I do call the city to be laid out by the name of Philadelphia. Let every house be placed, if the person pleases, in the middle of its plat, so there may be ground on each side for gardens or orchards or fields, that it may be a green country town, which will never be burnt, and always be wholesome.
– WILLIAM PENN, Instructions to His Commissioners, 1681
Q: What type of drugs did you deal?
A: I started out dealing small quantities, then over the years I grew to bigger quantities of drugs.
Q: And what type of drug was it that you specialized in?
A: I started out dealing crack cocaine, and I started dealing cocaine, powder cocaine.
Q: About when was it that you started dealing crack cocaine, about how old were you?
A: About 13 years old.
Q: And can you tell me where it was that you got started?
A: I got started on the block of Ithan Street, 50th and Market, around West Philadelphia area.
– JAMAL MORRIS, United States v. Williams, United States District Court, Eastern District of Pennsylvania, Criminal Docket No. 02-172, February 19, 2004, Notes of Testimony at 242-243
Vicki Allegretti always wondered what it would feel like to look into the barrel of a loaded gun, and now she knew. The gun was a black Glock, nine millimeter, and it was aimed at her right eye. Vicki observed the scene out-of-body, as if it were happening to a girl with a better sense of humor. Wonder if black guns make you look thinner, she thought.
Holding her point-blank was an African-American teenager with cornrows, who looked as terrified as she was. He looked about fourteen years old, showing just a shadow of a mustache, and his brown eyes were jittery with fear. He kept shifting his weight in his big Iversons, standing tall in baggy jeans and a red satin Sixers jacket. He'd frozen in place when he'd come downstairs and found Vicki standing there, his shocked expression suggesting that he hadn't shot many lawyers. At least not his share.
"You don't want to do this, pal," she said, only apparently calmly. The kid's long fingers trembled on the gun's crosshatched grip, and his other hand cradled a bulge underneath his jacket, as if he were hiding something. She had evidently interrupted a burglary by a rookie. Unfortunately, the Glock was an all-star. "I'm an assistant U.S. Attorney."
"Wha?" The teenager swallowed hard, his eyes flickering with confusion.
"I work for the Justice Department. Killing me is like killing a cop." Okay, it wasn't technically true, but it should have been. "If you shoot me, they'll try you as an adult. They'll go for the death penalty."
"Get your hands up!" The teenager's eyes flared, and he wet his lips with a large, dry tongue.
"Okay, sure. Relax." Vicki raised her hands slowly, fighting the instinct to run. He'd shoot her in the back if she did; the living room was so small, she'd never make it to the front door. Maybe she could talk her way out of it. "Listen, you don't want to upgrade a burglary charge to murder. The stuff that's under your jacket is yours now. Take it and run."
"Shut up!"
So Vicki did, holding her hands up, her thoughts racing ahead. None of this was supposed to be happening. She had come to the row house tonight to meet a confidential informant in a minor straw purchase case. The meeting was to be so routine that Bob Morton, an ATF case agent, was finishing his cigarette outside by the car. Could she stall until Morty got here? And where was her CI now?
"Jay-Boy!" the kid yelled up the stairwell, panicky. "Jay!"
Vicki noted the nickname. She could identify every zit on the kid's face. She wasn't getting out of this alive. She couldn't wait for Morty. She had to do something.
"Jay! Where you at?" the teenager shouted, half turning away, and Vicki seized her only chance. She grabbed the barrel of the Glock and twisted it upward. At the same instant, Morty walked through the screen door and the whole world exploded.
"Morty, watch out!" Vicki shouted. The Glock fired, jerking convulsively. The barrel seared her palms. The shot split her eardrums. The teenager wrenched the gun back, yanking her off her feet. Simultaneously, another shot rang out. Not from the Glock. Too close to be from Morty's gun. Vicki's throat caught and she looked past the teenager. A man in a goatee and a black coat was shooting at Morty from the stairs.
"No!" Vicki screamed, grappling for the Glock. She glimpsed Morty as he fell backward, grimacing with pain. His arms flew open like a marionette's, throwing the gun from his hand.
"NO!" Vicki screamed louder, as the shooter on the stairs kept firing. A second gunshot, then a third and fourth burst into Morty's chest, exploding the blue ripstop of his down jacket, jerking his fallen body on impact.
Vicki's heart hiccupped with fear and she yanked harder on the gun. The teenager punched her in the stomach, and she doubled over, gasping for breath. She released the Glock and hit back. She connected with his Sixers jacket and held on for dear life.
"Let go!" the teenager shouted, punching Vicki again and again. She flailed and after a solid body blow, crumpled to the floor, the wind sucked out of her. As she fell, she heard the faraway scream of a police siren and the kid shouting, scared, "Jay, we gotta go! Jay!"
Vicki lay doubled over on her side, her body paralyzed with pain. Tears blurred her vision. She couldn't collect her thoughts. She heard footsteps and panting, then a chamber being ratcheted back. She opened wet eyes into the two bottomless black wells of a sawed-off gun. Hot smoke curled from the barrels, filling her nose with a burning smell. Aiming the weapon was the shooter with the goatee.
My God, no. Vicki rolled over in a last effort to save herself.
"Don't do it, Jay, she's a cop!" the teenager screamed. Then, "No! Get it! Hurry!" Suddenly they were scrambling to pick things up off the floor. Whatever they'd stolen must have fallen out of the Sixers coat.
"Leave it go, Teeg! We gotta go!" The shooter was already sprinting away, his hands full. The teenager bolted after him, jumping over Morty and out the front door, leaving the row house suddenly quiet.
Morty. Vicki rolled back over and struggled to her feet, stumbling across the living room to him.
"Morty!" she called, anguished, when she reached his side. He was lying on his back, his arms still flung wide, his blue eyes fluttering. "Morty, can you hear me? Morty?"
He didn't answer, his gaze barely focused. His neat features had gone slack and a sheen of perspiration coated his forehead and wet his sandy hair. Fresh blood gurgled from his chest and drenched his jacket, soaking its bright blue to slick black, spattering its exposed white stuffing with red flecks.
No, please, God. Vicki choked back tears. She covered the wound with her palm to stanch the flow and reached into her raincoat pocket, grabbed her cell phone, flipped it open, and pressed speed dial for 911. When the dispatcher picked up, she said, "I'm at 483 Maron Street, off of Roosevelt Boulevard! I have an officer down! Officer shot!"
"Excuse me?" the dispatcher answered. "Miss, what did you say your name was?"
"Allegretti! Hurry, I have an ATF agent shot! Send an ambulance! Now!" Vicki tucked the slippery cell phone under an ear and pressed against Morty's wound with all her might. "What do I do? He's shot in the chest! I'm trying to stop the blood!"
"Keep it up and don't move him," the dispatcher answered. "Stay calm and I'll get you an ambulance."
"Thank you! Hurry!" Vicki pressed harder on the wound. Blood pulsed hot and wet between her fingers. Morty's lips were parting. He was trying to say something.
"Vick?" Morty's forehead creased. "That… you?"
"Yes, I'm here, it's me!" Vicki felt her heart lift. She kept her palm over the horrific wound. If anybody could survive this, Morty could. He was a fit forty-five-year-old, he worked out religiously, and he'd even run a marathon.
"What the hell… happened?" A watery red-pink bubble formed in the corner of Morty's mouth, and Vicki fought to maintain emotional control.
"Two kids were here when I came in, it was a burglary. The door was open, and I thought I heard somebody say come in-"
"How's… the CI?"
"I don't know. She may not be home."
"You're okay… right?"
"I'm fine. You're gonna be fine, too." The blood bubble popped, and Vicki watched in horror. If only she'd let him smoke in the car. If only she'd grabbed the gun sooner. The shooter hadn't killed her because he thought she was a cop, but Morty was the cop. On the cell phone, the emergency dispatcher was saying that an ambulance was ten minutes from the house. Vicki said, "The ambulance is on the way. Just hang in, please, hang in."
"Funny. You always said… cigarettes will… kill me." Morty managed an agonized smile.
"You're gonna be fine, Morty. You'll see, you'll be fine. You have to be fine."
"You're bossy for… a midget," Morty whispered, then his smile suddenly relaxed.
And he stopped breathing.
Vicki heard herself scream his name, then dropped the cell phone and tried to resuscitate him until police showed up at the door.
And things got even worse.
By midnight, the small row house was crammed to bursting with uniformed cops and homicide detectives from the Philadelphia Police Department; crime scene technicians from the city's Mobile Crime Unit; Vicki's chief, Howard Bale, from the U.S. Attorney's Office; and bosses from the FBI and Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. The only person missing was Morty, whose body had been photographed, placed inside a black nylon bag, and taken away, officially pronounced dead. It left Vicki feeling more alone than was reasonable in such a crowd, as she sat on a patterned couch across from a homicide detective.
"Okay, that's it for now," the detective said, flipping his notebook closed and rising from the ottoman.
"Good." Vicki stayed put on the couch, emotionally numb. She had washed her hands but hadn't taken off her trench coat. Dried blood stained its lapels, which she realized only when the detective started looking at her funny. "I forget, did I give you my business card?"
"Yes, you did. Thanks."
"Sure." Vicki would have used his name but she had forgotten that, too. Her body ached and her heart had gone hollow.
She'd given a long statement to ATF, FBI, and finally the homicide detectives, with every detail poured out like murder-scene stream of consciousness. All the time she was thinking of Morty and the CI, who lay upstairs, shot to death. Vicki hadn't seen the body yet because the cops had wanted her statement first, in order to get the flash on the radio.
She rose from the couch on weak knees and threaded her way through the crowd to the stairs. The house was January cold from the front door being opened so often, and she avoided the curious glances and tuned out the ambient conversation. She wanted to stay mentally within, insulated by her stained Burberry. She had to figure out how tonight had gone so wrong, and why.
She made her way to the stairs, past the numbered yellow cards used to mark where shells had fallen. Her thoughts circled in confusion. This was only a routine straw purchase case; the indictment charged that a woman had bought two Colt.45s at a local gun shop and illegally resold them to someone else, the violent equivalent to buying scotch for a minor. The CI had called to inform on the defendant before Vicki had joined the office, and she had inherited the case because straw cases were dumped on newbies to cut their teeth. One of the most dedicated agents from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives had been assigned to partner with her.
Morty. Please forgive me.
Something brushed Vicki's shoulder and she jumped. Her boss, Howard Bale, was standing there, all five feet nine of his African-American pin-striped, well-tailored, tassel-loafered self. A cashmere camel-hair coat topped his characteristically GQ look. Bale always joked that he wasn't black, he was a peacock.
"Oh, Chief." Bale's eyes, the rich hue of espresso, were tilted down with strain, and his lips, buried under a mustache that hid an overbite, curved into a fatigued but sympathetic smile.
"You all right?"
"Fine." Vicki held on to the banister as a crime scene tech wedged by, a quilted vest worn under his navy jumpsuit.
"You drink that water I got you?"
"I forgot."
"I'm the chief, kid. You're not allowed to forget."
"Sorry." Vicki faked a smile. When Bale first arrived at the scene, he had given her a big hug and a cup of water. The gesture wasn't lost on anybody; he was saying, I don't blame the kid, so don't you. Nor did he yell about what a screw-up this must have been, though she guessed that would come. Not that it mattered any longer. Vicki had wanted to be a federal prosecutor since law school, and now she didn't care if she got fired.
"Where you going?" Bale asked.
"To see my CI."
"Wait. Got something I want to show you." Bale gentled her from the stairs by her elbow and guided her back through the living room. Uniforms and detectives actually parted for him; Bale, as section chief of Major Crimes, was next in line for U.S. Attorney. He led her near the front door of the row house, and Vicki stiffened as she got close to the spot where Morty had been killed. "S'all right," Bale said softly, but Vicki shook her head.
"No, it isn't."
"Look down. Here." Bale pointed, and Vicki looked. A ring of cops who had been kneeling around something on the rug rose and edged away. On the rug lay a white object the size of a brick, covered several times in clear Saran Wrap and closed with duct tape. A kilogram of cocaine.
"How'd I miss that?" Vicki asked, surprised. She'd practically had to trip over it, but she'd been focused on Morty.
"You said they dropped something from the Sixers coat." Bale had listened to her statement. "It musta been upstairs, from what you described, with them running down."
"Yes." Vicki had assumed the teenagers had stolen normal things, like jewelry or cash. "Cocaine? A kilogram?"
"That's weight," Bale said significantly, and Vicki understood. A kilogram of coke was supplier-level weight. It would have a street value of $30,000, called "weight money" as opposed to "headache money," the money that street dealers made. Bale leaned close. "Obviously, we won't be releasing this detail to the press. You'll keep this to yourself."
"Got it." Focusing on the cocaine was clearing Vicki's head. "So my CI was a coke dealer? Why would a dealer volunteer to talk to us?"
"After you look around, tell me what you think. I have a theory and everybody agrees. That tells me I'm in trouble."
Vicki couldn't manage a smile because she kept looking at the brick. Morty died for coke.
"No, he didn't," Bale said sharply.
Vicki looked up, surprised she had said anything aloud.
"Morty died for his job, and that's the way he would have wanted it."
"Maybe," Vicki said, though she didn't know if he was right. She couldn't wrap her mind around it just now.
"Notice anything special about this cocaine, little girl?"
"No. Do I flunk?"
"Look again, in the light." Bale snagged a Maglite from a uniformed cop, eased onto his haunches, and turned on the flashlight. He aimed it at the cocaine, and Vicki, crouching beside him, saw what he meant. There was a telltale shimmer to the cocaine, like a deadly rainbow.
"Fish-scale cocaine?" Vicki asked, surprised. She'd thought it was urban drug myth, yet here it was; a rainbow shine that looked like fish scales, if only in the vernacular of people who didn't fish.
"Right. It's so pure, it increases in volume when they cook it."
Vicki had learned this somewhere along the line, too. Most cocaine decreased when it was cooked, by mixing it with water, baking soda, and a cutting agent like mannitol, and stirring until oil formed on the water's surface. The oil would be cooled on ice, so it crystallized to form rocks. The crackling sound the mixture made when it was boiled gave the drug its name. Crack.
"This is quality coke, it's worth forty grand, maybe more," Bale added.
"Really?" Vicki couldn't help but feel a little wide-eyed. It was the reason she had wanted this job, after two years at the D.A.'s office; the chance to prosecute big-time, high-stakes drug trafficking. Only now it had gotten Morty killed. She rose, biting her lip not to lose control, and Bale switched off the Maglite, rising beside her.
