. Jason and his father were standing in the doorway, holding each other.
  Jessica pulled out her cell phone and held it in her hand. She knew the Greene County Sheriff's Office would be very interested to know that the older brother of one of Andrew Chase's victims worked at the facility where Chase was found dead.
  It's really very interesting.
  She took one last look at the Wells house, her finger poised to ring the bell. Frank Wells looked at her with his moist, ancient eyes. He raised a thin hand to wave. Jessica waved back.
  For the first time since she'd met him, the older man's expression betrayed no grief, no apprehension, no sadness. Instead, it was one of calm, she thought, determination, an almost supernatural serenity.
  Jessica understood.
  As she pulled away and put her cell phone back in her purse, she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Frank Wells standing in the doorway. This was how she would always remember him. For that brief moment, Jessica felt as if Frank Wells had finally found peace.
  And if you were someone who believed in such things, then Tessa did too.
  Jessica believed.
  OceanofPDF.com
  EPILOGUE
  May 31, 11:05
  Memorial Day brought a harsh sun to the Delaware Valley. The sky was clear and azure; the cars parked along the streets around Holy Cross Cemetery were polished and ready for summer. Harsh golden sunlight reflected off their windshields.
  The men wore brightly colored polo shirts and khaki pants; the grandfathers wore suits. The women wore sundresses with thin straps and JCPenney espadrilles in rainbow pastel colors.
  Jessica knelt and laid flowers on her brother Michael's grave. She placed a small flag next to the headstone. She looked around the expanse of the cemetery, seeing other families planting their own flags. Some of the older men saluted. Wheelchairs gleamed, their occupants lost in deep memories. As always on this day, amid the shimmering greenery, the families of fallen servicemen and women found each other, their gazes meeting in understanding and shared grief.
  In a few minutes, Jessica would join her father at her mother's stone, and they would walk silently back to the car. That was how her family did things. They grieved separately.
  She turned and looked at the road.
  Vincent leaned against the Cherokee. He wasn't very good at graves, and that was okay. They hadn't figured it all out, maybe they never would, but these last few weeks he'd seemed like a new man.
  Jessica said a silent prayer and walked through the gravestones.
  "How is he doing?" Vincent asked. They both looked at Peter, his broad shoulders still powerful at sixty-two.
  "He's a real rock," Jessica said.
  Vincent reached out and gently took Jessica's hand in his. "How are we doing?"
  Jessica looked at her husband. She saw a man in grief, a man suffering under the yoke of failure-an inability to keep his marriage vows, an inability to protect his wife and daughter. A madman had entered Vincent Balzano's home, threatened his family, and he wasn't there. It was a special corner of hell for police officers.
  "I don't know," she said. "I'm glad you're here, though."
  Vincent smiled, holding her hand. Jessica didn't pull away.
  They agreed to attend marriage counseling; their first session took place just a few days later. Jessica wasn't yet ready to share her bed and her life with Vincent again, but it was a first step. If they had to weather these storms, they would.
  Sophie gathered flowers from the house and methodically distributed them at the graves. Since she hadn't had a chance to wear the lemon-yellow Easter dress they'd bought at Lord & Taylor that day, she seemed determined to wear it every Sunday and holiday until it grew too small. Hopefully, that was a long way off.
  As Peter started to make his way to the car, a squirrel darted out from behind a tombstone. Sophie giggled and gave chase, her yellow dress and chestnut curls glistening in the spring sun.
  She seemed happy again.
  Perhaps that was enough.
  
  It's been five days since Kevin Byrne was transferred from the intensive care unit at HUP, the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. The bullet fired by Andrew Chase that night lodged in Byrne's occipital lobe, grazing his brainstem by just over a centimeter. He underwent over twelve hours of cranial surgery and has been in a coma ever since.
  Doctors said his vital signs were strong, but admitted that each passing week significantly reduced the chances of him regaining consciousness.
  Jessica met Donna and Colleen Byrne a few days after the incident at her home. They were developing a relationship that Jessica began to sense could last. For better or for worse. It was too early to tell. She even learned a few words of sign language.
  Today, when Jessica arrived for her daily visit, she knew she had much to do. As much as she hated to leave, she knew life would and must go on. She'd only stay for about fifteen minutes. She sat in a chair in Byrne's flower-filled room, leafing through a magazine. For all she knew, it might have been Field & Stream or Cosmo.
  Every now and then she glanced at Byrne. He was much thinner; his skin was a deep grayish-pale. His hair was just beginning to grow out.
  Around his neck, he wore a silver crucifix given to him by Althea Pettigrew. Jessica wore an angel pendant given to her by Frank Wells. It seemed they both had their own talisman against the Andrew Chases of the world.
  She had so much she wanted to tell him: about Colleen being chosen as valedictorian at her school for the deaf, about the death of Andrew Chase. She wanted to tell him that a week earlier, the FBI had faxed the unit information indicating that Miguel Duarte, the man who confessed to the murders of Robert and Helen Blanchard, had an account at a New Jersey bank under an assumed name. They had traced the money to a wire transfer from an offshore account belonging to Morris Blanchard. Morris Blanchard had paid Duarte ten thousand dollars to kill his parents.
  Kevin Byrne was right all along.
  Jessica returned to her journal and the article about how and where walleye spawn. She guessed it was Field and Brook after all.
  "Hello," Byrne said.
  Jessica nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of his voice. It was low, raspy, and terribly weak, but it was there.
  She jumped to her feet. She leaned over the bed. "I'm here," she said. "I... I'm here."
  Kevin Byrne opened his eyes, then closed them. For a terrifying moment, Jessica was sure he'd never open them again. But a few seconds later, he proved her wrong. "I have a question for you," he said.
  "Okay," Jessica said, her heart pounding. "Of course."
  "Have I ever told you why they call me Riff Raff?" he asked.
  "No," she said softly. She wouldn"t cry. She wouldn"t.
  A slight smile touched his dry lips.
  "It's a good story, partner," he said.
  Jessica took his hand in hers.
  She squeezed gently.
  Partner.
  OceanofPDF.com
  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  Publishing a novel is truly a team effort, and no writer has ever had a deeper bench.
  Thank you to the Honorable Seamus McCaffery, Detective Patrick Boyle, Detective Jimmy Williams, Detective Bill Fraser, Detective Michelle Kelly, Detective Eddie Rox, Detective Bo Diaz, Sergeant Irma Labrys, Katherine McBride, Cass Johnston, and the men and women of the Philadelphia Police Department. Any errors in police procedure are my fault, and if I am ever arrested in Philadelphia, I hope this admission will make a difference.
  Thanks also to Kate Simpson, Jan Klincewicz, Mike Driscoll, Greg Pastore, Joanne Greco, Patrick Nestor, Vita DeBellis, D. John Doyle, MD, Vernoka Michael, John and Jessica Bruening, David Nayfack, and Christopher Richards.
  A huge debt of gratitude goes to Meg Ruley, Jane Burkey, Peggy Gordain, Don Cleary and everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency.
  Special thanks to Linda Marrow, Gina Cenrello, Rachel Kind, Libby McGuire, Kim Howie, Dana Isaacson, Ariel Zibrach, and the wonderful team at Random House/Ballantine Books.
  Thank you to the city of Philadelphia for allowing me to create schools and cause chaos.
  As always, thank you to my family for living the writer's life with me. My name may be on the cover, but their patience, support, and love are on every page.
  "What I REALLY want to do is direct."
  Nothing. No reaction at all. She looks at me with her big Prussian blue eyes and waits. Perhaps she's too young to recognize this cliché. Perhaps she's smarter than I thought. That will either make killing her very easy, or very difficult.
  "Cool," she says.
  Easy.
  "You've done a little work. I can tell."
  She blushes. "Not quite."
  I lower my head, look up. My irresistible gaze. Monty Clift in A Place in the Sun. I can see it's working. "Not quite?"
  "Well, when I was in high school, we filmed West Side Story."
  - And you played Maria.
  "I doubt it," she says. "I was just one of the girls at the dance."
  "Jet or Shark?"
  "Jet, I think. And then I did a couple of things in college."
  "I knew it," I say. "I can smell theatrical atmosphere a mile away."
  "It was nothing serious, believe me. I don't think anyone even noticed me."
  "Of course they did. How could they miss you?" She blushes even more. Sandra Dee in A Summer Place. "Keep in mind," I add, "many big movie stars started out in the chorus line."
  "Really?"
  "Nature".
  She has high cheekbones, a golden French braid, and lips painted a shimmering coral. In 1960, she wore her hair in a voluminous bouffant or pixie cut. Underneath, she wore a shirtdress with a wide white belt. Perhaps a strand of faux pearls.
  On the other hand, in 1960 she might not have accepted my invitation.
  We're sitting in a nearly empty corner bar in West Philadelphia, just a few blocks from the Schuylkill River.
  "Okay. Who's your favorite movie star?" I ask.
  She brightens up. She likes games. "Boy or girl?"
  "Girl."
  She thinks for a moment. "I really like Sandra Bullock."
  "That's it. Sandy started out acting in made-for-TV movies."
  "Sandy? Do you know her?"
  "Certainly."
  "And she actually made TV movies?"
  "Bionic Battle, 1989. A heartbreaking story of international intrigue and a bionic threat at the World Unity Games. Sandy played a girl in a wheelchair."
  "Do you know many movie stars?"
  "Almost everything." I take her hand in mine. Her skin is soft, flawless. "Do you know what they have in common?"
  "What?"
  - Do you know what they have in common with you?
  She giggles and stamps her feet. "Tell me!"
  "They all have perfect skin."
  Her free hand absentmindedly rises to her face, smoothing her cheek.
  "Oh, yes," I continue. "Because when the camera gets really, really close, there's no amount of makeup in the world that can replace glowing skin."
  She looks past me, at her reflection in the bar mirror.
  "I think about it. All the great screen legends had beautiful skin," I say. "Ingrid Bergman, Greta Garbo, Rita Hayworth, Vivien Leigh, Ava Gardner. Movie stars live for the close-up, and the close-up never lies."
  I can see some of these names are unfamiliar to her. It's a shame. Most people her age think movies began with Titanic, and that movie stardom is determined by how many times you've been on Entertainment Tonight. They've never witnessed the genius of Fellini, Kurosawa, Wilder, Lean, Kubrick, or Hitchcock.
  It's not about talent, it's about fame. For people her age, fame is a drug. She wants it. She craves it. They all do it one way or another. That's the reason she's with me. I fulfill the promise of fame.
  By the end of this night, I will have made part of her dream come true.
  
  The motel room is small, damp, and communal. It has a double bed, and scenes of a gondola made of peeling masonite are nailed to the walls. The duvet is moldy and moth-eaten, the shroud worn and ugly, whispering of a thousand forbidden encounters. The carpeting reeks of the sour smell of human weakness.
  I think of John Gavin and Janet Leigh.
  Today I paid cash for a room in my Midwestern character. Jeff Daniels in terms of endearment.
  I hear the shower start in the bathroom. I take a deep breath, find my center, and pull a small suitcase from under the bed. I put on a cotton housedress, a gray wig, and a cardigan with pills. As I button my sweater, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the dresser. Sad. I will never be an attractive woman, not even an old woman.
  But the illusion is complete. And that's all that matters.
  She starts singing. Something of a modern singer. In fact, her voice is quite pleasant.
  Steam from the shower glides under the bathroom door: long, slender fingers beckon. I take the knife in my hand and follow it. Into the character. Into the frame.
  Into the legend.
  
  
  2
  The CADILLAC E SCALADE slowed to a stop in front of Club Vibe: a sleek, shiny shark in neon water. The booming bassline of the Isley Brothers' "Climbin' Up the Ladder" rattled through the SUV's windows as it rolled to a stop, its tinted windows refracting the colors of the night in a shimmering palette of red, blue, and yellow.
  It was mid-July, a sweltering summer, and the heat pierced Philadelphia's skin like an embolism.
  Near the entrance to the Vibe club, on the corner of Kensington and Allegheny Streets, beneath the steel ceiling of the El Hotel, stood a tall, statuesque redhead, her chestnut hair flowing like a silky cascade over her bare shoulders and then falling down the middle of her back. She wore a short, black dress with thin straps that accentuated her curves and long, crystal earrings. Her light olive skin glistened beneath a thin film of sweat.
  In this place, at this hour, she was a chimera, an urban fantasy come true.
  A few feet away, in the doorway of a closed shoe repair shop, a homeless black man lounged. Of indeterminate age, despite the relentless heat, he wore a tattered wool coat and lovingly carried a nearly empty bottle of Orange Mist, clutching it tightly to his chest like a sleeping child. A shopping cart waited nearby, like a trusty steed laden with the city's precious loot.
  At precisely two o'clock, the Escalade's driver's door swung open, releasing a thick plume of grass smoke into the muggy night. The man who emerged was huge and quietly menacing. His thick biceps strained the sleeves of a double-breasted royal blue linen suit. D'Shante Jackson was a former running back from North Philadelphia's Edison High School, a steely figure not yet thirty. He stood six feet three inches tall and weighed a lean and muscular 215 pounds.
  D'Chante glanced back and forth at Kensington and, assessing the threat as zero, opened the Escalade's rear door. His employer, the man who paid him a thousand dollars a week for protection, was gone.
  Trey Tarver was in his forties, a fair-skinned African-American man with a lithe, supple grace despite his steadily growing bulk. Standing five-eight inches tall, he'd surpassed the two-hundred-pound mark a few years earlier and, given his penchant for bread pudding and shoulder sandwiches, threatened to reach much higher. He wore a black three-button Hugo Boss suit and Mezlan calfskin oxfords. He wore a pair of diamond rings on each hand.
  He stepped away from the Escalade and smoothed out the creases in his pants. He smoothed down his hair, which he wore long, Snoop Dogg-style, though he was still a generation or so away from legitimately conforming to hip-hop trends. If you ask Trey Tarver, he wore his hair like Verdine White from Earth, Wind, and Fire.
  Trey removed the handcuffs and surveyed the intersection, his Serengeti. K&A, as the intersection was known, had many masters, but none as ruthless as Trey "TNT" Tarver.
  He was about to enter the club when he spotted the redhead. Her luminous hair was a beacon in the night, and her long, slender legs a siren's call. Trey raised his hand and approached the woman, much to his lieutenant's dismay. Standing on a street corner, especially this corner, Trey Tarver was out in the open, vulnerable to the gunships plying Kensington and Allegheny.
  "Hey, baby," Trey said.
  The redhead turned and looked at the man, as if noticing him for the first time. She'd clearly seen him arrive. Cold indifference was part of the tango. "Hey, you," she said finally, smiling. "Do you like it?"
  "Do I like it?" Trey stepped back, his eyes wandering over her. "Baby, if you were gravy, I'd feed you."
  Red laughed. "It's okay."
  "You and me? We're going to do something.
  "Let's go."
  Trey glanced at the club door, then at his watch: a gold Breitling. "Give me twenty minutes."
  "Give me a fee."
  Trey Tarver smiled. He was a businessman, hardened by street fires, trained in the dark and brutal projects of Richard Allen. He pulled out a bun, peeled a Benjamin, and handed it to him. As the redhead was about to take it, he jerked it away. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.
  The redhead took a half-step back, placing her hand on her hip. She gave him a double-whammy. Her soft brown eyes were flecked with gold, her lips full and sensual. "Let me guess," she said. "Taye Diggs?"
  Trey Tarver laughed. "That's true."
  The redhead winked at him. "I know who you are."
  "What is your name?"
  Scarlett.
  "Damn. Seriously?"
  "Seriously."
  "Do you like this movie?"
  "Yes, baby."
  Trey Tarver thought for a moment. "I wish my money hadn't gone up in smoke, you hear?"
  The redhead smiled. "I hear you."
  She took the "C" bill and put it in her purse. As she did so, D'Shante placed his hand on Trey's shoulder. Trey nodded. They had business at the club. They were about to turn and enter when something was reflected in the headlights of a passing car, something that seemed to wink and shimmer near the homeless man's right shoe. Something metallic and shiny.
  D'Shante followed the light. He saw the source.
  It was a pistol in an ankle holster.
  "What the hell is this?" D'Shante said.
  Time spun wildly, the air suddenly electrified with the promise of violence. Their eyes met, and understanding flowed like a raging torrent of water.
  It was included.
  The redhead in the black dress-Detective Jessica Balzano of the Philadelphia Police Department's Homicide Division-stepped back and, in one smooth, practiced motion, pulled her badge from the lanyard beneath her dress and pulled her Glock 17 from her purse.
  Trey Tarver was wanted for the murder of two men. Detectives staked out Club Vibe, along with three other clubs, for four consecutive nights, hoping Tarver would resurface. It was well known that he conducted business at Club Vibe. It was well known that he had a weakness for tall redheads. Trey Tarver considered himself untouchable.
  This evening he was touched.
  "Police!" Jessica screamed. "Let me see your hands!"
  For Jessica, everything began to move in a measured montage of sound and color. She saw the homeless man stir. She felt the weight of the Glock in his hand. She saw the flicker of bright blue-D'Shante's hand in motion. The gun in D'Shante's hand. A Tek-9. A long magazine. Fifty rounds.
  No, Jessica thought. Not my life. Not tonight.
  No.
  The world turned around and picked up speed again.
  "Gun!" Jessica screamed.
  By this time, Detective John Shepherd, the homeless man on the porch, was already on his feet. But before he could clear his weapon, D'Chante turned and slammed the butt of his rifle into Tek's forehead, stunning him and tearing the skin above his right eye. Shepherd collapsed to the ground. Blood gushed into his eyes, blinding him.
  D'Shante raised his weapon.
  "Drop it!" Jessica screamed, Glock leveling. D'Shante showed no sign of submission.
  "Drop it, immediately!" she repeated.
  D'Shante leaned down. Aiming.
  Jessica fired.
  The bullet entered D'Shante Jackson's right shoulder, tearing through muscle, flesh, and bone in a thick, pink spray. Tek flew from his hands, spun 360 degrees, and collapsed to the ground, shrieking in surprise and agony. Jessica stepped forward and shoved Tek toward Shepard, still pointing her gun at Trey Tarver. Tarver stood at the entrance to the alley between the buildings, his hands raised. If their information was correct, he carried a .32 semiautomatic pistol in a holster at his waist.
  Jessica looked at John Shepard. He was stunned, but not outraged. She looked away from Trey Tarver for only a second, but it was enough. Tarver darted into the alley.
  "Are you okay?" Jessica asked Shepherd.
  Shepard wiped the blood from his eyes. "I'm fine."
  "Are you sure?"
  "Go."
  As Jessica sidled toward the alley entrance, peering into the shadows, D'Chante sat up on the street corner. Blood trickled from his shoulder between his fingers. He looked at Tek.
  Shepard cocked his Smith & Wesson .38 and pointed it at D'Chante's forehead. He said, "Give me a damn reason."
  With his free hand, Shepard reached into his coat pocket for the two-way radio. Four detectives were sitting in a van half a block away, waiting for a call. When Shepard saw the rover's lining, he knew they weren't coming. Falling to the ground, he smashed the radio. He pressed the button. It was dead.
  John Shepard winced and looked down the alley into the darkness.
  Until he managed to search D'Shante Jackson and handcuff him, Jessica was alone.
  
  The alley was littered with abandoned furniture, tires, and rusty appliances. Halfway to the end was a T-junction leading to the right. Jessica, aiming, continued down the alley, hugging the wall. She had torn her wig from her head; her recently cut short hair was spiky and wet. A gentle breeze cooled her temperature a few degrees, clearing her thoughts.
  She peered around the corner. No movement. No Trey Tarver.
  Halfway down the alley, to the right, thick steam, pungent with ginger, garlic, and green onions, billowed from the window of a 24-hour Chinese takeaway. Outside, the chaos formed ominous shapes in the darkness.
  Good news. The alley is a dead end. Trey Tarver is trapped.
  Bad news. He could have been any of those forms. And he was armed.
  Where the hell is my backup?
  Jessica decided to wait.
  Then the shadow lurched and darted. Jessica saw the muzzle flash an instant before she heard the gunshot. The bullet slammed into the wall about a foot above her head. Fine brick dust fell.
  Oh God, no. Jessica thought of her daughter, Sophie, sitting in the bright hospital waiting room. She thought of her father, a retired officer. But most of all, she thought of the wall in the lobby of police headquarters, the wall dedicated to the department's fallen officers.
  More movement. Tarver ran low toward the end of the alley. Jessica had her chance. She came out into the open.
  "Don't move!"
  Tarver stopped, arms outstretched.
  "Drop your gun!" Jessica screamed.
  The back door of the Chinese restaurant suddenly swung open. A waiter stood between her and her target. He carried out a couple of huge plastic garbage bags, blocking her view.
  "Police! Get out of the way!"
  The kid froze, confused. He looked both ways down the alley. Behind him, Trey Tarver turned and fired again. The second shot hit the wall above Jessica's head-closer this time. The Chinese child dove to the ground. He was pinned down. Jessica couldn't wait for backup any longer.
  Trey Tarver disappeared behind the dumpster. Jessica pressed herself against the wall, her heart pounding, the Glock in front of her. Her back was soaking wet. Well prepared for this moment, she ran through a mental checklist. Then she threw the checklist away. There was no preparation for this moment. She approached the man with the gun.
  "It's over, Trey," she screamed. "SWAT's on the roof. Drop it."
  No answer. He called her bluff. He would have gone out with a vengeance, becoming a street legend.
  The glass shattered. Did these buildings have basement windows? She looked to the left. Yes. Steel casement windows; some were off-limits, some were not.
  Shit.
  He was leaving. She had to move. She reached the dumpster, pressed her back against it, and sank to the asphalt. She peered down. There was enough light to make out the silhouette of Tarver's feet, if he were still on the other side. He wasn't. Jessica walked around and saw a pile of plastic trash bags and loose debris: piles of drywall, paint cans, discarded lumber. Tarver was gone. She looked at the end of the alley and saw a broken window.
  Did he pass?
  She was about to go back outside and call the troops to search the building when she saw a pair of shoes emerge from under a pile of stacked plastic garbage bags.
  She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. It didn't work. It might be weeks before she truly calmed down.
  - Get up, Trey.
  No movement.
  Jessica calmed down and continued, "Your Honor, since the suspect had already shot me twice, I couldn't take any chances. When the plastic moved, I fired. It all happened so fast. Before I knew it, I had fired my entire magazine on the suspect.
  The rustle of plastic. "Wait."
  "Thought so," Jessica said. "Now very slowly-and I mean very slowly-lower the gun to the ground."
  A few seconds later, his hand slipped from his grasp, and a .32-caliber semiautomatic pistol jingled on his finger. Tarver placed the gun on the ground. Jessica took it.
  "Now get up. Easy and pleasant. Hands where I can see them.
  Trey Tarver slowly emerged from the pile of trash bags. He stood facing her, his arms at his sides, his eyes darting from left to right. He was about to challenge her. After eight years on the force, she recognized that look. Trey Tarver had seen her shoot a man less than two minutes ago, and he was about to challenge her.
  Jessica shook her head. "You don't want to fuck me tonight, Trey," she said. "Your boy hit my partner, and I had to shoot him. Plus, you shot me. Worse, you made me break the heel on my best shoes. Be a man and take your medicine. It's over."
  Tarver stared at her, trying to melt her coolness with his prison burn. After a few seconds, he saw South Philadelphia in her eyes and realized it wouldn't work. He clasped his hands behind his head and intertwined his fingers.
  "Now turn around," Jessica said.
  Trey Tarver looked at her legs, at her short dress. He smiled. His diamond tooth gleamed in the streetlight. "You first, bitch."
  Bitch?
  Bitch?
  Jessica glanced back down the alley. The Chinese child had returned to the restaurant. The door was closed. They were alone.
  She looked at the ground. Trey was standing on a discarded two-by-six-inch crate. One end of the board rested precariously on a discarded paint can. The can was a few inches from Jessica's right foot.
  - I'm sorry, what did you say?
  A cold flame in his eyes. "I said, 'You first, bitch.'"
  Jessica kicked the can. At that moment, Trey Tarver's expression said it all. It was not unlike Wile E. Coyote's when the unfortunate cartoon character realized the cliff was no longer beneath him. Trey collapsed to the ground like wet origami, hitting his head on the edge of a dumpster on the way down.
  Jessica looked into his eyes. Or, more accurately, the whites of his eyes. Trey Tarver had passed out.
  Oops.
  Jessica turned it over just as a couple of detectives from the fugitive squad finally arrived on the scene. No one had seen anything, and even if they had, Trey Tarver didn't have a large fan base in the department. One of the detectives tossed her handcuffs.
  "Oh yeah," Jessica said to her unconscious suspect. "We're going to make a proposition." She cuffed his wrists. "Bitch."
  
  It's that time for police officers after a successful hunt, when they slow down from the pursuit, when they assess the operation, congratulate each other, evaluate their work, and slow down. This is the time when morale is at its peak. They've gone where there was darkness and emerged into the light.
  They gathered at the Melrose Diner, a 24-hour diner on Snyder Avenue.
  They killed two very bad people. There were no fatalities, and the only serious injury went to someone who deserved it. The good news was that the shooting, as far as they could tell, had been clean.
  Jessica worked for the police for eight years. The first four were in uniform, then she worked in the Auto Unit, a division of the city's Major Crimes Unit. In April of this year, she joined the Homicide Division. In that short time, she's seen her share of horrors. There was the young Hispanic woman murdered in a vacant lot in North Liberties, wrapped in a rug, placed on top of a car, and dumped in Fairmount Park. There was the case of three classmates who lured a young man to the park, only to have him robbed and beaten to death. And then there was the case of the Rosary Killer.
  Jessica wasn't the first or only woman in the unit, but every time someone new joins the small, tight-knit squad within the department, there's a necessary mistrust, an unspoken probationary period. Her father was a legend in the department, but he was a shoe to be filled, not walked.
  After reporting the incident, Jessica entered the diner. Immediately, the four detectives already there-Tony Park, Eric Chavez, Nick Palladino, and a patched-up John Shepard-rose from their stools, leaned their hands against the wall, and struck a respectful pose.
  Jessica had to laugh.
  She was inside.
  
  
  3
  IT'S HARD TO LOOK AT HIM NOW. Her skin is no longer perfect, but more like tattered silk. Blood is pooling around her head, almost black in the dim light coming from the trunk lid.
  I survey the parking lot. We're alone, just a few feet from the Schuylkill River. The water laps at the dock, the city's eternal meter.
  I take the money and put it in the fold of the newspaper. I toss the newspaper to the girl in the trunk of the car and slam the lid shut.
  Poor Marion.
  She really was pretty. There was a freckled charm about her that reminded me of Tuesday Weld in Once Upon a Time.
  Before we left the motel, I cleaned the room, tore up the receipt, and flushed it down the toilet. There was no mop or bucket. When you're renting with limited resources, you make do.
  Now she looks at me, her eyes no longer blue. She may have been pretty, she may have been someone's perfection, but whatever she was, she was no angel.
  The lights in the house dim, the screen comes to life. In the next few weeks, the people of Philadelphia will hear a lot about me. They will say I'm a psychopath, a madman, an evil force from the soul of hell. When the bodies fall and the rivers run red, I will receive terrifying reviews.
  Don't believe a single word.
  I wouldn't hurt a fly.
  
  
  4
  Six days later
  He looked perfectly normal. Some might even say friendly, in a loving spinster sort of way. She stood five feet three inches tall and weighed no more than ninety-five pounds, clad in a black spandex catsuit and immaculate white Reebok sneakers. She had short, brick-red hair and clear blue eyes. Her fingers were long and slender, her nails manicured and unpainted. She wore no jewelry.
  To the outside world, she was a pleasant-looking, physically healthy middle-aged woman.
  To Detective Kevin Francis Byrne, she was a combination of Lizzie Borden, Lucrezia Borgia, and Ma Barker, wrapped in a Mary Lou Retton-esque package.
  "You can do better," she said.
  "What do you mean?" Byrne managed.
  "The name you called me in your head. You can do better."
  "She's a witch," he thought. "What makes you think I called you by that name?"
  She laughed her shrill, Cruella De Vil laugh. Dogs three counties away cowered. "I've been doing this for nearly twenty years, Detective," she said. "I've been called every name in the book. I've been called names that aren't even in the next book. I've been spat on, pounced on, cursed in a dozen languages, including Apache. Voodoo dolls have been made in my likeness, novenas have been held for my painful demise. I assure you, you cannot inflict any torture that I don't desire.
  Byrne just stared. He had no idea he was so transparent. Some kind of detective.
  Kevin Byrne spent two weeks in a 12-week physical therapy program at HUP, the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. He was shot at close range in the basement of a home in Northeast Philadelphia on Easter Sunday. Although he was expected to make a full recovery, he learned early on that phrases like "full recovery" usually imply wishful thinking.
  The bullet, the very one bearing his name, lodged in his occipital lobe, approximately one centimeter from his brainstem. Although there was no nerve damage and the injury was entirely vascular, he endured nearly twelve hours of cranial surgery, six weeks of induced coma, and nearly two months in the hospital.
  The slug intruder was now encased in a small lucite cube and sat on the nightstand, a gruesome trophy courtesy of the Homicide Squad.
  The most serious damage wasn't caused by the trauma to his brain, but rather by the way his body twisted on its way to the floor, an unnatural twisting of his lower back. This movement damaged his sciatic nerve, a long nerve that runs down each side of the lower spine, deep in the buttocks and back of the thigh, and all the way to the foot, connecting the spinal cord to the leg and foot muscles.
  And while his list of ailments was painful enough, the bullet he received in the head was a mere inconvenience compared to the pain caused by his sciatic nerve. At times, it felt as if someone were running a carving knife down his right leg and lower back, pausing along the way to twist various vertebrae.
  He could return to duty as soon as city doctors cleared him and he felt ready. Before that, he was officially a police officer: wounded in the line of duty. Full pay, no work, and a bottle of Early Times every week from the unit.
  Although his acute sciatica was causing him as much pain as he'd ever endured, pain, as a way of life, was his old friend. He'd endured brutal migraines for fifteen years, ever since he'd first been shot and nearly drowned in the icy Delaware River.
  A second bullet was needed to cure his affliction. While he wouldn't recommend headshots as a treatment for migraine sufferers, he wasn't about to question the treatment. Since the day he was shot for the second (and hopefully last) time, he hasn't had a single headache.
  Take two empty dots and call me in the morning.
  And yet he was tired. Two decades of service in one of the country's toughest cities had sapped his willpower. He'd spent his time. And while he'd faced some of the most brutal and depraved people east of Pittsburgh, his current adversary was a petite physical therapist named Olivia Leftwich and her bottomless sack of torture.
  Byrne stood along the wall of the physical therapy room, leaning against a waist-high bar, his right leg parallel to the floor. He maintained this position stoically, despite the murder in his heart. The slightest movement illuminated him like a Roman candle.
  "You're making great improvements," she said. "I'm impressed."
  Byrne glared at her. Her horns retreated, and she smiled. No fangs were visible.
  "It"s all part of the illusion," he thought.
  The whole part is a scam.
  
  Although City Hall was the official epicenter of Center City, and Independence Hall was the historic heart and soul of Philadelphia, the city's pride and joy remained Rittenhouse Square, located on Walnut Street between Eighteenth and Nineteenth Streets. While Philadelphia isn't as famous as Times Square in New York City or Piccadilly Circus in London, it was rightfully proud of Rittenhouse Square, which remained one of the city's most prestigious addresses. In the shadow of luxury hotels, historic churches, tall office buildings, and fashionable boutiques, huge crowds would gather in the square on a summer afternoon.
  Byrne sat on a bench near Bari's "Lion Crushing a Snake" sculpture in the center of the square. In eighth grade, he was nearly six feet tall, and by the start of high school, he had grown to six feet three. Throughout school and the military, as well as throughout his time on the police force, he used his size and weight to his advantage, repeatedly stopping potential problems before they started simply by standing up.
  But now, with his cane, his ashen complexion, and the sluggish, pain-killer-induced gait, he felt small, insignificant, easily swallowed up by the mass of people in the square.
  Like every time he left a physical therapy session, he vowed never to return. What kind of therapy actually makes pain worse? Whose idea was that? Not that one. See you later, Matilda Gunna.
  He distributed his weight on the bench, finding a comfortable position. After a few moments, he looked up and saw a teenage girl crossing the square, weaving through bikers, businessmen, merchants, and tourists. Slender and athletic, with catlike movements, her beautiful, almost blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a peach sundress and sandals. She had dazzling aquamarine eyes. Every young man under twenty-one was completely captivated by her, as were too many men over twenty-one. She had an aristocratic poise that can only come from true inner grace, a cool and captivating beauty that told the world that here was someone special.
  As she came closer, Byrne realized why he knew all this. It was Colleen. The young woman was his own daughter, and for a moment he almost didn't recognize her.
  She stood in the center of the square, searching for him, her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun. She soon found him in the crowd. She waved and smiled the easy, blushing smile she'd used to her advantage all her life, the one that had given her a Barbie bike with pink and white ribbons on the handlebars when she was six; the one that had taken her to summer camp for deaf children this year, a camp her father could barely afford.
  "God, she's beautiful," Byrne thought.
  Colleen Siobhan Byrne was both blessed and cursed by her mother's radiant Irish skin. Cursed because on such a day, she could tan in minutes. Blessed because she was the most beautiful of beauties, her skin almost translucent. What was flawless beauty at thirteen would surely blossom into heartbreaking beauty in her twenties and thirties.
  Colleen kissed him on the cheek and hugged him tightly, but tenderly, fully aware of his countless aches and pains. She brushed the lipstick off his cheek.
  When did she start wearing lipstick? Byrne wondered.
  "Is it too crowded for you here?" she signed.
  "No," Byrne replied.
  "Are you sure?"
  "Yes," Byrne signed. "I love the crowd."
  It was a blatant lie, and Colleen knew it. She smiled.
  Colleen Byrne was deaf from birth due to a genetic disorder that created far more obstacles in her father's life than her own. Where Kevin Byrne spent years mourning what he arrogantly considered a flaw in his daughter's life, Colleen simply charged headlong into life, never pausing to mourn her perceived misfortune. She was an excellent student, a terrific athlete, fluent in American Sign Language, and could lip-read. She even studied Norwegian Sign Language.
  Byrne had long since discovered that many deaf people were very direct in their communication and didn't waste time on meaningless, slow-moving conversations, as hearing people did. Many of them jokingly referred to Daylight Saving Time-standard time for the deaf-as a reference to the idea that deaf people tended to be late due to their penchant for long conversations. Once they got going, they were hard to shut up.
  Sign language, though very subtle in itself, was ultimately a form of shorthand. Byrne struggled to keep up. He'd learned the language when Colleen was very young and had taken to it surprisingly well, considering how lousy a student he'd been in school.
  Colleen found a spot on the bench and sat down. Byrne went into Kozi's and bought a couple of salads. He was pretty sure Colleen wasn't going to eat-what thirteen-year-old girl even eats lunch these days?-and he was right. She took a Diet Snapple out of the bag and peeled off the plastic seal.
  Byrne opened the bag and began picking at the salad. He caught her attention and wrote, "Are you sure you're not hungry?"
  She looked at him: Dad.
  They sat for a while, enjoying each other's company, savoring the warmth of the day. Byrne listened to the dissonance of summer sounds around him: the discordant symphony of five different musical genres, children's laughter, the upbeat political debate emanating from somewhere behind them, the endless hum of traffic. As he had done so many times in his life, he tried to imagine what it must have been like for Colleen to be in such a place, in the profound silence of her world.
  Byrne put the rest of the salad back in the bag and caught Colleen's attention.
  "When are you leaving for camp?" he signed.
  "Monday."
  Byrne nodded. "Are you excited?"
  Colleen's face lit up. "Yes."
  - Do you want me to give you a ride there?
  Byrne noticed the slightest hesitation in Colleen's eyes. The camp was south of Lancaster, a pleasant two-hour drive west of Philadelphia. Colleen's delay in replying meant one thing. Her mother was coming to pick her up, likely in the company of her new boyfriend. Colleen was as bad at hiding her emotions as her father had been. "No. I've taken care of everything," she signed.
  As they signed, Byrne could see people watching. This was nothing new. He'd been upset by it before, but he'd long since given up on it. People were curious. The year before, he and Colleen had been in Fairmount Park when a teenage boy, trying to impress Colleen on his skateboard, jumped the railing and crashed to the ground right at Colleen's feet.
  He stood up and tried to ignore it. Right in front of him, Colleen looked at Byrne and wrote, "What an asshole."
  The guy smiled, thinking he had earned a point.
  Being deaf had its advantages, and Colleen Byrne knew them all.
  As the businessmen reluctantly began to return to their offices, the crowd thinned slightly. Byrne and Collin watched as a brindle and white Jack Russell Terrier attempted to climb a nearby tree, chasing a squirrel vibrating on the first branch.
  Byrne watched his daughter watch the dog. His heart wanted to burst. She was so calm, so composed. She was becoming a woman right before his eyes, and he was terrified she would feel like he wasn't a part of it. It had been a long time since they had lived together as a family, and Byrne felt his influence-the part of him that was still positive-was waning.
  Colleen glanced at her watch and frowned. "I have to go," she signed.
  Byrne nodded. The great and terrible irony of aging was that time passed too quickly.
  Colleen carried the trash to the nearest dumpster. Byrne noticed that every breathing man within sight was watching her. He wasn't doing a very good job of it.
  "Will you be okay?" she signed.
  "I'm fine," Byrne lied. "See you this weekend?"
  Colleen nodded. "I love you."
  "I love you too, baby."
  She hugged him again and kissed the top of his head. He watched her walk into the crowd, into the bustle of the midday city.
  In an instant she disappeared.
  
  HE LOOKS LOST.
  He was sitting at a bus stop, reading the American Sign Language Handwriting Dictionary, a crucial reference for anyone learning to speak American Sign Language. He was balancing the book on his lap while simultaneously trying to write words with his right hand. From where Colleen stood, it looked like he was speaking a language that was either long dead or hadn't been invented yet. It definitely wasn't ASL.
  She'd never seen him at the bus stop before. He was handsome, older-the whole world had gotten older-but he had a friendly face. And he looked quite cute, leafing through a book. He looked up and saw her watching him. She signed, "Hello."
  He smiled a little sheepishly, but was clearly pleased to find someone who spoke the language he was trying to learn. "Am I... am I... that... bad?" he signed tentatively.
  She wanted to be nice. She wanted to cheer up. Unfortunately, her face told the truth before her hands could formulate the lie. "Yes, that's true," she signed.
  He looked at her hands in confusion. She pointed to her face. He looked up. She nodded her head rather dramatically. He blushed. She laughed. He joined in.
  "First, you really need to understand the five parameters," she signed slowly, referring to the five main limitations of ASL: handshape, orientation, location, movement, and non-manual cues. More confusion.
  She took the book from him and turned it over to the front. She pointed out some basics.
  He glanced at the section and nodded. He looked up and roughly folded his hand. "Thank you." Then he added, "If you ever want to teach, I'll be your first student."
  She smiled and said, "You're welcome."
  A minute later she boarded the bus. He didn't. Apparently he was waiting for a different route.
  "Teaching," she thought, finding a seat up front. Perhaps someday. She had always been patient with people and had to admit it felt good to be able to impart wisdom to others. Her father, of course, wanted her to be President of the United States. Or at least Attorney General.
  A few moments later, the man who was supposed to be her student stood up from the bench at the bus stop and stretched. He threw the book into the trash can.
  It was a hot day. He slipped into his car and glanced at the LCD screen of his camera phone. He had a good image. She was beautiful.
  He started the car, carefully pulled out of traffic, and followed the bus down Walnut Street.
  
  
  5
  When Byrne returned, the apartment was quiet. What else could it be? Two hot rooms above a former printing shop on Second Street, furnished almost spartanly: a worn armchair and a battered mahogany coffee table, a television, a stereo, and a stack of blues CDs. The bedroom had a double bed and a small nightstand from a thrift store.
  Byrne turned on the window air conditioner, went into the bathroom, split a Vicodin tablet in half, and swallowed it. He splashed cool water on his face and neck. He left the medicine cabinet open. He told himself it was to avoid splashing water on him and having to wipe him down, but the real reason was to avoid looking at himself in the mirror. He wondered how long he'd been doing that.
  Returning to the living room, he put a Robert Johnson disc into the tape player. He was in the mood for "Stones in My Passage."
  After his divorce, he returned to his old neighborhood: Queen Village in South Philadelphia. His father was a longshoreman and a mummer, known throughout the city. Like his father and uncles, Kevin Byrne was and always will be a Two Streeter at heart. And while it took some time to get back into the swing of things, the older residents wasted no time in making him feel at home, asking him three standard questions about South Philadelphia:
  Where are you from?
  Did you buy or rent?
  Do you have children?
  He briefly considered donating a chunk to one of the newly renovated houses in Jefferson Square, a recently gentrified neighborhood nearby, but he wasn't sure his heart, as opposed to his mind, was still in Philadelphia. For the first time in his life, he was a free man. He had a few dollars set aside-on top of Collin's college fund-and he could go and do whatever he pleased.
  But could he leave the army? Could he hand over his service weapon and badge, hand in his documents, take his pension card, and simply leave?
  He honestly didn't know.
  He sat on the couch, scrolling through cable channels. He considered pouring himself a glass of bourbon and just boozing it up until dark. No. He hadn't been much of a drunk lately. Right now, he was one of those sickly, ugly drunks you see with four empty stools on either side of him in a crowded tavern.
  His cell phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket and stared at it. It was the new camera phone Colleen had given him for his birthday, and he wasn't quite familiar with all the settings yet. He saw the blinking icon and realized it was a text message. He'd just mastered sign language; now he had a whole new dialect to learn. He looked at the LCD screen. It was a text message from Colleen. Text messaging was a popular pastime among teenagers these days, especially among the deaf.
  It was easy. This read:
  4 T. LUNCH :)
  Byrne smiled. Thanks for lunch. He was the happiest man in the world. He typed:
  YUV LUL
  The message read: Welcome, love you. Colleen replied:
  LOL 2
  Then, as always, she finished by typing:
  CBOAO
  The message meant "Colleen Byrne is finished and out."
  Byrne closed the phone with a full heart.
  The air conditioner finally began to cool the room. Byrne considered what to do with himself. Maybe he'd go to the Roundhouse and hang out with the squad. He was about to talk himself out of it when he saw a message on his answering machine.
  What was that five steps away? Seven? At this point, it felt like the Boston Marathon. He grabbed his cane, endured the pain.
  The message was from Paul DiCarlo, a star ADA in the DA's office. Over the past five years or so, DiCarlo and Byrne had solved a number of cases together. If you were a criminal on trial, you didn't want to look up and see Paul DiCarlo walking into the courtroom. He was the pit bull in Perry Ellis. If he grabbed you by the jaws, you were screwed. No one sent more murderers to death row than Paul DiCarlo.
  But Paul Byrne's message that day wasn't so good. One of his victims seemed to have escaped: Julian Matisse was back on the streets.
  The news was unbelievable, but it was true.
  It was no secret that Kevin Byrne had a particular fascination with the murders of young women. He'd felt it from the day Colleen was born. In his mind and heart, every young woman had always been someone's daughter, someone's baby. Every young woman had once been that little girl who'd learned to hold a cup with both hands, who'd learned to stand on a coffee table with five tiny fingers and lithe legs.
  Girls like Gracie. Two years earlier, Julian Matisse raped and murdered a young woman named Marygrace Devlin.
  Gracie Devlin was nineteen years old the day she was murdered. She had curly brown hair that fell in soft curls to her shoulders, with a light sprinkling of freckles. She was a slight young woman, a freshman at Villanova. She favored peasant skirts, Indian jewelry, and Chopin nocturnes. She died on a cold January night in a dingy, abandoned movie theater in South Philadelphia.
  And now, by some unholy twist of justice, the man who robbed her of her dignity and her life has been released from prison. Julian Matisse was sentenced to twenty-five years to life and was released after two years.
  Two years.
  Last spring, the grass on Gracie's grave grew completely.
  Matisse was a small-time pimp and a sadist of the first order. Before Gracie Devlin, he spent three and a half years in prison for slashing a woman who refused his advances. Using a box cutter, he slashed her face so brutally that she required ten hours of surgery to repair the muscle damage and nearly four hundred stitches.
  After the boxcutter attack, when Matisse was released from Curran-Fromhold Prison-having served only forty months of a ten-year sentence-it didn't take long for him to turn to homicide investigations. Byrne and his partner, Jimmy Purifey, had taken a liking to Matisse for the murder of a Centre City waitress named Janine Tillman, but they were unable to find any physical evidence linking him to the crime. Her body was found in Harrowgate Park, mutilated and stabbed to death. She had been abducted from an underground car park on Broad Street. She had been sexually assaulted both before and after her death.
  A witness from the parking lot stepped forward and picked Matisse out of the photo op. The witness was an elderly woman named Marjorie Semmes. Before they could find Matisse, Marjorie Semmes disappeared. A week later, they found her floating in the Delaware River.
  Matisse allegedly lived with his mother after his release from Curran-Fromhold. Detectives searched Matisse's mother's apartment, but he never showed up. The case reached a dead end.
  Byrne knew that one day he would see Matisse again.
  Then, two years ago, on a freezing January night, a 911 call came in reporting a young woman being attacked in an alley behind an abandoned movie theater in South Philadelphia. Byrne and Jimmy were having dinner a block away and answered the call. By the time they arrived, the alley was empty, but a trail of blood led them inside.
  When Byrne and Jimmy entered the theater, they found Gracie alone on stage. She had been brutally beaten. Byrne would never forget the image: Gracie's limp body on the cold stage, steam rising from her body, her life force fading. While the ambulance was on its way, Byrne desperately tried to give her CPR. She inhaled once, a gentle exhalation of air that entered his lungs, and the creature left her body and entered his. Then, with a slight shudder, she died in his arms. Marygrace Devlin lived for nineteen years, two months, and three days.
  At the crime scene, detectives found fingerprints. They belonged to Julian Matisse. A dozen detectives investigated the case, and after intimidating a crowd of poor people with whom Julian Matisse socialized, they found Matisse huddled in a closet of a burned-out terraced house on Jefferson Street, where they also found a glove covered in Gracie Devlin's blood. Byrne had to be restrained.
  Matisse was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to twenty-five years to life in Greene County State Prison.
  For months after Gracie's murder, Byrne walked with the belief that Gracie's breath still lingered within him, that her power drove him to do his work. For a long time, it seemed to him like this was the only pure part of him, the only part of him untainted by the city.
  Now Matisse was absent, strolling the streets with his face turned toward the sun. The thought made Kevin Byrne sick. He dialed Paul DiCarlo's number.
  "DiCarlo".
  "Tell me I heard your message wrong."
  - I wish I could, Kevin.
  "What's happened?"
  "Do you know about Phil Kessler?"
  Phil Kessler had been a homicide detective for twenty-two years, and ten years earlier, a squad detective, an inept man who had repeatedly endangered fellow detectives with his lack of attention to detail, ignorance of procedures, or general lack of courage.
  There were always a few guys in the homicide squad who weren't particularly knowledgeable about corpses, and they usually did everything possible to avoid going to the crime scene. They were ready to get warrants, capture and transport witnesses, and conduct surveillance. Kessler was just such a detective. He liked the idea of becoming a homicide detective, but the murder itself terrified him.
  Byrne worked only one case with Kessler as his primary partner: the case of a woman found in an abandoned gas station in North Philadelphia. It turned out to be an overdose, not a murder, and Byrne couldn't get away from the man quickly enough.
  Kessler retired a year ago. Byrne heard he had advanced pancreatic cancer.
  "I heard he was sick," Byrne said. "I don't know any more than that."
  "Well, they say he doesn't have more than a few months left," DiCarlo said. "Maybe not even that long."
  As much as Byrne liked Phil Kessler, he wouldn't have wished such a painful end on anyone. "I still don't know what this has to do with Julian Matisse."
  "Kessler went to the district attorney and told her that he and Jimmy Purifey had planted a bloody glove on Matisse. He testified under oath."
  The room started spinning. Byrne had to pull himself together. "What the hell are you talking about?"
  - I'm just telling you what he said, Kevin.
  - And you believe him?
  "Well, first of all, it's not my case. Secondly, it's the homicide squad's job. And thirdly, no. I don't trust him. Jimmy was the most resilient cop I've ever known."
  "Then why does it have traction?"
  DiCarlo hesitated. Byrne took the pause as a sign that something even worse was coming. How was that possible? He recognized it. "Kessler had a second bloody glove, Kevin." He turned him over. The gloves belonged to Jimmy.
  "This is complete nonsense! It's a setup!"
  "I know it. You know it. Anyone who's ever ridden with Jimmy knows it. Unfortunately, Matisse is represented by Conrad Sanchez."
  My God, Byrne thought. Conrad Sanchez was a legend among public defenders, a world-class obstructionist, one of the few who had long ago decided to make a career out of legal aid. He was in his fifties, and had been a public defender for over twenty-five years. "Matisse's mother is still alive?"
  "I don't know."
  Byrne never fully understood Matisse's relationship with his mother, Edwina. However, he had his suspicions. When they investigated Gracie's murder, they obtained a search warrant for her apartment. Matisse's room was decorated like a little boy's: cowboy curtains on the lamps, Star Wars posters on the walls, a bedspread with a picture of Spider-Man.
  - So, he came out?
  "Yes," DiCarlo said. "They released him two weeks ago pending appeal."
  "Two weeks? Why the hell didn't I read about this?"
  "It's not exactly a shining moment in Commonwealth history. Sanchez found a sympathetic judge."
  "Is he on their monitor?"
  "No."
  "This damn city." Byrne slammed his hand into the drywall, bringing it down. That's the collateral, he thought. He didn't feel even a slight throb of pain. At least, not at that moment. "Where is he staying?"
  "I don't know. We sent a couple of detectives to his last known location just to show him some muscle, but he's out of luck.
  "It's just fantastic," Byrne said.
  "Look, I have to get to court, Kevin. I'll call you later and we'll strategize. Don't worry. We'll put him back. This charge against Jimmy is bullshit. It's a house of cards."
  Byrne hung up and rose slowly, with difficulty, to his feet. He grabbed his cane and walked across the living room. He looked out the window, watching the children and their parents outside.
  For a long time, Byrne believed that evil was relative; that all evil walked the earth, each in its place. Then he saw the body of Gracie Devlin and realized that the man who had committed this monstrous act was the embodiment of evil. Everything that hell allows on this earth.
  Now, after pondering a day, a week, a month, and a lifetime of idleness, Byrne was confronted with moral imperatives. Suddenly, there were people he had to see, things he had to do, no matter how much pain he was in. He walked into the bedroom and pulled out the top drawer of the dresser. He saw Gracie's handkerchief, a small pink silk square.
  "There's a terrible memory trapped in this cloth," he thought. It was in Gracie's pocket when she was killed. Gracie's mother insisted that Byrne take it on the day of Matisse's sentencing. He took it out of the drawer and...
  - her cries echo in his head, her warm breath penetrates his body, her blood washes over him, hot and shining in the cold night air -
  - stepped back, his pulse now pounding in his ears, his mind deeply denying that what he had just felt was a repeat of the terrifying power he believed was part of his past.
  Foresight has returned.
  
  MELANIE DEVLIN STOOD by a small barbecue in the tiny backyard of her rowhouse on Emily Street. Smoke rose lazily from the rusty grate, mingling with the thick, humid air. A long-empty bird feeder sat on the crumbling back wall. The tiny deck, like most so-called backyards in Philadelphia, was barely big enough to accommodate two people. Somehow, she'd managed to fit a Weber grill, a couple of polished wrought-iron chairs, and a small table.
  In the two years since Byrne had seen Melanie Devlin, she had gained about thirty pounds. She wore a yellow short set-stretchy shorts and a horizontally striped tank top-but it wasn't a cheerful yellow. It wasn't the yellow of daffodils, marigolds, and buttercups. Instead, it was an angry yellow, a yellow that didn't welcome the sunlight but rather tried to drag it into her ruined life. Her hair was short, cut casually for summer. Her eyes were the color of weak coffee in the midday sun.
  Now in her forties, Melanie Devlin accepted the burden of grief as a permanent fixture in her life. She no longer resisted it. Grief was her mantle.
  Byrne called and said he was nearby. He didn't tell her anything else.
  "Are you sure you can't stay for dinner?" she asked.
  "I need to get back," Byrne said. "But thanks for the offer."
  Melanie was grilling ribs. She poured a generous amount of salt into her palm and sprinkled it over the meat. Then he repeated. She looked at Byrne apologetically. "I don't feel anything anymore."
  Byrne knew what she meant. But he wanted to open a dialogue, so he answered. If they talked a little, it would be easier to tell her what he wanted to say. "What do you mean?"
  "Ever since Gracie... died, I've lost my sense of taste. Crazy, huh? One day, it just disappeared." She quickly sprinkled more salt on the ribs, as if in repentance. "Now I have to salt everything. Ketchup, hot sauce, mayonnaise, sugar. Without it, I can't taste food." She waved a hand at her figure, explaining the weight gain. Her eyes began to fill with tears. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.
  Byrne remained silent. He'd seen so many people cope with grief, each in their own way. How many times had he seen women cleaning their homes over and over again after suffering violence? They endlessly fluffed pillows, made and remade beds. Or how many times had he seen people wax their cars for no apparent reason, or mow their lawns every day? Grief slowly seeps into the human heart. People often feel that if they stay on track, they can outrun it.
  Melanie Devlin lit the briquettes on the grill and closed the lid. She poured them both a glass of lemonade and sat down on a tiny wrought-iron chair across from him. Someone a few doors down was listening to the Phillies play. They fell silent for a moment, feeling the oppressive midday heat. Byrne noticed that Melanie wasn't wearing a wedding ring. He wondered if she and Garrett were divorced. They certainly wouldn't be the first couple to be separated by the violent death of a child.
  "It was lavender," Melanie finally said.
  "I'm sorry?"
  She glanced at the sun, squinting. She looked down and swirled the glass in her hands a few times. "Gracie's dress. The one we buried her in. It was lavender.
  Byrne nodded. He hadn't known that. Grace's service had been closed-casket.
  "No one was supposed to see it because she was... well, you know," Melanie said. "But it was really beautiful. One of her favorites. She loved lavender.
  It suddenly occurred to Byrne that Melanie knew why he was there. Not exactly why, of course, but the tenuous thread that connected them-the death of Marygrace Devlin-had to be the reason. Why else would he stop by? Melanie Devlin knew this visit had something to do with Gracie, and she likely felt that speaking about her daughter in the gentlest possible manner might prevent further pain.
  Byrne carried this pain in his pocket. How would he find the courage to bear it?
  He took a sip of lemonade. The silence grew awkward. A car drove by, an old Kinks song playing on the stereo. Silence again. A hot, empty, summer silence. Byrne shattered it all with his words. "Julian Matisse is out of prison."
  Melanie looked at him for a few moments, her eyes emotionless. "No, he's not."
  It was a flat, even statement. For Melanie, it became reality. Byrne had heard it a thousand times. It wasn't that the man had misunderstood. There was a delay, as if the statement might lead to its being true, or the pill might coat itself or shrink in a few seconds.
  "I'm afraid so. He was released two weeks ago," Byrne said. "His sentence is being appealed."
  - I thought you said that...
  "I know. I'm terribly sorry. Sometimes the system..." Byrne trailed off. It really was inexplicable. Especially to someone as scared and angry as Melanie Devlin. Julian Matisse had killed this woman's only child. The police had arrested this man, the court had tried him, the prison had seized him and buried him in an iron cage. The memories of all this-though always there-had begun to fade. And now it had returned. It wasn't supposed to be this way.
  "When will he come back?" she asked.
  Byrne had anticipated the question, but he simply didn't have an answer. "Melanie, a lot of people are going to work very hard on this. I promise you."
  "Including you?"
  The question made his decision for him, a choice he'd been struggling with since hearing the news. "Yes," he said. "Including me."
  Melanie closed her eyes. Byrne could only imagine the images unfolding in her mind. Gracie as a child. Gracie in the school play. Gracie in her coffin. After a few moments, Melanie stood. She seemed unmoored from her own space, as if she could fly away at any second. Byrne stood too. This was his cue to leave.
  "I just wanted to make sure you heard it from me," Byrne said. "And to let you know that I'm going to do everything I can to get him back where he belongs."
  "He belongs in hell," she said.
  Byrne had no arguments to answer this question.
  For a few awkward moments, they stood facing each other. Melanie extended her hand for a handshake. They never hugged-some people simply didn't express themselves that way. After the trial, after the funeral, even when they said goodbye on that bitter day two years ago, they shook hands. This time, Byrne decided to take a risk. He did it not only for himself, but for Melanie as well. He extended his hand and gently pulled her into his embrace.
  At first it seemed she might resist, but then she fell against him, her legs almost giving way. He held her for a few moments...
  - she sits for hours in Gracie's closet with the door closed, talking to Gracie's dolls like a child, and hasn't touched her husband in two years-
  - until Byrne broke the embrace, a little shaken by the images in his mind. He promised to call soon.
  A few minutes later, she led him through the house to the front door. She kissed him on the cheek. He left without another word.
  As he drove away, he glanced in the rearview mirror one last time. Melanie Devlin stood on the small porch of her rowhouse, looking back at him, her heartache reborn, her dreary yellow dress a cry of melancholy against the soulless red brick.
  
  He found himself parked in front of the abandoned theater where they'd found Gracie. The city flowed around him. The city didn't remember. The city didn't care. He closed his eyes, felt the icy wind sweeping through the street that night, saw the fading light in that young woman's eyes. He'd grown up Irish Catholic, and to say he'd fallen away would be an understatement. The broken people he'd encountered in his life as a police officer had given him a deep understanding of the temporary and fragile nature of life. He'd seen so much pain, suffering, and death. For weeks, he'd wondered if he was going to go back to work or take his twenties and run. His papers sat on the dresser in his bedroom, ready to be signed. But now he knew he had to go back. Even if it was just for a few weeks. If he wanted to clear Jimmy's name, he'd have to do it from the inside.
  That evening, as darkness fell over the City of Brotherly Love, as moonlight illuminated the horizon and the city wrote its name in neon, Detective Kevin Francis Byrne showered, dressed, inserted a fresh magazine into his Glock, and stepped into the night.
  OceanofPDF.com
  6
  Even at the age of three, SOPHIE BALZANO was a true fashion connoisseur. Of course, if left to her own devices and given the freedom to choose her own clothes, Sophie would likely have come up with an outfit spanning the entire spectrum: from orange to lavender and lime green, from checkered to tartan and stripes, fully accessorized, and all within the same ensemble. Coordinates weren't her strong suit. She was more of a free spirit.
  On this muggy July morning, the morning that would begin the odyssey that would lead Detective Jessica Balzano into the depths of madness and beyond, she was late, as usual. These days, mornings at the Balzano house were a frenzy of coffee, cereal, gummy bears, lost sneakers, missing bobby pins, misplaced juice boxes, snapped shoelaces, and KYW traffic reports for two.
  Two weeks ago, Jessica got a haircut. She'd worn her hair at least shoulder-length-usually much longer-since she was a little girl. When she wore her uniform, she almost always tied it in a ponytail. At first, Sophie followed her around the house, silently appraising the fashion statement and staring intently at Jessica. After about a week of close attention, Sophie, too, wanted a haircut.
  Jessica's short hair certainly helped her career as a professional boxer. What started as a lark took on a life of its own. It seemed like the entire department was behind her, Jessica had a 4-0 record and began receiving positive reviews in boxing magazines.
  What many women in boxing didn't realize was that hair was supposed to be short. If you wear your hair long and tied back in a ponytail, every time you get hit on the jaw, your hair flutters, and judges give your opponent credit for landing a clean, hard punch. Plus, long hair can fall out during a fight and get in your eyes. Jessica's first knockout came against a woman named Trudy "Quick" Kwiatkowski, who stopped for a second in the second round to brush her hair out of her eyes. The next thing Quick knew, she was counting the lights on the ceiling.
  Jessica's great-uncle Vittorio, who was her manager and trainer, was negotiating a deal with ESPN2. Jessica wasn't sure what she was more afraid of: getting into the ring or being on television. On the other hand, it wasn't for nothing that she had JESSIE BALLS on her swimsuit.
  As Jessica dressed, the ritual of retrieving her gun from the closet safe was absent, as it had been the previous week. She had to admit that without her Glock, she felt naked and vulnerable. But that was standard procedure for all officer-involved shootings. She remained behind her desk for nearly a week, on administrative leave pending the shooting investigation.
  She ruffled her hair, applied a minimal amount of lipstick, and glanced at her watch. Late again. So much for schedules. She crossed the hall and knocked on Sophie's door. "Ready to go?" she asked.
  Today was Sophie's first day of preschool near their twin home in Lexington Park, a small community on the east side of Northeast Philadelphia. Paula Farinacci, one of Jessica's oldest friends and Sophie's nanny, brought her own daughter, Danielle, along.
  "Mom?" Sophie asked from behind the door.
  "Yes, honey?"
  "Mother?"
  "Uh-oh," Jessica thought. Whenever Sophie was about to ask a tough question, there was always the "Mom/Mom" preamble. It was a childish version of the "criminal counter"-the method jerks on the street used when trying to prepare an answer for the cops. "Yeah, sweetie?"
  - When will dad come back?
  Jessica was right. Question. She felt her heart sink.
  Jessica and Vincent Balzano had been in marriage counseling for almost six weeks, and although they were making progress, and although she missed Vincent terribly, she wasn't quite ready to let him back into their lives. He'd cheated on her, and she hadn't yet forgiven him.
  Vincent, a narcotics detective assigned to the Central Detective Unit, saw Sophie whenever he wanted, and there wasn't the bloodshed of the weeks after she'd carried his clothes out of an upstairs bedroom window onto the front lawn. Still, the anger remained. She'd come home to find him in bed, in their house, with a South Jersey prostitute named Michelle Brown, a toothless saddlebag with matte hair and QVC jewelry. And those were her advantages.
  That was almost three months ago. Somehow, time had eased Jessica's anger. Things weren't going well, but they were getting better.
  "Soon, dear," Jessica said. "Daddy will be home soon."
  "I miss Dad," Sophie said. "Terribly."
  "Me too," Jessica thought. "Time to go, sweetie."
  "Okay mom."
  Jessica leaned against the wall, smiling. She thought about what a huge blank canvas her daughter was. Sophie's new word: terrible. The fish fingers had been so good. She was terribly tired. The walk to Grandpa's house had taken an awfully long time. Where had she gotten that from? Jessica looked at the stickers on Sophie's door, at her current menagerie of friends: Pooh, Tigger, Whoa, Piglet, Mickey, Pluto, Chip 'n' Dale.
  Jessica's thoughts of Sophie and Vincent soon turned to thoughts of the Trey Tarver incident and how close she'd come to losing it all. Though she'd never admitted it to anyone, especially another cop, she'd seen that Tek-9 in her nightmares every night after the shooting, hearing the crack of a bullet from Trey Tarver's gun hitting the bricks above her head with every return shot, every slamming door, every gunshot on TV.
  Like all police officers, when Jessica dressed up for each trip, she had only one rule, one overriding principle that trumped all others: returning home to her family safe and sound. Nothing else mattered. As long as she was on the force, nothing else mattered. Jessica's motto, like most other police officers', was:
  You attack me, you lose. Period. If I'm wrong, you can have my badge, my gun, even my freedom. But you don't understand my life.
  Jessica was offered counseling, but since it wasn't mandatory, she declined. Perhaps it was her Italian stubbornness. Perhaps it was her Italian feminine stubbornness. Whatever the case, the truth-and this frightened her a little-was that she didn't care what had happened. God help her, she'd shot a man and she didn't care.
  The good news was that the review board acquitted her the following week. It was a clean shoot. Today was her first day on the streets. D'Shante Jackson's preliminary hearing would be in the next week or so, but she felt ready. That day, she would have seven thousand angels on her shoulder: every police officer on the force.
  When Sophie emerged from her room, Jessica realized she had another chore. Sophie was wearing two different-colored socks, six plastic bracelets, her grandmother's faux garnet clip-on earrings, and a hot pink hoodie, even though the mercury was expected to reach ninety degrees today.
  While Detective Jessica Balzano may have worked as a homicide detective in the big bad world, her assignment here was different. Even her title was different. Here, she was still Fashion Commissioner.
  She took her little suspect into custody and led her back to the room.
  
  The Philadelphia Police Department's Homicide Division consisted of sixty-five detectives, who worked all three shifts seven days a week. Philadelphia consistently ranked among the top twelve cities in the country for homicide rates, and the general chaos, noise, and activity in the homicide room reflected this. The unit was located on the first floor of the police headquarters building at Eighth and Race Streets, also known as the Roundhouse.
  As she walked through the glass doors, Jessica nodded to several officers and detectives. Before she could turn the corner toward the elevator, she heard, "Good morning, detective."
  Jessica turned to a familiar voice. It was Officer Mark Underwood. Jessica had been in uniform for about four years when Underwood arrived at the Third District, her old stomping ground. Fresh out of the academy and refreshed, he was one of a handful of rookies assigned to the South Philadelphia district that year. She helped train several officers in his class.
  - Hello, Mark.
  "How are you?"
  "Never better," Jessica said. "Still in Third?"
  "Oh, yeah," Underwood said. "But I was given a lot of details about this movie they're making."
  "Uh-oh," Jessica said. Everyone in town knew about the new Will Parrish movie they were filming. That's why everyone in town was heading to South Philly this week. "Lights, camera, attitude."
  Underwood laughed. "You got that right."
  It was a fairly common sight in the last few years. Huge trucks, big lights, barricades. Thanks to a very aggressive and welcoming film office, Philadelphia became a hub for film production. While some officers thought it was a small thing to be assigned to security during filming, they mostly spent a lot of time standing around. The city itself had a love-hate relationship with the movies. It was often an inconvenience. But back then, it was a source of pride for Philadelphia.
  Somehow, Mark Underwood still looked like a college student. Somehow, she was already in her thirties. Jessica remembered the day he joined the squad as if it were yesterday.
  "I heard you're on the show," Underwood said. "Congratulations."
  "Captain forty," Jessica replied, wincing inwardly at the word "forty." "Watch and see."
  "Without a doubt." Underwood looked at his watch. "We should go outside. Good to see you.
  "The same."
  "We're going to Finnigan's Wake tomorrow night," Underwood said. "Sergeant O'Brien's retiring. Come in for a beer. We'll catch up."
  "Are you sure you're old enough to drink?" Jessica asked.
  Underwood laughed. "Have a nice trip, Detective."
  "Thank you," she said. "You too."
  Jessica watched as he adjusted his cap, sheathed his baton, and walked down the ramp, skirting the ubiquitous line of smokers.
  Officer Mark Underwood trained as a veterinarian for three years.
  God, she was getting old.
  
  When Jessica entered the homicide department's duty office, she was greeted by a handful of detectives who had lingered from their last shift; the tour began at midnight. It was rare for a shift to last only eight hours. Most nights, if your shift started at midnight, you'd be able to leave the building around 10:00 a.m. and then head straight to the Criminal Justice Center, where you'd wait in a crowded courtroom until noon to testify, then get a few hours' sleep before returning to the Roundhouse. For these reasons, among many others, the people in this room, in this building, were your true family. This fact was confirmed by the alcoholism rate, as well as the divorce rate. Jessica vowed to be neither.
  Sergeant Dwight Buchanan was one of the daytime supervisors, a thirty-eight-year veteran of the PPD. He wore it on his badge every minute of the day. After the alley incident, Buchanan arrived on the scene and retrieved Jessica's gun, overseeing the mandatory interview of the officer involved in the shootout and liaising with law enforcement. Although he was off duty when the incident occurred, he rose from his bed and rushed to the scene to find one of his own. It was moments like these that bonded the men and women in blue in a way most people would never understand.
  Jessica had been working at the desk for almost a week and was glad to be back in the line. She wasn't a house cat.
  Buchanan handed her the Glock back. "Welcome back, Detective."
  "Thank you, sir."
  "Ready to go outside?"
  Jessica raised her weapon. "The question is, is the street ready for me?"
  "There's someone here to see you." He pointed over his shoulder. Jessica turned. A man leaned against the task table, a large man with emerald-green eyes and sandy hair. A man with the appearance of someone haunted by powerful demons.
  It was her partner Kevin Byrne.
  Jessica's heart fluttered momentarily as their eyes met. They'd been partners for only a few days when Kevin Byrne was shot last spring, but what they'd shared in that terrible week was so intimate, so personal, it transcended even lovers. It spoke to their souls. It seemed neither of them, even in the past few months, had managed to reconcile these feelings. It was unknown whether Kevin Byrne would return to the army, and if so, whether he and Jessica would be partners again. She'd been meaning to call him in the last few weeks. She didn't.
  The point was, Kevin Byrne had taken one for the company-he had taken one for Jessica-and he deserved better from her. She felt bad, but she was so happy to see him.
  Jessica crossed the room, arms outstretched. They hugged, a little awkwardly, and then parted.
  "Are you back?" Jessica asked.
  "The doctor says I'm forty-eight, soon to be forty-eight. But yes. I'm back."
  "I can already hear the crime rate dropping."
  Byrne smiled. There was sadness in it. "Is there room for your old partner?"
  "I think we can find a bucket and a box," Jessica said.
  "You know, that's all we old-school guys need. Give me a flintlock rifle and we'll be all set.
  "You got it."
  It was a moment Jessica had both longed for and dreaded. How would they be together after the bloody incident on Easter Sunday? Would it be, could it be the same? She had no idea. It seemed she was about to find out.
  Ike Buchanan let the moment play out. Satisfied, he held up something. A videotape. He said, "I want you two to see this."
  
  
  7
  Jessica, Byrne, and Ike Buchanan were huddled in a cramped diner, where a cluster of small video monitors and VCRs stood. Moments later, a third man entered.
  "This is Special Agent Terry Cahill," Buchanan said. "Terry is on loan from the FBI's Urban Crime Task Force, but only for a few days."
  Cahill was in his thirties. He wore a standard navy blue suit, a white shirt, and a burgundy-and-blue striped tie. He had fair hair, a combed hairstyle, a friendly, handsome look, straight out of a J.Crew button-down. He smelled of strong soap and good leather.
  Buchanan finished his introduction. "This is Detective Jessica Balzano."
  "Nice to meet you, Detective," Cahill said.
  "The same."
  "This is Detective Kevin Byrne."
  "Nice to meet you".
  "My pleasure, Agent Cahill," Byrne said.
  Cahill and Byrne shook hands. Cool, mechanical, professional. Interdepartmental rivalry could be cut with a rusty butter knife. Then Cahill turned his attention back to Jessica. "Are you a boxer?" he asked.
  She knew what he meant, but it still sounded funny. Like she was a dog. Are you a schnauzer? "Yes."
  He nodded, apparently impressed.
  "Why do you ask?" Jessica asked. "Planning on going down, Agent Cahill?"
  Cahill laughed. He had straight teeth and a single dimple on the left. "No, no. I just did a little boxing myself."
  "Professional?"
  "Nothing of the sort. Golden gloves, mostly. Some are on duty.
  Now it was Jessica's turn to be impressed. She knew what it took to compete in the ring.
  "Terry is here to observe and advise the task force," Buchanan said. "The bad news is we need help."
  It was true. Violent crime had spiked in Philadelphia. And yet, there wasn't a single officer in the department who wanted outside agencies involved. "Notice that," Jessica thought. True.
  "How long have you been working at the bureau?" Jessica asked.
  "Seven years."
  "Are you from Philadelphia?"
  "Born and raised," Cahill said. "Tenth and Washington."
  All this time, Byrne simply stood aside, listening and observing. That was his style. "On the other hand, he'd been doing this job for over twenty years," Jessica thought. He had far more experience mistrusting the feds.
  Sensing a territorial skirmish, good-natured or not, Buchanan inserted the tape into one of the VCRs and pressed play.
  A few seconds later, a black-and-white image came to life on one of the monitors. It was a feature film. Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho, a 1960 film starring Anthony Perkins and Janet Leigh. The image was slightly grainy, the video signal blurred at the edges. The scene shown on the film was early in the film, beginning with Janet Leigh, after checking into the Bates Motel and sharing a sandwich with Norman Bates in his office, about to take a shower.
  As the film unfolded, Byrne and Jessica exchanged glances. It was clear Ike Buchanan wouldn't invite them to a classic horror film this early in the morning, but at the moment, neither detective had the slightest idea what they were talking about.
  They continued watching as the film progressed. Norman removes an oil painting from the wall. Norman peers out from a crudely cut hole in the plaster. Janet Leigh's character, Marion Crane, undresses and puts on a robe. Norman approaches the Bates house. Marion steps into the bathroom and draws the curtain.
  Everything seemed normal until the tape malfunctioned, a slow vertical scroll caused by a crash edit. For a second, the screen went black; then a new image appeared. It was immediately clear that the film had been re-recorded.
  The new photo was static: a high-angle view of what looked like a motel bathroom. The wide-angle lens revealed the sink, toilet, bathtub, and tiled floor. The light level was low, but the light above the mirror provided enough brightness to illuminate the room. The black-and-white image looked crude, like an image captured by a webcam or inexpensive camcorder.
  As the recording continued, it became clear that someone was in the shower with the curtain drawn. The ambient sound on the tape gave way to the faint sound of running water, and every now and then the shower curtain would flutter with the movement of whoever was standing in the bathtub. A shadow danced on the translucent plastic. A young woman's voice could be heard above the sound of the water. She was singing a Norah Jones song.
  Jessica and Byrne looked at each other again, this time realizing it was one of those situations where you knew you were watching something you shouldn't have, and the very fact that you were watching it was a sign of trouble. Jessica glanced at Cahill. He seemed transfixed. A vein throbbed in his temple.
  The camera remained motionless on the screen. Steam billowed from under the shower curtain, slightly blurring the top quarter of the image with condensation.
  Then suddenly the bathroom door opened and a figure entered. The slender figure turned out to be an elderly woman with gray hair pulled back into a bun. She wore a calf-length housedress with a floral print and a dark cardigan sweater. She held a large butcher knife. The woman's face was hidden. The woman had masculine shoulders, a masculine demeanor, and a masculine posture.
  After a few seconds of hesitation, the figure pulled back the curtain, revealing a naked young woman in the shower, but the angle was too steep and the image quality too poor to even begin to discern what she looked like. From this vantage point, all that could be determined was that the young woman was white and likely in her twenties.
  Instantly, the reality of what they were witnessing enveloped Jessica like a shroud. Before she could react, the knife wielded by the ghostly figure slashed again and again at the woman in the shower, tearing through her flesh, slicing through her chest, arms, and stomach. The woman screamed. Blood gushed, splattering the tiles. Chunks of torn tissue and muscle slapped the walls. The figure continued to viciously stab the young woman again and again until she collapsed on the bathtub floor, her body a horrific web of deep, gaping wounds.
  Then, as quickly as it began, it was all over.
  The old woman ran out of the room. The shower head washed the blood down the drain. The young woman didn't move. A few seconds later, a second editing glitch occurred, and the original film resumed. The new image was a close-up of Janet Leigh's right eye as the camera began to pan and back. The film's original soundtrack soon returned to Anthony Perkins's chilling scream from the Bates house:
  Mother! Oh God Mother! Blood! Blood!
  When Ike Buchanan turned off the recording, there was silence in the small room for almost a full minute.
  They just witnessed a murder.
  Someone had recorded a brutal, savage murder on video and inserted it into the exact same scene in Psycho where the shower murder occurred. They'd all seen enough real carnage to know it wasn't special effects footage. Jessica said so out loud.
  "It's real."
  Buchanan nodded. "Of course it does. What we just watched was a dubbed copy. AV is currently reviewing the original footage. It's a little better quality, but not by much."
  "Is there any more of this on tape?" Cahill asked.
  "Nothing," Buchanan said. "Just an original film."
  "Where is this film from?"
  "It was rented from a small video store on Aramingo," Buchanan said.
  "Who brought this?" Byrne asked.
  "He's in A."
  
  The young man sitting in Interrogation Room A was the color of sour milk. He was in his early twenties, with cropped dark hair, pale amber eyes, and fine features. He wore a lime-green polo shirt and black jeans. His 229-a brief report detailing his name, address, and place of employment-revealed that he was a student at Drexel University and held two part-time jobs. He lived in the Fairmount neighborhood of North Philadelphia. His name was Adam Kaslov. Only his fingerprints remained on the videotape.
  Jessica entered the room and introduced herself. Kevin Byrne and Terry Cahill watched through a two-way mirror.
  "Can I get you anything?" Jessica asked.
  Adam Kaslov gave a thin, grim smile. "I'm fine," he said. A couple of empty Sprite cans sat on the scratched table in front of him. He held a piece of red cardboard in his hands, twisting and untwisting it.
  Jessica placed the box containing the Psycho videotape on the table. It was still in its clear plastic evidence bag. "When did you rent this?"
  "Yesterday afternoon," Adam said, his voice a little shaky. He didn't have a police record, and it was probably the first time he'd ever been in a police station. A homicide interrogation room, no less. Jessica had made sure to leave the door open. "Maybe around three o'clock or so."
  Jessica glanced at the label on the cassette tape. "And you bought this at The Reel Deal on Aramingo?"
  "Yes."
  "How did you pay for it?"
  "I'm sorry?"
  "Did you put this on a credit card? Pay cash? Is there a coupon?
  "Oh," he said. "I paid cash."
  - Did you keep the receipt?
  "No. Sorry."
  "Are you a regular customer there?"
  "Like."
  "How often do you rent movies from this place?"
  "I don't know. Maybe twice a week."
  Jessica glanced at Report 229. One of Adam's part-time jobs was at a Rite Aid store on Market Street. Another was at Cinemagic 3 in Pennsylvania, a movie theater near the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. "Can I ask why you go to that store?"
  "What do you mean?"
  "You live just half a block from Blockbuster."
  Adam shrugged. "I guess it's because they have more foreign and independent films than the big chains."
  "Do you like foreign films, Adam?" Jessica's tone was friendly and conversational. Adam brightened slightly.
  "Yeah."
  "I absolutely love Cinema Paradiso," Jessica said. "It's one of my favorite movies of all time. Have you ever seen it?
  "Of course," Adam said. Now even more vividly. "Giuseppe Tornatore is magnificent. Perhaps even Fellini's heir."
  Adam began to relax a little. He'd been twisting the piece of cardboard into a tight spiral and now set it aside. It looked stiff enough to resemble a cocktail stick. Jessica sat in a worn metal chair across from him. Only two people were talking now. They were talking about a brutal murder that someone had caught on video.
  "Did you watch this alone?" Jessica asked.
  "Yeah." There was a note of melancholy in his answer, as if he had recently broken up and had gotten used to watching videos of his partner.
  - When did you watch this?
  Adam picked up the cardboard stick again. "Well, I finish work at my second job at midnight, get home around twelve-thirty. I usually take a shower and eat something. I think I started it around one-thirty. Maybe two.
  - Did you watch it to the end?
  "No," Adam said. "I watched until Janet Leigh got to the motel."
  "And what?"
  "Then I turned it off and went to bed. I watched... the rest this morning. Before I left for school. Or before I was about to go to school. When I saw... you know, I called the police. The police. I called the police."
  "Did anyone else see this?"
  Adam shook his head.
  - Have you told anyone about this?
  "No."
  "Have you had this tape all this time?"
  "I'm not sure what you mean."
  "From the time you rented it until the time you called the police, did you have the tape?"
  "Yes."
  "You didn't leave it in your car for a while, leave it with a friend, or leave it in a backpack or book bag that you hung on a coat rack in a public place?"
  "No," Adam said. "Nothing of the sort. I rented it, took it home, and hung it on my TV."
  - And you live alone.
  Another grimace. He just broke up with someone. "Yes."
  - Was anyone in your apartment last night while you were at work?
  "I don't think so," Adam said. "No. I really doubt it."
  - Does anyone else have a key?
  "Just the owner. And I've been trying to talk him into fixing my shower for about a year. I doubt he would have come here without me being there.
  Jessica jotted down a few notes. "Have you ever rented this movie from The Reel Deal before?"
  Adam looked at the floor for a few moments, thinking. "The movie or this particular tape?"
  "Or."
  "I think I rented a DVD of Psycho from them last year."
  "Why did you rent the VHS version this time?"
  "My DVD player is broken. I have an optical drive in my laptop, but I don't really like watching movies on the computer. The sound is kind of crap."
  "Where was that tape in the store when you rented it?"
  "Where was it?"
  "I mean, do they display the tapes there on the shelves or do they just put the empty boxes on the shelves and store the tapes behind the counter?"
  "No, they have real tapes on display."
  "Where was that tape?"
  "There's a 'Classics' section. It was there.
  "Are they displayed in alphabetical order?"
  "I think so."
  "Do you remember if this film was where it was supposed to be on the rack?"
  "I don't remember".
  - Did you rent anything else along with this?
  Adam's expression drained of what little color remained, as if the very idea, the very thought, that other records could contain something so terrible was even possible. "No. That was the only time."
  "Do you know any of the other clients?"
  "Not really."
  "Do you know anyone else who might have rented this tape?"
  "No," he said.
  "That's a tough question," Jessica said. "Are you ready?"
  "I guess so."
  "Do you recognize the girl on the film?"
  Adam swallowed hard and shook his head. "Sorry."
  "It's okay," Jessica said. "We're almost done now. You're doing great."
  This wiped the crooked half-smile from the young man's face. The fact that he was about to leave soon, that he was about to leave at all, seemed to lift a heavy yoke from his shoulders. Jessica made a few more notes and glanced at her watch.
  Adam asked, "Can I ask you something?"
  "Certainly."
  "Is this part real?"
  "We're not sure."
  Adam nodded. Jessica held his gaze, searching for the slightest sign that he was hiding something. All she found was a young man who had stumbled upon something strange and possibly frighteningly real. Tell me about your horror movie.
  "Okay, Mr. Kaslov," she said. "We appreciate you bringing this. We'll be in touch."
  "Okay," Adam said. "All of us?"
  "Yes. And we would be grateful if you didn't discuss this with anyone for now."
  "I won't."
  They stood there and shook hands. Adam Kaslov's hand was icy.
  "One of the officers will show you out," Jessica added.
  "Thank you," he said.
  As the young man walked into the homicide department's duty station, Jessica glanced in the two-way mirror. Although she couldn't see it, she didn't need to read Kevin Byrne's face to know they were in complete agreement. There was a good chance Adam Castle had nothing to do with the crime captured on tape.
  If the crime had actually been committed.
  
  Byrne told Jessica he'd meet her in the parking lot. Finding himself relatively alone and unnoticed in the duty room, he sat down at one of the computers and checked Julian Matisse. As expected, there was nothing relevant. A year earlier, Matisse's mother's house had been robbed, but Julian hadn't been involved. Matisse had spent the last two years in prison. The list of his known associates was also out of date. Byrne printed out the addresses anyway and tore the sheet from the printer.
  Then, although he may have ruined another detective's work, he reset the computer's cache and erased the PCIC history for the day.
  
  On the ground floor of the Roundhouse, in the back, was a cafeteria with a dozen or so shabby booths and a dozen tables. The food was passable, the coffee was forty-weight. A row of vending machines lined one wall. Large windows with an unobstructed view of the air conditioners pressed against the other.
  As Jessica grabbed a couple of cups of coffee for herself and Byrne, Terry Cahill walked into the room and approached her. The handful of uniformed police officers and detectives scattered around the room cast him a casual, appraising glance. He was indeed covered in scribbles, right down to his polished yet practical cordovan oxfords. Jessica bet he'd iron his socks.
  - Do you have a minute, detective?
  "Simple," Jessica said. She and Byrne were heading to the video store where they had rented a copy of Psycho.
  "I just wanted to let you know I won't be going with you this morning. I'll run everything we have through VICAP and other federal databases. We'll see if we get a hit."
  "We'll try to get by without you," Jessica thought. "That would be very helpful," she said, suddenly aware of how patronizing she sounded. Like herself, this guy was just doing his job. Luckily, Cahill didn't seem to notice.
  "No problem," he replied. "I'll try to contact you in the field as soon as I can."
  "Fine."
  "It's a pleasure working with you," he said.
  "You too," Jessica lied.
  She poured herself a coffee and headed for the door. As she approached, she caught her reflection in the glass, then focused her attention on the room behind her. Special Agent Terry Cahill was leaning against the counter, smiling.
  Is he testing me?
  
  
  8
  R EEL D EAL was a small, independent video store on Aramingo Avenue near Clearfield, nestled between a Vietnamese takeout restaurant and a nail salon called Claws and Effect. It was one of the few mom-and-pop video stores in Philadelphia that hadn't yet been shut down by Blockbuster or West Coast Video.
  The grimy front window was covered with posters of Vin Diesel and Jet Li films, a cascade of teen romantic comedies released over the decade. There were also sun-faded black-and-white photos of fading action stars: Jean-Claude Van Damme, Steven Seagal, Jackie Chan. A sign in the corner read: "WE CARRY CULT AND MEXICAN MONSTERS!"
  Jessica and Byrne walked in.
  Reel Deal was a long, narrow room with videotapes on both walls and a double-sided rack in the center. Handcrafted signs hung above the racks, denoting genres: DRAMA, COMEDY, ACTION, FOREIGN, FAMILY. Something called ANIME took up a third of one wall. A glance at the "CLASSICS" rack revealed a full selection of Hitchcock films.
  Besides the rental movies, there were stands selling microwave popcorn, soft drinks, chips, and film magazines. On the walls above the videotapes hung movie posters, mostly titled action and horror, along with a few Merchant Ivory sheets scattered about for study.
  To the right, next to the entrance, was a slightly raised cash register. A monitor mounted on the wall was showing a 1970s slasher film that Jessica didn't immediately recognize. A masked psychopath wielding a knife was stalking a half-naked student through a dark basement.
  The man behind the counter was about twenty years old. He had long, dirty-blond hair, jeans with holes up to the knees, a Wilco T-shirt, and a studded bracelet. Jessica couldn't tell which iteration of grunge he was emulating: the original Neil Young, the Nirvana/Pearl Jam combo, or some new breed she, at thirty, was unfamiliar with.
  There were several browsers in the store. Behind the cloying scent of strawberry incense, the faint aroma of some rather good saucepan could be discerned.
  Byrne showed the officer his badge.
  "Wow," the child said, his bloodshot eyes darting to the beaded doorway behind him and what Jessica was fairly certain was his small stash of weed.
  "What's your name?" Byrne asked.
  "My name?"
  "Yes," Byrne said. "That's what other people call you when they want to get your attention."
  "Uh, Leonard," he said. "Leonard Puskas. Lenny, actually.
  "Are you the manager, Lenny?" Byrne asked.
  - Well, not officially.
  - What does it mean?
  "That means I open and close, do all the orders, and do all the other work here. And all for minimum wage."
  Byrne lifted the outer case containing Adam Kaslov's rental copy of Psycho. The original tape was still in the audiovisual unit.
  "Hitch," Lenny said, nodding. "Classic."
  "Are you a fan?"
  "Oh, yeah. Big time," Lenny said. "Though I never really cared about his politics in the sixties. Topaz, Torn Curtain."
  "I understand."
  "But Birds? North by Northwest? Rear Window? Awesome."
  "What about Psycho, Lenny?" Byrne asked. "Are you a Psycho fan?"
  Lenny sat up straight, his arms wrapped around his chest like he was in a straitjacket. He sucked in his cheeks, clearly preparing to make some kind of impression. He said, "I wouldn't hurt a fly."
  Jessica exchanged a glance with Byrne and shrugged. "And who was that supposed to be?" Byrne asked.
  Lenny looked crushed. "That was Anthony Perkins. That's his line from the end of the movie. Of course, he doesn't actually say it. It's a voiceover. Actually, technically, the voiceover says, 'Why, she wouldn't hurt a fly, but...'" Lenny's hurt look instantly turned to horror. "You saw it, didn't you? I mean... I'm not... I'm a real spoiler fan."
  "I've seen that movie," Byrne said. "I've just never seen anyone do Anthony Perkins before."
  "I can play Martin Balsam too. Want to see it?"
  "Maybe later."
  "Fine."
  "Is this tape from this store?"
  Lenny glanced at the label on the side of the box. "Yeah," he said. "It's ours."
  "We need to know the rental history of this particular tape."
  "No problem," he said in his best Junior G-Man voice. There was going to be a great story about that bong later. He reached under the counter, pulled out a thick spiral-bound notebook, and began flipping through the pages.
  As Jessica leafed through the book, she noticed that the pages were stained with almost every seasoning known to man, as well as a few stains of unknown origin that she didn't even want to think about.
  "Your records aren't computerized?" Byrne asked.
  "Uh, that's going to require software," Lenny said. "And that's going to require real money."
  It was clear that there was no love between Lenny and his boss.
  "He's only been out three times this year," Lenny finally said. "Including yesterday's loan."
  "Three different people?" Jessica asked.
  "Yeah."
  "Do your records go back further?"
  "Yeah," Lenny said. "But we had to replace Psycho last year. I think the old tape broke. The copy you have was only released three times."
  "It seems like the classics aren't doing that well," Byrne said.
  "Most people get DVDs."
  "And this is your only copy of the VHS version?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes, ma'am."
  Ma'am, Jessica thought. I'm ma'am. "We'll need the names and addresses of the people who rented this film."
  Lenny glanced around as if there were a couple of ACLU lawyers standing next to him with whom he could discuss this matter. Instead, he was surrounded by life-size cardboard cutouts of Nicolas Cage and Adam Sandler. "I don't think I'm allowed to do this."
  "Lenny," Byrne said, leaning forward. He curled a finger, gesturing for him to lean closer. Lenny did so. "Did you notice the badge I showed you when we came in?"
  "Yeah. I saw that."
  "Okay. Here's the deal. If you give me the information I asked for, I'll try to ignore the fact that this place smells a little like Bob Marley's rec room. Okay?"
  Lenny leaned back, seemingly unaware that the strawberry incense didn't completely mask the odor of the refrigerator. "Okay. No problem."
  While Lenny searched for a pen, Jessica glanced at the monitor on the wall. A new movie was playing. An old black-and-white noir with Veronica Lake and Alan Ladd.
  "Do you want me to write down these names for you?" Lenny asked.
  "I think we can handle it," Jessica replied.
  Besides Adam Kaslov, the other two people who rented the film were a man named Isaiah Crandall and a woman named Emily Traeger. They both lived three or four blocks from the store.
  "Do you know Adam Kaslov well?" Byrne asked.
  "Adam? Oh yeah. Good dude."
  "How so?"
  "Well, he has good taste in films. He pays his overdue bills without any problems. Sometimes we talk about independent films. We're both fans of Jim Jarmusch."
  "Does Adam come here often?"
  "Probably. Maybe twice a week."
  - Does he come alone?
  "Most of the time. Although I saw him here once with an older woman.
  - Do you know who she was?
  "No."
  "Older, I mean, how old?" Byrne asked.
  - Twenty-five, maybe.
  Jessica and Byrne looked at each other and sighed. "What did she look like?"
  "Blonde, beautiful. Nice body. You know. For an older girl.
  "Do you know any of these people well?" Jessica asked, tapping the book.
  Lenny turned the book over and read the names. "Of course. I know Emily.
  "Is she a regular customer?"
  "Like."
  - What can you tell us about her?
  "Not that much," Lenny said. "I mean, it's not like we're hanging or anything."
  "Anything you can tell us would be very helpful."
  "Well, she always buys a bag of cherry Twizzlers when she rents a movie. She wears way too much perfume, but, you know, compared to how some of the people who come here smell, it's actually pretty nice.
  "How old is she?" Byrne asked.
  Lenny shrugged. "I don't know. Seventy?"
  Jessica and Byrne exchanged another glance. While they were fairly certain the "old woman" on the tape was a man, crazier things had happened.
  "What about Mr. Crandall?" Byrne asked.
  "I don't know him. Wait." Lenny took out the second notebook. He flipped through the pages. "Uh-huh. He's only been here about three weeks."
  Jessica wrote it down. "I'll also need the names and addresses of all the other employees."
  Lenny frowned again, but didn't even protest. "There are only two of us. Me and Juliet."
  At these words, a young woman poked her head out from between the beaded curtains. She was clearly listening. If Lenny Puskas was the epitome of grunge, then his colleague was the poster girl for goth. Short and stocky, about eighteen years old, she had purple-black hair, maroon nails, and black lipstick. She wore a long, vintage lemon-colored taffeta Doc Martens dress and thick white-framed glasses.
  "It's okay," Jessica said. "I just need your home contact information for both of you."
  Lenny wrote down the information and passed it on to Jessica.
  "Do you rent a lot of Hitchcock movies here?" Jessica asked.
  "Of course," Lenny said. "We have most of them, including some of the early ones, like The Tenant and Young and Innocent. But like I said, most people rent DVDs. Older movies look much better on disc. Especially the Criterion Collection editions."
  "What are Criterion Collection editions?" Byrne asked.
  "They release classic and foreign films in remastered versions. Lots of extras on the disc. It's a real quality piece."
  Jessica jotted down a few notes. "Is there anyone you can think of who rents a lot of Hitchcock movies? Or anyone who's asked for them?"
  Lenny considered this. "Not really. I mean, not that I can think of." He turned and looked at his colleague. "Jules?"
  The girl in the yellow taffeta dress swallowed hard and shook her head. She hadn't taken the police visit very well.
  "Sorry," Lenny added.
  Jessica glanced around the store. There were two security cameras in the back. "Do you have any footage from those cameras?"
  Lenny snorted again. "Uh, no. It's just for show. They're not connected to anything. Between you and me, we're lucky there's a lock on the front door.
  Jessica handed Lenny a couple of cards. "If any of you remember anything else, anything that might be related to this entry, please call me."
  Lenny held the cards as if they might explode in his hands. "Sure. No problem."
  The two detectives walked half a block to the Taurus-lined building, a dozen questions floating in their heads. At the top of the list was whether they were actually investigating a murder. Philadelphia homicide detectives were funny that way. You always had a full plate in front of you, and if there was even the slightest chance you were on the hunt for what was actually a suicide, or an accident, or something else, you'd usually grumble and moan until they let you through. It's from.
  Still, the boss gave them the job, and they had to go. Most murder investigations begin with the crime scene and the victim. Rarely does one begin earlier.
  They got into the car and went to interview Mr. Isaiah Crandall, a classic film buff and potential psychopathic killer.
  Across the street from the video store, in the shadows of a doorway, a man watched the drama unfold at The Reel Deal. He was unremarkable in every way, except for his chameleon-like ability to adapt to his surroundings. At that moment, he could have been mistaken for Harry Lime from The Third Man.
  Later that day, he could become the Gordon Gekko of Wall Street.
  Or Tom Hagen in The Godfather.
  Or Babe Levy in Marathon Man.
  Or Archie Rice in The Entertainer.
  For when he performed in public, he could be many people, many characters. He could be a doctor, a dockworker, a drummer in a lounge band. He could be a priest, a doorman, a librarian, a travel agent, and even a law enforcement officer.
  He was a man of a thousand faces, skilled in the art of dialect and stage movement. He could be whatever the day required.
  After all, that's what actors do.
  
  
  9
  Somewhere between 30,000 and 3,000 feet above Altoona, Pennsylvania, Seth Goldman finally began to relax. For a man who had been on a plane an average of three days a week for the past four years (they had just departed Philadelphia, bound for Pittsburgh, and were due back in just a few hours), he was still a white-knuckled flier. Every bout of turbulence, every raised aileron, every air pocket filled him with dread.
  But now, in the well-appointed Learjet 60, he began to relax. If you had to fly, sit in a rich cream leather seat, surrounded by burl wood and brass accents, and have a fully stocked galley at your disposal, this was definitely the best option.
  Ian Whitestone sat in the back of the plane, barefoot, eyes closed, and headphones in. It was in moments like these-when Seth knew where his boss was, had planned the day's activities, and ensured his safety-that he allowed himself to relax.
  Seth Goldman was born thirty-seven years ago as Jerzy Andres Kidrau, to a poor family in Mews, Florida. The only son of a brash, self-assured woman and a cruel man, he was an unplanned, unwanted child of late childhood, and from the earliest days of his life, his father reminded him of this.
  When Christoph Kidrau wasn't beating his wife, he was beating and abusing his only son. Sometimes at night, the arguments would become so loud, the bloodshed so brutal, that young Jerzy would have to flee the trailer, run deep into the low brush fields bordering the trailer park, and return home at dawn, covered in sand beetle bites, sand beetle scars, and hundreds of mosquito bites.
  During those years, Jerzy had only one solace: cinema. He earned odd jobs: washing trailers, running errands, cleaning swimming pools, and as soon as he had enough money for a matinee, he'd hitchhike to Palmdale and the Lyceum Theatre.
  He recalled many days spent in the cool darkness of the theater, a place where he could lose himself in a world of fantasy. He early understood the power of the medium to convey, to elevate, to mystify, and to terrify. It was a love affair that never ended.
  When he returned home, if his mother was sober, he would discuss the film he'd seen with her. His mother knew everything about cinema. She had once been an actress, starring in over a dozen films and debuting as a teenager in the late 1940s under the stage name Lili Trieste.
  She worked with all the great film noir directors-Dmytryk, Siodmak, Dassin, Lang. A shining moment in her career-a career in which she mostly hid in dark alleys, smoking unfiltered cigarettes in the company of almost handsome men with thin mustaches and double-breasted suits with notched lapels-was a scene with Franchot Tonet, a scene in which she delivered one of Jerzy's favorite lines of noir dialogue. Standing in the doorway of a cold-water stall, she stopped combing her hair, turned to the actor being led away by the authorities, and said:
  - I spent the whole morning washing you out of my hair, baby. Don't make me give you the brush.
  By her early thirties, the industry had cast her aside. Unwilling to settle for roles as the crazy aunt, she moved to Florida to live with her sister, where she met her future husband. By the time she gave birth to Jerzy at forty-seven, her career had long since ended.
  At fifty-six, Christophe Kidrau was diagnosed with progressive cirrhosis of the liver, the result of drinking a fifth of bottom-shelf whiskey every day for thirty-five years. He was told that if he drank another drop of alcohol, he could fall into an alcoholic coma, which could ultimately prove fatal. This warning forced Christophe Kidrau to abstain from smoking for several months. Then, after losing his part-time job, Christophe put it on and came home blind drunk.
  That night, he mercilessly beat his wife, the final blow smashing her head into a sharp cabinet handle and piercing her temple, leaving a deep wound. By the time Jerzy returned home from work sweeping the body shop in Moore Haven, his mother had bled to death in the corner of the kitchen, and his father was sitting in a chair with half a bottle of whiskey in his hand, three full bottles beside him, and a grease-stained wedding album in his lap.
  Luckily for young Jerzy, Kristof Kidrau was too far gone to stand up, let alone hit him.
  Until late into the night, Jerzy poured glass after glass of whiskey for his father, occasionally helping him lift the dirty glass to his lips. By midnight, when Christophe had two bottles left, he began to collapse and could no longer hold the glass. Then Jerzy began pouring whiskey directly down his father's throat. By four-thirty, his father had consumed a total of four full fifths of the alcohol, and at precisely five-ten in the morning, he fell into an alcoholic coma. A few minutes later, he breathed his last foul-smelling breath.
  A few hours later, with both his parents dead and flies already searching for their rotting flesh in the stuffy walls of the trailer, Jerzy called the police.
  After a brief investigation, during which Jerzy remained silent, he was placed in a group home in Lee County, where he learned the arts of persuasion and social manipulation. At eighteen, he enrolled in Edison Community College. He was a quick study, a brilliant student, and approached his studies with a zeal for knowledge he never knew existed. Two years later, with an associate's degree in hand, Jerzy moved to North Miami, where he sold cars during the day and earned a bachelor's degree at Florida International University in the evening. He eventually rose to the rank of sales manager.
  Then one day, a man walked into the dealership. A man of extraordinary appearance: slender, dark-eyed, bearded, and thoughtful. His appearance and demeanor reminded Seth of a young Stanley Kubrick. This man was Ian Whitestone.
  Seth had seen Whitestone's only low-budget feature film, and although it was a commercial failure, Seth knew Whitestone would move on to bigger and better things.
  As it turned out, Ian Whitestone was a big fan of film noir. He knew Lily Trieste's work. Over a few bottles of wine, they discussed the genre. That morning, Whitestone hired him as an assistant producer.
  Seth knew a name like Jerzy Andres Kidrau wouldn't get him very far in show business, so he decided to change it. The last name was simple. He had long considered William Goldman one of the gods of screenwriting and had admired his work for years. And if anyone had made the connection, suggesting that Seth was somehow related to the author of Marathon Man, Magic, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, he wouldn't have gone out of his way to disabuse them of the notion.
  In the end, Hollywood turned on the illusions.
  Goldman was easy. The first name was a bit more complicated. He decided to take a biblical name to complement the Jewish illusion. Although he was about as Jewish as Pat Robertson, the deception didn't hurt. One day, he took out a Bible, closed his eyes, opened it at random, and tucked a page in. He'd pick the first name that came to mind. Unfortunately, it didn't actually resemble Ruth Goldman. He also didn't approve of Methuselah Goldman. His third strike was the winner. Seth. Seth Goldman.
  Seth Goldman will get a table at L'Orangerie.
  Over the past five years, he's quickly risen through the ranks at White Light Pictures. He started as a production assistant, doing everything from organizing craft services to transporting extras and delivering Ian's dry cleaning. Then he helped Ian develop the script that would change everything: a supernatural thriller called Dimensions.
  Ian Whitestone's script was passed over, but its less-than-stellar box office performance led to it being abandoned. Then Will Parrish read it. The superstar actor, who had made his name in the action genre, was looking for a change. The sensitive role of the blind professor resonated with him, and within a week the film was greenlit.
  Dimensions became a worldwide sensation, grossing over six hundred million dollars. It instantly put Ian Whitestone on the A-list. It elevated Seth Goldman from a lowly executive assistant to Ian's executive assistant.
  Not bad for a trailer rat from Glades County.
  Seth flipped through his DVD folder. What should he watch? He wouldn't be able to watch the entire movie before they landed, no matter what he chose, but whenever he had even a few minutes of downtime, he liked to fill it with a movie.
  He settled on The Devils, a 1955 film starring Simone Signoret, a film about betrayal, murder, and, above all, secrets-things Seth knew all about.
  For Seth Goldman, the city of Philadelphia was full of secrets. He knew where blood stained the earth, where bones were buried. He knew where evil lurked.
  Sometimes he went with him.
  
  
  10
  For all that Vincent Balzano wasn't, he was a damn good cop. During his ten years as an undercover narcotics officer, he racked up some of the biggest busts in Philadelphia's recent history. Vincent was already a legend in the undercover world thanks to his chameleon-like ability to infiltrate drug circles from all sides of the table-cop, addict, dealer, snitch.
  His list of informants and various con artists was as thick as any other. Right now, Jessica and Byrne were preoccupied with one particular problem. She didn't want to call Vincent-their relationship teetered on the brink of a misplaced word, a casual mention, an inappropriate accent-and the marriage counselor's office was probably the best place for them to interact at this moment.
  After all, I was driving, and sometimes I had to overlook personal matters for the sake of work.
  While waiting for her husband to return to the phone, Jessica wondered where they were in this strange case-no body, no suspect, no motive. Terry Cahill had run a VICAP search, which had yielded nothing resembling the MO recordings of Psycho. The FBI's Violent Offender Apprehension Program was a nationwide data center designed to collect, collate, and analyze violent crimes, particularly homicides. The closest Cahill got to finding them were videos made by street gangs, which showed initiation rites involving bone-making for recruits.
  Jessica and Byrne interviewed Emily Traeger and Isaiah Crandall, the two people besides Adam Kaslov who rented "Psycho" from The Reel Deal. Neither interview yielded much. Emily Traeger was well into her seventies and used an aluminum walker-a small detail Lenny Puskas had neglected to mention. Isaiah Crandall was in his fifties, short, and as nervous as a Chihuahua. He worked as a fry cook at a diner on Frankford Avenue. He nearly fainted when they showed him his badges. None of the detectives thought he had the stomach required to pull off what was captured on tape. He definitely wasn't the right body type.
  Both said they watched the film from start to finish and found nothing unusual about it. A call back to the video store revealed that both returned the film within the rental period.
  Detectives ran both names through NCIC and PCIC, but came up empty. Both were clean. The same applies to Adam Kaslov, Lenny Puskas, and Juliette Rausch.
  Somewhere between the time Isaiah Crandall returned the film and the time Adam Kaslov took it home, someone got their hands on the tape and replaced the famous shower scene with their own.
  The detectives had no lead-without a body, a lead was unlikely to fall into their laps-but they did have a direction. A little digging revealed that The Reel Deal belonged to a man named Eugene Kilbane.
  Eugene Hollis Kilbane, 44, was a two-time loser, a petty thief, and a pornographer, importing serious books, magazines, films, and videotapes, as well as various sex toys and adult devices. Along with The Reel Deal, Mr. Kilbane owned a second independent video store, as well as an adult bookstore and peep show on 13th Street.
  They visited his "corporate" headquarters-the back of a warehouse on Erie Avenue. Bars on the windows, curtains drawn, door locked, no answer. Some kind of empire.
  Kilbane's known associates were a who's who of Philadelphia, many of whom were drug dealers. And in Philadelphia, if you sold drugs, Detective Vincent Balzano knew you.
  Vincent soon returned to the phone and reported a place Kilbane was known to frequent: a dive bar in Port Richmond called The White Bull Tavern.
  Before hanging up, Vincent offered Jessica support. As much as she hated to admit it, and as strange as it might sound to anyone outside of law enforcement, the offer of support was somewhat welcome.
  She declined the offer, but it went to the reconciliation bank.
  
  The White Bull Tavern was a stone-fronted shack near Richmond and Tioga Streets. Byrne and Jessica parked the Taurus and walked up to the tavern, and Jessica thought, "You know, you're entering a tough place when the door is held together with duct tape." A sign on the wall next to the door read: CRAB ALL YEAR ROUND!
  I bet, Jessica thought.
  Inside, they found a cramped, dark bar dotted with neon beer signs and plastic light fixtures. The air was thick with stale smoke and the sweet aroma of cheap whiskey. Beneath it all, there was something reminiscent of the Philadelphia Zoo's primate sanctuary.
  As she entered and her eyes adjusted to the light, Jessica mentally printed out the layout. A small room with a pool table on the left, a fifteen-stool bar on the right, and a handful of rickety tables in the center. Two men sat on stools in the middle of the bar. At the far end, a man and a woman were talking. Four men were playing nine-ball. During her first week on the job, she'd learned that the first step when entering a snake pit was to identify the snakes and plan an exit.
  Jessica immediately made a picture of Eugene Kilbane. He stood at the other end of the bar, sipping coffee and chatting with a bottle-blond woman who, a few years earlier and in a different light, might have tried to be beautiful. Here, she was as pale as cocktail napkins. Kilbane was thin and gaunt. He had dyed his hair black, wore a rumpled gray double-breasted suit, a brass tie, and rings on his pinky. Jessica based him on Vincent's description of his face. She noted that about a quarter of the man's upper lip on the right side was missing, replaced by scar tissue. This gave him the appearance of a constant snarl, something he, of course, was unwilling to give up.
  As Byrne and Jessica walked to the back of the bar, the blonde slid off her stool and walked into the back room.
  "My name is Detective Byrne, this is my partner, Detective Balzano," Byrne said, showing his ID.
  "And I'm Brad Pitt," Kilbane said.
  Because of his incomplete lip, Brad came out as Mrad.
  Byrne ignored the attitude. For a moment. "The reason we're here is because during an investigation we're working on, we discovered something at one of your establishments we'd like to talk to you about," he said. "Are you the owner of The Reel Deal on Aramingo?"
  Kilbane said nothing. He sipped his coffee and stared straight ahead.
  "Mr. Kilbane? Jessica said.
  Kilbane looked at her. "Excuse me, what did you say your name was, dear?"
  "Detective Balzano," she said.
  Kilbane leaned a little closer, his gaze running up and down her body. Jessica was glad she was wearing jeans today instead of a skirt. Still, she felt like she needed a shower.
  "I mean your name," Kilbane said.
  "Detective".
  Kilbane grinned. "Sweet."
  "Are you the owner of The Reel Deal?" Byrne asked.
  "Never heard of that," Kilbane said.
  Byrne kept his cool. Just barely. "I'm going to ask you again. But you should know, three is my limit. After three, we're moving the band to the Roundhouse. And my partner and I like to party late into the evening. Some of our favorite guests have been known to stay the night in this cozy little room. We like to call it 'The Murder Hotel.'"
  Kilbane took a deep breath. Tough guys always had that moment when they had to weigh their position against their results. "Yes," he said. "That's one of my businesses."
  "We believe one of the tapes in this store may contain evidence of a rather serious crime. We believe someone may have taken the tape off the shelf sometime last week and re-recorded it."
  Kilbane didn't react to this at all. "Yeah? And?"
  "Can you think of anyone who could do something like that?" Byrne asked.
  "Who, me? I don't know anything about it."
  - Well, we would be grateful if you would think about this question.
  "Is that right?" Kilbane asked. "What does this mean for me?"
  Byrne took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Jessica could see the muscles in his jaw working. "You'll thank the Philadelphia Police Department," he said.
  "Not good enough. Have a nice day." Kilbane leaned back and stretched. As he did, he revealed the two-finger handle of what was likely a game zipper in a sheath on his belt. A game zipper was a razor-sharp knife used for butchering game. Since they were far from the game preserve, Kilbane likely carried it for other reasons.
  Byrne looked down, very deliberately, at the weapon. Kilbane, a two-time loser, understood this. Mere possession of the weapon could get him arrested for violating his parole.
  "Did you say 'The Drum Deal'?" Kilbane asked. Contrite now. Respectful.
  "That would be correct," Byrne replied.
  Kilbane nodded, looking up at the ceiling, feigning deep thought. As if that were possible. "Let me ask around. See if anyone saw anything suspicious," he said. "I have a varied clientele in this place."
  Byrne raised both hands, palms up. "And they say community policing doesn't work." He dropped the card on the counter. "Either way, I'll be waiting for the call."
  Kilbane didn't touch the card or even look at it.
  The two detectives surveyed the bar. No one blocked their exit, but they were definitely on everyone's periphery.
  "Today," Byrne added. He stepped aside and gestured for Jessica to go ahead of him.
  As Jessica turned to leave, Kilbane put his arm around her waist and pulled her roughly toward him. "Ever been to a movie, baby?"
  Jessica kept her Glock holstered on her right hip. Kilbane's hand was now just inches from her weapon.
  "With a body like yours, I could make you a fucking star," he continued, squeezing her even tighter, his hand moving closer to her weapon.
  Jessica broke free of his grip, planted her feet on the ground, and delivered a perfectly aimed, perfectly timed left hook to Kilbane's stomach. The punch caught him squarely in the right kidney and landed with a loud slap that seemed to echo across the bar. Jessica stepped back, fists raised, more out of instinct than any fight plan. But that little skirmish was over. When you train at Frazier's Gym, you know how to work the body. One punch took off Kilbane's leg.
  And it turns out, it's his breakfast.
  As he doubled over, a stream of foamy yellow bile gushed from beneath his shattered upper lip, narrowly missing Jessica. Thank God.
  After the blow, the two thugs sitting at the bar were on high alert, all puffing and bragging, fingers twitching. Byrne raised his hand, which screamed two things. First, don't move, damn it. Second, don't move a damn inch.
  The room had a jungle feel to it as Eugene Kilbane tried to find his way. Instead, he knelt on the dirt floor. A 130-pound girl dropped him. For a guy like Kilbane, it was probably the worst thing that could happen. A body shot, no less.
  Jessica and Byrne approached the door slowly, fingers on the buttons of their holsters. Byrne pointed a warning finger at the villains at the pool table.
  "I warned him, didn't I?" Jessica asked Birn, still backing away and speaking out of the corner of her mouth.
  - Yes, you did, detective.
  "It felt like he was going to grab my gun."
  "Obviously, this is a very bad idea."
  "I had to hit him, didn't I?
  - No questions.
  - He's probably not going to call us now, is he?
  "Well, no," Byrne said. "I don't think so."
  
  Outside, they stood near the car for about a minute, just to make sure none of Kilbane's crew planned to drive it any further. As expected, they didn't. Jessica and Byrne had encountered thousands of people like Eugene Kilbane in their time on the job-small-timers with small holdings, staffed by people who feasted on the carrion left behind by the real players.
  Jessica's arm throbbed. She hoped she hadn't hurt him. Uncle Vittorio would kill her if he found out she was hitting people for free.
  As they got into the car and headed back to Center City, Byrne's cell phone rang. He answered, listened, closed it, and said, "Audio Visual has something for us."
  OceanofPDF.com
  11
  The Philadelphia Police Department's audiovisual unit was housed in the basement of the Roundhouse. When the crime lab moved to its shiny new quarters at Eighth and Poplar, the AV unit was one of the few remaining. The unit's primary function was to provide audiovisual support to all other city agencies-supplying cameras, televisions, VCRs, and photography equipment. They also provided news feeds, which meant monitoring and recording news 24/7; if the commissioner, chief, or any other senior officer needed anything, they had instant access.
  Much of the detective support unit's work involved analyzing surveillance video, although an audio recording of a threatening phone call would occasionally surface to spice things up. Surveillance footage was typically recorded using frame-by-frame technology, allowing twenty-four hours or more of footage to fit onto a single T-120 tape. When these recordings were played back on a standard VCR, the motion was so rapid that it was impossible to analyze. Consequently, a slow-motion VCR was required to view the tapes in real time.
  The unit was so busy that it kept six officers and one sergeant on the job every day. And the king of video surveillance analysis was Officer Mateo Fuentes. Mateo was in his mid-thirties-slim, fashionable, impeccably groomed-a nine-year veteran of the military who lived, ate, and breathed video. Ask him about his personal life at your own risk.
  They gathered in a small editing bay next to the control room. A yellowed printout was visible above the monitors.
  YOU SHOOT A VIDEO, YOU EDITT.
  "Welcome to Cinema Macabre, detectives," Mateo said.
  "What's playing?" Byrne asked.
  Mateo showed a digital photograph of the house with the Psycho videotape. More precisely, the side with the short strip of silver tape attached.
  "Well, first of all, it's old security footage," Mateo said.
  "Okay. What does this breakthrough rationale tell us?" Byrne asked with a wink and a smile. Mateo Fuentes was well known for his stiff, businesslike demeanor, as well as his Jack Webb-like delivery. He masked a more playful side, but he was a man to behold.
  "I'm glad you brought that up," Mateo said, playing along. He pointed to the silver ribbon on the side of the tape. "It's a good old-fashioned loss prevention method. Probably from the early '90s. Newer versions are much more sensitive and much more effective."
  "I'm afraid I don't know anything about that," Byrne said.
  "Well, I'm no expert either, but I'll tell you what I know," Mateo said. "The system is generally called EAS, or Electronic Article Surveillance. There are two main types: hard tags and soft tags. Hard tags are those bulky plastic tags they attach to leather jackets, Armani sweaters, classic Zegna shirts, and so on. All good stuff. These tags must be removed along with the device after payment. Soft tags, on the other hand, need to be desensitized by swiping them on a tablet or using a handheld scanner, which essentially tells the tag it's safe to leave the store."
  "What about videotapes?" Byrne asked.
  - And also video cassettes and DVDs.
  - That's why they hand them to you on the other side of those...
  "The pedestals," Mateo said. "Right. Exactly. Both types of tags operate on radio frequency. If the tag hasn't been removed or desensitized, and you pass by the pedestals, beeps will sound. Then they'll grab you."
  "And there's no way around this?" Jessica asked.
  There is always a way around everything.
  "Like what?" Jessica asked.
  Mateo raised a single eyebrow. "Planning on a little shoplifting, Detective?"
  "I've got my eye on a wonderful pair of black linen blanches."
  Mateo laughed. "Good luck. Things like that are better protected than Fort Knox."
  Jessica snapped her fingers.
  "But with these dinosaur systems, if you wrap the entire item in aluminum foil, it can fool the old security sensors. You can even hold the item to a magnet."
  "Comes and goes?"
  "Yes."
  "So someone who wrapped a videotape in aluminum foil or held it to a magnet could take it out of the store, hold it for a while, then wrap it again and put it back?" Jessica asked.
  "Maybe."
  - And all this so that you won"t be noticed?
  "I think so," Mateo said.
  "Great," Jessica said. They were focusing on people who rented tape. Now the opportunity was open to virtually anyone in Philadelphia with access to Reynolds Wrap. "What about a tape from one store being put into another store? Say, a tape from a Blockbuster movie gets inserted into a West Coast video?"
  "The industry hasn't standardized yet. They're promoting what they call tower-based systems rather than tag-based installations, so detectors can read multiple tag technologies. On the other hand, if people knew that these detectors only detect about sixty percent of thefts, they might be a little more confident."
  "What about re-recording a pre-recorded tape?" Jessica asked. "Is that difficult?"
  "Not in the slightest," Mateo said. He pointed to a small indentation on the back of the videotape. "All you have to do is put something on top of it."
  "So if a person picked up a tape from the store wrapped in foil, they could take it home and record over it-and if no one tried to rent it for a few days, no one would know it was missing," Byrne said. "Then all they'd have to do is wrap it in foil and put it back."
  "That's probably true."
  Jessica and Byrne exchanged glances. They weren't just back to square one. They weren't even on the board yet.
  "Thank you for making our day," Byrne said.
  Mateo smiled. "Hey, do you think I would have called you here if I didn't have something good to show you, Captain, my Captain?"
  "Let's see," Byrne said.
  "Check this out."
  Mateo swiveled in his chair and pressed a few buttons on the dTective digital console behind him. The detective system converted standard video to digital and allowed technicians to manipulate the image directly from the hard drive. Instantly, Psycho began to roll across the monitor. On the monitor, the bathroom door opened and an old woman entered. Mateo rewound until the room was empty again, then pressed PAUSE, freezing the image. He pointed to the upper left corner of the frame. There, on top of the shower rod, was a gray spot.
  "Cool," Byrne said. "Spot. Let's publish the APB."
  Mateo shook his head. "Usted de poka fe." He began to zoom in on the image, which was blurry to the point of incomprehensibility. "Let me clarify this a little."
  He pressed a sequence of keys, his fingers sliding across the keyboard. The image became a little clearer. The small stain on the shower rod became more recognizable. It looked like a rectangular white label with black ink. Mateo pressed a few more keys. The image grew larger by about 25 percent. It began to look like something.
  "What is that, a boat?" Byrne asked, squinting at the image.
  "A riverboat," Mateo said. He brought the picture into sharper focus. It was still very blurry, but it was clear there was a word underneath the drawing. A logo of some kind.
  Jessica pulled out her glasses and put them on. She leaned closer to the monitor. "It says... Natchez?"
  "Yes," Mateo said.
  "What is Natchez?"
  Mateo turned to the computer, which was connected to the internet. He typed a few words and hit ENTER. Instantly, a website appeared on the monitor, displaying a much clearer version of the image on the other screen: a stylized riverboat.
  "Natchez, Inc. makes bathroom fixtures and plumbing," Mateo said. "I think this is one of their shower pipes."
  Jessica and Byrne exchanged glances. After the morning's shadow chasing, this was a lead. A small one, but a leader nonetheless.
  "So do all the shower rods they make have that logo on them?" Jessica asked.
  Mateo shook his head. "No," he said. "Watch."
  He clicked on a page for a shower rod catalog. There were no logos or markings on the rods themselves. "I assume we're looking for some kind of label that identifies the item to the installer. Something they should remove once the installation is complete."
  "So you're saying this shower rod was recently installed," Jessica said.
  "That's my conclusion," Mateo said in his strange, precise manner. "If he'd been there long enough, you'd think the steam from the shower would have made him slip out. Let me get you a printout." Mateo pressed a few more keys, starting the laser printer.
  While they waited, Mateo poured a cup of soup from a thermos. He opened a Tupperware container, revealing two neatly stacked stacks of saline solutions. Jessica wondered if he'd ever been home.
  "I heard you're working on it with the costumes," Mateo said.
  Jessica and Byrne exchanged another glance, this time with a grimace. "Where did you hear that?" Jessica asked.
  "From the suit itself," Mateo said. "It was here about an hour ago."
  "Special Agent Cahill?" Jessica asked.
  "That would be a suit."
  - What did he want?
  "That's all. He asked a lot of questions. He wanted in-depth information on this matter."
  - Did you give it to him?
  Mateo looked disappointed. "I'm not that unprofessional, Detective. I told him I was working on it."
  Jessica had to smile. PPD was a lot. Sometimes she liked this place and everything about it. Still, she made a mental note to get Agent Opie's new asshole off her ass at the first opportunity.
  Mateo reached over and pulled out a printout of a photograph of a shower rod. He handed it to Jessica. "I know it's not much, but it's a start, right?"
  Jessica kissed the top of Mateo's head. "You're doing great, Mateo."
  "Tell the world, Hermana."
  
  The largest plumbing company in Philadelphia was Standard Plumbing and Heating on Germantown Avenue, a 50,000-square-foot warehouse stocked with toilets, sinks, bathtubs, showers, and virtually every fixture imaginable. They had high-end lines like Porcher, Bertocci, and Cesana. They also sold less expensive fixtures, such as those made by Natchez, Inc., a company based, unsurprisingly, in Mississippi. Standard Plumbing and Heating was the only distributor in Philadelphia selling these products.
  The sales manager's name was Hal Hudak.
  "This is an NF-5506-L. It's an aluminum L-shaped housing, one inch in diameter," Hudak said. He was looking at a printout of a photograph taken from a videotape. It had now been cropped so that only the top of the shower rod was visible.
  "And Natchez did this?" Jessica asked.
  "Right. But it's a fairly budget device. Nothing special." Hudak was in his late fifties, balding, mischievous, as if anything could be entertaining. He smelled of Cinnamon Altoids. They were in his paper-strewn office overlooking a chaotic warehouse. "We sell a lot of Natchez equipment to the federal government for FHA housing."
  "What about hotels, motels?" Byrne asked.
  "Sure," he said. "But you won't find that in any of the high-end or mid-range hotels. Not even a Motel 6."
  "Why is this?"
  "Mainly because the equipment in these popular budget motels is widely used. Using budget lighting fixtures doesn't make sense from a commercial standpoint. They were replaced twice a year."
  Jessica took a few notes and asked, "Then why would the motel buy them?"
  "Between you, me, and the switchboard operator, the only motels that can install these lights are the ones where people don't tend to stay overnight, if you know what I mean."
  They knew exactly what he meant. "Have you sold any of this recently?" Jessica asked.
  "It depends on what you mean by 'recently.'"
  "Over the past few months."
  "Let me see." He typed a few keys on his computer keyboard. "Uh-huh. Three weeks ago, I got a small order from... Arcel Management.
  "How small is the order?"
  "They ordered twenty shower rods. Aluminum L-shaped ones. Just like the ones in your picture.
  "Is the company local?"
  "Yes."
  "Has the order been delivered?"
  Khudak smiled. "Of course."
  "What exactly does Arcel Management do?"
  A few more keystrokes. "They manage apartments. A few motels, I think.
  "Motels by the hour?" Jessica asked.
  "I'm a married man, detective. I'll have to ask around.
  Jessica smiled. "It's okay," she said. "I think we can handle this."
  "My wife thanks you."
  "We'll need their address and phone number," Byrne said.
  "You got it."
  
  Back in Center City, they stopped at Ninth and Passyunk and flipped a coin. Heads represented Pat. Tails, Geno. Those were heads. Lunch was easy at Ninth and Passyunk.
  When Jessica returned to the car with the cheesesteaks, Byrne closed the phone and said, "Arcel Management manages four apartment complexes in North Philadelphia, as well as a motel on Dauphin Street."
  "West Philadelphia?"
  Byrne nodded. "Strawberry Mansion."
  "And I imagine it's a five-star hotel with a European spa and a championship golf course," Jessica said as she got into the car.
  "It's actually the obscure Rivercrest Motel," Byrne said.
  "Did they order these shower rods?"
  "According to the very kind, honey-voiced Miss Rochelle Davis, they actually did."
  "Did the very kind, honey-voiced Miss Rochelle Davis really tell Detective Kevin Byrne, who's probably old enough to be her father, how many rooms there are in the Rivercrest Motel?"
  "She did."
  "How many?"
  Byrne started the Taurus and pointed it west. "Twenty."
  
  
  12
  Seth Goldman sat in the elegant lobby of the Park Hyatt, a sleek hotel occupying the top few floors of the historic Bellevue building at Broad and Walnut Streets. He reviewed the day's call list. Nothing too heroic. They'd met with a reporter from Pittsburgh Magazine, done a short interview and photo shoot, and immediately returned to Philadelphia. They were scheduled to arrive on set in an hour. Seth knew Ian was somewhere at the hotel, which was good. While Seth had never seen Ian miss a call, he had a habit of disappearing for hours at a time.
  Just after four, Ian emerged from the elevator, accompanied by his nanny, Eileen, who was holding Ian's six-month-old son, Declan. Ian's wife, Julianna, was in Barcelona. Or Florence. Or Rio. It was hard to keep track.
  Eileen was supervised by Erin, Ian's production manager.
  Erin Halliwell had been with Ian for less than three years, but Seth had long since decided to keep an eye on her. Clean, succinct, and highly efficient, it was no secret that Erin wanted Seth's job, and if it weren't for the fact that she was sleeping with Ian-thereby unwittingly creating a glass ceiling for herself-she probably would have gotten it.
  Most people think a production company like White Light hired dozens, maybe even dozens, of full-time employees. In reality, there were only three: Ian, Erin, and Seth. That was all the staff needed until the film went into production; then the real hiring began.
  Ian spoke briefly with Erin, who turned on her polished, sensible heels, gave Seth an equally refined smile, and returned to the elevator. Then Ian ruffled little Declan's fluffy red hair, crossed the lobby, and glanced at one of his two watches-the one that showed local time. The other was set to Los Angeles time. Math wasn't Ian Whitestone's strong suit. He had a few minutes. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from Seth.
  "Who"s there?" Seth asked.
  "You."
  "Okay," Seth said. "Name two films each starring two actors, both directed by Oscar winners."
  Ian smiled. He crossed his legs and ran his hand over his chin. "He was looking more and more like a forty-year-old Stanley Kubrick," Seth thought. Deep-set eyes with a mischievous glint. An expensive, casual wardrobe.
  "Okay," Ian said. They'd been playing this quiz off and on for almost three years now. Seth had yet to stump the man. "Four Oscar-winning actor-directors. Two films."
  "True. But keep in mind that they won their Oscars for directing, not acting."
  "After 1960?"
  Seth just looked at him. As if he wanted to give him a hint. As if Ian needed a hint.
  "Four different people?" Jan asked.
  Another shine.
  "Okay, okay." Hands up in surrender.
  The rules were as follows: the person asking the question gave the other person five minutes to answer. There would be no consultation with third parties, and no internet access would be allowed. If you couldn't answer the question within five minutes, you had to dine with the other person at a restaurant of their choice.
  "Give?" Seth asked.
  Jan glanced at one of his watches. "Three minutes left?"
  "Two minutes and forty seconds," Seth corrected.
  Ian looked at the ornate vaulted ceiling, searching his memory. It seemed as if Seth had finally defeated him.
  With ten seconds left, Ian said, "Woody Allen and Sydney Pollack in Husbands and Wives. Kevin Costner and Clint Eastwood in A Perfect World."
  "Curse."
  Ian laughed. He was still hitting a thousand. He stood up and grabbed his bag over his shoulder. "What's Norma Desmond's phone number?"
  Ian always said it was about the movie. Most people used the past tense. For Ian, the movie was always the moment. "Crestview 5-1733," Seth replied. "What name did Janet Leigh use when she entered the Bates Motel?"
  "Marie Samuels," said Ian. "What's the name of Gelsomina's sister?"
  "That was easy," Seth thought. He knew every frame of Fellini's "La Strada." He'd first seen it in Monarch Art when he was ten years old. He still cried when he thought about it. He only had to hear the mournful wail of that trumpet during the opening credits to start bawling. "Rosa."
  "Molto bene," Ian said with a wink. "See you on set."
  "Yes, maestro."
  
