Atfirst, Jessica didn't see the victim. CSU had not yet set up their fieldlighting, and in the dim light of the sodium street lamps, combined with themeager yellow light thrown by the security light over the back door to therestaurant, the flesh of the corpse blended in with the trash and pittedasphalt. It was as if he had become part of the city itself. Stepping closer,she saw the body.

    Lightbrown skin. Nude and hairless. Head shaved bald. The body was bloated withgases.

    Theentire team was present, along with Russell Diaz, Mike Drummond, and now arepresentative of the mayor's office.

    Theyall waited for the ME's investigator to clear the body for investigators. TomWeyrich was taking a day off. The new investigator was a black woman in herforties whom Jessica had never met. She examined the body for wounds, made hernotes. She opened the victim's hand, shone her Maglite, and everyone saw thesmall tattoo on the middle finger of the left hand. It appeared to be akangaroo. Photos were taken from every angle.

    TheME's investigator rose and stepped back. Stansfield walked forward and gentlyremoved the white paper band that was wrapped around the victim's head.

    The deadman was Latino, in his late thirties. Like the other victims he had a slashacross his forehead, but this time the puncture wound was over his left eye.His right ear was shredded into a scabrous tangle of blood and ruinedcartilage.

    Byrnesaw the victim's face, turned, and took a few steps away, his hands in hispockets.

    Whatwas this about? Jessica wondered. Why was he stepping away?

    'Iknow him,' Drummond said. 'That's Eduardo Robles.'

    Alleyes turned to Kevin Byrne. Everyone knew that Byrne had been trying to get thegrand jury to indict Robles in the death of Lina Laskaris. And now Robles was avictim of their serial murderer.

    'Thisis where she died,' Byrne said. 'She was shot on the street and she crawledback here to die. This is the Lina Laskaris crime scene.'

    OnYork Street, the media crews swarmed. In the mix Jessica noted CNN, Fox andother national news outlets. Among them David Albrecht jockeyed for position.

    Fivevictims.

Chapter 61

    Byrnegot in the van and drove. At first he had no idea where he was going. But soonhe found himself on the expressway, and not long after that back in ChestnutHill, looking beyond the high iron fence at the huge house.

    Hesaw a light in a window, a shadow cross the elegant silk drapery.

    Christa-Marie.

    Closinghis eyes and leaning back in the driver's seat, he returned to that night in1990. He and Jimmy Purify had been grabbing a bite to eat. They had just closeda double homicide, a drug murder in North Philadelphia.

    Hadhe really been that young? He'd been one of the newer detectives in the unitthen, a brash kid who carried over the nickname of his youth. Riff Raff. Hewore it with the expected cocky Irish swagger. They called Jimmy 'Clutch.'

    RiffRaff and Clutch.

    Butthat was ancient history.

    Byrneglanced up at the second floor, at the figure in the window. Was she lookingout at him?

    Hepicked up the file next to him on the seat, opened it, looked at the photos, atthe body of Gabriel Thorne lying on the floor, the bloody white kitchen whereall this had begun.

    Hehad met earlier in the day with a man named Robert Cole, a man who ran anindependent lab that sometimes took contracts from the department when rushforensic services were needed. He had seen Cole testify a number of times. Hewas good, he was thorough and, above all, he was discreet. Cole had promisedByrne a rush job on what he wanted.

    Byrneflipped through the case file. He looked at his signature at the bottom of theform. A much younger man had wielded the pen that day. A man who had his wholecareer, his whole life, ahead of him.

    Byrnedidn't have to look at the time of arrest, the moment he had placedChrista-Marie Schönburg in custody. He knew.

    Itwas 2:52.

Chapter 62

    Inthe night, when hotel guests are asleep in their beds, the dead roam thehalls. They ride the elevators, take the back stairs, slip into rooms and standat the foot of your bed. They sit on the edge of the sink when you take yourshower. They watch as you make love, as you stuff the free toiletries and soapsinto your luggage, thinking yourself so clever. They watch as you viewlate-night porn.

    StacyPennell walks these hallways, her small feet barely making an impression on thesoft carpeting. Guests come and go, but Stacy stays on, her final wordscircling in Room 1208 like sorrowful little birds.

    Soonshe will be set free.

Chapter 63

    Saturday,October 30

    Jessicajogged down third street. at this early hour the running was not as bad asshe'd thought it was going to be. Traffic was sparse, and the only people onthe streets were those opening their bakeries and coffee shops, city crews,other joggers and cyclists. The hard part of running through a city was theuneven sidewalks, the curbs, the occasional stray dog.

    Therewas a light drizzle, a condition that the weather report said would end bymid-morning. Jessica wore her rain gear and an Eagles ball cap. She was wet,but not soaked. The temperature was in the high forties. Perfect joggingweather.

    Asshe turned the corner onto Wharton she thought about her and Byrne's meetingwith Frederic Duchesne. She thought about the photograph on the wall of thePrentiss Institute, the picture of Christa-Marie Schönburg wearing the braceletthey had seen in Joseph Novak's apartment.

    Thismorning they would get the background information on Carnival of the Animals,and they could begin to work on what might be the killer's twisted method.

    Sheturned the corner and saw someone standing in front of her house. Again. Sheslowed up.

    Thistime it was not Dennis Stansfield. It was Kevin Byrne. As Jessica approachedshe got a better look at him. She had never seen him look worse. His face wasdrawn and pale. He hadn't shaved. He was wearing the same clothes he'd had onyesterday. And he was just standing in the rain. He didn't seem to be lookingfor her, didn't seem to be doing anything. He was just standing in the coldrain, holding a large envelope in his hands. Just a few feet from where hestood was an awning that would have provided him shelter.

    Jessicacame to a stop, then walked the last few yards.

    'Hey,'she said, catching her breath.

    Byrneturned to look at her. 'Hey.'

    'Wantto come in? You're getting soaked.'

    Byrnejust looked up at the sky, letting the rain fall on his face.

    'Comeon inside,' Jessica said. 'I'll make some coffee, get you a towel.'

    'I'mokay.'

    Jessicatook him by the arm, led him under her neighbor's awning. She shook the rainoff her ball cap, brushed some of the water from Byrne's shoulders. 'What'sup?'

    Byrnewas silent for a few moments. He pointed across the street, at a novelty signin the window of a row house. It read PARKING FOR ITALIANS ONLY.

    Jessicaoffered a smile. 'South Philly. What are you going to do?'

    Byrneturned the envelope over and over in his hands. The moment drew out. 'I don'tthink I know how to do this anymore, Jess.'

    Helooked down the street, remained silent. Lights flickered on in some of thewindows. Another morning in Philadelphia.