"You guys couldn't have known," Bale said, an uncharacteristic softness to his tone, and Vicki felt a tear arrive without warning. He pretended not to notice, and she blinked it away.
"I should go see my CI."
"Name was Jackson, right?"
"Yes. Shayla Jackson."
"Did you meet with her before tonight?"
"No." Vicki felt her cheeks grow hot. "I talked to her on the phone to schedule the meeting. I waited to talk to her because I thought she'd speak more freely in person. Obviously, I made a terrible mistake."
"No, you didn't. It wasn't a bad call."
"Yes, it was. None of this would have happened. I should have known."
"Stop. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, you know that. I'd have done the same." Bale put a hand on her shoulder. "What'd Jackson say before the grand jury? That'll tell you something."
"I don't know. The transcript wasn't in the file."
Bale frowned. "Now, that shouldn't be. You gotta keep your files better."
"I got the file as is, remember? The only background info in the file is a memo from the old AUSA, saying that Shayla Jackson called the office and offered to testify that the defendant bought the guns for resale." Vicki felt another wave of regret that she'd waited to meet with Jackson. If she had known more, the CI would be alive tonight. And Morty. She pressed the thought away, but she knew it would return. "The coke confuses me. Jackson didn't sound like the type. I wonder if this has anything to do with the straw case."
"How?"
"Well, Jackson knew I was coming over tonight. It was risky for her to meet with me here, if she had coke in the house. It doesn't make sense." Vicki was thinking out loud, a bad habit in front of a boss. "What if she was killed to prevent her from talking to me tonight? Or from testifying?"
"In a straw purchase case, it's unlikely. How many counts is it?"
"One."
"So, five years at most. It's penny-ante. Who's the straw?"
"Her name is Reheema Bristow. No priors, held two jobs."
"So, nothing special. They pick straws who have valid ID, no record, and a steady employment history, in case the gun dealer checks. Straws don't have the juice to get anybody killed."
"Maybe whoever she resold the guns to does." Vicki couldn't dismiss it so easily. "And the timing's funny. Bristow's trial comes up next week, or would have."
"What's this do to your case?"
"It's over."
"No corroboration for Jackson's testimony?"
"No."
Bale frowned again, this time puckering his pinkish lower lip. "Okay, go on up, but you know the drill, don't touch anything. The locals don't like you walking over the scene, but they already sketched and took pictures. Just be careful; the techs haven't finished upstairs. You want company?"
"No thanks," Vicki answered. Bale was already nodding to a uniformed cop, trying to commandeer him to baby-sit, but turned away before he could see the cop hadn't budged an inch. No city cop was doing anything for the feds, other than lending him a Maglite.
"We'll talk later, at the office." Bale squeezed her shoulder again. "Don't stay long upstairs. Go home and rest yourself."
"Sure. Thanks for the water." Vicki turned to go.
Not knowing what she'd find.
Vicki lingered at the threshold of the upstairs bedroom. A team of crime techs clustered at the foot of the bed, working around Jackson's body, obscuring it from view. One tech vacuumed the light blue rug for hair and fiber samples, and another bagged Jackson's hands to preserve evidence under her fingernails. A police photographer bundled in a dark coat videotaped the crime scene, and another took photographs. Flashes of white strobe rhythmically seared the bedroom.
Vicki told herself that she was waiting for the police personnel to finish their job, but she was getting used to the primal odor of fresh blood and fighting to keep her emotions in check. She had seen three murder scenes at the D.A.'s office, but she had never experienced anything like tonight, in which a federal agent and a witness had been killed. The crime struck at the justice system itself, and Vicki wasn't the only one feeling its gravity. The crime techs seemed unusually subdued, absorbed in their tasks. Nobody was going to screw this one up.
The police photographer, an older man with bifocals, turned and asked, "Excuse me, am I in your way?"
"No, the investigation comes first," Vicki answered, and hoped she sounded convincing.
She glanced around the bedroom, sizing it up. Even by city standards, it was small; typical of the two-bedroom brick row houses that lined the blocks around Roosevelt Boulevard. Vicki could see the other bedroom down the hall, at the back of the house and figured she'd use the time to check it out.
She walked down the hall, and the lights were on inside, revealing a spare bedroom full of stacked boxes, gathered evidently from a liquor store. Two crime techs in latex gloves were slitting the neat brown packing tape with boxcutters and searching the boxes. Handwritten in black Sharpie next to the Smirnoff and Tanqueray labels, they read CDS and SUMMER CLOTHES.
"Looks like she was moving," Vicki said to the techs, then heard herself. "Duh."
"You must be a detective," the red-haired tech joked.
"No, an AUSA."
"Worse." The tech laughed.
"So what are you finding?"
"It's fascinating. Inside the box that's labeled summer clothes, there are summer clothes, and the box that says CDs has CDs."
"I'll leave now," Vicki said with a tight smile, and pondered the discovery as she returned to the master bedroom and stood again at the threshold. The techs were still at work over the body, and she made a mental note that the bedroom hadn't been packed up yet. If Jackson was leaving, it wasn't imminent.
Vicki looked around the bedroom. The oak dresser and night table had been ransacked and drawers hung open, and the bed, a king-size, sat opposite the two front windows. It had been covered with a quilted comforter of blue forget-me-nots, which had been yanked off, and even the mattress was off-kilter.
One of the techs muttered, "Sheee. Whole lotta blood."
"Whaddaya expect?" another asked.
Vicki eyed the messed-up bed. Stuffed plush animals tumbled on the pillows: a pink teddy bear, a fuzzy puppy clutching a white heart, and a greenish snake with black diamonds. There hadn't been any toys downstairs, so the stuffed animals had to be Jackson's. Vicki felt a twinge.
Her attention was drawn to the other messy areas in the bedroom; to the left was a closet whose white louvered doors hung open, with clothing spilling out. She walked over, giving the body and the techs wide berth. A stack of sweaters and sweatshirts had been pulled out and onto the rug. Empty Nine West shoe boxes lay scattered and open on the bedroom floor, as if they had been pulled from the closet in haste. The burglars hadn't stolen Nine West sandals. Had the cocaine been in the shoe boxes?
Vicki turned and scanned the bedroom again. Next to the closet, the dresser, a modern oak one, sat ransacked against the wall. She went over and caught sight of herself in the large attached mirror. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her small nose pink at the tip from crying, and her hair, jet-black and shoulder-length, looked unprofessionally messy. And Morty's blood was still on her coat lapel. She looked away.
The corners of the mirror were festooned with plastic leis, a multicolored array of Mardi Gras necklaces, and a black foamy cap that read Taj Mahal. Photographs had been stuck inside the mirror's frame, and Vicki eyed them. There were five pictures, and everybody in them was dressed up. The venues were tony, if the prominent advertising backdrops were any indication: the NBA All-Star game, the BET awards. Three of the photos were of the same young man: an African American about thirty years old, with a broad smile and largish eyes. He had a muscular, compact form, a heavy gold chain around his neck, and his hair was shorn into a close fade, revealing a script tattoo on the side of his neck, indecipherable.
The other photos were also of the young man, but this time he was standing on the boardwalk, the ocean behind him, being hugged by a young woman with an equally broad smile. She looked to be about twenty-something and wore heavy makeup, a white halter top, jeans shorts, and platforms. Lots of gold jewelry but no wedding ring. A sea breeze blew through her straightened hair, and in the last photo she wore a foamy black cap, turned sideways. Taj Mahal. The same hat as on the mirror.
Vicki felt a pang. The woman must be Shayla Jackson. The man must be her boyfriend.
Her gaze fell under the lamplight on the bureau, where an open jewelry box gleamed like a cartoon treasure chest. The trays overflowed with hoop earrings, gold bangles, diamond-studded tennis bracelets, gold chain necklaces; it was several thousand dollars' worth of jewelry, and amazingly, none of it had been disturbed, much less stolen, by the teenagers. Obviously, Teeg and Jay-Boy were no ordinary burglars.
Clutter around the jewelry box hadn't been touched either. Bottles of expensive perfume-First, Chanel, Shalimar-lay next to a pen, a pair of Gucci sunglasses, and a few scattered bills for Philadelphia Electric, Verizon, and Philadelphia Gas. Vicki looked closer. They were utilities bills for this house, and the postmark was last month. The bills were addressed to Jackson, but she hadn't opened them. She had crossed out her own name and address and written in its place "Jamal Browning, 3635 Aspinall Street."
Assuming it was Jackson's handwriting, which seemed likely, even Vicki could connect these dots. Jackson was sending Browning the bills for the house. He was keeping her. He had to be the boyfriend in the photos. Vicki hadn't seen drug paraphernalia anywhere downstairs, much less money counters or digital scales used by big-time dealers. Jackson probably wasn't a coke dealer, especially of fish-scale coke; more likely, hers was a stash house and she was keeping the drugs for someone else. Someone she would risk her neck for by keeping it on her premises; someone who trusted her with such valuable merchandise. Jamal Browning, her boyfriend. But why was she moving?
"It's a goddamn shame," one of the techs said, behind Vicki. She braced herself and turned on her heel. Even so, she was completely unprepared for the awful sight.
Shayla Jackson lay on her back on the blue rug, between her periwinkle-flowered bed and the wall, her slim arms apart and her pink palms skyward. Her brown eyes, the same lovely ones in the photo, lay wide open and staring fixedly at the ceiling. Her legs, slim and long in jeans, lay horribly twisted, and she was barefoot. She was wearing a dark, loose V-neck sweater, now soaked with black blood. Bullet holes strafed the front of her chest, cutting a blood-drenched swath between her breasts. The blasts exposed red muscle and white sternum, and the skin unfurled like common cloth to expose the cruelest blow of all: Jackson's bloodied midsection puffed high and round.
"She was pregnant?" Vicki asked, appalled, and one of the kneeling techs looked up.
"Eight months," answered an Indian doctor working on Jackson's body, his glossy head bent over her chest wounds.
"My God." Vicki shook her head. Her stomach flipped over. She gritted her teeth to keep queasiness at bay.
"Who are you?" The doctor looked up, his round eyes flickering with annoyance. He wore a maroon sweater vest under his lab coat, which had a black nameplate that read Dr. Mehar Soresh.
Vicki introduced herself and said, "This is my case."
An African-American tech added: "She's the AUSA almost got shot with the ATF agent."
Dr. Soresh returned to his examination. "Then you're one lucky lady tonight."
Vicki didn't reply. She couldn't. She wouldn't know where to start. She had gotten her partner killed.
Dr. Soresh continued, "In answer to the question you were about to ask, the child could not have been saved. Mother and child were dead when they hit the floor."
Vicki wasn't about to ask.
"Furthermore, my theory is that the first bullet was to the uterine area, so the baby died first." Dr. Soresh extracted a long silvery probe from his black bag. "Somebody wanted this baby dead, that's for sure."
Vicki's thoughts raced ahead. Was it Browning's baby? Was it somebody else's? Who would want a baby killed? And what, if anything, did it have to do with the straw case? The questions forced her to think clearly. "Dr. Soresh, do you know who's going to identify the body? Who's next-of-kin, do you know?"
Soresh didn't look up. "Mom's coming in from Florida. Tampa, I think. She'll come to the morgue, look on the TV screen. We make it easy on 'em, not like on CSI. Big dramatic thing, undraping the body, ta-da."
"No boyfriend is coming?"
"Not that I know of."
"A baby mama drama," the black tech said, and Dr. Soresh shot him a dirty look.
"I don't know, that's not my bailiwick. I have Mom coming in at noon tomorrow. She's next-of-kin, and that's good enough for me."
"Will you send me a copy of your report, when you're finished?"
"Sure. What's your name again?"
"Allegretti. I'm an AUSA."
"Got it."
"Thanks," Vicki said, getting her bearings. Morty was dead and so was a pregnant woman. And a baby, gone. She didn't know how or whether any of this connected to her straw purchase case, but she intended to find out.
Starting now.
Downstairs, the crowd in the house had grown, and Vicki made a beeline through the badges for Bale, who was shooting his French cuffs, revealing a flash of gold cuff link as he stood talking to the U.S. Attorney, Ben Strauss. Strauss, a blond six footer gone gray, towered over Bale in a dark blue suit and no topcoat. The first and last time Vicki had seen Strauss was when he addressed her as one of five new assistant U.S. Attorneys, after they'd returned from orientation. Strauss had impressive credentials, almost twenty-five years working for Justice, even if he came off a trifle Aryan, as compared with Bale; standing together, the two men were a twin cone of soft-serve chocolate and vanilla.
Bale spotted Vicki first, as she reached them. "How's my girl?" he asked, looping an arm around her, pulling her into their circle.
"Hanging in," Vicki answered, and Strauss nodded somberly.
"I'm sorry about Morty. I know you two were friends."
"Thanks."
"He was a great agent, one of the best. I had been meaning to drop you an e-mail about the nice result you two got in Edwards. Good job."
"Thanks."
"You were a good pair. I'm sure he taught you everything you know, right?"
"And then some."
"Morty never liked me, you must know that."
Maybe he's not so bland. "He never said anything like that to me," Vicki said, though it wasn't true. Morty had disliked the
U.S. Attorney for his grandstanding and headline grabbing.Strauss churned out initiatives all the time, press-released and posted on the DOJ website; Project Clean Sweep, Project Clean Schools, Project Clean Block. Morty had nicknamed him, predictably, Mr. Clean.
"Good. Well. Maybe I'm wrong. I'd like to think that." Strauss patted Vicki's arm stiffly, his eyes a razor-sharp blue.
"Vicki's had a rough night," Bale said, drumming up positive reinforcement.
"She sure has, a rough night," Strauss repeated, properly cued. "I'd say this is trial by fire, isn't it? Maybe you should take some time off. Tomorrow, and the weekend."
"Actually, I'm wondering if this is connected to my straw case. I know we found the coke, but I think this was a stash house. Jackson wasn't the dealer, not for that kind of weight. I think she was just keeping it for-"
"I drew the same conclusion and so did ATF," Bale interrupted. Strauss's pale eyebrows lifted.
"Her boyfriend's name is Jamal Browning." Vicki knew she was talking out of turn, but it had never stopped her before. "I think he keeps her, and he may be the father of her baby, because there's bills on her dresser with his address. Her moving puzzles me, though. They weren't moving in together or she wouldn't be forwarding bills to him by mail. If they were breaking up-"
"You did some detective work, huh?" Bale smiled in a way that said shut up, which Vicki ignored. "I don't think there was another man in the picture, not yet.
