| THIRTY-EIGHT |

THE SHRIMP DOCK WAS A SEAFOOD TAKE-OUT RESTAURANT IN EAST Camden, New Jersey, a slanted grease-box scaled in salmon-colored tile and torn, sea green awnings, nestled between a boarded-up Dunkin’ Donuts and a Dominican barber shop.

Jessica and Byrne walked in, scanned the restaurant, then the area behind the counter. There was no sign of Ignacio Sanz. He wasn’t working the register, nor was he bussing tables or sweeping up.

The service window was double-thick security plastic. Behind it stood a pretty young Hispanic girl in a blue and red tricot uniform and hat, looking about as bored as a human being could look and still register a pulse. She snapped her gum. Byrne showed her tin, even though it was unnecessary.

“Ignacio around?” Byrne asked.

The girl didn’t answer. That would’ve required the expending of energy. Instead, she nodded to a door next to the counter, the one marked EM YE S ON Y.

Twenty seconds later, sufficient time to remind Byrne and Jessica just where they were, the girl buzzed them back.

IGNACIO SANZ WASN’T on anybody’s list of babysitters. Now in his late twenties, a two-time loser, he was allegedly on the path to respectability. The state had gotten him a job working the fry baskets at the Shrimp Dock, and a room at a halfway house nearby.

When Jessica and Byrne stepped into the back room of the restaurant, the first thing they noticed was that the door was wide open. The second thing they noticed was that a man—without question, Ignacio Sanz—was running across the back parking lot, full tilt.

Jessica, who had dressed in one of her better suits—a nice two-button Tahari she had gotten from Macy’s—looked at her partner.

Byrne pointed to his right leg. “Sciatica.”

“Ah, shit.”

By the time Jessica tackled Ignacio Sanz, he was halfway to Atlantic City.

THEY WERE IN A SMALL, cramped space at the rear of the Shrimp Dock, in what passed for an employee break room. On the walls were curling posters for the tempting bill of fare: light blue haddock, gray coleslaw, hoary fries.

Iggy was short and spindly, with a caved chest and acne-pitted cheeks. He seemed to be coated in a slick film of fish grease, giving his skin an unnatural sheen. He also had the smallest feet Jessica had ever seen on a grown man. He wore neon aqua cross-trainers and black silk dress socks. Jessica wondered if he was wearing women’s shoes.

He also sported the same red and blue tricot smock the girl out front was wearing, but instead of a hat he wore a hairnet that reached down to just over his eyebrows. All of which was now covered with dust and gravel, due to his recent visit to the ground, courtesy of the Philadelphia Police Department.

Byrne sat across from him. Jessica stood behind him. This did not sit well with Ignacio. He was afraid of Jessica. With good reason.

“My name is Detective Byrne. I’m with Philly Homicide.” He pointed over Ignacio’s shoulder. “This is my partner, Detective Balzano. You may remember her. She’s the one who bodychecked you against that Chevy van.”

Ignacio sat stock-still.

“I want you to give her twenty dollars,” Byrne said.

Iggy looked punched. “What?”

“You owe her a pair of pantyhose. Give her twenty dollars.”

Jessica looked down. When she flipped Iggy onto the ground she tore a big hole in the right knee of her hose.

“Pantyhose cost twenty dollars?” Iggy asked.

Byrne stuck his face an inch from Iggy’s face. Iggy shrunk measurably. “Are you saying my partner doesn’t deserve the best?”

Trembling, without another word, Iggy dug around in his pockets, came up with a wad of damp bills, counted them out. Fourteen dollars. He flattened them on the table, stacked them, then handed them to Jessica, who took them without hesitation, even though she wondered where the hell they had recently been.

“You could, you know, come back for the rest later,” Iggy said. “I get paid today. I’ll have the rest later.”

“Come back?” Byrne said. “What makes you think you’re not coming with us?”

This had not occurred to Iggy. “But I didn’t do nothing.”

Byrne laughed. “You think that matters to someone like me?”

This also had not occurred to him. But the implications were far more serious. Iggy stared at the floor, remained silent.

