The priest sighed heavily. “He was like most young people, struggling to find his place in the world. The streets move fast around here, and if you can’t keep up, they swallow you.”

“Maybe that’s what happened,” Mann said. “Maybe he fell in with the wrong crowd. Maybe the guys who did the drive-by were gunning for him and they came here to finish the job.”

“Anything’s possible, but I don’t think so,” the priest said. “First of all, he wasn’t the type to hang with a crowd, and I couldn’t see him doing anything to turn anyone against him.”

“Maybe you’re right, but grudges aren’t always obvious,” Mann said, as the door opened and Coletti and Smithson rushed down the aisle.

“This wasn’t about a grudge,” Coletti said, walking in on the tail end of Mann’s comments. “And if it was a grudge, I doubt it had much to do with the victims.”

“I see you made it back safely, Detective,” Lynch said before turning to Smithson. “And I see you brought a guest.”

“I was asked to come along,” she said curtly.

“Good, we can use your expertise,” Lynch said. “Father Douglas, meet Lieutenant Smithson and Detective Coletti.”

Upon hearing his name, the priest stared at Coletti with a troubled look in his eyes. “So you’re the prince,” he said in a small, frightened voice.

“What do you mean?” said Coletti.

“The killer talked about you,” Father Douglas said in a distant voice. “He called you a prince.”

Blood rushed to Coletti’s face and his skin grew hot. A bead of sweat that had gathered at his temple trickled down over his cheekbone. “What else did he say?” Coletti asked calmly.

The priest began to shake as his eyes filled with the memory of the killer. “It wasn’t just what he said, it was how he looked. It was almost like something out of scripture. His face was like lightning. His eyes were like fire, and when he spoke, his voice was strange, raspy, dead. It was a voice of multitudes.”

Father Douglas paused and looked at Commissioner Lynch. Then he looked from Smithson to Mann before focusing his gaze on Coletti.

“He said he was the angel of death, and that this is a war. He left a note for you, and he told me to tell you he’d be waiting.”

“What did the note say?” Coletti asked.

Again, the priest shifted his gaze to the commissioner, who nodded ever so slightly.

“It said, ‘Prince Michael Coletti can stop this, but only if he believes in angels.’”

Chapter 7

It was nine forty-five, and Sandy Jackson was parked in her cruiser at Seventeenth and Walnut. The car’s interior lights were on, and Sandy was sitting there, staring into space.