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PART THREE

The soil is good, the air serene and sweet from the cedar, pine and sassafras, with wild myrtle of great fragrance.

– WILLIAM PENN, in an early description of "Penn's Woods," the emerging colony of Pennsylvania and its capital, Philadelphia

Q: All right. Now, at the time, were you all selling drugs?

A: Well, at the time "G" had various corners that he was supplying, but there was those corners and I was selling drugs down the street from my grandmom's house at the projects, 55th and Vine.

Q: And when you say Gio had various corners, do you remember what the corners were that Gio had at the time?

A: Well, back then, a corner called 56th and Catherine was one of the major corners and he was serving the guys on Ithan Street quantity, small quantities of drugs back then.

Q: What does "serving" mean in the trade?

A: It means when the guys buying stuff off you. Like you go to the store you buy something.

Q: Uh-huh.

A: They just call it serving. It's slang like.

Q: So if you were "serving" somebody that meant you were selling them drugs?

A: Yes.

– 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 255

TWENTY-FOUR

Vicki had never been to the wake of an ofﬁcer killed in the line of duty and hadn't realized that it would be a state occasion. At least a thousand mourners packed Prior's Funeral Home in the Philly suburb of Fort Washington, ﬁlling it to capacity. The reception line ﬂowed out of its largest viewing room, spilled into the hallway, and continued outside the funeral home, where massive loudspeakers had been set up. Top brass from ATF in Washington, masses of ATF, FBI, and DEA agents, politicians, U.S. Attorneys, several federal judges, squadrons of uniformed police, support staff, and more than a few reporters made up the massive throng, which was somber and businesslike in mood.

Vicki had arrived early, and even so, stood in line, just outside the viewing room in the entrance hall. She had heard that only family was invited to the funeral tomorrow morning, and now she understood why. She couldn't see the front of the viewing room for the crowd, and multicolored roses, carnations, calla lilies, and gladioli filled every available spot. A large ATF plaque covered with a crepe sash hung on the front wall. The scent of the bouquets thickened the air, commingling with mint aftershaves, heavy perfumes, and cigarette smoke every time the front door opened.

Vicki counted herself lucky to be inside the funeral home at all, and the distance from the hallway to the main room gave her time to deal with the situation. For her, this wasn't an ofﬁcial function, and she knew that Morty would be lying in a casket at the front of the room. The thought left her with a numbness throughout her body. She felt stiff in the navy wool suit, with a white silk blouse, which she wore under her down coat. She bowed her head to marshal her strength, hearing snippets of the conversations buzzing around her.

"We don't need Lawn Doctor, honey," the woman in front of her was saying in a wifely tone, to a gray-haired man who was obviously her husband. "I don't like those little green balls all over the lawn."

"They keep out the crabgrass and the dandelions."

"But I like the dandelions."

The husband chuckled. "I do, too. Have we met?"

Vicki screened them out in favor of the couple behind her, also talking quietly.

The man was saying, "The best was when he comes up with, ‘I make good choices, Daddy!' At seven years old, can you believe that?"

The woman answered, "Dave, how many times you gonna tell that story?"

"As many times as I can," the husband retorted, and they both laughed.

Vicki looked up, wondering where Dan and Mariella were. Somewhere in the thick line of married people, standing two-by-two, like animals loading onto Noah's ark. She scanned the crowd but didn't see him. Or Bale, Strauss, or any of them. They'd be at the front, where there was movement, then the unmistakable sound of someone tapping into a microphone.

"Sound check, sound check," boomed a man's voice, and the room quieted. "Thank you, people. Excuse me, may I have everyone's attention?"

Saxon. Vicki recognized that sonorous bass. She considered running for her life but angled for a better view, standing on tiptoe and coming between the married couple in front of her. Where were Dan and Dr. Bitchy?

"Thanks to all of you for coming today." Saxon towered at the head of the room, a big blond bear in dark suit and tie. "I thank you on my own behalf and on behalf of the ATF family, who gathers on this tragic occasion to honor one of our ﬁnest agents, Special Agent Robert Morton."

Vicki swallowed hard. Women snifﬂed, their heads bowed, and men in suits studied their wingtips. Everyone stopped talking. The only sound was the scratchy undertone of the microphone and the echo of Saxon's voice ampliﬁed outside, slightly delayed.

"I'd like to introduce the director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives, here from Washington to attend in Morty's honor. Director Louis W. Bonningtone."

Saxon moved aside for the director, a distinguished man whose short stature prevented Vicki from seeing him, given the heads in front of her. She tried to listen to his speech, which was generic, formal, and laden with government-speak, leaving her with the impression that the director had never met Morty in his life. Saxon retook the ﬂoor, and then Vicki could see the speaker again.

"Thank you, Director," Saxon began, shifting his weight. "I won't talk long, though I wanted to reiterate how vital Morty was to the agency, how valuable his skills and his tenacity were, over seventeen years. Morty ran the Boston Marathon in his younger days, and I always thought of him as a marathoner, mentally and physically. And he was a handsome devil, even if he was too skinny for my wife's taste."

There was laughter, and even Vicki smiled.

"Morty never met a case that didn't completely absorb him. If others were style, he was substance. He was the best of us, and we won't rest as a family until we bring to justice those responsible for his murder."

At this, there was clapping, and Vicki wished she could believe it, and almost did.

"Let me take a brief minute to introduce to you His Honor, the mayor of Philadelphia, then Ben Strauss, the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, and ﬁnally, Anthony Cardinal Bevilacqua, of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, who will pray with us. Mr. Mayor, sir?" Saxon gestured grandly to his left and the mayor stepped in front of the microphone, and a ripple of curiosity went though the crowd, acknowledging his celebrity.

Vicki only half-listened to the mayor's speech, an adequate lecture by a man who had never met Morty, either, and looked around the room for Dan. He would have arrived early, because he always arrived everywhere early, so he'd be in this room somewhere. When the crowd shifted at the front, Vicki spotted Chief Bale with his chic wife. Bale squared his shoulders, because Strauss was taking the microphone.

"Welcome, everyone. I'm Ben Strauss, the U.S. Attorney for our district, but I consider myself honorary ATF today. But don't let me anywhere near a weapon. It wouldn't be the ﬁrst time a lawyer shot himself in the foot."

People laughed softly, even agents who couldn't abide Strauss. All was forgiven today, and death had a way of persuading people to set aside their differences. Everybody, that is, except Vicki.

"Frankly, I didn't know Morty that well, at least not as well as my AUSAs knew him. For that reason, I'd like to introduce one of them who knew Morty exceptionally well, Dan Malloy, who will say a few words on Morty's behalf."

Whoa. Vicki's ears pricked up. Dan hadn't mentioned it at breakfast. Maybe it came up after? In the next minute, he emerged from the crowd at the front and stood tall before the microphone. His hair had been combed back, wet as a little boy's, but his suit was sharply tailored and Italian. He looked like a candidate for something, and even though Vicki was miffed that he hadn't mentioned it to her, she would have switched parties to vote for him.

"Welcome, everyone." Dan managed a smile, but it was shaky. "Morty worked closely with so many of us AUSAs that sometimes I thought he was a prosecutor. He knew more criminal law than most lawyers, and he had more street smarts than most crooks."

People laughed, nodding, and Vicki bit her lip. It was true.

Tell it, Dan.

"I loved Morty. He was everything a federal law enforcement agent should be, and everything a man should be. Morty always said he would lay down his life for his job, and he died the way he lived-in the service of all of us." Dan paused, swallowing visibly, and Vicki wondered for a minute if he'd lose control. "I knew Morty very well and saw ﬁrsthand all the hard work he did-work that, frankly, I got the credit for. Morty made me look good, and that's the way ATF, FBI, and DEA agents are-they make us prosecutors look good, and we get the glory while they labor, literally, undercover."

Around the room, ATF and FBI agents nodded, and conferred brieﬂy.

"Morty, I'm speaking for each and every AUSA in the Philadelphia ofﬁce when I say: we love you and we miss you already. I'll never play ‘Brick House' without thinking of you. Thank you."

People sniffled, and ATF agents hung their heads. Even if they didn't know Dan, his words had identiﬁed him as a real insider. Only someone who knew Morty would know he loved "Brick House." Dan had comforted all of them, even Vicki. Cardinal Bevilacqua himself then took the microphone, saying a brief prayer, and everyone bowed his head. When Vicki raised hers, her gaze found Dan, standing between Strauss and Mariella. Mariella had her arm around him and her head close to him; his broad shoulder shook slightly and his head hung. Vicki felt a stab of sympathy for him. She wished she could comfort him, but Dr. Bitchy was on the spot. Bitterness edged Vicki's thoughts, and she willed herself to banish it. Wives and husbands belonged together at times like this.

I have to get over him.

