Extraits-

• From the cover I
  [ONE]
  7522 Battersby Street, Philadelphia
  Wednesday, September 9, 1:55 A.M.

  Tony Harris returned to his bed, silently cursing himself for not having hit thejohn before he’d crawled under the sheets two hours earlier. Harris—a thirtyeight-year-old homicide detective in the Philadelphia Police Department whowas slight of build and starting to bald—then clicked off the lamp on his bedsidetable. As he put his head on his pillow and sighed, wondering when—oreven if—he’d start to drift off back to sleep, a monstrous BOOM shook thehouse. It reverberated through the darkened room, knocking loose a pictureframe from the wall, its glass breaking when it hit the floor.

  “Holy shit!” he said aloud, sitting bolt upright and clicking on the lamp.He looked toward the front window.

  What in hell was that?

  Did a damn gas leak just blow up the middle school?

  Austin Meehan Middle School was a half-block down the tree-lined residentialstreet.

  Harris quickly got out of bed, crossed the room, and pulled back the curtainto look out the window. On either side of Battersby, the Northeast Philadelphianeighborhood had a series of nearly identical, neatly kept comfortabletwo-story brick duplexes with large lawns. The homes—some of which nowwith their lights flicking on—had stone façades on the front and garages in therear, on a common alleyway. Because Harris’s garage served more as a storageunit than a car park, he left his city-issued Ford Crown Victoria sitting at thecurb in front of his house.

  It took Harris no time to locate the direction of the source: In the sky someblocks to the east, he saw a bright glow that he recognized as that from an intensefire.

  Maybe a gas station on Frankford went up? he wondered as he automaticallystarted picking up his clothes from the chair where he’d tossed them at midnight.He quickly pulled on his wrinkled pants and short-sleeved knit shirt, then slipped on socks and shoes. He watched as the glow from the fire seemedto pulse even brighter, as if the fire were being fed more fuel.“Jesus!” he said aloud.

  Harris double-checked that he had his wallet and badge and pistol, thenran down the stairs as fast as he dared and out the door.

  He drove the Crown Vic up Battersby, turning right onto Ryan Avenue, thenfollowed it the seven blocks to Frankford Avenue, where Harris could clearlysee that the intense glow was to the south. He was about to make the turn whenhe heard the wail of sirens—and then the huge horns blaring—of two firedepartment emergency medical vehicles. The red-and-white ambulances flewup on the intersection, braked heavily as they lay steadily on their horns, thenaccelerated through it.

  Harris checked for any other vehicles headed for the intersection. He sawthat it was clear and turned to follow the ambulances.

  As he went south on Frankford, the sky became a brighter orange-red mingledwith black and gray smoke. And then, down on the left side of the street,he saw the first of the flames. They were coming from the back of the PhillyInn, an aging two-story motel that had been built long before Anthony J. Harrishad been born at Saint Joseph’s Hospital.

  He pulled into a parking lot to the north of the motel, to where he had abetter view of all the activity. He also enjoyed more than a little of an olfactoryassault from the awful smell filling the air and now entering the car via thedash vents.

  That’s the smell of burning wood, for sure, and plastics.But I’d bet that’s also a bit of human flesh . . . you...