Текст книги "The Rosary Girls"

Автор книги: Richard Montanari

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

38

TUESDAY, 10:20 PM

The Rodin Museum was a small museum dedicated to the French sculptor at Twenty-second Street and the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. When Jessica arrived, there were already a number of patrol cars on the scene. Two lanes of the parkway were blocked. A crowd was gathering.

Kevin Byrne huddled with John Shepherd.

The girl sat on the ground, her back against the bronze gates leading into the museum courtyard. She looked about sixteen. Her hands were bolted together, just like the others. She was heavyset, red-haired, pretty. She wore a Regina uniform.

In her hands was a black rosary, with three decades of beads missing.

On her head was a crown of thorns, fashioned out of concertina wire.

Blood trickled down her face in a delicate crimson web.

“Goddamn it,” Byrne yelled, slamming his fist into the hood of the car.

“I put out an all-points on Parkhurst,” Buchanan said. “There’s a BOLO on the van.”

Jessica had heard it go out on her way into the city, her third trip of the day.

“A crown?” Byrne asked. “A fucking crown?”

“Gets better,” John Shepherd said.

“What do you mean?”

“You see the gates?” Shepherd pointed his flashlight toward the inner gates, the gates leading to the museum itself.

“What about them?” Byrne asked.

“Those gates are called The Gates of Hell,” he said. “This fucker is a real piece of work.”

“The picture,” Byrne said. “The Blake painting.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s telling us where the next victim is going to be found.”

For a homicide detective, the only thing worse than having no leads was being played with. The collective rage at this crime scene was palpable.

“The girl’s name is Bethany Price,” Tony Park said, consulting his notes. “Her mother reported her missing this afternoon. She was at the Sixth District station when the call came in. That’s her over there.”

He pointed to a woman in her late thirties, dressed in a tan raincoat. She reminded Jessica of those shell-shocked people you see on foreign news footage, just after a car bomb has gone off. Lost, numb, hollowed out.

“How long had she been missing?” Jessica asked.

“She didn’t make it home from school today. Everybody with a daughter in high school and junior high is pretty jumpy.”

“Thanks to the media,” Shepherd said.

Byrne began to pace.

“What about the guy who called in the nine-one-one?” Shepherd asked.

Park pointed to a man standing behind one of the patrol cars. He was about forty, well dressed in a three-button navy suit, club tie.

“His name is Jeremy Darnton,” Park said. “He said he was driving about forty miles an hour when he went by. All he saw was the victim being carried on a man’s shoulder. By the time he could pull over and double back, the man was gone.”

“No description of the man?” Jessica asked.

Park shook his head. “White shirt or jacket. Dark pants.” “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s every waiter in Philly,” Byrne said. He went back to his pacing. “I want this guy. I want to put this fucker down.”

“We all do, Kevin,” Shepherd said. “We’ll get him.”

“Parkhurst played me.” Jessica said. “He knew I wouldn’t come alone. He knew I’d bring the cavalry. He tried to draw us off.”

“And he did,” Shepherd said.

A few minutes later, they all approached the victim as Tom Weyrich stepped in to do his preliminary exam.

Weyrich searched for a pulse, pronounced her dead. He then looked at her wrists. On each wrist was a long-healed scar, a snaky gray ridge, crudely cut, laterally, about an inch below the heel of her palm.

At some point in the last few years, Bethany Price had attempted suicide.

As the lights from the half dozen patrol cars strobed against the statue of The Thinker, as the crowd continued to gather, as the rain picked up in intensity, washing away precious knowledge, one man in the crowd looked on, a man who carried a deep and secret knowledge of the horrors that were befalling the daughters of Philadelphia.

TUESDAY, 10:25 PM

The lights on the face of the statue are beautiful.

But not as beautiful as Bethany. Her delicate white features give her the

appearance of a sad angel, as radiant as the winter moon.

Why don’t they cover her?

Of course, if they only realized how tormented a soul Bethany was, they wouldn’t be quite so upset.

