Tomorrowwas his first tour in the new unit.

    Diaznoticed Jessica, crossed the room, smiled. 'Hello, detective. Been a while.'

    'Toolong,' Jessica said. They shook hands. Jessica had worked with Diaz on a jointtask force when she'd been in the auto-theft unit.

    Theyhad taken down an international ring, a gang shipping high-end cars to SouthAmerica. 'Glad to have you on the team. How is Marta?'

    Martawas Diaz's daughter. To Jessica's understanding she was some sort of musicalprodigy. The fact that Diaz, long divorced, was raising her alone vaulted himfrom appealing to unbelievably adorable.

    'She'sgreat, thanks. Fourteen going on thirty.'

    Jessicaglanced down at the stack of papers and books in Diaz's grasp.

    'Whatis this?' Jessica pointed at the book. Diaz handed it to her. It was a copy ofDante's Inferno.

    'Justa little light reading,' Diaz said, with a smile.

    Jessicathumbed through the book. It was anything but light reading. 'You readItalian?'

    'Workingon it. Marta is going to do her sophomore year in Italy, and I want to be ableto sound hip to her friends.'

    'Impressive.'

    'Chec'è di nuovo?' Diaz asked.

    Jessicasmiled. 'Non molto.'

    Asfar as she could tell, Diaz had asked her what was new and she'd told him 'notmuch.' Outside of swear words, that was about the extent of Jessica's Italian.

    Byrnewalked into the duty room. Jessica gestured him over. She introduced the twomen.

    'KevinByrne, Russell Diaz,' she said.

    'Goodto meet you,' Diaz said. 'I've heard a lot about you.'

    'Likewise.'

    Theybatted shoptalk around for a while until Diaz glanced at his watch. 'I'm dueback at Arch Street to wrap a few things.' The Philadelphia FBI field officewas at 6000 Arch. Diaz gathered his things, including the copy of Dante'sInferno. He put it all in his duffel, slung it over his broad shoulder.'Drinks later?'

    Standingbehind Diaz, Nicci Malone nodded like a bobble-head doll.

    Jessicaand Byrne spent the next hour typing up the witness statements collected fromthe Federal Street scene, which amounted to little more than I don't knowanything, I didn't hear anything, I didn't see anything.

    'Ithink you should stay on that tattoo company,' Byrne said. 'I'll see if I canred-light the lab on the brand of paper used to gift-wrap Beckman's head.'

    'Soundslike a plan,' Jessica said.

    Inthe background the duty-room phone rang. Out of habit, Jessica and Byrne bothlooked at the assignment desk, which was positioned more or less in the middleof the cluttered room. Nick Palladino was up on the wheel. They saw him reachinto the desk for a notification form, which could only mean one thing.

    Thehomicide unit was contacted every time there was a suspicious death. Someturned out to be accidents, some turned out to be suicides. But every time anon-hospital, non-hospice death occurred, anywhere in the county ofPhiladelphia, only one phone rang.

    Jessicaand Byrne turned their attention back to the case, to each other. Or tried to.

    A fewminutes later, out of the corner of her eye, Jessica noticed someone crossing theduty room. It was Nick Palladino. He was heading straight for Jessica andByrne, a dour look on his face. For the most part, Dino was a pretty affableguy, even-tempered, at least for a South Philly Italian. Except when he was ona job. Then he was all business.

    Thiswas one of those times.

    'Pleasedon't tell me we have another body on this case,' Jessica said. 'We don't haveanother body on this case, do we, Dino?'

    'No,'Nick Palladino said, slipping on his coat. 'We don't.' He grabbed a set of keysoff the rack, along with a two-way handset. 'We have two.'

Chapter 17

    LucyDoucette made the six blocks in just under four minutes. It might have been arecord. On the way she outpaced two SEPTA buses and just barely dodged an SUVthat ran the light on Eighteenth Street. She'd been dodging traffic since shewas three. It didn't slow her down a bit.

    Theaddress was a three-story brick building off Cherry Street. A small plaque nextto the door identified it as Tillman Towers. It was hardly a tower. A rustedair conditioner hung precariously overhead; the steps leading up to the doorlooked to be leaning at a ten-degree angle to the right. She looked at the bottomof the plaque. It said entrance to 106 around back. She walked down analley, turned the corner and saw a small door, painted red. On it was a symbolthat matched the symbol on the card, a highly stylized golden key.

    Shelooked for a buzzer or doorbell and, seeing none, pushed on the door. Itopened. Ahead was a long dimly lit hallway.

    Lucystarted down the corridor, surrounded by the smells of old buildings - baconfat, wet dog, fruity room deodorizers, with top notes of soiled diaper. She hadlong ago developed a keen sense of smell - it was something that really helpedin her business: sometimes some really funky things lurked in the craziestplaces in hotel rooms, and being able to root them out and dispose of them, byany means necessary, was a real plus.

    Whenshe got to number 106 at the end of the hallway the door was slightly ajar. Sheknocked on the door jamb and, out of long- ingrained habit, almost called out'Housekeeping.' She stopped herself at the last second.

    Sheknocked again. 'Hello?'

    Noresponse.

    Shetook a deep breath and stepped into the room.

    Thespace was small and cramped, with stacks of old leather-bound books in thecorners reaching nearly to the ceiling. In the center were two upholsteredchairs of differing style and vintage. In here she tasted long-boiled coffee onthe back of her tongue.

    'Hello.'The voice came from behind her.

    Lucyspun around, her heart leaping. Behind her stood a compact man somewhere in hisforties or fifties. He was of average height, but lean and wiry. His whiteshirt, which had yellowed around the collar and cuffs, appeared to be a fewsizes too large. His navy blue suit coat was shiny and worn, his shoes dusty.But what struck Lucy most were his eyes. He had the dark, shiny eyes of afierce terrier.

    'Hello,'she replied, the word coming out squeaky. She hated it when her voice did this.'I'm Lucy Doucette.'

    'Iknow.'

    Incontrast to her own, his voice was soft and assured. Lucy had the feeling thathe had never shouted in his life.

    Hetook her hand in his but didn't shake it, not like an ordinary handshake.Instead, he just held it for a moment, not taking his eyes from hers. For amoment the rest of the room dissolved away, like something glimpsed through ashower curtain. His lack of physical size belied this powerful touch.

    Helet go of her hand, eased his own hands back down to his sides.

    'Whatshould I call you?' Lucy asked as everything now shimmered back into focus.

    Theman smiled a thin smile, a light that didn't fully reach his eyes. 'My name isAdrian Costa,' he said. 'You may call me Adrian or Mr. Costa, whichever makesyou more comfortable.'

    Hegestured to the large upholstered avocado chair. Lucy saw the dust on the arms.She wanted to vacuum it.

    'I'mof a mind to call you Mr. Costa for now,' she said. 'If that's okay.'

    'Asyou wish.'

    Lucysat down. The chair was a lot more comfortable than it looked. It looked alittle spring-busted, if the truth were to be told. Lucy had grown up withthird-hand furniture, living in drafty rental houses and second-floorapartments situated above everything from bowling alleys to taverns to Chineserestaurants, places where none of the furniture matched, where nothing ever satlevel on the floor. Lucy never knew whether it was the floors that were out ofwhack or that the tables and chairs were short-legged, but she recalled alwayshaving to put a matchbook or two under the table legs so her pencils didn'troll off when she was doing her homework. She also remembered many nights whenshe and her mother would walk the streets of her hometown on the night beforetrash day, looking for usable items with which her mother could furnish theirhouse, or try to turn around and sell or trade for drugs. They used to call itshopping at Lawn Mart.