The result of this was that it took thirty-six minutes for the printer to do the job, and as they came slowly out of the printer Detectives Lassiter and Domenico had the opportunity to take good, long looks at all of them. Matt didn’t give a damn about Domenico, but he was made uneasy by Detective Lassiter’s reaction. Her face made it evident that she was trying and failing to examine the photographs with calm professionalism.

When they were finally outside, in Detective Lassiter’s more than a little beat-up unmarked car, she looked at him for orders.

“We’re a little pressed for time-What do I call you? ‘Olivia’ all right?”

“Fine, Sergeant.”

“We’re a little pressed for time, Olivia. I think you should meet my sister; you’ll probably have to see her again, so we’ll go to the university first. Then, since Washington grabbed my car, we’ll go to my place so I can pick up my car. I’m going to New York. Then I want you to drop a set of pictures off at Homicide. If Lieutenant Washington is there-or Captain Quaire-give them to one of them. If not, seal the envelope and give it to the man on the wheel for Washington. Then I think you’d better go call on the Williamsons again. Get their statements.”

“What do I do about getting this car back to Northwest Detectives?”

“We’ll deal with that later,” Matt said. “The priorities right now, I think, are to see if I can run this critter down through the camera store, and to keep the Williamsons happy.”

“Happy?” she asked, sarcastically.

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, what did you think of my sister?” Matt asked when they were back in the unmarked car outside the University of Pennsylvania Hospital.

“She’s nice,” Olivia said. “And she’s a professor of psychiatry?”

“Too young, you mean?” Matt asked, and Olivia nodded. “She got her M.D. at twenty-four. I wouldn’t want you to quote me, but she’s smart as hell. And she really can get into the minds of psychopaths. This isn’t the first time she’s helped. She’ll probably give us a pretty good picture of how this guy thinks.”

“Where to now?” Olivia asked.

“The Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building, South Rittenhouse Square.”

“What are we going to do there?”

“I live there,” Matt said, and waited for her curiosity to overwhelm him. It didn’t.

When she pulled to the curb in front of the Cancer Society Building, Matt said, “You’ve got my cellular number?”

“And you’ve got mine,” Olivia said.

“See you later,” Matt said.

“Right,” Olivia said.

He got the Porsche out of the basement garage and headed for New York. When he was out of Center City traffic-on I-95 North-he slipped his cellular into a dash-mounted rack, which permitted hands-off operation, and punched in Joe D’Amata’s number.

“D’Amata.”

“Payne. I’m on my way to New York, unless you need me there.”

“There’s not much you can do here,” D’Amata said. “The crime lab folks are just about finished. Slayberg’s done the scene. We got statements from both McGrorys. What I’d like to do is get the Williamsons’ statements.”

“I got a statement from the brother,” Matt said.

“Then just the mother, then.”

“Olivia’s on her way to the Roundhouse to deliver the pictures to Washington-”

“He’s not there,” D’Amata interrupted. “He called to say if I needed him, if we needed him, he’s going to take another look at the Roy Rogers.”

“He’s going to meet with O’Hara, Harris, and the black kid witness at five o’clock, to start all over again.”

“So he told me.”

“Olivia’s going from the Roundhouse to see the Williamsons.”

“Olivia is, is she?”

“Fuck you, Joe.”

“I think that’s what they call ‘verbal abuse of a subordinate, ’ Sergeant. You’ll be hearing from the FOP.”

“Then fuck you twice, Joe,” Matt said.

D’Amata laughed.

“You have the Williamson mother’s address?” Matt asked.

“No, but I probably can get it from Detective Lassiter.”

“I’ve got her cell number. You need it?”

“Yeah.”

Matt gave it to him, then said, “Tell her that I said I want her to introduce you to the Williamsons as the lead detective on the case. Maybe ‘senior homicide investigator’ would be better.”

There was a pause while D’Amata considered that.

“Lassiter’s got them calmed down, and we want to show them how hard we’re working, right?”

“Yeah. Make sense to you?”

“Yeah. That Philly Phil asshole business is still dangerous. My wife called and asked me what the hell was wrong with the uniforms, they didn’t take the door.”

“Well, let’s keep the Williamsons stroked.”

“Consider it done,” D’Amata said. “If anything comes up, I’ll call you.”

“Same here.”

“That digital camera’s a long shot, Matt. But let’s hope we get lucky.”

“Amen, Brother.”

Sergeant Zachary Hobbs, a stocky, ruddy-faced forty-four-year — old, was holding down the desk in Homicide when Detective Lassiter walked through the outer door.

Detective Kenneth J. Summers, who should have been working the desk, was meeting a lengthy call of nature, which he blamed on something he must have eaten at the church supper of St. Paul’s Lutheran Church the previous evening.

“Can I help you?” Hobbs asked. He was not immune to Detective Lassiter’s looks.

“Lieutenant Washington?”

“I’m sorry, he’s not here.”

“Captain Quaire?”

“He’s not here either. Can I do something for you?”

“Would you give whichever of them comes in first this envelope, please?”

She handed it to him.

“Sure.” He weighed it in his hands. “What is it?”

“It’s from Sergeant Payne,” Olivia said.

Hobbs looked at her, waiting for her to go on. After a moment’s hesitation, she did.

“It’s photographs of the victim in the Independence Street job.”

Sergeant Hobbs immediately tore the envelope open and looked at the eight photographs.

“Where the hell did Payne get these?” Hobbs asked.

“The doer forgot his digital camera at the scene. Sergeant Payne downloaded the images to his laptop, and Special Victims printed them for us.”

“Next question: Who are you, Detective? How did you get them?”

“My name is Lassiter,” Olivia said. “Northwest. I’ve been detailed to Homicide. Sergeant Payne told me to bring them here.”

“Detailed? By who?”

“Chief Lowenstein,” Olivia said.

“Well, so long as you’re with us, Detective, you’re certainly going to bring a little class to the premises,” Hobbs said. “Where’s the camera?”

“Detective D’Amata has it,” Olivia said.

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