First off, she was pregnant, and it's hard enough to meet anybody. Second, there's still her boyfriend's photos on her mirror and-"
"Vick, let's finish this discussion later," Bale said, his voice low. He shifted from one fancy loafer to the other. "This isn't the time or the place."
"Agreed." Strauss glanced around to see if anybody had been listening. "We don't need leaks."
"But time matters." Vicki lowered her voice, even though no one was snooping. "Tonight, everything's fresh, and at bottom, this is a murder case. In the D.A.'s office, we would always-"
"You're in the bigs now." Bale frowned. "We're lawyers, not cops. Morty's in very good hands, the very best. Philly Homicide's on it, and the FBI and ATF are breathin' down their neck. They'll collect the evidence and run it down."
"The Mayor's Office has shown a special interest, too." Strauss checked his watch. "I'm on my way to see him right now. We'll press-conference in the morning." He turned to look out the open front door of the row house. Klieglights shone outside, from the TVs and other press. "They're swarming out there. A triple homicide, a cop murdered." He glanced back at Vicki. "I don't have to tell you, no statements to the press."
"Of course not."
"Good." Strauss clapped her on the shoulder, then nodded to Bale. "How, we'll talk tomorrow."
"Whenever you're ready." Bale nodded. He and Vicki watched Strauss leave, his silhouette tall and lean in the klieg-lights, framed by the threshold of the front door. His breath made a puff of smoke in the frigid air, and he didn't even pause in the spot where Morty had been cut down.
"You like him, Chief?" Vicki asked, watching Strauss go.
"I got a uniform out there, to take you home," Bale replied, his dark eyes reflecting the white glare of the TV lights, and the moving shadows.
As soon as Vicki reached the pavement, reporters hit her like a blast of cold air. "Vicki, any comment?" "Vicki, can you describe the killer?" "Ms. Allegretti, what were you doing here tonight?" "Where were you when Special Agent Morton got shot?" "Vicki, did the ATF agent have any last words?"
Morty. Vicki kept her head down as she barreled through the crowd, holding up a no-comment hand. She'd run this gauntlet once in the D.A.'s office, but Strauss had been right, this was the bigs. The police presence was double the usual, including dogs and horses, and the media was national, evidently including jackasses.
"Is it true the woman was pregnant?" "Was this a drug bust?" "Why weren't the Philly cops there?" "Why were you involved?" "Victoria, look this way! Just one picture, please!"
Reporters thronged so close that Vicki almost tripped on a black electrical cable powering the bright klieglights, foam-covered microphones, black cameras with rubbery collapsible shades, and whirring videocameras. She caught sight of herself in a monitor, her head floating, oddly disembodied, in the wintry black sky. On the screen, she looked even shorter than five two, which she hadn't known was physically possible.
A uniformed cop signaled to her from in front of an idling cruiser. Traffic on the usually busy boulevard had been rerouted to the inner lanes, and behind the cruiser sat a ring of police sawhorses, holding back neighbors and onlookers who were talking, smoking, and calling out questions, despite the frigid temperature. Vicki wished she could find out what they knew about Jackson, Jamal Browning, or comings and goings at the house, but she wasn't about to canvass the neighborhood within earshot of the media.
She sprinted for the police car, introduced herself to the cop, and slipped into the warmed-up backseat. The car took off, edging through the crowd until they reached open road. Vicki didn't say anything as the cruiser sped through the darkened streets. She tried not to feel the ache in her ribs. Or, worse, in her heart.
In time, the cruiser took a right onto the drive that snaked along the Wissahickon River: they passed lovely old Tudor homes, and in the next few minutes they arrived at her development, East Falls Mews, which was supposed to blend in, but didn't. Attached town homes of faux stone with ersatz Tudor touches lined the winding streets, newly paved; it was a lame place to live, but the rent was low and it sat just inside the Philly limits, a job requirement for D.A.'s. Lately Vicki had been talking about moving into Center City, so she had a hope of Meeting Somebody, but her social life was the last thing on her mind tonight. That is, until the squad car pulled up in front of her house.
Because, to her surprise, shivering as he sat on her front step was just the man she wanted to see.
Once they were inside, Vicki fell into Dan's embrace, realizing when she was enveloped how much she needed him. She burrowed into the chilled puffiness of his North Face jacket, feeling underneath the hard contours of his chest and the comfort of his strong arms. His open neck smelled of cold air and hard soap, and he was tall and lean, even in the down jacket. She held him as close as was permissible, then pulled away. Theirs was a relationship that drove Vicki crazy, even if it would make Plato himself proud.
Because Dan Malloy was married.
Vicki knew the rules: a hug was allowable, if the duration was brief and there was no contact below the waist. A kiss was kosher, if it was on the forehead and she had won a felony conviction. The word that began with L and rhymed with glove was forbidden, unless they were talking about Sicilian pizza, which they both loved. Of course, explosive sex, hot sex, combustible I-have-denied-myself-for-too-long sex, I've-been-thinking-about-this-forever sex had never happened. And it wasn't ever going to, outside of Vicki's imagination, where it occurred with great frequency and mutual satisfaction.
"I wanted to make sure you were okay." Dan held Vicki at arm's length, searching her face with sky-blue eyes, slightly watery from the cold. His gingery hair, layered with longish sideburns, was a sexy rumple. "You must be dying inside. I always thought Morty was like a father to you."
Exactly. Vicki had never felt so completely understood by someone who was so completely married.
"Jesus, he's dead. I can't believe it."
"How did you find out?"
"From TV. It's impossible that he's gone." Dan's eyes went dazed and his voice husky. His eyes clouded with sadness, and the corners of his flattish lips turned unhappily down, his frown so deep that the freckles dotting his forehead clustered together. "He was such a great guy. A hardworking guy, and fun. He could always make me laugh."
Vicki felt a twinge of fresh grief. Dan had really liked Morty, and Morty liked him, too. Of course, everybody liked Dan; he was the Golden Boy of the office. He'd racked up more convictions than anybody in his class, quarterbacked the AUSA football game against the federal marshals, and bought the vanilla sheet cake for the receptionist's birthday. At thirty-five years old, Dan Malloy had been anointed, and everybody knew it but him.
"Morty didn't deserve to die that way," he said.
"Nobody does. Neither did she." Vicki blinked her tears back, postponing them. She didn't know when she'd feel safe enough to cry. She kept getting extensions of time, a lawyer's habit.
"Mariella says she's really sorry. She'd be here if she could but she's on call."
"Tell her I said thanks." Vicki hoped this sounded convincing. Dan's wife, the exotic Dr. Mariella Suarez, was a resident at Hahnemann Hospital; beautiful, willowy, fake-blonde, and constantly on call. She spoke three languages, including her native Portuguese, and was remote even for a surgeon. She was married to the most wonderful man on the planet, to whom she paid no attention, which was why, in the incomprehensible logic of the cosmos, she had him.
Dan was saying, "You must be beat. I brought wine. Come on, it's medicinal." He turned and went into the kitchen, sliding out of his jacket on the way, revealing a gray T-shirt in which he'd undoubtedly been playing basketball. He set the coat on a dining room chair, releasing a subtle odor that gave credence to the pheromone thing.
Vicki breathed deeply and followed him into the kitchen. She stopped before she got there, taking off her stained trench-coat and laying it over another dining room chair. She couldn't bear to look at it again, much less wear it. She entered the kitchen, flopped into the wooden chair at the round table, and kicked off her pumps. "I hate high heels."
"Me, too." Dan set the wine on the tile counter and went into her silverware drawer for the corkscrew. He knew exactly where it was, because he was over so often. They had met a year ago, when she'd become an AUSA and got the office next to him, and they'd become close, sharing gossip at lunch and war stories whenever possible. They had dinner after work, too, when Dr. Bitchy was on call; Dan had probably cooked more meals in this kitchen than Vicki had, which made her feel oddly ashamed. She eyed the room in case there was a pop quiz.
The kitchen measured about twenty feet long and was just wide enough to qualify as a galley. Authentically distressed oak covered the floor, and matching cabinets lined the wall. A halogen light of tangerine Murano glass hung down from the ceiling, casting a soft, if concentrated, glow on the round kitchen table. Dan stood at the indefinite edge of the lamplight in jeans that were too big, which Vicki found secretly charming.
She watched him pour the wine into two glasses, and it washed bubbling against the side. It was a Chardonnay, which Dan knew was her favorite, and his thoughtfulness triggered a wave of longing so powerful that she had to swallow, physically forcing it back down her throat. She wished that she could lose herself in him for just one night, but he didn't think of her that way. Not that it mattered, for those purposes. He could just lie still.
"Here's what the doctor ordered." Dan turned, glasses in hand, and brought them to the table, where he put them down and sat in the other chair. They both lifted their glasses without saying a word, tacitly toasting Morty. Their eyes met, but Vicki broke contact first and took a sip. The cold Chardonnay tingled on her tongue. Cold comfort, but comfort.
"Thanks for doing this," Vicki said.
"What a guy."
"Really, it was nice of you. I know you hate Chardonnay."
"Not true." Dan took another sip and rallied, putting the moment behind them. "Chardonnay is classy. Even the word is classy. Chardonnay makes me feel almost as classy as you."
"Don't start." Vicki smiled. It was a running joke between them. Her parents were prominent lawyers who ran a prosperous firm in Center City, and Dan had grown up in a working-class city neighborhood, Juniata, and his father was a ne'er-do-well who had served time for petty forgery. Dan had a chip on his shoulder about his family, but it didn't matter to Vicki, except that it reminded her of her parents. She fleetingly considered calling to tell them she was okay, but they generally went to bed by ten o'clock.
"So, you want to talk about what happened?" Dan looked at her so intensely, it could qualify as foreplay in most jurisdictions. Just not the Platonic jurisdiction.
"In a minute."
"Fair enough. I was worried about you."
"You'd better." Vicki always shrugged off any nice thing Dan said, even borderline flirting. He would never have cheated, and she wouldn't want an affair with him; frankly, not only because of her morals, which went out the window when he wore those jeans, but because she wanted to be number one. What trial lawyer would settle for number two? The name for number two is loser.
"They said on the TV news that you ‘narrowly escaped with your life.' " Dan made quote marks in the air, but didn't smile. "Is that true?"
Vicki flashed on the guns. It struck her that she had faced two tonight, which should count as narrowly, if not miraculously. "Yes."
"Were you scared?" "My underwear is clean." Dan laughed. "That was an overshare." "I'm proud of that. It wasn't easy." "I try not to think about your underwear." Don't try so hard. Vicki watched him drink his wine, which was almost half gone, and a silence fell between them. She fought her customary urge to entertain him by filling in the conversational gap, but she didn't want to turn Morty's death into another war story. And she knew it was a bad habit, her jumping up and down for him. Always reaching for him, inside. Unrequited didn't begin to describe her feelings for him. Unrequited wasn't even the warm-up act.
"I switched around the channels, to get the story." Dan drained his wineglass. "They had video from outside the house, and interviews. Strauss was on, too, before he went in."
Vicki didn't comment. Dan liked Strauss. "Did you see him?" "The cheese? Yes. Bale was there, too, and he didn't fire me." "How could he? It wasn't your fault." Vicki couldn't say as much. She took a sip of wine, but it didn't help.
"On TV, they showed your picture. The one from orientation. You looked great. One of the anchors said you were ‘attractive' and ‘a rising star.' "
"Did they mention I was single?" "They must have forgotten," Dan said, slurring his words slightly, and Vicki eyed him, amused. "Hey, did you have dinner tonight?" "No. I shot hoops and we went out for a beer after. Why?" "Your mouth stopped working a few words ago." Vicki smiled. It was another running joke. "Face it, Malloy. You're a girl."
"No! I had a few beers is all. Then I saw the TV, I didn't wait for the burger." Dan's freckled skin flushed pink. "I suck at being Irish."
"It's the Jesuit in you." "No, it's all your fault, Vick." "Mine?" "I spend too much time with you." "Not possible," Vicki said, then caught herself. It was the wine talking and it had accidentally said something true. She felt like her slip was showing and she didn't even wear slips. Dan looked down for a moment, into his empty glass. Then he looked up, taking her in, but saying nothing. "What?" Vicki asked. "I went to the house tonight, but the FBI wouldn't let me in.
That was one mother crime scene. They didn't honor my ID, the scene was so restricted." Dan had been there? "You were at my CI's house tonight? How'd you know where it was?" "The street name was on the TV, and you mentioned where you were going, remember? You tell me everything."
Not everything, handsome.
"I waited outside at the scene for a while. I figured they were taking your statement, so I came here. I knew you had to come home. I picked up the wine on the way. Anyway, I had a lot of time to think about, well, how it would be if you had been killed tonight. I mean, you could have been murdered."
But Morty was. Morty was the cop.
"It made me think about what my life would be like." Dan paused, his lips pursed and his gaze unfailingly blue and steady. "If you had, you know. It made me think about some things. Like how I feel about you."
Huh? Vicki told herself to stay calm. Dan had never said anything about any feelings for her, and she had certainly never told him about her crush on him. Suddenly the moment was upon them, after a year of getting closer and closer.
"So I wanted to tell you tonight, more than anything, how I feel. Because now I know that all that crap they talk about is true."
Vicki said nothing, but her heartbeat stepped up. Dan had stopped slurring his words, he was concentrating so fiercely.
"You know that crap they say? That you never know when life can be taken or what's going to happen? That everything you have can be gone in one minute, and it will be too late? That crap?"
Vicki was pretty sure she was breathing but she wouldn't swear to it.
"Well, it's true. You can't take anyone for granted. You have to tell people how you feel about them when they're alive, because tomorrow's not guaranteed to anyone." Dan leaned over and placed his hand on hers.
Oh my God.
"Well, what I realized is that I can't imagine my life if you weren't in it."
Vicki officially stopped breathing.
"You're my best friend in the world."
Vicki's mouth went dry. She waited a minute. She wasn't sure what she'd heard, then she wasn't sure whether Dan was finished. But he wasn't saying anything more. Maybe he wasn't finished anyway? He couldn't have been, because he hadn't said what she needed to hear, which was:
I love you.
"You look weird." Dan cocked his head. "You think it's strange to have a best friend who's a girl?"
"Not at all," Vicki answered flatly. She slid her hand out from under his and got up for more wine. She would have to start drinking heavily, if they were going to keep being Friends Without Benefits.
Later, before she eased her aching body into bed, Vicki called her parents and left a message on both of their cell phones, because she knew it was the first thing they checked each morning. In the messages she told them not to worry about anything they heard on TV, online, or on the car radio into work, because she was fine.