The reception line started to move so people ﬁltered past the casket, and Vicki's throat felt tight as she reached the front of the line. She spent the next hour in a fugue state of heart-wrenching images. Bent gray heads in line. A ﬂag holder on a stand next to the cofﬁn, the red, white, and blue a neatly folded, thick triangle. An open casket, and Morty. His face still in death: his cold hand tacky to Vicki's touch, from whatever makeup they'd put on his skin. Photos of Morty at the Elliot Ness party were placed in his coffin with paper notes and a Commodores CD. And gallows humor; propped on an easel, an enlargement of a silly photo of Morty in a T-shirt that read, I HAVE A RESCUE FANTASY.

Vicki blinked back her tears and shifted over, shaking hands with the few family members who stood beside the casket, Morty's cousins or something, then Strauss, a priest, and finally, Bale. She was way too emotional to be talking to Bale about Aspinall Street, and he hardly met her eye anyway. She escaped the room and was in the entrance room on the way out when someone touched her arm.

"Vicki?" It was a man's voice, and she turned. A tall, dark-haired man about her age stood there, looking attractive in a dark, pinstriped suit. "I'm Jim Delaney, I don't know if you remember me. I came to the D.A.'s ofﬁce right when you were leaving. I'm in the Insurance Fraud Unit."

"Right." Vicki remembered him only vaguely. "We met at that party."

"Ken Stein's barbecue, in Merion."

"Right."

"I'm sorry about what happened to Agent Morton." Delaney looked at her with obvious sympathy. His eyes were a watercolor blue. "I read in the newspaper that you two worked together."

"Thanks." Behind Vicki, the front door opened and a cold gust blew in. People shufﬂed ahead in the reception line, the women drawing their coats tighter around them.

"Are you leaving? I'll walk you out."

"Sure." Vicki turned, zipped her coat on the ﬂy, and went outside, descending the granite steps. Her hair blew in her face, and she almost tripped at the bottom, where Delaney put a steadying hand on her elbow.

"You all right?"

"Yes, thanks." The cold air stung tears drying in her eyes.

"How about I walk you to your car?"

"I'm parked in the far lot." Vicki pointed, and they took off.

"Are you going to be okay, after this?"

"Sure." Vicki nodded.

"It must have been awful, to be there when he was killed. That's traumatic."

"It was," Vicki said, though she hadn't thought of it that way until now.

"You know, people at the D.A.'s ofﬁce still talk about you. You were a great prosecutor, quick on your feet. I saw you in court once, I don't know if you know that. I was at Dechert at the time. You were trying the Locke case."

"Locke." Vicki flipped through a mental file cabinet. "Home invasion. Wait, I lost that one."

"Yes." Delaney laughed, and so did Vicki. "But you made me want to try cases. Criminal cases."

"I did?"

"I made my decision that day," Delaney answered warmly, which was when Vicki realized what was going on. His hand hadn't left her elbow, and since he didn't have a wedding band, she wasn't pushing it away.

"Really? Little old me? Tell me more about how great I lost."

Delaney laughed again. His dark, curly hair blew in the wind, and he had a nice laugh, too. "Listen, I know this isn't the best time, but the way I see it, I owe you dinner."

Wow. "You do. A really nice dinner."

"So, if you don't have any plans right now and want some company, how about I take you out? You shouldn't be alone, and I can offer you an excellent shoulder to cry-"

"VICK!" came a sudden shout from behind them, and Vicki turned.

Dan. Running toward her. Concern creased his forehead, and she wondered if something was wrong. He was winded when he reached her, his chest heaving and his breath pufﬁng white in the chill.

Dan nodded to Delaney. " 'Scuse me, can I borrow this girl?

It's important." "Sure." Delaney released Vicki's arm and stepped back. "It might take us a while, friend," Dan said brusquely, and

Delaney nodded.

"Vicki, maybe I should give you a call, another time?" Delaney asked, and before she could process it, he had edged away.

"Yes. Do." "You in the book?" "Yes," Vicki said, and Delaney said good-bye, then walked away as she turned to Dan, concerned. "What's the matter?" Dan cracked a wry grin. "Sorry to interrupt. Who was that?" "Mr. Right." Dan laughed. "Since when?" "Okay, Mr. Right Now. Which would have worked for me." "You can't be serious. What a geek." "He's not a geek, he's an ADA." "Not in Major Crimes, he's not. I can tell." "He's in Insurance Fraud."

Dan fake-snored, closing his eyes and dropping his head to the side.

"Very funny."

"Shhh, I'm asleep."

Vicki looked over Dan's shoulder. Delaney was long gone. The reception line shifted forward in the cold. "Where's Dr. Mariella?"

Dan fake-woke up. "In the ladies' room."

Hmmm. "So what's the matter? Is something going on?"

"Yes, I need to talk to you."

"I'm parked this way," Vicki said, and they walked together into the wind. Dan took her arm, but she missed the way Delaney had held her. Also, he was single.

"Listen, I fixed everything between you and Bale," Dan said, under his breath, and Vicki looked at him in surprise.

"What do you mean?"

"I told him what we talked about this morning, all about your theory, and he said it sounded like you made a real connection. He said he's going to talk to Saxon about it, smooth some feathers, and ask ATF to get the surveillance squad on Jamal Browning."

"You're kidding!" Vicki felt off balance. As happy as she was that they'd go forward on Browning, she wished she had been a part of the discussion. "When are they going to start surveillance? I know they have a big meeting, but it's not until Wednesday."

"Bale didn't say."

"I wish I could be there. They should do it right away. They don't need a warrant or anything, it's plain view."

"And guess what?" Dan strode on. "ATF is already running down a lead on your cell phone."

"What's the lead? The guy with the gravelly voice?"

"I don't think Bale knows. It's ATF. They got tech experts in Philly and D.C. on it, Bale says."

"D.C.? Then it will never happen."

"Don't be so negative."

"All they have to do is go to Cater Street and ask around. My cell phone has blue daisies on it, for God's sake." Vicki shook her head. It felt colder out, but it could have been her imagination. "No self-respecting drug dealer will carry that around for long."

"Bale thinks they'll ask the judge for a tap."

"With what? Don't they need my affidavit for probable cause? Or my notes?"

"Evidently not," Dan answered, then waved at a phalanx of uniformed Philadelphia police, attending a black Cadillac hearse. Morty's hearse. Vicki looked away.

"Well, what else do they have on Browning? The bills at Shayla's house? That's not enough."

"I didn't ask, and he wasn't telling. I got the idea it was conﬁdential."

"When are they going for the tap? They can't do anything until this meeting, unless they moved it up. Did they move the meeting up?"

"I didn't cross-examine him, Vick. I was just happy to hear you're still gainfully employed." Dan picked up his pace. "He got your phone message."

"Think I could be at that meeting?"

"Honestly, no. But he's not even that mad that you were harassing drug dealers. Great result, huh?"

"Great. Thanks."

"You're happy, right?"

"It's Morty's wake, how happy can I be?"

Dan stopped in his tracks, frowning beside a powdery mound of plowed snow. "You know what I meant."

"Yes, and I appreciate what you did." Vicki felt confused, her thoughts a grief-stricken jumble. "I wish I had talked to Bale, though. I want to be the one to indict on this case."

"You're too junior, Vick, and you couldn't try it anyway. You're a fact witness. You were there."

"I could still be on the indictment. I want to work that case. I want to be the one-"

"Stop." Dan put up a hand. "You're getting ahead of yourself. It doesn't matter who's on the indictment, does it? The only thing that matters is that they get the conviction."

Vicki shook her head. The only thing she agreed with was that they couldn't discuss this now, or here, beside Morty's hearse.

"You know I'm right." "For now, maybe." "Good." Dan smiled, cocking his head. His hair blew sideways in the cold, drying stiff from the mousse. "Then isn't it time for the magic word?" "Huh?" " ‘Thank you.' " "You're shameless, Malloy." Vicki rolled her eyes. "Please is the magic word, anyway."

"Wrong. You didn't read the statute. It's in the deﬁnitions section, right up front." Dan folded his arms. "You gonna say it or not?"

"Okay, thanks." "You're very welcome." Vicki tried to buck up, and started liking Dan again. Or loving him, as the case may be. "I'm just sad, is all." "I know. Me, too." They started walking again. "They're not moving fast enough. I mean, did you see it in there? All that brass? Morty almost gets lost in the process." "No, he doesn't. They care." "But they need to get moving! Washington? It's a murder case, not a Senate hearing. So will they keep us posted?" "Bale said he'd give you a call when the suits leave." "Good, I need a paycheck." Vicki shook her head. "Am I off suspension yet, did Bale say?" "No." "Argh!"

They reached the Cabrio, and Dan put a hand on her shoulder. "Take it easy, sweetie."

"I have no choice." Vicki dug in her purse for her car keys. "So what about my cases?"

"I got your back. Chin up." Dan gentled her chin upward with a cold hand. "By the way, what did you think of my speech, in there?"

"It was great."

"Thanks. It wasn't easy." Dan appraised her, his eyes ice-blue in the bright sun, the pupils telescoped to pinpoints. "You gonna be okay, Vick?"

"Yes. You?"

"I've had better days." Dan checked his watch, then frowned. "I gotta go."

Vicki unlocked the Cabrio door. "Give her my best," she said, but when she turned back, Dan had already taken off.