I have to admit that I get a deep chill of excitement standing among the good citizens of my city, watching it all.

I’ve never seen so many police cars in my life.The flashing racks illuminate the parkway like a carnival midway. It is almost a festive atmosphere.There are about sixty or so people gathered. Death is always an attraction. Like a rollercoaster. Let’s get close, but not too close.

Unfortunately, we all get closer one day, whether we like it or not. What would they think if I opened my coat and showed them what I am carrying? I look to my right.There is a married couple standing next to me. They appear to be in their midforties, white, affluent, well dressed. “Do you have any idea what happened here?” I ask the husband. He looks at me, a quick up and down. I do not offend. I do not threaten.“I’m

not sure,” he says.“But I think they found another girl.”

“Another girl?”

“Another victim of that . . . rosary psycho.”

I cover my mouth in horror.“Seriously? Right here?”

They nod solemnly, mostly out of a smug sense of pride in being the ones to

tell me the news.They are the sort people who watch Entertainment Tonight

and immediately race to the phone to be the first to tell their friends about the

celebrity death du jour.

“I do hope they catch him soon,” I say.

“They won’t,” the wife says. She is wearing an expensive white wool cardigan. She carries an expensive umbrella. She has the tiniest teeth I’ve ever seen. “Why do you say that?” I ask.

“Between you and me,” she says, “the police are not always the sharpest

knives in the drawer.”

I look at her jawline, the slightly sagging skin on her neck. Does she know

that I could reach out, right now, take her face in my hands and snap her spinal

cord in one second?

I feel like it. I really do.

Arrogant, self-righteous bitch.

I should. But I won’t.

I have work to do.

Perhaps I’ll follow them home, and pay her a visit when this is all over.

TUESDAY, 10:30 PM

The crime scene stretched fifty yards in all directions. The traffic on the parkway was now bottlenecked to a single lane. Two uniformed officers directed the flow.

Byrne and Jessica watched Tony Park and John Shepherd instruct the Crime Scene Unit. They were the primary detectives on this case, although it was clear that the case would soon fall under the purview of the task force. Jessica leaned against one of the patrol cars, trying to sort out this nightmare. She glanced at Byrne. He was zoned, off on one of his mind jaunts.

Just then a man stepped forward from the crowd. Jessica saw him approaching out of the corner of her eye. Before she could react, he was upon her. She turned, defensive.

It was Patrick Farrell.

“Hey there,” Patrick said.

At first his presence at the scene was so out of place that Jessica

thought it was a man who looked like Patrick. It was one of those moments when someone who represents one part of your life steps into the other part of your life, and suddenly everything is a little off, a little skewed toward the unreal.

“Hi,” Jessica said, surprised at the sound of her voice. “What are you doing here?”

Standing just a few feet away, Byrne gave Jessica a look of concern, as if to ask: Everything okay? At moments like this, considering what they were there for, everyone was a little on edge, a little less trustful of the strange face.

“Patrick Farrell, my partner, Kevin Byrne,” Jessica said a little stiffly.

The two men shook hands. For an odd instant, Jessica was apprehensive about their meeting, although she had no idea why. This was compounded by a momentary flicker in Kevin Byrne’s eyes as the two men shook hands, a fleeting misgiving that dissolved as quickly as it had appeared.

“I was on my way to my sister’s house in Manayunk. I saw flashing lights, I stopped,” Patrick said. “It’s Pavlovian, I’m afraid.”

“Patrick is an ER physician at St. Joseph’s,” Jessica said to Byrne.

Byrne nodded, perhaps acknowledging the difficulties of a trauma room doctor, perhaps conceding their common ground as two men who patched the bloodied wounds of the city on a daily basis.

“A few years ago I saw an EMS rescue on the Schuylkill Expressway. I stopped and did an emergency trach. Ever since, I’ve never been able to pass a strobing rack.”

