Seconds later, the door slams open. A bright orange light washes the room. An earsplitting siren rages through her head.

And the real nightmare begins.

Eve stepped out of the shower, toweled off, walked into her bedroom, opened the closet, took out the aluminum case. Inside, secured against the egg-crate foam lining, were four firearms. All the weapons were perfectly maintained, fully loaded. She selected a Glock 17, which she carried in a Chek-Mate security holster on her right hip, along with a Beretta 21, which she wore in an Apache ankle rig.

She slipped into her outfit, buttoned her blazer, checked herself in the full-length mirror. She proclaimed herself ready. Just after 1 AM, she stepped into the hall.

Eve Galvez turned to look at her nearly empty apartment, a rush of icy melancholy overtaking her heart. She had once had so much.

She closed the door, locked the deadbolt, walked down the hallway. A few moments later she crossed the lobby, pushed through the glass doors, and stepped into the warm Philadelphia night.

For the last time.

FIVE

THE FORENSIC SCIENCE CENTER, commonly referred to as the crime lab, was located at Eighth and Poplar streets, just a few blocks from the Roundhouse. The 40,000-square-foot facility was responsible for analysis of all physical evidence collected by the PPD during the course of an investigation. In its various divisions, it performed analysis in three major categories: trace evidence, such as paint, fibers, or gunshot residue; biological evidence, including blood, semen, and hair; and miscellaneous evidence, such as fingerprints, documents, and footwear impressions.

The Philadelphia Police Department’s Criminalistics Unit maintained itself as a full-service facility, able to perform a wide variety of testing procedures.

Sergeant Helmut Rohmer was the reigning king of the document section. In his early thirties, Rohmer was a giant, standing about six-four, weighing in at 250 pounds, most of it muscle. He had short-cropped hair, dyed so blond it was almost white. On both arms were an elaborate web of tattoos—many of them a variation on red roses, white roses, and the name Rose. Vegetation and petals snaked around his huge biceps. At PPD functions—especially the Police Athletic League gatherings. Helmut Rohmer was big on PAL—no one had ever seen him with a person named Rose or Rosie or Rosemary, so the subject was scrupulously avoided. His standard outfit was black jeans, Doc Martens, and sleeveless black sweatshirts. Unless he had to go to court. Then it was a shiny, narrow-lapelled, navy-blue suit from around the time when REO Speedwagon dotted the charts.

No pocket protectors or dingy lab coats here—Helmut Rohmer looked like a roadie for Metallica, or a Frank Miller rendering of a Hell’s Angel. But when the sergeant spoke, he sounded like Johnny Mathis. He insisted you call him Hell, even going so far as signing his internal memos “From Hell.” No one dared argue or object.

“This is a fairly common edition of the New Oxford,” Hell said. “It’s available everywhere. I have the same edition at home.” The book sat on the gleaming stainless table, opened to the copyright page. “This particular publication was printed in the early seventies, but you can find it in just about any used-book store in the country, including college bookstores, Half Price Books, everywhere.”

“Is there any way to trace where it may have been purchased?” Jessica asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

The book’s cover had been dusted for prints. None were found. It would take a lot longer, and prove far more difficult, to check the pages themselves, seeing as there were more than fifteen hundred of them.

“What do you make of the Shiloh message?” Jessica asked.

Hell placed an index finger to his lips. Jessica noticed for the first time that his fingernails were well-manicured, their clear polish reflecting the overhead fluorescents in straight silvery lines. “Well, I ran Shiloh through the databases and the search engines. Nothing significant in the databases, but I did get hits on Google and Yahoo, of course. Lots of them. As in tons and tons.”

“Such as?” Jessica asked.

“Well, a lot of them had to do with that 1996 kid’s movie. It had Rod Steiger in it, and the guy who was in In Cold Blood. What was his name?”

“Robert Blake?” Jessica asked.

“No. The other guy in the movie. The light-haired guy. The con man who bounces the check for the suit.”

“Scott Wilson,” Byrne said.

“Right.”

Jessica glanced at Byrne, but he refused to look at her. It was a matter of pop-culture principle, she figured. Sometimes Kevin Byrne’s knowledge astounded her. On a bar bet, he once rattled off the entire discography of The Eagles, and Kevin Byrne didn’t even care too much for The Eagles. He was a Thin Lizzy, Corrs, Van Morrison man—not to mention his near-slavish devotion to old blues. On the other hand, she’d once caught him singing the first verse of “La Vie en Rose” at a crime scene. In French. Kevin Byrne did not speak French.

“Anyway,” Hell said. “This Shiloh movie was a little schmaltzy, but it was still kind of cute. Beagle-in-jeopardy type thing. We just rented it a few months ago. Scratchy DVD, froze up a few times. Drives me frickin’ nuts when that happens. Gotta go Blu-ray and soon. But my daughter loved it.”

Jessica thought, Daughter? Could this be the legendary Rose? “I didn’t know you had a daughter, Hell,” she said, probing.

Hell beamed. In a flash, he had out his wallet, flipped open to a photograph of an adorable little blond girl sitting on a park bench, hugging the hell out of a black Labrador puppy. Crushing the puppy was more like it. Maybe the kid worked out with her dad.

“This is Donatella,” Hell said. “She is my heart.”

So much for Rose, Jessica thought. “She’s a doll.”

Byrne looked at the picture, nodded, smiled. Despite the tough-cop pose, Jessica knew Kevin Byrne was complete mush around little girls. He carried at least four pictures of his daughter Colleen at all times.

Hell slipped the photo back into his wallet, trousered it. “Then there’s the Shiloh reference in the Bible, of course.”

“What’s that about?” Jessica asked.

“Well, if memory serves—and it quite often does—Shiloh was the name of a shrine that Moses built in the wilderness. Lots of wilderness in the Bible.” Hell flipped a few pages of his notebook. Jessica noticed that there were hand-drawn roses in the margins. “Then there’s the Civil War battle of Shiloh, which was also known as the Battle of Pitts-burg Landing.”

Jessica glanced once again at her partner. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, the second largest city in the commonwealth, was three hundred miles west of Philly. Byrne shook his head, emphasizing to Jessica how little she knew about the Civil War, or American history in general.

“Not what you think,” Hell said, picking up on the exchange. “Shiloh is in western Tennessee. Nothing to do with Pittsburgh, PA.”

“Anything else pop up?” Jessica asked, anxious to move on.

“Nothing really jumped off the screen. I ran the numbers 4514 and got more than six million hits. Can you believe that? Six million. My first thought was that the four numbers could be the last part of a phone number.” Hell flipped through a few more of his notes. “I took the first three letters of Shiloh—S-H-I—and used them as a prefix, which is 744 on the phone. There is no Philly phone number using that designation. I widened the search to include area codes in Pennsylvania, Delaware, and New Jersey. Ditto. It’s not a phone number.”

“But you think it was something we were supposed to find, right?” Jessica asked. This sort of thing was not the purview of CSU, but Hell was one of the brightest people Jessica knew. It never hurt to get a second, third, and fourth opinion.