Jessica glanced at Byrne. He had his hands in his pockets. He was looking the other way. Jessica understood. Sometimes you had to look away.

RIP Florita.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Byrne and a quartet of uniformed officers entered the building and began to clear the structure. While they were inside, Jessica crossed the street to a bodega. She bought a half dozen strong coffees.

When Byrne emerged from the row house, Jessica handed him a cup. The rest of the team found their coffees, and Tastykakes, on the hood of the car.

“Anything?” Jessica asked.

Byrne nodded. “A whole houseful of trash.”

“Anything we want to look at?”

Byrne thought for a moment, sipped his coffee. “Probably.”

Jessica considered the chain of events, the geography. Here was the dilemma: Do you pull a few officers off other investigations to start searching a building for a needle in a haystack? Were they chasing ghosts, or did this address actually have something to do with the murder of Caitlin O’Riordan?

My name is Jeremiah Crosley.

“What do you think, detective?” Byrne asked.

Jessica looked up at the third floor. She thought of Caitlin dead inside a building not all that different from this one. She thought of the human heart in that specimen jar. She thought of all the evil she had seen, and how it always led to a place of unremitting darkness. A place like this.

The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure.

She called for a CSU team.

AN HOUR LATER, while Byrne returned to the Roundhouse to check the photograph of the dark-haired girl against recent missing-persons files, Jessica stood in the stifling hallway just outside the kitchen at the Shiloh Street address.

Byrne had been right. There was a houseful of junk. Hefty bags and loose garbage were crammed into the corners of the kitchen, bathroom, and dining area, as well as almost filling the three small rooms upstairs.

Strangely, the basement was almost empty. Just a few boxes and a moldy eight-by-ten faux-Persian area rug on the floor, perhaps a 1980s attempt at haute décor. Jessica took pictures of every room.

There had to be ten thousand flies in the house. Maybe more. The buzz was a maddening background hum. Between swatting the flies away and the incessant teeming, it was nearly impossible to think. Jessica began to believe this search was a pointless exercise.

“Detective Balzano?”

Jessica turned. The officer asking the question was a fit and tanned young woman, early twenties, about an inch shorter than Jessica’s five-eight. She had clear brown eyes, almost amber. A lock of lustrous brunette hair escaped her cap. In the heat, it was all but plastered to her smooth forehead.

Jessica knew the look, the plight. She’d been there herself, many times, back in the day. It was August—add a Kevlar vest, the dark blue of the uniform, along with what, at times, seemed like a fifty pound belt—and it was like working in a sauna, clad in medieval armor.

Jessica glanced at the officer’s nametag. M. CARUSO.

“What’s your first name, Officer Caruso?”

“Maria,” the young woman said.

Jessica smiled. She had almost guessed. Maria was Jessica’s late mother’s name. Jessica had always had a soft spot for anyone named Maria. “What’s up?”

“Well, there’s a lot of stuff upstairs,” she said. “Boxes, trash bags, old suitcases, sacks of dirty clothes, a couple of mattresses, tons of drug paraphernalia.”

“No bodies, I hope,” Jessica said with what she hoped was a little dark humor. This place was incredibly bleak.

“No bodies yet,” Officer Caruso replied, matching the tone. She was sharp. “But there is a lot of stuff.

“I understand,” Jessica said. “We have time.”

In situations like this, Jessica was always careful to use the word we. She recalled her days in uniform, and how that word—uttered by some ancient detective of thirty or so, usually over some incredibly brutal scene of urban carnage—meant catching the bad guys was a joint effort. It mattered.

For a moment, Officer Maria Caruso looked nervous.

“Is something wrong?” Jessica asked.

“No, ma’am. It’s just that I heard you and Detective Byrne were investigating the Caitlin O’Riordan case.”

“We are,” Jessica said. “Do you recall the case?”

“Quite well, ma’am. I remember when she was found.”

Jessica just nodded.

“I have family in Lancaster County,” Officer Caruso added. “Caitlin’s family lives about forty miles from my aunt and cousins. I remember the picture that was in the paper. I remember the case like yesterday.”

Caitlin, Jessica thought. This young officer called the victim by her first name. She wondered just how personal this case was to her.

Jessica took out the photograph of Caitlin O’Riordan, the one Caitlin’s family had supplied to the FBI. Over her shoulder was a faded lilac knapsack with pink appliquéd butterflies. “This is the picture you remember?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” Officer Caruso turned toward the window for a moment, covering her emotions. Jessica understood. Philly tough.

“Mind if I ask where you’re from?” Jessica asked.

“Tenth and Morris.”

Jessica nodded. People in Philadelphia were either from neighborhoods or intersections. Mostly both. “South Philly girl.”

“Oh, yeah. Born and bred.”

“I grew up at Sixth and Catharine.”

“I know.” Officer Caruso adjusted her belt, cleared her throat. She seemed a little embarrassed. “I mean, y’know, I heard that.”

“Did you go to Goretti?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I was a Goretti Gorilla.”

Jessica smiled. They had a lot in common. “If you need anything, let me know.”

The young woman beamed. She tucked that loose strand of dark hair back into her cap. “Thank you, Detective.”

With an energy known only to the young, Officer Maria Caruso turned on her heels, and walked back up the steps.

Jessica watched her, wondering if this life was a good choice or a bad choice for the young woman. Didn’t matter really, there was probably no way Maria Caruso could be talked out of it. Once you started catching criminals, Jessica knew, there was little else you were good for.

BYRNE WALKED THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR into the hallway. After returning from the Roundhouse he had conducted a brief neighborhood survey.

“Anything?” Jessica asked.

Byrne shook his head. “Incredibly, no one on this block has ever seen or heard of a crime being committed at this or any other location.”

“And yet there’s a memorial to a dead little girl right next door.”

“And yet.”

“Any hits with missing persons?”

“Nothing so far,” Byrne said.

Jessica crossed the kitchen to the other side of the counter. She tapped her fingernails on the worn Formica, just for effect. She was turning into such a drama queen of late, taking her cues from her six-year-old daughter. Jessica had stopped chewing her nails a year or so earlier—a bad habit she’d maintained since her childhood—and only recently started to get them done at a Northeast salon called Hands of Time. Her nails were short, they had to be for her job, but they looked good. For once. This month they were amethyst. How girly-girl can you get? Sophie Balzano approved. Kevin Byrne hadn’t yet said a word.

A uniformed officer stepped into the row house. “Detective Byrne?”

“Yeah.”

“Fax came in for you.” He handed Byrne an envelope.

“Thanks.” Byrne opened it and pulled out a single sheet fax, read it.

“What’s up?” Jessica asked.

“Ready for your day to get a little bit better?”

Jessica’s eyes lit up like a toddler hearing a Jack and Jill ice cream truck coming down the street. “We’re going swimming?”

“Not that much better,” Byrne said. “But a slight improvement.”

“I’m ready.”