Smithson grabbed his arm. “Whoever wrote it was angry, and angry people usually act irrationally. But there was nothing irrational about this. If the note was really written by the same person who did the Confessional Murders, he’s had ten years to channel that anger and put together a plan.”

“Yeah, well, I have a plan, too,” Coletti said. “I plan to save an innocent man, and whatever I’ve gotta do to make that happen, I’m gonna do it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a suspect to question.”

“He’s not the murderer,” Smithson said flatly.

Coletti stopped in his tracks. “How do you know that?”

“A man who’s gotten away with a ten-year-old murder would never be careless enough to drop a note and get caught. And if he’s arrogant enough to tell the cops he’s planning to kill again, he isn’t about to be outsmarted.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying your suspect might’ve talked to the murderer. He might’ve even seen him, but he’s not the man you want. He’s just a pawn.”

“You seem awfully sure of yourself,” Coletti said skeptically.

“I’m only sure of two things,” she said softly. “I’m sure I’m good at my job.”

“What’s the second thing?” Coletti asked.

“I’m sure I’m curious about you,” she said, gazing into his eyes. “I’ve never seen a man so intent on correcting his mistakes. It’s almost like you’re the one who’s the angel.”

It was six o’clock when Commissioner Lynch drove Mary Smithson back to police headquarters. As she stared out the car window in the wake of the chase, everything looked different from the way it had with Coletti.

The National Constitution Center was foreboding rather than majestic. The vibrant sounds of the streets were only noise. To Mary, Philadelphia no longer felt historic. It simply felt old.

“Do you ever get used to it?” Smithson asked, as she watched a businesswoman stepping over a prostrate homeless man.

Lynch knew what she meant without looking: the mingled scents of greasy food and day old waste; the grime that had taken centuries to accumulate; the city.

“You don’t get used to it if it’s home,” he said grimly. “You just work like hell to make it better.”

“Is that why you stay?” she asked. “To make it better?”

“I stay because I like it,” he said as he turned onto Ninth Street. “Liking it makes it easy to see past the blemishes. Kinda like you’re doing with Coletti.”

It took her a moment to recover from the commissioner’s snide remark, but when she did, she came back swinging.

“Is that part of the commissioner’s job?” she asked with an edge to her voice. “Sticking your nose into your officers’ personal lives?”