Leaving Vicki alone with her questions.

And her impatience.

TWENTY-FIVE

By noon on Monday, Vicki had done everything possible to get her life back to normal. She had cleaned her house, paying special attention to the rooms that the cops had upended, then went out to buy a new cell phone and get groceries. When she came home, she organized her closet, worked out on the elliptical, and ﬁnally pasted her hair with a conditioning "masque" that made it greasier than ever. She ran for the telephone every time it rang because she thought it would be Dan or Jim Delaney, which it wasn't.

She sat now at the kitchen table, ignoring half of a turkey sandwich, sucking down another cup of coffee, and paging idly though the newspaper. It was all murder all the time, and she closed the page. It had stopped snowing, leaving a foot on the ground, so she and the Holloway kids had a snow day. Only one of them was happy about it. It wasn't easy to sit around and leave important matters to federal agencies, especially the investigation of Morty's murder. Vicki was in mourning, with a side order of cabin fever. She hadn't spoken to another human being in a whole day, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd convicted anybody.

Her new cell phone lay beside her, and she gave in, picked it up, and flipped it open. She called Dan at the office, but he was in court, so she left her new cell number. Then she thought about it. She didn't have to be so passive with the very single Mr. Delaney. She called the D.A.'s office, but he was out, so she left a message with a receptionist who was too new to know her. Who else could she call?

She looked out the bright kitchen window. Bare tree branches swayed in the bitter wind. She had two good girlfriends from law school, both married, but one had had a baby and left the world, and the other, Susan Schwartz, was in-house counsel at Cigna. Vicki called Susan but she was on vacation. As a last resort, she called her parents, but they were in a meeting, so she left her new cell number with the receptionist. Then she was fresh out of people to not reach, so she ate the turkey sandwich and stared at the discarded newspaper, reading beneath the fold. Which was when she saw it.

And ran upstairs to get dressed.

Vicki entered the room and sank unnoticed into an empty chair in the last row. The wake was completely different from Morty's, as the crime scene had been completely different from Morty's. The funeral home was in the city, not the suburbs. The viewing room wasn't large and well-decorated, but small and shabby, with a dark navy-blue rug that had been worn almost threadbare at the door, where Vicki lingered. Lemon-scented Glade, not flowers, perfumed the air, and only two bouquets of red roses ﬂanked the plain casket, which was mercifully closed, of course. And instead of being crowded, only a handful of people were in attendance, leaving rows of empty brown folded chairs. Vicki counted six mourners, including Reheema.

The mourners faced the front of the room, and there was no representative of the funeral home in sight. Reheema sat alone in the front row, her head bowed, her dark hair smoothed into a tiny, stiff ponytail. She wore a black dress and black ﬂats. In the row behind Reheema sat five women, all older African-American women, dressed in heavy coats and small velvet hats. They looked like the church ladies that Vicki had expected Mrs. Bristow to be, or perhaps used to be.

Vicki felt a twinge of guilt. She didn't know if she should be here. She didn't know if she had a right. She'd come because she'd felt she had to pay her ﬁnal respects to a woman whose murder she might have caused. It was the least she could do; it was the beginning of setting it right, which she hoped would end with convicting the killer. She would stay for Mrs. Bristow.

But her gaze remained on Reheema. It was only thirty feet to the front of the room, and Vicki could see Reheema's shoulders shaking just the slightest bit. Was she crying for the mother she had spoken so cruelly of?

Of course.

So Vicki wasn't the only one who had mixed feelings about her parents. She ﬂashed on the scene at Morty's funeral, when Dan had gotten upset and Mariella had comforted him. If Reheema was crying, no one was consoling her. The church ladies were talking among themselves, off to the side. Reheema sat alone in her grief.

Like me.

Vicki squirmed in the hard chair. She felt an unrealistic urge to go sit with Reheema, though she knew it was out of the question. Reheema would have her thrown out. Or shot on sight. Instead, Vicki stayed put, bowed her head, and said a prayer. But when she looked up, Reheema was walking down the aisle on the side of the room, tears streaking her cheeks. Her wet eyes ﬂared a bloodshot red when she spotted Vicki.

"I'm leaving," Vicki said preemptively, rising to bolt, and Reheema grabbed her upper arm, propelling her toward the exit door.

"You're damn right you are. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to pay my respects to your mother."

"Get out of my life." Reheema pulled her to the front door and yanked it open with her free hand. Brutal cold slapped them both in the face, and Reheema's eyes narrowed against the chill. "Go. You got no business here."

"If it's any comfort, I made progress on her killer."

"I don't need comfort from you." Reheema shoved her through the open door, where Vicki turned, suddenly resentful.

"You know, you could show a little interest."

"I'm not interested."

"In your mother? The one you're crying over?" The words came out more harshly than Vicki intended, but she might never get another chance. She softened her tone. "I'm sorry, it's just that I'm so close, I could get to the bottom of this, if you helped me."

"Helped you?" Reheema's lips parted in disbelief and she forgot her tears. "Why would I help you?"

"It's not about me and you. It's about your mother and my partner. I think their murders are connected. I found out it was Jamal Browning who supplied the store on Cater Street. He was Shayla Jackson's boyfriend."

"Gimme a break."

"And even though you don't know these players, I think you might have something to do with it."

"Me? I was in the FDC, thanks to you."

"I didn't buy her the guns. You did."

"You tellin' me I killed my own mother?" Reheema blinked, angering, and Vicki shook her head.

"No, but you're the only link I know of between these events and people. You. You could help me. If we work together, Reheema, we can ﬁgure it out." The words came pouring out before Vicki realized what she was proposing. This time she was thinking out loud before her enemy, which was even dumber than doing it before your boss. "I can't do it alone anymore. I stick out like a white thumb in your neighborhood. But you wouldn't."

"You're so full of it!" Reheema tried to close the door, but Vicki stuck her navy pump in it.

"I'm asking you to think about it."

"Think about what?" Reheema closed the door on Vicki's foot, where Ruby the Insane Corgi had chewed. It might be time to retire her shoe, if not her toes.

"Think about helping me ﬁnd her killer. She was a beautiful woman once, and she loved you. She raised you. Somebody got you to school."

"I walked."

"I saw the picture of her, with the Penn Relays van."

Reheema pushed harder on the door. From inside the funeral home, an older man in a dark suit was rushing to assist her, followed by a clutch of church ladies.

"The woman who drove you in that van is the woman you're crying for." Time was running out, so Vicki made her ﬁnal pitch. "Show her the respect she deserves. Bury her, then call me." She edged away from the door, then hurried into the cold night, her pumps clattering on the sidewalk.

When Vicki got home, she checked her messages. Dan had called back on the home phone, telling her not to bother calling back, which she knew was code for Mariella's-home-now-so-don't-call. He hadn't called on her new cell though he'd had the number, which meant that he wanted credit for returning her call, but didn't actually want to talk to her.

Deﬁnitely have to get over him.

Vicki pressed the button for the next message but there wasn't any. She checked the message machine for a call from Delaney; no messages, just a big, red, digital zero. She hoped the moment hadn't passed. She skipped dinner, discouraged, and climbed the stairs, undressed, and went to bed, where she barely slept. She didn't know what had come over her at the funeral home, shouting at someone who had just lost her mother, and she doubted that Reheema would call.

Which was why she was surprised when the phone rang.

TWENTY-SIX

The next morning, Vicki drove streets still being plowed and salted, in trafﬁc lighter than usual because of the snowstorm, which was more than big enough for Philadelphians to credibly ditch work. She drove past closed stores, restaurants, and offices, and made her way back to West Philly, where fresh snow blanketed the trash cans, fire hydrants, and sagging porch roofs, reﬂecting the bright sunlight. She blinked against the glare.

Vicki hit the gas, barely able to move in a jacket, white cotton turtleneck, ﬁsherman's sweater, and ﬂannel-lined jeans. She had dressed for the weather this time, and whatever might come. So much was unknown about what had happened and what was going to happen that she couldn't help feeling nervous. She hadn't taken risks like this before in her career, much less her life, but she wasn't going to do anything crazy. Just a little legwork that the cops couldn't do, or weren't doing fast enough. She turned onto Lincoln and had barely cruised toward the curb in front of the house when Reheema, on the sidewalk, ﬂagged her to a stop and opened the car door.

"You didn't have to wait outside," Vicki said, surprised. "It's cold."

Reheema didn't reply, but climbed into the car, letting in a chilling burst of air. She slammed the door behind her and folded herself into the passenger seat, her legs so long that her knees ended up at chest level. "Gotta get a new car."

"Your seat adjusts. The lever's on the side near the door."

"That's not the problem." Reheema reached down and slid the seat back anyway, stretching her legs out. She had on her navy pea coat with her black knit watch cap pulled down so low it grazed her naturally long eyelashes, drawing attention to dark, lovely brown eyes, if only by accident. It would have been a fetching look, if Reheema had been smiling instead of frowning. "This car won't work."

