Jonathon King - A Visible Darkness

"So here's the stack of rape and homicide files, all of them grouped in the same general area and going back ten years," Richards started. "No fingerprints, a hodgepodge of DNA in only the recent cases, and statements by the rape victims that are sketchy, incomplete and pretty damn vague considering."

"I mapped the locations all out on here," she said, spinning the map to face me. "The cases we looked at are red, then I stuck your list of what were classified as naturals in green."

The circle that enveloped twelve different spots from the high school press box to the concrete bunker to the Thompson house was way too tight. I just looked up at her and then took a long sip from the deep cup.

"It was spread over time," she said, her voice sounding defensive. "They weren't all linked together, and considering the neighborhood…"

I still said nothing. And then she quit, too. Julia came back and gave us both an excuse to stop staring at the map and avoiding each other's eyes. We both ordered breakfast.

"OK," I started. "Let's assume the women fit in with the others, just for now. Do that and you've got three motives; sex, violence for the sake of violence, and money."

"Wrong, Freeman," she said, tightening up her voice. "You haven't been out in that shack that long. Rape isn't about sex. It's all about violence and control."

"OK, OK. Agreed," I said. "If we're going on the theory that your guy wasn't just after sex that got out of hand and that's why you've got some victims still alive."

"Still violence, Freeman."

She was looking full into my face, her eyes a pewter gray. I couldn't hold them.

"OK. You're right," I admitted.

"Good," she said. "Now, tell me again where the money comes in other than to your so-called investors, who sure as hell aren't out here in their three-piece suits killing clients."

I told her about Billy's paper chase, how he'd come up with a possible middleman, some guy named Marshack, who was connected with a finder's fee. I also told her about McCane and how the insurance investigator had tailed Marshack to the liquor store. When I pointed out the location on the map, it fell just outside her circle.

"And you say the only thing he got from the store clerk was that the white guy with the Caprice comes in once every month or so? That's pretty thin, Max," she said. "I know the place isn't much for white clientele. But how come the clerk even marks this guy?"

"The hundred-dollar bills," I said. "Guy always pays with a clean hundred."

I started to pick up my coffee when she reached over without a word and cradled the big cup in her hands and took a sip.

"So you're thinking this middleman has found somebody in the neighborhood who already doesn't mind killing to do the old women, quietly and carefully?"

"And get paid," I said.

"And never leave a clue?"

"In a place where people aren't looking too hard for clues," I said.

"Careful, Freeman."

Our plates came with omelets and hash browns and buttermilk pancakes. We talked about the possibilities as we ate. Would the theoretical killer have to be local, someone who knew the area? Or an outsider doing good surveillance?

"Get out of South Philly, Freeman. Hard to see some big white Italian sitting in his Chevy watching those houses very long without somebody noticing," she said. "Despite what it looks like, we do run patrol down those streets. And especially in the drug areas they're going to stop any suspicious white guys who might be buyers."

"OK," I said. "So he belongs there," I offered. "He's a local."

She took a couple of bites. Thought about it.

"Someone who stays a lot to himself because you know how word gets around," she said. "He's not somebody who's going to be out bragging about it, or some cop's informant would have used it by now."

"True," I nodded.

"So what does this hit man do when he isn't killing old ladies, or if we lump them, also raping and strangling street walkers and addicts?" she said.

"Maybe he's buying things," I said, the thought coming to me. "With hundred-dollar bills."

The grinding was starting in my head, but it was new, something I'd have to roll around to get the size and shape of. She took another bite, then reached over and stole another sip of my coffee, leaving a trace of lipstick on the cup. I brought the coffee cup to my own mouth and she watched me.

"You know, you're not too bad at this cops and robbers stuff. You ever think of coming back? I mean down here, not Philly?"

Unconsciously my fingers went to my neck and touched the circle of soft scar tissue.

"Yeah, I might have thought about it," I said and then let it go.

"Hell, Freeman. I might even write you a recommendation." And there was that smile again.

She gathered up her paperwork while I paid the bill. As we left she was stopped by officers coming in.

"Hey, how's it going, Sherry?" Or "Detective. Long time. You mean they let you guys out for lunch?"

Each one of them nodded at me, maybe waiting for an introduction, maybe just sizing me up, trying to place me into a category. It is something cops do. I was doing it, too.

Outside I walked her to her car. She stopped before opening the door.

"You know why I like you, Max?" she said, pulling my attention to her eyes. "Because you're careful."

The question must have risen into my face. It was the second time she'd brought it up.

"You're careful because you see the bad possibilities in everybody."

I couldn't think of a response.

"Call me on my cell," she said. "We're sharing here. Right?"

"Yes," I said, and walked away.

I drove back toward the northwest, heading to Ms. Thompson's house with a purpose that wouldn't pan out without the right people. And it was there that I'd last seen them.

When I rolled past the front of her house only the carport door still held the yellow crime scene tape across its threshold. At the next corner I turned back south, this time using the narrow alley. Behind the Thompson house, I stopped and got out, assessing the way a stealthy man on foot might have approached. The alley-side street lamp was a jagged cone of broken glass.

From here he would have been able to see the windows of the back bedroom, but not the front, where Ms. Thompson might have discreetly let her man in.

I sat down on an upended paint can and watched the back of the house, guessing at the difficulty a killer would have getting across the darkened lawn to the storage shed behind the carport. None. A trail of ants worked in a line across the breadth of the alley like a fishing line on the surface of nervous water.

He could have sat back here for hours. But who might have seen him? Trash collectors? Kids on their bikes? Neighbors using the alley to park instead of circling for a street-side spot?

I moved the can closer to the hedge and estimated the cover he would have had in the dark to work on the carport door. Behind me I picked up the sound of shoes scuffing to my left. They weren't sneaking, just walking slow and sure, like athletes showing up for practice.

The three young men I'd first mistaken for the neighborhood drug posse had gathered behind me. The one who seemed to be the leader was watching me with a curious head tilt. The other two had cut off any escape route to the north. My truck clogged the path to the south. Their hands were out of their pockets this time. One of them was wearing a thin black glove with the fingers cut off. It was impossible to tell with their baggy, calf-high shorts and long shirts whether they were carrying or not.

They let me check them before the leader took a couple of steps closer and then squatted on his heels to bring his face down even to mine.

"This part of the investigation, G?"