'Counselor,'Byrne said. They shook hands.

    'Goodmorning, detective.'

    'Howdoes it look today?'

    Drummondsmiled. 'Do you remember the tiger scene in Gladiator?'

    'Sure.'

    'Somethingalong those lines.'

    'I'mjust a flatfoot,' Byrne said. 'You might have to explain that one to me.'

    Drummondlooked over Byrne's shoulder, then over his own. He turned back. 'Eddie Roblesis missing.'

    Byrnejust stared at Drummond, trying to keep all expression from his face. 'Is thata fact?'

    'Factsare my life,' Drummomd said. 'I called over there this morning, and Robles'smother said Robles didn't come home last night. She said his bed is stillmade.'

    'Thisguy has two bodies on him and he lives with his mother?'

    'Thatdoes have a little bit of a Norman Bates vibe to it, now that you mention it.'

    'Wedon't really need him to indict him, do we?' The question was rhetorical. TheDA, as the saying went, could indict a ham sandwich. The sandwich did not needto be present.

    'No,'Drummond said. 'But the jury is hearing another case today. That triple at theFontana.'

    TheFontana was a recently opened luxury condominium in Northern Liberties, a100-million-dollar renovation project that had taken more than four years to complete.Three people had been shot, gangland style, in one of the units. It turned outthat one of the victims was a former debutante who'd had a secret life thatinvolved exotic dancing, drug dealing, and trysts with local sportscelebrities. It was about as lurid as it got, which meant the story went viralwithin hours.

    As ofthat morning, police had seven suspects in custody. The singing at theRoundhouse would commence shortly. Which meant that players for the Sixers,Eagles, Phillies, and Flyers were all sweating big time.

    'I'vegot some serious time on this,' Byrne said. He knew that he had to play thegame, and he was as good as anybody at it. Probably better.

    'Iknow, Kevin. And I apologize. The Fontana case is high priority, and you knowhow things go. People forget, people run, people mysteriously disappear.Especially with a drug-homicide case.'

    Byrneunderstood. The passions on a shocking and bloody case such as the Fontana ranhigh.

    'Whatare we looking at?' he asked.

    Drummondchecked his BlackBerry. 'The jury will be back on Robles in three days whenthey meet again. I promise.'

    Itmight not matter. Byrne knew that Philadelphia had a way of solving its ownproblems.

    'Thanksfor meeting with me, Michael.'

    'Nota problem. Are you coming to my party?'

    'Wouldn'tmiss it.'

    Theyshook hands again. 'Don't worry about a thing, Kevin. Not a thing. Eddie Roblesis history.'

    Byrnejust stared, impassive. 'Keep me posted.'

    Byrnethought about heading to the Roundhouse, but he wasn't expected for a while. Hehad to think. He drove to York Street, parked across from the alley down whichEduardo Robles had walked.

    EddieRobles is missing.

    Byrnegot out of the car, looked up and down the street. A half- block away he foundwhat he was looking for, something that he had not noticed before.

    There,high above the sidewalk, glancing indifferently down at the street, was apolice camera.

Chapter 8

    TheHomicide Unit at the Roundhouse was a study in controlled bedlam. There wereninety detectives in the unit, working three shifts, seven days a week. Thefirst floor was a winding labyrinthine warren of half-round rooms which made ita real challenge to place desks, file cabinets, computer tables - in otherwords, everything that might be needed in an office. Not that anyone went outof their way to give even a simple nod to the concept of decor in this place.

    Butthere was a system, and that system worked. Philly Homicide had one of the highestsolve rates of any homicide division in the country.

    Atnoon, with most of the detectives at lunch or on the street, Jessica looked upto see Dana Westbrook crossing the room.

    SergeantDana Westbrook was the new day-work supervisor, taking over for the retired IkeBuchanan. In her late forties, Westbrook was the daughter of a retired policeinspector, and had been raised in Kensington. She was a Marine veteran ofDesert Storm.

    Atfirst glance she was not the most intimidating figure. With her bobbed cut,just turning gray, and measuring in at just over five-four, she towered over noone. But she was in great physical shape, still adhered to the Marinecircuit-workout four days a week, and could outrun and outperform women on theforce half her age, as well as many of the men.

    Beinga woman in what was still and would probably always be a boys' club, hermilitary training came in handy.

    As inall police departments, indeed any paramilitary organization, there was a chainof command. From the commissioner to deputy commissioner, from chief inspectorto staff inspector to captain, all the way to lieutenant and sergeant, thendetective, officer, and recruit, it was a highly regimented institution. Andshit, as they say in the military, doesn't flow uphill.

    Fromday one, Dana Westbrook took a lot of shit.

    Whena call came in during day work - the eight a.m. to four p.m. shift - the deskdetective took the information and brought it to the supervisor on duty. It wasthen the supervisor's job to initiate and coordinate the first crucial hours ofthe investigation. A lot of this involved telling men - some of whom had beenin homicide for more than twenty years, all of whom had their own way of doingthings, certainly their own pace and rhythms - where to go, who to talk to,when to come back. It involved judging their fieldwork, sometimes calling themon the carpet.

    Formale homicide detectives, who felt as if they were the Chosen, having someonetell them what to do was not an easy pill to swallow. To be told by a woman?This made the medicine bitter indeed.

    Westbrooksat next to Jessica, opened a new file, clicked her pen. Jessica gave her thebasic details, starting with the anonymous 911 call. Westbrook made her notes.

    'Anysign of forced entry to the building?' Westbrook asked.

    'Notsure. The place has probably been broken into many times, but there was no newsplintering on the jamb.'

    'Whatabout vehicles parked near the scene?'

    Jessicanoticed for the first time that, besides her modest earrings, Dana Westbrookhad four empty piercings in her right ear. 'We're running plates in a two-blockradius, along with the vehicles parked in the school parking lot,cross-referencing the owners with wants and warrants. Nothing so far.'

    Westbrooknodded, made a note of it.

    'Andwe could also take a look at some of the footage our budding

    Oscarwinner took. I saw Albrecht getting some shots of the crowd across the street.'

    'Goodidea,' Westbrook said.

    Sometimesa criminal, especially one guilty of murder, returned to the scene. Police werealways aware that a crowd at a crime scene, or one gathered at a funeral, mightcontain the person they sought.

    'Andspeaking of Albrecht, how much access does this kid get?' Jessica asked.

    'Withinreason,' Westbrook replied. 'He doesn't get inside the ME's office, of course.Or a hospital.'

    'Andwhy are we doing this, again?'

    'He'sthe deputy commissioner's wife's cousin's son. Or something like that. He'splugged in, let's just put it that way. The deputy commissioner is a Penn Stategrad, you know.'

    'IsAlbrecht allowed to film a crime scene?'

    'Well,word is, the brass is going to see a rough cut of this film and has final approvalover it all. If anything compromises an ongoing investigation or is blatantlydisrespectful to a victim or a victim's family it won't see the light of day.You can count on that.'