"What do you mean?" Vicki was about to start the engine, but she held off. "This car works great." "Not for what you're talkin' about. It won't do. Unh-uh." "You mean, for our plan?" Vicki got finally up to speed.

Reheema was a woman of so few words, it was like playing connect-the-dots. "For your plan. I'm just along for the ride." "Not really." "Yes, really." "You said on the phone you'd cooperate." "Cooperate means snitch," Reheema shot back, and Vicki bit her tongue. She had suspected their relationship wasn't going to be roses, but she had to make it work if they were going to do the job.

"That's not what I meant." "That's what you said." "Okay, poor choice of words. Sue me." "I am." Oops. Vicki had almost forgotten. The lawsuit that Melendez had told Bale about. "You're still going through with that?" "Sure." "Even though you said you'd help me? That you'd work with me?"

"I am workin' with you. You oughta see me when I'm not." "I have," Vicki said, her tone harsher than prudent for someone Trying to Make Friends. "When?" "The Beretta, remember? The lethal weapon part? The aimed-at-me part?" Vicki managed a smile, which she thought was big of her, but Reheema's eyes ﬂared in ready anger.

"What? You started it, at the conference. That's why Melendez is gonna file. You pulled me across the desk! I was in handcuffs, I couldn't even defend myself!"

Okay, besides that. "At least I was unarmed."

"Unarmed? No United States Attorney is unarmed." Reheema scoffed. "A U.S. Attorney is armed with guns you can't see."

Assistant U.S. Attorney. Common mistake.

"You have guns that put people away. Guns that put me away!" "Hold on. You did buy two very real guns, ones you can see."

"And you couldn't prove I resold them, so I shoulda been free." Reheema pointed in her black wool gloves. "You had me brought up to a conference when you knew that."

Okay. Vicki gritted her teeth and bit an imaginary bullet. "I'm sorry." She paused, waiting, but there was no response. "You sorry, too?"

"For what?" "For pointing a gun at my favorite heart." "No." "Reheema, we're trying to clear the air here." "My air is clear." "I said I was sorry. You can say you're sorry." "Why?" "That's how it works." "Go to hell." Or not. "Fine." Vicki gave up, faced front, and squeezed the steering wheel. It was hard to look tough in J. Crew red mittens, but she was trying. Reheema cleared her throat and faced front, too. "We need a new car. This car is too conspicuous. You said so yourself." "I was joking." "You were right. For once." Reheema smiled in spite of her self, which Vicki took as an apology. She looked over. "Why is it conspicuous? Because it's white?" "Where you from?" "Philly." "You were not raised in Philly, girl." "Well, speciﬁcally, I grew up in Devon, but I consider it-" Reheema's eyes narrowed. "That where they have that horse show?" "Yes, the Devon Horse Show." "You ride horses?" "When I was little, I had lessons." Vicki was tired of being defensive. Especially on her salary. "What's this have to do with my car?" "It's suburban." "What's suburban about a Cabrio?" Reheema snorted. "Convertible's suburban, automatically.

You keep this car in the hood, the homes slit the rag top. Take the CD changer, air bag, all gone. Wouldn't last an hour." Oh. "And that little red H on the back window? That doesn't help, either, Harvard." "It's crimson, not red." But never mind. "Black people go to

Harvard, too, you know." "But not to Avalon." "What?" "Your bumper sticker-‘Avalon, Cooler by a Mile'? Black folks don't go to Avalon, New Jersey."

Which could be why my parents bought a house there.

"White girl and a black girl in a car's conspicuous enough."

"It happens."

"Not in Devil's Corner. The car's got to go. They might recognize it. If that lookout sees you again, he'll remember the car." Reheema shook her head, and Vicki suspected she was enjoying this way too much.

"I don't want to sell my car. I love my car."

"Then don't. You got the dough, buy us a new one." Reheema looked out the window. "Now let's go."

A half an hour later, Vicki found them an open dealership, parked beside a pointy mound of freshly plowed snow, and cut the ignition. The peeling sign over the lot entrance read PHILLY PRE-OWNED AUTOS-USED TO EXCELLENCE! SALE OR RENT! Red and white plastic pennants ﬂapped from a sagging string, and fake-gold tinsel glittered in the noonday sun, its ends frayed from twisting in the elements. Old Jeeps, Tauruses, Toyotas, and an ancient Pinto sat in the lot, in obsolete shades of avocado, diluted lemon, and bright blue.

Vicki looked at the dealership with satisfaction. "This is perfect."

Reheema curled her upper lip. "I said, a new car. This is the brokest-ass car lot I ever saw."

"We're supposed to be inconspicuous."

"We can be inconspicuous in a new car. And we can look good doin' it."

"Come on." Vicki slid her keys from the ignition and grabbed her purse, but Reheema stayed put.

"I thought we were cooperating."

"I'm paying, you're cooperating."

"Oh no, you didn't just say that."

Vicki got out of the car, yanked on her mittens, and walked onto the plowed lot, making a beeline for a grimy white Camaro with a dented front end. She skimmed the sign: AS IS, 1984 CHEVY CAMARO, 60,374 MILES, BUY FOR $1250, RENT FOR $50/WEEK. MPFI FUEL-INJECTED, TRANS REBUILT 10,000 MILES AGO. "Sounds good, and the price is right. We'll rent."

Reheema came up behind her, hands shoved deep into the pocket of her pea coat. "What is it with you and white cars?"

"I'm suburban, with a little H." "Crimson, not red." "Correct. Details matter." "Hold on, check this." Reheema went one car over, to a sports car that had been repainted cobalt-blue, with metallic shimmer. "That's what I'm talkin' about!" She read the sign aloud. " ‘1986 Nissan 300ZX, 110,000 miles, Z-bra included.' "

"How much?" "Three grand to buy, a hundred a week to rent." "That's some bra. No." "But it's in great condition." "Too much money." "I would look damn good in this thing." Reheema couldn't stop gazing at the sports car. "You're single, right?" "Yes." But he's not. "Got a boyfriend?" "Not a prayer." "Not for long." Reheema spread her arms wide. "In this." "No," Vicki said, with regret. She shifted over to the next car, a black sedan with a dented fender and a black rubber strip peeling from its side door. She skimmed the sticker out loud. " ‘1995 Pontiac Sunbird, four cylinders, 120,000 miles, $1,500 to buy, $75 a week to rent.' Not bad."

Reheema walked over. "I'm not feelin' it. S'boring." "Exactly." Vicki peeked inside. "Only one problem. It's a gearshift. I don't drive a stick." "Can't you learn, Harvard?" "You know how to drive a stick?" "Sure, I went to a real college. Temple." Vicki was distracted by a short white man in a gray coat, coming out of a one-room building in the middle of the lot, presumably the office. A Fotomat sign was a painted ghost under the building's grimy white. Vicki said under her breath,

"Let me do the talking."

"No, I'll do the talking."

"But I know how to negotiate."

"So do I."

"I'm the lawyer."

"You couldn't get me to plead out."

Ouch.

"And you can't even drive a damn stick."

"Okay, ﬁne. Go get 'em, girlfriend."

Reheema's eyes shifted under her cap. "Black people stopped saying girlfriend a long time ago. We talk just like you white folks now, since you done give us the vote."

"Gimme a break," Vicki said, just as the little salesman came chugging up, his breath pufﬁng in the cold air like a toy locomotive.

"Welcome, ladies!" he sang out. His bald head looked cold and the tip of his nose had already turned red. His blue eyes were bright behind thick glasses and he clapped his gloved hands together, as if to generate excitement. Or heat. "How are you two lovely ladies doing today?"

"Fine," they answered in unison, with equal enthusiasm, which is to say, none.

"Great day to buy a car! You girls have my undivided attention! No waiting, right? Ha ha!"

Reheema stepped forward. "I want me a cheap car that don' look like crap. And don't be rippin' me off. You messin' with the wrong girl."

Huh? Vicki did a double-take at the appearance of Street Reheema, especially after the lecture she'd just received.

"Certainly, certainly." The salesman edged away from Reheema and looked at Vicki. "And, miss, you are?"

"Her life partner."

Reheema burst into startled laughter, and Vicki smiled to herself.

Half an hour later, Reheema was driving the Sunbird off the lot with Vicki in the passenger seat, because they didn't have time for her stick lesson after dropping the Cabrio back at home and going to the bank, where she had withdrawn the cash to rent the car. They had jointly negotiated ten bucks off the price, and the dealer had agreed to "detail" the car, that is, hose it down and spray the interior with Garden in a Can. The Sunbird was a washed-out light blue inside, and its ﬂoor was covered with aftermarket shag rugs, somebody's idea of pimp-my-ride. Armor All greased the blue vinyl bucket seats, and there was no cute little H on the rear window, in crimson or even in red.

By noon, the two women were rolling, and one of them was missing her Cabrio very much.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Vicki and Reheema staked out Cater Street, parking the Sunbird behind a tall snowbank made by a city plow when the cross street had been cleared. The tall, triangulated mound hid them from view of the lookout, smoking a cigarette halfway down the block. And both women were in extraordinarily professional disguise; Reheema's knit cap covered her hair and Exxon-station sunglasses hid her eyes, and Vicki wore Dan's Phillies cap and Chanel sunglasses, to fashionably conceal her forbidden whiteness. Even so, she was pretty sure that they looked like two women, one white and one black, driving while blind.

