“Oh my God,” Jessica said, her first adrenaline rush as a homicide

detective beginning to hum in her ears.

Before she died, Nicole Taylor had used the fingernails on her right hand to begin spelling a word on her left palm, a dying girl’s plea in the final, desperate moments of her life. There could be no debate. The cuts spelled p a r.

Byrne flipped open his cell phone, called Ike Buchanan. Within twenty minutes, an affidavit of probable cause would be typed and submitted to the chief of the Homicide Unit at the district attorney’s office. Within an hour, with any luck, they’d have a search warrant for the premises of Brian Allan Parkhurst.

27

TUESDAY, 6:30 PM

Simon Close stared at the front page of The Report, sitting proudly on the screen of his Apple PowerBook.

who is killing the rosary girls?

Is there anything better than seeing your byline beneath a screamingly provocative headline?

Maybe one or two things, tops, Simon thought. And both of those things cost him money, rather than lining his pocket with it.

The Rosary Girls.

His idea.

He had kicked around a few others. This one kicked back.

Simon loved this part of the night. The preen before the prowl. Although he dressed well for work—always in a shirt and tie, usually a blazer and slacks—it was at night that his tastes ran to the European cut, the Italian craftsmanship, the exquisite cloths. If it was Chaps during the day, it was Ralph Lauren proper at night.

He tried on Dolce & Gabbana and Prada, but he bought Armani and Pal Zileri. Thank God for that semiannual sale at Boyds.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. What woman could resist? While there were a lot of well-dressed men in Philadelphia, few really carried off the European style with any panache.

And then there were the women.

When Simon had struck out on his own, after Aunt Iris’s death, he had spent some time in Los Angeles, Miami, Chicago, and New York City. He had even considered living in New York—albeit fleetingly—but within a few months he was back in Philadelphia. New York was too fast, too crazy.And while he believed that Philly girls were every bit as sexy as Manhattan girls, Philly girls had something going for them that New York girls never would.

You had a shot at Philly girls.

He had just gotten the perfect dimple in his tie when there was a knock at the door. He crossed the small flat, opened the door. It was Andy Chase. Perfectly happy, terribly disheveled Andy. Andy wore a backward, soiled Phillies cap and a royal blue Members Only jacket—do they still make Members Only? Simon mused—complete with epaulets and zippered pockets.

Simon gestured to his burgundy jacquard tie. “Does this make me look too gay?” he asked.

“No.” Andy flopped onto the couch, hoisting a copy of Macworld magazine, chomping a Fuji apple. “Just gay enough.”

“Piss off.”

Andy shrugged. “I don’t know how you can spend so much money on clothes. I mean, you can only wear one suit at a time. What’s the point?” Simon spun and walked across the living room, runway style. He pivoted, posed, vogued. “You can look upon me and still ask that question? Style is its own reward, mon frère.”

Andy affected a huge, mock yawn, then took another gnaw 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 a lot better than that fwa gra shit you eat.”

Simon made a grand gesture of covering his ears. Andy Chase offended at the cellular level.

They caught up on the day’s events. For Simon, these chats were part of the overhead of doing business with Andy. Penance given and said, it was time to go.

“So how is Kitty?” Simon asked, perfunctorily, with as much enthusiasm as he could fake. The wee cow, he thought. Kitty Bramlett had been a petite, nearly pretty cashier at Wal-Mart when Andy fell for her. That was seventy pounds and three chins ago. Kitty and Andy had settled into that childless, early-middle-age nightmare of marriage built on habit. Microwave dinners, birthdays at the Olive Garden, and rutting twice a month in front of Jay Leno.

Kill me first, Lord, Simon thought.

“She is exactly the same.” Andy tossed the magazine and stretched. Simon caught a glimpse of the top of Andy’s trousers. They were safetypinned together. “For some reason she still thinks you should try to get together with her sister. As if she would have anything to do with you.” Kitty’s sister Rhonda looked like a distaff vision of Willard Scott, but not nearly as feminine.

“I’ll be sure to give her a call soon,” Simon replied.

“Whatever.”

It was still raining. Simon would have to ruin the entire look with his tasteful, yet drearily functional London Fog raincoat. It was the one piece that sorely needed updating. Still, it was better than rain spotting the Zileri. “No mood for your shite,” Simon said, making exit gestures.Andy got the hint, stood up, headed toward the door. He had left his apple core on the couch.

“You can’t harsh my vibe tonight,” Simon added. “I look good, I smell great, I have a cover story in the oven, and life is dolce.”

Andy pulled a face: Dolce?

“Good lord,” Simon said. He reached into his pocket, removed the hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to Andy. “Thanks for the tip,” he said. “Keep them coming.”

“Anytime, bro,”Andy said. He pocketed the bill, walked out the door, and headed down the stairs.

Bro, Simon thought. If this is Purgatory, I truly fear Hell.

He gave himself one last look in the full-length mirror inside the coat closet.

Perfect.

The city was his.

28

TUESDAY, 7:00 PM

Brian Parkhurst wasn’t home. Nor was his Ford Windstar. The six detectives fanned out in the three-story Garden Court row

house. The first floor held a small living room and dining room, kitchen

at the back. Between the dining room and the kitchen, a steep set of stairs led to the second floor, which had a bathroom and a bedroom converted to office space. The third floor, which had once been two small bedrooms, had been renovated into a master suite. None of the rooms had dark blue nylon carpeting.

The furnishings were modern for the most part: leather sofa and chair, teak hutch and dining table. The office desk was older, probably pickled oak. His bookshelves spoke of an eclectic taste. Philip Roth, Jackie Collins, Dave Barry, Dan Simmons. The detectives noted the presence of William Blake:The Complete Illuminated Books.