“Don’t get me wrong. I like Christmastime. It’s just that Easter is a time of...rebirth, I suppose. Of growth.”

“That’s a nice way of looking at it,” Jessica said.

“Ah, who am I kidding?” he said. “I’m just addicted to Cadbury chocolate eggs.”

Jessica laughed. “Join the club.”

They jogged in silence for about a quarter mile, then rounded a soft curve, and headed into a long straightaway.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Why do you think he’s picking Catholic girls?”

The words were a sledgehammer to Jessica’s chest.

In one fluid move she had her Glock out of her holster. She pivoted, lashed out with her right foot, and swept the man’s legs out from under him. In a split second she had him on his face, in the dirt, the weapon to the back of his head.

“Don’t fucking move.”

“I just—”

“Shut up.”

A few other joggers caught up to them. The expressions on their faces wrote the whole story.

“I’m a police officer,” Jessica said. “Back up, please.”

Joggers became sprinters. They all looked at Jessica’s gun and took off as fast as they could down the path.

“If you just let me—”

“Did I stutter? I told you to shut up.”

Jessica tried to catch her breath. When she did, she asked: “Who are you?”

There was no reason to wait for an answer. Besides, the fact that her knee was on the back of his head and his face was smashed into the turf probably precluded a response.

Jessica unzipped the back pocket of the man’s jogging pants, pulled out a nylon wallet. She flipped it open. She saw the press card and wanted to pull the trigger even more.

Simon Edward Close. The Report.

She kneeled on the back of his head a little longer, a little harder. It was at times like these that she wished she weighed in at about 210.

“You know where the Roundhouse is?” she asked.

“Yes, of course. I—”

“Good,” Jessica said. “Here’s the deal. If you want to talk to me, you go through the press office there. If that’s too much trouble, then stay the fuck out of my face.”

Jessica eased the pressure on his head by a few ounces.

“Now, I’m going to get up and go to my car. Then I’m going to leave the park.You are going to remain in this position until I am gone. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Simon replied.

She put all her weight on his head. “I mean it. If you move, if you even lift your head, I’m going to take you in for questioning on the Rosary Killings. I can lock you up for seventy-two hours without having to explain myself to anyone. Capeesh?”

“Ga-beetch,” Simon said, the fact that he had a pound of wet sod in his mouth inhibiting his attempt at speaking Italian.

A little while later, when Jessica started her car and headed for the park exit, she glanced back at the trail. Simon was still there, facedown.

God, what an asshole.

45

WEDNESDAY, 10:45 A M

Crime scenes always looked different in daylight. The alley looked benign and peaceful. A pair of uniforms stood at its entrance. Byrne badged the officers, slipped under the tape. When the two detectives saw him, they each gave the homicide wave—palm down, a slight dip to the ground, then straight out. Everything’s cool.

Xavier Washington and Reggie Payne had been partnered so long, Byrne thought, they were beginning to dress alike and finish each other’s sentences, like an old married couple.

“We can all go home,” Payne said with a smile.

“What do you have?” Byrne asked.

“Just a little thinning of the gene pool.” Payne pulled back the plastic

sheet. “This is the late Marius Green.”

The body was in the precise position it had been in when Byrne left it the previous night.

“It’s a through and through.” Payne pointed to Marius’s chest.

“Thirty-eight?” Byrne asked.

“Could be. Looks more like a nine, though. Haven’t found the brass or the slug yet.”

“He’s JBM?” Byrne asked.

“Oh yeah,” Payne replied. “Marius was a very bad actor.”

Byrne glanced at the uniformed officers looking for the slug. He looked at his watch. “I have a few minutes.”

“Oh, now we can really go home,” Payne said. “The face is on the case.”

Byrne walked a few feet toward the Dumpster. The mound of plastic trash bags obscured him from view. He picked up a short piece of lumber, began poking around. When he was sure he was unobserved, he took the baggie from his pocket, opened it, turned it upside down, and dropped the bloodied slug to the ground. He continued to nose around, but not too carefully.

After a minute or so, he returned to where Payne and Washington stood.

“I’ve got my own psycho to catch,” Byrne said.

“Catch you at the house,” Payne replied.

“Got it,” one of the uniforms standing by the Dumpster bellowed.

Payne and Washington looked at each other, high-fived, walked over to where the uniform stood. They had found the slug.

Facts: Marius Green’s blood was on the slug. It had caromed off brick. End of story.

There would be no reason to look farther or dig deeper. The slug would now be bagged and tagged, taken down to ballistics, where a property receipt would be issued. Then it would be compared to other bullets recovered from crime scenes. Byrne had the distinct feeling that the Smith & Wesson he had taken off Diablo was used in other unsavory undertakings in the past.

Byrne exhaled, looked heavenward, slipped into his car. Only one more detail to address. Finding Diablo and imparting to him the wisdom of leaving Philadelphia forever.

His pager went off.

The call was from Monsignor Terry Pacek.

The hits just keep on coming.

... The Sporting Club was Center City’s biggest fitness club, located on the eighth floor at the historic Bellevue, the beautifully ornate building at Broad and Walnut Streets.

Byrne found Terry Pacek on one of the LifeCycles. The dozen or so stationary bikes were arranged in a square, facing each other. Most were occupied. Behind Byrne and Pacek, the slap and shriek of Nikes on the basketball court below offset the whir of the treadmills and hiss of the cycles, as well as the grunts and groans and grumbles of the fit, near fit, and ain’t never gonna be fit.