Cars couldn't drive for the snow on Cater, which hadn't been cleared yet because the street was too narrow to ﬁt the conventional wide plows, and only a few row houses had their walks shoveled, but it didn't deter steady foot traffic to the vacant lot. The pace was as brisk as the other day, and addicts braved the elements, showing unusual hardiness. Vicki wondered if watching them bothered Reheema, so soon after her mother's murder.

"You okay?" she asked, looking over at that perfect, if impassive, proﬁle.

"Fine." Reheema nodded, her sunglasses reﬂecting the snow.

The woman of few words had become the woman of no words. Vicki had been previously unaware that you could be a woman and say so very little. It seemed biologically impossible.

"Is this weird for you, since what happened to your mother? Is it upsetting?"

"I look upset?" Reheema didn't move, just kept gazing out the windshield, and then Vicki gave up and looked, too. A bundled-up couple, a man and a woman, walked in the snow to the vacant lot, arm in arm, like a crack date.

"You recognize them?"

"No."

Vicki had hoped otherwise. This was Phase One of the Master Plan. They'd been here an hour, and Reheema hadn't recognized either of the lookouts or any of the customers. "But they're your neighbors."

"I don't know the neighbors."

Vicki didn't get it. "You lived here, right?"

"Moved here senior year high school, and not since then."

"Where were you before you moved here?"

"Somewhere else."

That clears things up. "And your mother stayed here. When did she start using, if I can ask?"

"I was in college."

"Is that why you didn't come back?"

"Yes."

Now the conversational ball was really rolling. "It must have been hard."

Reheema didn't say anything.

"What did you major in?"

"Business."

"Did you like it?"

"No."

Try another tack. "You know, my dad lived right on your street. He had the corner house on Washington. He went to Willowbrook, too."

"Where'd you go to high school?" "Episcopal." "Private school." "Guilty," Vicki said, and she was. They both watched as a young man in long dreads and a brown coat walked down the street, kicking snow as he shufﬂed along, heading for the hole. "How about him? Do you know him?"

"You know, he does look familiar." "Goody!" "Did you just say goody?" Reheema peered at Vicki over the top of her sunglasses. "Never. Again."

Excited, Vicki handed Reheema a pair of binoculars she'd brought from home. She'd packed her backpack full of equipment they might need for the Master Plan, including guacamole Doritos. Episcopal Academy taught its grads to plan well for their stakeouts.

Reheema turned and raised the binoculars to her eyes. "Yo, that's Cal!" she said, dangerously animated. "Cal what?" "Cal Moore. Was in my math class. I think he dropped out, and now he's a crackhead." Reheema lowered the binoculars.

"Always was a loser." "It's sad." "No, it isn't." Vicki let it go and noted Cal Moore's name in the Filofax.

So far his was the only name. Phase One wasn't working out so hot, but then again, it took only one name for a lead. She dug inside the backpack again, grabbed the silvery Cybershot camera, pressed the button so the lens was on telephoto, and snapped a digital close-up of Cal Moore.

"Why're you doin' that?" "In case we need it." "Why would we need it?" Good question. "I don't know yet. But this is what the ATF would do on a stakeout, and so I'm doing it, too." Vicki knew the basics from Morty, but she was trying not to think about him today. "If it turns out we need an ID on Moore, we have a picture." They both watched as Moore trudged though the snow to the vacant lot, then went inside, past the bare trees. Vicki couldn't help but wonder. "What do they have in there anyway? Like a shack or something?"

"You mean, what's in the hole? Just the man, standing there, behind some trash cans and an old wood wall from one of the houses."

"A wall in the middle of the lot?"

"Toward the back. Looks like the house got torn down and the old wall, like maybe the backyard, got left. It makes a screen, so you can't see what's goin' on from the street."

Vicki tried to visualize it. "So this guy just stands outside, in the hole?"

"Yeah."

"I guess the overhead's low."

" 'Cause there's nothin' overhead," Reheema said, and they both laughed.

More bonding! Bonding like crazy! Then Vicki sobered up. "They won't do business outside forever, will they?"

"No, not for long. They're just gettin' a hold. Established. They'll move into one a the houses soon."

"When do you think?"

"Soon as they find one." Reheema snorted. "Hell, I'll sell 'em mine."

Vicki assumed she was kidding. "And that will be the end."

Reheema didn't say anything.

Vicki set the camera down and skimmed the Filofax notes she'd made today, in her lap. She had counted foot traffic again, and business was better than yesterday; sixty customers in the past hour, even in the bad weather. At sixty bags an hour, for a dime bag, which was conservative, the dealer made six hundred dollars an hour. Vicki looked up from her notes. "Wonder when the go-betweens will show up, the black leather coat or the Eagles coat. They're late."

"Maybe he stocked up because of the snow."

"Funny that they started an outside business in winter."

"Lotta competition in the city right now. Everybody wants to open a new store." Reheema's tone was so certain, Vicki had to wonder.

"How do you know that?"

"Just got outta jail. The FDC's fulla crack dealers. All the talk is turf, who's stealing customers from who. Who's expanding, who's not."

Vicki considered it. "Maybe we can put the word out in the FDC. See what anybody knows about Jay and Teeg, or Brown-ing's operation in general."

"Did that already."

"You did? When?"

"Soon as it went down with my mother."

Vicki felt a twinge. "Did you learn anything?"

"No. Everybody's afraid to talk about it. Hey, Cal's back." Reheema raised the binoculars, and Vicki raised the camera to watch the young man walk out of the hole, hands thrust in pockets and head down, his dreads coiled into a thick rope that came to a point like an alligator tail.

"What's with the hair? This would be a black culture question."

Reheema snorted. "Don't ask me, I hate it. Cal had his that way since high school. Hasn't been washed in ﬁve years."

At almost the same moment, a shiny maroon Navigator turned onto Cater from the opposite direction and powered toward the vacant lot, spraying fans of fresh snow in its wake, like a speedboat. "Lookout," Vicki said, taking a photo, and Reheema whistled behind the binoculars.

"Nice ride!"

"Four-wheel drive."

"We got Daddy's car today!"

Vicki snapped another close-up as the Navigator stopped in front of the hole and the driver's door opened. In the next instant, the short man in the black leather coat and cap stepped out into the snow. Vicki took his close-up when he turned. She had never been so happy to see a criminal before. "Bingo!"

"Goody!" Reheema said.

Vicki let it go and took another photo. "Do you know him?"

"No."

"Damn."

"More like it," Reheema said. Vicki looked though the telephoto lens to see him better. Mr. Black Leather had large, round eyes, a short nose, a tiny little mustache, and photographed rather well. He hustled inside the vacant lot, raising his knees high to avoid getting his feet wet, kicking snow as he went. The Navigator idled in the street, sending a chalky plume of exhaust into the air. Vicki eyed it through the camera but, because of the snow's glare on the windshield, couldn't tell if somebody was in the passenger seat. Only a drug dealer could leave a car like that unlocked and running in this neighborhood.

"He might come past us on the way out. Get down." Vicki lowered the camera and slunk down in her seat, and Reheema laughed.

"Sit up. You're embarrassing yourself."

Vicki edged up in the slippery seat and watched the scene again through the camera. Moore was at the top of the block and turned right. "Wonder where he lives. Do you know, from high school?"

"We didn't travel in the same circles."

"He wasn't in National Honor Society, huh?"

Reheema shot her a look. They fell silent in the next minute, and Vicki raised the camera again when Mr. Black Leather reappeared, hustled out of the lot, and to the Navigator, knocking snow off his shoes before he climbed inside. The Navigator backed out the way it had come, and Vicki raised the camera to see if she could shoot his plate number. When the Navigator turned at the top of the street, she tried to catch a glimpse, but it was too far away.

"Rats!" Vicki said, and Reheema's only response was to start the engine of the Sunbird, which struggled to life.

Half an hour later, the women sat parked in a space on Aspinall Street down from Jamal Browning's house, and they were on their second girl stakeout. Unlike Cater, there was no activity on Aspinall; it was a static scene of a snow-covered city street. No one had answered the row house door when Mr. Black Leather went inside, and there were no comings or goings for Reheema not to identify people. Vicki had taken all the pictures she needed and none of them mattered. In short, she was beginning to doubt the viability of Phase II.

"Cheeto?" Vicki offered, discouraged, pointing the fragrant end of the bag to Reheema. "It's lunch. And dinner."

Reheema didn't say anything.

"You're not feelin' the Cheetos?"

Reheema didn't smile.

"You didn't want the Doritos either. You off carbs, too?"

"No, just food that glows in the dark."

"Seems unduly restrictive." Vicki brushed orange dust off the front of her parka. She had consumed one 64-ounce Wawa coffee, and six hundred thousand calories. The Sunbird reeked of Cigar-Smoke-in-a-Can and her Master Plan sucked. Vicki scanned the cars parked in front of the house, but they were covered with snow mounded like sugar frosting. "Wonder which car is Browning's. They use the crappy ones for work, right? So which is the crappiest?"

