We walk down Walnut Street. Her posture changes slightly. A little selfconscious now.

“So, what are you reading?” I ask, pointing to the bag she carries.

She blushes again.“I’m embarrassed.”

I stop walking. She stops with me.“Now, what did I just tell you?”

Kristi laughs.At this age, it is always Christmas, always Halloween, always the Fourth. Every day is the day.“Okay, okay,” she concedes. She reaches into the plastic bag, takes out a pair of Tiger Beat magazines.“I get a discount.”

On the cover of one of the magazines is Justin Timberlake. I take the magazine from her, scrutinize the cover.

“I haven’t liked his solo stuff as much as ’NSYNC,” I say.“What about you?”

Kristi looks at me, her mouth half-open.“I can’t believe you know who he is.”

“Hey,” I say in mock rage.“I’m not that old.” I hand the magazine back, mindful of the fact that my prints are on the glossy surface. I must not forget that.

Kristi shakes her head, still smiling.

We continue up Walnut.

“All ready for Easter?” I ask, rather inelegantly changing the subject.

“Oh, yes,” she says.“I love Easter.”

“Me, too,” I say.

“I mean, I know it’s still real early in the year, but Easter always means summer is coming, to me. Some people wait till Memorial Day. Not me.”

I fall behind her for a few steps, allowing people to pass. From the cover of my sunglasses, I watch her walk, as covertly as I can. In a few years, she would have been what people refer to as coltish, a long-legged beauty.

When I make my move, I am going to have to be fast. Leverage will be paramount. I have the syringe in my pocket, its rubber tip firmly secured.

I glance around. For all the people on the street, lost in their own dramas, we might as well be alone. It never fails to amaze me how, in a city like Philadelphia, one can go virtually unnoticed.

“Where are you headed?” I ask.

“Bus stop,” she says.“Home.”

I pretend to search my memory.“You live in Chestnut Hill, right?” She smiles, rolls her eyes.“Close. Nicetown.”

“That’s what I meant.”

I laugh.

She laughs.

I have her.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

I watch her face as I ask this. Kristi had done her battles with anorexia, and I know that questions like this will always be a challenge to her in this life. A few moments pass, and I fear I have lost her.

I have not.

“I could eat,” she says.

“Great,” I say.“Let’s get a salad or something, then I’ll drive you home. It’ll be fun.We can catch up.”

A split second of apprehension settles, veiling her pretty face in darkness. She glances around us.

The veil lifts. She slips on her leather jacket, gives her ponytail a flip, and says:“Okay.”

53

WEDNESDAY, 4:20 PM

Eddie Kasalonis retired in 2002.

Now in his early sixties, he had been on the force nearly forty years, most of them in the zone, and had seen it all, from every vantage, in every light, having worked twenty years on the streets before moving to

South detectives.

Jessica had located him through the FOP. She hadn’t been able to reach Kevin, so she went to meet Eddie on her own. She found him where he was every day at this time. At a small Italian eatery on Tenth Street.

Jessica ordered a coffee; Eddie, a double espresso with a lemon peel. “I saw a lot over the years,” Eddie said, clearly as a preface to a walk down memory lane.A big man, with moist gray eyes, a navy tattoo on his right forearm, and shoulders rounded with age. Time had slowed his stories. Jessica had wanted to get right to the business about the blood on the door at St. Katherine but, out of respect, she listened. Eventually, he drained his espresso, called for another, then asked: “So. What can I do for you, Detective?”

Jessica took out her notebook. “I understand you investigated an incident at St. Katherine a few years ago.”

Eddie Kasalonis nodded. “You mean the blood on the door of the church?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t know what I can tell you about it. Wasn’t much of an investigation, really.”

“Can I ask how it was that you came to be involved? I mean, it’s a long way from your stomping grounds.”

Jessica had asked around. Eddie Kasalonis was a South Philly boy. Third and Wharton.

“A priest from St. Casimir’s had just gotten transferred up there. Nice kid. Lithuanian, like me. He called, I said I’d look into it.”

“What did you find?”

“Not much, Detective. Someone painted the lintel over the main doors with blood while the congregation was celebrating midnight mass. When they came out, it dripped onto an elderly woman. She freaked, called it a miracle, called an ambulance.”

“What kind of blood was it?”

“Well, it wasn’t human, I can tell you that. Some kind of animal blood. That’s about as far as we pushed it.”

“Did it ever happen again?”

Eddie Kasalonis shook his head. “That was it, far as I know. They cleaned the door, kept an eye out for a while, then they eventually moved on. As for me, I had a lot on my plate in those days.” The waiter brought Eddie’s coffee, offered Jessica a refill. She declined.

“Did it happen at any other churches?” Jessica asked.

“No idea,” Eddie said. “Like I said, I looked into it as a favor. Church desecration wasn’t exactly my beat.”

“Any suspects?”

“Not really. That part of the Northeast ain’t exactly a hotbed of gang activity. I rousted a few of the local punks, threw a little weight. No one copped to it.”

Jessica put her notebook away, finished her coffee, a little disappointed that this hadn’t led to anything. On the other hand, she hadn’t really expected it to.

“Now it’s my turn to ask,” Eddie said.

“Sure,” Jessica replied.