Washington made the educated guess that Coughlin kept at least two extra neckties-and probably another suit-as backups in his big office on the third floor.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Coughlin said once he was in Washington's doorway. "Thank you for coming in."

"Good morning, sir," Washington and Quaire now said in unison.

"And good timing, Commissioner," Washington added as he nodded toward the far side of the office. "Here come Sergeant Payne and Detective Harris."

Both Matt and Tony wore the same clothing that they'd had on when they'd left Liberties Bar with Mickey O'Hara some six hours earlier. And with baggy eyes and five-o'clock beard shadows, both looked as if they'd just awakened from a very short sleep.

"Jesus, you two look like the walking dead," Coughlin said by way of greeting. "You especially look like hell, Matty."

"Just call me an overachiever, Uncle Denny," Payne replied dryly. "I was catching a nap in the car when the long arm of Lieutenant Washington reached out for us. After Tony and I left the scene in Old City, we went to check out a hunch. The dead guy, Reggie Jones, had a sort of to-do list in his coat pocket, and we wound up staking out his house in South Philly. Thought it was a long shot, and boy was it."

"And I thought," Coughlin said, his tone suddenly cold as his Irish temper flared, "that we all agreed you would stay the hell off the streets while all that Wyatt Earp of the Main Line business died, if you'll pardon my choice of words."

There had been a flurry of new stories-from print to TV to the Internet-after the Bulletin had run the photograph of the tuxedo-clad Payne holding his Colt.45 above the robber he'd shot in the parking lot of La Famiglia Ristorante. And then those were rehashed when the story broke about Payne's foot chase and shoot-out with the assassin who fled Temple University Hospital. The mayor, who wasn't displeased with Payne per se but was tired of constantly defending a good cop doing a good job, simply called Denny Coughlin and suggested Matt stay the hell out of sight-and stay out of the news.

And Coughlin had sent the order down the chain of command, after telling Matt himself.

Coughlin looked from Payne to Washington to Quaire. "Well?"

Quaire began, "I take-"

"It's my fault, sir," Detective Tony Harris interrupted. "I should have known better."

"The hell it is," Matt Payne said, looking at Tony. He turned to Coughlin and added, "I invited myself along. Me and Mickey O'Hara."

Coughlin's eyebrows went up. "What the hell was Mickey doing?"

"We were at Liberties," Payne said, "when the news came in about the third dead guy. You know you can't tell Mickey 'no.'"

"Nor, apparently, you," Coughlin said to Matt, his ruddy face turning redder by the second. "When I give an order, I damn well expect it to be kept."

"Yes, sir," Matt said, his voice tired, its resigned tone sounding like that of a schoolboy who'd just been dressed down by the headmaster. Which, a dozen years ago, he had been on more than one occasion.

"And you, Detective Harris," Coughlin said.

"Yes, sir?"

"Same applies."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

Coughlin nodded and, with a more gentle voice, added, "I do commend you, Tony, being the low man on the totem pole here, for trying to take the bullet for everyone else, guilty or not."

Harris shrugged, making his rumpled navy blazer look even worse.

"I do feel responsible, sir. I've seen Matt day in and day out at his desk up to his eyeballs with mostly paperwork from the other pop-and-drops. I wanted him to see a fresh crime scene. That thought had occurred to me earlier last night, when the scene for the first two guys who were pop-and-dropped was being worked. But for whatever reason I didn't call him. Then, when the news came about the third one, and we were having drinks at Liberties, it just made sense for him to come along and see the scene. It's a helluva lot better than reading statements, sir."

Coughlin considered that a long moment. He looked between them, then back to Harris, and nodded. "From a homicide investigation standpoint, I do see your point."

Everyone in the room knew well that, among the many other assignments he'd held, then-Captain Coughlin had been the chief of the Homicide Unit, and Detective F. X. Hollaran had been his right-hand man even back then.

He looked at his wristwatch.

"Okay, Matty, you have ten minutes. Tell me what I need to know before going upstairs to face the wrath of the bosses."

Payne nodded.

"All of the dead," he began, looking at Coughlin, then the others, "have been adult males, both the earlier pop-and-drops and the three found last night. That's where that thread ends.

"Of the first five, all were shot at point-blank range in the head. The ballistics tests on the only two bullets recovered-every other round passed through their bodies-showed them to be 9 millimeter and.45 caliber. Three were black males, one a white male, and one a Hispanic male. And all were wanted on outstanding warrants, either for parole violation or for jumping bail, for sex crimes committed on kids or women. They got popped somewhere other than where they were dropped."

"How do you know that for sure?" Frank Hollaran asked. "Is that an assumption due to lack of evidence?"

Payne shook his head and said, "Because they were all dropped, one per week beginning back on September sixteenth, at the nearest police district HQ. Correction. At a police district HQ. 'Nearest' is speculative on my part. Reason being: Why would you drive around with a dead body farther than necessary?"

There were chuckles.

"Stranger things have occurred, Matthew," Jason Washington offered.

Payne nodded. "I know. Anyway, the other consistency among these first five pop-and-drops is that they each had their Wanted poster attached to them."

"Their Wanted poster?" Coughlin repeated.

"Yes, sir. Like the ones we post on the police department website? Nice color mug shot with their full name and aliases, last known address, crimes committed, et cetera."

Coughlin nodded, motioning with his hand for Matt to go on.

Payne said: "Two of the five-both rapists-were printed from our Special Victims Unit page on the Internet. The rest were from the listing of Megan's Law fugitives on O'Hara's CrimeFreePhilly-dot-com."

"That's Mickey's?" Coughlin asked, his face brightening.

"That's where he went after he quit the Bulletin," Payne said.

"It's had some growing pains," Coughlin said, "but what I've seen I've mostly liked. Anyway, continue."

For a moment, Payne was impressed that Coughlin paid attention to the Internet. But then he realized it shouldn't have come as such a surprise. Coughlin was smart as hell, and while he could be old school, he was also always embracing whatever might aid him in his duties.

With maybe one exception: Denny Coughlin had told Matt he wasn't crazy about carrying the new department-issued Glock 17 semiautomatic 9-millimeter pistol. Mariana had successfully lobbied the city for the cops to have more firepower than the.38-caliber revolvers they'd carried almost since the Ice Age-Philly's first foot patrol began in the late 1600s.

And he said Coughlin needed to carry the Glock "to set an example."

Denny, who had never drawn his service weapon his entire career, didn't think he needed on his hip what he called "a small cannon"-and especially not one of the Alternative Service Weapons, Glock models chambered for.40-caliber and.45-caliber rounds that were more powerful than the 9 millimeter. But he followed the order nonetheless.

Payne went on: "Each dead guy had his rap sheet stapled to him. Usually to the clothing. But on one bad guy-a really despicable bastard, on the run from a charge of raping a ten-year-old girl-the doer stapled the Wanted poster multiple times to the guy's wang."