  SETH hailed a cab and headed to Ninth Street. As they drove south, he watched the neighborhoods change: from the bustle of Center City to the sprawling urban enclave of South Philadelphia. Seth had to admit he enjoyed working in Philadelphia, Ian's hometown. Despite all the demands to officially move White Light Pictures' office to Hollywood, Ian resisted.
  A few minutes later, they encountered the first police cars and street barricades. Production had closed on Ninth Street for two blocks in each direction. By the time Seth arrived on set, everything was in place-lights, sound equipment, the security presence necessary for any filming in a major metropolis. Seth showed his ID, bypassed the barricades, and slipped up to Anthony. He ordered a cappuccino and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
  Everything worked like clockwork. All they needed was the main character, Will Parrish.
  Parrish, the star of the wildly successful 1980s ABC action comedy "Daybreak," was on the crest of a comeback of sorts, his second. During the 1980s, he was on the cover of every magazine, every TV talk show, and in virtually every transit commercial in every major city. His smirking, witty character from "Daybreak" was not unlike his own, and by the end of the 1980s, he had become the highest-paid actor on television.
  Then came the action film Kill the Game, which elevated him to the A-list, grossing nearly $270 million worldwide. Three equally successful sequels followed. Meanwhile, Parrish directed a series of romantic comedies and small dramas. Then came a decline in big-budget action films, and Parrish found himself without scripts. Almost a decade passed before Ian Whitestone put him back on the map.
  In The Palace, his second film with Whitestone, he played a widowed surgeon treating a young boy who was severely burned in a fire set by the boy's mother. Parrish's character, Ben Archer, performs skin grafts on the boy, gradually discovering that his patient is clairvoyant and that nefarious government agencies are out to get him.
  The shooting that day was relatively simple logistically. Dr. Benjamin Archer leaves a restaurant in South Philadelphia and sees a mysterious man in a dark suit. He follows.
  Seth grabbed his cappuccino and stood on the corner. They were about half an hour away from the shooting.
  For Seth Goldman, the best part of location shooting (any kind, but especially urban) were the women. Young women, middle-aged women, rich women, poor women, housewives, students, working women-they stood on the other side of the fence, captivated by the glamour of it all, mesmerized by the celebrities, lined up like sexy, scented ducks. Gallery. In the big cities, even mayors had sex.
  And Seth Goldman was far from a master.
  Seth sipped his coffee, pretending to admire the team's efficiency. What really struck him was the blonde standing on the other side of the barricade, just behind one of the police cars blocking the street.
  Seth approached her. He spoke quietly into a two-way radio, to no one else. He wanted to get her attention. He moved closer and closer to the barricade, now just a few feet from the woman. He wore a navy blue Joseph Abboud jacket over a white open-collar polo shirt. He exuded self-importance. He looked good.
  "Hello," said the young woman.
  Seth turned as if he hadn't noticed her. Up close, she was even more beautiful. She wore a powder-blue dress and low white shoes. She wore a strand of pearls and matching earrings. She was about twenty-five. Her hair shimmered golden in the summer sun.
  "Hello," Seth replied.
  "You with..." She waved her hand at the film crew, the lights, the sound truck, the set in general.
  "Production? Yes," Seth said. "I'm Mr. Whitestone's executive assistant."
  She nodded, impressed. "That's really interesting."
  Seth looked up and down the street. "Yes, that."
  "I was here for another film too."
  "Did you like the movie?" Fishing, and he knew it.
  "Very." Her voice rose slightly as she said this. "I thought Dimensions was one of the scariest movies I'd ever seen."
  "Let me ask you something."
  "Fine."
  - And I want you to be completely honest with me.
  She raised her hand in a three-finger pledge. "The Girl Scout Promise."
  "Did you see the ending coming?"
  "Not in the least," she said. "I was completely surprised."
  Seth smiled. "You said the right thing. Are you sure you're not from Hollywood?"
  "Well, it's true. My boyfriend said he knew it all along, but I didn't believe him."
  Seth frowned dramatically. "Buddy?"
  The young woman laughed. "Ex-boyfriend."
  Seth grinned at the news. Everything was going so well. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then thought better of it. At least, that was the scene he was playing out. It worked.
  "What is this?" she asked, tracing the hook.
  Seth shook his head. "I was going to say something, but I better not."
  She tilted her head slightly and began applying makeup. Right on cue. "What were you going to say?"
  "You will think that I am too persistent."
  She smiled. "I'm from South Philadelphia. I think I can handle it."
  Seth took her hand in his. She didn't tense up or pull away. That was a good sign, too. He looked into her eyes and said,
  "You have very beautiful skin."
  
  
  13
  The Rivercrest Motel was a dilapidated twenty-unit building at Thirty-third and Dauphin Streets in West Philadelphia, just a few blocks from the Schuylkill River. The motel was a single-story, L-shaped building with a weed-choked parking lot and a pair of out-of-order soda machines flanking the office door. There were five cars in the lot, two of which were on blocks.
  The manager of the Rivercrest Motel was a man named Carl Stott. Stott was in his fifties, a late arrival from Alabama, with the moist lips of an alcoholic, pitted cheeks, and a pair of dark blue tattoos on his forearms. He lived on the premises, in one of the rooms.
  Jessica was conducting the interview. Byrne hovered and stared. They had worked out this dynamic beforehand.
  Terry Cahill arrived around four-thirty. He remained in the parking lot, observing, taking notes, and strolling around the area.
  "I think these shower rods were installed two weeks ago," Stott said, lighting a cigarette, his hands shaking slightly. They were in the motel's small, shabby office. It smelled of warm salami. Posters of some of Philadelphia's top landmarks hung on the walls-Independence Hall, Penn's Landing, Logan Square, the Art Museum-as if the clients who frequented the Rivercrest Motel were tourists. Jessica noted that someone had painted a miniature Rocky Balboa on the steps of the Art Museum.
  Jessica also noticed that Carl Stott already had a cigarette burning in the ashtray on the counter.
  "You already have one," Jessica said.
  "Sorry?"
  "You already have one lit," Jessica repeated, pointing to the ashtray.
  "Jesus," he said. He threw out the old one.
  "A little nervous?" Byrne asked.
  "Well, yeah," Stott said.
  "Why is this?"
  "Are you kidding me? You're from the homicide department. Murder makes me nervous."
  - Have you killed anyone recently?
  Stott's face twisted. "What? No."
  "Then you have nothing to worry about," Byrne said.
  They'd check Stott out anyway, but Jessica made a note of it in her notebook. Stott had served time, she was sure of it. She showed the man a photo of the bathroom.
  "Can you tell me if this is where this photo was taken?" she asked.
  Stott glanced at the photograph. "It does look like ours."
  "Can you tell me what room this is?"
  Stott snorted. "You mean this is the presidential suite?"
  "I'm sorry?"
  He pointed to a dilapidated office. "Does this look like Crowne Plaza to you?"
  "Mr. Stott, I have a matter for you," Byrne said, leaning over the counter. He was inches from Stott's face, his granite gaze holding the man in place.
  "What is this?"
  "Losing your nerve, or we'll shut this place down for the next two weeks while we check every tile, every drawer, every switch panel. We'll also record the license plate number of every car that enters this lot."
  "Agreed?"
  "Believe it. And a good one, too. Because right now, my partner wants to take you to the Roundhouse and put you in a holding cell," Byrne said.
  Another laugh, but this time less mocking. "What is it, good cop, bad cop?"
  "No, that's bad cop, worse cop. That's the only choice you'll get."
  Stott stared at the floor for a moment, slowly leaning back, freeing himself from Byrne's orbit. "Sorry, I'm just a little..."
  "Nervous."
  "Yeah."
  "So you said. Now let's get back to Detective Balzano's question.
  Stott took a deep breath, then replaced the fresh air with a lung-shaking drag from his cigarette. He looked at the photograph again. "Well, I can't tell you exactly what room it is, but from the way the rooms are laid out, I'd say it's an even-numbered room."
  "Why is this?"
  "Because the toilets here are located one behind the other. If this were an odd-numbered room, the bathroom would be on the other side.
  "Can you narrow it down at all?" Byrne asked.
  "When people check in, you know, for a few hours, we try to give them numbers five through ten."
  "Why is this?"
  "Because they're on the other side of the building from the street. People often like to keep it low-key."
  "So if the room in this picture is one of those, then there will be six, eight, or ten of them."
  Stott looked at the water-soaked ceiling. He was doing some serious coding in his head. It was clear that Carl Stott had trouble with math. He looked back at Byrne. "Uh-huh."
  "Do you recall any problems with your guests in these rooms over the past few weeks?"
  "Problems?"
  "Anything out of the ordinary. Arguments, disagreements, any loud behavior."
  "Believe it or not, it's a relatively quiet place," Stott said.
  "Are any of these rooms occupied now?"
  Stott looked at the corkboard with the keys. "No."
  - We'll need keys for six, eight, and ten.
  "Of course," Stott said, taking the keys off the board. He handed them to Byrne. "May I ask what the matter is?"
  "We have reason to believe that a serious crime has been committed in one of your motel rooms within the last two weeks," Jessica said.
  By the time the detectives reached the door, Carl Stott had lit another cigarette.
  
  ROOM NUMBER SIX was a cramped, moldy space: a sagging double bed with a broken frame, splintered laminate nightstands, stained lampshades, and cracked plaster walls. Jessica noticed a ring of crumbs on the floor around the small table by the window. The worn, dirty oatmeal-colored carpet was mildewed and damp.
  Jessica and Byrne donned a pair of latex gloves. They checked the doorframes, doorknobs, and light switches for any visible traces of blood. Given the amount of blood spilled in the murder on video, the likelihood of splatters and stains throughout the motel room was high. They found nothing. That is, nothing visible to the naked eye.
  They entered the bathroom and turned on the light. A few seconds later, the fluorescent light above the mirror came to life, emitting a loud hum. For a moment, Jessica's stomach churned. The room was identical to the bathroom from the movie "Psycho."
  Byrne, who was six or three years old, peered at the top of the shower rod with relative ease. "There's nothing here," he said.
  They inspected the small bathroom: lifted the toilet seat, ran a gloved finger along the drain in the bathtub and sink, checked the grout around the tub, and even the folds of the shower curtain. No blood.
  They repeated the procedure in the eighth room with similar results.
  When they entered Room 10, they knew. There was nothing obvious about it, or even anything most people would notice. These were seasoned police officers. Evil had entered here, and the malice was practically whispering to them.
  Jessica turned on the bathroom light. This bathroom had recently been cleaned. Everything had a slight film, a thin layer of grit, left over from too much detergent and not enough rinse water. This coating was not found in the other two bathrooms.
  Byrne checked the top of the shower rod.
  "Bingo," he said. "We have a mark."
  He showed a photograph taken from a still image of the video. It was identical.
  Jessica followed the line of sight from the top of the shower rod. On the wall where the camera would have been mounted was an exhaust fan, positioned just a few inches from the ceiling.
  She grabbed a chair from another room, dragged it into the bathroom, and stood on it. The exhaust fan was clearly damaged. Part of the enamel paint had chipped off the two screws that held it in place. It turned out the grille had recently been removed and replaced.
  Jessica's heart began to beat with a special rhythm. There was no other feeling like it in law enforcement.
  
  TERRY CAHILL STOOD BY HIS CAR IN THE RIVERCREST MOTELS' PARTY, TALKING ON HIS PHONE. Detective Nick Palladino, now assigned to the case, began canvassing several nearby businesses, awaiting the team's arrival at the crime scene. Palladino was in his mid-forties, handsome, an old-school Italian from South Philadelphia. Christmas lights just before Valentine's Day. He was also one of the best detectives in the unit.
  "We need to talk," Jessica said, approaching Cahill. She noticed that even though he was standing directly in the sun and the temperature should have been around eighty degrees, he was wearing a jacket tied tightly and there wasn't a drop of sweat on his face. Jessica was ready to dive into the nearest pool. Her clothes were sticky with sweat.
  "I'll have to call you back," Cahill said into the phone. He closed it and turned to Jessica. "Sure. How are you?"
  - Do you want to tell me what's going on here?
  "I'm not sure what you mean."
  "As I understand it, you were here to observe and make recommendations to the bureau."
  "That's true," Cahill said.
  "Then why were you in the AV department before we were informed about the recording?"
  Cahill looked down at the ground for a moment, sheepish and caught. "I've always been a bit of a video geek," he said. "I heard you had a really good AV module, and I wanted to see for myself."
  "I would appreciate it if you could clear these matters up with me or Detective Byrne in the future," Jessica said, already feeling the anger begin to subside.
  "You are absolutely right. This will not happen again."
  She truly hated it when people did that. She was ready to jump on his head, but he immediately took the wind out of her sails. "I'd appreciate it," she repeated.
  Cahill surveyed the surroundings, letting his curses fade. The sun was high, hot, and merciless. Before the moment could become awkward, he waved his hand toward the motel. "This is a really good case, Detective Balzano."
  God, the feds are so arrogant, Jessica thought. She didn't need him to tell her that. The breakthrough had come thanks to Mateo's good work with the tape, and they'd just moved on. Then again, maybe Cahill was just trying to be nice. She looked at his serious face and thought, "Calm down, Jess."
  "Thank you," she said. And left everything as it was.
  "Have you ever thought about the bureau as a career?" he asked.
  She wanted to tell him that would be her second choice, right after being a monster truck driver. Besides, her father would kill her. "I'm very happy where I am," she said.
  Cahill nodded. His cell phone rang. He raised a finger and answered. "Cahill. Yes, hi." He glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes." He closed the phone. "Gotta run."
  "There's an investigation going on," Jessica thought. "So we have an understanding?"
  "Absolutely," Cahill said.
  "Fine."
  Cahill climbed into his rear-wheel drive car, put on his aviator sunglasses, gave her a satisfied smile, and, observing all traffic laws-state and local-pulled out onto Dauphine Street.
  
  As Jessica and Byrne watched the crime scene team unload their equipment, Jessica thought of the popular TV show "Without a Trace." Crime scene investigators loved that term. There was always a trace. The CSU officers lived by the idea that nothing was ever truly lost. Burn it, blot it, bleach it, bury it, wipe it, chop it up. They'd find something.
  Today, along with other standard crime scene procedures, they planned to conduct a luminol test in bathroom number ten. Luminol was a chemical that revealed traces of blood by causing a light-emitting reaction with hemoglobin, the oxygen-carrying element in blood. If traces of blood were present, the luminol, when viewed under a black light, would cause chemiluminescence-the same phenomenon that causes fireflies to glow.
  Soon after the bathroom was cleared of fingerprints and photographs, the CSU officer began spraying the liquid on the tiles around the bathtub. Unless the room was repeatedly rinsed with scalding hot water and bleach, blood stains would remain. When the officer finished, he turned on a UV arc lamp.
  "Light," he said.
  Jessica turned off the bathroom light and closed the door. The SBU officer turned on the blackout light.
  In an instant, they got their answer. There was no trace of blood on the floor, walls, shower curtain, or tiles, not the slightest obvious stain.
  there was blood.
  They found the murder scene.
  
  "We'll need this room's logs for the last two weeks," Byrne said. They returned to the motel office, and for a variety of reasons (not the least of which was that his formerly quiet illicit business was now home to a dozen PPD members), Carl Stott was sweating profusely. The small, cramped room was permeated with the acrid smell of a monkey house.
  Stott glanced at the floor and then back up. He looked like he was about to disappoint these very scary cops, and the thought seemed to make him sick. More sweat. "Well, we don't really keep detailed records, if you know what I mean. Ninety percent of the people who sign the register are named Smith, Jones, or Johnson."
  "Are all rent payments recorded?" Byrne asked.
  "What? What do you mean?"
  "I mean, do you sometimes let friends or acquaintances use these rooms without accounting?"
  Stott looked shocked. Crime scene investigators examined the lock on the door to Room 10 and determined it hadn't been recently forced or tampered with. Anyone who had recently entered that room had used a key.
  "Of course not," said Stott, outraged by the suggestion that he might be guilty of petty theft.
  "We'll need to see your credit card receipts," Byrne said.
  He nodded. "Sure. No problem. But as you'd expect, it's mostly a cash business."
  "Do you remember renting these rooms?" Byrne asked.
  Stott ran a hand over his face. It was clearly Miller time for him. "They all look alike to me. And I have a bit of a drinking problem, okay? I'm not proud of it, but I do. By ten o'clock, I'm already in my cups."
  "We'd like you to come to the Roundhouse tomorrow," Jessica said. She handed Stott a card. Stott took it, his shoulders slumping.
  Police officers.
  Jessica had drawn a timeline in her notebook at the front. "I think we've narrowed it down to ten days. These shower rods were installed two weeks ago, meaning that between Isaiah Crandall returning Psycho to The Reel Deal and Adam Kaslov renting it, our performer took the tape off the shelf, rented this motel room, committed the crime, and got it back on the shelf."
  Byrne nodded in agreement.
  In the next few days, they'll be able to narrow down their case further based on the blood test results. Meanwhile, they'll start with the missing persons database and check to see if anyone on the video matches the general description of the victim, someone who hasn't been seen in a week.
  Before returning to the Roundhouse, Jessica turned and looked at the door to Room Ten.
  A young woman had been murdered in this place, and a crime that might have gone unnoticed for weeks, or perhaps months, if their calculations were correct, had occurred in just a week or so.
  The crazy guy who did this probably thought he had a good lead on some dumb old cops.
  He was wrong.
  The chase began.
  
  
  14
  In Billy Wilder's great film noir "Double Indemnity," based on the novel by James M. Cain, there's a moment when Phyllis, played by Barbara Stanwyck, looks at Walter, played by Fred MacMurray. It's then that Phyllis's husband unwittingly signs an insurance form, sealing his fate. His untimely death, in a certain way, will now bring an insurance payout double the usual amount. Double indemnity.
  There's no great musical cue, no dialogue. Just a look. Phyllis looks at Walter with secret knowledge-and no small amount of sexual tension-and they realize they've just crossed a line. They've reached the point of no return, the point where they'll become killers.
  I am a killer.
  There's no denying or avoiding it now. No matter how long I live or what I do with the rest of my life, this will be my epitaph.
  I'm Francis Dolarhyde. I'm Cody Jarrett. I'm Michael Corleone.
  And I have a lot to do.
  Will any of them see me coming?
  Maybe.
  Those who admit their guilt but refuse to repent may feel my approach, like an icy breath on the back of their necks. And it is for this reason that I must be careful. It is for this reason that I must move through the city like a ghost. The city might think that what I do is random. It is not at all.
  "It's right here," she says.
  I slow down the car.
  "It's a bit of a mess inside," she adds.
  "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," I say, knowing full well that things are about to get even worse. "You should check out my place."
  She smiles as we pull up to her house. I look around. No one is looking.
  "Well, here we are," she says. "Ready?"
  I smile back, turn off the engine, and touch the bag on the seat. The camera is inside, the batteries are charged.
  Ready.
  
  
  15
  "HEY, HANDSOME."
  Byrne took a quick breath, steeled himself, and turned around. It had been a long time since he'd seen her, and he wanted his face to reflect the warmth and affection he truly felt for her, not the shock and surprise most people expressed.
  When Victoria Lindstrom arrived in Philadelphia from Meadville, a small town in northwestern Pennsylvania, she was a striking seventeen-year-old beauty. Like many pretty girls who made that journey, her dream at the time was to become a model and live the American dream. Like many of those girls, that dream quickly turned sour, turning instead into the dark nightmare of urban street life. The streets introduced Victoria to a cruel man who nearly destroyed her life-a man named Julian Matisse.
  For a young woman like Victoria, Matisse possessed a certain enamel charm. When she refused his repeated advances, one evening he followed her home to the two-room apartment on Market Street she shared with her cousin Irina. Matisse pursued her off and on for several weeks.
  And then one night he attacked.
  Julian Matisse sliced Victoria's face with a box cutter, turning her perfect flesh into a crude topography of gaping wounds. Byrne saw crime scene photographs. The amount of blood was staggering.
  After spending almost a month in the hospital, her face still bandaged, she bravely testified against Julian Matisse. He received a sentence of ten to fifteen years.
  The system was what it was and is. Matisse was released after forty months. His grim work lasted much longer.
  Byrne first met her when she was a teenager, shortly before she met Matisse; he once saw her literally stop traffic on Broad Street. With her silver eyes, raven hair, and gleaming skin, Victoria Lindstrom had once been a stunningly beautiful young woman. She was still there, if only you could look past the horror. Kevin Byrne discovered he could. Most men couldn't.
  Byrne struggled to his feet, half-grasping his cane, pain rippling through his body. Victoria placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, leaned over, and kissed his cheek. She sat him back in the chair. He let her. For a brief moment, Victoria's perfume filled him with a powerful mixture of desire and nostalgia. It took him back to their first meeting. They had both been so young then, and life hadn't yet had time to shoot its arrows.
  They were now in the food court on the second floor of Liberty Place, an office and retail complex at Fifteenth and Chestnut Streets. Byrne's tour officially ended at six o'clock. He wanted to spend a few more hours following the blood evidence at the Rivercrest Motel, but Ike Buchanan ordered him off duty.
  Victoria sat up. She wore skinny faded jeans and a fuchsia silk blouse. While time and the tide had created a few fine lines around her eyes, they hadn't diminished her figure. She looked as fit and sexy as the first time they met.
  "I read about you in the papers," she said, opening her coffee. "I was very sorry to hear about your problems."
  "Thanks," Byrne replied. He'd heard it so many times over the past few months. He'd stopped reacting to it. Everyone he knew-well, everyone-used different terms for it. Troubles, incidents, happenings, confrontations. He'd been shot in the head. That was the reality. He supposed most people would have a hard time saying, "Hey, I heard you got shot in the head." Are you okay?
  "I wanted to... get in touch," she added.
  Byrne had heard it too, many times. He understood. Life went on. "How are you, Tori?"
  She waved her arms. Not bad, not good.
  Byrne heard giggles and mocking laughter nearby. He turned and saw a couple of teenage boys sitting a few tables away, fireworks impersonators, white suburban kids in the standard baggy hip-hop attire. They kept looking around, their faces masked in terror. Perhaps Byrne's cane meant they thought he posed no threat. They were wrong.
  "I'll be right back," Byrne said. He started to rise, but Victoria put her hand on his shoulder.
  "It's okay," she said.
  "No, that's not true."
  "Please," she said. "If I were upset every time..."
  Byrne turned completely in his chair and stared at the punks. They held his gaze for a few seconds, but they couldn't match the cold green fire in his eyes. Nothing but the most dire of dire cases. A few seconds later, they seemed to understand the wisdom of leaving. Byrne watched as they walked along the food court and then up the escalator. They didn't even have the courage to take the final shot. Byrne turned back to Victoria. He found her smiling at him. "What?"
  "You haven't changed," she said. "Not a bit."
  "Oh, I've changed." Byrne pointed to his cane. Even that simple movement brought a sword of agony.
  "No. You're still gallant.
  Byrne laughed. "I've been called many things in my life. Never gallant. Not even once."
  "It's true. Do you remember how we met?
  "It feels like yesterday," Byrne thought. He was working in the central office when they received a call requesting a search warrant for a massage parlor in Center City.
  That night, when they gathered the girls, Victoria came down the steps into the front room of the terraced house in a blue silk kimono. He caught his breath, as did every other man in the room.
  The detective-a little brat with a sweet face, bad teeth, and bad breath-made a derogatory remark about Victoria. Although he would have been hard-pressed to explain why, back then or even now, Byrne had pinned a man so hard against a wall that the drywall had collapsed. Byrne couldn't remember the detective's name, but he could easily recall the color of Victoria's eyeshadow that day.
  Now she was consulting with fugitives. Now she was talking to girls who had stood in her place fifteen years ago.
  Victoria looked out the window. The sunlight illuminated the bas-relief network of scars on her face. My God, Byrne thought. The pain she must have endured. A deep anger began to build within him at the cruelty of what Julian Matisse had done to this woman. Again. He fought it.
  "I wish they could see it," Victoria said, her tone now distant, filled with a familiar melancholy, a sadness she'd lived with for years.
  "What do you mean?"
  Victoria shrugged and sipped her coffee. "I wish they could see it from the inside."
  Byrne had a feeling he knew what she was talking about. It seemed like she wanted to tell him. He asked, "Look what?"
  "Everything." She pulled out a cigarette, paused, and rolled it between her long, slender fingers. No smoking here. She needed a prop. "Every day I wake up in a hole, you know? A deep black hole. If I have a really good day, I'm almost broke even. Reach the surface. If I have a great day? Maybe I'll even see a bit of sunlight. Smell a flower. Hear a child's laughter.
  "But if I'm having a bad day-and most days are-well, then that's what I'd like people to see."
  Byrne didn't know what to say. He'd flirted with bouts of depression in his life, but nothing like what Victoria had just described. He reached out and touched her hand. She looked out the window for a moment, then continued.
  "My mother was beautiful, you know," she said. "She still is to this day."
  "So are you," Byrne said.
  She looked back and frowned. However, beneath the grimace, a slight blush hid. It still managed to add color to her face. That was good.
  "You're full of shit. But I love you for it."
  "I'm serious."
  She waved her hand in front of her face. "You don't know what it's like, Kevin."
  "Yes."
  Victoria looked at him, giving him the floor. She lived in a world of group therapy, where everyone told their own story.
  Byrne tried to organize his thoughts. He truly wasn't ready for this. "After I got shot, all I could think about was one thing. Not whether I'd go back to work. Not whether I'd be able to go outside again. Or even if I wanted to go outside again. All I could think about was Colleen."
  "Your daughter?"
  "Yes."
  "What about her?"
  "I just kept wondering if she'd ever look at me the same way again. I mean, her whole life, I've been the guy who looked out for her, right? The big, strong guy. Daddy. Cop dad. It scared me to death that she'd see me that small. That she'd see me shrunk.
  "After I came out of the coma, she came to the hospital alone. My wife wasn't with her. I'm lying in bed, most of my hair shaved off, I weigh twenty pounds, and I'm slowly weakening from the painkillers. I look up and see her standing at the foot of my bed. I look at her face and see it."
  "Look what?"
  Byrne shrugged, searching for the right word. He soon found it. "Pity," he said. "For the first time in my life, I saw pity in my little girl's eyes. I mean, there was love and respect there, too. But there was pity in that look, and it broke my heart. It occurred to me that in that moment, if she were in trouble, if she needed me, there was nothing I could do." Byrne glanced at his cane. "I'm not at my best today."
  "You'll be back. Better than ever."
  "No," Byrne said. "I don't think so."
  "Men like you always come back."
  Now it was Byrne's turn to color. He struggled with it. "Do men like me?"
  "Yes, you are a big person, but that is not what makes you strong. What makes you strong is within."
  "Yeah, well..." Byrne let the emotions settle. He finished his coffee, knowing it was time. There was no way to sugarcoat what he wanted to tell her. He opened his mouth and said simply, "He's gone."
  Victoria held his gaze for a moment. Byrne didn't need to elaborate or say anything else. There was no need to identify him.
  "Come out," she said.
  "Yes."
  Victoria nodded, taking this into account. "How?"
  "His conviction is being appealed. The prosecution believes they may have evidence that he was convicted of the murder of Marygrace Devlin." Byrne continued, telling her everything he knew about the alleged planted evidence. Victoria remembered Jimmy Purify well.
  She ran a hand through her hair, her hands shaking slightly. After a second or two, she regained her composure. "It's funny. I'm not afraid of him anymore. I mean, when he attacked me, I thought I had so much to lose. My looks, my... life, such as it was. I had nightmares about him for a long time. But now..."
  Victoria shrugged and began fiddling with her coffee cup. She looked naked, vulnerable. But in reality, she was tougher than he was. Could he walk down the street with a segmented face like hers, his head held high? No. Probably not.
  "He's going to do it again," Byrne said.
  "How do you know?"
  "I just do it."
  Victoria nodded.
  Byrne said: "I want to stop him."
  Somehow the world didn't stop spinning when he spoke those words, the sky didn't turn an ominous gray, the clouds didn't split.
  Victoria knew what he was talking about. She leaned over and lowered her voice. "How?"
  "Well, first I need to find him. He'll probably get back in touch with his old gang, the porn freaks and S&M types." Byrne realized that might have sounded harsh. Victoria came from that background. Perhaps she felt he was judging her. Fortunately, she didn't.
  "I will help you."
  "I can't ask you to do this, Tori. That's not why..."
  Victoria raised her hand, stopping him. "Back in Meadville, my Swedish grandmother had a saying. 'Eggs can't teach a chicken.' Okay? This is my world. I'll help you."
  Byrne's Irish grandmothers had their wisdom, too. No one disputed that. Still sitting, he reached out and picked Victoria up. They embraced.
  "We'll start this evening," Victoria said. "I'll call you in an hour."
  She put on her enormous sunglasses. The lenses covered a third of her face. She stood up from the table, touched his cheek, and left.
  He watched her walk away-a smooth, sexy metronome of her steps. She turned, waved, blew a kiss, and disappeared down the escalator. "She's still knocked out," Byrne thought. He wished her the happiness he knew she would never find.
  He rose to his feet. The pain in his legs and back was from the fiery shrapnel. He'd parked more than a block away, and now the distance seemed vast. He walked slowly along the food court, leaning on his cane, down the escalator, and through the lobby.
  Melanie Devlin. Victoria Lindstrom. Two women, full of sorrow, anger, and fear, their once-happy lives shipwrecked on the dark shoals of one monstrous man.
  Julian Matisse.
  Byrne now knew that what had begun as a mission to clear Jimmy Purify's name had turned into something else.
  Standing on the corner of Seventeenth and Chestnut, with the swirl of a hot Philadelphia summer evening all around him, Byrne knew in his heart that if he did nothing with what was left of his life, if he did not find a higher purpose, he wanted to be sure of one thing: Julian Matisse would not live to inflict more pain on another human being.
  OceanofPDF.com
  16
  The Italian Market stretched for about three blocks along Ninth Street in South Philadelphia, roughly between Wharton and Fitzwater Streets, and was home to some of the best Italian food in the city, and perhaps even the country. Cheese, produce, shellfish, meat, coffee, baked goods, and bread-for over a hundred years, the market was the heart of Philadelphia's large Italian-American population.
  As Jessica and Sophie walked down Ninth Street, Jessica thought about the scene from Psycho. She thought about the killer entering the bathroom, pulling back the curtain, and raising the knife. She thought about the young woman's screams. She thought about the huge splatter of blood in the bathroom.
  She squeezed Sophie's hand a little tighter.
  They were heading to Ralph's, a famous Italian restaurant. Once a week, they dined with Jessica's father, Peter.
  "So how are things at school?" Jessica asked.
  They walked in that lazy, inappropriate, carefree manner that Jessica remembered from childhood. Oh, to be three again.
  "Preschool," Sophie corrected.
  "Preschool," Jessica said.
  "I had an awfully good time," Sophie said.
  When Jessica joined the squad, she spent her first year patrolling this area. She knew every crack in the sidewalk, every broken brick, every doorway, every sewer grate...
  "Bella Ragazza!"
  - and every voice. This one could only belong to Rocco Lancione, owner of Lancione & Sons, a supplier of premium meat and poultry.
  Jessica and Sophie turned to see Rocco standing in the doorway of his shop. He must have been in his seventies by now. He was a short, plump man with dyed black hair and a dazzling white, spotless apron, a tribute to the fact that his sons and grandsons did all the work at the butcher shop these days. Rocco was missing the tips of two fingers on his left hand. A hazard of the butcher's trade. Until now, he kept his left hand in his pocket when he left the shop.
  "Hello, Mr. Lancione," Jessica said. No matter how old she got, he would always be Mr. Lancione.
  Rocco reached behind Sophie's ear with his right hand and magically pulled out a piece of Ferrara torrone, the individually wrapped nougat candy Jessica had grown up with. Jessica remembered many Christmases when she'd fought with her cousin Angela over the last piece of Ferrara torrone. Rocco Lancione had been finding the sweet, chewy treat behind little girls' ears for almost fifty years. He held it out before Sophie's wide eyes. Sophie glanced at Jessica before taking it. "That's my girl," Jessica thought.
  "It"s okay, dear," Jessica said.
  The candy was seized and hidden in the fog.
  "Say thank you to Mr. Lancione."
  "Thank you."
  Rocco wagged his finger warningly. "Wait until you've had dinner to eat this, okay, sweetie?"
  Sophie nodded, clearly thinking through her pre-dinner strategy.
  "How"s your father?" Rocco asked.
  "He's good," Jessica said.
  "Is he happy in retirement?"
  If you'd called the terrible suffering, mind-numbing boredom, and spending sixteen hours a day complaining about crime happy, he'd have been thrilled. "He's great. Easy to take. We're going to meet him for dinner."
  "Villa di Roma?"
  "At Ralph's."
  Rocco nodded in approval. "Give him your best."
  "I will definitely do so."
  Rocco hugged Jessica. Sophie offered her cheek for a kiss. Being Italian and never missing an opportunity to kiss a pretty girl, Rocco leaned in and happily complied.
  What a little diva, Jessica thought.
  Where does she get this from?
  
  Peter Giovannini stood on the playground in Palumbo, impeccably dressed in cream linen trousers, a black cotton shirt, and sandals. With his icy-white hair and deep tan, he could have passed for an escort working on the Italian Riviera, waiting to charm some wealthy American widow.
  They headed towards Ralph, Sophie just a few feet ahead.
  "She's getting big," Peter said.
  Jessica looked at her daughter. She was growing. Wasn't it just yesterday that she took her first tentative steps across the living room? Wasn't it just yesterday that her feet didn't reach the pedals of the tricycle?
  Jessica was about to answer when she glanced at her father. He had that thoughtful look he was beginning to get with some regularity. Were they all retired, or just retired police officers? Jessica paused. She asked, "What's wrong, Dad?"
  Peter waved his hand. "Ah. Nothing."
  "Pa."
  Peter Giovanni knew when he had to answer. It was the same with his late wife, Maria. It was the same with his daughter. One day, it would be the same with Sophie. "I just... I just don't want you to make the same mistakes I did, Jess."
  "What are you talking about?"
  "If you know what I mean."
  Jessica did so, but if she didn't press the issue, it would lend credence to her father's words. And she couldn't do that. She didn't believe it. "Not really."
  Peter glanced up and down the street, gathering his thoughts. He waved to a man leaning out of a third-floor window of an apartment building. "You can't spend your entire life working."
  "This is wrong".
  Peter Giovanni suffered from guilt over neglecting his children while they were growing up. Nothing could be further from the truth. When Jessica's mother, Maria, died of breast cancer at age thirty-one, when Jessica was only five, Peter Giovanni dedicated his life to raising his daughter and son, Michael. He may not have been at every Little League game or every dance recital, but every birthday, every Christmas, every Easter was special. All Jessica could remember were the happy times growing up in the house on Catherine Street.
  "Okay," Peter began. "How many of your friends aren't at work?"
  "One," Jessica thought. Maybe two. "Many."
  - Do you want me to ask you to name their names?
  "Okay, Lieutenant," she said, surrendering to the truth. "But I like the people I work with. I like the police.
  "Me too," said Peter.
  For as long as she could remember, police officers had been an extended family to Jessica. From the moment her mother died, she was surrounded by a gay family. Her earliest memories were of a house full of officers. She vividly remembered a female officer who would come and take her to pick up her school uniform. There were always patrol cars parked on the street in front of their house.
  "Look," Peter began again. "After your mother died, I had no idea what to do. I had a young son and a young daughter. I lived, breathed, ate, and slept at work. I missed so much of your life.
  - That's not true, dad.
  Peter raised his hand, stopping her. "Jess. We don't have to pretend."
  Jessica allowed her father to seize the moment, however wrong it was.
  "Then, after Michael..." Over the past fifteen years or so, Peter Giovanni has managed to get to that sentence.
  Jessica's older brother, Michael, was killed in Kuwait in 1991. That day, her father fell silent, closing his heart to any feelings. It was only when Sophie appeared that he dared to open up again.
  Shortly after Michael's death, Peter Giovanni entered a period of recklessness in his work. If you're a baker or a shoe salesman, recklessness isn't the worst thing in the world. For a cop, it's the worst thing in the world. When Jessica received her gold shield, it was all the incentive Peter needed. He turned in his papers that same day.
  Peter held back his emotions. "You"ve been working for, what, eight years now?"
  Jessica knew her father knew exactly how long she'd been wearing blue. Probably down to the week, day, and hour. "Yeah. About that."
  Peter nodded. "Don't stay too long. That's all I'm saying."
  "What's too long?"
  Peter smiled. "Eight and a half years." He took her hand in his and squeezed it. They stopped. He looked into her eyes. "You know I'm proud of you, right?"
  - I know, Pa.
  "I mean, you're thirty years old, and you work in homicide. You work real cases. You make a difference in people's lives."
  "I hope so," Jessica said.
  "There just comes a point when... things start working in your favor."
  Jessica knew exactly what he meant.
  "I'm just worried about you, dear." Peter fell silent, emotion momentarily clouding his words again.
  They got their emotions under control, entered Ralph's, and grabbed a table. They ordered their usual cavatelli with meat sauce. They no longer talked about work, or crime, or the state of affairs in the City of Brotherly Love. Instead, Peter enjoyed the company of his two girls.
  When they parted, they hugged a little longer than usual.
  
  
  17
  "WHY do YOU want me to wear this?"
  She holds a white dress in front of her. It's a white T-shirt dress with a scoop neckline, long sleeves, flared hips, and a length just below the knee. It took a while to find, but I finally found it at the Salvation Army thrift store in Upper Darby. It's inexpensive, but it would look stunning on her figure. It's the type of dress that was popular in the 1980s.
  Today is 1987.
  "Because I think it would look good on you."
  She turns her head and smiles slightly. Shy and modest. I hope that won't be a problem. "You're a strange boy, aren't you?"
  "Guilty as charged."
  "Is there anything else?"
  "I want to call you Alex."
  She laughs. "Alex?"
  "Yes."
  "Why?"
  "Let's just say it's a kind of screen test."
  She thinks about it for a few moments. She lifts her dress again and looks at herself in the full-length mirror. She seems to like the idea. Completely.
  "Well, why not?" she says. "I'm a little drunk."
  "I"ll be here, Alex," I say.
  She comes into the bathroom and sees that I've filled the bathtub. She shrugs and closes the door.
  Her apartment is decorated in a whimsical, eclectic style, with decor that includes a mix of mismatched sofas, tables, bookcases, prints, and rugs that were likely gifts from family members, with the occasional pop of color and personality sourced from Pier 1, Crate & Barrel, or Pottery Barn.
  I leaf through her CDs, looking for anything from the 1980s. I find Celine Dion, Matchbox 20, Enrique Iglesias, Martina McBride. Nothing that really speaks to the era. Then I'll be lucky. In the back of the drawer lies a dusty boxed set of Madama Butterfly.
  I put the CD in the player, fast forward to "Un bel di, vedremo." Soon the apartment is filled with melancholy.
  I cross the living room and easily open the bathroom door. She turns quickly, a little surprised to see me standing there. She sees the camera in my hand, hesitates for a moment, then smiles. "I look like such a slut." She turns right, then left, smoothing her dress over her hips and striking a pose for the cover of Cosmo.
  - You say that as if it's something bad.
  She giggles. She really is adorable.
  "Stand here," I say, pointing to a spot at the foot of the tub.
  She obeys. She vampirizes for me. "What do you think?"
  I look down at her. "You look perfect. You look just like a movie star."
  "Sweet talker."
  I step forward, pick up the camera, and carefully push it back. She falls into the bathtub with a loud splash. I need her wet for the shot. She flails her arms and legs wildly, trying to get out of the bathtub.
  She manages to rise to her feet, soaking wet and suitably indignant. I can't blame her. In my defense, I wanted to make sure the bath wasn't too hot. She turns to face me, her eyes furious.
  I shoot her in the chest.
  One quick shot, and the pistol rose from my hip. The wound blossomed on my white dress, spreading outward like little red hands blessing.
  For a moment, she stands perfectly still, the reality of it all slowly dawning on her beautiful face. It's the initial violence, quickly followed by the horror of what just happened to her, this abrupt and brutal moment in her young life. I look back and see a thick layer of fabric and blood on the blinds.
  She slides along the tiled wall, gliding over it with a crimson light. She lowers herself into the bathtub.
  With a camera in one hand and a gun in the other, I walk forward as smoothly as I can. Of course, it's not as smooth as on the highway, but I think it gives the moment a certain immediacy, a certain authenticity.
  Through the lens, the water turns red-scarlet fish are trying to surface. The camera loves blood. The light is perfect.
  I zoom in on her eyes-dead white balls in the bathwater. I hold the shot for a moment, then...
  CUT:
  A few minutes later. I'm ready to hit the set, so to speak. I have everything packed and ready. I begin "Madama Butterfly" from the beginning atto Secondo. It really moves.
  I wipe down the few things I touched. I stop at the door, surveying the set. Perfect.
  This is the end.
  
  
  18
  B IRN considered wearing a shirt and tie, but decided against it. The less attention he drew to himself in the places he had to go, the better. On the other hand, he was no longer the imposing figure he once had been. And maybe that was a good thing. Tonight, he needed to be small. Tonight, he needed to be one of them.
  When you're a cop, there are only two types of people in the world. Knuckleheads and cops. Them and us.
  This thought made him think about the question. Again.
  Could he really retire? Could he really become one of them? In a few years, when the senior cops he knew retired and he was stopped, they truly wouldn't recognize him. He'd be just another idiot. He'd tell the scrub who he was and where he worked, and some silly story about the job; he'd show his pension card, and the kid would let him go.
  But he wouldn't be inside. Being inside meant everything. Not just respect or authority, but also juice. He thought he'd made his decision. Apparently, he wasn't ready.
  He settled on a black dress shirt and black jeans. He was surprised to find his black Levi's short-legged shoes fit him again. Perhaps there was an upside to the headshot. You're losing weight. Maybe he'll write a book: "The Attempted Murder Diet."
  He'd spent most of the day without his cane-hardened by pride and Vicodin-and considered not taking it with him now, but quickly dismissed the thought. How could he manage without it? Face it, Kevin. You'll need a cane to walk. Besides, he might seem weak, and that's probably a good thing.
  On the other hand, a cane might make him more memorable, and he didn't want that. He had no idea what they might find that night.
  Oh, yes. I remember him. Big guy. Walked with a limp. That's the guy, Your Honor.
  He took the cane.
  He also took his weapon.
  
  
  19
  As Sophie washed, dried, and powdered another of her new items, Jessica began to relax. And along with the calm came doubt. She considered her life as it was. She had just turned thirty. Her father was getting older, still energetic and active, but aimless and lonely in retirement. She worried about him. Her little girl was growing up by then, and somehow the possibility loomed that she might grow up in a house where her father didn't live.
  Wasn't Jessica herself a little girl, running up and down Catherine Street with an ice pack in her hand, not a care in the world?
  When did all this happen?
  
  WHILE SOPHIE WAS COLORING A COLORING BOOK AT THE DINNER TABLE AND ALL WAS RIGHT IN THE WORLD FOR THE MOMENT, JESSICA PUT THE VHS TAPE INTO THE VCR.
  She checked out a copy of Psycho from the free library. It had been a while since she'd seen the film from start to finish. She doubted she'd ever be able to watch it again without thinking about that incident.
  As a teenager, she was a fan of horror films, the kind that brought her and her friends to the theater on Friday nights. She recalled renting movies while babysitting Dr. Iacone and his two young sons: she and her cousin Angela would watch "Friday the 13th," "A Nightmare on Elm Street," and the "Halloween" series.
  Of course, her interest waned the moment she became a police officer. She saw enough reality every day. She didn't need to call it a night's entertainment.
  However, a film like Psycho definitely went beyond the slasher genre.
  What was it about this film that compelled the killer to reenact the scene? Furthermore, what compelled him to share it so perversely with an unsuspecting public?
  What was the mood?
  She watched the scenes leading up to the shower with a tinge of anticipation, though she didn't know why. Did she really think every copy of Psycho in town had been altered? The shower scene had passed without incident, but the scenes immediately afterward drew her extra attention.
  She watched as Norman cleaned up after the murder: spreading a shower curtain on the floor, dragging the victim's body onto it, cleaning the tiles and the bathtub, and backing Janet Leigh's car up to the motel room door.
  Norman then moves the body to the open trunk of the car and places it inside. Afterward, he returns to the motel room and methodically gathers all of Marion's belongings, including the newspaper containing the money she stole from her boss. He stuffs it all into the trunk of the car and drives her to the shore of a nearby lake. Once there, he pushes it into the water.
  The car begins to sink, slowly being swallowed by the black water. Then it stops. Hitchcock cuts to a shot of Norman's reaction, looking around nervously. After several agonizing seconds, the car continues to descend, eventually disappearing from view.
  Fast forward to the next day.
  Jessica pressed PAUSE, her mind racing.
  The Rivercrest Motel was just a few blocks from the Schuylkill River. If their perpetrator was as obsessed with recreating the murder from Psycho as he seemed, perhaps he went all the way. Perhaps he stuffed the body in the trunk of a car and submerged it, like Anthony Perkins did with Janet Leigh.
  Jessica picked up the phone and called the Marine Corps unit.
  
  
  20
  Thirteenth Street was the last remaining seedy stretch of downtown, at least as far as adult entertainment was concerned. From Arch Street, where it was limited to two adult bookstores and one strip club, to Locust Street, where there was another short belt of adult clubs and a larger, more upscale "gentlemen's club," it was the only street on which the Philadelphia Convention was held. Even though it backed into the Convention Center, the Visitors Bureau advised visitors to avoid it.
  By ten o'clock, the bars began to fill with a bizarre smorgasbord of rough traders and out-of-town businessmen. What Philadelphia lacked in quantity, it certainly made up for in the breadth of debauchery and innovation: from lap dances in lingerie to dancing with maraschino cherries. At BYOB establishments, customers were legally allowed to bring their own liquor, allowing them to remain completely nude. In some places that sold alcohol, the girls wore thin latex covers that made them appear naked. If necessity was the mother of invention in most areas of commerce, it was the lifeblood of the adult entertainment industry. At one BYOB club, "Show and Tell," lines stretched around the block on weekends.
  By midnight, Byrne and Victoria had visited half a dozen clubs. No one had seen Julian Matisse, or if they had, they were afraid to admit it. The possibility that Matisse had left town was becoming increasingly likely.
  Around 1:00 PM, they arrived at the Tik Tok club. It was another licensed club, catering to a second-tier businessman, a guy from Dubuque who'd finished his business in Center City and then found himself drunk and horny, having a good time on the way back to the Hyatt Penns Landing or the Sheraton Community Hill.
  As they approached the front door of a detached building, they overheard a loud discussion between a large man and a young woman. They were standing in the shadows at the far end of the parking lot. At some point, Byrne might have intervened, even while off-duty. Those days were behind them.
  Tik-Tok was a typical urban strip club-a small bar with a pole, a handful of sad, drooping dancers, and at least two watered-down drinks. The air was thick with smoke, cheap cologne, and the primal scent of sexual desperation.
  When they entered, a tall, thin black woman in a platinum wig was standing on a pole, dancing to an old Prince song. Every now and then, she dropped to her knees and crawled across the floor in front of the men at the bar. Some of the men waved money; most didn't . Occasionally, she'd take a bill and clip it to her thong. If she stayed under the red and yellow lights, she looked passable, at least for a downtown club. If she stepped into the white lights, you could see the run. She avoided the white spotlights.
  Byrne and Victoria remained at the back of the bar. Victoria sat a few stools away from Byrne, giving him a play. All the men were very interested in her until they got a good look at her. They did a double take, not excluding her entirely. It was still early. It was clear they all felt they could do better. For money. Every now and then, a businessman would stop, lean over, and whisper something to her. Byrne wasn't worried. Victoria could handle it on her own.
  Byrne was on his second Coke when a young woman approached and sat sideways next to him. She wasn't a dancer; she was a professional, working in the back of the room. She was tall, brunette, and wore a dark-gray pinstriped business suit with black stiletto heels. Her skirt was very short, and she wore nothing underneath. Byrne assumed her routine was to fulfill the secretarial fantasy many visiting businessmen had of their office colleagues back home. Byrne recognized her as the girl he'd jostled earlier in the parking lot. She had the rosy, healthy complexion of a country girl, a recent immigrant to the United States, perhaps from Lancaster or Shamokin, who hadn't lived there long. "That glow will surely fade," Byrne thought.
  "Hello."
  "Hello," Byrne replied.
  She looked him up and down and smiled. She was very beautiful. "You're a big guy, man."
  "All my clothes are big. It works out well."
  She smiled. "What's your name?" she asked, shouting over the music. A new dancer had arrived, a stocky Latina in a strawberry-red plush suit and maroon shoes. She danced to an old-fashioned Gap Band song.
  "Danny."
  She nodded as if he'd just given her tax advice. "My name's Lucky. Nice to meet you, Denny.
  She said "Denny" with an accent that made it clear to Byrne she knew it wasn't his real name, but at the same time, she didn't care. No one on TikTok had a real name.
  "Nice to meet you," Byrne replied.
  - What are you doing this evening?
  "Actually, I'm looking for an old friend of mine," Byrne said. "He used to come here all the time."
  "Oh, yeah? What's his name?"
  "His name is Julian Matisse. Do I know him?"
  "Julian? Yes, I know him.
  - Do you know where I can find him?
  "Yes, of course," she said. "I can take you straight to him."
  "Right now?"
  The girl looked around the room. "Give me a minute."
  "Certainly."
  Lucky crossed the room to where Byrne assumed the offices were. He caught Victoria's eye and nodded. A few minutes later, Lucky returned, her purse slung over her shoulder.
  "Ready to go?" she asked.
  "Certainly."
  "I don't usually provide services like this for free, you know," she said with a wink. "Gal has to earn a living."
  Byrne reached into his pocket. He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and tore it in half. He handed one half to Lucky. He didn't need to explain. She grabbed it, smiled, took his hand, and said, "I told you I was lucky."
  As they headed for the door, Byrne caught Victoria's eye again. He held up five fingers.
  
  They walked a block to a dilapidated corner building, the type known in Philadelphia as a "Father, Son, and Holy Ghost"-a three-story rowhouse. Some called it a trinity. Lights were burning in some of the windows. They walked down a side street and turned back. They entered the rowhouse and climbed the rickety stairs. The pain in Byrne's back and legs was excruciating.
  At the top of the stairs, Lucky pushed the door open and walked in. Byrne followed.
  The apartment was filthy as hell. Stacks of newspapers and old magazines stood in the corners. It smelled like rotting dog food. A broken pipe in the bathroom or kitchen left a damp, salty odor throughout the entire space, warping the old linoleum and rotting the baseboards. Half a dozen scented candles burned throughout, but they did little to mask the stench. Rap music played somewhere nearby.
  They walked into the front room.
  "He"s in the bedroom," Lucky said.
  Byrne turned toward the door she was pointing to. He glanced back, saw the slightest twitch on the girl's face, heard the creak of a floorboard, caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window facing the street.
  As far as he could tell, there was only one approaching.
  Byrne timed the blow, silently counting down to the approaching heavy footsteps. He retreated at the last second. The man was large, broad-shouldered, young. He crashed into the plaster. When he recovered, he turned, dazed, and approached Byrne again. Byrne crossed his legs and raised his cane with all his might. It caught the man in the throat. A clot of blood and mucus flew from his mouth. The man tried to regain his balance. Byrne struck him again, this time low, just below the knee. He cried out once, then collapsed to the floor, trying to pull something from his belt. It was a Buck knife in a canvas sheath. Byrne stepped on the man's hand with one foot and kicked the knife across the room with the other.
  This man wasn't Julian Matisse. It was a setup, a classic ambush. Byrne half-knew it would happen, but if word got out that a guy named Denny was looking for someone, and that you were screwing him at your own risk, it might make the rest of the night and the next few days flow a little more smoothly.
  Byrne looked at the man on the floor. He was clutching his throat, gasping for air. Byrne turned to the girl. She was trembling, slowly backing toward the door.
  "He... he made me do this," she said. "He's hurting me." She rolled up her sleeves, revealing the black and blue bruises on her arms.
  Byrne had been in the business for a long time and knew who was telling the truth and who wasn't. Lucky was just a kid, not even twenty yet. Guys like that were always going after girls like her. Byrne turned the guy over, reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and took out his driver's license. His name was Gregory Wahl. Byrne rummaged through his other pockets and found a thick wad of bills tied with a rubber band-maybe a grand. He withdrew a hundred, put it in his pocket, and tossed the money to the girl.
  "You"re... damn... dead," Val squeezed out.
  Byrne lifted his shirt, revealing the butt of his Glock. "If you want, Greg, we can end this right now."
  Val continued to look at him, but the threat had disappeared from his face.
  "No? Don't want to play anymore? I didn't think so. Look at the floor," Byrne said. The man complied. Byrne turned his attention to the girl. "Leave town. Tonight."
  Lucky looked around, unable to move. She, too, noticed the gun. Byrne saw that the wad of cash had already been taken away. "What?"
  "Run."
  Fear flashed in her eyes. "But if I do this, how do I know you won"t..."
  "This is a one-time offer, Lucky. Okay, just for five more seconds.
  She ran. "It's amazing what women can do in high heels when they have to," Byrne thought. A few seconds later, he heard her footsteps on the stairs. Then he heard the back door slam.
  Byrne sank to his knees. For now, the adrenaline had erased any pain he might have felt in his back and legs. He grabbed Val by the hair and lifted his head. "If I ever see you again, it'll be like a good time. In fact, if I hear anything about a businessman being brought here in the next few years, I'll assume it was you." Byrne held his driver's license up to his face. "I'm going to take this with me as a memento of our special time together."
  He stood up, grabbed his cane, and drew his weapon. "I"m going to take a look around. You"re not moving an inch. Hear me?"
  Val remained demonstratively silent. Byrne took the Glock and pressed the barrel to the man's right knee. "Do you like hospital food, Greg?"
  "Okay, okay."
  Byrne walked through the living room and threw open the doors to the bathroom and bedroom. The bedroom windows were wide open. Someone had been there. A cigarette had burned in the ashtray. But now the room was empty.
  
  BYRN RETURNED TO TIK-TOK. Victoria stood outside the ladies' room, biting her fingernail. He snuck in. The music blared.
  "What happened?" Victoria asked.
  "It's okay," Byrne said. "Let's go."
  - Did you find him?
  "No," he said.
  Victoria looked at him. "Something happened. Tell me, Kevin.
  Byrne took her hand and led her to the door.
  "Let's just say I ended up in Val."
  
  The XB AR was located in the basement of an old furniture warehouse on Erie Avenue. A tall black man in a yellowed white linen suit stood by the door. He wore a Panama hat and red patent leather shoes, and about a dozen gold bracelets on his right wrist. In two doorways to the west, partially obscured, stood a shorter but much more muscular man-a shaved head, sparrow tattoos on his massive arms.
  The entrance fee was twenty-five dollars each. They paid the attractive young woman in a pink leather fetish dress just outside the door. She slid the money through a metal slot in the wall behind her.
  They entered and descended a long, narrow staircase into an even longer corridor. The walls were painted a glossy crimson enamel. The thumping beat of a disco song grew louder as they approached the end of the corridor.
  X Bar was one of the few remaining hardcore S&M clubs in Philadelphia. It was a throwback to the hedonistic 1970s, a pre-AIDS world where anything was possible.
  Before they turned into the main room, they came across an alcove built into the wall, a deep recess in which a woman sat on a chair. She was middle-aged, white, and wearing a leather master mask. At first, Byrne wasn't sure if it was real or not. The skin on her arms and thighs looked waxy, and she sat perfectly still. As a pair of men approached them, the woman stood up. One of the men was wearing a full-body straitjacket and a dog collar attached to a leash. The other man yanked him roughly toward the woman's feet. The woman pulled out a whip and lightly struck the one in the straitjacket. Soon, he began to cry.
  As Byrne and Victoria walked through the main room, Byrne saw that half the people were dressed in S&M gear: leather and chains, spikes, catsuits. The other half were curious, hangers-on, parasites on the lifestyle. At the far end was a small stage with a single spotlight perched on a wooden chair. At that moment, no one was on stage.
  Byrne walked behind Victoria, watching the reaction she evoked. The men noticed her immediately: her sexy figure, her smooth, confident gait, her mane of shiny black hair. When they saw her face, they did a double take.
  But in this place, in this light, it was exotic. All styles were served here.
  They headed to the back bar, where the bartender was polishing the mahogany. He wore a leather vest, shirt, and studded collar. His greasy brown hair was combed back from his forehead, cut into a deep widow's peak. On each forearm was an intricate spider tattoo. At the last second, the man looked up. He saw Victoria and smiled, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth and grayish gums.
  "Hey, baby," he said.
  "How are you?" Victoria replied. She slipped on the last stool.
  The man leaned over and kissed her hand. "Never better," he replied.
  The bartender glanced over her shoulder, saw Byrne, and his smile quickly faded. Byrne held his gaze until the man turned away. Then Byrne peered behind the bar. Next to the liquor shelves were shelves filled with books on BDSM culture-leather sex, fisting, tickling, slave training, spanking.
  "It's crowded here," Victoria said.
  "You should watch this on Saturday night," the man replied.
  "I'm out," Byrne thought.
  "This is a good friend of mine," Victoria told the bartender. "Danny Riley."
  The man was forced to formally acknowledge Byrne's presence. Byrne shook his hand. They had met before, but the man at the bar didn't remember. His name was Darryl Porter. Byrne had been there the night Porter was arrested for pimping and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. The arrest had occurred at a party in the North Liberties, where a group of underage girls had been found partying with a pair of Nigerian businessmen. Some of the girls were as young as twelve. Porter, if Byrne remembered correctly, had only served a year or so on a plea bargain. Darryl Porter was a hawk. For this and many other reasons, Byrne wanted to wash his hands of it.
  "So what brings you to our little piece of paradise?" Porter asked. He poured a glass of white wine and placed it in front of Victoria. He didn't even ask Byrne.
  "I'm looking for an old friend," Victoria said.
  "Who would it be?"
  "Julian Matisse".
  Darryl Porter frowned. Either he was a good actor or he didn't know, Byrne thought. He watched the man's eyes. Then-a flicker? Definitely.
  "Julian's in jail. Green, last I heard.
  Victoria took a sip of wine and shook her head. "He left."
  Darryl Porter robbed and wiped the counter. "Never heard of it. I thought he was pulling the whole train."
  - I think he got distracted by some formality.
  "Good people of Julian," Porter said. "We're coming back."
  Byrne wanted to leap over the counter. Instead, he looked to his right. A short, bald man sat on a stool next to Victoria. The man looked at Byrne meekly. He was dressed in a fireside costume.
  Byrne turned his attention back to Darryl Porter. Porter filled a few drink orders, returned, leaned over the bar, and whispered something in Victoria's ear, all the while looking into Byrne's eyes. "Men and their damn power trips," Byrne thought.
  Victoria laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Byrne's stomach twisted at the thought that she would be flattered by the attention of a man like Darryl Porter. She was so much more than that. Perhaps she was just playing a role. Perhaps it was jealousy on his part.
  "We need to run," Victoria said.
  "Okay, baby. I'll ask around. If I hear anything, I'll call you," Porter said.
  Victoria nodded. "Cool."
  "Where can I contact you?" he asked.
  "I'll call you tomorrow."
  Victoria dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar. Porter folded it and handed it back to her. She smiled and slid off her chair. Porter smiled back and went back to wiping down the counter. He didn't look at Byrne anymore.
  On stage, a pair of blindfolded women, wearing ball-gagged sneakers, knelt before a large black man in a leather mask.
  The man held a whip.
  
  BYRNE AND VICTORIA stepped out into the humid night air, no closer to Julian Matisse than they had been earlier in the night. After the madness of Bar X, the city had become surprisingly quiet and calm. It even smelled clean.
  It was almost four o'clock.
  On the way to the car, they turned a corner and saw two children: black boys, ages eight and ten, wearing patched jeans and dirty sneakers. They were sitting on the porch of a row house behind a box full of mixed-breed puppies. Victoria looked at Byrne, jutting her lower lip and raising her eyebrows.
  "No, no, no," Byrne said. "Uh-huh. No way."
  "You should get a puppy, Kevin."
  "Not me."
  "Why not?"
  "Tory," Byrne said. "I have enough trouble taking care of myself."
  She gave him a puppy-dog look, then knelt down next to the box and surveyed the small sea of furry faces. She grabbed one of the dogs, stood up, and held it up to the streetlight like a bowl.
  Byrne leaned against the brick wall, propping himself up with his cane. He picked up the dog. The puppy's hind legs spun freely in the air as it began to lick his face.
  "He likes you, man," said the youngest child. He was clearly the Donald Trump of this organization.
  As far as Byrne could tell, the puppy was a shepherd-collie cross, another child of the night. "If I were interested in buying this dog-and I'm not saying I am-how much would you want for it?" he asked.
  "Slow-moving dollars," said the child.
  Byrne looked at the homemade sign on the front of the cardboard box. "It says 'twenty dollars.'"
  "This is a five."
  "This is a two."
  The kid shook his head. He stood in front of the box, blocking Byrne's view. "Well, well. These are torobed dogs.
  - Torobeds?
  "Yeah."
  "Are you sure?"
  "The most certainty."
  "What exactly are they?"
  "These are Philadelphia pit bulls."
  Byrne had to smile. "Is that right?"
  "Without a doubt," said the child.
  "I've never heard of this breed."
  "They're the best, man. They go out, guard the house, and eat little." The kid smiled. Killer charm. The whole way, he walked back and forth.
  Byrne glanced at Victoria. He began to soften. A little. He tried his best to hide it.
  Byrne put the puppy back in the box. He looked at the boys. "Isn't it a bit late for you guys to come out?"
  "Late? No, man. It's still early. We get up early. We're businessmen."
  "Okay," Byrne said. "Guys, stay out of trouble." Victoria took his hand as they turned and walked away.
  "Don't you need a dog?" the child asked.
  "Not today," Byrne said.
  "You"re forty," the guy said.
  - I'll let you know tomorrow.
  - They may disappear tomorrow.
  "Me too," Byrne said.
  The guy shrugged. And why not?
  He had a thousand years to go.
  
  When they reached Victoria's car on Thirteenth Street, they saw that the van across the street had been vandalized. Three teenagers had smashed the driver's window with a brick, setting off the alarm. One of them reached in and grabbed what appeared to be a pair of 35mm cameras lying on the front seat. When the kids spotted Byrne and Victoria, they ran down the street. A second later, they were gone.
  Byrne and Victoria exchanged glances and shook their heads. "Wait," Byrne said. "I'll be right back."
  He crossed the street, turned 360 degrees to make sure he wasn't being watched, and, wiping it with his shirt, threw Gregory Wahl's driver's license into the robbed car.
  
  VICTORIA L. INDSTROM LIVED in a small apartment in the Fishtown neighborhood. It was decorated in a very feminine style: French provincial furniture, sheer scarves on the lamps, floral wallpaper. Everywhere he looked, he saw a throw or a knitted afghan. Byrne often imagined nights when Victoria would sit here alone, needles in hand, a glass of Chardonnay by her side. Byrne also noted that no matter how light she turned on, it was still dim. All the lamps had low-wattage bulbs. He understood.
  "Would you like a drink?" she asked.
  "Certainly."
  She poured him three inches of bourbon and handed him the glass. He sat down on the armrest of her sofa.
  "We'll try again tomorrow evening," Victoria said.
  - I really appreciate it, Tori.
  Victoria waved him off. Byrne read a lot in the wave. Victoria was interested in Julian Matisse getting off the streets again. Or perhaps off the world.
  Byrne downed half the bourbon in one gulp. Almost instantly, it met the Vicodin in his system and created a warm glow inside. This was the very reason he had abstained from alcohol all night. He glanced at his watch. It was time to go. He had taken up more than enough of Victoria's time.
  Victoria walked him to the door.
  At the door, she put her arm around his waist and rested her head on his chest. She had kicked off her shoes and looked small without them. Byrne had never truly realized how petite she was. Her spirit always made her seem larger than life.
  After a few moments, she looked up at him, her silver eyes almost black in the dim light. What had begun as a tender hug and a kiss on the cheek, the parting of two old friends, suddenly escalated into something else. Victoria pulled him close and kissed him deeply. Afterward, they pulled back and looked at each other, not so much out of lust as perhaps out of surprise. Had this always been there? Had this feeling been simmering beneath the surface for fifteen years? Victoria's expression told Byrne he wasn't going anywhere.
  She smiled and began to unbutton his shirt.
  "What exactly are your intentions, Miss Lindstrom?" Byrne asked.
  "I will never tell."
  "Yes, you will."
  More buttons. "What makes you think that?"
  "I'm a very experienced lawyer," Byrne said.
  "This is right?"
  "Oh, yes."
  "Will you take me to the small room?" She unbuttoned a few more buttons.
  "Yes."
  - Will you make me sweat?
  "I will definitely do my best."
  - Will you make me talk?
  "Oh, there's no doubt about it. I'm an experienced investigator. KGB."
  "I see," Victoria said. "And what is the KGB?"
  Byrne raised his cane. "Kevin Gimp Byrne."
  Victoria laughed, pulled his shirt off and led him to the bedroom.
  
  As they lay in the afterglow, Victoria took one of Byrne's hands in hers. The sun was just beginning to break the horizon.
  Victoria gently kissed his fingertips one by one. Then she took his right index finger and slowly traced it over the scars on her face.
  Byrne knew that after all these years, after they had finally made love, what Victoria was doing now was far more intimate than sex. Never in his life had he felt closer to anyone.
  He thought about all the stages of her life he'd been present at: the troublemaking teenager, the victim of a horrific attack, the strong, independent woman she'd become. He realized he'd long harbored a vast and mysterious well of feelings for her, a cache of emotions he'd never been able to identify.
  When he felt the tears on her face, he understood.
  All this time the feelings were love.
  OceanofPDF.com
  21
  The Philadelphia Police Department's Marine Unit operated for over 150 years, its charter evolving over time from facilitating marine navigation up and down the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers to patrol, recovery, and rescue. In the 1950s, the unit added diving to its responsibilities and has since become one of the nation's elite aquatic units.
  Essentially, the Marine unit was an extension and complement to the PPD patrol force, tasked with responding to any water-related emergency, as well as recovering people, property, and evidence from the water.
  They began hauling the river at first light, starting from a section south of the Strawberry Mansion Bridge. The Schuylkill River was murky, invisible from the surface. The process would be slow and methodical: divers would work in a grid along the banks in fifty-foot segments.
  By the time Jessica arrived on the scene just after eight, they had already cleared a two-hundred-foot stretch. She found Byrne standing on the bank, silhouetted against the dark water. He was carrying a cane. Jessica's heart nearly broke. She knew he was a proud man, and giving in to weakness-any weakness-was difficult. She walked down to the river with a couple of cups of coffee in hand.
  "Good morning," Jessica said, handing Byrne a cup.
  "Hey," he said. He raised his cup. "Thanks."
  "Anything?"
  Byrne shook his head. He set his coffee down on the bench, lit a cigarette, and glanced at the bright red matchbox. It was from the Rivercrest Motel. He picked it up. "If we don't find anything, I think we should talk to the manager of this dump again."
  Jessica thought about Carl Stott. She didn't like killing him, but she didn't think he was telling the whole truth. "Do you think he'll survive?"
  "I think he has trouble remembering things," Byrne said. "On purpose."
  Jessica looked out over the water. Here, on this gentle bend of the Schuylkill River, it was hard to come to terms with what had happened just a few blocks from the Rivercrest Motel. If she was right about her hunch-and there was a huge chance she wasn't-she wondered how such a beautiful place could contain such horror. The trees were in full bloom; the water gently rocked the boats at the dock. She was about to respond when her two-way radio crackled to life.
  "Yeah."
  - Detective Balzano?
  "I'm here."
  "We found something."
  
  The car was a 1996 Saturn, submerged in the river a quarter mile from the Marine Corps mini-station on Kelly Drive. The station was only open during the day, so under the cover of darkness, no one would have seen anyone driving the car or pushing it into the Schuylkill. The car had no license plates. They'll check it against the VIN, the vehicle identification number, assuming it's still in the car and undamaged.
  As the car broke the surface, every eye on the riverbank turned to Jessica. Thumbs up everywhere. She found Byrne's eyes. In them, she saw respect and no small amount of admiration. That meant everything.
  
  The key was still in the ignition. After taking a series of photographs, the SBU officer removed it and opened the trunk. Terry Cahill and half a dozen detectives crowded around the car.
  What they saw inside will live with them for a very long time.
  The woman in the trunk was decimated. She had been stabbed multiple times, and because she was underwater, most of the small wounds had shriveled and closed. A salty-brown fluid oozed from the larger wounds-especially several on the woman's stomach and thighs.
  Because she was in the trunk of a car and not fully exposed to the elements, her body wasn't covered in debris. This might have made the medical examiner's job a bit easier. Philadelphia was bordered by two major rivers; the Department of Emergency Medicine had extensive experience with floaters.
  The woman was naked, lying on her back, arms at her sides, head turned to the left. There were too many stab wounds to count at the scene. The cuts were clean, indicating there had been no animals or river creatures on her.
  Jessica forced herself to look at the victim's face. Her eyes were open, shocked by the red. Open, but utterly expressionless. Not fear, not anger, not sadness. These were the emotions of the living.
  Jessica thought about the original scene from Psycho, the close-up of Janet Leigh's face, how beautiful and untouched the actress's face looked in that shot. She looked at the young woman in the trunk of that car and thought about the difference reality makes. There's no makeup artist here. This is what death really looked like.
  Both detectives were wearing gloves.
  "Look," Byrne said.
  "What?"
  Byrne pointed to a water-soaked newspaper on the right side of the trunk. It was a copy of the Los Angeles Times. He carefully unfolded the paper with a pencil. Inside were crumpled rectangles of paper.
  "What is this, counterfeit money?" Byrne asked. Inside the paper were several stacks of what looked like photocopies of hundred-dollar bills.
  "Yes," Jessica said.
  "Oh, that's great," Byrne said.
  Jessica leaned over and took a closer look. "How much would you bet there's forty thousand dollars in there?" she asked.
  "I don't follow it," Byrne said.
  "In Psycho, Janet Leigh's character steals forty grand from her boss. She buys a Los Angeles newspaper and hides the money inside. In the film, it's the Los Angeles Tribune, but that newspaper no longer exists."
  Byrne looked at her for a few seconds. "How the hell do you know that?"
  - I looked it up on the Internet.
  "The Internet," he said. He leaned over, pointed at the counterfeit money again, and shook his head. "This guy is one hell of a hard worker."
  At that moment, Tom Weirich, the deputy medical examiner, arrived with his photographer. The detectives stepped back and let Dr. Weirich in.
  As Jessica removed her gloves and breathed in the fresh air of a new day, she felt quite pleased: her premonition had been confirmed. It was no longer a matter of the phantom specter of a murder committed in two dimensions on television, of an unearthly concept of crime.
  They had a body. They had a murder.
  They had an incident.
  
  Little Jake's newsstand was a fixture on Filbert Street. Little Jake sold all the local newspapers and magazines, as well as newspapers from Pittsburgh, Harrisburg, Erie, and Allentown. He also carried a selection of out-of-state dailies and a selection of adult magazines, discreetly displayed behind him and covered with squares of cardboard. It was one of the few places in Philadelphia where the Los Angeles Times was sold over the counter.
  Nick Palladino went with the recovered Saturn and the CSU team. Jessica and Byrne interviewed Little Jake, while Terry Cahill surveyed the area along the Filbert.
  Little Jake Polivka got his nickname because he weighed somewhere around six-three hundred pounds. Inside the kiosk, he always seemed slightly hunched over. With his thick beard, long hair, and hunched posture, he reminded Jessica of the character Hagrid from the Harry Potter films. She always wondered why Little Jake didn't just buy and build a bigger kiosk, but she never asked.
  "Do you have any regular customers who buy the Los Angeles Times?" Jessica asked.
  Little Jake thought for a moment. "Not that I'd think about it. I only get the Sunday edition, and only four of those. Not a big seller.
  "Do you receive them on the day of publication?"
  "No. I receive them two or three days late.
  "The date we're interested in occurred two weeks ago. Can you remember who you might have sold the newspaper to?
  Little Jake stroked his beard. Jessica noticed there were crumbs, remnants of his morning breakfast. At least, she assumed it was this morning. "Now that you mention it, a guy came by a few weeks ago and asked for this. I didn't have a newspaper at the time, but I'm pretty sure I told him when they were coming. If he came back and bought a paper, I wasn't here. My brother runs the store two days a week now.
  "Do you remember what he looked like?" Byrne asked.
  Little Jake shrugged. "It's hard to remember. I see a lot of people here. And usually that's how many there are." Little Jake formed a rectangular shape with his hands, like a film director, framing the opening of his booth.
  "Anything you can remember will be very helpful."
  "Well, from what I remember, he was as ordinary as it gets. Baseball cap, sunglasses, maybe a dark blue jacket.
  "What kind of cap is this?"
  - I think flyers.
  "Are there any marks on the jacket? Logos?"
  - Not that I can remember.
  "Do you remember his voice? Is there an accent?
  Little Jake shook his head. "Sorry."
  Jessica took notes. "Do you remember enough about him to talk to the sketch artist?"
  "Sure!" said Little Jake, clearly excited at the prospect of being part of a real investigation.
  "We'll arrange it." She handed Little Jake a card. "In the meantime, if anything comes to mind or you see this guy again, give us a call."
  Little Jake handled the card with reverence, as if she'd handed him Larry Bowie's rookie card. "Wow. Just like Law & Order."
  "Exactly," Jessica thought. With the exception of Law & Order, they usually got everything done in about an hour. Less if you cut out the commercials.
  
  Jessica, Byrne, and Terry Cahill sat in interview A. Photocopies of the money and a copy of the Los Angeles Times were in the lab. A sketch of the man Little Jake described was being worked on. The car was heading to the lab garage. It was the downtime between the discovery of the first concrete lead and the first forensic report.
  Jessica looked at the floor and found the piece of cardboard Adam Kaslov was nervously playing with. She picked it up and began twisting and turning it, finding it actually had a therapeutic effect.
  Byrne took out a matchbox and turned it over in his hands. This was his therapy. Smoking was prohibited in the Roundhouse. The three investigators silently considered the day's events.
  "Okay, who the hell are we looking for here?" Jessica finally asked, more of a rhetorical question due to the anger that was starting to rage inside her, fueled by the image of the woman in the trunk of the car.
  "You mean why he did it, right?" Byrne asked.
  Jessica considered this. In their work, the questions of "who" and "why" were so closely intertwined. "Okay. I'll agree with the why," she said. "I mean, is this just a case of someone trying to get famous? Is this a case of a guy just trying to get into the news?"
  Cahill shrugged. "It's hard to say. But if you spend any time with the behavioral science guys, you'll realize that ninety-nine percent of these cases have much deeper roots."
  "What do you mean?" Jessica asked.
  "I mean, it takes a hell of a lot of psychosis to do something like that. So deep that you could be right next to a killer and not even know it. Things like that can be buried for a long time."
  "Once we identify the victim, we'll know a lot more," Byrne said. "Hopefully, it's personal."
  "What do you mean?" Jessica asked again.
  "If it's personal, that's where it ends."
  Jessica knew Kevin Byrne belonged to the shoe-shoe school of investigators. You go out, ask questions, bully the scum, and get answers. He didn't discount academics. It just wasn't his style.
  "You mentioned behavioral science," Jessica told Cahill. "Don't tell my boss, but I'm not entirely sure what they do." She had a degree in criminal justice, but it didn't include much in the field of criminal psychology.
  "Well, they primarily study behavior and motivation, mostly in the areas of teaching and research," Cahill said. "However, it's a far cry from the excitement of 'The Silence of the Lambs.' Most of the time, it's pretty dry, clinical stuff. They study gang violence, stress management, community policing, crime analysis."
  "They need to see the worst of the worst," Jessica said.
  Cahill nodded. "When the headlines about a terrible case die down, these guys go to work. It might not seem like much to the average law enforcement professional , but they investigate a lot of cases. Without them, VICAP wouldn't be what it is."
  Cahill's cell phone rang. He excused himself and left the room.
  Jessica thought about what he'd said. She replayed the psycho-shower scene in her mind. She tried to imagine the horror of that moment from the victim's perspective: the shadow on the shower curtain, the sound of the water, the rustle of the plastic as it was pulled back, the glint of the knife. She shuddered. She twisted the piece of cardboard tighter.
  "What do you think about that?" Jessica asked. No matter how sophisticated and high-tech behavioral science and all the federally funded task forces were, she would trade them all for the instincts of a detective like Kevin Byrne.
  "My gut tells me this isn't a thrill-seeking attack," Byrne said. "This is about something. And whoever it is, it wants our undivided attention."
  "Well, he's got it." Jessica unrolled the twisted piece of cardboard in her hands, intending to roll it back up. She'd never gone that far before. "Kevin."
  "What?"
  "Watch." Jessica carefully spread the bright red rectangle on the worn table, careful not to leave fingerprints. Byrne's expression said it all. He placed the matchbox next to the piece of cardboard. They were identical.
  Rivercrest Motel.
  Adam Kaslov was at the Rivercrest Motel.
  
  
  22
  He returned to the Roundhouse voluntarily, and that was a good thing. They clearly didn't have the strength to lift or restrain him. They told him they simply needed to clear up some unfinished business. A classic ploy. If he caved during the interview, he was caught.
  Terry Cahill and ADA Paul DiCarlo observed the interview through a two-way mirror. Nick Palladino was trapped in the car. The VIN was obscured, so identifying the owner took some time.
  "So how long have you lived in North Philadelphia, Adam?" Byrne asked. He sat across from Kaslov. Jessica stood with her back to the closed door.
  "About three years. Since I moved out of my parents' house.
  "Where do they live?"
  "Bala Sinvid".
  - Is this the place where you grew up?
  "Yes."
  - What does your father do, if I may ask?
  "He's in the real estate business."
  - And your mother?
  "She's a housewife, you know. Can I ask-"
  "Do you like living in North Philadelphia?"
  Adam shrugged. "It's fine."
  "Spending a lot of time in West Philadelphia?"
  "Some."
  - How much exactly will it cost?
  - Well, I work there.
  - At the theater, right?
  "Yes."
  "Cool job?" Byrne asked.
  "I think," Adam said. "They don't pay enough."
  "But at least the movies are free, right?"
  "Well, the fifteenth time you have to watch a Rob Schneider movie, it doesn't seem like a good deal."
  Byrne laughed, but it was clear to Jessica he couldn't tell Rob Schneider from Rob Petrie. "That theater is on Walnut Street, isn't it?"
  "Yes."
  Byrne made a note, even though they all knew it. It looked official. "Anything else?"
  "What do you mean?"
  "Is there any other reason you're going to West Philadelphia?"
  "Not really."
  "What about school, Adam? Last time I checked, Drexel was in this part of town.
  "Well, yes. I go to school there."
  "Are you a full-time student?"
  "Just a part-time job during the summer."
  "What are you studying?"
  "English," Adam said. "I"m studying English."
  - Are there any film lessons?
  Adam shrugged. "A couple."
  "What do you study in these classes?"
  "Mostly theory and criticism. I just don't understand what..."
  "Are you a sports fan?"
  "Sports? What do you mean?"
  "Oh, I don't know. Hockey, maybe. Do you like the Flyers?"
  "They're fine."
  "Do you by any chance have a Flyers cap?" Byrne asked.
  It seemed to frighten him, as if he thought the police might be following him. If he was going to close down, it would start now. Jessica noticed one of his shoes starting to tap on the floor. "Why?"
  "We just need to cover all the bases."
  It didn't make sense, of course, but the ugliness of the room and the proximity of all those police officers silenced Adam Kaslov's objections. For a moment.
  "Have you ever been to a motel in West Philadelphia?" Byrne asked.
  They watched him carefully, searching for a tic. He looked at the floor, the walls, the ceiling, anywhere but into Kevin Byrne's jade eyes. Finally, he said, "Why would I go to that motel?"
  Bingo, Jessica thought.
  - Looks like you're answering a question with a question, Adam.
  "Okay then," he said. "No."
  -Have you ever been to the Rivercrest Motel on Dauphin Street?
  Adam Kaslov swallowed hard. His eyes wandered around the room again. Jessica gave him something to focus on. She dropped an unfolded book of matches on the table. It was placed in a small evidence bag. When Adam saw it, his face went blank. He asked, "Are you telling me that... the incident on the Psycho tape happened at... this Rivercrest Motel?"
  "Yes."
  - And you think that I...
  "Right now, we're just trying to figure out what happened. That's what we're doing," Byrne said.
  - But I've never been there.
  "Never?"
  "No. I... I found these matches.
  "We have a witness who put you there."
  When Adam Kaslov arrived at the Roundhouse, John Shepherd took a digital photo of him and created a visitor ID badge for him. Shepherd then went to Rivercrest, where he showed the photo to Carl Stott. Shepherd called and said Stott recognized Adam as someone who had been to the motel at least twice in the past month.
  "Who said I was there?" Adam asked.
  "It doesn't matter, Adam," Byrne said. "What matters is that you just lied to the police. That's something we'll never recover from." He looked at Jessica. "Isn't that right, Detective?"
  "That's right," Jessica said. "It hurts our feelings, and then it makes it very hard for us to trust you."
  "She's right. We don't trust you right now," Byrne added.
  - But why... why should I bring you the film if I have something to do with it?
  "Can you tell us why someone would kill someone, film the murder, and then insert the footage onto a pre-recorded tape?"
  "No," said Adam. "I can't."
  "Neither can we. But if you can admit that someone actually did it, it's not hard to imagine that the same person brought the recording just to taunt us. Madness is madness, right?"
  Adam looked at the floor and remained silent.
  - Tell us about Rivercrest, Adam.
  Adam rubbed his face and wrung his hands. When he looked up, the detectives were still there. He spilled. "Okay. I was here."
  "How many times?"
  "Twice."
  "Why do you go there?" Byrne asked.
  "I just did."
  "What, a vacation or something? Did you book it through your travel agent?"
  "No."
  Byrne leaned forward and lowered his voice. "We're going to get to the bottom of this, Adam. With or without your help. Did you see all those people on the way here?
  After a few seconds, Adam realized he was expecting an answer. "Yes."
  "You see, these people never come home. They have no social or family life. They're at work twenty-four hours a day, and nothing gets past them. Nothing. Take a moment to think about what you're doing. The next thing you say could be the most important thing you ever say in your life."
  Adam looked up, his eyes shining. "You can't tell anyone about this."
  "It depends on what you want to tell us," Byrne said. "But if he's not implicated in this crime, he's not leaving this room."
  Adam glanced at Jessica, then quickly turned away. "I went there with someone," he said. "A girl. She's a woman."
  He said it decisively, as if to say that suspecting him of murder was one thing. Suspecting him of being gay was far worse.
  "Do you remember which room you were staying in?" Byrne asked.
  "I don't know," Adam said.
  "Try your best."
  - I... I think it was room number ten.
  "Both times?"
  "I think so."
  "What kind of car does this woman drive?"
  "I really don't know. We've never driven her car."
  Byrne leaned back. There was no need to attack him harshly at this point. "Why didn't you tell us about this sooner?"
  "Because," Adam began, "because she"s married."
  "We'll need her name."
  "I... can't tell you that," Adam said. He looked from Byrne to Jessica, then to the floor.
  "Look at me," Byrne said.
  Slowly and reluctantly, Adam obeyed.
  "Do I strike you as the kind of person who'd take that for an answer?" Byrne asked. "I mean, I know we don't know each other, but take a quick look around this place. Do you think it looks this shitty by chance?"
  - I... I don't know.
  "Okay. Fair enough. Here's what we're going to do," Byrne said. "If you don't give us this woman's name, you're going to force us to dig into your life. We're going to get the names of everyone in your classes, all your professors. We're going to go to the dean's office and ask about you. We're going to talk to your friends, your family, your colleagues. Is that really what you want?"
  Incredibly, instead of giving up, Adam Kaslov simply looked at Jessica. For the first time since she'd met him, she thought she saw something in his eyes, something sinister, something that suggested he wasn't just some scared kid with nothing wrong. There might even have been a hint of a smile on his face. Adam asked, "I need a lawyer, don't I?"
  "I'm afraid we can't really advise you on anything like that, Adam," Jessica said. "But I will say that if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to worry about."
  If Adam Kaslov was as big a fan of movies and television as they suspected, he'd probably seen enough scenes like this to know he had every right to get up and walk out of the building without saying a word.
  "Can I go?" Adam asked.
  "Thanks again, Law & Order," Jessica thought.
  
  JESSICA THOUGHT IT WAS SMALL. Jake's description: Flyers cap, sunglasses, maybe a dark blue jacket. During the interrogation, a uniformed officer peered into the windows of Adam Kaslov's car. None of these items were visible, no gray wig, no housedress, no dark cardigan.
  Adam Kaslov was directly involved in the murder video, was at the scene, and lied to the police. Is that enough for a search warrant?
  "I don't think so," Paul DiCarlo said. When Adam said his father was in real estate, he forgot to mention that his father was Lawrence Castle. Lawrence Castle was one of the biggest developers in eastern Pennsylvania. If they'd jumped on this guy too soon, there would have been a wall of pinstriped suits in a second.
  "Maybe this will solve the problem," Cahill said as he entered the room, holding a fax machine.
  "What is this?" Byrne asked.
  "Young Mr. Kaslov has a track record," Cahill replied.
  Byrne and Jessica exchanged glances. "I was in control," Byrne said. "He was clean."
  "Not squeaky."
  Everyone looked at the fax. Fourteen-year-old Adam Kaslov was arrested for videotaping his neighbor's teenage daughter through her bedroom window. He received counseling and community service. He served no time in juvenile detention.
  "We can't use this," Jessica said.
  Cahill shrugged. He knew, as did everyone else in the room, that juvenile records were supposed to be classified. "Just FYI."
  "We're not even supposed to know," Jessica added.
  "You know what?" Cahill asked with a wink.
  "Teenage voyeurism is a far cry from what was done to this woman," Buchanan said.
  They all knew it was true. Still, every piece of information, no matter how it was obtained, was helpful. They just had to be careful about the official route that led them to the next step. Any first-year law student could lose a case based on illegally obtained records.
  Paul DiCarlo, who had been trying his best not to listen, continued, "Right. Okay. Once you identify the victim and put Adam within a mile of her, I can sell the search warrant to a judge. But not before."
  "Maybe we should put him under surveillance?" Jessica asked.
  Adam was still sitting in A's interrogation room. But not for long. He'd already asked to leave, and every minute the door remained locked was pushing the department closer to a problem.
  "I can devote several hours to this," Cahill said.
  Buchanan looked encouraged by this. It meant the bureau would be paying overtime for a detail that would likely yield no results.
  "Are you sure?" Buchanan asked.
  "No problem."
  A few minutes later, Cahill caught up with Jessica at the elevators. "Look, I really don't think this kid's going to be much use. But I have a few ideas for the matter. How about I buy you a cup of coffee after your tour? We'll figure it out."
  Jessica looked into Terry Cahill's eyes. There always came a moment with a stranger-an attractive stranger, she hated to admit-when she had to consider an innocent-sounding comment, a simple-minded proposition. Was he asking her out? Was he making a move? Or was he actually asking her for a cup of coffee to discuss the murder investigation? She'd scanned his left hand the moment she met him. He wasn't married. She was, of course. But only slightly.
  Jesus, Jess, she thought. You have a damn gun on your hip. You're probably safe.
  "Make some whiskey and you're done," she said.
  
  Fifteen minutes after Terry Cahill left, Byrne and Jessica met at the coffee shop. Byrne read her mood.
  "What's the matter?" he asked.
  Jessica picked up the evidence bag containing the matchbook from the Rivercrest Motel. "I misread Adam Kaslov the first time," Jessica said. "And it's driving me nuts."
  "Don't worry about it. If he's our boy (and I'm not sure he is), there are a hell of a lot of layers between the face he shows the world and the psycho on that tape."
  Jessica nodded. Byrne was right. Still, she prided herself on her ability to translate people. Every detective had special skills. She had organizational skills and an ability to read people. Or so she thought. She was about to say something when Byrne's phone rang.
  "Byrne".
  He listened, his intense green eyes darting back and forth for a moment. "Thank you." He slammed the phone shut, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, something Jessica hadn't seen in a long time. She knew that look. Something was breaking.
  "How are you?" she asked.
  "It was CSU," he said, heading for the door. "We have ID."
  
  
  23
  The victim's name was Stephanie Chandler. She was twenty-two years old, single, and by all accounts a friendly and outgoing young woman. She lived with her mother on Fulton Street. She worked for a Center City public relations firm called Braceland Westcott McCall. They identified her by the license plate number on her car.
  The preliminary medical examiner's report had already been received. The death, as expected, had been ruled a homicide. Stephanie Chandler had been underwater for about a week. The murder weapon was a large, unserrated knife. She had been stabbed eleven times, and although he wouldn't testify about it, at least for now, since it wasn't within his expertise, Dr. Tom Weirich believed that Stephanie Chandler had indeed been killed on video.
  A toxicology test revealed no evidence of illegal drugs or trace amounts of alcohol in her system. The medical examiner also had a rape kit available. This was inconclusive.
  What the reports couldn't say was why Stephanie Chandler was in the dilapidated West Philadelphia motel in the first place. Or, more importantly, with whom.
  The fourth detective, Eric Chavez, was now partnered with Nick Palladino on the case. Eric was the fashionable face of the homicide squad, always wearing an Italian suit. Single and approachable, if Eric wasn't talking about his new Zegna tie, he was discussing the latest Bordeaux on his wine rack.
  As far as detectives could piece together, Stephanie's last day of life went like this:
  Stephanie, a striking, petite young woman with a penchant for tailored suits, Thai food, and Johnny Depp movies, left for work, as usual, just after 7:00 a.m. in her champagne-colored Saturn from her Fulton Street address to her office building on South Broad Street, where she parked in the underground garage. That day, she and several coworkers had gone to Penn's Landing on their lunch break to watch the film crew prepare for a shoot on the waterfront, hoping to catch a glimpse of a celebrity or two. At 5:30 a.m., she took the elevator down to the garage and drove out to Broad Street.
  Jessica and Byrne will visit Braceland Westcott McCall's office, while Nick Palladino, Eric Chavez and Terry Cahill will head to Penn's Landing to canvass.
  
  The reception area of Braceland Westcott McCall was decorated in a modern Scandinavian style: straight lines, light cherry-colored tables and bookcases, mirrors with metal edges, frosted glass panels, and well-designed posters that foreshadowed the company's high-end clientele: recording studios, advertising agencies, fashion designers.
  Stephanie's boss was a woman named Andrea Cerrone. Jessica and Byrne met with Andrea in Stephanie Chandler's office on the top floor of an office building on Broad Street.
  Byrne led the interrogation.
  "Stephanie was very trusting," Andrea said, a little hesitantly. "A little trusting, I think." Andrea Cerrone was visibly shaken by the news of Stephanie's death.
  - Was she dating anyone?
  "Not that I know of. She's pretty easily injured, so I think she was in shutdown mode for a while."
  Andrea Cerrone, not yet thirty-five, was a short, broad-hipped woman with silver-streaked hair and pastel blue eyes. Although she was slightly plump, her clothes were tailored with architectural precision. She wore a dark olive linen suit and a honey-colored pashmina.
  Byrne went further. "How long has Stephanie worked here?"
  "About a year. She came here straight out of college.
  - Where did she go to school?
  "Temple."
  "Did she have any problems with anyone at work?"
  "Stephanie? Hardly. Everyone liked her, and everyone liked her. I don't remember a single rude word ever coming out of her mouth."
  "What did you think when she didn't show up for work last week?"
  "Well, Stephanie had a lot of sick days coming up. I figured she was taking the day off, although it was unlike her not to call. The next day, I called her on her cell phone and left a few messages. She never answered.
  Andrea reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes, perhaps now understanding why her phone never rang.
  Jessica took a few notes. No cell phones were found in the Saturn or near the crime scene. "Did you call her at home?"
  Andrea shook her head, her lower lip trembling. Jessica knew the dam was about to burst.
  "What can you tell me about her family?" Byrne asked.
  "I think there's only her mother. I don't remember her ever talking about her father or any brothers or sisters."
  Jessica glanced at Stephanie's desk. Along with a pen and neatly stacked folders, there was a five-by-six-inch photograph of Stephanie and an older woman in a silver frame. In the picture-a smiling young woman standing in front of the Wilma Theater on Broad Street-Jessica thought the young woman looked happy. She had a hard time reconciling the photograph with the mutilated corpse she'd seen in the trunk of the Saturn.
  "Is that Stephanie and her mother?" Byrne asked, pointing to a photograph on the table.
  "Yes."
  - Have you ever met her mother?
  "No," Andrea said. She reached for a napkin from Stephanie's desk. She wiped her eyes.
  "Did Stephanie have a bar or restaurant she liked to go to after work?" Byrne asked. "Where did she go?"
  "Sometimes we'd go to Friday's next to the Embassy Suites on the strip. If we wanted to dance, we'd go to Shampoo."
  "I have to ask," Byrne said. "Was Stephanie gay or bi?"
  Andrea almost snorted. "Uh, no."
  - Did you go to Penn's Landing with Stephanie?
  "Yes."
  - Did anything unusual happen?
  "I'm not sure what you mean."
  "Was anyone bothering her? Are you following her?
  "I don't think so".
  "Did you see her do anything unusual?" Byrne asked.
  Andrea thought for a moment. "No. We were just hanging out. I'm hoping to see Will Parrish or Hayden Cole."
  "Have you seen Stephanie talking to anyone?"
  "I didn't really pay attention. But I think she was talking to a guy for a while. Men kept approaching her.
  "Can you describe this guy?"
  "White guy. Hat with flyers. Sunglasses."
  Jessica and Byrne exchanged glances. It matched Little Jake's memories. "How old?"
  "No idea. I didn't really get that close."
  Jessica showed her a photo of Adam Kaslov. "Maybe this is the guy?"
  "I don't know. Maybe. I just remember thinking that this guy wasn't her type."
  "What was her type?" Jessica asked, recalling Vincent's daily routine. She imagined everyone had a type.
  "Well, she was pretty picky about the men she dated. She always went for a well-dressed guy. Like Chestnut Hill.
  "Was this guy she was talking to part of the crowd, or was he part of the production company?" Byrne asked.
  Andrea shrugged. "I really don't know."
  "Did she say she knew this guy? Or maybe she gave him her number?
  "I don't think she knew him. And I'd be very surprised if she gave him her phone number. Like I said. Not her type. But then again, maybe he was just dressed. I just didn't have time to get a closer look.
  Jessica jotted down a few more notes. "We'll need the names and contact information of everyone who works here," she said.
  "Certainly."
  - Do you mind if we look around Stephanie's desk?
  "No," Andrea said. "It's fine."
  As Andrea Cerrone returned to the waiting room, riding a wave of shock and grief, Jessica donned a pair of latex gloves. She began her invasion of Stephanie Chandler's life.
  The left-hand drawers held folders, mostly press releases and press clippings. Several folders were filled with test sheets of black-and-white press photos. The photos were mostly of the "hit and grab" variety, a type of photo-op where two people pose with a check, a plaque, or some kind of quote.
  The middle drawer contained all the necessary paraphernalia of office life: paper clips, push pins, mailing labels, rubber bands, brass badges, business cards, glue sticks.
  The top right drawer held a young, single worker's urban survival kit: a small tube of hand lotion, lip balm, a few perfume samples, and mouthwash. There was also an extra pair of tights and three books: John Grisham's "Brothers," Windows XP for Dummies, and a book called "White Heat," an unauthorized biography of Ian Whitestone, a Philadelphia native and the director of Dimensions. Whitestone was the director of Will Parrish's new film, "The Palace."
  There were no notes or threatening letters on the video, nothing that could connect Stephanie to the horror of what happened to her.
  It was the photograph on Stephanie's desk, where she and her mother had already begun to haunt Jessica. It wasn't just that Stephanie looked so vibrant and alive in the photograph, but what the photograph represented. A week earlier, it had been an artifact of life, proof of a living, breathing young woman, a person with friends, ambitions, sorrows, thoughts, and regrets. A person with a future.
  Now it was a document of the deceased.
  
  
  24
  FAITH CHANDLER lived in a simple but well-kept brick house on Fulton Street. Jessica and Byrne met the woman in her small living room overlooking the street. Outside, a pair of five-year-olds played hopscotch under the watchful eye of their grandmothers. Jessica wondered what the sound of laughing children must have sounded like to Faith Chandler on this, the darkest day of her life.
  "I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Chandler," Jessica said. Even though she'd had to say those words many times since joining the homicide squad in April, it didn't seem like they were getting any easier.
  Faith Chandler was in her early forties, a woman with the wrinkled look of late night and early morning, a working-class woman who suddenly discovered she was the victim of violent crime. Old eyes in a middle-aged face. She worked as a night waitress at the Melrose Diner. In her hands, she held a scratched plastic glass containing an inch of whiskey. Next to her, on the TV tray, sat a half-empty bottle of Seagram's. Jessica wondered how far the woman had gone in this process.
  Faith didn't respond to Jessica's condolences. Perhaps the woman thought that if she didn't respond, if she didn't accept Jessica's offer of sympathy, it might not be true.
  "When was the last time you saw Stephanie?" Jessica asked.
  "Monday morning," Faith said. "Before she left for work."
  - Was there anything unusual about her that morning? Any changes in her mood or daily routine?
  "No. Nothing."
  - She said she had plans after work?
  "No."
  "What did you think when she didn't come home on Monday night?"
  Faith just shrugged and wiped her eyes. She took a sip of whiskey.
  "Did you call the police?"
  - Not right away.
  "Why not?" Jessica asked.
  Faith put down her glass and folded her hands in her lap. "Sometimes Stephanie stayed with her friends. She was a grown woman, independent. You see, I work nights. She works all day. Sometimes we really didn't see each other for days."
  - Did she have any brothers or sisters?
  "No."
  - What about her father?
  Faith waved her hand, returning to this moment through her past. They had struck a nerve. "He hadn't been a part of her life for years."
  "Does he live in Philadelphia?"
  "No."
  "We learned from her colleagues that Stephanie was dating someone until recently. What can you tell us about him?"
  Faith studied her hands for a few more moments before answering. "You have to understand, Stephanie and I were never that close. I knew she was seeing someone, but she never brought him around. She was a private person in many ways. Even when she was little."
  "Can you think of anything else that might help?"
  Faith Chandler looked at Jessica. Faith's eyes held that shining look Jessica had seen so many times, a shell-shocked look of anger, pain, and grief. "She was a wild child when she was a teenager," Faith said. "Right through college."
  "How wild?"
  Faith shrugged again. "Strong-willed. Ran with a pretty fast crowd. She recently settled down and got a good job." Pride warred with sadness in her voice. She took a sip of whiskey.
  Byrne caught Jessica's eye. Then, quite deliberately, he directed his gaze toward the entertainment center, and Jessica followed it. The room, set in the corner of the living room, was one of those cabinet-style entertainment centers. It looked like expensive wood-perhaps rosewood. The doors were slightly ajar, revealing from across the room a flat-screen television inside, and above it a rack of expensive-looking audio and video equipment. Jessica glanced around the living room as Byrne continued to ask questions. What had seemed neat and tasteful to Jessica when she arrived now looked decidedly tidy and expensive: the Thomasville dining and living room sets, the Stiffel lamps.
  "Can I use your restroom?" Jessica asked. She'd grown up in a house almost exactly like this and knew the bathroom was on the second floor. That was the gist of her question.
  Faith looked at her, her face a blank screen, as if she didn't understand anything. Then she nodded and pointed toward the stairs.
  Jessica climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the second floor. To her right was a small bedroom; straight ahead, a bathroom. Jessica glanced down the steps. Faith Chandler, entranced by her grief, was still sitting on the couch. Jessica slipped into the bedroom. Framed posters on the wall identified this as Stephanie's room. Jessica opened the closet. Inside were half a dozen expensive suits and an equal number of pairs of fine shoes. She checked the labels. Ralph Lauren, Dana Buchman, Fendi. All full labels. It turned out Stephanie wasn't an outlet shopper, where the tags had been cut in half many times. On the top shelf were several pieces of Toomey's luggage. It turned out Stephanie Chandler had good taste and the budget to support it. But where did the money come from?
  Jessica quickly glanced around the room. On one wall hung a poster from Dimensions, a supernatural thriller by Will Parrish. This, along with the Ian Whitestone book in her office desk, proved she was a fan of either Ian Whitestone, Will Parrish, or both.
  On the dresser lay a couple of framed photographs. One was of a teenage Stephanie hugging a pretty brunette of about the same age. Friends forever, that pose. Another picture showed a young Faith Chandler sitting on a bench in Fairmount Park, holding a baby.
  Jessica quickly searched Stephanie's drawers. In one, she found an accordion folder with paid invoices. She found Stephanie's last four Visa invoices. She laid them out on the dresser, pulled out her digital camera, and photographed each one. She quickly scanned the list of invoices, looking for high-end stores. Nothing. There were no charges against saksfifthavenue.com, nordstrom.com, or even any of the online discounters that sold high-end items: bluefly.com, overstock.com, smartdeals.com. It was a good bet she hadn't bought those designer clothes herself. Jessica put the camera away and returned the Visa invoices to the folder. If anything she found in the invoices turned into a lead, she'd be hard-pressed to say how she'd obtained the information. She'd worry about that later.
  Elsewhere in the file, she found the documents Stephanie had signed when she signed up for her cell phone service. There were no monthly bills detailing the minutes used and numbers dialed. Jessica wrote down the cell phone number. Then she pulled out her own phone and dialed Stephanie's number. It rang three times, then went to voicemail:
  Hi... this is Steph... please leave your message after the beep and I'll call you back.
  Jessica hung up. That call established two things. Stephanie Chandler's cell phone was still working, and it wasn't in her bedroom. Jessica called the number again and got the same result.
  I'll come back to you.
  Jessica thought that when Stephanie said that cheerful greeting, she had no idea what was in store for her.
  Jessica put everything back where she found it, walked down the hallway, entered the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and let the sink run for a few moments. She went down the stairs.
  "...all her friends," Faith said.
  "Can you think of anyone who might want to harm Stephanie?" Byrne asked. "Anyone who might have a grudge against her?"
  Faith just shook her head. "She had no enemies. She was a good person."
  Jessica met Byrne's gaze again. Faith was hiding something, but now was not the time to press her. Jessica nodded slightly. They would pounce on her later.
  "Again, we are very sorry for your loss," Byrne said.
  Faith Chandler stared at them blankly. "Why...why would anyone do something like that?"
  There were no answers. Nothing that could help or even ease this woman's grief. "I'm afraid we can't answer that," Jessica said. "But I can promise you that we will do everything we can to find whoever did this to your daughter."
  Like her offer of condolences, it seemed to ring hollow in Jessica's mind. She hoped it sounded sincere to the grief-stricken woman sitting in the chair by the window.
  
  They stood on the corner, looking in two directions but of the same mind. "I need to go back and inform the boss," Jessica finally said.
  Byrne nodded. "You know, I'm officially retiring for the next forty-eight."
  Jessica heard sadness in the statement. "I know."
  - Ike will advise you to keep me away.
  "I know."
  - Call me if you hear anything.
  Jessica knew she couldn't do it. "Okay."
  
  
  25
  FIGHT CHANDLER sat on her dead daughter's bed. Where was she when Stephanie smoothed the bedspread one last time, folding it under the pillow in her meticulous, conscientious way? What was she doing when Stephanie lined up her menagerie of stuffed animals in a perfect row at the head of the bed?
  She was at work, as always, waiting for the end of her shift, and her daughter was a constant, a given, an absolute.
  Can you think of anyone who might want to harm Stephanie?
  She knew it the moment she opened the door. A pretty young woman and a tall, confident man in a dark suit. They had the look of someone they did this often. It brought a sense of heartache to the door, like an exit signal.
  A young woman told her this. She knew it would happen. Woman to woman. Face to face. It was the young woman who cut her in half.
  Faith Chandler glanced at the corkboard on her daughter's bedroom wall. Clear plastic pins reflected a rainbow in the sunlight. Business cards, travel brochures, newspaper clippings. The calendar had suffered the most. Birthdays in blue. Anniversaries in red. The future in the past.
  She considered slamming the door in their faces. Perhaps that would keep the pain from penetrating. Perhaps that would preserve the heartache of the people in the newspapers, the people in the news, the people in the movies.
  Police learned today that...
  It's only in...
  An arrest has been made...
  Always in the background while she cooks dinner. Always someone else. Flashing lights, gurneys with white sheets, grim representatives. Reception at six thirty.
  Oh, Stephie, my love.
  She drained her glass, drinking whiskey in search of the sadness within. She picked up the phone and waited.
  They wanted her to come to the morgue and identify the body. Would she recognize her own daughter after death? Hadn't life created her as Stephanie?
  Outside, the summer sun dazzled the sky. Flowers had never been brighter or more fragrant; children, never happier. Always the classics, grape juice, and rubber pools.
  She pulled the photograph out of its frame onto the dresser, turned it over in her hands, and the two girls in it stood frozen forever on the threshold of life. What had been a secret all these years now demanded freedom.
  She replaced the phone. She poured another drink.
  "There will be time," she thought. With God's help.
  If only there were time.
  OceanofPDF.com
  26
  FILC ESSLER looked like a skeleton. For as long as Byrne had known him, Kessler had been a heavy drinker, a two-fisted glutton, and at least twenty-five pounds overweight. Now his hands and face were gaunt and pale, and his body had become a frail husk.
  Despite the flowers and bright cards with get-well wishes scattered around the man's hospital room, despite the lively activity of the smartly dressed staff, the team dedicated to preserving and prolonging life, the room smelled of sadness.
  While the nurse took Kessler's blood pressure, Byrne thought about Victoria. He didn't know if this was the beginning of something real, or if he and Victoria would ever be close again, but waking up in her apartment felt as if something had been reborn within him, as if something long dormant had broken through to the very soil of his heart.
  It was nice.
  That morning, Victoria made him breakfast. She scrambled two eggs, made him rye toast, and served it to him in bed. She placed a carnation on his tray and smeared lipstick on his folded napkin. The mere presence of that flower and that kiss told Byrne how much he had been missing in his life. Victoria kissed him at the door and told him she had a group meeting with the fugitives she was counseling later that evening. She said the group would end by eight o'clock and that she would meet him at the Silk City Diner in Spring Garden at eight-fifteen. She said she had a good feeling. Byrne shared this. She believed they would find Julian Matisse that night.
  Now, as I sat in the hospital room next to Phil Kessler, the good feeling vanished. Byrne and Kessler dropped all pleasantries they could muster and sank into an awkward silence. Both men knew why Byrne was there.
  Byrne decided to end it. For a variety of reasons, he didn't want to be in the same room with this man.
  - Why, Phil?
  Kessler considered his answer. Byrne wasn't sure whether the long pause between question and answer was due to the painkillers or his conscience.
  - Because it's right, Kevin.
  "Right for whom?"
  "The right thing for me."
  "What about Jimmy? He can't even defend himself."
  It seemed to get through to Kessler. He may not have been a great cop in his day, but he understood due process . Every man had the right to face his accuser.
  "The day we overthrew Matisse. Do you remember that?" Kessler asked.
  "Like yesterday," Byrne thought. There were so many police on Jefferson Street that day that it looked like a FOP convention.
  "I walked into that building knowing what I was doing was wrong," Kessler said. "I've lived with it ever since. Now I can't live with it anymore. I'm damn sure I'm not going to die with it."
  - Are you saying that Jimmy planted the evidence?
  Kessler nodded. "It was his idea."
  - I don't fucking believe it.
  "Why? You think Jimmy Purify was some kind of saint?
  "Jimmy was a great cop, Phil. Jimmy stood his ground. He wouldn't have done that."
  Kessler stared at him for a moment, his eyes seemingly focused in the middle distance. He reached for his glass of water, struggling to lift the plastic cup from the tray to his mouth. At that moment, Byrne's heart went out to the man. But he couldn't help. After a moment, Kessler placed the cup back on the tray.
  - Where did you get the gloves, Phil?
  Nothing. Kessler simply looked at him with his cold, dull eyes. "How many years do you have left, Kevin?"
  "What?"
  "Time," he said. "How much time do you have?"
  "I have no idea." Byrne knew where this was going. He let it play out.
  "No, you're not doing that. But I know, okay? I have a month. Less, probably. I won't see the first leaf fall this year. No snow. I won't let the Phillies fall in the playoffs. By Labor Day, I'll have this figured out."
  - Can you handle this?
  "My life," Kessler said. "Defending my life."
  Byrne stood up. It wasn't getting anywhere, and even if it had, he couldn't bring himself to pester the man any further. The point was, Byrne couldn't believe it about Jimmy. Jimmy was like a brother to him. He'd never met anyone more aware of the right and wrong in a situation than Jimmy Purifey. Jimmy was the cop who came back the next day and paid for the sandwiches they'd gotten while handcuffed. Jimmy Purifey paid his damn parking tickets.
  "I was there, Kevin. I'm sorry. I know Jimmy was your partner. But that's how it happened. I'm not saying Matisse didn't do it, but the way we caught him was wrong."
  "You know Matisse is outside, right?"
  Kessler didn't answer. He closed his eyes for a few moments. Byrne wasn't sure if he'd fallen asleep or not. Soon he opened them. They were wet with tears. "We did wrong to that girl, Kevin."
  "Who is this girl? Gracie?
  Kessler shook his head. "No." He raised a thin, bony hand, offering it as proof. "My penance," he said. "How do you intend to pay?"
  Kessler turned his head and looked out the window again. The sunlight revealed a skull beneath the skin. Beneath it lay the soul of a dying man.
  Standing in the doorway, Byrne knew, as he had known so much over the years, that there was something else to this, something other than compensating a man in his final moments. Phil Kessler was hiding something.
  We did wrong to this girl.
  
  B. I. R. N. took his hunch to the next level. Vowing to exercise caution, he called an old friend from the DA's homicide unit. He had trained Linda Kelly, and since then, she had steadily risen through the ranks. Discretion was certainly within her remit.
  Linda was handling Phil Kessler's financial records, and one red flag was flying high. Two weeks ago-the day Julian Matisse was released from prison-Kessler deposited ten thousand dollars into a new out-of-state bank account.
  
  
  27
  The bar is straight out of Fat City, a dive bar in North Philadelphia, with a broken air conditioner, a dirty tin ceiling, and a graveyard of dead plants in the window. It smells of disinfectant and old pork fat. There are two of us at the bar, four more scattered among the tables. The jukebox is playing Waylon Jennings.
  I glance at the guy to my right. He's one of those drunks Blake Edwards played, an extra in Days of Wine and Roses. He looks like he could use another one. I catch his attention.
  "How are you?" I ask.
  It won't take him long to sum it up. "It was better."
  "Who doesn't?" I answer. I point to his nearly empty glass. "Another one?"
  He looks at me more closely, perhaps searching for a motive. He'll never find one. His eyes are glassy, streaked with drink and fatigue. Yet beneath the fatigue, there's something. Something that speaks of fear. "Why not?"
  I walk up to the bartender and run my finger along our empty glasses. The bartender pours, grabs my receipt, and heads to the cash register.
  "Hard day?" I ask.
  He nods. "Tough day."
  "As the great George Bernard Shaw once said, 'Alcohol is the anesthesia with which we bear the effects of life.'"
  "I'll drink to that," he says with a sad smile.
  "There was a movie once," I say. "I think it was with Ray Milland." Of course, I know it was with Ray Milland. "He played an alcoholic."
  The guy nods. "Lost weekend."
  "That"s the one. There"s one scene where he talks about the effect alcohol has on him. It"s classic. An ode to the bottle." I stand up straighter, square my shoulders. I"m trying my best, Don Birnam, quoting from the film: "He throws sandbags overboard so the balloon can fly. Suddenly I"m bigger than usual. I"m competent. I"m walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls. I"m one of the greats." I put the glass back. "Or something like that."
  The guy looks at me for a few moments, trying to focus. "That"s damn good, man," he finally says. "You have a great memory."
  He slurs his words.
  I raise my glass. "Better days."
  "It couldn't be worse."
  Of course it could.
  He finishes his shot, then his beer. I follow his example. He starts rummaging in his pocket for his keys.
  - Another one for the road? I ask.
  "No, thanks," he says. "I'm fine."
  "Are you sure?"
  "Yeah," he says. "I have to get up early tomorrow." He slides off his stool and heads to the back of the bar. "Thanks, anyway."
  I throw a twenty on the bar and look around. Four dead drunks at rickety tables. A nearsighted bartender. We don't exist. We're background. I'm wearing a Flyers cap and tinted glasses. Twenty extra pounds of Styrofoam around my waist.
  I follow him to the back door. We enter the damp, late-evening heat and find ourselves in a small parking lot behind the bar. There are three cars.
  "Hey, thanks for the drink," he says.
  "You"re more than welcome," I reply. "Can you drive?"
  He holds a single key, attached to a leather keychain. The door key. "Going home."
  "Smart man." We're standing behind my car. I open the trunk. It's covered in clear plastic. He peers inside.
  "Wow, your car is so clean," he says.
  "I have to keep it clean for work."
  He nods. "What are you doing?"
  "I am an actor."
  It takes a moment for the absurdity to sink in. He scans my face again. Soon the recognition comes. "We've met before, haven't we?" he asks.
  "Yes."
  He waits for me to say more. I offer no more. The moment drags on. He shrugs. "Well, okay, it"s nice to see you again. I"ll be going."
  I placed my hand on his forearm. In my other hand, a straight razor. Michael Caine in Dressed to Kill. I open the razor. The sharpened steel blade glimmers in the marmalade-colored sunlight.
  He looks at the razor, then back into my eyes. It's clear he's remembering where we met. I knew he would eventually. He remembers me from the video store, standing at the classic movie stand. Fear blossoms on his face.
  "I... I have to go," he says, suddenly sober.
  I squeeze his hand tighter and say, "I'm afraid I can't allow that, Adam."
  
  
  28
  LAUREL HILL Cemetery was nearly empty at this hour. Situated on seventy-four acres overlooking Kelly Drive and the Schuylkill River, it had been home to Civil War generals as well as Titanic victims. The once-magnificent arboretum had quickly become a scar of overturned headstones, weed-choked fields, and crumbling mausoleums.
  Byrne stood for a moment in the cool shade of the huge maple, resting. Lavender, he thought. Gracie Devlin's favorite color was lavender.
  When he regained his strength, he approached Gracie's grave. He was surprised that he'd found the plot so quickly. It was a small, inexpensive marker, the kind you settle for when hard-selling tactics fail and the seller needs to move on. He looked at the stone.
  Marygrace Devlin.
  ETERNAL GRATITUDE read the inscription above the carving.
  Byrne greened the stone a little, pulling out the overgrown grass and weeds, and brushing the dirt from his face.
  Had it really been two years since he stood here with Melanie and Garrett Devlin? Had it really been two years since they had gathered in the cold winter rain, black-clad silhouettes against the deep purple horizon? He had lived with his family then, and the coming sadness of divorce hadn't even been on his radar. That day, he had driven the Devlins home and helped with a reception in their small rowhouse. That day, he had stood in Gracie's room. He remembered the scent of lilacs, floral perfume, and moth cakes. He remembered the collection of ceramic Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs figurines on Gracie's bookshelf. Melanie had told him that the only figurine her daughter needed was Snow White to complete the set. She had told him that Gracie intended to buy the last piece on the day she was killed. Three times, Byrne had returned to the theater where Gracie was killed, searching for the figurine. He had never found it.
  Snow White.
  From that night on, every time Byrne heard Snow White's name, his heart ached even more.
  He sank to the ground. The unrelenting heat warmed his back. After a few moments, he reached out, touched the tombstone, and...
  - the images crash into his mind with a cruel and unbridled fury... Gracie on the rotten floorboards of the stage... Gracie's clear blue eyes clouded with terror... eyes of menace in the darkness above her... the eyes of Julian Matisse... Gracie's screams eclipsed from all sounds, all thoughts, all prayer-
  Byrne was thrown back, wounded in the stomach, his hand torn from the cool granite. His heart felt like it was going to explode. The well of tears in his eyes filled to the brim.
  So believable. My God, so real.
  He looked around the cemetery, shaken to his core, his pulse pounding in his ears. There was no one near him, no one watching. He found a small measure of calm within himself, grabbed hold of it, and held on tight.
  For a few unearthly moments, he found it difficult to reconcile the fury of his vision with the peace of the cemetery. He was drenched in sweat. He glanced at the tombstone. It looked perfectly normal. It was perfectly normal. A cruel power was within him.
  There was no doubt about it. The visions had returned.
  
  BYRNE spent the early evening in physical therapy. As much as he hated to admit it, the therapy was helping. A little. He seemed to have a little more mobility in his legs and a little more flexibility in his lower back. Still, he'd never admit that to the Wicked Witch of West Philadelphia.
  A friend of his managed a gym in Northern Liberties. Instead of driving back to his apartment, Byrne showered at the gym and then had a light dinner at a local diner.
  Around eight o'clock, he pulled into the parking lot next to the Silk City diner to wait for Victoria. He turned off the engine and waited. He was early. He was thinking about the case. Adam Kaslov wasn't the Stones killer. However, in his experience, there were no coincidences. He thought about the young woman in the trunk of the car. He had never gotten used to the level of savagery accessible to the human heart.
  He replaced the image of the young woman in the trunk of the car with images of making love with Victoria. It had been so long since he'd felt the rush of romantic love in his chest.
  He remembered the first time, the only time in his life, that he'd felt like this. The time he'd met his wife. He remembered with precious clarity that summer day, smoking pot outside a 7-Eleven while some kids from Two Street-Des Murtaugh, Tug Parnell, Timmy Hogan-listened to Thin Lizzy on Timmy's shitty boombox. Not that anyone liked Thin Lizzy all that much, but they were Irish, damn it, and that meant something. "The Boys Are Back in Town," "Prison Break," "Fighting My Way Back." Those were the days. Girls with big hair and glittery makeup. Guys with skinny ties, gradient glasses, and sleeves pulled up in the back.
  But never before has a girl from two streets had a personality like Donna Sullivan. That day, Donna wore a white polka-dot sundress with thin shoulder straps that swayed with every step. She was tall, dignified, and confident; her strawberry-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and shone like the summer sun on the Jersey sand. She was walking her dog, a small Yorkie she named Brando.
  When Donna approached the store, Tag was already on all fours, panting like a dog, begging to be walked on a chain. It was Tag. Donna rolled her eyes, but smiled. It was a girlish smile, a playful smirk that said she could get along with clowns anywhere in the world. Tag rolled onto his back, trying his best to shut his mouth.
  When Donna looked at Byrne, she gave him another smile, a feminine smile that offered everything and revealed nothing, one that sank deep into tough-guy Kevin Byrne's chest. A smile that said: If you're a man in this bunch of boys, you'll be with me.
  "Give me a riddle, God," Byrne thought at that moment, looking at that beautiful face, at those aquamarine eyes that seemed to pierce him. "Give me a riddle for this girl, God, and I will solve it."
  Tug noticed Donna notice the big guy. As always. He stood up, and if it had been anyone but Tug Parnell, he would have felt stupid. "This side of beef is Kevin Byrne. Kevin Byrne, Donna Sullivan."
  "Your name is Riff Raff, right?" she asked.
  Byrne flushed instantly, embarrassed for the first time about the pen. The nickname had always evoked a certain sense of ethnic "bad boy" pride in Byrne, but coming from Donna Sullivan that day, it sounded, well, stupid. "Oh, yeah," he said, feeling even more stupid.
  "Would you like to take a little walk with me?" she asked.
  It was like asking him if he was interested in breathing. "Of course," he said.
  And now she has it.
  They walked down to the river, their hands touching but never stretching out, fully aware of each other's closeness. When they returned to the area just after dusk, Donna Sullivan kissed him on the cheek.
  "You know, you're not that cool," Donna said.
  "I don't?"
  "No. I think you can even be nice.
  Byrne clutched his heart, feigning cardiac arrest. "Sweetie?"
  Donna laughed. "Don't worry," she said. She lowered her voice to a honeyed whisper. "Your secret is safe with me."
  He watched her approach the house. She turned, her silhouette appearing in the doorway, and blew him another kiss.
  That day he fell in love and thought it would never end.
  Cancer struck Tug in '99. Timmy managed a plumbing crew in Camden. Six children, last he heard. Des was killed by a drunk driver in 2002. Himself.
  And now Kevin Francis Byrne felt that surge of romantic love again, only for the second time in his life. He had been confused for so long. Victoria had the power to change all that.
  He decided to abandon the search for Julian Matisse. Let the system play its game. He was too old and too tired. When Victoria showed up, he'd tell her they'd have a few cocktails and that would be it.
  The only good thing that came out of all this was that he found her again.
  He looked at his watch. Nine ten.
  He got out of the car and walked into the diner, thinking he'd missed Victoria, wondering if she'd missed his car and gone inside. She wasn't there. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed her number, and heard her voicemail. He called the runaway shelter where she counseled, and they told him she'd left some time ago.
  When Byrne returned to the car, he had to double-check it was his. For some reason, his car now had a hood ornament. He glanced around the parking lot, a little disoriented. He looked back. It was his car.
  As he got closer, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and dimples appeared on the skin of his hands.
  It wasn't a hood ornament. While he was at the diner, someone had placed something on the hood of his car: a small ceramic figurine sitting on an oak barrel. A figurine from a Disney movie.
  It was Snow White.
  
  
  29
  "NAME FIVE HISTORICAL roles played by Gary Oldman," Seth said.
  Ian's face lit up. He was reading the first of a small stack of scripts. No one read and absorbed a script faster than Ian Whitestone.
  But even a mind as quick and encyclopedic as Ian's would take more than a few seconds. Not a chance. Seth barely had time to utter the question before Ian spat out the answer.
  "Sid Vicious, Pontius Pilate, Joe Orton, Lee Harvey Oswald and Albert Milo."
  Gotcha, thought Seth. Le Bec-Fen, here we are. "Albert Milo was a fictional character."
  "Yes, but everyone knows he was actually supposed to be Julian Schnabel in Basquiat."
  Seth stared at Ian for a moment. Ian knew the rules. No fictional characters. They were sitting in Little Pete's on Seventeenth Street, across from the Radisson Hotel. As rich as Ian Whitestone was, he lived at the diner. "Okay, then," Ian said. "Ludwig van Beethoven."
  Damn, Seth thought. He really thought he had him this time.
  Seth finished his coffee, wondering if he'd ever be able to stump this man. He glanced out the window, saw the first flash of light across the street, saw the crowd approaching the hotel entrance, adoring fans gathered around Will Parrish. Then he glanced back at Ian Whitestone, his nose once again stuck in his script, the food still untouched on his plate.
  "What a paradox," Seth thought. Although it was a paradox filled with some strange logic.
  Sure, Will Parrish was a bankable movie star. He'd grossed over a billion dollars in worldwide ticket sales over the past two decades, and he was one of only a half-dozen or so American actors over thirty-five who could "open" a film. On the other hand, Ian Whitestone could pick up the phone and reach any one of five major studio executives in minutes. These were the only people in the world who could greenlight a film with a nine-figure budget. And they were all on Ian's speed dial. Even Will Parrish couldn't say that.
  In the film industry, at least on the creative level, the real power belonged to people like Ian Whitestone, not Will Parrish. If he'd had the desire (and he often did), Ian Whitestone could have plucked this stunningly beautiful but utterly talentless nineteen-year-old from the crowd and thrust her straight into the thick of her wildest dreams. With a brief stint in bed, of course. And all without lifting a finger. And all without causing a stir.
  But in almost any city except Hollywood, it was Ian Whitestone, not Will Parrish, who could sit quietly and unnoticed in a diner, eating in peace. No one knew that the creative force behind Dimensions liked to add tartar sauce to his hamburgers. No one knew that the man once called the second coming of Luis Buñuel liked to add a tablespoon of sugar to his Diet Coke.
  But Seth Goldman knew.
  He knew all this and more. Ian Whitestone was a man with an appetite. If no one knew of his culinary quirks, only one person knew that when the sun sank below the eaves, when people donned their night masks, Ian Whitestone revealed his perverse and dangerous buffet to the city.
  Seth looked across the street and spotted a young, stately, red-haired woman deep in the crowd. Before she could approach the movie star, he was whisked away in his stretch limousine. She looked dejected. Seth glanced around. No one was looking.
  He rose from the booth, walked out of the restaurant, exhaled, and crossed the street. As he reached the other sidewalk, he thought about what he and Ian Whitestone were about to do. He thought about how his connection with the Oscar-nominated director ran far deeper than that of a typical executive assistant, how the fabric that bound them snaked through a darker place, a place never illuminated by sunlight, a place where the cries of the innocent were never heard.
  
  
  30
  The crowd at Finnigan's Wake began to thicken. The bustling, multi-level Irish pub on Spring Garden Street was a revered police hangout, attracting patrons from all Philadelphia police districts. Everyone from top brass to rookie patrolmen stopped in from time to time. The food was decent, the beer was cold, and the atmosphere was pure Philadelphia.
  But at Finnigan's, you had to count your drinks. You could literally bump into the commissar there.
  A banner hung above the bar: Best wishes, Sergeant O'Brien! Jessica paused upstairs to end her pleasantries. She returned to the ground floor. It was noisier there, but right now she longed for the quiet anonymity of a bustling police bar. She had just turned the corner into the main room when her cell phone rang. It was Terry Cahill. Though it was hard to hear, she could tell he was checking their rain check. He said he'd tracked Adam Kaslov to a bar in North Philadelphia, and then received a call from his ASAC. There had been a bank robbery in Lower Merion, and they needed him there. He'd had to disable surveillance.
  "She was standing next to the fed," Jessica thought.
  She needed a new perfume.
  Jessica headed toward the bar. Everything was blue from wall to wall. Officer Mark Underwood sat at the counter with two young men in their twenties, both with short hair and a bad-boy stance that screamed rookie cop. They were even sitting tight. You could smell the testosterone.
  Underwood waved at her. "Hey, you did it." He pointed to the two guys next to him. "Two of my protégés. Officers Dave Nieheiser and Jacob Martinez."
  Jessica made that clear. The officer she'd helped train was already training new officers. Where had all the time gone? She shook hands with the two young men. When they learned she was in the homicide squad, they looked at her with great respect.
  "Tell them who your partner is," Underwood said to Jessica.
  "Kevin Byrne," she replied.
  Now the young men looked at her with awe. Byrne's street representative was so big.
  "I secured a crime scene for him and his partner in South Philadelphia a couple of years ago," Underwood said with utter pride.
  Both rookies looked around and nodded, as if Underwood had said he had once caught Steve Carlton.
  The bartender brought Underwood a drink. He and Jessica clinked glasses, sipped, and settled into their seats. It was a different environment for the two of them, a far cry from the days when she had been his mentor on the streets of South Philadelphia. A big-screen TV in front of the bar showed a Phillies game. Someone got hit. The bar roared. Finnigan's was nothing if not loud.
  "You know, I grew up not far from here," he said. "My grandparents had a candy store."
  "Confectionery?"
  Underwood smiled. "Yeah. You know the phrase 'like a kid in a candy store'? I was that kid."
  "It must have been fun."
  Underwood took a sip of his drink and shook his head. "That was until I overdosed on circus peanuts. Remember circus peanuts?
  "Oh, yes," Jessica said, remembering well the spongy, sickly sweet peanut-shaped candies.
  "I was sent to my room one day, right?"
  - Were you a bad boy?
  "Believe it or not. So to get back at Grandma, I stole a huge bag of banana-flavored circus peanuts-and by huge, I mean huge in bulk. Maybe twenty pounds. We used to put them in glass containers and sell them individually."
  - Don't tell me you ate all of this.
  Underwood nodded. "Almost. They ended up pumping my stomach. I haven't been able to look at a circus peanut since. Or a banana, for that matter."
  Jessica glanced across the counter. A couple of pretty coeds in halter tops were looking at Mark, whispering and giggling. He was a handsome young man. "So why aren't you married, Mark?" Jessica vaguely remembered a moon-faced girl hanging out here once.
  "We were close once," he said.
  "What's happened?"
  He shrugged, took a sip of his drink, and paused. Perhaps she shouldn't have asked. "Life happened," he said finally. "Work happened."
  Jessica knew what he meant. Before becoming a police officer, she'd had several semi-serious relationships. All of them faded into the background when she entered the academy. Later, she discovered that the only people who understood what she did every day were other police officers.
  Officer Niheiser tapped his watch, finished his drink and stood up.
  "We need to run," Mark said. "We're the last ones out, and we need to stock up on food."
  "And things just kept getting better," Jessica said.
  Underwood stood up, took out his wallet, pulled out a few bills, and handed them to the barmaid. He placed the wallet on the counter. It swung open. Jessica glanced at his ID.
  VANDEMARK E. UNDERWOOD.
  He caught her eye and grabbed his wallet. But it was too late.
  "Vandemark?" Jessica asked.
  Underwood glanced around quickly. He pocketed his wallet in an instant. "Name your price," he said.
  Jessica laughed. She watched Mark Underwood leave. He held the door for the elderly couple.
  Playing with ice cubes in her glass, she watched the pub ebb and flow. She watched the cops come and go. She waved to Angelo Turco from the Third. Angelo had a beautiful tenor; he sang at all the police functions, at many officers' weddings. With a little practice, he could have been Andrea Bocelli's answer to "Philadelphia." He even once opened a Phillies game.
  She met with Cass James, the secretary and all-purpose Sister Confessor from Central. Jessica could only imagine how many secrets Cass James held and what Christmas presents she would receive. Jessica had never seen Cass pay for a drink.
  Police officers.
  Her father was right. All her friends were in the police. So what was she supposed to do about it? Join the Y? Take a macrame class? Learn to ski?
  She finished her drink and was about to gather her things to leave when she felt someone sit down next to her, on the adjacent stool to her right. Seeing as there were three open stools on either side of her, this could only mean one thing. She felt herself tense. But why? She knew why. She hadn't dated in so long that the very thought of making an advance, fueled by a few whiskeys, terrified her, both for what she couldn't do and for what she could. She'd gotten married for many reasons, and this was one of them. The bar scene and all the games that came with it had never really appealed to her. And now that she was thirty-and the possibility of divorce loomed-it terrified her more than ever before.
  The figure beside her drew closer and closer. She felt warm breath on her face. The proximity demanded her attention.
  "Can I buy you a drink?" the shadow asked.
  She looked around. Caramel eyes, dark wavy hair, a two-day scruff. He had broad shoulders, a slight cleft in his chin, and long eyelashes. He wore a tight black T-shirt and faded Levi's. To make matters worse, he was wearing Armani Acqua di Gio.
  Shit.
  It's just her type.
  "I was just about to leave," she said. "Thanks, anyway."
  "One drink. I promise."
  She almost laughed. "I don't think so."
  "Why not?"
  "Because with guys like you, it's never just one drink."
  He feigned heartbreak. It made him even cuter. "Guys like me?"
  Now she laughed. "Oh, and now you're going to tell me I've never met anyone like you, right?"
  He didn't answer her right away. Instead, his gaze moved from her eyes to her lips and back to her eyes.
  Stop this.
  "Oh, I bet you've met plenty of guys like me," he said with a sly grin. It was the kind of smile that suggested he was in complete control of the situation.
  "Why did you say that?"
  He took a sip of his drink, paused, and played with the moment. "Well, first of all, you're a very beautiful woman."
  "That's it," Jessica thought. "Bartender, bring me a long-handled shovel." "And two?"
  "Well, two should be obvious."
  "Not for me."
  "Secondly, you're clearly out of my league."
  Ah, Jessica thought. A humble gesture. Self-deprecating, beautiful, polite. Bedroom eyes. She was absolutely certain that this combo had landed many a woman in the sack. "And yet you still came and sat next to me."
  "Life is short," he said with a shrug. He crossed his arms, flexing his muscular forearms. Not that Jessica was looking or anything. "When that guy left, I thought: now or never. I thought if I don't at least try, I'll never be able to live with myself."
  - How do you know he's not my boyfriend?
  He shook his head. "Not your type."
  You cheeky bastard. - And I bet you know exactly what my type is, right?
  "Absolutely," he said. "Have a drink with me. I'll explain it to you.
  Jessica ran her hand over his shoulders, his broad chest. The gold crucifix on a chain around his neck flickered in the bar light.
  Go home, Jess.
  "Maybe another time."
  "There's no time like now," he said. The sincerity in his voice dropped. "Life is so unpredictable. Anything can happen."
  "For example," she said, wondering why she was continuing this, deeply in denial about the fact that she already knew why.
  "Well, for example, you could walk out of here and a stranger with far more nefarious intentions could cause you terrible bodily harm."
  "I understand."
  "Or you could find yourself in the middle of an armed robbery and be taken hostage."
  Jessica wanted to pull out her Glock, put it on the counter, and tell him she could probably handle that scenario. Instead, she simply said, "Uh-huh."
  "Or a bus might veer off the road, or a piano might fall from the sky, or you might..."
  - ...to be buried under an avalanche of nonsense?
  He smiled. "Exactly."
  He was sweet. She had to give it to him. "Look, I'm very flattered, but I'm a married woman."
  He finished his drink and threw up his hands in surrender. "He's a very lucky man."
  Jessica smiled and dropped a twenty on the counter. "I'll pass it on to him."
  She slid off her chair and walked to the door, using every ounce of determination she had to keep from turning around or looking. Her secret training sometimes paid off. But that didn't mean she wasn't trying her best.
  She pushed open the heavy front door. The city was a blast furnace. She walked out of Finnigan's and around the corner onto Third Street, keys in hand. The temperature hadn't dropped more than a degree or two in the last few hours. Her blouse clung to her back like a damp rag.
  By the time she reached her car, she heard footsteps behind her and knew who it was. She turned. She was right. His swagger was as brazen as his routine.
  A vile stranger indeed.
  She stood with her back to the car, waiting for the next clever retort, the next macho performance designed to break down her walls.
  Instead, he didn't say a word. Before she could process it, he pinned her against the car, his tongue in her mouth. His body was hard; his arms strong. She dropped her purse, her keys, her shield. She kissed him back as he lifted her into the air. She wrapped her legs around his slender hips. He had made her weak. He had taken her will.
  She let him.
  It was one of the reasons she married him in the first place.
  OceanofPDF.com
  31
  SUPER let him in shortly before midnight. The apartment was stuffy, oppressive, and quiet. The walls still held echoes of their passion.
  Byrne drove around the city center looking for Victoria, visiting every place he thought she might be, and every place she might not be, but he came up empty. On the other hand, he didn't quite expect to find her sitting in some bar, completely oblivious to the time, a pile of empty glasses in front of her. Unlike Victoria, he couldn't call him if she couldn't arrange a meeting.
  The apartment was just as he had left it that morning: the breakfast dishes were still in the sink, the bed linens still retained the shape of their bodies.
  Though Byrne felt like a vagabond, he entered the bedroom and opened the top drawer of Victoria's dresser. A brochure of her entire life stared back: a small box of earrings, a clear plastic envelope containing ticket stubs for a Broadway tour, a selection of drugstore reading glasses in a variety of frames. There was also an assortment of greeting cards. He pulled one out. It was a sentimental greeting card with a glossy scene of autumn harvest at dusk on the cover. Victoria's birthday was in the fall? Byrne wondered. There was so much he didn't know about her. He opened the card and found a long message scrawled on the left side, a long message written in Swedish. A few glitter fell to the floor.
  He put the card back in the envelope and glanced at the postmark. BROOKLYN, NY. Did Victoria have family in New York? He felt like a stranger. He shared her bed and felt like a spectator to her life.
  He opened her lingerie drawer. The scent of lavender sachets wafted up, filling him with both dread and desire. The drawer was filled with what looked like very expensive blouses, jumpsuits, and hosiery. He knew Victoria was very particular about her appearance, despite her tough-girl demeanor. However, underneath her clothes, she seemed to spare no expense to feel beautiful.
  He closed the drawer, feeling a little ashamed. He truly didn't know what he was looking for. Perhaps he wanted to see another fragment of her life, a piece of the mystery that would immediately explain why she hadn't come to meet him. Perhaps he was waiting for a flash of prescience, a vision that could point him in the right direction. But there was none. There was no cruel memory in the folds of these fabrics.
  Besides, even if he'd managed to mine the place, it wouldn't have explained the Snow White figurine's appearance. He knew where it came from. Deep down, he knew what had happened to her.
  Another drawer, filled with socks, sweatshirts, and T-shirts. There were no clues there. He closed all the drawers and quickly glanced at her nightstands.
  Nothing.
  He left a note on Victoria's dining room table and then drove home, wondering how to call and report her missing. But what would he say? A woman in her thirties hadn't shown up for a date? No one had seen her for four or five hours?
  When he arrived in South Philadelphia, he found a parking spot about a block from his apartment. The walk seemed endless. He stopped and tried calling Victoria again. He got her voicemail. He hadn't left a message. He struggled up the stairs, feeling every moment of his age, every facet of his fear. He slept for a few hours, and then began searching for Victoria again.
  He fell into bed just after two. A few minutes later, he fell asleep, and the nightmares began.
  