Vicki didn't mention that she was hopelessly in love with a very married man or that, first thing in the morning, she was going to investigate a triple homicide.
The William Green Federal Building was a modern redbrick edifice that anchored Sixth and Arch streets, attached to the United States Courthouse and situated at the center of a new court complex that Vicki thought of as a Justice Mall. The Neiman Marcus of the Justice Mall would be the Constitution Center, a glitzy shrine to sell the Bill of Rights, and the Gap would be the Federal Detention Center, a generic column of gray stone, except for its horizontal window slits. The FDC almost didn't get built because nobody wanted a federal prison reminding the shoppers-er, tourists-that the City of Brotherly Love was also the City of Brotherly Robbery and Weapons Offenses. But the FDC was ultimately approved because officials agreed to construct a secret underground tunnel from the prison to the federal building, so the shoppers wouldn't know. It was through this tunnel that defendant Reheema Bristow was being escorted this morning.
Vicki waited in a plastic bucket chair in a proffer room on the secured fourth floor of the federal building. They were called proffer rooms because defendants "proffered" here, i.e., offered to tell the government incriminating information, off the record, in return for immunity or a recommendation to the judge for a downward departure on their sentence. This proffer room was unfortunately identical to the others: white boxes, uniformly windowless and airless, containing brown Formica conference tables and a few mismatched chairs.
Vicki collected her thoughts. The straw purchase case might have collapsed, but she wasn't dropping the charges until after she had questioned Bristow just one time. Nobody would be the wiser; the defense didn't know the identity of the confidential informant because Vicki wasn't required to divulge until right before trial or even before the CI took the stand, if witness intimidation was an issue. She was bending the rules a little, but Morty's death provided more than enough motivation. She'd thought of the plan last night when she couldn't sleep, replaying the awful shootings in her mind.
She crossed her legs and willed herself to stay centered; the record showed that Bristow could be provocative. Straws weren't usually held in custody, but Bristow had turned her temporary detention into an almost year-long stay by mouthing off to the magistrate judge during her hearing. Whatever Bris-tow brought this morning, Vicki could handle it. She brushed an imaginary hair off her black wool suit, her hair swept back into a black barrette and curling loosely at the nape of her neck. She had picked out the outfit on autopilot, then realized she was dressed in mourning. Only determination held raw grief at bay.
Suddenly, the door to the proffer room opened and the defense lawyer bustled in. "I'm Carlos Melendez," he said, and extending a hammy hand. "It's freezing cold, isn't it? They say snow this afternoon." He looked about sixty years old, his still-thick hair coiled in tight steel-gray curls, contrasting with his darkish skin and rich brown eyes. He had a cheery demeanor and a short, chubby build in a herringbone topcoat, like SpongeBob SquarePants with a law degree.
"I'm Vicki Allegretti," she said, liking Melendez immediately, despite the fact that he was technically the enemy.
"Boy, you look too young to be an AUSA." Melendez smiled.
"No, I'm twenty-eight. I'm just short."
"Ha! You're short and young." Melendez laughed. "Though I gotta admit, I don't know many AUSAs, I'm court appointed on this case." He wriggled out of his topcoat, releasing the scent of a strongly spicy aftershave.
"Thanks for coming on such short notice."
"Not at all, glad you called. Trial's just around the corner."
Eek. Not anymore. "Did you get my proffer letter?" This morning, Vicki had re-sent Melendez the proffer letter that the first AUSA had sent, since it had the necessary signature, namely Strauss's. The letter was a formality, setting forth the govern-ment's request for information and the ground rules for the meeting off the record. She'd had it in the Bristow file and faxed it from home.
"My secretary confirmed that we got it, thanks." Melendez opened a scratched-up leather briefcase, extracted an accordion file, and closed it again.
"Think Ms. Bristow feels chatty this morning?"
"Reheema? Honestly, no." Melendez smiled. "You'll see, Reheema's not the talkative type, but maybe she'll listen to reason. I'll be honest with you, I want her to cooperate, and I told her so." He pushed his briefcase across the dusty Formica table and eased his girth into his bucket chair. "The first AUSA had no luck with her, but he lacked your youthful enthusiasm. Maybe with you being a woman, too, that'll help. You're the same age."
"Good."
"Like I told you, I'm court-appointed, so I don't meet a lot of people like her. She's a tough nut. But she has a good heart, and I think she's innocent."
Vicki knew he'd learn soon enough that Bristow could be behind the murders of three people.
"And five years is five years. I hate to see her get set up for this."
"What do you mean? You think someone's setting her up?"
"Somebody's letting her twist, aren't they? Whoever she bought those guns for, and like you say, anything is possible." Melendez shrugged his heavy shoulders. "I don't know, she won't talk to me. Like I said, I don't usually do this kinda work, but I've never had a client who was so close-mouthed."
"Is she frightened?" Vicki was considering the possibilities. "Intimidated by someone?"
"Ha! No way. Reheema doesn't scare easy." Melendez mulled it over, looking idly at Vicki. Suddenly, his dark eyes seemed to sharpen and he focused on her face. "You know, you look a lot like that woman on TV last night. With that murder, on the news?"
"Uh, yes, that was me." Vicki told herself to act natural. It would have been only a matter of time before he recognized her. The story was all over the papers, TV, and radio this morning.
"That was you? An FBI agent killed and a pregnant woman?"
"He was ATF." Vicki's chest felt tight.
"Je-sus." Melendez looked shocked, his lips parting. "That must have been horrible. What the hell happened?"
"I can't really say," Vicki answered in her official voice, as a burly ATF agent in a tie and gray blazer appeared at the door to the proffer room.
"Special delivery," the agent said dryly. Usually, the federal marshals brought up the prisoners, but Vicki had asked the ATF on duty as a favor. He had to know it was related to Morty's death, but she didn't tell, to give him deniability.
"Thanks," Vicki said, and when the agent stepped aside, Vicki did a double take at the sight of the shackled prisoner.
Reheema Bristow didn't look at all the way Vicki had expected.
Vicki had been expecting a street tough, but Reheema Bristow looked like a black model, albeit on steroids. She had stunning features; large almond eyes of an unusual caramel-brown, a longish nose, and a broad mouth, which was sensual, if unsmiling. She wore her dark hair back in a short, stiff ponytail and had a strong, killer body, even in the olive green jumpsuit worn by FDC prisoners. Her manner made the handcuffs seem oddly like sex toys.
Bristow was seated, cuffed and shackled, in the chair next to Melendez, and her lawyer had gone positively goofy in her presence. Suddenly Vicki understood why he'd been suckered into believing in her innocence. And also why he'd worn his cardamom aftershave.
"Reheema, how are you today?" Melendez boomed, grinning.
"I'm fine, thanks," Bristow answered, and Vicki reacted viscerally to the sound of her voice, soft, but hardly ingratiating. Streetwise, but not street. Sonorous, if it hadn't come out of the mouth of a criminal. Vicki couldn't forget that Bristow could know who killed Morty and Jackson. She could know Teeg and Jay-Boy. She could even have hired them, or maybe whoever she was buying the guns for had hired them.
"Ms. Bristow." Vicki introduced herself and explained, "I'm the new AUSA on this case. I'm replacing Jim Cavanaugh, whom you met with before. I believe that was the only proffer conference you had with my office, correct?"
Bristow nodded, and if she recognized Vicki from the TV, she didn't let it show, which proved she was one great liar. News of the triple homicide had to be all over the FDC, learned from TV or the "bowl," the way prisoners communicated after lights-out; each inmate flushed the toilet a few times to evacuate the water, enabling the plumbing to carry voices as efficiently as Nextel. The Bureau of Prisons couldn't do anything about it, short of replacing the plumbing at taxpayer expense, but nobody was funding better johns for felons.
Vicki continued, "I called you here today for a conference, and we'll start by asking you a few questions. As you know, you've been charged with two counts of a straw purchase, in violation of 18 U.S.C. Section 922." Vicki glanced at her file as she read. "The indictment charges that you purchased two Colt.45-caliber handguns and illegally resold them. As you may know, when such a multiple weapons purchase is made, Pennsylvania gun dealers are required automatically to send a report to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. Would you like to see the report concerning your purchases, or the indictment against you? I have both."
"No. I told the first lawyer, Cavanaugh, I don't want to plead guilty."
"Is that because you didn't do it?"
Bristow's lovely gaze shifted sideways to Melendez. "Do I have to answer?"
"Not if you don't want to."
"No comment," Bristow answered, which gave Vicki pause. Most felons knew that "no comment" was for reporters, not government lawyers.
"Reheema, may I call you Reheema?"
"Yes."
"Reheema, you do realize that if you are convicted in this case, and you will be, you'll spend five years in federal prison, a chunk of the prime of your life?"
Bristow didn't say anything.
"I see from your file you have no priors, so you may not know that federal prison isn't as nice as the FDC, new and clean. It isn't like on TV, either."
Bristow didn't blink, which set Vicki's blood simmering. She had given this speech in three other straw cases and had never gotten this far. Unlike state jail time, federal sentencing guidelines removed the judge's discretion, so cooperating was the only thing defendants could do to help themselves. The guidelines were a huge hammer for federal law enforcement, but coming from the D.A.'s office, Vicki secretly thought they also took the sport out of the contest. They'd created a culture of snitches, and after most indictments, crooks raced to flip on their friends. Last month, Vicki even got a confession on her answering machine.
"Reheema, prison is ugly, brutal, nasty. Women beat each other up, some of them daily. Think. Five years of that."
Bristow said nothing, her expression as impassive as if she were posing for a Vogue cover, and Vicki guessed she had to know that Jackson had been killed and there would be no trial on the charges.
"Reheema, let's get real. You're a pretty girl, you know that. A woman as beautiful as you, it won't be nice. You'll be placed in the general population. You'll be somebody's bitch."
Bristow's perfect mouth remained closed, but Vicki kept squeezing. Bristow couldn't be completely sure the government didn't have other evidence against her. Vicki wouldn't be the first federal prosecutor to be stingy with what she disclosed before trial.
"That is, if you're lucky, it'll be one woman. It could be more. You could be the pass-around pack. You want that?"
Bristow didn't answer, and next to her, Melendez shifted his weight in his chair. Vicki was threatening Bristow, which wasn't permissible, but Melendez wanted to save his client.
"I'm not trying to scare you, I'm trying to tell you what you risk by going to trial. You bought two guns for somebody and resold them. All I want from you is the name of the person you sold them to."
Bristow didn't answer, and Vicki felt her cheeks hot with renewed anger.
"Reheema, if you're frightened, I understand. These are dangerous people, scary people. I can get you into the witness protection program. You lived in an apartment in West Philly, right?"
Bristow didn't answer, and Vicki checked her temper.
"Come on, you can answer that! It's on the indictment. Who did you live with?"
"Lived alone."
"No boyfriend or anything?"
"No."
If she couldn't get a date, I have no chance. "So you don't have the apartment anymore, do you?"
"No."
"Even better. I'll get you relocated to a new place, maybe even a house. I'll make sure you're okay, I swear it." Vicki meant every word, if it led to Morty's killer. "You don't have to be afraid of anybody or anything. Even if they're dealing drugs, even weight."
Bristow looked down, breaking eye contact, and Vicki felt her heart quicken.
"Reheema, if you give me the name, I'll tell the judge you're a cooperator. I'll give him the best possible recommendation for your sentence. I'll get you in ad seg, too, out of the general population. It's a completely different proposition."
Bristow kept her head down, and Vicki leaned across the table.
"Just give me a name. These guys are filth, they don't deserve your loyalty. Give me the name and you'll get back to your life. You had two jobs, you can work them. Meet a nice guy, I wish you better luck than me. You're only twenty-nine, as young as I am. Your life is in front of you, if you just say the word."
"No," Bristow answered, looking up. Her gaze was steady, two flawless brown orbs focused on Vicki, which only made her crazier. She tried another tack. Maybe if Bristow knew Vicki had her number, she'd talk.
"Reheema, who is Jamal Browning?"
Melendez's ears pricked up at the unfamiliar name and he wrote it on a legal pad, but Bristow merely looked down again and began examining her fingernails.
"Have you ever been at 3635 Aspinall Street? It's in West Philly." Vicki had looked it up on MapQuest this morning.
Bristow continued with her cuticle, and Vicki felt her frustration rising.
"Do you know a young man, a black male aged about fourteen, about five nine, who wears his hair in cornrows and is nicknamed Teeg?"
"Objection." Melendez raised a hand, though no formal objections were necessary, nor did they have any legal impact at a proffer conference, which this wasn't anyway. This was a mugging.
"I'm just asking her a question. She can decline to answer." Vicki's temper sharpened her tone but she didn't bother dialing it back. She turned to Bristow. "Who's Teeg?"
Bristow didn't answer.
"How about Jay-Boy, a young black male? Goatee? Older than fourteen, maybe sixteen." Vicki couldn't give further details of his description. He was the one who had killed Morty.
Her head pounded, and her chest felt tight enough to burst.
Bristow didn't answer, and Vicki was growing more furious by the minute.
"How do you know Shayla Jackson?"
Reheema's expression betrayed no recognition.
Melendez looked up from his pad, his forehead wrinkling. "Jackson. Isn't that the name of the pregnant lady who got killed last night? I remember because it's my neighbor's name."
"I'm just asking her, does she know Jackson?"
Melendez set his Bic pen down beside his pad. "What's the difference if she knows her?" he asked, suspicious.
"I'm curious. She didn't recognize me from TV, like you did."
"So?"
Uh. "I like to be recognized. It makes me feel good about myself."
Bristow cracked a sly smile, which made Vicki want to wring her neck. The woman was getting away with murder.
"Reheema, I know you know Shayla Jackson. She was my CI in this case. You know what that means, don't you? My confidential informant." Vicki leaned across the table, almost spitting. "She was going to dime on you and you know she was murdered last night with my partner. Teeg and Jay-Boy were the shooters, but they work for someone, and I want to know who. And how you're involved."
"Vicki, what are you doing?" Melendez rose slowly, but Vicki was too far gone.
"You had Jackson killed to prevent her from testifying! You killed her and her baby! And Morty!" Suddenly, Vicki's rage boiled over. She reached across the table and grabbed Bris-tow's upper arm.
"No, wait!" Melendez shouted, horrified. "Stop!"
"Yo, bitch!" Reheema bellowed, but Vicki exploded.
