“In his mind, this is a crusade,” Smithson said. “So convincing other people to join him not only fulfills the prophecy, it makes him feel like he’s right. But the bottom line is this: Whoever’s fighting this war against you has got to have a hell of a reason for doing it.

“Now, I think Ivan Petrov is as good a suspect as we’re going to get. He’s smart, charismatic, he fits the psychological profile and physical description, and with what happened to his cousin, he’s got an axe to grind. Maybe Harley Thompson’s uncles are good suspects, too. But this goes all the way back to the Confessional Murders, so unless Petrov or one of the others started killing ten years ago, we may have to look at someone else altogether. And you’ve got to ask yourself if there’s anyone else who’s hated you long enough to spend a decade planning this.”

Coletti was quiet, thinking back over the enemies he’d made over a lifetime. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Well, we have to find out,” Mann said. “Otherwise we’re just flying blind, and you’re walking around with a target on your back.”

“All right,” Coletti said after a long silence. “Here’s the plan. Mann, since we’ve got an address on Phillip Little and you know North Philly better than I do, you can start there. If we find out who he was connected to, we can find the guy who’s behind this. Mary, when you find Harley Thompson’s uncles, don’t stop there. Go back as far as you can. Check my cases from ten years ago and beyond. See if any of them fit.”

“And what are you going to do?” Smithson asked. “I’m gonna make sure we get the warrant on Petrov. Then I’m gonna hit the street.”

“Be careful,” she said, staring into his eyes.

He looked back at her longingly. “I will. I’ve got a lot to live for.”

It was six o’clock when Mann left police headquarters wearing a hoodie, jeans, and Timberlands.

As the sun rose against the morning sky and the city woke up to the reality of an overnight killing spree, Mann drove west on Ridge Avenue and passed the church on Broad and Fairmount where three of the murders had taken place. The barricades were gone. Commuters were out. The only thing to indicate what had happened was a two-cop detail and a satellite truck. The sight of them reminded him of the detail at Sandy’s house. He called to check on her.

“What do you want?” she asked in a playful tone when she answered the phone.

“I want you,” he answered in a throaty whisper. “No, you don’t. If you wanted me, you wouldn’t have left here to be with Coletti. I think you’re cheating on me.”