The picture is on my wall. She was just another statistic, another cold body, another victim. Killadelphia some call it. I don’t believe it. This is my city. This was someone’s daughter. She was an innocent.

Perhaps it is because she was from a small town. Perhaps it is because she wears a lilac backpack. My favorite color.

She was just a child. Like me. She was me.

Caitlin O’Riordan.

I cannot let this rest.

I will not let this rest.

SIXTY-FIVE

EVEN BEFORE THEY opened the last file, they knew what it was going to be. The file contained the scanned copies of the three missing interviews from the O’Riordan case binder. Eve Galvez had taken Freddy Roarke’s notes from the binder, scanned them, kept the file on her flash drive, along with the rest of her life.

“The case Jimmy Valentine was talking about,” Jessica said. “The case he told me Eve was obsessed with. It was the Caitlin O’Riordan case. Eve stole the notes out of the binder. She was investigating it on her own. She was tracking him. He got to her first.”

Byrne turned twice, fists raised, looking for something to slam, something to break.

“Eve was a runaway,” Jessica said. “She’d lived the life. I guess she saw Caitlin’s murder as one too many. She went deep-end on it.”

They’d both seen it before. A detective who had taken a case too personally. They’d both been there themselves.

They read the missing interviews. Starlight, Govinda, and Daria. All three kids said they had met a man. A man who had tried to bring them back to his house. A man who identified himself by a strange name.

Mr. Ludo.

BYRNE TOLD HIS STORY, his end of the wire. When he was done, he left the room.

Minutes later he was back upstairs with the strongbox he had taken from Laura Somerville’s apartment. In the other hand he had a cordless drill, courtesy of one of the crew working on the renovation on the first floor. In moments he had the box open.

Inside was a sheaf of papers. Postcards, ticket stubs in at least ten languages, going back fifty years. And photographs.

They were photographs of a magician on a stage. The man looked like the man in the videos, but thinner, taller. Many of the photographs were yellowed with age. Byrne flipped one over. In a woman’s handwriting it read Vienna, 1959. Another photo, this of the man with three large linking steel rings. Detroit, 1961.

In each photo a beautiful young woman stood next to the man.

“Behold the lovely Odette,” the man on the video had said.

The photographs in the strongbox made it clear. Odette was his stage assistant.

Odette was Laura Somerville.

SIXTY-SIX

SWANN DROVE TO Center City. He would not deny that Lilly had stirred him in a way that he had not felt in a long time. He’d had his share of lovers in his time, but they had never been to Faerwood, they had never glimpsed his soul.

He did not think of Lilly as a potential paramour. Not really. She was Odette. She was his assistant and confederate. One could not go through life without confederates.

He had been terribly afraid he would never see her again. But he knew that the night children were creatures of habit. He knew there were only so many places where she could blend in, even in a city as large as Philadelphia.

When she told him her story, and he offered to help her, he knew that she would be his. When he saw her standing on the corner of Eighth and Walnut, he knew it was destiny.

And now that she was in his car, he began to relax. She would be his finale after all.

AS THEY GOT ONTO THE BOULEVARD, Swann took out his cell phone, hit a speed-dial button, put it to his ear. Earlier he had put the phone on silent, in case he got a call at such a crucial moment as this. He could not have his phone ringing while he was supposed to be talking on it.

He reached forward, turned down the music.

“Hello, my darling,” he said to silence. “Yes… yes. No, I have not forgotten. I will be home in just a few minutes.” Swann turned and looked at the girl, rolled his eyes. She smiled.

“The reason I’m calling is to tell you we have a guest. Yes. A young lady named Lilly.” He laughed. “I know. The very same name. Yes, she has a bit of a problem, and I told her we would be most willing to help her solve it.”

He covered the mouthpiece.

“My wife loves intrigue.”

Lilly smiled.

Swann clicked off.

When they turned onto Tenth Street he reached into his coat pocket, and palmed the glass ampoule.

It would not be long now.

SIXTY-SEVEN

AT 11:45 PM, the team started assembling in the duty room. IN addition to the homicide detectives, a call had gone out to off-duty members of the Five Squad. They also had a call in to a man named Arthur Lake, president of the Philadelphia chapter of the International Brotherhood of Magicians.

TONY PARK HAD BEEN WORKING the computer for more than four hours.

“Detectives.”

Jessica and Byrne crossed the room.

“What’s up, Tony?”

“There’s a new video on his GothOde page.”

“Have you run it?”

“I have not. I was waiting for you.”

They gathered around a computer terminal. Tony Park clicked on the last image. The screen changed to an individual page.

“This last one was uploaded twenty minutes ago,” Park said. “It already has two hundred viewings. This guy has a following.”

“Play it.”

Park turned up the volume, clicked on the video. It was the same man in the other videos, dressed in an identical manner. But this time he was standing on a dark street. Behind him was City Hall.

“Life is a puzzle, n’est-ce pas?” he began, speaking directly to the camera. “If you are watching this, then you know the game is on.

“You have seen the first four illusions. There are three to go. Seven Wonders in all.”

On the video, there was a special effect. Three smaller screens appeared below him. On the smaller screens were three teenage girls. All sat in darkened rooms.

“One illusion at 2:00 AM. One illusion at 4:00 AM. And the grand finale at 6:00 AM. This is going to be spectacular. It will light up the night.” The man leaned forward slightly. “Can you solve the puzzle in time? Can you find the maidens? Are you good enough?”

One by one the small screens went black.

“Here is a clue,” the man said. “He flies between Begichev and Geltser.”

The man then turned and pointed toward City Hall.

“Watch the clock. The dance begins at midnight.”

He waved a hand, and disappeared. The video ended.

“What does he mean, watch the clock?” Jessica asked.

BYRNE SLAMMED on the brakes as he pulled the car over into the center of the intersection of North Broad and Arch streets, about a block away from city hall. It was approximately the same vantage point as the killer in the last video.

He and Jessica got out of the car. The flashing dashboard light strobed across the tall buildings. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the clock tower at City Hall. Not at first.

Then it happened.

At the stroke of midnight the huge clock face turned bloodred.

“Oh my God,” Jessica said.

The sky over Philadelphia flashed with lightning. Detective Kevin Byrne looked at his partner, at his watch.

It was just after midnight. If this monster was telling the truth—and there was absolutely no reason to doubt him—they had less than two hours to save the first girl.

PART III

DEATH