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Unbelievable!

A severed head in the freezer!

And fourteen-year-old girls forced into prostitution!

What the hell next?

I do not want to know.

But I know I can’t let this guy get near-what did he call him? — El Gato.

He pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed-dial key.

Okay, Matt. Now it’s a lot later.

Answer your goddamn telephone!

THREE

Philadelphia Police Headquarters Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 8:16 A.M.

Sergeant Matt Payne and Sergeant Jim Byrth came into the Homicide Unit and saw Detective Tony Harris across the room at his desk, holding two telephones to his head. His left hand held a cell phone, his right shoulder held the receiver of his desk phone to the other ear, and he was taking notes with his right hand.

When Harris saw them approaching, he mouthed, Give me three minutes.

Payne nodded, then touched Byrth on the shoulder.

“Coffee?” Payne said.

“Sure,” Byrth said.

Payne led him to the observation room between two holding rooms that also served as the Homicide Unit’s commissary. Its windows were two-way mirrors for observing those being interviewed in either holding room. It had a Mr. Coffee brewer, as well as an open cardboard bakery box of somewhat fresh doughnuts and, surprising Payne, banana nut muffins. Next to them was an old glass beer mug that someone had obtained from Liberties in what could be termed “a midnight acquisition,” or simply “pilfered.” It had a sign taped to its side that read: REMEMBER TO FEED THE KITTY. Inside were coins and dollar bills.

As Payne poured coffee into two foam cups, Byrth stuck two bucks in the glass mug.

“Welcome to hurry up and wait,” Payne said as he glanced at Harris. “But he sounded really excited when he called.”

Payne sipped his coffee. Then he said, “There. He’s hanging up.”

They walked over to Harris’s desk and drew up two chairs.

“Good morning, Tony,” Byrth said.

“Good morning,” Harris said a lot more pleasantly than he looked. “That said, it may well turn out to be a great morning.”

He pushed a short stack of computer printouts toward Payne.

“Look at those,” Harris said.

Payne flipped through them quickly. They looked familiar-printouts of The Philadelphia Bulletin website pages-but nothing unusual.

“What am I looking for?” he said, then passed the pages to Byrth.

“I had an early breakfast with Stanley Dowbrowski.”

Payne shook his head. “Name doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”

“Maybe not. He’s sixty-five; been retired from the department some fifteen years now. He lives around the corner from me, over on Brocklehurst Street, and we stay in touch. When I got home last night just shy of midnight, I found that he’d left me a message on my machine. It was too late to call him-he’s always been a morning guy-so I set the alarm for five. Then I called him at oh-dark-thirty. Turns out he’s not as early a riser as he used to be. I woke him-”