  
  32
  The woman was tied face down to the bed. She was naked, her skin covered in shallow, scarlet welts from the spanking. The camera light highlighted the smooth lines of her back, the curves of her thighs, slick with sweat.
  The man walked out of the bathroom. He wasn't physically imposing, but rather had the air of a cinematic villain. He wore a leather mask. His eyes were dark and menacing behind the slits; his hands held an electric prong.
  As the camera rolled, he slowly stepped forward, standing up straight. At the foot of the bed, he swayed between the hammerbeats of his heart.
  Then he took her again.
  
  
  33
  The PASSAGE HOUSE was a safe haven and refuge on Lombard Street. It provided advice and protection to runaway teenagers; since its founding nearly ten years ago, more than two thousand girls have passed through its doors.
  The store building was whitewashed and clean, recently painted. The interiors of the windows were covered with ivy, flowering clematis, and other climbing plants, woven into the white wooden latticework. Byrne believed the greenery served a dual purpose: to disguise the street, where all temptations and dangers lurked, and to show girls who were simply passing by that there was life within.
  As Byrne approached the front door, he realized it might be a mistake to call himself a police officer-this was anything but an official visit-but if he entered as a civilian and asked questions, he could be someone's father, boyfriend, or some other dirty uncle. In a place like Passage House, he could be a problem.
  A woman was washing windows outside. Her name was Shakti Reynolds. Victoria had mentioned her many times, always glowingly. Shakti Reynolds was one of the center's founders. She dedicated her life to this cause after losing her daughter to street violence several years earlier. Byrne called her, hoping this move wouldn't come back to haunt him.
  - What can I do for you, detective?
  "I'm looking for Victoria Lindstrom."
  - I'm afraid she's not here.
  - Was she supposed to be here today?
  Shakti nodded. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman of about forty-five, with short-cropped gray hair. Her iris-colored skin was smooth and pale. Byrne noticed patches of scalp showing through the woman's hair and wondered if she'd recently undergone chemotherapy. He was reminded once again that the city was made up of people who battled their own dragons every day, and that it wasn't always about him.
  "Yes, she"s usually here already," Shakti said.
  - She didn"t call?
  "No."
  - Does this bother you at all?
  At this, Byrne saw the woman's jawline tighten slightly, as if she thought he was challenging her personal commitment to the staff. After a moment, she relaxed. "No, Detective. Victoria is very devoted to the center, but she's also a woman. And a single woman at that. We're quite free here."
  Byrne continued, relieved he hadn't insulted or pushed her away. "Has anyone asked about her lately?"
  "Well, she's quite popular among the girls. They see her more as an older sister than an adult."
  "I mean someone outside the group."
  She tossed the mop into the bucket and thought for a few moments. "Well, now that you mention it, a guy came in the other day and asked about it."
  - What did he want?
  "He wanted to see her, but she was out jogging with sandwiches."
  - What did you tell him?
  "I didn't tell him anything. She just wasn't home. He asked a few more questions. Curious questions. I called Mitch, the guy looked at him and left."
  Shakti pointed to a man sitting at a table inside, playing solitaire. Man was a relative term. Mountain was more precise. Mitch had walked about 350.
  "What did this guy look like?"
  "White, medium height. Snake-like in appearance, I thought. I didn't like him from the start."
  "If anyone's antennae were tuned to snake people, it's Shakti Reynolds," Byrne thought. "If Victoria stops by or this guy comes back, please call me." He handed her the card. "My cell phone number is on the back. That's the best way to reach me in the next few days."
  "Of course," she said. She tucked the card into the pocket of her worn flannel shirt. "Can I ask you a question?"
  "Please."
  "Should I be worried about Tori?"
  "Exactly," Byrne thought. About as worried as anyone could or should be about another. He looked into the woman's piercing eyes, wanting to tell her no, but she was probably as attuned to street talk as he was. Probably even more so. Instead of concocting a story for her, he simply said, "I don't know."
  She held out the card. "I'll call if I hear anything."
  "I would be grateful."
  "And if there's anything I can do about this, please let me know."
  "I'll do it," Byrne said. "Thanks again."
  Byrne turned and walked back to his car. Across the street from the shelter, a couple of teenage girls were watching, waiting, pacing, and smoking, perhaps gathering their courage to cross the street. Byrne got into the car, thinking that, like many journeys in life, the last few feet were the hardest.
  
  
  34
  SETH GOLDMAN AWOKE sweating. He looked at his hands. Clean. He jumped to his feet, naked and disoriented, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked around. He experienced that exhausting feeling when you have no idea where you are-no city, no country, no planet.
  One thing was certain.
  This wasn't a Park Hyatt. The wallpaper was peeling in long, brittle strips. There were dark brown water stains on the ceiling.
  He found his watch. It was already after ten.
  Fuck.
  The call sheet. He found it and discovered he had less than an hour left on the set. He also discovered he had a thick folder containing the director's copy of the script. Of all the tasks assigned to an assistant director (and they ranged from secretary to psychologist, caterer, driver, and drug dealer), the most important was working on the shooting script. There were no duplicates of this version of the script, and beyond the egos of the main characters, it was the most fragile and delicate object in the entire delicate world of production.
  If the script was here and Ian wasn't there, Seth Goldman would be fucked.
  He took the cell phone...
  She had green eyes.
  She cried.
  She wanted to stop.
  - and called the production office, apologizing. Ian was furious. Erin Halliwell was sick. Furthermore, the public relations person at 30th Street Station hadn't yet informed them of the final preparations for filming. Filming for "The Palace" was scheduled to take place in the massive train station at 30th and Market Streets in less than seventy-two hours. The sequence had been planned for three months, and it was easily the most expensive shot in the entire film. Three hundred extras, a meticulously planned track, numerous in-camera special effects. Erin was in negotiations, and now Seth had to finalize the details, on top of everything else he needed to do.
  He looked around. The room was in a mess.
  When did they leave?
  As he gathered his clothes, he tidied up his room, placing everything that needed to be thrown away in a plastic bag from the trash can in the small motel bathroom, knowing he'd miss something. He'd take the trash with him, as always.
  Before leaving the room, he examined the sheets. Good. At least something was going right.
  No blood.
  
  
  35
  Jessica briefed Adam Paul DiCarlo on what they'd learned the previous afternoon. Eric Chavez, Terry Cahill, and Ike Buchanan were there. Chavez had spent the early morning outside Adam Kaslov's apartment. Adam hadn't gone to work, and a couple of phone calls had gone unanswered. Chavez had spent the last two hours digging into the Chandler family's backstory.
  "That's a lot of furniture for a woman working for minimum wage and tips," Jessica said. "Especially one who drinks."
  "Does she drink?" Buchanan asked.
  "She drinks," Jessica replied. "Stephanie's closet was full of designer clothes, too." They had Visa bill printouts, which she photographed. They passed them by. Nothing unusual.
  "Where's the money coming from? Inheritance? Child support? Alimony?" Buchanan asked.
  "Her husband took the powder almost ten years ago. He never gave them a penny he could find," Chavez said.
  "A rich relative?"
  "Maybe," Chavez said. "But they've lived at this address for twenty years. And dig this up. Three years ago, Faith paid off the mortgage in one lump sum."
  "How big is the lump?" Cahill asked.
  "Fifty-two thousand."
  "Cash?"
  "Cash."
  They all let it sink in.
  "Let's get this sketch from the news vendor and Stephanie's boss," Buchanan said. "And let's get her cell phone records."
  
  At 10:30, Jessica faxed a request for a search warrant to the district attorney's office. They received it within an hour. Eric Chavez then managed Stephanie Chandler's finances. Her bank account held just over three thousand dollars. According to Andrea Cerrone, Stephanie earned thirty-one thousand dollars a year. That wasn't Prada's budget.
  As insignificant as it might have sounded to anyone outside the department, the good news was that they now had evidence. A body. Scientific data to work with. Now they could begin to piece together what had happened to this woman, and perhaps why.
  
  By 11:30, they had phone records. Stephanie had made only nine calls on her cell phone in the past month. Nothing stood out. But the recording from the Chandler house's landline was a little more interesting.
  "Yesterday, after you and Kevin left, Chandler's home phone made twenty calls to one number," Chavez said.
  "Twenty to the same number?" Jessica asked.
  "Yeah."
  - Do we know whose number it is?
  Chavez shook his head. "No. It's registered to a burner phone. The longest call was fifteen seconds. The others were only a few seconds."
  "Local number?" Jessica asked.
  "Yeah. Change two-one-five. It was one of ten cell phones bought last month at a wireless store on Passyunk Street. All prepaid."
  "Were the ten phones purchased together?" Cahill asked.
  "Yeah."
  "Why would anyone buy ten phones?"
  According to the store manager, small companies will buy this type of phone block if they have a project where several employees will be in the field at the same time. She said this limits the time spent on the phone. Also, if a company from another city is sending several employees to another city, they will buy ten consecutive numbers just to keep things organized.
  "Do we know who bought the phones?"
  Chavez checked his notes. "The phones were purchased by Alhambra LLC."
  "The Philadelphia Company?" Jessica asked.
  "I don't know yet," Chavez said. "The address they gave me is a post office box in the South. Nick and I are going to the wireless store and see if we can get rid of anything else. If not, we'll stop mail delivery for a few hours and see if anyone picks it up."
  "What number?" Jessica asked. Chavez gave it to her.
  Jessica put her desk phone on speakerphone and dialed the number. It rang four times, then switched to a standard user, unavailable for recording. She dialed the number. Same result. She hung up.
  "I did a Google search for the Alhambra," Chavez added. "I have a lot of hits, nothing local."
  "Stay with the phone number," Buchanan said.
  "We're working on it," Chavez said.
  Chavez left the room when a uniformed officer poked his head in. "Sergeant Buchanan?"
  Buchanan spoke briefly with the uniformed officer and then followed him out of the homicide department.
  Jessica processed the new information. "Faith Chandler made twenty calls to a burner cell phone. What do you think they were all about?" she asked.
  "I have no idea," Cahill said. "You call a friend, you call the company, you leave a message, right?"
  "Right."
  "I'll contact Stephanie's boss," Cahill said. "See if this Alhambra LLC calls you."
  They gathered in the duty room and drew a direct line on the city map from the Rivercrest Motel to the Braceland Westcott McCall office. They would begin canvassing people, stores, and businesses along this line.
  Someone must have seen Stephanie on the day she disappeared.
  As they began dividing up the campaign, Ike Buchanan returned. He approached them with a grim expression and a familiar object in his hand. When the boss had that expression, it usually meant two things. More work, and a lot more work.
  "How are you?" Jessica asked.
  Buchanan held up the object, a previously innocuous, now ominous piece of black plastic, and said, "We have another roll of film."
  OceanofPDF.com
  36
  By the time Seth reached the hotel, he'd already made all the calls. Somehow, he'd created a fragile symmetry in his time. If the catastrophe hadn't happened, he would have survived it. If Seth Goldman was anyone, he survived.
  Then disaster struck a cheap rayon dress.
  Standing at the hotel's main entrance, she looked a thousand years older. Even from ten feet away, he could smell the alcohol.
  In low-budget horror films, there was a surefire way to tell if a monster was lurking nearby. There was always a musical cue. Menacing cellos before the bright brass sounds of the attack.
  Seth Goldman didn't need music. The ending-his ending-was a silent accusation in the woman's swollen, red eyes.
  He couldn't allow this. He couldn't. He worked too hard and too long. Everything was going as usual at the Palace, and he wouldn't let anything interfere with it.
  How far is he willing to go to stop the flow? He'll soon find out.
  Before anyone saw them, he took her hand and led her to a waiting taxi.
  
  
  37
  "I THINK I can handle it," said the old woman.
  "I wouldn't want to hear about it," Byrne replied.
  They were in the Aldi parking lot on Market Street. Aldi was a no-frills supermarket chain that sold a limited number of brands at discounted prices. The woman was in her seventies or early eighties, thin and slender. She had delicate features and translucent, powdered skin. Despite the heat and no rain for the next three days, she was wearing a double-breasted wool coat and bright blue galoshes. She was trying to load half a dozen bags of groceries into her car, a twenty-year-old Chevrolet.
  "But look at you," she said. She pointed at his cane. "I should be helping you."
  Byrne laughed. "I'm fine, ma'am," he said. "Just twisted my ankle."
  "Of course, you're still a young man," she said. "At my age, if I twisted my ankle, I could get knocked down."
  "You look pretty nimble to me," Byrne said.
  The woman smiled under a veil of schoolgirl blush. "Oh, right now."
  Byrne grabbed the bags and began loading them into the backseat of the Chevrolet. Inside, he noticed several rolls of paper towels and several boxes of Kleenex. There were also a pair of mittens, an Afghan, a knit hat, and a dirty quilted ski vest. Since this woman likely didn't frequent the slopes of Camelback Mountain, Byrne figured she was carrying this wardrobe just in case the temperature dropped to seventy-five degrees.
  Before Byrne could load the last bag into the car, his cell phone beeped. He pulled it out and flipped it open. It was a text message from Colleen. In it, she told him she wouldn't be leaving for camp until Tuesday and asked if they could have dinner Monday night. Byrne replied that he'd like to. Her phone vibrated, revealing the message. She responded immediately:
  KYUL! LUL CBOAO :)
  "What is this?" the woman asked, pointing to his phone.
  "This is a cell phone."
  The woman looked at him for a moment, as if he'd just told her it was a spaceship built for very, very tiny aliens. "Is that a phone?" she asked.
  "Yes, ma'am," Byrne said. He held it up for her to see. "It has a built-in camera, a calendar, and an address book."
  "Oh, oh, oh," she said, shaking her head from side to side. "I feel like the world has passed me by, young man."
  "It's all happening too fast, isn't it?"
  "Praise His name."
  "Amen," Byrne said.
  She began slowly approaching the driver's door. Once inside, she reached into her purse and pulled out a couple of quarters. "For your troubles," she said. She tried to hand them to Byrne. Byrne raised both hands in protest, more than touched by the gesture.
  "That's fine," Byrne said. "Take this and buy yourself a cup of coffee." Without protest, the woman stuffed the two coins back into her purse.
  "There was a time when you could get a cup of coffee for a nickel," she said.
  Byrne reached to close the door behind her. With a movement he thought was too quick for a woman her age, she took his hand. Her papery skin felt cool and dry to the touch. Images flashed through his mind instantly...
  - a damp, dark room... the sounds of the television in the background... Welcome back, Cotter... the flickering of votive candles... the agonized sobs of a woman... the sound of bone on flesh... screams in the darkness... Don't make me go to the attic...
  - as he pulled his hand back. He wanted to move slowly, not wanting to disturb or offend the woman, but the images were frighteningly clear and heartbreakingly real.
  "Thank you, young man," the woman said.
  Byrne took a step back, trying to compose himself.
  The woman started the car. A few moments later, she waved her thin, blue-veined hand and headed across the parking lot.
  Two things remained with Kevin Byrne when the old woman left: the image of a young woman, still alive in her clear, ancient eyes.
  And the sound of that frightened voice in his head.
  Don't make me go up to the attic...
  
  He stood across the street from the building. In the daylight, it looked different: a shabby relic of his city, a scar on a decaying city block. Every now and then, a passerby would stop, trying to peer through the dirty squares of glass blocks that decorated the checkerboard façade.
  Byrne pulled something out of his coat pocket. It was the napkin Victoria had given him when she brought him breakfast in bed, a white linen square with her lip print applied in deep red lipstick. He turned it over and over in his hands, mentally mapping the street. To the right of the building across the street was a small parking lot. Next to it was a used furniture store. In front of the furniture store stood a row of brightly colored plastic tulip-shaped barstools. To the left of the building was an alley. He watched as a man walked out the front of the building, around the left corner, down the alley, then down an iron staircase to a front door beneath the structure. A few minutes later, the man emerged carrying a couple of cardboard boxes.
  It was a storage basement.
  "That's where he'll do it," Byrne thought. In the basement. Later that night, he'll meet this man in the basement.
  No one will hear them there.
  
  
  38
  A WOMAN IN A WHITE DRESS asked: What are you doing here? Why are you here?
  The knife in her hand was incredibly sharp, and when she began absentmindedly picking at the outside of her right thigh, it cut through the fabric of her dress, splattering it with Rorschach's blood. Thick steam filled the white bathroom, sliding down the tiled walls and fogging the mirror. Scarlett dripped and dripped from the razor-sharp blade.
  "Do you know what it's like when you meet someone for the first time?" the woman in white asked. Her tone was casual, almost conversational, as if she were having a cup of coffee or a cocktail with an old friend.
  Another woman, a battered and bruised woman in a terrycloth robe, simply watched, horror growing in her eyes. The bathtub began to overflow, spilling over the edge. Blood splattered the floor, forming a glistening, ever-expanding circle. Below, water began to leak through the ceiling. A large dog lapped at it on the wooden floor.
  Above, a woman with a knife screamed: You stupid, selfish bitch!
  Then she attacked.
  Glenn Close engaged Anne Archer in a life-or-death struggle as the bathtub overflowed, flooding the bathroom floor. Downstairs, Michael Douglas's character, Dan Gallagher, took the kettle off the boil. Immediately, he heard screams. He rushed upstairs, ran into the bathroom, and threw Glenn Close into the mirror, shattering it. They struggled vigorously. She slashed his chest with a knife. They dove into the bathtub. Soon, Dan overpowered her, choking the life out of her. Finally, she stopped thrashing. She was dead.
  Or was she?
  And here there was an edit.
  Individually and simultaneously, the investigators watching the video tensed their muscles in anticipation of what they might see next.
  The video jerked and rolled. The new image showed a different bathroom, much dimmer, with the light coming from the left side of the frame. Ahead was a beige wall and a white barred window. There was no sound.
  Suddenly, a young woman steps into the center of the frame. She's wearing a white T-shirt dress with a scoop neckline and long sleeves. It's not an exact replica of what Glenn Close's character, Alex Forrest, wore in the film, but it's similar.
  As the film rolls, the woman remains centered in the frame. She is soaking wet. She is furious. She looks indignant, ready to lash out.
  She stops.
  Her expression suddenly shifts from rage to fear, her eyes widening in horror. Someone, presumably the one holding the camera, raises a small-caliber gun to the right of the frame and pulls the trigger. The bullet hits the woman in the chest. The woman staggers, but doesn't fall instantly. She looks down at the expanding red seal.
  Then she slides down the wall, her blood staining the tiles in bright crimson streaks. She slowly slides into the bathtub. The camera zooms in on the young woman's face beneath the reddening water.
  The video jerks, rolls, and then returns to the original film, to the scene where Michael Douglas shakes hands with the detective in front of his once-idyllic home. In the film, the nightmare is over.
  Buchanan turned off the recording. As with the first tape, the occupants of the small room fell stunned silent. Every thrill they'd experienced in the last twenty-four hours or so-catching a break in Psycho, finding a house with plumbing, finding the motel room where Stephanie Chandler was murdered, finding the Saturn sunk on the shore of the Delaware-had vanished out the window.
  "He's a very bad actor," Cahill finally said.
  The word floated for a moment before settling into the image bank.
  Actor.
  There was never any formal ritual for criminals to acquire nicknames. It just happened that way. When someone committed a series of crimes, instead of calling them the perpetrator or the subject (short for unknown subject), it was sometimes easier to give them a nickname. This time, it stuck.
  They were looking for the Actor.
  And it seemed he was far from taking his final bow.
  
  When two murder victims appeared to have been killed by the same person-and there was no doubt that what they witnessed on the "Fatal Attraction" tape was indeed murder, and almost no doubt that it was the same killer as on the "Psycho" tape-the first detectives looked for a connection between the victims. As obvious as it sounded, it was still true, although the connection wasn't necessarily easy to establish.
  Were they acquaintances, relatives, colleagues, lovers, ex-lovers? Did they attend the same church, health club, or meeting group? Did they shop at the same stores, the same bank? Did they share a dentist, doctor, or lawyer?
  Until they could identify the second victim, finding a connection would be unlikely. The first thing they would do was print out the second victim's image from the film and scan all the locations they had visited, looking for Stephanie Chandler. If they could establish that Stephanie Chandler knew the second victim, it could be a small step toward identifying the second woman and finding a connection. The prevailing theory was that these two murders were committed with a violent passion, indicating some kind of intimacy between the victims and the killer, a level of familiarity that couldn't be achieved through casual acquaintance or the kind of anger that could be ignited.
  Someone murdered two young women and saw fit-through the lens of the dementia that colored their daily life-to record the murders on film. Not necessarily to taunt the police, but rather to initially terrify the unsuspecting public. This was clearly a MO no one in the homicide squad had ever encountered before.
  Something connected these people. Find the connection, find the common ground, find the parallels between these two lives, and they will find their killer.
  Mateo Fuentes provided them with a fairly clear photograph of the young woman from the film "Fatal Attraction." Eric Chavez went to check on the missing persons. If this victim had been killed more than seventy-two hours earlier, there was a chance she had been reported missing. The remaining investigators gathered in Ike Buchanan's office.
  "How did we get this?" Jessica asked.
  "The courier," Buchanan said.
  "Courier?" Jessica asked. "Is our agent changing their MO towards us?"
  "I'm not sure. But it had a partial lease sticker on it.
  - Do we know where this comes from?
  "Not yet," Buchanan said. "Most of the label was scraped off. But part of the barcode remained intact. The Digital Imaging Lab is studying it."
  "Which courier service delivered it?"
  "A small company in the market called Blazing Wheels. Bicycle messengers.
  - Do we know who sent it?
  Buchanan shook his head. "The guy who delivered this said he met the guy at the Starbucks on Fourth and South. The guy paid cash."
  "Don't you have to fill out a form?"
  "It's all a lie. Name, address, phone number. Dead ends."
  "Can the messenger describe the guy?"
  - He is now with the artist-draftsman.
  Buchanan picked up the tape.
  "This is a wanted man, guys," he said. Everyone knew what he meant. Until this psychopath was knocked out, you ate standing up and didn't even think about sleep. "Find this son of a bitch."
  
  
  39
  The little girl in the living room was barely tall enough to see over the coffee table. On the television, cartoon characters were bouncing, frolicking, and approaching, their manic movements a loud and colorful spectacle. The little girl giggled.
  Faith Chandler tried to concentrate. She was so tired.
  In that gap between memories, on the express train of years, the little girl turned twelve and was about to enter high school. She stood tall and straight, in the last moment before the boredom and extreme suffering of adolescence overwhelmed her mind; raging hormones, her body. Still her little girl. Ribbons and smiles.
  Faith knew she had to do something, but she couldn't think. Before leaving for Center City, she'd made a phone call. Now she was back. She had to call again. But who? What did she want to say?
  There were three full bottles on the table, and a full glass in front of her. Too much. Not enough. Never enough.
  God, grant me peace...
  There is no peace.
  She glanced left again, into the living room. The little girl was gone. The little girl was now a dead woman, frozen in some gray marble room in the center of town.
  Faith raised the glass to her lips. She spilled some whiskey onto her lap. She tried again. She swallowed. A fire of sadness, guilt, and regret flared inside her.
  "Steffi," she said.
  She lifted the glass again. This time he helped her lift it to her lips. After a while, he would help her drink straight from the bottle.
  
  
  40
  Walking down Broad Street, Essica pondered the nature of these crimes. She knew that, generally speaking, serial killers go to great lengths-or at least some lengths-to conceal their actions. They find secluded dumps, remote burial grounds. But the Actor put his victims on display in the most public and private arenas: people's living rooms.
  They all knew this had just taken on a much larger scale. The passion required to do what was depicted on the Psycho tape had transformed into something else. Something cold. Something infinitely more calculating.
  As much as Jessica wanted to call Kevin to give him an update and get his opinion, she was ordered-in no uncertain terms-to keep him out of the loop for now. He was on limited duty, and the city was currently fighting two multimillion-dollar civil lawsuits against officers who, despite being cleared by doctors to return to work, had returned too early. One had swallowed a keg. Another had been shot during a drug raid when he was unable to escape. Detectives had been overwhelmed, and Jessica was ordered to work with the standby team.
  She thought of the young woman's expression in the "Fatal Attraction" video, the transition from anger to fear to paralyzing terror. She thought of the gun rising into the frame.
  For some reason, she thought most about the T-shirt dress. She hadn't seen one in years. Sure, she'd had a few as a teenager, as had all her friends. They'd been all the rage when she was in high school. She thought about how it'd slimmed her down in those gangly, intimidating years, how it'd given her hips, something she was ready to reclaim now.
  But most of all, she thought of the blood blooming on the woman's dress. There was something unholy about those bright red stigmata, the way they spread across the wet white fabric.
  As Jessica approached City Hall, she noticed something that made her even more nervous, something that dashed her hopes for any quick resolution to this horror.
  It was a hot summer day in Philadelphia.
  Almost all the women wore white.
  
  JESSICA browsed the shelves of detective novels, leafing through some of the new releases. She hadn't read a good crime novel in a while, though she hadn't had much tolerance for crime as entertainment since joining the homicide squad.
  She was in the massive, multi-level Borders building on South Broad Street, right next to City Hall. Today, she'd decided to take a walk instead of lunch. Any day now, Uncle Vittorio would make a deal to get her on ESPN2, which would mean she'd get a fight, which would mean she'd have to work out-no more cheesesteaks, no more bagels, no more tiramisu. She hadn't run in almost five days, and she was furious with herself about it. If for no other reason, running was a great way to relieve stress at work.
  For all police officers, the threat of weight gain was a serious one, due to the long hours, stress, and easy fast-food lifestyle. Not to mention the booze. It was worse for female officers. She knew many fellow female officers who had joined the force as a size 4 and left as a size 12 or 14. It was one of the reasons she took up boxing in the first place. The steely mesh of discipline.
  Of course, just as these thoughts crossed her mind, she caught the aroma of warm baked goods wafting up the escalator from the cafe on the second floor. Time to go.
  She was supposed to meet Terry Cahill in a few minutes. They were planning to search the coffee shops and diners near Stephanie Chandler's office building. Until the Actor's second victim was identified, that was all they had.
  Next to the checkout counters on the first floor of the bookstore, she spotted a tall, freestanding display of books labeled "LOCAL INTEREST." The display featured several volumes about Philadelphia, mostly short publications covering the city's history, landmarks, and colorful citizens. One title caught her eye:
  Gods of Chaos: A History of Murder in Cinema.
  The book focused on crime cinema and its various motifs and themes, from black comedies like Fargo to classic film noirs like Double Indemnity and quirky films like Man Bites Dog.
  Besides the title, what caught Jessica's attention was the short blurb about the author. A man named Nigel Butler, Ph.D., is a professor of film studies at Drexel University.
  By the time she reached the door, she was talking on her cell phone.
  
  Founded in 1891, Drexel University was located on Chestnut Street in West Philadelphia. Among its eight colleges and three schools was the highly respected College of Media Arts and Design, which also included a screenwriting program.
  According to the brief biography on the back of the book, Nigel Butler was forty-two years old, but in person he looked much younger. The man in the author's photograph had a salt-and-pepper beard. The man in the black suede jacket before her was clean-shaven, which seemed to detract from his appearance by ten years.
  They met in his small, book-filled office. The walls were covered with well-framed movie posters from the 1930s and '40s, mostly noir: Criss Cross, Phantom Lady, This Gun for Hire. There were also a few eight-by-ten-inch stills of Nigel Butler as Tevye, Willy Loman, King Lear, and Ricky Roma.
  Jessica introduced herself as Terry Cahill and took the lead in the interrogation.
  "This is about the video killer case, isn't it?" Butler asked.
  Most of the details of the Psychopath murder were kept out of the press, but the Inquirer ran a story about police investigating a bizarre murder that someone had filmed.
  "Yes, sir," Jessica said. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, but I need your assurance that I can rely on your discretion."
  "Absolutely," Butler said.
  - I would be grateful, Mr. Butler.
  "Actually, this is Dr. Butler, but please call me Nigel."
  Jessica gave him the basic information about the case, including the discovery of the second recording, omitting the more gruesome details and anything that could jeopardize the investigation. Butler listened the entire time, his face impassive. When she finished, he asked, "How can I help?"
  "Well, we're trying to figure out why he's doing this and what it might lead to."
  "Certainly."
  Jessica had been struggling with this idea since she first saw the Psycho tape. She decided to just ask. "Does anyone make snuff films here?"
  Butler smiled, sighed, and shook his head.
  "Did I say something funny?" Jessica asked.
  "I'm so sorry," Butler said. "It's just that of all the urban legends, the snuff film legend is probably the most stubborn."
  "What do you mean?"
  "I mean, they don't exist. Or at least, I've never seen one. And none of my colleagues have either."
  "Are you saying you'd watch it if you had the chance?" Jessica asked, hoping her tone wasn't as judgmental as she felt.
  Butler seemed to think for a few moments before answering. He sat on the edge of the table. "I've written four books about film, Detective. I've been a cinephile my whole life, ever since my mother took me to the cinema to meet Benji in 1974."
  Jessica was surprised. "You mean Benji developed a lifelong scientific interest in film?"
  Butler laughed. "Well, I saw Chinatown instead. I"ve never been the same." He pulled his pipe from the rack on the table and began the pipe-smoking ritual: cleaning, filling, tamping. He filled it, lit the charcoal. The aroma was sweet. "I worked for years as a film critic for the alternative press, reviewing five to ten films a week, from the sublime artistry of Jacques Tati to the indescribable banality of Pauly Shore. I own sixteen-millimeter prints of thirteen of the fifty greatest films ever made, and I"m closing in on a fourteenth-Jean-Luc Godard"s Weekend, if you"re interested. I"m a huge fan of the French New Wave and a hopeless Francophile." Butler continued, puffing on his pipe. "I once sat through all fifteen hours of Berlin Alexanderplatz and the JFK director"s cut, which only seemed like fifteen hours to me." My daughter is taking acting classes. If you asked me if there was a short film I wouldn't watch because of its subject matter, just for the experience, I'd say no."
  "Regardless of the topic," Jessica said, glancing at a photograph on Butler's desk. It showed Butler standing at the foot of the stage with a smiling teenage girl.
  "Regardless of the subject matter," Butler reiterated. "For me, and if I may speak for my colleagues, it's not necessarily about the film's subject matter, style, motif, or theme, but primarily about the transfer of light onto celluloid. What's been done is what remains. I don't think many film scholars would call John Waters's Pink Flamingos art, but it remains an important artistic fact."
  Jessica tried to wrap her head around this. She wasn't sure she was ready to accept the possibilities of such a philosophy. "So, you're saying snuff films don't exist."
  "No," he said. "But every now and then a mainstream Hollywood movie comes along and rekindles the flame, and the legend is reborn."
  "What Hollywood movies are you talking about?"
  "Well, 8mm for one," Nigel said. "And then there was that silly exploitation film called Snuff from the mid-seventies. I think the main difference between the concept of a snuff film and what you're describing to me is that what you're describing to me is hardly erotic."
  Jessica was incredulous. "Is that a snuff film?"
  "Well, according to legend-or at least in the simulated snuff film version that was actually produced and released-there are certain conventions of adult films."
  "For example."
  "For example, there's usually a teenage girl or boy and a character who dominates them. There's usually a rough sexual element, a lot of hard S-M. What you're talking about seems to be a completely different pathology."
  "Meaning?"
  Butler smiled again. "I teach film studies, not psychosis."
  "Can you learn anything from the movie selection?" Jessica asked.
  "Well, Psycho seems like an obvious choice. Too obvious, in my opinion. Every time a list of the top 100 horror films is compiled, it always ends up at the very top, if not the very top. I think that demonstrates a lack of imagination on the part of this... madman."
  - What about Fatal Attraction?
  "It's an interesting leap. There are twenty-seven years between these films. One is considered a horror film, the other a fairly mainstream thriller."
  "What would you choose?"
  - Do you mean if I gave him advice?
  "Yes."
  Butler sat on the edge of the table. Academics loved academic exercises. "Excellent question," he said. "I'd say right away that if you really want to approach this creatively-while still remaining within the horror genre, although Psycho is always misrepresented as a horror film, which it isn't -choose something by Dario Argento or Lucio Fulci. Maybe Herschell Gordon Lewis or even early George Romero."
  "Who are these people?"
  "The first two were pioneers of Italian cinema in the 1970s," said Terry Cahill. "The last two were their American counterparts. George Romero is best known for his zombie series: Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, and so on."
  It seems like everyone knows about this except me, Jessica thought. Now would be a good time to brush up on the subject.
  "If you want to talk about crime cinema before Tarantino, I'd say Peckinpah," Butler added. "But that's all debatable."
  "Why did you say that?"
  "There doesn't seem to be any obvious progression here in terms of style or motif. I'd say the person you're looking for isn't particularly knowledgeable about horror or crime films."
  - Any ideas what his next choice might be?
  "You want me to extrapolate the killer's thinking?"
  "Let's call it an academic exercise."
  Nigel Butler smiled. Touché. "I think he might pick something recent. Something released in the last fifteen years. Something someone might actually rent."
  Jessica made a few final remarks. "Again, I'd appreciate it if you could keep all of this to yourself for now." She handed him a card. "If you think of anything else that might be helpful, please don't hesitate to call."
  "Agreed," Nigel Butler replied. As they approached the door, he added, "I don't want to get ahead of myself, but has anyone ever told you you look like a movie star?"
  "That's it," Jessica thought. He came to her? In the middle of all this? She glanced at Cahill. He was clearly fighting a smile. "Excuse me?"
  "Ava Gardner," Butler said. "Young Ava Gardner. Maybe in the East Side, West Side days."
  "Uh, no," Jessica said, pushing her bangs back from her forehead. Was she preening? Stop it. "But thanks for the compliment. We'll be in touch."
  Ava Gardner, she thought, heading for the elevators. Please.
  
  On their way back to the Roundhouse, they stopped by Adam Kaslov's apartment. Jessica rang the bell and knocked. No answer. She called his two places of work. No one had seen him in the last thirty-six hours. These facts, added to the others, were probably enough to get a warrant. They couldn't use his juvenile record, but they might not need it. She dropped Cahill off at the Barnes & Noble on Rittenhouse Square. He said he wanted to keep reading crime books, buying anything he thought might be relevant. "How nice to have Uncle Sam's credit card," Jessica thought.
  When Jessica returned to the Roundhouse, she wrote out a request for a search warrant and faxed it to the district attorney's office. She didn't expect much, but it never hurt to ask. As for phone messages, there was only one. It was from Faith Chandler. It was marked URGENT.
  Jessica dialed the number and picked up the woman's answering machine. She tried again, this time leaving a message, including her cell phone number.
  She hung up the phone, wondering.
  Urgent.
  OceanofPDF.com
  41
  I'm walking down a busy street, blocking out the next scene, body to body in this sea of cold strangers. Joe Buck in Midnight Cowboy. The extras greet me. Some smile, some look away. Most will never remember me. When the final draft is written, there will be reaction shots and throwaway dialogue:
  Was he here?
  I was there that day!
  I think I saw him!
  CUT:
  A coffee shop, one of the chain pastry shops on Walnut Street, just around the corner from Rittenhouse Square. Coffee cult figures hover over alternative weeklies.
  - What can I get for you?
  She is no more than nineteen years old, has fair skin, a delicate, intriguing face, and curly hair pulled back into a ponytail.
  "A tall latte," I say. Ben Johnson in The Last Picture Show. "And I"ll have one of those with biscotti." Are they there? I almost laugh. I haven"t, of course. I"ve never broken character before, and I"m not about to start now. "I"m new in this town," I add. "I haven"t seen a friendly face in weeks."
  She makes me coffee, packs biscotti, puts a lid on my cup, taps on the touchscreen. "Where are you from?"
  "West Texas," I say with a wide smile. "El Paso. Big Bend country.
  "Wow," she replies, as if I'd told her I was from Neptune. "You're a long way from home."
  "Are we all?" I give her a high five.
  She pauses, frozen for a moment, as if I've said something profound. I step out onto Walnut Street feeling tall and toned. Gary Cooper in The Fountainhead. Tall is a method, as is weakness.
  I finish my latte and run into a men's clothing store. I'm thinking, standing by the door for a moment, gathering admirers. One of them steps forward.
  "Hi," says the salesman. He's thirty. His hair is cropped short. He's wearing a suit and shoes, a wrinkled gray T-shirt under a dark blue three-button number that's at least one size too small. Apparently, this is some kind of fashion trend.
  "Hi," I say. I wink at him, and he blushes slightly.
  "What can I show you today?"
  Your blood on my Bukhara? I think it's channeling Patrick Bateman. I give him my toothy Christian Bale. "Just looking."
  "Well, I'm here to offer assistance, and I hope you'll allow me to do so. My name is Trinian.
  Of course it is.
  I think of the great British St. Trinian's comedies of the 1950s and '60s and consider referencing them. I notice he's wearing a bright orange Skechers watch and realize I'd be wasting my breath.
  Instead, I frown-bored and overwhelmed by my excessive wealth and status. Now he's even more interested. In this environment, quarrels and intrigues are lovers.
  After twenty minutes, it dawned on me. Perhaps I'd known it all along. It's all about the skin, really. The skin is where you stop and the world begins. Everything you are-your mind, your personality, your soul-is contained and bounded by your skin. Here, in my skin, I am God.
  I slip into my car. I have only a few hours to get into character.
  I'm thinking of Gene Hackman from Extreme Measures.
  Or maybe even Gregory Peck in The Boys from Brazil.
  
  
  42
  MATEO FUENTES FREEZE - FRAME image of the moment in the film "Fatal Attraction" when the shot was fired. He switched back, forward, back, forward. He ran the film in slow motion, each field rolling across the frame from top to bottom. On the screen, a hand rose from the right side of the frame and stopped. The shooter was wearing a surgical glove, but they weren't interested in his hand, although they had already narrowed down the make and model of the gun. The firearms department was still working on it.
  The star of the film at the time was the jacket. It looked like the kind of satin jacket worn by baseball teams or roadies at rock concerts-dark, shiny, with a ribbed wristband.
  Mateo printed out a hard copy of the image. It was impossible to tell whether the jacket was black or dark blue. This matched Little Jake's memory of a man in a dark blue jacket asking about the Los Angeles Times. It wasn't much. There were probably thousands of such jackets in Philadelphia. Nevertheless, they would have a composite sketch of the suspect this afternoon.
  Eric Chavez entered the room, looking extremely animated, a computer printout in hand. "We have the location where the Fatal Attraction tape was taken."
  "Where?"
  "It's a dump called Flicks in Frankford," Chavez said. "An independent store. Guess who owns it."
  Jessica and Palladino said the name at the same time.
  "Eugene Kilbane."
  "One and the same."
  "Son of a bitch." Jessica found herself subconsciously clenching her fists.
  Jessica told Buchanan about their interview with Kilbane, leaving out the assault and battery part. If they'd brought Kilbane in, he would have brought it up anyway.
  "Do you like him for that?" Buchanan asked.
  "No," Jessica said. "But what are the chances it's a coincidence? He knows something.
  Everyone looked at Buchanan with the anticipation of pit bulls circling the ring.
  Buchanan said, "Bring him."
  
  "I DIDN'T want to get involved," Kilbane said.
  Eugene Kilbane was currently sitting at one of the desks in the homicide squad's duty room. If they didn't like any of his answers, he'd soon be moved to one of the interrogation rooms.
  Chavez and Palladino found him at the White Bull tavern.
  "Did you think we couldn't trace the recording back to you?" Jessica asked.
  Kilbane looked at the tape, lying in a clear evidence bag on the table before him. He seemed to think that scraping the label off the side would be enough to fool seven thousand police officers. Not to mention the FBI.
  "Come on. You know my record," he said. "Shit has a way of sticking to me."
  Jessica and Palladino looked at each other as if to say, "Don't give us that opening, Eugene." The damn jokes will start writing themselves, and we'll be here all day. They held back. For a moment.
  "Two tapes, both containing evidence in a murder investigation, both rented from stores you own," Jessica said.
  "I know," Kilbane said. "It looks bad."
  "Well, what do you think?"
  - I... I don't know what to say.
  "How did the film get here?" Jessica asked.
  "I have no idea," Kilbane said.
  Palladino handed the artist a sketch of a man who hired a bicycle messenger to deliver a cassette. It was an extremely good likeness of a certain Eugene Kilbane.
  Kilbane lowered his head for a moment, then glanced around the room, meeting everyone's eyes. "Do I need a lawyer here?"
  "Tell us," Palladino said. "Do you have something to hide, Eugene?"
  "Man," he said, "You try to do the right thing, look what happens."
  "Why did you send us the tape?"
  "Hey," he said, "You know, I have a conscience."
  This time, Palladino picked up Kilbane's list of crimes and turned it toward Kilbane. "Since when?" he asked.
  "It's always like this. I was raised Catholic."
  "It's from the pornographer," Jessica said. They all knew why Kilbane had come forward, and it had nothing to do with his conscience. He'd violated his parole by possessing an illegal weapon the day before and was trying to buy his way out of it. Tonight, he could be back in jail with a single phone call. "Spare us the sermon."
  "Yeah, okay. I'm in the adult entertainment business. So what? It's legal. What's the harm?"
  Jessica didn't know where to begin. She began anyway. "Let's see. AIDS? Chlamydia? Gonorrhea? Syphilis? Herpes? HIV? Ruined lives? Broken families? Drugs? Violence? Let me know when you want me to stop.
  Kilbane simply stared, a little stunned. Jessica stared at him. She wanted to continue, but what was the point? She wasn't in the mood, and this was neither the time nor the place to discuss the sociological implications of pornography with someone like Eugene Kilbane. She had two dead men to think about.
  Defeated before he'd even begun, Kilbane reached into his briefcase, tattered with a faux-alligator attaché. He pulled out another cassette. "You'll change your tune when you see this."
  
  They were sitting in a small room in the AV unit. Kilbane's second recording was surveillance footage from Flickz, the store where Fatal Attraction was rented. Apparently, the security cameras in that location were real.
  "Why are the cameras active at this store and not at The Reel Deal?" Jessica asked.
  Kilbane looked befuddled. "Who told you that?"
  Jessica didn't want to cause trouble for Lenny Puskas and Juliet Rausch, two employees of The Reel Deal. "Nobody, Eugene. We checked it ourselves. Do you really think this is a big secret? Those camera heads at The Reel Deal from the late 1970s? They look like shoe boxes."
  Kilbane sighed. "I have another problem with stealing from Flickz, okay? Damn kids robbing you blind.
  "What exactly is on this tape?" Jessica asked.
  - I might have a lead for you.
  "A tip?"
  Kilbane looked around the room. "Yeah, you know. Leadership."
  - Do you watch a lot of CSI, Eugene?
  "Some. Why?"
  "No reason. So what's the clue?"
  Kilbane spread his arms out to the sides, palms up. He smiled, erasing any trace of sympathy from his face, and said, "It's entertainment."
  
  A few minutes later, Jessica, Terry Cahill, and Eric Chavez huddled near the AV unit's editing bay. Cahill had returned from his bookstore project empty-handed. Kilbane sat down in a chair next to Mateo Fuentes. Mateo looked disgusted. He leaned his body about forty-five degrees away from Kilbane, as if the man smelled like a compost heap. In fact, he smelled like Vidalia onions and Aqua Velva. Jessica had the feeling Mateo was ready to spray Kilbane with Lysol if he touched anything.
  Jessica studied Kilbane's body language. Kilbane looked both nervous and excited. The detectives could tell he was nervous. Excited, not so much. There was something there.
  Mateo pressed the "Play" button on the surveillance video recorder. The image instantly came to life on the monitor. It was a high-angle shot of a long, narrow video store, similar in layout to The Reel Deal. Five or six people were milling around it.
  "This is yesterday's message," Kilbane said. There was no date or time code on the tape.
  "What time is it?" Cahill asked.
  "I don't know," Kilbane said. "Somewhere after eight. We change tapes around eight and work in this place until midnight.
  A small corner of the storefront window indicated that it was dark outside. If it became important, they would check the previous day's sunset statistics to determine a more precise time.
  The film showed a pair of black teenage girls circling the racks of new releases, watched closely by a pair of black teenage boys, who were playing dummies to try to get their attention. The boys failed miserably and slipped away after a minute or two.
  At the bottom of the frame, a serious-looking elderly man with a white beard and a black Kangol cap was reading every word on the back of a pair of cassettes in the documentary section. His lips moved as he read. The man soon left, and for a few minutes, no customers were visible.
  Then a new figure entered the frame from the left, in the middle section of the store. He approached the central rack where old VHS releases were stored.
  "There he is," Kilbane said.
  "Who is it?" Cahill asked.
  "You'll see. This rack goes from f to h," Kilbane said.
  It was impossible to measure the man's height on film from such a high angle. He was taller than the top counter, which probably put him at five-nine inches or so, but beyond that, he looked remarkably average in every way. He stood motionless, his back to the camera, scanning the counter. Until now, there had been no profile shots, not even the slightest glimpse of his face, only a rear view as he entered the frame. He wore a dark bomber jacket, a dark baseball cap, and dark trousers. A thin leather bag was slung over his right shoulder.
  The man picked up a few tapes, flipped them over, read the credits, and placed them back on the counter. He stepped back, hands on his hips, and scanned the titles.
  Then, from the right side of the frame, a rather plump, middle-aged white woman approached. She wore a floral-print shirt and her thinning hair was curled in curlers. She seemed to say something to the man. Looking straight ahead, still oblivious to the camera's profile-as if he knew the security camera's position-the man responded by pointing to the left. The woman nodded, smiled, and smoothed her dress over her ample hips, as if expecting the man to continue the conversation. He didn't. Then she flew out of frame. The man didn't watch her go.
  A few more moments passed. The man watched a few more tapes, then casually pulled a videotape from his bag and placed it on the shelf. Mateo rewound the tape, played the segment again, then stopped the film and slowly zoomed in, sharpening the image as much as possible. The image on the front of the videotape case became clearer. It was a black-and-white photograph of a man on the left and a woman with curly blond hair on the right. A jagged red triangle was centered, dividing the photograph into two halves.
  The film was called "Fatal Attraction".
  There was a feeling of excitement in the room.
  "You see, the staff should be making customers leave bags like that at the front desk," Kilbane said. "Fucking idiots."
  Mateo rewound the film to the point where the figure entered the frame, played it back in slow motion, froze the image, and zoomed in. It was very grainy, but the intricate embroidery on the back of the man's satin jacket was visible.
  "Can you come closer?" Jessica asked.
  "Oh, yes," Mateo said, firmly in the center of the stage. This was his wheelhouse.
  He began to work his magic, tapping the keys, adjusting the levers and knobs, and lifting the image up and inward. The embroidered image on the back of the jacket depicted a green dragon, its narrow head breathing a subtle crimson flame. Jessica made a note to look for tailors who specialized in embroidery.
  Mateo moved the image to the right and down, focusing on the man's right hand. He was clearly wearing a surgical glove.
  "Jesus," Kilbane said, shaking his head and running his hand over his chin. "This guy walks into the store wearing latex gloves, and my employees don't even notice. They're so fucking yesterday's, man.
  Mateo turned on the second monitor. It showed a still image of the killer's hand holding a gun, as seen in the film Fatal Attraction. The gunman's right sleeve had a ribbed elastic band similar to the one on the jacket in the surveillance video. While this wasn't conclusive evidence, the jackets were definitely similar.
  Mateo pressed a few keys and began printing out paper copies of both images.
  "When was the Fatal Attraction tape rented?" Jessica asked.
  "Last night," Kilbane said. "Late."
  "When?"
  "I don't know. After eleven. I might watch it.
  - And you mean to say that the person who rented it watched the film and brought it to you?
  "Yeah."
  "When?"
  "This morning."
  "When?"
  "I don't know. Ten, maybe?"
  "Did they throw it in the trash or bring it inside?"
  "They brought it straight to me."
  "What did they say when they brought the tape back?"
  "There was just something wrong with it. They wanted their money back."
  "That's it?"
  "Well, yes. "
  - Did they happen to mention that someone was involved in the real murder?
  "You have to understand who's coming into that store. I mean, people in that store returned that movie, 'Memento,' and said there was something wrong with the tape. They said it was recorded backwards. Do you believe that?"
  Jessica looked at Kilbane for a few more moments, then turned to Terry Cahill.
  "Memento is a story told in reverse," Cahill said.
  "Okay, then," Jessica replied. "Whatever." She turned her attention back to Kilbane. "Who rented Fatal Attraction?"
  "Just a regular," Kilbane said.
  - We'll need a name.
  Kilbane shook his head. "He's just a jerk. He had nothing to do with this."
  "We"ll need a name," Jessica repeated.
  Kilbane stared at her. You'd think a two-time loser like Kilbane would know better than to try to fool the cops. Then again, if he'd been smarter, he wouldn't have failed twice. Kilbane was about to protest when he glanced at Jessica. Perhaps for a moment, a phantom pain flared in his side, reminiscent of Jessica's brutal gunshot. He agreed and told them the client's name.
  "Do you know the woman in the surveillance footage?" Palladino asked. "The woman who was talking to the man?"
  "What, this chick?" Kilbane scrunched up his face, as if GQ gigolos like him would never interact with a plump, middle-aged woman who appeared in public in hot videos. "Uh, no."
  "Have you seen her in the store before?"
  - Not that I remember.
  "Did you watch the entire tape before sending it to us?" Jessica asked, knowing the answer, knowing someone like Eugene Kilbane wouldn't be able to resist.
  Kilbane looked at the floor for a moment. Apparently so. "Aha."
  - Why didn"t you bring it yourself?
  - I thought we already covered this.
  "Tell us again."
  - Look, you might want to be a little more polite with me.
  "And why is that?"
  "Because I can solve this case for you."
  Everyone just stared at him. Kilbane cleared his throat. It sounded like a farm tractor backing out of a muddy culvert. "I want assurances that you're overlooking my little, well, indiscretion the other day." He lifted his shirt. The zipper he'd been wearing on his belt-a weapons violation that could have sent him back to prison-was gone.
  "First we want to hear what you have to say."
  Kilbane seemed to consider the offer. It wasn't what he wanted, but it seemed like all he was going to get. He cleared his throat again and glanced around the room, perhaps expecting everyone to hold their breath in anticipation of his stunning revelation. It didn't happen. He continued forward anyway.
  "The guy on the tape?" Kilbane said. "The guy who put the Fatal Attraction tape back on the shelf?"
  "What about him?" Jessica asked.
  Kilbane leaned forward, making the most of the moment, and said, "I know who he is."
  
  
  43
  "It smells like a slaughterhouse."
  He was as thin as a rake and looked like a man unstuck in time, unburdened by history. There was a good reason for this. Sammy Dupuis was trapped in 1962. Today, Sammy wore a black alpaca cardigan, a navy blue dress shirt with a peak collar, iridescent gray sharkskin trousers, and pointed Oxford shoes. His hair was slicked back and soaked in enough hair tonic to lubricate a Chrysler. He smoked unfiltered Camels.
  They met on Germantown Avenue, just off Broad Street. The aroma of simmering barbecue and hickory smoke from Dwight's Southern filled the air with its rich, sweet tang. It made Kevin Byrne salivate. It made Sammy Dupuis feel nauseous.
  "Not a big fan of soul food?" Byrne asked.
  Sammy shook his head and gave his Camel a hard slap. "How do people eat this shit? It's all so damn greasy and gristly. You might as well stick it on a needle and shove it into your heart."
  Byrne glanced down. The pistol lay between them on the black velvet tablecloth. There was something about the smell of oil on steel, Byrne thought. It was a terrifyingly powerful scent.
  Byrne picked it up, tested it, and took aim, mindful that they were in a public place. Sammy usually worked from his home in East Camden, but Byrne hadn't had time to cross the river today.
  "I can do it for six fifty," Sammy said. "And that's a good deal for such a beautiful gun."
  "Sammy," Byrne said.
  Sammy was silent for a few moments, simulating poverty, oppression, misery. It didn't work. "Okay, six," he said. "And I'm losing money."
  Sammy Dupuis was a gun dealer who never dealt with drug dealers or any gang members. If ever there was a behind-the-scenes firearms dealer with any scrupulousness, it was Sammy Dupuis.
  The item for sale was a SIG-Sauer P-226. It might not have been the most beautiful pistol ever made-far from it-but it was accurate, reliable, and durable. And Sammy Dupuis was a man of deep discretion. That was Kevin Byrne's primary concern that day.
  "It better be cold, Sammy." Byrne put the gun in his coat pocket.
  Sammy wrapped the rest of the guns in cloth and said, "Like my first wife's ass."
  Byrne pulled out a roll and pulled out six hundred-dollar bills. He handed them to Sammy. "Did you bring the bag?" Byrne asked.
  Sammy looked up immediately, his brow furrowed in thought. Normally, getting Sammy Dupuis to stop counting his money would have been no small feat, but Byrne's question stopped him in his tracks. If what they were doing was illegal (and it violated at least half a dozen laws Byrne could come up with, both state and federal), then what Byrne was proposing violated almost all of them.
  But Sammy Dupuis didn't judge. If he had, he wouldn't be in the business he was in. And he wouldn't have carried around the silver case he kept in the trunk of his car, a suitcase that held tools of such obscure purpose that Sammy only spoke of their existence in hushed tones.
  "Are you sure?"
  Byrne just watched.
  "Okay, okay," Sammy said. "Sorry for asking."
  They got out of the car and walked to the trunk. Sammy glanced around the street. He hesitated, fiddling with his keys.
  "Looking for the cops?" Byrne asked.
  Sammy laughed nervously. He opened the trunk. Inside was a cluster of canvas bags, briefcases, and duffel bags. Sammy pushed several leather cases aside. He opened one. Inside were numerous cell phones. "Are you sure you don't want a clean camera instead? Maybe a PDA?" he asked. "I can get you a BlackBerry 7290 for seventy-five bucks."
  "Sammy."
  Sammy hesitated again, then zipped up his leather bag. He'd cracked another case. This one was surrounded by dozens of amber vials. "What about the pills?"
  Byrne thought about it. He knew Sammy had amphetamines. He was exhausted, but getting high would only make things worse.
  "No pills."
  "Fireworks? Porn? I can buy you a Lexus for ten grand.
  "You do remember I have a loaded gun in my pocket, right?" Byrne asked.
  "You're the boss," Sammy said. He pulled out a sleek Zero Halliburton briefcase and punched in three numbers, subconsciously hiding the transaction from Byrne. He opened the briefcase, then stepped back and lit another Camel. Even Sammy Dupuis had trouble seeing the contents.
  
  
  44
  NORMALLY, there were no more than a few AV officers in the Roundhouse basement at any given time. This afternoon, half a dozen detectives huddled around a monitor in a small editing bay next to the control room. Jessica was certain the fact that a hardcore pornographic film was being shown had nothing to do with it.
  Jessica and Cahill drove Kilbane back to Flicks, where he entered the adult section and earned an X-rated title called Philadelphia Skin. He emerged from the back room like a secret government agent retrieving the enemy's classified files.
  The film opened with footage of a Philadelphia skyline. The production values seemed quite high for an adult game. The film then cut to the interior of an apartment. The footage looked standard-bright, slightly overexposed digital video. A few seconds later, there was a knock on the door.
  A woman entered the frame and opened the door. She was young and frail, with an animal-like body, dressed in a pale yellow plush robe. Judging by her appearance, it was hardly legal. When she fully opened the door, a man stood there. He was of average height and build. He wore a blue satin bomber jacket and a leather mask.
  "Are you calling a plumber?" the man asked.
  Some detectives laughed and quickly hid it. There was a chance the man who asked the question was their killer. When he turned away from the camera, they saw he was wearing the same jacket as the man in the surveillance video: dark blue with a green dragon embroidered on it.
  "I'm new to this town," the girl said. "I haven't seen a friendly face in weeks."
  As the camera moved closer to her, Jessica saw that the young woman was wearing a delicate mask with pink feathers, but Jessica also saw her eyes-haunted, frightened eyes, portals to a deeply damaged soul.
  The camera then panned to the right, following the man down a short corridor. At this point, Mateo took a still image and made a Sony printout of the image. Although a still image from surveillance footage of this size and resolution was quite blurry, when the two images were placed side by side, the results were almost convincing.
  The man in the X-rated movie and the man putting the tape back on the shelf in Flickz appeared to be wearing the same jacket.
  "Does anyone recognize this design?" Buchanan asked.
  Nobody did it.
  "Let's check this against gang symbols, tattoos," he added. "Let's find tailors who do embroidery."
  They watched the rest of the video. The film also featured another masked man and a second woman wearing a feather mask. It was a film with a rough-and-tumble feel. Jessica found it hard to believe that the sadomasochistic aspects of the film didn't cause the young women severe pain or injury. It looked like they'd been severely beaten.
  When it was all over, we watched the meager credits. The film was directed by Edmundo Nobile. The actor in the blue jacket was Bruno Steele.
  "What is the actor's real name?" Jessica asked.
  "I don't know," Kilbane said. "But I know the people who distributed the film. If anyone can find it, they can."
  
  PHILADELPHIA WITH KIN Distributed by Inferno Films of Camden, New Jersey. In business since 1981, Inferno Films has released over four hundred films, primarily hardcore adult films. They sold their products wholesale to adult bookstores and retail through their websites.
  The detectives decided that a full-scale approach to the company-a search warrant, a raid, interrogations-might not yield the desired results. If they entered with flashing badges, the chances of the company circling the train cars or suddenly developing amnesia about one of their "actors" were high, as was the chance that they might tip the actor and thus abandon him.
  They decided the best way to deal with this was to conduct a sting operation. As all eyes turned to Jessica, she realized what this meant.
  She will operate undercover.
  And her guide to the underworld of Philadelphia porn will be none other than Eugene Kilbane.
  
  AS Jessica walked out of the Roundhouse, she crossed the parking lot and nearly collided with someone. She looked up. It was Nigel Butler.
  "Hello, Detective," Butler said. "I was just about to see you."
  "Hello," she said.
  He held up a plastic bag. "I've collected some books for you. They might help.
  "You didn't have to shoot them down," Jessica said.
  "It wasn't a problem."
  Butler opened his bag and pulled out three books, all large paperbacks. Shots in the Mirror: Crime Films and Society, Gods of Death, and Masters of the Scene.
  "That's very generous. Thank you very much."
  Butler glanced at Roundhouse, then back at Jessica. The moment stretched.
  "Is there anything else?" Jessica asked.
  Butler grinned. "I was hoping for a tour."
  Jessica glanced at her watch. "On any other day, this wouldn't be a problem."
  "Oh, I'm sorry."
  "Look. You have my card. Call me tomorrow and we'll figure something out."
  "I'll be out of town for a few days, but I'll call when I get back."
  "That'll be great," Jessica said, picking up her book bag. "And thanks again for this."
  "Good chance, detective."
  Jessica walked to her car, thinking of Nigel Butler in his ivory tower, surrounded by well-designed movie posters where all the guns were blanks, stuntmen fell onto air mattresses, and the blood was fake.
  The world she was about to enter was as far from academia as she could have imagined.
  
  JESSICA PREPARED a couple of frugal dinners for her and Sophie. They sat on the couch, eating from a TV tray-one of Sophie's favorite meals. Jessica turned on the TV, flipped through the channels, and settled on a movie. A mid-1990s film with clever dialogue and gripping action. Background noise. While they ate, Sophie recounted her day at kindergarten. Sophie told Jessica that in honor of Beatrix Potter's upcoming birthday, her class had made bunny puppets out of their lunch bags. The day was dedicated to learning about climate change through a new song called "Drippy the Raindrop." Jessica had a feeling she would soon learn all the words to "Drippy the Raindrop," whether she wanted to or not.
  As Jessica was about to clear the dishes, she heard a voice. A familiar voice. The recognition brought her attention back to the film. It was "The Killing Game 2," the second in Will Parrish's popular action series. It was about a South African drug lord.
  But it wasn't Will Parrish's voice that caught Jessica's attention-in fact, Parrish's raspy drawl was as recognizable as any working actor's. Instead, it was the voice of the local police officer covering the back of the building.
  "We have officers posted at all exits," the patrolman said. "These scumbags are ours."
  "Nobody's coming in or out," Parrish replied, his former white dress shirt stained with Hollywood blood, his feet bare.
  "Yes, sir," said the officer. He was slightly taller than Parrish, with a strong jaw, icy blue eyes, and a slender build.
  Jessica had to look twice, then twice more, to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. She wasn't. There was no way she was. As hard as it was to believe, it was true.
  The man who played the police officer in Killing Game 2 was Special Agent Terry Cahill.
  
  JESSICA KEPT HER COMPUTER AND WENT ONLINE.
  What was this database with all the information about the movie? She tried a few abbreviations and quickly found IMDb. She went to Kill Game 2 and clicked "Full Cast and Crew." She scrolled down and saw at the bottom, playing "Young Policeman," his name. Terrence Cahill.
  Before closing the page, she scrolled through the rest of the credits. His name was back next to "Technical Advisor."
  Incredible.
  Terry Cahill has acted in films.
  
  At seven o'clock, Jessica dropped Sophie off at Paula's and then went to shower. She dried her hair, applied lipstick and perfume, and put on black leather pants and a red silk blouse. A pair of sterling silver earrings completed the look. She had to admit, she didn't look so bad. Perhaps a little slutty. But that's the point, isn't it?
  She locked the house and walked to the Jeep. She parked it in the driveway. Before she could get behind the wheel, a car filled with teenage boys drove past the house. They honked and whistled.
  "I still got it," she thought with a smile. At least in Northeast Philadelphia. Besides, while she was on IMDb, she searched East Side, West Side. Ava Gardner was only twenty-seven in that movie.
  Twenty seven.
  She got into the jeep and drove to the city.
  
  DETECTIVE NICOLETTE MALONE was petite, tanned, and trim. Her hair was almost silvery-blond, and she wore it in a ponytail. She wore skinny, faded Levi's jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. Borrowed from the narcotics unit, about the same age as Jessica, she had worked her way up to a gold badge strikingly similar to Jessica's: she came from a police family, spent four years in uniform, and three years as a detective in the department.
  Although they had never met, they knew each other by reputation. Especially from Jessica's perspective. For a brief period at the beginning of the year, Jessica was convinced Nikki Malone was having an affair with Vincent. She wasn't. Jessica hoped Nikki hadn't heard anything about her high school student's suspicions.
  They met in Ike Buchanan's office. ADA Paul DiCarlo was present.
  "Jessica Balzano, Nikki Malone," Buchanan said.
  "How are you?" Nikki said, holding out her hand. Jessica took it.
  "Nice to meet you," Jessica said. "I've heard a lot about you."
  "I never touched it. I swear to God." Nikki winked and smiled. "Just kidding."
  Damn, Jessica thought. Nikki knew all about this.
  Ike Buchanan looked suitably confused. He continued. "Inferno Films is essentially a one-man operation. The owner is a guy named Dante Diamond.
  "What play is it?" Nikki asked.
  "You're making a new hard-hitting movie and you want Bruno Steele to be in it."
  "How do we get in?" Nikki asked.
  "Lightweight body-worn microphones, wireless connectivity, remote recording capability."
  - Armed?
  "It's your choice," DiCarlo said. "But there's a good chance you'll be searched or go through metal detectors at some point."
  When Nikki met Jessica's eyes, they silently agreed. They would enter unarmed.
  
  After Jessica and Nikki were briefed by a pair of veteran homicide detectives, including names to call, terms to use, and various clues, Jessica waited in the homicide desk. Terry Cahill soon entered. After confirming he'd noticed her, she struck a tough-guy pose, hands on her hips.
  "There are officers at all the exits," Jessica said, mimicking a line from Kill the Game 2.
  Cahill looked at her questioningly; then it registered. "Uh-oh," he said. He was dressed casually. He wasn't going to dwell on that detail.
  "Why didn't you tell me you were in a movie?" Jessica asked.
  "Well, there were only two of them, and I like having two lives separate. First of all, the FBI isn't thrilled about it."
  "How did you start?"
  "It all started when the producers of Kill Game 2 called the agency asking for technical assistance. Somehow, ASAC learned I was obsessed with film and recommended me for the job. Even though the agency is secretive about its agents, it's also desperately trying to present itself in the right light."
  PPD wasn't much different, Jessica thought. There had been a number of TV shows about the department. It was a rare case of them getting it right. "What was it like working with Will Parrish?"
  "He's a great guy," Cahill said. "Very generous and down-to-earth."
  "Are you starring in the movie he's making now?"
  Cahill glanced back and lowered his voice. "Just taking a stroll. But don't tell anyone here. Everyone wants to be in show business, right?"
  Jessica pressed her lips together.
  "We're actually filming my little part tonight," Cahill said.
  - And for this you give up the charm of observation?
  Cahill smiled. "It's dirty work." He stood up and glanced at his watch. "Have you ever played?"
  Jessica almost laughed. Her only brush with the legal stage had been when she was in second grade at St. Paul's School. She'd been one of the leads in a lavish nativity play. She'd played a sheep. "Uh, not that you'd have noticed."
  "It's a lot more difficult than it looks."
  "What do you mean?"
  "You know those lines I had in Kill Game 2?" Cahill asked.
  "What about them?"
  "I think we did thirty takes."
  "Why?"
  "Do you have any idea how hard it is to say with a straight face: 'These scum are ours'?"
  Jessica tried it. He was right.
  
  At nine o'clock, Nikki walked into the homicide department, turning the heads of every male detective on duty. She had changed into a cute little black cocktail dress.
  One by one, he and Jessica entered one of the interview rooms, where they were equipped with wireless body microphones.
  
  Eugene Kilbane paced nervously in the Roundhouse parking lot. He wore a dark blue suit and white patent leather shoes with a silver chain at the top. He lit each cigarette as he lit the last.
  "I'm not sure I can do it," Kilbane said.
  "You can do it," Jessica said.
  "You don't understand. These people could be dangerous."
  Jessica looked sharply at Kilbane. "Hm, that's the point, Eugene."
  Kilbane glanced from Jessica to Nikki to Nick Palladino to Eric Chavez. Sweat gathered on his upper lip. He wasn't going to get out of this.
  "Shit," he said. "Let's just go."
  
  
  45
  Evyn Byrne understood the crime wave. He was well acquainted with the adrenaline rush caused by theft, violence, or antisocial behavior. He had arrested many suspects in the heat of the moment and knew that, in the grip of this exquisite feeling, criminals rarely consider what they've done, the consequences for the victim, or the consequences for themselves. Instead, there was a bittersweet glow of accomplishment, a sense that society had forbidden such behavior, and yet they did it anyway.
  As he prepared to leave the apartment-the ember of that feeling ignited inside him, despite his better instincts-he had no idea how this evening would end, whether he would end up with Victoria safely in his arms or with Julian Matisse at the end of his pistol sights.
  Or, he was afraid to admit, neither one nor the other.
  Byrne pulled a pair of work overalls from the closet-a dirty pair that belonged to the Philadelphia Water Department. His uncle Frank had recently retired from the police, and Byrne had once received a pair from him when he needed to go undercover a few years ago. No one looks at a guy working the streets. City workers like street vendors, panhandlers, and the elderly are part of the urban fabric. Human landscapes. Tonight, Byrne needed to be invisible.
  He looked at the Snow White figurine on the dresser. He'd handled it carefully when he'd lifted it from the hood of his car and placed it in his evidence bag as soon as he'd gotten back behind the wheel. He didn't know if it would ever be needed as evidence, or if Julian Matisse's fingerprints would be on it.
  He also didn't know which side of the trial he would be assigned to at the end of this long night. He donned overalls, grabbed his toolbox, and left.
  
  HIS CAR WAS PLUNGED IN DARKNESS.
  A group of teenagers-all around seventeen or eighteen, four boys and two girls-stood half a block away, watching the world go by and waiting for their chance. They smoked, shared a joint, sipped from a couple of brown-paper 40s, and tossed dozens at each other, or whatever they call it these days. Boys competed for the girls' favor; girls preened and preened, missing nothing. This was every summertime corner of the city. Always was.
  "Why did Phil Kessler do this to Jimmy?" Byrne wondered. That day, he was staying at Darlene Purifey's house. Jimmy's widow was a woman still gripped by grief. She and Jimmy had divorced more than a year before Jimmy's death, but it still haunted her. They had shared a life together. They shared the lives of their three children.
  Byrne tried to remember the look on Jimmy's face when he told one of his stupid jokes, or when he got really serious at four in the morning while he was drinking, or when he interrogated some idiot, or the time he wiped the tears of a little Chinese kid on the playground who had run out of his shoes, chased by a bigger kid. That day, Jimmy had driven the kid to Payless and given him a new pair of sneakers out of his own pocket.
  Byrne couldn't remember.
  But how could this be?
  He remembered every punk he'd ever arrested. Every single one.
  He remembered the day his father bought him a slice of watermelon from a vendor on Ninth Street. He was about seven years old; it was a hot, humid day; the watermelon was ice-cold. His old man was wearing a red-striped shirt and white shorts. His old man told the vendor a joke-a dirty one, because he whispered it so Kevin couldn't hear. The vendor laughed loudly. He had gold teeth.
  He remembered every wrinkle on his daughter's tiny feet on the day she was born.
  He remembered Donna's face when he'd asked her to marry him, the way she'd tilted her head slightly, as if the tilt of the world could give her some clue to his true intentions.
  But Kevin Byrne couldn't remember the face of Jimmy Purify, the face of the man he loved, the man who had taught him practically everything he knew about the city and the job.
  God help him, he couldn't remember.
  He scanned the avenue, examining the three mirrors of his car. The teenagers moved on. It was time. He got out, grabbed his toolbox and tablet. His lost weight made him feel like he was floating in his overalls. He pulled his baseball cap down as low as he could.
  If Jimmy were with him, this would be the moment when he would turn up his collar, remove his cuffs and declare it was showtime.
  Byrne crossed the avenue and stepped into the darkness of the alley.
  OceanofPDF.com
  46
  MORPHINE WAS a white snowbird beneath him. Together they took off. They visited his grandmother's rowhouse on Parrish Street. His father's Buick LeSabre rumbled, its gray-blue exhaust pipe, on the curb.
  Time flickered on and off. Pain reached out to him again. For a moment, he was a young man. He could sway, dodge, counterattack. But the cancer was a big middleweight. Fast. The hook in his stomach flared-red and blindingly hot. He pressed the button. Soon, a cool white hand gently stroked his forehead...
  He felt a presence in the room. He looked up. A figure stood at the foot of the bed. Without his glasses-and even they weren't much help anymore-he couldn't recognize the person. He'd long imagined that he might be the first to go, but he hadn't counted on it being memory. In his work, in his life, memory was everything. Memory was what haunted you. Memory was what saved you. His long-term memory seemed intact. His mother's voice. The way his father smelled of tobacco and butter combined. These were his feelings, and now his feelings had betrayed him.
  What did he do?
  What was her name?
  He couldn't remember. Now he could remember almost nothing.
  The figure approached. The white lab coat glowed with a heavenly light. Had he passed? No. His limbs felt heavy and thick. Pain shot through his lower abdomen. Pain meant he was still alive. He pressed the pain button and closed his eyes. The girl's eyes stared at him from the darkness.
  "How are you, Doctor?" he finally managed.
  "I'm fine," the man replied. "Are you in a lot of pain?"
  Are you in a lot of pain?
  The voice was familiar. A voice from his past.
  This man was not a doctor.
  He heard a click, then a hiss. The hiss turned into a roar in his ears, a terrifying sound. And there was a good reason. It was the sound of his own death.
  But soon the sound seemed to come from a place in North Philadelphia, a vile and ugly place that had haunted his dreams for over three years, a terrible place where a young girl had died, a young girl he knew he would soon meet again.
  And this thought, more than the thought of his own death, frightened detective Philip Kessler to the depths of his soul.
  
  
  47
  THE TRESONNE SUPPER was a dark, smoky restaurant on Sansom Street downtown. It had previously been the Carriage House, and in its day-sometime in the early 1970s-it was considered a destination, one of the city's finest steakhouses, frequented by members of the Sixers and Eagles, as well as politicians of all stripes. Jessica remembered how she, her brother, and their father came here for dinner when she was seven or eight years old. It seemed like the most elegant place in the world.
  Now a third-tier diner, its clientele a mix of shadowy figures from the adult entertainment world and the fringe publishing industry. The deep burgundy curtains, once the epitome of a New York diner, were now moldy and stained by decades of nicotine and grease.
  Dante Diamond was a regular at Tresonne's, usually gathering in the large, semicircular booth at the back of the restaurant. They reviewed his criminal record and learned that, of his three stints at the Roundhouse over the past twenty years, he had been charged with no more than two counts of pandering and drug possession offenses.
  His last photograph was ten years old, but Eugene Kilbane was sure he'd recognize him at first sight. Besides, at a club like the Tresonne, Dante Diamond was royalty.
  The restaurant was half full. To the right was a long bar, to the left were booths, and in the center were about a dozen tables. The bar was separated from the dining area by a partition made of colored plastic panels and plastic ivy. Jessica noticed that the ivy had a thin layer of dust on it.
  As they approached the end of the bar, all heads turned to Nikki and Jessica. The men eyed Kilbane closely, immediately assessing his position in the power and male influence chain. It was immediately clear that in this place, he wasn't perceived as a rival or a threat. His weak chin, split upper lip, and cheap suit marked him as a failure. It was the two attractive young women with him who, at least temporarily, gave him the prestige he needed to work the room.
  There were two open stools at the end of the bar. Nikki and Jessica sat down. Kilbane stood up. A few minutes later, the bartender arrived.
  "Good evening," said the bartender.
  "Yeah. How are you?" Kilbane replied.
  - Quite well, sir.
  Kilbane leaned forward. "Is Dante here?"
  The bartender looked at him stonily. "WHO?"
  "Mr. Diamond."
  The bartender half-smiled, as if to say, "Better." He was about fifty, neat and polished, with manicured nails. He wore a royal blue satin vest and a crisp white shirt. Against the mahogany, he looked like he was decades old. He placed three napkins on the bar. "Mister. Diamond isn't here today."
  - Are you waiting for him?
  "Impossible to say," the bartender said. "I'm not his social secretary." The man met Kilbane's gaze, signaling the end of the interrogation. "What can I get for you and the ladies?"
  They ordered. Coffee for Jessica, Diet Coke for Nikki, and a double bourbon for Kilbane. If Kilbane thought he'd be drinking all night on the city's dime, he was mistaken. The drinks arrived. Kilbane turned to the dining room. "This place has really gone wrong," he said.
  Jessica wondered by what criteria a scoundrel like Eugene Kilbane would judge something like this.
  "I'm meeting a few people I know. I'm going to ask around," Kilbane added. He downed his bourbon, straightened his tie, and headed for the dining room.
  Jessica glanced around the room. There were a few middle-aged couples in the dining room, whom she found hard to believe had anything to do with the business. After all, The Tresonne advertised in City Paper, Metro, The Report, and elsewhere. But for the most part, the clientele were respectable men in their fifties and sixties-pinky rings, collars, and monogrammed cuffs. It looked like a waste management convention.
  Jessica glanced to her left. One of the men at the bar had been eyeing her and Nikki ever since they sat down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smoothing his hair and breathing. He approached.
  "Hello," he said to Jessica, smiling.
  Jessica turned to look at the man, giving him the obligatory double take. He was about sixty. He was wearing a seafoam viscose shirt, a beige polyester track jacket, and aviator glasses with tinted steel frames. "Hi," she said.
  "I understand that you and your friend are actresses."
  "Where did you hear that?" Jessica asked.
  "You have such a look."
  "What's that look?" Nikki asked, smiling.
  "Theatrical," he said. "And very beautiful."
  "That's just how we are." Nikki laughed and shook her hair. "Why do you ask?"
  "I'm a film producer." He pulled out a couple of business cards, seemingly out of nowhere. Werner Schmidt. Lux Productions. New Haven, Connecticut. "I'm casting for a new feature film. High-definition digital. Woman on woman."
  "Sounds interesting," Nikki said.
  "Terrible script. The writer spent a semester at USC film school."
  Nikki nodded, feigning deep attention.
  "But before I say anything else, I have to ask you something," Werner added.
  "What?" Jessica asked.
  "Are you police officers?"
  Jessica glanced at Nikki. She looked back. "Yes," she said. "Both of us. We're detectives running an undercover operation."
  Werner looked for a second like he'd been hit, like the wind had been knocked out of him. Then he burst out laughing. Jessica and Nikki laughed with him. "That was good," he said. "That was damn good. I like that."
  Nikki couldn't let it go. She was a pistol. A total mage. "We've met before, right?" she asked.
  Now Werner looked even more inspired. He sucked in his stomach and straightened up. "I was thinking the same thing."
  "Have you ever worked with Dante?"
  "Dante Diamond?" he asked with hushed reverence, as if pronouncing the name Hitchcock or Fellini. "Not yet, but Dante's a great actor. Great organization." He turned and pointed to a woman sitting at the end of the bar. "Paulette starred in a few films with him. Do you know Paulette?"
  It sounded like a test. Nikki played it cool. "Never had the pleasure," she said. "Please invite her out for a drink."
  Werner was on a roll. The prospect of standing at a bar with three women was a dream come true. A moment later, he was back with Paulette, a brunette in her forties. Kitten shoes, leopard print dress. 38 DD.
  "Paulette St. John, this is..."
  "Gina and Daniela," Jessica said.
  "I'm sure I am," Paulette said. "Jersey City. Maybe Hoboken."
  "What are you drinking?" Jessica asked.
  "Cosmo".
  Jessica ordered it for her.
  "We're trying to find a guy named Bruno Steele," Nikki said.
  Paulette smiled. "I know Bruno. Big dick, I can't write ignorant."
  "This is him."
  "I haven't seen him in years," she said. Her drink arrived. She sipped it delicately, like a lady. "Why are you looking for Bruno?"
  "A friend is in a movie," Jessica said.
  "There are a lot of guys around. Younger guys. Why him?"
  Jessica noticed Paulette was slurring her words a bit. Still, she had to be careful in her response. One wrong word, and they could be shut down. "Well, first of all, he has the right perspective. Besides, the film is a tough S&M, and Bruno knows when to back off."
  Paulette nodded. Been there, felt it.
  "I really enjoyed his work at Philadelphia Skin," Nikki said.
  At the mention of the film, Werner and Paulette exchanged glances. Werner opened his mouth, as if to stop Paulette from saying anything further, but Paulette continued. "I remember that team," she said. "Of course, after the incident, no one really wanted to work together again."
  "What do you mean?" Jessica asked.
  Paulette looked at her like she was crazy. "You don't know what happened on that shoot?"
  Jessica shone on stage at Philadelphia Skin, where the girl opened the door. Those sad, ghostly eyes. She took a chance and asked, "Oh, you mean that little blonde?"
  Paulette nodded and took a sip of her drink. "Yeah. That was fucked up."
  Jessica was about to press her when Kilbane returned from the men's room, purposeful and pink. He stepped between them and leaned toward the counter. He turned to Werner and Paulette. "Could you excuse us for a second?"
  Paulette nodded. Werner raised both hands. He wasn't about to accept anyone's game. They both retreated to the end of the bar. Kilbane turned back to Nikki and Jessica.
  "I have something," he said.
  When someone like Eugene Kilbane storms out of the men's room with a statement like that, the possibilities are endless, and all of them unpleasant. Instead of pondering it, Jessica asked, "What?"
  He leaned closer. It was clear he'd just splashed more cologne on her. Much more cologne. Jessica nearly choked. Kilbane whispered, "The team that made Philadelphia Skin is still in town."
  "AND?"
  Kilbane raised his glass and shook the cubes. The bartender poured him a double. If the city paid, he'd drink. Or so he thought. Jessica would have interrupted him after that.
  "They're filming a new movie tonight," he said finally. "Dante Diamond is directing it." He took a gulp and put the glass down. "And we're invited."
  
  
  48
  Just after ten o'clock the man Byrne had been waiting for came around the corner with a thick bunch of keys in his hand.
  "Hello, how are you?" Byrne asked, pulling the brim of his cap down low and hiding his eyes.
  The man found him a little startled in the dim light. He saw the PDW suit and relaxed. A little. "What's wrong, boss?"
  "Same shit, different diaper."
  The man snorted. "Tell me about it."
  "Are you guys having water pressure problems down there?" Byrne asked.
  The man glanced at the counter, then back. "Not that I know of."
  "Well, we got a call and they sent me," Byrne said. He glanced at the tablet. "Yeah, this seems like a good spot. Mind if I take a look at the pipes?"
  The man shrugged and looked down the steps toward the front door leading to the basement beneath the building. "It's not my pipes, not my problem. Help yourself, bro.
  The man descended the rusty iron steps and unlocked the door. Byrne glanced around the alley and followed him.
  The man turned on the light-a bare 150-watt bulb in a metal mesh cage. In addition to dozens of stacked upholstered bar stools, disassembled tables, and stage props, there were probably a hundred cases of liquor.
  "Damn it," Byrne said. "I could stay here for a while."
  "Between you and me, it's all crap. The good stuff is locked up in my boss's office upstairs.
  The man pulled a couple of boxes from the stack and placed them by the door. He checked the computer in his hand. He began counting the remaining boxes. He made a few notes.
  Byrne set down the toolbox and quietly closed the door behind him. He assessed the man before him. The man was slightly younger and undoubtedly faster. But Byrne had something he didn't have: the element of surprise.
  Byrne drew his baton and stepped out of the shadows. The sound of the baton being extended caught the man's attention. He turned to Byrne with a questioning expression. It was too late. Byrne swung the twenty-one-inch diameter tactical steel rod with all his might. It hit the man perfectly, just below the right knee. Byrne heard cartilage tear. The man barked once, then collapsed to the floor.
  "What the... Oh my God!"
  "Shut up."
  - Damn... you. The man began to rock back and forth, clutching his knee. "You motherfucker."
  Byrne pulled out his ZIG. He fell on Darryl Porter with all his weight. Both knees on the man's chest, weighing over two hundred pounds. The blow knocked Porter out of the air. Byrne removed his baseball cap. Recognition lit up Porter's face.
  "You," Porter said between breaths. "I fucking knew I knew you from somewhere."
  Byrne raised his SIG. "I've got eight rounds here. A nice even number, am I right?"
  Darryl Porter just looked at him.
  "Now I want you to think about how many pairs you have in your body, Darryl. I'll start with your ankles, and every time you don't answer my question, I get another pair. And you know where I'm going with this."
  Porter gulped. Byrne's weight on his chest didn't help.
  "Let's go, Darryl. These are the most important moments of your rotten, meaningless life. No second chances. No makeup exams. Ready?"
  Silence.
  "Question one: did you tell Julian Matisse that I was looking for him?"
  Cold defiance. This guy was too tough for his own good. Byrne pressed the gun to Porter's right ankle. Music blared overhead.
  Porter writhed, but the weight on his chest was too much. He couldn't move. "You're not going to shoot me," Porter screamed. "You know why? You know how I know? I'll tell you how I know, you bastard." His voice was high and frantic. "You're not going to shoot me because..."
  Byrne fired at him. In that small, confined space, the explosion was deafening. Byrne hoped the music would drown it out. Either way, he knew he needed to get this over with. The bullet only grazed Porter's ankle, but Porter was too agitated to process it. He was sure Byrne had blown his own leg off. He screamed again. Byrne pressed the gun to Porter's temple.
  "You know what? I've changed my mind, asshole. I'm going to kill you after all."
  "Wait!"
  "I'm listening.
  - I told him.
  "Where is he?"
  Porter gave him the address.
  "Is he there now?" Byrne asked.
  "Yeah."
  - Give me a reason not to kill you.
  - I... didn"t do anything.
  "What, you mean today? You think that matters to someone like me? You're a pedophile, Darryl. A white slave trader. A pimp and a pornographer. I think this city can survive without you."
  "Not!"
  -Who will miss you, Darryl?
  Byrne pulled the trigger. Porter screamed, then lost consciousness. The room was empty. Before going down to the basement, Byrne emptied the rest of the magazine. He didn't trust himself.
  As Byrne climbed the steps, the mixture of smells nearly made him dizzy. The stench of freshly burned gunpowder mingled with the odor of mold, wood rot, and the sugar of cheap booze. Beneath it all, the scent of fresh urine. Darryl Porter had pissed in his pants.
  
  It was five minutes after Kevin Byrne left when Darryl Porter managed to get to his feet. Partly because the pain was off the charts. Partly because he was sure Byrne was waiting for him right outside the door, ready to finish the job. Porter actually thought the man had torn his leg off. He held on for a moment or two, hobbled to the exit, and obediently stuck his head out. He looked both ways. The alley was empty.
  "Hello!" he shouted.
  Nothing.
  "Yeah," he said. "You better run, bitch."
  He tore up the stairs, step by step. The pain was driving him crazy. Finally, he reached the top step, thinking he knew people. Oh, he knew a lot of people. People who made him look like a fucking Boy Scout. Because cop or no cop, this bastard was going down. You couldn't pull this shit on Darryl Lee Porter and get away with it. Of course not. Who said you couldn't kill a detective?
  As soon as he got upstairs, he'd drop a dime. He glanced outside. There was a police car parked on the corner, probably responding to some disturbance at the bar. He didn't see an officer. Never around when you needed them.
  For a moment, Darryl considered going to the hospital, but how was he going to pay for that? There was no social package at Bar X. No, he'd get better as best he could and check in the morning.
  He dragged himself around the back of the building, then up the rickety wrought-iron stairs, stopping twice to catch his breath. Most of the time, living in the two cramped, shitty rooms above Bar X had been a pain in the ass. The smell, the noise, the clientele. Now it was a blessing, because it took all his strength to reach the front door. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, went into the bathroom, and turned on the fluorescent light. He rummaged through his medicine cabinet. Flexeril. Klonopin. Ibuprofen. He took two of each and began filling the tub. The pipes rumbled and clanked, dumping about a gallon of rusty, salt-smelling water into the tub, surrounded by sewage. When the water flowed as clear as it would go, he plugged the stopper and turned on the hot water full blast. He sat on the edge of the tub and checked his leg. The bleeding had stopped. Barely. His leg was starting to turn blue. Damn, it was dark. He touched the spot with his index finger. Pain shot through his brain like a fiery comet.
  "You're fucking dead. He'll call as soon as he gets his foot wet."
  A few minutes later, after dipping his foot in the hot water, after the various medications had begun their magic, he thought he heard someone outside the door. Or did he? He turned off the water for a moment, listening, tilting his head toward the back of the apartment. Was that bastard following him? He scanned the area for a weapon. A crisp Bic disposable razor and a stack of porn magazines.
  Big. The nearest knife was in the kitchen, and it was ten agonizing steps away.
  The music from the bar downstairs was booming and blaring again. Had he locked the door? He thought so. Though in the past, he'd left it open for a few drunken nights only to have a few of the thugs who frequented Bar X waltz in, looking for a place to hang out. Damn bastards. He had to find a new job. At least the strip clubs had decent taps. The only thing he could hope to catch while X was closing was a case of herpes or a couple of Ben Wa balls up his ass.
  He turned off the water, which had already cooled. He rose to his feet, slowly pulled his foot out of the tub, turned around, and was more than shocked to see another man standing in his bathroom. A man who seemed to have no steps.
  This man also had a question for him.
  When he answered, the man said something Darryl didn't understand. It sounded like a foreign language. It sounded like French.
  Then, with a movement too quick to be seen, the man grabbed him by the neck. His arms were terrifyingly strong. In the fog, the man poked his head beneath the surface of the filthy water. One of Darryl Porter's last sights was a corona of tiny red light, glowing in the dim glow of his dying.
  The tiny red light of a video camera.
  
  
  49
  The warehouse was huge, sturdy, and spacious. It seemed to take up most of the city block. It had once been a ball-bearing company, and later served as a storage facility for some of the costumed floats.
  A chain-link fence surrounded the vast parking lot. The lot was cracked and overgrown with weeds, littered with trash and discarded tires. A smaller, private lot occupied the north side of the building, next to the main entrance. Parked in this lot were a couple of vans and a few late-model cars.
  Jessica, Nikki, and Eugene Kilbane rode in a rented Lincoln Town Car. Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez followed them in a surveillance van rented from the DEA. The van was state-of-the-art, equipped with antennas disguised as a roof rack and a periscope camera. Both Nikki and Jessica were equipped with wireless body-worn devices capable of transmitting a signal up to 300 feet. Palladino and Chavez parked the van in an alleyway, with the windows on the north side of the building visible.
  
  Kilbane, Jessica, and Nikki stood near the front door. The tall first-floor windows were covered from the inside with black opaque material. To the right of the door was a speaker and a button. Kilbane rang the intercom. After three rings, a voice answered.
  "Yeah."
  The voice was deep, nicotine-soaked, and menacing. A crazy, wicked woman. As a friendly greeting, it meant, "Go to hell."
  "I have an appointment with Mr. Diamond," Kilbane said. Despite his best efforts to look like he still had the energy to handle this level, he sounded terrified. Jessica almost... almost... felt sorry for him.
  From the speaker: "There is no one here with that name."
  Jessica looked up. The security camera above them scanned left, then right. Jessica winked at the lens. She wasn't sure there was enough light for the camera to see it, but it was worth a try.
  "Jackie Boris sent me," Kilbane said. It sounded like a question. Kilbane looked at Jessica and shrugged. Almost a full minute later, the buzzer rang. Kilbane opened the door. They all walked inside.
  Inside the main entrance, on the right, was a weathered, paneled reception area, probably last renovated in the 1970s. A pair of cranberry-colored corduroy sofas lined the wall of windows. Opposite them sat a pair of overstuffed chairs. Between them stood a square, chrome-and-smoked-glass Parsons-style coffee table, piled high with decade-old Hustler magazines.
  The only thing that looked like it had been built about twenty years ago was the door to the main warehouse. It was steel and had both a deadbolt and an electronic lock.
  There was a very large man sitting in front of him.
  He was broad-shouldered and built like a bouncer at the gates of hell. He had a shaved head, a wrinkled scalp, and a huge rhinestone earring. He wore a black mesh T-shirt and dark gray dress pants. He sat in an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair, reading a Motocross Action magazine. He looked up, bored and frustrated by these new visitors to his little fiefdom. As they approached, he stood and held out his hand, palm outward, stopping them.
  "My name is Cedric. I know that. If you're wrong about anything, you'll deal with me."
  He let the feeling take root, then picked up the electronic wand and ran it over them. When he was satisfied, he entered the code on the door, turned the key, and opened it.
  Cedric led them down a long, stiflingly hot corridor. On either side were eight-foot-high sections of cheap paneling, obviously erected to seal off the rest of the warehouse. Jessica couldn't help but wonder what lay on the other side.
  At the end of the labyrinth, they found themselves on the first floor. The enormous room was so vast that the light from a film set in the corner seemed to reach about fifty feet into the darkness before being swallowed up by the darkness. Jessica spotted several fifty-gallon drums in the darkness; a forklift loomed like a prehistoric beast.
  "Wait here," Cedric said.
  Jessica watched as Cedric and Kilbane walked toward the set. Cedric's arms were at his sides, his huge shoulders preventing him from getting any closer to the body. He had this strange gait, like a bodybuilder's.
  The set was brightly lit, and from where they stood, it looked like a young girl's bedroom. Boy band posters hung on the walls; a collection of pink stuffed animals and satin pillows lay on the bed. There were no actors on set at the time.
  A few minutes later, Kilbane and another man returned.
  "Ladies, this is Dante Diamond," Kilbane said.
  Dante Diamond looked surprisingly normal, considering his profession. He was sixty, and his hair had previously been blond, now tinted silver, with a sleek goatee and a small hoop earring. He had a UV tan and veneers on his teeth.
  "Mr. Diamond, this is Gina Marino and Daniela Rose.
  Eugene Kilbane had played his part well, Jessica thought. The man had made some impression on her. However, she was still glad she'd hit him.
  "Enchanted." Diamond shook their hands. Very professional, warm, quiet conversation. Like a bank manager. "You are both extraordinarily beautiful young ladies."
  "Thank you," Nikki said.
  "Where could I see your work?"
  "We made a few films for Jerry Stein last year," Nikki said. The two vice detectives Jessica and Nikki had spoken to before the investigation had given them all the necessary names. At least, that's what Jessica hoped.
  "Jerry's an old friend of mine," Diamond said. "Does he still drive his gold 911?"
  Another test, Jessica thought. Nikki looked at her and shrugged. Jessica shrugged back. "Never went on a picnic with that man," Nikki replied, smiling. When Nikki Malone smiled at a man, it was a game, a set, and a match.
  Diamond returned the smile, a glint in his eyes, defeated. "Of course," he said. He pointed to the television. "We're getting ready to film. Please join us on set. There's a full bar and buffet. Make yourself at home."
  Diamond returned to the set, quietly talking to a young woman elegantly dressed in a white linen pantsuit. She was taking notes on a notepad.
  If Jessica hadn't known what these people were doing, she would have been hard-pressed to tell the difference between a pornographic film shoot and wedding planners preparing for a reception.
  Then, in a sickening moment, she remembered where she had been when the man had emerged from the darkness onto the set. He was large, wearing a sleeveless rubber vest and a leather master's mask.
  He had a switchblade in his hand.
  
  
  50
  Byrne parked a block from the address Darryl Porter had given him. It was a busy street in North Philadelphia. Almost every house on the street was occupied and had lights on. The house Porter directed him to was dark, but it was attached to a sandwich shop that was doing a brisk business. Half a dozen teenagers sat in cars out front, eating their sandwiches. Byrne was sure he'd be spotted. He waited as long as he could, got out of the car, slipped behind the house, and picked the lock. He went inside and pulled out the ZIG.
  Inside, the air was thick and hot, saturated with the smell of rotting fruit. Flies buzzed. He entered the small kitchen. The stove and refrigerator were on the right, the sink on the left. A kettle sat on one of the burners. Byrne felt it. Cold. He reached behind the refrigerator and turned it off. He didn't want any light spilling into the living room. He opened the door easily. Empty, save for a couple of rotting pieces of bread and a box of baking soda.
  He tilted his head and listened. A jukebox was playing in the sandwich shop next door. The house was quiet.
  He thought about his years on the force, the number of times he'd entered a row house, never knowing what to expect. Domestic disturbances, break-ins, home invasions. Most row houses had similar layouts, and if you knew where to look, you'd hardly be surprised. Byrne knew where to look. As he walked through the house, he checked possible alcoves. No Matisse. No sign of life. He climbed the stairs, gun in hand. He searched the two small bedrooms and closets on the second floor. He descended two flights to the basement. An abandoned washing machine, a long-rusted brass bed frame. Mice scurried in the beam of his MagLight.
  Empty.
  Let's go back to the first floor.
  Darryl Porter had lied to him. There was no food waste, no mattress, no human sounds or smells. If Matisse had ever been here, he was gone now. The house was empty. Byrne had hidden the SIG.
  Had he really cleared the basement? He'd take another look. He turned to descend the steps. And just then, he felt a shift in the atmosphere, the unmistakable presence of another person. He felt the tip of a blade on the small of his back, felt a faint trickle of blood, and heard a familiar voice:
  - We meet again, Detective Byrne.
  
  MATISS pulled the SIG from the holster on Byrne's hip. He held it up to the streetlight streaming through the window. "Nice," he said. Byrne had reloaded the weapon after leaving Darryl Porter. There was a full magazine. "Doesn't look like a department problem, Detective. Frustrated, frustrated." Matisse placed the knife on the floor, holding the SIG at the small of Byrne's back. He continued searching him.
  "I kind of expected you a little earlier," Matisse said. "I don't think Darryl's the type to handle too much punishment." Matisse searched Byrne's left side. He pulled a small wad of bills from his pants pocket. "Did you have to hurt him, Detective?"
  Byrne was silent. Matisse checked his left jacket pocket.
  - And what do we have here?
  Julian Matisse pulled a small metal box from Byrne's left coat pocket, pressing the weapon against Byrne's spine. In the darkness, Matisse couldn't see the thin wire running up Byrne's sleeve, around the back of his jacket, and then down his right sleeve to the button in his hand.
  As Matisse stepped aside to get a better look at the object in his hand, Byrne pressed a button, sending sixty thousand volts of electricity into Julian Matisse's body. The stun gun, one of two he'd purchased from Sammy Dupuis, was a state-of-the-art device, fully charged. As the stun gun flared and twitched, Matisse screamed, reflexively firing his gun. The bullet missed Byrne's back by inches and slammed into the dry wooden floor. Byrne spun and threw a hook into Matisse's stomach. But Matisse was already on the floor, and the shock of the stun gun caused his body to convulse and twitch. His face froze in a silent scream. The smell of scorched flesh rose up.
  When Matisse had calmed down, docile and tired, his eyes blinking rapidly, the smell of fear and defeat coming off him in waves, Byrne knelt down beside him, took the gun from his limp hand, came very close to his ear and said:
  "Yes, Julian. We meet again."
  
  MATISSÉ sat down on a chair in the center of the basement. There was no reaction to the gunshot, no one knocked on the door. This was North Philadelphia, after all. Matisse's hands were taped behind his back; his feet, to the legs of a wooden chair. When he came to, he didn't struggle with the tape or thrash about. Perhaps he lacked the strength. He calmly assessed Byrne with the eyes of a predator.
  Byrne looked at the man. In the two years since he'd last seen him, Julian Matisse had gained some of his prison bulk, but there was something about him that seemed diminished. His hair was slightly longer. His skin was corroded and greasy, his cheeks sunken. Byrne wondered if he was in the early stages of a virus.
  Byrne shoved a second stun gun into Matisse's jeans.
  When Matisse had regained some of his strength, he said, "It seems your partner-or should I say, your dead ex-partner-was dirty, Detective. Picture it. A dirty cop from Philadelphia.
  "Where is she?" Byrne asked.
  Matisse contorted his face into a parody of innocence. "Where is who?"
  "Where is she?"
  Matisse simply looked at him. Byrne placed the nylon duffel bag on the floor. The bag's size, shape, and weight didn't escape Matisse's notice. Then Byrne removed the strap and slowly wrapped it around his knuckles.
  "Where is she?" he repeated.
  Nothing.
  Byrne stepped forward and punched Matisse in the face. Hard. A moment later, Matisse laughed, then spat blood out of his mouth along with a couple of teeth.
  "Where is she?" Byrne asked.
  - I don't know what the hell you're talking about.
  Byrne feigned another blow. Matisse winced.
  Cool guy.
  Byrne crossed the room, untied his wrist, unzipped his duffel bag, and began to spread its contents on the floor, under the strip of streetlight painted by the window. Matisse's eyes widened for a second, then narrowed. He was going to play hardball. Byrne wasn't surprised.
  "You think you can hurt me?" Matisse asked. He spat out more blood. "I've been through things that would make you cry like a damn baby."
  "I'm not here to hurt you, Julian. I just want some information. The power is in your hands."
  Matisse snorted at this. But deep down, he knew what Byrne meant. It's the nature of a sadist. Shift the burden of pain onto this topic.
  "Right now," Byrne said. "Where is she?"
  Silence.
  Byrne crossed his legs again and landed a powerful hook. This time to the body. The blow caught Matisse just behind the left kidney. Byrne retreated. Matisse vomited.
  When Matisse caught his breath, he managed: "A fine line between justice and hatred, isn't it?" He spat on the floor again. A putrid stench filled the room.
  "I want you to think about your life, Julian," Byrne said, ignoring him. He stepped around the puddle, approaching. "I want you to think about everything you"ve done, the decisions you"ve made, the steps you"ve taken to get to this point. Your lawyer isn"t here to protect you. There"s no judge who can make me stop." Byrne was inches from Matisse"s face. The smell churned his stomach. He picked up the switch for the stun gun. "I"m going to ask you one more time. If you don"t answer me, we"ll take this whole thing up a notch and never go back to the good old days we had now. Understand?"
  Matisse didn't say a word.
  "Where is she?"
  Nothing.
  Byrne pressed the button, sending sixty thousand volts into Julian Matisse's testicles. Matisse screamed loudly and long. He overturned his chair, fell backward, and hit his head on the floor. But the pain paled in comparison to the fire raging in his lower body. Byrne knelt beside him, covered his mouth, and in that moment, the images before his eyes merged...
  - Victoria crying... begging for her life... struggling with the nylon ropes... the knife cutting her skin... blood glistening in the moonlight... her piercing siren cry in the darkness... screams that join the dark chorus of pain...
  - as he grabbed Matisse by the hair. He straightened the chair and brought his face closer again. Matisse's face was now covered in a web of blood, bile, and vomit. "Listen to me. You will tell me where she is. If she is dead, if she is suffering at all, I will come back. You think you understand pain, but you don't. I will teach you."
  "Damn... you," Matisse whispered. His head lolled to the side. He drifted in and out of consciousness. Byrne pulled a cap of ammonia from his pocket and cracked it right in front of the man's nose. He came to. Byrne gave him time to reorient himself.
  "Where is she?" Byrne asked.
  Matisse looked up and tried to focus. He smiled through the blood in his mouth. He was missing his two upper front teeth. The rest were pink. "I made her. Just like Snow White. You'll never find her."
  Byrne cracked another cap of ammonia. He needed a clear Matisse. He held it to the man's nose. Matisse tilted his head back. From the cup he'd brought with him, Byrne took a handful of ice and held it to Matisse's eyes.
  Then Byrne took out his cell phone and opened it. He navigated through the menu until he reached the images folder. He opened the most recent photo, taken that morning. He turned the LCD screen toward Matisse.
  Matisse's eyes widened in horror. He began to shake.
  "No ..."
  Of all the things Matisse expected to see, a photograph of Edwina Matisse standing in front of the Aldi supermarket on Market Street, where she always shopped, wasn't one of them. Seeing his mother's photograph in this context visibly chilled him to the core.
  "You can"t...," Matisse said.
  "If Victoria is dead, I'll stop by and pick up your mother on my way back, Julian.
  "No ..."
  "Oh, yeah. And I'll bring it to you in a damn jar. So help me God."
  Byrne closed the phone. Matisse's eyes began to fill with tears. Soon his body was wracked with sobs. Byrne had seen it all before. He thought of Gracie Devlin's sweet smile. He felt no sympathy for the man.
  "You still think you know me?" Byrne asked.
  Byrne tossed a piece of paper into Matisse's lap. It was a shopping list he'd picked up from the floorboards of Edwina Matisse's car's backseat. Seeing his mother's delicate handwriting, Matisse's resolve was broken.
  "Where is Victoria?"
  Matisse struggled with the tape. When he grew tired, he went limp and exhausted. "No more."
  "Answer me," Byrne said.
  - She... she's in Fairmount Park.
  "Where?" Byrne asked. Fairmount Park was the largest urban park in the country. It covered four thousand acres. "Where?"
  "Belmont Plateau. Next to the softball field.
  "Is she dead?"
  Matisse didn't answer. Byrne opened another ammonia cap, then picked up a small butane blowtorch. He positioned it an inch from Matisse's right eye. He picked up the lighter.
  "Is she dead?"
  "I don't know!"
  Byrne stepped back and tightly taped Matisse's mouth. He checked the man's arms and legs. Safe.
  Byrne gathered his tools and put them in his bag. He walked out of the house. The heat shimmered on the pavement, illuminating the sodium streetlights with a carbon-blue aura. North Philadelphia was raging with manic energy that night, and Kevin Byrne was its soul.
  He got into the car and headed to Fairmount Park.
  OceanofPDF.com
  51
  NONE OF THEM WAS A GODDAMN GOOD ACTRESS. On the few occasions Jessica had worked undercover, she'd always been a little worried about being framed as a cop. Now, seeing Nikki working the room, Jessica was almost envious. The woman had a certain confidence, an air that said she knew who she was and what she was doing. She penetrated the essence of the role she played in a way Jessica never could.
  Jessica watched as the crew adjusted the lighting between takes. She knew little about filmmaking, but the whole operation looked like a high-budget undertaking.
  This was precisely the topic that troubled her. Apparently, it concerned a pair of teenage girls dominated by a sadistic grandfather. At first, Jessica thought the two young actresses were about fifteen years old, but as she wandered around the set and got closer, she saw that they were probably in their twenties.
  Jessica introduced the girl from the "Philadelphia Skin" video. It took place in a room not unlike this one.
  What happened to that girl?
  Why did she seem familiar to me?
  Jessica's heart turned over as she watched the three-minute scene being filmed. In it, a man wearing a master's mask verbally humiliated two women. They were wearing thin, dirty peignoirs. He tied them with their backs to the bed and circled over them like a giant vulture.
  During the interrogation, he repeatedly hit them, always with an open hand. It took all Jessica's strength not to intervene. It was clear the man had made contact. The girls reacted with genuine screams and genuine tears, but when Jessica saw them laughing between takes, she realized the blows weren't hard enough to cause injury. Perhaps they even enjoyed it. In any case, Detective Jessica Balzano found it hard to believe that crimes weren't being committed here.
  The hardest part to watch came at the end of the scene. The masked man left one of the girls tied up and sprawled on the bed, while the other knelt before him. Looking at her, he pulled out a switchblade and yanked it open. He tore her nightgown to shreds. He spat on her. He forced her to lick his shoes. Then he held the knife to the girl's throat. Jessica and Nikki exchanged glances, both ready to rush in. It was then, fortunately, that Dante Diamond yelled, "Cut!"
  Fortunately, the masked man did not take this directive literally.
  Ten minutes later, Nikki and Jessica stood at a small, makeshift buffet table. Dante Diamond might have been anything but, but he wasn't cheap. The table was laden with pricey delicacies: cheesecakes, shrimp toast, bacon-wrapped scallops, and mini quiche Lorraine.
  Nikki grabbed some food and walked onto the set just as one of the older actresses approached the buffet table. She was in her forties and in excellent shape. She had henna-colored hair, exquisite eye makeup, and painfully high heels. She was dressed like a stern teacher. The woman hadn't been in the previous scene.
  "Hi," she said to Jessica. "My name is Bebe."
  "Gina".
  "Are you involved in production?"
  "No," Jessica said. "I'm here as Mr. Diamond's guest."
  She nodded and popped a couple of shrimp into her mouth.
  "Have you ever worked with Bruno Steele?" Jessica asked.
  Bebe picked up a few dishes from the table and placed them on a Styrofoam plate. "Bruno? Oh, right. Bruno is a doll.
  "My director would really like to hire him for the movie we're making. Hard S and M. We just can't seem to find him.
  "I know where Bruno is. We were just hanging out."
  "Tonight?"
  "Yes," she said. She grabbed the bottle of Aquafina. "About a couple of hours ago."
  "No fucking way."
  "He told us to stop around midnight. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you came with us.
  "Cool," Jessica said.
  "I have one more scene, and then we'll be out of here." She adjusted her dress and winced. "This corset is killing me."
  "Is there a ladies' room?" Jessica asked.
  "I'll show you."
  Jessica followed Bebe through part of the warehouse. They walked down a service corridor to two doors. The women's room was huge, designed to accommodate a full shift of women when the building was a manufacturing plant. A dozen cubicles and sinks.
  Jessica stood in front of the mirror with Bebe.
  "How long have you been in this business?" Bebe asked.
  "About five years," Jessica said.
  "Just a kid," she said. "Don't take too long," she added, echoing Jessica's father's words about the department. Bebe put the lipstick back in her clutch. "Give me half an hour."
  "Certainly".
  Bebe emerged from the bathroom. Jessica waited a full minute, poked her head out into the hallway, and returned to the bathroom. She checked all the counters and entered the last stall. She spoke directly into the microphone on her body, hoping she wasn't so deep in the brick building that the surveillance team couldn't pick up the signal. She had no headphones or any kind of receiver. Her communication, if it existed, was one-sided.
  "I don't know if you heard all this, but we have a lead. The woman said she was walking with our suspect and is going to take us there in about thirty minutes. That's three and a half minutes. We might not be able to get out the front door. Watch out."
  She considered repeating what she'd said, but if the surveillance team hadn't heard her the first time, they wouldn't hear her a second time. She didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. She adjusted her clothes, stepped out of the stall, and was about to turn and leave when she heard the click of a hammer. Then she felt the steel of a gun barrel against the back of her head. The shadow on the wall was enormous. It was the gorilla from the front door. Cedric.
  He heard every word.
  "You're not going anywhere," he said.
  
  
  52
  There is a moment when the protagonist finds themselves unable to return to their previous life, to the part of their continuum that existed before the narrative began. This point of no return usually occurs midway through the story, but not always.
  I've passed that point.
  It's 1980. Miami Beach. I close my eyes, find my center, hear salsa music, smell the salty air.
  My colleague is handcuffed to a steel rod.
  "What are you doing?" he asks.
  I could tell him, but as all the screenwriting books say, it's much more effective to show than to tell. I check the camera. It's on a mini-tripod mounted on a milk crate.
  Ideal.
  I put on my yellow raincoat and fastened it with a hook.
  "Do you know who I am?" he asks, his voice rising with fear.
  "Let me guess," I say. "You're the guy who usually plays second heavy, am I right?"
  His face looks appropriately puzzled. I don't expect him to understand. "What?"
  "You're the guy who stands behind the villain and tries to look menacing. The guy who'll never get the girl. Well, sometimes, but never the pretty girl, right? If ever, you'll get that stern blonde who carefully sips whiskey from the bottom shelf, the one who gets a little thick in the middle. Something like Dorothy Malone. And only after the villain gets his."
  "You're crazy."
  "You have no idea."
  I stand in front of him, examining his face. He tries to break free, but I take his face in my hands.
  "You really should take better care of your skin."
  He looks at me, speechless. This won't last long.
  I cross the room and pull the chain saw out of its case. It feels heavy in my hands. I have all the best equipment. I can smell the oil. It's a well-maintained piece of equipment. It would be a shame to lose it.
  I pull the cord. It starts immediately. The roar is loud, impressive. The chainsaw blade rumbles, burps, and smokes.
  - Jesus Christ, no! he screams.
  I look at him, feeling the terrible power of the moment.
  "Peace!" I shout.
  When I touch the blade to the left side of his head, his eyes seem to grasp the truth of the scene. There's no look like that on anyone's face at that moment.
  The blade comes down. Huge chunks of bone and brain tissue fly off. The blade is incredibly sharp, and I instantly slice through his neck. My cloak and mask are covered in blood, skull fragments, and hair.
  - Now the leg, huh? I scream.
  But he can't hear me anymore.
  The chainsaw roars in my hands. I shake flesh and cartilage from the blade.
  And get back to work.
  
  
  53
  Byrne parked on Montgomery Drive and began his journey across the plateau. The city skyline winked and sparkled in the distance. Normally, he would have stopped and admired the view from Belmont. Even as a lifelong Philadelphian, he never tired of it. But tonight, his heart was filled with sadness and fear.
  Byrne aimed his Maglight at the ground, searching for a trail of blood or footprints. He found neither.
  He approached the softball field, checking for signs of a struggle. He searched the area behind the outfield. No blood, no Victoria.
  He circled the field. Twice. Victoria was gone.
  Have they found her?
  No. If this were a crime scene, the police would still be there. They'd tape it off, and a sector car would guard the area. The CSU wouldn't process the scene in the dark. They'd wait until morning.
  He retraced his steps, but found nothing. He crossed the plateau again, passing a grove of trees. He looked under the benches. Nothing. He was just about to call a search party-knowing that what he had done to Matisse would mean the end of his career, his freedom, his life-when he saw her. Victoria was lying on the ground, behind a small bush, covered in dirty rags and newspapers. And there was a lot of blood. Byrne's heart shattered into a thousand pieces.
  "Oh my God. Tori. No."
  He knelt down beside her. He pulled off the rags. Tears blurred his vision. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. "Oh, Christ. What have I ever done to you?"
  She had a cut across her abdomen. The wound was deep and gaping. She had lost a lot of blood. Byrne was in utter despair. He'd seen oceans of blood in his work. But this. This...
  He felt for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there.
  She was alive.
  - Wait, Tori. Please. God. Wait.
  His hands shaking, he took out his cell phone and called 911.
  
  BYRNE stayed with her until the very last second. When the ambulance arrived, he hid among the trees. There was nothing more he could do for her.
  Besides prayer.
  
  BJORN MADE HIS TERMS to remain calm. It was difficult. The anger inside him at that moment was bright, coppery, and wild.
  He had to calm down. He had to think.
  Now was the moment when all the crimes went wrong, when science became official, the moment when the smartest of criminals screwed up, the moment for which investigators live.
  Investigators love him.
  He thought about the things in the bag in the trunk of his car, the dark artifacts he'd bought from Sammy Dupuis. He would spend the entire night with Julian Matisse. Byrne knew there were many things worse than death. He intended to explore every single one of them before nightfall. For Victoria. For Gracie Devlin. For everyone Julian Matisse had ever hurt.
  There was no turning back from this. For the rest of his life, wherever he lived, whatever he did, he would wait for the knock on his door; he suspected the man in the dark suit who approached him with grim determination, the car that slowly pulled up to the curb as he walked down Broad Street.
  Surprisingly, his hands were steady and his pulse steady. For now. But he knew there was a huge difference between pulling the trigger and holding his finger down.
  Will he be able to pull the trigger?
  Will he?
  As he watched the taillights of the ambulance disappear down Montgomery Drive, he felt the weight of the SIG Sauer in his hand and got his answer.
  
  
  54
  "THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH Mister Diamond or his business. I am a homicide detective.
  Cedric hesitated when he spotted the wire. He roughly slapped her on the ground, ripping it off. It was clear what would happen next. He pressed the gun to her forehead and forced her to her knees.
  "You're damn hot for a cop, you know that?"
  Jessica just watched. Watched his eyes. His hands. "Are you going to kill a gold-badged detective where you work?" she asked, hoping her voice didn't betray her fear.
  Cedric smiled. Incredibly, he was wearing a retainer. "Who said we were going to leave your body here, bitch?"
  Jessica considered her options. If she could get to her feet, she could get one shot in. It had to be well placed-the throat or the nose-and even then, she might only have a few seconds to get out of the room. She kept her eye on the gun.
  Cedric stepped forward. He unzipped his pants. "You know, I've never had sex with a cop before."
  As he did so, the gun's barrel swung away from her for a moment. If he took off his pants, it would be his last chance to make her move. "Perhaps you should consider that, Cedric."
  "Oh, I've been thinking about it, baby." He started unzipping his jacket. "I've been thinking about it ever since you walked in."
  Before he had unzipped it completely, a shadow ran across the floor.
  - Drop the gun, Sasquatch.
  It was Nikki Malone.
  Judging by Cedric's expression, Nikki had the gun pointed at the back of his head. His face was drained of color, his posture nonthreatening. He slowly placed the gun on the floor. Jessica picked it up. She'd practiced it on him. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.
  "Very good," Nikki said. "Now place your hands on top of your head and interlace your fingers."
  The man slowly shook his head from side to side. But he didn't obey. "You can't get out of here."
  "No? And why is that?" Nikki asked.
  "They could miss me at any moment."
  "Why, because you're so cute? Shut up. And put your hands on the top of your head. This is the last time I'll tell you."
  Slowly and reluctantly he placed his hands on his head.
  Jessica rose to her feet, pointing her .38 pistol at the man and wondering where Nikki had gotten her weapon. They were searched with a metal detector along the way.
  "Now on your knees," Nikki said. "Pretend you're on a date."
  With considerable effort, the big man sank to his knees.
  Jessica came up behind him and saw that Nikki wasn't holding a gun. It was a steel towel rack. This girl was good.
  "How many more guards are there?" Nikki asked.
  Cedric remained silent. Perhaps it was because he considered himself more than just a security guard. Nikki hit him over the head with a pipe.
  "Oh. Jesus."
  "I don't think you're concentrating on that, Moose."
  "Damn, bitch. There's only me."
  "Excuse me, what did you call me?" Nikki asked.
  Cedric started sweating. "I... I didn't mean..."
  Nikki nudged him with her staff. "Shut up." She turned to Jessica. "Are you okay?"
  "Yes," Jessica said.
  Nikki nodded toward the door. Jessica crossed the room and looked out into the hallway. Empty. She returned to where Nikki and Cedric were. "Let's do this."
  "Okay," Nikki said. "You can put your hands down now."
  Cedric thought she was letting him go. He smirked.
  But Nikki wouldn't let him off the hook. What she really wanted was a clean shot. When he lowered his hands, Nikki reared up and brought the rod down on the back of his head. Hard. The blow echoed off the dirty tile walls. Jessica wasn't sure it was hard enough, but a second later she saw the man's eyes roll back. He folded his cards. A minute later, he was held face down in the stall, a handful of paper towels in his mouth and his hands tied behind his back. It was like dragging a moose.
  "I can't believe I'm leaving my Jil Sander belt in this fucking hole," Nikki said.
  Jessica almost laughed. Nicolette Malone was her new role model.
  "Ready?" Jessica asked.
  Nikki gave the gorilla another whack with the club just in case and said, "Let's jump."
  
  LIKE ALL STACKS, after the first few minutes the adrenaline wore off.
  They left the warehouse and drove across town in a Lincoln Town Car, Bebe and Nikki in the backseat. Bebe gave them directions. When they arrived at the address, they identified themselves to Bebe as law enforcement officers. She was surprised, but not shocked. Bebe and Kilbane were now under temporary detention at the Roundhouse, where they would remain until the operation was completed.
  The target house was on a dark street. They didn't have a search warrant, so they couldn't enter. Not yet. If Bruno Steele had invited a group of porn actresses to meet him there at midnight, the chances were high he would have returned.
  Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez were in a van half a block away. Two sector cars, each carrying two uniformed officers, were also nearby.
  While they waited for Bruno Steele, Nikki and Jessica changed back into street clothes: jeans, T-shirts, sneakers, and Kevlar vests. Jessica felt a huge sense of relief when the Glock was back on her hip.
  "Have you ever worked with a woman before?" Nikki asked. They were alone in the lead car, a few hundred feet from the target house.
  "No," Jessica said. In all her time on the streets, from training officer to veteran cop who showed her the ropes on the streets of South Philadelphia, she'd always been paired with a man. When she worked in the motor vehicle department, she was one of two women, the other working behind the desk. It was a new experience, and, she had to admit, a good one.
  "It's the same thing," Nikki said. "You'd think drugs would attract more women, but after a while, the glamour wears off."
  Jessica couldn't tell if Nikki was joking or not. Glamour? She could understand a man wanting to look like a cowboy in such a detail. Hell, she was married to one. She was about to respond when headlights illuminated the rearview.
  On the radio: "Jess."
  "I see it," Jessica said.
  They watched the slowly approaching car through their side mirrors. Jessica couldn't immediately identify the make or model of the car from that distance and in that light. It looked to be of average size.
  A car drove past them. There was one resident in it. He slowly rolled to the corner, turned, and disappeared.
  Were they made? No. It seemed unlikely. They waited. The car didn't go back.
  They stood up. And waited.
  
  
  55
  IT'S LATE, I'm tired. I never imagined this kind of work could be so physically and mentally draining. Think of all the movie monsters over the years, how hard they must have worked. Think of Freddy, of Michael Myers. Think of Norman Bates, Tom Ripley, Patrick Bateman, Christian Szell.
  I have a lot to do in the next few days. And then I'll be done.
  I gather my things from the backseat: a plastic bag full of bloody clothes. I'll burn them first thing in the morning. In the meantime, I'll take a hot bath, make some chamomile tea, and probably fall asleep before my head hits the pillow.
  "A hard day makes a soft bed," my grandfather used to say.
  I get out of the car and lock it. I take a deep breath of the summer night air. The city smells clean and fresh, filled with promise.
  With a weapon in my hands, I begin to make my way towards the house.
  OceanofPDF.com
  56
  Just after midnight, they spotted their man. Bruno Steele was walking across the vacant lot behind the target house.
  "I have a picture," came the radio.
  "I see him," Jessica said.
  Steele hesitated near the door, looking up and down the street. Jessica and Nikki slowly sank into the seat, just in case another car passed by and cast their silhouettes in the headlights.
  Jessica picked up the two-way radio, turned it on, and whispered, "Are we okay?"
  "Yes," said Palladino. "We're good."
  - Is the uniform ready?
  "Ready."
  "We got him," Jessica thought.
  We fucking caught him.
  Jessica and Nikki drew their guns and slipped quietly out of the car. As they approached their target, Jessica locked eyes with Nikki. It was the moment all cops live for. The thrill of an arrest tempered by the fear of the unknown. If Bruno Steele was the Actor, he'd cold-bloodedly murdered two women they knew about. If he was their target, he was capable of anything.
  They closed the distance in the shadows. Fifty feet. Thirty feet. Twenty. Jessica was about to continue the subject when she stopped.
  Something went wrong.
  In that moment, reality collapsed around her. It was one of those moments-unsettling enough in life in general and potentially fatal at work-when you realize that what you thought was in front of you, what you considered one thing, was not just something else, but something entirely different.
  The man at the door was not Bruno Steele.
  That man was Kevin Byrne.
  
  
  57
  They crossed the street, into the shadows. Jessica didn't ask Byrne what he was doing there. That would come later. She was about to return to the surveillance car when Eric Chavez pulled her up onto the canal.
  "Jess."
  "Yeah."
  "There is music coming from the house."
  Bruno Steele was already inside.
  
  BYRNE watched as the team prepared to take over the house. Jessica quickly briefed him on the day's events. With every word, Byrne saw his life and career spiraling. Everything fell into place. Julian Matisse was an actor. Byrne had been so close he hadn't noticed. Now the system was going to do what it did best. And Kevin Byrne was right under its wheels.
  "A few minutes," Byrne thought. If he'd gotten there just a few minutes before the strike team, it would all be over. Now, when they found Matisse tied up in that chair, bloodied and beaten, they'd pin it all on him. No matter what Matisse had done to Victoria, Byrne had kidnapped and tortured the man.
  Conrad Sanchez would have found grounds for at least a police brutality charge, and perhaps even federal charges. There was a very real possibility that Byrne might be in a holding cell next to Julian Matisse that very night.
  
  NICK PALLADINO and Eric Chavez took the lead in the rowhouse, with Jessica and Nikki following behind. The four detectives searched the first and second floors. They were clear.
  They began to descend the narrow stairs.
  The house was permeated with a damp, vile heat, smelling of sewage and human salt. Something primal lay beneath. Palladino reached the bottom step first. Jessica followed. They ran their Maglites across the cramped room.
  And I saw the very heart of evil.
  It was a massacre. Blood and entrails were everywhere. Flesh clung to the walls. At first, the source of the blood wasn't obvious. But soon they realized what they were looking at: the creature draped over the metal rod had once been human.
  Although it would be more than three hours before fingerprint tests confirmed it, detectives knew for certain at that moment that the man known to adult film fans as Bruno Steele, but better known to the police, the courts, the criminal justice system, and his mother, Edwina, as Julian Matisse, had been cut in half.
  The bloody chain saw at his feet was still warm.
  
  
  58
  They sat in a booth in the back of a small bar on Vine Street. The image of what had been found in the basement of a rowhouse in North Philadelphia pulsed between them, unwavering in its profanity. They had both seen a lot in their time on the force. They had rarely seen the brutality of what happened in that room.
  The CSU was processing the scene. It would take all night and most of the next day. Somehow, the media was already aware of the whole story. Three television stations were located across the street.
  While they waited, Byrne told Jessica his story, from the moment Paul DiCarlo called him to the moment she surprised him outside his North Philadelphia home. Jessica had a feeling he hadn't told her everything.
  When he'd finished his story, there were a few moments of silence. The silence spoke volumes about them-about who they were as police officers, as people, but especially as partners.
  "Are you okay?" Byrne finally asked.
  "Yes," Jessica said. "I'm worried about you. I mean, two days ago and all.
  Byrne waved away her concern. His eyes told a different story. He drank his drink and asked for another. When the bartender brought him his drink and left, he settled back into a more comfortable position. The drink had softened his posture, easing the tension in his shoulders. Jessica thought he wanted to tell her something. She was right.
  "What is this?" she prompted.
  "I was just thinking about something. About Easter Sunday.
  "What about it?" She'd never spoken to him in detail about his experience of being shot. She wanted to ask, but decided he'd tell her when he was ready. Perhaps now was that time.
  "When it all happened," he began, "there was that split second, right at the moment the bullet hit me, when I saw it all happen. As if it were happening to someone else."
  "Did you see this?"
  "Not really. I don't mean some New Age out-of-body experience. I mean, I saw it in my mind. I watched myself fall to the floor. Blood everywhere. My blood. And the only thing that kept going through my head was this... this image."
  "What picture?"
  Byrne stared into the glass on the table. Jessica could tell he was having a hard time. She had all the time in the world. "A photo of my mother and father. An old black-and-white. The kind with the rough edges. Remember them?"
  "Of course," Jessica said. "There's a shoebox full of them at home."
  "The picture is of them on their honeymoon in Miami Beach, standing in front of the Eden Roc Hotel, having possibly the happiest moment of their lives. Now, everyone knew they couldn"t afford the Eden Roc, right? But that"s what you did back in the day. You stayed at some place called Aqua Breeze or Sea Dunes, took a picture with Eden Roc or the Fontainebleau in the background, and pretended to be rich. My old man in this ugly purple and green Hawaiian shirt, with big tanned hands, bony white knees, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. It was like he was telling the world, "Can you believe my dumb luck?" What the hell did I do right to deserve this woman?"
  Jessica listened intently. Byrne had never talked much about his family before.
  "And my mother. Oh, how beautiful. A real Irish rose. She just stood there in this white sundress with little yellow flowers, with this half-smile on her face, as if she had figured it all out, as if she was saying, 'Watch your step, Padraig Francis Byrne, because you'll be on thin ice for the rest of your life.'"
  Jessica nodded and sipped her drink. She had a similar photo somewhere. Her parents honeymooned on Cape Cod.
  "They didn"t even think about me when that picture was taken," Byrne said. "But I was in their plans, right? And when I hit the floor on Easter Sunday, all my blood everywhere, all I could think about was what someone said to them on that bright, sunny day in Miami Beach: You know that baby? That chubby little bundle you"re going to have? One day, someone"s going to put a bullet in his head, and he"s going to die the most undignified death imaginable. Then, in the picture, I saw their expressions change. I saw my mother start crying. I saw my old man clenching and unclenching his fists, and that"s how he deals with all his emotions to this day. I saw my old man standing in the medical examiner"s office, standing by my grave. I knew I couldn"t let go. I knew I still had work to do. I knew I had to survive to do it."
  Jessica tried to process this, to decipher the subtext of what he was telling her. "Do you still feel that way?" she asked.
  Byrne's eyes bored into hers deeper than anyone else's. For a second, she felt as if he'd turned her limbs to cement. It seemed he might not answer. Then he simply said, "Yes."
  An hour later, they stopped at St. Joseph's Hospital. Victoria Lindström had recovered from surgery and was in intensive care. Her condition was critical but stable.
  A few minutes later, they stood in the parking lot, in the quiet of the pre-dawn city. Soon the sun rose, but Philly was still asleep. Somewhere out there, under the watchful eye of William Penn, between the peaceful flow of the rivers, among the drifting souls of the night, the Actor was planning his next horror.
  Jessica went home to get a few hours' sleep, thinking about what Byrne had been through in the last forty-eight hours. She tried not to judge him. In her mind, up until the moment Kevin Byrne left the North Philadelphia basement and headed to Fairmount Park, what happened there had been between him and Julian Matisse. There were no witnesses, and there would be no investigation into Byrne's behavior. Jessica was almost certain Byrne hadn't told her all the details, but that was okay. The actor was still wandering around his city.
  They had work to do.
  