"Why'd you do it, Reheema! Why? To save five lousy years?" Vicki couldn't stop herself and she didn't want to. She yanked so hard that she dragged the handcuffed Bristow onto the table. "They killed an ATF agent last night! My partner!
My friend! And you know it!"
"HELP!" Melendez yelled at the top of his lungs.
The door to the proffer room flew open, and the ATF agent burst in, drawing his gun from his shoulder holster, ready to protect a prosecutor from a prisoner.
And, startled, discovered that it was the other way around.
"Get yourself a lawyer, kid." Bale bustled into his office, where Vicki had been told to wait for him.
"You have to be kidding."
"Not today. Strauss got a call from Melendez, Bristow's defense lawyer." Bale slid off his camel-hair coat, hung it carefully on a wooden hanger, and placed it on the wooden rack behind him, then sat down in his tall chair, shooting his cuffs by habit. "He's suing you-and the office-for official misconduct, assault, and battery."
"Assault and battery, on Reheema? She has six inches on me!"
"Melendez says she sustained a soft-tissue injury."
"But all her tissue is hard!"
"You twisted her arm, didn't you?"
"I couldn't! She was wearing handcuffs!"
"Not your best argument." Bale glared from behind his walnut desk, its surface marked by a clean leather blotter, stacks of correspondence, and a computer with the office's American flag screensaver, flickering madly. "You're missing the point. You shouldn't have put a finger on her, not a finger."
"I know. I'm sorry. But still-"
"No buts. You're a federal prosecutor. You behaved like a street brawler."
Vicki reddened. She was in the wrong, which sucked.
"And Melendez is filing suit on her behalf and on his own."
"What?"
"He doesn't have soft tissue, either?" Bale arched an eyebrow.
"I swear, I didn't touch him!"
"Says you pushed him. Your word against his."
"What about the ATF agent, at the door? He could tell you what happened."
"Oh, should we ask him? He wasn't even supposed to be there! Marshals bring prisoners up, not ATF. How'd you swing that?"
Vicki slumped in the chair. The ATF agent couldn't speak for her anyway. He had had to pull the three of them apart, like a group hug gone horribly wrong.
"I didn't think so. Either way, it's a lawsuit that could result in liability for you personally. Meeting with a defendant is within the scope of your official duties, but trying to kill one is not."
"You're not backing me?"
"Of course not." Bale's brown eyes went hard, like chocolate cooling. "You had no business setting up a proffer meeting, or a meeting of any kind, when you knew you had no case. There's just no excuse for it. What were you thinking?"
Gulp. "It was my last chance. I was gonna let her go after that."
"You shoulda dropped those charges first thing this morning. What did you use for a proffer letter?"
"The old one in the file."
"So Strauss's signature is on it? Strauss will love that, that's great." Bale pursed his lips under his mustache. "He talked with PR and they're press-releasing it. The media knows you were at the scene last night, and the press release sets forth your very sincere apology and explains that you were upset over the murder of an ATF case agent you knew very well. I dropped the charges against Bristow and she'll be released from the FDC by tonight."
No. "She knows those shooters, Chief."
"Melendez told me she denied all of it, and he believed her."
"Gimme a break. He's a man, and she's hot." Vicki felt her bile rising. "Chief, obviously, there's a connection between Bris-tow and the CI. The CI volunteered to testify against her, apparently out of the blue. I told you, there's a memo in the file."
"That's what you're pinning this theory on, a memo in the file? That's why you attacked a defendant and her lawyer?"
Not her lawyer, but never mind. "My CI gets shot a few days before she's going to testify and she's my whole case. It can't be a coincidence. There has to be a link."
"Melendez says you were out of control. He said that you have a big mouth for such a small woman, which I can vouch for."
"Thanks."
"Don't be a smartass. You need representation. Understand?"
"Understood." No lawyer would take this case without a five-thousand-dollar retainer, half of Vicki's savings. Her father would represent her for free, but then she'd have to tell him the truth, which was unprecedented.
"The locals are all over us now. We need good relations with the Roundhouse. I don't have to tell you that, do I? Don't make me sorry I convinced Strauss not to can your ass."
"I'm not fired?" Vicki felt her throat catch with gratitude.
"Suspended without pay, for a week." Bale rubbed his smooth forehead irritably. Rumor had it he was getting Botox injections, but Vicki would never again spread that around.
"Thanks, Chief."
"The only reason he gave it to me was that you won last month in Edwards. I went to bat for you because I know why you did it. You reacted emotionally. You were close with Morty."
Morty. Vicki looked away. A pale sun ray filtered through the windows of the corner office, landing on the electroplated plaques, etched crystal bowls, and hunk-of-acrylic awards. Black office manuals and rule books filled the shelves lining the wall.
"Hey, look at me," Bale said, and Vicki did. "I'm responsible for you now. One step out of line, and I don't go to bat for you again. You're still new here. Watch your step. We're not fast and loose, like the D.A.'s office. You got it?"
"Yes, Chief."
"Good." Bale's voice returned almost to normal. "Melendez also told Strauss you asked Bristow about some names. Jay or something. Teeg. You gave those names to the Philly detectives last night, didn't you?"
"Of course." Vicki had. She wasn't even lying.
"And to ATF, too?"
"Yes."
"So you're not completely crazy."
"No, not completely."
"It's Friday. Morty's memorial service will be on Monday. You will attend, then take the week off without pay. If anyone from Homicide calls you to look at a photo array, you'll go, but that's it. Be back at your desk on Monday and start redeeming yourself."
"What about my cases? I have a suppression hearing in Welton on Tuesday."
"I'll reassign it, and Malloy will watch your desk while you're away. Now get outta my sight." Bale's phone rang but he let the secretary get it. "Don't stop at your office, just go home and stay home. No talking to the press, and no more shenanigans."
"Okay, Chief. Thanks again."
Vicki left the office and closed the door behind her. She walked down the hall to her office, and when she turned the corner, the secretaries were standing up at their desks and behind them AUSAs were coming out of their offices.
And all of them were clapping.
Vicki said thanks to everyone, taking only her coat from her office. She didn't need anything else from it anyway. She had the Bristow file in her briefcase.
And she knew just where she was going.
Vicki hurried through the crowded parking lot and checked her watch on the run: 12:45. She wrapped her old down coat closer and reached the concrete entrance to the medical examiners', just as an older African-American woman was leaving. Her gray head was bowed in grief and she carried a wad of Kleenex in her hand. Vicki felt a pang of sympathy and realized that she wasn't too late after all. Shayla Jackson's mother had been due here to identify the body at noon, and the grieving woman had to be she.
Mrs. Jackson walked with another older black woman supporting her elbow, though the woman was struggling with two large purses, a canvas bag stuffed with red yarn, a folded newspaper, and a plastic-covered library book. Vicki felt vaguely like a vulture as she swooped down on the forlorn pair, reaching them just as one of the leather purses fell to the parking lot, pebbled with city grit and rock salt. Vicki scooped up the handbag before both women toppled over.
"Got it," Vicki called out, restoring the bag to the friend.
"Thank you, thank you so much." Mrs. Jackson looked at her with gratitude and managed a sweet smile, though tears pooled in her reddened eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses. Up close, she looked about eighty years old, with sparse hair the hue of sterling silver and deep fissures for crow's-feet and laugh lines on dry, ashy skin.
"Yes, thank you," the other woman chimed in. "It's hard to carry all these things. I should have thrown away my newspaper, but I didn't get a chance to read it yet."
"I understand." Vicki held on to Mrs. Jackson, who leaned lightly on her arm. The woman couldn't have weighed one hundred and ten, including her coat. "Are you okay, ma'am?"
"Yes, I guess. I'm so tired. I had to… I just had to…"
Her friend supplied: "Her daughter was murdered."
Vicki couldn't hide the ball another minute. She introduced herself and asked, "Aren't you Ms. Jackson, Shayla Jackson's mother?"
"Why, yes." Her wet brown eyes fluttered in surprise. "Well, not exactly, I'm her auntie." She pronounced it awn-tee.
"Well, it's nice to meet you."
"I'm her Auntie Tillie. Mrs. Tillie Bott. Mr. Bott passed away in 1989. Shayla used to call me Auntie Tillie but now she calls me Tillie, or Mama Tillie." Ms. Bott seemed disoriented, understandable under the circumstances. "Shayla was the neighbor lady's girl, but the neighbor run off. I raised her as my own, after my children were grown."
"That was kind of you," Vicki said, touched, but Mrs. Bott shook her head, wobbly.
"Not at t'all. That child gave me more than I ever gave her. She was just so sweet-"
The friend interjected, "How did you know who Tillie was?"
"I'm an assistant U.S. Attorney. I was going to meet with Shayla last night when she was killed." Vicki noticed Mrs. Bott's hooded eyes widen and she softened her voice. "Shayla told me that she had important information for me on a case, so my partner and I went over to her house. It was my partner who was killed with her."
"You mean that policeman?" the friend interjected, again.
"Yes. He was an ATF agent." Someday Vicki would figure out why she kept correcting everybody about Morty. "I was coming here to talk with Mrs. Bott about Shayla, but I hate to bother you now. Maybe we could talk another time."
"We don't live here," the friend answered. "We're country people. We live in Florida. We're going home now. We're going to the bus. We took an airplane here, but we're taking a bus back. The airplane is too expensive."
"You're leaving now?"
"On the three o'clock bus."
"Then we have some time to talk."
"No, we don't."
Vicki wondered when library patrons got so tough. "Wait a minute, did Mrs. Bott talk to the police yet?"
"What police?"
"The Philadelphia police."
"No."
"Didn't they call you to talk about Shayla?" Vicki addressed Mrs. Bott, but she was dabbing her eyes with the soggy Kleenex ball, then resettling her glasses on the bridge of her nose.
"No, they didn't call her," the friend answered. "Now, excuse us, we have to go. We're going home and we're going to take Shayla home to rest, home with us. She'll rest better, home where she grew up."
Mrs. Bott looked so broken, and the cold air dried the tearstains on her lined cheeks, making whitish streaks in the cold. As much as Vicki's heart went out to her, she couldn't let them go.
"I have an idea," Vicki said gently. "Maybe we could go somewhere warm and talk over a cup of coffee. Before you two leave."
"No, she's too upset," the friend answered, drawing Mrs. Bott closer to her side. Vicki kept her grip on poor Mrs. Bott's other arm. If it became a tug-of-war, the library fan was going down. Vicki was younger, stronger, and a federal prosecutor, which should count for something as against the reserve list.
"I'm sorry to have to intrude." Vicki leaned over and spoke directly to Mrs. Bott. "And I'm sure the police are going to call you, but I want to find whoever killed Shayla and my friend. I'm hoping that what you know about Shayla could help me."
"Did you tell that to the police?" the friend broke in, and Vicki bit her tongue.
"Yes, but I have questions of my own."
"That's not your job," the friend shot back, and Vicki was considering decking her when Mrs. Bott cleared her throat, lowered her Kleenex, and said:
"I wouldn't mind talkin', if it would help Shayla."
A noisy convenience store wasn't what Vicki had in mind for a quiet chat, but the one on the corner of Thirty-eighth and Spruce, down the street from the medical examiner, would do in a pinch. An instrumental version of "Love Will Keep Us Together," the ca-chunk of cash registers, and the endless beep-beep of touch-screen ordering machines filled the air. The place teemed with overgrown frat boys, exhausted med students, and university staff, but Vicki managed to find a free table in the far corner, at which she seated Mrs. Bott and her attack friend, who turned out to be named Mrs. Greenwood.
Sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling glass window, warming the three of them, and by the time they'd started on their 184-ounce cups of brewed coffee and Southwestern wraps with suspiciously colorful ingredients, the small talk was over, Mrs. Bott had almost recovered, and Mrs. Greenwood had turned as nice as a librarian.
"When was the last time you saw Shayla, Mrs. Bott?" Vicki asked, getting to the subject at hand.
"I hadn't seen my baby girl in so long. She hardly ever came home anymore."
"How long?"
"Maybe two years now. Two Christmases ago."
"So you hadn't seen her in a while. Did you talk on the phone?"
"Surely, she'd call me, to keep up. Every other week or so."
Mrs. Greenwood nodded with approval.
"Did you know she was pregnant?" Vicki asked.
"I did. At first she didn't tell me, but then she did. She was afraid I'd get mad at her." The creased corners of Mrs. Bott's mouth turned down. She looked so lost in her heavy coat, and her hair, smoothed back in a frizzy bun, glinted dully in the harsh light. "Lord, a baby. The doctor today, he said it was gonna be a girl. Now, if she had a girl, Shayla wanted to call her Shay, after herself. Shay was her nickname. Shay."
Vicki nodded. So much pain. Who was responsible for it?
"Shay," Mrs. Bott repeated.
Mrs. Greenwood nodded again, behind her coffee. "I always liked that name," she said softly.
Vicki sipped cold coffee and let the moment pass. "When did she tell you she was pregnant?"
Mrs. Bott thought a minute. "About a month ago, she did. I was mighty surprised. I didn't know she was seein' anybody serious."
Mrs. Greenwood laughed softly. "You were so surprised, Tillie. You called me right away. You couldn't believe it, I couldn't, either. I was washin' dishes and I dropped the cookie sheet. Almost made a dent! My best one, with the air cushion." She looked over at Mrs. Bott. "You know the one, with the cushion? The air cushion down in between the layers?"
"I do, yes." Mrs. Bott nodded. "That is a good cookie sheet."
Vicki paused. "Did Shayla tell you who the baby's father was?"
"No. Jus' that they was having trouble and she might move out."
The boxes. "She was getting ready to move where?"
"I don't know, exactly. Said she wanted to find a new place and change her life."
Vicki made a mental note. "What did she mean by that?"
"I don't know. I figgered she'd tell me, in time. I was just happy to have a grandbaby comin'."
"Did she mention a Jamal Browning?"
"No, no. She didn't tell me that."
Vicki didn't get it. "I think he was her boyfriend."
"Don't know him."
"I think he may have been the father of her baby. I believe that he paid her bills, like electric and phone."
"Hmmm. I don't know that. I don't know that name."
Vicki sighed inwardly. "Who do you think was the baby's father?
"I don't know. I didn't ask. I figgered that was her business, not mine."
"Did she date anyone that you know of?"
"Like I say, not serious. She always went out, she liked to dance. Shay was a good dancer. She liked music." Mrs. Bott paused, thinking. "A while ago, there was someone, his name was Dwayne."
Yay! "Dwayne what?"
"I don't know. Or maybe Don. Or Wayne." Mrs. Bott waved a gnarled hand. "That was years ago."
