'No,'Duchesne said. 'I've been here for almost twenty years, but she had left bythen.'

    'Didshe teach here?'

    'Shedid. It was only for two years or so, but she was quite something, as Iunderstand. The students were madly in love with her.'

    Theydescended the steps, reached the side door of Prentiss.

    'Perhapsthis is something you are not at liberty to discuss, but does any of this havesomething to do with Ms. Schönburg?' Duchesne asked.

    'No,'Byrne said, the consummate liar. 'I'm just a fan.'

    Duchesneglanced over at the wall. Jessica followed his gaze. There, next to the door,mixed into a precise grouping of portraits of young musicians - violinists,pianists, flutists, oboists - was an expensively framed photograph of a youngChrista-Marie Schönburg sitting in a practice room at Prentiss.

    Onthe way to the van - parked just off Locust Street on a narrow lane calledMozart Place - they walked in silence.

    'Yousaw it, didn't you?' Jessica finally asked.

    'Ohyeah.'

    'Sameone?'

    'Sameone.'

    Inthe decades-old photograph of Christa-Marie next to the door she wore astainless steel bracelet with a large garnet stone inlaid.

    Theyhad seen the same bracelet on the shelf at Joseph Novak's apartment.

Chapter 60

    The Audio-VisualUnit of the PPD was located in the Roundhouse basement. The purview of the unitwas to provide A/V support to all of the city's agencies - cameras, TVs,recording devices, audio and video equipment. The unit was also responsible forrecording every public event in which the mayor or police department wasinvolved, providing an official record. The detective divisions relied upon theunit to analyze surveillance footage as it related to their cases.

    Inthis regard there was no one better than Mateo Fuentes. In his mid-thirties,Fuentes was a denizen of the gloomy confines of the basement studios andediting bays, a fussy and geometrically precise investigator who seemed to takeevery foray by detectives into his world as an unwelcome invasion.

    Recentlypromoted to sergeant, Mateo was now commander of the unit. What had passed forpunctiliousness when he was Officer Fuentes now bordered on the obsessive.

    WhenJessica and Byrne arrived in the basement, Mateo Fuentes was holding court in oneof the bays off the main studio, chatting with David Albrecht.

    'So,you prefer the L-series lens, then?' Mateo asked.

    'Ohyeah,' Albrecht said. 'No comparison.'

    'Noghosting?'

    'None.'

    Mateosmirked. 'So, if I mortgage my house and sell all my possessions, I might beable to buy a rig like this?'

    'Youmight be able to rent one.'

    Bothmen looked over at Jessica and Byrne. Albrecht smiled. Mateo frowned. Itappeared that the two detectives were harshing his vibe. A few minutes laterthe rest of the team arrived - six detectives in all, plus Sergeant DanaWestbrook.

    Mateowas outnumbered.

    'Andso to business,' Fuentes said. 'Ready?'

    Thedetectives gathered around David Albrecht's camera. The LCD screen was aboutfour inches diagonally, but Mateo had hooked it up to one of the fifteen-inchmonitors from the Comm Unit.

    Mateofast-forwarded through footage of the West Philly location until he came to thesequence showing the parking lot where Jessica had been assaulted.

    Thevideo showed Jessica walking out of the diner and into the parking lot.Ordinarily this would have been a moment for hoots and hollers, for a bout ofgood-natured ribbing. Everyone was silent. They knew what was coming.

    On thescreen Jessica made a call on her cellphone, then pocketed the phone. Sheleaned against the wall of the building, and opened the diary. She pulledsomething out of the back. This went on for a full minute. Cars passed in theforeground. A mother walking with her three small children stopped in front ofthe lot. The woman adjusted the jacket on a two-year-old girl, who wantednothing to do with it. They soon moved on. Jessica continued to read.

    A fewmoments later Thompson emerged from behind the building. It showed himsucker-punching Jessica, the diary flying from her hand. Two loose pieces ofpaper lofted on the wind. Everyone watching winced. The second blow tookJessica down. Thompson paced for a few moments, strutting. The audio was fromacross the street, just the sound of traffic. His words were unintelligible,but his gestures were not.

    'There,'Albrecht said. He hit a button on the small remote in his hand. The videofroze. Albrecht pointed to the right side of the screen. There, just beyond thecorner of the building, was a shadow on the ground, the unmistakable shadow ofa person. Albrecht restarted the video. Thompson stood over Jessica's body, butall eyes were on the shadow. The shadow didn't move.

    He'swatching, Jessica thought. He's just standing there watching what's happening.He's not helping me. He's part of this.

    WhenThompson got close to the corner of the building a pair of arms reached out,over his head. A second later the arms descended and Thompson all but disappeared,dragged off his feet with enormous force.

    Albrechtrewound the video, played it again, this time frame by frame. The arms weredark-clad. The subject wore dark gloves. When the hands were over Thompson'shead Albrecht froze the video. Silhouetted against the white of the garagebehind the building, it was possible to see what the man in shadows had in hishands. It was a wire. A long loop of thin wire. He slipped the wire overThompson's head and around his neck, yanking back and pulling Thompson from theframe.

    Thescreen went black.

    'Iwant a copy of this sent to Technical Services,' Dana Westbrook said. 'I wantthis broken down frame by frame.'

    'Sure.'

    'Iwant tire impressions from that lot and the area behind the building,' Westbrooksaid. 'See if we have any police cameras on that street.'

    BeforeWestbrook could say anything else, Dennis Stansfield came down the stairs in ahurry. He bulled into the center of the room.

    'Detective?'Westbrook asked. 'You're late.'

    Stansfieldlooked at the floor, the ceiling, the walls. He opened his mouth, but nothingemerged. He seemed stuck.

    'Dennis?'

    Stansfieldsnapped out of it. 'There's another one.'

    Thescene was a Chinese takeout on York Street, in a section of Philadelphia knownas Fishtown. A longtime working-class neighborhood in the northeast section ofCenter City, running roughly from the Delaware River to Frankford Avenue toYork Street, Fishtown now boasted a number of arts and entertainment venues,mixing arty types with the cops, firefighters, and blue-collar workers.

    AsByrne and Jessica threaded through the cordon to the area behind therestaurant, Jessica dreaded what she was about to see.

    Apair of uniformed officers stood at the mouth of the alley. Jessica and Byrnesigned onto the crime scene, gloved up, and walked down the narrow passageway.No one was in a hurry.

    Thecall had come in to 911 at just after nine p.m. The victim, it appeared, hadbeen dead for days.

    Garbagebags had been piling up behind the restaurant for weeks. Apparently therestaurant owner had an ongoing feud with the private hauling company, and ithad become a matter of principle. Pushed against one wall were more than ahundred bulging plastic bags, ripped and torn by all manner of vermin, theirrotting contents spilling out. The foul smell of the decomposing body wasmasked by a dozen other acrid odors of decaying meats and produce. A trio ofbrave rats milled at the far end of the alley, waiting their turn.