  
  59
  The carface tape was rented from an independent video store in University City. This time, the store wasn't owned by Eugene Kilbane. The man who rented the tape was Elian Quintana, a night security guard at the Wachovia Center. He watched the doctored video with his daughter, a Villanova sophomore, who fainted upon witnessing the real murder. She is currently being sedated under doctor's orders.
  In the edited version of the film, a battered, bruised, and screaming Julian Matisse is seen handcuffed to a metal rod in a makeshift shower stall in the corner of the basement. A figure in a yellow raincoat enters the frame, picks up a chainsaw, and slices the man nearly in half. This is inserted into the film at the moment when Al Pacino visits a Colombian drug dealer in a second-floor motel room in Miami. The young man who brought the tape, a video store employee, was questioned and released, as was Elian Quintana.
  There were no other fingerprints on the tape. There were no fingerprints on the chain saw. There was no video recording of the tape being placed on the video store rack. There were no suspects.
  
  Within hours of Julian Matisse's body being discovered in a North Philadelphia rowhouse, a total of 10 detectives were assigned to the case.
  Sales of video cameras in the city had skyrocketed, making the possibility of copycat crimes a real possibility. The task force dispatched undercover plainclothes detectives to every independent video store in the city. It was believed the Actor had chosen them because of the ease with which he could bypass the old security systems.
  For the PPD and the FBI's Philadelphia office, the actor was now priority number one. The story attracted international attention, bringing crime, film, and all-around fans to the city.
  Since the story broke, video stores, both independent and chain, have been in near-hysteria, teeming with people renting films featuring graphic violence. Channel 6 Action News organized teams to interview people arriving with armfuls of videotapes.
  "I hope that out of all the Nightmare on Elm Street entries, the Actor kills someone like Freddy did in the third installment..."
  "I rented Se7en, but when I got to the part where the lawyer gets a pound of flesh removed, it was the same scene as the original... bummer..."
  "I have The Untouchables... Maybe an actor will throw a Louisville Slugger punch to some guy's head in it, like De Niro did."
  "I hope I see some killings, like in..."
  Carlito's Way
  "Taxi driver-"
  "Enemy of society..."
  "Escape..."
  "M..."
  Reservoir Dogs
  For the department, the possibility that someone would not bring the tape but would decide to keep it for themselves or sell it on eBay was as alarming as it could be.
  Jessica had three hours before the task force meeting. Rumors had it she might lead the task force, and the thought was more than a little daunting. On average, each detective assigned to the task force had ten years of experience in the unit, and she would be leading them.
  She began gathering her files and notes when she saw a pink note with the words "WHILE YOU WERE AWAY." Faith Chandler. She hadn't yet answered the woman's phone call. She'd completely forgotten about her. The woman's life had been devastated by grief, pain, and loss, and Jessica hadn't taken action. She picked up the phone and dialed. After several rings, a woman answered.
  "Hello?"
  "Mrs. Chandler, this is Detective Balzano. I'm sorry I couldn't get back to you."
  Silence. Then: "It"s... I"m Sister Faith."
  "Oh, I'm so sorry," Jessica said. "Is Faith home?"
  More silence. Something went wrong. "Vera isn't... Vera's in the hospital."
  Jessica felt the floor drop. "What happened?"
  She heard the woman sob. A moment later: "They don't know. They say it could have been acute alcohol poisoning. There were a lot of them... well, that's what they said. She's in a coma. They say she probably won't survive.
  Jessica remembered the bottle on the table in front of the TV when they visited Faith Chandler. "When did that happen?"
  "After Stephanie... well, Faith has a bit of a drinking problem. I guess she just couldn't stop. I found her early this morning.
  - Was she at home at that time?
  "Yes."
  - Was she alone?
  "I think so... I mean, I don't know. She was like that when I found her. Before that, I just don't know."
  - Did you or anyone call the police?
  "No. I called nine-one-one.
  Jessica glanced at her watch. "Stay here. We'll be there in ten minutes.
  
  FAITH'S SISTER S. ONYA was an older, heavier version of Faith. But where Vera's eyes were soul-weary, pierced with sadness and weariness, Sonya's were clear and alert. Jessica and Byrne were talking to her in the small kitchen at the back of the rowhouse. A single glass, rinsed and already dry, sat in a strainer by the sink.
  
  A man sat on the porch two doors down from Faith Chandler's rowhouse. He was in his seventies. He had unkempt, shoulder-length gray hair, a five-day stubble, and sat in what looked like a 1970s motorized wheelchair-bulky, outfitted with cup holders, bumper stickers, radio antennas, and reflectors, but very well supported. His name was Atkins Pace. He spoke with a deep Louisiana drawl.
  "Do you sit here a lot, Mr. Pace?" Jessica asked.
  "Almost every day when the weather's good, darling. I have a radio, I have iced tea. What more could a man want?" "Maybe a pair of legs to chase pretty girls with."
  The glint in his eyes suggested that he was simply not taking his situation seriously, something he had probably been doing for years.
  "Were you sitting here yesterday?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes sir."
  "How much time?"
  Pace looked at the two detectives, taking stock of the situation. "This is about Faith, isn't it?"
  "Why are you asking this?"
  - Because this morning I saw her taken away by ambulance doctors.
  "Yes, Faith Chandler is in the hospital," Byrne replied.
  Pace nodded, then crossed himself. He was approaching the age when people fell into one of three categories. Already, almost, and not quite yet. "Can you tell me what happened to her?" he asked.
  "We're not sure," Jessica replied. "Did you even see her yesterday?"
  "Oh yes," he said. "I saw her."
  "When?"
  He looked up at the sky, as if measuring time by the sun's position. "Well, I'll bet it was in the afternoon. Yeah, I'd say that was most accurate. After noon."
  - Was she coming or leaving?
  "Coming home."
  "Was she alone?" Jessica asked.
  He shook his head. "No, ma'am. She was with a guy. Good looking. Probably looked like a school teacher.
  - Have you ever seen him before?
  Return to the sky. Jessica began to think this man was using the sky as his personal PDA. "Nope. New to me.
  - Did you notice anything unusual?
  "Ordinary?"
  - Did they quarrel or anything like that?
  "No," Pace said. "It was business as usual, if you know what I mean."
  "I'm not. Tell me."
  Pace glanced left, then right. The rumor mill was abuzz. He leaned forward. "Well, she looked like she was in her cups. Plus they had a few more bottles. I don't like telling tall tales, but you asked, and here it is."
  - Can you describe the man who was with her?
  "Oh, yes," Pace said. "Down to the laces, if you like."
  "Why is that?" Jessica asked.
  The man looked at her with a knowing smile. It erased years from his wrinkled face. "Young lady, I've sat in this chair for over thirty years. I watch people."
  Then he closed his eyes and listed everything Jessica was wearing, down to her earrings and the color of the pen in her hand. He opened his eyes and winked.
  "Very impressive," she said.
  "It's a gift," Pace replied. "It's not what I asked for, but I certainly have one, and I'm trying to use it for the good of humanity."
  "We'll be right back," Jessica said.
  - I'll be here, dear.
  Back at the rowhouse, Jessica and Byrne stood in the center of Stephanie's bedroom. At first, they believed the answer to what had happened to Stephanie lay within these four walls-her life as it had been the day she left them. They examined every piece of clothing, every letter, every book, every knick-knack.
  Looking around the room now, Jessica noticed that everything was exactly the same as it had been a few days ago. Except for one thing. The picture frame on the dresser-the one that held the photo of Stephanie and her friend-was now empty.
  
  
  60
  Ian Whitestone was a man of highly developed habits, a man so detailed, precise, and economical in his thinking that the people around him were often treated like agenda items. In all the time he'd known Ian, Seth Goldman had never seen the man display a single emotion that seemed to come naturally to him. Seth had never known anyone with a more icy and clinical approach to personal relationships. Seth wondered how he would take this news.
  The climactic scene of "The Palace" was supposed to be a masterful three-minute shot set at the 30th Street train station. It would be the film's final shot. It was this shot that would have secured a Best Director nomination, if not a Best Picture nomination.
  The final party was to be held at a trendy Second Street nightclub called 32 Degrees, a European bar named for its tradition of serving shots in glasses made of solid ice.
  Seth stood in the hotel bathroom. He found he couldn't look at himself. He picked up the photograph by the edge and flicked his lighter. Within seconds, the picture burst into flames. He tossed it into the hotel bathroom sink. In an instant, it was gone.
  "Two more days," he thought. That was all he needed. Two more days, and they could put the illness behind them.
  Before it all starts again.
  OceanofPDF.com
  61
  JESSICA LEADERED the task force, her first. Her number one priority was coordinating resources and manpower with the FBI. Secondly, she would liaise with her superiors, provide progress reports, and prepare a profile.
  A sketch of the man seen walking down the street with Faith Chandler was in the works. Two detectives followed the chain saw used to kill Julian Matisse. Two detectives followed the embroidered jacket Matisse wore in the film "Philadelphia Skin."
  The first meeting of the task force was scheduled for 4:00 p.m.
  
  Photos of the victim were taped to the board: Stephanie Chandler, Julian Matisse, and a photo taken from the "Fatal Attraction" video of the as-yet-unidentified female victim. No missing person report matching the woman's description had yet been filed. The medical examiner's preliminary report on Julian Matisse's death was expected any minute.
  The search warrant for Adam Kaslov's apartment was denied. Jessica and Byrne were certain this had more to do with Lawrence Kaslov's high-level involvement in the case than with a lack of circumstantial evidence. On the other hand, the fact that no one had seen Adam Kaslov for several days seemed to indicate that his family had taken him out of town, or even out of the country.
  The question was: Why?
  
  JESSICA repeated the story from the moment Adam Kaslov brought the "Psycho" tape to the police. Aside from the tapes themselves, they didn't have much to tell. Three bloody, brazen, almost public executions, and they hadn't gotten anywhere.
  "It's clear the Actor is fixated on the bathroom as a crime scene," Jessica said. "Psycho, Fatal Attraction, and Scarface-all murders were committed in the bathroom. Right now, we're looking at murders that occurred in the bathroom within the last five years." Jessica pointed to a collage of crime scene photographs. "The victims are Stephanie Chandler, 22; Julian Matisse, 40; and an as-yet-unidentified woman who appears to be in her late twenties or early thirties."
  "Two days ago, we thought we had him. We thought our man was Julian Matisse, also known as Bruno Steele. Instead, Matisse was responsible for the kidnapping and attempted murder of a woman named Victoria Lindstrom. Ms. Lindstrom is in critical condition at St. Joseph's Hospital."
  "What did Matisse have to do with The Actor?" asked Palladino.
  "We don't know," Jessica said. "But whatever the motive for the murders of these two women, we must assume it applies to Julian Matisse as well. Connect Matisse with these two women, and we have a motive. If we can't connect these people, we have no way of knowing where he plans to strike next."
  There was no disagreement about the Actor striking again.
  "Usually, a killer like this has a depressive phase," Jessica said. "We don't see that here. It's a binge, and all the research suggests he's not going to stop until he's fulfilled his plan."
  "What connection brought Matisse to this?" Chavez asked.
  "Matisse was filming an adult movie called 'Philadelphia Skin,'" Jessica said. "And clearly, something happened on the set of that movie."
  "What do you mean?" Chavez asked.
   " It seems Philadelphia Skin is the center " In total . Matisse was the actor in the blue jacket. The man returning the Flickz tape was wearing the same or a similar jacket."
  - Do we have anything on the jacket?
  Jessica shook her head. "It wasn't found where we found Matisse's body. We're still canvassing the studio."
  "How does Stephanie Chandler fit into this?" Chavez asked.
  "Unknown."
  "Could she have been an actress in the film?"
  "It's possible," Jessica said. "Her mother said she was a little wild in college. She didn't specify. The timing will align. Unfortunately, everyone in this movie is wearing masks."
  "What were the actresses' stage names?" Chavez asked.
  Jessica checked her notes. "One name is listed as Angel Blue. Another is Tracy Love. Again, we checked the names, no matches. But maybe we can learn more about what happened on set from a woman we met in Trezonne."
  "What was her name?"
  Paulette St. John.
  "Who is this?" Chavez asked, apparently concerned that the task force was interviewing porn actresses while he was being left out.
  "An adult film actress. It's unlikely, but it's worth a try," Jessica said.
  Buchanan said, "Bring her here."
  
  HER REAL NAME IS Roberta Stoneking. By day, she looked like a housewife, a plain, albeit busty, thirty-eight-year-old, three times divorced from New Jersey, a mother of three, and more than familiar with Botox. And that's exactly what she was. Today, instead of a low-cut leopard print dress, she was wearing a hot pink velour tracksuit and new cherry-red sneakers. They met at Interview A. For some reason, a lot of male detectives were watching this interview.
  "It may be a big city, but the adult film business is a small community," she said. "Everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows everyone else's business."
  "As we've said, this has nothing to do with anyone's livelihood, okay? We're not interested in the film business per se," Jessica said.
  Roberta turned her unlit cigarette over and over again. She seemed to be deciding what and how to say, probably to avoid any guilt as much as possible. "I understand."
  On the table lay a printout of a close-up of the young blonde from Philadelphia Skin. "Those eyes," Jessica thought. "You mentioned something happened during the filming of that movie."
  Roberta took a deep breath. "I don't know much, okay?"
  "Anything you tell us will be helpful."
  "All I heard was that a girl died on set," she said. "Even that could have been half the story. Who knows?"
  "Was that Angel Blue?"
  "I think so."
  - How did he die?
  "I don't know."
  "What was her real name?"
  "I have no idea. There are people with whom I've made ten films, I don't know their names. It's just a business."
  - And you never heard any details about the girl"s death?
  - Not that I can remember.
  "She's playing them," Jessica thought. She sat on the edge of the table. Woman to woman now. "Come on, Paulette," she said, using the woman's stage name. Maybe this would help them bond. "People are talking. We should talk about what happened."
  Roberta looked up. In the harsh fluorescent light, she looked every year, maybe several years. "Well, I heard she used."
  "Using what?"
  Roberta shrugged. "I'm not sure. Taste, I guess."
  "How do you know?"
  Roberta frowned at Jessica. "Despite my youthful appearance, I've been all over the block, Detective."
  "Was there a lot of drug use on set?"
  "There are a lot of drugs in the whole business. It depends on the person. Everyone has their own illness, and everyone has their own cure."
  "Besides Bruno Steele, do you know another guy who was in the Philadelphia Skin?"
  "I'll have to see this again."
  "Well, unfortunately, he wears a mask all the time."
  Roberta laughed.
  "Did I say something funny?" Jessica asked.
  "Honey, in my business there are other ways to get to know guys."
  Chavez peered inside. "Jess?"
  Jessica assigned Nick Palladino to drive Roberta to the AV and show her the film. Nick straightened his tie and smoothed his hair. No hazard pay would be required for this duty.
  Jessica and Byrne left the room. "How are you?"
  "Lauria and Campos were investigating the Overbrook case. It seems this may align with the Actor's opinion."
  "Why?" Jessica asked.
  "First, the victim is a white female, mid-twenties or early thirties. Shot once in the chest. Found at the bottom of her bathtub. Just like the Fatal Attraction murders.
  "Who found her?" Byrne asked.
  "The landlord," Chavez said. "She lives in a twin apartment. Her neighbor came home after a week out of town and heard the same music over and over again. Some kind of opera. She knocked on the door, got no answer, so she called the landlord."
  - How long has she been dead?
  "No idea. The Department of Justice is on its way there now," Buchanan said. "But here's the interesting part: Ted Campos started going through her desk. He found her pay stubs. She works for a company called Alhambra LLC."
  Jessica felt her pulse quicken. "What's her name?"
  Chavez looked through his notes. "Her name is Erin Halliwell."
  
  ERIN HALLIWELL'S APARTMENT was a quirky collection of mismatched furniture, Tiffany-style lamps, movie books and posters, and an impressive array of healthy houseplants.
  It smelled of death.
  As soon as Jessica peered into the bathroom, she recognized the decor. It was the same wall, the same window treatments, as in the movie "Fatal Attraction."
  The woman's body was removed from the bathtub and lay on the bathroom floor, covered with a rubber sheet. Her skin was wrinkled and gray, and the wound on her chest had healed to a small hole.
  They were getting closer, and this feeling gave strength to the detectives, each of whom slept on average four to five hours a night.
  The CSU team dusted the apartment for fingerprints. A pair of detectives from the task force checked pay stubs and visited the bank where the funds were withdrawn. The entire NPD force was deployed on this case, and it was beginning to bear fruit.
  
  BYRNE STOOD IN THE DOOR. Evil had crossed that threshold.
  He watched the bustling activity in the living room, listened to the sound of the camera's motor, and inhaled the chalky smell of printing powder. In recent months, he had lost the chase. The SBU agents were searching for the slightest trace of the killer, for the silent rumors of this woman's violent death. Byrne placed his hands on the doorframes. He was searching for something much deeper, much more ethereal.
  He walked into the room, put on a pair of latex gloves, and walked across the stage, feeling...
  - She thinks they're going to have sex. He knows they're not. He's here to fulfill his dark purpose. They sit on the couch for a while. He toys with her long enough to pique her interest. Was that dress hers? No. He bought her the dress. Why did she wear it? She wanted to please him. An actor fixated on fatal attraction. Why? What's so special about the movie he needs to recreate? They were standing under giant streetlights before. The man touches her skin. He wears many guises, many disguises. A doctor. A minister. A man with a badge...
  Byrne approached the small table and began the ritual of sorting through the dead woman's belongings. The lead detectives inspected her desk, but not for the Actor.
  In a large drawer, he found a portfolio of photographs. Most of them were soft-touch snapshots: Erin Halliwell at sixteen, eighteen, twenty, sitting on the beach, standing on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, seated at a picnic table at a family gathering. The last folder he glanced at spoke to him in a voice the others couldn't hear. He called out to Jessica.
  "Look," he said. He held out an eight-by-ten photograph.
  The photo was taken in front of an art museum. It was a black-and-white group shot of about forty or fifty people. A smiling Erin Halliwell sat in the second row. Next to her was the unmistakable face of Will Parrish.
  At the bottom, written in blue ink, was the following:
  ONE AWAY, MANY FURTHER.
  YOURS, Jan.
  
  
  62
  The Reading Terminal Market was a huge, bustling market located at Twelfth and Market Streets downtown, just a block or so from City Hall. Opened in 1892, it was home to over eighty merchants and covered nearly two acres.
  The task force learned that Alhambra LLC was a company created exclusively for the production of "The Palace." The Alhambra was a famous palace in Spain. Production companies often create a separate company to handle payroll, permits, and liability insurance during filming. They often take a name or phrase from the film and name the company's office after it. This allows the production office to be opened without much hassle from potential actors and paparazzi.
  By the time Byrne and Jessica reached the corner of Twelfth and Market, several large trucks were already parked there. The film crew was preparing to film the second unit inside. The detectives had only been there for a few seconds when a man approached them. They were expected.
  - Are you Detective Balzano?
  "Yes," Jessica said. She held up her badge. "This is my partner, Detective Byrne."
  The man was about thirty. He wore a stylish dark blue jacket, a white shirt, and khaki pants. He exuded competence, if not reserve. He had narrow-set eyes, light brown hair, and Eastern European features. He carried a black leather briefcase and a two-way radio.
  "Nice to meet you," the man said. "Welcome to the set of The Palace." He extended his hand. "My name is Seth Goldman."
  
  They were sitting in a market café. The myriad aromas eroded Jessica's willpower. Chinese food, Indian food, Italian food, seafood, Termini bakery. For lunch, she had peach yogurt and a banana. Yum. That should last her until dinner.
  "What can I say?" Seth said. "We're all terribly shocked by this news."
  "What was Miss Halliwell's position?"
  "She was the head of production."
  "Were you very close to her?" Jessica asked.
  "Not in a social sense," Seth said. "But we worked together on our second film, and during filming, you work very closely, sometimes spending sixteen, eighteen hours a day together. You eat together, travel in cars and planes together."
  "Have you ever had a romantic relationship with her?" Byrne asked.
  Seth smiled sadly. Speaking of tragic, Jessica thought. "No," he said. "Nothing of the sort."
  "Ian Whitestone is your employer?"
  "Right."
  "Was there ever a romantic relationship between Miss Halliwell and Mr. Whitestone?"
  Jessica noticed the slightest tic. It was quickly covered up, but it was a signal. Whatever Seth Goldman was about to say, it wasn't entirely true.
  "Mr. Whitestone is a happily married man."
  "That hardly answers the question," Jessica thought. "We may be nearly three thousand miles from Hollywood, Mr. Goldman, but we've heard of people from this town sleeping with someone other than their spouse. Hell, it's probably even happened here in Amish country once or twice."
  Seth smiled. "If Erin and Ian ever had a relationship beyond professional, I didn't know about it."
  "I'll take that as a yes," Jessica thought. "When was the last time you saw Erin?"
  "Let's see. I think it was three or four days ago.
  "On the set?"
  "At the hotel."
  "Which hotel?"
  Park Hyatt.
  - Was she staying at a hotel?
  "No," Seth said. "Ian rents a room there when he's in town."
  Jessica made a few notes. One of them was to remind herself to talk to some hotel staff about whether they had seen Erin Halliwell and Ian Whitestone in a compromising position.
  - Do you remember what time it was?
  Seth thought about this for a moment. "We had a chance to shoot in South Philadelphia that day. I left the hotel around four o'clock. So it was probably around that time."
  "Have you seen her with anyone?" Jessica asked.
  "No."
  - And you haven't seen her since then?
  "No."
  - Did she take a few days off?
  "As far as I understand, she called in sick."
  - Did you talk to her?
  "No," Seth said. "I think she sent a text message to Mr. Whitestone."
  Jessica wondered who had sent the text message: Erin Halliwell or her killer. She made a note to wipe Ms. Halliwell's cell phone.
  "What is your specific position within this company?" Byrne asked.
  "I am Mr. Whitestone's personal assistant."
  "What does a personal assistant do?"
  "Well, my job is everything from keeping Ian on schedule to helping him with creative decisions, planning his day, and driving him to and from set. That could mean anything."
  "How does a person get a job like that?" Byrne asked.
  "I'm not sure what you mean."
  "I mean, do you have an agent? Are you applying through industry advertising?"
  "Mister. Whitestone and I met a few years ago. We share a passion for film. He asked me to join his team, and I was happy to do so. I love my job, Detective.
  "Do you know a woman named Faith Chandler?" Byrne asked.
  It was a planned shift, a sudden change. It clearly caught the man off guard. He recovered quickly. "No," Seth said. "The name doesn't mean anything."
  "What about Stephanie Chandler?"
  "No. I can't say that I know her either.
  Jessica pulled out a nine-by-twelve-inch envelope, pulled out a photograph, and slid it along the counter. It was a blown-up photo of Stephanie Chandler's desk at work, a photo of Stephanie and Faith in front of the Wilma Theater. If necessary, the next photo would be Stephanie's crime scene photo. "That's Stephanie on the left; her mother, Faith, on the right," Jessica said. "Does that help?"
  Seth took the photo and examined it. "No," he repeated. "Sorry."
  "Stephanie Chandler was killed too," Jessica said. "Faith Chandler is clinging to life in the hospital."
  "Oh my God." Seth put his hand over his heart for a moment. Jessica wasn't buying it. Judging by Byrne's expression, he wasn't either. Hollywood shock.
  "And you're absolutely sure you've never met any of them?" Byrne asked.
  Seth looked at the photo again, feigning closer attention. "No. We never met."
  "Could you excuse me for a second?" Jessica asked.
  "Of course," Seth said.
  Jessica slid off her chair and pulled out her cell phone. She took a few steps away from the counter. She dialed a number. A moment later, Seth Goldman's phone rang.
  "I have to accept this," he said. He took out his phone and looked at the caller ID. And he knew. He slowly looked up and met Jessica's eyes. Jessica hung up.
  "Mr. Goldman," Byrne began, "can you explain why Faith Chandler-a woman you've never met, a woman who happens to be the mother of a murder victim, a murder victim who just happened to be visiting the set of a movie your company is producing-called your cell phone twenty times in the last few days?
  It took Seth a moment to consider his answer. "You have to understand that there are a lot of people in the film business who will do anything to get into films."
  "You're not exactly a secretary, Mr. Goldman," Byrne said. "I imagine there'll be a few layers between you and the front door."
  "Yes," Seth said. "But there are some very determined and very smart people. Keep that in mind. The call came for extras for a set we're filming soon. A huge, very complex shot at the 30th Street Station. The call was for 150 extras. We had over 2,000 people show up. Besides, we have about a dozen phones assigned to this shoot. I don't always have that specific number."
  "And you're saying you don't recall ever speaking to this woman?" Byrne asked.
  "No."
  "We'll need a list of names of people who might have this particular phone."
  "Yes, of course," Seth said. "But I hope you don't think anyone connected with the production company had anything to do with this... this..."
  "When can we expect a list?" Byrne asked.
  Seth's jaw muscles began to work. It was clear this man was used to giving orders, not following them. "I'll try to pass it on to you later today."
  "That would be wonderful," Byrne said. "And we'll also need to talk to Mr. Whitestone."
  "When?"
  "Today."
  Seth reacted as if he were a cardinal, and they requested an impromptu audience with the Pope. "I'm afraid that's impossible."
  Byrne leaned forward. He was about a foot from Seth Goldman's face. Seth Goldman began to fidget.
  "Have Mr. Whitestone call us," Byrne said. "Today."
  
  
  63
  The canvas outside the rowhouse where Julian Matisse was murdered yielded nothing. Nothing much was expected. In this North Philadelphia neighborhood, amnesia, blindness, and deafness were the norm, especially when it came to talking to the police. The sandwich shop attached to the house closed at eleven, and no one saw Matisse that evening, nor did anyone see the man with the chainsaw cover. The property was foreclosed, and if Matisse had lived there (and there was no evidence of that), he would have been squatting.
  Two SIU detectives tracked down a chain saw found at the scene. It had been purchased in Camden, New Jersey, by a Philadelphia tree service company and had been reported stolen a week earlier. It was a dead end. The embroidered jacket still yielded no clues.
  
  At five o'clock, Ian Whitestone hadn't called. There was no denying that Whitestone was a celebrity, and dealing with celebrities in police matters was a delicate matter. Nevertheless, there were compelling reasons to talk to him. Every investigator on the case wanted to simply bring him in for questioning, but things weren't that simple. Jessica was just about to call Paul DiCarlo back to demand his report when Eric Chavez caught her attention, waving his phone in the air.
  - I'll call you, Jess.
  Jessica picked up the phone and pressed the button. "Murder. Balzano.
  "Detective, this is Jake Martinez."
  The name was lost in her recent memories. She couldn't immediately place it. "Am I sorry?"
  "Officer Jacob Martinez. I'm Mark Underwood's partner. We met at Finnigan's Wake."
  "Oh, yes," she said. "What can I do for you, officer?"
  "Well, I don't know what to make of this, but we're in Point Breeze. We were working traffic while they were tearing down the set for a movie they're filming, and a store owner on Twenty-third Street spotted us. She said there was a guy hanging around her store who matched the description of your suspect.
  Jessica waved at Byrne. "How long ago was that?"
  "Just a few minutes," Martinez said. "She's a little hard to figure out. I think she might be Haitian, or Jamaican, or something. But she had a sketch of the suspect in her hand that was in the Inquirer, and she kept pointing to it, saying the guy had just been in her store. I think she said her grandson might have confused it with this guy."
  A composite sketch of the Actor was published in the morning paper. - Have you cleared the location?
  "Yes. But there's no one in the store right now.
  - Have you secured it?
  "Front and back."
  "Give me the address," Jessica said.
  Martinez did it.
  "What kind of store is this?" Jessica asked.
  "Bodega," he said. "Sandwiches, chips, soda. Kind of rundown."
  "Why does she think this guy was our suspect? Why would he be hanging out in the wine cellar?"
  "I asked her the same thing," Martinez said. "Then she pointed to the back of the store."
  "What about this?"
  "They have a video section."
  Jessica hung up and informed the other detectives. They'd already received over fifty calls that day from people claiming to have seen the Actor in their neighborhoods, in their yards, in parks. Why should this be any different?
  "Because the store has a video section," Buchanan said. "You and Kevin check it out."
  Jessica pulled her gun out of the drawer and handed a copy of the address to Eric Chavez. "Find Agent Cahill," she said. "Ask him to meet us at this address."
  
  DETECTIVES STOOD in front of a crumbling grocery store called Cap-Haïtien. Officers Underwood and Martinez, having secured the scene, returned to their duties. The market's façade was a patchwork of plywood panels painted bright red, blue, and yellow, topped with bright orange metal bars. Twisted, handmade signs in the windows sold fried plantains, griot, Creole-style fried chicken, and a Haitian beer called Prestige. A sign also read "VIDEO AU LOYER."
  About twenty minutes had passed since the store owner, an elderly Haitian woman named Idelle Barbero, had reported the man in her market. It was unlikely the suspect, if he was their suspect, was still in the area. The woman described the man as he appeared in the sketch: white, medium build, wearing large tinted glasses, a Flyers cap, and a dark blue jacket. She said he came into the store, wandered around the racks in the middle, and then headed to the small video department in the back. He stood there for a minute and then headed for the door. She said he arrived with something in his hands but left without it. He didn't buy anything. She opened the Inquirer to the page with the sketch.
  While the man was in the back of the store, she called her grandson, a burly nineteen-year-old named Fabrice, from the basement. Fabrice blocked the door and engaged in a struggle with the unsub. When Jessica and Byrne spoke to Fabrice, he looked slightly shaken.
  "Did the man say anything?" Byrne asked.
  "No," Fabrice replied. "Nothing."
  - Tell us what happened.
  Fabrice said he blocked the doorway in hopes his grandmother would have time to call the police. When the man tried to get around him, Fabrice grabbed his arm, and a second later, the man spun him around, pinning his right arm behind his back. A second later, Fabrice said, he was already on his way to the floor. He added that on his way down, he hit the man with his left hand, hitting the bone.
  "Where did you hit him?" Byrne asked, glancing at the young man's left hand. Fabrice's knuckles were slightly swollen.
  "Right here," said Fabrice, pointing to the door.
  "No. I mean on his body."
  "I don't know," he said. "My eyes were closed."
  "What happened next?"
  "The next thing I knew, I was face down on the floor. It knocked the wind out of me." Fabrice took a deep breath, either to prove to the police he was okay or to prove to himself. "He was strong."
  Fabrice went on to say that the man then ran out of the store. By the time his grandmother managed to crawl out from behind the counter and onto the street, the man was gone. Idel then saw Officer Martinez directing traffic and told him about the incident.
  Jessica looked around the store, the ceilings, the corners.
  There were no surveillance cameras.
  
  JESSICA AND BYRNE scoured the market. The air was thick with the pungent aromas of chili peppers and coconut milk, and the shelves were filled with standard bodega staples-soups, canned meats, snacks-as well as cleaning supplies and a variety of beauty products. There was also a large display of candles, dream books, and other merchandise related to Santeria, the Afro-Caribbean religion.
  At the back of the store was a small alcove with several wire racks of videocassettes. Above the racks hung a couple of faded movie posters-"Man on the Waterfront" and "The Golden Mistress." Small images of French and Caribbean movie stars, mostly magazine clippings, were also taped to the wall with yellowed tape.
  Jessica and Byrne entered the alcove. There were about a hundred videotapes in total. Jessica scanned the spines. Foreign releases, children's titles, a few major releases six months old. Mostly French-language films.
  Nothing spoke to her. Was there a murder committed in a bathtub in any of those movies? She wondered. Where was Terry Cahill? He might know. When Jessica saw it, she was already beginning to think the old woman was making things up and that her grandson had been beaten for nothing. There, on the bottom shelf to the left, lay a VHS tape with a double rubber band down the center.
  "Kevin," she said. Byrne approached.
  Jessica pulled on a latex glove and, without thinking, picked up the tape. Although there was no reason to believe it was rigged with an explosive device, there was no telling where this bloody crime spree was headed. She scolded herself immediately after picking up the tape. This time, she'd dodged a bullet. But something was attached.
  Pink Nokia cell phone.
  Jessica carefully turned the box over. The cell phone was on, but the small LCD screen showed nothing. Byrne opened the large evidence bag. Jessica inserted the box containing the videotape. Their eyes met.
  They both knew perfectly well whose phone it was.
  
  A few minutes later, they stood in front of a guarded store, waiting for the CSU. They scanned the street. The film crew was still gathering the tools and detritus of their trade: coiling cables, storing lanterns, dismantling ship maintenance tables. Jessica glanced at the workers. Was she looking at the Actor? Could one of these men walking up and down the street be responsible for these horrific crimes? She glanced again at Byrne. He was locked in the market façade. She caught his attention.
  "Why here?" Jessica asked.
  Byrne shrugged. "Probably because he knows we're keeping an eye on chain stores and independent stores," Byrne said. "If he wants to put the tape back on the shelf, he'll have to come somewhere like this."
  Jessica considered this. Perhaps that was true. "Should we keep an eye on the libraries?"
  Byrne nodded. "Probably."
  Before Jessica could respond, she received a message over the two-way radio. It was garbled, unintelligible. She pulled it from her belt and adjusted the volume. "Say it again."
  A few seconds of static, and then: "The damn FBI doesn't respect anything."
  It sounded like Terry Cahill. No, that couldn't be it. Could it be? If so, she must have misheard. She exchanged a glance with Byrne. "Say it again?"
  More static. Then: "The damn FBI doesn't respect anything."
  Jessica's stomach dropped. The phrase was familiar. It was the phrase Sonny Corleone had spoken in The Godfather. She'd seen that movie a thousand times. Terry Cahill wasn't kidding. Not at a time like this.
  Terry Cahill is in trouble.
  "Where are you?" Jessica asked.
  Silence.
  "Agent Cahill," Jessica said. "What's twenty?"
  Nothing. Dead, icy silence.
  Then they heard a shot.
  "Shots fired!" Jessica screamed into her two-way radio. Instantly, she and Byrne drew their weapons. They scanned the street. No sign of Cahill. The rovers had limited range. He couldn't be far away.
  A few seconds later, a call came over the radio for an officer in need of assistance, and by the time Jessica and Byrne reached the corner of Twenty-third and Moore, there were already four sector cars parked at various angles. Uniformed officers jumped out of their cars in an instant. They all looked at Jessica. She was directing the perimeter while she and Byrne walked down the alley behind the stores, guns drawn. Cahill's two-way radio was no longer available.
  When did he get here? Jessica wondered. Why didn't he register with us?
  They moved slowly down the alley. On either side of the passage were windows, doorways, alcoves, and niches. The actor could have been in any of them. Suddenly, a window swung open. A pair of Hispanic boys, six or seven years old, probably attracted by the sound of sirens, poked their heads out. They saw the gun, and their expressions changed from surprise to fear and excitement.
  "Please come back inside," Byrne said. They immediately closed the window and drew the curtains.
  Jessica and Byrne continued down the alley, every sound catching their attention. Jessica touched the rover's volume with her free hand. Up. Down. Backup. Nothing.
  They turned the corner and found themselves in a short alley leading to Point Breeze Avenue. And they saw it. Terry Cahill was sitting on the ground, his back against a brick wall. He was holding his right shoulder. He'd been shot. There was blood under his fingers, crimson blood running down the sleeve of his white shirt. Jessica rushed forward. Byrne had located them, keeping an eye on the scene, scanning the windows and rooftops above. The danger wasn't necessarily over. Seconds later, four uniformed officers arrived, including Underwood and Martinez. Byrne was directing them.
  "Talk to me, Terry," Jessica said.
  "I'm fine," he said through clenched teeth. "It's a flesh wound." A small amount of fresh blood splashed onto his fingers. The right side of Cahill's face began to swell.
  "Did you see his face?" Byrne asked.
  Cahill shook his head. He was clearly in a world of pain.
  Jessica relayed the information to her two-way that the suspect was still at large. She heard at least four or five more sirens approaching. You sent the officer who needed assistance to call this department, and everyone, including his mother, showed up.
  But even after twenty officers had combed the area, it became clear after about five minutes that their suspect had slipped away. Again.
  The actor was in the wind.
  
  By the time Jessica and Byrne returned to the alley behind the market, Ike Buchanan and half a dozen detectives were already on the scene. Paramedics were treating Terry Cahill. One of the EMTs caught Jessica's eye and nodded. Cahill would be okay.
  "It's time for me to play on the PGA Tour," Cahill said as he was lifted onto a stretcher. "Do you want my statement now?"
  "We'll get it at the hospital," Jessica said. "Don't worry about it."
  Cahill nodded and winced in pain as they lifted the gurney. He looked at Jessica and Byrne. "Do me a favor, guys?"
  "Name it, Terry," Jessica said.
  "Get rid of that bastard," he said. "Tough."
  
  DETECTIVES crowded around the perimeter of the crime scene where Cahill had been shot. Though no one said it, they all felt like new recruits, a group of greenhorns fresh out of the academy. The CSU had erected yellow tape around the perimeter, and, as always, a crowd was gathering. Four SBU officers began combing the area. Jessica and Byrne stood against the wall, lost in thought.
  Sure, Terry Cahill was a federal agent, and there was often bitter rivalry between agencies, but he was nonetheless a law enforcement officer handling a case in Philadelphia. The grim faces and steely gazes of everyone involved spoke of outrage. You don't shoot a cop in Philadelphia.
  A few minutes later, Jocelyn Post, a CSU veteran, picked up the pliers, grinning ear to ear. A spent bullet was lodged between the tips.
  "Oh yes," she said. "Come see Mama Jay."
  While they did find the bullet that struck Terry Cahill in the shoulder, it wasn't always easy to determine the caliber and type of bullet when it was fired, especially if the lead hit a brick wall, which is what happened in this case.
  Still, it was very good news. Every time physical evidence was discovered-something that could be tested, analyzed, photographed, dusted off, tracked-it was a step forward.
  "We caught the bullet," Jessica said, knowing it was only the first step in the investigation, but nevertheless happy to have taken the lead. "It's a start."
  "I think we can do better," Byrne said.
  "What do you mean?"
  "Look."
  Byrne crouched down and picked up a metal rib from a broken umbrella lying in a pile of trash. He lifted the edge of a plastic trash bag. There, next to the dumpster, was a small-caliber pistol partially hidden. A battered, cheap, black .25 pistol. It looked like the same gun they'd seen in the Fatal Attraction video.
  This was not a child's step.
  They had the Actor's gun.
  
  
  64
  A VIDEO TAPE FOUND IN CAP-HAITIEN is a French film released in 1955. The title was "The Devils." In it, Simone Signoret and Véra Clouzot, portraying the wife and former lover of a thoroughly rotten man played by Paul Meurisse, murder Meurisse by drowning him in a bathtub. As in other masterpieces by the actor, this film recreated the original murder.
  In this version of "The Devils," a barely visible man in a dark satin jacket with a dragon embroidered on the back pushes a man under water in a grimy bathroom. And again, in a bathroom.
  Victim number four.
  
  There was a clear imprint: a Phoenix Arms Raven .25 ACP, a popular old street shotgun. You can buy a .25-caliber Raven anywhere in town for under a hundred dollars. If the shooter had been in the system, they would soon have a match.
  No bullets were found at the scene of Erin Halliwell's shooting, so they couldn't know for sure if that was the gun used to kill her, although the medical examiner's office allegedly concluded that her single wound was consistent with a small-caliber weapon.
  The Firearms Division has already determined that a .25-caliber Raven pistol was used to shoot Terry Cahill.
  As they suspected, the cell phone attached to the videotape belonged to Stephanie Chandler. Although the SIM card was still active, everything else had been erased. There were no calendar entries, no address book lists, no text messages or emails, no call logs. There were no fingerprints.
  
  Cahill gave his testimony while being treated at Jefferson. The wound was carpal tunnel, and he was expected to be released within a few hours. Half a dozen FBI agents gathered in the emergency room, supporting Jessica Balzano and Kevin Byrne, who had arrived. No one could have prevented what happened to Cahill, but the close-knit teams never looked at it that way. According to the lawsuit, the FBI botched the incident, and one of them is now in the hospital.
  In his statement, Cahill said he was in South Philadelphia when Eric Chavez called him. He then listened to the radio and heard that the suspect was possibly in the area of 23rd and McClellan. He began searching the alleys behind storefronts when the assailant approached him from behind, held a gun to the back of his head, and forced him to recite lines from "The Godfather" over a two-way radio. When the suspect reached for Cahill's gun, Cahill knew it was time to act. They struggled, and the assailant punched him twice-once in the lower back and once in the right side of the face-after which the suspect fired. The suspect then fled into an alley, leaving his gun behind.
  A brief search of the area near the shooting site yielded little. No one saw or heard anything. But now the police had firearms, which opened up a wealth of investigative possibilities. Guns, like people, had their own history.
  
  When the film "The Devils" was ready for screening, ten detectives gathered in the AV studio. The French film ran for 122 minutes. At the moment when Simone Signoret and Véra Clouzot drown Paul Meurisse, a crash edit occurs. When the film cuts to new footage, the new scene depicts a filthy bathroom: a dirty ceiling, peeling plaster, dirty rags on the floor, a stack of magazines next to a dirty toilet. A light fixture with a bare bulb next to the sink emits a dim, sickly light. A large figure on the right side of the screen holds a struggling victim underwater with clearly powerful hands.
  The camera image is motionless, meaning it was likely on a tripod or perched on something. To date, there has been no evidence of a second suspect.
  When the victim stops struggling, his body floats to the surface of the muddy water. The camera is then raised and zoomed in for a close-up. It was there that Mateo Fuentes froze the image.
  "Jesus Christ," Byrne said.
  All eyes turned to him. "What, you know him?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes," Byrne said. "I know him."
  
  Darryl Porter's apartment above the X-bar was as filthy and ugly as the man himself. All the windows were painted over, and the hot sun reflecting off the glass gave the cramped space the cloying smell of a doghouse.
  There was an old avocado-colored sofa covered with a dirty throw, and a couple of filthy armchairs. The floor, tables, and shelves were littered with water-soaked magazines and newspapers. The sink held a month's worth of dirty dishes and at least five species of scavenging insects.
  On one of the bookshelves above the television were three sealed DVD copies of Philadelphia Skins.
  Darryl Porter lay in the bathtub, fully clothed and dead. The dirty water in the tub had wrinkled Porter's skin and turned it a cement-gray color. His intestines had leaked into the water, and the stench in the small bathroom was unbearable. A couple of rats had already begun searching for the gas-bloated corpse.
  The actor had now taken four lives, or at least four that they knew about. He was becoming bolder. It was a classic escalation, and no one could predict what would happen next.
  As the CSU prepared to examine another crime scene, Jessica and Byrne stood in front of the X Bar. They both looked shell-shocked. It was a moment when horrors flew by fast and furious, and words were hard to find. "Psycho," "Fatal Attraction," "Scarface," "She-Devils"-what the hell was going to happen next?
  Jessica's cell phone rang, bringing with it an answer.
  "This is Detective Balzano."
  The call came from Sergeant Nate Rice, head of the Firearms Section. He had two pieces of news for the task force. First, the gun found at the scene behind the Haitian market was likely the same make and model as the gun in the Fatal Attraction video. The second piece of news was much harder to digest. Sergeant Rice had just spoken with the fingerprint lab. They had a match. He had given Jessica a name.
  "What?" Jessica asked. She knew she'd heard Rice correctly, but her brain wasn't ready to process the information.
  "I said the same thing," Rice replied. "But this is a ten-point match."
  A ten-point match, as the police liked to say, consisted of a name, address, Social Security number, and a school photo. If you got a ten-point match, you had the man.
  "And?" Jessica asked.
  "And there's no doubt about it. The fingerprint on the gun belongs to Julian Matisse."
  
  
  65
  WHEN FIGHT CHANDLER showed up at the hotel, he knew it was the beginning of the end.
  It was Faith who called him. He called to tell him the news. He called and asked for more money. Now it was only a matter of time before the police would figure everything out and solve the mystery.
  He stood naked, examining himself in the mirror. His mother looked back, her sad, wet eyes judging the man he had become. He carefully combed his hair with the beautiful brush Ian had bought for him at Fortnum & Mason, the exclusive British department store.
  Don't make me give you the brush.
  He heard a noise outside his hotel room door. It sounded like the man who came in every day at this time to refill the minibar. Seth looked at the dozen empty bottles scattered across the small table by the window. He was barely drunk. He had two bottles left. He could use more.
  He pulled the cassette from the cassette case, and it fell to the floor at his feet. A dozen empty cassettes already stood next to the bed, their plastic casings stacked on top of each other like crystalline dice.
  He looked next to the television. Only a few more people remained to pass. He would destroy them all, and then, perhaps, himself.
  There was a knock on his door. Seth closed his eyes. "Yes?"
  "Mini-bar, sir?"
  "Yes," Seth said. He felt relieved. But he knew it was only temporary. He cleared his throat. Had he been crying? "Wait."
  He put on his robe and unlocked the door. He walked into the bathroom. He really didn't want to see anyone. He heard the young man enter and put bottles and snacks in the minibar.
  "Are you enjoying your stay in Philadelphia, sir?" called a young man from the other room.
  Seth almost laughed. He was thinking about the past week, how everything had fallen apart. "Very," Seth lied.
  "We hope you come back."
  Seth took a deep breath and steeled himself. "Get two dollars from the drawer," he shouted. For now, his volume masked his emotions.
  "Thank you, sir," said the young man.
  A few moments later, Seth heard the door close.
  Seth sat on the edge of the bathtub for a full minute, his head in his hands. What had he become? He knew the answer, but he just couldn't admit it, even to himself. He thought about the moment Ian Whitestone had walked into the dealership so long ago, and how they'd talked so well until late into the night. About the movie. About art. About women. About things so personal that Seth never shared his thoughts with anyone.
  He was in charge of the bathtub. After about five minutes, he moved toward the water. He broke open one of the two remaining bottles of bourbon, poured it into a glass of water, and drank it down in one gulp. He stepped out of his robe and slipped into the hot water. He thought about the Roman's death, but quickly dismissed the possibility. Frankie Pentangeli in The Godfather: Part II. He didn't have the courage to do that, if courage was what it took.
  He closed his eyes, just for a minute. Just for a minute, and then he would call the police and start talking.
  When did it start? He wanted to examine his life in terms of the grand themes, but he knew the simple answer. It started with a girl. She'd never done heroin before. She was scared, but she wanted it. So willingly. Like all of them. He remembered her eyes, her cold, dead eyes. He remembered loading her into the car. The terrifying drive to North Philadelphia. The filthy gas station. The guilt. Had he ever slept a full night since that terrible evening?
  Soon, Seth knew, there would be another knock on the door. The police wanted to talk to him seriously. But not now. Just a few minutes.
  A little.
  Then he faintly heard... a moan? Yes. It sounded like one of those porn tapes. Was it in the next hotel room? No. It took a while, but soon Seth realized the sound was coming from his hotel room. From his television.
  He sat up in the bathtub, his heart pounding. The water was warm, not hot. He'd been gone for a while.
  Someone was in the hotel room.
  Seth craned his neck, trying to peer around the bathroom door. It was slightly open, but the angle was such that he couldn't see more than a few feet into the room. He looked up. There was a lock on the bathroom door. Could he quietly step out of the tub, slam the door, and lock it? Maybe. But then what? What would he do then? He didn't have a cell phone in the bathroom.
  Then, just outside the bathroom door, just inches away from him, he heard a voice.
  Seth thought of T.S. Eliot's line from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."
  Until human voices wake us up...
  "I'm new to this town," said a voice behind the door. "I haven't seen a friendly face in weeks."
  And we are drowning.
  OceanofPDF.com
  66
  Jessica and Byrne drove to the Alhambra LLC office. They called the main number and Seth Goldman's cell phone. Both offered voicemail. They called Ian Whitestone's room at the Park Hyatt. They were told Mr. Whitestone was not home and could not be reached.
  They parked across the street from a small, nondescript building on Race Street. They sat in silence for a while.
  "How the hell did Matisse's fingerprint end up on a gun?" Jessica asked. The gun was reported stolen six years ago. It could have passed through hundreds of hands in that time.
  "The actor must have taken it when he killed Matisse," Byrne said.
  Jessica had a lot of questions about that night, about Byrne's actions in that basement. She didn't know how to ask. Like so many things in her life, she simply moved forward. "So, when you were in that basement with Matisse, did you search him? Did you search the house?"
  "Yes, I searched it," Byrne said. "But I didn't clear the entire house. Matisse could have hidden that .25 anywhere."
  Jessica considered this. "I think he went about it differently. I have no idea why, but I have a gut feeling."
  He simply nodded. He was a man who followed his gut instincts. They both fell silent again. This was not uncommon in surveillance situations.
  Finally, Jessica asked, "How is Victoria?"
  Byrne shrugged. "Still critical."
  Jessica didn't know what to say. She suspected there might be more than just friendship between Byrne and Victoria, but even if she was just a friend, what had happened to her was horrific. And it was clear Kevin Byrne blamed himself for everything. "I'm so sorry, Kevin."
  Byrne looked out the side window, his emotions overwhelmed.
  Jessica studied him. She remembered how he had looked in the hospital a few months ago. Physically, he looked much better now, almost as fit and strong as the day she met him. But she knew that what made a man like Kevin Byrne strong was on the inside, and she couldn't penetrate that shell. Not yet.
  "What about Colleen?" Jessica asked, hoping the conversation wouldn't sound as trivial as it seemed. "How is she?"
  "Tall. Independent. Become her mother. Otherwise almost opaque."
  He turned, looked at her, and smiled. Jessica was glad of that. She'd only just met him when he was shot, but in that short time, she'd learned he loved his daughter more than anything in the world. She hoped he wasn't distancing himself from Colleen.
  Jessica began a relationship with Colleen and Donna Byrne after Byrne was attacked. They saw each other in the hospital every day for over a month and grew closer through the tragedy. She intended to contact them both, but life, as always, intervened. During this time, Jessica even learned a little sign language. She promised to rekindle the relationship.
  "Was Porter another member of the Philadelphia Skins?" Jessica asked. They checked the list of Julian Matisse's known associates. Matisse and Darryl Porter had known each other for at least ten years. There was a connection.
  "Of course it's possible," Byrne said. "Why else would Porter have three copies of the film?"
  Porter was on the medical examiner's table at the time. They compared any distinguishing features of the body with the masked actor in the film. Roberta Stoneking's review of the film proved inconclusive, despite her testimony.
  "How are Stephanie Chandler and Erin Halliwell compatible?" Jessica asked. They haven't managed to establish a strong bond between the women yet.
  "The Million Dollar Question."
  Suddenly, a shadow darkened Jessica's window. It was an officer in uniform. A woman, twenty years old, energetic. Perhaps a little too impatient. Jessica nearly jumped out of her skin. She rolled down the window.
  "Detective Balzano?" the officer asked, looking a little ashamed for scaring the hell out of the detective.
  "Yes."
  "This is for you." It was a nine-by-twelve-inch manila envelope.
  "Thank you."
  The young officer almost ran away. Jessica rolled up the window again. After a few seconds of standing, all the cool air had escaped from the air conditioner. There was a sauna in town.
  "Do you get nervous in your old age?" Byrne asked, trying to sip his coffee and smile at the same time.
  - Still younger than you, Pops.
  Jessica tore open the envelope. It was a drawing of the man seen with Faith Chandler, courtesy of Atkins Pace. Pace was right. His powers of observation and memory were astounding. She showed the sketch to Byrne.
  "Son of a bitch," Byrne said. He turned on the blue light on the Taurus's dashboard.
  The man in the sketch was Seth Goldman.
  
  The hotel's head of security let them into their room. They rang the doorbell from the hallway and knocked three times. The unmistakable sounds of an adult film could be heard from the hallway, emanating from the room.
  When the door opened, Byrne and Jessica drew their weapons. The security officer, a sixty-year-old former police officer, looked impatient, eager, and ready to get involved, but he knew his job was done. He retreated.
  Byrne entered first. The sound of the porn tape was louder. It was coming from the hotel TV. The nearest room was empty. Byrne checked the beds and under them; Jessica, the closet. Both were clear. They opened the bathroom door. They hid the guns.
  "Oh, shit," Byrne said.
  Seth Goldman floated in a red bathtub. It turned out he'd been shot twice in the chest. Feathers scattered around the room like fallen snow indicated the shooter had used one of the hotel's pillows to muffle the blast. The water was cool, but not cold.
  Byrne met Jessica's gaze. They were of the same mind. This was escalating so quickly and violently that it threatened to overwhelm their ability to conduct their investigations. This meant the FBI would likely take over, deploying its vast workforce and forensic capabilities.
  Jessica began sorting through Seth Goldman's toiletries and other personal belongings in the bathroom. Byrne was working in the cabinets and dresser drawers. In the back of one drawer lay a box of 8mm videotapes. Byrne called Jessica over to the television, inserted one of the tapes into the connected camcorder, and pressed "Play."
  It was a homemade sadomasochistic porn tape.
  The image showed a gloomy room with a double mattress on the floor. A harsh light fell from above. A few seconds later, a young woman entered the frame and sat down on the bed. She was about twenty-five years old, dark-haired, slender, and plain. She was wearing a men's V-neck T-shirt, nothing else.
  The woman lit a cigarette. A few seconds later, a man entered the frame. The man was naked except for a leather mask. He carried a small whip. He was white, fairly fit, and looked to be in his thirties or forties. He began to whip the woman on the bed. It wasn't difficult, at first.
  Byrne glanced at Jessica. They'd both seen a lot in their time on the force. It was never a surprise when they encountered the ugliness of what one person could do to another, but that knowledge never made it any easier.
  Jessica left the room, her weariness visibly ingrained within her, her disgust a bright red ember in her chest, her rage a gathering storm.
  
  
  67
  He missed her. You don't always get to choose your partners in this line of work, but from the moment he met her, he knew she was the real deal. The sky was the limit for a woman like Jessica Balzano, and even though he was only ten or twelve years older than her, he felt old in her company. She was the future of the squad, he was the past.
  Byrne sat at one of the plastic booths in the Roundhouse cafeteria, sipping iced coffee and thinking about going back. What it was like. What it meant. He watched the young detectives dart around the room, their eyes so bright and clear, their shoes polished, their suits pressed. He envied their energy. Had he ever looked like this? Had he walked through this room twenty years ago, a chest brimming with confidence, watched over by some corrupt cop?
  He just called the hospital for the tenth time that day. Victoria is listed in serious but stable condition. No change. He'll call again in an hour.
  He'd seen Julian Matisse's crime scene photographs. Though nothing human remained there, Byrne stared at the damp cloth as if he were looking at a shattered talisman of evil. The world was purer without it. He felt nothing.
  It never answered the question of whether Jimmy Purifey planted evidence in the Gracie Devlin case.
  Nick Palladino walked into the room, looking as tired as Byrne. "Did Jess go home?"
  "Yes," Byrne said. "She burned both ends."
  Palladino nodded. "Have you heard of Phil Kessler?" he asked.
  "What about him?"
  "He died."
  Byrne was neither shocked nor surprised. Kessler looked ill the last time he saw him, a man who had sealed his fate, a man seemingly devoid of the will and tenacity to fight.
  We did wrong to this girl.
  If Kessler hadn't been referring to Gracie Devlin, it could only have been one person. Byrne struggled to his feet, finished his coffee, and headed to Records. The answer, if it existed, would be there.
  
  Try as he might, he couldn't remember the girl's name. Obviously, he couldn't ask Kessler. Or Jimmy. He tried to pinpoint the exact date. Nothing came back. There were so many cases, so many names. Every time he seemed to be getting closer to a goal, over the course of several months, something would occur to him that would change his mind. He compiled a short list of notes on the case, as he remembered them, and then handed it over to the records officer. Sergeant Bobby Powell, a man like himself and far more computer-savvy, told Byrne he would get to the bottom of it and get the file to him as soon as possible.
  
  Byrne stacked the photocopies of the Actor's case file in the middle of his living room floor. Next to it, he placed a six-pack of Yuengling. He removed his tie and shoes. In the refrigerator, he found cold Chinese takeout. The old air conditioner barely cooled the room, despite its roaring sound. He turned on the television.
  He cracked open a beer and picked up the control panel. It was almost midnight. He hadn't heard from Records yet.
  As he cycled through the cable channels, the images blurred together. Jay Leno, Edward G. Robinson, Don Knotts, Bart Simpson, each with a face...
  
  
  68
  - blur, link to next. Drama, comedy, musical, farce. I settled on an old film noir, maybe from the 1940s. It's not one of the most popular noirs, but it looks pretty well made. In this scene, a femme fatale tries to pull something out of a heavyweight's trench coat while he's talking on a pay phone.
  Eyes, hands, lips, fingers.
  Why do people watch movies? What do they see? Do they see who they want to be? Or do they see who they fear becoming? They sit in the dark next to complete strangers and, for two hours, are villains, victims, heroes, and the abandoned. Then they get up, step into the light, and live their lives in despair.
  I need to rest, but I can't sleep. Tomorrow is a very important day. I look at the screen again, changing the channel. Now a love story. Black and white emotions storm my heart when...
  
  
  69
  - J. ESSICA flipped through the channels. She was having a hard time staying awake. Before going to bed, she wanted to review the case chronology one more time, but everything was a blur.
  She glanced at her watch. Midnight.
  She turned off the television and sat down at the dining table. She laid out the evidence in front of her. To the right lay a stack of three books on crime films that she had received from Nigel Butler. She picked one up. It briefly mentioned Ian Whitestone. She learned that his idol was the Spanish director Luis Buñuel.
  As with every murder, there was a wiretap. A wire, connected to every aspect of the crime, ran through each person. Like old-fashioned Christmas lights, the wire wouldn't light until all the bulbs were in place.
  She wrote down the names in a notebook.
  Faith Chandler. Stephanie Chandler. Erin Halliwell. Julian Matisse. Ian Whitestone. Seth Goldman. Darryl Porter.
  What was the wire that ran through all these people?
  She looked at the records of Julian Matisse. How did his fingerprint end up on the gun? A year earlier, Edwina Matisse's house had been burglarized. Perhaps that was all. Perhaps that was when their enforcer had obtained Matisse's gun and blue jacket. Matisse was in prison and likely kept these items at his mother's house. Jessica called and faxed the police report. When she read it, nothing out of the ordinary came to mind. She knew the uniformed officers who had answered the initial call. She knew the detectives who had investigated the case. Edwina Matisse reported that the only thing stolen was a pair of candlesticks.
  Jessica checked her watch. It was still a reasonable hour. She called one of the detectives on the case, a longtime veteran named Dennis Lassar. They finished their pleasantries quickly, out of respect for the hour. Jessica had hit the nail on the head.
  "Remember the break-in at the row house on Nineteenth Street? A woman named Edwina Matisse?
  "When was this?"
  Jessica told him the date.
  "Yeah, yeah. An older woman. Something crazy. He had an adult son who was serving time.
  "It's hers."
  Lassar described the matter in detail, as he remembered it.
  "So the woman reported the only thing stolen was a pair of candlesticks? That's the sound, right?" Jessica asked.
  "If you say so. There have been a lot of idiots under the bridge since then.
  "I hear you," Jessica said. "Do you remember if this place was actually ransacked? I mean, way more trouble than you'd expect from a couple of candlesticks?"
  "Now that you mention it, it was true. My son's room was trashed," Lassar said. "But hey, if the victim says nothing's missing, then nothing's missing. I remember rushing to get out of there. It smelled like chicken soup and cat urine."
  "Okay," Jessica said. "Do you remember anything else about this case?"
  "I seem to remember there was something else about my son."
  "What about him?"
  "I think the FBI had him under surveillance before he got up."
  The FBI was keeping tabs on scoundrels like Matisse? - Do you remember what that was about?
  "I think it was some kind of Mann Act violation. Interstate transportation of underage girls. But don't quote me on that.
  - Did an agent appear at the crime scene?
  "Yeah," Lassar said. "Funny how that shit comes back to you. Young man."
  - Do you remember the agent"s name?
  "Now that part is forever lost to Wild Turkey. Sorry."
  "No problem. Thank you."
  She hung up, thinking about calling Terry Cahill. He'd been discharged from the hospital and was back at his desk. Still, it was probably too late for a choirboy like Terry to be up. She'd talk to him tomorrow.
  She inserted "Philadelphia Skin" into her laptop's DVD drive and sent it. She froze the scene at the very beginning. The young woman in the feather mask looked at her with empty, pleading eyes. She checked the name Angel Blue, even though she knew it was a lie. Even Eugene Kilbane had no idea who the girl was. He said he'd never seen her before or after "Philadelphia Skin."
  But why do I know these eyes?
  Suddenly, Jessica heard a sound through the dining room window. It sounded like a young woman's laughter. Both of Jessica's neighbors had children, but they were boys. She heard it again. Girlish laughter.
  Close.
  Very close.
  She turned and looked at the window. A face stared back at her. It was the girl from the video, the girl in the turquoise feather mask. Only now the girl was a skeleton, her pale skin stretched tightly over her skull, her mouth twisted into a smirk, and a streak of red across her pale features.
  And in an instant, the girl was gone. Jessica soon felt a presence right behind her. The girl was right behind her. Someone turned on the light.
  There's someone in my house. How-
  No, the light came from the windows.
  Hm?
  Jessica looked up from the table.
  Oh my God, she thought. She fell asleep at the dinner table. It was light. Bright light. Morning. She looked at the clock. No clock.
  Sophie.
  She jumped to her feet and looked around, desperate at the moment, her heart pounding. Sophie was sitting in front of the television, still in her pajamas, a box of cereal on her lap, cartoons playing.
  "Good morning, Mom," Sophie said through a mouth full of Cheerios.
  "What time is it?" Jessica asked, though she knew it was rhetoric.
  "I can't tell the time," her daughter replied.
  Jessica rushed into the kitchen and looked at the clock. Nine-thirty. She'd never slept past nine in her entire life. Always. "What a day for setting a record," she thought. Some task force leader.
  Shower, breakfast, coffee, got dressed, more coffee. And all in twenty minutes. A world record. At least a personal record. She gathered the photos and files together. The photo above was of a girl from Philadelphia Skins.
  And then she saw it. Sometimes extreme fatigue combined with intense pressure can open the floodgates.
  When Jessica first saw the film, she felt like she had seen those eyes before.
  Now she knew where.
  
  
  70
  BYRNE WOKE UP on the sofa. He dreamed of Jimmy Purify. Jimmy and his pretzel logic. He dreamed of their conversation, late one night on the ward, maybe a year before Jimmy's operation. A very bad man, wanted for a three-way hit, had just been run over. The mood was even and light. Jimmy was picking through a huge bag of fried potato chips, his feet up, his tie and belt unbuttoned. Someone mentioned the fact that Jimmy's doctor had told him he should cut down on fatty, greasy, and sugary foods. Those were three of Jimmy's four main food groups, the other being single malts.
  Jimmy sat up. He assumed the Buddha pose. Everyone knew the pearl would soon appear.
  "It's healthy food," he said. "And I can prove it."
  Everyone was just looking, like, "Let's get this."
  "Okay," he began, "A potato is a vegetable, am I right?" Jimmy's lips and tongue were bright orange.
  "That's right," someone said. "Potatoes are vegetables."
  "And barbecue is just another term for grilling, am I right too?"
  "You can't argue with that," someone said.
  "That's why I eat grilled vegetables. It's healthy, baby." Straightforward, completely serious. No one has achieved greater composure.
  Bloody Jimmy, Byrne thought.
  God, he missed him.
  Byrne stood up, splashed water on his face in the kitchen, and put the kettle on. When he returned to the living room, the suitcase was still there, still open.
  He circled the evidence. The epicenter of the case was right in front of him, and the door was annoyingly closed.
  We did wrong to this girl, Kevin.
  Why couldn't he stop thinking about it? He remembered that night as if it were yesterday. Jimmy was undergoing surgery to remove a bunion. Byrne was Phil Kessler's partner. The call came in around 10:00 PM. A body had been found in the restroom of a Sunoco station in North Philadelphia. When they arrived at the scene, Kessler, as usual, found something to do that had nothing to do with being in the same room with the victim. He started agitating.
  Byrne pushed open the door to the ladies' room. The smell of disinfectant and human waste immediately hit him. On the floor, wedged between the toilet and the dirty tiled wall, lay a young woman. She was slender and fair, no older than twenty. There were several marks on her arm. She was clearly a user, but not a habitual one. Byrne felt for a pulse but found none. She was pronounced dead at the scene.
  He remembered looking at her, lying so unnaturally on the floor. He remembered thinking that this wasn't who she was supposed to be. She was supposed to be a nurse, a lawyer, a scientist, a ballerina. She was supposed to be someone other than a drug dealer.
  There were some signs of a struggle-bruises on her wrists, bruises on her back-but the amount of heroin in her system, combined with fresh needle marks on her arms, indicated she had recently injected and that the drug was too pure for her system. The official cause of death was listed as an overdose.
  But didn't he suspect more?
  There was a knock at the door, bringing Byrne back from his memories. He answered. It was an officer with an envelope.
  "Sergeant Powell said it was filed incorrectly," the officer said. "He sends his apologies."
  "Thank you," Byrne said.
  He closed the door and opened the envelope. A photograph of the girl was pinned to the front of the folder. He'd forgotten how young she looked. Byrne deliberately avoided looking at the name on the folder for the moment.
  Looking at her photograph, he tried to remember her name. How could he have forgotten? He knew how. She was a drug addict. A middle-class kid gone bad. In his arrogance, in his ambition, she was nothing to him. If she had been a lawyer at some white-shoe firm, or a doctor at HUP, or an architect on the city planning board, he would have handled the matter differently. As much as he hated to admit it, it was true in those days.
  He opened the file, saw her name, and everything made sense.
  Angelica. Her name was Angelica.
  She was a Blue Angel.
  He flipped through the file. Soon he found what he was looking for. She wasn't just another prim and proper person. She was, of course, someone's daughter.
  As he reached for the phone, it rang, the sound echoing through the walls of his heart:
  How will you pay?
  OceanofPDF.com
  71
  The Nigel Butler House was a neat rowhouse on Forty-Second Street, not far from Locust. From the outside, it was as ordinary as any well-kept brick house in Philadelphia: a couple of flower boxes under the two front windows, a cheerful red door, a brass mailbox. If the detectives were correct in their suspicions, a host of horrors were planned inside.
  Angel Blue's real name was Angelica Butler. Angelica was twenty years old when she was found dead in a North Philadelphia gas station bathtub from a heroin overdose. At least, that's the official verdict of the medical examiner.
  "I have a daughter who is studying acting," Nigel Butler said.
  True statement, incorrect verb tense.
  Byrne told Jessica about the night he and Phil Kessler received a call asking them to investigate the case of a dead girl at a North Philadelphia gas station. Jessica recounted to Byrne two encounters with Butler: one, when she met him at his office in Drexel. The other, when Butler stopped by the Roundhouse with books. She told Byrne about a series of eight-by-ten headshots of Butler in his many stage personas. Nigel Butler was an accomplished actor.
  But Nigel Butler's real life was a far darker drama. Before leaving the Roundhouse, Byrne conducted a PDCH on him. The police department's criminal history was a basic criminal history report. Nigel Butler had been investigated twice for sexually abusing his daughter: once when she was ten, and once when she was twelve. Both times, the investigations stalled when Angelique recanted her story.
  When Angelique entered the world of adult films and met a disastrous end, it likely drove Butler to the brink of desperation-jealousy, rage, paternal overprotection, sexual obsession. Who knew? The fact is, Nigel Butler now finds himself at the center of an investigation.
  However, even with all this circumstantial evidence, it still wasn't enough to warrant a search of Nigel Butler's home. At that point, Paul DiCarlo was among the judges trying to change that.
  Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez were staking out Butler's office at Drexel. The university informed them that Professor Butler had been out of town for three days and could not be reached. Eric Chavez used his charm to learn that Butler had supposedly gone hiking in the Poconos. Ike Buchanan had already called the Monroe County Sheriff's Office.
  As they approached the door, Byrne and Jessica exchanged glances. If their suspicions were correct, they were standing before the Actor's door. How would this play out? Hard? Easy? No door ever offered a clue. They drew their guns, held them at their sides, and scanned the block up and down.
  Now was the time.
  Byrne knocked on the door. Waited. No answer. He rang the bell, knocked again. Still nothing.
  They took a few steps back, looking at the house. Two windows upstairs. Both had white curtains drawn. The window, which was undoubtedly the living room, was covered with similar curtains, slightly open. Not enough to see inside. The row house was in the center of the block. If they wanted to go around back, they would have to go all the way around. Byrne decided to knock again. Louder. He retreated to the door.
  That's when they heard gunshots. They came from inside the house. Large-caliber weapons. Three quick explosions that rattled the windows.
  After all, they won't need a search warrant.
  Kevin Byrne slammed his shoulder into the door. Once, twice, three times. It cracked on the fourth try. "Police!" he screamed. He rolled into the house, gun raised. Jessica called for backup over the intercom and followed, Glock at the ready.
  To the left was a small living room and dining room. Noon, darkness. Empty. Ahead was a hallway, presumably leading to the kitchen. Stairs up and down to the left. Byrne met Jessica's gaze. She would go up. Jessica allowed her eyes to adjust. She scanned the floor of the living room and hallway. No blood. Outside, two sector machines screeched to a halt.
  At the moment, the house was deathly quiet.
  Then there was music. Piano. Heavy footsteps. Byrne and Jessica pointed their guns at the stairs. The sounds were coming from the basement. Two uniformed officers approached the door. Jessica ordered them to check upstairs. They drew their guns and climbed the steps. Jessica and Byrne began to descend the basement stairs.
  The music got louder. Strings. The sound of waves on the beach.
  Then a voice was heard.
  "Is this the house?" the boy asked.
  "That"s all," the man replied.
  A few minutes of silence. A dog barked.
  "Hello. I knew there was a dog," the boy said.
  Before Jessica and Byrne could turn the corner into the basement, they looked at each other. And they realized. There had been no gunshots. It was a movie. When they entered the dark basement, they saw that it was "Road to Perdition." The film was playing on a large plasma screen through a Dolby 5.1 system, the volume was very loud. The gunshots were coming from the movie. The windows rattled because of the very large subwoofer. On the screen, Tom Hanks and Tyler Hoechlin were standing on a beach.
  Butler knew they were coming. Butler had orchestrated the whole thing for their benefit. The actor wasn't ready for the final curtain.
  "Transparent!" one of the policemen shouted above them.
  But both detectives already knew it. Nigel Butler was missing.
  The house was empty.
  
  Byrne rewound the tape to the scene where Tom Hanks' character, Michael Sullivan, kills the man he holds responsible for the murder of his wife and one of his sons. In the film, Sullivan shoots the man in a hotel bathtub.
  The scene was replaced with the murder of Seth Goldman.
  
  SIX DETECTIVES combed every inch of Nigel Butler's terraced house. On the basement walls hung more photographs of Butler's various stage roles: Shylock, Harold Hill, Jean Valjean.
  They issued a nationwide APB on Nigel Butler. State, county, local, and federal law enforcement agencies had photographs of the man, as well as a description and license plate number of his vehicle. Six additional detectives were deployed across the Drexel campus.
  The basement contained a wall of pre-recorded videotapes, DVDs, and reels of 16mm film. What they didn't find were any video editing decks. No video camera, no homemade videotapes, no evidence that Butler had edited the murder footage onto pre-recorded tapes. With luck, within an hour they'd have a search warrant for the film department and all its offices in Drexel. Jessica was searching the basement when Byrne called her from the first floor. She went upstairs and entered the living room, where she found Byrne standing near a bookshelf.
  "You won't believe this," Byrne said. He held a large leather-bound photo album in his hand. About halfway through, he turned a page.
  Jessica took the photo album from him. What she saw almost took her breath away. There were a dozen pages of photographs of a young Angelica Butler. Some of her were alone: at a birthday party, in the park. Some were with a young man. Maybe a boyfriend.
  In almost every photograph, Angelique's head had been replaced with a cropped photograph of a movie star-Bette Davis, Emily Watson, Jean Arthur, Ingrid Bergman, Grace Kelly. The young man's face had been mutilated with what might have been a knife or an ice pick. Page after page, Angelique Butler-as Elizabeth Taylor, Jean Crain, Rhonda Fleming-stood next to a man whose face had been obliterated by a terrible rage. In some cases, the page was torn where the young man's face should have been.
  "Kevin." Jessica pointed to a photograph: a photograph of Angelique Butler wearing a mask of a very young Joan Crawford, a photograph of her disfigured companion sitting on a bench next to her.
  In this photo, the man was wearing a shoulder holster.
  
  
  72
  How long ago was it? I know it down to the hour. Three years, two weeks, one day, twenty-one hours. The landscape has changed. There is no topography of my heart. I think of the thousands and thousands of people who have passed by this place over the past three years, of the thousands of dramas unfolding. Despite all our claims to the contrary, we truly don't care about each other. I see it every day. We are all just extras in a movie, not even worthy of praise. If we have a line, maybe we will be remembered. If not, we take our meager salaries and strive to be the leaders in someone else's life.
  More often than not, we fail. Remember your fifth kiss? Was it the third time you made love? Of course not. Just the first. Just the last.
  I look at my watch. I fill up with gas.
  Act III.
  I light a match.
  I'm thinking about backdraft. Firestarter. Frequency. Ladder 49.
  I'm thinking about Angelica.
  
  
  73
  By 1:00 AM, they had set up a task force at the Roundhouse. Every piece of paper found in Nigel Butler's house had been bagged and labeled, and was currently being combed through for an address, phone number, or anything else that might indicate where he might have gone. If there really was a cabin in the Poconos, no rental receipt, no document, no photographs were found.
  The lab had photo albums and reported that the glue used to attach the movie star photos to Angelique Butler's face was standard white craft glue, but what was surprising was that it was fresh. In some cases, the lab reported, the glue was still wet. Whoever glued these photos into the album had done so within the last forty-eight hours.
  
  At exactly ten o'clock, the call they'd both hoped and dreaded rang. It was Nick Palladino. Jessica answered and put the phone on speaker.
  - What happened, Nick?
  "I think we've found Nigel Butler."
  "Where is he?"
  "He parked in his car. North Philadelphia.
  "Where?"
  "In the parking lot of the old gas station on Girard."
  Jessica glanced at Byrne. It was clear he didn't need to tell her which gas station. He'd been there once. He knew.
  "Is he in custody?" Byrne asked.
  "Not really."
  "What do you mean?"
  Palladino took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It seemed like a full minute passed before he answered. "He's sitting behind the wheel of his car," Palladino said.
  Another agonizing few seconds passed. "Yeah? And?" Byrne asked.
  "And the car is on fire."
  
  
  74
  By the time they arrived, the Volga Federal District fire department had already extinguished the fire. The acrid smell of burning vinyl and charred flesh hung in the already humid summer air, filling the entire block with the thick aroma of unnatural death. The car was a blackened husk, its front tires dug into the asphalt.
  As Jessica and Byrne approached, they saw that the figure at the wheel had been charred beyond recognition, its flesh still smoldering. The corpse's hands were fused to the steering wheel. The blackened skull revealed two empty caverns where the eyes had once been. Smoke and greasy steam rose from the charred bone.
  The crime scene was surrounded by four vehicles from the sector. A handful of uniformed officers directed traffic and held back the growing crowd.
  Eventually, the arson unit will tell them exactly what happened here, at least in the physical sense. When the fire started. How it started. Whether an accelerant was used. The psychological canvas on which all of this was painted would require much more time to describe and analyze.
  Byrne surveyed the boarded-up building before him. He remembered the last time he'd been here, the night they'd found Angelique Butler's body in the women's restroom. He'd been a different man then. He remembered how he and Phil Kessler had pulled into the lot and parked roughly where Nigel Butler's wrecked car now sat. The man who'd found the body-a homeless man hesitant between running in case he was implicated and staying in case there was a reward-had nervously pointed toward the ladies' room. Within minutes, they'd concluded it was probably just another overdose, another young life wasted.
  Though he couldn't swear to it, Byrne was willing to bet he slept well that night. The thought made him sick.
  Angelica Butler deserved his full attention, just like Gracie Devlin. He let Angelica down.
  
  
  75
  The mood at the Roundhouse was mixed. The media was eager to portray this story as one of a father's revenge. However, the homicide squad knew they hadn't succeeded in closing the case. It wasn't a shining moment in the department's 255-year history.
  But life and death went on.
  Since the car was discovered, there have been two new, unrelated murders.
  
  At six o'clock, Jocelyn Post walked into the duty room with six bags of evidence in hand. "We found some stuff in the trash at that gas station you're supposed to see. They were in a plastic briefcase stuffed in a dumpster."
  Jocelyn laid six bags on the table. The bags were eleven by fourteen. They were business cards-miniature movie posters originally intended for display in the cinema lobby-for Psycho, Fatal Attraction, Scarface, Diaboliki, and Road to Perdition. Furthermore, the corner of what might have been the sixth card was torn.
  "Do you know what movie this is from?" Jessica asked, holding up the sixth package. The piece of glossy cardboard had a partial barcode on it.
  "I have no idea," Jocelyn said. "But I took a digital image and sent it to the lab."
  "Maybe this was the movie Nigel Butler never got to see," Jessica thought. Let's hope it was the movie Nigel Butler never got to see.
  "Well, let"s continue anyway," Jessica said.
  - You understand, detective.
  
  By seven o'clock, the preliminary reports had been written and the detectives were sending them out. There was none of the joy or elation of bringing a bad man to justice that usually prevailed at such a time. Everyone was relieved to know this strange and ugly chapter was closed. Everyone just wanted a long, hot shower and a long, cold drink. The six o'clock news showed video of the burned, smoldering carcass at a North Philadelphia gas station. "FINAL ACTOR STATEMENT?" asked the crawler.
  Jessica stood up and stretched. She felt like she hadn't slept in days. Probably not. She was so tired she couldn't remember. She walked over to Byrne's desk.
  - Should I buy you dinner?
  "Of course," Byrne said. "What do you like?"
  "I want something big, greasy, and unhealthy," Jessica said. "Something with a lot of breading and a semicolon of carbs."
  "Sounds good."
  Before they could gather their things and leave the room, they heard a sound. A rapid beeping sound. At first, no one paid much attention. After all, this was the Roundhouse, a building full of pagers, beepers, cell phones, and PDAs. There was constant beeping, ringing, clicking, faxing, and ringing.
  Whatever it was, it beeped again.
  "Where the hell did this come from?" Jessica asked.
  All the detectives in the room checked their cell phones and pagers again. No one had received the message.
  Then three more times in a row. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.
  The sound came from a box of files on the desk. Jessica peered into the box. There, in the evidence bag, was Stephanie Chandler's cell phone. The bottom of the LCD screen was blinking. At some point during the day, Stephanie had received a call.
  Jessica opened her bag and pulled out her phone. It had already been processed by CSU, so there was no point in wearing gloves.
  "1 MISSED CALL," the indicator announced.
  Jessica pressed the SHOW MESSAGE button. A new screen appeared on the LCD. She showed the phone to Byrne. "Watch."
  There was a new message. The readings showed the file was sent from a private number.
  To the dead woman.
  They passed it on to the AV unit.
  
  "THIS IS A MULTIMEDIA message," Mateo said. "A video file."
  "When was it sent?" Byrne asked.
  Mateo checked the readings, then his watch. "A little over four hours ago."
  - And it came only now?
  "Sometimes this happens with very large files."
  - Is there a way to find out where it was sent from?
  Mateo shook his head. "Not from the phone."
  "If we play the video, it won't just delete itself or anything, right?" Jessica asked.
  "Wait," Mateo said.
  He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thin cable. He tried plugging it into the bottom of the phone. It didn't fit. He tried another cable, but still no luck. A third one slid into a small port. He plugged another into a port on the front of the laptop. A few moments later, the program launched on the laptop. Mateo pressed a few keys, and a progress bar appeared, apparently transferring a file from the phone to the computer. Byrne and Jessica exchanged glances, once again admiring Mateo Fuentes's abilities.
  A minute later I inserted a fresh CD into the drive and dragged the icon.
  "It's done," he said. "We have the file on the phone, on the hard drive, and on the disk. Whatever happens, we'll have support."
  "Okay," Jessica said. She was a little surprised to find her pulse quickening. She had no idea why. Perhaps there was nothing in the file at all. She wanted to believe it with all her heart.
  "Do you want to watch it now?" Mateo asked.
  "Yes and no," Jessica said. It was a video file sent to the phone of a woman who had died more than a week ago-a phone they had recently obtained thanks to a sadistic serial killer who had just burned himself alive.
  Or maybe it was all an illusion.
  "I hear you," Mateo said. "There you go." He pressed the "Play" arrow on the small button bar at the bottom of the video program screen. After a few seconds, the video began to spin. The first few seconds of footage were blurry, as if the person holding the camera was whipping it from right to left and then downward, trying to point it at the ground. When the image stabilized and focused, they saw the subject of the video.
  It was a child.
  A baby in a small pine coffin.
  "Madre de Dios," said Mateo. He crossed himself.
  As Byrne and Jessica stared at the image in horror, two things became clear. First, the child was very much alive. Second, the video had a time code in the lower right corner.
  "This footage wasn't taken on a camera phone, was it?" Byrne asked.
  "No," Mateo said. "It looks like it was taken with a regular video camera. Probably an 8mm video camera, not a digital video model."
  "How can you tell?" Byrne asked.
  "First, the image quality."
  On the screen, a hand entered the frame, closing the lid of a wooden coffin.
  "Jesus Christ, no," Byrne said.
  And then the first shovel of earth fell on the box. In a matter of seconds, the box was completely covered.
  "Oh my God." Jessica felt sick. She turned away as the screen went black.
  "That's the whole point," Mateo said.
  Byrne was silent. He left the room and returned immediately. "Start it again," he said.
  Mateo pressed the PLAY button again. The image changed from a blurry moving image to a clear one as it focused on the child. Jessica forced herself to watch. She noticed the time code on the film was from 10:00 AM. It was already past 8:00 AM. She pulled out her cell phone. A few seconds later, Dr. Tom Weirich called. She explained the reason for the call. She didn't know if her question was within the medical examiner's jurisdiction, but she also didn't know who else to call.
  "What size is the box?" Weirich asked.
  Jessica looked at the screen. The video was playing for the third time. "I'm not sure," she said. "Maybe twenty-four by thirty."
  "How deep?"
  "I don't know. He looks about sixteen inches or so.
  "Are there holes on the top or sides?"
  "Not at the top. I don't see any sides.
  "How old is the baby?"
  This part was easy. The baby looked about six months old. "Six months."
  Weirich was silent for a moment. "Well, I'm no expert on this. But I'll find someone who does."
  "How much air does he have, Tom?"
  "It's hard to say," Weirich replied. "The box holds just over five cubic feet. Even with that small lung capacity, I'd say no more than ten to twelve hours."
  Jessica glanced at her watch again, even though she knew exactly what time it was. "Thanks, Tom. Call me if you can talk to someone who can spend more time with this baby."
  Tom Weirich knew what she meant. "I'm in it."
  Jessica hung up. She looked at the screen again. The video was back at the beginning. The child smiled and moved his arms. All in all, they had less than two hours to save his life. And he could be anywhere in the city.
  
  MATEO MADE A SECOND DIGITAL COPY OF THE TAPE. The recording lasted a total of twenty-five seconds. When it was finished, it faded to black. They watched it over and over, trying to find anything that might give them a clue as to where the child might be. There were no other images on the tape. Mateo started again. The camera swung downward. Mateo stopped it.
  "The camera is on a tripod, and a pretty good one at that. At least for a home enthusiast. It's the gentle tilt that tells me the tripod's neck is a ball head.
  "But look here," Mateo continued. He started recording again. As soon as he pressed PLAY, he stopped it. The image on the screen was unrecognizable. A thick, vertical white spot on a reddish-brown background.
  "What is this?" Byrne asked.
  "I'm not sure yet," Mateo said. "Let me run it through the detective department. I'll get a much clearer picture. It'll take a little time, though."
  "How many?
  "Give me ten minutes."
  In a typical investigation, ten minutes fly by. For a child in a coffin, it could be a lifetime.
  Byrne and Jessica stood near the AV unit. Ike Buchanan entered the room. "What's wrong, Sergeant?" Byrne asked.
  "Ian Whitestone is here."
  Finally, Jessica thought. "He's here to make an official announcement?"
  "No," Buchanan said. "Someone kidnapped his son this morning."
  
  WHEATSTONE WATCHED the film about the child. They transferred the clip to VHS. They watched it in the small mess hall in the unit.
  Whitestone was smaller than Jessica expected. He had delicate hands. He was wearing two watches. He arrived with a personal physician and someone, presumably a bodyguard. Whitestone identified the child in the video as his son, Declan. He looked exhausted.
  "Why... why would anyone do something like that?" Whitestone asked.
  "We were hoping you could shed some light on this," Byrne said.
  According to Whitestone's nanny, Eileen Scott, she took Declan for a walk in the stroller around 9:30 a.m. She was struck from behind. When she woke up a few hours later, she was in the back of a rescue ambulance heading to Jefferson Hospital, and the baby was gone. The timeline showed detectives that, had the time code on the tape not been altered, Declan Whitestone would have been buried thirty minutes from Downtown. Probably closer.
  "The FBI has been contacted," Jessica said. Terry Cahill, patched up and back on the case, was now gathering his team. "We're doing everything we can to find your son."
  They returned to the living room and approached the table. They placed the crime scene photographs of Erin Halliwell, Seth Goldman, and Stephanie Chandler on the table. When Whitestone looked down, his knees buckled. He held onto the edge of the table.
  "What... what is this?" he asked.
  "Both of these women were murdered. As was Mr. Goldman. We believe the person who kidnapped your son is responsible." There was no need to inform Whitestone of Nigel Butler's apparent suicide at the time.
  "What are you saying? Are you saying they are all dead?
  "I'm afraid so, sir. Yes."
  Stone-white fabric. His face turned the color of dried bones. Jessica had seen it many times. He sat down heavily.
  "What was your relationship like with Stephanie Chandler?" Byrne asked.
  Whitestone hesitated. His hands trembled. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, only a dry clicking sound. He looked like a man at risk of coronary heart disease.
  "Mr. White Stone?" Byrne asked.
  Ian Whitestone took a deep breath. His lips trembled as he said, "I think I should talk to my lawyer."
  OceanofPDF.com
  76
  They learned the whole story from Ian Whitestone. Or at least the part his lawyer allowed him to tell. Suddenly, the last ten days or so made sense.
  Three years earlier, before his meteoric success, Ian Whitestone made a film called Philadelphia Skin, directing it under the pseudonym Edmundo Nobile, a character from a film by Spanish director Luis Buñuel. Whitestone hired two young women from Temple University to shoot the pornographic film, paying each five thousand dollars for two nights of work. The two young women were Stephanie Chandler and Angelique Butler. The two men were Darryl Porter and Julian Matisse.
  According to Whitestone's recollection, what happened to Stephanie Chandler on the second night of filming was more than unclear. Whitestone said Stephanie was using drugs. He said he didn't allow it on set. He said Stephanie left mid-shoot and never returned.
  No one in the room believed a word of it. But what was crystal clear was that everyone involved in the film's creation had paid dearly for it. It remains to be seen whether Ian Whitestone's son will pay for his father's crimes.
  
  MATEO CALLED THEM to the AV department. He digitized the first ten seconds of video, field by field. He also separated the audio track and cleaned it up. First, he turned on the audio. There was only five seconds of sound.
  At first, a loud hissing sound was heard, then its intensity suddenly diminished, and then silence fell. It was clear that whoever was operating the camera had turned off the microphone when they began rewinding the film.
  "Put it back," Byrne said.
  Mateo did it. The sound was a quick burst of air that immediately began to fade. Then the white noise of electronic silence.
  "Again."
  Byrne seemed stunned by the sound. Mateo looked at him before continuing the video. "Okay," Byrne finally said.
  "I think we've got something here," Mateo said. He scanned several still images. He stopped at one and zoomed in. "It's just over two seconds old. This is the image right before the camera tilts down." Mateo focused slightly. The image was almost indecipherable. A splash of white against a reddish-brown background. Curved geometric shapes. Low contrast.
  "I can't see anything," Jessica said.
  "Wait." Mateo ran the image through the digital amplifier. The image on the screen zoomed in. After a few seconds, it became a little clearer, but not clear enough to read. He zoomed in and checked again. Now the image was unmistakable.
  Six block letters. All white. Three at the top, three at the bottom. The image looked like this:
  ADI
  ION
  "What does that mean?" Jessica asked.
  "I don"t know," Mateo replied.
  "Kevin?"
  Byrne shook his head and stared at the screen.
  "Guys?" Jessica asked the other detectives in the room. Shrugs were all around.
  Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez sat down at their terminals and began searching for opportunities. Soon, they both had hits. They found something called the "ADI 2018 Process Ion Analyzer." There were no calls.
  "Keep looking," Jessica said.
  
  BYRNE stared at the letters. They meant something to him, but he had no idea what. Not yet. Then, suddenly, images touched the edge of his memory. ADI. ION. The vision returned on a long ribbon of memories, vague recollections of his youth. He closed his eyes and...
  - heard the sound of steel on steel... he was already eight years old... running with Joey Principe from Reed Street... Joey was fast... hard to keep up with... felt a gust of wind pierced by diesel exhaust... ADI... breathed in the dust of a July day... ION... heard the compressors filling the main tanks with high-pressure air...
  He opened his eyes.
  "Turn the sound back on," Byrne said.
  Mateo opened the file and pressed "Play." The sound of hissing air filled the small room. All eyes turned to Kevin Byrne.
  "I know where he is," Byrne said.
  
  The South Philadelphia rail yards were a vast, ominous stretch of land in the southeast corner of the city, bounded by the Delaware River and I-95, the Navy Yards to the west, and League Island to the south. The yards handled much of the city's freight, while Amtrak and SEPTA operated commuter lines from 30th Street Station across the city.
  Byrne knew the South Philadelphia train yards well. Growing up, he and his buddies would meet at the Greenwich Playground and ride bikes through the yards, usually making their way to League Island via Kitty Hawk Avenue and then to the yards. They'd spend the day there, watching trains come and go, counting freight cars, throwing things into the river. In his youth, the South Philadelphia train yards were Kevin Byrne's Omaha Beach, his Martian landscape, his Dodge City, a place he considered magical, a place he imagined Wyatt Earp, Sergeant Rock, Tom Sawyer, and Eliot Ness had lived.
  Today he decided that this was a burial ground.
  
  The Philadelphia Police Department's K-9 Unit operated out of the training academy on State Road and commanded over three dozen dogs. The dogs-all male, all German Shepherds-were trained in three disciplines: cadaver detection, drug detection, and explosive detection. At one point, the unit numbered over one hundred dogs, but a change in jurisdiction has transformed it into a tightly knit, well-trained force of fewer than forty people and dogs.
  Officer Bryant Paulson was a twenty-year veteran of the unit. His dog, a seven-year-old German Shepherd named Clarence, was trained to handle cadaver spores but also worked on patrol. Cadaver dogs were attuned to any human scent, not just the scent of the deceased. Like all police dogs, Clarence was a specialist. If you dropped a pound of marijuana in the middle of a field, Clarence would walk right past it. If the quarry was a human-dead or alive-he would work all day and all night to find it.
  At nine o'clock, a dozen detectives and more than twenty uniformed officers assembled at the west end of the train station, near the corner of Broad Street and League Island Boulevard.
  Jessica nodded to Officer Paulson. Clarence began to cover the area. Paulson kept him at a distance of fifteen feet. The detectives retreated to avoid disturbing the animal. Scenting the air was different from tracking-a method in which a dog follows a scent with its head pressed to the ground, searching for human scents. It was also more difficult. Any change in the wind could redirect the dog's efforts, and any ground covered might have to be re-covered. The PPD K-9 unit trained its dogs in what was known as "disturbed earth theory." In addition to human scents, the dogs were trained to respond to any recently dug soil.
  If a child had been buried here, the earth would have been stirred. There was no dog better at that than Clarence.
  At this point, all the detectives could do was watch.
  And wait.
  
  Byrne searched the vast tract of land. He was wrong. The child wasn't there. A second dog and an officer joined the search, and together they covered almost the entire property, but to no avail. Byrne glanced at his watch. If Tom Weyrich's assessment was correct, the child was already dead. Byrne walked alone to the east end of the yard, toward the river. His heart was heavy with the image of the child in the pine box, and his memory was now revived by the thousands of adventures he'd experienced in this area. He descended into a shallow culvert and climbed up the other side, up a slope that was...
  - Pork Chop Hill... the last few meters to the summit of Everest... the mound at Veterans Stadium... the Canadian border, protected-
  Monty.
  He knew. ADI. ION.
  "Here!" Byrne shouted into his two-way radio.
  He ran toward the tracks near Pattison Avenue. Within moments, his lungs were on fire, his back and legs a web of raw nerve endings and searing pain. As he ran, he scanned the ground, aiming the Maglight beam a few feet ahead. Nothing looked fresh. Nothing had been overturned.
  He stopped, his lungs already exhausted, his hands resting on his knees. He couldn't run anymore. He was going to fail the child, just like he had failed Angelica Butler.
  He opened his eyes.
  And I saw it.
  A square of freshly turned gravel lay at his feet. Even in the gathering twilight, he could see it was darker than the surrounding ground. He looked up and saw a dozen police officers rushing toward him, led by Bryant Paulson and Clarence. By the time the dog was within twenty feet, it had begun barking and pawing the ground, indicating it had spotted its quarry.
  Byrne dropped to his knees, scraping away dirt and gravel with his hands. A few seconds later, he encountered loose, damp soil. Soil that had recently been turned over.
  "Kevin." Jessica came over and helped him to his feet. Byrne stepped back, breathing heavily, his fingers already scraped from the sharp stones.
  Three uniformed officers with shovels intervened. They began digging. A few seconds later, a pair of detectives joined them. Suddenly, they hit something hard.
  Jessica looked up. There, less than thirty feet away, in the dim light of I-95's sodium lamps, she saw a rusty boxcar. Two words were stacked on top of each other, broken into three segments, separated by the steel rails of the boxcar.
  CANADIAN
  NATIONAL
  In the center of the three sections were the letters ADI above the letters ION .
  
  The medics were at the pit. They pulled out a small box and began to open it. All eyes were on them. Except Kevin Byrne. He couldn't bring himself to look. He closed his eyes and waited. It felt like minutes. All he could hear was the sound of a freight train passing nearby, its hum like a soporific hum in the evening air.
  In that moment between life and death, Byrne remembered Colleen's birthday. She'd arrived about a week early, a force of nature even then. He remembered her tiny pink fingers clutching Donna's white hospital gown. So tiny...
  Just when Kevin Byrne was absolutely certain they were too late and had let Declan Whitestone down, he opened his eyes and heard the most beautiful noise. A faint cough, then a thin cry that soon grew into a loud, guttural wail.
  The child was alive.
  Paramedics rushed Declan Whitestone to the emergency room. Byrne looked at Jessica. They had won. This time, they had defeated evil. But they both knew this lead had come from somewhere beyond databases and spreadsheets, or psychological profiles, or even the highly sensitive senses of dogs. It had come from a place they had never spoken about.
  
  They spent the rest of the night examining the crime scene, writing reports, and catching a few minutes' sleep whenever they could. As of 10:00 a.m., the detectives had worked for twenty-six hours straight.
  Jessica sat at her desk, finishing her report. It was her responsibility as the lead detective on this case. Never in her life had she been so exhausted. She was looking forward to a long bath and a full day and night's sleep. She hoped that sleep wouldn't be interrupted by dreams of a small child buried in a pine box. She called Paula Farinacci, her nanny, twice. Sophie was fine. Both times.
  Stephanie Chandler, Erin Halliwell, Julian Matisse, Darryl Porter, Seth Goldman, Nigel Butler.
  And then there was Angelica.
  Would they ever get to the bottom of what happened on the set of "Philadelphia Skin"? There was one person who could tell them, and there was a very good chance Ian Whitestone would take that knowledge to his grave.
  At ten-thirty, while Byrne was in the bathroom, someone placed a small box of Milk Bones on his desk. When he returned, he saw it and started laughing.
  No one in this room had heard Kevin Byrne laugh for a long time.
  
  
  77
  LOGAN CIRCLE is one of William Penn's original five squares. Located on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, it is surrounded by some of the city's most impressive institutions: the Franklin Institute, the Academy of Natural Sciences, the Free Library, and the Museum of Art.
  The three figures of Swann Fountain in the center of the circle represent Philadelphia's major waterways: the Delaware, Schuylkill, and Wissahickon rivers. The area beneath the square was once a cemetery.
  Tell us about your subtext.
  Today, the area around the fountain is filled with summer revelers, cyclists, and tourists. The water sparkles, like diamonds against the azure sky. Children chase each other, drawing lazy figure eights. Vendors hawk their wares. Students read textbooks and listen to MP3 players.
  I bump into a young woman. She's sitting on a bench, reading a book by Nora Roberts. She looks up. Recognition lights up her beautiful face.
  "Oh, hi," she says.
  "Hello."
  "It's nice to see you again."
  "Do you mind if I sit down?" I ask, wondering if I expressed myself correctly.
  She brightens. After all, she understood me. "Not at all," she replies. She bookmarks the book, closes it, and puts it in her bag. She smooths the hem of her dress. She is a very neat and proper young lady. Well-mannered and well-behaved.
  "I promise I won"t talk about the heat," I say.
  She smiles and looks at me questioningly. "What?"
  "Heat?"
  She smiles. The fact that we both speak a different language attracts the attention of people nearby.
  I study her for a moment, taking in her features, her soft hair, her demeanor. She notices.
  "What?" she asks.
  "Has anyone ever told you that you look like a movie star?"
  A moment of worry crosses her face, but when I smile at her, the fear dissipates.
  "Movie star? I don't think so."
  "Oh, I don't mean a current movie star. I'm thinking of an older star."
  She wrinkles her face.
  "Oh, I didn"t mean that!" I say, laughing. She laughs with me. "I didn"t mean old. I meant there"s a certain... understated glamour about you that reminds me of a 1940s movie star. Jennifer Jones. Do you know Jennifer Jones?" I ask.
  She shakes her head.
  "It's okay," I say. "I'm sorry. I put you in an awkward position."
  "Not at all," she says. But I can tell she's just being polite. She looks at her watch. "I'm afraid I have to go."
  She stands, looking at all the things she had to carry. She looks towards the Market Street subway station.
  "I"m going there," I say. "I"d be happy to help you."
  She studies me again. She seems about to refuse at first, but when I smile again, she asks, "Are you sure it won't bother you?"
  "Not at all."
  I pick up her two large shopping bags and sling her canvas bag over my shoulder. "I'm an actor myself," I say.
  She nods. "I'm not surprised."
  We stop when we reach the crosswalk. I place my hand on her forearm, just for a moment. Her skin is pale, smooth, and soft.
  "You know, you've gotten a lot better. When she signs, she moves her hands slowly, deliberately, just for my benefit."
  I answer: "I got inspired."
  The girl blushes. She is an angel.
  From certain angles and in certain lighting, she looks like her father.
  
  
  78
  Just after noon, a uniformed officer walked into the homicide desk with a FedEx envelope in hand. Kevin Byrne sat at his desk, feet up, eyes closed. In his mind's eye, he was back in the train stations of his youth, clad in a strange hybrid outfit of pearl-handled six-guns, a military balaclava, and a silver spacesuit. He smelled the deep seawater of the river, the rich aroma of axle grease. The scent of safety. In this world, there were no serial killers or psychopaths who would cut a man in half with a chainsaw or bury a child alive. The only danger lurking was your old man's belt if you were late for dinner.
  "Detective Byrne?" the uniformed officer asked, breaking the slumber.
  Byrne opened his eyes. "Yes?"
  "This came just for you."
  Byrne took the envelope and looked at the return address. It was from a Center City law firm. He opened it. Inside was another envelope. Attached to the letter was a letter from the law firm, explaining that the sealed envelope was from the estate of Philip Kessler and was to be sent on the occasion of his death. Byrne opened the inner envelope. When he read the letter, he was confronted with a whole new set of questions, the answers to which lay in the morgue.
  "I don't believe this for a second," he said, drawing the attention of the handful of detectives in the room. Jessica approached.
  "What is this?" she asked.
  Byrne read aloud the contents of Kessler's lawyer's letter. No one knew what to make of it.
  "Are you saying Phil Kessler was paid to get Julian Matisse out of prison?" Jessica asked.
  "This is what the letter says. Phil wanted me to know this, but not until after his death."
  "What are you talking about? Who paid him?" Palladino asked.
  "The letter doesn't say. But it does say that Phil received ten thousand for bringing charges against Jimmy Purifey in order to get Julian Matisse out of jail pending his appeal."
  Everyone in the room was suitably stunned.
  "Do you think it was Butler?" Jessica asked.
  "Good question."
  The good news was that Jimmy Purify could rest in peace. His name would be cleared. But now that Kessler, Matisse, and Butler were dead, it was unlikely they would ever get to the bottom of it.
  Eric Chavez, who had been on the phone the entire time, finally hung up. "For what it's worth, the lab figured out what movie that sixth card in the lobby is from."
  "What movie is it?" Byrne asked.
  "Witness. A film by Harrison Ford."
  Byrne glanced at the television. Channel 6 was now broadcasting live from the corner of 30th and Market Streets. They were interviewing people about how great it was for Will Parrish to film at the train station.
  "Oh my God," Byrne said.
  "What?" Jessica asked.
  "This is not the end yet."
  "What do you mean?"
  Byrne quickly scanned the letter from attorney Phil Kessler. "I'm thinking about it. Why would Butler commit suicide before the big finale?"
  "With all due respect to the dead," Palladino began, "who cares? The psycho is dead, and that's it."
  "We don't know if Nigel Butler was in the car."
  It was true. Neither the DNA nor the dental reports had come back yet. There was simply no compelling reason to believe anyone other than Butler was in that car.
  Byrne was on his feet. "Maybe that fire was just a diversion. Maybe he did it because he needed more time."
  "So who was in the car?" Jessica asked.
  "I have no idea," Byrne said. "But why would he send us a film of a child being buried if he didn't want us to find him in time? If he really wanted to punish Ian Whitestone this way, why not just let the child die? Why not just leave his dead son on his doorstep?"
  No one had a good answer to this question.
  "All the murders in the movies took place in bathrooms, right?" Byrne continued.
  "Right. What about this?" Jessica asked.
  "In 'Witness,' a young Amish child witnesses a murder," Byrne replied.
  "I don't follow," Jessica said.
  The television monitor showed Ian Whitestone entering the station. Byrne drew his weapon and tested it. On his way out the door, he said, "The victim in this movie had his throat slit in the bathroom at 30th Street Station."
  
  
  79
  "THIRTIETH STREET" was listed on the National Register of Historic Places. The eight-story concrete-frame building was built in 1934 and occupied two full city blocks.
  That day, the place was even busier than usual. Over three hundred extras in full makeup and costumes milled about the main hall, waiting for their scene to be filmed in the north waiting room. Additionally, there were seventy-five crew members, including sound engineers, lighting technicians, camera operators, crew chiefs, and various production assistants.
  Although the train schedule was not disrupted, the main production terminal remained operational for two hours. Passengers were led along a narrow rope corridor along the southern wall.
  When the police arrived, the camera was on a large crane, blocking a complex shot, tracking a crowd of extras in the main hall, then through a huge archway into the north waiting room, where it would find Will Parrish standing beneath a large bas-relief of Karl Bitter's "Spirit of Transportation." To the detectives' dismay, all the extras were dressed identically. It was a kind of dream sequence, in which they were dressed in long red monastic robes and black masks. As Jessica headed into the north waiting room, she saw Will Parrish's stunt double, wearing a yellow raincoat.
  Detectives searched the men's and women's restrooms, trying not to cause unnecessary alarm. They didn't find Ian Whitestone. They didn't find Nigel Butler.
  Jessica called Terry Cahill on his cell phone, hoping he could disrupt the production company. She received his voicemail.
  
  BYRNE AND JESSICA stood in the center of the station's vast main hall, near the information kiosk, in the shadow of a bronze sculpture of an angel.
  "What the hell should we do?" Jessica asked, knowing the question was rhetorical. Byrne supported her decision. From the moment they first met, he'd treated her as an equal, and now that she was leading this task force, he didn't hold back her experience. It was her choice, and the look in his eyes said he was behind her decision, whatever it was.
  There was only one choice. She could get hell from the mayor, the Department of Transportation, Amtrak, SEPTA, and everyone else, but she had to do it. She spoke into the two-way radio. "Turn it off," she said. "No one in or out."
  Before they could move, Byrne's cell phone rang. It was Nick Palladino.
  - What happened, Nick?
  "We received word from the Ministry of Economy. There's a tooth on the body in the burning car.
  "What do we have?" Byrne asked.
  "Well, the dental records didn't match Nigel Butler's," Palladino said. "So Eric and I took a chance and went to Bala Cynwyd."
  Byrne realized it: one domino had crashed into another. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
  "Yes," Palladino said. "The body in the car was Adam Kaslov."
  
  The film's assistant director was a woman named Joanna Young. Jessica found her near the food court, with a cell phone in her hand, another cell phone to her ear, a crackling two-way radio clipped to her belt, and a long line of anxious people waiting to speak with her. She was not a happy tourist.
  "What is this all about?" Yang demanded.
  "I'm not at liberty to discuss that at this point," Jessica said. "But we really need to talk to Mr. Whitestone."
  "I'm afraid he's left the set."
  "When?"
  - He left about ten minutes ago.
  "One?"
  - He left with one of the extras, and I would really like...
  "Which door?" Jessica asked.
  - Entrance on Twenty-ninth Street.
  - And you haven"t seen him since then?
  "No," she said. "But I hope he comes back soon. We're losing about a thousand dollars a minute here."
  Byrne approached along the dual carriageway. "Jess?"
  "Yes?"
  - I think you should see this.
  
  The larger of the two men's restrooms at the station was a maze of large, white-tiled rooms adjacent to the north waiting room. The sinks were in one room, the toilet stalls in another-a long row of stainless steel doors with stalls on either side. What Byrne wanted to show Jessica was in the last stall on the left, behind the door. Scrawled at the bottom of the door was a series of numbers, separated by decimal points. And it looked like it was written in blood.
  "Did we take a picture of this?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes," Byrne said.
  Jessica put on a glove. The blood was still sticky. "It's recent."
  "CSU already has a sample on its way to the lab."
  "What are these numbers?" Byrne asked.
  "It looks like an IP address," Jessica replied.
  "IP address?" Byrne asked. "How in-"
  "The website," Jessica said. "He wants us to go to the website."
  
  
  80
  In ANY film worth its salt, in any film made with pride, there's always a moment in the third act when the hero must act. At this moment, just before the film's climax, the story takes a turn.
  I open the door and turn on the TV. All the actors, except one, are in place. I position the camera. The light floods Angelica's face. She looks the same as before. Young. Untouched by time.
  Beautiful.
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  THE SCREEN was black, empty, and eerily devoid of content.
  "Are you sure we're on the right site?" Byrne asked.
  Mateo re-entered the IP address into the web browser's address bar. The screen refreshed. Still black. "Nothing yet."
  Byrne and Jessica moved from the editing room to the AV studio. In the 1980s, a local show called "Police Perspectives" was filmed in a large, high-ceilinged room in the basement of the Roundhouse. Several large spotlights still hung from the ceiling.
  The lab rushed to conduct preliminary tests on the blood found at the train station. They returned "Negative." A call to Ian Whitestone's doctor confirmed that Whitestone's results were negative. While it's unlikely that Whitestone suffered the same fate as the victim in "Witness"-if his jugular had been severed, there would have been pools of blood-there was almost no doubt that he had been wounded.
  "Detectives," Mateo said.
  Byrne and Jessica ran back to the editing bay. The screen now showed three words. A title. White letters centered on black. Somehow, this image was even more disturbing than the blank screen. The words on the screen read:
  SKIN GODS
  "What does that mean?" Jessica asked.
  "I don't know," Mateo said. He turned to his laptop. He typed words into Google's text field. Just a few hits. Nothing promising or revealing. Again, on imdb.com. Nothing.
  "Do we know where it comes from?" Byrne asked.
  "Working on it."
  Mateo made phone calls trying to find the ISP, the internet service provider that the website was registered to.
  Suddenly the image changed. They were now looking at a blank wall. White plaster. Brightly lit. The floor was dusty, made of hard wooden planks. There was no clue in the frame as to where it might be. There was no sound.
  The camera then panned slightly to the right, revealing a young woman wearing a yellow teddy bear. She was wearing a hood. She was fragile, pale, and delicate. She stood against the wall, motionless. Her posture suggested fear. It was impossible to tell her age, but she looked like a teenager.
  "What is this?" Byrne asked.
  "It looks like a live webcam feed," Mateo said. "But it's not a high-definition camera."
  A man entered the set and approached the girl. He was dressed like one of the extras from "The Palace"-a red monk's robe and a full-face mask. He handed her something. It looked shiny, metallic. The girl held it for a few moments. The light was harsh, saturating the figures, bathing them in an eerie silver glow, making it difficult to discern what she was doing. She handed it back to the man.
  A few seconds later, Kevin Byrne's cell phone beeped. Everyone looked at him. It was the sound his phone made when he received a text message, not a phone call. His heart began to pound in his chest. With trembling hands, he pulled out his phone and scrolled to the text messages screen. Before reading, he glanced at his laptop. The man on the screen pulled down the girl's hood.
  "Oh my God," Jessica said.
  Byrne looked at his phone. Everything he'd ever feared in life was summed up in those five letters:
  TSBOAO.
  
  
  82
  SHE HAD KNOWN SILENCE ALL HER LIFE. The concept, the very concept of sound, was abstract to her, but she could fully imagine it. Sound was colorful.
  For many deaf people, silence was black.
  For her, silence was white. An endless streak of white clouds, flowing toward infinity. Sound, as she imagined it, was a beautiful rainbow against a pure white background.
  When she first saw him at the bus stop near Rittenhouse Square, she thought he was pleasant-looking, perhaps a little goofy. He was reading Handshape Dictionary, trying to figure out the alphabet. She wondered why he was trying to learn ASL-either he had a deaf relative or he was trying to hook up with a deaf girl-but she didn't ask.
  When she saw him again in Logan Circle, he helped her by delivering her packages to the SEPTA station.
  And then he pushed her into the trunk of his car.
  What this man hadn't counted on was her discipline. Without discipline, those who use fewer than five senses will go crazy. She knew it. All her deaf friends knew it. It was discipline that helped her overcome her fear of rejection by the hearing world. It was discipline that helped her live up to the high expectations her parents had placed on her. It was discipline that got her through this. If this man thought she'd never experienced anything more terrifying than his strange and ugly game, then he clearly didn't know a single deaf girl.
  Her father will come for her. He has never let her down. Always.
  So she waited. In discipline. In hope.
  In silence.
  
  
  83
  The transmission was conducted via a mobile phone. Mateo brought a laptop connected to the internet to the duty room. He believed it was a webcam connected to the laptop and then connected to a mobile phone. This significantly complicated tracking because-unlike a landline, which was tied to a permanent address-a mobile phone's signal had to be triangulated between cell towers.
  Within minutes, the request for a court order to track the cell phone was faxed to the district attorney's office. Typically, something like this takes several hours. Not today. Paul DiCarlo personally carried it from his office at 1421 Arch Street to the top floor of the Criminal Justice Center, where Judge Liam McManus signed it. Ten minutes later, the homicide squad was on the phone with the cell phone company's security department.
  Detective Tony Park was the unit's go-to guy when it came to digital technology and cell phone communications. One of the few Korean-American detectives on the force, a family man in his late thirties, Tony Park had a calming influence on everyone around him. Today, this aspect of his personality, along with his knowledge of electronics, was crucial. The device was about to explode.
  Pak spoke on a landline, reporting the progress of the trail to a crowd of anxious detectives. "They're running it through the tracking matrix now," Pak said.
  "Do they already have a castle?" Jessica asked.
  "Not yet."
  Byrne paced the room like a caged animal. A dozen detectives lingered in or near the duty room, awaiting word, direction. Byrne could not be consoled or reassured. All these men and women had families. It could just as easily have been them.
  "We have movement," Mateo said, pointing to the laptop screen. The detectives crowded around him.
  On the screen, a man in monk's robes pulled another man into the frame. It was Ian Whitestone. He was wearing a blue jacket. He looked woozy. His head was slumped over his shoulders. There was no visible blood on his face or hands.
  Whitestone fell onto the wall next to Colleen. The image looked hideous in the harsh white light. Jessica wondered who else could have been watching this if this madman had spread the web address across the media, and the internet at large.
  Then a figure in monk's robes approached the camera and turned the lens. The image was choppy and grainy due to the lack of resolution and rapid movement. When the image stopped, it appeared on a double bed, surrounded by two cheap nightstands and table lamps.
  "It's a movie," Byrne said, his voice breaking. "He's recreating a movie."
  Jessica realized the situation with sickening clarity. It was a recreation of the Philadelphia Skin motel room. The actor was planning to remake Philadelphia Skin with Colleen Byrne as Angelica Butler.
  They had to find him.
  "They have a tower," Park said. "It covers part of North Philadelphia."
  "Where in North Philadelphia?" Byrne asked. He stood in the doorway, almost shaking with anticipation. He pounded his fist on the doorframe three times. "Where?"
  "They're working on it," Pak said. He pointed to a map on one of the monitors. "It's all about these two square blocks. Go outside. I'll guide you."
  Byrne left before he could finish his sentence.
  
  
  84
  In all her years, she only wanted to hear it once. Just once. And it wasn't that long ago. Two of her hearing friends bought tickets to a John Mayer concert. John Mayer was supposed to be dead. Her hearing friend Lula played John Mayer's album Heavier Things for her, and she touched the speakers, felt the bass and the vocals. She knew his music. She knew it in her heart.
  She wished she could hear it now. There were two other people in the room with her, and if she could hear them, she might be able to find a way out of this situation.
  If only she could hear...
  Her father explained to her many times what he was doing. She knew that what he did was dangerous, and the people he arrested were the worst people in the world.
  She stood with her back to the wall. The man had removed her hood, and that was good. She suffered from terrifying claustrophobia. But now the light in her eyes was blinding. If she couldn't see, she couldn't fight.
  And she was ready to fight.
  
  
  85
  THE Germantown Avenue neighborhood near Indiana was a proud but long-struggling community of row houses and brick storefronts, deep in the Badlands, a five-square-mile stretch of North Philadelphia that ran from Erie Avenue south to Spring Garden; from Ridge Avenue to Front Street.
  At least a quarter of the buildings on the block were retail space, some occupied, most empty-a clenched fist of three-story structures, clinging to each other with empty spaces between. Searching them all would be difficult, almost impossible. Usually, when the department followed cellphone traces, they had previous intelligence to work with: a suspect associated with the area, a known accomplice, a possible address. This time, they had nothing. They had already checked Nigel Butler through every avenue possible: previous addresses, rental properties he might own, addresses of family members. Nothing connected him to the area. They would have to search every square inch of the block, and search it blind.
  As crucial as the timing element was, they were walking a fine line constitutionally. While they had ample leeway to storm a house if there was probable cause that someone had been injured on the premises, it was better for that computer to be open and obvious.
  By one o'clock, about twenty detectives and uniformed officers had arrived at the enclave. They moved through the neighborhood like a blue wall, holding Colleen Byrne's photograph, asking the same questions over and over again. But this time, things were different for the detectives. This time, they had to instantly read the person on the other side of the threshold-kidnapper, murderer, serial killer, innocent.
  This time it was one of them.
  Byrne remained behind Jessica as she rang doorbells and knocked on doors. Each time, he scanned the citizen's face, activating radar, all senses on high alert. He had an earpiece in his ear, connected directly to Tony Park and Mateo Fuentes's open phone line. Jessica tried to dissuade him from broadcasting live, but to no avail.
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  Byrne's heart was on fire. If anything happened to Colleen, he would finish that son of a bitch off with one shot at point-blank range, and then himself. After that, there would be no reason to take another breath. She was his life.
  "What's going on now?" Byrne asked into his headset, into his three-way communication.
  "Static shot," Mateo replied. "Just... just Collin against the wall. No change."
  Byrne paced. Another row house. Another possible scene. Jessica rang the doorbell.
  "Was this the place?" Byrne wondered. He ran his hand over the dirty window, felt nothing. He stepped back.
  A woman opened the door. She was a plump, black woman in her early forties, holding a child, probably her granddaughter. She had gray hair pulled back into a tight bun. "What's this about?"
  The walls were up, the attitude was outside. For her, it was just another police intrusion. She glanced over Jessica's shoulder, tried to meet Byrne's gaze, and retreated.
  "Have you seen this girl, ma'am?" Jessica asked, holding a photograph in one hand and a badge in the other.
  The woman did not immediately look at the photograph, deciding to exercise her right not to cooperate.
  Byrne didn't wait for an answer. He brushed past her, glanced around the living room, and ran down the narrow steps to the basement. He found a dusty Nautilus and a couple of broken appliances. He didn't find his daughter. He rushed back upstairs and out the front door. Before Jessica could utter a word of apology (including the hope that there wouldn't be a lawsuit), he was already knocking on the door of the house next door.
  
  Hey, they split up. Jessica was to take the next few houses. Byrne jumped forward, around the corner.
  The next dwelling was a clunky three-story rowhouse with a blue door. The sign next to the door read: V. TALMAN. Jessica knocked. No answer. Still no answer. She was about to move on when the door slowly swung open. An older white woman answered the door. She wore a fluffy gray robe and Velcro tennis shoes. "Can I help you?" the woman asked.
  Jessica showed her the photo. "Sorry to bother you, ma'am. Have you seen this girl?"
  The woman raised her glasses and concentrated. "Cute."
  - Have you seen her recently, ma'am?
  She reoriented herself. "No."
  "You live-"
  "Van!" she shouted. She raised her head and listened. Again. "Van!" Nothing. "Musta's gone out. Sorry."
  "Thank you for your time."
  The woman closed the door, and Jessica stepped over the railing onto the porch of the neighboring house. Behind that house was a boarded-up business. She knocked, rang the bell. Nothing. She put her ear to the door. Silence.
  Jessica descended the steps, returned to the sidewalk, and nearly collided with someone. Instinct told her to draw her gun. Luckily, she didn't.
  It was Mark Underwood. He was in civilian clothes: a dark polypropylene T-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. "I heard the phone ring," he said. "Don't worry. We'll find her."
  "Thank you," she said.
  - What did you clean?
  "Right through this house," Jessica said, though "cleared" wasn't quite accurate. They hadn't been inside or checked every room.
  Underwood glanced up and down the street. "Let me get some warm bodies in here."
  He extended his hand. Jessica gave him her all-terrain vehicle. While Underwood was addressing the base, Jessica walked to the door and pressed her ear to it. Nothing. She tried to imagine the horror Colleen Byrne was experiencing in her world of silence.
  Underwood handed the rover back and said, "They'll be here in a minute. We'll take the next block.
  - I'll catch up with Kevin.
  "Just tell him to be cool," Underwood said. "We'll find her."
  
  
  87
  Evyn Byrne stood in front of a boarded-up retail space. He was alone. The storefront looked as if it had housed many businesses over the years. The windows were painted black. There was no sign above the front door, but years of names and sentiments were carved into the wooden entryway.
  A narrow alleyway intersected a store and a rowhouse on the right. Byrne drew his gun and walked down the alleyway. Halfway down was a barred window. He listened at the window. Silence. He continued forward and found himself in a small courtyard at the back, a courtyard bordered on three sides by a high wooden fence.
  The back door wasn't plywood-lined or locked from the outside. There was a rusty bolt. Byrne pushed the door. It was locked tight.
  Byrne knew he had to focus. Many times in his career, someone's life had hung in the balance, their very existence dependent on his judgment. Each time, he felt the enormity of his responsibility, the weight of his duty.
  But that never happened. It wasn't supposed to happen. In fact, he was surprised Ike Buchanan hadn't called him. However, if he had, Byrne would have thrown his badge on the table and immediately walked out.
  Byrne removed his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. The heat in the courtyard was stifling. Sweat broke out on his neck and shoulders.
  He shouldered the door open and stepped inside, his weapon raised high. Colleen was close. He knew it. He felt it. He leaned his head toward the sounds of the old building. Water tinkling in rusty pipes. The creaking of long-dried beams.
  He entered a small hallway. Ahead was a closed door. To the right was a wall of dusty shelves.
  He touched the door and images were imprinted on his mind...
  ...Colleen against the wall... a man in a red monk's robe... help, dad, oh, help, hurry, dad, help...
  She was here. In this building. He found her.
  Byrne knew he should call for backup, but he didn't know what he'd do once he found the Actor. If the Actor was in one of those rooms and he had to put pressure on him, he'd pull the trigger. No hesitation. If it was foul play, he didn't want to endanger his fellow detectives. He wouldn't drag Jessica into this. He could handle this alone.
  He pulled the earphone out of his ear, turned off the phone and stepped through the door.
  
  
  88
  J. ESSICA STOOD OUTSIDE the store. She looked up and down the street. She'd never seen so many police officers on one spot. There must have been twenty police cars. Then there were unmarked cars, service vans, and an ever-growing crowd. Men and women in uniforms, men and women in suits, their badges glinting in the golden sunlight. For many people in the crowd, this was just another police siege of their world. If only they knew. What if it was their son or daughter?
  Byrne was nowhere to be seen. Had they cleared this address? There was a narrow alley between the store and the terraced house. She walked down the alley, pausing for a moment to listen at the barred window. She heard nothing. She kept walking until she found herself in a small courtyard behind the store. The back door was slightly ajar.
  Had he really entered without telling her? It was certainly possible. For a moment, she considered asking for backup to enter the building with her, but then changed her mind.
  Kevin Byrne was her partner. It may have been a department operation, but it was his show. This was his daughter.
  She returned to the street, looking both ways. Detectives, uniformed officers, and FBI agents stood on both sides. She returned to the alley, drew her gun, and stepped through the door.
  
  
  89
  He passed through numerous small rooms. What was once an interior space designed for retail had been transformed years ago into a labyrinth of nooks, niches, and cubbyholes.
  Created specifically for this purpose? Byrne wondered.
  Down a narrow corridor, a pistol at waist height, he felt a larger space open up before him, the temperature dropping a degree or two.
  The main retail space was dark, filled with broken furniture, commercial equipment, and a couple of dusty air compressors. No light streamed from the windows, which were painted a thick black enamel. As Byrne circled the vast space in his Maglite, he saw that the once-bright boxes piled in the corners had harbored decades of mold. The air-what air there was-was thick with stale, bitter heat that clung to the walls, his clothes, his skin. The smell of mold, mice, and sugar was thick.
  Byrne switched off his flashlight, trying to adjust to the dim light. To his right was a row of glass counters. Inside, he saw brightly colored paper.
  Shiny red paper. He'd seen it before.
  He closed his eyes and touched the wall.
  There was happiness here. The laughter of children. All this ceased many years ago when ugliness entered, a sick soul that swallowed up the joy.
  He opened his eyes.
  Ahead lay another corridor, another door, its frame cracked years ago. Byrne took a closer look. The wood was fresh. Someone had recently carried something large through the doorway, damaging the frame. Lighting equipment? he thought.
  He put his ear to the door and listened. Silence. It was a room. He felt it. He felt it in a place that knew neither his heart nor his mind. He slowly pushed the door.
  And he saw his daughter. She was tied to the bed.
  His heart broke into a million pieces.
  My sweet little girl, what have I ever done to you?
  Then: Movement. Fast. A flash of red in front of him. The sound of flapping fabric in still, hot air. Then the sound was gone.
  Before he could react, before he could raise his weapon, he felt a presence to his left.
  Then the back of his head exploded.
  
  
  90
  With darkly adapted eyes, Jessica moved down the long corridor, delving deeper into the center of the building. Soon she came across a makeshift control room. There were two VHS editing bays, their green and red lights glowing like cataracts in the darkness. This was where the Actor dubbed his recordings. There was also a television. It displayed an image of the website she had seen at the Roundhouse. The lights were dim. There was no sound.
  Suddenly, there was movement on the screen. She saw a monk in a red robe walk across the frame. Shadows on the wall. The camera swung to the right. Colleen was tied to a bed in the background. More shadows darted and scurried across the walls.
  Then a figure approached the camera. Too quickly. Jessica couldn't see who it was. After a second, the screen went static, then turned blue.
  Jessica yanked the rover off her belt. Radio silence no longer mattered. She turned up the volume, turned it on, and listened. Silence. She slapped the rover against her palm. Listening. Nothing.
  The rover was dead.
  Son of a bitch.
  She wanted to throw him against the wall, but she changed her mind. He'd have plenty of time for anger soon.
  She pressed her back against the wall. She felt the rumble of a truck passing by. She was on the outside wall. She was six or eight inches from daylight. She was miles from safety.
  She followed the cables coming out of the back of the monitor. They snaked up to the ceiling, down the corridor to her left.
  Of all the uncertainty of the next few minutes, of all the unknowns lurking in the darkness around her, one thing was clear: For the foreseeable future, she was on her own.
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  HE WAS DRESSED like one of the extras they had seen at the station: a red monk's robe and a black mask.
  The monk struck him from behind, taking his service Glock. Byrne fell to his knees, dizzy, but not unconscious. He closed his eyes, awaiting the roar of the gun, the white eternity of his death. But it didn't come. Not yet.
  Byrne was now kneeling in the center of the room, his hands behind his head, his fingers intertwined. He looked at the camera on a tripod in front of him. Colleen was behind him. He wanted to turn around, see her face, tell her everything would be okay. He couldn't take any chances.
  When the man in the monk's robe touched him, Byrne's head began to spin. The visions pulsed. He felt nauseous and dizzy.
  Colleen.
  Angelica.
  Stephanie.
  Erin.
  A field of torn flesh. An ocean of blood.
  "You didn't take care of her," the man said.
  Was he talking about Angelique? Colleen?
  "She was a great actress," he continued. Now he was behind him. Byrne tried to figure out his position. "She could have been a star. And I don't mean just any star. I mean one of those rare supernovas who captures the attention of not only the public but the critics as well. Ingrid Bergman. Jeanne Moreau. Greta Garbo."
  Byrne tried to retrace his steps through the building's depths. How many steps had he made? How close had he been to the street?
  "When she died, they just moved on," he continued. "You just moved on."
  Byrne tried to organize his thoughts. It's never easy when a gun is pointed at you. "You... have to understand," he began. "When the medical examiner rules a death an accident, the homicide squad can't do anything about it. No one can do anything about it. The ME calls the shots, the city records it. That's how it's done."
  "Do you know why she spelled her name like that? With a c? Her name was spelled with a c. She changed it.
  He didn't listen to a word Byrne said. "No."
  "Angelica" is the name of a famous arthouse theater in New York.
  "Let go of my daughter," Byrne said. "You have me."
  - I don't think you understand the play.
  A man in monk's robes walked in front of Byrne. He held a leather mask. It was the same mask worn by Julian Matisse in the film "Philadelphia Skin." "Do you know Stanislavski, Detective Byrne?"
  Byrne knew he had to get the man to talk. "No."
  "He was a Russian actor and teacher. He founded the Moscow Theatre in 1898. He more or less invented the method of acting."
  "You don't have to do this," Byrne said. "Let my daughter go. We can end this without further bloodshed."
  The monk momentarily tucked Byrne's Glock under his arm. He began unlacing his leather mask. "Stanislavsky once said, 'Never come to the theater with dirt on your feet.' Leave the dust and dirt outside. Leave your petty worries, your quarrels, your petty coat troubles-everything that ruins your life and distracts your attention from art-at the door."
  "Please put your hands behind your back for me," he added.
  Byrne complied. His legs were crossed behind his back. He felt a weight on his right ankle. He began to pull up the cuffs of his trousers.
  "Have you left your petty problems at the door, detective? Are you ready for my play?"
  Byrne lifted the hem another inch, his fingers brushing steel as the monk dropped the mask to the floor in front of him.
  "Now I'm going to ask you to put on this mask," the monk said. "And then we'll begin."
  Byrne knew he couldn't risk a shootout here with Colleen in the room. She was behind him, tied to the bed. Crossfire would be deadly.
  "The curtain is up." The monk walked to the wall and flicked the switch.
  A single bright spotlight filled the universe.
  There was a time. He had no choice.
  In one fluid motion, Byrne pulled the SIG Sauer pistol from his ankle holster, jumped to his feet, turned toward the light, and fired.
  