“Now, my partner is going to speak to you,” Byrne said. “I want you to give her your full attention and your full respect.”

Byrne stood up, held the chair. Jessica sat down, her right knee poking through her torn pantyhose, thinking, Does anything look skankier than this?

“I’m going to ask you some simple questions,” Jessica said. “And you’re going to tell me the truth. Right, Iggy?”

It was clear that Ignacio Sanz had no idea what was coming his way. After a lifetime of crime, courts, cops, public defenders, jail, parole, probation, and rehab, it could be anything. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jessica reached into her portfolio, put a folder on her lap.

“First of all, we know all about you and Caitlin O’Riordan,” Jessica said. “So don’t even think about insulting our intelligence with a denial.” The truth was, they didn’t know anything of the sort. But with people like Iggy, this was the best approach. “This is not even an option.”

“Who?”

Jessica took out a photograph of Caitlin. She showed it to Iggy. “Caitlin Alice O’Riordan. Remember her?”

Iggy looked at the picture. “I don’t know this girl.”

“Look a little more closely.”

Iggy did, opening his eyes wide, perhaps believing this would let in more information. He shook his head again. “No. I’ve never seen her. She could be anybody.”

“No she can’t. That’s not possible. She has to be this person. She is this person. Or at least she was. You follow me?”

Iggy bug-eyed for a few seconds, then nodded slowly.

“Good. Here’s the 411. We have you, Iggy. We have you in Philly in May, out on the street. And the icing, the part with the little candy sprinkles, is that we also have a beautiful set of your fingerprints on something Caitlin had in her backpack.”

Iggy reacted as if he had just grabbed a hot copper wire. He rose slowly from his chair, shuddering with panic. “Whatever she says I did, I didn’t do it, man,” he pleaded. “I swear on my mother’s eyes. My mother’s grave.”

“Caitlin’s not saying anything. That’s because she’s dead. She’s been dead for four months. But you already know that, right?”

“What?” Iggy screamed. “Oh no, no, no, no. Uh-uh.”

“Well, here’s what I’m willing to do for you, Iggy. First off, I’m willing to cut your hospital stay by a hundred percent.”

Iggy, already hyperventilating, began to breathe even faster. “My hospital stay?”

“Yeah,” Jessica said. “What I mean by that is, if you don’t sit down right now, I’m going to break both of your arms. Sit … the fuck … down.”

Iggy complied. Jessica picked up the magazine cover in the clear plastic evidence envelope. She held it up.

“Tell me why your prints are on this magazine, Iggy. Start right now.”

Iggy’s eyes darted side to side, vibrating, like a lemur’s. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I remember. It’s embezzled in my mind.”

“Embezzled?”

“Yeah. I found that magazine.”

Jessica laughed. “So, let me ask you, did you find it in the big pile of guns, knives, crack, jewelry, and wallets, or the small one?”

Iggy mangled his face again. Huh?

“Where did you find it, Iggy?”

“I found it in my house. It was my mother’s.”

“This was your mother’s magazine?”

Iggy shook his head. “It was her house. It was my sister’s magazine.”

“This magazine belonged to your sister? She gave it to you?”

“Well, no,” he said. “But we share, you know? We family and everything. I like to look at this magazine.”

“Because there are teenaged girls in it?”

Iggy just stared.

“How did this magazine get into Caitlin O’Riordan’s backpack?”

Iggy took a few moments, apparently calculating that this next answer was going to be crucial. The smell of hot, fishy grease began to fill the back room. The Shrimp Dock was gearing up for lunch. “I don’t know.”

“We’re going to need to talk to your sister.”

“I can help you with that,” Iggy said, snapping his fingers, suddenly full of vigor. “I can most definitely help you with that.”

Jessica glanced at Byrne, wondering if they would spend the rest of the day driving around Camden in ninety-degree heat, looking for a phantom.

“You’re saying you know where we can find your sister right now?” Jessica asked.

“Absolutely,” Iggy said. He smiled. Jessica immediately wished he hadn’t. In addition to the five-car pileup that was his dental work, she caught a blast of his breath: a combo of menthol cigarettes and deep fried hush puppies. “She’s standing right behind you.”