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“Okay,” Amy said, and hung up.

The Special Victims Unit did not have a color printer the q

uality of the one Mickey O’Hara had had the Bulletin buy for him. It was slow, there were eight images, and Matt made what he quickly realized was an error when he pushed the button that caused the printer to make three prints of each image.

He needed a set for Amy, of course. And the price of using their printer was a set for Special Victims, and a third set was necessary for Jason Washington, both for his edification and to make sure there was no screwup when the Forensics lab finally got the flash memory card and made the official prints.

The result of this was that it took thirty-six minutes for the printer to do the job, and as they came slowly out of the printer Detectives Lassiter and Domenico had the opportunity to take good, long looks at all of them. Matt didn’t give a damn about Domenico, but he was made uneasy by Detective Lassiter’s reaction. Her face made it evident that she was trying and failing to examine the photographs with calm professionalism.

When they were finally outside, in Detective Lassiter’s more than a little beat-up unmarked car, she looked at him for orders.

“We’re a little pressed for time-What do I call you? ‘Olivia’ all right?”

“Fine, Sergeant.”

“We’re a little pressed for time, Olivia. I think you should meet my sister; you’ll probably have to see her again, so we’ll go to the university first. Then, since Washington grabbed my car, we’ll go to my place so I can pick up my car. I’m going to New York. Then I want you to drop a set of pictures off at Homicide. If Lieutenant Washington is there-or Captain Quaire-give them to one of them. If not, seal the envelope and give it to the man on the wheel for Washington. Then I think you’d better go call on the Williamsons again. Get their statements.”

“What do I do about getting this car back to Northwest Detectives?”

“We’ll deal with that later,” Matt said. “The priorities right now, I think, are to see if I can run this critter down through the camera store, and to keep the Williamsons happy.”

“Happy?” she asked, sarcastically.

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, what did you think of my sister?” Matt asked when they were back in the unmarked car outside the University of Pennsylvania Hospital.

“She’s nice,” Olivia said. “And she’s a professor of psychiatry?”

“Too young, you mean?” Matt asked, and Olivia nodded. “She got her M.D. at twenty-four. I wouldn’t want you to quote me, but she’s smart as hell. And she really can get into the minds of psychopaths. This isn’t the first time she’s helped. She’ll probably give us a pretty good picture of how this guy thinks.”

“Where to now?” Olivia asked.

“The Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building, South Rittenhouse Square.”

“What are we going to do there?”

“I live there,” Matt said, and waited for her curiosity to overwhelm him. It didn’t.

When she pulled to the curb in front of the Cancer Society Building, Matt said, “You’ve got my cellular number?”

“And you’ve got mine,” Olivia said.

“See you later,” Matt said.

“Right,” Olivia said.

He got the Porsche out of the basement garage and headed for New York. When he was out of Center City traffic-on I-95 North-he slipped his cellular into a dash-mounted rack, which permitted hands-off operation, and punched in Joe D’Amata’s number.

“D’Amata.”

“Payne. I’m on my way to New York, unless you need me there.”

“There’s not much you can do here,” D’Amata said. “The crime lab folks are just about finished. Slayberg’s done the scene. We got statements from both McGrorys. What I’d like to do is get the Williamsons’ statements.”

“I got a statement from the brother,” Matt said.

“Then just the mother, then.”