  
  92
  The shots were close, but Jessica couldn't tell where they came from. Was it the building? Next door? Up the stairs? Had the detectives heard it outside?
  She turned in the darkness, the Glock leveling out. She could no longer see the door she'd entered through. It was too dark. She lost her bearings. She passed through a series of small rooms and forgot how to get back.
  Jessica sidled up to the narrow archway. A moldy curtain hung over the opening. She peered through. Another dark room lay ahead. She stepped through, gun pointed forward and Maglite overhead. To the right was a small Pullman kitchen. It smelled of old grease. She ran her Maglite over the floor, walls, and sink. The kitchen hadn't been used in years.
  Not for cooking, of course.
  There was blood on the refrigerator wall, a wide, fresh, scarlet streak. It trickled down to the floor in thin streams. Blood spatter from a gunshot.
  There was another room beyond the kitchen. From where Jessica stood, it looked like an old pantry, filled with broken shelves. She continued forward and nearly tripped over a body. She dropped to her knees. It was a man. The right side of his head was nearly torn off.
  She shone her Maglite on the figure. The man's face was destroyed-a wet mass of tissue and crushed bone. Brain matter slid onto the dusty floor. The man was dressed in jeans and sneakers. She moved her Maglite up his body.
  And I saw the PPD logo on a dark blue T-shirt.
  Bile rose in her throat, thick and sour. Her heart pounded in her chest, her arms shook. She tried to calm herself as the horrors piled up. She had to get out of this building. She needed to breathe. But first, she needed to find Kevin.
  She raised her weapon forward and turned to the left, her heart pounding in her chest. The air was so thick it felt like liquid was entering her lungs. Sweat streamed down her face, straying into her eyes. She wiped them with the back of her hand.
  She steeled herself and slowly peered around the corner into the wide corridor. Too many shadows, too many places to hide. The handle of her gun now felt slippery in her hand. She switched hands, wiping her palm on her jeans.
  She glanced over her shoulder. The far door led to the hallway, the stairs, the street, safety. The unknown awaited her. She stepped forward and slipped into the alcove. Her eyes scanned the inner horizon. More shelves, more cabinets, more display cases. No movement, no sound. Just the hum of a clock in the silence.
  Keeping her footing low, she moved down the hallway. At the far end was a door, perhaps leading to what had once been a storage room or an employee break room. She moved forward. The door frame was battered, chipped. She slowly turned the handle. It was unlocked. She swung the door open and surveyed the room. The scene was surreal, nauseating:
  A large room, twenty by twenty... impossible to escape from the entrance... a bed on the right... a single light bulb at the top... Colleen Byrne, tied to four posts... Kevin Byrne standing in the middle of the room... a monk in a red robe kneeling in front of Byrne... Byrne holding a gun to the man's head...
  Jessica looked into the corner. The camera was shattered. No one in the Roundhouse or anywhere else was looking.
  She looked deep inside herself, into a place unknown to her, and entered the room completely. She knew that this moment, this cruel aria, would haunt her for the rest of her life.
  "Hello, partner," Jessica said quietly. There were two doors on the left. On the right, a huge window, painted black. She was so disoriented that she had no idea what street the window faced. She had to turn her back to the doors. It was dangerous, but she had no choice.
  "Hello," Byrne replied. His voice was calm. His eyes were cold emerald stones in his face. The red-robed monk knelt motionless before him. Byrne placed the barrel of the gun at the base of the man's skull. Byrne's hand was steady and steady. Jessica saw it was a SIG-Sauer semiautomatic. This was not Byrne's service weapon.
  No need, Kevin.
  Not.
  "Are you okay?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes."
  His response was too quick and abrupt. He was acting on some kind of raw energy, not reason. Jessica was about ten feet away. She needed to close the distance. He needed to see her face. He needed to see her eyes. "So what are we going to do?" Jessica tried to sound as conversational as possible. Unprejudiced. For a moment, she wondered if he had heard her. He had.
  "I'm going to put an end to all of this," Byrne said. "All of this has to stop."
  Jessica nodded. She pointed the gun at the floor. But she didn't holster it. She knew this move hadn't gone unnoticed by Kevin Byrne. "I agree. It's over, Kevin. We have him." She took a step closer. Now she was eight feet away. "Good job."
  "I mean all of this. All of this has to stop."
  "Okay. Let me help you."
  Byrne shook his head. He knew she was trying to work on him. "Go away, Jess. Just turn around, come back through that door, and tell them you couldn't find me."
  "I won't do that."
  "Leave."
  "No. You're my partner. Would you do that to me?"
  She was close, but she didn't quite get there. Byrne didn't look up, didn't take his eyes off the monk's head. "You don't understand."
  "Oh, yes. I swear to God, it is." Seven feet. "You can"t..." she began. Wrong word. Wrong word. "You... don"t want to go out like this."
  Byrne finally looked at her. She'd never seen a man so dedicated. His jaw was set, his brow furrowed. "It doesn't matter."
  "Yes, that's true. Of course, that's true."
  "I've seen more than you, Jess. Much more."
  She took another step closer. "I've seen my share."
  "I know. You just still have a chance. You can get out before he kills you. Go away."
  One more step. Now she was five feet away from me. "Just hear me out. Hear me out, and if you still want me to go, I will. Okay?"
  Byrne's gaze shifted to her, back. "Okay."
  "If you put the gun away, no one needs to know," she said. "Me? Hell, I didn't see anything. In fact, when I walked in here, you had him handcuffed." She reached behind her and slipped a pair of handcuffs onto her index finger. Byrne didn't answer. She dropped the handcuffs on the floor at his feet. "Let's get him in."
  "No." The figure in the monk's robe began to shake.
  Here it is. You lost it.
  She reached. "Your daughter loves you, Kevin."
  A shimmer. She reached him. She moved closer. Three feet now. "I was there with her every day you were in the hospital," she said. "Every day. You are loved. Don't throw it away."
  Byrne hesitated, wiping sweat from his eyes. "I..."
  "Your daughter is watching." Outside, Jessica heard sirens, the roar of large engines, the screeching of tires. It was the SWAT team. After all, they had heard gunshots. "SWAT is here, partner. You know what that means. It's Ponderosa time."
  One more step forward. Arms length. She heard footsteps approaching the building. She was losing him. It would be too late.
  "Kevin. You have things to do.
  Byrne's face was covered in sweat. It looked like tears. "What? What do I need to do?"
  "You have a photo that needs to be taken. At Eden Rock."
  Byrne half-smiled, and there was great pain in his eyes.
  Jessica glanced at his weapon. Something was wrong. The magazine was gone. It wasn't loaded.
  Then she saw movement in the corner of the room. She looked at Colleen. Her eyes. Frightened. Angelique's eyes. Eyes that were trying to tell her something.
  But what?
  Then she looked at the girl's hands.
  And he knew how...
  - time ran, slowed down, crawled, like...
  Jessica spun around, raising her weapon with both hands. Another monk in a blood-red robe was almost at her side, steel weapon raised high, aimed at her face. She heard the click of a hammer. She saw the cylinder turn.
  No time to haggle. No time to sort things out. Just a shiny black mask in this tornado of red silk.
  I haven't seen a friendly face for weeks...
  Detective Jessica Balzano has been fired.
  And fired.
  
  
  93
  THERE IS A MOMENT after the loss of life, a time when the human soul weeps, when the heart takes a harsh inventory.
  The air was thick with the smell of cordite.
  The copper smell of fresh blood filled the world.
  Jessica looked at Byrne. They would be forever bound by this moment, by the events that had taken place in this damp and ugly place.
  Jessica found herself still holding her weapon-a two-handed death grip. Smoke billowed from the barrel. She felt tears freeze in her eyes. She had fought them and lost. Time had passed. Minutes? Seconds?
  Kevin Byrne carefully took her hands in his and pulled out a gun.
  
  
  94
  BYRNE KNEW Jessica had saved him. He would never forget. He would never be able to pay her back in full.
  No one should know...
  Byrne held the gun to the back of Ian Whitestone's head, mistakenly believing him to be the Actor. When he turned off the light, a noise was heard in the darkness. Failures. Stumbling. Byrne was disoriented. He couldn't risk firing again. When he slammed the butt of the gun down, it struck flesh and bone. When he turned on the overhead light, the monk appeared on the floor in the center of the room.
  The images he received were from Whitestone's own darkened life-what he'd done to Angelique Butler, what he'd done to all the women on the tapes they'd found in Seth Goldman's hotel room. Whitestone was bound and gagged under a mask and robe. He was trying to tell Byrne who he was. Byrne's gun was empty, but he had a full magazine in his pocket. If Jessica hadn't walked through that door...
  He will never know.
  At that moment, a battering ram crashed through the painted picture window. A blindingly bright daylight flooded the room. Seconds later, a dozen very nervous detectives burst in, guns drawn and adrenaline pumping.
  "Clear!" Jessica shouted, holding the badge high. "We're clean!"
  Eric Chavez and Nick Palladino burst through the opening and stood between Jessica and the mass of detectives and FBI agents who seemed all too eager to cowboy-style this detail. Two men raised their hands and stood protectively, one on either side of Byrne, Jessica and the now prone, sobbing Ian Whitestone.
  Blue queen. They've been adopted. No harm can come to them now.
  It was really finished.
  
  TEN MINUTES LATER, as the crime scene vehicle began to rev up around them, as the yellow tape unraveled and the CSU officers began their solemn ritual, Byrne caught Jessica's eye, and the only question he needed to ask was on his lips. They huddled in the corner, at the foot of the bed. "How did you know Butler was behind you?"
  Jessica glanced around the room. Now, in the bright sunlight, it was obvious. The interior was coated in a silky dust, the walls hung with cheap, framed photographs of a long-faded past. Half a dozen overstuffed stools lay on their sides. And then the signs appeared. ICE WATER. FOUNTAIN DRINKS. ICE CREAM. CANDY.
  "It's not Butler," Jessica said.
  The seed was planted in her mind when she read the report of the break-in at Edwina Matisse's house and saw the names of the officers who had arrived to help. She didn't want to believe it. She'd almost known it the moment she'd spoken to the old woman outside the former bakery. Mrs. V. Talman.
  "Van!" the old woman shouted. She wasn't shouting at her husband. It was her grandson.
  Van. Abbreviation for Vandemark.
  I was close to this once.
  He took the battery from her radio. The dead body in the other room belonged to Nigel Butler.
  Jessica approached and removed the mask from the corpse in nun's robes. Although they would await the medical examiner's decision, neither Jessica nor anyone else had any doubts about this.
  Officer Mark Underwood was dead.
  
  
  95
  BYRNE held his daughter in his arms. Someone had mercifully cut the rope from her arms and legs and draped a coat over her shoulders. She trembled in his arms. Byrne recalled the time she had defied him during their trip to Atlantic City one unseasonably warm April. She was about six or seven years old. He had told her that just because the air temperature was seventy-five degrees didn't mean the water was warm. She had run into the ocean anyway.
  When she emerged just a few minutes later, her complexion was a pastel blue. She trembled and shook in his arms for nearly an hour, her teeth chattering and signing, "Sorry, Dad," over and over again. He held her then. He vowed never to stop.
  Jessica knelt down next to them.
  Colleen and Jessica became close after Byrne was shot that spring. They spent many days waiting for him to go into a coma. Colleen taught Jessica several hand shapes, including the basic alphabet.
  Byrne looked between them and sensed their secret.
  Jessica raised her hands and wrote the words in three clumsy motions:
  He's behind you.
  With tears in his eyes, Byrne thought of Gracie Devlin. He thought of her life force. He thought of her breath, still within him. He looked at the body of the man who had brought this final evil to his city. He looked into his future.
  Kevin Byrne knew he was ready.
  He exhaled.
  He pulled his daughter even closer. And so they comforted each other, and so they would continue to do for a long time.
  In silence.
  Like the language of cinema.
  OceanofPDF.com
  96
  The story of Ian Whitestone's life and fall had become the subject of several movies, and at least two were already in pre-production before the story hit the newspapers. Meanwhile, the revelation that he had been involved in the porn industry-and possibly involved in the death, accidental or otherwise, of a young porn star-was fodder for the tabloid wolves. The story was surely being prepared for publication and broadcast worldwide. How this would impact the box office of his next film, as well as his personal and professional life, remained to be seen.
  But that may not be the worst thing for the man. The District Attorney's Office was planning to open a criminal investigation into the cause of Angelique Butler's death three years earlier and the possible role of Ian Whitestone.
  
  MARK UNDERWOOD had been dating Angelique Butler for almost a year when she entered his life. Photo albums found in Nigel Butler's home contained several photos of the two of them at family gatherings. When Underwood kidnapped Nigel Butler, he destroyed the photos in the albums and pasted all the photos of movie stars onto Angelique's body.
  They will never know exactly what drove Underwood to do what he did, but it was clear that he knew from the start who was involved in the creation of Philadelphia Skin and who he held responsible for Angelique's death.
  It was also clear that he blamed Nigel Butler for what he did to Angelique.
  There's a good chance Underwood was stalking Julian Matisse the night Matisse murdered Gracie Devlin. "A couple of years ago, I set up a crime scene for him and his partner in South Philadelphia," Underwood said of Kevin Byrne in Finnigan's Wake. That night, Underwood took Jimmy Purifey's glove, soaked it in blood, and held onto it, perhaps not knowing at the time what he would do with it. Then Matisse died at the age of twenty-five, Ian Whitestone became an international celebrity, and everything changed.
  A year ago, Underwood broke into Matisse's mother's house, stealing a gun and a blue jacket, setting his strange and terrible plan into motion.
  When he learned that Phil Kessler was dying, he knew it was time to act. He approached Phil Kessler, knowing the man lacked the money to pay his medical bills. Underwood's only chance of getting Julian Matisse out of prison was to defeat the charges against Jimmy Purifey. Kessler seized the opportunity.
  Jessica learned that Mark Underwood had volunteered to star in the film, knowing it would bring him closer to Seth Goldman, Erin Halliwell, and Ian Whitestone.
  Erin Halliwell was Ian Whitestone's mistress, Seth Goldman his confidant and accomplice, Declan his son, White Light Pictures a multi-million dollar enterprise. Mark Underwood tried to take everything Ian Whitestone held dear.
  He came very close.
  
  
  97
  Three days after the incident, Byrne stood by the hospital bed, watching Victoria sleep. She looked so tiny under the covers. The doctors had removed all the tubes. Only one IV remained.
  He thought about that night when they made love, about how good she felt in his arms. It seemed so long ago.
  She opened her eyes.
  "Hello," Byrne offered. He hadn't told her anything about the events in North Philadelphia. There would be plenty of time.
  "Hello."
  "How are you feeling?" Byrne asked.
  Victoria waved her hands weakly. Not good, not bad. Her color had returned. "Can I have some water, please?" she asked.
  - Are you allowed?
  Victoria looked at him intently.
  "Okay, okay," he said. He walked around the bed and held the glass with the straw to her mouth. She took a sip and threw her head back on the pillow. Every movement hurt.
  "Thank you." She looked at him, the question already on her lips. Her silver eyes took on a brown hue in the evening light pouring through the window. He'd never noticed it before. She asked. "Is Matisse dead?"
  Byrne wondered how much he should tell her. He knew she would learn the whole truth sooner or later. For now, he simply said, "Yes."
  Victoria nodded slightly and closed her eyes. She bowed her head for a moment. Byrne wondered what the gesture meant. He couldn't imagine Victoria offering a blessing for this man's soul-he couldn't imagine anyone doing that-but on the other hand, he knew Victoria Lindstrom was a better person than he could ever hope to be.
  After a moment, she looked at him again. "They say I can go home tomorrow. Will you be here?"
  "I'll be here," Byrne said. He peered into the hallway for a moment, then stepped forward and opened the mesh bag slung over his shoulder. A wet muzzle poked through the opening; a pair of lively brown eyes peered out. "He'll be there too."
  Victoria smiled. She held out her hand. The puppy licked her hand, its tail thrashing inside the bag. Byrne had already chosen a name for the puppy. They would call him Putin. Not for the Russian president, but more like Rasputin, because the dog had already established itself as a holy terror in Byrne's apartment. Byrne resigned himself to the fact that from now on he would have to buy slippers on an occasional basis.
  He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Victoria fall asleep. He watched her breathe, grateful for every rise and fall of her chest. He thought of Colleen, how resilient she was, how strong. He'd learned so much about life from Colleen over the past few days. She'd reluctantly agreed to participate in a victim counseling program. Byrne had hired a counselor fluent in sign language. Victoria and Colleen. His sunrise and sunset. They were so alike.
  Later, Byrne looked out the window and was surprised to find it had gotten dark. He saw their reflection in the glass.
  Two people who had suffered. Two people who had found each other through touch. Together, he thought, they could make one whole person.
  Perhaps that was enough.
  
  
  98
  The rain fell slowly and steadily, reminiscent of a light summer thunderstorm that could last all day. The city seemed clean.
  They sat by the window overlooking Fulton Street. A tray rested between them. A tray with a pot of herbal tea. When Jessica arrived, the first thing she noticed was that the bar cart she'd seen for the first time was now empty. Faith Chandler had spent three days in a coma. Doctors had slowly brought her out of it and predicted no long-term consequences.
  "She used to play right there," Faith said, pointing to the sidewalk beneath the rain-streaked window. "Hopscotch, hide-and-seek. She was a happy little girl."
  Jessica thought about Sophie. Was her daughter a happy little girl? She thought so. She hoped so.
  Faith turned and looked at her. She might have been thin, but her eyes were clear. Her hair was clean and shiny, pulled back into a ponytail. Her complexion was better than the first time they met. "Do you have children?" she asked.
  "Yes," Jessica said. "One."
  "Daughter?"
  Jessica nodded. "Her name is Sophie."
  "How old is she?"
  - She is three.
  Faith Chandler's lips moved slightly. Jessica was sure the woman silently said "three," perhaps remembering Stephanie hobbling through these rooms; Stephanie singing her Sesame Street songs over and over again, never hitting the same note twice; Stephanie asleep on this very couch, her small pink face an angel in her sleep.
  Faith lifted the teapot. Her hands were shaking, and Jessica considered helping the woman, but then changed her mind. Once the tea was poured and the sugar stirred, Faith continued.
  "You know, my husband left us when Stephie was eleven. He also left behind a house full of debt. Over a hundred thousand dollars."
  Faith Chandler allowed Ian Whitestone to buy her daughter's silence for the past three years, silence about what happened on the set of "Philadelphia Skin." As far as Jessica knew, no laws had been broken. There would be no prosecution. Was it wrong to take the money? Perhaps. But it wasn't for Jessica to judge. These were the shoes Jessica hoped never to walk in.
  A photograph of Stephanie's graduation sat on the coffee table. Faith picked it up and gently ran her fingers over her daughter's face.
  "Let a broken old waitress give you some advice." Faith Chandler looked at Jessica with a tender sadness in her eyes. "You may think you'll spend a lot of time with your daughter, long before she grows up and hears the world calling her. Believe me, it will happen before you know it. One day, the house is full of laughter. The next, it's just the sound of your heart."
  A single tear fell on the glass frame of the photograph.
  "And if you have a choice: talk to your daughter or listen," Faith added. "Listen. Just listen."
  Jessica didn't know what to say. She couldn't think of a response to that. No verbal response. Instead, she took the woman's hand in hers. And they sat in silence, listening to the summer rain.
  
  J. ESSICA STOOD NEXT to her car, keys in hand. The sun was out again. The streets of South Philadelphia were steamy. She closed her eyes for a moment, and despite the oppressive summer heat, that moment took her to very dark places. Stephanie Chandler's death mask. Angelica Butler's face. Declan Whitestone's tiny, helpless hands. She wanted to stand in the sun for a long time, hoping the sunlight would disinfect her soul.
  - Are you alright, detective?
  Jessica opened her eyes and turned toward the voice. It was Terry Cahill.
  "Agent Cahill," she said. "What are you doing here?"
  Cahill was wearing his standard blue suit. He no longer wore a bandage, but Jessica could tell from the set of his shoulders that he was still in pain. "I called the station. They said you might be here."
  "I'm fine, thank you," she said. "How are you feeling?"
  Cahill mimed an overhead serve. "Like Brett Myers."
  Jessica assumed it was a baseball player. If it hadn't been boxing, she wouldn't have known anything. "Have you returned to the agency?"
  Cahill nodded. "I've finished my work at the department. I'll write my report today.
  Jessica could only guess what would happen. She decided not to ask. "It was a pleasure working with you."
  "Same here," he said. He cleared his throat. He didn't seem to have a good grasp of this sort of thing. "And I want you to know I meant what I said. You're one hell of a cop. If you're ever thinking about a career with the bureau, please give me a call."
  Jessica smiled. "Are you on a committee or something?"
  Cahill smiled back. "Yes," he said. "If I bring in three recruits, I'll get a clear plastic badge protector."
  Jessica laughed. The sound seemed foreign to her. Some time passed. The carefree moment passed quickly. She glanced at the street, then turned around. She found Terry Cahill looking at her. He had something to say. She waited.
  "I had him," he said finally. "I didn't hit him in that alley, and the child and the young girl almost died."
  Jessica suspected he felt the same. She placed her hand on his shoulder. He didn't pull away. "No one blames you, Terry."
  Cahill stared at her for a moment, then turned his gaze to the river, to the Delaware shimmering with heat. The moment stretched. It was clear Terry Cahill was gathering his thoughts, searching for the right words. "Is it easy for you to go back to your old life after something like this?"
  Jessica was a little taken aback by the intimacy of the question. But she would be nothing if she weren't brave. If things had been different, she wouldn't have become a homicide detective. "Easy?" she asked. "No, it's not easy."
  Cahill glanced back at her. For a moment, she saw vulnerability in his eyes. The next moment, her gaze was replaced by the steely glare she'd long associated with those who chose law enforcement as their way of life.
  "Please say hello to Detective Byrne for me," Cahill said. "Tell him... tell him I'm glad his daughter is back safely."
  "I will."
  Cahill hesitated for a moment, as if about to say something else. Instead, he touched her hand, then turned and walked down the street toward his car and the city beyond.
  
  FRAZIER'S SPORTS was an institution on Broad Street in North Philadelphia. Owned and operated by former heavyweight champion Smokin' Joe Frazier, it produced several champions over the years. Jessica was one of the few women trained there.
  With the ESPN2 fight scheduled for early September, Jessica began training in earnest. Every muscle ache in her body reminded her how long she'd been out of action.
  Today she will enter the sparring ring for the first time in several months.
  Walking between the ropes, she thought about her life as it was. Vincent was back. Sophie had made a "Welcome Home" sign out of construction paper, worthy of a Veterans Day parade. Vincent was on probation at Casa Balzano, and Jessica made sure he knew it. He had been a model husband so far.
  Jessica knew the reporters were waiting outside. They wanted to follow her into the gym, but it was simply not accessible. A couple of young men who trained there-heavyweight twin brothers, each weighing around 220 pounds-gently persuaded them to wait outside.
  Jessica's sparring partner was a twenty-year-old dynamo from Logan named Tracy "Big Time" Biggs. Big Time had a 2-0 record, both knockouts, both within the first thirty seconds of the fight.
  Her trainer was Jessica's great-uncle Vittorio-himself a former heavyweight contender, the man who once knocked out Benny Briscoe, at McGillin's Old Ale House, no less.
  "Go easy on her, Jess," Vittorio said. He put the headdress on her head and fastened the chin strap.
  Light? Jessica thought. The guy was built like Sonny Liston.
  While waiting for the call, Jessica thought about what had happened in that dark room, about how a split-second decision had been made that took a man's life. In that low, terrible place, there had been a moment when she doubted herself, when a silent fear had overcome her. She imagined it would always be like this.
  The bell rang.
  Jessica moved forward and feinted with her right hand. Nothing obvious, nothing flashy, just a subtle movement of her right shoulder, a movement that might have gone unnoticed by the untrained eye.
  Her opponent flinched. Fear grew in the girl's eyes.
  Biggs was hers for the big time.
  Jessica smiled and landed a left hook.
  Ava Gardner, indeed.
  
  
  EPILOGUE
  He typed out the last period of his final report. He sat down and looked at the form. How many of these had he seen? Hundreds. Maybe thousands.
  He recalled his first case in the unit. A murder that began as a domestic matter. A Tioga couple got involved over dishes. Apparently, the woman had left a piece of dried egg yolk on a plate and put it back in the cupboard. The husband had beaten her to death with an iron frying pan-poetically, the same one she'd used to cook eggs.
  So long ago.
  Byrne pulled the paper out of the typewriter and placed it in a folder. His final report. Did that tell the whole story? No. Then again, binding never did.
  He rose from his chair, noticing that the pain in his back and legs had almost completely subsided. He hadn't taken his Vicodin for two days. He wasn't ready to play tight end for the Eagles, but he didn't hobble around like an old man, either.
  He put the folder on the shelf, wondering what he would do with the rest of the day. Hell, the rest of his life.
  He put on his coat. There was no brass band, no cake, no ribbons, no cheap sparkling wine in paper cups. Oh, there would be an explosion at Finnigan's Wake in the next few months, but today nothing happened.
  Could he leave all this behind? The warrior's code, the joy of battle. Was he really going to leave this building for the last time?
  - Are you Detective Byrne?
  Byrne turned. The question came from a young officer, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old. He was tall and broad-shouldered, muscular in the way that only young men can be. He had dark hair and eyes. A good-looking guy. "Yes."
  The young man extended his hand. "I'm Officer Gennaro Malfi. I wanted to shake your hand, sir.
  They shook hands. The guy had a firm, confident grip. "Nice to meet you," Byrne said. "How long have you been in business?"
  "Eleven weeks."
  "Weeks," Byrne thought. "Where do you work?"
  - I graduated from the Sixth.
  "This is my old beat."
  "I know," Malfi said. "You're something of a legend there."
  "More like a ghost," Byrne thought. "Half-believe it."
  The child laughed. "Which half?"
  "I'll leave that up to you."
  "Fine."
  "Where are you from?"
  "South Philadelphia, sir. Born and raised. Eighth and Christian.
  Byrne nodded. He knew this corner. He knew all the corners. "I knew Salvatore Malfi from this area. A carpenter."
  "He is my grandfather."
  - How is he now?
  "He's fine. Thank you for asking."
  "Is he still working?" Byrne asked.
  "Only about my bocce game."
  Byrne smiled. Officer Malfi glanced at his watch.
  "I'll be there in twenty," Malfi said. He extended his hand again. They shook again. "It's an honor to meet you, sir."
  The young officer began to make his way toward the door. Byrne turned and peered into the duty room.
  Jessica was sending a fax with one hand and eating a sandwich with the other. Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez were poring over a couple of DD5s. Tony Park was running PDCH on one of the computers. Ike Buchanan was in his office, compiling the duty roster.
  The phone rang.
  He wondered if he'd made a difference in all the time he'd spent in that room. He wondered if the ills that afflict the human soul could be cured, or if they were simply meant to repair and undo the damage people inflict on each other every day.
  Byrne watched the young officer walk out the door, his uniform so crisp, pressed, and blue, his shoulders squared, his shoes polished to a shine. He saw so much as he shook the young man's hand. So much.
  It is a great honor for me to meet you, sir.
  "No, kid," Kevin Byrne thought as he took off his coat and returned to the duty room. "That honor belongs to me."
  All this honor belongs to me.
  OceanofPDF.com
  TRANSLATION OF DEDICATION:
  The essence of the game is at the end.
  OceanofPDF.com
  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  There are no supporting players in this book. Only bad news.
  Thanks to Sgt. Joan Beres, Sgt. Irma Labrys, Sgt. William T. Britt, Officer Paul Bryant, Detective Michelle Kelly, Sharon Pinkenson, the Greater Philadelphia Film Office, Amro Hamzawi, Jan "GPS" Klintsevich, phillyjazz.org, Mike Driscoll, and the wonderful staff of Finnigan's Wake.
  Special thanks to Linda Marrow, Gina Centello, Kim Howie, Dana Isaacson, Dan Mallory, Rachel Kind, Cindy Murray, Libby McGuire, and the wonderful team at Ballantine. Thanks to my collaborators: Meg Ruley, Jane Berkey, Peggy Gordain, Don Cleary, and everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency. A transatlantic conversation with Nicola Scott, Kate Elton, Louise Gibbs, Cassie Chadderton, and the AbFab team at Arrow and William Heinemann.
  Thanks again to the city of Philadelphia, its people, its bartenders, and especially the men and women of PPD.
  And, as always, heartfelt thanks to the Yellowstone Gang.
  Without you, this would be a B-movie.
  In his dream, they were still alive. In his dream, they had transformed into beautiful young women with careers, their own homes, and families. In his dream, they shimmered in the golden sun.
  Detective Walter Brigham opened his eyes, his heart frozen in his chest like a cold, bitter stone. He glanced at his watch, though there was no need. He knew what time it was: 3:50 a.m. It was the exact moment he'd received the call six years ago, the dividing line by which he measured every day before and every day since.
  Seconds earlier, in his dream, he'd stood at the edge of a forest, a spring rain blanketing his world with an icy shroud. Now he lay awake in his West Philadelphia bedroom, his body covered in a layer of sweat, the only sound the rhythmic breathing of his wife.
  Walt Brigham had seen a lot in his time. He once witnessed a drug defendant attempt to eat his own flesh in a courtroom. Another time, he found the body of a monstrous man named Joseph Barber-a pedophile, rapist, murderer-tied to a steam pipe in a North Philadelphia apartment building, a decomposing corpse with thirteen knives lodged in his chest. He once saw a seasoned homicide detective sitting on the curb in Brewerytown, silent tears streaming down his face, a bloody child's shoe in his hand. That man was John Longo, Walt Brigham's partner. This case was Johnny.
  Every police officer had an unsolved case, a crime that haunted them every waking moment, haunted them in their dreams. If you dodged a bullet, a bottle, or cancer, God gave you a case.
  For Walt Brigham, his case began in April 1995, the day two young girls entered the woods in Fairmount Park and never emerged. It was a dark fable, nestled at the base of every parent's nightmare.
  Brigham closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of a damp mixture of loam, compost, and wet leaves. Annemarie and Charlotte were wearing identical white dresses. They were nine years old.
  The homicide squad interviewed a hundred people who had visited the park that day and collected and sifted twenty full bags of trash from the area. Brigham himself found a torn page from a children's book nearby. From that moment on, this verse echoed terribly in his mind:
  
  
  Here are the maidens, young and beautiful,
  Dancing in the summer air,
  Like two spinning wheels playing,
  Beautiful girls are dancing.
  
  
  Brigham stared at the ceiling. He kissed his wife's shoulder, sat up, and looked out the open window. In the moonlight, beyond the night city, beyond the iron, glass, and stone, a dense canopy of trees was visible. A shadow moved through the pines. Behind the shadow, a killer.
  Detective Walter Brigham will one day meet this killer.
  One day.
  Maybe even today.
  OceanofPDF.com
  PART ONE
  IN THE FOREST
  
  OceanofPDF.com
  1
  DECEMBER 2006
  He is Moon, and he believes in magic.
  Not the magic of trapdoors, false bottoms, or sleight of hand. Not the kind of magic that comes in the form of a pill or a potion. But rather the kind of magic that can grow a beanstalk to the sky, or weave straw into gold, or turn a pumpkin into a carriage.
  Moon believes in beautiful girls who love to dance.
  He watched her for a long time. She was about twenty years old, slender, above average height, and possessed of great refinement. Moon knew she lived in the moment, but despite who she was, whatever she intended to be, she still looked rather sad. However, he was sure that she, like himself, understood that there is magic in all things, an elegance invisible and unappreciated by the passing spectacle-the curve of an orchid petal, the symmetry of a butterfly's wings, the breathtaking geometry of the sky.
  The day before, he'd stood in the shade across the street from the laundromat, watching her load clothes into the dryer and admiring the grace with which they touched the ground. The night was clear, bitterly cold, the sky a solid black mural over the City of Brotherly Love.
  He watched her step through the frosted glass doors onto the sidewalk, carrying a laundry bag over her shoulder. She crossed the street, stopped at the Septa stop, and stamped her feet in the cold. She had never looked more beautiful. When she turned to see him, she knew it, and he was full of magic.
  Now, as Moon stands on the banks of the Schuylkill River, magic fills him again.
  He looks at the black water. Philadelphia is a city of two rivers, twin tributaries of one heart. The Delaware is muscular, wide, and unyielding. The Schuylkill is treacherous, treacherous, and winding. It is a hidden river. It is his river.
  Unlike the city itself, Moon has many faces. For the next two weeks, he'll keep that face invisible, as it should be, just another dull brushstroke on a gray winter canvas.
  He carefully lays the dead girl on the banks of the Shuilkil and kisses her cold lips one last time. No matter how beautiful she is, she is not his princess. Soon he will meet his princess.
  This is how the story unfolded.
  She is Karen. He is Luna.
  And this is what the moon saw...
  OceanofPDF.com
  2
  The city hadn't changed. He'd only been gone a week and wasn't expecting miracles, but after more than two decades as a police officer in one of the country's toughest cities, there was always hope. On his way back to town, he witnessed two accidents and five altercations, as well as three fistfights outside three different taverns.
  "Ah, the holiday season in Philadelphia," he thought. Warms the heart.
  Detective Kevin Francis Byrne sat behind the counter of Crystal Diner, a small, tidy coffee shop on Eighteenth Street. Since the Silk City Diner closed, it had become his favorite late-night hangout. Speakers offered "Silver Bells." A board overhead proclaimed the day's holiday message. The colorful lights on the street spoke of Christmas, joy, fun, and love. All is well and fa-la-la-la-la. Right now, Kevin Byrne needed food, a shower, and sleep. His tour started at 8 a.m.
  And then there was Gretchen. After a week of looking at deer droppings and shivering squirrels, he wanted to look at something beautiful.
  Gretchen turned over Byrne's cup and poured coffee. She might not have poured the best cup in town, but no one ever looked better doing it. "Haven't seen you in a while," she said.
  "Just got back," Byrne replied. "Spent a week in the Poconos."
  "That must be nice."
  "That's right," Byrne said. "It's funny, but for the first three days, I couldn't sleep. It was so damn quiet.
  Gretchen shook her head. "You city boys."
  "City boy? Me?" He caught a glimpse of himself in the darkened night window-a seven-day beard, an LLBean jacket, a flannel shirt, Timberland boots. "What are you talking about? I thought I looked like Jeremy Johnson."
  "You look like a city boy with a vacation beard," she said.
  It was true. Byrne was born and raised in a Two Street family. And he would die alone.
  "I remember when my mom moved us here from Somerset," Gretchen added, her perfume insanely sexy, her lips a deep burgundy. Now that Gretchen Wilde was in her thirties, her teenage beauty had softened and transformed into something far more striking. "I couldn't sleep either. Too much noise."
  "How's Brittany?" Byrne asked.
  Gretchen's daughter, Brittany, was fifteen, soon to be twenty-five. A year earlier, she had been arrested at a rave in West Philadelphia, caught with enough ecstasy to be charged with possession. Gretchen called Byrne that evening, desperate, unaware of the walls that existed between the departments. Byrne turned to a detective who owed him money. By the time the case reached municipal court, the charge had been reduced to simple possession, and Brittany was given community service.
  "I think she'll be fine," Gretchen said. "Her grades have improved, and she's coming home at a decent hour. At least on weekdays."
  Gretchen had been married and divorced twice. Both of her exes were drug addicts and bitter losers. But somehow, through it all, Gretchen managed to keep her head. There was no one on earth Kevin Byrne admired more than being a single mother. It was, without a doubt, the hardest job in the world.
  "How's Colleen?" Gretchen asked.
  Byrne's daughter, Colleen, was a beacon at the edge of his soul. "She's amazing," he said. "Absolutely amazing. A whole new world every day."
  Gretchen smiled. These were two parents who had nothing to worry about right now. Give him another minute. Things could change.
  "I've been eating cold sandwiches for a week now," Byrne said. "And lousy cold sandwiches at that. What do you have that's warm and sweet?"
  "Is this company excluded?"
  "Never."
  She laughed. "I"ll see what we have."
  She walked into the back room. Byrne watched. In her tight pink knitted uniform, it was impossible not to.
  It was good to be back. The country was for other people: country folk. The closer he got to retirement, the more he thought about leaving the city. But where would he go? The past week had practically ruled out the mountains. Florida? He didn't know much about hurricanes either. The Southwest? Didn't they have Gila monsters there? He'd have to think about that again.
  Byrne glanced at his watch-an enormous chronograph with a thousand dials. It seemed to do everything except tell time. It was a gift from Victoria.
  He'd known Victoria Lindstrom for over fifteen years, ever since they met during a raid on the massage parlor where she worked. At the time, she was a confused and stunningly beautiful seventeen-year-old living near her home in Meadville, Pennsylvania. She'd carried on with her life until one day, a man attacked her, viciously slashing her face with a box cutter. She'd undergone a series of painful surgeries to repair her muscles and tissue. No amount of surgery could repair the damage inside.
  They recently found each other again, this time without any expectations.
  Victoria was spending time with her ailing mother in Meadville. Byrne was going to call. He missed her.
  Byrne glanced around the restaurant. There were only a few other customers. A middle-aged couple in a booth. A pair of college students sat together, both talking on their cell phones. A man at the stand closest to the door was reading a newspaper.
  Byrne stirred his coffee. He was ready to get back to work. He'd never been the type to thrive in between assignments or on the rare occasions he took time off. He wondered what new cases had come into the unit, what progress had been made in ongoing investigations, what arrests, if any, had been made. In truth, he'd been thinking about these things the entire time he'd been away. It was one of the reasons he hadn't brought his cell phone with him. He was supposed to be on duty at the unit twice a day.
  The older he got, the more he accepted that we were all here for a very short time. If he'd made a difference as a police officer, it was worth it. He sipped his coffee, content with his dime-store philosophy. For a moment.
  Then it hit him. His heart started pounding. His right hand instinctively tightened around his pistol grip. This was never good news.
  He knew the man sitting by the door, a man named Anton Krotz. He was a few years older than the last time Byrne had seen him, a few pounds heavier, a little more muscular, but there was no doubt it was Krotz. Byrne recognized the elaborate scarab tattoo on the man's right arm. He recognized the eyes of a rabid dog.
  Anton Krotz was a cold-blooded killer. His first documented murder occurred during a botched robbery of a South Philadelphia amusement store. He shot the cashier point-blank for thirty-seven dollars. He was brought in for questioning but released. Two days later, he robbed a jewelry store in Center City and shot the man and woman who owned it execution-style. The incident was captured on video. A massive manhunt nearly shut down the city that day, but Krotz somehow managed to escape.
  As Gretchen returned with a full Dutch apple pie, Byrne slowly reached for his duffel bag on the nearby stool and casually unzipped it, watching Krotz out of the corner of his eye. Byrne drew his weapon and rested it on his lap. He had no radio or cell phone. He was alone at the moment. And you didn't want to take down a man like Anton Krotz alone.
  "Do you have a phone in the back?" Byrne asked Gretchen quietly.
  Gretchen stopped cutting the pie. "Of course there's one in the office."
  Byrne grabbed a pen and wrote a note on her notepad:
  
  Call 911. Tell them I need help at this address. Suspect is Anton Krots. Send SWAT. Back entrance. After reading this, laugh.
  
  
  Gretchen read the note and laughed. "Okay," she said.
  - I knew you'd like it.
  She looked Byrne in the eye. "I forgot the whipped cream," she said, loud enough, but not louder. "Wait."
  Gretchen left without showing any sign of haste. Byrne sipped his coffee. Krotz didn't move. Byrne wasn't sure if the man had done it or not. Byrne had interrogated Krotz for over four hours the day he'd been brought in, exchanging large quantities of poison with the man. It had even gotten physical. After something like that, neither side forgot the other.
  Whatever the case, Byrne couldn't let Krotz out through that door. If Krotz left the restaurant, he'd disappear again, and they might never shoot him again.
  Thirty seconds later, Byrne looked to the right and saw Gretchen in the hallway to the kitchen. Her gaze indicated she'd made the call. Byrne grabbed his gun and lowered it to the right, away from Krotz.
  At that moment, one of the college students screamed. At first, Byrne thought it was a cry of despair. He turned on his stool and looked around. The girl was still talking on her cell phone, reacting to the incredible news for the students. When Byrne looked back, Krotz had already emerged from his cubicle.
  He had a hostage.
  The woman in the booth behind Krotz's booth was held hostage. Krotz stood behind her, one arm around her waist. He held a six-inch knife to her neck. The woman was petite, pretty, about forty years old. She wore a dark blue sweater, jeans, and suede boots. She wore a wedding ring. Her face was a mask of terror.
  The man she was sitting with was still sitting in the booth, paralyzed with fear. Somewhere in the diner, a glass or cup fell to the floor.
  Time slowed as Byrne slid off the chair, drawing and raising his weapon.
  "Good to see you again, Detective," Krotz said to Byrne. "You look different. Attacking us?"
  Krotz's eyes were glassy. Meth, Byrne thought. He reminded himself that Krotz was a user.
  "Just calm down, Anton," Byrne said.
  "Matt!" the woman screamed.
  Krotz pointed the knife closer to the woman's jugular vein. "Shut the hell up."
  Krotz and the woman began to approach the door. Byrne noticed beads of sweat on Krotz's forehead.
  "There's no reason for anyone to get hurt today," Byrne said. "Just be cool."
  - No one will get hurt?
  "No."
  - Then why are you pointing a gun at me, master?
  - You know the rules, Anton.
  Krotz glanced over his shoulder, then back at Byrne. The moment stretched. "Are you going to shoot a sweet little citizen in front of the whole town?" He caressed the woman's breast. "I don't think so."
  Byrne turned his head. A handful of frightened people were now peering through the diner's front window. They were terrified, but apparently not too afraid to leave. Somehow, they'd stumbled onto a reality show. Two of them were talking on their cell phones. It soon became a media event.
  Byrne stood before the suspect and the hostage. He didn't lower his weapon. "Talk to me, Anton. What do you want to do?"
  "What, like, when I grow up?" Krotz laughed, loud and loud. His gray teeth gleamed, black at the roots. The woman began to sob.
  "I mean, what would you like to see happen right now?" Byrne asked.
  "I want to get out of here."
  - But you know that can't be.
  Krotz's grip tightened. Byrne saw the knife's sharp blade leave a thin red line on the woman's skin.
  "I don't see your trump card, Detective," Krotz said. "I think I have this situation under control."
  - There is no doubt about it, Anton.
  "Say it."
  "What? What?"
  "Say, 'You are in control, sir.'"
  The words brought bile to Byrne's throat, but he had no choice. "You are in control, sir."
  "It sucks to be humiliated, doesn't it?" Krotz said. He took a few more inches toward the door. "I've been doing this my whole damn life."
  "Well, we can talk about that later," Byrne said. "That's where we stand now, isn't it?"
  "Oh, we definitely have a state of affairs."
  "So, let's see if we can find a way to end this without anyone getting hurt. Work with me, Anton.
  Krotz was about six feet from the door. Though not a large man, he stood a head taller than the woman. Byrne had a precise throw. His finger caressed the trigger. He could destroy Krotz. One round, a dead center to the forehead, brains on the wall. It would violate every rule of engagement, every departmental regulation, but the woman with a knife to her throat probably wouldn't object. And that was all that really mattered.
  Where the hell is my backup?
  Krotz said, "You know as well as I do that if I give this up, I'll have to go on the needle for other things."
  "That's not necessarily true."
  "Yes, it is!" Krotz shouted. He pulled the woman closer. "Don't lie to me, damn it."
  "It's not a lie, Anton. Anything can happen."
  "Yeah? What do you mean? Like, maybe the judge will see my inner child?"
  "Come on, man. You know the drill. Witnesses have memory lapses. Shit gets thrown out of court. Happens all the time. A good shot is never a sure thing."
  At that moment, a shadow caught Byrne's peripheral vision. To his left. A SWAT officer was moving down the back hallway, AR-15 rifle raised. He was out of Krotz's line of sight. The officer looked Byrne in the eye.
  If a SWAT officer was on the scene, that meant establishing a perimeter. If Krotz got out of the restaurant, he wouldn't get far. Byrne had to wrestle the woman from Krotz's arms and the knife from his.
  "I'll tell you what, Anton," Byrne said. "I'm going to put the gun down, okay?"
  "That's what I'm talking about. Put it on the floor and throw it to me."
  "I can't do that," Byrne said. "But I'm going to put this down and then raise my hands above my head."
  Byrne saw the SWAT officer take up position. Cap upside down. Look at the sight. Got it.
  Krotz moved a few more inches toward the door. "I'm listening."
  "Once I do this, you will let the woman go."
  "And what?"
  "Then you and I will leave here." Byrne lowered the weapon. He placed it on the floor and put his foot on it. "Let's talk. Okay?"
  For a moment, it seemed like Krotz was considering this. Then everything went to hell as quickly as it had begun.
  "No," said Krotz. "What's so interesting about that?"
  Krotz grabbed the woman by the hair, jerked her head back, and drew the blade across her throat. Her blood splattered half the room.
  "No!" Byrne screamed.
  The woman fell to the floor, a grotesque red smile appearing on her neck. For a moment, Byrne felt weightless, immobilized, as if everything he had ever learned and done was meaningless, as if his entire career on the street had been a lie.
  Krotz winked. "Don't you love this damn city?"
  Anton Krotz lunged at Byrne, but before he could take a step, a SWAT officer in the back of the diner fired. Two bullets struck Krotz in the chest, sending him flying back through the window, exploding his torso in a dense crimson flash. The explosions were deafening in the confined space of the small diner. Krotz fell through the shattered glass onto the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Onlookers scattered. A pair of SWAT officers stationed in front of the diner rushed toward the prone Krotz, pressing heavy boots against his body and aiming their rifles at his head.
  Krotz's chest heaved once, twice, and then stilled, steaming in the cold night air. A third SWAT officer arrived, took his pulse, and gave the signal. The suspect was dead.
  Detective Kevin Byrne's senses heightened. He smelled cordite in the air, mingled with the scents of coffee and onions. He saw bright blood spreading across the tiles. He heard the last shard of glass shatter on the floor, followed by a soft cry. He felt the sweat on his back turn to sleet as a gust of icy air rushed in from the street.
  Don't you love this damn city?
  Moments later, the ambulance screeched to a halt, bringing the world back into focus. Two paramedics rushed into the diner and began treating the woman lying on the floor. They tried to stop the bleeding, but it was too late. The woman and her killer were dead.
  Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez, two homicide detectives, ran into the diner, guns drawn. They'd seen Byrne and the carnage. Their guns were holstered. Chavez was talking on the other end of the line. Nick Palladino began setting up the crime scene.
  Byrne looked at the man sitting in the booth with the victim. The man looked at the woman on the floor as if she were asleep, as if she might get up, as if they could finish their meal, pay the check, and wander off into the night, looking at the Christmas decorations outside. Next to the woman's coffee, Byrne saw a half-open creamer. She was about to add cream to her coffee, but five minutes later, she died.
  Byrne had witnessed the grief caused by murder many times, but rarely so soon after the crime. This man had just witnessed his wife being brutally murdered. He was standing just a few feet away. The man looked at Byrne. There was pain in his eyes, far deeper and darker than Byrne had ever known.
  "I'm so sorry," Byrne said. The moment the words left his lips, he wondered why he said them. He wondered what he meant.
  "You killed her," the man said.
  Byrne was incredulous. He felt bruised. He couldn't begin to comprehend what he was hearing. "Sir, I..."
  "You... you could have shot him, but you hesitated. I saw it. You could have shot him, but you didn't."
  The man slipped out of the booth. He took advantage of the moment to calm down and slowly approach Byrne. Nick Palladino stepped between them. Byrne waved him off. The man stepped closer. Now just a few feet away.
  "Isn"t that your job?" the man asked.
  "I'm sorry?"
  "To protect us? Isn't that your job?"
  Byrne wanted to tell this man there was a blue line, but when evil came to light, neither of them could do anything. He wanted to tell the man he pulled the trigger because of his wife. For the life of him, he couldn't think of a single word to express it all.
  "Laura," the man said.
  "Sorry?"
  "Her name was Laura."
  Before Byrne could say another word, the man swung his fist. It was a wild shot, poorly thrown and clumsily executed. Byrne saw it at the last moment and managed to easily dodge it. But the man's gaze was so full of rage, pain, and sorrow that Byrne almost wanted to take the blow himself. Perhaps, for the moment, that satisfied their need both.
  Before the man could throw another punch, Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez grabbed him and held him down. The man didn't resist, but began sobbing. He went limp in their grip.
  "Let him go," Byrne said. "Just... let him go."
  
  
  
  The shooting team wrapped around 3 a.m. Half a dozen homicide detectives arrived for backup. They formed a loose circle around Byrne, shielding him from the media, even his superiors.
  Byrne gave his statement and was questioned. He was free. For a while, he didn't know where to go or where he wanted to be. The idea of getting drunk wasn't even appealing, though it might have overshadowed the horrific events of the evening.
  Just twenty-four hours ago, he'd been sitting on the cool, comfortable porch of a cabin in the Poconos, his feet up, an Old Forester in a plastic mug inches away. Now two people were dead. It seemed he'd brought death with him.
  The man's name was Matthew Clark. He was forty-one. He had three daughters-Felicity, Tammy, and Michelle. He worked as an insurance broker for a large national firm. He and his wife were in town to visit their eldest daughter, a freshman at Temple University. They stopped at a diner for coffee and lemon pudding, his wife's favorite.
  Her name was Laura.
  She had brown eyes.
  Kevin Byrne felt like he would be seeing those eyes for a long time.
  OceanofPDF.com
  3
  TWO DAYS LATER
  The book lay on the table. It was constructed of harmless cardboard, high-quality paper, and non-toxic ink. It had a dust jacket, an ISBN number, annotations on the back, and a title on the spine. In every way, it was like almost any other book in the world.
  But everything was different.
  Detective Jessica Balzano, a ten-year veteran of the Philadelphia Police Department, sipped coffee and stared at a terrifying object. She'd fought murderers, robbers, rapists, Peeping Toms, muggers, and other model citizens in her time; she'd once stared down the barrel of a 9mm pistol pointed at her forehead. She'd been beaten and beaten by a select group of thugs, idiots, psychos, punks, and gangsters; chased psychopaths through dark alleys; and once been threatened by a man with a cordless drill.
  Yet the book on the dining table frightened her more than all of it put together.
  Jessica had nothing against books. Nothing at all. As a rule, she loved books. In fact, it was rare that a day went by when she didn't have a paperback in her purse for downtime at work. Books were wonderful. Except this one-the bright, cheerful yellow-and-red book on her dining room table, the book with a menagerie of grinning cartoon animals on the cover-belonged to her daughter, Sophie.
  This meant that her daughter was getting ready for school.
  Not a kindergarten, which Jessica had thought was a glorified kindergarten. A regular school. A kindergarten. Of course, it was just a day of introduction to the real event that began the following fall, but all the trappings were there. On the table. In front of her. A book, lunch, coat, mittens, pencil case.
  School.
  Sophie emerged from her bedroom dressed and ready for her first formal day of school. She wore a navy blue pleated skirt, a crewneck sweater, lace-up shoes, and a wool beret and scarf set. She looked like a miniature Audrey Hepburn.
  Jessica felt ill.
  "Are you okay, Mom?" Sophie asked, sliding into a chair.
  "Of course, sweetie," Jessica lied. "Why wouldn't I be okay?"
  Sophie shrugged. "You've been sad all week."
  "Sad? What am I sad about?"
  "You were sad because I was going to school."
  Oh my God, Jessica thought. I have a five-year-old Dr. Phil living at home. "I'm not sad, honey."
  "The kids go to school, Mom. We talked about it."
  Yes, we did, my dear daughter. But I didn't hear a word. I didn't hear a word because you're still a child. My child. A tiny, helpless soul with pink fingers who needs her mother for everything.
  Sophie poured herself some cereal and added milk. She dug in.
  "Good morning, my lovely ladies," Vincent said, walking into the kitchen and tying his tie. He kissed Jessica on the cheek and another on top of Sophie's beret.
  Jessica's husband was always cheerful in the mornings. He spent most of the rest of the day brooding, but in the mornings he was a ray of sunshine. The complete opposite of his wife.
  Vincent Balzano was a detective with the Northern Field Narcotics Unit. He was fit and muscular, but still the most incredibly sexy man Jessica had ever known: dark hair, caramel eyes, long eyelashes. This morning, his hair was still damp and combed back from his forehead. He was wearing a dark blue suit.
  During their six years of marriage, they experienced some difficult moments-they were separated for almost six months-but they came back together and overcame it. Double-badge marriages were extremely rare. Successful, so to speak.
  Vincent poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. "Let me look at you," he said to Sophie.
  Sophie jumped up from her chair and stood at attention in front of her father.
  "Turn around," he said.
  Sophie turned on the spot, giggling, placing her hand on her hip.
  "Va-va-voom," said Vincent.
  "Va-va-voom," Sophie repeated.
  - So, tell me something, young lady.
  "What?"
  - How did you become so beautiful?
  "My mom is beautiful." They both looked at Jessica. This was their daily routine when she felt a little depressed.
  Oh God, Jessica thought. Her breasts felt like they were about to burst out of her body. Her lower lip trembled.
  "Yes, that's her," Vincent said. "One of the two most beautiful girls in the world."
  "Who's the other girl?" Sophie asked.
  Vincent winked.
  "Dad," Sophie said.
  - Let's finish our breakfast.
  Sophie sat back down.
  Vincent sipped his coffee. "Are you looking forward to visiting the school?"
  "Oh, yeah." Sophie popped a drop of milk-soaked Cheerios into her mouth.
  "Where is your backpack?"
  Sophie stopped chewing. How could she survive a day without a backpack? It defined her as a person. Two weeks earlier, she'd tried on over a dozen and finally settled on the Strawberry Shortcake design. For Jessica, it was like watching Paris Hilton at a Jean Paul Gaultier trunk show. A minute later, Sophie finished eating, carried her bowl to the sink, and rushed back to her room.
  Then Vincent turned his attention to his suddenly frail wife, the same woman who once punched a gunman in a Port Richmond bar for putting his arm around her waist, the woman who once went four complete winning rounds on ESPN2 with a monster girl from Cleveland, Ohio, a muscular nineteen-year-old nicknamed "Cinderblock" Jackson.
  "Come here, big baby," he said.
  Jessica crossed the room. Vincent patted his knees. Jessica sat up. "What?" she asked.
  - You're not handling this very well, are you?
  "No." Jessica felt the emotion surge again, a hot coal burning in the pit of her stomach. She was a big bad, a Philadelphia homicide detective.
  "I thought it was just orientation," Vincent said.
  "This. But it will help her navigate school."
  "I thought that was the whole point."
  "She's not ready for school."
  - Breaking news, Jess.
  "What?"
  "She's ready for school."
  - Yes, but... but that means she'll be ready to put on makeup, get her license, start dating and...
  - What, in the first grade?
  "If you know what I mean."
  It was obvious. God help her and save the republic, she wanted another child. Ever since she'd clocked thirty, she'd been thinking about it. Most of her friends were in pack number three. Every time she saw a swaddled baby in a stroller, or in a daddy, or in a car seat, or even in a stupid Pampers TV commercial, she felt a pang.
  "Hold me tight," she said.
  Vincent did it. As tough as Jessica seemed (besides her life on the police force, she was also a professional boxer, not to mention a South Philly girl born and raised on Sixth and Catharine), she never felt safer than in moments like these.
  She pulled away, looked into her husband's eyes. She kissed him. Deep and serious, and let's make the baby big.
  "Wow," Vincent said, his lips smeared with lipstick. "We should send her to school more often."
  "It's much more than that, Detective," she said, perhaps a little too seductively for seven in the morning. Vincent was Italian, after all. She slid off his lap. He pulled her back. He kissed her again, and then they both looked at the wall clock.
  The bus would pick up Sophie in five minutes. After that, Jessica didn't see her partner for almost an hour.
  Enough time.
  
  
  
  KEVIN BYRNE had been missing for a week, and though Jessica had plenty to keep her busy, the week without him had been difficult. Byrne was supposed to return three days ago, but a horrific incident had occurred at the diner. She'd been reading articles in the Inquirer and the Daily News, reading official reports. A nightmare scenario for a police officer.
  Byrne has been placed on brief administrative leave. The review will be available in a day or two. They haven't discussed the episode in detail yet.
  They would.
  
  
  
  As she turned the corner, she saw him standing in front of a coffee shop, two cups in hand. Their first stop of the day was to visit the ten-year-old crime scene in Juniata Park, the site of a drug-related double homicide in 1997, followed by an interview with an older gentleman who was a potential witness. It was the first day of the cold case they had been assigned.
  The homicide division had three divisions: the Line Squad, which handled new cases; the Fugitive Squad, which tracked wanted suspects; and the SIU, the Special Investigations Unit, which, among other things, handled cold cases. The detective roster was usually set in stone, but sometimes, when all hell broke loose, as happened all too often in Philadelphia, detectives could work the line on any shift.
  "Excuse me, I was supposed to meet my partner here," Jessica said. "Tall, clean-shaven guy. Looks like a cop. Did you see him?"
  "What, you don't like the beard?" Byrne handed her a cup. "I spent an hour shaping it."
  "Formation?"
  "Well, you know, trimming the edges so it doesn't look ragged."
  "Oh".
  "What do you think?"
  Jessica leaned back and looked closely at his face. "Well, honestly, I think it makes you look..."
  "Outstanding?"
  She was going to say "homeless." "Yeah. What."
  Byrne stroked his beard. He wasn't quite there yet, but Jessica could see that when he did, it would be mostly gray. Until he attacked her with "Men Only," she probably could have handled it.
  As they headed toward the Taurus, Byrne's cell phone rang. He opened it, listened, pulled out a notepad, and made a few notes. He glanced at his watch. "Twenty minutes." He folded the phone and put it in his pocket.
  "Work?" Jessica asked.
  "Job."
  The cold suitcase would stay cold for a while. They continued walking down the street. After a full block, Jessica broke the silence.
  "Are you okay?" she asked.
  "Me? Oh, yes," Byrne said. "Just right. The sciatica's a little twitchy, but that's all."
  "Kevin."
  "I'm telling you, I'm one hundred percent," Byrne said. "Hands to God."
  He was lying, but that's what friends did for each other when they wanted you to know the truth.
  "Shall we talk later?" Jessica asked.
  "We'll talk," Byrne said. "By the way, why are you so happy?"
  "Do I look happy?"
  "Let me put it this way. Your face could open a smile spot in Jersey."
  "Just glad to see my partner."
  "Right," Byrne said, slipping into the car.
  Jessica had to laugh, remembering the unbridled marital passion of her morning. Her partner knew her well.
  OceanofPDF.com
  4
  The crime scene was a boarded-up commercial property in Manayunk, a neighborhood in northwest Philadelphia, right on the east bank of the Schuylkill River. For some time, the area seemed to be in a state of constant redevelopment and gentrification, transforming from what had once been a neighborhood for those who worked in mills and factories into a part of the city where the upper middle class lived. The name "Manayunk" was a Lenape Indian term meaning "our drinking place," and over the past decade or so, the vibrant strip of pubs, restaurants, and nightclubs on the neighborhood's main street (essentially Philadelphia's answer to Bourbon Street) has struggled to live up to that long-held name.
  When Jessica and Byrne pulled onto Flat Rock Road, two sector cars were guarding the area. The detectives pulled into the parking lot and exited the car. Patrol Officer Michael Calabro was on the scene.
  "Good morning, detectives," Calabro said, handing them the crime scene report. They both logged in.
  "What do we have, Mike?" Byrne asked.
  Calabro was as pale as the December sky. He was about thirty, stocky and burly, a patrol veteran Jessica had known for almost ten years. He didn't exactly flinch. In fact, he usually smiled at everyone, even the idiots he passed on the street. If he was this shaken, it wasn't good.
  He cleared his throat. "Female DOA."
  Jessica returned to the road, surveying the exterior of the large two-story building and its immediate surroundings: a vacant lot across the street, a tavern next door, a warehouse next door. The building at the crime scene was square, blocky, clad in dirty brown brick and patched with water-soaked plywood. Graffiti covered every available inch of wood. The front door was locked with rusty chains and padlocks. A huge "For Sale or Lease" sign hung from the roof. Delaware Investment Properties, Inc. Jessica wrote down the phone number and returned to the back of the building. The wind cut through the area like sharp knives.
  "Any idea what business was here before?" she asked Calabro.
  "A few different things," Calabro said. "When I was a teenager, it was an auto parts wholesaler. My sister's boyfriend worked there. He sold us parts under the counter."
  "What did you drive in those days?" Byrne asked.
  Jessica saw a smile on Calabro's lips. It always did when men talked about the cars of their youth. "A 76 TransAm."
  "No," Byrne replied.
  "Yeah. My cousin's friend wrecked it in '85. Got it for singing when I was eighteen. Took me four years to fix."
  "455th?"
  "Oh yeah," Calabro said. "Starlite Black T-top."
  "Sweet," Byrne said. "So how soon after you got married did she make you sell it?"
  Calabro laughed. "Right around the 'You may kiss the bride' part."
  Jessica saw Mike Calabro visibly brighten. She'd never met anyone better than Kevin Byrne when it came to calming people down and taking their minds off the horrors that could haunt them in their line of work. Mike Calabro had seen a lot in his time, but that didn't mean the next one wouldn't get him. Or the one after that. That was the life of a uniformed cop. Every time you turn a corner, your life could change forever. Jessica wasn't sure what they were about to face at this crime scene, but she knew Kevin Byrne had just made this man's life a little easier.
  The building had an L-shaped parking lot that ran behind the building and then sloped down a slight slope to the river. The parking lot had once been completely enclosed with chain-link fencing. The fence had long since been cut, bent, and abused. Huge sections were missing. Garbage bags, tires, and street litter were strewn everywhere.
  Before Jessica could even learn about the DOA, a black Ford Taurus, identical to the department car Jessica and Byrne were driving, pulled into the parking lot. Jessica didn't recognize the man behind the wheel. Moments later, the man emerged and approached them.
  "Are you Detective Byrne?" he asked.
  "Me," Byrne said. "And you?"
  The man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a gold shield. "Detective Joshua Bontrager," he said. "Murder." He grinned, his cheeks flushing.
  Bontrager was probably in his thirties, but he looked much younger. He stood five feet ten, his hair a summer blonde that had faded in December, and was cut relatively short; spiky, but not GQ-ish. It looked like it had been cut at home. His eyes were mint green. There was an air of sanitized countryside about him, rural Pennsylvania, suggesting a state college with an academic scholarship. He patted Byrne's hand, then Jessica's. "You must be Detective Balzano," he said.
  "Nice to meet you," Jessica said.
  Bontrager looked between them, back and forth. "This is just, just, just... great."
  In any case, Detective Joshua Bontrager was full of energy and enthusiasm. Despite all the layoffs, layoffs, and detective injuries-not to mention the sharp rise in homicides-it was good to have another warm body in the department. Even if that body looked like it had just stepped out of a high school production of Our Town.
  "Sergeant Buchanan sent me," Bontrager said. "Did he call you?"
  Ike Buchanan was their boss, the day shift commander of the homicide squad. "Uh, no," Byrne said. "You were assigned to homicide?"
  "Temporarily," Bontrager said. "I'll be working with you and the other two teams, alternating tours. At least until things calm down a bit."
  Jessica examined Bontrager's attire closely. His suit was dark blue, his trousers black, as if he'd assembled an ensemble from two different weddings or gotten dressed while it was still dark. His striped rayon tie had once belonged to the Carter administration. His shoes were scuffed but sturdy, recently re-sewn and tightly laced.
  "Where do you want me?" Bontrager asked.
  Byrne's expression screamed the answer. Let's return to the Roundhouse.
  "If you don't mind me asking, where were you before you were assigned to Homicide?" Byrne asked.
  "I worked in the transportation department," Bontrager said.
  "How long were you there?"
  Chest out, chin up. "Eight years old."
  Jessica thought about looking at Byrne, but she couldn't. She just couldn't.
  "So," Bontrager said, rubbing his hands to warm them up, "what can I do?"
  "Right now, we want to make sure the scene is secure," Byrne said. He pointed to the far side of the building, toward a short driveway on the north side of the property. "If you could secure that entry point, that would be a big help. We don't want people coming onto the property and damaging evidence."
  For a second, Jessica thought Bontrager was about to salute.
  "I'm so passionate about it," he said.
  Detective Joshua Bontrager nearly ran across the area.
  Byrne turned to Jessica. "How old is he, about seventeen?"
  - He will be seventeen.
  "Did you notice he's not wearing a coat?"
  "I did."
  Byrne glanced at Officer Calabro. Both men shrugged. Byrne pointed toward the building. "Is the DOA on the ground floor?"
  "No, sir," Calabro said. He turned and pointed toward the river.
  "The victim is in the river?" Byrne asked.
  "At the bank."
  Jessica glanced toward the river. The angle was tilted away from them, so she couldn't yet see the shore. Through a few bare trees on this side, she could see across the river and the cars on the Schuylkill Expressway. She turned to Calabro. "Have you cleared the surrounding area?"
  "Yes," said Calabro.
  "Who found her?" Jessica asked.
  "Anonymous call to 911."
  "When?"
  Calabro looked at the journal. "About an hour and fifteen minutes ago."
  "Was the Ministry notified?" Byrne asked.
  "On the way."
  - Good job, Mike.
  Before heading to the river, Jessica took a few photos of the building's exterior. She also snapped two abandoned cars in the parking lot. One was a twenty-year-old midsize Chevrolet; the other a rusty Ford van. Neither had plates. She walked over and felt the hoods of both cars. Stone cold. On any given day, there were hundreds of abandoned cars in Philadelphia. Sometimes it felt like thousands. Every time someone ran for mayor or council, one of the planks in their platform was always a promise to get rid of abandoned cars and demolish abandoned buildings. It never seemed to happen.
  She took a few more photos. When she finished, she and Byrne put on latex gloves.
  "Ready?" he asked.
  "Let's do this."
  They reached the end of the parking lot. From there, the land sloped gently down to the soft riverbank. Since the Schuylkill wasn't a working river-almost all commercial shipping traveled down the Delaware River-docks as such were few, but there were occasional small stone docks and the occasional narrow floating pier. Reaching the end of the asphalt, they saw the victim's head, then her shoulders, then her body.
  "Oh my God," Byrne said.
  It was a young blonde, about twenty-five years old. She sat on a low stone pier, her eyes wide open. It seemed she was simply sitting on the riverbank, watching it flow.
  There was no doubt in life that she had been very pretty. Now her face was a hideous pale gray, and her bloodless skin had already begun to crack and split from the ravages of the wind. Her nearly black tongue hung at the edge of her mouth. She wore no coat, gloves, or hat, only a long, dusty rose-colored dress. It looked very old, suggesting that time had long passed. It hung at her feet, almost touching the water. It appeared she had been there for some time. There was some decomposition, but not as strong as if the weather had been warm. Nevertheless, the smell of decaying flesh hung heavily in the air even from ten feet away.
  The young woman had a nylon belt around her neck, tied at the back.
  Jessica could see that some exposed parts of the victim's body were covered in a thin layer of ice, giving the corpse a surreal, artificial sheen. It had rained the day before, and then the temperature had dropped sharply.
  Jessica took a few more photos and moved closer. She wouldn't touch the body until the medical examiner had cleared the scene, but the sooner they examined it better, the sooner they could begin the investigation. While Byrne walked the perimeter of the parking lot, Jessica knelt down next to the body.
  The victim's dress was clearly several sizes too big for her slender frame. It had long sleeves, a detachable lace collar, and scissor-pleated cuffs. Unless Jessica had missed a new fashion trend-and it was possible-she couldn't understand why this woman would be strolling through Philadelphia in winter wearing such an outfit.
  She looked at the woman's hands. No rings. No obvious calluses, scars, or healing cuts. This woman didn't work with her hands, not in the sense of manual labor. She had no visible tattoos.
  Jessica took a few steps back and photographed the victim against the backdrop of the river. That's when she noticed what looked like a drop of blood near the hem of her dress. A single drop. She crouched down, pulled out a pen, and lifted the front of her dress. What she saw caught her off guard.
  "Oh God."
  Jessica fell back on her heels, nearly falling into the water. She grabbed the ground, found purchase, and sat down heavily.
  Hearing her scream, Byrne and Calabro ran up to her.
  "What is this?" Byrne asked.
  Jessica wanted to tell them, but the words caught in her throat. She'd seen a lot in her time on the police force (in fact, she truly believed she could see anything), and she was usually prepared for the particular horrors that accompanied murder. The sight of this dead young woman, her flesh already succumbing to the elements, was bad enough. What Jessica saw when she lifted the victim's dress was a geometric progression of the revulsion she felt.
  Jessica took advantage of the moment, leaned forward, and grabbed the hem of her dress again. Byrne crouched down and bowed his head. He immediately looked away. "Shit," he said, standing up. "Shit."
  Not only was the victim strangled and left on the frozen riverbank, but her legs had also been amputated. And, judging by everything, this had been done very recently. It was a precise surgical amputation, just above the ankles. The wounds had been crudely cauterized, but the black-blue cut marks extended halfway down the victim's pale, frozen legs.
  Jessica glanced at the icy water below, and then a few yards downstream. No body parts were visible. She glanced at Mike Calabro. He shoved his hands in his pockets and slowly walked back toward the crime scene entrance. He wasn't a detective. He didn't have to stay. Jessica thought she saw tears in his eyes.
  "Let me see if I can make changes at the ME and CSU offices," Byrne said. He pulled out his cell phone and took a few steps away. Jessica knew that every second that passed before the crime scene team had the scene under control meant precious evidence could slip away.
  Jessica took a closer look at what was likely the murder weapon. The strap around the victim's neck was about three inches wide and appeared to be made of tightly woven nylon, not unlike the material used to make seat belts. She took a close-up photo of the knot.
  The wind picked up, bringing a sharp chill. Jessica steeled herself and waited. Before moving away, she forced herself to look closely at the woman's legs again. The cuts looked clean, as if they had been made with a very sharp saw. For the sake of the young woman, Jessica hoped they had been done posthumously. She looked again at the victim's face. They were connected now, she and the dead woman. Jessica had worked several murder cases in her time and was forever connected to each of them. There would never come a time in her life when she would forget how death had created them, how they silently cried for justice.
  Just after nine o'clock, Dr. Thomas Weyrich arrived with his photographer, who immediately began taking pictures. A few minutes later, Weyrich pronounced the young woman dead. Detectives were cleared to begin their investigation. They met at the top of the slope.
  "My God," Weirich said. "Merry Christmas, huh?"
  "Yes," Byrne said.
  Weirich lit a Marlboro and hit it hard. He was a seasoned veteran of the Philadelphia medical examiner's office. Even for him, this wasn't an everyday occurrence.
  "Was she strangled?" Jessica asked.
  "At least," Weirich replied. He wouldn't remove the nylon strap until he'd transported the body back to town. "There are signs of petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes. I won't know more until I get her on the table."
  "How long has she been here?" Byrne asked.
  - I would say at least forty-eight hours or so.
  "And her legs? Before or after?
  "I won't know until I can examine the wounds, but judging by how little blood there is at the scene, I'm guessing she was dead when she got here and the amputation occurred elsewhere. If she were alive, she would have had to be restrained, and I don't see any ligature marks on her legs."
  Jessica returned to the riverbank. There were no footprints, no blood spatter, no tracks on the frozen ground by the riverbank. A thin trickle of blood from the victim's feet cut a couple of thin, dark-red tendrils across the mossy stone wall. Jessica looked straight across the river. The dock was partially hidden from the highway, which might explain why no one had called to report the woman sitting motionless on the cold riverbank for two full days. The victim had gone unnoticed-at least, that's what Jessica wanted to believe. She didn't want to believe that the people of her town had seen a woman sitting in the cold and done nothing about it.
  They needed to identify the young woman as quickly as possible. They would begin a thorough search of the parking lot, the riverbank, and the area around the building, as well as nearby businesses and residences on both sides of the river. However, with such a meticulously planned crime scene, it was unlikely they would find a discarded wallet containing any identification nearby.
  Jessica crouched behind the victim. The body's position reminded her of a puppet whose strings had been cut, causing it to simply collapse to the floor-arms and legs waiting to be reattached, resuscitated, brought back to life.
  Jessica examined the woman's nails. They were short but clean and coated with clear polish. They examined the nails to see if there was any material underneath, but to the naked eye, there wasn't. It did tell the detectives that this woman wasn't homeless or poor. Her skin and hair looked clean and well-groomed.
  This meant that this young woman had to be somewhere. This meant that she had been missed. This meant that somewhere in Philadelphia or beyond, there was a mystery, of which this woman was the missing piece.
  Mother. Daughter. Sister. Friend.
  Sacrifice.
  OceanofPDF.com
  5
  The wind swirls from the river, curling along the frozen banks, carrying with it the deep secrets of the forest. In his mind, Moon conjures up a memory of this moment. He knows that, in the end, memories are all you have left.
  Moon stands nearby, watching a man and a woman. They are researching, calculating, writing in their diaries. The man is tall and strong. The woman is slender, beautiful, and intelligent.
  The moon is smart too.
  A man and a woman can witness a great deal, but they cannot see what the moon sees. Every night, the moon returns and tells her of its travels. Every night, the moon paints a mental picture. Every night, a new story is told.
  The moon looks up at the sky. The cold sun hides behind the clouds. He, too, is invisible.
  A man and a woman go about their business-quickly, like clockwork, precisely. They've found Karen. Soon they'll find the red shoes, and this fairy tale will unfold.
  There are many more fairy tales.
  OceanofPDF.com
  6
  Jessica and Byrne stood by the road, waiting for the CSU van. Though they were only a few feet apart, each was lost in their own thoughts about what they had just witnessed. Detective Bontrager was still obediently guarding the north entrance to the property. Mike Calabro stood near the river, his back to the victim.
  For the most part, the life of a homicide detective in a major metropolitan area consisted of investigating the most mundane murders-gangland killings, domestic violence, barroom brawls gone too far, robberies, and murders. Of course, these crimes were intensely personal and unique to the victims and their families, and the detective had to constantly remind himself of this fact. If you became complacent at work, if you failed to consider the feelings of grief or loss, it was time to quit. Philadelphia had no divisional homicide squads. All suspicious deaths were investigated in a single office-the Roundhouse Homicide Squad. Eighty detectives, three shifts, seven days a week. Philadelphia had over a hundred neighborhoods, and in many cases, depending on where the victim was found, an experienced detective could almost predict the circumstances, the motive, and sometimes even the weapon. There were always discoveries, but very few surprises.
  This day was different. It spoke of a particular evil, a depth of cruelty that Jessica and Byrne had rarely encountered.
  A catering truck was parked in a vacant lot across the street from the crime scene. There was only one customer. Two detectives crossed Flat Rock Road and retrieved their notebooks. While Byrne spoke with the driver, Jessica spoke with the customer. He was about twenty years old, wearing jeans, a hoodie, and a black knit cap.
  Jessica introduced herself and showed her badge. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."
  "Of course." When he took off his cap, his dark hair fell into his eyes. He waved it away.
  "What is your name?"
  "Will," he said. "Will Pedersen."
  "Where do you live?"
  Plymouth Valley.
  "Wow," Jessica said. "That's a long way from home."
  He shrugged. "Go where the work is."
  "What are you doing?"
  "I'm a bricklayer." He gestured over Jessica's shoulder toward the new apartment buildings being built along the river about a block away. A few moments later, Byrne finished with the driver. Jessica introduced Pedersen to him and continued.
  "Do you work here a lot?" Jessica asked.
  "Almost every day."
  - Were you here yesterday?
  "No," he said. "It's too cold to mix. The boss called early and said, 'Get it out.'"
  "What about the day before yesterday?" Byrne asked.
  "Yeah. We were here."
  - Were you drinking coffee somewhere around this time?
  "No," Pedersen said. "It was earlier. Maybe around seven o'clock or so.
  Byrne pointed to the crime scene. "Did you see anyone in this parking lot?"
  Pedersen looked across the street and thought for a few moments. "Yeah. I did see someone.
  "Where?"
  "Returned to the end of the parking lot."
  "A man? A woman?"
  "Dude, I think. It was still dark."
  "There was only one person there?"
  "Yes."
  - Did you see the vehicle?
  "No. No cars," he said. "At least, I didn't notice anything."
  Two abandoned cars were located behind the building. They weren't visible from the road. There could have been a third car there.
  "Where was he standing?" Byrne asked.
  Pedersen pointed to a spot at the end of the property, just above where the victim was found. "To the right of those trees."
  "Closer to the river or closer to the building?"
  "Closer to the river."
  "Can you describe the man you saw?"
  "Not exactly. As I said, it was still dark and I couldn't see very well. I didn't have my glasses on."
  "Where exactly were you when you first saw him?" Jessica asked.
  Pedersen pointed to a spot a few feet from where they stood.
  "Are you any closer?" Jessica asked.
  "No."
  Jessica glanced toward the river. From this vantage point, the victim was impossible to see. "How long have you been here?" she asked.
  Pedersen shrugged. "I don't know. A minute or two. After drinking a Danish and coffee, I went back to the court to get ready."
  "What was this man doing?" Byrne asked.
  "Doesn't matter."
  - He didn't leave the place where you saw him? He didn't go down to the river?
  "No," Pedersen said. "But now that I think about it, it was a little weird."
  "Weird?" Jessica asked. "Weird, how?"
  "He was just standing there," Pedersen said. "I think he was looking at the moon."
  OceanofPDF.com
  7
  As they walked back to the city center, Jessica flipped through the photos on her digital camera, viewing each one on the tiny LCD screen. At this size, the young woman on the riverbank looked like a doll posing in a miniature frame.
  A doll, Jessica thought. That was the first image she had when she saw the victim. The young woman looked like a porcelain doll on a shelf.
  Jessica gave Will Pedersen a business card. The young man promised to call if he remembered anything else.
  "What did you get from the driver?" Jessica asked.
  Byrne glanced at his notepad. "The driver is a Reese Harris. Mr. Harris is thirty-three years old and lives in Queen Village. He said he goes to Flat Rock Road three or four mornings a week, now that these apartments are going up. He said he always parks with the open side of the truck facing the river. Protects the goods from the wind. He said he didn't see anything."
  Detective Joshua Bontrager, a former traffic officer, armed with vehicle identification numbers , went to check two abandoned cars parked in the lot.
  Jessica flipped through a few more photos and looked at Byrne. "What do you think?"
  Byrne ran a hand through his beard. "I think we've got a sick son of a bitch running around Philadelphia. I think we need to shut this bastard up now."
  "Leave Kevin Byrne to get to the bottom of this," Jessica thought. "Really crazy job?" she asked.
  "Oh, yes. With icing."
  "Why do you think they photographed her on the shore? Why not just throw her in the river?"
  "Good question. Perhaps she's supposed to be looking at something. Perhaps it's a 'special place.'"
  Jessica heard the acid in Byrne's voice. She understood. There were moments in their line of work when they wanted to take unique cases-sociopaths that some in the medical community wanted to preserve, study, and quantify-and throw them off the nearest bridge. Fuck your psychosis. Fuck your rotten childhood and your chemical imbalance. Fuck your crazy mother who slipped dead spiders and rancid mayonnaise into your underwear. If you're a PPD homicide detective and someone kills a citizen in your area, you go down-horizontally or vertically, it doesn't really matter.
  "Have you encountered this amputation MO before?" Jessica asked.
  "I've seen it," Byrne said, "but not as an MO. We'll run it and see if anything notices."
  She looked at the camera screen again, at the victim's clothing. "What do you think of the dress? I assume the perpetrator dressed her exactly like that."
  "I don't want to think about it yet," Byrne said. "Not really. Not until lunchtime."
  Jessica knew what he meant. She didn't want to think about it either, but of course they both knew they had to.
  
  
  
  DELAWARE INVESTMENT PROPERTIES, Inc. was located in a stand-alone building on Arch Street, a three-story steel and glass structure with plate-glass windows and something resembling a modern sculpture out front. The company employed about thirty-five people. Their primary focus was buying and selling real estate, but in recent years they had shifted their focus to waterfront development. Casino development was currently the prize in Philadelphia, and it seemed like anyone with a real estate license was rolling the dice.
  The person responsible for Manayunk's property was David Hornstrom. They met in his second-floor office. The walls were covered with photographs of Hornstrom on various mountain peaks around the world, wearing sunglasses and holding climbing gear. One framed photograph depicted an MBA from the University of Pennsylvania.
  Hornstrom was in his early twenties, with dark hair and eyes, well-dressed and overly self-assured, the epitome of energetic junior executives. He wore a dark gray, two-button suit, expertly tailored, a white shirt, and a blue silk tie. His office was small but well-appointed and furnished with modern furniture. A rather expensive-looking telescope stood in one corner. Hornstrom sat on the edge of his smooth metal desk.
  "Thank you for taking the time to meet with us," Byrne said.
  "Always happy to help the best specialists in Philadelphia."
  The best in Philadelphia? Jessica thought. She didn't know anyone under fifty who used that phrase.
  "When was the last time you were at Manayunk's house?" Byrne asked.
  Hornstrom reached for his desk calendar. Considering his widescreen monitor and desktop computer, Jessica thought he wouldn't use a paper calendar. It looked like a BlackBerry.
  "About a week ago," he said.
  - And you didn"t come back?
  "No."
  - Not even just to stop by and check how things are?
  "No."
  Hornstrom's responses came too quickly and too formulaic, not to mention brief. Most people were at least somewhat alarmed by the visit of the homicide police. Jessica wondered why the man wasn't there.
  "The last time you were there, was there anything unusual?" Byrne asked.
  - Not that I noticed.
  "Were these three abandoned cars in the parking lot?"
  "Three?" Hornstrom asked. "I remember two. Is there one more?"
  For effect, Byrne flipped his notes over. An old trick. It didn't work this time. "You're right. Guilty. Were those two cars there last week?"
  "Yeah," he said. "I was going to call to have them towed. Can you guys take care of that for me? That would be awesome."
  Super.
  Byrne looked back at Jessica. "We're from the police department," Byrne said. "I may have mentioned this before."
  "Ah, good." Hornstrom leaned over and made a note on his calendar. "No problem at all."
  "Cheeky little bastard," Jessica thought.
  "How long have the cars been parked there?" Byrne asked.
  "I really don't know," Hornstrom said. "The person who was handling the property recently left the company. I only had the list for a month or so."
  - Is he still in town?
  "No," Hornstrom said. "He's in Boston."
  "We'll need his name and contact information."
  Hornstrom hesitated for a moment. Jessica knew that if someone started resisting so early in the interview, and over something seemingly insignificant, they could face a battle. On the other hand, Hornstrom didn't look stupid. The MBA on his wall confirmed his education. Common sense? Another story.
  "It"s doable," Hornstrom finally said.
  "Did anyone else from your company visit this site last week?" Byrne asked.
  "I doubt it," Hornstrom said. "We have ten agents and over a hundred commercial properties in the city alone. If another agent had shown the property, I would have known about it."
  "Have you shown this property recently?"
  "Yes."
  Awkward moment number two. Byrne sat, pen at the ready, waiting for more information. He was an Irish Buddha. No one Jessica had ever met could outlive him. Hornstrom tried to catch his eye, but failed.
  "I showed this last week," Hornstrom finally said. "A commercial plumbing company out of Chicago."
  "Do you think anyone from that company came back?"
  "Probably not. They weren't that interested. Besides, they would have called me."
  "Not if they're throwing away a mutilated body," Jessica thought.
  "We'll also need their contact information," Byrne said.
  Hornstrom sighed and nodded. No matter how cool he was at happy hour in the City Center, no matter how macho he was at the Athletic Club when he entertained the Brasserie Perrier crowd, he couldn't compare to Kevin Byrne.
  "Who has the keys to the building?" Byrne asked.
  "There are two sets. I have one, the other is kept in the safe here.
  - And everyone here has access?
  - Yes, but, as I already said...
  "When was this building last in use?" Byrne asked, interrupting.
  "Not for several years."
  - And all the locks have been changed since then?
  "Yes."
  - We need to look inside.
  "That shouldn't be a problem."
  Byrne pointed to one of the photographs on the wall. "Are you a climber?"
  "Yeah."
  In the photograph, Hornstrom stood alone on a mountaintop with a bright blue sky behind him.
  "I always wondered how heavy all that gear was," Byrne asked.
  "It depends on what you bring," Hornström said. "If it's a one-day climb, you can get by with the bare minimum. If you're camping at base camp, it can be a bit cumbersome. Tents, cooking gear, and so on. But for the most part, it's designed to be as lightweight as possible."
  "What do you call this?" Byrne pointed to the photograph, to the belt loop hanging from Hornstrom's jacket.
  - It's called a dog bone sling.
  "Is it made of nylon?"
  "I think it's called Dynex."
  "Strong?"
  "Very much so," Hornstrom said.
  Jessica knew where Byrne was leading with this seemingly innocent conversational question, even though the belt around the victim's neck was light gray and the sling in the photograph was bright yellow.
  "Thinking about climbing, Detective?" Hornstrom asked.
  "God, no," Byrne said with his most charming smile. "I have enough trouble with the stairs."
  "You should try it sometime," Hornstrom said. "It's good for the soul."
  "Maybe one of these days," Byrne said. "If you can find me a mountain halfway up which Appleby is."
  Hornstrom laughed his corporate laugh.
  "Now," Byrne said, standing and buttoning his coat, "about breaking into the building."
  "Sure." Hornstrom removed his cuff and checked his watch. "I can meet you there, say, around two o'clock. Would that be okay?"
  - Actually, it would be much better now.
  "Now?"
  "Yes," Byrne said. "Can you take care of that for us? That would be great."
  Jessica stifled a laugh. The clueless Hornstrom had turned to her for help. He had found nothing.
  "May I ask what's the matter?" he asked.
  "Give me a ride, Dave," Byrne said. "We'll talk on the way."
  
  
  
  By the time they arrived at the crime scene, the victim had already been transported to the medical examiner's office on University Avenue. The tape encircled the parking lot all the way to the riverbank. Cars slowed, drivers goggled, Mike Calabro waved. The food truck across the street had disappeared.
  Jessica watched Hornstrom closely as they ducked under the crime scene tape. If he'd been involved in the crime in any way, or even known about it, there would almost certainly have been a signal, a behavioral tic, that would give him away. She saw nothing. He was either kind or innocent.
  David Hornstrom opened the back door of the building. They walked inside.
  "We can take it from here," Byrne said.
  David Hornstrom raised his hand as if to say, "Whatever." He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.
  
  
  
  The large, cold space was practically empty. Several fifty-gallon drums and several stacks of wooden pallets lay scattered about. Cold daylight filtered through cracks in the plywood above the windows. Byrne and Jessica wandered the floor with their Maglites, the thin beams of light swallowed by the darkness. Because the space was secure, there were no signs of forced entry or squatting, no obvious signs of drug use-needles, foil, vials of crack. Furthermore, there was nothing to indicate that a woman had been murdered in the building. In fact, there was little evidence that any human activity had ever taken place in the building.
  Satisfied, at least for the moment, they met at the back entrance. Hornstrom was outside, still talking on his cell phone. They waited for him to hang up.
  "We may have to go back inside," Byrne said. "And we'll have to seal the building for the next few days."
  Hornstrom shrugged. "It doesn't look like there's a line of tenants," he said. He glanced at his watch. "If there's anything else I can do, please don't hesitate to call."
  "An ordinary pitcher," Jessica thought. She wondered how bold he'd be if he were dragged into the Roundhouse for a more in-depth interview.
  Byrne handed David Hornstrom a business card and repeated his request for the previous agent's contact information. Hornstrom grabbed the card, jumped into his car, and sped away.
  The last image Jessica had of David Hornstrom was the license plate of his BMW as he turned onto Flat Rock Road.
  HORNY 1.
  Byrne and Jessica saw it at the same time, looked at each other, then shook their heads and headed back to the office.
  
  
  
  Back at the Roundhouse-the police headquarters building at Eighth and Race Streets, where the homicide division occupied part of the first floor-Jessica ran a background check on David Hornstrom, NCIC, and PDCH. Clean as an operating room. Not a single major violation in the last ten years. Hard to believe, given his taste for fast cars.
  She then entered the victim's information into the missing persons database. She didn't expect much.
  Unlike television cop shows, when it came to missing persons, there was no waiting period of twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Typically, in Philadelphia, a person would call 911, and an officer would come to the home to take the report. If the missing person was ten years old or younger, police would immediately begin what's known as a "tender age search." The officer would directly search the home and any other residence where the child lived, if there was shared custody. Then, each patrol car in the sector would be given a description of the child, and a grid search would begin.
  If the missing child was between eleven and seventeen years old, the first officer would create a report with a description and photograph, which would be returned to the county to be entered into the computer and submitted to the national registry. If the missing adult was mentally disabled, the report would also be quickly entered into the computer and searched by sector.
  If the person was an ordinary Joe or Jane and simply didn't come home-as was probably the case with the young woman found on the riverbank-a report would be taken, passed on to the detective department, and the case would be reviewed again in five days, then again in seven days.
  And sometimes you get lucky. Before Jessica could pour herself a cup of coffee, the hit happened.
  "Kevin."
  Byrne hadn't even taken off his coat yet. Jessica held the LCD screen of her digital camera up to the computer screen. A missing person's report appeared on the computer screen, along with a photo of an attractive blonde. The image was slightly blurry: a driver's license or government ID. Jessica's camera showed a close-up of the victim's face. "Is that her?"
  Byrne's gaze shifted from the computer screen to the camera and back again. "Yes," he said. He pointed to a small mole above the right side of the young woman's upper lip. "That's hers."
  Jessica looked over the report. The woman's name was Christina Yakos.
  OceanofPDF.com
  8
  Natalia Yakos was a tall, athletic woman in her early thirties. She had blue-gray eyes, smooth skin, and long, graceful fingers. Her dark hair, tipped with silver, was cut in a pageboy style. She wore pale tangerine sweatpants and new Nike sneakers. She had just returned from a run.
  Natalia lived in an old, well-kept brick row house on Bustleton Avenue Northeast.
  Kristina and Natalia were sisters born eight years apart in Odessa, a coastal city in Ukraine.
  Natalia filed a missing person report.
  
  
  
  They met in the living room. On the mantelpiece above the bricked-up fireplace hung several small framed photographs, mostly slightly out-of-focus black-and-white shots of families posing in the snow, on a dreary beach, or around the dining room table. One of them showed a pretty blonde in a black-and-white plaid sunsuit and white sandals. The girl was clearly Christina Yakos.
  Byrne showed Natalia a close-up photograph of the victim's face. The ligature was not visible. Natalia calmly identified her as her sister.
  "Again, we are very sorry for your loss," Byrne said.
  "She was killed."
  "Yes," Byrne said.
  Natalya nodded, as if she'd been expecting this news. The lack of passion in her reaction didn't go unnoticed by any of the detectives. They'd given her minimal information over the phone. They hadn't told her about the mutilations.
  "When was the last time you saw your sister?" Byrne asked.
  Natalya thought for a few moments. "That was four days ago."
  - Where did you see her?
  "Right where you're standing. We were arguing. As we often did.
  "May I ask what?" Byrne asked.
  Natalya shrugged. "Money. I lent her five hundred dollars as a deposit with the utility companies for her new apartment. I figured she could have spent it on clothes. She always bought clothes. I got mad. We argued."
  - Did she leave?
  Natalia nodded. "We didn't get along. She left a few weeks ago." She reached for a napkin from the box on the coffee table. She wasn't as tough as she wanted them to believe. There were no tears, but it was clear the dam was about to burst.
  Jessica began to adjust her schedule. "Did you see her four days ago?"
  "Yes."
  "When?"
  "It was late. She came to pick up some things and then said she was going to do the laundry."
  "How late?"
  "Ten or ten thirty. Maybe later.
  - Where did she do the washing?
  "I don't know. Near her new apartment.
  "Have you been to her new place?" Byrne asked.
  "No," Natalia said. "She never asked me."
  - Did Christina have a car?
  "No. Usually a friend drove her. Or she would have taken SEPTA."
  "What is her friend's name?"
  "Sonya".
  - Do you know Sonya"s last name?
  Natalia shook her head.
  - And you didn"t see Christina again that night?
  "No. I went to bed. It was late."
  "Can you remember anything else about that day? Where else could she have been? Who did she see?
  "I'm sorry. She didn't share these things with me."
  "Did she call you the next day? Maybe I should leave a message on your answering machine or voicemail?"
  "No," Natalya said, "but we were supposed to meet the next afternoon. When she didn't show, I called the police. They said there wasn't much they could do, but they'd log it. My sister and I might not have gotten along, but she was always punctual. And she wasn't the type to just..."
  Tears welled up. Jessica and Byrne gave the woman a moment. When she began to compose herself, they continued.
  "Where did Christina work?" Byrne asked.
  "I'm not sure where exactly. It was a new job. A registrar's job.
  "The way Natalia said the word 'secretary' was curious," Jessica thought. It didn't go unnoticed by Byrne either.
  "Did Christina have a boyfriend? Someone she dated?
  Natalya shook her head. "As far as I know, there"s no one permanent. But there were always men around her. Even when we were little. At school, at church. Always."
  "Is there an ex-boyfriend? Someone who can carry the torch?
  - There is one, but he doesn"t live here anymore.
  "Where does he live?"
  "He returned to Ukraine."
  "Did Christina have any outside interests? Hobbies?"
  "She wanted to be a dancer. That was her dream. Christina had many dreams."
  Dancer, Jessica thought. She flashed a glimpse of the woman and her amputated legs. She moved on. "What about your parents?"
  "They've been in their graves for a long time."
  "Are there any other brothers or sisters?"
  "One brother. Kostya.
  "Where is he?"
  Natalya winced and waved her hand, as if brushing away a bad memory. "He's a beast."
  Jessica waited for the translation. Nothing. - Ma'am?
  "Animal. Kostya is a wild animal. He is where he belongs. In prison."
  Byrne and Jessica exchanged glances. This news opened up entirely new possibilities. Perhaps someone was trying to get to Kostya Yakos through his sister.
  "May I ask where he is being held?" Jessica asked.
  Gratterford.
  Jessica was about to ask why this man was in prison, but all that information would be recorded. There was no need to reopen that wound now, so soon after another tragedy. She made a note to look it up.
  "Do you know anyone who might want to harm your brother?" Jessica asked.
  Natalia laughed, but without humor. "I don't know anyone who doesn't know that."
  "Do you have a recent photo of Christina?"
  Natalia reached into the top shelf of the bookcase. She pulled out a wooden box. She shuffled the contents and pulled out a photograph, a shot of Christina that looked like a headshot from a modeling agency-slightly soft focus, a provocative pose, parted lips. Jessica thought again that the young woman was very pretty. Perhaps not model-chic, but striking.
  "Can we borrow this photo?" Jessica asked. "We'll give it back."
  "There"s no need to go back," Natalia said.
  Jessica made a mental note to return the photograph anyway. She knew from personal experience that over time, the tectonic plates of grief, no matter how subtle, tend to shift.
  Natalya stood up and reached into her desk drawer. "As I was saying, Christina was moving. Here's an extra key to her new apartment. Maybe that'll help."
  The key had a white tag attached to it. Jessica glanced at it. It had an address in North Lawrence.
  Byrne pulled out a briefcase for business cards. "If you think of anything else that might help us, please call me." He handed Natalia a card.
  Natalia took the card, then handed Byrne hers. It seemed to appear out of nowhere, as if she'd already picked it up and prepared it for use. As it turned out, "hooked" was perhaps the right word. Jessica glanced at the card. It read: "Madame Natalia - Cartomancy, Fortune Telling, Tarot."
  "I think you have a lot of sadness," she told Byrne. "A lot of unresolved issues."
  Jessica glanced at Byrne. He looked a little uneasy, a rare sign for him. She sensed that her partner wanted to continue the interview alone.
  "I"ll take the car," Jessica said.
  
  
  
  They stood in the overly warm living room, silent for a few moments. Byrne peered into the small space next to the living room: a round mahogany table, two chairs, a chest of drawers, tapestries on the walls. Candles burned in all four corners. He looked at Natalia again. She was studying him.
  "Have you ever read?" Natalia asked.
  "Reading?"
  Palm reading.
  "I'm not quite sure what this is."
  "This art is called palmistry," she said. "It's an ancient practice that involves studying the lines and markings of your hand."
  "Uh, no," Byrne said. "Never."
  Natalia reached out and took his hand. Byrne immediately felt a slight electric charge. Not necessarily a sexual accusation, though he couldn't deny that it was there.
  She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them. "You have a point," she said.
  "I'm sorry?"
  "Sometimes you know things you're not supposed to know. Things others don't see. Things that turn out to be true."
  Byrne wanted to pull his hand away and run away from there as quickly as possible, but for some reason he couldn't move. "Sometimes."
  "Were you born with a chador?"
  "Veil? I'm afraid I don't know anything about that."
  - Were you very close to death?
  Byrne was a little startled by this, but he didn't show it. "Yes."
  "Twice."
  "Yes."
  Natalya released his hand and looked deeply into his eyes. Somehow, in the last few minutes, her eyes seemed to have changed from a soft gray to a glossy black.
  "A white flower," she said.
  "I'm sorry?"
  "A white flower, Detective Byrne," she repeated. "Take a picture."
  Now he was really scared.
  Byrne put his notebook down and buttoned his coat. He considered shaking Natalia Yakos's hand, but decided against it. "Again, we're very sorry for your loss," he said. "We'll be in touch."
  Natalia opened the door. An icy gust of wind greeted Byrne. Descending the steps, he felt physically exhausted.
  "Take a picture," he thought. What the hell was that about?
  As Byrne approached the car, he glanced back at the house. The front door was closed, but a candle now burned in every window.
  Were there candles when they arrived?
  OceanofPDF.com
  9
  Christina Yakos's new apartment wasn't really an apartment at all, but rather a two-bedroom brick townhouse on North Lawrence. As Jessica and Byrne approached, one thing became clear. No young woman working as a secretary could afford the rent, or even half the rent if she shared it. This was an expensive dig.
  They knocked, rang the bell. Twice. They waited, their hands folded on the windows. Sheer curtains. Nothing visible. Byrne rang again, then inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. "Philadelphia police!" he said. No answer. They went inside.
  While the outside was attractive, the inside was immaculate: heart pine floors, maple cabinets in the kitchen, brass light fixtures. There was no furniture.
  "I think I'll see if there are any openings for an administrator," Jessica said.
  "Me too," Byrne replied.
  - Do you know how to work on a switchboard?
  "I will learn."
  Jessica ran her hand along the raised trim. "So what do you think? Rich roommate or sugar daddy?"
  "Two different possibilities."
  "Maybe an insanely jealous psychopathic sugar daddy?"
  "A definite possibility."
  They called again. The house seemed empty. They checked the basement and found the washer and dryer still in their boxes, awaiting installation. They checked the second floor. In one bedroom, there was a folded futon; in another, a foldout bed sat in the corner, and next to it, a steamer trunk.
  Jessica returned to the hall and picked up a stack of mail lying on the floor by the door. She sorted through it. One of the bills was addressed to Sonya Kedrova. There were also a couple of magazines addressed to Christina Yakos-" Dance" and "Architectural Digest." There were no personal letters or postcards.
  They walked into the kitchen and opened several drawers. Most of them were empty. The same was true of the lower cabinets. The cabinet under the sink held a collection of new household items: sponges, Windex, paper towels, cleaning fluid, and bug spray. Young women always kept a stash of bug spray.
  She was about to close the last cabinet door when they heard the creaking of floorboards. Before they could turn around, they heard something far more sinister, far more deadly. Behind them, they heard the click of a cocked revolver.
  "Don't... shit... don't move," came a voice from across the room. It was a woman's voice. An Eastern European accent and cadence. It was the roommate.
  Jessica and Byrne froze, their arms at their sides. "We're cops," Byrne said.
  "And I'm Angelina Jolie. Now put your hands up."
  Jessica and Byrne raised their hands.
  "You must be Sonya Kedrova," Byrne said.
  Silence. Then: "How do you know my name?"
  "Like I said. We're police officers. I'm going to very slowly reach into my coat and pull out my ID. Okay?"
  Long pause. Too long.
  "Sonya?" Byrne asked. "Are you with me?"
  "Okay," she said. "Slow."
  Byrne complied. "Let's go," he said. Without turning around, he pulled his ID card from his pocket and handed it over.
  A few more seconds passed. "Okay. So, you're a police officer. What's this about?"
  "Can we give up?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes."
  Jessica and Byrne dropped their hands and turned around.
  Sonya Kedrova was about twenty-five years old. She had watery eyes, full lips, and dark brown hair. If Kristina was pretty, Sonya was charming. She wore a long brown coat, black leather boots, and a plum-colored silk scarf.
  "What are you holding?" Byrne asked, pointing at the gun.
  "It's a gun."
  "This is a starting pistol. It fires blanks.
  "My father gave it to me to protect myself."
  "This gun is about as deadly as a water pistol."
  - And yet you raised your hands up.
  Touché, Jessica thought. Byrne didn't like that.
  "We need to ask you a few questions," Jessica said.
  "And this couldn't wait until I got home? You had to break into my house?
  "I'm afraid it can't wait," Jessica replied. She held up the key. "And we didn't break in."
  Sonya looked momentarily confused, then shrugged. She put the starter pistol in the drawer and closed it. "Okay," she said. "Ask your 'questions.'"
  "Do you know a woman named Christina Yakos?"
  "Yes," she said. "Now be careful." Her eyes danced between them. "I know Christina. We're roommates."
  "How long did you know her?"
  "Maybe three months."
  "I'm afraid we have bad news," Jessica said.
  Sonya's brow narrowed. "What happened?"
  "Christina died."
  "Oh my God." Her face went colorless. She grabbed the counter. "How did... what happened?"
  "We're not sure," Jessica said. "Her body was found this morning in Manayunk."
  At any second, Sonya could tip over. There were no chairs in the dining room. Byrne took a wooden box from the corner of the kitchen and placed it. He sat the woman on it.
  "Do you know Manayunk?" Jessica asked.
  Sonya took several deep breaths, puffing out her cheeks. She remained silent.
  "Sonya? Are you familiar with this area?
  "I'm so sorry," she said. "No."
  "Did Christina ever talk about going there? Or did she know anyone who lived in Manayunk?
  Sonya shook her head.
  Jessica took a few notes. "When was the last time you saw Christina?"
  For a moment, Sonya seemed ready to kiss him on the floor. She was weaving in a peculiar way that suggested she was fainting on the way up. A moment later, it seemed to pass. "Not for another week," she said. "I was out of town."
  "Where have you been?"
  "In New York."
  "City?"
  Sonya nodded.
  "Do you know where Christina worked?"
  "All I know is that it was in the city center. Working as an administrator at an important company.
  - And she never told you the name of the company?
  Sonya dabbed her eyes with a napkin and shook her head. "She didn't tell me everything," she said. "Sometimes she was very secretive."
  "How so?"
  Sonya frowned. "Sometimes she'd come home late. I'd ask her where she was, and she'd go silent. As if she'd done something she might be ashamed of."
  Jessica thought about the vintage dress. "Was Christina an actress?"
  "Actress?"
  "Yes. Either professionally or maybe in a community theater?"
  "Well, she loved to dance. I think she wanted to dance professionally. I don't know if she was that good, but maybe.
  Jessica checked her notes. "Is there anything else you know about her that you think might help?"
  "She sometimes worked with children in the Seraphimovsky Garden."
  "Russian Orthodox Church?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes."
  Sonya stood up, grabbed a glass from the counter, then opened the freezer, pulled out a frozen bottle of Stoli, and poured herself a few ounces. There was almost no food in the house, but there was vodka in the fridge. "When you're in your twenties," Jessica thought (that group of people she'd reluctantly left behind only recently), "you have priorities."
  "If you could hold off on that for a moment, I'd appreciate it," Byrne said, his manner making his commands sound like polite requests.
  Sonya nodded, put down the glass and bottle, took a napkin from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.
  "Do you know where Christina did her laundry?" Byrne asked.
  "No," Sonya said. "But she often did it late at night."
  "How late?"
  "Eleven o'clock. Maybe midnight.
  "What about guys? Did she have someone she dated?
  "No, not that I know of," she said.
  Jessica pointed toward the stairs. "The bedrooms are upstairs?" She said it as kindly as she could. She knew Sonya had every right to ask them to leave.
  "Yes."
  - Do you mind if I take a quick look?
  Sonya thought for a moment. "No," she said. "It's fine."
  Jessica walked up the stairs and stopped. "What kind of bedroom did Christina have?"
  "The one in the back."
  Sonya turned to Byrne and raised her glass. Byrne nodded. Sonya sank to the floor and took a huge gulp of ice-cold vodka. She immediately poured herself another.
  Jessica walked upstairs, down the short hallway, and into the back bedroom.
  A small box containing an alarm clock sat next to a rolled-up futon in the corner. A white terrycloth robe hung on a hook at the back of the door. This was a young woman's apartment in its early days. There were no paintings or posters on the walls. There were none of the elaborate decorations one might expect in a young woman's bedroom.
  Jessica thought of Christina, standing right where she was. Christina, considering her new life in her new house, all the possibilities you'll have when you're twenty-four. Christina imagines a room full of Thomasville or Henredon furniture. New carpets, new lamps, new bedding. A new life.
  Jessica crossed the room and opened the closet door. The clothes bags contained only a few dresses and sweaters, all fairly new, all of good quality. Certainly nothing like the dress Christina had been wearing when she was found on the riverbank. There were also no baskets or bags of freshly washed clothes.
  Jessica took a step back, trying to take in the atmosphere. Like a detective, how many closets had she looked in? How many drawers? How many glove compartments, suitcases, hope chests, and purses? How many lifetimes had Jessica lived as a boundary trespasser?
  There was a cardboard box on the closet floor. She opened it. Inside were cloth-wrapped glass animal figurines-mostly turtles, squirrels, and a few birds. There were also Hummels: miniatures of rosy-cheeked children playing the violin, flute, and piano. Below sat a beautiful wooden music box. It looked like walnut, with a pink and white ballerina inlaid on top. Jessica took it out and opened it. The box contained no jewelry, but it played "The Sleeping Beauty Waltz." The notes echoed in the nearly empty room, a sad melody marking the end of a young life.
  
  
  
  The detectives met at the Roundhouse and compared notes.
  "The van belonged to a man named Harold Sima," said Josh Bontrager. He spent the day researching vehicles at the Manayunk crime scene. "Mr. Sima lived in Glenwood, but sadly died untimely after falling down a flight of stairs in September of this year. He was 86. His son admitted to leaving the van in the lot a month ago. He said he couldn't afford to tow it and dump it. The Chevrolet belonged to a woman named Estelle Jesperson, a former Powelton resident.
  "Late, like dead?" Jessica asked.
  "Late, like deceased," Bontrager said. "She died of a massive coronary three weeks ago. Her son-in-law left the car in this parking lot. He works in East Falls.
  "Have you checked everyone?" Byrne asked.
  "I did," Bontrager said. "Nothing."
  Byrne briefed Ike Buchanan on their current findings and potential avenues for further investigation. As they prepared to leave, Byrne asked Bontrager a question that had likely been on his mind all day.
  "So where are you from, Josh?" Byrne asked. "Originally."
  "I'm from a small town near Bechtelsville," he said.
  Byrne nodded. "You grew up on a farm?"
  "Oh, yes. My family is Amish."
  The word echoed through the duty room like a ricocheting .22-caliber bullet. At least ten detectives heard it and immediately became intrigued by the piece of paper in front of them. It took all Jessica could do not to glance at Byrne. An Amish homicide cop. She'd been to the beach and back, as the saying goes, but this was something new.
  "Is your family Amish?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes," Bontrager said. "However, I decided long ago not to join the church."
  Byrne just nodded.
  "Have you ever tried Bontrager's special canned food?" Bontrager asked.
  "Never had the pleasure."
  "It's really good. Black plum, strawberry rhubarb. We even make a great peanut butter schmear."
  More silence. The room turned into a morgue, full of corpses in suits with silent lips.
  "Nothing beats a good schmear," Byrne said. "That's my motto."
  Bontrager laughed. "Uh-huh. Don't worry, I've heard all the jokes. I can take it."
  "Any Amish jokes?" Byrne asked.
  "We're going to party like it's 1699 tonight," Bontrager said. "You must be Amish if you ask, 'Does this shade of black make me look fat?'"
  Byrne smiled. "Not bad."
  "And then there's the Amish pickup lines," Bontrager said. "Do you build barns often? Can I buy you a buttermilk colada? Are you going to plow?"
  Jessica laughed. Byrne laughed.
  "Hell yeah," Bontrager said, blushing at his own ribald humor. "Like I said. I've heard them all."
  Jessica glanced around the room. She knew people from the homicide squad. She had a feeling Detective Joshua Bontrager would soon hear from a few new ones.
  OceanofPDF.com
  10
  Midnight. The river was black and quiet.
  Byrne stood on the riverbank in Manayunk. He glanced back toward the road. There were no streetlights. The parking lot was dark, shadowed by the moonlight. If anyone had stopped at that moment, even to look back, Byrne would have been invisible. The only illumination came from the headlights of cars traveling on the expressway, flickering on the other side of the river.
  A madman could place his victim on the riverbank and take his time, submitting to the madness that ruled his world.
  Philadelphia had two rivers. While the Delaware was the city's working soul, the Schuylkill and its winding course always held a dark fascination for Byrne.
  Byrne's father, Padraig, worked as a longshoreman his entire working life. Byrne owed his childhood, education, and life to water. In elementary school, he learned that Schuylkill means "hidden river." Throughout his years in Philadelphia-and that was Kevin Byrne's entire life, excluding his time in the military-he viewed the river as a mystery. It was over a hundred miles long, and he frankly had no idea where it led. From the oil refineries of Southwest Philadelphia to Chaumont and beyond, he worked in banks as a police officer, but never truly ventured beyond his jurisdiction, an authority that ended where Philadelphia County became Montgomery County.
  He looked at the dark water. In it, he saw Anton Krots's face. He saw Krots's eyes.
  Good to see you again, detective.
  For perhaps the thousandth time in the last few days, Byrne doubted himself. Was he hesitating out of fear? Was he responsible for Laura Clarke's death? He realized that over the past year or so, he'd begun to question himself more than ever, to see the structure of his indecision. When he was a young, brash street cop, he'd known-knew-that every decision he'd made was the right one.
  He closed his eyes.
  The good news was, the visions were gone. For the most part. For years, he'd been tormented and blessed by a vague second sight, the ability to sometimes see things at crime scenes no one else could, an ability that had emerged years earlier when he'd been pronounced dead after being submerged in the icy Delaware River. The visions were linked to migraines-or so he'd convinced himself-and when he'd taken a bullet to the brain from a psychopath's gun, the headaches had stopped. He, too, thought the visions were gone. But every now and then, they'd return with a vengeance, sometimes for just a split second. He'd learned to accept it. Sometimes, it was just a glimpse of a face, a snippet of sound, a flickering vision, not unlike something you might see in a joke house mirror.
  Premonitions had been less frequent lately, and that was a good thing. But Byrne knew that at any moment he could lay his hand on the victim's arm or touch something at the crime scene, and he would feel that terrible rush, that terrifying knowledge that would lead him into the dark corners of the killer's mind.
  How did Natalia Yakos find out about him?
  When Byrne opened his eyes, the image of Anton Krotz had vanished. Now another pair of eyes appeared. Byrne thought of the man who had carried Christina Jakos here, of the raging storm of madness that had driven someone to do what he had done to her. Byrne stepped onto the edge of the dock, the very spot where they had discovered Christina's body. He felt a dark thrill, knowing he was standing in the same spot where the killer had stood just days before. He felt images seeping into his consciousness, saw the man...
  - cutting through skin, muscle, flesh, and bone... touching the wounds with a blowtorch... dressing Christina Yakos in that strange dress... slipping one arm through the sleeve, then the other, as if dressing a sleeping child, her cold flesh unresponsive to his touch... carrying Christina Yakos to the riverbank under the cover of night... he got his twisted scenario right when...
  - I heard something.
  Steps?
  Byrne's peripheral vision caught a silhouette just a few feet away: a huge black shape emerging from the deep shadows...
  He turned to face the figure, his pulse pounding in his ears and his hand resting on his weapon.
  There was no one there.
  He needed sleep.
  Byrne drove home to his two-bedroom apartment in South Philadelphia.
  She wanted to be a dancer.
  Byrne thought about his daughter, Colleen. She'd been deaf since birth, but it had never stopped her or even slowed her down. She was an excellent student, a terrific athlete. Byrne wondered what her dreams were. When she was little, she'd wanted to be a police officer like him. He'd immediately talked her out of it. Then there was the obligatory ballerina scene, triggered when he took her to a hearing-impaired production of The Nutcracker. Over the past few years, she'd talked quite a bit about becoming a teacher. Had that changed? Had he asked her about it lately? He made a mental note to do so. She'd rolled her eyes, of course, and made signs at him, telling him he was so weird. He'd still do it.
  He wondered if Christina's father ever asked his little girl about her dreams.
  
  
  
  Byrne found a spot on the street and parked. He locked the car, entered his house, and climbed the steps. Either he was getting older, or the steps were getting steeper.
  It must be the last one, he thought.
  He was still in his prime.
  
  
  
  From the darkness of the vacant lot across the street, a man watched Byrne. He saw the light come on in the detective's second-story window, his large shadow gliding across the blinds. From his perspective, he witnessed a man returning home to a life that was in every way the same as the day before, and the day before. A man who had found reason, meaning, and purpose in his life.
  He envied Byrne as much as he hated him.
  The man was slight of build, with small hands and feet and thinning brown hair. He wore a dark coat and was ordinary in every way except for his penchant for mourning-an unexpected and unwelcome tendency he would never have believed possible at this stage of his life.
  For Matthew Clark, the essence of grief settled like a dead weight in the pit of his stomach. His nightmare began the moment Anton Krotz led his wife out of that booth. He would never forget his wife's hand on the back of the booth, her pale skin and painted nails. The terrifying glint of a knife at her throat. The hellish roar of a special forces rifle. Blood.
  Matthew Clark's world was in a tailspin. He didn't know what the next day would bring or how he could continue living. He didn't know how to bring himself to do the simplest things: order breakfast, make a phone call, pay a bill, or pick up dry cleaning.
  Laura took the dress to the dry cleaners.
  Nice to see you, they said. How is Laura?
  Dead.
  Killed.
  He didn't know how he would react to these inevitable situations. Who could have known? What preparation had he had for this? Would he find a face brave enough to respond? It wasn't as if she had died of breast cancer, or leukemia, or a brain tumor. Not that he had time to prepare. Her throat had been slit in a diner, the most humiliating and public death imaginable. And all under the watchful eye of the Philadelphia Police Department. And now her children would live their lives without her. Their mother was gone. His best friend was gone. How could he accept all of this?
  Despite all this uncertainty, Matthew Clarke was certain of one thing. One fact was as obvious to him as knowing that rivers flow into the sea, and as clear as the crystal dagger of sorrow in his heart.
  Detective Kevin Francis Byrne's nightmare was just beginning.
  OceanofPDF.com
  PART TWO
  Nightingale
  
  OceanofPDF.com
  11
  "Rats and Cats".
  "Hm?"
  Roland Hanna closed his eyes for a moment. Every time Charles said "uh-huh," it was like fingernails on a chalkboard. It had been that way for a long time, since they were children. Charles was his half-brother, slow to speak, cheerful in his outlook and demeanor. Roland loved this man more than he'd ever loved anyone in his life.
  Charles was younger than Roland, supernaturally strong, and incredibly loyal. He'd proven time and again that he'd give his life for Roland. Instead of scolding his half-brother for the thousandth time, Roland continued. A scolding was useless, and Charles was very easily wounded. "That's all there is," Roland said. "You're either a rat or a cat. There's nothing else."
  "No," Charles said in complete agreement. This was his way. "Nothing more."
  - Remind me to write this down.
  Charles nodded, captivated by the concept, as if Roland had just deciphered the Rosetta Stone.
  They were driving south on Highway 299, approaching the Millington Wildlife Refuge in Maryland. The weather in Philadelphia had been bitterly cold, but here the winter had been a little milder. That was good. It meant the ground hadn't frozen deep yet.
  And while this was good news for the two men sitting in the front of the van, it was probably worse news for the man lying face down in the back, a man whose day hadn't been going so well to begin with.
  
  
  
  ROLAND HANNAH was tall and lithe, muscular, and articulate, though he had received no formal education. He wore no jewelry, kept his hair short, was clean, and wore modest, well-pressed clothes. He was a product of Appalachia, a child of Letcher County, Kentucky, whose mother and father's ancestry and criminal record could be traced to the hollows of Mount Helvetia, and nothing more. When Roland was four, his mother abandoned Jubal Hannah-a cruel, abusive man who had, on many occasions, robbed him of the burden of his wife and child-and moved her son to North Philadelphia. Specifically, to an area known derisively, but quite accurately, as the Badlands.
  Within a year, Artemisia Hannah married a man far worse than her first husband, a man who controlled every aspect of her life, a man who gave her two spoiled children. When Walton Lee Waite was killed in a botched robbery in North Liberties, Artemisia-a woman with fragile mental health, a woman who viewed the world through the lens of growing madness-drew into the bottle, into self-harm, into the devil's caresses. By the age of twelve, Roland was already caring for his family, holding various jobs, many of them criminal, evading the police, social services, and gangs. Somehow, he outlived them all.
  At fifteen, Roland Hanna, through no choice of his own, found a new path.
  
  
  
  The man Roland and Charles transported from Philadelphia was named Basil Spencer. He was molesting a young woman.
  Spencer was forty-four years old, extremely overweight and equally overeducated. He worked as a real estate attorney in Bala Cynwyd, and his client list consisted primarily of elderly, wealthy widows from the Main Line. His taste for young women had developed many years earlier. Roland had no idea how many times Spencer had committed similar lewd and defiling acts, but it really didn't matter. On this day, at this time, they were meeting in the name of a single innocent person.
  By nine o'clock in the morning, the sun was breaking through the treetops. Spencer knelt beside a freshly dug grave, a hole roughly four feet deep, three feet wide, and six feet long. His hands were tied behind his back with strong twine. Despite the cold, his clothes were soaked with sweat.
  "Do you know who I am, Mr. Spencer?" Roland asked.
  Spencer looked around, clearly apprehensive about his own answer. In truth, he wasn't exactly sure who Roland was-he'd never seen him until the blindfold had been removed half an hour earlier. Finally, Spencer said, "No."
  "I'm another shadow," Roland replied. There was the slightest trace of his mother's Kentucky accent in his voice, though he had long since lost her accent to the streets of North Philadelphia.
  "What... what?" Spencer asked.
  "I'm a dot on another person's X-ray, Mr. Spencer. I'm the car that runs the red light just after you pass the intersection. I'm the rudder that fails earlier in the flight. You've never seen my face because, until today, I was what happens to everyone else."
  "You don't understand," Spencer said.
  "Enlighten me," Roland replied, wondering what kind of complicated situation awaited him this time. He glanced at his watch. "You have one minute."
  "She was eighteen," Spencer said.
  "She's not thirteen years old yet."
  "This is crazy! Have you seen her?"
  "I have."
  "She was ready. I didn't force her to do anything."
  "That's not what I heard. I heard you took her to the basement of your house. I heard you kept her in the dark, fed her drugs. Was it amyl nitrite? Poppers, what do you call them?
  "You can't do that," Spencer said. "You don't know who I am."
  "I know exactly who you are. What's more important is where you are. Look around. You're in the middle of a field, your hands tied behind your back, begging for your life. Do you feel like the choices you've made in this life have served you well?"
  No answer. Nothing was expected.
  "Tell me about Fairmount Park," Roland asked. "April 1995. Two girls."
  "What?"
  "Confess what you did, Mr. Spencer. Confess what you did then, and perhaps you will live to see this day."
  Spencer looked from Roland to Charles. "I don't know what you're talking about."
  Roland nodded to Charles. Charles took the shovel. Basil Spencer began to cry.
  "What are you going to do with me?" Spencer asked.
  Without a word, Roland kicked Basil Spencer in the chest, sending the man flying back into the grave. As Roland stepped forward, he smelled feces. Basil Spencer was dirty. They all did this.
  "Here's what I'll do for you," Roland said. "I'll talk to the girl. If she truly was a willing participant, I'll come back and get you, and you'll take this experience with you as the greatest lesson of your life. If not, perhaps you can find a way out. Perhaps not."
  Roland reached into his gym bag and pulled out a long PVC hose. The plastic tube was corrugated, gooseneck-type, one inch in diameter and four feet long. At one end was a mouthpiece similar to those used in pulmonary examinations. Roland held the tube to Basil Spencer's face. "Grip it with your teeth."
  Spencer turned his head, the reality of the moment too much to bear.
  "As you wish," Roland said. He put the hose away.
  "No!" Spencer screamed. "I want it!"
  Roland hesitated, then placed the hose back on Spencer's face. This time, Spencer clamped his teeth tightly around the mouthpiece.
  Roland nodded to Charles, who placed lavender gloves on the man's chest and then began shoveling dirt into the hole. When he finished, the pipeline protruded about five or six inches from the ground. Roland could hear the frantic, wet inhalations and exhalations of air through the narrow tube, a sound not unlike that of a suction tube in a dentist's office. Charles tamped the dirt down. He and Roland approached the van.
  A few minutes later, Roland pulled the car over to the grave and left the engine running. He climbed out and pulled out a long rubber hose from the back, this one larger in diameter than the plastic tube with the flexible neck. He walked to the back of the van and attached one end to the exhaust pipe. He placed the other end on a pipe sticking out of the ground.
  Roland listened, waiting until the sucking sounds began to fade, his thoughts drifting for a moment to a place where two young girls had leaped along the banks of the Wissahickon many years ago, with the eye of God shining like a golden sun above them.
  
  
  
  The congregation was dressed in its finest: eighty-one people gathered in a small church on Allegheny Avenue. The air was thick with the scent of floral perfume, tobacco, and no small amount of whiskey from the boarding house.
  The pastor emerged from the back room to the strains of a five-piece choir singing "This Is the Day the Lord Has Made." His deacon soon followed. Wilma Goodloe took lead vocals; her resonant voice was a true blessing.
  The parishioners rose to their feet at the sight of the pastor. The good Lord reigned.
  A few moments later, the pastor approached the podium and raised his hand. He waited for the music to fade, for his congregation to disperse, for the spirit to touch him. As always, it did. He began slowly. He constructed his message the way a builder builds a house: excavations of sin, a foundation of Scripture, solid walls of praise, crowned with a roof of glorious tribute. Twenty minutes later, he brought it home.
  "But make no mistake: there is much darkness in the world," the pastor said.
  "Darkness," someone responded.
  "Oh yes," the pastor continued. "Oh God, yes. This is a dark and terrible time."
  "Yes sir."
  "But darkness is not darkness to the Lord."
  "No, sir."
  - Not darkness at all.
  "No."
  The pastor walked around the pulpit. He folded his hands in prayer. Some of the congregation stood. "Ephesians 5:11 says, 'Do not have fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness, but rather expose them.'"
  "Yes sir."
  "Paul says: 'Everything that is illuminated by light becomes visible, and where everything is visible, there is light.'"
  "Light."
  A few moments later, when the sermon ended, a commotion broke out in the congregation. The tambourines began to sing.
  Pastor Roland Hanna and Deacon Charles Waite were on fire. That day, news broke in heaven, and the news was the New Page Church of the Divine Flame.
  The pastor surveyed his congregation. He thought of Basil Spencer, of how he had learned of Spencer's terrible deeds. People would tell their pastor many things. Children included. He had heard many truths from children's lips. And he would reach out to them all. In time. But there was something that had lain stagnant in his soul for over a decade, something that had swallowed every drop of joy in his life, something that woke with him, walked with him, slept with him, and prayed with him. There was a man who had stolen his spirit. Roland was drawing near. He could feel it. Soon he would find the right one. Until then, as before, he would do God's work.
  The choir's voices rose in unison. The rafters shook with reverence. "On this day, the brimstone will sparkle and glitter," thought Roland Hanna.
  Oh my god, yes.
  The day that God truly made.
  OceanofPDF.com
  12
  St. Seraphim Church was a tall, narrow structure on Sixth Street in North Philadelphia. Founded in 1897, the church, with its cream-colored stucco facade, soaring turrets, and golden onion domes, was an impressive building, one of the oldest Russian Orthodox churches in Philadelphia. Jessica, raised Catholic, knew little about Orthodox Christian faiths. She knew that there were similarities in the practices of confession and communion, but nothing more.
  Byrne attended the review board meeting and the press conference regarding the diner incident. The review board was mandatory; there was no press conference. But Jessica had never seen Byrne shirk his actions. He would be there, front and center, badge polished, shoes shined. It seemed the families of Laura Clark and Anton Krotz felt the police should have handled this difficult situation differently. The press had covered it all. Jessica wanted to be there as a show of support, but she was ordered to continue the investigation. Christina Jakos deserved a timely investigation. Not to mention the very real fear that her killer was still at large.
  Jessica and Byrne would meet later that day, and she would keep him informed of any developments. If it was late, they would meet at Finnigan's Wake. A retirement party was planned for the detective that evening. Police officers never miss a retirement party.
  Jessica called the church and arranged a meeting with Father Grigory Panov. While Jessica conducted the interview, Josh Bontrager surveyed the surrounding area.
  