"Ours."

Vicki eyed Browning's row house, her frustration intensifying. "This isn't going well, none of it. You know, I feel like your neighborhood is right on the brink of something. Like it could go either way, up or down, depending on what happens on Cater. You know what I mean?"

Reheema didn't say anything.

"The crack dealers get established in the hole, making addicts, then they buy a house and sell crack in it, making more crack addicts, and there goes a perfectly fine neighborhood, with law-abiding people and Christmas wreaths. And if that happens all over the city, pretty soon the city is lost. And city after city, it happens all over."

Reheema still didn't reply.

"That's why I want to shut them down, get them behind bars. Not only because of Morty and your mother, but because we can actually save your neighborhood."

"It's not my neighborhood," Reheema said, finally. "You keep saying Devil's Corner is my neighborhood, and it's not. I told you, I'm only living there until I sell."

"It's my dad's old neighborhood."

"Oh, I get it. That's why you care." Reheema snorted. "You're doing it for your daddy. To get Daddy's approval."

"No. He hated it there."

Reheema faced Vicki, her sunglasses masking her eyes. "Then why do you care?"

"Why don't you?" Vicki asked, glad for some reason that she was wearing sunglasses, too. Suddenly, something caught her attention at Browning's house. The front door was opening. She grabbed the camera and snapped a photo as a man emerged. But it wasn't Mr. Black Leather, it was Eagles Coat. "Here's the other go-between. So they take turns. Alternate, like last time."

"So there's two on a shift," Reheema said, from behind the binoculars. "And two shifts a day, maybe three. I don't see anybody at the door."

"Me, neither." Vicki took a photo anyway, then lowered the camera and watched Eagles Coat walk to the Navigator, get in, pull out of the space, and take off. This time she got a clear shot of the license plate and lowered the camera. She knew cops who could run the plate for her, and maybe Dan would have an idea. Then she realized she'd gone the whole day without thinking about him; she'd even left her phone turned off. She was in Married Man Rehab.

Reheema twisted on the ignition, but Vicki raised a palm.

"Don't follow him. We know where he's going. Probably back to Cater, if the pattern is the same, right?"

"Probably."

"So he's just the runner, he brings the crack back and forth." Vicki was thinking out loud, which was okay to do in front of someone who barely liked you, and vice versa. "He's not the one we really want."

"What do you mean?"

"This is Jamal Browning's house, where he brings the stuff and bags it for sale. Odds are he doesn't live here, right? You tell me, you're the bad-guy expert." Vicki thought back to what she knew about the crack trade. "I mean, I know that most drug dealers have a separate car for business. Do they have more than one address, too?"

"Yeah. Browning won't live here. This is where he does his business."

"That's what I thought." Vicki flashed on the unopened bills of Jackson's. "And where would he keep his supply? Here?"

"Probably."

"Not at his house."

"Not usually. The idea is to keep that clean."

"And he'd keep some at a stash house, like his girlfriend's. Shayla Jackson." Vicki couldn't put the memory of the murdered Jackson out of her mind. Or Morty. "I want to get to Browning, not his delivery boy. I want to understand this whole organization, then I can bring it down."

"You serious?" Reheema slid off her sunglasses, her gaze dead even. "This could be big, an operation this size, this much money, two guys on each shift, three shifts. Plus two lookouts on three shifts, and the dealer, three of them twenty-four/seven?" She rattled it off like the business student she used to be. "Probably got three cooks and coupla baggers. And an army of young 'uns like the ones you ran into, Jay and Teeg. Helpers. Runners. Gofers. That's a lotta personnel, and this might not be Browning's only operation."

Okay, I knew that. "Then that's all on the Master Plan."

"Browning might even be a connect."

"Meaning the one who deals weight?" Vicki asked, but it wasn't a question. The answer was the bricks in Jackson's house. "He might be. If he is, he's going down."

"Why? He's not the one who killed your partner. You know who killed your partner, those kids did."

"That's right, but they were just kids. Pawns." Vicki thought a minute. "It's all of a piece. I'm gonna ﬁnd and indict those kids, but that won't go far enough. This month it's Morty, but next month it'll be another agent, or a cop, or an AUSA. This has to stop."

Reheema smiled crookedly. "What got into you?"

"It's time to change things, to get things right. I'm tired of the way things are. And I'm tired of eating Cheetos and crushing on the wrong guy." Vicki sensed there was a connection, but she had no idea what it was. She pointed at Browning's house. "Either Browning's in that house and he's got to come out. Or he's coming here. Or he's not in there at all and he won't be coming anytime soon."

"Somebody's in there."

"So let's see who comes out, and see if he looks like Browning, the guy in the photo on Shayla Jackson's dresser. If it's him, wherever he goes, we follow him." Vicki liked it the more she thought about it. "We don't take any unnecessary chances. We just take a little ride and a few pictures. No big deal."

"We got the car for it." Reheema laughed, her features relaxing into a beautiful smile, for the ﬁrst time since they'd met.

"So, you wanna?"

"Why not?" Reheema settled back into the driver's seat, facing the house.

"Goody." Vicki did the same, newly content in the passenger seat, and after a minute, Reheema asked:

"So, who's the wrong guy?"

TWENTY-EIGHT

"GO!" Vicki couldn't help shouting. It was almost midnight and there was ﬁnally activity at Browning's house. The front door opened, barely visible in the streetlight, and two men emerged, mere shadow ﬁgures.

"Not yet. I'll start the engine after they're in their car. Then they won't hear it."

"Of course. Right. Good thinking. That's what I meant, too."

"Calm down, girl." Reheema laughed softly

"I can't." Vicki fumbled to ﬁnd the camera, shivering with cold and excitement, as the two men walked down the steps in front of the row house. It was impossible to tell if either of them was Browning. "Damn!"

"Don't take a picture."

"I won't use the ﬂash." Vicki disabled the ﬂash and used the telephoto to see the men more clearly. It was absurd in the dark, but she took three photos anyway. They were both about average height and wore thick dark coats and dark knit caps, pulled low over their foreheads. "What is it with the knit caps?"

"Another black culture question? It's cold out."

"Damn it to hell! I can't see their faces." Vicki still couldn't tell if either was Browning and she gave up trying, for now.

The two men walked close together, and she could tell they were talking because little clouds puffed from their mouths. It had to be twenty degrees outside and ten in the Sunbird. Circulation to her extremities had stopped four thousand Doritos ago. Reheema turned on the ignition as the two men walked to a snow-covered car, three down from the row house. The two men straight-armed snow off the car, clearing the hood and roof in one swoop.

"They'll never get it out. Look at the wheels." Reheema pointed at the car, and Vicki took pictures as the one man cleared a cake of snow from the back window with his arm and shook the powder off, and the other pounded the car door to break ice on the lock and get the key inside. She laughed behind her camera.

"It's not easy being a drug dealer."

"Maybe we should help 'em out." Reheema smiled.

"The car's a white Neon, same one as the other day." The women watched with amusement as the men struggled for ﬁfteen minutes, then went back inside the house and came back out with a Back-Saver snow shovel, a blanket, and two cans of beer. "Drug dealers care about their backs, too."

"Nobody wants back trouble."

"So the maroon Navigator is Browning's good car."

"Yeah. He lends the go-between the four-wheel drive to get down Cater."

"He has to take the chance, because of the snow. When it clears up, he won't. He can't risk the car being spotted."

Vicki raised the camera and took a picture of one of the dealers shoving a blanket under the car tires and digging them out, while the other slid into the driver's seat and hit the gas. "Tell you which one I think is Browning, if it is Browning."

"The driver."

"Right." Vicki laughed. "I still can't tell if it's Browning for sure."

"So let's follow him anyway. We got nothin' better to do."

Reheema sat up, and after ten more minutes of struggling, the dealers had freed the Neon. She leaned forward in her seat and rested her hand on the ignition key. "Okay, good to go."

"Finally!" Vicki said, and when the Neon took off, Reheema started the engine and so did they, following from a safe distance and at lawful speed. There was enough trafﬁc to provide the Sunbird great cover, especially since it was dark and nondescript, and Vicki was able to take as many pictures of the Neon's license plate as she wanted, though one would have sufﬁced. She felt her adrenaline ebb away. "Not quite the high-speed chase I imagined."

"These guys don't want to get picked up for anything. This'll be the safest ride you ever took. Sit back and relax."

So Vicki did, but when she looked over, Reheema's mouth was tense.

"Home, sweet home," Vicki said, when the Sunbird pulled up at the end of the block. They had been driving for an hour and had ended up in one of the middle-class residential neighborhoods in the city, Overbrook Mills. The brick row houses here were semidetached, sitting together in pairs, like happy couples. Each double house had a front yard, bisected by a cyclone fence and dotted with children's bikes and plastic playhouses, padlocked to the fences.

"We don't know if this is home or his supplier's," Reheema said.