Byrne stepped closer, lowered his voice. “When we catch this guy, and if he just happens to get seriously injured in the process, and he just happens to get sent to your ER, take your time fixing him up, okay?”

Patrick smiled. “No problem.”

Buchanan approached. He looked like a man with the weight of a tenton mayor on his back. “Go home. Both of you,” he said to Jessica and Byrne. “I don’t want to see either of you until Thursday.”

He got no arguments from either detective.

Byrne held up his cell phone, said to Jessica: “Sorry about this. I turned it off. It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jessica said.

“You want to talk, day or night, you call.”

“Thanks.”

Byrne turned to Patrick. “Nice to meet you, Doctor.”

“Pleasure,” Patrick said.

214 Richard montanari

Byrne turned on his heels, ducked under the yellow tape, and walked to his car.

“Look,” Jessica said to Patrick. “I’m going to stick around here for a little while, in case they need a warm body to canvass.”

Patrick glanced at his watch. “That’s cool. I’m off to my sister’s house anyway.”

Jessica touched his arm. “Why don’t you call me later? I shouldn’t be too long.”

“You sure?”

Absolutely not, Jessica thought.

“Absolutely.”

Patrick had a bottle of Merlot in one hand, a box of Godiva chocolate truffles in the other.

“No flowers?” Jessica asked with a wink. She opened her front door, let Patrick in.

Patrick smiled. “I couldn’t get over the fence at Morris Arboretum,” he said. “But not for lack of effort.”

Jessica helped him take his dripping raincoat off. His black hair was mussed from the wind, glistening with droplets of rain. Even windblown and wet, Patrick was dangerously sexy. Jessica tried to derail the thought, although she had no idea why.

“How’s your sister?” she asked.

Claudia Farrell Spencer was the cardiac surgeon Patrick was supposed to become, a force of nature that had fulfilled every one of Martin Farrell’s ambitions. Except the part about being a boy.

“Pregnant and bitchy as a pink poodle,” Patrick said.

“How far along is she?”

“According to her, about three years,” Patrick said. “In reality, eight months. She’s about the size of a Humvee.”

“Gee, I hope you told her that. Pregnant women simply adore being told they’re huge.”

Patrick laughed. Jessica took the wine and the chocolates and put them on the foyer table. “I’ll get some glasses.”

As she turned to go, Patrick grabbed her hand. Jessica turned back, facing him. They found themselves face to face in the small foyer, a past between them, a present hanging in the balance, a moment drawing out in front of them.

“Better watch it, Doc,” Jessica said. “I’m packin’ heat.”

Patrick smiled.

Somebody better do something, Jessica thought.

Patrick did.

He slipped his hands around Jessica’s waist and pulled her closer. The gesture was firm, but not forceful.

The kiss was deep, slow, perfect. At first, Jessica found it hard to believe that she was kissing someone in her house other than her husband. But then she reconciled that Vincent hadn’t had too much trouble getting over that hurdle with Michelle Brown.

There was no point to wondering about the right or wrong of it.

It felt right.

When Patrick led her over to the couch in the living room, it felt even better.

41

WEDNESDAY, 1:40 A M

Ocho Rios, a small reggae spot in Northern Liberties, was winding down. The DJ was spinning music more as background at the moment. There were only a few couples on the dance floor.

Byrne crossed the room and talked to one of the bartenders, who disappeared through a door behind the bar. After a short while, a man emerged from behind the plastic beads. When the man saw Byrne, his face lit up.

Gauntlett Merriman was in his early forties. He had flown high with the Champagne Posse in the eighties, at one time owning a row house in Society Hill and a beach house on the Jersey shore. His long dreadlocks, streaked with white, even in his twenties, had been a staple on the club scene, as well as at the Roundhouse.

Byrne recalled that Gauntlett had once owned a peach Jaguar XJS, a peach Mercedes 380 SE, and a peach BMW 635 CSi, all at the same time. He would park them all in front of his place on Delancey, resplendent in their gaudy chrome wheel covers and custom gold hood ornaments in the shape of a marijuana leaf, just to drive the white people crazy. It appeared he had not lost the taste for the color. This night he wore a peach linen suit and peach leather sandals.

