Jessica looked at the flat-screen TV against the far wall. It was a news break-in, a helicopter shot over the city, cutting into the baseball game. The graphic at the bottom of the screen said “Ninth Street.”

The shot showed a rooftop, a building in North Philly. Near the edge of the roof, just a few feet in, was a white plastic tent, the kind PPD used to shield a scene from the elements. Jessica saw the CSU windbreakers on the people milling around.

She turned. Byrne stood behind her, watching the screen, along with everyone else in the pub. She glanced back at the TV. There was now a legend at the bottom of the screen.

THE COLLECTOR COLLECTS AGAIN?

There was no doubt in Jessica’s mind.

Within seconds, her phone rang.

FORTY-FIVE

AT SIX THIRTY Lilly walked into the Thirtieth Street train station. She wandered over to the food court, scanned the area for Mr. Mushroom Teeth, thinking he might have come back looking for her. Not seeing him, she walked around the station, went into Faber Books, read a few magazines off the rack until the guy at the register gave her the eye. He’d probably seen his share of runaways.

She hit the ladies’ room, freshened up, or as much as possible with paper towels and liquid soap in a cramped toilet stall. She hoped she didn’t smell.

When she returned to the food court there was a man sitting at one of the tables. She had to look twice to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. She wasn’t.

It was the man from outside the BigK.

Her savior.

“Oh my God! It’s you!”

The man looked up from the paper. At first he didn’t seem to recognize her, then recollection dawned.

“Hello again,” the man said.

“Hi,” Lilly replied. “I can’t… I can’t believe, well, hello.” She turned in place. Twice. She felt like a schnauzer. She felt like an idiot. “Right, okay. I just want to say thanks. You know. For helping me with that guy.”

“That is quite all right,” he said. “I’ve never been able to countenance bullies.”

“Small world, huh?”

“Indeed.” The man gestured to the second half of the cheesesteak in front of him. “Look, I’m never going to finish this,” he said. “And you strike me as being a hungry and weary traveler. Are you?”

Against her better judgment—her stomach ruling her mind for the moment, as it just might do for some time to come—Lilly said, “Kinda.”

The man’s eyes shone, as if he understood. Maybe he did. Despite his expensive-looking suit and gold watch, maybe he had once been in her shoes. Maybe he had once been a “hungry and weary traveler” himself.

“Would you like the other half of this sandwich?” he asked.

“No thank you,” Lilly said. “That’s okay.”

“I understand,” he said. He went back to his paper. Then, a few moments later, as a coda: “But it’s terribly good. Unfortunately, at my age, one’s eyes are bigger than one’s stomach.”

Lilly looked a little more closely at the man. He wasn’t so old. “You’re sure you’re not going to eat it?”

The man gently patted his stomach. “Positive.” He glanced at his watch. It looked old and expensive. It might have been real gold. He wore cuff links, too. Lilly had never met anyone who actually wore cuff links. Hell, back home you were lucky if they wore shirts at all.

“Plus I’m meeting my wife for an early dinner,” he added. “She’ll absolutely flay me if I’m not hungry as a wolf. Or at least give the appearance.”

Lilly looked around the immediate area. Even though they were in a public place, and no one was paying attention, she still felt as if people might be watching her, as if she were some sort of charity case, as if she were the only one in the city who was hungry or needed shelter. Like a homeless person. Which she was most certainly not.

“This is great,” she said, grabbing the sandwich. “Thanks.”

The man didn’t respond. He just winked. Help yourself, his eyes said.

For an older guy, he was kind of cool.

THE SANDWICH WAS DELICIOUS. She wanted another one, or fries, or something, but she would never ask. Asking meant invitation. She’d been there.

A few minutes later the man folded the paper, glanced at his watch, glanced at her. “At the risk of being terribly forward, may I ask your name?” he asked.

Lilly wiped her lips with a paper napkin, swallowed the last bite of the sandwich. She sat a little straighter in her chair. She had always done this when she was getting ready to lie. “It’s Lilly,” she said, a little surprised at how easily it rolled off her tongue now, as if she’d been saying it for years.

The man looked surprised and delighted. “I have a daughter named Lilly,” he said. “She’s only three months old.” He reached into his suit coat, pulled out a beautiful wallet. He opened it, took out a photograph.

“This is she.”

The picture was of the most adorable, apple-cheeked, blue-eyed baby she’d ever seen. “Oh my God! What a beautiful little girl.”

“Thank you. I would like to say she takes after her father, but I know this would be self-flattery.” He put the photograph away, looked at his watch. “Well, I’m afraid I must be off.” He stood, took his briefcase off the chair next to him. “Thank you so much for the chat. It was very nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

“And beware scary boys on street corners.”

“I will.”

With that the man gave her a slight bow, turned, and walked toward the Thirtieth Street entrance. In a moment, he was gone.

Lilly knew what she was going to do. Somehow, she wasn’t afraid.

He was a father.

She got up from the table and ran across the station. She found him on the corner.

She told him everything.

FORTY-SIX

THE WHITE TENT sat near the edge of the roof, shielding the murder victim from the sun, and the prying eyes of the media hovering overhead like red-tail hawks. There were no fewer than thirty people on the roof: detectives, supervisors, crime-scene technicians, investigators from the medical examiner’s office. Photographs were taken, measurements recorded, surfaces dusted.

When Jessica and Byrne arrived, the other personnel deferred to them. This could only mean one thing. The homicide that had occurred here was clearly connected to their investigations.

When Jessica opened the flap on the plastic tent, she knew it to be true. She felt the gorge rise in her throat. In front of her was a girl, no more than seventeen, with long dark hair, deep hazel eyes. She wore a thin black sweater and blue jeans, a pair of sandals on her small feet. None of this made her much different from any of the other young murder victims Jessica had seen in her career. What set this girl apart, what tied her irrevocably to the case she and her partner were working on, was the manner in which she was killed.

Protruding from the girl’s chest and abdomen were seven steel swords.

JESSICA STARED at the girl’s pallid face. It was clear that in life she had been exotically pretty, but here, on a blistering rooftop in North Philadelphia, drained of all her blood, she looked almost mummified.

The good news, for the investigators, was that according to the ME’s office this victim had been dead little more than twenty-four hours. It was the closest they had come to the Collector. This was no cold case. This time they could amass evidence unadulterated by time. The very scent and presence of the murderer lingered.

Jessica snapped on a pair of gloves, stepped closer to the body. She gently examined the girl’s hands. Her nails had recently been manicured and painted. The color was a deep red. Jessica looked at her own nails through the latex, and wondered if she and the victim had been sitting in a manicurist’s chair at the same time.