'Well,it was—'

    'Now,if we're counting per insertion,' Jessica continued, unbowed, 'that might be justone hell of a weekend.' She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms. 'Ifwe're counting each dick just once . . . let's see.' She looked at Nicci, whilegesturing to Stansfield. 'How many times does four inches go into twenty-sixmiles?'

    'Twenty-six-five,'Nicci added.

    'Right,'Jessica said. 'Twenty-six-five.'

    Stansfieldwas now as red as a Roma tomato. 'Four inches? Uh, I don't think so, darlin'.'

    Jessicalooked behind her, at the woman setting up the next table. 'Hey, Kathy, is therea ruler in the office?' Kathy was one of the owners of the Hot Potato Cafe.

    'Ohyeah,' Kathy said with a wink. A Philly girl herself, she had heard the wholeexchange and was probably dying to leap into the fray.

    'Allright, all right,' Stansfield said.

    'Comeon, Dennis,' Jessica said. 'Drop that big hot spud on the table.'

    SuddenlyStansfield had somewhere else to be. He glanced at his watch, downed hiscoffee, mumbled his goodbyes, made his exit.

    Jessicacould ignore the Cro-Magnons of the world on a day like this. A killer was incustody, they had a pile of evidence against him, no civilian or police officerhad been injured in the arrest, and a gun was off the street. It didn't get anybetter than that.

    Twentyminutes later they split up. Jessica walked to her car alone. She knew that shehad to keep up a front with her fellow detectives, a shield of hubris andbravado. But the cold truth was that she'd had a gun pointed at her. She knewthat everything could have been taken away in the time it took to pull thattrigger.

    Shestepped into a doorway and, making sure she was not observed, closed her eyes,a tidal wave of fear rushing over her. In her mind she saw her husband Vincent,her daughter Sophie, her father Peter. Both Peter Giovanni and Vincent Balzanowere cops - her father long retired - and knew the risks, but Jessicaenvisioned them both standing over her casket at St. Paul's. In her mind sheheard the bagpipes.

    Jess,she thought. Don't go there. If you go there, you might never come back.

    Onthe other hand, after all was said and done, she was tough, wasn't she? She wasPPD. She was her father's daughter.

    Fuckit all, she was dangerous.

    Bythe time she reached her car her legs were steady. Before she could open thedoor she noticed someone across the street. It was David Albrecht. He had thecamera on his shoulder. He was filming her.

    Herewe go, Jessica thought. It's going to be a long week.

    Shegot in her car, started it. Her cellphone rang. She answered, and learnedsomething she'd always suspected.

    Shewasn't the only dangerous female in her family.

Chapter 3

    Ihear a truck pull into the driveway. A few moments later, a knock at thedoor. I open it. In front of me stands a man of forty, just beginning topaunch. He is wearing a red windbreaker, paint-splattered jeans, a pair ofsoiled running shoes with frayed laces. In his hand is a clipboard.

    'Mr.Marcato?' the man asks.

    Marcato.The name makes me smile.

    'Yes.'I extend my hand. The man 's skin is rough, calloused, stained. He reeks ofcigarettes and turpentine.

    TmKenny Beckman,' he says. 'We spoke on the phone.'

    'Ofcourse. Please come in.'

    Exceptfor a few plastic trash barrels and dusty glass display cases, the space isempty.

    ''Man,what's that smell?' Beckman asks.

    'It'scoming from next door. There used to be a sausage shop there and I think theyleft some meat to rot. I intend to speak to them about it.'

    'Youbetter. You're not gonna do any business in here if it smells like this.'

    'Iunderstand.' I gesture at the room. As you can see, we're going to need quite abit of work here.'

    'Youcan say that again.'

    Beckmanwalks around the room, touching the moldering drywall, fingering the dust-cakedsills, shining a flashlight along the baseboards. He produces a measuring tape,takes a few dimensions, jots them on the clipboard. I watch him carefully,calculating his speed and agility.

    Aminute or so later: 'You've got a pretty good sag in the floor joists.' Hebounces a few times, driving home his point. The parched joists creak beneathhis weight. 'The first thing we're going to need to do is shore that up. Youreally can't do too much else with the floor out of level.'

    'Whateveris necessary to bring this up to code.'

    Beckmanlooks around the room again, perhaps in preparation for his closing. 'Well,you've got a ways to go, but I think we can handle it.'

    'Good.I'd like to get started right away.'

    'Soundslike a plan.'

    'Andby the way, you've come highly recommended.'

    'Ohyeah? Who recommended me? If you don't mind me asking.'

    'I'mnot sure I recall. It was a while ago.'

    'Howlong?'

    'March21, 2002.'

    Atthe mention of the date Kenneth Beckman tenses. He takes a step backward,glances at the door. 'I'm sorry? 2002? Is that what you said?'

    'Yes.'

    'Marchof 2002?'

    'Yes.'

    Anotherglance at the door. 'That's not possible.'

    'Andwhy is that?'

    'Well,for one thing, I wasn't even in business then.'

    'Ican explain,' I say. 'Let me show you something.' I gesture to the dark hallwayleading to the back room of the first floor. Beckman takes a moment, perhaps sensingthat something is slightly off kilter, like a radio that cannot quite find asignal. But he clearly needs the work, even if it is for a weird man who speaksin riddles.

    Wehead down the hallway. When we reach the door I push it open. The smell is alot stronger here.

    'Fuck!'Beckman exclaims, recoiling. He reaches into his back pocket, takes out asoiled handkerchief, brings it to his mouth. 'What the hell is that?'

    Thesmall square room is spotless. There are two steel tables at the center, bothbolted to the floor. The night-black walls have been expensively soundproofed;the drop ceiling is made of acoustic tile purchased by mail order from a Swisscompany specializing in outfitting the finest recording studios in the world.Above the tables is a microphone. The floor is a high- gloss enamel, paintedred in the name of practicality. Beneath the tables is a drain hole.

    Onone of the tables rests a figure, supine beneath a white plastic sheet pulledup to the neck.

    WhenBeckman sees the corpse, and recognizes it for what it is, his knees trick.

    Iturn to the wall, unpin a photograph, a clipping from a newspaper. It is theonly adornment in the room. 'She was pretty,' I say. 'Not beautiful, not in theGrace Kelly sense, but pretty beneath the coarseness of all this paint.'' Ihold up the picture. 'Don't you think?'

    Inthe pitiless fluorescent light Beckman's face contorts with fear.

    'Tellme what happened,' I say. 'Don't you think it's time?'

    Beckmanretreats, waving a forefinger in the air. 'You're fucking nuts, man. Fuckingpsycho. I'm outta here.' He turns and tries the knob on the door. Locked. Hepulls and pushes, pulls and pushes. It is a mounting frenzy, with no success.'Open the goddamn door!'

    Insteadof unlocking the door, I step forward, remove the sheet from the figure on thetable. The body underneath has begun to decompose, its eyes now descended intotheir sockets, its skin fallen sallow, the color of overripe corn. The form isstill recognizable as human, albeit emaciated and on the precipice ofputrefaction. The hands are gray and shriveled, fingers stiff in supplication.I do not gag at the sick-sweet smell. In fact, I have begun to anticipate itwith some measure of desire.