'What about him?'
'I think the FBI had been watching him before he went up.'
The FBI had been watching a lowlife like Matisse? 'Do you remember what that was about?'
'I think it was some Mann Act violation. Interstate transport of underaged girls. Don't quote me on it, though.'
'Did an agent show up at the crime scene?'
'Yeah,' Lassar said. 'Funny how this shit comes back to you. Young guy.'
'Do you remember the agent's name?'
'Now, that part's lost to the Wild Turkey forever. Sorry.'
'No problem. Thanks.'
She hung up, thought about calling Terry Cahill. He had been released from the hospital and was back working a desk. Still, it was probably a little late for a choirboy like Terry to be up. She'd talk to him tomorrow.
She put Philadelphia Skin into her laptop's DVD drive, forwarded it. She freeze-framed the scene near the beginning. The young woman in the feather mask stared out at her, her wide eyes vacant and pleading. She ran a check on the name Angel Blue, even though she knew it was false. Even Eugene Kilbane had no idea who the girl was. He said he'd never seen her before or after Philadelphia Skin.
But why do I know those eyes?
Suddenly Jessica heard a sound at the dining room window. It sounded as if it might be the laughter of a young woman. Both of Jessica's neighbors had children, but they were boys. She heard it again. A girl's giggle.
Close.
Very close.
She turned and looked at the window. There was a face staring at her. It was the girl from the video, the girl in the teal feather mask. Except now the girl was skeletal, her pale skin stretched tight over her skull, her mouth a ragged grin, a red slash in her pallid smear of features.
Then, in an instant, the girl was gone. Jessica soon sensed a presence right behind her. The girl was right behind her. Someone flipped on the lights.
Someone is in my house. How did No, the light was coming from the windows.
Huh?
Jessica picked her head off the table.
Oh my God, she thought. She'd fallen asleep at the dining room table. It was light out. Bright light out. Morning. She looked at her watch. No watch.
Sophie.
She shot to her feet, looked around, frantic for the moment, her heart racing to burst. Sophie was sitting in front of the TV, pajamas still on, a box of cereal in her lap, the TV showing cartoons.
'G'morning, Mom,' Sophie said through a mouthful of Cheerios.
'What time is it?' Jessica asked, even though she knew it was rhetorical.
'I can't tell time,' her daughter replied.
Jessica darted into the kitchen, looked at the clock. Nine thirty. In her entire life, she had never slept past nine. Ever. What a day to set the record, she thought. Some task force leader.
Shower, breakfast, coffee, dressed, more coffee. All in twenty minutes. A world record. A personal best, at least. She gathered the photos and files together. The photo on top was a still of the girl from Philadelphia Skin.
And that's when she saw it. Sometimes extreme fatigue coupled with extreme pressure can open the floodgates.
The first time Jessica had watched the film, she thought she had seen those eyes before.
Now she knew where.
70
Byrne woke up on the couch. He had dreamed of Jimmy Purify. Jimmy and his pretzel logic. He had dreamed about a conversation they had once had, late one night in the unit, maybe a year before Jimmy's bypass. They had just brought down a very bad man, wanted on a triple. The mood was smooth and easy. Jimmy was working his way though a huge bag of barbecued potato chips, feet up, tie and belt undone. Someone brought up the fact that Jimmy's doctor had told him he had to cut down on fatty, greasy, sugary foods. These were three of Jimmy's four basic food groups, the other being single-malt.
Jimmy sat up. He assumed his Buddha pose. Everyone knew a pearl was forthcoming.
'This happens to be health food,' he said. 'And I can prove it.'
Everyone just stared, meaning, Let's have it.
'Okay,' he began, 'Potatoes are a vegetable, am I right?' Jimmy's lips and tongue were a bright orange.
'Right,' someone said. 'Potatoes are a vegetable.'
'And barbecuing is just another term for grilling, am I also right?'
'Can't argue with that,' someone testified.
'Therefore, I am eating grilled vegetables. This is health food, baby.' Straight-faced, perfectly serious. Nobody did deadpan better.
Fucking Jimmy, Byrne thought.
God, he missed him.
Byrne got up, splashed some water on his face in the kitchen, put the kettle on. When he walked back into the living room, the case was still there, still open.
He circled the evidence. The epicenter of the case was right before him, and the door was maddeningly closed.
We didn't do right by that girl, Kevin.
Why couldn't he stop thinking about this? He remembered the night as if it were yesterday. Jimmy was having surgery to have bunions removed. Byrne had been partnered with Phil Kessler. The call came in around 10:00 PM. A body was found in the bathroom of a Sunoco station in North Philly. When they arrived on the scene Kessler, as always, found something to do that had nothing to do with being in the same room as the victim. He started a canvass.
Byrne had pushed open the door to the ladies' room. He was immediately accosted with the scents of disinfectant and human waste. On the floor, wedged between the toilet and the grimy tiled wall, was a young woman. She was slender and fair, no more than twenty years old. There were a few track marks on her arm. She was clearly a user, but not habitual. Byrne had felt for a pulse, found none. She was pronounced dead at the scene.
He recalled looking at her, so unnaturally posed on the floor. He recalled thinking that this was not who she was supposed to be. She was supposed to be a nurse, a lawyer, a scientist, a ballerina. She was supposed to be somebody other than a drug statistic.
There had been some signs of a struggle-contusions on her wrists, some bruising on her back-but the amount of heroin in her system, coupled with the fresh needle marks on her arms, indicated that she had recently shot up, and it had been far too pure for her system. The official cause of death was ruled an overdose.
But hadn't he suspected more?
There was a knock at his door, bringing Byrne back from the memory. He answered. It was an officer with an envelope.
'Sergeant Powell said it was misfiled,' the officer said. 'He sends his apologies.'
'Thanks,' Byrne said.
He closed the door, opened the envelope. The girl's picture was clipped to the front of the folder. He had forgotten how young she looked. Byrne purposely avoided looking at the name on the folder for the moment.
As he stared at her photograph, he tried to recall her first name. How could he have forgotten? He knew how. She was a junkie. A middle-class kid gone bad. In his arrogance, in his ambition, she had been a nobody to him. Had she been a lawyer at some white-shoe firm, or a doctor at HUP, or an architect at the city planning board, he would