"It doesn't look like a drug supplier's house."

"Tells you nothin'."

"It's the end of the day. Browning has to get tired sometime, doesn't he? I'm gonna say this isn't his supplier's, it's his house."

"How you know he hasn't been sleepin' all day? When do you think he makes his pickups, in broad daylight?" Reheema's mouth formed a grim line, and her eyes glittered in the dark interior. "If they both get out of the car, it's the supplier."

Vicki nodded. Reheema was right. They were making assumptions, but reasonable ones. They both leaned forward as the Neon's doors opened and the two men got out. Vicki took pictures of the driver, albeit too dark and too far away, as he hurried from the car and toward the row house. The streetlights were brighter here, but the man's features remained impossible to discern, so she still didn't know if he was Browning. The passenger went around to the driver's side of the car, got inside, and drove off. Vicki lowered the camera. "So if it's Browning, it's his house."

"How you know the one got dropped off is Browning? You didn't recognize him. We got two players."

Vicki sighed. She was getting tired, and ATF legwork was harder than she'd thought. "Our theory was that the driver was Browning, or the boss, and this conﬁrms it. I say, the boss gets dropped off."

"I agree, but we need to cover all bases." Reheema started the ignition.

"We're leaving? I wanted to get another picture."

"Get it another time. We know where he lives."

Vicki took a final picture as the Sunbird took off and snagged a close-up of the back of Browning's knit cap, where a shiny silver shield caught the light. She recognized it in the telephoto. "He wears a Raiders cap."

"Everybody likes football," Reheema said, and hit the gas.

Half an hour later they were in a lesser neighborhood closer to the city, with attached brick row houses in various stages of disrepair. The Sunbird followed as the Neon drove around, evidently hunting for a parking space. Huge piles of plowed snow sat at the corners of the block and cut down on the number of available spaces.

Vicki said, "The only thing more boring than watching a drug dealer dig a car out is watching him find a parking space."

"A day in the life."

"I'll have the same problem when I go home," Vicki said.

"No, you won't. You can't drive this crate, remember?" "Oh. Sorry." "No sweat. I'll drop you off. I'm a night owl." Reheema turned the car to the right, lingering almost a full block behind the Neon, and Vicki realized that one of them would be going home to a very cold house tonight.

"Reheema, you don't have heat in your house, do you?" "I got a coupla blankets." "You want to come over my house, to sleep? I have a pull out couch." "Like a pajama party?" Vicki smiled. "We don't have to do our nails or anything." Reheema was silent a minute. "Nah." "You sure?" "Wait. Here he goes." Reheema slowed the Sunbird to a stop as the Neon finally found a space, when another car pulled out. "It's almost two. Doesn't anybody sleep in this neighborhood?"

Reheema didn't answer, and Vicki sensed she had withdrawn again. It was the invitation that did it, somehow. They watched as the second man got out of the car, hustled to one of the houses, and went inside.

"So that's where Number Two lives," Vicki said. "Right." "Can we ﬁnd it again? I'm not even sure where we are." "I can." Reheema started the engine. "Let's get you home, sleepyhead." "Thanks." Vicki felt a twinge. "You sure you don't wanna-" "No. Thanks." Reheema kept her eyes straight ahead and they drove in silence to the expressway, which was the last thing Vicki remembered before they pulled up in front of her house and Reheema was jostling her shoulder, waking her up, saying, "You're home."

"Oh. Sorry." Vicki straightened in the car seat stifﬂy, stretching and vaguely bewildered. "How did you know where I live?"

"Got it from information, on your cell. I don't have my own yet." Reheema handed Vicki her own phone. "Soon as I turned it on, though, it started ringing and it's been ringing off and on all night."

"I slept through it?" Vicki held the phone and reached down for her backpack, and Reheema laughed.

"You woulda slept through anything."

"Sorry." Vicki felt off balance. The Sunbird clock read 3:30. Her street was quiet, still, and frigid. She grabbed her purse, and her phone beeped, signaling she had voicemail. A tiny electric envelope appeared on the screen. "There's a text message, too."

"That'd be the wrong guy."

"I know," Vicki said, with a tired smile. She reached for the door handle.

"Take my advice and leave him be." Reheema nodded. "No married man should be callin' any woman other than his wife this time of night."

"I started getting over him, today." Vicki meant it. "Noth-ing's ever going to happen with him. It's time to let him go, for good."

"Right."

Still. "He's a friend, maybe he's worried about me. I don't usually keep the phone off all day."

"Don't be stupid. That man's a dog."

Yikes. "Thanks for everything," Vicki said, and got out of the car.

"Be back at eight in the morning."

"Okay," Vicki called back softly, so as not to wake the neighbors, and trundled up the front walk, dripping backpacks, purses, and cameras. She'd check the messages when she got inside, not in front of Reheema, who was waiting out front with the Sunbird idling. Surprising. Vicki let herself in and waved from the front door, and the Sunbird took off.

Once inside, Vicki dropped her stuff on the floor, hit the light switch, and checked her text message, which was from Dan.

NEED TO C U TONITE. CALL MY CELL

"No," Vicki said aloud. "Fool me once, fool me twice." She wasn't about to call him again and catch him in bed with Mariella, and she doubted he'd meant her to call him this late anyway. She double-bolted the front door, turned off the living room light, and went upstairs with the cell phone, but the bedroom phone started ringing almost the moment she hit the landing, a jarring sound in the still house. She went down the hall and picked it up on the third ring. It was Dan.

"You home? Where were you?" Dan sounded stricken, not angry. "I was worried out of my mind! Or were you with that guy?"

"What guy?" "The guy from the wake." Delaney. "Of course not." "Then can I come over?" "Now? It's after three!" "Vick, please. I wanna come over." Dan's words came out in a rush. "See you in ﬁve."

TWENTY-NINE

It was a reverse of their usual situation, with Dan sitting at her kitchen table, unusually calm for the situation, and Vicki pouring them both a half glass of cold Chardonnay, left over from the other night. His eyes looked a washed-out blue, with anxious circles underneath, and his mouth formed a slash of resignation. He wore khaki pants and a blue-plaid flannel shirt, put on so hastily it was buttoned wrong.

"Drink up." Vicki brought Dan's glass to the table, set it down in front of him, and took her customary seat opposite. "Now, begin at the beginning."

"Mariella's been having an affair with another doc, a big-time plastic surgeon, an older guy, in Cherry Hill." Dan's voice remained even, and he took a drink of wine. "She's divorcing me to marry him. She's been cheating on me for three years. We've only been married four."

Vicki sipped her wine, for something to do. She was shocked and sympathetic, hurt and confused, all at the same time. "How did you ﬁnd this out?"

"I'll tell it in chronological order, to make it easy. This morning, she served the papers on me at work. Can you believe that? Right at work?" Dan shook his head. "I'm in a meeting with Bale, and they get me out and say Louie's in reception for me. You know, Louie the process server?"

"The process server we use?"

"Mariella, or her lawyer, musta hired the same outﬁt. What a coincidence, I know." Dan shook his head in amazement. "So here's Louie, serving papers on me. I open them up and they're my own divorce papers! So, obviously, I think it's a joke. One of Bale's pranks, you follow?"

"Oh, God." Vicki's mouth fell open.

"Wait, this is when it gets good. So I go back to the meeting, I tell Bale, you dumbass, I wasn't born yesterday, to fall for this one. He tells me it's no joke and he's lookin' at me like ‘you poor slob.' " Dan kept shaking his head. "And I mean, he's not kidding, and it's no joke."

"Oh no." Vicki cringed, humiliated for Dan. No wonder he'd been calling her all afternoon. His world had exploded today. Her heart went out to him.

"After I get the papers, I call Mariella on her cell, and she doesn't answer. I go to the hospital because she told me she's on call, but it turns out that my bride hasn't been on call for two days." Dan paused, signiﬁcantly. "Then I go home to see if she's there, and the house is cleaned out! Cleaned out!"

"What?"

"The whole house is empty." Dan's eyes widened, and he smiled, incredulous. "Everything is gone, every stick of furniture, everything but my clothes. The old lady next door told me Mariella had the moving van there an hour after I left for work. She even took Zoe."

"The cat?" Vicki couldn't believe it. "You love that cat!"

"I know, and she doesn't even like the cat! She didn't even take her meds."

"Whose meds?" Vicki was confused.

"Zoe's. She needs atenolol for a heart murmur, but Mariella didn't take the medicine with her. She doesn't even know the cat needs medicine, half a tab, every morning." Dan shook his head. "I must sound so friggin' stupid. God, I mean, it's a cat, suck it up!"

"You don't sound stupid."

"Or gay. So gay." Dan raked fingers through his hair, already out of place.

"No, you don't. Then what happened? How did you find out?"

"Okay, so, at home, taped to the living room mirror, is a note that says call her at this number I never heard of, in the 609 area code. I do. She answers the phone and tells me that it's over, the marriage is over." Dan waved at the papers on the table. "That I better sign the property agreement. That she's in love with this other doc, who's Brazilian. He's forty-five or something. He's leaving his wife and two kids, and she's leaving me."