  
  
  Jessica noticed a young priest, about twenty-five or so. He was cheerful, clean-shaven, and dressed in black pants and a black shirt. She handed him her business card and introduced herself. They shook hands. A glint of mischief flashed in his eyes.
  "What should I call you?" Jessica asked.
  - Father Greg will be okay.
  For as long as Jessica could remember, she had treated men from high society with a fawning deference. Priests, rabbis, ministers. In her line of work, this was dangerous-clergy, of course, could be just as guilty of crime as anyone else-but she couldn't seem to help it. The Catholic school mentality was deeply ingrained. More like downtrodden.
  Jessica took out her notebook.
  "I understand that Christina Yakos was a volunteer here," Jessica said.
  "Yes. I believe she's still here." Father Greg had dark, intelligent eyes and faint laugh lines. His expression told Jessica that her verb tense hadn't escaped him. He walked to the door and opened it. He called someone. A few seconds later, a pretty, fair-haired girl of about fourteen approached and spoke quietly to him in Ukrainian. Jessica heard Kristina's name mentioned. The girl left. Father Greg returned.
  "Christina is not here today."
  Jessica gathered her courage and said what she wanted to say. It had been harder to say in church. "I'm afraid I have bad news, Father. Christina has been murdered."
  Father Greg paled. He was a priest from a poor part of North Philadelphia, so he'd probably been prepared for this news, but that didn't mean everything was always easy. He glanced at Jessica's business card. "You're from Homicide."
  "Yes."
  - Do you mean to say that she was killed?
  "Yes."
  Father Greg looked at the floor for a moment and closed his eyes. He placed his hand over his heart. Taking a deep breath, he looked up and asked, "How can I help?"
  Jessica picked up her notepad. "I just have a few questions."
  "Whatever you need." He pointed to a couple of chairs. "Please." They sat down.
  "What can you tell me about Christina?" Jessica asked.
  Father Greg paused for a few minutes. "I didn't know her very well, but I can tell you she was very outgoing," he said. "Very generous. The kids really liked her."
  - What exactly was she doing here?
  "She helped out in Sunday school classes. Mostly as a helper. But she was willing to do anything."
  "For example."
  "Well, in preparation for our Christmas concert, she, like many volunteers, painted scenery, sewed costumes, and helped assemble the scenery."
  "Christmas concert?"
  "Yes."
  "And this concert is this week?"
  Father Greg shook his head. "No. Our Holy Divine Liturgies are celebrated according to the Julian calendar."
  The Julian calendar seemed to ring a bell for Jessica, but she couldn't remember what it was. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with it."
  "The Julian calendar was established by Julius Caesar in 46 BC. It's sometimes referred to as OS, meaning Old Style. Unfortunately, for many of our younger parishioners, OS means operating system. I'm afraid the Julian calendar is terribly outdated in a world of computers, cell phones, and DirecTV."
  - So you don"t celebrate Christmas on December twenty-fifth?
  "No," he said. "I'm not a scholar in these matters, but as I understand it, unlike the Gregorian calendar, due to the solstices and equinoxes, the Julian calendar adds a full day every 134 years or so. Thus, we celebrate Christmas on January 7th."
  "Ah," Jessica said. "Good way to take advantage of the after-Christmas sales." She tried to lighten the mood. She hoped she hadn't sounded disrespectful.
  Father Greg's smile lit up his face. He really was a handsome young man. "And Easter candy, too."
  "Can you find out when Christina was last here?" Jessica asked.
  "Of course." He stood up and walked over to the huge calendar pinned to the wall behind his desk. He scanned the dates. "That would have been a week ago today."
  - And you haven't seen her since then?
  "I don't."
  Jessica had to get to the hard part. She didn't know how to do it, so she jumped in. "Do you know anyone who might want to hurt her? A spurned suitor, an ex-boyfriend, something like that? Maybe someone here at church?"
  Father Greg's brow narrowed. It was clear he didn't want to think of any of his flock as potential killers. But there seemed to be an air of ancient wisdom about him, tempered by a strong sense of the street. Jessica was certain he understood the ways of the city and the darker impulses of the heart. He walked around the far end of the table and sat down again. "I didn't know her that well, but people say, right?"
  "Certainly."
  "I understand that no matter how cheerful she was, there was sadness in her."
  "How so?"
  "She seemed remorseful. Perhaps there was something in her life that filled her with guilt."
  "It was like she was doing something she was ashamed of," Sonya said.
  "Any idea what it could be?" Jessica asked.
  "No," he said. "I'm sorry. But I must tell you that sadness is common among Ukrainians. We are a sociable people, but we have a difficult history."
  "Are you saying she might have harmed herself?"
  Father Greg shook his head. "I can't say for sure, but I don't think so."
  "Do you think she was someone who would deliberately put herself in danger? Take a risk?
  "Again, I don't know. She just...
  He stopped abruptly, running his hand across his chin. Jessica gave him a chance to continue. He didn't.
  "What were you going to say?" she asked.
  - Do you have a few minutes?
  "Absolutely."
  "There's something you need to see."
  Father Greg rose from his chair and crossed the small room. In one corner sat a metal cart with a nineteen-inch television. Beneath it was a VHS player. Father Greg turned on the television, then walked over to a glass cabinet filled with books and tapes. He paused for a moment and then pulled out a VHS tape. He inserted the tape into the VCR and pressed play.
  A few moments later, an image appeared. It was handheld, shot in low light. The image on the screen quickly morphed into Greg's father. He had shorter hair and wore a simple white shirt. He was sitting on a chair surrounded by small children. He was reading them a fable, a story about an elderly couple and their granddaughter, a little girl who could fly. Behind him stood Christina Yakos.
  On screen, Christina was wearing faded jeans and a black Temple University sweatshirt. When Father Greg finished his story, he stood up and pulled away his chair. The children gathered around Christina. It turned out she was teaching them a folk dance. Her students were about a dozen five- and six-year-old girls, charming in their red and green Christmas outfits. Some were dressed in traditional Ukrainian costumes. All the girls looked at Christina as if she were a fairytale princess. The camera panned left to reveal Father Greg at his battered spinet. He began to play. The camera panned back to Christina and the children.
  Jessica glanced at the priest. Father Greg watched the video with rapt attention. Jessica could see his eyes shining.
  In the video, all the children were watching Christina's slow, measured movements, mimicking her actions. Jessica wasn't particularly skilled at dancing, but Christina Yakos seemed to move with a delicate grace. Jessica couldn't help but notice Sophie in this small group. She thought of how Sophie often followed Jessica around the house, mimicking her movements.
  On the screen, when the music finally stopped, little girls were running around in circles, eventually crashing into each other and falling in a giggling, colorful heap. Christina Yakos laughed as she helped them to their feet.
  Father Greg pressed PAUSE, freezing Christina's smiling, slightly blurry image on the screen. He turned back to Jessica, his face a collage of joy, confusion, and grief. "As you can see, she will be missed."
  Jessica nodded, at a loss for words. Just recently, she'd seen Christina Yakos posing dead, horribly mutilated. Now the young woman was smiling at her. Father Greg broke the awkward silence.
  "You were raised Catholic," he said.
  It seemed to be a statement rather than a question. "What makes you think that?"
  He handed her a business card. "Detective Balzano."
  "That's my married name."
  "Ah," he said.
  "But yes, I was. I am." She laughed. "I mean, I'm still Catholic."
  "Are you practicing?"
  Jessica was right in her assumptions. Orthodox and Catholic priests really do have a lot in common. They both had a way of making you feel like a pagan. "I'll try."
  "Like all of us."
  Jessica looked through her notes. "Can you think of anything else that might help us?"
  "Nothing comes to mind immediately. But I'll ask some of the people here who knew Christina best," Father Greg said. "Maybe someone will know something."
  "I'd appreciate it," Jessica said. "Thank you for your time."
  "Please. I'm sorry it happened on such a tragic day."
  Putting on her coat by the door, Jessica glanced back at the small office. A gloomy gray light filtered through the leaded glass windows. Her last image from St. Seraphim was of Father Greg, his arms crossed, his face pensive, looking at a still image of Christina Yakos.
  OceanofPDF.com
  13
  The press conference was a veritable zoo. It took place in front of the Roundhouse, near the statue of a policeman holding a child. This entrance was closed to the public.
  There were about twenty reporters there today - print, radio, and television. On the tabloid menu: fried cop. The media were a slavish horde.
  Whenever a police officer was involved in a controversial shooting (or a shooting that was controversial, whether caused by a special interest group, a reporter with a blunt axe, or any number of headline-grabbing reasons), the police department was charged with responding. Depending on the circumstances, the task would be assigned to different responders. Sometimes it was law enforcement officers, sometimes a specific district commander, sometimes even the commissioner himself, if the situation and city politics dictated it. Press conferences were as necessary as they were annoying. It was time for the department to come together and create one of its own.
  The conference was moderated by Andrea Churchill, the public information officer. A former patrol officer in the Twenty-Sixth Precinct, Andrea Churchill was in her forties, and she'd been seen more than once stopping inappropriate interrogations with a glare from her icy blue eyes. During her time on the streets, she'd received sixteen merit awards, fifteen commendations, six Fraternal Order of Police awards, and the Danny Boyle Award. For Andrea Churchill, a gaggle of noisy, bloodthirsty reporters was a tasty breakfast.
  Byrne stood behind her. To his right was Ike Buchanan. Behind him, in a loose semicircle, walked seven more detectives, faces in place, jaws firm, badges in front. The temperature was about fifteen degrees. They could have held the conference in the Roundhouse lobby. The decision to keep a group of reporters waiting in the cold had not gone unnoticed. The conference, mercifully, ended.
  "We are confident that Detective Byrne followed procedure to the letter of the law on that terrible night," Churchill said.
  "What is the procedure in this situation?" This is from the Daily News.
  "There are certain rules of engagement. An officer must prioritize the hostage's life."
  - Was Detective Byrne on duty?
  - He was not on duty at the time.
  - Will Detective Byrne be charged?
  "As you know, it's up to the District Attorney's Office. But at this point, we've been told there will be no charges."
  Byrne knew exactly how things would go. The media had already begun a public rehabilitation of Anton Krotz-his terrible childhood, his cruel treatment by the system. There was also an article about Laura Clark. Byrne was sure she was a wonderful woman, but the piece transformed her into a saint. She worked at a local hospice, helped rescue greyhounds, and spent a year in the Peace Corps.
  "Is it true that Mr. Krotz was once in police custody and then released?" asked a City Paper reporter.
  "Mr. Krotz was questioned by police two years ago in connection with the murder, but was released due to insufficient evidence." Andrea Churchill glanced at her watch. "If there are no further questions at this time..."
  "She shouldn't have died." The words came from deep within the crowd. It was a plaintive voice, hoarse with exhaustion.
  All heads turned. Cameras followed him. Matthew Clark stood at the back of the crowd. His hair was disheveled, he had a beard that was several days old, and he wore no coat or gloves, only a suit that he had apparently slept in. He looked miserable. Or, more accurately, pathetic.
  "He can go about his life as if nothing happened," Clarke pointed an accusing finger at Kevin Byrne. "What do I get? What do my kids get?"
  For the press, it was fresh chum salmon in water.
  A reporter from The Report, a weekly tabloid with which Byrne had a less-than-friendly history, shouted, "Detective Byrne, how do you feel about the fact that a woman was murdered right before your eyes?"
  Byrne felt the Irishman rise, his fists clenching. Flashes erupted. "What am I feeling?" Byrne asked. Ike Buchanan placed a hand on his shoulder. Byrne wanted to say much more, much more, but Ike's grip tightened, and he understood what it meant.
  Be cool.
  As Clark approached Byrne, a pair of uniformed officers grabbed him and dragged him out of the building. More flashes.
  "Tell us, Detective! How are you feeling?" Clarke screamed.
  Clark was drunk. Everyone knew it, but who could blame him? He'd just lost his wife to violence. The officers drove him to the corner of Eighth and Race and released him. Clark tried to smooth his hair and clothes, to find some dignity in the moment. The officers-a couple of large men in their twenties-blocked his way back.
  A few seconds later, Clarke disappeared around the corner. The last thing any of them heard was Matthew Clarke's scream, "It's... not... over!"
  A stunned silence fell over the crowd for a moment, then all the reporters and cameras turned to Byrne. Questions rang out under a blitzkrieg of flashing lights.
  - ...could this have been prevented?
  - ...what to tell the victim"s daughters?
  - ...would you do it if you had to do it all over again?
  Protected by the blue wall, Detective Kevin Byrne headed back into the building.
  OceanofPDF.com
  14
  They met in the church basement every week. Sometimes there were only three people present, sometimes more than a dozen. Some people returned again and again. Others came once, poured out their grief, and never returned. New Page Ministry asked for neither fees nor donations. The door was always open-sometimes a knock would sound in the middle of the night, often on holidays-and there were always baked goods and coffee for everyone. Smoking was definitely allowed.
  They hadn't planned to meet in the church basement for long. Donations were constantly pouring in for the bright, spacious space on Second Street. They were currently renovating the building-currently drywalling, then painting. With luck, they'd be able to meet there sometime early in the year.
  Now, the church basement was a refuge, as it had been for many years, a familiar place where tears were shed, perspectives were renewed, and lives were mended. For Pastor Roland Hanna, it was a portal to the souls of his flock, the source of a river flowing deep into their hearts.
  They were all victims of violent crime. Or relatives of someone who was. Robberies, assaults, robberies, rapes, murders. Kensington was a rough part of town, and it was unlikely that anyone walking the streets hadn't been affected by crime. These were the people who wanted to talk about it, the people who had been changed by the experience, the ones whose souls cried out for answers, for meaning, for salvation.
  Today, six people sat in a semicircle on unfolded chairs.
  "I didn't hear him," Sadie said. "He was quiet. He came up behind me, hit me on the head, stole my wallet, and ran away."
  Sadie Pierce was about seventy. She was a thin, wiry woman with long, arthritis-bound hands and henna-dyed hair. She always wore bright red from head to toe. She had once been a singer, working in the 1950s in Catskill County, known as the Scarlet Blackbird.
  "Did they take your things?" Roland asked.
  Sadie looked at him, and that was the answer everyone needed. Everyone knew the police weren't inclined or interested in tracking down some old lady's taped, patched, and battered wallet, no matter what it contained.
  "How are you doing?" Roland asked.
  "Exactly," she said. "It wasn't much money, but they were personal items, you know? Photos of my Henry. And then all my documents. You can hardly buy a cup of coffee these days without ID."
  "Tell Charles what you need and we'll make sure you pay for the bus fare to the relevant agencies."
  "Thank you, Pastor," Sadie said. "Bless you."
  New Page Ministry meetings were informal, but always moved clockwise. If you wanted to speak but needed time to organize your thoughts, you sat to Pastor Roland's right. And so it went. Next to Sadie Pierce sat a man everyone knew only by his first name, Sean.
  Shawn, a quiet, respectful, and modest twenty-something, joined the group about a year ago and attended more than a dozen times. At first, not unlike someone entering a twelve-step program like Alcoholics Anonymous or Gamblers Anonymous-unsure of their need for the group or its usefulness-Shawn hung around the periphery, hugging the walls, staying for just a few days at a time, a few minutes at a time. Eventually, he moved closer and closer. On those days, he sat with the group. He always left a small donation in the jar. He hadn't yet told his story.
  "Welcome back, Brother Sean," Roland said.
  Sean blushed slightly and smiled. "Hi."
  "How are you feeling?" Roland asked.
  Sean cleared his throat. "Okay, I guess."
  Months ago, Roland had given Sean a brochure from CBH, a community-based behavioral health organization. He hadn't realized Sean had made an appointment. Asking about it would have made things worse, so Roland held his tongue.
  "Is there anything you would like to share today?" Roland asked.
  Sean hesitated. He wrung his hands. "No, I'm fine, thanks. I think I'll just listen."
  "God is a good man," Roland said. "Bless you, Brother Sean."
  Roland turned to the woman next to Sean. Her name was Evelyn Reyes. She was a large woman in her late forties, diabetic, and walked most of the time with a cane. She had never spoken before. Roland could tell it was time. "Let's welcome back Sister Evelyn."
  "Welcome," they all said.
  Evelyn looked from face to face. "I don't know if I can."
  "You are in the house of the Lord, Sister Evelyn. You are among friends. Nothing can harm you here," Roland said. "Do you believe this is true?"
  She nodded.
  "Please, spare yourself the grief. When you're ready."
  She began her story carefully. "It started a long time ago." Her eyes filled with tears. Charles brought a box of tissues, stepped back, and sat in a chair by the door. Evelyn grabbed a napkin, dabbed at her eyes, and mouthed a thank you. She took another long moment and continued. "We were a big family back then," she said. "Ten brothers and sisters. About twenty cousins. Over the years, we all married and had children. Every year we had picnics, big family get-togethers."
  "Where did you meet?" Roland asked.
  "Sometimes in the spring and summer we would meet on the Belmont Plateau. But most often we met at my house. You know, on Jasper Street?
  Roland nodded. "Please continue."
  "Well, my daughter Dina was just a little girl at the time. She had the biggest brown eyes. A shy smile. Kind of a tomboy, you know? Loved to play boyish games."
  Evelyn frowned and took a deep breath.
  "We didn"t know it then," she continued, "but at some family gatherings she was having... problems with someone."
  "Who was she having problems with?" Roland asked.
  "It was her uncle Edgar. Edgar Luna. My sister's husband. Ex-husband now. They would play together. At least, that's what we thought at the time. He was an adult, but we didn't think much of it. He was part of our family, right?"
  "Yes," said Roland.
  "Over the years, Dina became quieter and quieter. As a teenager, she rarely played with friends, didn't go to the movies or the mall. We all thought she was going through a shy phase. You know how kids can be.
  "Oh God, yes," Roland said.
  "Well, time went on. Dina grew up. Then, just a few years ago, she had a breakdown. Like a nervous breakdown. She couldn't work. She couldn't do anything. We couldn't afford any professional help for her, so we did the best we could."
  "Of course you did."
  "And then one day, not long ago, I found it. It was hidden on the top shelf of Dina's closet. Evelyn reached into her purse. She pulled out a letter written on bright pink paper, children's stationery with embossed edges. On top were festive, brightly colored balloons. She unfolded the letter and handed it to Roland. It was addressed to God.
  "She wrote this when she was only eight years old," Evelyn said.
  Roland read the letter from beginning to end. It was written in an innocent, childish hand. It told a horrific story of repeated sexual abuse. Paragraph after paragraph, it detailed what Uncle Edgar had done to Dina in the basement of her own home. Roland felt rage rising within him. He asked God for peace.
  "This went on for years," Evelyn said.
  "What years were those?" Roland asked. He folded the letter and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
  Evelyn thought for a moment. "In the mid-nineties. Until my daughter was thirteen. We never knew any of this. She was always a quiet girl, even before the problems, you know? She kept her feelings to herself."
  - What happened to Edgar?
  "My sister divorced him. He moved back to Winterton, New Jersey, where he's from. His parents died a few years ago, but he still lives there."
  - You haven"t seen him since then?
  "No."
  - Did Dina ever talk to you about these things?
  "No, Pastor. Never."
  - How is your daughter doing lately?
  Evelyn's hands began to shake. For a moment, the words seemed stuck in her throat. Then: "My child is dead, Pastor Roland. She took pills last week. She killed herself as if she belonged to her. We buried her in the ground in York, where I'm from."
  The shock that rolled through the room was palpable. No one spoke.
  Roland reached out and hugged the woman, wrapping his arms around her large shoulders, holding her as she wept unabashedly. Charles stood and left the room. Aside from the possibility of his emotions overcoming him, there was much to do now, much to prepare.
  Roland leaned back in his chair and collected his thoughts. He extended his hands, and they joined in a circle. "Let us pray to the Lord for the soul of Dina Reyes and the souls of all who loved her," Roland said.
  Everyone closed their eyes and began to pray silently.
  When they finished, Roland stood up. "He sent me to bind up the brokenhearted."
  "Amen," someone said.
  Charles returned and paused in the doorway. Roland met his gaze. Of the many things Charles struggled with in this life (some of them simple tasks, many of them taken for granted), computer use was not one of them. God had blessed Charles with the ability to navigate the deep mysteries of the internet, an ability Roland had not been granted. Roland could tell that Charles had already found Winterton, New Jersey, and printed out a map.
  They will leave soon.
  OceanofPDF.com
  15
  Jessica and Byrne spent the day canvassing laundromats that were either within walking distance or a reasonable SEPTA ride from Christina Yakos's home in North Lawrence. They listed five coin-operated laundromats, only two of which were open after 11:00 PM. When they approached a 24-hour laundromat called All-City Launderette, Jessica, unable to resist any longer, popped the question.
  "Was the press conference as bad as they showed it on TV?" After leaving Seraphim Church, she stopped for a takeout coffee at a family-run establishment on Fourth Street. She saw a replay of the press conference on the TV behind the counter.
  "No," Byrne said. "It was much, much worse."
  Jessica should have known. "Are we ever going to talk about this?"
  "We'll talk."
  As unpleasant as it was, Jessica let it go. Sometimes Kevin Byrne erected walls that were impossible to climb.
  "By the way, where's our boy detective?" Byrne asked.
  "Josh is delivering witnesses for Ted Campos. He plans to contact us later.
  "What did we get from the church?"
  "Just that Christina was a wonderful person. That all the children loved her. That she was dedicated to her work. That she worked on the Christmas play.
  "Of course," Byrne said. "Tonight, ten thousand gangsters go to bed perfectly healthy, and on the marble lies a beloved young woman who worked with children in her church."
  Jessica knew what he meant. Life was far from fair. They had to seek the justice that was available. And that was all they could ever do.
  "I think she had a secret life," Jessica said.
  This caught Byrne's attention. "A secret life? What do you mean?"
  Jessica lowered her voice. There was no reason for it. It seemed she did it simply out of habit. "I'm not sure, but her sister hinted at it, her roommate almost came out and said so, and the priest at St. Seraphim Monastery mentioned that she was sad about her."
  "Sadness?"
  "His word."
  "Damn, everyone's sad, Jess. It doesn't mean they're up to anything illegal. Or even unpleasant."
  "No, but I'm planning on attacking my roommate again. Maybe we should take a closer look at Christina's things."
  "Sounds like a plan."
  
  
  
  The citywide laundry was the third establishment they visited. The managers of the first two laundries couldn't recall ever seeing the beautiful, slender blonde at their workplace.
  There were forty washers and twenty dryers in the All-City. Plastic plants hung from the rusty acoustic tile ceiling. Up front stood a pair of laundry detergent vending machines-DUST AND ALL! Between them was a sign with an interesting request: PLEASE DO NOT VANDALIZE CARS. Jessica wondered how many vandals would see that sign, follow the rules, and simply move on. Probably about the same percentage of people obeying the speed limit. Along the back wall stood a pair of soda machines and a change machine. On either side of the central row of washing machines, back-to-back, were rows of salmon-colored plastic chairs and tables.
  Jessica hadn't been to a laundromat in a while. The experience took her back to her college days. The boredom, the five-year-old magazines, the smell of soap, bleach, and fabric softener, the clanking of change in the dryers. She didn't miss it all that much.
  Behind the counter stood a Vietnamese woman in her sixties. She was petite and stubbly, wearing a floral-print changing vest and what looked like five or six different brightly colored nylon fanny packs. A couple of toddlers sat on the floor of her small alcove, coloring in coloring books. A TV on a shelf was showing a Vietnamese action movie. Behind her sat a man of Asian descent, who could have been anywhere from eighty to a hundred years old. It was impossible to tell.
  The sign next to the cash register read: MRS. V. TRAN, PROP. Jessica showed the woman her ID. She introduced herself and Byrne. Then Jessica showed the photo they'd received from Natalia Yakos, a glamour shot of Christina. "Do you recognize this woman?" Jessica asked.
  The Vietnamese woman put on her glasses and looked at the photograph. She held it at arm's length, then brought it closer. "Yes," she said. "She's been here several times."
  Jessica glanced at Byrne. They shared that adrenaline rush that always comes with being behind the frontrunner.
  "Do you remember the last time you saw her?" Jessica asked.
  The woman looked at the back of the photograph, as if there might be a date there that would help her answer the question. Then she showed it to the old man. He answered her in Vietnamese.
  "My father says five days ago."
  - Does he remember what time?
  The woman turned back to the old man. He answered at length, apparently irritated by the interruption to his film.
  "It was after eleven o'clock at night," the woman said. She jerked her thumb at the old man. "My father. He's hard of hearing, but he remembers everything. He says he stopped here after eleven to empty the change machines. While he was doing that, she came in.
  "Does he remember if anyone else was here at the time?"
  She spoke to her father again. He responded, his answer more like a bark. "He says no. There were no other clients at the time."
  - Does he remember if she came with anyone?
  She asked her father another question. The man shook his head. He was clearly ready to explode.
  "No," said the woman.
  Jessica was almost afraid to ask. She glanced at Byrne. He was smiling, looking out the window. She wasn't going to get any help from him. Thanks, partner. "I'm sorry." Does that mean he doesn't remember, or that she didn't come with anyone?
  She spoke to the old man again. He responded with a burst of high-decibel, high-octave Vietnamese. Jessica didn't speak Vietnamese, but she was willing to bet there were a few curse words in there. She assumed the old man was saying that Christina had come alone and that everyone should leave him alone.
  Jessica handed the woman a business card along with the standard request to call if she remembered anything. She turned to face the room. There were about twenty people in the laundry room now, washing, loading, fluffing, folding. The folding tables were covered with clothes, magazines, soft drinks, and baby carriers. Trying to lift fingerprints from any of the many surfaces would have been a waste of time.
  But they had their victim, alive, in a specific place and at a specific time. From there, they would begin their search of the surrounding area and also locate the SEPTA route that stopped across the street. The laundromat was a good ten blocks from Christina Yakos's new home, so there was no way she could have walked that distance in the freezing cold with her laundry. If she hadn't gotten a ride or taken a cab, she would have taken the bus. Or planned to. Perhaps the SEPTA driver would remember her.
  It wasn't much, but it was a start.
  
  
  
  JOSH BONTRAGER CATCHED UP with them in front of the laundromat.
  Three detectives worked both sides of the street, showing Christina's photo to street vendors, shopkeepers, local cyclists, and street rats. The reaction of both men and women was the same. A beautiful girl. Unfortunately, no one remembered seeing her leaving the laundromat a few days ago, or any other day, for that matter. By midday, they had spoken to everyone in the vicinity: residents, shopkeepers, taxi drivers.
  Directly across from the laundromat stood a pair of row houses. They spoke with a woman who lived in the row house on the left. She had been out of town for two weeks and hadn't seen anything. They knocked on the door of another house but got no answer. On the way back to the car, Jessica noticed the curtains open slightly and then immediately close. They returned.
  Byrne knocked on the window. Hard. Finally, a teenage girl opened the door. Byrne showed her his ID.
  The girl was thin and pale, about seventeen years old; she seemed very nervous about talking to the police. Her sandy hair was lifeless. She wore a worn brown corduroy jumpsuit, scuffed beige sandals, and white socks with pills on them. Her fingernails were bitten off.
  "We'd like to ask you a few questions," Byrne said. "We promise not to take up too much of your time."
  Nothing. No answer.
  "Miss?"
  The girl looked at her feet. Her lips trembled slightly, but she said nothing. The moment turned into discomfort.
  Josh Bontrager caught Byrne's eye and raised an eyebrow, as if asking if he could try. Byrne nodded. Bontrager stepped forward.
  "Hello," Bontrager said to the girl.
  The girl raised her head slightly, but remained distant and silent.
  Bontrager glanced past the girl, into the front room of the terraced house, and then back. "Can you tell me about Pennsylvania Germans?"
  The girl looked momentarily stunned. She looked Josh Bontrager up and down, then smiled thinly and nodded.
  "English, okay?" Bontrager asked.
  The girl tucked her hair behind her ears, suddenly aware of her appearance. She leaned against the doorframe. "Okay."
  "What is your name?"
  "Emily," she said quietly. "Emily Miller."
  Bontrager held out a photograph of Christina Yakos. "Have you ever seen this lady, Emily?"
  The girl looked at the photograph carefully for a few moments. "Yes. I saw it.
  - Where did you see her?
  Emily pointed out. "She does her laundry across the street. Sometimes she catches the bus right here.
  "When did you last see her?"
  Emily shrugged, biting her fingernail.
  Bontrager waited until the girl met his gaze again. "This is really important, Emily," he said. "Really important. And there's no rush. You're in no rush."
  A few seconds later: "I think it was four or five days ago."
  "At night?"
  "Yes," she said. "It was late." She pointed to the ceiling. "My room is right there, overlooking the street."
  - Was she with anyone?
  "I don't think so".
  "Did you see anyone else hanging around, did you see anyone watching her?"
  Emily thought for a few more moments. "I saw someone. A man."
  "Where was he?"
  Emily pointed to the sidewalk in front of her house. "He walked past the window a few times. Back and forth."
  "He was waiting right here at the bus stop?" Bontrager asked.
  "No," she said, pointing to the left. "I think he was standing in the alley. I figured he was trying to stay out of the wind. A couple of buses came and went. I don"t think he was waiting for a bus."
  - Can you describe him?
  "A white man," she said. "At least I think so."
  Bontrager waited. "Are you not sure?"
  Emily Miller held her hands out, palms up. "It was dark. I couldn't see much."
  "Did you notice any cars parked near the bus stop?" Bontrager asked.
  "There are always cars on the street. I didn't notice.
  "It's all right," Bontrager said with his broad farmboy smile. It had a magical effect on the girl. "That's all we need for now. You did a great job."
  Emily Miller blushed slightly and said nothing. She wiggled her toes in her sandals.
  "I may have to talk to you again," Bontrager added. "Will that be okay?"
  The girl nodded.
  "On behalf of my colleagues and the entire Philadelphia Police Department, I would like to thank you for your time," Bontrager said.
  Emily looked from Jessica to Byrne and back to Bontrager. "Please."
  "Ich winsch dir en Hallich, Frehlich, Glicklich Nei Yaahr," said Bontrager.
  Emily smiled and smoothed her hair. Jessica thought she seemed quite taken with Detective Joshua Bontrager. "Got segen eich," Emily replied.
  The girl closed the door. Bontrager put down his notebook and straightened his tie. "Well," he said. "Where next?"
  "What kind of language was that?" Jessica asked.
  "It was Pennsylvania Dutch. Mostly German."
  "Why did you speak Pennsylvania Dutch to her?" Byrne asked.
  "Well, first of all, this girl was Amish."
  Jessica glanced at the front window. Emily Miller was watching them through the open curtains. Somehow, she managed to quickly run a brush through her hair. So she was surprised after all.
  "How could you say?" Byrne asked.
  Bontrager considered his answer for a moment. "You know how you can look at someone on the street and just know they're wrong?"
  Both Jessica and Byrne knew what he meant. It was a sixth sense common to police officers everywhere. "Uh-huh."
  "It's the same with the Amish. You just know. Besides, I saw a pineapple quilt on the living room couch. I know Amish quiltmaking.
  "What is she doing in Philadelphia?" Jessica asked.
  "It's hard to say. She was dressed in English clothes. She either left the church or is sitting on Rumspringa.
  "What is Rumspringa?" Byrne asked.
  "It's a long story," Bontrager said. "We'll get back to that later. Maybe over a buttermilk colada."
  He winked and smiled. Jessica looked at Byrne.
  Point for the Amish.
  
  
  
  As they walked back to the car, Jessica asked questions. Beyond the obvious-who killed Christina Yakos and why-there were three more.
  First: Where was she from the time she left the town laundromat until she was placed on the river bank?
  Second: Who called 911?
  Third: Who was standing across the street from the laundromat?
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  16
  The medical examiner's office was on University Avenue. When Jessica and Byrne returned to the Roundhouse, they received a message from Dr. Tom Weirich. It was marked urgent.
  They met in the main autopsy room. It was Josh Bontrager's first time. His face was the color of cigar ash.
  
  
  
  TOM WEIRICH was on the phone when Jessica, Byrne, and Bontrager arrived. He handed Jessica a folder and raised a finger. The folder contained the preliminary autopsy results. Jessica reviewed the report:
  
  The body is that of a normally developed white female, sixty-six inches tall and weighing 112 pounds. Her general appearance is consistent with her reported age of twenty-four years. Livor mortis is present. The eyes are open.
  
  
  The iris is blue, the cornea is cloudy. Petechial hemorrhages are observed in the conjunctiva on both sides. There is a ligature mark on the neck below the lower jaw.
  
  Weirich hung up. Jessica handed him back the report. "So she was strangled," she said.
  "Yes."
  - And this was the cause of death?
  "Yes," Weirich said. "But she wasn't strangled with the nylon belt found around her neck."
  - So what was that?
  "She was strangled with a much narrower ligature. Polypropylene rope. Definitely from behind." Weirich pointed to a photo of a V-shaped ligature tied around the back of the victim's neck. "That's not high enough to indicate hanging. I believe it was done by hand. The killer stood behind her while she was sitting, wrapped the ligature once, and pulled himself up.
  - What about the rope itself?
  "At first, I thought it was standard three-strand polypropylene. But the lab pulled out a couple of fibers. One blue, one white. Presumably, it was the type treated to resist chemicals, probably buoyant. There's a good chance it's a swimlane-type rope."
  Jessica had never heard the term. "You mean the rope they use at swimming pools to separate lanes?" she asked.
  "Yes," Weirich said. "It's durable, made of low-stretch fiber."
  "So why was there another belt around her neck?" Jessica asked.
  "I can't help you there. Perhaps to hide the ligature mark for aesthetic reasons. Perhaps it means something. Now the belt is at the lab."
  - Is there anything about this?
  "This is old."
  "How old?"
  "Maybe forty or fifty years or so. The fiber composition has begun to break down due to use, age, and weather conditions. They get a lot of different substances from the fiber."
  "What do you mean what?
  "Sweat, blood, sugar, salt."
  Byrne glanced at Jessica.
  "Her nails are in pretty good shape," Weirich continued. "We took swabs from them anyway. No scratches or bruises."
  "What about her legs?" Byrne asked. As of that morning, the missing body parts had still not been found. Later that day, a Marine unit would dive into the river near the crime scene, but even with their sophisticated equipment, it would be slow. The water in the Schuylkill was cold.
  "Her legs were amputated postmortem with a sharp, serrated instrument. The bone is slightly fractured, so I don't believe it was a surgical saw." He pointed to a close-up of the cut. "It was most likely a carpenter's saw. We recovered some traces from the area. The lab believes they were wood fragments. Possibly mahogany."
  "So you're saying the saw was used on some kind of woodworking project before it was used on the victim?"
  "It's all preliminary, but it sounds something like this."
  - And none of this was done on site?
  "Presumably not," Weirich said. "But she was definitely dead when it happened. Thank God."
  Jessica took notes, a little puzzled. Carpenter's saw.
  "That's not all," Weirich said.
  There's always more, Jessica thought. Whenever you enter a psychopath's world, there's always something more waiting for you.
  Tom Weirich pulled back the sheet. Christina Yakos's body was colorless. Her muscles were already breaking down. Jessica remembered how graceful and strong she had looked in the church video. How alive.
  "Look at this." Weirich pointed to a spot on the victim's abdomen-a shiny, whitish area about the size of a nickel.
  He turned off the bright overhead light, picked up a portable UV lamp, and turned it on. Jessica and Byrne immediately understood what he was talking about. In the victim's lower abdomen was a circle about two inches in diameter. From her vantage point, several feet away, it appeared to Jessica to be a nearly perfect disk.
  "What is this?" Jessica asked.
  "It's a mixture of sperm and blood."
  That changed everything. Byrne looked at Jessica; Jessica was with Josh Bontrager. Bontrager's face remained bloodless.
  "Was she sexually assaulted?" Jessica asked.
  "No," Weirich said. "There was no recent vaginal or anal penetration."
  "Were you operating a rape kit?"
  Weirich nodded. "It was negative."
  - The killer ejaculated on her?
  "Nope again." He picked up a magnifying glass with a light and handed it to Jessica. She leaned over and looked at the circle. And felt her stomach drop.
  "Oh my God."
  Although the image was a near-perfect circle, it was much larger. And much more. The image was a highly detailed drawing of the moon.
  "Is this a drawing?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes."
  - Stained with sperm and blood?
  "Yes," said Weirich. "And the blood doesn't belong to the victim."
  "Oh, it's getting better and better," Byrne said.
  "Judging by the details, it looks like it took a few hours," Weirich said. "We'll have a DNA report soon. It's on the fast track. Find this guy, and we'll match him to this and close the case."
  "So, was this painted? Like, with a brush?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes. We extracted some fibers from this area. The artist used an expensive sable brush. Our boy is an experienced artist."
  "A wood-working, swimming, psychopathic, masturbating artist," Byrne guessed more or less to himself.
  - Are there fibers in the lab?
  "Yes."
  That was good. They'll get a brush hair report and maybe track down the brush used.
  "Do we know if this 'painting' was painted before or after?" Jessica asked.
  "I'd say by mail," Weirich said, "but there's no way to know for sure. The fact that it's so detailed, and that there were no barbiturates in the victim's system, leads me to believe it was done postmortem. She wasn't under the influence of drugs. No one can or would sit so still if they were conscious."
  Jessica looked closely at the drawing. It was a classic depiction of the Man on the Moon, like an old woodcut, depicting a benevolent face looking down at the earth. She considered the process of drawing this corpse. The artist had depicted his victim more or less in plain sight. He was bold. And clearly insane.
  
  
  
  JESSICA AND BYRNE sat in the parking lot, more than a little stunned.
  "Please tell me this is a first for you," Jessica said.
  "This is a first."
  "We're looking for a guy who takes a woman off the street, strangles her, cuts off her legs, and then spends hours drawing the moon on her stomach."
  "Yeah."
  "In my own sperm and blood."
  "We don't know yet whose blood and semen this is," Byrne said.
  "Thanks," Jessica said. "I was just starting to think I could handle this. I kind of hoped he'd jerked off, cut his wrists, and ended up bleeding out."
  "No such luck."
  As they pulled out onto the street, four words flashed through Jessica's mind:
  Sweat, blood, sugar, salt.
  
  
  
  Back at the Roundhouse, Jessica called SEPTA. After navigating a series of bureaucratic hurdles, she finally spoke to a man who drove the nighttime route that passed in front of the city laundromat. He confirmed that he had driven that route the night Christina Yakos did her laundry, the last night everyone they spoke to recalled seeing her alive. The driver specifically recalled not meeting anyone at that stop for the entire week.
  Christina Yakos never made it to the bus that evening.
  While Byrne compiled a list of thrift stores and used clothing stores, Jessica reviewed the preliminary lab reports. There were no fingerprints on Christina Yakos's neck. There was no blood at the scene, except for traces of blood found on the riverbank and on her clothing.
  "Evidence of blood," Jessica thought. Her thoughts returned to the moon "design" on Christina's stomach. That gave her an idea. It was a long shot, but better than no chance. She picked up the phone and called the parish church of St. Seraphim Cathedral. She soon contacted Father Greg.
  "How can I help you, detective?" he asked.
  "I have a quick question," she said. "Do you have a minute?"
  "Certainly."
  - I'm afraid this may sound a little strange.
  "I'm a city priest," Father Greg said. "Strangeness is pretty much my thing."
  "I have a question about the Moon."
  Silence. Jessica had been expecting it. Then: "Luna?"
  "Yes. When we were talking, you mentioned the Julian calendar," Jessica said. "I was wondering if the Julian calendar addresses any issues related to the moon, the lunar cycle, and things like that."
  "I see," Father Greg said. "As I said, I don't know much about these matters, but I can tell you that, like the Gregorian calendar, which is also divided into months of uneven length, the Julian calendar is no longer synchronized with the phases of the moon. In fact, the Julian calendar is a purely solar calendar."
  "So, no special significance is given to the Moon either in Orthodoxy or among the Russian people?"
  "I didn't say that. There are many Russian folk tales and many Russian legends that talk about both the sun and the moon, but I can't think of anything about the phases of the moon."
  "What folk tales?"
  "Well, one story in particular that is widely known is a story called 'The Sun Maiden and the Crescent Moon.'"
  "What is this?"
  "I think it's a Siberian folk tale. Perhaps it's a Ket fable. Some people think it's quite grotesque."
  "I'm a city policeman, Father. Grotesque is, essentially, my business."
  Father Greg laughed. "Well, 'The Sun Maiden and the Crescent Moon' is a story about a man who becomes the crescent moon, the Sun Maiden's lover. Unfortunately-and this is the most grotesque part-he gets torn in half by the Sun Maiden and an evil sorceress while they're fighting over him."
  - Is it torn in half?
  "Yes," Father Greg said. "And it turns out the Sun Maiden got half the hero's heart, and can only revive him for a week."
  "That sounds fun," Jessica said. "Is it a children's story?"
  "Not all folk tales are for children," the priest said. "I'm sure there are other stories. I'd be happy to ask. We have many older parishioners. They'll undoubtedly know much more about these matters than I do."
  "I'd be very grateful," Jessica said, mostly out of politeness. She couldn't imagine the significance it could have.
  They said goodbye. Jessica hung up. She made a note to visit the free library and look up the story, and also to try to find a book of woodcuts or books on lunar images.
  Her desk was littered with photographs she'd printed from her digital camera, photos taken at the Manayunk crime scene. Three dozen medium and close-ups-the ligature, the crime scene itself, the building, the river, the victim.
  Jessica grabbed the photos and stuffed them in her bag. She'd look at them later. She'd seen enough for today. She needed a drink. Or six.
  She looked out the window. It was already getting dark. Jessica wondered if there would be a crescent moon tonight.
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  17
  Once upon a time there lived a brave tin soldier, and he and all his brothers were molded from the same spoon. They were dressed in blue. They marched in formation. They were feared and respected.
  Moon stands across the street from the pub, waiting for his tin soldier, patient as ice. The city lights, the lights of the season, sparkle in the distance. Moon sits idle in the darkness, watching the tin soldiers come and go from the pub, thinking of the fire that will turn them into tinsel.
  But we're not talking about a crate full of soldiers-folded, motionless, and at attention, with tin bayonets attached-but just one. He's an aging warrior, but still strong. It won't be easy.
  At midnight, this tin soldier will open his snuffbox and meet his goblin. At this final moment, it will be just him and Moon. No other soldiers will be around to help.
  A paper lady for sorrow. The fire will be terrible, and it will shed its tin tears.
  Will it be the fire of love?
  Moon holds matches in his hand.
  And waits.
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  18
  The crowd on the second floor of Finnigan's Wake was intimidating. Gather fifty or so police officers in one room, and you risked serious chaos. Finnigan's Wake was a venerable institution on Third Garden and Spring Garden streets, a renowned Irish pub that attracted officers from all over the city. When you left the NPD, there was a good chance your party would be held there. And your wedding reception, too. The food at Finnigan's Wake was as good as anywhere in town.
  Detective Walter Brigham had a retirement party tonight. After nearly four decades in law enforcement, he turned in his papers.
  
  
  
  JESSICA sipped her beer and looked around the room. She'd been on the force for ten years, the daughter of one of the most famous detectives of the past three decades, and the sound of dozens of cops swapping war stories at the bar had become a kind of lullaby. She was increasingly coming to terms with the fact that, whatever she thought, her friends were and probably always would be her fellow officers.
  Sure, she still talked to her former classmates from Nazarene Academy, and occasionally to some girls from her old neighborhood of South Philadelphia-at least those who had moved to the Northeast, like her. But for the most part, everyone she relied on carried a gun and a badge. Including her husband.
  Despite it being a party for one of their own, there wasn't necessarily a sense of unity in the room. The space was dotted with groups of officers chatting among themselves, the largest of which was the faction of gold-badged detectives. And while Jessica had certainly paid her dues for this group, she wasn't quite there yet. As in any large organization, there were always internal cliques, subgroups that banded together for various reasons: race, gender, experience, discipline, neighborhood.
  The detectives gathered at the far end of the bar.
  Byrne showed up just after nine. And even though he knew almost every detective in the room and had risen through the ranks with half of them, when he entered, he decided to stake out the front of the bar with Jessica. She appreciated it, but still felt he'd rather be with this pack of wolves-both old and young.
  
  
  
  By midnight, Walt Brigham's group had entered the stage of serious drinking. This meant he had entered the stage of serious storytelling. Twelve police detectives crowded at the end of the bar.
  "Okay," Richie DiCillo began. "I'm in the sector car with Rocco Testa." Richie was a lifer in the Northern Detectives. Now in his fifties, he had been one of Byrne's rabbis from the start.
  "It"s 1979, just around the time of the introduction of small, battery-powered portable televisions. We"re in Kensington, Monday night football on, Eagles and Falcons. Close the game, back and forth. Around eleven o"clock, there"s a tap on the window. I look up. A plump transvestite, in full regalia-wig, nails, false eyelashes, sequined dress, high heels. Name was Charlize, Chartreuse, Charmuz, something like that. On the street, people called him Charlie Rainbow.
  "I remember him," Ray Torrance said. "He went out somewhere around five-seven, two-forty? A different wig for every night of the week?"
  "That"s him," Richie said. "You could tell what day it was by the color of his hair. Anyway, he"s got a busted lip and a black eye. Says his pimp beat the crap out of him and wants us to personally strap the motherfucker to the electric chair. After we beat his nuts." Rocco and I look at each other, at the TV. The game started right after the two-minute warning. With commercials and all that crap, we"ve got, like, three minutes, right? Rocco pops out of the car like a shot. He leads Charlie to the back of the car and tells him we have a brand new system. Real high-tech. Says you can tell the judge your story right off the street, and the judge will send a special squad to take the bad guy away.
  Jessica glanced at Byrne, who shrugged, even though they both knew exactly where this was going.
  "Of course, Charlie loves the idea," Richie said. "So Rocco takes the TV out of the car, finds a dead channel with snow and squiggly lines, and puts it on the trunk. He tells Charlie to look straight at the screen and talk. Charlie fixes his hair and makeup, like he's going on the late-night show, right? He stands really close to the screen, recounting all the unpleasant details. When he's finished, he leans back, as if a hundred sector cars were suddenly going to scream down the street. Except that at that very second, the TV's speaker crackles, as if it's picking up a different station. And it is. Except it's playing commercials.
  "Uh-oh," someone said.
  "StarKist Tuna Advertisement."
  "No," said someone else.
  "Oh yeah," Richie said. "Out of nowhere, the TV screams really loud, 'Sorry, Charlie.'"
  Roars around the room.
  "He thought he was a damn judge. Like a downed Frankford. Wigs, high heels, and flying glitter. Never saw him again."
  "I can top this story!" someone said, shouting over the laughter. "We're running an operation in Glenwood..."
  And so the stories began.
  Byrne glanced at Jessica. Jessica shook her head. She had a few stories of her own, but it was too late. Byrne pointed to his nearly empty glass. "Another one?"
  Jessica glanced at her watch. "Nope. I'm leaving," she said.
  "Light," Byrne replied. He drained his glass and motioned to the barmaid.
  "What can I say? A girl needs a good night's sleep.
  Byrne was silent, rocking back and forth on his heels and bouncing a little to the music.
  "Hi!" Jessica shouted. She punched him in the shoulder.
  Byrne jumped. Though he tried to hide the pain, his face gave him away. Jessica knew just how to strike. "What?"
  "Is this the part where you say, 'Beautiful sleep?' You don't need a beautiful sleep, Jess."
  "Early nap? You don't need a beauty sleep, Jess.
  "Jesus." Jessica put on a leather coat.
  "I thought it was, you know, obvious," Byrne added, stamping his feet, his expression a caricature of virtue. He rubbed his shoulder.
  "Nice try, detective. Can you drive?" It was a rhetorical question.
  "Oh, yes," Byrne replied, reciting. "I'm fine."
  Cops, Jessica thought. The police could always come.
  Jessica crossed the room, said goodbye, and wished him luck. As she approached the door, she saw Josh Bontrager standing alone, smiling. His tie was askew; one of his pants pockets was inside out. He looked a little unsteady. Seeing Jessica, he extended his hand. They shook. Again.
  "Are you okay?" she asked.
  Bontrager nodded a little too insistently, perhaps trying to convince himself. "Oh, yes. Excellent. Excellent. Excellent."
  For some reason, Jessica was already mothering Josh. "Okay then."
  "Remember when I said I've heard all the jokes?"
  "Yes."
  Bontrager waved his hand drunkenly. "Not even close."
  "What do you mean?"
  Bontrager stood at attention. He saluted. More or less. "I want you to know that I have the distinct honor of being the very first Amish detective in the history of the PPD."
  Jessica laughed. "See you tomorrow, Josh."
  As she was leaving, she saw a detective she knew from the South showing another officer a photo of his young grandson. "Children," Jessica thought.
  There were babies everywhere.
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  19
  Byrne served himself a plate from the small buffet and set the food on the counter. Before he could take a bite, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw drunken eyes and wet lips. Before Byrne realized it, Walt Brigham had pulled him into a bear hug. Byrne found the gesture a little strange, as they had never been so close. On the other hand, it was a special night for the man.
  Finally, they broke down and performed courageous, post-emotional actions: clearing their throats, fixing their hair, straightening their ties. Both men stepped back and looked around the room.
  - Thanks for coming, Kevin.
  - I wouldn"t have missed it.
  Walt Brigham was the same height as Byrne, but slightly stooped. He had thick, pewter-gray hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and large, cut-marked hands. His blue eyes saw everything, and it all floated there.
  "Can you believe this bunch of cutthroats?" Brigham asked.
  Byrne looked around. Richie DiCillo, Ray Torrance, Tommy Capretta, Joey Trese, Naldo Lopez, Mickey Nunziata. All the old-timers.
  "How many sets of brass knuckles do you think there are in this room?" Byrne asked.
  "Are you counting yours?"
  Both men laughed. Byrne ordered a round for both of them. The barmaid, Margaret, brought a couple of drinks that Byrne didn't recognize.
  "What is this?" Byrne asked.
  "This is from two young ladies at the end of the bar."
  Byrne and Walt Brigham exchanged glances. Two policewomen-taut, attractive, still in uniform, about twenty-five years old-stood at the end of the bar. Each raised a glass.
  Byrne looked at Margaret again. "Are you sure they meant us?"
  "Positive."
  Both men looked at the mixture in front of them. "I give up," Brigham said. "Who are they?"
  "Jäger Bombs," Margaret said with the smile that always signaled a challenge at an Irish pub. "Part Red Bull, part Jägermeister."
  "Who the hell drinks this?"
  "All the kids," Margaret said. "It gives them incentive to keep having fun."
  Byrne and Brigham exchanged a stunned glance. They were Philadelphia detectives, which meant they were nothing less than game. The two men raised their glasses in gratitude. They each drank several inches of the drink.
  "Damn it," Byrne said.
  "Slaine," Margaret said. She laughed, turning back to the taps.
  Byrne glanced at Walt Brigham. He handled the strange concoction a little more easily. Of course, he was already drunk to the knees. Perhaps the Jager Bomb would help.
  "I can't believe you're putting your papers down," Byrne said.
  "The time has come," Brigham said. "The streets are no place for old people."
  "Old man? What are you talking about? Two twenty-somethings just bought you a drink. Pretty twenty-somethings, at that. Girls with guns."
  Brigham smiled, but it quickly faded. He had that distant look that all retiring cops have. A look that practically screamed, "I'll never saddle up again." He swirled his drink a few times. He started to say something, then stopped himself. Finally, he said, "You'll never get them all, you know?"
  Byrne knew exactly what he meant.
  "There's always that one," Brigham continued. "The one that won't let you be yourself." He nodded across the room. "Richie DiCillo."
  "Are you talking about Richie's daughter?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes," Brigham said. "I was the primary. I worked on the case for two years straight.
  "Oh, man," Byrne said. "I didn't know that."
  Richie DiCillo's nine-year-old daughter, Annemarie, was found murdered in Fairmount Park in 1995. She had been at a birthday party with a friend, who was also murdered. The brutal case made headlines for weeks. The case was never closed.
  "It's hard to believe all these years have passed," Brigham said. "I'll never forget that day."
  Byrne glanced at Richie DiCillo. He was telling another story. When Byrne had met Richie, back in the Stone Age, Richie had been a monster, a street legend, a narcotics cop to be feared. You mentioned DiCillo's name on the streets of North Philadelphia with quiet reverence. After his daughter was murdered, he had somehow diminished, become a smaller version of himself. These days, he was simply doing the best he could.
  "Have you ever gotten a lead?" Byrne asked.
  Brigham shook his head. "He came close several times. I think we interviewed everyone in the park that day. He must have had a hundred statements. No one ever came forward."
  "What happened to the other girl's family?"
  Brigham shrugged. "Moved. Tried tracking them down a few times. No luck."
  - What about forensic examination?
  "Nothing. But it was that day. Plus there was that storm. It was raining like crazy. Whatever was there, it was washed away."
  Byrne saw deep pain and regret in Walt Brigham's eyes. He realized he had a file of bad guys hidden in the blind side of his heart. He waited a minute or so, trying to change the subject. "So, what's in the fire for you, Walt?"
  Brigham looked up and fixed Byrne with a look that seemed a little alarming. "I'll get my license, Kevin."
  "Your license?" Byrne asked. "Your private investigator license?"
  Brigham nodded. "I'm going to start working on this case myself," he said. He lowered his voice. "Actually, between you, me, and the barmaid, I've been working this out of the books for a while now."
  "The Annemarie case?" Byrne hadn't expected that. He'd expected to hear about some fishing boat, some plans for a van, or maybe that standard cop-run scheme where they buy a bar somewhere tropical-where nineteen-year-old girls in bikinis go to a party over spring break-a plan no one ever seemed to pull off.
  "Yeah," Brigham said. "I owe Richie. Hell, the city owes him. Think about it. His little girl gets murdered on our property, and we don"t close the case?" He slammed his glass down on the counter, raised an accusing finger to the world, to himself. "I mean, every year we pull out the file, make a few notes, and put it back. It"s not fair, man. It"s not fucking fair. She was just a kid."
  "Does Richie know about your plans?" Byrne asked.
  "No. I'll tell him when the time comes.
  They were silent for a minute or so, listening to the chatter and music. When Byrne looked back at Brigham, he saw that distant look again, the glint in his eyes.
  "Oh, my God," Brigham said. "They were the most beautiful little girls you've ever seen."
  All Kevin Byrne could do was put his hand on his shoulder.
  They stood like that for a long time.
  
  
  
  BYRNE walked out of the bar and turned onto Third Street. He thought about Richie DiCillo. He wondered how many times Richie had held his service weapon in his hand, consumed by anger, rage, and grief. Byrne wondered how close this man had come, knowing that if someone took his own daughter, he would have to search everywhere for a reason to keep going.
  As he reached his car, he wondered how long he was going to pretend nothing had happened. He'd been lying to himself about this a lot lately. The feelings had been intense tonight.
  He sensed something when Walt Brigham hugged him. He saw dark things, even felt something. He'd never admitted it to anyone, not even Jessica, with whom he'd shared practically everything over the past few years. He'd never smelled anything before, at least not within the scope of his vague premonitions.
  When he hugged Walt Brigham, he smelled pine. And smoke.
  Byrne got behind the wheel, buckled up, put a Robert Johnson CD in the CD player and drove into the night.
  Oh my God, he thought.
  Pine needles and smoke.
  OceanofPDF.com
  20
  Edgar Luna stumbled out of the Old House Tavern on Station Road, his stomach full of Yuengling and his head full of nonsense. The same saturated nonsense his mother had force-fed him for the first eighteen years of his life: He was a loser. He would never amount to anything. He was stupid. Just like his father.
  Every time he reached his limit on one lager, it all came back.
  The wind swirled across the nearly empty street, flapping his trousers, making his eyes water, and causing him to stop. He wrapped his scarf around his face and headed north, into the storm.
  Edgar Luna was a short, balding man, covered in acne scars, and long suffering from all the ailments of middle age: colitis, eczema, toenail fungus, gingivitis. He had just turned fifty-five.
  He wasn't drunk, but he wasn't that far from it. The new bartender, Alyssa or Alicia, or whatever her name was, had turned him down for the tenth time. Who cared? She was too old for him anyway. Edgar liked them younger. Much younger. Always had.
  The youngest-and the best-was his niece, Dina. Hell, she's supposed to be twenty-four now? Too old. In abundance.
  Edgar turned the corner onto Sycamore Street. His shabby bungalow greeted him. Before he could even get his keys out of his pocket, he heard a noise. He turned around a little unsteadily, rocking slightly on his heels. Behind him, two figures loomed against the glow of the Christmas lights across the street. A tall man and a short man, both dressed in black. The tall one looked like a freak: short blond hair, clean-shaven, a bit effeminate, if you ask Edgar Luna. The short one was built like a tank. Edgar was sure of one thing: they weren't from Winterton. He'd never seen them before.
  "Are you the hell?" Edgar asked.
  "I'm Malachi," the tall man said.
  
  
  
  They'd covered fifty miles in less than an hour. They were now in the basement of an empty rowhouse in North Philadelphia, in the middle of a neighborhood of abandoned rowhouses. For nearly a hundred feet, there was no light in any direction. They parked the van in an alley behind the apartment building.
  Roland carefully selected the site. These structures were soon ready for restoration, and he knew that as soon as the weather permitted, concrete would be poured in these basements. One of his flock worked for the construction company responsible for the concrete work.
  Edgar Luna stood naked in the middle of a cold basement room, his clothes already burned away, bound to an old wooden chair with duct tape. The floor was packed with dirt, cold but not frozen. A pair of long-handled shovels waited in the corner. The room was lit by three kerosene lanterns.
  "Tell me about Fairmount Park," Roland asked.
  Luna looked at him intently.
  "Tell me about Fairmount Park," Roland repeated. "April 1995."
  It was as if Edgar Luna was desperately trying to rummage through his memories. There was no doubt he had committed many bad deeds in his life-reprehensible deeds for which he knew a dark retribution might one day follow. That time had come.
  "Whatever the hell you were talking about, whatever... whatever it was, you got the wrong man. I'm innocent."
  "You are many things, Mr. Luna," Roland said. "Innocent is not one of them. Confess your sins, and God will show you mercy."
  - I swear, I don"t know...
  - But I can't.
  "You're crazy."
  "Confess what you did to those girls in Fairmount Park in April 1995. That day when it was raining."
  "Girls?" asked Edgar Luna. "1995? Rain?"
  "You probably remember Dina Reyes."
  The name shocked him. He remembered. "What did she tell you?"
  Roland produced Dina's letter. Edgar cringed at the sight.
  "She liked the color pink, Mr. Luna. But I think you knew that.
  "It was her mother, wasn't it? That damn bitch. What did she say?"
  "Dina Reyes took a handful of pills and ended her sad, miserable existence, an existence you destroyed."
  Edgar Luna suddenly seemed to realize he would never leave this room. He struggled against his bonds. The chair wobbled, creaked, then fell and crashed into the lamp. The lamp toppled over, spilling kerosene onto Luna's head, which suddenly burst into flames. Flames lashed out and licked the right side of his face. Luna screamed and hit her head on the cold, hard-packed ground. Charles calmly approached and extinguished the flames. The acrid smell of kerosene, scorched flesh, and melted hair filled the confined space.
  Overcoming the stench, Roland approached Edgar Luna's ear.
  "What's it like to be a prisoner, Mr. Luna?" he whispered. "Be at someone's mercy? Isn't that what you did to Dina Reyes? Dragged her to the basement? Just like that?"
  It was important to Roland that these people understood exactly what they had done, that they experienced the moment just as their victims had. Roland went to great lengths to recreate the fear.
  Charles adjusted the chair. Edgar Luna's forehead, like the right side of his skull, was covered in blisters and blistering. A thick strand of hair had disappeared, giving way to a blackened, open sore.
  "He will wash his feet in the blood of the wicked," Roland began.
  "There's no way you can do this, man," Edgar screamed hysterically.
  Roland had never heard the words of a single mortal. "He will triumph over them. They will be so defeated that their overthrow will be final and fatal, and his deliverance complete and crowning."
  "Wait!" Luna struggled with the ribbon. Charles pulled out a lavender scarf and tied it around the man's neck. He held it from behind.
  Roland Hannah attacked the man. The screams echoed into the night.
  Philadelphia was asleep.
  OceanofPDF.com
  21
  Jessica lay in bed, her eyes wide open. Vincent, as usual, was enjoying the sleep of the dead. She'd never known anyone who slept more deeply than her husband. For a man who'd witnessed virtually every debauchery the city had to offer, every night around midnight he made peace with the world and immediately fell asleep.
  Jessica was never able to do that.
  She couldn't sleep, and she knew why. There were two reasons, actually. First, the image from the story Father Greg had told her kept playing in her head: a man being torn in half by the Sun Maiden and the sorceress. Thank you for that, Father Greg.
  The competing image was of Christina Jakos sitting on the riverbank like a tattered doll on a little girl's shelf.
  Twenty minutes later, Jessica was sitting at the dining room table, a mug of cocoa in front of her. She knew chocolate contained caffeine, which would likely keep her awake for a few more hours. She also knew chocolate contained chocolate.
  She laid out the crime scene photographs of Christina Yakos on the table, arranging them from top to bottom: photos of the road, the driveway, the building's facade, the abandoned cars, the back of the building, the slope down to the riverbank, and then of poor Christina herself. Looking down at them, Jessica roughly imagined the scene as the killer had seen it. She retraced his steps.
  Was it dark when he laid the body down? It had to be. Since the man who killed Christina didn't commit suicide at the scene or turn himself in, he wanted to avoid punishment for his depraved crime.
  An SUV? A truck? A van? A van would certainly make his job easier.
  But why Christina? Why the strange clothes and disfigurements? Why the "moon" on her stomach?
  Jessica looked out the window at the inky black night.
  What kind of life is this? she wondered. She sat less than fifteen feet from where her sweet little girl slept, from where her beloved husband slept, and in the middle of the night, staring at photographs of a dead woman.
  Yet, despite all the dangers and ugliness Jessica had faced, she couldn't imagine doing anything else. From the moment she entered the academy, all she'd ever wanted to do was kill. And now she did. But the job began to eat you alive the moment you set foot on the first floor of the Roundhouse.
  In Philadelphia, you got your job on a Monday. You worked your way through it, tracking down witnesses, interviewing suspects, gathering forensic evidence. Just when you were starting to make progress, it was Thursday, and you were behind the wheel again, and another body dropped. You had to act, because if you didn't make an arrest within forty-eight hours, there was a good chance you never would. Or so the theory went. So you dropped everything you were doing, continuing to listen to all the calls coming in, and took on a new case. The next thing you knew, it was the following Tuesday, and another bloody corpse landed at your feet.
  If you made a living as an investigator-any investigator-you lived for the catch. For Jessica, like every detective she knew, the sun came up and set. Sometimes it was your hot meal, your good night's sleep, your long, passionate kiss. No one understood the need except a fellow investigator. If drug addicts could be detectives for even a second, they'd throw the needle away forever. There was no such high as "getting caught."
  Jessica cupped her cup. The cocoa was cold. She looked at the photographs again.
  Was there a mistake in one of these photos?
  OceanofPDF.com
  22
  Walt Brigham pulled to the side of Lincoln Drive, turned off the engine, and turned on the headlights, still reeling from the farewell party at Finnigan's Wake, still a little overwhelmed by the large turnout.
  At this hour, this part of Fairmount Park was dark. Traffic was sparse. He rolled down the window, the cool air invigorating him somewhat. He could hear the water of Wissahickon Creek flowing nearby.
  Brigham mailed the envelope before he even set out. He felt underhanded, almost criminal, sending it anonymously. He had no choice. It had taken him weeks to make the decision, and now he had. All that-thirty-eight years of being a police officer-was now behind him. He was someone else.
  He thought about Annemarie DiCillo's case. It seemed like only yesterday he'd gotten the call. He remembered driving up to the storm-right there-pulling out his umbrella and heading into the woods...
  Within hours, they had rounded up the usual suspects: peeping toms, pedophiles, and men recently released from prison after serving time for child abuse, particularly against young girls. No one stood out from the crowd. No one broke down or turned on another suspect. Given their personalities and heightened fear of prison life, the pedophiles were very easy to fool. No one did.
  A particularly vile scoundrel named Joseph Barber seemed fine for a while, but he had an alibi-albeit a shaky one-for the day of the Fairmount Park murders. When Barber himself was murdered-stabbed to death with thirteen steak knives-Brigham decided it was the story of a man visited by his sins.
  But something bothered Walt Brigham about the circumstances of Barber's death. Over the next five years, Brigham tracked down a string of suspected pedophiles in both Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Six of these men were murdered, all with extreme prejudice, and none of their cases were ever solved. Of course, no one in any homicide department had ever truly broken their back trying to close a murder case where the victim was a scumbag who had harmed children, but forensic evidence was collected and analyzed, witness statements were taken, fingerprints were taken, reports were filed. Not a single suspect came forward.
  Lavender, he thought. What was so special about lavender?
  In all, Walt Brigham found sixteen murdered men, all of them child molesters, all of them questioned and released - or at least suspected - in a case involving a young girl.
  It was crazy, but possible.
  Someone killed the suspects.
  His theory never gained widespread acceptance within the unit, so Walt Brigham abandoned it. Officially speaking. In any case, he kept meticulous notes about it. However little he cared about these people, there was something about the job, something about being a homicide detective, that compelled him to do it. Murder was murder. It was up to God to judge the victims, not Walter J. Brigham.
  His thoughts turned to Annemarie and Charlotte. They had only recently stopped flitting through his dreams, but that didn't mean their images didn't haunt him. On these days, when the calendar flipped from March to April, when he saw young girls in spring dresses, it all came back to him in a brutal, sensual overload-the scent of the forest, the sound of the rain, the way it looked as if those two little girls were sleeping. Eyes closed, heads bowed. And then the nest.
  The sick son of a bitch who did this built a nest around them.
  Walt Brigham felt the anger clenching inside him, like barbed wire stabbing his chest. It was getting closer. He could feel it. Off the record, he'd already been to Odense, a small town in Berks County. He'd been there several times. He'd made inquiries, taken photographs, talked to people. The trail of Annemarie and Charlotte's killer led to Odense, Pennsylvania. Brigham tasted evil the moment he entered the village, like a bitter potion on his tongue.
  Brigham got out of the car, crossed Lincoln Drive, and walked through the bare trees until he reached the Wissahickon. The cold wind howled. He turned up his collar and knitted a wool scarf.
  This is where they were found.
  "I'm back, girls," he said.
  Brigham looked up at the sky, at the gray moon in the darkness. He felt the raw emotions of that night, so long ago. He saw their white dresses in the light of the police lights. He saw the sad, empty expressions on their faces.
  "I just wanted you to know: you have me now," he said. "Permanently. Twenty-four seven. We'll catch him."
  He watched the water run for a moment, then walked back to the car, his step sudden and springy, as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders, as if the rest of his life had suddenly been mapped. He slipped inside, started the engine, turned on the heater. He was about to pull out onto Lincoln Drive when he heard... singing?
  No.
  It wasn't singing. It was more like a nursery rhyme. A nursery rhyme he knew very well. It made his blood run cold.
  
  
  "Here are the maidens, young and beautiful,
  Dancing in the summer air..."
  
  
  Brigham glanced in the rearview mirror. When he saw the man's eyes in the backseat, he knew. This was the man he'd been looking for.
  
  
  "Like two spinning wheels playing..."
  
  
  Fear ran down Brigham's spine. His gun was under the seat. He'd had too much to drink. He'd never do this.
  
  
  "Beautiful girls are dancing."
  
  
  In those final moments, many things became clear to Detective Walter James Brigham. They crashed upon him with heightened clarity, like those moments before a thunderstorm. He knew that Marjorie Morrison truly was the love of his life. He knew that his father was a good man and raised worthy children. He knew that Annemarie DiCillo and Charlotte Waite had been visited by true evil, that they had been followed into the woods and betrayed to the devil.
  And Walt Brigham also knew he was right all along.
  It was always about water.
  OceanofPDF.com
  23
  Health Harbor was a small gym and workout spa in North Liberties. Run by a former police sergeant from the Twenty-Fourth District, it had a limited membership, mostly police officers, meaning you generally didn't have to put up with the usual gym games. Plus, there was a boxing ring.
  Jessica got there around 6 a.m., did some stretching, ran five miles on the treadmill, and listened to Christmas music on her iPod.
  At 7 a.m., her great-uncle Vittorio arrived. Vittorio Giovanni was eighty-one years old, but he still had the clear brown eyes Jessica remembered from her youth-kind and knowing eyes that had swept Vittorio's late wife, Carmella, off her feet one hot August night on the Feast of the Assumption. Even today, those sparkling eyes spoke of a much younger man within. Vittorio had once been a professional boxer. To this day, he couldn't sit down to watch a televised boxing match.
  For the past few years, Vittorio had been Jessica's manager and trainer. As a professional, Jessica had a 5-0 record with four knockouts; her last fight was televised on ESPN2. Vittorio always said that whenever Jessica was ready to retire, he would support her decision, and they would both retire. Jessica wasn't yet sure. What had brought her to the sport in the first place-the desire to lose weight after Sophie's birth, as well as the desire to stand up for herself when necessary, against occasional suspects of abuse-had evolved into something else: the need to combat the aging process with what was undoubtedly the most brutal discipline.
  Vittorio grabbed the pads and slowly slid between the ropes. "Are you doing roadwork?" he asked. He refused to call it "cardio."
  "Yes," Jessica said. She was supposed to run six miles, but her thirty-something muscles were tired. Uncle Vittorio saw right through her.
  "Tomorrow you will make seven," he said.
  Jessica didn't deny it or argue with it.
  "Ready?" Vittorio folded the pads together and held them up.
  Jessica began slowly, poking at the pads, crossing her right hand. As always, she found a rhythm, finding the zone. Her thoughts drifted from the sweaty walls of the gym across town to the banks of the Schuylkill River, to the image of a dead young woman, ceremoniously placed on the riverbank.
  As she picked up the pace, her anger grew. She thought of Christina Jakos smiling, of the trust the young woman might have had in her killer, of the belief that she would never be harmed, that the next day would dawn, and she would be much closer to her dream. Jessica's anger flared and blossomed as she thought of the arrogance and cruelty of the man they were searching for, of strangling a young woman and mutilating her body...
  "Jess!"
  Her uncle screamed. Jessica stopped, sweat pouring off her. She wiped it from her eyes with the back of her glove and took a few steps back. Several people in the gym stared at them.
  "Time," her uncle said quietly. He had been here with her before.
  How long was she gone?
  "Sorry," Jessica said. She walked to one corner, then the other, then the other, circling the ring, catching her breath. When she stopped, Vittorio approached her. He dropped the pads and helped Jessica free herself from the gloves.
  "Is it a serious case?" he asked.
  Her family knew her well. "Yes," she said. "A difficult case."
  
  
  
  JESSICA SPENT THE MORNING working on her computers. She entered several search strings into various search engines. The results for amputation were scant, though incredibly gruesome. In the Middle Ages, it wasn't uncommon for a thief to lose an arm, or a Peeping Tom to lose an eye. Some religious sects still practice this. The Italian Mafia had been cutting people up for years, but they usually didn't leave the bodies in public or in broad daylight. They typically hacked people to put them in a bag, box, or suitcase and dump them in a landfill. Usually in Jersey.
  She had never encountered anything like what happened to Christina Yakos on the river bank.
  The swimlane rope was available for purchase at a number of online retailers. From what she could determine, it resembled standard polypropylene multi-strand rope, but treated to resist chemicals like chlorine. It was primarily used to secure the ropes of the floats. The lab found no traces of chlorine.
  Locally, among marine and pool supply retailers in Philadelphia, New Jersey, and Delaware, there were dozens of dealers selling this type of rope. Once Jessica received the final lab report detailing the type and model, she'd make a phone call.
  Just after eleven, Byrne entered the duty room. He had a recording of the emergency call with Christina's body.
  
  
  
  The PPD's audiovisual unit was located in the basement of the Roundhouse. Its primary function was to supply the department with audio/video equipment as needed-cameras, video equipment, recording devices, and surveillance devices-as well as to monitor local television and radio stations for important information the department could use.
  The unit also assisted in the investigation of CCTV footage and audio-visual evidence.
  Officer Mateo Fuentes was a veteran of the unit. He had played a key role in solving a recent case in which a psychopath with a film fetish had terrorized the city. He was in his thirties, precise and meticulous in his work, and surprisingly meticulous about grammar. No one in the AV unit was better at finding the hidden truth in electronic records.
  Jessica and Byrne entered the control room.
  "What do we have, detectives?" Mateo asked.
  "Anonymous 911 call," Byrne said. He handed Mateo an audio tape.
  "No such thing," Mateo replied. He inserted the tape into the machine. "So I take it there was no caller ID?"
  "No," Byrne said. "It looks like it was a destroyed cell."
  In most states, when a citizen calls 911, they give up their right to privacy. Even if your phone is locked (which prevents most people receiving your calls from seeing your number on their caller ID), police radios and dispatchers will still be able to see your number. There are a few exceptions. One of these is calling 911 from a terminated cell phone. When cell phones are disconnected-due to nonpayment or perhaps because the caller has switched to a new number-911 services remain available. Unfortunately for investigators, there is no way to trace the number.
  Mateo pressed the play button on the tape recorder.
  "Philadelphia Police, operator 204, how can I help you?" the operator responded.
  "There's... there's a body. It's behind the old auto parts warehouse on Flat Rock Road.
  Click. That's the whole entry.
  "Hmm," Mateo said. "Not exactly a wordy one." He pressed STOP. Then rewind. He played again. When he was finished, he rewound the tape and played it a third time, leaning his head toward the speakers. He pressed STOP.
  "Male or female?" Byrne asked.
  "Dude," Mateo replied.
  "Are you sure?"
  Mateo turned and glared.
  "Okay," Byrne said.
  "He's in a car or a small room. No echo, good acoustics, no background hiss."
  Mateo played the tape again. He adjusted a few dials. "Hear what?"
  There was music in the background. Very faint, but it was there. "I hear something," Byrne said.
  Rewind. A few more adjustments. Less hiss. A melody appears.
  "Radio?" Jessica asked.
  "Maybe," Mateo said. "Or a CD."
  "Play it again," Byrne said.
  Mateo rewound the tape and inserted it into another deck. "Let me digitize this."
  AV Unit had an ever-expanding arsenal of audio forensics software that allowed them to not only clean up the sound of an existing audio file, but also separate the tracks of the recording, thereby isolating them for closer examination.
  A few minutes later, Mateo was sitting at his laptop. The 911 audio files were now a series of green and black spikes on the screen. Mateo pressed the "Play" button and adjusted the volume. This time, the background music was clearer and more distinct.
  "I know that song," Mateo said. He played it again, adjusting the slide controls and lowering his voice to a barely audible level. Then Mateo plugged in his headphones and put them on. He closed his eyes and listened. He played the file again. "Got it." He opened his eyes and removed the headphones. "The name of the song is 'I Want You.' By the Wild Garden."
  Jessica and Byrne exchanged glances. "WHO?" Byrne asked.
  "Wild Garden. Australian pop duo. They were popular in the late nineties. Well, medium-large. This song is from 1997 or 1998. It was a real hit back then."
  "How do you know all this?" Byrne asked.
  Mateo looked at him again. "My life isn't all Channel 6 News and McGruff videos, Detective. I'm a very social person."
  "What do you think of the caller?" Jessica asked.
  "I'll have to listen to it again, but I can tell you that Savage Garden song isn't on the radio anymore, so it probably wasn't the radio," Mateo said. "Unless it was an oldies station."
  "Ninety-seven is for old people?" Byrne asked.
  - Sort it out, Dad.
  "Man."
  "If the person who called has a CD and is still playing it, they're probably under forty," Mateo said. "I'd say thirty, maybe even twenty-five, give or take."
  "Anything else?"
  "Well, the way he says the word 'yes' twice, you can tell he was nervous before the call. He probably rehearsed it several times."
  "You're a genius, Mateo," Jessica said. "We owe you one."
  "And now it's almost Christmas, and there's only a day or so left to do my shopping."
  
  
  
  JESSICA, BYRNE AND Josh Bontrager stood near the control room.
  "Whoever called knows this used to be an auto parts warehouse," Jessica said.
  "That means he's probably from the area," Bontrager said.
  - Which narrows the circle to thirty thousand people.
  "Yeah, but how many of them listen to Savage Garbage?" Byrne asked.
  "The garden," Bontrager said.
  "Whatever."
  "Why don't I stop by some big-box stores-Best Buy, Borders?" Bontrager asked. "Maybe this guy asked for a CD recently. Maybe someone will remember."
  "Good idea," Byrne said.
  Bontrager beamed. He grabbed his coat. "I'm working with Detectives Shepherd and Palladino today. If anything breaks, I'll call you later."
  A minute after Bontrager left, an officer stuck his head into the room. "Detective Byrne?"
  "Yeah."
  - Someone upstairs wants to see you.
  
  
  
  When Jessica and Byrne entered the Roundhouse lobby, they saw a petite Asian woman, clearly out of place. She was wearing a visitor's badge. As they approached, Jessica recognized the woman as Mrs. Tran, the woman from the Laundromat.
  "Mrs. Tran," Byrne said. "How can we help you?"
  "My father found this," she said.
  She reached into her bag and pulled out a magazine. It was last month's issue of Dance Magazine. "He says she left it behind. She was reading it that evening.
  - By "she," do you mean Christina Yakos? The woman we asked you about?
  "Yes," she said. "That blonde. Maybe it will help you."
  Jessica grabbed the magazine by the edges. They were cleaning it, looking for fingerprints. "Where did he find this?" Jessica asked.
  "It was on the dryers."
  Jessica carefully flipped through the pages and reached the end of the magazine. One page-a full-page Volkswagen ad, mostly empty space-was covered in a complex web of drawings: phrases, words, pictures, names, symbols. It turned out that Christina, or whoever was doing the drawings, had been doodling for hours.
  "Is your father sure Christina Yakos read this magazine?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes," Mrs. Tran said. "Do you want me to pick him up? He"s in the car. You can ask again."
  "No," Jessica said. "It's okay."
  
  
  
  Upstairs, in the homicide desk, Byrne carefully studied a journal page with drawings. Many of the words were written in Cyrillic, which he assumed was Ukrainian. He had already called a detective he knew from the Northeast, a young man named Nathan Bykovsky, whose parents were from Russia. Besides words and phrases, there were drawings of houses, 3D hearts, and pyramids. There were also several sketches of dresses, but nothing resembling the vintage-style dress Christina Yakos wore after her death.
  Byrne received a call from Nate Bykowski, who then faxed him a message. Nate called him back immediately.
  "What is this about?" Nate asked.
  Detectives never had a problem being approached by another cop. However, by nature, they liked to know the playbook. Byrne told him.
  "I think it's Ukrainian," Nate said.
  "Can you read this?"
  "For the most part. My family is from Belarus. Cyrillic is used in many languages-Russian, Ukrainian, Bulgarian. They're similar, but some symbols aren't used by others."
  "Any idea what this means?"
  "Well, two words-the two written above the hood of the car in the photo-are illegible," Nate said. "Underneath them, she wrote the word 'love' twice. At the bottom, the clearest word on the page, she wrote a phrase."
  "What is this?"
  " 'I'm sorry.' "
  "I'm sorry?"
  "Yes."
  "Sorry," Byrne thought. "Sorry for what?"
  - The rest are separate letters.
  "They don't write anything?" Byrne asked.
  "Not that I can see," Nate said. "I'll list them in order, top to bottom, and fax them to you. Maybe they'll add something."
  "Thanks, Nate."
  "At any moment."
  Byrne looked at the page again.
  Love.
  I'm sorry.
  Besides the words, letters, and drawings, there was another repeating image-a sequence of numbers drawn in an ever-shrinking spiral. It looked like a series of ten numbers. The design appeared three times on the page. Byrne took the page to the copier. He placed it on the glass and adjusted the settings to enlarge it to three times the original size. When the page appeared, he saw he was right. The first three numbers were 215. That was a local phone number. He picked up the phone and dialed. When someone answered, Byrne apologized for dialing the wrong number. He hung up, his pulse quickening. They had a destination.
  "Jess," he said. He grabbed his coat.
  "How are you?"
  "Let's go for a ride."
  "Where?"
  Byrne was almost out the door. "A club called Stiletto."
  "Want me to get the address?" Jessica asked, grabbing the radio and hurrying to keep up.
  "No. I know where it is."
  "Okay. Why are we going there?"
  They approached the elevators. Byrne pressed a button and began to walk. "It belongs to a guy named Callum Blackburn."
  - I've never heard of him.
  "Christina Yakos drew his phone number three times in this magazine."
  - And you know this guy?
  "Yeah."
  "How so?" asked Jessica.
  Byrne stepped into the elevator and held the door open. "I helped put him in prison almost twenty years ago."
  OceanofPDF.com
  24
  Once upon a time, there was an emperor of China, and he lived in the most magnificent palace in the world. Nearby, in a vast forest stretching to the sea, lived a nightingale, and people came from all over the world to hear it sing. Everyone admired the bird's beautiful song. The bird became so famous that when people passed each other on the street, one would say "night," and the other "hurricane."
  Luna heard the nightingale's song. He watched her for many days. Not long ago, he sat in the darkness, surrounded by others, immersed in the wonder of music. Her voice was pure, magical, and rhythmic, like the sound of tiny glass bells.
  Now the nightingale is silent.
  Today, Moon waits for her underground, and the sweet scent of the imperial garden intoxicates him. He feels like a nervous admirer. His palms are sweating, his heart is pounding. He's never felt this way before.
  If she had not been his nightingale, she might have been his princess.
  Today it's time for her to sing again.
  OceanofPDF.com
  25
  Stiletto's was an upscale-upscale for a Philadelphia strip club-"gentlemen's club" on Thirteenth Street. Two levels of swaying flesh, short skirts, and glossy lipstick for the lustful businessman. One floor housed a live strip club, the other a noisy bar and restaurant with scantily clad bartenders and waitresses. Stiletto's had a liquor license, so the dancing wasn't completely nude, but it was anything but.
  On the way to the club, Byrne told Jessica. On paper, Stiletto belonged to a famous former Philadelphia Eagles player, a distinguished and distinguished sports star with three Pro Bowl selections. In reality, there were four partners, including Callum Blackburn. The hidden partners were most likely members of the mafia.
  Mob. Dead girl. Mutilation.
  "I"m so sorry," Christina wrote.
  Jessica thought, "Promising."
  
  
  
  JESSICA AND BYRNE entered the bar.
  "I have to go to the bathroom," Byrne said. "Are you going to be okay?"
  Jessica stared at him for a moment, unblinking. She was a veteran police officer, a professional boxer, and armed. Still, it was kind of sweet. "It'll be okay."
  Byrne went to the men's room. Jessica took the last stool at the bar, the one next to the aisle, the one in front of the lemon wedges, pimiento olives, and maraschino cherries. The room was decorated like a Moroccan brothel: all gold paint, red flocked trim, velvet furniture with swivel pillows.
  The place was bustling with business. No wonder. The club was located near the convention center. The sound system blared George Thorogood's "Bad to the Bone."
  The stool next to her was empty, but the one behind it was occupied. Jessica glanced around. The guy sitting there looked straight out of a strip club's central casting office-about forty, in a shiny floral shirt, skinny dark blue double-knit pants, scuffed shoes, and gold-plated ID bracelets on both wrists. His two front teeth were clenched, giving him the ignorant look of a chipmunk. He was smoking Salem Light 100s with broken filters. He was looking at her.
  Jessica met his gaze and held it.
  "Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked.
  "I'm the assistant bar manager here." He slid onto the stool next to her. He smelled of Old Spice deodorant and pork rinds. "Well, I'll be there in three months."
  "Congratulations".
  "You look familiar," he said.
  "I?"
  "Have we met before?"
  "I don't think so".
  - I'm sure so.
  "Well, that's certainly possible," Jessica said. "I just don't remember it."
  "No?"
  He said it as if it was hard to believe. "No," she said. "But you know what? It's okay with me."
  Thick as a brick dipped in dough, he pressed on. "Have you ever danced? I mean, you know, professionally."
  "That's it," Jessica thought. "Yes, of course."
  The guy snapped his fingers. "I knew it," he said. "I never forget a pretty face. Or a great body. Where were you dancing?"
  "Well, I worked at the Bolshoi Theatre for a couple of years. But the commute was killing me."
  The guy tilted his head ten degrees, thinking-or whatever he was doing instead of thinking-that the Bolshoi Theater might be a strip club in Newark. "I'm not familiar with that place."
  "I'm stunned."
  "Was it completely nude?"
  "No. They make you dress like a swan."
  "Wow," he said. "That sounds hot."
  "Oh, that's true."
  "What is your name?"
  Isadora.
  "I'm Chester. My friends call me Chet."
  - Well, Chester, it was great chatting with you.
  "Are you leaving?" He made a small movement toward her. Spider-like. As if he was thinking about leaving her on the stool.
  "Yes, unfortunately. Duty calls." She placed her badge on the counter. Chet's face went pale. It was like showing a cross to a vampire. He stepped back.
  Byrne returned from the men's room, glaring at Chet.
  "Hey, how are you?" Chet asked.
  "Never better," Byrne said. To Jessica: "Ready?"
  "Let's do this."
  "See you," Chet told her. It feels cool right now, for some reason.
  - I'll count the minutes.
  
  
  
  On the second floor, two detectives, led by a pair of burly bodyguards, navigated a maze of corridors, ending at a reinforced steel door. Above it, encased in thick protective plastic, was a security camera. A pair of electronic locks hung on the wall next to the door, which had no hardware. Thug One spoke into a portable radio. A moment later, the door slowly swung open. Thug Two pulled it wide. Byrne and Jessica entered.
  The large room was dimly lit by indirect lamps, dark orange sconces, and recessed canisters with spotlights. A genuine Tiffany lamp adorned the enormous oak table, behind which sat a man whom Byrne described as only Callum Blackburn.
  The man's face lit up when he saw Byrne. "I don't believe this," he said. He stood up, holding both hands out in front of him like handcuffs. Byrne laughed. The men hugged and patted each other on the back. Callum took a half-step back and looked Byrne over again, his hands on his hips. "You look good."
  "You too."
  "I can't complain," he said. "I was sorry to hear about your problems." His accent was broad Scottish, softened by years spent in eastern Pennsylvania.
  "Thank you," Byrne said.
  Callum Blackburn was sixty years old. He had chiseled features, dark, lively eyes, a silver goatee, and salt-and-pepper hair combed back. He wore a well-tailored dark gray suit, a white shirt, an open collar, and a small hoop earring.
  "This is my partner, Detective Balzano," Byrne said.
  Callum straightened, turned fully toward Jessica, and lowered his chin in greeting. Jessica had no idea what to do. Was she supposed to curtsy? She extended her hand. "Pleased to meet you."
  Callum took her hand and smiled. For a white-collar criminal, he was quite charming. Byrne told her about Callum Blackburn. His charge was credit card fraud.
  "I'd love to," Callum said. "If I'd known detectives were so good-looking these days, I never would have given up my life of crime."
  "And you?" Byrne asked.
  "I'm just a humble businessman from Glasgow," he said with a glimmer of a smile. "And I'm about to become an old father."
  One of the first lessons Jessica learned on the street was that conversations with criminals always contain subtext, almost certainly a distortion of the truth. I never met him, which basically meant: we grew up together. I wasn't usually there. It happened at my home. "I'm innocent" almost always meant I did it. When Jessica first joined the police, she felt she needed a criminal-English dictionary. Now, almost ten years later, she could probably teach criminal English.
  Byrne and Callum seemed to have gone way back, meaning the conversation would likely be a little closer to the truth. When someone handcuffs you and watches you walk into a prison cell, playing the tough guy becomes more difficult.
  Still, they were here to get information from Callum Blackburn. For now, they had to play his game. A small talk before the big talk.
  "How's your lovely wife?" Callum asked.
  "Still sweet," Byrne said, "but not my wife anymore."
  "That's such sad news," Callum said, looking genuinely surprised and disappointed. "What did you do?"
  Byrne leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. Defensive. "What makes you think I screwed up?"
  Callum raised one eyebrow.
  "Okay," Byrne said. "You're right. It was work."
  Callum nodded, perhaps acknowledging that he-and those of his criminal ilk-were part of the "work" and therefore partly responsible. "We have a saying in Scotland. 'The clipped sheep will grow again.'"
  Byrne looked at Jessica and then back at Callum. Had the man just called him a sheep? "Truer words, eh?" Byrne said, hoping to move on.
  Callum smiled, winked at Jessica, and laced his fingers together. "So," he said. "To what do I owe this visit?"
  "A woman named Christina Yakos was found murdered yesterday," Byrne said. "Did you know her?"
  Callum Blackburn's face was unreadable. "Excuse me, what's her name again?"
  "Christina Yakos".
  Byrne placed Christina's photo on the table. Both detectives watched Callum as he looked at him. He knew he was being watched and didn't give anything away.
  "Do you recognize her?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes".
  "How so?" Byrne asked.
  "She came to see me at work recently," Callum said.
  - Did you hire her?
  "My son Alex is in charge of recruiting."
  "Did she work as a secretary?" Jessica asked.
  "I'll let Alex explain." Callum walked away, pulled out his cell phone, made a call, and hung up. He turned back to the detectives. "He'll be here soon."
  Jessica glanced around the office. It was well-furnished, if a little tasteless: faux-suede wallpaper, landscapes and hunting scenes in gold filigree frames, a fountain in the corner shaped like a trio of golden swans. "Talk about your irony," she thought.
  The wall to the left of Callum's desk was the most impressive. It featured ten flat-screen monitors connected to CCTV cameras, showing various angles of the bars, the stage, the entrance, the parking lot, and the cash register. Six of the screens featured dancing girls in varying states of undress.
  While they waited, Byrne stood rooted to the spot in front of the display. Jessica wondered if he realized his mouth was open.
  Jessica walked over to the monitors. Six pairs of breasts jiggled, some larger than others. Jessica counted them. "Fake, fake, real, fake, real, fake."
  Byrne was horrified. He looked like a five-year-old who'd just learned the harsh truth about the Easter Bunny. He pointed to the last monitor, which showed a dancer, an incredibly leggy brunette. "Is this fake?"
  "It's a fake copy".
  While Byrne stared, Jessica browsed the books on the shelves, mostly by Scottish writers-Robert Burns, Walter Scott, J.M. Barrie. Then she noticed a single widescreen monitor built into the wall behind Callum's desk. It had a screensaver of sorts: a small golden box that kept opening to reveal a rainbow.
  "What is this?" Jessica asked Callum.
  "It's a closed-loop connection to a very special club," Callum said. "It's on the third floor. It's called the Pandora Room."
  "How unusual?"
  - Alex will explain.
  "What's going on there?" Byrne asked.
  Callum smiled. "Pandora Lounge is a special place for special girls."
  OceanofPDF.com
  26
  This time, Tara Lynn Green made it just in time. She was risking a speeding ticket-another one, and her license would likely be revoked-and she parked in an expensive lot near the Walnut Street Theater. Those were two things she couldn't afford.
  On the other hand, it was an audition for "Carousel," directed by Mark Balfour. The coveted role went to Julie Jordan. Shirley Jones played the role in the 1956 film and turned it into a lifelong career.
  Tara had just completed a successful run of "Nine" at the Central Theatre in Norristown. A local reviewer had called her "attractive." For Tara, "bring it" was almost as good as it got. She caught her reflection in the theater's lobby window. At twenty-seven, she was no newcomer and hardly an ingénue. Okay, twenty-eight, she thought. But who's counting?
  She walked the two blocks back to the parking garage. An icy wind whistled across Walnut. Tara turned the corner, glanced at the sign on the little kiosk, and calculated the parking fee. She owed sixteen dollars. Sixteen goddamn dollars. She had a twenty in her wallet.
  Ah, good. It was like ramen noodles again tonight. Tara walked down the basement steps, got into the car, and waited for it to warm up. While she waited, she put on a CD-Kay Starr singing "C'est Magnifique."
  When the car finally warmed up, she put the car into reverse, her mind a jumble of hopes, pre-premiere excitement, stellar reviews, and thunderous applause.
  Then she felt a blow.
  Oh my God, she thought. Did she hit something? She parked the car, hit the handbrake, and got out. She walked over to the car and looked under it. Nothing. She hadn't hit anything or anyone. Thank God.
  Then Tara saw it: she had an apartment. On top of everything else, she had an apartment. And she had less than twenty minutes to get to work. Like every other actress in Philadelphia, and perhaps the world, Tara worked as a waitress.
  She looked around the parking lot. Nobody. About thirty cars or so, a few vans. No people. Shit.
  She tried to fight back her anger and tears. She didn't even know if there was a spare tire in the trunk. It was a two-year-old compact car, and she'd never had to change a single tire before.
  "Are you in trouble?"
  Tara turned around, a little startled. A few steps from her car, a man was getting out of a white van. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers.
  "Hello," she said.
  "Hi." He pointed at her tire. "Doesn't look too good."
  "It's only flat on the bottom," she said. "Ha ha."
  "I'm really good at this stuff," he said. "I'd be happy to help."
  She glanced at her reflection in the car window. She was wearing a white wool coat. Her best. She could just imagine the grease on the front. And the dry cleaning bill. More expenses. Of course, her AAA membership had long since expired. She'd never used it when she paid for it. And now, of course, she needed it.
  "I couldn't ask you to do this," she said.
  "It doesn't really matter," he said. "You're not exactly dressed for car repair."
  Tara saw him glance furtively at his watch. If she was going to involve him in this task, she'd better do it soon. "Are you sure it won't be too much trouble?" she asked.
  "It's no big deal, really." He held up the bouquet. "I need this delivered by four o'clock, and then I'll be done for today. I have plenty of time."
  She glanced around the parking lot. It was almost empty. As much as she hated pretending to be helpless (after all, she knew how to change a tire), she could use some help.
  "You'll have to let me pay you for this," she said.
  He raised his hand. "I wouldn't want to hear about it. Besides, it's Christmas.
  And that's good, she thought. After paying for parking, she'd have a grand total of four dollars and seventeen cents left. "That's very kind of you."
  "Open the trunk," he said. "I'll be done in a minute."
  Tara reached for the window and clicked the trunk release. She walked to the back of the car. The man grabbed the jack and pulled it out. He looked around, looking for a place to put the flowers. It was a huge bouquet of gladioli, wrapped in bright white paper.
  "Do you think you can put these back in my van?" he asked. "My boss will kill me if I get them dirty."
  "Of course," she said. She took the flowers from him and turned toward the van.
  "...a hurricane," he said.
  She turned around. "Am I sorry?"
  "You can just put them in the back."
  "Oh," she said. "Okay."
  Tara approached the van, thinking that it was things like this-small acts of kindness from complete strangers-that practically restored her faith in humanity. Philadelphia could be a tough city, but sometimes you just didn't know it. She opened the van's back door. She expected to see boxes, paper, greenery, floral foam, ribbons, maybe a bunch of small cards and envelopes. Instead, she saw... nothing. The inside of the van was spotless. Except for an exercise mat on the floor. And a skein of blue and white rope.
  Before she could even place the flowers, she felt a presence. A close presence. Too close. She smelled cinnamon mouthwash; saw a shadow just inches away.
  As Tara turned to the shadow, the man swung the jack handle at the back of her head. It came with a dull thud. Her head shook. Black circles appeared behind her eyes, surrounded by a supernova of bright orange fire. He brought the steel rod down again, not hard enough to knock her off her feet, just enough to stun her. Her legs buckled, and Tara collapsed into strong arms.
  The next thing she knew, she was lying on her back on an exercise mat. She was warm. It smelled of paint thinner. She heard the doors slam, heard the engine start.
  When she opened her eyes again, gray daylight was streaming through the windshield. They were moving.
  As she tried to sit up, he reached out with a white cloth. He pressed it to her face. The scent of medicine was strong. Soon, she floated away in a beam of blinding light. But just before the world disappeared, Tara Lynn Greene-enchanting Tara Lynn Greene-suddenly realized what the man in the garage had said:
  You are my nightingale.
  OceanofPDF.com
  27
  Alasdair Blackburn was a taller version of his father, about thirty, broad-shouldered, athletic. He dressed casually, his hair was a little long, and he spoke with a slight accent. They met in Callum's office.
  "I'm sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "I had an errand to run." He shook hands with Jessica and Byrne. "Please, call me Alex."
  Byrne explained why they were there. He showed the man a photo of Christina. Alex confirmed that Christina Yakos worked at Stiletto.
  "What is your position here?" Byrne asked.
  "I'm the general manager," Alex said.
  "And you hire most of the staff?"
  "I do it all - the artists, the waiters, the kitchen staff, the security, the cleaners, the parking attendants."
  Jessica wondered what had possessed him to hire her friend Chet downstairs.
  "How long did Christina Yakos work here?" Byrne asked.
  Alex thought for a moment. "Maybe three weeks or so."
  "In what volume?"
  Alex glanced at his father. Out of the corner of her eye, Jessica saw the slightest nod from Callum. Alex could have handled the recruiting, but Callum was pulling the strings.
  "She was an artist," Alex said. His eyes lit up for a moment. Jessica wondered if his relationship with Christina Yakos had gone beyond the professional.
  "A dancer?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes and no."
  Byrne looked at Alex for a moment, waiting for clarification. None was offered. He pressed harder. "What exactly is 'no'?"
  Alex sat at the edge of his father's massive desk. "She was a dancer, but not like other girls." He waved his hand dismissively toward the monitors.
  "What do you mean?"
  "I'll show you," Alex said. "Let's go up to the third floor. To Pandora's living room.
  "What's on the third floor?" Byrne asked. "Lap dances?"
  Alex smiled. "No," he said. "It's different."
  "Another?"
  "Yes," he said, crossing the room and opening the door for them. "The young women who work at the Pandora Lounge are performance artists."
  
  
  
  The PANDORA ROOM on the third floor of the Stiletto consisted of a series of eight rooms separated by a long, dimly lit corridor. Crystal sconces and velvet wallpaper with fleurs-de-lis adorned the walls. The carpeting was a deep blue shag. At the end stood a table and a gold-veined mirror. Each door bore a tarnished brass number.
  "It's a private floor," Alex said. "Private dancers. Very exclusive. It's dark now because it doesn't open until midnight."
  "Did Christina Yakos work here?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes."
  "Her sister said she worked as a secretary."
  "Some young girls are reluctant to admit they're exotic dancers," Alex said. "We put whatever they want into the forms."
  As they walked down the hallway, Alex opened the doors. Each room had a different theme. One had a Wild West theme, with sawdust on the wood floors and a copper spittoon. One was a replica of a 1950s diner. Another had a Star Wars theme. It was like stepping into that old Westworld movie, Jessica thought, the exotic resort where Yul Brynner played a robot gunslinger who malfunctioned. A closer look in brighter lighting revealed that the rooms were a bit shabby, and that the illusion of various historical locations was just that-an illusion.
  Each room contained a single comfortable chair and a slightly raised stage. There were no windows. The ceilings were adorned with an intricate network of track lighting.
  "So men pay a premium to get a private performance in these halls?" Byrne asked.
  "Sometimes women, but not often," Alex replied.
  - May I ask how much?
  "It varies from girl to girl," he said. "But on average, it's about two hundred dollars. Plus tips.
  "How long?"
  Alex smiled, perhaps anticipating the next question. "Forty-five minutes."
  - And dancing is all that happens in these rooms?
  "Yes, detective. This is not a brothel.
  "Did Christina Yakos ever work on stage downstairs?" Byrne asked.
  "No," Alex said. "She worked exclusively here. She only started a few weeks ago, but she was very good and very popular."
  It became clear to Jessica how Christina was going to pay half the rent on an expensive townhouse in North Lawrence.
  "How are the girls selected?" Byrne asked.
  Alex walked down the hallway. At the end stood a table with a crystal vase filled with fresh gladioli. Alex reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a leatherette briefcase. He opened the book to a page with four photographs of Christina. One was of Christina in a Wild West dancehall costume; in one, she was wearing a toga.
  Jessica showed a photo of the dress Christina was wearing after her death. "Did she ever wear a dress like that?"
  Alex looked at the photo. "No," he said. "That's not one of our topics."
  "How do your clients get here?" Jessica asked.
  "There's an unmarked entrance at the back of the building. Customers enter, pay, and are then escorted out by the hostess."
  "Do you have a list of Christina's clients?" Byrne asked.
  "I'm afraid not. It's not something men typically put on their Visa cards. As you can imagine, this is a cash-only business."
  "Is there anyone who could pay more than once to see her dance? Someone who could be obsessed with her?
  "I don't know that. But I'll ask the other girls.
  Before heading downstairs, Jessica opened the door to the last room on the left. Inside was a replica of a tropical paradise, complete with sand, lounge chairs, and plastic palm trees.
  Beneath the Philadelphia she thought she knew, there was a whole Philadelphia.
  
  
  
  They were walking toward their car on Saranchovaya Street. A light snow was falling.
  "You were right," Byrne said.
  Jessica stopped. Byrne stopped next to her. Jessica put her hand to her ear. "Sorry, I didn't quite hear that," she said. "Could you repeat that for me, please?"
  Byrne smiled. "You were right. Christina Jakos had a secret life."
  They continued walking down the street. "Do you think she could have picked up a groom, refused his advances, and he attacked her?" Jessica asked.
  "It's certainly possible. But it certainly seems like a pretty extreme reaction."
  "There are some pretty extreme people." Jessica thought of Christina, or any dancer standing on stage, while someone sat in the dark, watching and plotting her death.
  "That's right," Byrne said. "And anyone who would pay two hundred dollars for a private dance in a Wild West saloon probably lives in a fairytale world to begin with."
  "Plus tip."
  "Plus tip."
  "Did it ever occur to you that Alex might be in love with Christina?"
  "Oh, yes," Byrne said. "He kind of went hazy when he talked about her."
  "Maybe you should interview some of the other girls on Stiletto," Jessica said, pressing her tongue firmly into her cheek. "See if they have anything to add."
  "It's a dirty job," Byrne said. "What I do for the department."
  They got into the car and buckled up. Byrne's cell phone rang. He answered, listened. Without a word, he hung up. He turned his head and stared out the driver's side window for a moment.
  "What is this?" Jessica asked.
  Byrne was silent for a few more moments, as if he hadn't heard her. Then: "It was John."
  Byrne was referring to John Shepherd, a fellow homicide detective. Byrne started the car, turned on the blue light on the dashboard, hit the gas, and roared into traffic. He was silent.
  "Kevin."
  Byrne slammed his fist on the dashboard. Twice. Then he took a deep breath, exhaled, turned to her, and said the last thing she expected to hear: "Walt Brigham is dead."
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  When Jessica and Byrne arrived at the scene on Lincoln Drive, part of Fairmount Park near Wissahickon Creek, two CSU vans, three sector cars, and five detectives were already there. Crime scene video was recorded throughout the entire drive. Traffic was diverted to two slow-moving lanes.
  For the police, this website represented anger, determination, and a particular kind of fury. It was one of their own.
  The appearance of the body was more than disgusting.
  Walt Brigham lay on the ground in front of his car, on the side of the road. He lay on his back, his arms spread out, palms up in supplication. He had been burned alive. The smell of charred flesh, crispy skin, and roasted bones filled the air. His corpse was a blackened husk. His gold detective badge was delicately placed on his forehead.
  Jessica nearly choked. She had to turn away from the horrific sight. She remembered the previous night, the way Walt had looked. She'd only met him once before, but he had a stellar reputation in the department and many friends.
  Now he was dead.
  Detectives Nikki Malone and Eric Chavez will be working the case.
  Nikki Malone, thirty-one, was one of the new detectives in the homicide squad, the only woman besides Jessica. Nikki had spent four years in the drug trade. At just under five-foot-four and 110 pounds-blonde, blue-eyed, and fair-haired-she had a lot to prove, beyond her gender issues. Nikki and Jessica had worked on a detail the year before and immediately bonded. They even trained together a few times. Nikki practiced taekwondo.
  Eric Chavez was a veteran detective and the hallmark of the unit. Chavez never passed a mirror without checking himself. His file drawers were filled with GQ, Esquire, and Vitals magazines. Fashion trends didn't arise without his knowledge, but it was precisely this attention to detail that made him a skilled investigator.
  Byrne's role would be as a witness-he was one of the last people to speak with Walt Brigham at Finnigan's Wake-though no one expected him to sit on the sidelines during the investigation. Every time a police officer was killed, approximately 6,500 men and women were involved.
  Every police officer in Philadelphia.
  
  
  
  MARJORIE BRIGHAM was a thin woman in her late fifties. She had small, distinct features, short-cropped silver hair, and the clean hands of a middle-class woman who never delegated any housework. She wore tan pants and a chocolate-colored knit sweater, and a simple gold bracelet on her left wrist.
  Her living room was decorated in an early American style, with cheerful beige wallpaper. A maple table stood in front of the street-facing window, on which stood a row of useful houseplants. In the corner of the dining room stood an aluminum Christmas tree with white lights and red ornaments.
  When Byrne and Jessica arrived, Marjorie was sitting in a reclining chair in front of the television. She held a black Teflon spatula in her hand, like a wilted flower. That day, for the first time in decades, there was no one to cook for. She couldn't seem to put the dishes down. Putting them down meant Walt wouldn't come back. If you were married to a police officer, you were afraid every day. You were afraid of the phone, the knock on the door, the sound of a car pulling up outside your house. You were afraid every time a "special report" came on TV. Then one day the unthinkable happened, and there was nothing to fear anymore. You suddenly realized that all this time, all these years, fear had been your friend. Fear meant there was life. Fear was hope.
  Kevin Byrne wasn't there in an official capacity. He was there as a friend, a brother officer. Still, it was impossible not to ask questions. He sat on the arm of the sofa and took one of Marjorie's hands in his.
  "Are you ready to ask a few questions?" Byrne asked as gently and kindly as he could.
  Marjorie nodded.
  "Walt had debts? Was there anyone he might have had problems with?
  Marjorie thought for a few seconds. "No," she said. "Nothing of the sort."
  "Did he ever mention any specific threats? Anyone who might have a vendetta against him?
  Marjorie shook her head. Byrne had to try to investigate that line of inquiry, though it was unlikely Walt Brigham would have shared such a thing with his wife. For a moment, Matthew Clark's voice echoed in Byrne's mind.
  This is not the end yet.
  "Is this your case?" Marjorie asked.
  "No," Byrne said. "Detectives Malone and Chavez are investigating. They'll be here later today."
  "Are they good?"
  "Very well," Byrne replied. "Now you know they're going to want to look at some of Walt's stuff. Are you okay with that?"
  Marjorie Brigham simply nodded, speechless.
  "Now remember, if any problems or questions come up, or if you just want to talk, call me first, okay? Any time. Day or night. I'll be right there.
  "Thank you, Kevin."
  Byrne stood up and buttoned his coat. Marjorie stood up. Finally, she put down the shovel, then hugged the big man standing before her, burying her face in his broad chest.
  
  
  
  The story was already all over the city, all over the region. News outlets were setting up shop on Lincoln Drive. They had a potentially sensational story. Fifty or sixty police officers gather at a tavern, one of them leaves and is killed on a remote stretch of Lincoln Drive. What was he doing there? Drugs? Sex? Payback? For a police department constantly under the scrutiny of every civil rights group, every watchdog board, every citizen action committee, not to mention the local and often national media, it wasn't looking good. The pressure from the bigwigs to fix this problem, and fix it fast, was already enormous and growing by the hour.
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  29
  "What time did Walt leave the bar?" Nikki asked. They were gathered around the homicide desk: Nikki Malone, Eric Chavez, Kevin Byrne, Jessica Balzano, and Ike Buchanan.
  "I'm not sure," Byrne said. "Maybe two."
  "I've already spoken to a dozen detectives. I don't think anyone saw him leave. It was his party. Does that really seem right to you?" Nikki asked.
  That's not true. But Byrne shrugged. "It is what it is. We've all been very busy. Especially Walt.
  "Okay," Nikki said. She flipped through a few pages of her notebook. "Walt Brigham shows up at Finnigan's Wake last night around 8 p.m. and drinks half the top shelf. Did you know him to be a heavy drinker?"
  "He was a homicide detective. And this was his retirement party."
  "Point taken," Nikki said. "Have you seen him argue with anyone?"
  "No," Byrne said.
  "Did you see him leave for a while and come back?"
  "I didn't do it," Byrne replied.
  - Did you see him making a phone call?
  "No."
  "Did you recognize most of the people at the party?" Nikki asked.
  "Almost everyone," Byrne said. "I've made up a lot of those guys."
  - Are there any old feuds, anything that goes back to the past?
  - Nothing that I know of.
  - So, you spoke to the victim in the bar around half past two and didn't see him after that?
  Byrne shook his head. He thought about how many times he'd done exactly what Nikki Malone had done, how many times he'd used the word "victim" instead of a person's name. He'd never really understood what it sounded like. Until now. "No," Byrne said, suddenly feeling completely useless. This was a new experience for him-being a witness-and he didn't like it much. He didn't like it at all.
  "Anything else to add, Jess?" Nikki asked.
  "Not exactly," Jessica said. "I left there around midnight."
  - Where did you park?
  "On the Third."
  - Near the parking lot?
  Jessica shook her head. "Closer to Green Street."
  - Did you see anyone loitering in the parking lot behind Finnigan's?
  "No."
  "Was anyone walking down the street when you left?"
  "Nobody."
  The survey was conducted within a two-block radius. No one saw Walt Brigham leave the bar, walk down Third Street, enter the parking lot, or drive away.
  
  
  
  Jessica and Byrne ate an early dinner at the Standard Tap Restaurant on Second and Poplar. They ate in stunned silence after hearing the news of Walt Brigham's murder. The first report came in. Brigham had suffered blunt force trauma to the back of the head, then been doused with gasoline and set on fire. A gasoline canister, a standard two-gallon plastic one, was found in the woods near the crime scene, the kind found everywhere, with no fingerprints. The medical examiner will consult with a forensic dentist and conduct a dental identification, but there will be no doubt that the charred body belonged to Walter Brigham.
  "So, what's going to happen on Christmas Eve?" Byrne finally asked, trying to lighten the mood.
  "My dad's coming," Jessica said. "It'll just be him, me, Vincent, and Sophie. We're going to my aunt's house for Christmas. It's always been that way. What about you?"
  - I'm going to stay with my father and help him start packing.
  "How's your father?" Jessica wanted to ask. When Byrne was shot and in an induced coma, she visited the hospital every day for weeks. Sometimes she managed to get there well past midnight, but typically, when a police officer was injured in the line of duty, there were no official visiting hours. No matter the time, Padraig Byrne was there. He was emotionally incapable of sitting in the intensive care unit with his son, so a chair had been set up for him in the hallway where he maintained vigil-a thermos blanket next to him, a newspaper in hand-at all hours. Jessica never spoke to the man in detail, but the ritual of walking around the corner and seeing him sitting there with his rosary beads and nodding good morning, good afternoon, or good evening was a constant, something she looked forward to during those shaky weeks; it became the foundation on which she built the foundation of her hopes.
  "He's good," Byrne said. "I told you he was moving to the Northeast, right?"
  "Yes," Jessica said. "I can't believe he's leaving South Philadelphia."
  "He can't either. Later that evening, I'm having dinner with Colleen. Victoria was going to join us, but she's still in Meadville. Her mother is unwell.
  "You know, you and Colleen can come over after dinner," Jessica said. "I'm making a heck of a tiramisu. Fresh mascarpone from DiBruno. Trust me, grown men have been known to cry uncontrollably. Plus, my Uncle Vittorio always sends a case of his homemade vino di tavola. We're listening to Bing Crosby's Christmas album. It's a wild time."
  "Thanks," Byrne said. "Let me see what happened."
  Kevin Byrne was as gracious in accepting invitations as he was in refusing them. Jessica decided not to press the issue. They fell silent again, their thoughts, like everyone else's at PPD that day, turning to Walt Brigham.
  "Thirty-eight years on the job," Byrne said. "Walt put a lot of people away."
  "Do you think it was the one he sent?" Jessica asked.
  - That's where I would start.
  "When you spoke to him before you left, did he give you any indication that something was wrong?"
  "Not at all. I mean, I got the feeling he was a little upset about retiring. But he seemed optimistic about the fact that he was going to get his license."
  "License?"
  "PI license," Byrne said. "He said he was going to take on Richie DiCillo's daughter."
  "Richie DiCillo's daughter? I don't know what you mean."
  Byrne briefly told Jessica about Annemarie DiCillo's murder in 1995. The story sent chills down Jessica's spine. She had no idea.
  
  
  
  As they drove through town, Jessica thought about how small Marjorie Brigham looked in Byrne's arms. She wondered how many times Kevin Byrne had found himself in this position. He was damn scary if you were on the wrong side. But when he drew you into his orbit, when he looked at you with those deep emerald eyes, he made you feel like you were the only person in the world, and that your problems had just become his.
  The harsh reality was that the work continued.
  I had to think about a dead woman named Christina Yakos.
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  30
  The moon stands naked in the moonlight. It's late. This is his favorite time.
  When he was seven years old and his grandfather fell ill for the first time, Moon thought he'd never see him again. He cried for days until his grandmother relented and took him to the hospital to visit. During that long, confusing night, Moon stole a glass vial of his grandfather's blood. He sealed it tightly and hid it in the basement of his house.
  On his eighth birthday, his grandfather died. It was the worst thing that ever happened to him. His grandfather taught him a lot, reading to him in the evenings, telling him stories of ogres, fairies, and kings. Moon remembers long summer days when the whole family would come here. Real families. Music played, and the children laughed.
  Then the children stopped coming.
  After that, his grandmother lived in silence until she took Moon into the forest, where he watched girls playing. With their long necks and smooth white skin, they resembled swans from a fairy tale. That day, there was a terrible storm; thunder and lightning roared over the forest, filling the world. Moon tried to protect the swans. He built them a nest.
  When his grandmother found out what he had done in the forest, she took him to a dark and frightening place, a place where children like himself lived.
  Moon gazed out the window for many years. Moon came to him every night, telling him of her travels. Moon learned about Paris, Munich, and Uppsala. He learned about the Flood and the Street of Tombs.
  When his grandmother fell ill, he was sent home. He returned to a quiet, empty place. A place of ghosts.
  His grandmother is gone now. The king will soon tear everything down.
  Luna produces her seed in the soft blue moonlight. He thinks of his nightingale. She sits in the boathouse and waits, her voice quiet for the moment. He mixes his seed with a single drop of blood. He arranges his brushes.
  Later he will put on his outfit, cut the rope and head to the boathouse.
  He will show the nightingale his world.
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  31
  Byrne sat in his car on Eleventh Street, near Walnut. He'd planned to arrive early, but his car had driven him there.
  He was restless and he knew why.
  All he could think about was Walt Brigham. He thought of Brigham's face when he talked about Annemarie DiCillo's case. There was real passion there.
  Pine needles. Smoke.
  Byrne got out of the car. He'd been planning to pop into Moriarty's for a bit. Halfway to the door, he changed his mind. He returned to his car in a kind of fugue state. He'd always been a man of split-second decisions and lightning-fast reactions, but now he seemed to be going in circles. Perhaps the murder of Walt Brigham had affected him more than he'd realized.
  As he opened the car, he heard someone approaching. He turned around. It was Matthew Clarke. Clarke looked nervous, red-eyed, and on edge. Byrne watched the man's hands.
  "What are you doing here, Mr. Clark?"
  Clark shrugged. "It's a free country. I can go wherever I want."
  "Yes, you can," Byrne said. "However, I would prefer those places not to be around me."
  Clark slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out his camera phone. He turned the screen toward Byrne. "If I want, I can even go to the 1200 block of Spruce Street."
  At first, Byrne thought he'd misheard. Then he looked closely at the picture on the small screen of his cell phone. His heart sank. The picture was of his wife's house. The house where his daughter slept.
  Byrne knocked the phone out of Clark's hand, grabbed the man by the lapels, and slammed him into the brick wall behind him. "Listen to me," he said. "Can you hear me?"
  Clark simply watched, his lips trembling. He'd planned for this moment, but now that it had arrived, he was completely unprepared for its immediacy and brutality.
  "I'm going to say this once," Byrne said. "If you ever come near this house again, I'm going to hunt you down and put a fucking bullet in your head. Do you understand?"
  - I don't think you...
  "Don't talk. Listen. If you have a problem with me, it's with me, not my family. You don't interfere with my family. Do you want to settle this now? Tonight? We'll settle this."
  Byrne let go of the man's coat. He backed away. He tried to control himself. That would be all he needed: a civil complaint against him.
  The truth was, Matthew Clarke wasn't a criminal. Not yet. At this point, Clarke was just an ordinary man, riding a terrible, soul-shattering wave of grief. He lashed out at Byrne, at the system, at the injustice of it all. As inappropriate as it was, Byrne understood.
  "Go away," Byrne said. "Now."
  Clark straightened his clothes, trying to regain his dignity. "You can't tell me what to do."
  "Go away, Mr. Clark. Get help."
  "It's not that simple."
  "What do you want?"
  "I want you to admit what you did," Clark said.
  "What have I done?" Byrne took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "You know nothing about me. When you've seen what I've seen and been where I've been, we'll talk.
  Clark looked at him intently. He wasn't going to let this go.
  "Look, I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Clark. I really am. But no...
  - You didn't know her.
  "Yes, I did."
  Clarke looked stunned. "What are you talking about?"
  -You think I didn't know who she was? You think I don't see this every day of my life? The man who walked into a bank during a robbery? The old woman walking home from church? The child on the playground in North Philadelphia? The girl whose only crime was being Catholic? You think I don't understand innocence?
  Clark continued to stare at Byrne, speechless.
  "It makes me sick," Byrne said. "But there's nothing you, I, or anyone else can do about it. Innocent people are suffering. My condolences, but as harsh as it sounds, that's all I'll say. That's all I can give you."
  Instead of accepting it and leaving, Matthew Clarke seemed eager to escalate matters. Byrne resigned himself to the inevitable.
  "You jumped me in that diner," Byrne said. "That was a bad shot. You missed. Want a free shot right now? Take this. Last chance."
  "You have a gun," Clark said. "I'm not a stupid man."
  Byrne reached into his holster, pulled out a gun, and tossed it into the car. His badge and ID followed him. "Unarmed," he said. "I'm a civilian now."
  Matthew Clark looked at the ground for a moment. In Byrne's mind, it could go either way. Then Clark stepped back and punched Byrne in the face with all his might. Byrne staggered and momentarily saw stars. He tasted blood in his mouth, warm and metallic. Clark was five inches shorter and at least fifty pounds lighter. Byrne didn't raise his hands, either in defense or in anger.
  "That's it?" Byrne asked. He spat. "Twenty years of marriage, and this is the best you can do?" Byrne hounded Clark, insulted him. He seemed unable to stop. Maybe he didn't want to. "Hit me."
  This time it was a glancing blow to Byrne's forehead. Knuckle on bone. It stung.
  "Again."
  Clarke charged at him again, this time catching Byrne with his right temple. He returned with a hook into Byrne's chest. And then another. Clarke nearly lifted off the ground with the effort.
  Byrne stumbled back a foot or so and held his ground. "I don't think you're interested in this, Matt. I really am not.
  Clarke screamed in rage-a mad, animalistic sound. He swung his fist again, catching Byrne in the left jaw. But it was clear his passion and strength were fading. He swung again, this time a glancing blow that missed Byrne's face and hit the wall. Clarke screamed in pain.
  Byrne spat out blood and waited. Clark leaned against the wall, physically and emotionally drained for the moment, his knuckles bleeding. The two men looked at each other. They both knew the battle was ending, just as people throughout the centuries had known the battle was over. For a moment.
  "Done?" Byrne asked.
  - Damn... you.
  Byrne wiped the blood from his face. "You'll never have that chance again, Mr. Clark. If it happens again, if you ever approach me in anger again, I will fight back. And as hard as it may be for you to understand, I'm just as angry about your wife's death as you are. You don't want me to fight back.
  Clarke started to cry.
  "Look, believe it or not," Byrne said. He knew he was getting there. He'd been here before, but for some reason, it had never been this hard. "I regret what happened. You'll never know how much. Anton Krotz was a fucking animal, and now he's dead. If I could do anything, I would."
  Clark looked at him sharply, his anger subsiding, his breathing returning to normal, his rage once again giving way to grief and pain. He wiped the tears from his face. "Oh, yes, Detective," he said. "Yes."
  They stared at each other, five feet apart, worlds apart. Byrne could tell the man wouldn't say anything else. Not tonight.
  Clark grabbed his cell phone, backed toward his car, slipped inside, and sped away, sliding on the ice for a while.
  Byrne looked down. There were long streaks of blood on his white dress shirt. It wasn't the first time. Although it was the first in a long time. He rubbed his jaw. He'd been punched in the face enough in his life, starting with Sal Pecchio when he was about eight years old. This time, it had happened over water ice.
  If I could do something, I would do it.
  Byrne wondered what he meant.
  Eat.
  Byrne wondered what Clarke meant.
  He called his cell phone. His first call was to his ex-wife, Donna, under the pretext of saying "Merry Christmas." All was well there. Clark didn't show up. Byrne's next call was to a sergeant in the neighborhood where Donna and Colleen lived. He gave a description of Clark and the license plate number. They would send a sector car. Byrne knew he could get a warrant, arrest Clark, and possibly face assault and battery charges. But he couldn't bring himself to do it.
  Byrne opened the car door, grabbed his gun and ID, and headed to the pub. As he entered the welcoming warmth of the familiar bar, he had a feeling that the next time he encountered Matthew Clarke, things would be bad.
  Very bad.
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  32
  From her new world of complete darkness, layers of sound and touch slowly emerged-the echo of moving water, the feel of cold wood on her skin-but the first to beckon was her sense of smell.
  For Tara Lynn Green, it was always about smell. The scent of sweet basil, the smell of diesel fuel, the aroma of fruit pie baking in her grandmother's kitchen. All these things had the power to transport her to another place and time in her life. Coppertone was the shore.
  This smell was familiar too. Rotting meat. Rotting wood.
  Where was she?
  Tara knew they'd left, but she had no idea how far. Or how long it had been. She dozed off, woken several times. She felt damp and cold. She heard the wind whisper through the stone. She was home, but that was all she knew.
  As her thoughts became clearer, her terror grew. A flat tire. A man with flowers. A searing pain in the back of her head.
  Suddenly, a light came on overhead. A low-wattage bulb glowed through the layer of dirt. Now she could see she was in a small room. To the right, a wrought-iron couch. A chest of drawers. An armchair. Everything was vintage, everything was very neat, the room was almost monastic, strictly ordered. Ahead was some kind of passage, an arched stone channel leading into darkness. Her gaze fell back on the bed. He was wearing something white. A dress? No. It looked like a winter coat.
  It was her coat.
  Tara looked down. She was wearing a long dress now. And she was in a boat, a small red boat on the canal that ran through this strange room. The boat was brightly painted with glossy enamel. A nylon seat belt was fastened around her waist, holding her firmly to the worn vinyl seat. Her hands were bound to the belt.
  She felt something sour rise in her throat. She'd read a newspaper article about a woman found murdered in Manayunk. The woman was wearing an old suit. She knew what it was. The knowledge crushed the air from her lungs.
  Sounds: metal on metal. Then a new sound. It sounded like... a bird? Yes, a bird was singing. The bird's song was beautiful, rich, and melodic. Tara had never heard anything like it. A few moments later, she heard footsteps. Someone had approached from behind, but Tara didn't dare try to turn around.
  After a long silence, he spoke.
  "Sing for me," he said.
  Did she hear correctly? "I... I"m sorry?"
  "Sing, nightingale."
  Tara's throat was almost dry. She tried to swallow. Her only chance of getting out of this was to use her wits. "What do you want me to sing?" she managed.
  "Song of the Moon".
  Moon, moon, moon, moon. What does he mean? What is he talking about? "I don't think I know any songs about the moon," she said.
  "Of course, yes. Everyone knows a song about the moon. 'Fly Away to the Moon with Me,' 'Paper Moon,' 'How High the Moon,' 'Blue Moon,' 'Moon River.' I especially like 'Moon River.' Do you know that?"
  Tara knew that song. Everyone knew that song, right? But then it wouldn't have come to her. "Yes," she said, buying time. "I know it."
  He stood in front of her.
  Oh my God, she thought. She looked away.
  "Sing, nightingale," he said.
  This time it was the team. She sang "Moon River." The lyrics, if not the exact melody, came to her. Her theater training took over. She knew that if she stopped or even hesitated, something terrible would happen.
  He sang along with her as he untied the boat, walked to the stern, and pushed it. He turned off the light.
  Tara was now moving through darkness. The small boat clacked and clanked against the sides of the narrow canal. She strained to see, but her world was still almost black. Every now and then, she caught the glint of icy moisture on the gleaming stone walls. The walls were closer now. The boat rocked. It was so cold.
  She couldn't hear him anymore, but Tara continued singing, her voice bouncing off the walls and low ceiling. It sounded thin and shaky, but she couldn't stop.
  There is light ahead, thin, consommé-like daylight, seeping through cracks in what look like old wooden doors.
  The boat hit the doors, and they swung open. She was out in the open. It seemed to be just after dawn. Soft snow was falling. Above her, the dead tree branches touched the pearly sky with black fingers. She tried to raise her arms, but couldn't.
  The boat emerged into a clearing. Tara was floating down one of the narrow channels winding through the trees. The water was cluttered with leaves, branches, and debris. Tall, rotting structures stood on either side of the channels, their supporting spikes resembling diseased ribs in a decaying chest. One of them was a lopsided, dilapidated gingerbread house. Another exhibit resembled a castle. Yet another resembled a giant seashell.
  The boat crashed around a bend in the river, and now the view of the trees was blocked by a large display, about twenty feet tall and fifteen feet wide. Tara tried to focus on what it could be. It looked like a children's storybook, open in the middle, with a long-faded, peeling band of paint on the right. Next to it was a large rock, similar to one you might see in a cliff. Something was perched on top of it.
  At that moment, a wind picked up, rocking the boat, stinging Tara's face and causing her eyes to water. A sharp, cold gust brought with it a fetid, animal-like odor that made her stomach churn. A few moments later, when the movement subsided and her vision cleared, Tara found herself standing directly in front of a huge storybook. She read a few words in the upper left corner.
  Far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the most beautiful cornflower...
  Tara looked beyond the book. Her tormentor stood at the end of the canal, near a small building that looked like an old school. He held a piece of rope in his hands. He was waiting for her.
  Her song turned into a scream.
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  33
  By 6 a.m., Byrne had all but lost sleep. He drifted in and out of consciousness, nightmares crept in, faces accused him.
  Christina Yakos. Walt Brigham. Laura Clark.
  At seven thirty, the phone rang. Somehow, he had been turned off. The sound made him sit up. "Not another body," he thought. Please. Not another body.
  He answered, "Byrne."
  "Did I wake you up?"
  Victoria's voice sparked a flash of sunlight in his heart. "No," he said. It was partly true. He lay on a stone, asleep.
  "Merry Christmas," she said.
  "Merry Christmas, Tori. How's your mom?"
  Her slight hesitation told him a lot. Marta Lindström was only sixty-six years old, but she was suffering from early dementia.
  "Good days and bad days," Victoria said. A long pause. Byrne read it. "I think it's time for me to go home," she added.
  There it was. Though they both wanted to deny it, they knew it was coming. Victoria had already taken an extended leave from her job at Passage House, a shelter for runaways on Lombard Street.
  "Hi. Meadville isn't that far," she said. "It's quite nice here. Kind of quaint. You could look at it, it's a vacation. We could do a B and B."
  "I've never actually been to a bed and breakfast," Byrne said.
  "We probably wouldn't have made it to breakfast. We might have had an illicit encounter.
  Victoria could change her mood in the blink of an eye. It was one of the many things Byrne loved about her. No matter how depressed she was, she could make him feel better.
  Byrne looked around his apartment. Though they'd never officially moved in together-neither of them was ready for that step, for their own reasons-while Byrne had been dating Victoria, she'd transformed his apartment from the prototype of a bachelor's pizza box into something resembling a home. He wasn't ready for lace curtains, but she'd persuaded him to opt for honeycomb blinds; their pastel gold color enhanced the morning sunlight.
  There was a rug on the floor, and the tables were where they belonged: at the end of the sofa. Victoria even managed to smuggle in two houseplants, which miraculously not only survived but also grew.
  "Meadville," Byrne thought. Meadville was only 285 miles from Philadelphia.
  It felt like the other end of the world.
  
  
  
  BECAUSE IT WAS Christmas Eve, Jessica and Byrne were only on duty for half a day. They probably could have faked it on the street, but there was always something to hide, some report that needed to be read or saved.
  By the time Byrne entered the duty room, Josh Bontrager was already there. He'd bought them three pastries and three cups of coffee. Two creams, two sugars, a napkin, and a stirrer-all laid out on the table with geometric precision.
  "Good morning, Detective," Bontrager said, smiling. His brow narrowed as he took in Byrne's puffy face. "Are you all right, sir?"
  "I'm fine." Byrne took off his coat. He was weary to the bone. "And this is Kevin," he said. "Please." Byrne uncovered the coffee. He picked it up. "Thank you."
  "Of course," Bontrager said. Now it's all business. He opened his notebook. "I'm afraid I'm short on Savage Garden CDs. They're sold in major stores, but no one seems to remember anyone specifically asking for them in the last few months."
  "It was worth a try," Byrne said. He took a bite of the cookie Josh Bontrager had bought him. It was a nut roll. Very fresh.
  Bontrager nodded. "I haven't done that yet. There are still independent shops."
  At that moment, Jessica burst into the duty room, a trail of sparks. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks bright. It wasn't because of the weather. She wasn't a happy detective.
  "How are you?" Byrne asked.
  Jessica paced back and forth, muttering Italian insults under her breath. Finally, she dropped her purse. Heads popped out from behind the partitions of the duty room. "Channel Six caught me in the damn parking lot."
  - What did they ask?
  - The usual damn nonsense.
  - What did you tell them?
  - The usual damn nonsense.
  Jessica described how they cornered her before she'd even gotten out of the car. Cameras were on, lights were on, questions were flying. The department really didn't like it when detectives were caught on camera outside of their schedule, but it always looked much worse when the footage showed a detective covering his eyes and shouting, "No comment." It didn't inspire confidence. So she stopped and did her part.
  "What does my hair look like?" Jessica asked.
  Byrne took a step back. "Um, okay."
  Jessica threw up both hands. "God, you're such a sweet-talking devil! I swear I'm going to faint."
  "What would I say?" Byrne looked at Bontrager. Both men shrugged.
  "Whatever my hair looks like, I'm sure it looks better than your face," Jessica said. "Tell me about it?"
  Byrne rubbed ice on his face and cleaned it. Nothing was broken. It was slightly swollen, but the swelling had already begun to subside. He told the story of Matthew Clark and their confrontation.
  "How far do you think he'll go?" Jessica asked.
  "I have no idea. Donna and Colleen are leaving town for a week. At least I won't think about it.
  "Is there anything I can do?" Jessica and Bontrager said at the same time.
  "I don't think so," Byrne said, looking at them both, "but thank you."
  Jessica read the messages and headed for the door.
  "Where are you going?" Byrne asked.
  "I'm going to the library," Jessica said. "See if I can find that drawing of the moon."
  "I'll finish up the list of used clothing stores," Byrne said. "Maybe we can find out where he bought this dress."
  Jessica picked up her cell phone. "I'm mobile."
  "Detective Balzano?" Bontrager asked.
  Jessica turned around, her face contorted with impatience. "What?"
  "Your hair looks very beautiful."
  Jessica's anger subsided. She smiled. "Thank you, Josh."
  OceanofPDF.com
  34
  The Free Library had a large number of books on the Moon. Too many to immediately identify any that might help in the investigation.
  Before leaving the Roundhouse, Jessica ran a search through NCIC, VICAP, and other national law enforcement databases. The bad news was that criminals who used the moon as a basis for their actions tended to be maniacal killers. She combined the word with other words-specifically, "blood" and "sperm"-and came up with nothing useful.
  With the help of the librarian, Jessica selected several books from each section that were about the Moon.
  Jessica sat behind two shelves in a private room on the ground floor. First, she looked through the books on the scientific aspects of the Moon. There were books on how to observe the Moon, books on lunar exploration, books on the physical characteristics of the Moon, amateur astronomy, the Apollo missions, and lunar maps and atlases. Jessica had never been so good at science. She felt her attention waning, her eyes growing dull.
  She turned to another stack. This one was more promising. It contained books on the moon and folklore, as well as celestial iconography.
  After reviewing some introductions and taking notes, Jessica discovered that the moon appears to be represented in folklore in five distinct phases: new, full, crescent, half-moon, and gibbous, the state between half and full. The moon has featured prominently in folktales from every country and culture for as long as literature has been recorded-Chinese, Egyptian, Arabic, Hindu, Nordic, African, Native American, and European. Wherever there were myths and beliefs, there were tales about the moon.
  In religious folklore, some depictions of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary depict the moon as a crescent beneath her feet. In stories of the Crucifixion, it is depicted as an eclipse, placed on one side of the cross, and the sun on the other.
  There were also numerous biblical references. In Revelation, there was "a woman clothed with the sun, standing on the moon, and on her head twelve stars for a crown." In Genesis: "God made two great lights: the greater light to rule the day, the lesser light to rule the night, and the stars."
  There were tales where the moon was female, and there were tales where the moon was male. In Lithuanian folklore, the moon was the husband, the sun the wife, and the Earth their child. One tale from British folklore says that if you are robbed three days after the full moon, the thief will be quickly caught.
  Jessica's head was spinning with images and concepts. In two hours, she had five pages of notes.
  The last book she opened was devoted to illustrations of the moon. Woodcuts, etchings, watercolors, oils, charcoal. She found illustrations of Galileo from Sidereus Nuncius. There were also several illustrations of the Tarot.
  Nothing resembled the drawing found on Christina Yakos.
  Yet something told Jessica that there was a distinct possibility that the pathology of the man they were looking for was rooted in some kind of folklore, perhaps the type Father Greg had described to her.
  Jessica checked out half a dozen books.
  Leaving the library, she glanced at the winter sky. She wondered if Christina Yakos's killer had been waiting for the moon.
  