Byrne had heard the news, but he was not prepared for the specter that was Gauntlett Merriman.

Gauntlett Merriman was a ghost.

He had bought the whole package, it seemed. His face and hands were dotted with Kaposi’s, his wrists emerged like knotted twigs from the sleeves of his coat. His flashy Patek Phillipe watch looked as if it might fall off at any second.

But, despite it all, he was still Gauntlett. Macho, stoic, rude bwoi Gauntlett. Even at this late date, he wanted the world to know he had ridden the needle to the virus. The second thing Byrne noticed, after the skeletal visage of the man crossing the room toward him, arms outstretched, was that Gauntlett Merriman wore a black T-shirt with big white letters proclaiming:

i’m not fucking gay!

The two men embraced. Gauntlett felt brittle beneath Byrne’s grasp. Like dry kindling, about to snap with the slightest pressure. They sat at a corner table. Gauntlett called over a waiter, who brought Byrne a bourbon and Gauntlett a Pellegrino.

“You quit drinking?” Byrne asked.

“Two years,” Gauntlett said. “The meds, mon.”

Byrne smiled. He knew Gauntlett well enough. “Man,” he said. “I remember when you could snort the fifty-yard line at the Vet.”

“Back in the day, I could fuck all night, too.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

Gauntlett smiled. “Maybe an hour.”

The two men adjusted their clothing, felt out each other’s company. It had been a while. The DJ spun into a song by Ghetto Priest.

“How about all dis, eh?” Gauntlett asked, wanding his spindly hand in front of his face and sunken chest. “Some fuckery, dis.”

Byrne was at a loss for words. “I’m sorry.”

Gauntlett shook his head. “I had my time,” he said. “No regrets.”

They sipped their drinks. Gauntlett fell silent. He knew the drill. Cops were always cops. Robbers were always robbers. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Detective?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

Gauntlett nodded again. This much he had figured.

“Punk named Diablo,” Byrne said. “Big fucker, tats all over his face,” Byrne said. “You know him?”

“I do.”

“Any idea where I can locate him?”

Gauntlett Merriman knew enough not to ask why.

“Is this in the light or the shadow?” Gauntlett asked.

“Shadow.”

Gauntlett looked out over the dance floor, a long, slow scan that endowed his favor with the weight it deserved. “I believe I can help you in this matter.”

“I just need to talk to him.”

Gauntlett held up a bone-thin hand. “Ston a riva battan nuh know sun hat,” he said, slipping deep into his Jamaican patois.

Byrne knew this one. A stone at the bottom of the river doesn’t know the sun is hot.

“I appreciate this,” Byrne added. He didn’t bother to add that Gauntlett should keep all this to himself. He wrote his cell phone number on the back of a business card.

“Not at all.” He sipped his water. “Ever’ting cook and curry.”

Gauntlett rose from the table, a little unsteadily. Byrne wanted to help him, but he knew that Gauntlett was a proud man. Gauntlett found his balance. “I will call you.”

The two men embraced again.

When he got to the door, Byrne turned, found Gauntlett in the crowd, thinking: A dying man knows his future.

Kevin Byrne envied him.

WEDNESDAY, 2:00 A M

“Is this Mr. Amis?” the sweet voice on the phone inquired. “Hello, love,” Simon said, pouring on the North London. “How are

you?”

“Fine, thanks,” she said. “What can I do for you tonight?” Simon used three different outcall services. For this one, StarGals, he was Kingsley Amis. “I’m frightfully lonely.”

“That’s why we’re here, Mr. Amis,” she said. “Have you been a naughty boy?”

“Terribly naughty,” Simon said. “And I deserve to be punished.” While he waited for the girl to arrive, Simon looked at a tearsheet of the front page of the next day’s Report. He had the cover, as he would have until the Rosary Killer was caught.