"When she visited, did she ever bring anybody? Any friends or boyfriends?"
"No. She always came alone."
Vicki was getting nowhere. "What did she do for a living?"
"She used to type. She typed. On a computer. Keypunch, they used to call it," Mrs. Bott answered vaguely.
"Did she work for a company, if you know?"
"No, different places. For a temporary, like."
"I see."
"But she never asked me for money, not once," Ms. Bott added.
"So she was independent."
"Yes, very. Stubborn."
"Did she ever mention anyone named Reheema Bristow?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
Mrs. Bott thought a minute. "I don't know that name. I would recall that name. Reheema. That's an unusual name."
"Yes, it is," Mrs. Greenwood added, leaving Vicki frustrated.
"Who were her girlfriends, did you know?"
"Not really."
"Didn't she have a best friend? Every girl has a best friend." Then Vicki blinked. Except me. "I mean most girls."
"She said some names. Mar, that was one."
"Mar? Did she have a last name?"
"I don't know it. I would say Mar was her best friend, I think. Mostly she talked about Mar."
"Is Mar in Philly? Do you have her address or phone number?"
"No, I just know Shay used to call her, on the cell phone. When she was home ta visit she'd always be calling Mar. Mar this. Mar that."
Vicki made a note. Maybe there was no connection between Jackson and Bristow. But then again, it was clear that Shayla Jackson wasn't telling her aunt much about her life in Philly, or maybe Vicki was projecting. Either way, time to get down to business:
"Mrs. Bott, I have a feeling that someone close to Shay, maybe her boyfriend, sold drugs. Do you know anything about that?"
Mrs. Bott fell silent. "I don't know about that," she answered after a minute. "She didn't do anything like that, growing up. She was a good girl. She drank a little, at parties in school, but nothing like that."
"Not Shay." Mrs. Greenwood clucked a dry tongue, shaking her head.
"Do you know about any friends of hers who did drugs or sold them? Or guns? I don't think she did anything wrong, but she knew some bad people. What you know about this could help find her killers."
"I didn't know anything about that, I wish I did." Mrs. Bott looked into her paper coffee cup, then sighed. "Shay could get talked into things. She trusted people. She trusted everybody."
"So maybe she trusted the wrong people?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe that's why she wanted to change her life?"
"Maybe. Yes." Mrs. Bott nodded.
But she didn't get the chance.
"I know she was lookin' forward to that baby. She always did want children."
Vicki suppressed the image of Jackson, slain in her bedroom. "Did you ever hear the nicknames Jay and Teeg?"
"No, I surely didn't."
"I think they were involved with drugs, too."
"I don't know anything about that."
"There seemed to be a lot of money in her life. She had nice jewelry, for example."
"Shay did like nice things," Mrs. Bott answered. "When she was little, she always had to have matching bows. And braids. And dresses."
Mrs. Greenwood added. "Mmm-mh. Those little white socks, with the lace on top. The ruffle. All around."
"I made those."
"I know you did, Tillie." Mrs. Greenwood's speech fell into a soft cadence that matched Mrs. Bott's, a reassuring call and response between old friends. "I know you did."
"And shiny black shoes."
"Oh, how she loved those black shoes."
"She was such a pretty child, a pretty little girl."
"She was."
"She surely was." Mrs. Bott smiled happily with Mrs. Greenwood, the two of them forgetting for a minute how it would all turn out, and Vicki let them be, left them to slip into a reverie of what might have been, what could have been, thinking of pretty babies in ruffled socks with shiny patent shoes. Vicki wished for one minute that she could replace the scenes from the medical examiner with those frilly, happy, pastel images. Women like these shouldn't have to see sights like that. Vicki felt terrible she'd brought up the drug thing and raised questions about Jackson's memory.
"I am so sorry for your loss," Vicki said, and Mrs. Bott seemed resigned, and overwhelmingly sad.
"Thank you very much. You know, I told her, if she comes to the city, things happen. Things like this."
And it made Vicki sad, too, that she couldn't deny it. Even in her hometown.
In time, she packed Mrs. Bott and Mrs. Greenwood into a Yellow cab bound for the bus station. She offered to buy them an airplane ticket, but they wouldn't hear of it, and she had to promise if she ever went to north Florida she'd stop in for pecan cookies. She stayed on the corner in the cold, waving to them as the cab drove off, already formulating her next step.
She hadn't learned enough about Shay Jackson, and there was someone else who might know more. Cars and SEPTA buses rumbled down the cobblestone patches of Spruce Street, spewing chalky exhaust into the frigid air, and Vicki looked for another cab. She wouldn't be doing police work, exactly. It was more like an errand.
She wasn't suspended from errands, was she?
The sun burned cold in the cold clear sky, but Vicki stayed warm by keeping up, stride for stride, with Jim Cavanaugh. Cavanaugh was tall, thin, and superbly tailored in a gray wool coat he'd undoubtedly bought with his signing bonus. Former AUSAs earned $150,000 to start when they joined the big Philly law firms, so they upgraded their wardrobes, bought a car with excessive horsepower, and demoted the Jetta to "station car." Vicki experienced paycheck envy. Working for Justice paid one-third of that amount, which proved there was no justice.
"I need to ask you about one of your old cases," she said, hurrying alongside Cavanaugh down the busy sidewalk. His tie flew to the side, catching a bracing breeze as they strode down the street. He'd been too busy to meet with her in his office, but she'd insisted, so he'd agreed to let her walk him to his deposition. "The defendant's named Reheema Bristow, indicted for a straw purchase. You had the case just before you left our office."
"A straw case?" Cavanaugh wore hip rimless glasses, and his dark bangs flipped up as he barreled along. Businessmen in topcoats, workers in down jackets, and well-dressed women streamed past them on the sidewalk, laughing and talking, going back to work after lunch. "I picked up a straw case? I thought I was cooler than that."
"Two guns purchased, a CI named Shayla Jackson?" "No clue." "You spoke with Jackson on the phone?" "Don't remember that." "You must have met her at the grand jury." "Name doesn't ring a bell. What did she look like?" Vicki flashed on the scene of Jackson strafed with gunfire, then shifted to the photos on the mirror. "A pretty girl, black, nice smile." "That's everybody." Great. "Think about it. The case had a knockout for a defendant. Reheema Bristow. Tall, black, lovely face, killer body. Looks like a model."
"Oh, yeah." Cavanaugh smiled, and breath puffed from his mouth. "Now I remember the case. Who could forget Reheema? She was slammin'. Re-hee-ma."
"Yes, Reheema. You held a proffer conference with her, your memo in the file says so. I have it, if it helps."
"Let's see," Cavanaugh said, and Vicki juggled her handbag to slip the memo out of her briefcase and hold it in front of him while they walked. A kid plugged into a white iPod looked over as Cavanaugh glanced at the memo. "Yes, okay, I remember."
"It says her lawyer, Melendez, was there and also your case agent, Partino." "Yeah, they were." "You remember Melendez? Court-appointed, short, a little blocky?" "Oh, yeah. Nice guy." Unless he's suing you. "And Partino. Where's he, these days? Why didn't he stay with ATF?" "He was a reservist and got called up. Still in Iraq, I think." "So I can't talk to him." "No." Vicki refused to be discouraged. "Last night, my case agent was killed when he and I went out to see Jackson. Jackson was murdered, too, and she was pregnant."
"The CI, I read that online," Cavanaugh said, and to his credit, he winced. "I didn't realize it was that case until now. Reheema. So what do you want from me?"
"I'm trying to find out what happened."
"Don't they have police for that?"
Best not to dwell. "Okay, let's talk about Shayla Jackson."
"The CI? What about her?"
"First off, her grand jury transcript wasn't in the file, and the slip shows you ordered it. You know where it went?"
"Guilty. I admit it, I wasn't into filing. Maybe it got misfiled. I love having somebody to do my filing." Cavanaugh grinned. "I have my own secretary now. Well, the guy I share her with is always out of town. It rocks."
"Jackson called you and volunteered to testify, your memo said."
"Right."
"So she called you out of the blue? It's weird."
"But not unheard of."
"I know, but usually there's a reason." Vicki didn't get it. The girlfriend of a drug dealer, calling the U.S. Attorney's Office to snitch? It didn't make sense but she couldn't tell Cavanaugh about the cocaine. "Do you know why she did that?"
"No."
Vicki checked the date of the memo, flapping as they walked. Eight months ago. Shayla would have just found out she was pregnant, if she knew that early. "Did she mention that she was pregnant at the time?"
"No."
"Did she look pregnant then? She wouldn't have been far along."
"I don't know if she was pregnant. She mighta been a little heavy, but that's typical. Gold jewelry, tipped fingernails. You know. Ghetto fabulous."
Vicki got over her jealousy of his salary and began disliking him on the merits. "Okay, so Jackson came in and testified before the grand jury that Reheema resold the guns?"
"Yes."
"How did Jackson know that Reheema had resold the guns?"
"As I remember, the defendant told her she resold them."
Vicki's ears pricked up. "Bristow admitted it to her?"
"Yep."
"So they knew each other?"
"I think that's what she said. They were best friends."
Vicki didn't get it. She'd asked Reheema this morning if she knew Jackson, and it didn't seem like the name had even registered. And that was consistent with what Mrs. Bott had said, too. "Who told you that?"
"What?" Cavanaugh was distracted, exchanging waves with a man he knew.
"Who said that they were best friends?"
"The CI."
"Jackson?"
"Yes."
"Did Jackson ever call Reheema Mar, or a name like Mar?" Vicki flashed on Mrs. Bott. Actually, she was having separation anxiety.
"How the hell do you get Mar from Reheema?" Cavanaugh screwed up his nose.
"Did she?"
"I don't know. Christ."
"Did Jackson mention a Mar?"
"No."
Vicki felt confounded. "You sure Jackson said Bristow was her friend?"
"Best friend, she said."
"How did they become best friends? Don't say you don't know."
"I don't."
They barreled down the street, and Vicki shook her head. "It couldn't be from the neighborhood. Jackson lived in the near Northeast, and from the file, Reheema's apartment was in West Philly."
"If you say so." "Did Jackson have a job?" "No idea." "And it couldn't be from work, even though Reheema worked two jobs." Vicki was remembering from Reheema's case file and she suspected that Jackson's temp job was history, no matter what Mrs. Bott had thought. Jackson was more likely the well-kept girlfriend of a coke dealer, not a woman who worked. But for some reason, when she got pregnant, she had dimed on Bristow and decided to change her life. "Did Jackson ever mention a Jamal Browning?"
"No." "Do you know if Jackson had a boyfriend?' "What is this, high school?" Cavanaugh laughed. "Do you know the names Jay-Boy or Teeg?" "They dogs or people?" Vicki didn't fake a smile. "Okay, take me back to the proffer conference. At the conference, did Reheema want a deal?" Cavanaugh held up the memo and double-checked it on the fly. "It says she didn't, so she didn't." "Did you squeeze her?" "I wish." Cavanaugh laughed. "Re-hee-ma." "Jim, this matters." "I'm sure I did. I used to have a good rap." "It's odd that she didn't want a deal, isn't it? I mean, no priors, so she could get off with almost no time, if she gave up whoever she resold the gun to." "True." "So why didn't she want to deal?" "I don't know."
"Didn't you wonder why?"
"Frankly, my dear, I didn't give a damn." They stopped at the red light on Seventeenth Street, where Cavanaugh faced her, shrugging in his heavy coat. "You're new, aren't you?"
"Yeah."
"You'll see what I mean. I was halfway out the door by then and I was burnt out. It gets to you. All of it."
Vicki didn't have to ask what "it" was. She'd seen "it" at the D.A.'s office, but it hadn't gotten to her. Oddly, she'd only wanted more of "it." Maybe she'd feel differently if her personal life didn't suck. Or if she owned a station car.
"I only went to the proffer because Melendez pushed for it. I was there if Reheema wanted to talk, but she didn't want to talk. She made a stink at the detention hearing, yelling that she was innocent, and got herself a permanent detention." Cavanaugh shrugged again. "These people, they make their choice, they live with the consequences. I don't try to figure out why they do what they do."
They. "You think she was too scared to name names?"
"I don't know."
"She didn't seem scared to me."
"Whatever."
"You don't remember anything other than what you told me, or what's in the memo?"
"Not really. When I started this job, I had a brain dump, I swear. I don't remember much from before." The traffic light changed, and they crossed the street. Cavanaugh picked up the pace, and Vicki hurried along, roasting in her down jacket. A woman going past seemed to recognize her and started whispering to her friends, but Cavanaugh remained oblivious. "I've been at my new firm for a year, and I tell you, it's a totally different world. This meeting I'm on my way to? It's multidistrict product liability litigation, with 137 corporate defendants. It's a city, a country! At issue is a defective disposable syringe, specifically the plunger on the syringe-"
"Excuse me, but was there any corroboration of Jackson's story?"
"It was a circumstantial case, so what else is new? The gun dealer reported that she bought them, and the best friend said she admitted reselling them," Cavanaugh said, defensively, and Vicki recognized his tone. She often had it in hers. No crime was easily proved, Law amp; Order aside.
"Who'd she sell the guns to?"
"Reheema didn't say."
"You mean Jackson said she didn't say." The government's case was so thin, Vicki was almost doubting it herself. "Did they ever find the guns?"
"No."
"They turn up in a robbery or shooting?"
"No."
"So the only proof in the case really was Jackson's word."
"Yes." Cavanaugh came to an abrupt halt before a massive office tower of dark glass mirrors, and people streamed into the building next to smokers taking one last drag. "Put it in context. It doesn't sound like much now, but when the indictment was filed, it did. Handgun crime went through the roof last year, I remember that much, and Strauss started Project Clean Sweep to get handguns off the street. The office was cracking down on straws, big time. We got the list of multiple purchasers from ATF, and we went after 'em. We caught Reheema and a lot of little fish in the net."
"So we had our story and we were going with it."
"Exactly," Cavanaugh answered, with a final smile. "Now I gotta get to work."
"Thanks," Vicki called after him, but he had already turned and was flowing with the others into the mirrored tower.
She stood still, momentarily stumped. Maybe she'd been going about this the wrong way.
But if she was going to try a new tack, she didn't have much time.
Vicki checked her watch: 3:15. Not bad. The sky was still a frozen blue, so she turned up the heat in the car and steered her old white Cabrio out of the business district in clogged traffic. She'd gone home to get her car and cell phone, and, with a sick feeling inside, wiped it clean and plugged it into the recharger in the dashboard. Almost immediately the phone began chiming, signaling she had messages.
