Byrne rummaged his memory. Then it clicked. "The author."
"Yes sir."
"I appreciate you getting back to us."
"Well, it's not every day I'm asked to call the police. How can I help you?"
"We'd like to meet with you if we could. We have a few questions about your books that we think may impact on a case we're working on."
Silence. "My books?"
"I'll explain more when we meet."
"Okay. Sure. When would you like to get together?"
"Today, ifpossible."
"Wow. Okay, I can meet you at Chester County Books if you like. Do you know it?"
"We'll find it."
"I can be there in an hour," Sinclair said.
"That will be fine." Byrne glanced at his watch. "Before I let you go, can I ask if you know a woman named Laura Somerville?"
"Somerville?"
"That's right."
A few silent seconds. "No, I'm afraid it doesn't ring a bell."
"Okay. We'll see you in an hour."
Byrne called the boss, got the go-ahead. He and Jessica decided to split up for the afternoon. Jessica was going to continue her canvass on a few of the college campuses. They decided to meet in Manayunk in a few hours. Byrne dropped Jessica off at the Roundhouse, then headed toward Chester County.
Chester County, along with Philadelphia and Bucks, was one of the three original counties created by William Penn in 1682. Although originally named for Cheshire, England, it had long been known around these parts as Chesco.
The bookstore, on Paoli Pike, was one of the largest independent bookstores in the country, covering more than 38,000 square feet and stocking over a quarter million titles. It also featured the Magnolia Grill, a New Orleans fare restaurant.
Sinclair was waiting at one of the tables in the Magnolia Grill when Byrne arrived. When he saw Byrne enter, he stood up, waved him over. Byrne guessed he really did look like a cop, even in his trust-us-we're- the-good-guys attire.
Byrne didn't know what to expect, physically, of David Sinclair. He hadn't met too many authors. Perhaps he expected someone about sixty or so, someone who looked like Albert Finney or Michael Caine, somebody in corduroy or tweed, a man who wore vest sweaters and Oxford button-down shirts and horizontally striped knit ties. Someone who smoked a meerschaum.
Instead, Sinclair was about thirty-five, and wore Levi's, a leather blazer, and a Ramones Gabba Gabba Hey T-shirt. Along with a New York Yankees cap.
"David Sinclair," the man said, extending a hand.
"Kevin Byrne." They shook hands. "I appreciate you coming."
Sinclair smiled. "Well, I have to admit, I'm intrigued."
They sat down. Byrne glanced at the menu. He resisted, even though the aromas coming from the kitchen were maddeningly enticing-crawfish etouffee, shrimp Creole, jambalaya. He ordered coffee.
"I'm afraid I can't tell you too much at this time," Byrne said.
"I understand."
"What I'd like to do is get an overview of what you do, and who your readers are."
Sinclair looked at Byrne, his eyes firing up. Here was a police officer asking an author to talk about his books. His face all but inquired: How much time do you have?
"Wow. Okay," Sinclair said. "I'm not sure where to start. What I mean is, the world of games and puzzles is huge. Not to mention ancient. Where would you like me to begin?"
"Why do people pick certain games and not others?"
"That's hard to say. I believe people like to be good at what they do, especially in the pursuit of leisure. I think we're drawn to the challenges we have at least a chance of winning. For example, I've been playing golf my whole life and, quite honestly, I've never gotten any better at it. But each time out I hit one or two great shots, and it keeps me coming back. I think we all enjoy a contest that grows and evolves, something that is not fully understood too easily."
"Why do people play games to begin with?"
"People have a gaming instinct, I believe. Even if you rule out professional sports, and I often do-there is a fine line between what is a sporting contest and what is a game-there are thousands upon thousands of ways to challenge a person's mind and hands. Crosswords, Rubik's cubes, video games, backgammon, poker, jigsaw puzzles, chess, darts, cribbage, croquet, billiards. It's virtually endless. Look at the Su- doku madness. Look at Vegas. I read recently that Hollywood is making feature-length films based on Monopoly, Candy Land, and Battleship. We are a game-obsessed culture."
"How far back do organized games go?"
"As far back as language itself. Maybe farther. The best-selling book of the entire medieval period was the Book of Games, commissioned by King Alfonso X. In fact, the first IQ test was a puzzle. The Riddle of the Sphinx. If you wanted to enter Thebes, you had to answer the riddle correctly. If not, the Sphinx killed you on the spot."
"What was the riddle?"
"You want to play?"
"Sure."
"The Riddle of the Sphinx: What is it that has four feet in the morning, two at noon, and three at night?"
Sinclair looked at Byrne, his eyes sparkling with the game.
"Is there a time limit?" Byrne asked.
Sinclair smiled. "The riddle is probably five thousand years old. I can give you a few minutes."