A few minutes later, as he sipped his Stoli, he imported the photos from his camera into his laptop. God, he loved this part, when all of his equipment was synched up and working.

His heart beat a little faster as the individual photos popped up on the screen.

He had never used the motor drive function on his digital camera

before, the feature that allowed him to take a rapid series of photographs

without resetting. It worked perfectly.

In all, he had six photographs of Kevin Byrne coming out of that

vacant lot in Gray’s Ferry, along with a handful of telephoto shots at the

Rodin Museum.

No back alley meetings with crack dealers.

Not yet.

Simon closed his laptop, took a quick shower, poured himself a few

more inches of Stoli.

Twenty minutes later, as he prepared to open the door, he thought

about who would be on the other side.As always, she would be blond and

leggy and slender. She would be wearing a plaid skirt, navy blazer, white

blouse, knee socks, and penny loafers. She would even carry a book bag. He was a very naughty boy, indeed.

WEDNESDAY, 9:00 A M

“Whatever you need,” Ernie Tedesco said.

Ernie Tedesco owned Tedesco and Sons Quality Meats, a small meatpacking company in Pennsport. He and Byrne had formed a friendship years earlier when Byrne had solved a series of truck hijackings for him.

Byrne had gone home with the intention of showering, grabbing something to eat, and rousting Ernie out of bed. Instead, he showered, sat on the edge of the bed, and the next thing he knew it was six o’clock in the morning.

Sometimes the body says no.

The two men gave each other the macho version of a hug—clasp hands, step forward, strong pat on the back. Ernie’s plant was closed for renovations. When he left, Byrne would be alone there.

“Thanks, man,” Byrne said.

“Anything, anytime, anywhere,” Ernie replied. He stepped through the huge steel door and was gone.

Byrne had monitored the police band all morning. The call had not gone out about a body found in an alley in Gray’s Ferry. Not yet. The siren he had heard the night before was another call.

Byrne entered one of the huge meat storage lockers, the frigid room where sides of beef were hung from hooks, and attached to ceiling tracks.

He put on gloves and moved a beef carcass a few feet from the wall.

A few minutes later, he propped open the outside door, went to his car. He had stopped at a demolition site on Delaware, where he had taken a dozen or so bricks.

Back inside the processing room, he carefully stacked the bricks on an aluminum cart, and positioned the cart behind the hanging carcass. He stepped back, studied the trajectory.All wrong. He rearranged the bricks again, and yet again, until he had it right.

He took off the wool gloves and put on a pair of latex. He took the weapon out of his coat pocket, the silver Smith & Wesson he had taken off Diablo the night he brought in Gideon Pratt. He gave another quick glance around the processing room.

He took a deep breath, stepped back a few feet, and assumed a shooting stance, his body bladed to the target. He cocked the weapon, then squeezed a shot. The blast was loud, ringing off the stainless steel fixtures, caroming off the ceramic tile walls.

Byrne approached the swinging carcass, examined it. The entry hole was small, barely noticeable. The exit wound was impossible to find in the folds of fat.

As planned, the slug had hit the stacked bricks. Byrne found it on the floor, right near a drain.

It was then that his handheld radio crackled to life. Byrne turned it up. It was the radio call he had been expecting. The radio call he had been dreading.

The report of a body found in Gray’s Ferry.

Byrne rolled the beef carcass back to where he had found it. He washed off the slug first in bleach, then in the hottest water his hands could stand, then dried it. He had been careful to load the Smith and Wesson pistol with a full-metal-jacketed slug. A hollow point would have brought fiber with it as it passed through the victim’s clothing, and there was no way Byrne could have duplicated that. He wasn’t sure how much effort the CSU team was going to put into the murder of another gangbanger, but he had to be careful nonetheless.

He took out the plastic bag, the bag in which he had collected the blood the night before. He tossed the clean slug inside, sealed the bag, collected the bricks, scanned the room one more time, then left.