  
  
  As Jessica crossed the parking lot, her mind was filled with images of witches, goblins, fairy princesses, and ogres, and she found it hard to believe these things hadn't scared the crap out of her as a little girl. She remembered reading Sophie a few short fairy tales when her daughter was three and four, but none of them seemed as strange and violent as some of the stories she encountered in these books. She'd never really thought about it, but some of the stories were downright dark.
  Halfway across the parking lot, before she reached her car, she sensed someone approaching from her right. Fast. Her instincts told her there was trouble. She turned quickly, her right hand instinctively pushing back the hem of her coat.
  It was Father Greg.
  Calm down, Jess. This isn't the big bad wolf. Just an Orthodox priest.
  "Well, hello," he said. "It would be interesting to meet you here and all that."
  "Hello."
  - I hope I didn't scare you.
  "You didn"t do it," she lied.
  Jessica looked down. Father Greg was holding a book. Incredibly, it looked like a volume of fairy tales.
  "Actually, I was going to call you later today," he said.
  "Really? Why is that?"
  "Well, now that we've talked, I kind of get it," he said. He held up the book. "As you can imagine, folk tales and fables aren't very popular in the church. We already have a lot of things that are hard to believe."
  Jessica smiled. "Catholics have their share."
  "I was going to look through these stories and see if I could find a reference to the 'moon' for you."
  - It's very kind of you, but it's not necessary.
  "It's really no problem at all," Father Greg said. "I like to read." He nodded toward the car, a late-model van, parked nearby. "Can I give you a ride somewhere?"
  "No, thanks," she said. "I have a car."
  He glanced at his watch. "Well, I'm off to a world of snowmen and ugly ducklings," he said. "I'll let you know if I find anything."
  "That would be nice," Jessica said. "Thank you."
  He walked up to the van, opened the door, and turned back to Jessica. "Perfect night for this."
  "What do you mean?"
  Father Greg smiled. "It'll be the Christmas moon."
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  When Jessica returned to the Roundhouse, before she could take off her coat and sit down, her phone rang. The officer on duty in the Roundhouse lobby told her someone was on their way. A few minutes later, a uniformed officer entered with Will Pedersen, the mason from the Manayunk crime scene. This time, Pedersen was wearing a three-button jacket and jeans. His hair was neatly combed, and he wore tortoiseshell glasses.
  He shook hands with Jessica and Byrne.
  "How can we help you?" Jessica asked.
  "Well, you said that if I remember anything else, I should get in touch."
  "That"s right," Jessica said.
  "I was thinking about that morning. That morning when we met in Manayunk?
  "What about this?"
  "As I said, I've been there a lot lately. I'm familiar with all the buildings. The more I thought about it, the more I realized something had changed."
  "Different?" Jessica asked. "How else?"
  "Well, with graffiti."
  "Graffiti? In a warehouse?
  "Yes."
  "How so?"
  "Okay," Pedersen said. "I used to be a bit of a tagger, right? I used to hang out with the skateboarders as a teenager." He seemed reluctant to talk about it, shoving his hands deep into his jeans pockets.
  "I think the statute of limitations on this has expired," Jessica said.
  Pedersen smiled. "Okay. I'm still a fan, though, you know? Despite all the murals and stuff in the city, I'm always looking and taking pictures."
  The Philadelphia Mural Program began in 1984 as a plan to eradicate destructive graffiti in poor neighborhoods. As part of its efforts, the city reached out to graffiti artists, attempting to channel their creativity into murals. Philadelphia boasted hundreds, if not thousands, of murals.
  "Okay," Jessica said. "What does this have to do with the building on Flat Rock?"
  "Well, you know how you see something every day? I mean, you see it but you don't really look at it closely?
  "Certainly."
  "I was wondering," Pedersen said. "Did you happen to photograph the south side of the building?"
  Jessica was sorting through the photographs on her desk. She found a photo of the south side of the warehouse. "What about this?"
  Pedersen pointed to a spot on the right side of the wall, next to a large red and blue gang tag. To the naked eye, it looked like a small white spot.
  "See this here? He was gone two days before I met you guys."
  "So you're saying it could have been painted the morning the body was washed up on the river bank?" Byrne asked.
  "Maybe. The only reason I noticed it was because it was white. It kind of stands out."
  Jessica glanced at the photograph. It had been taken with a digital camera, and the resolution was quite high. However, the print run was small. She sent her camera to the AV department and asked them to enlarge the original file.
  "Do you think this could be important?" Pedersen asked.
  "Perhaps," Jessica said. "Thanks for letting us know."
  "Certainly."
  "We'll call you if we need to talk to you again."
  After Pedersen left, Jessica called CSU. They would send a technician to collect a paint sample from the building.
  Twenty minutes later, a larger version of the JPEG file was printed and sitting on Jessica's desk. She and Byrne looked at it. The image drawn on the wall was a larger, cruder version of what had been found on Christina Yakos's stomach.
  The killer not only placed his victim on the riverbank, but also took the time to mark the wall behind him with a symbol, a symbol that was meant to be visible.
  Jessica wondered if there was a telltale mistake in one of the crime scene photographs.
  Perhaps that is how it was.
  
  
  
  WHILE WAITING for the lab's report on the paint, Jessica's phone rang again. So much for Christmas break. She wasn't even supposed to be there. The death continues.
  She pressed the button and answered. "Murder, Detective Balzano."
  "Detective, this is Police Officer Valentine, I work for the Ninety-Second Division."
  Part of the Ninety-Second District bordered the Schuylkill River. "How are you, Officer Valentine?"
  "We're currently at the Strawberry Mansion Bridge. We've found something you should see."
  - Did you find something?
  "Yes, ma'am."
  When you're dealing with a homicide, the call is usually about a body, not something. - What's wrong, Officer Valentine?
  Valentin hesitated for a moment. It was telling. "Well, Sergeant Majett asked me to call you. He says you should come down here immediately.
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  The Strawberry Mansion Bridge was built in 1897. It was one of the first steel bridges in the country, crossing the Schuylkill River between Strawberry Mansion and Fairmount Park.
  That day, traffic was stopped at both ends. Jessica, Byrne, and Bontrager were forced to walk to the center of the bridge, where they were met by a pair of patrol officers.
  Two boys, aged eleven or twelve, stood next to the officers. The boys seemed to be a vibrant mixture of fear and excitement.
  On the north side of the bridge, something was covered with a white plastic evidence sheet. Officer Lindsay Valentine approached Jessica. She was about twenty-four years old, bright-eyed, and trim.
  "What do we have?" Jessica asked.
  Officer Valentine hesitated for a moment. She might have worked at Ninety-Two, but what lay beneath the plastic made her a little nervous. "A citizen called here about half an hour ago. These two young men ran into him crossing the bridge."
  Officer Valentine picked up the plastic. A pair of shoes sat on the sidewalk. They were women's shoes, dark crimson, about a size seven. Ordinary in every way, except for the fact that inside those red shoes were a pair of severed legs.
  Jessica looked up and met Byrne's gaze.
  "Did the boys find this?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes, ma'am." Officer Valentine waved to the boys. They were white kids, just at the height of hip-hop style. Shop rats with attitude, but not at the moment. Right now, they looked a little traumatized.
  "We were just looking at them," said the taller one.
  "Did you see who put them here?" Byrne asked.
  "No."
  - Did you touch them?
  "Yes".
  "Did you see anyone around them when you were going up?" Byrne asked.
  "No, sir," they said together, shaking their heads for emphasis. "We were there for about a minute or so, and then a car stopped and told us to leave. Then they called the police."
  Byrne glanced at Officer Valentine. "Who called?"
  Officer Valentine pointed to a new Chevrolet parked about twenty feet from the crime scene tape. A man in his forties, wearing a business suit and overcoat, stood nearby. Byrne gave him a finger. The man nodded.
  "Why did you stay here after you called the police?" Byrne asked the boys.
  Both boys shrugged in unison.
  Byrne turned to Officer Valentine. "Do we have their information?"
  "Yes sir."
  "Okay," Byrne said. "You guys can go. Although we might want to talk to you again."
  "What will happen to them?" asked the younger boy, pointing to the body parts.
  "What will happen to them?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes," said the larger one. "Are you going to take them with you?"
  "Yes," Byrne said. "We're going to take them with us."
  "Why?"
  "Why? Because this is evidence of a serious crime."
  Both boys looked dejected. "Okay," said the younger boy.
  "Why?" Byrne asked. "Did you want to put them on eBay?"
  He looked up. "Can you do it?"
  Byrne pointed to the far side of the bridge. "Go home," he said. "Right now. Go home, or I swear to God, I'll arrest your entire family."
  The boys ran.
  "Jesus," Byrne said. "Fucking eBay."
  Jessica knew what he meant. She couldn't imagine herself at eleven, confronted with a pair of severed legs on a bridge, and not being terrified. For those kids, it was like an episode of CSI. Or a video game.
  Byrne spoke to the 911 caller as the cold waters of the Schuylkill River flowed beneath him. Jessica glanced at Officer Valentine. It was a strange moment: the two of them standing over what were surely the severed remains of Christina Yakos. Jessica remembered her days in uniform, the times when the detective would show up at the scene of a murder she had orchestrated. She remembered looking at the detective back then with a hint of envy and awe. She wondered if Officer Lindsay Valentine looked at her that way.
  Jessica knelt down to take a closer look. The shoes had a low heel, a round toe, a thin strap at the top, and a wide toe box. Jessica took a few photos.
  The interrogation yielded the expected results. No one saw or heard anything. But one thing was clear to the detectives. Something they didn't need witness testimony for. These body parts weren't thrown there randomly. They were carefully placed.
  
  
  
  Within an hour, they received a preliminary report. To no one's surprise, blood tests presumably indicated that the body parts found belonged to Christina Yakos.
  
  
  
  There's a moment when everything freezes. Calls don't come in, witnesses don't show up, forensic results are delayed. On this day, at this time, it was just such a moment. Perhaps it was the fact that it was Christmas Eve. No one wanted to think about death. Detectives stared at computer screens, tapping their pencils in a silent rhythm, looking at crime scene photos from their desks: accusers, interrogators, waiting, waiting.
  It would be forty-eight hours before they could effectively question a sample of the people who occupied the Strawberry Mansion Bridge around the time the remains were left there. The next day was Christmas Day, and the usual traffic patterns were different.
  At the Roundhouse, Jessica gathered her things. She noticed Josh Bontrager was still there, hard at work. He was sitting at one of the computer terminals, reviewing the arrest history.
  "What are your plans for Christmas, Josh?" Byrne asked.
  Bontrager looked up from his computer screen. "I'm going home tonight," he said. "I'm on duty tomorrow. New guy and all that."
  - If you don"t mind me asking, what do the Amish do for Christmas?
  "It depends on the group."
  "A group?" Byrne asked. "Are there different kinds of Amish?"
  "Yes, of course. There are Old Order Amish, New Order Amish, Mennonites, Beachy Amish, Swiss Mennonites, Swartzentruber Amish."
  "Are there any parties?"
  "Well, they don't put up lanterns, of course. But they celebrate. It's a lot of fun," Bontrager said. "Besides, it's their second Christmas."
  "Second Christmas?" Byrne asked.
  "Well, it's actually just the day after Christmas. They usually spend it visiting their neighbors, eating a lot. Sometimes they even have mulled wine."
  Jessica smiled. "Mulled wine. I had no idea."
  Bontrager blushed. "How are you going to keep them out on the farm?"
  After making her rounds to the unfortunates on her next shift and conveying her holiday wishes, Jessica turned to the door.
  Josh Bontrager sat at the table, looking at photographs of the horrific scene they'd discovered on the Strawberry Mansion Bridge earlier that day. Jessica thought she noticed a slight tremor in the young man's hands.
  Welcome to the homicide department.
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  Moon's book is the most precious thing in his life. It's large, leather-bound, heavy, with gilded edges. It belonged to his grandfather, and before that, his father. Inside the front, on the title page, is the author's signature.
  This is more valuable than anything else.
  Sometimes, late at night, Moon carefully opens the book, examining the words and drawings by candlelight, savoring the scent of old paper. It smells like his childhood. Now, as then, he's careful not to hold the candle too close. He loves the way the golden edges shimmer in the soft yellow light.
  The first illustration depicts a soldier climbing a large tree, a backpack slung over his shoulder. How many times has Moon been that soldier, a strong young man searching for a tinderbox?
  The next illustration is Little Klaus and Big Klaus. Moon has been both men many times.
  The next drawing is of Little Ida's flowers. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, Moon ran through the flowers. Spring and summer were magical times.
  Now, when he enters the great structure, he is filled with magic again.
  The building stands over the river, a lost grandeur, a forgotten ruin not far from the city. The wind moans across the vast expanse. Moon carries the dead girl to the window. She is heavy in his arms. He places her on the stone windowsill and kisses her icy lips.
  While Moon is busy with his affairs, the nightingale sings, complaining about the cold.
  "I know, little bird," Moon thinks.
  I know.
  Luna has a plan for this too. Soon he will bring the Yeti, and winter will be banished forever.
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  "I'll be in town later," Padraig said. "I need to stop by Macy's."
  "What do you want from there?" Byrne asked. He was on his cell phone, just five blocks from the store. He was on duty, but his tour ended at noon. They'd gotten a call from CSU about the paint used at the Flat Rock crime scene. Standard marine paint, readily available. The moon graffiti, while a big deal, hadn't led to anything. Not yet. "I can get whatever you need, Dad."
  - I'm out of scratch lotion.
  My God, Byrne thought. Exfoliating lotion. His father was in his sixties, tough as a board, and only now entering a phase of unbridled narcissism.
  Since last Christmas, when Byrne's daughter Colleen bought her grandfather a Clinique facial set, Padraig Byrne had been obsessed with his skin. Then one day, Colleen wrote Padraig a note telling him his skin looked great. Padraig beamed, and from that moment on, the Clinique ritual became a mania, an orgy of sixty-year-old vanity.
  "I can get it for you," Byrne said. "You don't have to come."
  "I don't mind. I want to see what else they have. I think they have a new M lotion."
  It was hard to believe he was talking to Padraig Byrne. The same Padraig Byrne who had spent nearly forty years on the docks, the man who had once fought off half a dozen drunken Italian mummers using nothing but his fists and a handful of Harp lager.
  "Just because you don't take care of your skin doesn't mean I have to look like a lizard in the fall," Padraig added.
  Autumn? Byrne considered. He checked his face in the rearview mirror. Perhaps he could take better care of his skin. On the other hand, he had to admit that the real reason he'd suggested stopping at the store was because he genuinely didn't want his father driving across town in the snow. He was becoming overprotective, but it seemed there was nothing he could do about it. His silence had won the argument. For once.
  "Okay, you win," said Padraig. "Pick it up for me. But I want to stop by Killian's later. To say goodbye to the boys."
  "You're not moving to California," Byrne said. "You can come back anytime."
  For Padraig Byrne, moving to the northeast was the equivalent of leaving the country. It took him five years to make the decision, and another five years to take the first step.
  "So you say."
  "Okay, I'll pick you up in an hour," Byrne said.
  "Don't forget my scratch lotion."
  Jesus, Byrne thought as he turned off his cell phone.
  Scrubbing lotion.
  
  
  
  KILLIAN'S WAS a rough bar near Pier 84, in the shadow of the Walt Whitman Bridge, a ninety-year-old institution that had survived a thousand donnybrooks, two fires, and a devastating blow. Not to mention four generations of dockworkers.
  A few hundred feet from the Delaware River, Killian's Restaurant was a bastion of the ILA, the International Longshoremen's Association. These men lived, ate, and breathed the river.
  Kevin and Padraig Byrne walked in, turning every head in the bar towards the door and the icy gust of wind it brought with it.
  "Paddy!" they seemed to shout in unison. Byrne sat at the counter while his father paced the bar. The place was half full. Padraig was in his element.
  Byrne surveyed the gang. He knew most of them. The Murphy brothers-Ciaran and Luke-had worked alongside Padraig Byrne for nearly forty years. Luke was tall and burly; Ciaran was short and stocky. Alongside them were Teddy O'Hara, Dave Doyle, Danny McManus, and Little Tim Reilly. If this hadn't been the unofficial headquarters of ILA Local 1291, it might have been the meetinghouse of the Sons of Hibernia.
  Byrne grabbed a beer and headed to the long table.
  "So, do you need a passport to go up there?" Luke asked Padraig.
  "Yes," said Padraig. "I heard Roosevelt has armed checkpoints. How else are we going to keep the South Philly rabble out of the Northeast?"
  "It's funny, we see it the other way around. I think you do too. Back in the day."
  Padraig nodded. They were right. He had no argument for it. The Northeast was a foreign land. Byrne saw that look on his father's face, a look he'd seen several times over the past few months, a look that practically screamed, "Am I doing the right thing?"
  A few more boys showed up. Some brought houseplants with bright red bows on the pots, which were covered in bright green foil. It was the cool-guy version of a housewarming gift: the greenery had undoubtedly been purchased by the spinning half of the ILA. It was turning into a Christmas party/farewell party for Padraig Byrne. The jukebox played "Silent Night: Christmas in Rome" by the Chieftains. The lager was flowing.
  An hour later, Byrne glanced at his watch and put on his coat. As he was saying goodbye, Danny McManus approached him with a young man Byrne didn't know.
  "Kevin," Danny said. "Have you ever met my youngest son, Paulie?"
  Paul McManus was thin, birdlike in his demeanor, and wore rimless glasses. He looked nothing like the mountain that was his father. Nevertheless, he looked quite strong.
  "Never had the pleasure," Byrne said, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you."
  "You too, sir," said Paul.
  "So, you work on the docks like your father?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes, sir," said Paul.
  Everyone at the next table glanced at each other, quickly checking the ceiling, their nails, anything but Danny McManus's face.
  "Pauly works in Boathouse Row," Danny finally said.
  "Oh, okay," Byrne said. "What are you doing there?"
  "There's always something to do on Boathouse Row," Pauley said. "Cleaning, painting, strengthening the docks."
  Boathouse Row was a group of private boathouses on the east bank of the Schuylkill River, in Fairmount Park, right next to the art museum. They were home to rowing clubs and operated by the Schuylkill Navy, one of the oldest amateur sports organizations in the country. They were also the furthest distance from the Packer Avenue terminal imaginable.
  Was it a job on the river? Technically. Was it working on the river? Not in this pub.
  "Well, you know what da Vinci said," Paulie suggested, standing his ground.
  More sidelong glances. More coughing and shuffling. He was actually about to quote Leonardo da Vinci. At Killian's. Byrne had to give the guy credit.
  "What did he say?" Byrne asked.
  "In rivers, the water you touch is the last thing that's gone and the first thing that's coming," Pauley said. "Or something like that."
  Everyone took long, slow sips from their bottles, no one wanting to speak first. Finally, Danny hugged his son. "He's a poet. What can you say?"
  The three men at the table pushed their glasses, filled with Jameson, toward Paulie McManus. "Drink up, da Vinci," they said in unison.
  They all laughed. Poli drank.
  Moments later, Byrne stood in the doorway, watching his father throw darts. Padraig Byrne was two games ahead of Luke Murphy. He'd also won three lagers. Byrne wondered if his father should even be drinking these days. Then again, Byrne had never seen his father tipsy, much less drunk.
  The men lined up on either side of the target. Byrne imagined them all as young men in their early twenties, just starting families, with notions of hard work, union loyalty, and city pride pulsing bright red through their veins. They'd been coming here for over forty years. Some even longer. Through every season of the Phillies, Eagles, Flyers, and Sixers, through every mayor, through every municipal and private scandal, through all their marriages, births, divorces, and deaths. Life in Killian was constant, as were the lives, dreams, and hopes of its inhabitants.
  His father hit the bull's eye. The bar erupted in cheers and disbelief. Another round. That's what happened to Paddy Byrne.
  Byrne thought about his father's upcoming move. The truck was scheduled for February 4th. This move was the best thing his father could have done. It was quieter, slower in the northeast. He knew it was the beginning of a new life, but he couldn't shake that other feeling, a distinct and unsettling sense that it was also the end of something.
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  Devonshire Acres Psychiatric Hospital sat on a gentle slope in a small town in southeastern Pennsylvania. In its glory days, the massive stone and mortar complex served as a resort and convalescent home for wealthy Main Line families. Now, it served as a government-subsidized long-term storage facility for low-income patients in need of constant supervision.
  Roland Hanna signed her name, refusing an escort. He knew the way. He climbed the stairs to the second floor, one at a time. He was in no hurry. The green corridors of the facility were decorated with dreary, faded Christmas decorations. Some looked like they belonged in the 1940s or 1950s: cheerful, water-stained Santa Clauses, reindeer with bent antlers, taped shut, and then mended with long yellow tape. On one wall hung a message, misspelled in individual letters made of cotton, construction paper, and silver glitter:
  
  Happy Holidays!
  
  Charles never entered the institution again.
  
  
  
  Roland found her in the living room, by the window overlooking the backyard and the woods beyond. It had snowed for two days straight, a white layer caressing the hills. Roland wondered what it must have looked like to her through her old, young eyes. He wondered what memories, if any, the soft sheets of virgin snow evoked. Did she remember her first winter in the north? Did she remember snowflakes on her tongue? Snowmen?
  Her skin was papery, fragrant and translucent. Her hair had long since lost its gold.
  There were four more people in the room. Roland knew them all. They didn't acknowledge him. He crossed the room, removed his coat and gloves, and placed the gift on the table. It was a robe and slippers, pale purple. Charles carefully wrapped and rewrapped the gift in festive foil featuring elves, workbenches, and brightly colored tools.
  Roland kissed the top of her head. She didn't respond.
  Outside, the snow continued to fall-huge, velvety flakes silently rolling down. She watched, as if picking out a single flake from the flurry, following it to the ledge, to the ground below, beyond her.
  They sat in silence. She'd said only a few words in years. Perry Como's "I'll Be Home for Christmas" played in the background.
  At six o'clock, a tray was brought to her. Creamed corn, breaded fish sticks, Tater Tots, and butter cookies with green and red sprinkles on a white icing Christmas tree. Roland watched as she arranged and rearranged her red plastic cutlery from the outside in-fork, spoon, knife, and then back again. Three times. Always three times, until she got it right. Never two, never four, never more. Roland always wondered what internal abacus determined that number.
  "Merry Christmas," Roland said.
  She looked at him with pale blue eyes. Behind them lived a mysterious universe.
  Roland glanced at his watch. It was time to go.
  Before he could stand, she took his hand. Her fingers were carved from ivory. Roland saw her lips tremble and knew what was about to happen.
  "Here are the girls, young and beautiful," she said. "Dancing in the summer air."
  Roland felt the glaciers in his heart shift. He knew this was all Artemisia Hannah Waite remembered of her daughter Charlotte and those terrible days of 1995.
  "Like two spinning wheels," Roland replied.
  His mother smiled and finished the verse: "Beautiful girls are dancing."
  
  
  
  ROLAND FOUND CHARLES standing next to the wagon. A dusting of snow settled on his shoulders. In previous years, Charles would have looked into Roland's eyes at this moment, searching for some sign that things were improving. Even for Charles, with his innate optimism, that practice had long since been abandoned. Without a word, they slipped into the wagon.
  After a short prayer, they rode back to the city.
  
  
  
  They ate in silence. When they finished, Charles washed the dishes. Roland could listen to the television news in the office. A few moments later, Charles poked his head around the corner.
  "Come here and look at this," Charles said.
  Roland walked into a small office. The TV screen showed footage of the parking lot of the Roundhouse, the police headquarters on Race Street. Channel Six was doing a stand-up special. A reporter was chasing a woman through the parking lot.
  The woman was young, dark-eyed, and attractive. She held herself with great poise and confidence. She wore a black leather coat and gloves. The name under her face on the screen identified her as a detective. The reporter asked her questions. Charles turned up the volume on the television.
  "...the work of one person?" the reporter asked.
  "We can't rule it out or rule it out," the detective said.
  "Is it true that the woman was disfigured?"
  "I cannot comment on the details of the investigation."
  "Is there anything you would like to say to our viewers?"
  "We're asking for help finding Christina Yakos's killer. If you know anything, even something seemingly insignificant, please call the police homicide unit."
  With these words, the woman turned and headed into the building.
  Christina Jakos, Roland thought. This was the woman they found murdered on the banks of the Schuylkill River in Manayunk. Roland kept the news clipping on the corkboard next to his desk. Now he would read more about the case. He grabbed a pen and wrote down the detective's name.
  Jessica Balzano.
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  Sophie Balzano was clearly a psychic when it came to Christmas gifts. She didn't even have to shake the package. Like a miniature Karnak the Magnificent, she could press a gift to her forehead and, within seconds, through some childish magic, seem to divine its contents. She clearly had a future in law enforcement. Or perhaps customs.
  "These are shoes," she said.
  She sat on the living room floor, at the foot of a huge Christmas tree. Her grandfather sat next to her.
  "I'm not saying," Peter Giovanni said.
  Sophie then picked up one of the fairy tale books Jessica had gotten from the library and began leafing through it.
  Jessica looked at her daughter and thought, "Give me a clue there, honey."
  
  
  
  PETER GIOVANNI served in the Philadelphia Police Department for nearly thirty years. He received numerous awards and retired as a lieutenant.
  Peter lost his wife to breast cancer more than two decades ago and buried his only son, Michael, who was killed in Kuwait in 1991. He held one banner high-that of a police officer. And although he feared for his daughter every day, like any father, his deepest sense of pride in life was that his daughter worked as a homicide detective.
  Peter Giovanni, in his early sixties, was still active in community service and a number of police charities. He wasn't a big man, but he possessed a strength that came from within. He still worked out several times a week. He, too, was still a clothes horse. Today, he wore an expensive black cashmere turtleneck and gray wool trousers. His shoes were Santoni loafers. With his icy gray hair, he looked like he'd stepped out of the pages of GQ.
  He smoothed his granddaughter's hair, stood up, and sat next to Jessica on the sofa. Jessica was stringing popcorn onto a garland.
  "What do you think about the tree?" he asked.
  Every year, Peter and Vincent took Sophie to a Christmas tree farm in Tabernacle, New Jersey, where they cut down their own tree. Usually one of Sophie's designs. Each year, the tree seemed taller.
  "Any more and we'll have to move," Jessica said.
  Peter smiled. "Hello. Sophie's getting bigger. The tree needs to keep up with the times."
  "Don't remind me," Jessica thought.
  Peter picked up a needle and thread and began making his own popcorn garland. "Any leads on this?" he asked.
  Even though Jessica hadn't investigated Walt Brigham's murder and had three open files on her desk, she knew exactly what her father meant by "the case." Every time a police officer was killed, every police officer, active and retired, across the country took it personally.
  "Nothing yet," Jessica said.
  Peter shook his head. "That's a damn shame. There's a special place in hell for cop killers."
  Cop killer. Jessica's gaze immediately turned to Sophie, who was still camped by the tree, mulling over the small box wrapped in red foil. Every time Jessica thought about the words "cop killer," she realized that both of this little girl's parents were targets every day of the week. Was that fair to Sophie? In moments like these, in the warmth and safety of her home, she wasn't so sure.
  Jessica stood up and went to the kitchen. Everything was under control. The gravy was simmering; the lasagna noodles were al dente, the salad was prepared, the wine was decanted. She pulled the ricotta from the refrigerator.
  The phone rang. She froze, hoping it would ring only once, that the person on the other end would realize they'd dialed the wrong number and hang up. A second passed. Then another.
  Yes.
  Then it rang again.
  Jessica looked at her father. He looked back. They were both police officers. It was Christmas Eve. They knew.
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  Byrne straightened his tie for what must have been the twentieth time. He took a sip of water, looked at his watch, and smoothed the tablecloth. He was wearing a new suit, and he still hadn't gotten used to it. He fidgeted, buttoning, unbuttoning, buttoning, and straightening his lapels.
  He sat at a table at Striped Bass on Walnut Street, one of Philadelphia's finest restaurants, waiting for his date. But this wasn't just any date. For Kevin Byrne, it was a date. He was having Christmas Eve dinner with his daughter, Colleen. He'd called no less than four times to dispute the last-minute reservation.
  He and Colleen had agreed on this arrangement-dinner out-rather than trying to find a few hours at his ex-wife's house to celebrate, a window of time free of Donna Sullivan Byrne's new boyfriend, or awkwardness. Kevin Byrne is trying to be the adult in all of this.
  They agreed they didn't need the tension. It was better that way.
  Except that his daughter was late.
  Byrne glanced around the restaurant and realized he was the only government employee in the room. Doctors, lawyers, investment bankers, a few successful artists. He knew bringing Colleen here was a bit much-she knew it too-but he wanted to make the evening special.
  He pulled out his cell phone and checked it. Nothing. He was just about to send Colleen a text message when someone approached his desk. Byrne looked up. It wasn't Colleen.
  "Would you like to see the wine list?" the attentive waiter asked again.
  "Of course," Byrne said. As if he knew what he was looking at. He'd twice declined to order bourbon on the rocks. He didn't want to be sloppy tonight. A minute later, the waiter returned with a list. Byrne dutifully read it; the only thing that caught his eye-among a sea of words like "Pinot," "Cabernet," "Vouverray," and "Fumé"-was the prices, all of which were way beyond his means.
  He picked up the wine list, expecting that if he put it down, they'd pounce on him and force him to order a bottle. Then he saw her. She was wearing a royal blue dress that made her aquamarine eyes seem endless. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, longer than he'd ever seen it, and darker than it had been in the summer.
  My God, Byrne thought. She's a woman. She's become a woman, and I missed that.
  "Sorry, I'm late," she signed off, not even halfway across the room. People looked at her for various reasons: her elegant body language, her posture and grace, her stunning appearance.
  Colleen Siobhan Byrne had been deaf since birth. Only in the last few years had both she and her father come to terms with her deafness. While Colleen had never considered it a disadvantage, she now seemed to understand that her father had once considered it, and likely still did to some degree. A degree that diminished with each passing year.
  Byrne stood up and hugged his daughter tightly.
  "Merry Christmas, Dad," she captioned it.
  "Merry Christmas, darling," he signed back.
  "I couldn't catch a taxi."
  Byrne waved his hand as if to say, What? You think I was worried?
  She sat up. A few seconds later, her cell phone vibrated. She gave her father a shy grin, pulled out the phone, and flipped it open. It was a text message. Byrne watched her read it, smiling and blushing. The message was clearly from a boy. Colleen quickly answered and put the phone away.
  "Sorry," she signed.
  Byrne wanted to ask his daughter two or three million questions. He stopped himself. He watched her delicately place a napkin on her lap, sip water, and look at the menu. She had a feminine posture, a feminine posture. There could only be one reason for this, Byrne thought, his heart pounding and cracking in his chest. Her childhood was over.
  And life will never be the same.
  
  
  
  When they finished eating, it was time. They both knew it. Colleen was full of teenage energy, probably due to attend a friend's Christmas party. Plus, she had to pack. She and her mother were leaving town for a week to visit Donna's relatives for New Year's.
  - Did you get my card? Colleen signed.
  "I did. Thank you."
  Byrne silently scolded himself for not sending Christmas cards, especially to the one person who mattered to him. He'd even received a card from Jessica, secretly tucked into his briefcase. He saw Colleen sneak a glance at her watch. Before the moment could turn unpleasant, Byrne signed off: "Can I ask you something?"
  "Certainly."
  That's it, Byrne thought. "What are you dreaming about?"
  A blush, then a confused look, then acceptance. At least she didn't roll her eyes. "Is this going to be one of our conversations?" she signed.
  She smiled, and Byrne's stomach turned. She didn't have time to talk. She probably wouldn't have time for years. "No," he said, his ears burning. "I'm just curious."
  A few minutes later, she kissed him goodbye. She promised they would have a heart-to-heart talk soon. He put her in a taxi, returned to the table, and ordered a bourbon. A double. Before it arrived, his cell phone rang.
  It was Jessica.
  "How are you?" he asked. But he knew that tone.
  In response to his question, his partner uttered the four worst words a homicide detective could hear on Christmas Eve.
  "We have a body."
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  The crime scene was once again located on the banks of the Schuylkill River, this time near the Shawmont Railroad Station, near Upper Roxborough. Shawmont Station was one of the oldest stations in the United States. Trains no longer stopped there, and it had fallen into disrepair, but it remained a frequent stop for railroad enthusiasts and purists, and was much photographed and documented.
  Just below the station, down the steep slope leading to the river, was the huge, abandoned Chaumont Waterworks, located on one of the last publicly owned riverside plots in the city.
  From the outside, the giant pumping station had been overgrown for decades by brush, vines, and gnarled branches hanging from dead trees. In daylight, it looked like an impressive relic of the time when the facility drew water from the basin behind Flat Rock Dam and pumped it into Roxborough Reservoir. At night, it was little more than an urban mausoleum, a dark and forbidding haven for drug deals and all manner of clandestine alliances. Inside, it had been gutted, stripped of anything even remotely valuable. The walls were covered in graffiti seven feet high. A few ambitious taggers had scrawled their thoughts on one wall, some fifteen feet high. The floor was an uneven texture of concrete pebbles, rusty iron, and assorted urban debris.
  As Jessica and Byrne approached the building, they saw bright temporary lights illuminating the river-facing facade. A dozen officers, CSU technicians, and detectives were waiting for them.
  The dead woman sat by the window, her legs crossed at the ankles and her hands folded in her lap. Unlike Christina Yakos, this victim didn't appear mutilated in any way. At first, she appeared to be praying, but upon closer inspection, her hands were revealed to be clasping an object.
  Jessica entered the building. It was almost medieval in scale. After its closure, the facility had fallen into disrepair. Several ideas had been floated for its future, not the least of which was the possibility of turning it into a training facility for the Philadelphia Eagles. However, the cost of renovations would be enormous, and so far nothing had been done.
  Jessica approached the victim, careful not to disturb any traces, even though there was no snow inside the building, making it unlikely she could salvage anything usable. She shone a flashlight on the victim. The woman appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore a long dress. It, too, seemed from another time, with a velvet elasticated bodice and a fully gathered skirt. Around her neck was a nylon belt, tied at the back. It appeared to be an exact replica of the one found around Christina Yakos's neck.
  Jessica hugged the wall and surveyed the interior. CSU technicians would soon be setting up the network. Before leaving, she picked up her Maglite and slowly and carefully scanned the walls. And then she saw it. About twenty feet to the right of the window, among a pile of gang badges, graffiti depicting a white moon was visible.
  "Kevin."
  Byrne stepped inside and followed the beam of light. He turned and saw Jessica's eyes in the darkness. They had stood as partners on the threshold of growing evil, the moment when what they thought they understood became something greater, something far more sinister, something that redefined everything they believed about the case.
  Standing outside, their breath created clouds of steam in the night air. "The DOE office won't be here in about an hour," Byrne said.
  "Hour?"
  "It's Christmas in Philadelphia," Byrne said. "There have already been two more murders. They're spread out.
  Byrne pointed to the victim's hands. "She's holding something."
  Jessica looked closer. There was something in the woman's hands. Jessica took a few close-up photos.
  If they had followed procedure to the letter, they would have had to wait for the medical examiner to declare the woman dead, as well as a full set of photographs and possibly video footage of the victim and the crime scene. But Philadelphia wasn't exactly following procedure that evening-a phrase about loving one's neighbor came to mind, followed immediately by a story about peace on earth-and detectives knew that the longer they waited, the greater the risk that valuable information would be lost to the elements.
  Byrne stepped closer and tried to gently pry the woman's fingers loose. Her fingertips responded to his touch. Full severity had not yet set in.
  At first glance, the victim appeared to be clutching a clump of leaves or twigs in her cupped hands. In the harsh light, it looked like a dark brown material, definitely organic. Byrne walked closer and sat down. He placed the large evidence bag on the woman's lap. Jessica struggled to hold her Maglite steady. Byrne continued to slowly, one finger at a time, pry the victim's grip loose. If the woman had dug up a clump of soil or compost during the fight, it was entirely possible she had obtained vital evidence from the killer, lodged under her fingernails. She might even have been holding some direct evidence-a button, a clasp, a piece of fabric. If something could immediately point to a person of interest, such as hair, fibers, or DNA, the sooner they started looking for them, the better.
  Little by little, Byrne pulled back the woman's dead fingers. When he finally returned four fingers to her right hand, they saw something they hadn't expected. In death, this woman hadn't held a handful of earth, leaves, or twigs. In death, she had held a small brown bird. In the light of the emergency lights, it looked like a sparrow or perhaps a wren.
  Byrne carefully squeezed the victim's fingers. They were wearing a clear plastic evidence bag to preserve all traces of evidence. This was far beyond their ability to assess or analyze on-site.
  Then something completely unexpected happened. The bird broke free from the dead woman's grasp and flew away. It darted around the vast, shadowed expanse of the hydraulic structures, the beat of its fluttering wings bouncing off the icy stone walls, chirping, perhaps in protest or relief. Then it was gone.
  "Son of a bitch," Byrne yelled. "Fuck."
  This wasn't good news for the team. They should have immediately laid the corpse's hands and waited. The bird may have provided a wealth of forensic details, but even during its flight, it had provided some information. This meant the body couldn't have been there for so long. The fact that the bird was still alive (possibly preserved by the body's warmth) meant the killer had framed this victim within the last few hours.
  Jessica pointed her Maglite at the ground beneath the window. A few bird feathers remained. Byrne pointed them out to the CSU officer, who picked them up with tweezers and placed them in an evidence bag.
  Now they will wait for the medical examiner's office.
  
  
  
  JESSICA walked to the riverbank, looked out, then back at the body. The figure sat in the window, high above the gentle slope leading to the road, and then further up to the gentle riverbank.
  "Another doll on the shelf," Jessica thought.
  Like Christina Yakos, this victim stood facing the river. Like Christina Yakos, she had a painting of the moon nearby. There was no doubt that there would be another painting on her body-a moon painting made with semen and blood.
  
  
  
  The media showed up shortly before midnight. They gathered at the top of the cut, near the train station, behind crime scene tape. Jessica was always amazed at how quickly they could reach the crime scene.
  This story will appear in the morning editions of the newspaper.
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  The crime scene was sealed off and isolated from the city. The media retreated to publish their stories. The CSU processed the evidence all night and into the next day.
  Jessica and Byrne stood on the riverbank. Neither could bring themselves to leave.
  "Are you going to be okay?" Jessica asked.
  "Uh-huh." Byrne pulled a pint of bourbon from his coat pocket. He played with his cap. Jessica saw it but said nothing. They were off duty.
  After a full minute of silence, Byrne looked back. "What?"
  "You," she said. "You have such a look in your eyes."
  "What look?"
  "The Andy Griffith look. The look that says you're thinking about turning in your papers and taking a job as sheriff in Mayberry.
  Meadville.
  "See?"
  "Are you cold?"
  "I'll freeze my ass off," Jessica thought. "Nope."
  Byrne finished his bourbon and held it out. Jessica shook her head. He capped the bottle and held it for her.
  "A few years ago, we went to visit my uncle in Jersey," he said. "I always knew when we were getting close because we came across this old cemetery. By old, I mean old Civil War time. Maybe older. There was a little stone house by the gate, probably the caretaker's house, and a sign in the front window that said, 'FREE LOAD OF DIRT.' Have you ever seen signs like that?"
  Jessica did so. She told him so. Byrne continued.
  "When you're a kid, you never think about things like that, you know? Year after year, I saw that sign. It never moved, just disappeared into the sun. Each year, those three-dimensional red letters grew lighter and lighter. Then my uncle died, my aunt moved back to town, and we stopped going out.
  "Many years later, after my mother died, I went to her grave one day. It was a perfect summer day. The sky was blue, cloudless. I was sitting there telling her how things were going. A few plots down, there was a fresh burial, right? And suddenly it hit me. I suddenly understood why this cemetery had free backfill. Why all cemeteries have free backfill. I thought about all the people who had taken advantage of that offer over the years, filling their gardens, their potted plants, their window boxes. Cemeteries make room in the earth for the dead, and people take that earth and grow things in it."
  Jessica simply looked at Byrne. The longer she knew the man, the more layers she saw. "It's, well, beautiful," she said, becoming a little emotional as she struggled with it. "I never would have thought of it that way."
  "Yes, well," said Byrne. "You know, we Irish are all poets." He uncorked his pint, took a sip, and corked it again. "And drinkers."
  Jessica pulled the bottle out of his hands. He didn't resist.
  - Get some sleep, Kevin.
  "I will. I just hate it when people play with us, and I can't understand it."
  "Me too," Jessica said. She pulled her keys out of her pocket, glanced at her watch again, and immediately scolded herself for it. "You know, you should go for a run with me sometime."
  "Running."
  "Yes," she said. "It"s like walking, only faster."
  "Oh, good. That's kind of a wake-up call. I think I did that once when I was a kid."
  "I might have a boxing match at the end of March, so I better get some outdoor work done. We could go running together. It works wonders, believe me. It completely clears the mind."
  Byrne tried to suppress a laugh. "Jess. The only time I plan on running is when someone's chasing me. I mean a big guy. With a knife.
  The wind picked up. Jessica shuddered and pulled up her collar. "I'll go." She wanted to say more, but there would be time later. "Are you sure you're okay?"
  "As perfect as it gets."
  "Okay, partner," she thought. She returned to her car, slipped in, and started it. Pulling back, she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Byrne's silhouette against the lights on the other side of the river, now just another shadow in the night.
  She looked at her watch. It was 1:15 a.m.
  It was Christmas.
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  Christmas morning dawned clear and cold, bright and promising.
  Pastor Roland Hanna and Deacon Charles Waite led the service at 7:00 a.m. Roland's sermon was one of hope and renewal. He spoke of the Cross and the Cradle. He quoted Matthew 2:1-12.
  The baskets were overflowing.
  
  
  
  LATER, ROLAND AND CHARLES sat at a table in the church basement, a pot of cooling coffee between them. In an hour, they would begin preparing a Christmas ham dinner for more than a hundred homeless people. It would be served at their new establishment on Second Street.
  "Look at this," Charles said. He handed Roland the morning's Inquirer. There had been another murder. Nothing special in Philadelphia, but this one resonated. Deeply. It had echoes that reverberated for years.
  A woman was found in Chaumont. She was found at an old waterworks near the train station, on the east bank of the Schuylkill.
  Roland's pulse quickened. Two bodies had been found on the banks of the Schuylkill River in the same week. And yesterday's newspaper had reported the murder of Detective Walter Brigham. Roland and Charles knew all about Walter Brigham.
  There was no denying the truth of this.
  Charlotte and her friend were found on the banks of the Wissahickon. They were posed, just like these two women. Maybe, after all these years, it wasn't the girls. Maybe it was the water.
  Perhaps it was a sign.
  Charles fell to his knees and prayed. His large shoulders shook. After a few moments, he began whispering in tongues. Charles was a glossolalist, a true believer who, when possessed by the spirit, spoke what he believed was the language of God, edifying himself. To an outside observer, it might have seemed like nonsense. To a believer, to a man who had turned to tongues, it was the language of Heaven.
  Roland glanced at the newspaper again and closed his eyes. Soon, a divine calm descended upon him, and an inner voice questioned his thoughts.
  Is this him?
  Roland touched the crucifix around his neck.
  And he knew the answer.
  OceanofPDF.com
  PART THREE
  RIVER OF DARKNESS
  
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  "Why are we here with the door closed, Sergeant?" Pak asked.
  Tony Park was one of the few Korean-American detectives on the force. A family man in his late thirties, a computer wizard, and a seasoned investigator in the room, there was no more practical or experienced detective on the force than Anthony Kim Park. This time, his question was on everyone's minds.
  The task force consisted of four detectives: Kevin Byrne, Jessica Balzano, Joshua Bontrager, and Tony Park. Given the enormous workload of coordinating forensic units, collecting witness statements, conducting interviews, and all the other details that go into a murder investigation (a pair of related murder investigations), the task force was understaffed. There simply wasn't enough manpower.
  "The door is closed for two reasons," said Ike Buchanan, "and I think you know the first one."
  They all did it. These days, task forces played it very hard, especially those hunting a maniacal killer. Mainly because the small group of men and women tasked with tracking someone down had the power to bring that person to their attention, putting their wives, children, friends, and family at risk. This happened to both Jessica and Byrne. It happened more than the general public knew.
  "The second reason, and I'm very sorry to say this, is that some things from this office have been leaking to the media lately. I don't want to sow any rumors or panic," Buchanan said. "Also, as far as the city is concerned, we're not sure we have a compulsive disorder there. Right now, the media believes we have two unsolved murders, which may or may not be related. We'll see if we can keep that up for a while."
  It was always a delicate balance with the media. There were many reasons not to give them too much information. Information had a way of quickly turning into disinformation. If the media had published a story about a serial killer roaming the streets of Philadelphia, it could have had many consequences, most of them bad. Not the least of which was the possibility that a copycat killer would seize the opportunity to get rid of a mother-in-law, husband, wife, boyfriend, or boss. On the other hand, there were several cases where newspapers and television stations aired suspicious sketches for the NPD, and within days, sometimes hours, they found their target.
  As of this morning, the day after Christmas, the department had not yet released any specific details about the second victim.
  "Where are we on the identification of Chaumont's victim?" Buchanan asked.
  "Her name was Tara Grendel," Bontrager said. "She was identified through DMV records. Her car was found half parked in a gated lot on Walnut Street. We're not sure if this was the abduction scene or not, but it looks good."
  "What was she doing in that garage? Was she working nearby?
  "She was an actress working under the name Tara Lynn Greene. She was auditioning the day she went missing."
  "Where was the audition?"
  "At the Walnut Street Theater," Bontrager said. He flipped through his notes again. "She left the theater alone around 1:00 p.m. The parking attendant said she came in around 10:00 a.m. and went down to the basement.
  "Do they have surveillance cameras?"
  "They do. But nothing is written down."
  The mind-blowing news was that Tara Grendel had another "moon" tattoo on her stomach. A DNA test was pending to determine whether the blood and semen found on Christina Jakos matched those found on her.
  "We showed a photo of Tara around Stiletto and Natalia Yakos," Byrne said. "Tara wasn't a dancer at the club. Natalia didn't recognize her. If she's related to Christina Yakos, it's not through her job."
  "What about Tara's family?"
  "There's no family in town. The father is deceased, the mother lives in Indiana," Bontrager said. "She's been notified. She's flying in tomorrow."
  "What do we have at the crime scenes?" Buchanan asked.
  "Not much," Byrne said. "No tracks, no tire marks."
  "What about clothes?" Buchanan asked.
  Now everyone has come to the conclusion that the killer dressed his victims. "Both vintage dresses," Jessica said.
  "Are we talking about thrift store stuff?"
  "Maybe," Jessica said. They had a list of over a hundred used clothing stores and consignment shops. Unfortunately, both inventory and staff turnover at these stores was high, and none of the shops kept detailed records of what came and went. Gathering any information would require a lot of shoe leather and interviews.
  "Why these dresses in particular?" Buchanan asked. "Are they from a play? A movie? A famous painting?
  - Working on it, Sergeant.
  "Tell me about it," Buchanan said.
  Jessica went first. "Two victims, both white women in their twenties, both strangled and both abandoned on the banks of the Schuylkill. Both victims had moon paintings on their bodies, made with semen and blood. A similar painting was painted on the wall near both crime scenes. The first victim had her legs amputated. These body parts were found on the Strawberry Mansion Bridge.
  Jessica flipped through her notes. "The first victim was Kristina Yakos. Born in Odessa, Ukraine, she moved to the United States with her sister, Natalia, and brother, Kostya. Her parents are deceased, and she has no other relatives in the States. Until a few weeks ago, Kristina lived with her sister in the Northeast. Kristina recently moved to North Lawrence with her roommate, a certain Sonya Kedrova, also from Ukraine. Kostya Yakos received a ten-year sentence in Graterford for aggravated assault. Kristina recently got a job at the Stiletto men's club downtown, where she worked as an exotic dancer. On the night she disappeared, she was last seen at a laundromat in town at approximately 11:00 PM."
  "Do you think there's any connection to your brother?" Buchanan asked.
  "It's hard to say," Pak said. "Kostya Yakos's victim was an elderly widow from Merion Station. Her son is in his sixties, and she has no grandchildren nearby. If that were the case, it would be a pretty cruel retribution."
  - What about something he stirred inside?
  "He wasn't a model prisoner, but nothing would motivate him to do this to his sister."
  "We got DNA from the blood moon painting on Yakos?" Buchanan asked.
  "There's already DNA on Christina Yakos's drawing," Tony Park said. "It's not her blood. The investigation into the second victim is still ongoing."
  "Did we run this through CODIS?"
  "Yes," Pak said. The FBI's combined DNA indexing system allowed federal, state, and local crime labs to exchange and compare DNA profiles electronically, thereby linking crimes to each other and to convicted criminals. "Nothing on that front yet."
  "What about some crazy son of a bitch from a strip club?" Buchanan asked.
  "I'll talk to some of the girls at the club today or tomorrow who knew Christina," Byrne said.
  "What about this bird that was found in the Chaumont area?" Buchanan asked.
  Jessica glanced at Byrne. The word "found" had stuck. No one mentioned that the bird had flown away because Byrne had nudged the victim to release his grip.
  "Feathers in the lab," said Tony Park. "One of the technicians is an avid birder and says he's not familiar with it. He's working on it now."
  "Okay," Buchanan said. "What else?"
  "It looks like the killer sawed the first victim apart with a carpenter's saw," Jessica said. "There were traces of sawdust in the wound. So, maybe a shipbuilder? A dock builder? A dock worker?"
  "Christina was working on the set design for the Christmas play," Byrne said.
  "Did we interview the people she worked with at the church?"
  "Yes," Byrne said. "No one is of interest."
  "Are there any injuries to the second victim?" Buchanan asked.
  Jessica shook her head. "The body was intact."
  At first, they considered the possibility that their killer had taken body parts as souvenirs. Now that seemed less likely.
  "Any sexual aspect?" Buchanan asked.
  Jessica wasn't sure. "Well, despite the presence of sperm, there was no evidence of sexual assault."
  "The same murder weapon in both cases?" Buchanan asked.
  "It's identical," Byrne said. "The lab believes it's the type of rope used to separate lanes in swimming pools. However, they didn't find any traces of chlorine. They're currently running more tests on the fibers."
  Philadelphia, a city with two rivers to feed and exploit, had numerous industries tied to the water trade. Sailing and motorboating on the Delaware. Rowing on the Schuylkill. Numerous events were held annually on both rivers. There was the Schuylkill River Stay, a seven-day sailing trip along the entire length of the river. Then, in the second week of May, the Dud Vail Regatta took place, the largest collegiate regatta in the United States, with over a thousand athletes participating.
  "The dumps on the Schuylkill indicate that we're probably looking for someone with a pretty good working knowledge of the river," Jessica said.
  Byrne thought of Paulie McManus and his Leonardo da Vinci quote: "In rivers, the water you touch is the last thing that has passed and the first thing that comes."
  "What the hell is going to happen?" Byrne wondered.
  "What about the sites themselves?" Buchanan asked. "Do they have any significance?"
  "Manayunk has a lot of history. Same with Chaumont. So far, nothing's worked out."
  Buchanan sat up and rubbed his eyes. "One singer, one dancer, both white, in their twenties. Both public abductions. There's a connection between the two victims, detectives. Find it."
  There was a knock at the door. Byrne opened it. It was Nikki Malone.
  "Got a minute, boss?" Nikki asked.
  "Yes," Buchanan said. Jessica thought she'd never heard anyone sound so weary. Ike Buchanan was the liaison between the unit and management. If it happened in his presence, it happened through him. He nodded to the four detectives. It was time to get back to work. They left the office. As they were leaving, Nikki poked her head back in the doorway.
  - There's someone downstairs to see you, Jess.
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  "I'm Detective Balzano."
  The man waiting for Jessica in the lobby was about fifty years old-wearing a rusty flannel shirt, tan Levi's, and duck-wool boots. He had thick fingers, bushy eyebrows, and a complexion that bemoaned too many Philadelphia Decembers.
  "My name is Frank Pustelnik," he said, extending a calloused hand. Jessica shook it. "I own a restaurant business on Flat Rock Road."
  "What can I do for you, Mr. Pustelnik?"
  "I read about what happened at the old warehouse. And then, of course, I saw all the activity there." He held up the videotape. "I have a surveillance camera on my property. The property facing the building where... well, you know.
  - Is this a surveillance recording?
  "Yes."
  "What exactly does it depict?" Jessica asked.
  "I'm not entirely sure, but I think there's something you might want to see."
  - When was the tape recorded?
  Frank Pustelnik handed Jessica the tape. "This is from the day the body was discovered."
  
  
  
  They stood behind Mateo Fuentes in the AV editing bay. Jessica, Byrne, and Frank Pustelnik.
  Mateo inserted the tape into the slow-motion VCR. He sent the tape. The images flashed past. Most CCTV devices recorded at a much slower speed than a standard VCR, so when they played back on a consumer computer, they were too fast to watch.
  Static night images rolled past. Finally, the scene became a little brighter.
  "Over there," said Pustelnik.
  Mateo stopped the recording and pressed PLAY. It was a high-angle shot. The time code read 7:00 AM.
  In the background, the warehouse parking lot at the crime scene was visible. The image was blurry and dimly lit. On the left side of the screen, at the top, was a small spot of light near where the parking lot sloped down to the river. The image sent a shudder through Jessica. The blur was Christina Yakos.
  At 7:07 AM, a car pulled into the parking lot at the top of the screen. It was moving from right to left. It was impossible to determine the color, let alone the make or model. The car circled the back of the building. They lost sight of it. A few moments later, a shadow slid across the top of the screen. It appeared that someone was crossing the parking lot, heading toward the river, toward Christina Yakos's body. Soon after, the dark figure merged with the darkness of the trees.
  Then the shadow, detached from the background, moved again. This time quickly. Jessica concluded that whoever had driven in had crossed the parking lot, spotted Christina Yakos's body, and then run back to their car. Seconds later, the car emerged from behind the building and sped toward the exit onto Flat Rock Road. Then the surveillance video returned to a static state. Just a small, bright spot by the river, a spot that had once been a human life.
  Mateo rewound the film to the moment the car drove away. He pressed play and let it run until they got a good angle on the rear of the car as it turned onto Flat Rock Road. He froze the image.
  "Can you tell me what kind of car this is?" Byrne asked Jessica. Over the years working in the auto department, she had become a reputable automotive expert. While she didn't recognize some 2006 and 2007 models, she had developed a keen understanding of luxury cars over the past decade. The auto division handled a large number of stolen luxury vehicles.
  "It looks like a BMW," Jessica said.
  "Can we do this?" Byrne asked.
  "Does Ursus americanus defecate in the wild?" Mateo asked.
  Byrne glanced at Jessica and shrugged. Neither of them had any idea what Mateo was talking about. "I suppose so," Byrne said. Sometimes, it was necessary to humor Officer Fuentes.
  Mateo twisted the knobs. The image increased in size, but didn't become significantly clearer. It was definitely the BMW logo on the trunk of the car.
  "Can you tell me what model this is?" Byrne asked.
  "It looks like a 525i," Jessica said.
  - What about the plate?
  Mateo shifted the image, moving it back slightly. The image was simply a whitish-gray rectangle of brushstroke, and only half of it.
  "Is that all?" Byrne asked.
  Mateo glared at him. "What do you think we're doing here, Detective?"
  "I was never entirely sure," Byrne said.
  "You have to step back to see it."
  "How far back?" Byrne asked. "Camden?"
  Mateo centered the image on the screen and zoomed in. Jessica and Byrne took a few steps back and squinted at the resulting image. Nothing. A few more steps. Now they were in the hallway.
  "What do you think?" Jessica asked.
  "I don't see anything," Byrne said.
  They moved as far away as they could. The image on the screen was heavily pixelated, but it was beginning to take shape. The first two letters appeared to be HO.
  XO.
  HORNEY1, Jessica thought. She glanced at Byrne, who said out loud what he was thinking:
  "Son of a bitch."
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  47
  David Hornstrom sat in one of the four interrogation rooms in the homicide department. He'd walked in under his own power, which was fine. If they'd gone to pick him up for questioning, the dynamic would have been completely different.
  Jessica and Byrne compared notes and strategies. They entered a small, shabby room, not much larger than a walk-in closet. Jessica sat down, and Byrne stood behind Hornstrom. Tony Park and Josh Bontrager watched through a two-way mirror.
  "We just need to clear something up," Jessica said. It was standard police language: "We don't want to chase you all over town if we find out you're our operative."
  "Couldn't we do this in my office?" Hornstrom asked.
  "Do you enjoy working outside the office, Mr. Hornstrom?" Byrne asked.
  "Certainly."
  "And us too."
  Hornstrom simply watched, defeated. After a few moments, he crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. "Are you any closer to finding out what happened to that woman?" Conversational, now. It was standard chatter, because I have something to hide, but I firmly believe I'm smarter than you.
  "I believe so," Jessica said. "Thank you for asking."
  Hornstrom nodded, as if he'd just scored a point with the police. "We're all a little scared in the office."
  "What do you mean?"
  "Well, it's not every day that something like this happens. I mean, you guys deal with this all the time. We're just a bunch of salespeople."
  "Have you heard anything from your colleagues that could help our investigation?"
  "Not really."
  Jessica looked on warily, waiting. "Wouldn't that be quite right or not?"
  "Well, no. It was just a figure of speech."
  "Oh, okay," Jessica said, thinking, "You're under arrest for obstruction of justice." Another figure of speech. She flipped through her notes again. "You stated you weren't on Manayunk property a week before our first interview."
  "Right."
  - Were you in town last week?
  Hornstrom thought for a moment. "Yes."
  Jessica placed a large manila envelope on the table. She left it closed for now. "Are you familiar with the restaurant supply company Pustelnik?"
  "Of course," Hornstrom said. His face began to flush. He leaned back slightly, putting a few extra inches between himself and Jessica. The first sign of defense.
  "Well, it turns out there's been a theft problem there for quite some time," Jessica said. She unzipped the envelope. Hornstrom seemed unable to tear his eyes away from it. "A few months ago, the owners installed surveillance cameras on all four sides of the building. Did you know about that?"
  Hornstrom shook his head. Jessica reached into the nine-by-twelve-inch envelope, pulled out a photograph, and placed it on the scratched metal table.
  "This is a photo taken from surveillance footage," she said. "The camera was on the side of the warehouse where Christina Yakos was found. Your warehouse. It was taken the morning Christina's body was discovered."
  Hornstrom glanced casually at the photograph. "Good."
  - Could you take a closer look at this, please?
  Hornstrom picked up the photograph and examined it carefully. He swallowed hard. "I'm not sure what exactly I'm looking for." He put the photograph back.
  "Can you read the timestamp in the lower right corner?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes," Hornstrom said. "I see. But I don't..."
  "Do you see the car in the upper right corner?"
  Hornstrom narrowed his eyes. "Not exactly," he said. Jessica saw the man's body language become even more defensive. His arms crossed. His jaw muscles tensed. He began tapping his right foot. "I mean, I see something. I think it might be a car.
  "Maybe this will help," Jessica said. She pulled out another photo, this time enlarged. It showed the left side of the trunk and a partial license plate. The BMW logo was quite clear. David Hornstrom immediately paled.
  "This is not my car."
  "You drive this model," Jessica said. "A black 525i."
  - You can't be sure of that.
  "Mr. Hornstrom, I worked in the auto department for three years. I can tell a 525i from a 530i in the dark."
  "Yes, but there are a lot of them on the road."
  "That's true," Jessica said. "But how many have that license plate?"
  "It looks like HG to me. It's not necessarily XO."
  "Don't you think we went through every black BMW 525i in Pennsylvania looking for license plates that might be similar?" The truth was, they didn't. But David Hornstrom didn't need to know that.
  "It... it doesn't mean anything," Hornstrom said. "Anyone with Photoshop could have done it."
  It was true. It would never stand trial. The reason Jessica had put it on the table was to scare David Hornstrom. It was starting to work. On the other hand, he looked like he was about to ask for a lawyer. They needed to back off a bit.
  Byrne pulled out a chair and sat down. "What about astronomy?" he asked. "Are you into astronomy?"
  The shift was abrupt. Hornstrom seized the moment. "I'm sorry?"
  "Astronomy," Byrne said. "I noticed you have a telescope in your office."
  Hornstrom looked even more confused. What now? "My telescope? What about this?"
  "I've always wanted to get one. Which one do you have?"
  David Hornstrom could probably answer that question in a coma. But here, in the homicide interrogation room, it didn't seem to occur to him. Finally: "It's Jumell."
  "Good?"
  "Pretty good. But far from top-notch."
  "What are you watching with him? Stars?"
  "Sometimes."
  - David, have you ever looked at the moon?
  The first thin beads of sweat appeared on Hornstrom's forehead. He was either about to admit something or had completely passed out. Byrne downshifted. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out an audio cassette.
  "We have a 911 call, Mr. Hornstrom," Byrne said. "And by that I mean, specifically, a 911 call that alerted authorities to the fact that there was a body behind a warehouse on Flat Rock Road."
  "Okay. But what does that mean...
  "If we run some voice recognition tests on it, I have a distinct feeling it will match your voice." That was also unlikely, but it always sounded good.
  "It's crazy," Hornstrom said.
  "So you're saying you didn't call 911?"
  "No. I didn't go back into the house and call 911."
  Byrne held the young man's gaze for an awkward moment. Finally, Hornstrom looked away. Byrne placed the tape on the table. "The 911 recording also has music. The caller forgot to turn off the music before dialing. The music is quiet, but it's there."
  - I don't know what you're talking about.
  Byrne reached for the small stereo on the desk, selected a CD, and pressed play. A second later, a song began playing. It was Savage Garden's "I Want You." Hornstrom recognized it immediately. He jumped to his feet.
  "You had no right to enter my car! This is a clear violation of my civil rights!"
  "What do you mean?" Byrne asked.
  "You didn't have a search warrant! This is my property!"
  Byrne stared at Hornstrom until he decided it was wise to sit down. Then Byrne reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a crystal CD case and a small plastic bag from Coconuts Music. He also pulled out a receipt with a time code dated an hour earlier. The receipt was for Savage Garden's 1997 self-titled album.
  "No one entered your car, Mr. Hornstrom," Jessica said.
  Hornstrom looked at the bag, the CD case, and the receipt. And he knew. He'd been played.
  "So, here's a proposition," Jessica began. "Take it or leave it. You're currently a material witness in a murder investigation. The line between witness and suspect-even at the best of times-is thin. Once you cross that line, your life will change forever. Even if you're not the guy we're looking for, your name is forever linked in certain circles to the words 'murder investigation,' 'suspect,' 'person of interest.' You hear what I'm saying?"
  Deep breath. As you exhale: "Yes."
  "Okay," Jessica said. "So, here you are at the police station, facing a big choice. You can answer our questions honestly, and we'll get to the bottom of it. Or you can play a dangerous game. Once you hire a lawyer, it's all over, the DA's office will take over, and let's face it, they're not the most flexible people in town. They make us look perfectly friendly."
  The cards were dealt. Hornstrom seemed to weigh his options. "I'll tell you everything you want to know."
  Jessica showed a photo of the car leaving the Manayunk parking lot. "That's you, isn't it?"
  "Yes."
  "Did you pull into the parking lot that morning at approximately 7:07?"
  "Yes."
  "You saw Christina Yakos's body and left?"
  "Yes."
  - Why didn"t you call the police?
  - I... couldn't risk it.
  "What chance? What are you talking about?"
  It took Hornstrom a moment. "We have a lot of important clients, okay? The market is very volatile right now, and the slightest hint of a scandal could ruin everything. I panicked. I... I'm so sorry."
  "Did you call 911?"
  "Yes," Hornstrom said.
  "From an old cell phone?"
  "Yes. I just changed carriers," he said. "But I called . Doesn't that tell you anything? Didn't I do the right thing?"
  "So, you're saying you want some kind of praise for doing the most decent thing imaginable? You found a dead woman on the riverbank and you think calling the police is some kind of noble act?
  Hornstrom covered his face with his hands.
  "You lied to the police, Mr. Hornstrom," Jessica said. "This is something that will stay with you for the rest of your life."
  Hornstrom remained silent.
  "Have you ever been to Chaumont?" Byrne asked.
  Hornstrom looked up. "Shaumont? I think I have. I mean, I was passing through Shaumont. What do you mean-"
  "Have you ever been to a club called Stiletto?"
  Now pale as a sheet. Bingo.
  Hornstrom leaned back in his chair. It was clear they were going to shut him down.
  "Am I under arrest?" Hornstrom asked.
  Jessica was right. Time to slow down.
  "We"ll be back in a minute," Jessica said.
  They left the room and closed the door. They entered a small alcove where a two-way mirror looked out onto the interrogation room. Tony Park and Josh Bontrager watched.
  "What do you think?" Jessica asked Puck.
  "I'm not sure," Park said. "I think he's just a player, a kid who found a body and saw his career go down the drain. I say, let him go. If we need him later, maybe he'll like us enough to come on his own."
  Pak was right. Hornstrom didn't think any of them were stone killers.
  "I'm going to drive up to the district attorney's office," Byrne said. "See if we can't get a little closer to Mr. HORNEY."
  They probably didn't have the wherewithal to get a search warrant for David Hornstrom's home or car, but it was worth a try. Kevin Byrne could be very persuasive. And David Hornstrom deserved to have his thumb screws used on him.
  "Then I'm going to meet some of the Stiletto girls," Byrne added.
  "Let me know if you need any support with that Stiletto part," Tony Park said, smiling.
  "I think I can handle it," Byrne said.
  "I'm going to spend a few hours with these library books," Bontrager said.
  "I'll go outside and see if I can find anything about these dresses," Jessica said. "Whoever our boy is, he must have gotten them somewhere."
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  Once upon a time, there lived a young woman named Anne Lisbeth. She was a beautiful girl with sparkling teeth, lustrous hair, and beautiful skin. One day, she gave birth to a child of her own, but her son wasn't very handsome, so he was sent away to live with others.
  Moon knows all about it.
  While the worker's wife raised the child, Anna Lisbeth went to live in the count's castle, surrounded by silk and velvet. She wasn't allowed to breathe. No one was allowed to speak to her.
  Moon watches Anne Lisbeth from the depths of the room. She is beautiful, like in a fable. She is surrounded by the past, by everything that came before. This room is home to the echoes of many stories. It is a place of discarded things.
  Moon knows about it too.
  According to the plot, Anna Lisbeth lived for many years and became a respected and influential woman. The residents of her village called her Madame.
  Anne Lisbeth from Moon won't live that long.
  She will wear her dress today.
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  49
  In Philadelphia, Montgomery, Bucks, and Chester counties, there were about a hundred used clothing stores and consignment shops, including those small boutiques that had sections devoted to consignment clothing.
  Before she could plan her route, Jessica received a call from Byrne. He had canceled the search warrant for David Hornstrom. Besides, there was no force available to track him down. For now, the DA's office has decided not to pursue obstruction charges. Byrne will continue to press the case.
  
  
  
  JESSICA STARTED HER quest on Market Street. The shops closest to the city center tended to be more expensive and specialized in designer clothing or offered versions of whatever vintage style was popular that day. Somehow, by the time Jessica reached the third shop, she'd bought an adorable Pringle cardigan. She hadn't intended to do it. It just happened.
  Afterwards, she left her credit card and cash locked in the car. She should have been investigating the murder, not packing her wardrobe. She had photographs of both dresses found on the victims. To this day, no one has recognized them.
  The fifth store she visited was on South Street, between a used record store and a sandwich shop.
  It was called TrueSew.
  
  
  
  The girl behind the counter was about nineteen, blonde, delicately beautiful, and fragile. The music was something like Euro-trance, played at a low volume. Jessica showed the girl her ID.
  "What's your name?" Jessica asked.
  "Samantha," the girl said. "With an apostrophe."
  "And where should I put this apostrophe?"
  "After the first a."
  Jessica wrote to Samantha. "I see. How long have you been working here?"
  "About two months. Almost three.
  "Good job?"
  Samantha shrugged. "It's fine. Except when we have to deal with what people bring in."
  "What do you mean?"
  "Well, some of this can be pretty disgusting, right?"
  - Scanky, how are you?
  "Well, I did find a moldy salami sandwich in my back pocket once. I mean, come on, who puts a damn sandwich in their pocket? No baggie, just a sandwich. And a salami sandwich at that."
  "Yes".
  "Ugh, squared. And, like, two, who even bothers to look in the pockets of something before selling it or giving it away? Who would do that? Makes you wonder what else this guy donated, if you know what I mean. Can you imagine?"
  Jessica could have. She saw her share.
  "And another time, we found about a dozen dead mice at the bottom of this big box of clothes. Some of them were mice. I was scared. I think I haven't slept for a week." Samantha shuddered. "I might not sleep tonight. I'm so glad I remembered that."
  Jessica glanced around the store. It looked completely disorganized. Clothes were stacked on round racks. Some smaller items-shoes, hats, gloves, scarves-were still in cardboard boxes scattered across the floor, prices written on the sides in black pencil. Jessica imagined it was all part of the bohemian, twentysomething charm she'd long since lost her taste for. A couple of men were browsing in the back.
  "What kind of things do you sell here?" Jessica asked.
  "All sorts," Samantha said. "Vintage, gothic, sporty, military. A little bit of Riley."
  "What is Riley?"
  "Riley is a line. I think they've moved on from Hollywood. Or maybe it's just the hype. They take vintage and recycled items and embellish them. Skirts, jackets, jeans. Not exactly my scene, but cool. Mostly for women, but I've seen kids' stuff, too.
  "How to decorate?"
  "Ruffles, embroidery, and the like. Practically one-of-a-kind."
  "I'd like to show you some pictures," Jessica said. "Will that be okay?"
  "Certainly."
  Jessica opened the envelope and pulled out photocopies of the dresses found on Christina Jakos and Tara Grendel, as well as a photograph of David Hornstrom taken for his Roundhouse visitor ID.
  - Do you recognize this man?
  Samantha looked at the photo. "I don't think so," she said. "Sorry."
  Jessica then placed the photos of the dresses on the counter. "Have you sold anything like this to anyone lately?"
  Samantha looked through the photos. She took her time imagining them in their best light. "Not that I remember," she said. "They're pretty cute dresses, though. Except for the Riley line, most of the stuff we get here is pretty basic. Levi's, Columbia Sportswear, old Nike and Adidas stuff. These dresses look like something out of Jane Eyre or something."
  "Who owns this store?"
  "My brother. But he's not here now."
  "What is his name?"
  "Danny."
  "Are there any apostrophes?"
  Samantha smiled. "No," she said. "Just plain old Danny."
  - How long has he owned this place?
  "Maybe two years. But before that, as always, my grandmother owned this place. Technically, I think she still does. In terms of loans. She's the one you want to talk to. In fact, she'll be here later. She knows everything there is to know about vintage."
  A recipe for aging, Jessica thought. She glanced at the floor behind the counter and spotted a child's rocking chair. In front of it was a toy display case with brightly colored circus animals. Samantha saw her looking at the chair.
  "This is for my little boy," she said. "He's sleeping in the back office right now."
  Samantha's voice suddenly took on a sad tone. It seemed her situation was a legal matter, not necessarily a matter of the heart. And it didn't concern Jessica either.
  The phone behind the counter rang. Samantha answered. Turning her back, Jessica noticed a couple of red and green streaks in her blonde hair. Somehow, it suited this young woman. A few moments later, Samantha hung up.
  "I like your hair," Jessica said.
  "Thank you," Samantha said. "That's kind of my Christmas rhythm. I guess it's time to change that."
  Jessica handed Samantha a couple of business cards. "Will you ask your grandmother to call me?"
  "Of course," she said. "She loves intrigue."
  "I'll leave these photos here too. If you have any other ideas, please don't hesitate to contact us."
  "Fine."
  As Jessica turned to leave, she noticed that the two people who had been in the back of the store had left. No one passed her on their way to the front door.
  "Do you have a back door here?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes," Samantha said.
  "Do you have any problems with shoplifting?"
  Samantha pointed to a small video monitor and VCR under the counter. Jessica hadn't noticed them before. It showed a corner of the hallway leading to the back entrance. "This used to be a jewelry store, believe it or not," Samantha said. "They left cameras and everything. I've been watching these guys the whole time we talked. Don't worry."
  Jessica had to smile. A nineteen-year-old boy passed him. You never knew about people.
  
  
  
  By DAY, Jessica had seen her share of goth kids, grunge kids, hip-hop kids, rock 'n' rollers, and homeless people, as well as a group of Center City secretaries and administrators looking for a Versace pearl in an oyster. She stopped at a small restaurant on Third Street, grabbed a quick sandwich, and went inside. Among the messages she received was one from a thrift store on Second Street. Somehow, word had leaked to the press that the second victim was wearing vintage clothing, and it seemed like everyone who had ever seen a thrift store was out of order.
  Unfortunately, it was possible their killer had purchased these items online or picked them up at a thrift store in Chicago, Denver, or San Diego. Or perhaps he'd simply stored them in the trunk of a steamship for the past forty or fifty years.
  She stopped at the tenth thrift store on her list, on Second Street, where someone called and left her a message. Jessica called the young man at the checkout-a particularly energetic-looking guy in his early twenties . He had a wide-eyed, animated look, like he'd had a shot or two of Von Dutch energy drinks. Or maybe it was something more pharmaceutical. Even his spiky hair looked combed. She asked him if he'd called the police or knew who did it. Looking anywhere but at Jessica's eyes, the young man said he knew nothing about it. Jessica dismissed the call as just another oddball. Strange calls related to this case had begun to pile up. After Christina Yakos's story hit the newspapers and the internet, they began receiving calls from pirates, elves, fairies-even the ghost of a man who died at Valley Forge.
  Jessica looked around the long, narrow store. It was clean, well-lit, and smelled of fresh latex paint. The front window displayed small appliances-toasters, blenders, coffee makers, space heaters. Along the back wall were board games, vinyl records, and a few framed art prints. To the right was furniture.
  Jessica walked down the aisle to the women's clothing section. There were only five or six racks of clothing, but they all looked clean and in good condition, certainly organized, especially compared to the inventory at TrueSew.
  When Jessica was attending Temple University and the craze for designer ripped jeans was just gaining momentum, she frequented the Salvation Army and thrift stores in search of the perfect pair. She must have tried on hundreds. On a rack in the middle of the store, she spotted a pair of black Gap jeans for $3.99. And they were the right size, too. She had to stop herself.
  - Can I help you find something?
  Jessica turned to see the man who had asked her question. It was more than a little strange. His voice sounded like he worked at Nordstrom or Saks. She wasn't used to being waited on in a thrift store.
  "My name is Detective Jessica Balzano." She showed the man her ID.
  "Oh, yes." The man was tall, well-groomed, quiet, and manicured. He seemed out of place in a second-hand store. "I'm the one who called." He extended his hand. "Welcome to New Page Mall. My name is Roland Hanna."
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  50
  Byrne interviewed three Stiletto dancers. However pleasant the details, he learned nothing except that exotic dancers can reach heights of over six feet. None of the women recalled anyone paying any particular attention to Christina Yakos.
  Byrne decided to take another look at the Chaumont pumping station.
  
  
  
  Before he reached Kelly Drive, his cell phone rang. It was Tracy McGovern from the forensic lab.
  "We have a match on these bird feathers," Tracy said.
  Byrne shuddered at the thought of the bird. God, he hated fucking. "What is that?"
  "Are you ready for this?"
  "That sounds like a tough question, Tracy," Byrne said. "I don't know what to answer."
  "The bird was a nightingale."
  "A nightingale?" Byrne remembered the bird the victim had been holding. It was a small, ordinary-looking bird, nothing special. For some reason, he thought a nightingale would look exotic.
  "Yep. Luscinia megarhynchos, also known as the Rufous Nightingale," Tracy said. "And here's the interesting part."
  "Dude, do I need a good role?"
  "Nightingales do not live in North America."
  "And that's the good part?"
  "That's it. That's why. The nightingale is usually considered an English bird, but it can also be found in Spain, Portugal, Austria, and Africa. And here's even better news. Not so much for the bird, mind you, but for us. Nightingales don't do well in captivity. Ninety percent of those captured die within a month or so."
  "Okay," Byrne said. "So how did one of these end up in the hands of a murder victim in Philadelphia?"
  "You might as well ask. Unless you bring it back from Europe yourself (and in this age of bird flu, that's unlikely), there's only one way to get infected."
  "And how is that?"
  "From an exotic bird breeder. Nightingales are known to survive in captivity if bred. Hand-raised, if you will.
  "Please tell me there is a breeder in Philadelphia."
  "No, but there's one in Delaware. I called them, but they said they haven't sold or bred nightingales in years. The owner said he'd compile a list of breeders and importers and call back. I gave him your number.
  "Good job, Tracy." Byrne hung up, then called Jessica's voicemail and left her the information.
  As he turned onto Kelly Drive, freezing rain began to fall: a cloudy gray fog painted the road with a patina of ice. At that moment, Kevin Byrne felt like winter would never end, and there were still three months left.
  Nightingales.
  
  
  
  By the time Byrne reached the Chaumont Waterworks, the freezing rain had turned into a full-blown ice storm. Within a few feet of his car's reach, he was thoroughly soaked, reaching the slippery stone steps of the abandoned pumping station.
  Byrne stood in the huge, open doorway, surveying the main building of the waterworks. He was still stunned by the sheer size and utter desolation of the building. He'd lived in Philadelphia his entire life, but had never been there before. The place was so secluded, yet so close to downtown, that he was willing to bet many Philadelphians didn't even know it was there.
  The wind drove a vortex of rain into the building. Byrne stepped deeper into the darkness. He thought about what had once happened there, about the turmoil. Generations of people had worked here, keeping the water flowing.
  Byrne touched the stone windowsill where Tara Grendel had been found...
  - and sees the shadow of the killer, bathed in black, placing the woman facing the river... hears the sound of a nightingale as he places her in his hands, his hands quickly tensing... sees the killer step outside, looking in the moonlight... hears the melody of a nursery rhyme-
  - then retreated.
  Byrne spent a few moments trying to shake the images from his mind, trying to make sense of them. He imagined the first few lines of a children's poem-it even seemed like a child's voice-but he couldn't understand the words. Something about girls.
  He walked the perimeter of the vast space, aiming his Maglite at the pitted and rubbled floor. The detectives took detailed photographs, made scale drawings, and combed the area for clues. They found nothing significant. Byrne turned off his flashlight. He decided to return to the Roundhouse.
  Before he stepped outside, another sensation washed over him, a dark and menacing awareness, the feeling that someone was watching him. He turned, peering into the corners of the vast room.
  Nobody.
  Byrne bowed his head and listened. Only rain, wind.
  He stepped through the doorway and peered out. Through the thick gray fog on the other side of the river, he saw a man standing on the riverbank, his hands at his sides. The man seemed to be watching him. The figure was several hundred feet away, and it was impossible to discern anything specific, other than that there, in the middle of a winter ice storm, stood a man in a dark coat, watching Byrne.
  Byrne returned to the building, disappeared from view, and waited a few moments. He poked his head around the corner. The man was still standing there, motionless, studying the monstrous building on the eastern shore of the Schuylkill. For a second, the small figure faded in and out of the landscape, lost in the depths of the water.
  Byrne disappeared into the darkness of the pumping station. He picked up his cell phone and called his unit. A few seconds later, he ordered Nick Palladino to descend to a spot on the west bank of the Schuylkill, opposite the Chaumont pumping station, and bring the cavalry. If they were wrong, they were wrong. They apologized to the man and went on about their business.
  But Byrne somehow knew he wasn't wrong. The feeling was so strong.
  - Wait a second, Nick.
  Byrne kept his phone on, waiting a few minutes, trying to figure out which bridge was closest to his location, which would get him across the Schuylkill the fastest. He crossed the room, waited a moment under a huge arch, and ran to his car just as someone emerged from a high portico on the north side of the building, just a few feet away, directly in his path. Byrne didn't look the man in the face. For the moment, he couldn't take his eyes off the small-caliber weapon in the man's hand. The weapon was pointed at Byrne's stomach.
  The man holding the gun was Matthew Clark.
  "What are you doing?" Byrne shouted. "Get out of the way!"
  Clark didn't move. Byrne could smell alcohol on the man's breath. He could also see the gun shaking in his hand. Never a good combination.
  "You're coming with me," Clarke said.
  Over Clark's shoulder, through the thick rain haze, Byrne could see the figure of a man still standing on the far bank of the river. Byrne tried to mentally print the image. It was impossible. The man could have been five, eight, or six feet tall. Twenty or fifty.
  "Give me the gun, Mr. Clark," Byrne said. "You're obstructing the investigation. This is very serious."
  A wind picked up, blowing the river away and bringing with it a ton of wet snow. "I want you to very slowly draw your guns and place them on the ground," Clark said.
  "I can't do this."
  Clark cocked the gun. His hand began to shake. "You do what I tell you."
  Byrne saw the fury in the man's eyes, the heat of madness. The detective slowly unbuttoned his coat, reached inside, and pulled out a gun with two fingers. Then he ejected the magazine and tossed it over his shoulder into the river. He placed the gun on the ground. He had no intention of leaving a loaded weapon behind.
  "Come on." Clark pointed to his car, parked near the train depot. "We're going for a drive."
  "Mr. Clark," Byrne said, finding the right tone of voice. He calculated his chances of making a move and disarming Clark. The odds were never good, even under the best of circumstances. "You don't want to do this."
  "I said, let's go."
  Clark put the gun to Byrne's right temple. Byrne closed his eyes. Collin, he thought. Collin.
  "We're going for a ride," Clark said. "You and me. If you don't get in my car, I'll kill you right here."
  Byrne opened his eyes and turned his head. The man had disappeared beyond the river.
  "Mr. Clarke, this is the end of your life," Byrne said. "You have no idea what kind of shit world you've just entered."
  "Don't say another word. Not alone. Can you hear me?"
  Byrne nodded.
  Clark came up behind Byrne and pressed the barrel of the gun to the small of his back. "Come on," he said again. They approached the car. "Do you know where we're going?"
  Byrne did it. But he needed Clarke to say it out loud. "No," he said.
  "We're going to the Crystal Diner," Clarke replied. "We're going to where you killed my wife."
  They approached the car. They slipped inside at the same time-Byrne in the driver's seat, Clark right behind him.
  "Nice and slow," Clarke said. "Driving."
  Byrne started the car, turned on the wipers and heater. His hair, face, and clothes were wet, his pulse pounding in his ears.
  He wiped the rain from his eyes and headed towards the city.
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  51
  Jessica Balzano and Roland Hanna sat in the small back room of a thrift store. The walls were covered with Christian posters, a Christian calendar, inspirational quotes framed in embroidery, and children's drawings. In one corner stood a neat pile of painting supplies-jars, rollers, pots, and rags. The walls in the back room were pastel yellow.
  Roland Hannah was lanky, blond, and trim. He wore faded jeans, worn Reebok sneakers, and a white sweatshirt with the words "LORD, IF YOU CAN'T MAKE ME SKINNY, MAKE ALL MY FRIENDS FAT" printed on the front in black letters.
  There were paint stains on his hands.
  "Can I offer you coffee or tea? Maybe a soda?" he asked.
  "I'm fine, thank you," Jessica said.
  Roland sat down at the table across from Jessica. He folded his hands, steepling his fingers. "Can I help you with anything?"
  Jessica opened her notebook and clicked her pen. "You said you called the police."
  "Right."
  "May I ask why?"
  "Well, I was reading a report about these horrific murders," Roland said. "The details of the vintage clothing caught my eye. I just thought I could help."
  "How so?"
  "I've been doing this for quite some time, Detective Balzano," he said. "Even though this store is new, I've been serving the community and the Lord in some capacity for many years. And as far as the thrift stores in Philadelphia go, I know almost everyone. I also know a number of Christian ministers in New Jersey and Delaware. I thought I could arrange introductions and such."
  "How long have you been in this place?"
  "We opened our doors here about ten days ago," Roland said.
  "Have you got a lot of clients?"
  "Yes," Roland said. "Good word spreads."
  "Do you know many people who come here to shop?"
  "Quite a few," he said. "This place has been featured in our church bulletin for a while now. Some alternative newspapers even included us on their lists. On opening day, we had balloons for the kids, and cake and punch for everyone."
  "What things do people buy most often?"
  "Of course, it depends on age. Spouses are most likely to look at furniture and children's clothing. Young people like you tend to choose jeans and denim jackets. They always think that buried among Sears and JCPenney's will be a piece of Juicy Couture, Diesel, or Vera Wang. I can tell you that rarely happens. I'm afraid most designer items are snatched up before they even reach our shelves."
  Jessica looked at the man carefully. If she had to guess, she'd say he was a few years younger than her. "Young men like me?"
  "Well, yes."
  "How old do you think I am?"
  Roland looked at her closely, his hand on his chin. "I'd say twenty-five or twenty-six."
  Roland Hanna was her new best friend. "Can I show you some pictures?"
  "Of course," he said.
  Jessica pulled out photographs of two dresses. She placed them on the table. "Have you ever seen these dresses before?"
  Roland Hannah examined the photographs carefully. Soon, recognition seemed to dawn on his face. "Yes," he said. "I think I've seen those dresses."
  After a tiring day spent in a dead end, words were barely perceptible. "Did you sell these dresses?"
  "I'm not sure. I might have. I seem to remember unpacking them and putting them out."
  Jessica's pulse quickened. It was the feeling all investigators get when the first solid piece of evidence falls from the sky. She wanted to call Byrne. She resisted the urge. "How long ago was that?"
  Roland thought for a moment. "Let's see. Like I said, we've only been open about ten days or so. So I think maybe two weeks ago I would have put them on the counter. I think we had them when we opened. So, about two weeks.
  "Do you know the name David Hornstrom?"
  "David Hornstrom?" Roland asked. "I'm afraid not."
  "Do you remember who could buy the dresses?"
  "I'm not sure I remember. But if I saw some photos, I might be able to tell you. Pictures can jog my memory. Do the police still do this?"
  "What to do?"
  "Do people look at photos? Or is that something that only happens on TV?"
  "No, we do that a lot," Jessica said. "Would you like to go down to the Roundhouse right now?"
  "Of course," Roland said. "Anything I can do to help."
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  52
  Traffic on Eighteenth Street was backed up. Cars slid and slid. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and the sleet continued.
  A million thoughts raced through Kevin Byrne's mind. He thought of other times in his career when he'd had to deal with guns. He hadn't done any better. His stomach felt like it was tied in steel knots.
  "You don't want to do this, Mr. Clark," Byrne said again. "There's still time to call it off."
  Clark remained silent. Byrne glanced in the rearview mirror. Clark was staring at the thousand-yard line.
  "You don't understand," Clarke finally said.
  "I understand ".
  "No, you don't. How could you? Have you ever lost someone you loved to violence?"
  Byrne didn't do it. But he once came close. He almost lost everything when his daughter fell into the hands of a killer. On that dark day, he himself almost crossed the threshold of sanity.
  "Stop," Clark said.
  Byrne pulled over to the side of the road. He put it in park and continued working. The only sound was the clicking of the windshield wipers, matching the rhythm of Byrne's pounding heart.
  "What now?" Byrne asked.
  "We're going to go to the diner and put an end to this. For you and me."
  Byrne glanced at the diner. The lights sparkled and flickered through the mist of freezing rain. The windshield had already been replaced. The floor was whitewashed. It looked like nothing was happening there. But it was. And that was the reason they came back.
  "It doesn't have to end this way," Byrne said. "If you put the gun down, there's still a chance to get your life back."
  - You mean I can just walk away as if it never happened?
  "No," Byrne said. "I don't mean to insult you by telling you that. But you can get help."
  Byrne glanced in the rearview mirror again. And saw it.
  There were now two small red dots of light on Clarke's chest.
  Byrne closed his eyes for a moment. This was the best of news and the worst of news. He'd been keeping his phone open ever since Clarke ran into him at the pump station. Apparently, Nick Palladino had called in SWAT, and they were stationed at the diner. For the second time in about a week. Byrne glanced outside. He spotted SWAT officers stationed at the end of the alley next to the diner.
  This could all end suddenly and brutally. Byrne wanted the former, not the latter. He was fair in negotiating tactics, but far from an expert. Rule number one: Remain calm. No one dies. "I'm going to tell you something," Byrne said. "And I want you to listen carefully. Do you understand?"
  Silence. The man was about to explode.
  "Mr. Clark?
  "What?"
  "I need to tell you something. But first, you must do exactly what I say. You must sit perfectly still."
  "What are you talking about?"
  "Have you noticed that there is no movement?"
  Clarke looked out the window. A block away, a couple of sector cars blocked Eighteenth Street.
  "Why are they doing this?" Clark asked.
  "I'll tell you all about it in a second. But first, I want you to look down very slowly. Just tilt your head. No sudden movements. Look at your chest, Mr. Clark.
  Clark did as Byrne suggested. "What is it?" he asked.
  "This is the end of it, Mr. Clark. These are laser sights. They're being fired from the rifles of two SWAT officers."
  "Why are they on me?"
  Oh God, Byrne thought. This was far worse than he'd imagined. Matthew Clarke was impossible to remember.
  "Again: don't move," Byrne said. "Just your eyes. I want you to look at my hands now, Mr. Clark." Byrne kept both hands on the steering wheel, at the ten and two o'clock positions. "Can you see my hands?"
  "Your hands? What about them?"
  "See how they hold the steering wheel?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes."
  "If I so much as raise my right index finger, they'll pull the trigger. They'll take the hit," Byrne said, hoping it sounded plausible. "Remember what happened to Anton Krotz in the diner?"
  Byrne heard Matthew Clarke start to sob. "Yes."
  "That was one shooter. These are two.
  "I... I don't care. I'll shoot you first."
  "You'll never get the shot. If I move, it's over. One single millimeter. It's over."
  Byrne watched Clark in the rearview mirror, ready to pass out at any second.
  "You have children, Mr. Clark," Byrne said. "Think about them. You don't want to leave them this legacy."
  Clark shook his head quickly from side to side. "They're not going to let me go today, are they?"
  "No," Byrne said. "But from the moment you put the gun down, your life will start to get better. You're not like Anton Krotz, Matt. You're not like him.
  Clarke's shoulders started shaking. "Laura."
  Byrne let him play for a few moments. "Matt?"
  Clark looked up, his face streaked with tears. Byrne had never seen anyone so close to the edge.
  "They're not going to wait long," Byrne said. "Help me help you."
  Then, in Clark's reddened eyes, Byrne saw it. A crack in the man's resolve. Clark lowered his weapon. Instantly, a shadow crossed the left side of the car, obscured by the icy rain pouring down onto the windows. Byrne looked back. It was Nick Palladino. He aimed the shotgun at Matthew Clark's head.
  "Put your gun on the floor and put your hands above your head!" Nick shouted. "Do it now!"
  Clarke didn't move. Nick raised the shotgun.
  "Now!"
  After an agonizingly long second, Matthew Clark complied. The next second, the door swung open, and Clark was pulled from the car, roughly thrown out onto the street, and instantly surrounded by police.
  Moments later, as Matthew Clark lay face down in the middle of Eighteenth Street in the winter rain, his arms splayed at his sides, a SWAT officer aimed his rifle at the man's head. A uniformed officer approached, placed his knee on Clark's back, roughly pinned his wrists together, and handcuffed him.
  Byrne thought of the overwhelming force of grief, the irresistible grip of madness that must have driven Matthew Clarke to this moment.
  The officers pulled Clark to his feet. He looked at Byrne before shoving him into a nearby car.
  Whoever Clarke had been a few weeks ago, the man who presented himself to the world as Matthew Clarke-husband, father, citizen-no longer existed. When Byrne looked into the man's eyes, he saw no glimmer of life. Instead, he saw a man in disintegration, and where his soul should have been, the cold blue flame of madness now burned.
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  53
  Jessica found Byrne in the back room of the diner, a towel around his neck and a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. The rain had turned everything to ice, and the entire city was moving at a crawl. She was back at the Roundhouse, browsing books with Roland Hanna, when the call came: an officer needed help. Every detective, save a handful, rushed out the door. Whenever a cop was in trouble, every available force was dispatched. When Jessica pulled up to the diner, there must have been ten cars on Eighteenth Street.
  Jessica crossed the diner, and Byrne stood up. They hugged. It wasn't something you were supposed to do, but she didn't care. When the bell rang, she was convinced she'd never see him again. If that ever happened, a part of her would surely die with him.
  They broke the embrace and looked around the diner a little awkwardly. They sat down.
  "Are you okay?" Jessica asked.
  Byrne nodded. Jessica wasn't so sure.
  "How did this start?" she asked.
  "In Chaumont. At the waterworks.
  - Did he follow you there?
  Byrne nodded. "He must have done it."
  Jessica thought about it. At any moment, any police detective could become the target of a hunt-current investigations, old investigations, crazy people you locked up years ago after getting out of prison. She thought of Walt Brigham's body on the side of the road. Anything could happen at any moment.
  "He was going to do it right where his wife was killed," Byrne said. "First me, then him."
  "Jesus."
  "Yes, okay. There is more."
  Jessica couldn't understand what he meant. "What do you mean 'more'?"
  Byrne took a sip of coffee. "I saw him."
  "Did you see him? Who did you see?
  "Our activist."
  "What? What are you talking about?"
  "At Chaumont's site. He was across the river and just watching me.
  - How do you know it was him?
  Byrne stared into his coffee for a moment. "How do you know anything about this job? It was him."
  - Did you get a good look at him?
  Byrne shook his head. "No. He was on the other side of the river. In the rain."
  "What was he doing?"
  "He didn't do anything. I think he wanted to get back to the scene and thought the other side of the river would be safe."
  Jessica considered this. Returning this way was common.
  "That's why I called Nick," Byrne said. "If I hadn't..."
  Jessica knew what he meant. If he hadn't called, he might be lying on the floor of the Crystal Diner, surrounded by a pool of blood.
  "Have we heard from the poultry farmers in Delaware yet?" Byrne asked, clearly trying to shift the focus.
  "Nothing yet," Jessica said. "I thought we should check the subscription lists for bird-keeping magazines. In..."
  "Tony is already doing that," Byrne said.
  Jessica had to know. Even in the midst of all this, Byrne was thinking. He sipped his coffee, turned to her, and gave her a half-smile. "So how was your day?" he asked.
  Jessica smiled back. She hoped it looked genuine. "Much less adventurous, thank goodness." She told of her morning and afternoon trip to thrift stores and her meeting with Roland Hanna. "I've got him looking at mugs right now. He runs the church thrift store. He could sell our boy some dresses."
  Byrne finished his coffee and stood up. "I need to get out of here," he said. "I mean, I like this place, but not that much."
  "The boss wants you to go home."
  "I'm fine," Byrne said.
  "Are you sure?"
  Byrne didn't respond. Moments later, a uniformed officer crossed the diner and handed Byrne a gun. Byrne could tell by its weight that the magazine had been replaced. While Nick Palladino listened to Byrne and Matthew Clark on the open line of Byrne's cell phone, he dispatched a sector car to the Chaumont compound to retrieve the weapon. Philadelphia didn't need another gun on the street.
  "Where's our Amish detective?" Byrne asked Jessica.
  "Josh works in bookstores, checking to see if anyone remembers selling books on bird keeping, exotic birds, and the like."
  "He's fine," Byrne said.
  Jessica didn't know what to say. Coming from Kevin Byrne, that was high praise.
  "What are you going to do now?" Jessica asked.
  "Well, I'm going to go home, but just take a hot shower and change. Then I'll go outside. Maybe someone else saw this guy standing on the other side of the river. Or saw his car stop.
  "Do you want help?" she asked.
  "No, I'm fine. You stick to the rope and the birders. I'll call you in an hour."
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  54
  Byrne drove down Hollow Road toward the river. He drove under the freeway, parked, and got out. The hot shower had done him some good, but if the man they were looking for wasn't still standing there on the riverbank, hands behind his back, waiting to be handcuffed, it was going to be a shitty day. But every day with a gun pointed at you was a shitty day.
  The rain had subsided, but the ice remained. It had almost covered the town. Byrne carefully descended the slope to the riverbank. He stood between two bare trees, directly opposite the pumping station, the rumble of traffic on the highway behind him. He looked at the pumping station. Even from this distance, the structure was imposing.
  He stood exactly where the man watching him had stood. He thanked God that the man wasn't a sniper. Byrne imagined someone standing there with a scope, leaning against a tree for balance. He could easily kill Byrne.
  He looked at the ground nearby. No cigarette butts, no convenient, glossy candy wrappers to wipe his fingerprints off his face.
  Byrne crouched on the riverbank. The flowing water was just inches away. He leaned forward, touched the icy stream with his finger, and...
  - saw a man carrying Tara Grendel to the pumping station... a faceless man looking at the moon... a piece of blue and white rope in his hands... heard the sound of a small boat splashing on the rock... saw two flowers, one white, one red, and...
  - He pulled his hand back as if the water had caught fire. The images grew stronger, clearer, and unnerving.
  In rivers, the water you touch is the last thing that has passed and the first thing that comes.
  Something was approaching.
  Two flowers.
  A few seconds later, his cell phone rang. Byrne stood up, opened it, and answered. It was Jessica.
  "There is another victim," she said.
  Byrne looked down at the dark, forbidding waters of the Schuylkill. He knew, but he asked anyway. "On the river?"
  "Yes, partner," she said. "On the river."
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  55
  They met on the banks of the Schuylkill River, near the oil refineries in the Southwest. The crime scene was partially obscured from both the river and a nearby bridge. The acrid smell of refinery wastewater filled the air and their lungs.
  The lead detectives on this case were Ted Campos and Bobby Lauria. The two had been partners forever. The old cliché about finishing each other's sentences was true, but in Ted and Bobby's case, it went beyond that. One day, they even went shopping separately and bought the same tie. When they found out, of course, they never wore ties again. In fact, they weren't thrilled with the story. It was all a bit too Brokeback Mountain for a couple of old-school tough guys like Bobby Lauria and Ted Campos.
  Byrne, Jessica, and Josh Bontrager arrived and found a pair of sector vehicles parked about fifty yards apart, blocking the road. The scene of the accident occurred well south of the first two victims, near the confluence of the Schuylkill and Delaware Rivers, in the shadow of the Platte Bridge.
  Ted Campos met three detectives on the side of the road. Byrne introduced him to Josh Bontrager. A CSU van was also at the scene, along with Tom Weirich from the medical examiner's office.
  "What do we have, Ted?" Byrne asked.
  "We have a female DOA," Campos said.
  "Strangled?" Jessica asked.
  "It looks like it." He pointed to the river.
  The body lay on the riverbank, at the base of a dying maple tree. When Jessica saw the body, her heart sank. She'd been afraid this might happen, and now it had. "Oh, no."
  The body belonged to a child, no older than thirteen or so. Her thin shoulders were twisted at an unnatural angle, her torso covered in leaves and debris. She, too, was wearing a long vintage dress. Around her neck was what appeared to be a similar nylon belt.
  Tom Weirich stood next to the body and dictated notes.
  "Who found her?" Byrne asked.
  "A security guard," Campos said. "Came in for a smoke. The guy's a total wreck."
  "When?"
  "About an hour ago. But Tom thinks this woman has been here for a long time.
  The word shocked everyone. "Woman?" Jessica asked.
  Campos nodded. "I thought the same thing," he said. "And it's been dead for a long time. There's a lot of decay there."
  Tom Weirich approached them. He took off his latex gloves and put on leather ones.
  "It's not a child?" Jessica asked, stunned. The victim couldn't have been more than four feet tall.
  "No," Weirich said. "She's small, but she's mature. She was probably about forty."
  "So, how long do you think she's been here?" Byrne asked.
  "I think a week or so. It's impossible to say here."
  - Did this happen before the murder of Chaumont?
  "Oh yes," said Weirich.
  Two special operations officers exited the van and headed toward the riverbank. Josh Bontrager followed.
  Jessica and Byrne watched as the team set up the crime scene and perimeter. Until further notice, this wasn't their business and wasn't even officially connected to the two murders they were investigating.
  "Detectives," Josh Bontrager called out.
  Campos, Lauria, Jessica, and Byrne descended to the riverbank. Bontrager stood about fifteen feet from the body, just upriver.
  "Look." Bontrager pointed to an area beyond a clump of low bushes. An object lay in the ground, so out of place in the setting that Jessica had to step right up to it to make sure what she thought she was looking at was actually what she was looking at. It was a lily pad. The red plastic lily was stuck in the snow. On a tree next to it, about three feet off the ground, was a painted white moon.
  Jessica snapped a couple of photos. Then she stepped back and let the CSU photographer capture the entire scene. Sometimes the context of an object at a crime scene was as important as the object itself. Sometimes the place of something replaced what.
  Lily.
  Jessica glanced at Byrne. He seemed transfixed by the red flower. Then she looked at the body. The woman was so petite that it was easy to see how she could be mistaken for a child. Jessica saw that the victim's dress was oversized and unevenly hemmed. The woman's arms and legs were intact. There were no visible amputations. Her hands were exposed. She was not holding any birds.
  "Does it sync with your boy?" Campos asked.
  "Yes," Byrne said.
  "Same with the belt?"
  Byrne nodded.
  "Want some business?" Campos half-smiled, but was also half-serious.
  Byrne didn't answer. It wasn't his business. There was a good chance these cases would soon be grouped into a much larger task force, involving the FBI and other federal agencies. There was a serial killer out there, and this woman might have been his first victim. For some reason, this freak was obsessed with vintage suits and the Schuylkill, and they had no idea who he was or where he planned to strike next. Or if he already had one. There could be ten bodies between where they were standing and the crime scene in Manayunk.
  "This guy's not going to stop until he gets his point across, is he?" Byrne asked.
  "It doesn't look like it," Campos said.
  "The river is a hundred bloody miles long."
  "One hundred twenty-eight fucking miles long," Campos replied. "Give or take."
  "One hundred twenty-eight miles," Jessica thought. Much of it is sheltered from roads and highways, surrounded by trees and shrubs, the river winding through half a dozen counties into the heart of southeastern Pennsylvania.
  One hundred twenty-eight miles of killing territory.
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  56
  It was her third cigarette of the day. Her third. Three wasn't bad. Three was like not smoking at all, right? When she used, she'd have up to two packs. Three was like she was already gone. Or something.
  Who was she kidding? She knew she wasn't going to leave for real until her life was in order. Somewhere around her seventieth birthday.
  Samantha Fanning opened the back door and peered into the store. It was empty. She listened. Little Jamie was silent. She closed the door and pulled her coat tightly around her. Damn, it was cold. She hated going outside to smoke, but at least she wasn't one of those gargoyles you saw on Broad Street, standing in front of their buildings, hunched against the wall and sucking on a cigarette butt. It was precisely for this reason that she never smoked in front of the store, even though it was much easier to keep an eye on what was going on from there. She refused to look like a criminal. And yet, it was colder in here than a pocket full of penguin shit.
  She thought about her New Year's plans, or rather, her non-plans. It would be just her and Jamie, maybe a bottle of wine. Such was the life of a single mother. A single, poor mother. A single, barely working, bankrupt mother whose ex-boyfriend and the father of her child was a lazy idiot who never gave her a dime in child support. She was nineteen, and her life story was already written.
  She opened the door again, just to listen, and nearly jumped out of her skin. A man stood right there in the doorway. He was alone in the store, completely alone. He could steal anything. She was definitely going to be fired, family or not.
  "Man," she said, "You scared the crap out of me."
  "I'm very sorry," he said.
  He was well dressed and had a handsome face. He was not her typical client.
  "My name is Detective Byrne," he said. "I'm with the Philadelphia Police Department. Homicide Division.
  "Oh, okay," she said.
  "I was wondering if you might have a few minutes to talk."
  "Of course. No problem," she said. "But I already spoke with..."
  - Detective Balzano?
  "That's right. Detective Balzano. She was wearing this amazing leather coat.
  "That's hers." He pointed to the inside of the store. "Want to go inside where it's a little warmer?"
  She picked up her cigarette. "I can't smoke there. Ironic, huh?"
  "I'm not sure what you mean."
  "I mean, half the stuff in there already smells pretty weird," she said. "Is it okay if we talk here?"
  "Of course," the man replied. He stepped into the doorway and closed it. "I have a few more questions. I promise not to keep you too long."
  She almost laughed. Keep me from what? "I have nowhere to be," she said. "Shoot."
  - Actually, I only have one question.
  "Fine."
  - I was thinking about your son.
  The word caught her off guard. What did Jamie have to do with all this? "My son?"
  "Yes. I was wondering why you were going to kick him out. Is it because he's ugly?"
  At first she thought the man was joking, though she didn't get it. But he wasn't smiling. "I don't understand what you're talking about," she said.
  - The count's son is not nearly as fair as you think.
  She looked into his eyes. It was as if he were looking right through her. Something was wrong here. Something was wrong. And she was all alone. "Do you think I might see some papers or something?" she asked.
  "No." The man stepped toward her. He unbuttoned his coat. "That will be impossible."
  Samantha Fanning took a few steps back. All she had left was a few steps. Her back was already pressed against the bricks. "Have we... have we met before?" she asked.
  "Yes, there is, Anne Lisbeth," the man said. "A long time ago."
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  Jessica sat at her desk, exhausted, the events of the day-the discovery of the third victim, coupled with Kevin's near-miss-had nearly worn her down.
  Plus, the only thing worse than fighting Philadelphia traffic is fighting Philadelphia traffic on ice. It was physically exhausting. Her arms felt like she'd been through ten rounds; her neck was stiff. On the way back to the Roundhouse, she narrowly avoided three accidents.
  Roland Hanna spent nearly two hours with the photo book. Jessica also gave him a sheet of paper with the five most recent photographs, one of which was David Hornstrom's identification photo. He didn't recognize anyone.
  The murder investigation into the victim found in the Southwest will soon be handed over to the task force, and soon new files will be piling up on its desk.
  Three victims. Three women strangled and left on the riverbank, all dressed in vintage dresses. One was horribly mutilated. One of them was holding a rare bird. One of them was found next to a red plastic lily.
  Jessica turned to the nightingale's testimony. There were three companies in New York, New Jersey, and Delaware breeding exotic birds. She decided not to wait for a call back. She picked up the phone. She received virtually identical information from all three companies. They told her that with sufficient knowledge and the right conditions, a person could breed nightingales. They gave her a list of books and publications. She hung up, each time feeling like she was at the foot of a vast mountain of knowledge, and she lacked the strength to climb it.
  She got up to get a cup of coffee. Her phone rang. She answered and pressed the button.
  - Murder, Balzano.
  "Detective, my name is Ingrid Fanning."
  It was an older woman's voice. Jessica didn't recognize the name. "What can I do for you, ma'am?"
  "I'm the co-owner of TrueSew. My granddaughter spoke to you earlier.
  "Oh, yes, yes," Jessica said. The woman was talking about Samantha.
  "I was looking at the photos you left," Ingrid said. "Photos of dresses?"
  "What about them?"
  "Well, first of all, these are not vintage dresses."
  "They don't?"
  "No," she said. "These are reproductions of vintage dresses. I'd place the originals from the latter half of the nineteenth century. Towards the end. Maybe 1875 or so. Definitely a late Victorian silhouette."
  Jessica wrote down the information. "How do you know these are reproductions?"
  "There are several reasons. First, most of the parts are missing. They don't seem to have been made very well. And second, if they were original and in this shape, they could sell for three to four thousand dollars apiece. Believe me, they wouldn't be on the shelf at a thrift store."
  "Are there any reproductions possible?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes, of course. There are many reasons to reproduce such clothes."
  "For example?"
  "For example, someone might be producing a play or a film. Perhaps someone is recreating a specific event at the museum. We get calls from local theater companies all the time. Not for something like these dresses, mind you, but rather for clothing from a later period. We're getting a lot of calls right now about items from the 1950s and 1960s."
  "Have you ever seen clothes like this in your store?"
  "A few times. But these dresses are costume dresses, not vintage."
  Jessica realized she'd been looking in the wrong place. She should have been focusing on the theatrical production. She'd start now.
  "I appreciate the call," Jessica said.
  "Everything is fine," the woman replied.
  - Say thank you to Samantha for me.
  "Well, my granddaughter isn't here. When I arrived, the store was locked, and my great-grandson was in his crib in the office."
  "Everything is fine?"
  "I'm sure she did," she said. "She probably ran off to the bank or something."
  Jessica didn't think Samantha was the type to just up and leave her son alone. Then again, she didn't even know the young woman. "Thanks again for calling," she said. "If you're thinking of anything else, please give us a call."
  "I will."
  Jessica thought about the date. The late 1800s. What was the reason? Was the killer obsessed with that time period? She took notes. She looked up important dates and events in Philadelphia at the time. Perhaps their psycho was fixated on some incident that happened on the river during that era.
  
  
  
  BYRNE spent the rest of the day running background checks on anyone even remotely connected to Stiletto-bartenders, parking attendants, night cleaners, delivery men. While they weren't exactly the most glamorous of people, none of them had any records that would indicate the type of violence unleashed by the river murders.
  He walked over to Jessica's desk and sat down.
  "Guess who was empty?" Byrne asked.
  "WHO?"
  "Alasdair Blackburn," Byrne said. "Unlike his father, he doesn't have a record. And the odd thing is, he was born here. Chester County."
  This surprised Jessica a little. "He definitely gives the impression of being from the old country. 'Yes' and all that."
  "That's exactly my point of view."
  "What do you want to do?" she asked.
  "I think we should give him a ride home. See if we can get him out of his element.
  "Let's go." Before Jessica could grab her coat, her phone rang. She answered. It was Ingrid Fanning again.
  "Yes, ma"am," Jessica said. "Did you remember anything else?"
  Ingrid Fanning didn't remember anything like it. This was something entirely different. Jessica listened for a few moments, a little incredulously, and then said, "We'll be there in ten minutes." She hung up.
  "How are you?" Byrne asked.
  Jessica took a moment. She needed it to process what she had just heard. "That was Ingrid Fanning," she said. She recounted to Byrne her previous conversation with the woman.
  - Does she have anything for us?
  "I'm not sure," Jessica said. "She seems to think someone has her granddaughter."
  "What do you mean?" Byrne asked, now on his feet. "Who has a granddaughter?"
  Jessica took a moment longer to answer. There was hardly any time. "Someone named Detective Byrne."
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  Ingrid Fanning was a robust seventy-year-old man-lean, wiry, energetic, and dangerous in her youth. Her cloud of gray hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a long blue wool skirt and a cream cashmere turtleneck. The store was empty. Jessica noticed the music had changed to Celtic. She also noticed that Ingrid Fanning's hands were shaking.
  Jessica, Byrne, and Ingrid stood behind the counter. Underneath sat an old Panasonic VHS tape player and a small black-and-white monitor.
  "After I called you the first time, I started sitting up a little and noticed the videotape had stopped," Ingrid said. "It's an old machine. It always does that. I rewound it a little and accidentally pressed PLAY instead of RECORD. I saw it."
  Ingrid turned on the tape. When the high-angle image appeared on the screen, it showed an empty hallway leading to the back of the store. Unlike most surveillance systems, this wasn't anything sophisticated, just a regular VHS tape player set to SLP. This probably provided six hours of real-time coverage. There was also audio. The view of the empty hallway was accented by the faint sounds of cars driving down South Street, the occasional honk of a car-the same music Jessica remembered listening to during her visit.
  About a minute later, a figure walked down the hallway, briefly peering into the doorway on the right. Jessica immediately recognized the woman as Samantha Fanning.
  "That's my granddaughter," Ingrid said, her voice shaking. "Jamie was in the room to the right."
  Byrne looked at Jessica and shrugged. Jamie?
  Jessica pointed to the baby in the crib behind the counter. The baby was fine, fast asleep. Byrne nodded.
  "She came back out to smoke a cigarette," Ingrid continued. She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. "Whatever happened, it's not good," Jessica thought. "She told me she left, but I knew."
  In the recording, Samantha continued down the hallway to the door at the end. She opened it, and a flood of gray daylight poured into the hallway. She closed it behind her. The hallway remained empty and silent. The door remained closed for about forty-five seconds or so. Then it opened about a foot. Samantha peered inside, listening. She closed the door again.
  The image remained still for another thirty seconds. Then the camera shook slightly and shifted its position, as if someone had tilted the lens downward. Now they could only see the lower half of the door and the last few feet of the hallway. A few seconds later, they heard footsteps and saw a figure. It seemed to be a man, but it was impossible to tell. The view showed the back of a dark coat below the waist. They saw him reach into his pocket and pull out a light-colored rope.
  An icy hand grabbed Jessica's heart.
  Was this their killer?
  The man put the rope back in his coat pocket. A few moments later, the door swung wide. Samantha was visiting her son again. She was one step below the store, visible only from the neck down. She seemed startled to see someone standing there. She said something that was distorted on the tape. The man responded.
  "Could you play that again?" Jessica asked.
  Ingrid Fanning She pressed REWIND, STOP, PLAY. Byrne turned up the volume on the monitor. The door opened again in the recording. A few moments later, the man said, "My name is Detective Byrne."
  Jessica saw Kevin Byrne's fists clench and his jaw set.
  Soon after, the man stepped through the doorway and closed it behind him. Twenty or thirty seconds of excruciating silence. Only the sound of passing traffic and the blaring music.
  Then they heard a scream.
  Jessica and Byrne looked at Ingrid Fanning. "Is there anything else on the tape?" Jessica asked.
  Ingrid shook her head and wiped her eyes. "They never came back."
  Jessica and Byrne walked down the hallway. Jessica glanced at the camera. It was still pointed downward. They opened the door and walked through. Behind the store was a small area, about eight by ten feet, enclosed at the back by a wooden fence. The fence had a gate that opened onto an alley that cut through the buildings. Byrne asked the officers to begin searching the area. They dusted the camera and the door, but neither detective believed they would find fingerprints belonging to anyone other than a TrueSew employee.
  Jessica tried to mentally construct a scenario in which Samantha wasn't drawn into this madness. She couldn't.
  The killer entered the store, possibly looking for a Victorian dress.
  The killer knew the name of the detective who was pursuing him.
  And now he had Samantha Fanning.
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  Anne Lisbeth sits in the boat in her dark blue dress. She has stopped struggling with the ropes.
  The time has come.
  Moon pushes the boat through the tunnel leading to the main canal-Ø STTUNNELEN, as his grandmother called it. He runs out of the boathouse, past Elfin Hill, past the Old Church Bell, and all the way to the school building. He loves watching the boats.
  Soon he sees Anna Lisbeth's boat sailing past the Tinderbox and then under the Great Belt Bridge. He remembers the days when boats passed by all day long-yellow, red, green, and blue.
  The Yeti's house is empty now.
  It will soon be occupied.
  Moon stands with a rope in his hands. He waits at the end of the last canal, near the small schoolhouse, looking out over the village. There's so much to do, so much repair work. He wishes his grandfather were there. He remembers those cold mornings, the smell of an old wooden toolbox, the damp sawdust, the way his grandfather hummed, "I Danmark er jeg fodt," the wonderful aroma of his pipe.
  Anne Lisbeth will now take her place on the river, and they will all come. Soon. But not before the last two stories.
  First, Moon will bring the Yeti.
  Then he will meet his princess.
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  The crime scene team lifted fingerprints from the third victim at the scene and began processing them urgently. The tiny woman found in the Southwest had not yet been identified. Josh Bontrager was working on a missing persons case. Tony Park walked around the lab with a plastic lily.
  The woman also had the same "moon" pattern on her stomach. DNA tests on the semen and blood found in the first two victims concluded that the samples were identical. This time, no one expected a different result. Nevertheless, the case progressed at an accelerated pace.
  A pair of technicians from the forensic lab's documentation department were now working on the case solely to determine the origin of the moon drawing.
  The FBI's Philadelphia office was contacted about Samantha Fanning's kidnapping. They were analyzing the footage and processing the scene. At this point, the case was out of the NPD's control. Everyone expected it to turn into a murder. As always, everyone hoped they were wrong.
  "Where are we, in fairy tale terms?" Buchanan asked. It was just after six o'clock. Everyone was exhausted, hungry, angry. Life had been put on hold, plans cancelled. Some kind of holiday season. They were awaiting the preliminary medical examiner's report. Jessica and Byrne were among a handful of detectives in the duty room. "Working on it," Jessica said.
  "You might want to look into that," Buchanan said.
  He handed Jessica a section of a page from that morning's Inquirer. It was a short article about a man named Trevor Bridgewood. The article said Bridgewood was a traveling storyteller and troubadour. Whatever that was.
  It seemed Buchanan had given them more than just a suggestion. He'd found a lead, and they would follow it.
  "We're working on it, Sergeant," Byrne said.
  
  
  
  They met in a room at the Sofitel Hotel on Seventeenth Street. That evening, Trevor Bridgewood was reading and signing books at Joseph Fox's Bookshop, an independent bookstore on Sansom Street.
  "There must be money in a fairytale business," Jessica thought. The Sofitel was far from cheap.
  Trevor Bridgewood was in his early thirties, slim, graceful, and distinguished. He had a sharp nose, a receding hairline, and a theatrical manner.
  "This is all quite new to me," he said. "I might add that it's more than a little unnerving."
  "We're just looking for some information," Jessica said. "We appreciate you meeting with us on such short notice."
  "I hope I can help."
  "May I ask what exactly you do?" Jessica asked.
  "I'm a storyteller," Bridgewood replied. "I spend nine or ten months a year on the road. I perform all over the world, in the US, the UK, Australia, Canada. English is spoken everywhere."
  "In front of a live audience?"
  "For the most part. But I also appear on radio and television."
  - And your main interest is fairy tales?
  "Fairy tales, folk tales, fables."
  "What can you tell us about them?" Byrne asked.
  Bridgewood stood up and walked to the window, moving like a dancer. "There's a lot to learn," he said. "It's an ancient form of storytelling, encompassing many different styles and traditions."
  "Then I guess it's just a primer," Byrne said.
  - If you like, we can start with Cupid and Psyche, written around 150 AD.
  "Maybe something more recent," Byrne said.
  "Of course." Bridgewood smiled. "There are many touchstones between Apuleius and Edward Scissorhands."
  "Like what?" Byrne asked.
  "Where to begin? Well, Charles Perrault's 'Stories or Tales of the Past' were important. That collection included 'Cinderella,' 'Sleeping Beauty,' 'Little Red Riding Hood,' and others."
  "When was this?" Jessica asked.
  "It was 1697 or so," Bridgewood said. "Then, of course, in the early 1800s, the Brothers Grimm published two volumes of a collection of stories called Kinder und Hausmärchen . Of course, those are some of the most famous fairy tales: 'The Pied Piper of Hamelin,' 'Thumb,' 'Rapunzel,' 'Rumpelstiltskin.'"
  Jessica did her best to write things down. She was sorely lacking in German and French.
  "After this, Hans Christian Andersen published his Fairy Tales Told for Children in 1835. Ten years later, two men named Asbjørnsen and Moe published a collection called Norwegian Folk Tales, from which we read "The Three Rude Billy Goats" and others.
  "Probably, as we approach the twentieth century, there aren't really any major new works or new collections. It's mostly retellings of the classics, moving on to Humperdinck's Hansel and Gretel. Then, in 1937, Disney released Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and the form was revived and has flourished ever since."
  "Thrive?" Byrne asked. "Thrive how?"
  "Ballet, theater, television, film. Even the movie Shrek has form. And, to some extent, The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien himself published "On Fairy Stories," an essay on the subject that he expanded on a lecture he gave in 1939. It's still widely read and discussed in college-level fairy tale studies."
  Byrne looked at Jessica and back at Bridgewood. "Are there any college courses on this?" she asked.
  "Oh, yes." Bridgewood smiled a little sadly. He crossed the room and sat down at the table. "You probably think fairy tales are just nice little moralizing stories for children."
  "I think so," Byrne said.
  "Some. Many are much darker. In fact, Bruno Bettelheim's book, The Uses of Magic, explored the psychology of fairy tales and children. The book won the National Book Award.
  "There are, of course, many other important figures. You asked for an overview, and I'm giving it to you."
  "If you could summarize what they all have in common, that might make our job easier," Byrne said. "What do they have in common?"
  "At its core, a fairy tale is a story that emerges from myth and legend. Written fairy tales likely grew out of the oral folk tale tradition. They typically involve the mysterious or supernatural; they are not tied to any specific moment in history. Hence the phrase 'once upon a time.'"
  "Are they attached to any religion?" Byrne asked.
  "Not usually," Bridgewood said. "However, they can be quite spiritual. They usually involve a humble hero, a dangerous adventure, or a dastardly villain. In fairy tales, everyone is usually good or everyone is bad. In many cases, the conflict is resolved, to some degree, by magic. But that's terribly broad. Terribly broad."
  Bridgewood's voice now sounded apologetic, like that of a man who had deceived an entire field of academic research.
  "I don't want you to get the impression that all fairy tales are the same," he added. "Nothing could be further from the truth."
  "Can you think of any specific stories or collections that feature the Moon?" Jessica asked.
  Bridgewood thought for a moment. "A rather long story comes to mind, which is actually a series of very short sketches. It's about a young artist and the moon."
  Jessica flashed at the "paintings" found on their victims. "What happens in the stories?" she asked.
  "You see, this artist is very lonely." Bridgewood suddenly perked up. He seemed to have entered theatrical mode: his posture improved, his hand gestures, his tone animated. "He lives in a small town and has no friends. One night, he's sitting by the window, and the moon comes to him. They talk for a while. Soon, the moon makes a promise to return every night and tell the artist what he's witnessed all over the world. Thus, the artist, without leaving home, could imagine these scenes, convey them on canvas, and perhaps become famous. Or maybe just make a few friends. It's a wonderful story."
  "You say the moon comes to him every night?" Jessica asked.
  "Yes."
  "How long?"
  "The moon comes thirty-two times."
  "Thirty-two times," Jessica thought. "And that was a Brothers Grimm fairy tale?" she asked.
  "No, it was written by Hans Christian Andersen. The story is called 'What the Moon Saw.'"
  "When did Hans Christian Andersen live?" she asked.
  "From 1805 to 1875," Bridgewood said.
  "I'd date the originals to the second half of the nineteenth century," Ingrid Fanning said of the dresses. "Towards the end. Perhaps 1875 or so."
  Bridgewood reached into the suitcase on the table. He pulled out a leather-bound book. "This is by no means a complete collection of Andersen's works, and despite its weathered appearance, it's of no particular value. You can borrow it." He inserted a card into the book. "Return it to this address when you're finished. Take as much as you like."
  "That would be helpful," Jessica said. "We'll get it back to you as soon as possible."
  - Now, if you'll excuse me.
  Jessica and Byrne stood up and put on their coats.
  "I'm sorry I had to rush," Bridgewood said. "I have a performance in twenty minutes. I can't keep the little wizards and princesses waiting."
  "Of course," Byrne said. "We thank you for your time."
  At this, Bridgewood crossed the room, reached into the closet, and pulled out a very old-looking black tuxedo. He hung it on the back of the door.
  Byrne asked, "Can you think of anything else that might help us?"
  "Just this: to understand magic, you have to believe." Bridgewood put on an old tuxedo. Suddenly, he looked like a man from the late nineteenth century-slender, aristocratic, and a little quirky. Trevor Bridgewood turned and winked. "At least a little."
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  It was all in Trevor Bridgewood's book. And the knowledge was terrifying.
  "The Red Shoes" is a fable about a girl named Karen, a dancer whose legs were amputated.
  "The Nightingale" told the story of a bird that captivated the emperor with its singing.
  Thumbelina was about a tiny woman who lived on a water lily.
  Detectives Kevin Byrne and Jessica Balzano, along with four other detectives, stood speechless in the suddenly silent duty room, staring at the pen-and-ink illustrations from a children's book, the realization of what they had just encountered flashing through their minds. The anger in the air was palpable. The sense of disappointment was even stronger.
  Someone was killing Philadelphia residents in a series of murders based on the stories of Hans Christian Andersen. As far as they knew, the killer had struck three times, and now there was a good chance he had caught Samantha Fanning. What fable could it be? Where on the river was he planning to place her? Would they be able to find her in time?
  All these questions paled in light of another terrible fact, contained within the covers of the book they had borrowed from Trevor Bridgewood.
  Hans Christian Andersen wrote about two hundred stories.
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  Details of the strangulation of three victims found on the banks of the Schuylkill River leaked online, and newspapers across the city, region, and state carried the story of the Philadelphia maniacal killer. The headlines, as expected, were ominous.
  A Fairytale Killer in Philadelphia?
  The legendary killer?
  Who is Shaykiller?
  "Hansel and the Worthy?" trumpeted Record, a tabloid of the lowest order.
  Philadelphia's usually exhausted media sprang into action. Film crews were stationed along the Schuylkill River, taking photos from bridges and banks. A news helicopter circled the river's length, capturing footage. Bookstores and libraries couldn't stock books about Hans Christian Andersen, the Brothers Grimm, or Mother Goose. For those seeking sensational news, it was close enough.
  Every few minutes, the department received calls about ogres, monsters, and trolls stalking children throughout the city. One woman called to report seeing a man in a wolf costume in Fairmount Park. A sector car followed him and confirmed the sighting. The man was currently being held in the Roundhouse drunk tank.
  By the morning of December 30, a total of five detectives and six operatives were involved in the investigation of the crimes.
  Samantha Fanning has not yet been found.
  There were no suspects.
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  On December 30th, just after 3:00 a.m., Ike Buchanan left his office and caught Jessica's attention. She was contacting rope suppliers, trying to find retailers that sold a certain brand of swimlane rope. Traces of the rope were found on the third victim. The bad news was that in the age of online shopping, you could buy almost anything without any personal contact. The good news was that online purchases usually required a credit card or PayPal. This was Jessica's next investigation.
  Nick Palladino and Tony Park went to Norristown to interview people at the Central Theater, looking for anyone who might be connected to Tara Grendel. Kevin Byrne and Josh Bontrager canvassed the area near where the third victim was found.
  "Can I see you for a minute?" Buchanan asked.
  Jessica welcomed the break. She entered his office. Buchanan gestured for her to close the door. She did so.
  - What happened, boss?
  "I'm taking you off the grid. Just for a few days."
  This statement took her by surprise, to say the least. No, it was more like a punch in the gut. It was almost as if he'd told her she'd been fired. Of course, he hadn't, but she'd never been pulled away from an investigation before. She didn't like it. She didn't know a cop who knew.
  "Why?"
  "Because I'm assigning Eric to this gangster operation. He has the contacts, it's his old bandage, and he speaks the language."
  The day before, a triple homicide had occurred: a Latino couple and their ten-year-old son were executed while they slept in their beds. The theory was that it was gang retaliation, and Eric Chavez, before joining the homicide squad, had worked in gang enforcement.
  - So, you want me to...
  "Take the Walt Brigham case," Buchanan said. "You'll be Nikki's partner."
  Jessica felt a strange mix of emotions. She'd worked on a detail with Nikki and was looking forward to working with her again, but Kevin Byrne was her partner, and they had a connection that transcended gender, age, and time spent working together.
  Buchanan held out the notebook. Jessica took it from him. "These are Eric's notes on the case. They should help you get to the bottom of it. He said to call him if you have any questions."
  "Thank you, Sergeant," Jessica said. "Does Kevin know?"
  - I just spoke to him.
  Jessica wondered why her cell phone hadn't rung yet. "Is he cooperating?" As soon as she said it, she identified the feeling that was overwhelming her: jealousy. If Byrne found another partner, even temporarily, she would feel like she was being cheated on.
  What, are you in high school, Jess? she thought. He's not your boyfriend, he's your partner. Pull yourself together.
  "Kevin, Josh, Tony, and Nick will be working on cases. We're stretched to the limit here."
  It was true. From a peak of 7,000 officers three years earlier, the PPD's strength had fallen to 6,400, its lowest level since the mid-1990s. And things have gotten worse. Around 600 officers are currently listed as injured and absent from work or on limited duty. Plainclothes teams in each district have been reactivated to uniformed patrol, boosting police authority in some areas. Recently, the commissioner announced the formation of the Mobile Tactical Intervention Strategic Intervention Unit-an elite crime-fighting team of forty-six officers who will patrol the city's most dangerous neighborhoods. Over the past three months, all of Roundhouse's secondary officers have been sent back to the streets. These were bad times for Philadelphia police, and sometimes detective assignments and their focus changed at a moment's notice.
  "How much?" Jessica asked.
  "Just for a few days."
  "I'm on the phone, boss."
  "I understand. If you have a few minutes to spare or something's broken, go ahead. But right now, our plate is full. And we just don't have any warm bodies. Work with Nikki.
  Jessica understood the need to solve the police officer's murder. If criminals were becoming bolder and bolder these days (and there was little debate about that), they would go off the rails if they thought they could execute a police officer on the street and not feel the heat.
  "Hey, partner." Jessica turned around. It was Nikki Malone. She really liked Nikki, but that sounded... funny. No. That sounded wrong. But like any other job, you go where your boss directs you, and right now she was partnered with the only female homicide detective in Philadelphia.
  "Hello." That was all Jessica could muster. She was sure Nikki had read it.
  "Ready to roll?" Nikki asked.
  "Let's do this."
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  64
  Jessica and Nikki were driving down Eighth Street. It had started raining again. Byrne still hadn't called.
  "Get me up to speed," Jessica said, a little shaken. She was used to juggling several cases at once-the truth was, most homicide detectives juggled three or four at a time-but she still found it a little difficult to shift gears, to adopt the mindset of a new employee. A criminal. And a new partner. Earlier that day, she'd been thinking about the psychopath who dumped bodies on the riverbank. Her mind was filled with the titles of Hans Christian Andersen stories: "The Little Mermaid," "The Princess and the Pea," "The Ugly Duckling," and she wondered which, if any, might be next. Now she was chasing a cop killer.
  "Well, I think one thing is clear," Nikki said. "Walt Brigham wasn't the victim of some botched robbery. You don't douse someone in gasoline and set them on fire to steal their wallet."
  - So you think it was the one Walt Brigham put away?
  "I think it's a good bet. We've been tracking his arrests and convictions for the past fifteen years. Unfortunately, there are no arsonists in the group."
  "Has anyone been released from prison recently?"
  "Not in the last six months. And I don't see whoever did this waiting that long to get to the guy, in that he hid them, right?
  No, Jessica thought. There was a high level of passion in what they did to Walt Brigham-no matter how insane it was. "What about anyone involved in his last case?" she asked.
  "I doubt it. His last official case was a domestic one. His wife hit her husband with a crowbar. He's dead, she's in jail."
  Jessica knew what this meant. With no eyewitnesses to Walt Brigham's murder and a shortage of forensic experts, they had to start from the beginning-everyone Walt Brigham had arrested, convicted, and even outraged, starting with his last case and working backward. This narrowed the pool of suspects to several thousand.
  - So, are we heading to Records?
  "I have a few more ideas before we bury the paperwork," Nikki said.
  "Hit me."
  "I spoke with Walt Brigham's widow. She said Walt had a storage locker. If it were something personal-like, something not directly related to work-there might have been something in there."
  "Anything to keep my face out of the filing cabinet," Jessica said. "How do we get in?"
  Nikki picked up the single key on the ring and smiled. "I stopped by Marjorie Brigham's house this morning."
  