Vicki reduced her speed, picked up the phone, and tried to ignore the darker line of dried blood around the keypads while she thumbed through the menu to see who had called. Dan. The three messages were as predicted, and she pressed the button to call back, bound to the recharger like an umbilical cord.
Dan answered after one ring. "Woman! Holy God, what are you up to? You off your Ritalin?"
Vicki laughed.
"I heard you tried to kill a defendant! I say, who's got a problem with that? We all clean the streets our own way. Judge not, lest ye be judged!"
"I didn't try to kill her." After last night, Vicki would never again use that word so lightly. "I just wanted a little information, is all."
"So you tried to kill her for it?"
"Not true!"
"Bale's walking around the office with steam coming out of his ears. It's not a good look for him."
"I can imagine."
"You're definitely right about that Botox. He's completely pissed off and he still isn't frowning."
Vicki felt a guilty twinge and switched lanes.
Dan said, "Isn't that a perfect vision of hell? Having all that anger and not being able to express it?"
"Sounds like work."
"Or marriage."
Vicki let it go and passed Thirtieth Street. "At least he didn't fire me."
"Congratulations. Your career is really going places."
"Thanks for your support."
"So what happened? Tell Daddy," Dan said, and Vicki filled him in completely. "Quite a story. So where are you now?"
"In the car, going to learn a little more about Reheema. She should get out of jail free in a few hours, and I wanna see what I can see before then."
"You think it's a good idea? Coke? Guns? You? One of these things is not like the other."
Vicki smiled. "The most dangerous thing I'm doing is talking on the cell and driving."
"Why do you want to know more about Reheema?"
"I'm curious, is all."
"Curiosity killed the Cabrio."
"Puns are beneath you, Dan."
"You overestimate me."
"That's a given."
"No, I mean it." Dan's voice turned serious, and Vicki could imagine exactly how he'd look when his handsome features darkened. Basically, he'd look even handsomer. "You're doing this for Morty."
"No, really?" Vicki accelerated when she saw open road. "The cops are on it." "Oh yeah? I just met with the CI's mom, who didn't even get a call from them. God knows when they'll get in gear, and I'm not stopping them, anyway. I'm learning about my own case. If anything, I should have known it before." Vicki swallowed hard, checking traffic in the rearview. A gypsy cab was riding on her bumper. "If I'd taken the time to get that transcript, I would have known the stuff I found out today."
"You were on trial. Don't blame yourself." "I'm at fault." "No, you're not." "Enough." Vicki braked at the light at Thirty-eighth Street.
She was going back out to West Philly again. Penn students crossed the street in scruffy jackets, mingling with university employees wearing plastic ID badges on lanyards. A white police cruiser pulled next to her, and the cop gave Vicki a nasty sideways look, disapproving either of her cell phone or her penchant for police work. "I should go."
"Call me as soon as you get home." "I will." "The minute you get home." "Yes, dear," Vicki said, as if she were kidding. She pressed end, flipped the phone closed, and tossed it onto the seat beside her. When the light turned green, she accelerated. She was almost there, even if her thoughts were elsewhere.
With Dan.
"You're a lawyer?" the manager asked skeptically, which dispelled Vicki's concern that he'd recognize her from the TV news. His name was Mike Something and he was maybe thirty-five, his face dotted with old acne scars. He wore a ratty blue sweater with jeans, and his short, dark hair was gelled and spiky, so it stuck up like an unfortunate crown. His eyes were narrow and blue, his nose straight, and his teeth stained with nicotine. Vicki stood in the door to his tiny, windowless back office, and he took way too long to eye her up and down.
"Yes, I'm a lawyer," Vicki answered.
"You don't look like a lawyer. You're so little."
"I'm a little lawyer."
Mike smiled crookedly. "You watch The Practice? I used to watch The Practice. I don't know why they took it off." They were in the back office at Bennye's, a raggedy sandwich shop in West Philly. The paneled walls were covered with an old Miller High Life ad, a taped-up 2001 calendar from a local heating oil company, and an obscene Lil' Kim poster, which was redundant. The office reeked of leftover cooking grease, and Vicki couldn't fight the sensation that even the air was sticky. Mike sat behind a small desk cluttered with old newspapers. "I liked the blond chick on The Practice, you know which one?"
"Yeah, I liked her, too." Vicki didn't have all day. "Talk to me about Reheema Bristow. She waitressed here, right?" There had been a note in the file.
"You're here about Reheema?" Mike brightened, sitting straighter in his black vinyl chair. "Whyn't you say so? How the hell is she?"
"Fine." Only because they stopped me from strangling her.
"I went to visit her a couple times, inside. Tell her I said hi, will you?"
"Oh, I'm not her-" Then Vicki caught herself. Mike thought she was Reheema's lawyer. Well, what's the harm? "Sure, I will. I'll tell her you said hi."
"Thanks. My best to her mom, too. How's she doin'?' "
"Her mom? Fine." I hope. "Now, you're a friend of Re-heema's, right?" Vicki was taking her cues from Mike's demeanor, like a cable TV psychic. "She mentioned you to me. She said you'd be glad to talk to me, if it helped her out."
"I am. Anything she needs, you just ask."
"What I need most is information. Background info, for her case." Vicki thought a minute. "I don't remember her mentioning anyone but you from here. Didn't she have any other friends at work? People who know her well? I could use them for character witnesses at her trial."
"Not really. There's only the one waitress, the joint is so small. I prolly was the closest one to her, being the boss. I'd be a great character witness."
"Great, we'll get to that in a minute." Vicki made a fake note in her Filofax. "By the way, did she have any boyfriends, that you know of? We don't get time to talk girl stuff."
"A boyfriend? Reheema? No way. She worked this job in the day and the housecleaning at night, at Presby, the hospital. She didn't have the time. She was like a church girl, anyway, you know."
Church girl? Vicki blinked, nonplussed. "I know, that's what's so unfair, with the charges against her. The government indicted her for buying two guns and selling them to someone else."
"The government can kiss my sainted ass." Mike snorted. "She would never do that. Reheema was the kind of girl, you know, she took care of people. Her mother, all the customers. Reheema wasn't ghetto, like some of them."
Vicki let it go. "Let me ask you something. Why did she work here and at the hospital, if she was a college grad? If you don't mind my asking."
"Not at all, I know this ain't the Ritz. I think she used to work for the city, like a case worker or somethin,' but she got laid off. I knew she'd leave when something better came along." Mike was shaking his head. "Then they picked her up. Whatever they said she did, she didn't do it."
"How do you know that? I mean, how can I prove it?"
"She never done nothin' wrong, I'll come in and testify, I'll tell 'em. Reheema, she was the best." Mike pursed his lips, and Vicki read his look. He'd had a crush on her.
"What would you say about her, in detail, if I called you to testify?"
"I'd say she worked the day shift when I started here, opened up each morning, and kept the place always clean as a whistle when I come in. And she took real good care of all the customers. The customers loved her, too. They still ask about her. She worked every day, seven days a week, always on time, super-reliable. The only time she missed work was when her mom was sick. That's four days in two years."
"What was her mom sick with?"
"Cancer. Her mom's big in the church, too." Mike cocked his spiky head. "Don't you know, about her having cancer?"
Oops. "Right, she did mention that, but she didn't go into detail. Reheema keeps the personal stuff to herself."
"She is quiet, a sweet girl. Very sweet. She's a beautiful person, inside and out." Mike got lost in thought, and Vicki could guess where he was going, but didn't want to follow.
"The guys who came in, they'd all hit on her."
"Of course."
"But she'd put them off real nice, not to hurt their feelings. And if they got a little too handy, or came in drunk, she could take any of 'em." Mike straightened in his chair. "You get her offa these charges, tell her she can have her old job back anytime. My business went through the roof when she worked here. Nobody comes here for the food."
"Great, thanks. Did she ever talk to you about a girlfriend named Shayla Jackson?"
"No."
"They were best friends," Vicki said, increasingly puzzled.
"Never heard the name."
Damn. Were Jackson and Bristow friends or not? Somebody was lying or didn't know the truth. "How about Jamal Browning?"
"No."
"Jay-Boy or Teeg?"
"No. She never talked about nobody except her mom. She was a loner."
"Then how do you think she got mixed up in all this? Any idea? I mean, she just got indicted out of the blue?"
"I wonder about that, sometimes. She sure don't deserve what happened to her. I think it's a conspiracy." Mike sucked his teeth. "The way I figure, somebody set her up. I told her so in my last Christmas card, she mention that?"
"Your Christmas card? Yes, she did mention that. She said it was very thoughtful of you."
"I send her mom a card, too. Every year."
Vicki blinked. He hardly looked like the kind of guy to keep a Christmas card list, much less one that included sick mothers. He must have had a major crush on Reheema. Worse than mine on Dan. Vicki hadn't realized how completely pathetic she was until she started investigating.
"She mention that, too? The card to her mom?" Mike's eyebrows lifted in a hopeful way. "I ask because I slipped a few bucks in there, you know, like a Christmas present."
Vicki got an idea. "She never mentioned the card to her mom, which does seem odd. You sure you sent it to the right address? You know, if you send cash to the wrong address, it'll never get to her."
"Hmmm, you're right," Mike said, leaning forward and reaching across the desk to a grimy old-fashioned Rolodex. He flipped though the wheel of plain white cards written in ballpoint, then stopped at one, and Vicki went over to snoop as he read. "Here we go. Arissa Bristow. Her address is 6847 Lincoln. It's in West Philly."
"Sounds right." Vicki made a mental note. "I'll check it with Reheema." "Appreciate it." "One more thing," Vicki said, deep in thought. None of this was making any sense. Reheema wasn't earning much at this crummy deli, so she'd have an obvious need to supplement her income by reselling guns.But the whole picture was out of whack. Reheema fit the profile of a typical straw, but it was hard to believe that a church girl or a social worker would conspire to have an informant killed. "Did anybody else come here, asking you about Reheema?"
"No." "No detectives?" "No." "Cops?" "No." "How about the feds? FBI?" "No." "Another lawyer? A guy named Melendez, or somebody who works for him?" "No." "Well, thanks," Vicki said, mystified. What had Melendez intended to do to defend Reheema anyway? "I appreciate your help, and so will Reheema."
"Sure thing." Mike rose, a bit of gallantry. "You know, I don't believe Reheema would even know how to shoot a gun."
And for a minute, Vicki didn't either, though she had proof positive that Reheema had bought two and sold them.
Clearly, she wasn't finished with her errands yet.
Vicki had never been in this neighborhood, but something about it had a familiarity she couldn't place. She was still in West Philly, bundled up in the superbly heated Cabrio. She had no idea why VW had stopped making these cars, but they shouldn't have. First the Cabrio goes, then The Practice.
She had driven about twenty blocks west and a zillion dollars away from the campus of the University of Penn or even Bennye's Sandwich Shop, to this rundown neighborhood. Two-story row houses lined the streets, characteristic of Philly, but they were crumbling and scarred with graffiti. Their wooden front porches sagged, the paint blistered and peeling, and some houses had windows boarded up with plywood. Vicki took a right at the corner for the third time, having no idea where she was exactly because the street sign had been taken down. Then she took a right and another left, passing a vacant lot strewn with concrete rubble, beer cans, and other debris, and she finally found Lincoln Street.
She cruised to read the house numbers, crudely painted directly on the brick, fading but still readable. 6837, 6839. At least she was on the odd-numbered side of the street. She had been in bad neighborhoods before at the D.A.'s office, going to question witnesses with and without police escort. She had learned the best way to deal was to be yourself. A very white girl driving a very white Cabrio, conspicuous as all hell in an African-American neighborhood that had seen better days.
Vicki crossed Washington Street, then Jefferson Street; she detected the pattern, now that she was a big-time gumshoe. The cross streets were presidents' names, but still, they sounded vaguely familiar. In the next second, she remembered. She realized where she had heard about this neighborhood. At home. This was her father's old neighborhood, Devil's Corner. She'd never been here, but the name had always intrigued her. There were hundreds of neighborhoods in Philly, all of them named, but few had any relation to reason.
Vicki looked at the houses with new eyes. Her father never liked to talk about his childhood here. The neighborhood had been Italian and Jewish then, the starting place for upwardly mobile immigrant families who puddle-jumped to the City Line area and, if they were lucky, to the Main Line, the classiest of all neighborhood names.
She remembered that the brick house on the corner of Washington Street had belonged to her father's family. She circled the block, passed the cross street, and found the house, pausing as people do at funerals. It seemed somehow appropriate. Her father's old house on the corner, a squat two stories, stood obviously vacant and hollowed out, a crumbling brick shell, its windows nailed shut with cheap tin. She experienced a pang of sadness at its disrepair, unaccountably, because she had never been inside. She doubted if her father would shed a tear, either; he never talked fondly of his home or this neighborhood, spoke only of it as having "changed," which was his code for "black people moved in." But Vicki wasn't seeing changed; she was seeing leveled.
There was nobody on the street. She checked her watch:
4:26. Granted, it was cold outside and would soon be dark,but kids should be home from school, playing outside. Adults should be going in and out of their houses, too, whether mothers at home or people out of work. But no one was in sight on these blocks. The streets were oddly deserted. Vicki spotted house number 6847. She slipped into a parking space, cut the ignition, and grabbed her bag and got out of the car. She walked to the house, zipping her coat and finger-combing her hair to meet a church lady. She had been such a hit with Misses Bott and Greenwood, this should be a piece of cake.
Vicki walked to the house and climbed up the concrete steps, which needed to be repaved. The red paint on the front door had alligatored, and a tiny window on the door's top panel had been duct-taped in place. Vicki was guessing that Reheema's mother, Arissa Bristow, didn't have much money. Maybe she gave it all to the church. Or it went for medical bills.
Vicki knocked several times and waited patiently on the sunny front stoop; the door had three locks, including two dead bolts, so she knew it would take time to open. Still, she wasn't hearing anything. She waited a minute, then knocked again and called out, "Hello? Mrs. Bristow?"
Suddenly, without being unlocked, the front door opened and behind it stood a tall but frail African-American woman. Like her daughter, she wasn't what Vicki had expected at all.
"Yeah?" the older woman said, slurring her words, almost stuporous. She stood in a flowered housedress that hung on her frame, oblivious to the cold air sweeping in from the door. Her hair, gone gray-white, was sprayed stiff and uncombed from her head. Spittle oozed from the corner of her mouth, and her lips were parched and blistered.
"Mrs. Bristow?" Vicki asked, in surprise.