He had an appointment in Gray’s Ferry.

WEDNESDAY, 9:15 A M

The trees bordering the bridle trail that snaked its way through Pennypack Park were straining at their buds. It was a popular jogging path, and this brisk spring morning had brought runners out in droves.

While Jessica jogged, the events of the previous night ran through her mind. Patrick had left a little after three. They had taken their encounter about as far as two consenting adults could without making love, a step for which they both wordlessly agreed they were not ready.

Next time, Jessica thought, she might not be so adult about the whole thing.

She could still smell him on her body. She could still feel him on her fingertips, her lips. But these sensations were overruled by the horrors of the job.

She picked up her pace.

She knew that most serial murderers had a pattern, a cooling down period between killings. Whoever was doing this was on a rampage, the final leg of a spree, a binge that, in all likelihood, would end in his own death.

The victims couldn’t have been more different physically. Tessa was thin and blond. Nicole had been a Goth girl in her jet-black hair and piercings. Bethany had been heavy.

He had to know them.

Add to that the pictures of Tessa Wells found in his apartment, and it made Brian Parkhurst a prime suspect. Had he been seeing all three girls?

Even if he was, the biggest question remained. Why was he doing it? Had these girls rebuffed his advances? Threatened to go public? No, Jessica thought. There would have been a pattern of violence somewhere in his past.

On the other hand, if she could understand a monster’s mind-set, she would know why.

Still, anyone whose pathology of religious insanity ran this deep must have acted on it before. And yet none of the crime databases had yielded even a remotely similar MO in the Philadelphia area, or anywhere nearby for that matter.

Yesterday Jessica had driven up Frankford Avenue in the Northeast, near Primrose Road, and had passed St. Katherine of Siena. St. Katherine was the church that had been defaced with blood three years earlier. She made a note to look into the incident. She knew she was grasping at straws, but straws were all they had at the moment. Many a case had been made on such a tenuous connection.

If anything, their doer had uncanny luck. He had picked three girls off the streets in Philly without anyone noticing.

Okay, Jessica thought. Start at the beginning. His first victim was Nicole Taylor. If it was Brian Parkhurst, they knew where he met Nicole. At school. If it was someone else, then he must have met Nicole elsewhere. But where? And why was she targeted? They had interviewed the two people at St. Joseph’s who owned a Ford Windstar. Both were women; one in her late sixties, the other a single mother of three. Neither exactly fit the profile.

Was it someone along the route Nicole took to school? The route had been thoroughly canvassed. No one had seen anyone hanging around Nicole.

Was it a friend of the family?

And if it was, how did the doer know the other two girls?

All three girls had different doctors, different dentists. None of them played sports, so coaches and physical trainers were out. They had different tastes in clothes, in music, in just about everything.

Every question brought the answer closer to one name: Brian Parkhurst.

When had Parkhurst lived in Ohio? She made a mental note to check with Ohio law enforcement to see if there were any unsolved homicides with a similar MO in that time period. Because if there were—

Jessica never finished the thought because, as she rounded a bend in the bridle trail, she tripped over a branch that had fallen from one of the trees during the previous night’s storm.

She tried, but she couldn’t regain her balance. She fell, face-first, and rolled onto the wet grass, onto her back.

She heard people approaching.

Welcome to Humiliation Village.

It had been a while since she had taken a spill. She found that her appreciation for being on the wet ground, in public, had not grown in the intervening years. She moved slowly, carefully, trying to determine if anything was broken or, at the very least, strained.

“Are you okay?”

Jessica looked up from her earthbound vantage. The man doing the asking approached with a pair of middle-aged women, both sporting iPods on their waist packs. They were all dressed in quality jogging clothes, the kind of matching outfits with reflective stripes and zippered closures at the hem of the pants. Jessica, in her fuzzy, pilled sweats and well-worn Pumas, felt like a slob.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Jessica said. She was. Certainly nothing was broken. The soft grass had cushioned her fall. Except for a few grass stains and a contused ego, she was unharmed. “I’m the city acorn inspector. Just doing my job.”

