I can’t say I know very much about Blake, Parkhurst had said during his interview.

A quick riffling through the Blake book showed that nothing had been cut out of it.

A scan of the refrigerator, freezer, and kitchen garbage produced no

evidence of leg of lamb. The Joy of Cooking in the kitchen was bookmarked

on caramel flan.

There was nothing unusual in his closets. Three suits, a pair of tweed

blazers, half a dozen pairs of dress shoes, a dozen dress shirts. All conservative and of good quality.

The walls of his office boasted his three certificates of higher education: one from John Carroll University and two from the University of

Pennsylvania. There was also a well-framed poster for the Broadway production of The Crucible.

Jessica took the second floor. She went through the closet in the

office, which seemed to be dedicated to Parkhurst’s sporting endeavors.

It appeared that he played tennis and racquetball, as well as engaging in a

little sailboarding. There was also an expensive wet suit.

She went through his desk drawers, finding all the expected supplies.

Rubber bands, pens, paper clips, Tic Tacs. Another drawer held LaserJet

toner cartridges and a spare keyboard. All the drawers opened with no

problem, except for the file drawer.

The file drawer was locked.

Odd, for a man who lived alone, Jessica thought.

A quick but thorough scan of the top drawer yielded no key. Jessica looked out of the office door, listened to the chatter. All the

other detectives were busy. She returned to the desk, quickly took out

her pick set. You don’t work in the Auto Unit for three years without

picking up some locksmithing skills. Within seconds, she was in. Most of the files were for household and personal business. Tax

records, business receipts, personal receipts, insurance policies. There

was also a stack of paid Visa bills. Jessica wrote down the card number. A

quick perusal of purchases yielded nothing suspicious. There was no

charge to a religious supply house.

She was just about to close and lock the drawer when she saw the tip

of a small manila envelope peeking out from behind the drawer. She

reached back as far as she could and pulled the envelope out. It had been

taped out of sight, but never properly sealed.

Inside the envelope were five photographs. They had been taken in

Fairmount Park during the fall. Three of the pictures were of a fully

clothed young woman, shyly posing in a faux-glamour pose. Two of them

were the same young woman posing with a smiling Brian Parkhurst. The young woman sat on his lap. The pictures were dated October of the pre

vious year.

The young woman was Tessa Wells.

“Kevin!” Jessica yelled down the stairs.

Byrne was up in a flash, 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 get him again.” They had found a complete set of

luggage beneath the stairs. He wasn’t on a trip.

Jessica summed up the evidence. Parkhurst was a doctor. He knew

both victims. He claimed to have known Tessa Wells in a professional

sense, only as her counselor, and yet he had personal photographs of her.

He had a history of sexual involvement with students. One of the victims

had begun to spell his last name on her palm, just before her death. Byrne got on Parkhurst’s desk phone and called Ike Buchanan. He

put the phone on speakerphone and briefed Buchanan on what they had

found.

Buchanan listened, then uttered the three words for which Byrne and

Jessica were hoping and waiting: “Pick him up.”

29

TUESDAY, 8:15 PM

If Sophie Balzano was the most beautiful little girl in the world when she was wide awake, she was positively angelic in that moment when day became night, in that sweet twilight of half sleep.

Jessica had volunteered to take the first watch on Brian Parkhurst’s home in Garden Court. She was told to go home, get some rest. As was Kevin Byrne. There were two detectives on the house.

Jessica sat on the edge of Sophie’s bed, watching her.

They had taken a bubble bath together. Sophie had washed and conditioned her own hair. No help needed, thank you very much. They had dried off, shared a pizza in the living room. It was breaking a rule—they were supposed to eat at the table—but now that Vincent wasn’t around, a lot of rules seemed to be slipping by the wayside.

No more of that, Jessica thought.

As she got Sophie ready for bed, Jessica found herself hugging her daughter a little more closely, a little more often. Even Sophie had given her the fish eye, as if to say: What’s up, Mom? But Jessica knew what was up. The way Sophie felt at these times was her salvation.

And now that Sophie was tucked in, Jessica allowed herself to relax, to start to unwind from the horrors of the day.

A little.

“Story?” Sophie asked, her tiny voice riding on the wings of a big yawn.

“You want me to read a story?”

Sophie nodded.

“Okay,” Jessica said.

“Not the Hoke,” Sophie said.

Jessica had to laugh. The Hoke was Sophie’s bogeyman du jour. It all began with a trip to the King of Prussia mall, about a year earlier, and the presence of the fifteen-foot-tall inflatable green Hulk they had erected to promote the release of the DVD. One look at the giant figure and Sophie had immediately taken trembling refuge behind Jessica’s legs.