“Not bad,” Dr. Law said with a serious face. “That is, for a Boy Scout. But there is a fourth-degree. They extend down to the muscle, sometimes to the bone. Fourth-degree is rare.”

Payne nodded. “The pair who died in the explosion had fourth-degree. I just assumed those were categorized as severe third-degree burns. Which, now that I say it, would appear redundant.”

Payne then wondered if Skipper had fourth-degree burns.

Tony Harris also had told him that when Skipper bolted out of the burning motel room, he thought that the staggering man had been damn lucky to get out alive with only his clothes blown to shreds. Then Harris had realized the man was naked. What he’d thought were strips of clothing actually had been his flesh blown into strips.

“You were at the motel, Matt?” Mrs. Benjamin said with great interest.

“Yes, ma’am. Afterward. After the firefighters finished.”

“And you saw the ones who died?” Dr. Law asked.

Payne nodded. “The tech from the Medical Examiner’s Office showed me.”

“May I ask what you were doing there?” Dr. Law asked.

“I’m with the Homicide Unit.” He reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a wad of cash folded under a silver money clip. From the middle of the bills he slipped out one of the three or four business cards he kept there. He held out one to her. “Sergeant Matt Payne. My information, in case you can think of something I should know later.”

And with that statement the blue shirt now has figured me out.

She looked at it, then wordlessly-and perfunctorily-took it. She stuck it on her clipboard, then looked him in the eyes.

Do I detect, my dear doctor, something more than idle interest?

Please? You’re certainly Law. I would like to study…

“Matt,” Mr. Benjamin injected, “do you mind if we get back to Becca?”

Dr. Law said: “My apology, Mr. Benjamin. Your daughter is now heavily sedated and immobilized. The windshield that hit her actually did her a bit of a favor. That is to say, what hurt her also helped her.”

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Benjamin said.

“It served to protect her from worse injury. Her burns are limited to her upper scalp and her right hand. The glass protected the rest of her body.”

“Thank God!” Andrea Benjamin said, then audibly sighed with relief.

“Unfortunately,” Dr. Law continued, “the blunt-force trauma of the windshield has caused intracranial hypertension-”

“Becca’s brain is swelling?” Payne interrupted.

Dr. Law nodded. And it was clear by the look on her face she was impressed Payne even knew the term “intracranial hypertension.”

She looked between the Benjamins and went on: “We are going to try some first steps, ones that could correct the problem. But, Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin, I must caution you to be prepared that it may come to us having to induce a coma.”

“A coma!” James Benjamin said.

Andrea Benjamin put the handkerchief to her face and sniffled.

“We may not,” Dr. Law said, her tone soft yet reassuring. “I will of course be conferring with colleagues, specialists, before deciding. And of course with you.”

James Benjamin shook his head in disbelief. “Jesus!”

Payne could see that Benjamin’s muscles were now even more tense.

“Can you tell us what is going to happen now?” Andrea Benjamin said.

“Yes, of course,” Dr. Law said. “As I said, we have your daughter as comfortable as possible. She is in what might be described as a plastic tent. It creates an absolute sterile environment. There is a HEPA filter system hooked up to it that removes dust, dirt, and other particles from the air inside the tent to reduce the chances of infection of the patient.”

“What about the burns?” Andrea Benjamin said. “Will she require… oh, what’s the word?”

“Grafts?” Payne offered.

That earned him the glare of Dr. Law.

“Mrs. Benjamin,” she then said calmly, “I do not think skin grafts will be necessary. We have come a long way with specialized treatments. There are, for example, enzymatic agents. These dissolve the burn’s dead tissue on the surface. The process then lets the tissue underneath heal. Also, we have the option of artificial skin, with which we have had significant positive results.”

“Oh, that is all such wonderful information,” Andrea Benjamin said, her tone somewhat hopeful. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Dr. Law nodded and said, “But please remember: We’re very early in this process. There’s much work”-there was a perceptible pause as her eyes looked down the corridor-“to do.”

Payne looked to where she’d glanced. Joseph Olde was walking toward them.

“Good morning,” Olde called as he saw them looking at him.

“What the hell is good about it?” James Benjamin blurted.

“James…” Andrea said reprovingly. She looked at Olde. “Any news on Skipper, Joseph?”

“Nothing new yet.” He stared at Payne. “You’re Matt Payne, aren’t you?”

You didn’t have the decency to return the courtesy? Payne thought.

You could’ve at least asked Mrs. Benjamin about Becca.

Even if apparently you don’t give a damn.

Matt looked at James Benjamin.

And that’s not lost on her father…

No wonder Skipper can be such a prick.

Clearly, the nut didn’t fall far from the fucking tree.

“That’s right, Mr. Olde,” Payne replied.

“You still playing cop?” Olde said, but didn’t wait for a response before looking at James Benjamin. “Listen, Jim, I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones, but this time, this meth-”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Benjamin snapped.

Payne could see the veins in Benjamin’s temples pulsing.

Olde arrogantly went on: “Well, clearly this girl of yours has an established long pattern of substance abuse-”

“Why, you son… of… a… bitch!” James Benjamin shouted, furiously drawing out his declaration of sonofabitch.

What happened next transpired so quickly that Payne did not have time to even try to stop it.

Benjamin balled his right fist and swung. His punch hit Olde square in the left cheek, causing Olde to stagger back two steps. But remarkably Olde quickly recovered, and practically launched his lanky body at Benjamin, knocking them both to the floor.

“Stop it, you two!” Andrea Benjamin demanded.

The blue shirt sitting by the swinging doors dropped his paperback book. He reached up to his right epaulet, where the microphone of his radio was pinned.

He keyed the mic, and barked, “Kowenski! Get your ass down here!”

Then he jumped out of the chair and moved toward the brawl to break it up.

As Payne also moved that way, he saw a gurney come around the corner and into the corridor. It was being pushed by an orderly in blue scrubs.

[TWO] 1344 W. Susquehanna Avenue, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 10:40 A.M.

Chad Nesbitt weaved his cobalt-blue BMW M3 coupe through the slower traffic headed down Broad Street. He idly wondered if he was about to walk into some kind of setup, but the anguished voice on the phone sounded painfully genuine.

It had been that of a man. He spoke reasonably good English, but it was clearly with a Spanish accent. And when he said he was trying to find “Meester Skeeper,” Nesbitt knew that that was just too coincidental. He had to grant the man’s request for a meeting.

“How did you get my number?” Nesbitt had asked.

“From Meester Skeeper.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He give me his old cell phone. One day, I make mistake when I push a button. I thought the phone call Meester Skeeper. But it had all Meester Skeeper’s numbers, and it call you, your voice mail. I hang up. When I tell Meester Skeeper this, he say it is no problem. That you are his best friend. That you are partner in his business.”

“But why are you calling me now?”

“Because there is a problem with the business. Very bad. And I cannot reach him. He does not answer his cell phone.”