The man smiled, stepped forward, offered a hand. He was in his early thirties, blond and fair, nice looking in a collegiate way. She accepted the offer, rose to her feet, brushed herself off. The two women smiled in understanding. They had been jogging in place the whole time. When Jessica shrugged a we’ve all taken a header, haven’t we? response, they continued on down the path.

“I just took a nasty fall myself the other day,” the man said. “Down by the band shell. Tripped over a child’s little plastic pail. Thought I’d fractured my right arm for sure.”

“Embarrassing, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” he said. “It gave me a chance to be one with nature.” Jessica smiled.

“I got a smile!” the man said. “I’m usually far more inept with pretty women. Usually takes months to get a smile.”

Now, there’s a line, Jessica thought. Still, he looked harmless.

“Mind if I jog along with you?” he asked.

“I’m just about done,” Jessica said, although this wasn’t true. She had the feeling that this guy was the chatty type and, in addition to the fact that she didn’t like to talk while she ran, she had enough on her mind to think about.

“No problem,” the man said. His face said otherwise. It looked as if she had slapped him.

Now she felt bad. He had stopped to lend a hand, and she shut him down rather unceremoniously. “I’ve got about a mile left in me,” she said. “What kind of pace do you keep?”

“I like to keep the meter just under myocardial infarction.”

Jessica smiled again. “I don’t know CPR,” she said. “If you grab your chest, I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.”

“Not to worry. I’ve got Blue Cross,” he said.

And with that, they took off down the path at a leisurely pace, artfully dodging road apples, the warm, dappled sunlight blinking through the trees. The rain had stopped for a while, and the sunshine dried the earth.

“Do you celebrate Easter?” the man asked.

If he could see her kitchen, with its half a dozen egg-coloring kits, its bags of Easter grass, the jelly beans, cream eggs, chocolate bunnies, and little yellow Marshmallow Peeps, he would never ask that question. “I sure do.”

“Personally, it’s my favorite holiday of the year.”

“Why is that?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I like Christmastime. It’s just that Easter is a time of...rebirth, I suppose. Of growth.”

“That’s a nice way of looking at it,” Jessica said.

“Ah, who am I kidding?” he said. “I’m just addicted to Cadbury chocolate eggs.”

Jessica laughed. “Join the club.”

They jogged in silence for about a quarter mile, then rounded a soft curve, and headed into a long straightaway.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Why do you think he’s picking Catholic girls?”

The words were a sledgehammer to Jessica’s chest.

In one fluid move she had her Glock out of her holster. She pivoted, lashed out with her right foot, and swept the man’s legs out from under him. In a split second she had him on his face, in the dirt, the weapon to the back of his head.

“Don’t fucking move.”

“I just—”

“Shut up.”

A few other joggers caught up to them. The expressions on their faces wrote the whole story.

“I’m a police officer,” Jessica said. “Back up, please.”

Joggers became sprinters. They all looked at Jessica’s gun and took off as fast as they could down the path.

“If you just let me—”

“Did I stutter? I told you to shut up.”

Jessica tried to catch her breath. When she did, she asked: “Who are you?”

There was no reason to wait for an answer. Besides, the fact that her knee was on the back of his head and his face was smashed into the turf probably precluded a response.

Jessica unzipped the back pocket of the man’s jogging pants, pulled out a nylon wallet. She flipped it open. She saw the press card and wanted to pull the trigger even more.

Simon Edward Close. The Report.

She kneeled on the back of his head a little longer, a little harder. It was at times like these that she wished she weighed in at about 210.

“You know where the Roundhouse is?” she asked.

“Yes, of course. I—”

“Good,” Jessica said. “Here’s the deal. If you want to talk to me, you go through the press office there. If that’s too much trouble, then stay the fuck out of my face.”