Another laugh. This one laced with irony. “I’m from East Camden, okay? I was born abused.”

Jessica tapped the photograph of Caitlin. “Did your brother know her?”

“That girl? No. At least, I don’t think he did. I hope not.”

“You hope not? Why do you say that?”

“You came here to talk to him, so I figure you know his record, right?”

“We do.”

“So you know what I’m talking about.”

“Okay,” Jessica said, trudging on. “So tell me, how did this girl come to be in possession of this magazine cover?”

Francesca leaned back, crossed her arms, resting them on her swelling belly. Defensive, now. “I was reading the magazine, that’s all. We started talking. She said she decided to go home. She kinda talked me into it, too. So I wrote down my number and gave it to her. I thought maybe we could talk sometime.”

Jessica tapped the magazine cover. “This is your number?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened after that?”

“What happened? Nothing. She just walked out.”

“And you never saw her again?”

Francesca looked out the window. In this light, Jessica saw her as a middle-aged woman, a woman with all her bad decisions behind her. “I saw her outside.”

“Outside the station?”

“Yeah. I called a friend of mine and he came to pick me up. On my way out I saw her. She was talking to a well-dressed man.”

“A man? White, black?”

“White.”

“Well-dressed how?”

“Not like in a suit, but nice. Expensive.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Not really. He had his back to me. It was dark.”

“Did you see her get into a car or on a bus with this man?”

“Yeah. She got into his car. I thought maybe he was her father.”

“Do you remember what kind of car?”

“No. Sorry.”

“After that day at the Thirtieth Street station, did you ever see this girl again?”

Francesca thought about this, weighing her answer. “No,” she said. “I never saw her again.”

Jessica glanced at Byrne. He shook his head. No questions. She clicked her pen, put it away. They were done. For now. “We may need to talk to you again.”

A shrug. “I’ll be here.”

Jessica started to pack up to leave. “When are you due?”

Francesca beamed. “They tell me December twentieth.”

Jessica felt a pang of envy. A Christmas baby. Was there anything better than a Christmas baby? She and Vincent had been trying to get pregnant for the past year or so. There was a close call the previous winter, but no baby. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

They looked at each other for a few seconds in silence, two women at different ends of everything. Except motherhood.

Jessica took out a business card, handed it to the young woman. “If you think of anything else that might help, please give me a call.”

Francesca took the card, stood—with no small amount of difficulty—and made her way toward the ladies’ restroom door. At the door Francesca stopped, turned. “That girl?”

“What about her?”

A grave look veiled Francesca’s young face, a weariness far older than her years. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Jessica could find no reason not to tell the truth. “Yes.”

Francesca chipped at another nail for a moment. “Could you tell her family something for me?”

“Sure.”

“Tell them… tell them I’m sorry for their grief.” Francesca placed a hand on her belly, a gesture of defiance to this angel of death who walked the streets, a gesture of defense. “Tell them it’s not their fault.”

“I will.”

Francesca nodded, perhaps thinking about the past, the future, realizing she had only the present. Without another word, she opened the door and stepped through.

IGGY SANZ WAS NOT OUT of the woods yet, but whatever enthusiasm the detectives had on the way over the Ben Franklin Bridge had waned considerably by the time they made their way back. He had no real violence on his sheet. Both detectives were reasonably sure that Ignacio was telling the truth, perhaps for the first time in his life. He may have been a creep and a lowlife, but he was not a killer.

They drove back to Philly.

FORTY

FOUR DETECTIVES MET in the duty room of the Homicide Unit. The second tour had started a few hours earlier, and the last-out detectives had to find somewhere to talk. Desks in the unit were shared—you were lucky to get a drawer in a file cabinet these days. That cop-show myth about how every gold-badge detective had their own desk with a cheap vase with a flower in it and two or three framed photos of their kids was just that, a myth. The reality was, once a tour ended, the next group of detectives took over the desks, and if you were still working you had to find somewhere else fast. Theoretically, every detective cared about every other detective’s case, but Roundhouse reality was all about geography.

If it’s my tour, my ass is entitled to the real estate.

There was no whiteboard, no chalkboard. Just four detectives crammed into one of the alcoves off the main hallway. A dozen photographs graced one of the desks, a desk hastily cleared of coffee cups, éclairs, muffins.

Jessica, Byrne, Josh Bontrager, and Josh’s partner Andre Curtis.

Every homicide unit in the country had a detective who wore hats—homburgs, porkpies, Borsalinos—and Dre Curtis was PPD Homicide’s resident lid man. Finding the right hat for his mood was a ritual with him, but he only wore his hat in the elevator and corridors, never in the office. Jessica had once watched him take ten minutes to get the brim right on his beloved grey Rosellini Luauro fedora.

Josh Bontrager was probably partnered with Dre Curtis for no other reason than that they could not have been more different. A kid who had grown up Amish in rural Pennsylvania, and a smooth-talking homeboy, a former gangbanger, from the Richard Allen Homes in North Philly. So far, they had been an effective team.

Byrne let everyone settle in. He got their attention, then recapped both cases, including their visit to Laura Somerville’s apartment, and her suicide, and their visit with Iggy Sanz.

“Do we have any forensics tying the two victims together?” Dre Curtis asked.

“We do not,” Byrne said. “Not yet. But we just got the preliminary DNA results back on the remains found on Second Street. The heart in the specimen jar belonged to Monica Renzi.”

Byrne held up a document. It was the activity log from the Caitlin O’Riordan file.

“There are three interviews missing from the O’Riordan binder. These interviews were conducted by Detective Roarke on May third. We don’t have full names on these witnesses, just their street names—Daria, Govinda, and Starlight. It’s not much, but it’s an entry point.”

“What about the detective’s notes?” Bontrager asked.

“Missing,” Byrne said. “But just the notes for these three. The interviews are logged on the activity sheet, but there’s no paper for them.” He placed the activity log back into the binder. “All the runaway shelters in Philly have been notified and briefed.”

Runaways from Philadelphia were handled by the divisional detectives. They were never called runaways officially. They were always referred to as missing persons. When a runaway was missing from another city, and it was reported to the police there, the information went on NCIC. Sometimes the information was posted to the FBI website.

“Detective Park is collating FBI sheets on active runaways over the last year from Pennsylvania, New York, New Jersey, Maryland, and Ohio. He is also assembling reports of any DOA Jane Does from the past three years between the ages of twelve and twenty.”

Byrne pulled up a city map on the computer screen. “Let’s go where runaways congregate.” he said. “The bus station, the train station, the malls, the parks, South Street. Let’s make sure we hit Penn Treaty Park.”