'Mostly. My family is from Belarus. The Cyrillic alphabet is shared by many languages-Russian, Ukrainian, Bulgarian. They are similar, but some symbols are not used by the others.'
'Any idea what this says?'
'Well, two of the words-the two written above the hood of the car in the photograph-are illegible,' Nate said. 'Below them she has written the word 'love' twice. At the bottom, the most legible words on the page, she has written a phrase.'
'What's that?'
' 'I am sorry.' '
'I am sorry?'
'Yes.'
Sorry, Byrne wondered. Sorry for what?
'The rest are individual letters.'
'They don't spell anything out?' Byrne asked.
'Not that I can see,' Nate said. 'I will write them out in order, top to bottom, and fax them back to you. Maybe they add up to something.'
'Thanks, Nate.'
'Any time.'
Byrne scanned the page again.
Love.
I'm sorry.
In addition to the words and letters and drawings there was one recurring image, a succession of numbers that were drawn in an ever- decreasing spiral. It looked to be a series of ten numbers. The drawing was on the page three times. Byrne took the page over to the copy machine. He positioned it on the glass, adjusted the settings to increase the size to three times that of the original. When the page emerged he saw that he had been right. The first three numbers were 215. It was a local phone number. He picked up a phone, dialed the number. When someone answered, Byrne apologized for dialing wrong. He hung up, his pulse quickening. They had a direction.
'Jess,' he said. He grabbed his coat.
'What's up?'
'Let's take a ride.'
'Where to?'
Byrne was nearly out the door. 'A club called Stiletto.'
'Want me to get an address?' Jessica asked, grabbing a two-way radio, hurrying to keep up.
'No. I know where it is.'
'Okay. Why are we going there?'
They reached the elevators. Byrne punched the button, paced. 'It's owned by a guy named Callum Blackburn.'
'Never heard of him.'
'Kristina Jakos doodled his phone number in that magazine three times.'
'And you know this guy?'
'Yeah.'
'How so?' Jessica asked.
Byrne stepped into the elevator car, held the door. 'I helped put him in prison nearly twenty years ago.'
24
There was an emperor of China and he lived in the most magnificent palace in the world. A nightingale lived nearby, in the great forest that ran to the sea, and people came from all over the world to hear it sing. Everyone marveled at the bird's beautiful song. The bird became so famous that when people met each other on the street one would say 'nightin' and the other would say 'gale.'
Moon has heard the nightingale's song. He has watched her for many days. Not long ago he sat in the dark, surrounded by others, lost in the wonder of the music. Her voice had been pure and magical and lilting, the sound of tiny glass bells.
Now the nightingale is silent.
Today Moon waits for her underground, the sweet fragrance of the emperor's garden dizzying his head. He feels like a nervous suitor. His palms sweat, his heart beats. He has never felt quite like this before.
If she had not been his nightingale, she might have become his princess.
Today it is time for her to sing again.
25
Stiletto was an upscale-upscale for a Philly strip joint-'gentlemen's club' on Thirteenth Street. Two levels of jiggling flesh, short skirts, and glossy lipstick catering to the horny businessman. One floor was a live strip club, one level was a noisy bar and restaurant with scantily clad barmaids and waitresses. Stiletto had a liquor license, so the dancing wasn't full nude, but it was everything but.
On the way to the club, Byrne filled Jessica in. On paper, Stiletto was owned by a well-known former nose tackle for the Philadelphia Eagles, a high-profile, personable sports star who had made the Pro Bowl three times. The truth was there were four partners in all, including Callum Blackburn. The hidden partners were most likely the mob.
Mob. Dead girl. Mutilation.
I am sorry, Kristina wrote.
Jessica thought: Promising.
Jessica and Byrne walked into the bar.
'I've got to hit the bathroom,' Byrne said. 'You going to be okay?'
Jessica stared at him for a moment, unblinking. She was a veteran police officer, a professional boxer, and she was armed. Still, it was kind of sweet. 'I'll be fine.'
Byrne went to the men's room. Jessica took the last stool at the bar, the one next to the pass-through, the one in front of the lemon wedges, pimiento olives, and maraschino cherries. The room was decorated like a Moroccan brothel, all gold paint, red flocking, and velvet furniture with pinwheel cushions.
The place did a brisk business. Not surprising. The club was located close to the convention center. The sound system blared George Thoro- good's 'Bad to the Bone.'
The stool next to her was empty, but the one beyond that was occupied. Jessica glanced over. The guy sitting there was right out of strip- club-creep central casting-fortyish, shiny flowered shirt, tight navy blue double- knit slacks, scuffed loafers, gold-plated ID bracelets on both wrists. His two front teeth overlapped, giving him a sort of clueless, chipmunk look. He smoked Salem Light 100s with the filters busted off. He was staring at her.
Jessica met his gaze, held it.
'Something I can do for you?' she asked.
'I'm the assistant bar manager here.' He slithered onto the stool next to her. He smelled like Old Spice stick deodorant and pork rinds. 'Well, I will be in three months.'
'Congratulations.'
'You look familiar,' he said.
'Do I?'
'Have we met before?'
'I don't think so.'
'I'm sure we have.'
