Hell smiled. “Well, I’m no detective,” he began. He glanced at the photographs of the refrigerator and kitchen at the Second Street crime scene. “But if grilled under hot lights and deprived of Dancing With the Stars reruns, I would say we were definitely supposed to find this. I mean, Jeremiah Crosley? Puh-freakin’-leeze. It’s clever, but it’s not that clever. On the other hand, maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s just clever enough to be intriguing, but not so difficult that it would go over the heads of us big dumb cops.”

Jessica had, of course, considered this. They were supposed to find this Bible, and the message inside was the second part of the riddle.

“So I’m thinking this might be an address,” Hell said.

“A street address?” Jessica asked. “Here in Philly?”

“Yeah,” Hell said. “There’s a Shiloh Street here, you know.”

Jessica glanced at Byrne. Byrne shrugged. Apparently, he had never heard of it either. Philly was a small city in a lot of ways, but there were a hell of a lot streets. You could never know them all.

“Where is this Shiloh Street?” Jessica asked.

“North Philly,” Hell said. “Badlands.”

Of course, Jessica thought.

Hell typed a few keystrokes on his laptop. His big fingers nimbly flew across the keys. Seconds later Google Maps appeared on the screen. Hell entered the street address. Soon the image began to zoom in, stopping at a map view of North Philly. A few more keystrokes yielded a fairly tight picture of a handful of city blocks just south of Allegheny Avenue between Fourth and Fifth streets. Hell clicked on the small “+” sign in the corner. The image zoomed in again. A green arrow pointed at the triangular rooftop of a small corner building

“There it is,” Hell said. “Voy-la. 4514 Shiloh Street.”

Hell tapped another key, switched to satellite view, which eliminated the street names, rendering a photographic image.

From the aerial view, the address appeared to be either a row house or a commercial space at the end of the block. Gray and ugly and undistinguished. No trees. Jessica rarely saw her city from above. This part looked so desolate her heart ached. She glanced at Byrne. “What do you think?”

Byrne scanned the image, his deep-green eyes roaming the surface of the monitor. “I think we’re being worked. I hate being worked.”

Hell gently closed the book, then opened it again, flipping open just the front cover. “I ran a hair dryer over the inside front endpaper,” he said. “Many times people will open a book with their fingers on the outside, and right thumb on the inside. If the front cover was wiped down—and I believe it was—maybe they forgot to—”

Hell stopped talking. His eyes fixed on a slight bump in the lower left-hand corner of the inside front cover, a right angle that lifted an edge.

“What have we here?” Hell said.

He opened a drawer, removed a gleaming pair of stainless steel tweezers, clicked them three times. It seemed like a ritual.

“What is it?” Byrne asked.

“Hang on.”

Hell wielded the tweezers like a heart surgeon. He grabbed the endpaper, began to slowly strip it back. Soon, it became apparent that there was something underneath. It appeared that someone had already peeled back the endpaper, inserted something, then re-glued it.

Hell took a deep breath, exhaled, continued to peel back the endpaper. Beneath it was a thin piece of cardboard. Hell gently removed it with the tweezers, put it on the table. It was a white rectangle, about three inches by five inches. The paper had a watermark on it. Hell flipped it over.

The cardboard rectangle was a color photograph. A picture of a teenage girl.

Jessica felt the temperature in the room jump a few degrees, along with the level of anxiety. The mysteries were starting to progress geometrically.

The girl in the picture was white, somewhat overweight, about sixteen. She had long auburn hair, brown eyes, a small cleft in her chin. The photo appeared to be a printout of a digital picture. She wore a red sweater with sequins along the neckline, large hoop earrings, and a striking onyx teardrop pendant necklace.

Hell spun in place, twice, both fists raised in anger, his huge rubber-soled boots squeaking on the tile. “I didn’t think to look. I hate that, man,” he said, calmly, even as a fiery crimson rose from his neck onto his face like the column in a cheap thermometer.

“No harm no foul,” Byrne said. “We have it now.”

“Yeah, well, I am still upset. I am really, really upset.”

Jessica and Byrne had dealt with Hell Rohmer on a number of cases. It was best to wait out moments like this. Eventually, he calmed down, his face cooling to a hot pink.

“Can we get a copy of this?” Byrne finally asked. It was rhetorical, but it was the best way to go.

Hell stared at the Bible, as if the suspect might jump out of the binding, like a figure in a child’s pop-up book, and he could choke him to death. It was well-known in the department that you didn’t fuck with Helmut Rohmer’s psyche. A few seconds later he snapped out of it. “A copy? Oh yeah. Absolutely.”

Hell put the photograph in a clear evidence bag, walked it over to the color copying machine. He punched a few buttons—hard—then waited, hands on hips, for the photocopy to emerge, adrift in that place where frustrated criminalists go. A few seconds later, the page presented itself. Hell handed it to Jessica.

Jessica looked closely at the image. The girl in the photograph was not Caitlin O’Riordan. She was someone new. A person who stared out at the world with an innocence that begged for experience. Jessica was overcome by the feeling that this girl never got the chance.

Jessica put the photocopy of the photograph in her portfolio. “Thanks,” she said. “Keep us in the loop, okay?”

Hell didn’t respond. He was gone, adrift on the tangents of hard evidence, juddering with anger. Criminalists didn’t like to be played any more than detectives did. Hell Rohmer even less than most.

Ten minutes later Detectives Jessica Balzano and Kevin Byrne headed to 4514 Shiloh Street, the photograph of the auburn-haired girl on the car seat between them, like a silent passenger.

SIX

ANOTHER NORTH PHILLY hellhole; a grim and decaying three story building, the corner structure in a block of five.

At the entrance to the left of the Shiloh Street address was a memorial. There were memorials all over North Philly, commemorations of the departed. Some were a simple spray painted “RIP” above the victim’s name or nickname. Others were elaborate, highly detailed portraits of the victim, many times in a benevolent pose, sometimes flashing a gang signal, sometimes two or three times actual scale. Almost all honored victims of street violence.

This memorial was to a young child. In the recess of the doorway was a small, delaminating nightstand stuffed with plush teddy bears, rabbits, ducks, birds. It always struck Jessica as odd how, at North Philly memorials, items could be left on the street, items that everyday were shoplifted from Wal-Mart and Rite Aid. They were never stolen from a memorial. Memorials were sacred.

A piece of plywood was nailed over the door of this commemorative display, painted with the words Descanse en Paz. Rest in peace. On the wall to the left of the door was a beautiful airbrushed portrait of a smiling Hispanic girl. A silver Christmas garland ringed the painting. Beneath it sat a red plastic juice pitcher full of dusty satin tulips. Above the girl’s head was scrawled Florita Delia Ramos, 2004–2008.

Four years old, Jessica thought. Unless the city moved in and painted the wall over—an unlikely scenario, seeing as how the memorial was the only vestige of beauty left on this blighted block—the portrait would live longer than its subject did.