The woman's brown eyes registered no response. They had sunk in their sockets; deep folds creased the corners of her eyes and mouth, and she was almost emaciated, her skin stretched so tight that her face was more skull than flesh. Her body swayed slightly, her bony hand evidently hanging on to the doorknob to remain upright, her stick legs in half nylons almost giving out on her. Vicki didn't know if she was seeing the ravages of cancer, drugs, or both. If the woman was Mrs. Bristow, she should have been about fifty-five years old, but she looked twenty years older, and Vicki wondered if this was the right house.
"Are you Arissa Bristow?"
"Yeah, you got anythin' for me?" the woman mumbled. Her pupils were a pinpoint and seemed to focus on Vicki without seeing her. "I need to hit, I need to hit. You got anythin' for me, you got anythin'?"
Drugs. "I wanted to talk to you, about Reheema."
"Reheema? Reheema?" Mrs. Bristow sounded as if she'd never heard the name.
"Yes, your daughter, Reheema. May I come in?"
Mrs. Bristow opened the door and walked ahead, leaving the front door hanging open, then she shuffled out of the room, as if Vicki hadn't been there at all.
"Mrs. Bristow?" Vicki called to the receding form, but there was no answer.
A cold draft blew in, so she shut the door behind her and took a quick look around the small living room. The lack of curtains and a southern exposure guaranteed the room would be incongruously sunny, its neglect brightly illuminated. Sun shone on a tattered brown couch, next to a blue beach chair with ripped plastic lattice. Dirt, cigarette wrappers, and old newspapers littered the dark red rug, and the air was thick with filth and stale cigarette smoke. There was no TV, stereo, or radio, and it was almost as cold in here as it was outside. Against the wall, the old-fashioned white radiator had cracked, spilling blackish water onto the floor. The heat must have been turned off, so the pipes had burst. Vicki went into the next room, where she gasped.
Mrs. Bristow lay on a dirty, bare mattress, her eyes closed and her mouth hanging open.
Please don't be dead. Vicki hurried to Mrs. Bristow's side, searching her still face, and grabbed her wrist. She was feeling for a pulse when the older woman snored deeply. Vicki started, then relaxed.
"Mrs. Bristow?" she asked softly, jostling her, but the woman didn't stir. How could Vicki interview her now?
Damn! She scanned the room, stumped for a moment. The floor was strewn with empty Gallo and Thunderbird bottles, and the end table next to the mattress overflowed with crack paraphernalia: an orange glass pipe, another plain pipe, and matches. Empty glassine envelopes of nickel bags, one-inch square, came in pink and purple plastic.
Vicki picked up one of the bags and caught the sweetish whiff of crack; she had prosecuted drug cases in state court and had sniffed more than her share. Her gaze went automatically to Mrs. Bristow's hands, resting palms up. Burns on her fingerpads, where she'd held a hot glass pipe, confirmed the obvious. Vicki was looking at a long-standing crack habit; she didn't know if Mrs. Bristow ever had cancer or if she had beaten it, or if those were lies that Reheema had told her boss.
Vicki had questions, but no answers. She checked her watch:
4:45. Reheema would be released from the FDC soon and shemight come here to see her mother. Vicki left the sleeping Mrs. Bristow and went into the next room. Fifteen minutes later, she had snooped around the first floor, having learned nothing probative. Empty liquor bottles lay everywhere, some broken. The refrigerator held only fast food and take-out debris; the cabinets were empty except for canned peas, a few loose Newport cigarettes, an open box of Frosted Flakes, and, inexplicably, Libby's pumpkin pie mix. The grimy kitchen was overrun with cockroaches too bold to run even from a federal prosecutor.
Vicki checked on Mrs. Bristow, determined she was sleeping deeply, then went upstairs to snoop some more. At the top of the stairs was a small bathroom, and she peeked inside. The stench of human feces almost overpowered her, though the toilet lid was closed. The floor was wet with filth and urine that it was luckily too dark to see. Old rust streaked the sink, and water had frozen in a colossal teardrop at the faucet. A white plastic trash can overflowed with trash and toilet paper. She shuddered, left the bathroom, and went down the hall to the nearest bedroom, in the back of the house.
It was darker here, and cold, but the bedroom was empty, unused. The radiator had cracked in two, draining black water, and the bed and mattress were gone, as was the box spring and the metal rack to hold it; only a darker square remained on the floorboards to tell where a bed had been. A battered end table sat in one corner, and there was no lamp or dresser. Vicki left the room and went back down the hall. If the row house was typical, there'd be another bedroom in the front, facing the street.
She opened the door onto another bedroom, also disemboweled, with everything of value sold off. A lighter square in the floorboards sat against the interior wall, where a double bed used to be, facing the sunny windows. The rug was gone, the empty closet hung open, and a lone battered chair sat in front of a bare corner. She figured a desk used to be there because a cork bulletin board clung to the wall, colorful and cluttered with items, the one cheery sign of human habitation.
She crossed the room and found the bulletin board covered with high school paraphernalia. REHEEMA BRISTOW, read a certificate for the National Honor Society, with a tiny metal pin sunk into the corkboard. A large W made of maroon felt was next to it, with ribbons in red, white, and blue. One ribbon read PENNSYLVANIA TRACK CLASSIC in gold letters, and next to the ribbons, a handwritten list, in a girlish high school scrawl, that was titled Personal Record: 800 meter run
2:15. 71, one mile 5:02. And underneath had been written: GOALS, 800 meter run 2:11, 1 mile 4:55.
She didn't get it. Reheema had been a good student and a track star in high school. When had she gone so wrong? How had she ended up in the FDC? Vicki stared at a photo of Reheema in a black track singlet, in a formal group photo with her teammates. Their singlets read Willowbrook Lady Tigers, and Vicki felt a start of recognition. Willowbrook High was her father's alma mater! He never talked about his high school days, except to say that he was in chess club, but she knew he'd graduated from Willowbrook.
Her gaze fell to another snapshot of Reheema, lovely and smiling in the middle of her track pals, and they all stood in front of an old Ford Econoline van with a homemade sign painted on a bedsheet: PENN RELAYS OR BUST. In the driver's seat of the van sat a tall woman with a mature version of Re-heema's camera-ready features and an equally dazzling smile. The driver had to be Mrs. Bristow, before she'd become a ghost of herself.
The image turned Vicki's emotions on their head. She'd thought she knew about crack addiction, but she had learned it from cases she'd tried, in a legal context. She had never seen it up close, viewed as part of a family. And in this case, it wasn't the daughter who was the user, it was the mother. And Vicki had always thought of criminal defendants as simply "the defendant"; she had never personalized a felon. But here it was, staring her in the face. She was prosecuting a girl who graduated from high school only a year ahead of her, and in National Honor Society, as she had been. A girl who worked a job and was "super-reliable," as she was. A track star who had borne up, even excelled, under odds that Vicki never had to deal with, like a mother who had disintegrated into powder. And what if Mrs. Bristow had gotten worse after Justice had put her daughter away for the straw purchase?
What was going on? Was what she was doing right or wrong? Was Reheema guilty or not? Could Vicki help Mrs. Bristow at all? She turned, puzzling, from the bulletin board and left the bedroom. She got halfway down the stairs, and the sight in the first-floor bedroom told her that she didn't have the right answers.
In fact, she didn't even have the right questions.
Arissa Bristow was gone. The mattress in the makeshift bedroom lay empty. And Vicki's purse lay on the floor, its contents strewn onto the filthy rug.
Damn! How could she have been so stupid? She hurried to her purse and kneeled on the rug. Her mascara, eyeliner, a lipstick, her thick black Filofax, her BlackBerry, and, happily, her car keys, had been dumped in a pile. Of course, her wallet was gone and so was her cell phone.
Vicki sat back on her haunches, angry at herself. She had set her purse down when she thought Mrs. Bristow had stopped breathing and had forgotten about it when she went to the kitchen. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she had fifty bucks in her wallet, a black nylon Kate Spade, which cost a hundred bucks. Luckily, she didn't carry her checkbook, but she did have three zillion credit cards; Visa, Amex, Ann Taylor, Gap, Lord amp; Taylor, Nordstrom. Her ATM card and her driver's license were gone; and worse, so were her DOJ creds, in their little black bifold.
Vicki couldn't believe it. Losing her Justice ID was an even bigger deal than losing her license. A guy at work had lost his and had to get authorization from Bale and reapply to Washington for a replacement. She couldn't even get into the office building without it these days.
"Argh!" Vicki considered calling 911, but she had no cell. And Mrs. Bristow had no telephone. She threw her stuff back in her purse, scrambled to her feet, and sprinted for the door after Mrs. Bristow. Okay, so I haven't worked out in a few days. I can still catch a crack addict.
She ran through the door, her coat flying open, and hurried down the steps onto the sidewalk. It was darkening now and so cold; the sky was a frozen blue. The rising moon was full, casting a cool whiteness. She looked right, then left, down Lincoln Street. The sidewalk was still deserted. The row houses stood silent, not giving up their secrets. Mrs. Bristow wasn't in sight. It hadn't been that long. Where had the woman gone? She couldn't drive; she could barely stand. Was she in a neigh-bor's house?
Vicki sprinted next door and peered in a cracked window, but there was no light inside and the house seemed still. She went to the next house and knocked. No lights were on inside, and nobody answered. She ran to the Cabrio, pulled the keys from her purse, chirped the car unlocked, and hopped in. She'd find the woman faster in the car. She switched on the ignition and zoomed out of the space, going the right way on the one-way street, then taking a right onto Washington Street, another right onto Harrison, then a third right onto Van Buren.
No Mrs. Bristow. Vicki turned on the heat, and it blew a cold stream into her face. She drove around, looking. The next few minutes were a blur of American presidents until she looked to the right. Behind Lincoln was a narrow street that ran parallel to it, almost an alley. The crooked green sign read CATER STREET, but the light at the corner was out. In the moonlight, Vicki could barely see shadows moving on the street, at the far end.
There. Shuffling toward the shadows was Arissa Bristow, easily recognizable because she wore only her housedress. The poor woman had no coat on and moved through the cold night with surprising speed. Vicki pulled over to the curb, cut the ignition and put her hand on the door handle, about to get out and run after her. Then she stopped herself.
How would it look? An AUSA running down the street, physically tackling the aged, crack-addicted mother of someone she was prosecuting? Not a great idea. Vicki weighed her options. She wanted her wallet and her phone back, but she wasn't supposed to be here anyway. Also, she felt a little scared at the prospect of running down a dark street in this neighborhood. I'm not from the suburbs for nothing.
Then she had a better, or at least a safer, idea. Mrs. Bristow had wanted to smoke, and now, thanks to her new lawyer, she had fifty bucks in cash. There was only one place she would go-to buy more crack. It might be interesting to see where she bought it. Vicki stayed in the driver's seat and watched Mrs. Bristow travel purposefully up the street, her dress flapping like a flag. Decrepit row houses lined the street; some with lights on, some without. There seemed to be activity five houses down, at what appeared to be at a vacant lot, its entrance partially obscured by bare city trees. Mrs. Bristow approached the trees and turned right, disappearing into the darkness of the vacant lot.
Vicki's breath steamed up her windows and she rubbed out a circle on the passenger side. She kept her eyes trained on the trees. A large figure came out of the lot, with another shorter figure. The car got colder, the heat dissipating quickly through the thin convertible skin. Maybe there was a good reason VW stopped making Cabrios. She checked her watch: 6:15. She waited… 6:40. She wondered when Reheema would get released from the FDC. Would she come to see her mother? Vicki tucked her cold hands into her jacket pockets. She developed an ache in her neck from looking to the right so much.
The sky darkened to blue-black ink but still no Mrs. Bris-tow. A few people, maybe five or six, went into the lot behind the tree and came out again. The only activity on the block was at the vacant lot. It had to be drug sales, but where was Mrs. Bristow? What if the woman had been hurt or had a seizure of some kind? Or what if Mrs. Bristow had just smoked up and fallen asleep in the lot? She couldn't survive outside in the night, not at this temperature.
Vicki was putting two and two together, developing a working theory. Maybe Reheema hadn't resold the guns, but had given them to her mother, who had sold or traded them for crack. Guns were valuable currency to drug dealers, the engine powering the straw trade. The theory was consistent with what had happened at Vicki's proffer conference and even jibed with Cavanaugh's proffer conference. It was possible that Reheema wasn't giving up the name because she wasn't about to flip on her own mother.
BOOM! Suddenly a loud bang came from the window on the driver's side. Vicki jumped in fright and looked over. A fist pounded on her driver's-side window. The Cabrio rocked with the impact. A man in a black hood loomed inches from her face.
"Get outta here, bitch!" he yelled, but Vicki was already twisting on the ignition and hitting the gas.
She sped down the street, cranking the Cabrio engine as fast as it could go, and she didn't stop speeding until her heartbeat returned to normal. At some point she came to a red light, unsure if she was in Atlantic City or maybe Maine, but she didn't care. She was away from scary guys in hoods. But she had left Mrs. Bristow behind, and that worried her.
She drove a few blocks until she spotted an Exxon station, then dug around in the car seat and retrieved a red scrunchy, a chipped grape Chiclet, and what she had wanted in the first place. She popped the Chiclet, got out of the car, and headed for the phone booth. Frigid air hit her like a blast; she hadn't realized what a cocoon the Cabrio had been. She opened the booth's squeaky collapsible door, which had left its runners long ago, fed the pay phone, and dialed her own cell phone. It was picked up after two rings.
"Yo," said a man's voice, and Vicki was pissed. Mrs. Bris-tow had already unloaded the phone?
"That's my cell phone, pal! Who are you?" she shouted, but the man hung up. She pressed redial and when he picked up, she shouted again, "Where's Arissa-"
He hung up again, and Vicki let it go. She took a deep breath outside the phone booth and exhaled deeply, taking mental inventory and watching her breath cloud around her like a chain smoker. She should call the cops, but that would reveal she'd been with Mrs. Bristow. Odds were that Bale wouldn't find out, but why risk it? Also, what could the cops do? Wallets got stolen all the time. Poor Kate Spade.
The air felt cold, the lights of Center City twinkled far away. Vicki was in West Philly, halfway out to suburbs like the Main Line. She had no wallet, no cell, no money, and no credit cards. She'd have to cancel them ASAP. She felt exhausted, hungry, and dumb. She could use a little comfort. She had gas in the car because she never let the tank get too low, on the advice of women's magazines. She moved her sleeve aside to check the time: 7:30.
She could be there in no time.