  
  
  The EASY MAX on Mifflin Street was a large, two-story, U-shaped building housing over a hundred storage units of varying sizes. Some were heated, most were not. Unfortunately, Walt Brigham didn't jump into any of the heated units. It was like entering a meat locker.
  The room was about eight by ten feet, stacked almost to the ceiling with cardboard boxes. The good news was that Walt Brigham was an organized man. All the boxes were the same type and size-the kind you'd find in office supply stores-and most were labeled and dated.
  They started at the back. There were three boxes dedicated solely to Christmas and greeting cards. Many of the cards were from Walt's children, and as Jessica looked through them, she saw the years of their lives pass, their grammar and handwriting improving as they grew older. Their teenage years were easily identified by the simple signatures of their names, rather than the vibrant sentiments of childhood, as the shiny handmade cards gave way to Hallmark cards. Another box contained only maps and travel brochures. Apparently, Walt and Marjorie Brigham spent their summers camping in Wisconsin, Florida, Ohio, and Kentucky.
  At the bottom of the box lay an old piece of yellowed notebook paper. It contained a list of a dozen female names-among them Melissa, Arlene, Rita, Elizabeth, Cynthia. All of them had been crossed out except the last one. The last name on the list was Roberta. Walt Brigham's eldest daughter was named Roberta. Jessica realized what she was holding in her hand. It was a list of possible names for the young couple's first child. She carefully returned it to the box.
  While Nikki sifted through several boxes of letters and household papers, Jessica rummaged through a box of photographs. Weddings, birthdays, graduations, police events. As always, whenever you had to access a victim's personal belongings, you wanted to obtain as much information as possible while maintaining some degree of privacy.
  More photographs and mementos emerged from the new boxes, meticulously dated and cataloged. A strikingly youthful Walt Brigham at the police academy; a handsome Walt Brigham on his wedding day, dressed in a rather striking navy blue tuxedo. Photos of Walt in uniform, Walt with his children in Fairmount Park; Walt and Marjorie Brigham squinting into the camera somewhere on the beach, perhaps in Wildwood, their faces dark pink, a precursor to the painful sunburn they would experience that night.
  What did she learn from all this? What she already suspected. Walt Brigham wasn't a renegade cop. He was a family man who collected and cherished the touchstones of his life. Neither Jessica nor Nikki had yet found anything to indicate why someone had so brutally taken his life.
  They continued to look through the memory boxes that had disturbed the forest of the dead.
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  The third victim found on the banks of the Schuylkill River was Lizette Simon. She was forty-one years old, lived with her husband in Upper Darby, and had no children. She worked at the Philadelphia County Mental Hospital in North Philadelphia.
  Lisette Simon stood just under forty-eight inches tall. Her husband, Ruben, was an attorney at a law firm in the northeast. They'll be questioning him this afternoon.
  Nick Palladino and Tony Park returned from Norristown. No one at the Central Theatre noticed anyone paying particular attention to Tara Grendel.
  Despite the distribution and publication of her photograph in all local and national media outlets, both broadcast and print, there was still no trace of Samantha Fanning.
  
  
  
  The BOARD was covered with photographs, notes, notes-a mosaic of disparate clues and dead ends.
  Byrne stood before him, as frustrated as he was impatient.
  He needed a partner.
  They all knew the Brigham case would become politically charged. The department needed action on this case, and it needed it now. The city of Philadelphia couldn't risk putting its top police officers at risk.
  There was no denying that Jessica was one of the best detectives in the unit. Byrne didn't know Nikki Malone very well, but she had a good reputation and enormous street cred, which came from North's detectives.
  Two women. In a department as politically sensitive as the PPD, it made sense to have two female detectives working on a case in such a high-profile location.
  Besides, Byrne thought, it might distract the media from the fact that there was a maniacal killer on the streets.
  
  
  
  There was now complete agreement that the pathology of river murders was rooted in the stories of Hans Christian Andersen. But how were the victims selected?
  Chronologically, the first victim was Lisette Simon. She was abandoned on the banks of the Schuylkill River in the southwest.
  The second victim was Christina Yakos, who was placed on the banks of the Schuylkill River in Manayunk. Her amputated legs were found on the Strawberry Mansion Bridge, which crosses the river.
  Victim number three was Tara Grendel, kidnapped from a Center City garage, murdered, and then abandoned on the banks of the Schuylkill River in Shawmont.
  The killer led them upriver?
  Byrne marked three crime scenes on the map. Between the crime scene in the southwest and the crime scene in Manayunk was a long stretch of river-two locations they believed represented, chronologically, the first two murders.
  "Why is there such a long stretch of river between the dumps?" Bontrager asked, reading Byrne's thoughts.
  Byrne ran his hand along the winding riverbed. "Well, we can't be sure there isn't a body around here somewhere. But I'm guessing there aren't many places to stop and do what he had to do without being noticed. No one really looks under the Platte Bridge. The Flat Rock Road scene is isolated from the highway and the road. The Chaumont pumping station is completely isolated."
  It was true. As the river passed through the city, its banks were visible from many vantage points, especially on Kelly Drive. Runners, rowers, and cyclists frequented this stretch almost year-round. There were places to stop, but the road was rarely deserted. There was always traffic.
  "So he sought solitude," Bontrager said.
  "Exactly," Byrne said. "And there's plenty of time."
  Bontrager sat down at his computer and accessed Google Maps. The further the river moved from the city, the more secluded its banks became.
  Byrne studied the satellite map. If the killer was leading them upriver, the question remained: where? The distance between the Chaumont pumping station and the headwaters of the Schuylkill River must have been nearly a hundred miles. There were plenty of places to hide a body and remain undetected.
  And how did he choose his victims? Tara was an actress. Christina was a dancer. There was a connection. They were both artists. Animators. But the connection ended with Lisette. Lisette was a mental health professional.
  Age?
  Tara was twenty-eight. Christina was twenty-four. Lisette was forty-one. Too big a range.
  Thumbelina. Red Shoes. Nightingale.
  Nothing connected the women together. At least, nothing at first glance. Except fables.
  The scant information about Samantha Fanning led them in no obvious direction. She was nineteen years old, unmarried, and had a six-month-old son named Jamie. The boy's father was a loser named Joel Radnor. His rap sheet was short-a few drug charges, one simple assault, and nothing more. He had been in Los Angeles for the past month.
  "What if our guy is some kind of stage Johnny?" Bontrager asked.
  It occurred to Byrne, even though he knew the theatrical angle was unlikely. These victims weren't chosen because they knew each other. They weren't chosen because they frequented the same clinic, church, or social club. They were chosen because they fit the killer's horribly twisted story. They matched the body type, the face, the ideal.
  "Do we know if Lisette Simon was involved in any theatre?" Byrne asked.
  Bontrager rose to his feet. "I'll find out." He left the duty room as Tony Park entered with a stack of computer printouts in his hand.
  "These are all the people Lisette Simon has worked with in the psychiatric clinic for the last six months," Park said.
  "How many names are there?" Byrne asked.
  "Four hundred and sixty-six."
  "Jesus Christ."
  - He is the only one who is not there.
  "Let's see if we can start by narrowing that number down to men between eighteen and fifty."
  "You got it."
  An hour later, the list was narrowed down to ninety-seven names. They began the tedious task of conducting various checks-PDCH, PCIC, NCIC-on each one.
  Josh Bontrager spoke with Reuben Simon. Reuben's late wife, Lisette, never had any connection to the theater.
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  The temperature dropped a few more degrees, making the cabinet feel even more like a refrigerator. Jessica's fingers turned blue. As awkward as she was handling paper, she put on leather gloves.
  The last box she'd looked at had water damage. It contained a single accordion-style folder. Inside were damp photocopies of files taken from murder case books covering the last twelve years or so. Jessica opened the folder to the very last section.
  Inside were two eight-by-ten-inch black-and-white photographs, both of the same stone building, one taken from several hundred feet away, the other much closer. The photographs were curled due to water damage, and the words "DUPLICATES" were stamped in the upper right corner. These were not official PPD photographs. The structure in the photograph appeared to be a farmhouse; in the background, it was visible that it was perched on a gentle hill, with a row of snow-covered trees visible in the background.
  "Have you seen any other photos of this house?" Jessica asked.
  Nikki looked at the photos carefully. "No. I didn't see that.
  Jessica turned over one of the photographs. On the back was a series of five numbers, the last two of which were obscured by water. The first three digits turned out to be 195. Perhaps a zip code? "Do you know where zip code 195 is?" she asked.
  "195," Nikki said. "Maybe in Berks County?"
  "That's what I was thinking."
  - Where in Berks?
  "No idea."
  Nikki's pager rang. She unpinned it and read the message. "It's the boss," she said. "Do you have your phone with you?"
  - You don"t have a phone?
  "Don't ask," Nikki said. "I've lost three in the last six months. They'll start docking me."
  "I have pagers," Jessica said.
  "We'll make a good team."
  Jessica handed Nikki her cell phone. Nikki came out of her locker to make a call.
  Jessica glanced at one of the photographs, a close-up of the farmhouse. She turned it over. On the back were three letters and nothing else.
  ADC.
  What does that mean? Jessica thought. Child Support? American Dental Board? Art Directors Club?
  Sometimes Jessica didn't like the way police officers thought. She'd been guilty of it herself in the past, with the abbreviated notes you'd write to yourself in case files, with the intention of fleshing them out later. Detectives' notebooks were always used as evidence, and the thought that a case might get stuck on something you'd jotted down in a rush to run a red light, balancing a cheeseburger and a cup of coffee in your other hand, was always a problem.
  But when Walt Brigham made those notes, he had no idea that one day another detective would read them and try to make sense of them-the detective investigating his murder.
  Jessica turned the first photo over again. Just those five numbers. After 195, there was something like 72 or 78. Maybe 18.
  Was the farmhouse connected to Walt's murder? It was dated just days before his death.
  "Well, Walt, thank you," Jessica thought. "You go and kill yourself, and the detectives have to solve a Sudoku puzzle."
  195.
  ADC.
  Nikki stepped back and handed Jessica the phone.
  "It was a lab," she said. "We raided Walt's car."
  "Everything is fine, from a forensic point of view," Jessica thought.
  "But I was told to tell you that the lab ran further tests on the blood found in your blood," Nikki added.
  "What about this?"
  "They said the blood was old."
  "Old?" Jessica asked. "What do you mean, old?"
  - The old one, like the one to whom it belonged, is probably long dead.
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  67
  Roland was wrestling with the devil. And while this was a normal occurrence for a believer like himself, today the devil had him by the head.
  He looked through all the photos at the police station, hoping to find a sign. He saw so much evil in those eyes, so many blackened souls. They all told him about their deeds. No one spoke of Charlotte.
  But it couldn't be a coincidence. Charlotte was found on the banks of the Wissahickon, looking like a doll from a fairy tale.
  And now the river murders.
  Roland knew the police would eventually catch up with Charles and him. All these years, he had been blessed with his cunning, righteous heart, and endurance.
  He would receive a sign. He was sure of it.
  The good Lord knew that time was of the essence.
  
  
  
  "I could NEVER go back there."
  Elijah Paulson told the harrowing story of how he was attacked while walking home from Reading Terminal Market.
  "Maybe one day, with God's blessing, I'll be able to do that. But not now," Elijah Paulson said. "Not for long."
  On this day, the victim's group consisted of only four members. Sadie Pierce, as always. Old Elijah Paulson. A young woman named Bess Schrantz, a waitress from North Philadelphia whose sister had been brutally attacked. And Sean. He, as he often did, sat outside the group and listened. But on this day, something seemed to be bubbling beneath the surface.
  When Elijah Paulson sat down, Roland turned to Sean. Perhaps the day had finally arrived when Sean was ready to tell his story. Silence fell over the room. Roland nodded. After about a minute of fidgeting, Sean stood and began.
  "My father left us when I was little. Growing up, it was just my mother, sister, and me. My mother worked in the mill. We didn't have much, but we made do. We had each other."
  The group members nodded. No one lived well here.
  "One summer day, we went to this little amusement park. My sister loved feeding the pigeons and squirrels. She loved the water, the trees. She was a sweetheart in that way."
  As he listened, Roland couldn't bring himself to look at Charles.
  "She left that day, and we couldn't find her," Sean continued. "We looked everywhere. Then it got dark. Later that night, they found her in the woods. She... she was killed.
  A murmur swept through the room. Words of sympathy, of grief. Roland found his hands shaking. Sean's story was almost his own.
  "When did this happen, Brother Sean?" Roland asked.
  After taking a moment to compose himself, Sean said, "That was in 1995."
  
  
  
  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the meeting concluded with prayer and blessing. The believers left.
  "Bless you," Roland said to everyone standing at the door. "See you on Sunday." Sean was the last one to pass. "Do you have a few minutes, Brother Sean?"
  - Of course, pastor.
  Roland closed the door and stood before the young man. After a few long moments, he asked, "Do you know how important this was for you?"
  Sean nodded. It was clear his emotions were just beneath the surface. Roland pulled Sean into a hug. Sean sobbed softly. When the tears dried, they broke the embrace. Charles crossed the room, handed Sean a box of tissues, and left.
  "Can you tell me more about what happened?" Roland asked.
  Sean bowed his head for a moment. He raised his head, glanced around the room, and leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. "We always knew who did it, but they could never find any evidence. The police, I mean.
  "I understand."
  "Well, the sheriff's office investigated. They said they never found enough evidence to arrest anyone."
  - Where exactly are you from?
  "It was near a small village called Odense."
  "Odense?" Roland asked. "What city in Denmark?"
  Sean shrugged.
  "Is that man still living there?" Roland asked. "The man you suspected?"
  "Oh yeah," Sean said. "I can give you the address. Or I can even show you if you want.
  "That would be good," Roland said.
  Sean looked at his watch. "I have to work today," he said. "But I can go tomorrow."
  Roland looked at Charles. Charles left the room. "That will be wonderful."
  Roland walked Sean to the door, putting his arm around the young man's shoulders.
  "Was it right for me to tell you, Pastor?" Sean asked.
  "Oh, God, yes," Roland said, opening the door. "It was right." He pulled the young man into another deep embrace. He found Sean shaking. "I'll take care of everything."
  "Okay," Sean said. "Tomorrow then?"
  "Yes," Roland replied. "Tomorrow."
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  In his dream, they have no faces. In his dream, they stand before him, statues, statues, motionless. In his dream, he cannot see their eyes, yet he knows they are looking at him, accusing him, demanding justice. Their silhouettes, one by one, fall into the mist, a grim, unwavering army of the dead.
  He knows their names. He remembers the position of their bodies. He remembers their scents, the way their flesh felt under his touch, how their waxy skin remained unresponsive after death.
  But he can't see their faces.
  And yet their names echo in his dream-monuments: Lisette Simon, Christina Jakos, Tara Grendel.
  He hears a woman crying softly. It's Samantha Fanning, and he can't help her. He sees her walking down the hallway. He follows, but with every step the hallway grows longer, longer, darker. He opens the door at the end, but she's gone. In her place stands a man made of shadows. He draws his gun, aligns it, aims, and fires.
  Smoke.
  
  
  
  KEVIN BYRNE WOKE, his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced at his watch. It was 3:50 a.m. He looked around his bedroom. Empty. No ghosts, no apparitions, no shambling procession of corpses.
  Just the sound of water in the dream, just the realization that all of them, all the faceless dead in the world, are standing in the river.
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  On the morning of the last day of the year, the sun was bone-white. Forecasters predicted a snowstorm.
  Jessica wasn't on duty, but her mind was elsewhere. Her thoughts darted from Walt Brigham to the three women found on the riverbank to Samantha Fanning. Samantha was still missing. The department didn't have much hope that she was still alive.
  Vincent was on duty; Sophie was sent to her grandfather's house for New Year's. Jessica had the place to herself. She could do whatever she wanted.
  So why was she sitting in the kitchen, finishing her fourth cup of coffee and thinking about the dead?
  At exactly eight o'clock there was a knock on her door. It was Nikki Malone.
  "Hi," Jessica said, more than a little surprised. "Come in."
  Nikki walked inside. "Dude, it's cold."
  "Coffee?"
  "Ah, yes."
  
  
  
  They were sitting at the dining table. Nikki brought in several files.
  "There's something here you should see," Nikki said. She was pumped.
  She opened the large envelope and pulled out several photocopied pages. They were pages from Walt Brigham's notebook. Not his official detective book, but a second, personal notebook. The last entry concerned the Annemarie DiCillo case, dated two days before Walt's murder. The notes were written in Walt's now-familiar, enigmatic handwriting.
  Nikki also signed the PPD file on DiCillo's murder. Jessica reviewed it.
  Byrne told Jessica about the case, but when she saw the details, she felt sick. Two little girls at a birthday party in Fairmount Park in 1995. Annemarie DiCillo and Charlotte Waite. They walked into the woods and never came out. How many times had Jessica taken her daughter to the park? How many times had she taken her eyes off Sophie, even for a second?
  Jessica looked at the crime scene photos. The girls were found at the base of a pine tree. The close-up photos showed a makeshift nest built around them.
  There were dozens of witness statements from families who were in the park that day. No one seemed to have seen anything. The girls were there one minute, and the next, they were gone. That evening, around 7:00 PM, police were called, and a search was conducted involving two officers and K-9 dogs. The next morning, at 3:00 AM, the girls were found near the banks of Wissahickon Creek.
  Over the next few years, entries were periodically added to the file, mostly from Walt Brigham, some from his partner, John Longo. All the entries were similar. Nothing new.
  "Look." Nikki pulled out the photographs of the farmhouse and turned them over. On the back of one photo was a partial zip code. On another were the three letters ADC. Nikki pointed to the timeline in Walt Brigham's notes. Among the many abbreviations, the same letters were present: ADC.
  The adjutant was Annemarie DiCillo.
  Jessica was struck by an electric shock. The farmhouse had something to do with Annemarie's murder. And Annemarie's murder had something to do with Walt Brigham's death.
  "Walt was already close," Jessica said. "He was killed because he was getting closer to the killer."
  "Bingo".
  Jessica considered the evidence and the theory. Nikki was probably right. "What do you want to do?" she asked.
  Nikki tapped the image of the farmhouse. "I want to go to Berks County. Maybe we can find that house.
  Jessica was on her feet instantly. "I'll go with you."
  - Are you not on duty?
  Jessica laughed. "What, not on duty?"
  "It's New Year's Eve."
  "As long as I'm home by midnight and in my husband's arms, I'm fine."
  Just after 9:00 a.m., Detectives Jessica Balzano and Nicolette Malone of the Philadelphia Police Department's Homicide Unit entered the Schuylkill Expressway. They were headed to Berks County, Pennsylvania.
  They headed up the river.
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  PART FOUR
  WHAT THE MOON SAW
  
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  70
  You stand where the waters meet, at the confluence of two great rivers. The winter sun hangs low in a salty sky. You choose a path, following the smaller river north, winding among lyrical names and historic sites-Bartram's Garden, Point Breeze, Gray's Ferry. You float past grim rowhouses, past the grandeur of the city, past Boathouse Row and the Museum of Art, past train depots, East Park Reservoir, and the Strawberry Mansion Bridge. You glide northwest, whispering ancient incantations behind you-Micon, Conshohocken, Wissahickon. Now you leave the city and soar among the ghosts of Valley Forge, Phoenixville, Spring City. The Schuylkill has entered history, into the memory of the nation. And yet, it is a hidden river.
  Soon you say goodbye to the main river and enter a haven of peace, a thin, winding tributary heading southwest. The waterway narrows, widens, narrows again, turning into a twisting tangle of rocks, shale, and water willow.
  Suddenly, a handful of buildings emerges from the silted winter fog. A huge grate encloses the canal, once majestic but now abandoned and dilapidated, its bright colors stark, peeling, and dried out.
  You see an old building, once a proud boathouse. The air still smells of marine paints and varnishes. You enter the room. It's a neat place, a place of deep shadows and sharp angles.
  In this room, you'll find a workbench. An old but sharp saw lies on the bench. Nearby is a coil of blue and white rope.
  You see a dress laid out on the couch, waiting. It's a beautiful, pale strawberry-colored dress, gathered at the waist. A princess-worthy dress.
  You continue walking through the labyrinth of narrow canals. You hear the echo of laughter, the lapping of waves against small, brightly painted boats. You smell the aroma of carnival food-elephant ears, cotton candy, the delicious tang of fermented buns with fresh seeds. You hear the trill of a calliope.
  And further, further, until all is quiet again. Now this is a place of darkness. A place where graves cool the earth.
  This is where the Moon will meet you.
  He knows you'll come.
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  Scattered among the farms throughout southeastern Pennsylvania were small towns and villages, most of which had only a few businesses, a couple of churches, and a small school. Along with growing cities like Lancaster and Reading, there were also rustic villages like Oley and Exeter, hamlets virtually untouched by time.
  As they passed through Valley Forge, Jessica realized how much of her condition she hadn't yet experienced. As much as she hated to admit it, she was twenty-six years old when she actually saw the Liberty Bell up close. She imagined the same thing happening to many people living close to history.
  
  
  
  There were more than thirty postal codes. The area with the postal code prefix 195 occupied a large area in the southeastern part of the county.
  Jessica and Nikki drove along several back roads and began inquiring about the farmhouse. They discussed involving local law enforcement in the search, but such things sometimes entailed bureaucratic red tape and jurisdictional issues. They left it open, available as an option, but decided to pursue it themselves for now.
  They asked around at small shops, gas stations, and random roadside kiosks. They stopped at a church on White Bear Road. People were friendly enough, but no one seemed to recognize the farmhouse or have any idea where it was.
  At midday, the detectives drove south through the town of Robson. Several wrong turns led them onto a rough two-lane road winding through the woods. Fifteen minutes later, they came across an auto repair shop.
  The fields surrounding the plant were a necropolis of rusted car bodies-fenders and doors, long-rusted bumpers, engine blocks, aluminum truck hoods. To the right was an outbuilding, a grim corrugated barn leaning at an angle of about forty-five degrees to the ground. Everything was overgrown, neglected, covered in gray snow and dirt. If not for the lights in the windows, including a neon sign advertising Mopar, the building would have looked abandoned.
  Jessica and Nikki pulled into a parking lot filled with broken-down cars, vans, and trucks. A van was parked on blocks. Jessica wondered if the owner lived there. A sign above the garage entrance read:
  
  DOUBLE K AUTO / DOUBLE VALUE
  
  The ancient, selfless mastiff chained to the pole gave a quick chuckle as they approached the main building.
  
  
  
  JESSICA AND NICCI walked in. The three-bay garage was filled with car debris. A greasy radio on the counter played Tim McGraw. The place smelled of WD40, grape candy, and old meat.
  The doorbell rang, and a few seconds later, two men approached. They were twins, both in their early thirties. They wore identical dirty blue overalls, had tousled blond hair, and blackened hands. Their name tags read KYLE and KEITH.
  That's where the double K came from, Jessica suspected.
  "Hi," Nikki said.
  Neither man responded. Instead, their gaze slowly scanned Nikki, then Jessica. Nikki stepped forward. She showed her identification and introduced herself. "We're with the Philadelphia Police Department."
  Both men made faces, robbed, and mocked. They remained silent.
  "We need a few minutes of your time," Nikki added.
  Kyle smiled a wide yellow grin. "I have all day for you, dear."
  "That's it," Jessica thought.
  "We're looking for a house that might be located around here," Nikki said calmly. "I'd like to show you some photos."
  "Oh," said Keith. "We like pitchers. We country folks need pitchers because we can't read."
  Kyle snorted with laughter.
  "Are these dirty jugs?" he added.
  Two brothers hit each other with dirty fists.
  Nikki stared for a moment, unblinking. She took a deep breath, regrouped, and began again. "If you could just take a look at this, we'd be so grateful. Then we'll be on our way." She held up the photograph. The two men glanced at it and started staring again.
  "Yeah," Kyle said. "That's my house. We could go there now if you want."
  Nikki glanced at Jessica and then back at her brothers. Philadelphia approached. "You have a tongue, you know that?"
  Kyle laughed. "Oh, you got that right," he said. "Ask any girl in town." He ran his tongue over his lips. "Why don't you come here and find out for yourself?"
  "Maybe I will," Nikki said. "Maybe I'll send it to the next fucking county." Nikki took a step toward them. Jessica put her hand on Nikki's shoulder and squeezed it tightly.
  "Guys? Guys?" Jessica said. "We thank you for your time. We really appreciate it." She held out one of her business cards. "You saw the picture. If you think of anything, please give us a call." She placed her card on the counter.
  Kyle looked at Keith and back at Jessica. "Oh, I can think of something. Hell, I can think of a lot."
  Jessica looked at Nikki. She could almost see the steam coming out of her ears. A moment later, she felt the tension in Nikki's hand ease. They turned to leave.
  "Is your home number on the card?" one of them shouted.
  Another hyena laugh.
  Jessica and Nikki walked up to the car and slipped inside. "Remember that guy from Deliverance?" Nikki asked. "The one who played the banjo?"
  Jessica buckled up. "What about him?"
  "It looks like he had twins."
  Jessica laughed. "Where?"
  They both looked at the road. The snow was falling softly. The hills were covered with a silky white blanket.
  Nikki glanced at the map on her seat and tapped south. "I think we should go this way," she said. "And I think it's time to change tactics."
  
  
  
  Around one o'clock, they arrived at a family restaurant called Doug's Lair. Its exterior was clad in rough, dark-brown siding and had a gable roof. Four cars were parked in the lot.
  It started snowing as Jessica and Nikki approached the door.
  
  
  
  They were entering the restaurant. Two older men, a couple of locals instantly recognizable by their John Deere caps and worn down vests, were manning the far end of the bar.
  The man wiping the countertop was about fifty years old, with broad shoulders and arms just beginning to thicken around the middle. He wore a lime-green sweater vest over a crisp white black dockers' shirt.
  "Day," he said, perking up a little at the thought of two young women entering the establishment.
  "How are you?" Nikki asked.
  "Okay," he said. "What can I get for you ladies?" He was quiet and friendly.
  Nikki glanced sideways at the man, the way she always did when she thought she recognized him. Or wanted them to think she did. "You used to be at work, didn't you?" she asked.
  The man smiled. "Can you tell?"
  Nikki winked. "It's in the eyes."
  The man threw the rag under the counter and sucked in an inch of his guts. "I was a government soldier. Nineteen years.
  Nikki went into coquettish mode, as if he'd just revealed he was Ashley Wilkes. "You were a government official? What barracks?"
  "Erie," he said. "E. Lawrence Park's squad."
  "Oh, I love Erie," Nikki said. "Was that where you were born?"
  "Not far from. In Titusville.
  - When did you submit your documents?
  The man looked at the ceiling, calculating. "Well, we'll see." He paled slightly. "Wow."
  "What?"
  "I just realized that it was almost ten years ago."
  Jessica bet the man knew exactly how much time had passed, perhaps down to the hour and minute. Nikki reached out and lightly touched the back of his right hand. Jessica was surprised. It was like Maria Callas warming up before a performance of Madama Butterfly.
  "I bet you can still fit into that mold," Nikki said.
  The gut went in another inch. He was quite sweet in that big little city guy way. "Oh, I don't know about that."
  Jessica couldn't shake the thought that, whatever this guy had done for the state, he definitely wasn't a detective. If he couldn't see through this nonsense, he wouldn't have been able to find Shaquille O'Neal in kindergarten. Or maybe he just wanted to hear it. Jessica had been seeing this reaction from her father a lot lately.
  "Doug Prentiss," he said, extending his hand. Handshakes and introductions were everywhere. Nikki told him it was Philadelphia police, but not homicide.
  Of course, they knew most of the information about Doug before they even set foot in his establishment. Like lawyers, the police preferred to have a question answered before it was asked. The shiny Ford pickup truck parked closest to the door had a license plate reading "DOUG1" and a sticker on the rear window reading "GOVERNMENT OFFICERS DO IT ON THE BACK OF THE ROAD."
  "I assume you're on duty," Doug said, eager to serve. If Nikki had asked, he'd probably have painted her house. "Can I get you a cup of coffee? Freshly brewed."
  "That would be great, Doug," Nikki said. Jessica nodded.
  - There will be two coffees soon.
  Doug was on top of things. He soon returned with two steaming mugs of coffee and a bowl of individually wrapped iced cream.
  "Are you here on business?" Doug asked.
  "Yes, we are," Nikki said.
  "If there's anything I can help you with, just ask."
  "I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that, Doug," Nikki said. She sipped from her cup. "Good coffee."
  Doug puffed out his chest slightly. "What kind of job is this?"
  Nikki pulled out a nine-by-twelve-inch envelope and opened it. She pulled out a photograph of a farmhouse and placed it on the counter. "We've been trying to find this place, but we're not having much luck. We're pretty sure it's in this zip code. Does this look familiar?"
  Doug put on his bifocals and picked up the photograph. After examining it carefully, he said, "I don't recognize this place, but if it's anywhere in this area, I know someone who will."
  "Who is this?"
  "A woman named Nadine Palmer. She and her nephew own a little arts and crafts store down the road," Doug said, clearly pleased to be back in the saddle, even if only for a few minutes. "She's one hell of an artist. So is her nephew."
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  Art Arc was a small, run-down shop at the end of a block, on the small town's only main street. The display window featured an artfully arranged collage of brushes, paints, canvases, watercolor pads, and the expected landscapes of local farms, created by local artists and painted by people likely instructed or connected to them. - the owner.
  The doorbell rang, signaling Jessica and Nikki's arrival. They were greeted by the scent of potpourri, linseed oil, and the faintest hint of feline scent.
  The woman behind the counter was about sixty years old. Her hair was pulled back into a bun and held in place by an intricately carved wooden stick. If they weren't in Pennsylvania, Jessica would have placed the woman at an art fair in Nantucket. Perhaps that was the idea.
  "Day," the woman said.
  Jessica and Nikki introduced themselves as police officers. "Doug Prentiss referred us to you," she said.
  "Handsome man, that Doug Prentiss."
  "Yes, he is," Jessica said. "He said you could help us."
  "I'm doing what I can," she replied. "By the way, my name is Nadine Palmer."
  Nadine's words promised cooperation, though her body language tensed slightly when she heard the word "police." That was to be expected. Jessica pulled out a photograph of the farmhouse. "Doug said you might know where this house is."
  Before Nadine even looked at the photo, she asked, "Can I see some identification?"
  "Absolutely," Jessica said. She pulled out her badge and opened it. Nadine took it from her and examined it closely.
  "This must be an interesting job," she said, handing back the ID.
  "Sometimes," Jessica replied.
  Nadine took the photograph. "Oh, of course," she said. "I know this place."
  "Is it far from here?" Nikki asked.
  "Not too far."
  "Do you know who lives there?" Jessica asked.
  "I don't think anyone lives there now." She stepped toward the back of the store and called out, "Ben?"
  "Yeah?" came a voice from the basement.
  "Can you bring me the watercolors that are in the freezer?"
  "Small?"
  "Yes."
  "Of course," he replied.
  A few seconds later, a young man carrying a framed watercolor ascended the steps. He was about twenty-five years old, and he'd just walked into a central casting call for a small Pennsylvania town. He had a shock of wheat-colored hair that fell into his eyes. He was dressed in a dark blue cardigan, a white T-shirt, and jeans. His features were almost feminine.
  "This is my nephew, Ben Sharp," Nadine said. She then introduced Jessica and Nikki and explained who they were.
  Ben handed his aunt a matte watercolor in an elegant frame. Nadine placed it on the easel next to the counter. The painting, executed realistically, was almost an exact copy of the photograph.
  "Who drew this?" Jessica asked.
  "Sincerely yours," Nadine said. "I snuck in there one Saturday in June. A long, long time ago."
  "It's beautiful," Jessica said.
  "It's for sale." Nadine winked. The whistle of a kettle came from the back room. "If you'll excuse me for a second." She left the room.
  Ben Sharp glanced between the two customers, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and rocked back on his heels for a moment. "So, you guys are from Philadelphia?" he asked.
  "That"s right," Jessica said.
  - And you are detectives?
  "Correct again."
  "Wow."
  Jessica glanced at her watch. It was already two o'clock. If they were going to track down this house, they'd better get going. Then she noticed the display of brushes on the counter behind Ben. She pointed to it.
  "What can you tell me about these brushes?" she asked.
  "Almost everything you'd want to know," Ben said.
  "Are they all about the same?" she asked.
  "No, ma'am. First of all, they come in different levels: master's, studio, academic. Even the budget ones, although I don't really want to paint at a budget level. They're more for amateurs. I use the studio, but that's because I get a discount. I'm not as good as Aunt Nadine, but I'm good enough."
  At this point, Nadine returned to the shop with a tray on which sat a steaming pot of tea. "Do you have time for a cup of tea?" she asked.
  "I'm afraid not," Jessica said. "But thank you." She turned to Ben and showed him a photograph of the farmhouse. "Are you familiar with this house?"
  "Of course," Ben said.
  "How far is it?"
  "Maybe ten minutes or so. It's pretty hard to find. If you want, I can show you where it is."
  "That would be really helpful," Jessica said.
  Ben Sharpe beamed. Then his expression darkened. "Everything all right, Aunt Nadine?"
  "Sure," she said. "It's not like I'm turning away customers, it's New Year's Eve and all that. I guess I should close up shop and pull out the cold duck."
  Ben ran into the back room and returned to the park. "I'll come in my van, meet me at the entrance."
  While they waited, Jessica looked around the store. It had that small-town atmosphere she'd been loving lately. Maybe it was what she was looking for now that Sophie was older. She wondered what the schools were like here. She wondered if there were any schools nearby.
  Nikki nudged her, dissolving her dreams. It was time to go.
  "Thank you for your time," Jessica said to Nadine.
  "Anytime," Nadine said. She walked around the counter and walked them to the door. That's when Jessica noticed a wooden box near the radiator; inside was a cat and four or five newborn kittens.
  "Could I interest you in a kitten or two, please?" Nadine asked with an encouraging smile.
  "No, thank you," Jessica said.
  Opening the door and stepping into Currier and Ives' snowy day, Jessica glanced back at the nursing cat.
  Everyone had children.
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  The house was much further than a ten-minute walk away. They drove along back roads and deep into the forest as the snow continued to fall. Several times they encountered complete darkness and were forced to stop. About twenty minutes later, they came to a bend in the road and a private lane that almost disappeared into the trees.
  Ben stopped and waved them to stand next to his van. He rolled down the window. "There are a few different ways, but this is probably the easiest. Just follow me."
  He turned onto a snow-covered road. Jessica and Nikki followed. Soon they emerged into a clearing and merged with what was probably a long road leading to the house.
  As they approached the structure, climbing a slight incline, Jessica held up the photograph. It had been taken from the other side of the hill, but even from that distance, there was no mistaking it. They had found the house photographed by Walt Brigham.
  The driveway ended at a curve fifty feet from the building. There were no other vehicles in sight.
  When they got out of the car, the first thing Jessica noticed wasn't the house's remoteness, or even the rather picturesque winter setting. It was the silence. She could almost hear the snow falling to the ground.
  Jessica grew up in South Philadelphia, attended Temple University, and spent her entire life just a few miles outside the city. These days, when she responded to a murder call in Philadelphia, she was greeted by the blaring of cars, buses, and loud music, sometimes accompanied by the shouts of angry citizens. It was idyllic by comparison.
  Ben Sharp got out of the van and left it idling. He put on a pair of wool gloves. "I don't think anyone lives here anymore."
  "Did you know who lived here before?" Nikki asked.
  "No," he said. "Sorry."
  Jessica glanced at the house. There were two windows in the front, glaring ominously. There was no light. "How did you know about this place?" she asked.
  "We used to come here when we were kids. It was pretty creepy back then."
  "Now it's a little creepy," Nikki said.
  "There used to be a couple of big dogs living on the property."
  "Did they escape?" Jessica asked.
  "Oh, yeah," Ben said, smiling. "It was a challenge."
  Jessica looked around the area, the area near the porch. There were no chains, no water bowls, no paw prints in the snow. "How long ago was that?"
  "Oh, a long time ago," Ben said. "Fifteen years."
  "Good," Jessica thought. When she was in uniform, she spent time with big dogs. Every cop did that.
  "Well, we"ll let you go back to the store," Nikki said.
  "Do you want me to wait for you?" Ben asked. "Show you the way back?"
  "I think we can get started from here," Jessica said. "We appreciate your help."
  Ben looked a little disappointed, perhaps because he felt he could now be part of the police investigation team. "No problem."
  "And once again, say thank you to Nadine for us."
  "I will."
  A few moments later, Ben slipped into his van, turned around, and headed for the road. Seconds later, his car disappeared into the pine trees.
  Jessica looked at Nikki. They both looked toward the house.
  It was still there.
  
  
  
  The porch was stone; the front door was massive, oak, menacing. It had a rusty iron knocker. It looked older than the house.
  Nikki knocked with her fist. Nothing. Jessica pressed her ear to the door. Silence. Nikki knocked again, this time with the knocker, and the sound echoed for a moment across the old stone porch. No answer.
  The window to the right of the front door was coated with years of grunge. Jessica wiped away some of the dirt and pressed her hands to the glass. All she could see was a layer of grime inside. It was completely opaque. She couldn't even tell if there were curtains or blinds behind the glass. The same was true of the window to the left of the door.
  "So what do you want to do?" Jessica asked.
  Nikki looked toward the road and back at the house. She glanced at her watch. "What I want is a hot bubble bath and a glass of Pinot Noir. But we're here in Buttercup, Pennsylvania."
  - Maybe we should call the sheriff's office?
  Nikki smiled. Jessica didn't know the woman very well, but she knew her smile. Every detective had one in their arsenal. "Not yet."
  Nikki reached out and tried the doorknob. It was locked tight. "Let me see if there's another way in," Nikki said. She jumped off the porch and headed around the house.
  For the first time that day, Jessica wondered if they were wasting their time. In fact, there was no direct evidence linking Walt Brigham's murder to this house.
  Jessica pulled out her cell phone. She decided she'd better call Vincent. She looked at the LCD screen. No bars. No signal. She put the phone away.
  A few seconds later, Nikki returned. "I found an open door."
  "Where?" Jessica asked.
  "Around the back. I think it leads to the basement. Maybe the basement.
  "Was it open?"
  "Sort of."
  Jessica followed Nikki around the building. The land beyond led into a valley, which in turn led to the forest beyond. As they rounded the back of the building, Jessica's sense of isolation grew. For a moment, she considered whether she'd like to live somewhere like this, away from the noise, pollution, and crime. Now, she wasn't so sure.
  They reached the basement entrance-a pair of heavy wooden doors set into the ground. Its crossbar measured four by four. They lifted the crossbar, set it aside, and swung the doors open.
  The smell of mold and wood rot immediately reached my nose. There was a hint of something else, something animal.
  "And they say police work isn't glamorous," Jessica said.
  Nikki looked at Jessica. "Okay?"
  - After you, Aunt Em.
  Nikki pressed her Maglite. "Philadelphia PD!" she shouted into the black hole. No answer. She glanced at Jessica, completely thrilled. "I love this job."
  Nikki took the lead. Jessica followed him.
  As more snow clouds gathered over southeastern Pennsylvania, two detectives descended into the cold darkness of the basement.
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  Roland felt the warm sun on his face. He heard the slap of the ball against his skin and smelled the deep scent of foot oil. There wasn't a cloud in the sky.
  He was fifteen.
  There were ten, eleven of them that day, including Charles. It was late April. Each of them had a favorite baseball player-among them Lenny Dykstra, Bobby Munoz, Kevin Jordan, and the retired Mike Schmidt. Half of them were wearing homemade versions of Mike Schmidt's jersey.
  They were playing pickup in a field off Lincoln Drive, sneaking onto a ball diamond just a few hundred yards from a creek.
  Roland looked up at the trees. There he saw his half-sister Charlotte and her friend Annemarie. Most of the time, these two girls drove him and his friends crazy. They mostly chatted and squealed about nothing of significance. But not always, not Charlotte. Charlotte was a special girl, as special as her twin brother, Charles. Like Charles, her eyes were the color of a robin's egg, tinting the spring sky.
  Charlotte and Annemarie. These two were inseparable. That day, they stood in their sundresses, shimmering in the dazzling light. Charlotte wore lavender ribbons. For them, it was a birthday party-they were born on the same day, exactly two hours apart, with Annemarie being the older of the two. They met in the park when they were six years old, and now they were about to throw a party there.
  At six o'clock they all heard thunder, and soon afterward their mothers called them.
  Roland left. He took the glove and simply walked away, leaving Charlotte behind. That day he abandoned her for the devil, and from that day on, the devil possessed his soul.
  For Roland, as for many people in the ministry, the devil wasn't an abstraction. It was a real being, capable of manifesting itself in many forms.
  He thought about the years that had passed. He thought about how young he had been when he opened the mission. He thought about Julianna Weber, about how she had been cruelly treated by a man named Joseph Barber, how Julianna's mother had come to him. He talked with little Julianna. He thought about running into Joseph Barber in that shack in North Philadelphia, about the look in Barber's eyes when he realized he was facing earthly judgment, about how inevitable the wrath of God was.
  "Thirteen knives," thought Roland. The devil's number.
  Joseph Barber. Basil Spencer. Edgar Luna.
  So many others.
  Were they innocent? No. They may not have been directly responsible for what happened to Charlotte, but they were the devil's minions.
  "Here it is." Sean pulled the car over to the side of the road. A sign hung among the trees, next to a narrow, snow-covered path. Sean got out of the van and cleared the sign of fresh snow.
  
  WELCOME TO ODENSA
  
  Roland rolled down the window.
  "There's a wooden, single-lane bridge a few hundred yards away," Sean said. "I remember it used to be in pretty bad shape. It might not even be there anymore. I think I should go check it out before we go."
  "Thank you, Brother Sean," Roland said.
  Sean pulled his wool hat tighter and tied his scarf. "I'll be right back."
  He walked down the alley, slowly, through snow up to his calves, and a few moments later disappeared into the storm.
  Roland looked at Charles.
  Charles wrung his hands, rocking back and forth in his seat. Roland placed his hand on Charles's large shoulder. It wouldn't take long now.
  Soon they will come face to face with Charlotte's killer.
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  Byrne glanced at the envelope's contents-several photographs, each with a note scrawled in ballpoint pen at the bottom-but had no idea what it all meant. He glanced at the envelope again. It was addressed to him from the Police Department. Handwritten, block lettering, black ink, non-returnable, postmarked Philadelphia.
  Byrne sat at the desk in the Roundhouse's reception area. The room was almost empty. Everyone who had something to do on New Year's Eve was getting ready to do it.
  There were six photographs: small Polaroid prints. At the bottom of each print was a series of numbers. The numbers looked familiar-they looked like PPD case numbers. He couldn't recognize the pictures themselves. They weren't official agency photographs.
  One was a photo of a small lavender-colored stuffed animal. It looked like a teddy bear. Another was a photo of a girl's hair clip, also lavender. Another was a photo of a small pair of socks. It's hard to tell the exact color due to the slightly overexposed print, but they also looked lavender. There were three more photos, all of unknown objects, each a lavender shade.
  Byrne examined each photograph again carefully. They were mostly close-ups, so there was little context. Three of the objects were on carpet, two were on a wooden floor, and one was on a concrete floor. Byrne was jotting down the numbers when Josh Bontrager entered, holding his coat.
  "Just wanted to say Happy New Year, Kevin." Bontrager crossed the room and shook Byrne's hand. Josh Bontrager was a handshake man. Byrne had probably shaken the young man's hand about thirty times in the last week or so.
  - Same to you, Josh.
  "We'll catch this guy next year. You'll see."
  Byrne supposed it was a bit of country wit, but it came from the right place. "No doubt." Byrne picked up the sheet of paper with the case numbers. "Could you do me a favor before you go?"
  "Certainly."
  "Could you get me these files?"
  Bontrager put down his coat. "I'm in on this."
  Byrne turned back to the photographs. Each one held up a lavender-colored object, which he saw again. Something for a girl. A hair clip, a teddy bear, a pair of socks with a small ribbon at the top.
  What does this mean? Are there six victims in the photographs? Were they killed because of the lavender color? Was this the serial killer's signature?
  Byrne looked out the window. The storm was intensifying. Soon, the city came to a standstill. For the most part, police welcomed the snowstorms. They tended to slow things down, smoothing over arguments that often led to assaults and murders.
  He looked again at the photographs in his hands. Whatever they represented had already happened. The fact that a child-likely a young girl-was involved didn't bode well.
  Byrne got up from his desk, walked down the hall to the elevators, and waited for Josh.
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  The basement was damp and musty. It consisted of one large room and three smaller ones. In the main section, several wooden crates stood in one corner-a large steamer chest. The other rooms were almost empty. One had a boarded-up coal chute and bunker. Another had a long-rotted shelving unit. On it stood several old green gallon jars and a couple of broken jugs. Attached to the top were cracked leather bridles and an old foot trap.
  The steamer's trunk wasn't padlocked, but the wide latch appeared to be rusted. Jessica found an iron ingot nearby. She swung the barbell. Three hits later, the latch popped open. She and Nikki opened the trunk.
  There was an old sheet on top. They pulled it aside. Beneath it lay several layers of magazines: Life, Look, The Ladies' Home Companion, Collier's. The smell of moldy paper and moth wafted through. Nikki moved a few magazines.
  Beneath them lay a nine-by-twelve-inch leather binding, veined and coated with a thin layer of green mold. Jessica opened it. There were only a few pages.
  Jessica flipped through the first two pages. On the left was a yellowed newspaper clipping from the Inquirer, a news story from April 1995 about the murder of two young girls in Fairmount Park. Annemarie DiCillo and Charlotte Waite. The illustration on the right was a crude pen-and-ink drawing of a pair of white swans in a nest.
  Jessica's pulse quickened. Walt Brigham was right. This house-or rather, its inhabitants-had something to do with the murders of Annemarie and Charlotte. Walt was closing in on the killer. He was already close, and that night the killer followed him into the park, right to the spot where the little girls were killed, and burned him alive.
  Jessica realized the powerful irony of it all.
  After Walt's death, Brigham led them to his killer's house.
  Walt Brigham can take revenge with death.
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  Six cases involved murder. All the victims were men between the ages of twenty-five and fifty. Three men were stabbed to death-one with garden shears. Two men were beaten with clubs, and one was hit by a large vehicle, possibly a van. All were from Philadelphia. Four were white, one was Black, and one was Asian. Three were married, two were divorced, and one was single.
  What they all had in common was that they were all suspected, to varying degrees, of violence against young girls. All six were dead. And it turns out, some lavender-colored object was found at the scene of their murders. Socks, a hair clip, stuffed animals.
  There was not a single suspect in any of the cases.
  "Are these files related to our killer?" Bontrager asked.
  Byrne had almost forgotten Josh Bontrager was still in the room. The child was so quiet. Perhaps it was out of respect. "I'm not sure," Byrne said.
  "Do you want me to stay here and maybe keep an eye on some of them?"
  "No," Byrne said. "It's New Year's Eve. Go have a good time."
  A few moments later, Bontrager grabbed his coat and headed for the door.
  "Josh," Byrne said.
  Bontrager turned around expectantly. "Yeah?"
  Byrne pointed to the files. "Thank you."
  "Of course." Bontrager held up two Hans Christian Andersen books. "I'm going to read this tonight. I figure if he's going to do it again, there might be a clue here."
  "It's New Year's Eve," Byrne thought. Reading fairy tales. "Good job."
  "I thought I'd call you if I thought of anything. Is everything okay?"
  "Absolutely," Byrne said. The guy was starting to remind Byrne of himself when he first joined the unit. An Amish version, but still similar. Byrne stood up and put on his coat. "Wait. I'll take you downstairs."
  "Cool," Bontrager said. "Where are you going?"
  Byrne reviewed the investigators' reports on each murder. In all cases, they identified Walter J. Brigham and John Longo. Byrne looked up Longo. He had retired in 2001 and now lived in the Northeast.
  Byrne pressed the elevator button. "I think I'll go northeast."
  
  
  
  JOHN LONGO LIVED in a well-kept townhouse in Torresdale. Byrne was greeted by Longo's wife, Denise, a slender, attractive woman in her early forties. She led Byrne into the basement workshop, her warm smile gleaming with skepticism and a hint of suspicion.
  The walls were covered with plaques and photographs, half of which depicted Longo in various locations, wearing various police gear. The other half were family photos-weddings in an Atlantic City park, somewhere in the tropics.
  Longo looked several years older than his official PPD photo, his dark hair now gray, but he still looked fit and athletic. A few inches shorter than Byrne and several years younger, Longo looked as if he could still catch the suspect if necessary.
  After the standard dance of "who you know, who you worked with," they finally got to the reason for Byrne's visit. Something in Longo's answers told Byrne that Longo had somehow been expecting this day.
  Six photographs were laid out on a workbench that had previously been used to make wooden birdhouses.
  "Where did you get this?" Longo asked.
  "An honest answer?" Byrne asked.
  Longo nodded.
  - I thought you sent them.
  "No." Longo examined the envelope inside and out, turning it over. "That wasn't me. In fact, I hoped to live the rest of my life and never see anything like that again."
  Byrne understood. There was a lot he himself never wanted to see again. "How long were you on the job?"
  "Eighteen years," Longo said. "Half a career for some guys. Too long for others." He studied one of the photos closely. "I remember that. There were many nights I wished I hadn't done it."
  The photograph depicted a small teddy bear.
  "Was this done at the crime scene?" Byrne asked.
  "Yes." Longo crossed the room, opened the cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of Glenfiddich. He picked it up and raised an eyebrow questioningly. Byrne nodded. Longo poured them both drinks and handed the glass to Byrne.
  "That was the last case I worked on," Longo said.
  "It was North Philadelphia, right?" Byrne knew all that. He just needed to sync it up.
  "Badlands. We were on this shot. Hard. For months. Name was Joseph Barber. I brought him in for questioning twice for a series of rapes of young girls, but couldn't catch him. Then he did it again. I was told he was hiding out in an old drugstore near Fifth and Cambria." Longo finished his drink. "He was dead when we got there. Thirteen knives in his body.
  "Thirteen?"
  "Uh-huh." Longo cleared his throat. It hadn't been easy. He poured himself another drink. "Steak knives. Cheap ones. The kind you'd get at a flea market. Untraceable.
  "Was the case ever closed?" Byrne knew the answer to that question, too. He wanted Longo to keep talking.
  - As far as I know, no.
  - Did you follow this?
  "I didn't want to. Walt stuck with it for a while. He was trying to prove Joseph Barbera was killed by some vigilante. It never really got any traction." Longo pointed to the photo on the workbench. "I looked at the lavender bear on the floor and knew I was done. I never looked back."
  "Any idea who the bear belonged to?" Byrne asked.
  Longo shook his head. "Once the evidence was cleared and the property was released, I showed it to the little girl's parents."
  - Were these the parents of Barber's last victim?
  "Yeah. They said they'd never seen it before. Like I said, Barber was a serial child rapist. I didn't want to think about how or where he could have gotten it.
  "What was the name of Barber's last victim?"
  "Julianne." Longo's voice wavered. Byrne laid out several tools on the workbench and waited. "Julianne Weber."
  "Have you ever followed this?"
  He nodded. "A few years ago, I drove past their house, parked across the street. I saw Julianna as she was leaving for school. She looked normal-at least, to the world, she looked normal-but I could see this sadness in every step she took."
  Byrne saw this conversation was nearing its end. He gathered up the photographs, his coat, and gloves. "I feel sorry for Walt. He was a good man."
  "He was that job," Longo said. "I couldn't come to the party. I didn't even..." Emotions took over for a few moments. "I was in San Diego. My daughter had a little girl. My first grandchild."
  "Congratulations," Byrne said. As soon as the word left his lips-though sincere-it sounded empty. Longo drained his glass. Byrne followed suit, stood up, and put on his coat.
  "That's the point where people usually say, 'If there's anything else I can do, please call, don't hesitate,'" Longo said. "Right?"
  "I think so," Byrne replied.
  "Do me a favor."
  "Certainly."
  "Doubt."
  Byrne smiled. "Good."
  As Byrne turned to leave, Longo put a hand on his shoulder. "There's something else."
  "Fine."
  "Walt said I probably saw something at the time, but I was convinced."
  Byrne folded his arms and waited.
  "The pattern of knives," Longo said. "The wounds on Joseph Barber's chest."
  "What about them?"
  "I wasn't sure until I saw the post-mortem photos. But I'm sure the wounds were in the shape of a C."
  "The letter C?"
  Longo nodded and poured himself another drink. He sat down at his workbench. The conversation was officially over.
  Byrne thanked him again. As he climbed, he saw Denise Longo standing at the top of the stairs. She walked him to the door. She was much colder toward him than when he had arrived.
  While his car warmed up, Byrne looked at the photo. Perhaps in the future, perhaps in the near future, something like Lavender Bear would happen to him. He wondered if he, like John Longo, had the courage to walk away.
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  Jessica searched every inch of the trunk, leafing through every magazine. There was nothing else. She found a few yellowed recipes, a few McCall's patterns. She found a box of small paper-wrapped cups. The newspaper wrapper was dated March 22, 1950. She returned to the briefcase.
  At the back of the book was a page containing a multitude of horrific drawings-hangings, mutilations, disembowelments, dismemberments-childish scribbles and extremely disturbing in content.
  Jessica turned back to the front page. A news article about the murders of Annemarie DiCillo and Charlotte Waite. Nikki had read it too.
  "Okay," Nikki said. "I'm calling. We need some cops here. Walt Brigham liked whoever lived here in the Annemarie DiCillo case, and it looks like he was right. God knows what else we'll find around here."
  Jessica handed Nikki her phone. A few moments later, after trying and getting no signal in the basement, Nikki climbed the stairs and went outside.
  Jessica returned to the boxes.
  Who lived here? She wondered. Where was that person now? In a small town like this, if the person were still around, people would surely know. Jessica rummaged through the boxes in the corner. There were still many old newspapers, some in a language she couldn't identify, maybe Dutch or Danish. There were moldy board games, rotting in their moldy boxes. There was no further mention of Annemarie DiCillo's case.
  She opened another box, this one less worn than the others. Inside were newspapers and magazines from more recent issues. On top was a year's issue of Amusement Today, a trade publication covering the amusement park industry. Jessica turned the box over. She found an address plaque. M. Damgaard.
  Is this Walt Brigham's killer? Jessica tore off the label and stuffed it in her pocket.
  She was dragging the boxes toward the door when a noise stopped her. At first, it sounded like the rustling of dry logs creaking in the wind. She heard the sound of old, thirsty wood again.
  - Nikki?
  Nothing.
  Jessica was about to climb the stairs when she heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Running footsteps, muffled by the snow. Then she heard what might have been a struggle, or perhaps Nikki trying to carry something. Then another sound. Her name?
  Did Nikki just call her?
  "Nikki?" Jessica asked.
  Silence.
  - You have established contact with...
  Jessica never finished her question. At that moment, the heavy basement doors slammed shut, the sound of wood clanging loudly against the cold stone walls.
  Then Jessica heard something much more ominous.
  The huge doors were secured with a crossbar.
  Outside.
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  Byrne paced the Roundhouse parking lot. He didn't feel the cold. He was thinking about John Longo and his story.
  He tried to prove that Barber was killed by a vigilante. He never got any traction.
  Whoever sent Byrne the photographs-it was likely Walt Brigham-was making the same argument. Otherwise, why would every object in the photographs be lavender? It must be some kind of calling card left by a vigilante, a personal touch from a man who took it upon himself to destroy men who committed violence against girls and young women.
  Someone killed these suspects before the police could bring a case against them.
  Before leaving Northeast, Byrne called Records. He demanded they solve all unsolved murders from the past ten years. He also asked for a cross-reference with the search term "lavender."
  Byrne thought of Longo, holed up in his basement, building birdhouses, among other things. To the outside world, Longo looked content. But Byrne could see a ghost. If he looked closely at his face in the mirror-and he did so less and less lately-he would probably see it in himself.
  The town of Meadville was starting to look good.
  Byrne shifted gears, thinking about the case. His case. The River Murders. He knew he'd have to tear it all down and build it from scratch. He'd encountered psychopaths like this before, killers who modeled themselves on what we all saw and took for granted every day.
  Lisette Simon was the first. Or at least, that's what they thought. A forty-one-year-old woman who worked in a mental hospital. Perhaps the killer started there. Perhaps he met Lisette, worked with her, made some discovery that triggered this rage.
  Compulsive killers start their lives close to home.
  The killer's name is in the computer readings.
  Before Byrne could return to the Roundhouse, he sensed a presence nearby.
  "Kevin."
  Byrne turned around. It was Vincent Balzano. He and Byrne had worked on a detail a few years ago. He'd seen Vincent, of course, at many police events with Jessica. Byrne liked him. What he knew about Vincent from his work was that he was a bit unorthodox, had put himself in danger more than once to save a fellow officer, and was quite hot-tempered. Not so different from Byrne himself.
  "Hello, Vince," Byrne said.
  "Are you talking to Jess today?"
  "No," Byrne said. "How are you?"
  "She left me a message this morning. I've been outside all day. I only got the messages an hour ago.
  - Are you worried?
  Vincent looked at Roundhouse, then back at Byrne. "Yeah. Me."
  "What was in her message?"
  "She said she and Nikki Malone were heading to Berks County," Vincent said. "Jess was off duty. And now I can't get her. Do you even know where in Berks?"
  "No," Byrne said. "Have you tried her cell phone?"
  "Yes," he said. "I get her voicemail." Vincent looked away for a moment, then back. "What is she doing in Berks? Is she working in your building?"
  Byrne shook his head. "She's working on the Walt Brigham case."
  "The Walt Brigham case? What's going on?"
  "I'm not sure."
  "What did she write down last time?"
  "Let's go and see."
  
  
  
  Back in the homicide desk, Byrne pulled out the file containing the Walt Brigham murder file. He scrolled to the most recent entry. "This is from last night," he said.
  The file contained photocopies of two photographs, both sides-black-and-white photos of an old stone farmhouse. They were duplicates. On the back of one were five numbers, two of which were obscured by what appeared to be water damage. Underneath, in red pen and cursive, a script well known to both men as Jessica's, was the following:
  195-/Berks County/north of French Creek?
  "Do you think she went here?" Vincent asked.
  "I don't know," Byrne said. "But if her voicemail said she was heading to Berks with Nikki, there's a good chance."
  Vincent pulled out his cell phone and called Jessica again. Nothing. For a moment, it seemed as if Vincent was about to throw the phone out the window. A closed window. Byrne knew that feeling.
  Vincent put his cell phone in his pocket and headed for the door.
  "Where are you going?" Byrne asked.
  - I'm going there.
  Byrne took a picture of the farmhouse and put the folder away. "I'll go with you."
  "You don't have to."
  Byrne stared at him. "How do you know that?"
  Vincent hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Let's go."
  They practically ran to Vincent's car-a fully restored 1970 Cutlass S. By the time Byrne slid into the passenger seat, he was already out of breath. Vincent Balzano was in much better shape.
  Vincent turned on the blue light on the dashboard. By the time they reached the Schuylkill Expressway, they were doing eighty miles per hour.
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  The darkness was almost complete. Only a thin strip of cold daylight penetrated through a crack in the basement door.
  Jessica called out several times, listening. Silence. Empty, village silence.
  She pressed her shoulder against the almost horizontal door and pushed it.
  Nothing.
  She tilted her body to maximize the leverage and tried again. The doors still didn't budge. Jessica looked between the two doors. She saw a dark streak down the center, indicating the four-by-four crossbar was in place. Clearly, the door hadn't closed on its own.
  Someone was there. Someone moved the crossbar across the door.
  Where was Nikki?
  Jessica looked around the basement. An old rake and a short-handled shovel stood against one wall. She grabbed the rake and tried to push the handle between the doors. It didn't work.
  She entered another room and was struck by the thick smell of mold and mice. She found nothing. No tools, no levers, no hammers or saws. And the Maglight began to dim. A pair of ruby curtains hung against the far wall, the inner one. She wondered if they led to another room.
  She ripped open the curtains. A ladder stood in the corner, attached to the stone wall with bolts and a couple of brackets. She tapped the flashlight against her palm, gaining a few more lumens of yellow light. She ran the beam across the cobweb-covered ceiling. There, in the ceiling, was the front door. It looked as if it hadn't been used in years. Jessica estimated that she was now near the center of the house. She wiped some of the soot from the ladder, then tested the first step. It creaked under her weight, but held. She clenched the Maglite in her teeth and began to climb the ladder. She pushed open the wooden door and was rewarded with dust in her face.
  "Fuck!"
  Jessica stepped back to the floor, wiped the soot from her eyes, and spat a few times. She took off her coat and threw it over her head and shoulders. She began to climb the stairs again. For a second, I thought one of the steps was about to break. It cracked slightly. She shifted her feet and body weight to the sides of the steps, bracing herself. This time, when she pushed the overhead door, she turned her head. The wood shifted. It wasn't nailed down, and there was nothing heavy on it.
  She tried again, this time using all her strength. The front door gave way. As Jessica slowly lifted it, she was greeted by a thin stream of daylight. She pushed the door all the way open, and it fell to the floor of the room above. Though the air in the house was thick and stale, she welcomed it. She took several deep breaths.
  She pulled the coat off her head and put it back on. She looked up at the beamed ceiling of the old farmhouse. She figured she'd come out into a small pantry off the kitchen. She stopped and listened. Just the sound of the wind. She pocketed the Maglite, pulled out her gun, and continued up the stairs.
  A few seconds later, Jessica stepped through the doorway and into the house, grateful to be free of the oppressive confines of the damp basement. She slowly turned 360 degrees. What she saw nearly took her breath away. She hadn't simply entered an old farmhouse.
  She entered another century.
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  Byrne and Vincent reached Berks County in record time, thanks to Vincent's powerful vehicle and its ability to maneuver the highway in a full-blown snowstorm. After familiarizing themselves with the general boundaries of the 195 ZIP code, they found themselves in the town of Robeson.
  They drove south on a two-lane road. Houses were scattered here, none of them resembling the isolated old farmhouse they were looking for. After a few minutes of trolling, they came across a man shoveling snow near the street.
  A man in his late sixties was clearing the slope of a driveway that looked to be more than fifty feet long.
  Vincent pulled up across the street and rolled down the window. A few seconds later, snow began to fall inside the car.
  "Hello," Vincent said.
  The man looked up from his work. He looked like he had on every piece of clothing he'd ever owned: three coats, two hats, three pairs of gloves. His scarves were knitted, homemade, rainbow-colored. He was bearded; his gray hair was braided. A former flower child. "Good afternoon, young man."
  - You didn't move all of this, did you?
  The man laughed. "No, my two grandsons did that. But they never finish anything."
  Vincent showed him a photograph of a farmhouse. "Does this place look familiar to you?"
  The man crossed the road slowly. He stared at the picture, appreciating the task he'd accomplished. "No. Sorry."
  "Did you happen to see two more police detectives come in today? Two women in a Ford Taurus?"
  "No, sir," the man said. "I can't say I did. I would remember it.
  Vincent thought for a moment. He pointed to the intersection ahead. "Is there anything here?"
  "The only thing there is a Double K Auto," he said. "If someone was lost or looking for directions, I think that's where they might stop."
  "Thank you, sir," Vincent said.
  "Please, young man. Peace."
  "Don't work on it too hard," Vincent called to him, turning on the transmission. "It's just snow. It'll be gone by spring."
  The man laughed again. "It's a thankless job," he said, walking back across the street. "But I have extra karma."
  
  
  
  DOUBLE K AUTO was a dilapidated building of corrugated steel, set back from the road. Abandoned cars and auto parts littered the landscape for a quarter mile in all directions. It looked like a snow-covered topiary of alien creatures.
  Vincent and Byrne entered the establishment just after five.
  Inside, at the back of a large, dingy lobby, a man stood at the counter reading Hustler. He made no attempt to hide it or conceal it from potential customers. He was about thirty, with greasy blond hair and grimy garage overalls. His name tag read KYLE.
  "How are you?" Vincent asked.
  Great reception. Closer to the cold. The man didn't say a word.
  "I'm fine too," Vincent said. "Thanks for asking." He held up his badge. "I was wondering if-"
  "I can't help you."
  Vincent froze, holding his badge high. He glanced at Byrne and then back at Kyle. He held that position for a few moments, then continued.
  "I was wondering if two other police officers might have stopped here earlier today. Two female detectives from Philadelphia.
  "I can"t help you," the man repeated, returning to his magazine.
  Vincent took a series of short, quick breaths, like someone preparing to lift a heavy weight. He stepped forward, removed his badge, and pulled back the hem of his coat. "You're saying the two Philadelphia police officers didn't stop here earlier that day. Is that correct?"
  Kyle scrunched up his face like he was slightly mentally retarded. "I'm the bride. Do you have a healing pubvem?"
  Vincent glanced at Byrne. He knew Byrne wasn't much for making jokes about the hearing-impaired. Byrne kept his cool.
  "One last time, while we're still friends," Vincent said. "Did two Philadelphia female detectives stop here today looking for a farmhouse? Yes or no?"
  "I don't know anything about that, man," Kyle said. "Good night."
  Vincent laughed, which at the moment was even more frightening than his growl. He ran a hand through his hair, across his chin. He glanced around the lobby. His gaze fell on something that caught his attention.
  "Kevin," he said.
  "What?"
  Vincent pointed to the nearest trash can. Byrne looked.
  There, on a pair of greasy Mopar boxes, sat a business card with a familiar logo-embossed black font and white card stock. It belonged to Detective Jessica Balzano of the Philadelphia Police Department's Homicide Division.
  Vincent spun on his heel. Kyle was still standing at the counter, watching. But his magazine was now lying on the floor. When Kyle realized they weren't leaving, he crawled under the counter.
  At that moment, Kevin Byrne saw something incredible.
  Vincent Balzano ran across the room, leaped over the counter, and grabbed the blond man by the throat, throwing him back onto the counter. Oil filters, air filters, and spark plugs spilled.
  It all seemed to happen in less than a second. Vincent was a blur.
  In one fluid motion, Vincent grabbed Kyle's throat tightly with his left hand, drew his weapon, and aimed it at the dirt-stained curtain hanging in the doorway, presumably leading to the back room. The fabric looked like it had once been a shower curtain, though Byrne doubted Kyle was too familiar with that concept. The thing was, there was someone standing behind the curtain. Byrne saw them, too.
  "Come out here," Vincent shouted.
  Nothing. No movement. Vincent pointed his gun at the ceiling. He fired. The explosion deafened his ears. He pointed the gun back at the curtain.
  "Now!"
  A few seconds later, a man emerged from the back room, arms at his sides. He was Kyle's identical twin. His name tag read "KIT."
  "Detective?" Vincent asked.
  "I'm on him," Byrne replied. He looked at Keith, and that was enough. The man froze. Byrne didn't need to draw his weapon. Yet.
  Vincent focused his full attention on Kyle. "So, you have two damn seconds to start talking, Jethro." He pressed his gun to Kyle's forehead. "No. Do it for one second."
  - I don't know what you...
  "Look me in the eyes and tell me I'm not crazy." Vincent tightened his grip on Kyle's throat. The man turned olive green. "Go ahead, continue."
  All things considered, strangling a man and expecting him to talk probably wasn't the best interrogation method. But right now, Vincent Balzano wasn't considering everything. Just one.
  Vincent shifted his weight and pushed Kyle onto the concrete, knocking the air out of his lungs. He kneed the man in the groin.
  "I see your lips moving, but I hear nothing." Vincent squeezed the man's throat. Gently. "Talk. Now."
  "They... they were here," Kyle said.
  "When?"
  "Around noon."
  "Where did they go?"
  - I... I don't know.
  Vincent pressed the muzzle of his gun to Kyle's left eye.
  "Wait! I really don't know, I don't know, I don't know!"
  Vincent took a deep breath, calming himself. It didn't seem to help. "When they left, where did they go?"
  "South," Kyle squeezed out.
  "What's down there?"
  "Doug. Maybe they went that way.
  - What the hell is Doug doing?
  "Spirit-snack bar".
  Vincent pulled out his weapon. "T-thank you, Kyle."
  Five minutes later, the two detectives drove south. But not before they'd searched every square inch of the Double K-Auto. There were no other signs that Jessica and Nikki had spent time there.
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  Roland couldn't wait any longer. He pulled on his gloves and a knit hat. He didn't want to wander blindly through the forest in the blizzard, but he had no choice. He glanced at the fuel gauge. The van had been running with the heater on since they stopped. They had less than an eighth of a tank left.
  "Wait here," Roland said. "I'm going to find Sean. I won't be long."
  Charles studied him with deep fear in his eyes. Roland had seen it many times before. He took his hand.
  "I'll be back," he said. "I promise."
  Roland stepped out of the van and closed the door. Snow slid off the roof of the car, dusting his shoulders. He shook himself off, looked out the window, and waved at Charles. Charles waved back.
  Roland walked down the alley.
  
  
  
  The trees seemed to have closed ranks. Roland had been walking for almost five minutes. He hadn't found the bridge Sean had mentioned, or anything else. He turned around several times, drifting in the miasma of snow. He was disoriented.
  - Sean? he said.
  Silence. Just an empty white forest.
  "Sean!"
  There was no answer. The sound was muffled by the falling snow, deadened by the trees, swallowed by the gloom. Roland decided to go back. He wasn't dressed properly for this, and this wasn't his world. He would return to the van and wait for Sean there. He looked down. The meteor shower had almost obscured his own tracks. He turned and walked as quickly as he could back the way he'd come. Or so he thought.
  As he trudged back, the wind suddenly picked up. Roland turned away from the gust, covered his face with his scarf, and waited for it to pass. When the water subsided, he looked up and saw a narrow clearing among the trees. A stone farmhouse stood there, and in the distance, about a quarter mile away, he could see a large fence and something that looked like something out of an amusement park.
  "My eyes must be deceiving me," he thought.
  Roland turned toward the house and suddenly became aware of a noise and movement to his left-a snapping sound, soft, unlike the branches beneath his feet, more like fabric fluttering in the wind. Roland turned. He saw nothing. Then he heard another sound, closer this time. He shone his flashlight through the trees and caught a dark shape shifting in the light, something partially obscured by the pines twenty yards ahead. Under the falling snow, it was impossible to tell what it was.
  Was it an animal? Some kind of sign?
  Person?
  As Roland slowly approached, the object came into focus. It wasn't a person or a sign. It was Sean's coat. Sean's coat was hanging from a tree, dusted with fresh snow. His scarf and gloves lay at the base.
  Sean was nowhere to be seen.
  "Oh God," Roland said. "Oh God, no."
  Roland hesitated for a moment, then picked up Sean's coat and brushed the snow off it. At first, he thought the coat was hanging from a broken branch. It wasn't. Roland looked more closely. The coat was hanging from a small penknife stuck into the tree bark. Under the coat was something carved-something round, about six inches in diameter. Roland shone his flashlight on the carving.
  It was the face of the moon. It was freshly cut.
  Roland began to shiver. And it had nothing to do with the cold weather.
  "It's so deliciously cold here," whispered a voice on the wind.
  A shadow moved in the near-darkness, then vanished, dissolved into the insistent squall. "Who's there?" Roland asked.
  "I am Moon," came a whisper from behind him.
  "WHO?" Roland's voice sounded thin and frightened. He was ashamed.
  - And you are the Yeti.
  Roland heard hurried footsteps. It was too late. He began to pray.
  In a white blizzard, Roland Hanna's world went black.
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  Jessica pressed herself against the wall, gun raised in front of her. She was in the short hallway between the kitchen and the living room of the farmhouse. Adrenaline rushed through her body.
  She quickly cleared the kitchen. The room contained a single wooden table and two chairs. Floral wallpaper covered the white chair rails. The cabinets were bare. An old cast-iron stove stood there, likely unused for years. A thick layer of dust covered everything. It was like visiting a museum forgotten by time.
  As Jessica moved down the hallway toward the living room, she listened for any sign of another person's presence. All she could hear was the pounding of her own pulse in her ears. She wished she had a Kevlar vest, wished she had some support. She had neither. Someone had deliberately locked her in the basement. She had to assume Nikki was injured or held against her will.
  Jessica walked to the corner, silently counted to three, then looked into the living room.
  The ceiling was over ten feet high, and a large stone fireplace sat against the far wall. The floors were old planks. The walls, long since moldy, had once been painted with calcification paint. In the center of the room stood a single sofa with a medallion back, upholstered in sun-bleached green velvet, Victorian-style. Next to it stood a round stool. On it sat a leather-bound book. This room was dust-free. This room was still in use.
  As she approached, she saw a small indentation on the right side of the sofa, at the end near the table. Whoever came here sat at this end, perhaps reading a book. Jessica looked up. There were no ceiling lights, no electric ones, no candles.
  Jessica scanned the corners of the room; sweat covered her back despite the cold. She walked over to the fireplace and placed her hand on the stone. It was cold. But in the grate was the remains of a partially burned newspaper. She pulled out a corner and looked at it. It was dated three days earlier. Someone had been here recently.
  Next to the living room was a small bedroom. She peered inside. There was a double bed with a tightly stretched mattress, sheets, and a blanket. A small nightstand served as a nightstand; on it sat an antique man's comb and an elegant woman's brush. She peered under the bed, then went to the closet, took a deep breath, and threw open the door.
  Inside were two items: a dark men's suit and a long cream dress-both seemingly from another time. They hung on red velvet hangers.
  Jessica holstered her gun, returned to the living room, and tried the front door. It was locked. She could see scratches along the keyhole, bright metal amid the rusty iron. She needed a key. She could also see why she couldn't see through the windows from the outside. They were covered in old butcher paper. Looking closer, she discovered the windows were held in place by dozens of rusty screws. They hadn't been opened in years.
  Jessica crossed the hardwood floor and approached the sofa, her footsteps creaking in the wide-open space. She picked up a book from the coffee table. Her breath caught in her throat.
  Stories by Hans Christian Andersen.
  Time slowed down, stopped.
  It was all connected. All of it.
  Annemarie and Charlotte. Walt Brigham. The River Murders-Lizette Simon, Christina Jakos, Tara Grendel. One man was responsible for it all, and she was in his house.
  Jessica opened the book. Each story had an illustration, and each illustration was done in the same style as the drawings found on the victims' bodies-lunar images made of semen and blood.
  Throughout the book were news articles, bookmarked with various stories. One article, dated a year earlier, told of two men found dead in a barn in Mooresville, Pennsylvania. Police reported they had been drowned and then tied in burlap sacks. An illustration depicted a man holding a large and a small boy at arm's length.
  The next article, written eight months ago, told the story of an elderly woman who had been strangled and found stuffed into an oak barrel on her property in Shoemakersville. The illustration depicted a kind woman holding cakes, pies, and cookies. The words "Aunt Millie" were scrawled across the illustration in an innocent hand.
  On the following pages were articles about missing people-men, women, children-each accompanied by an elegant drawing, each depicting a story by Hans Christian Andersen. "Little Klaus and Big Klaus." "Aunt Toothache." "The Flying Chest." "The Snow Queen."
  At the end of the book was a Daily News article about the murder of Detective Walter Brigham. Next to it was an illustration of a tin soldier.
  Jessica felt nausea rising. She had a book of death, an anthology of murders.
  Inserted into the book's pages was a faded, color brochure depicting a happy couple of children in a small, brightly colored boat. The brochure appeared to be from the 1940s. In front of the children was a large exhibit, set into the hillside. It was a book, twenty feet tall. In the center of the exhibit was a young woman dressed as the Little Mermaid. At the top of the page, in cheerful red letters, was written:
  
  Welcome to StoryBook River: A World of Enchantment!
  
  At the very end of the book, Jessica found a short news article. It was dated fourteen years earlier.
  
  O DENSE, Pa. (AP) - After nearly six decades, a small theme park in southeastern Pennsylvania will close for good when the summer season ends. The family that owns StoryBook River says they have no plans to redevelop the property. Owner Elisa Damgaard says her husband, Frederik, who immigrated to the United States from Denmark as a young man, opened StoryBook River as a children's park. The park itself was modeled after the Danish city of Odense, the birthplace of Hans Christian Andersen, whose stories and fables inspired many of the attractions.
  
  Below the article was a headline cut from an obituary:
  
  
  
  ELIZA M. DAMGAARD, AMUSEMENT PARK OF THE RAS.
  
  
  
  Jessica looked around for something to break the windows with. She picked up the end table. It had a marble top, quite heavy. Before she could cross the room, she heard the rustling of paper. No. Something softer. She felt a breeze, which for a second made the cold air even colder. Then she saw it: a small brown bird landed on the sofa next to her. She had no doubt about it. It was a nightingale.
  "You are my Ice Maiden."
  It was a man's voice, a voice she knew but couldn't immediately place. Before Jessica could turn and draw her weapon, the man snatched the table from her hands. He slammed it into her head, smashing into her temple with a force that brought with it a universe of stars.
  The next thing Jessica noticed was the wet, cold living room floor. She felt icy water on her face. Melting snow was falling. The men's hiking boots were inches from her face. She rolled onto her side, the light dimming. Her attacker grabbed her legs and dragged her across the floor.
  A few seconds later, before she lost consciousness, the man began to sing.
  "Here are the girls, young and beautiful..."
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  The snow continued to fall. Sometimes Byrne and Vincent had to stop to let a flurry pass. The lights they saw-sometimes a house, sometimes a business-seemed to appear and disappear in the white fog.
  Vincent's Cutlass was built for the open road, not snow-covered back roads. Sometimes they'd be cruising at five miles an hour, the windshield wipers on full blast, the headlights no more than ten feet away.
  They drove through town after town. At six o'clock, they realized it might be hopeless. Vincent pulled over to the side of the road and took out his cell phone. He tried Jessica again. He got her voicemail.
  He looked at Byrne, and Byrne looked at him.
  "What are we doing?" Vincent asked.
  Byrne pointed to the driver's side window. Vincent turned and looked.
  The sign appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
  LEGO ARC.
  
  
  
  There were only two couples and a couple of middle-aged waitresses. The decor was standard, small-town homestyle: red-and-white checkered tablecloths, vinyl-covered chairs, a cobweb on the ceiling, strewn with white mini-Christmas lights. A fire burned in the stone fireplace. Vincent showed his ID to one of the waitresses.
  "We're looking for two women," Vincent said. "Police officers. They may have stopped here today.
  The waitress looked at the two detectives with worn-out country skepticism.
  "Can I see this ID again?"
  Vincent took a deep breath and handed her his wallet. She examined it carefully for about thirty seconds, then handed it back.
  "Yes. They were here," she said.
  Byrne noticed Vincent had the same look. An impatient look. The look of a Double K Auto. Byrne hoped Vincent wasn't about to start beating up sixty-year-old waitresses.
  "About what time?" Byrne asked.
  "Maybe an hour or so. They talked to the owner. Mr. Prentiss.
  - Is Mr. Prentiss here now?
  "No," said the waitress. "I'm afraid he's only just stepped away."
  Vincent looked at his watch. "Do you know where those two women went?" he asked.
  "Well, I know where they said they were going," she said. "There's a small art supply store at the end of this street. It's closed now, though.
  Byrne looked at Vincent. Vincent's eyes said: No, that's not true.
  And then he was out the door, a blur again.
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  Jessica felt cold and damp. Her head felt like it was filled with broken glass. Her temple throbbed.
  At first, it felt like she was in a boxing ring. During sparring, she'd been knocked down several times, and the first sensation was always of falling. Not onto the canvas, but through space. Then came the pain.
  She wasn't in the ring. It was too cold.
  She opened her eyes and felt the earth around her. Wet earth, pine needles, leaves. She sat up, too quickly. The world was thrown out of balance. She dropped to her elbow. After about a minute, she looked around.
  She was in the forest. There was even about an inch of snow accumulated on her.
  How long have I been here? How did I get here?
  She looked around. There were no tracks. Heavy snowfall had covered everything. Jessica quickly looked down at herself. Nothing was broken, nothing seemed broken.
  The temperature dropped; the snow fell harder.
  Jessica stood up, leaned against a tree, and did a quick count.
  No cell phone. No weapons. No partner.
  Nikki.
  
  
  
  At six thirty, the snow stopped. But it was already completely dark, and Jessica couldn't find her way. She was far from an outdoor expert, to begin with, but what little she knew, she couldn't use.
  The forest was dense. From time to time, she pressed her dying Maglight, hoping to somehow get her bearings. She didn't want to waste what little battery life she had. She didn't know how long she'd be here.
  She lost her balance several times on icy rocks hidden under the snow, repeatedly falling to the ground. She decided to walk from barren tree to barren tree, holding on to low branches. This slowed her progress, but she didn't have to twist her ankle or anything worse.
  About thirty minutes later, Jessica stopped. She thought she heard... a stream? Yes, it was the sound of running water. But where was it coming from? She determined that the sound was coming from a small rise to her right. She slowly climbed the incline and saw it. A narrow stream flowed through the forest. She was no expert on waterways, but the fact that it was moving meant something. Didn't it?
  She would follow this. She didn't know whether it led her deeper into the forest or closer to civilization. Either way, she was certain of one thing. She had to move. If she stayed in one place, dressed as she was, she wouldn't survive the night. The image of Christina Yakos's frozen skin flashed before her.
  She pulled her coat tighter and followed the stream.
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  The gallery was called "Art Ark." The lights were out in the shop, but there was a light in a second-floor window. Vincent knocked hard on the door. After a while, a female voice, coming from behind the drawn curtain, said, "We're closed."
  "We're the police," Vincent said. "We need to talk to you."
  The curtain pulled back a few inches. "You don't work for Sheriff Toomey," the woman said. "I'll call him."
  "We're Philadelphia police, ma'am," Byrne said, stepping between Vincent and the door. They were a second or two away when Vincent kicked down the door, along with what looked like an elderly woman behind it. Byrne held up his badge. His flashlight shone through the glass. A few seconds later, the lights came on in the store.
  
  
  
  "They were here this afternoon," said Nadine Palmer. At sixty, she wore a red terrycloth robe and Birkenstocks. She offered them both coffee, but they declined. A television was on in the corner of the store, showing another episode of It's a Wonderful Life.
  "They had a picture of a farmhouse," Nadine said. "They said they were looking for it. My nephew Ben took them there.
  "Is this the house?" Byrne asked, showing her the photograph.
  "This is the one."
  - Is your nephew here now?
  "No. It's New Year's Eve, young man. He's with his friends."
  "Can you tell us how to get there?" Vincent asked. He paced, tapping his fingers on the counter, almost vibrating.
  The woman looked at them both a little skeptically. "There's been a lot of interest in this old farmhouse lately. Is there anything going on I should know about?"
  "Ma'am, it's extremely important that we get to that house right now," Byrne said.
  The woman paused for a few more seconds, just for the sake of countryness. Then she pulled out a notepad and uncapped a pen.
  While she was drawing the map, Byrne glanced at the television in the corner. The movie had been interrupted by a newscast on WFMZ, Channel 69. When Byrne saw the subject of the report, his heart sank. It was about a murdered woman. A murdered woman who had just been found on the banks of the Schuylkill River.
  "Could you please turn that up?" Byrne asked.
  Nadine turned up the volume.
  "...the young woman has been identified as Samantha Fanning of Philadelphia. She was the subject of an intensive search by local and federal authorities. Her body was found on the east bank of the Schuylkill River, near Leesport. More details will be available as soon as they become available."
  Byrne knew they were close to the crime scene, but there was nothing they could do from here. They were out of their jurisdiction. He called Ike Buchanan at home. Ike would contact the Berks County district attorney.
  Byrne took the card from Nadine Palmer. "We appreciate it. Thank you very much."
  "I hope this helps," Nadine said.
  Vincent was already out the door. As Byrne turned to leave, his attention was drawn to a rack of postcards, postcards featuring fairytale characters-life-size exhibits featuring what looked like real people in costumes.
  Thumbelina. The Little Mermaid. The Princess and the Pea.
  "What is this?" Byrne asked.
  "These are old postcards," Nadine said.
  "Was this a real place?"
  "Yes, of course. It used to be a theme park of sorts. Quite a big one in the 1940s and 1950s. There were a lot of them in Pennsylvania back then."
  "Is it still open?"
  "No, sorry. In fact, they'll tear it down in a few weeks. It hasn't been open for years. I thought you knew that.
  "What do you mean?"
  - The farmhouse you are looking for?
  "What about this?"
  "The StoryBook River is about a quarter mile from here. It's been in the Damgaard family for years.
  The name burned into his brain. Byrne ran out of the store and jumped into the car.
  As Vincent sped away, Byrne pulled out a computer printout compiled by Tony Park-a list of patients at the county psychiatric hospital. Within seconds, he found what he was looking for.
  One of Lisette Simon's patients was a man named Marius Damgaard.
  Detective Kevin Byrne understood. It was all part of the same evil, an evil that began on a bright spring day in April 1995. The day two little girls wandered into the woods.
  And now Jessica Balzano and Nikki Malone have found themselves in this fable.
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  In the woods of southeastern Pennsylvania there was a darkness, a pitch darkness that seemed to swallow up every trace of light around it.
  Jessica walked along the bank of a running stream, the only sound the rush of black water. Progress was excruciatingly slow. She used her Maglite sparingly. The thin beam illuminated the fluffy snowflakes falling around her.
  Earlier, she had picked up a branch and used it to explore ahead of her in the darkness, not unlike a blind person on a city sidewalk.
  She continued walking forward, tapping the branch, touching the frozen ground with every step. Along the way, she encountered a huge obstacle.
  A huge deadfall loomed straight ahead. If she wanted to continue along the stream, she'd have to climb over the top. She was wearing leather-soled shoes. Not exactly made for hiking or rock climbing.
  She found the shortest path and began to pick her way through the tangle of roots and branches. It was covered in snow, and underneath that, ice. Jessica slipped several times, fell backward, and scraped her knees and elbows. Her hands felt frozen.
  After three more tries, she managed to stay on her feet. She reached the top, then fell on the other side, hitting a pile of broken branches and pine needles.
  She sat there for a few moments, exhausted, fighting back tears. She pressed the Maglite. It was almost dead. Her muscles ached, her head throbbed. She searched herself again, looking for anything-gum, mint, breath mint. She found something in her inside pocket. She was sure it was a Tic Tac. Some dinner. When she got it down, she found it was much better than a Tic Tac. It was a Tylenol tablet. Sometimes she took a few painkillers to work, and this must have been the remnants of a previous headache or hangover. Regardless, she popped it in her mouth and swiped it down her throat. It probably wouldn't have helped the freight train roaring in her head, but it was a small nugget of sanity, a touchstone of a life that seemed a million miles away.
  She was in the middle of the forest, pitch dark, without food or shelter. Jessica thought about Vincent and Sophie. Right now, Vincent was probably climbing the walls. They'd made a pact long ago-based on the danger inherent in their work-that they wouldn't miss dinner without calling. No matter what. Ever. If one of them didn't call, something was wrong.
  Something was clearly wrong here.
  Jessica stood up, wincing from the multitude of aches, pains, and scratches. She tried to control her emotions. Then she saw it. A light in the distance. It was dim, flickering, but clearly man-made-a tiny point of illumination in the vast blackness of the night. It could have been candles or oil lamps, perhaps a kerosene heater. Either way, it represented life. It represented warmth. Jessica wanted to scream, but she decided against it. The light was too far away, and she had no idea if there were any animals nearby. She didn't need that kind of attention right now.
  She couldn't tell if the light was coming from a house or even a structure. She couldn't hear the sound of a nearby road, so it probably wasn't a business or a car. Perhaps it was a small campfire. People camped in Pennsylvania year-round.
  Jessica estimated the distance between her and the light, probably no more than half a mile. But she couldn't see half a mile. Anything could be there at that distance. Rocks, culverts, ditches.
  Bears.
  But at least now she had a direction.
  Jessica took a few hesitant steps forward and headed towards the light.
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  Roland swam. His hands and feet were bound with a strong rope. The moon was high, the snow had stopped, the clouds had dispersed. In the light reflected from the glowing white ground, he saw many things. He was floating along a narrow channel. Large skeletal structures lined both sides. He saw a huge storybook, open in the center. He saw an exhibition of stone toadstools. One exhibit looked like the dilapidated façade of a Scandinavian castle.
  The boat was smaller than a dinghy. Roland soon realized he wasn't the only passenger. Someone was sitting right behind him. Roland struggled to turn around, but he couldn't move.
  "What do you want from me?" Roland asked.
  The voice came in a soft whisper, inches from his ear. "I want you to stop winter."
  What is he talking about?
  "How... how can I do this? How can I stop winter?"
  There was a long silence, only the sound of the wooden boat splashing against the icy stone walls of the canal as it moved through the labyrinth.
  "I know who you are," said a voice. "I know what you do. I've known it all along.
  A black terror gripped Roland. Moments later, the boat stopped in front of an abandoned exhibit to Roland's right. The display featured large snowflakes made of rotting pine, a rusty iron stove with a long neck and tarnished brass handles. A broom handle and an oven scraper leaned against the stove. In the center of the display stood a throne made of twigs and branches. Roland saw the green of the recently broken branches. The throne was new.
  Roland struggled with the ropes, with the nylon strap around his neck. God had abandoned him. He had searched for the devil for so long, but it all ended like this.
  The man walked around him and headed toward the bow of the boat. Roland looked into his eyes. He saw Charlotte's face reflected in it.
  Sometimes it's the devil you know.
  Under the mercurial moon, the devil leaned forward with a gleaming knife in his hand and cut out Roland Hanna's eyes.
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  It seemed to take forever. Jessica fell only once-slipping on an icy patch that resembled a paved path.
  The lights she spotted from the stream emanated from a one-story house. It was still quite a distance away, but Jessica saw that she was now in a complex of dilapidated buildings built around a labyrinth of narrow canals.
  Some buildings resembled shops in a small Scandinavian village. Others resembled seaport structures. As she walked along the banks of the canals, moving deeper into the complex, new buildings, new dioramas appeared. All of them were dilapidated, worn, broken.
  Jessica knew where she was. She had entered a theme park. She had entered the Storyteller River.
  She found herself a hundred feet from a building that might have been a recreated Danish school.
  Candlelight burned inside. Bright candlelight. Shadows flickered and danced.
  She instinctively reached for her gun, but the holster was empty. She crawled closer to the building. Before her was the widest canal she'd ever seen. It led to the boathouse. To her left, thirty or forty feet away, was a small pedestrian bridge over the canal. At one end of the bridge stood a statue holding a lit kerosene lamp. It cast an eerie copper glow into the night.
  As she approached the bridge, she realized the figure on it wasn't a statue at all. It was a man. He was standing on the overpass, looking up at the sky.
  As Jessica stepped a few feet from the bridge, her heart sank.
  That man was Joshua Bontrager.
  And his hands were covered in blood.
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  Byrne and Vincent followed a winding road deeper into the forest. At times, it was only a single lane wide, covered in ice. Twice they had to cross rickety bridges. About a mile into the forest, they discovered a fenced-off path leading further east. There was no gate on the map Nadine Palmer had drawn.
  "I'll try it again." Vincent's cell phone was hanging on the dashboard. He reached out and dialed a number. A second later, the speaker beeped. Once. Twice.
  And then the phone answered. It was Jessica's voicemail, but it sounded different. A long hiss, then static. Then breathing.
  "Jess," Vincent said.
  Silence. Only the faint murmur of electronic noise. Byrne glanced at the LCD screen. The connection was still open.
  "Jess."
  Nothing. Then a rustling sound. Then a weak voice. A man's voice.
  "Here are the girls, young and beautiful."
  "What?" Vincent asked.
  "Dancing in the Summer Air."
  "Who the hell is this?"
  "Like two spinning wheels playing."
  "Answer me!"
  "Beautiful girls are dancing."
  As Byrne listened, the skin on his arms began to dimple. He looked at Vincent. The man's expression was blank and unreadable.
  Then the connection was lost.
  Vincent hit the speed dial. The phone rang again. Same voicemail. He hung up.
  - What the hell is going on?
  "I don't know," Byrne said. "But it's your move, Vince."
  Vincent covered his face with his hands for a second, then looked up. "Let"s find her."
  Byrne got out of the car at the gate. It was locked with a huge coil of rusty iron chain, secured with an old padlock. It looked as if it hadn't been disturbed for a long time. Both sides of the road, leading deep into the forest, ended in deep, frozen culverts. They would never be able to drive. The car's headlights cut through the darkness for only fifty feet, then the darkness drowned out the light.
  Vincent got out of the car, reached into the trunk, and pulled out a shotgun. He picked it up and closed the trunk. He climbed back in, turned off the lights and engine, and grabbed the keys. The darkness was complete now; night, silence.
  There they stood, two Philadelphia police officers, in the middle of rural Pennsylvania.
  Without saying a word, they moved along the path.
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  "It could only be one place," Bontrager said. "I read the stories, I pieced them together. It could only be here. The story book 'The River.' I should have thought of that sooner. As soon as it dawned on me, I hit the road. I was going to call the boss, but I figured it was too unlikely, considering it was New Year's Eve."
  Josh Bontrager now stood in the center of the pedestrian bridge. Jessica tried to take it all in. At that moment, she didn't know what to believe or who to trust.
  "Did you know about this place?" Jessica asked.
  "I grew up not far from here. So, we weren't allowed to come here, but we all knew about it. My grandmother sold some of our canned goods to the owners."
  "Josh." Jessica pointed at his hands. "Whose blood is this?"
  "The man I found."
  "Man?"
  "Down on Channel One," Josh said. "This...this is really bad."
  "Did you find someone?" Jessica asked. "What are you talking about?"
  "He's at one of the exhibitions." Bontrager looked at the ground for a moment. Jessica didn't know what to make of it. He looked up. "I'll show you."
  They walked back across the footbridge. Canals snaked between the trees, winding toward the forest and back. They walked along narrow stone edges. Bontrager shone his flashlight on the ground. After a few minutes, they approached one of the displays. It contained a stove, a pair of large wooden snowflakes, and a stone replica of a sleeping dog. Bontrager shone his flashlight on a figure in the center of the screen, seated on a throne of sticks. The figure's head was wrapped in a red cloth.
  The caption above the display read: "NOW HUMAN."
  "I know the story," Bontrager said. "It's about a snowman who dreams of being near a stove."
  Jessica approached the figure. She carefully removed the wrapping. Dark blood, almost black in the lantern light, dripped onto the snow.
  The man was bound and gagged. Blood poured from his eyes. Or, more accurately, from his empty sockets. In their place were black triangles.
  "Oh my God," Jessica said.
  "What?" Bontrager asked. "You know him?"
  Jessica pulled herself together. That man was Roland Hanna.
  "Have you checked his vital signs?" she asked.
  Bontrager looked at the ground. "No, I..." Bontrager began. "No, ma'am."
  "It's okay, Josh." She stepped forward and felt for his pulse. A few seconds later, she found it. He was still alive.
  "Call the sheriff's office," Jessica said.
  "Already done," Bontrager said. "They're on their way."
  - Do you have a weapon?
  Bontrager nodded and pulled his Glock from its holster. He handed it to Jessica. "I don't know what's going on in that building over there." Jessica pointed at the school building. "But whatever it is, we have to stop it."
  "Okay." Bontrager's voice sounded much less confident than his answer.
  "Are you okay?" Jessica pulled out the gun's magazine. Full. She fired it at the target and inserted a round.
  "Okay," Bontrager said.
  "Keep the lights low."
  Bontrager took the lead, bending down and holding his Maglite close to the ground. They were no more than a hundred feet from the school building. As they made their way back through the trees, Jessica tried to make sense of the layout. The small building had no veranda or balcony. There was one door and two windows in the front. Its sides were hidden by trees. A small pile of bricks was visible beneath one of the windows.
  When Jessica saw the bricks, she understood. It had been bothering her for days, and now she finally understood.
  His hands.
  His hands were too soft.
  Jessica peered through the front window. Through the lace curtains, she saw the interior of a single room. A small stage was behind her. A few wooden chairs were scattered about, but there was no other furniture.
  There were candles everywhere, including an ornate chandelier suspended from the ceiling.
  There was a coffin on the stage, and Jessica saw the image of a woman in it. The woman was dressed in a strawberry-pink dress. Jessica couldn't see whether she was breathing or not.
  A man dressed in a dark tailcoat and a white shirt with wingtips walked onto the stage. His vest was red with a paisley pattern, and his tie was a black silk puff. A watch chain hung in his vest pockets. On a nearby table sat a Victorian top hat.
  He stood over the woman in the elaborately carved coffin, studying her. He held a rope in his hands, looping toward the ceiling. Jessica followed the rope with her gaze. It was difficult to see through the grimy window, but when she climbed outside, a chill ran through her. A large crossbow hung above the woman, aimed at her heart. A long steel arrow was loaded into the spike. The bow was strung and attached to a rope that passed through an eye in the beam and then back down.
  Jessica stayed downstairs and walked to a clearer window on the left. When she peered inside, the scene wasn't darkened. She almost wished it weren't.
  The woman in the coffin was Nikki Malone.
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  Byrne and Vincent climbed to the top of a hill overlooking the theme park. Moonlight bathed the valley in a clear blue light, giving them a good overview of the park's layout. Canals snaked through the deserted trees. Around every turn, sometimes in a row, were displays and backdrops reaching fifteen to twenty feet high. Some resembled giant books, others ornate storefronts.
  The air smelled of earth, compost and rotting flesh.
  Only one building had light. A small structure, no more than twenty by twenty feet, near the end of the main canal. From where they stood, they saw shadows in the light. They also noticed two people peering in the windows.
  Byrne spotted a path leading down. Most of the road was covered in snow, but there were signs on both sides. He pointed it out to Vincent.
  A few moments later they headed into the valley, towards the Fairytale Book River.
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  Jessica opened the door and entered the building. She held her gun at her side, pointing it away from the man on stage. She was immediately struck by the overpowering smell of dead flowers. The coffin was filled with them. Daisies, lilies of the valley, roses, gladioli. The scent was deep and cloyingly sweet. She nearly choked.
  The strangely dressed man on stage immediately turned to greet her.
  "Welcome to StoryBook River," he said.
  Even though his hair was slicked back with a sharp parting on the right side, Jessica recognized him immediately. It was Will Pedersen. Or the young man who called himself Will Pedersen. The bricklayer they'd questioned the morning Christina Jacos's body was discovered. The man who'd come into the Roundhouse-Jessica's own shop-and told them about the moon paintings.
  They caught him, and he left. Jessica's stomach churned with anger. She needed to calm down. "Thank you," she replied.
  - Is it cold there?
  Jessica nodded. "Very."
  "Well, you can stay here as long as you like." He turned to the large Victrola to his right. "Do you like music?"
  Jessica had been here before, on the brink of such madness. For now, she'd play his game. "I love music."
  Holding the rope taut in one hand, he turned the crank with the other, raised his hand, and placed it on an old 78-rpm record. A creaky waltz, played on a calliope, began.
  "This is 'Snow Waltz,'" he said. "It's my absolute favorite."
  Jessica closed the door. She looked around the room.
  - So your name isn't Will Pedersen, is it?
  "No. I apologize for that. I really don't like lying."
  The idea had been nagging at her for days, but there was no reason to pursue it. Will Pedersen's hands were too soft for a mason.
  "Will Pedersen is a name I borrowed from a very famous person," he said. "Lieutenant Wilhelm Pedersen illustrated some of Hans Christian Andersen's books. He was a truly great artist."
  Jessica glanced at Nikki. She still couldn't tell if she was breathing. "It was smart of you to use that name," she said.
  He grinned widely. "I had to think fast! I didn't know you were going to talk to me that day.
  "What is your name?"
  He thought about it. Jessica noticed that he was taller than the last time they met, and broader in the shoulders. She looked into his dark, piercing eyes.
  "I've been known by many names," he finally answered. "Sean, for example. Sean is a version of John. Just like Hans.
  "But what's your real name?" Jessica asked. "I mean, if you don't mind me asking."
  "I don't mind. My name is Marius Damgaard.
  - Can I call you Marius?
  He waved his hand. "Please, call me Moon."
  "Luna," Jessica repeated. She shuddered.
  "And please put the gun down." Moon pulled the rope taut. "Put it on the floor and throw it away from you." Jessica looked at the crossbow. The steel arrow was aimed at Nikki's heart.
  "Now please," Moon added.
  Jessica dropped the weapon to the floor. She threw it away.
  "I regret what happened before, at my grandmother's house," he said.
  Jessica nodded. Her head was throbbing. She needed to think. The sound of the calliope made it difficult. "I understand."
  Jessica glanced at Nikki again. No movement.
  "When you came to the police station, was it just to mock us?" Jessica asked.
  Moon looked offended. "No, ma'am. I was just afraid you'd miss it.
  "Is the moon drawing on the wall?"
  "Yes, ma'am."
  Moon circled the table, smoothing Nikki's dress. Jessica watched his hands. Nikki didn't respond to his touch.
  "Can I ask a question?" Jessica asked.
  "Certainly."
  Jessica searched for the right tone. "Why? Why did you do all this?"
  Moon paused, his head bowed. Jessica thought he hadn't heard. Then he looked up, and his expression was sunny again.
  "Of course, to bring people back. Let's go back to the StoryBook River. They're going to tear it all down. Did you know that?
  Jessica found no reason to lie. "Yes."
  "You never came here as a child, did you?" he asked.
  "No," Jessica said.
  "Imagine. It was a magical place where children came. Families came. Memorial Day through Labor Day. Every year, year after year."
  As he spoke, Moon loosened his grip on the rope slightly. Jessica glanced at Nikki Malone and saw her chest rise and fall.
  If you want to understand magic, you must believe.
  "Who's that?" Jessica pointed at Nikki. She hoped this man was too far gone to realize she was just playing his game. He was.
  "This is Ida," he said. "She will help me bury the flowers."
  Although Jessica had read "Little Ida's Flowers" as a child, she couldn't recall the details of the story. "Why are you going to bury the flowers?"
  Moon looked annoyed for a moment. Jessica was losing him. His fingers caressed the rope. Then he said slowly, "So that next summer they'll bloom more beautifully than ever."
  Jessica took a small step to the left. Luna didn't notice. "Why do you need a crossbow? If you want, I can help you bury the flowers.
  "That's very kind of you. But in the story, James and Adolph had crossbows. They couldn't afford guns."
  "I'd like to hear about your grandfather." Jessica moved to the left. Again, it went unnoticed. "If you want, tell me."
  Tears immediately welled up in Moon's eyes. He turned away from Jessica, perhaps in embarrassment. He wiped his tears and looked back. "He was a wonderful man. He designed and built StoryBook River with his own hands. All the entertainment, all the performances. You see, he was from Denmark, like Hans Christian Andersen. He came from a small village called Sønder-Åske. Near Aalborg. This is actually his father's suit." He pointed to his suit. He stood up straight, as if at attention. "Do you like it?"
  "I do. It looks very good."
  The man who called himself Moon smiled. "His name was Frederick. Do you know what that name means?"
  "No," Jessica said.
  "It means a peaceful ruler. That's what my grandfather was like. He ruled this peaceful little kingdom."
  Jessica glanced past him. There were two windows at the back of the auditorium, one on each side of the stage. Josh Bontrager was walking around the building to the right. She hoped she could distract the man long enough to get him to drop the rope for a moment. She glanced at the window to the right. She didn't see Josh.
  "Do you know what Damgaard means?" he asked.
  "No." Jessica took another small step to the left. This time Moon followed her with his gaze, turning slightly away from the window.
  In Danish, Damgaard means "farmstead by the pond."
  Jessica had to get him talking. "It's beautiful," she said. "Have you ever been to Denmark?"
  Luna's face lit up. He blushed. "Oh, God, no. I've only been out of Pennsylvania once.
  To get the nightingales, Jessica thought.
  "You see, when I was growing up, StoryBook River was already going through hard times," he said. "There were other places, big, loud, ugly places, where families would go instead. That was bad for my grandmother." He pulled the rope tight. "She was a tough woman, but she loved me." He pointed to Nikki Malone. "That was her mother's dress."
  "This is wonderful."
  Shadow by the window.
  "When I went to a bad place to look for swans, my grandmother came to see me every weekend. She took the train.
  "You mean the swans in Fairmount Park? In 1995?"
  "Yes."
  Jessica saw the outline of a shoulder in the window. Josh was there.
  Moon placed a few more dried flowers in the coffin, arranging them carefully. "You know, my grandmother died."
  "I read it in the newspaper. I'm sorry."
  "Thank you."
  "The Tin Soldier was close," he said. "He was very close."
  Besides the river murders, the man standing before her burned Walt Brigham alive. Jessica was glimpsed on the burned corpse in the park.
  "He was smart," Moon added. "He would have stopped this story before it ended."
  "What about Roland Hanna?" Jessica asked.
  Moon slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. His gaze seemed to pierce her. "Bigfoot? You don't know much about him.
  Jessica moved further to the left, distracting Moon's gaze from Josh. Josh was now less than five linear feet from Nikki. If Jessica could get the man to let go of the rope for a second...
  "I believe people will come back here," Jessica said.
  "You think so?" He reached out and turned the record on again. The sound of steam whistles filled the room again.
  "Absolutely," she said. "People are curious."
  The moon moved away again. "I didn"t know my great-grandfather. But he was a sailor. My grandfather once told me a story about him, about how in his youth he was at sea and saw a mermaid. I knew it wasn"t true. I would have read it in a book. He also told me that he helped the Danes build a place called Solvang in California. Do you know that place?"
  Jessica had never heard of it. "No."
  "It's a real Danish village. I'd like to go there someday."
  "Maybe you should." Another step to the left. Moon quickly looked up.
  - Where are you going, tin soldier?
  Jessica glanced out the window. Josh was holding a large rock.
  "Nowhere," she replied.
  Jessica watched as Moon's expression changed from a welcoming host to one of utter madness and fury. He pulled the rope taut. The crossbow's mechanism groaned over Nikki Malone's prostrate body.
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  Byrne took aim with his pistol. In the candlelit room, a man on stage stood behind a coffin. The coffin held Nikki Malone. A large crossbow pointed a steel arrow at her heart.
  The man was Will Pedersen. He had a white flower on his lapel.
  White flower, said Natalia Yakos.
  Take a photo.
  A few seconds earlier, Byrne and Vincent had approached the front of the school. Jessica was inside, trying to negotiate with the madman on stage. She was moving to the left.
  Did she know Byrne and Vincent were there? Did she move out of the way to give them a chance to shoot?
  Byrne raised the barrel of his gun slightly, allowing the bullet's trajectory to be distorted as it passed through the glass. He wasn't sure how this would affect the bullet. He took aim down the barrel.
  He saw Anton Krots.
  White flower.
  He saw a knife at Laura Clark's throat.
  Take a photo.
  Byrne saw the man raise his hands and the rope. He was about to activate the crossbow mechanism.
  Byrne couldn't wait. Not this time.
  He fired.
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  Marius Damgaard pulled the rope as a shot rang out in the room. At the same moment, Josh Bontrager slammed a rock into the window, shattering the glass and turning it into a shower of crystal. Damgaard staggered back, blood blooming on his snow-white shirt. Bontrager grabbed the shards of ice and then rushed across the room to the stage, toward the coffin. Damgaard staggered and fell backward, his entire weight resting on the rope. The crossbow's mechanism triggered as Damgaard vanished through the broken window, leaving a slick scarlet trail across the floor, wall, and windowsill.
  As the steel arrow flew, Josh Bontrager reached Nikki Malone. The projectile struck his right thigh, passed through it, and entered Nikki's flesh. Bontrager screamed in agony as a huge stream of his blood spurted across the room.
  A moment later, the front door slammed shut.
  Jessica dove for her weapon, rolled across the floor, and took aim. Somehow, Kevin Byrne and Vincent were standing in front of her. She jumped to her feet.
  Three detectives rushed to the scene. Nikki was still alive. The arrowhead had pierced her right shoulder, but the wound didn't look serious. Josh's injury looked much worse. The razor-sharp arrow had pierced his leg deeply. He might have hit an artery.
  Byrne tore off his coat and shirt. He and Vincent lifted Bontrager and tied a tight tourniquet around his thigh. Bontrager screamed in pain.
  Vincent turned to his wife and hugged her. "Are you okay?"
  "Yes," Jessica said. "Josh called for backup. The sheriff's office is on its way."
  Byrne looked out the broken window. A dry canal ran behind the building. Damgaard had disappeared.
  "I have this." Jessica pressed on Josh Bontrager's wound. "Go get him," she said.
  "Are you sure?" Vincent asked.
  "I'm sure. Go."
  Byrne put his coat back on. Vincent grabbed the shotgun.
  They ran out the door into the black night.
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  The moon is bleeding. He heads for the entrance to the River of Storybooks, picking his way through the darkness. He can't see well, but he knows every bend in the canals, every stone, every sight. His breath is wet and labored, his pace slow.
  He pauses for a moment, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a match. He remembers the story of the little match seller. Barefoot and without a coat, she found herself alone on New Year's Eve. It was very cold. The evening was growing late, and the little girl struck match after match to keep warm.
  In every flash she saw a vision.
  Moon lights a match. In the flame, he sees beautiful swans shining in the spring sun. He strikes another. This time he sees Thumbelina, her tiny figure on a water lily. The third match is a nightingale. He remembers her song. The next is Karen, graceful in her red shoes. Then Anne Lisbeth. Match after match glows brightly in the night. Moon sees every face, remembers every story.
  He only has a few matches left.
  Perhaps, like the little match salesman, he'll light them all at once. When the girl in the story did this, her grandmother descended and lifted her up to heaven.
  Luna hears a sound and turns. On the bank of the main canal, just a few feet away, stands a man. He's not a large man, but broad-shouldered and strong-looking. He's throwing a piece of rope over the crossbar of a huge grate spanning the Osttunnelen canal.
  Moon knows the story is ending.
  He strikes matches and begins to recite.
  "Here are the girls, young and beautiful."
  One by one, the match heads light up.
  "Dancing in the Summer Air."
  A warm glow fills the world.
  "Like two spinning wheels playing."
  Moon drops the matches to the ground. The man steps forward and ties Moon's hands behind his back. Moments later, Moon feels the soft rope wrap around his neck and sees a gleaming knife in the man's hand.
  "Beautiful girls are dancing."
  The moon rises from beneath his feet, high into the air, moving upward, upward. Below him, he sees the shining faces of the swans, Anna Lisbeth, Thumbelina, Karen, and everyone else. He sees the canals, the exhibits, the wonder of the Fairytale River.
  The man disappears into the forest.
  On the ground, the flame of a match flares brightly, burns for a moment, then fades.
  For the Moon there is now only darkness.
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  Byrne and Vincent searched the area adjacent to the school building, holding flashlights over the weapons, but found nothing. The paths leading around the north side of the building belonged to Josh Bontrager. They came to a dead end at a window.
  They walked along the banks of narrow canals that snaked between the trees, their Maglites cutting thin beams through the absolute darkness of the night.
  After the second bend in the canal, they saw tracks. And blood. Byrne caught Vincent's eye. They would search on opposite sides of the six-foot-wide canal.
  Vincent crossed the arched pedestrian bridge, Byrne remaining on the near side. They hunted through the turning tributaries of the canals. They came across dilapidated storefronts adorned with faded signs: "THE LITTLE MERMAID." A FLYING TRUNK. A STORY OF THE WIND. AN OLD STREET LAMP. Skeletons perched in the storefronts. Rotting clothing swaddled the figures.
  A few minutes later, they reached the end of the canals. Damgaard was nowhere to be seen. The grate blocking the main canal near the entrance was fifty feet away. Beyond that, the world. Damgaard had vanished.
  "Don't move," came a voice directly behind them.
  Byrne heard a shotgun blast.
  "Lower the weapon carefully and slowly."
  "We are the Philadelphia police," Vincent said.
  "I don't make a habit of repeating myself, young man. Put your weapon down right now."
  Byrne understood. It was the Berks County Sheriff's Department. He glanced to his right. Deputies were moving through the trees, their flashlights cutting through the darkness. Byrne wanted to protest-every second of delay meant another second for Marius Damgaard to escape-but they had no choice. Byrne and Vincent complied. They placed their guns on the ground, then their hands behind their heads, intertwining their fingers.
  "One at a time," a voice said. "Slowly. Let's see your IDs."
  Byrne reached into his coat and pulled out a badge. Vincent followed suit.
  "Okay," said the man.
  Byrne and Vincent turned and picked up their weapons. Behind them stood Sheriff Jacob Toomey and a pair of young deputies. Jake Toomey was a gray-haired man in his fifties, with a thick neck and a country haircut. His two deputies were 180 pounds of deep-fried adrenaline. Serial killers didn't come to this part of the world very often.
  Moments later, a county ambulance crew ran past, heading toward the school building.
  "Is this all connected with the boy Damgaard?" asked Tumi.
  Byrne laid out his evidence quickly and concisely.
  Tumi looked at the theme park, then at the ground. "Shit."
  "Sheriff Toomey." The call came from the other side of the canals, near the park entrance. A group of men followed the voice and reached the mouth of the canal. Then they saw it.
  The body hung from the central crossbar of the grate blocking the entrance. Above it, a once-festive legend adorned the walls:
  
  
  
  SORRY OK RIVE R
  
  
  
  Half a dozen flashlights illuminated the body of Marius Damgaard. His hands were bound behind his back. His feet were just a few feet above the water, hanging by a blue and white rope. Byrne also saw a pair of footprints leading into the woods. Sheriff Toomey dispatched a pair of deputies after him. They disappeared into the woods, shotguns in hand.
  Marius Damgaard was dead. When Byrne and the others shone their flashlights on the body, they saw that he had not only been hanged, but also disemboweled. A long, gaping wound ran from his throat to his stomach. His entrails hung out, steaming in the chill night air.
  A few minutes later, both deputies returned empty-handed. They met their boss's gaze and shook their heads. Whoever had been here, at the site of Marius Damgaard's execution, was no longer there.
  Byrne looked at Vincent Balzano. Vincent turned and ran back into the school building.
  It was over. Except for the constant drips from Marius Damgaard's mutilated corpse.
  The sound of blood turning into a river.
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  Two days after the horrors in Odense, Pennsylvania, were uncovered, the media nearly made a permanent home in this small rural community. It was international news. Berks County was unprepared for the unwanted attention.
  Josh Bontrager underwent six hours of surgery and was in stable condition at Reading Hospital and Medical Center. Nikki Malone was treated and released.
  Initial FBI reports indicated that Marius Damgaard had killed at least nine people. No forensic evidence has yet been found directly linking him to the murders of Annemarie DiCillo and Charlotte Waite.
  Damgaard was confined to a psychiatric hospital in upstate New York for nearly eight years, from the ages of eleven to nineteen. He was released after his grandmother fell ill. A few weeks after Eliza Damgaard's death, his killing spree resumed.
  A thorough search of the house and grounds revealed a number of grisly discoveries. Not the least of these was that Marius Damgaard kept a vial of his grandfather's blood under his bed. DNA tests matched this to the "moon" markings on the victims. The semen belonged to Marius Damgaard himself.
  Damgaard disguised himself as Will Pedersen and also as a young man named Sean in the employ of Roland Hanna. He was counseled at the county psychiatric hospital where Lisette Simon worked. He visited TrueSew numerous times, choosing Samantha Fanning as his ideal Anne Lisbeth.
  When Marius Damgaard learned that the StoryBook River property-a thousand-acre parcel of land that Frederik Damgaard incorporated into a town called Odense in the 1930s-was condemned and seized for tax evasion and slated for demolition, he felt his universe crumble. He resolved to return the world to his beloved Storybook River, blazing a trail of death and horror as his guide.
  
  
  
  JANUARY 3 Jessica and Byrne stood near the mouth of the canals that snaked through the theme park. The sun was shining; the day promised a false spring. In the daylight, everything looked completely different. Despite the rotting wood and crumbling stonework, Jessica could see that this place had once been a place where families came to enjoy its unique atmosphere. She had seen vintage brochures. This was a place she could bring her daughter.
  Now it was a freak show, a place of death that attracted people from all over the world. Perhaps Marius Damgaard would get his wish. The entire complex had become a crime scene and would remain so for a long time.
  Have other bodies been found? Other horrors yet to be uncovered?
  Time will show.
  They reviewed hundreds of papers and files-city, state, county, and now federal. One testimony stood out to both Jessica and Byrne, and it's unlikely it will ever be fully understood. A resident of Pine Tree Lane, one of the access roads leading to the Storybook River entrance, saw a car idling on the side of the road that night. Jessica and Byrne visited the spot. It was less than a hundred yards from the grating where Marius Damgaard was found hanged and disemboweled. The FBI collected shoe prints from the entrance and back. The prints were those of a very popular brand of men's rubber sneakers, available everywhere.
  The witness reported that the idling vehicle was an expensive-looking green SUV with yellow fog lights and extensive trim.
  The witness did not receive a license plate.
  
  
  
  OUTSIDE THE FILM Witness: Jessica had never seen so many Amish in her life. It seemed like every Amish person in Berks County had come to Reading. They milled around the hospital lobby. The elders meditated, prayed, watched, and shooed children away from the candy and soda machines.
  When Jessica introduced herself, everyone shook her hand. It seemed Josh Bontrager had acted fairly.
  
  
  
  "YOU SAVED MY life," Nikki said.
  Jessica and Nikki Malone stood by Josh Bontrager's hospital bed. His room was filled with flowers.
  A razor-sharp arrow pierced Nikki's right shoulder. Her arm was in a sling. Doctors said she would be in OWD (injured in the line of duty) status for about a month.
  Bontrager smiled. "All in one day," he said.
  His color returned; his smile never left him. He sat up in bed, surrounded by hundreds of different cheeses, breads, cans of preserves, and sausages, all wrapped in waxed paper. There were countless homemade get-well cards.
  "When you get better, I'll buy you the best dinner in Philadelphia," Nikki said.
  Bontrager stroked his chin, obviously considering his options. "Le Bec Fin?"
  "Yeah. Okay. Le Bec Fin. You're on the air," Nikki said.
  Jessica knew Le Bec would cost Nikki a few hundred dollars. A small price to pay.
  "But you better be careful," Bontrager added.
  "What do you mean?"
  - Well, you know what they say.
  "No, I don"t know," Nikki said. "What are they saying, Josh?"
  Bontrager winked at her and Jessica. "Once you go Amish, you never go back."
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  Byrne sat on a bench outside the courtroom. He had testified countless times in his career-before grand juries, at preliminary hearings, in murder trials. Most of the time, he knew exactly what he was going to say, but not this time.
  He entered the courtroom and took a seat in the front row.
  Matthew Clarke looked half his size the last time Byrne had seen him. This wasn't uncommon. Clarke held a gun, and guns made people look bigger. Now this man was cowardly and small.
  Byrne took a stand. The ADA recounted the events of the week leading up to the incident in which Clark took him hostage.
  "Is there anything you would like to add?" the ADA finally asked.
  Byrne looked into Matthew Clarke's eyes. He'd seen so many criminals in his time, so many people who cared nothing for property or human life.
  Matthew Clark didn't belong in prison. He needed help.
  "Yes," Byrne said, "there is."
  
  
  
  The air outside the courthouse had warmed since morning. Philadelphia's weather had been incredibly changeable, but somehow the temperature was approaching 104 degrees.
  As Byrne exited the building, he looked up to see Jessica approaching.
  "Sorry I couldn't come," she said.
  "No problem."
  - How did it go?
  "I don't know." Byrne shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "Not really." They fell silent.
  Jessica watched him for a moment, wondering what was going on in his head. She knew him well and knew that the Matthew Clark case would weigh heavily on his heart.
  "Well, I'm going home." Jessica knew when the walls, along with her partner, had come crashing down. She also knew Byrne would bring it up sooner or later. They had all the time in the world. "Need a ride?"
  Byrne looked at the sky. "I think I'll have to take a little walk."
  "Oh-oh."
  "What?"
  "You start walking, and the next thing you know, you're running."
  Byrne smiled. "You never know."
  Byrne turned up his collar and walked down the steps.
  "See you tomorrow," Jessica said.
  Kevin Byrne did not respond.
  
  
  
  PÁDRAIGH BYRNE stood in the living room of his new home. Boxes were stacked everywhere. His favorite chair sat in front of his new 42-inch plasma TV-a housewarming gift from his son.
  Byrne entered the room with a pair of glasses, each containing two inches of Jameson. He handed one to his father.
  They stood, strangers, in a strange place. They had never experienced such a moment before. Padraig Byrne had just left the only home he had ever lived in. The home into which he had brought his bride and raised his son.
  They raised their glasses.
  "Dia duit," Byrne said.
  "Dia is Muire duit."
  They clinked glasses and drank whiskey.
  "Are you going to be okay?" Byrne asked.
  "I'm fine," said Padraig. "Don't worry about me."
  - That's right, dad.
  Ten minutes later, pulling out of the driveway, Byrne looked up to see his father standing in the doorway. Padraig looked a little smaller, a little further away.
  Byrne wanted to freeze this moment in his memory. He didn't know what tomorrow would bring, how much time they would spend together. But he knew that for now, for the foreseeable future, everything was fine.
  He hoped his father felt the same.
  
  
  
  Byrne returned the van and retrieved his car. He exited the interstate and headed toward the Schuylkill. He got out and parked on the riverbank.
  He closed his eyes, reliving the moment he'd pulled the trigger in that house of madness. Had he hesitated? He honestly couldn't remember. Regardless, he'd fired, and that was all that mattered.
  Byrne opened his eyes. He looked at the river, pondering the mysteries of a thousand years as it flowed silently past him: the tears of desecrated saints, the blood of broken angels.
  The river never tells.
  He got back in his car and drove to the freeway entrance. He looked at the green and white signs. One led back to the city. One headed west, toward Harrisburg, Pittsburgh, and another pointed northwest.
  Including Meadville.
  Detective Kevin Francis Byrne took a deep breath.
  And he made his choice.
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  There was a purity, a clarity in its darkness, underscored by the serene weight of permanence. There were moments of relief, as if it had all happened-all of it, from the moment he first set foot in the damp field, to the day he first turned the key in the door of the ramshackle Kensington terrace house, to the foul breath of Joseph Barber as he bid farewell to this mortal coil-to bring him into this black, seamless world.
  But the darkness was not darkness to the Lord.
  Every morning they came to his cell and led Roland Hanna to a small chapel where he was to conduct the service. At first, he was reluctant to leave his cell. But he soon realized it was merely a distraction, a stop on the path to salvation and glory.
  He would spend the rest of his life in this place. There was no trial. They asked Roland what he had done, and he told them. He wouldn't lie.
  But the Lord came here too. In fact, the Lord was here that very day. And in this place there were many sinners, many people in need of correction.
  Pastor Roland Hanna dealt with them all.
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  Jessica arrived at the Devonshire Acres site just after 4:00 a.m. on February 5. The impressive fieldstone complex sat atop a gentle hill. Several outbuildings dotted the landscape.
  Jessica came to the facility to talk to Roland Hannah's mother, Artemisia Waite. Or try to. Her supervisor gave her the discretion to conduct the interview, to put a full stop to the story that began on a bright spring day in April 1995, the day two little girls went to the park for a birthday picnic, the day a long chain of horrors began.
  Roland Hanna confessed and served eighteen life sentences without parole. Kevin Byrne, along with retired detective John Longo, helped build the state's case against him, much of which was based on Walt Brigham's notes and files.
  It's unknown whether Roland Hannah's half-brother, Charles, was involved in the lynchings or whether he was with Roland that night in Odense. If he was, one mystery remains: how did Charles Waite return to Philadelphia? He couldn't drive. According to a court-appointed psychologist, he acted at the level of a capable nine-year-old.
  Jessica stood in the parking lot next to her car, her mind racing with questions. She felt someone approaching. She was surprised to see it was Richie DiCillo.
  "Detective," Richie said, as if he had been waiting for her.
  "Richie. Good to see you."
  "Happy New Year."
  "Same to you," Jessica said. "What brings you here?"
  "Just checking something." He said it with the categoricalness Jessica had seen in all veteran cops. There would be no more questions about it.
  "How's your dad?" Richie asked.
  "He's good," Jessica said. "Thanks for asking."
  Richie glanced back at the complex of buildings. The moment stretched. "So, how long have you been working here? If you don't mind me asking."
  "I don't mind at all," Jessica said, smiling. "You're not asking my age. It's been over ten years."
  "Ten years." Richie frowned and nodded. "I've been doing this for almost thirty. Flys by, doesn't it?"
  "It does. You don't think so, but it seems like just yesterday I put on my blues and walked outside for the first time."
  It was all subtext, and they both knew it. No one saw or created bullshit better than the cops. Richie rocked back on his heels and glanced at his watch. "Well, I've got some bad guys waiting to be caught," he said. "Good to see you."
  "Same thing." Jessica wanted to add so much to this. She wanted to say something about Annemarie, about how sorry she was. She wanted to say how she realized there was a hole in his heart that would never be filled, no matter how much time passed, no matter how the story ended.
  Richie took out his car keys and turned to leave. He hesitated for a moment, as if he had something to say but no idea how. He glanced at the main building of the facility. When he looked back at Jessica, she thought she saw something in the man's eyes she'd never seen before, not in a man who had seen as much as Richie DiCillo.
  She saw the world.
  "Sometimes," Richie began, "justice prevails."
  Jessica understood. And the understanding was a cold dagger in her chest. Perhaps she should have left it alone, but she was her father's daughter. "Didn't someone once say that in the next world we get justice, and in this world we have the law?"
  Richie smiled. Before he turned and walked across the parking lot, Jessica glanced at his shoes. They looked new.
  Sometimes justice will prevail.
  A minute later, Jessica saw Richie pull out of the parking lot. He waved one last time. She waved back.
  As he drove away, Jessica found herself not so surprised to find Detective Richard DiCillo driving a large green SUV with yellow fog lights and extensive detailing.
  Jessica looked up at the main building. There were several small windows on the second floor. She spotted two people watching her through the window. It was too far away to make out their features, but something about the tilt of their heads and the position of their shoulders told her she was being watched.
  Jessica thought of the Storybook River, that heart of madness.
  Was it Richie DiCillo who tied Marius Damgaard's hands behind his back and hanged him? Was it Richie who drove Charles Waite back to Philadelphia?
  Jessica decided she should make another trip to Berks County. Perhaps justice had not yet been served.
  
  
  
  FOUR HOURS LATER, she found herself in the kitchen. Vincent was in the basement with his two brothers, watching the Flyers game. The dishes were in the dishwasher. The rest had been put away. She had a glass of Montepulciano at work. Sophie was sitting in the living room, watching The Little Mermaid DVD.
  Jessica walked into the living room and sat down next to her daughter. "Tired, honey?"
  Sophie shook her head and yawned. "No."
  Jessica hugged Sophie close. Her daughter smelled like baby girl bubble bath. Her hair was a bouquet of flowers. "Anyway, it's time for bed."
  "Fine."
  Later, with her daughter tucked under the covers, Jessica kissed Sophie on the forehead and reached over to turn off the light.
  "Mother?"
  - What's up, sweetie?
  Sophie rummaged under the covers. She pulled out a book by Hans Christian Andersen, one of the volumes Jessica had borrowed from the library.
  "Will you read me the story?" Sophie asked.
  Jessica took the book from her daughter, opened it, and glanced at the illustration on the title page. It was a woodcut of the moon.
  Jessica closed the book and turned off the light.
  - Not today, dear.
  
  
  
  TWO nights.
  Jessica sat on the edge of the bed. She'd been feeling a tingle of unrest for days. Not certainty, but the possibility of possibility, a feeling once bereft of hope, twice disappointed.
  She turned and looked at Vincent. Dead to the world. God only knew what galaxies he'd conquered in his dreams.
  Jessica looked out the window at the full moon high in the night sky.
  Just a few moments later, she heard the egg timer ringing in the bathroom. Poetic, she thought. An egg timer. She stood up and shuffled across the bedroom.
  She turned on the light and looked at the two ounces of white plastic lying on the vanity. She was afraid of "yes." Afraid of "no."
  Babies.
  Detective Jessica Balzano, a woman who carried a gun and faced danger every day of her life, trembled slightly as she walked into the bathroom and closed the door.
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  EPILOGUE
  
  There was music. A song on the piano. Bright yellow daffodils smiled from the window boxes. The common room was almost empty. Soon it would fill up.
  The walls were decorated with rabbits, ducks and Easter eggs.
  Dinner arrived at five-thirty. This evening it was Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes. There was also a cup of applesauce.
  Charles looked out the window at the long shadows growing in the forest. It was spring, the air was crisp. The world smelled of green apples. April would soon be here. April meant danger.
  Charles knew there was still danger lurking in the forest, a darkness swallowing the light. He knew the girls shouldn't go there. His twin sister, Charlotte, went there.
  He took his mother by the hand.
  Now that Roland was gone, it was up to him. There was so much evil there. Ever since he'd settled in Devonshire Acres, he'd watched the shadows take human form. And at night, he'd heard them whisper. He'd heard the rustling of leaves, the swirling of the wind.
  He hugged his mother. She smiled. They would be safe now. As long as they stayed together, they would be safe from the bad things in the forest. Safe from anyone who could harm them.
  "Safe," thought Charles Waite.
  Since then.
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  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  
  There are no fables without magic. My deepest thanks to Meg Ruley, Jane Burkey, Peggy Gordane, Don Cleary, and everyone at Jane Rotrosen; thanks as always to my wonderful editor, Linda Marrow, as well as Dana Isaacson, Gina Centello, Libby McGuire, Kim Howie, Rachel Kind, Dan Mallory, and the wonderful team at Ballantine Books; thanks again to Nicola Scott, Kate Elton, Cassie Chadderton, Louise Gibbs, Emma Rose, and the brilliant team at Random House UK.
  Shout out to the Philadelphia crew: Mike Driscoll and the gang from Finnigan's Wake (and Ashburner Inn), plus Patrick Gegan, Jan Klincewicz, Karen Mauch, Joe Drabjak, Joe Brennan, Hallie Spencer (Mr. Wonderful), and Vita DeBellis.
  For their expertise, we thank the Honorable Seamus McCaffery, Detective Michelle Kelly, Sergeant Gregory Masi, Sergeant Joan Beres, Detective Edward Rox, Detective Timothy Bass, and the men and women of the Philadelphia Police Department; thank you to J. Harry Isaacson, M.D.; thank you to Crystal Seitz, Linda Wrobel, and the kind folks at the Reading and Berks County Visitors Bureau for coffee and maps; and thank you to DJC and DRM for wine and patience.
  Once again, I would like to thank the city and people of Philadelphia for indulging my imagination.
  OceanofPDF.com
  "Ruthless" is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
  
  
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