Byrne took thirty seconds. "The answer is 'man.' He crawls on all fours as a baby, walks on two legs as an adult and-"
"Walks with the aid of a cane in old age. Very good."
Byrne shrugged. "I had a foot patrol in Thebes back in the day."
Sinclair laughed. Byrne sipped his coffee. It had gotten cold.
"Who designs games and puzzles?" Byrne asked. "I mean, who makes these things up?"
"They come from all walks, really. Some games are based on design, some on logic, some on bringing order out of chaos. Most can be boiled down to the language arts or math sciences. Look at billiards. Pure geometry. There is a game called Wei Qi, or Go as its known here, and it is the most mathematically elegant game ever invented. Far more complex than chess. Millions of people play it every day."
"What about tangram?"
"Once again, pure geometry." Sinclair smiled. "Are you a fan?"
"I've really just done one puzzle," Byrne said.
"Do you remember the problem?"
"The problem?
"In tangram, the diagram is called the problem."
"Ah, okay. I believe it was something called a wedding drinking cup."
Sinclair nodded enthusiastically. "I know it well. Fairly complex. Did you solve it?"
"Yes."
"Most impressive," Sinclair said. "Oddly enough, Philadelphia has a role in the history of tangram."
"How so?"
"The tangram puzzle first came to the US in 1816, courtesy of Captain Edward Donnaldson and his ship Trader. The first American tangram book was published here the next year."
"How many people are into it?"
"Oh, gosh. It's known all over the world. It was a craze for a while. Kind of like Trivial Pursuit was. Tangram enthusiasts included Edgar Allan Poe, Napoleon, John Quincy Adams, Lewis Carroll-"
"Lewis Carroll?" Byrne asked. "The author?"
"Oh, yeah. Carroll was a big fan."
Byrne thought, 2917 Dodgson Street. He made a few notes.
For the next half hour, David Sinclair gave Byrne an overview of the history of tangram, from the earliest incarnations to the modern, computerized versions. Not for the first time, Byrne was astounded that there were so many areas of life, so many subcultures about which he was not, and never would be, knowledgeable.
Byrne closed his notebook, glanced at his watch. "I have one more question, if that's okay."
"Sure."
"Is there a dark side to all this?"
"A dark side?"
"What I mean is, is there a history of people who have taken games or puzzles and twisted their meanings? Their purpose?"
Sinclair thought about this for a few moments. "I imag
ine so. People will twist anything, won't they? Of course, board games like Risk and Stratego are based on warfare strategies. And God knows how many video games are predicated on violence."
Byrne grabbed the check, stood. "Once again, I really appreciate your time."
"It was my pleasure. I could talk about this stuff all day. I have, in fact."
"I might have a few more questions," Byrne said. "Would it be all right if I called you?"
"Absolutely," Sinclair said. Byrne handed him his notebook, his pen. David Sinclair wrote his number. "This is my cell phone. You can always reach me on it."
"Thanks." Byrne put his notebook away. "By the way, are your books available here?"
Sinclair smiled. "They are."
Ten minutes later, as Byrne stood at the register, buying three of David Sinclair's books, he glanced back at the table. Sinclair was working on the New York Times crossword puzzle. He didn't look up.
Jessica waited for Byrne at a Manayunk pub called Kildare's. The place was lively, a little too loud for them to have a discussion about the day's findings. They decided to have one beer and move on.
Byrne slipped onto a stool. He briefly told Jessica what he had learned from David Sinclair.
"I cruised a couple of the college campuses," Jessica said. "Man, did I feel old."
"Any hits?"
"Not a one."
They both watched the baseball game on the flat-screen TV, neither really seeing it. Phillies up on the Dodgers, six to one.
"All these gaming and puzzle references can't be coincidence," Byrne said.
"You think our guy has a fetish?" Jessica asked. "You think that's what this is all about?"
"I don't know. I mean, if he drowned Caitlin O'Riordan and dismembered Monica Renzi as part of a plan, I'm not seeing the connection. The profile on these guys says their MO is always similar. Until we know either where he's meeting these girls, or what twisted plan he's basing this on, I don't think we have a chance at predicting what's next."
Jessica made a finger gun, fired it. "Until he fucks up."
"Until he fucks up." Byrne unknotted his tie, pulled it off, unbuttoned his collar. "Order me a Guinness. I'll be right back."
"You got it."
Jessica flagged a waitress, ordered, spun her napkin around. She folded it in half, making a rectangle, unfolded it, refolded it. She pressed it into the damp bar surface, making a rectangular shape in the condensation. She then turned the napkin ninety degrees. It reminded her of the cross shape in the game Ludo, which reminded her of the old game Parcheesi.
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 cufflinks, 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 go
ing 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.
Even though she was seated, Jessica determined that the girl was about five-three, less than a hundred pounds. She sniffed the girl's hair. It smelled of mint. It had been recently shampooed.
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