Whenshe and Vincent and Sophie moved to South Philly there would still be a fewplaces for her to jog, but it would be a long time before Jessica could runagain without caution, like she could here.

    Here,where her route and path were well worn, she could sort things out. It was thisshe would miss most of all.

    Sherounded the bend, ran up the incline, thought about Marcia Kimmelman, and whathad been done to her. She thought about Lucas Anthony Thompson, and thestartled look in his eyes when he'd realized it was over, the moment the cuffsclicked shut on his wrists and he was yanked to his feet, dirt and gravel onhis face, his clothing. Jessica had to admit she liked the dirt-and-gravelpart, always had. Mud, weather permitting, was even better.

    Withthis comforting image in mind she turned the corner, onto her street, and sawsomeone standing at the end of her driveway. A man in a dark suit. It wasDennis Stansfield.

    Jessicalet her feelings morph from apprehension to annoyance. What the hell was thisjackass doing at her house?

    She slowedto a walk for the last one hundred feet, catching her breath. She approachedthe man, who seemed to realize he was out of place.

    'Detective,'Jessica said, suddenly conscious of her appearance. She wore loose sweatpantsand a tight tank top, a sports bra beneath. She had worked up a sweat and takenoff her fleece hoodie, tied it around her waist. She saw Stansfield's stare doa quick inventory of her body, then find her eyes. Jessica took a moment,caught the rest of her breath, drilling the look right back. Stansfieldflinched first, looking away.

    'Goodmorning,' he said.

    Jessicahad the option of putting her hoodie back on, zipping it up, but that would betelling Stansfield that she had a problem. She had no problems. Not one. Sheput her hands on her hips. 'What's up?'

    Stansfieldturned back to her, clearly doing his best to look at her face. 'The boss saidDetective Burns might not be back today, and that if it was okay with you—'

    'Byrne,'Jessica said. 'His name is Kevin Byrne.' Jessica wondered if Stansfield wasintentionally busting her chops or was really that clueless. Right now it was atoss-up. It wasn't that Kevin was Superman, but he did have a reputation withinthe unit, if not the entire department. Jessica and Byrne had worked somehigh-profile cases over the past few years, and unless you were a rookie youhad to know who he was. Plus, Byrne was off cleaning up Stansfield's mess, andthis could not possibly have been lost on the man.

    'Byrne,'Stansfield said, correcting himself. 'Sorry. The boss said that he might not bedone with the grand jury today, and that we should partner up for the duration.At least until Detective Byrne gets back.' He shuffled his feet. 'If that's allright with you.'

    Jessicadidn't remember anyone asking what her thoughts were on the subject. 'You havethe notification sheet?'

    Stansfieldreached into his suit-coat pocket, retrieved the form, held it up.

    As hedid this, Jessica glanced at the house. She saw a shadow near the window in thefront bedroom, saw the curtains part a few inches. It was Vincent. Jessicamight have been a police officer, and even when she jogged these days she wasarmed - at that moment she had the sweetest little Browning .2 5 at the smallof her back - but when Vincent saw her talking to someone in front of thehouse, someone he didn't know, his antennae went up. The number of policeofficers killed had risen sharply over the past few years, and neither Jessicanor Vincent ever let down their guards.

    Jessicanodded, almost imperceptibly, and, a few seconds later, the curtain closed. Sheturned back to Stansfield.

    'Allin a day, detective,' Jessica said. 'Let's partner up.'

    Thetwisted, phony smile on Stansfield's face all but shouted his disappointment ather tepid response. 'That's good news,' he said. 'Because we have a job.'

    We,Jessica thought. What a true delight this was going to be. She knew she was upon the wheel. The wheel was the roster of detectives on the Line Squad. Whenyou caught a new case you went to the end of the line, worked the case, slowlymaking your way back to the top. When you reached the number one position,regardless how many cases you had on your plate, you were up again. Rare wasthe day in the unit where you cleared your cases when a new body fell.

    'Allright,' she said. 'Let me a grab a shower. I'll be out in ten minutes.'

    Twothings immediately registered on Stansfield's face. One, the idea of her takinga shower. Two, the fact that he hadn't been invited in.

    Thecrime scene was at the northern end of the Pennsport section of SouthPhiladelphia. Pennsport was a working-class neighborhood, bounded by PassyunkSquare to the west, the Delaware River to the east, Queen Village to the north,Whitman to the south.

    Oneof the oldest sections of the city, Pennsport had been slow in the developmentof new projects, with some of the homes dating back to 1815. It was quitepossible to have a new block of row houses bookended by structures that had beenbuilt when James Madison was president of the United States.

    WhenJessica and Stansfield pulled up to the crime scene - a boarded-up storefrontnear the corner of Fifth and Federal Streets - a sector car was parkeddiagonally across the street. Both Federal and Fifth were one-way streets andat either end of the block stood a pair of uniformed officers, divertingtraffic. The Crime Scene Unit had not yet arrived, so there was no tape ringingthe perimeter yet. Budget cuts had forced the city to curtail new hires, topostpone updating equipment, and these days there could be a two-hour or longerlag in the arrival of key crime scene personnel.

    Butwhile CSU was not yet there, David Albrecht was, camera in hand.

    'Morning!'he shouted from across the street.

    Great,Jessica thought. Another morning person. Her husband and Sophie weremorning people. Everyone around her was a morning person. Except Byrne. It wasone of the reasons they worked so well together. On most days they grunted ateach other until noon.

    Jessicawaved at David Albrecht, who promptly put up his camera and filmed the gesture.Then Jessica glanced at Dennis Stansfield. Stansfield, seeing he was on camera,buttoned his coat, sucked in his gut, and tried to look official.

    Theysigned onto the log. The uniformed officer pointed down the alley.

    'Insideor outside?' Jessica asked.

    'Inside,'he said. 'But just.'

    Thescene was the rear entrance to a closed-up independent shoe store called All Soles.In the back were steps leading down to the basement, a door through which thevarious retail establishments that had been located there over the yearsreceived their shipments. The small area behind the store was littered withfast-food trash, discarded tires, the sort of urban detritus that people foundtoo time-consuming to put in the Dumpster that was located just a few feetaway.

    Jessicaand Stansfield stopped at the top of the steps. There was an iron handrailleading down. Just as Jessica made a mental note to ask CSU to dust therailing, Stansfield put his hand on it, striking a macho pose, lording his goldbadge over the gathering personnel.

    'Um,detective?' Jessica said.

    Stansfieldlooked over. Jessica pointed at his hand. Stansfield realized that he waspossibly contaminating the site, and withdrew his hand as if he were grabbing ared-hot poker.

    Jessicaturned her attention to the entrance to the crime scene.

    Therewere four steps. She scanned the immediate area, saw no blood trail. The doorwas open just a few inches. She walked down the stairs, edged open the door,Stansfield a little too close behind her. His cologne was nauseating. It wouldsoon become welcome.