So-called because, according to Simon Close, there was no such thing as the legitimate press. They were all knee deep in the cesspool, every hack with a spiral-bound notebook and acid reflux disease, and the ones who considered themselves solemn chroniclers of their times were seriously deluded. Connie Chung spending a week shadowing Tonya Harding and the “reporters” from Entertainment Tonight covering the JonBenet Ramsey and Laci Peterson cases were all the blur one needed.

Since when were dead little girls entertainment?

Since serious news was flushed down the toilet with an O. J. chaser, that’s when.

Simon was proud of his work at The Report. He had good instincts and an almost photographic memory for quotes and details. He had been front and center on the story of the homeless man found in North Philly, his internal organs removed from his body, as well as the scene of the crime. On that one, Simon had bribed a night technician at the medical examiner’s office with a joint of Thai stick for an autopsy photo, which, unfortunately, never saw the ink of print.

He had beaten the Inquirer to print on a scandal at the police department about a homicide detective who had hounded a man to suicide after the murder of the young man’s parents, a crime of which the young man was innocent.

He’d even had a cover story on a recent adoption scam where a South Philly woman, owner of a shadow agency called Loving Hearts, was taking thousands of dollars for phantom children she never delivered. Although he would have preferred a higher body count in his stories, and grislier photos, he was nominated for an AAN award for “Phantom Hearts,” as that adoption scam piece had been called.

Philadelphia Magazine had also run an exposé on the woman—a full month after Simon’s piece in The Report.

When his stories broke after the paper’s weekly deadline, Simon filed to the paper’s website, which was currently logging nearly ten thousand hits per day.

And so it was when the phone rang around noon, rousing him from a rather vivid dream that included Cate Blanchett, a pair of Velcro handcuffs, and a riding crop, he was suffused with dread at the notion that he might once again have to revisit his Catholic roots.

“Yeah,” Simon managed. His voice sounded like a mile of muddy culvert.

“Get the fuck out of bed.”

There were at least a dozen people he knew who might greet him thusly. It wasn’t even worth firing back. Not this early. He knew who it was: Andrew Chase, his old friend and co-conspirator in journalistic exposé. Although categorizing Andy Chase as a friend was a monumental stretch. The two men tolerated each other the way mold and bread might, a distasteful alliance that, for mutual profit, yielded the occasional benefit. Andy was a boor and a slob and an insufferable prig. And those were his selling points. “It’s the middle of the night,” Simon protested.

“In Bangladesh, maybe.”

Simon wiped the crud from his eyes, yawned, stretched. Close enough to wakefulness. He glanced next to him. Empty.Again. “What’s up?”

“A Catholic school girl was found dead.”

The game, Simon thought.

Again.

On this side of the night, Simon Edward Close was a reporter, and thus the words were a spike of adrenaline in his chest. He was awake now. His heart began that rattle he knew and loved, the noise that meant: story. He rummaged the nightstand, found two empty packs of cigarettes, poked around the ashtray until he hooked a two-inch butt. He straightened it out, fired it, coughed. He reached over, hit record on his trusted Panasonic recorder with its in-line microphone. He had long since abandoned the notion of trying to take coherent notes before his first ristretto of the day. “Talk to me.”

“They found her on Eighth.”

“Where on Eighth?”

“Fifteen hundreds.”

Beirut, Simon thought. This is good. “Who found her?”

“Some wino.”

“On the street?” Simon asked.

“In one of the row houses. In the basement.”

“How old?”

“The house?”

“Jesus, Andy. It’s too fucking early. Don’t muck about. The girl. How old was the girl?”

“Teenager,” Andy said. Andy Chase had been an EMS tech for the Glenwood Ambulance Group for eight years. Glenwood did a lot of the ambulance contract work for the city and, over the years Andy’s tips had led Simon to a number of scoops, as well as to a great deal of inside dope on the cops. Andy never let him forget that fact. This one would cost Simon a lunch at The Plough & The Stars. If the story became a cover story, he owed Andy a hundred extra.

“Black? White? Brown?” Simon asked.

“White.”

Not as good a story as a little white one, Simon thought. Dead little white girls were a guaranteed cover. But the Catholic school angle was great. A load of cheesy similes to cull from. “They take the body yet?”

“Yeah. They just moved it.”

“What the hell was a white Catholic school girl doing on that part of Eighth?”

“Who am I, Oprah? How should I know?”

Simon computed the elements of the story. Drugs. And sex. Had to be. Bread and jam. “How did she die?”

“Not sure.”

“Murder? Suicide? Overdose?”

“Well, the murder police were out there, so it wasn’t an overdose.”

“Was she shot? Stabbed?”

“I think she was mutilated.”

Oh God, yes, Simon thought. “Who’s the primary detective?” “Kevin Byrne.”

Simon’s stomach flipped, did a brief pirouette, then settled. He had a history with Kevin Byrne. The notion that he might lock horns with him again both excited and scared the shit out of him. “Who’s with him, that Purity?”

“Purify. No. Jimmy Purify is in the hospital,” Andy said.

“Hospital? Gunshot?”

“Heart attack.”

Fuck, Simon thought. No drama there. “He’s working alone?”

“No. He’s got a new partner. Jessica something.”

“A woman?” Simon asked.

“No. A guy named Jessica.You sure you’re a reporter?”

“What does she look like?”