Vicki winced.

"Oh yeah, and then she says, ‘Have your lawyer call my lawyer. Good-bye.' "

Vick felt stunned. She couldn't imagine it.

"That's when I realized, that's why she accused me of cheating on her!" Dan's eyes flashed with sudden anger. "You know, that ﬁght the other day, the big one I told you about?"

"Yes."

"That's why she accused me, to hide the fact that she's been cheating, all along. To throw me off. The best defense is a good offense." Dan smiled ruefully. "How cold is she?"

"Wow." I always knew that.

"So I spent all this past year, since you and I have known each other and done nothing wrong, being so careful about her feelings, when, the whole time, she was cheating on me! And accusing me of cheating! Ha!" Dan smiled. "Diabolical, isn't she? She's an evil genius!"

Vicki couldn't smile. "On the other hand, maybe she really thought it, since she was doing it. People do project themselves onto others, the way liars always think people are lying."

"No, it was a scam and it worked." Dan curled his upper lip, where reddish stubble sprouted. "I never suspected her of having an affair. I thought she was working hard, to become a surgeon. I knew what that job took, and I ﬁgured she's paying her dues, like you are. A woman in a man's world. I just got suckered."

Aw. "That's awful!"

"I tell you, what's awful is being lied to, all that time. I don't like thinking that all those calls she got, emergency calls, weren't really from work. That, I don't like. I was stupid. Blind."

"No, you trusted her." Vicki remembered one of those emergency calls herself. They were in a restaurant and Mariella took a cell phone call, then left the dinner. "You can't question somebody when she leaves to save a life."

"Exactly." Dan exhaled and leaned back in his chair, his manner surprisingly accepting. "So, my marriage is over, but it's weird, I'm not even that upset. I don't even feel sad, not about the marriage ending. I didn't even cry."

Vicki eyed him with doubt, and Dan read her mind.

"Really, Vick, believe me, I know it's okay to cry. I know I'm supposed to cry. But I don't feel like crying."

"Are you in denial?"

"No, I'm in reality."

"But you loved her, didn't you?" Say no.

"I don't think I did, really. It wasn't a very good marriage." Dan shrugged. "Funny. After she told me, I went to the gym, but there was no game that late, so I took foul shots until they closed. Then I went home to my completely empty house and took a good, long shower. I think I sweated that woman out." Dan smiled. "And I dried myself off with toilet paper, because she took all the towels."

Vicki laughed. "Did that work?"

"Yes, if you like white balls stuck in your leg hair."

"That's so hot."

Dan smiled. "Bale said there's like starter marriages, practice marriages. He thinks that's what this was."

"Bale's been married three times."

"He's still practicing," Dan shot back, and they both laughed. Then he grew serious. "So that's that. She can have the stupid furniture. I'll sign the agreement, which gives her half our money, and it will be over and done with."

Vicki frowned, sipping her wine. "But didn't you earn most of it? I mean, what does she make, as an intern?"

"What's the difference?" Dan paused, as if waiting for an answer, but Vicki didn't have one. "She can have it. I don't want to ﬁght, I want to move on. We'll sell the house and split the proceeds."

"Don't you want to talk to a lawyer ﬁrst?"

"No, I am a lawyer. But I want Zoe back. A man needs his kitty cat." Dan got up with his full glass and took it to the sink, and Vicki rose.

"You don't like the wine?"

"It's ﬁne, I've had enough. I'm going to be a good boy and wash my glass."

"Let me." Vicki came up behind him. "You shouldn't have to do dishes on a night like this."

"Why not? I always do." Dan ﬂipped on the hot water and regulated it with care. "I always stand at this sink, just like this, with you hovering at my right shoulder, yakking away while I wash dishes."

Vicki smiled. "I wash, sometimes."

"Sometimes you do, but mostly, it's me. Cooking. Making coffee. I am completely gay."

Vicki laughed. "You're just a good friend."

"I'm your best friend, am I not?"

"Actually, you are." Vicki smiled, feeling a rush of warmth. It was the wine, partly. And partly not.

Dan turned from the sink, his blue eyes frank and direct. "And you are mine."

Vicki nodded, and a silence fell between them.

Dan turned off the water, set the wineglass upside down in the sink, and then looked at her again. "And that, my dear, is why I'm not going to ﬁght over the china. Because Mariella was right about one thing."

"What?"

"I was in love with somebody else, all along."

Gulp. "Really?"

"Really. I share everything with this woman. Chicken dinners and jury closings and funny e-mails on the BlackBerry. And the amazing thing is, I feel like she's with me all the time, even when she isn't. Wherever she is, and wherever I am, I am connected, profoundly connected, to her."

Vicki's heart thumped. All of a sudden her organs were very noisy.

"I never had an affair with her, but to be honest, I wanted to." Dan's voice softened. "I never touched her that way, but I imagined her touch. I've never seen her without clothes on, but I know exactly what her body looks like, naked. And I've made love to her so many times, in my head, that I can't count them all."

Vick felt strangely like she was going to cry. I sure hope this girl is me.

"I told you, and I realized that night, when I thought that I might lose you, that you are my best friend. Remember that night?"

Vicki nodded. There were tears in her eyes. She had wanted to hear what he was going to say for so long, it somehow hurt to hear it now, as if its sweetness were too much.

"Well, you are my best friend. And so, I love you." Then Dan leaned over slowly and kissed her, gently, and she kissed him back, just as gently, until she sensed his hips shift closer to hers and felt his tongue flicker just inside her mouth. In the next instant, his arms closed strong around her, and Vicki breathed in the hard soap scent on his scratchy cheek.

But then something made her heart pull back. "Is this a good idea?" she asked, worried, and Dan smiled softly, holding her in his arms.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes," Vicki answered, because she did, and she had, for so long.

"Then it's a very good idea." Dan grinned.

"But is this a rebound?"

"No, my rebounding sucks. This is love."

Vicki smiled. "And it's really happening?"

"If you ever shut up, it is."

Vicki laughed, and Dan laughed, too, and the laughter ended with a happy kiss, and then another, and next a deeper one, which was joyful in a different way, more serious. And the serious kissing didn't stop when the touching began, or when his ﬂannel shirt came off and then her heavy ﬁsherman's sweater and her white turtleneck and next her old Harvard T-shirt and eventually her pink-wafﬂe thermal undershirt, which was when Dan started laughing, mystiﬁed.

"Vick, what were you dressed for?"

Oops. "Sledding, with the kids across the street."

Dan kissed her again, then his mouth made a path down her neck to her chest, and he reached around and unfastened her bra, slipping the silky straps from her shoulders, taking her fullness into his mouth. Warmth surged through her, leaving her weak, and Vicki arched her back involuntarily, giving herself to him, loving the feel of his mouth on her skin and his hands everywhere on her body, and in the next minute, she heard herself whisper.

"Let's go upstairs."

Vicki awoke to knocking on the front door and cracked an eye at the alarm clock. The red numbers glowed 8:15. She blinked against the noise until her brain started to function.

It's Reheema. I am so busted.

She moved aside the covers quietly enough not to wake Dan, climbed out of bed, and hurried for the bathroom. She had no time for a shower, and she grabbed her pink bathrobe and wrapped herself in it on the run. Dan remained fast asleep on the far side of the bed, his head buried sideways in the pillow, his strawberry hair a lovely rumple.

Dan Malloy is in my bed. Yippee!

Vicki ran downstairs and ﬂung open her front door into the frosty air and an unusually cheerful Reheema Bristow. Re-heema's eyes were darkly bright and her smile broad, and she wore her customary knit cap, pea coat, jeans, and Timberlands. In her hand was a tall pink-and-orange Dunkin' Donuts coffee covered with a plastic lid.

"Yo, girl." Reheema offered the coffee. "You look like you need this."

"Jeez, thanks," Vicki said, in a low tone, so Dan didn't wake up. She accepted the coffee and pulled her robe around her, feeling guilty. "I'm really sorry, I'm running a little late."

"S'all right." Reheema stepped inside the living room, looking around. "Nice place."

"Thanks," Vicki said softly.

"Why are you whispering?"

"I'm not whispering," Vicki whispered.

"You are, too," Reheema said, then her eyes narrowed to disapproving slits. "Oh no, you didn't."

"I'll explain later. Follow me." Vicki signaled her out of the room, past the dining room and into the kitchen, then she set the coffee down and started digging for her stakeout outfit among the clothes heaped on the ﬂoor.

"In the kitchen?" Reheema's tone sounded admiring, if surprised. "You did it in the kitchen? Damn!"

"Turn away, I'm embarrassed," Vicki said, and when Reheema turned away, she dropped the bathrobe and yanked on her jeans and panties.

"Embarrassed? You weren't embarrassed last night, when you were doin' it on the damn ﬂoor." Street Reheema had returned and she was having a good laugh. "You weren't embarrassed, you were bare-assed."

"Very funny." Vicki slid into her bra, thermal underwear, T-shirt, turtleneck, fisherman's sweater, and then two pairs of white thermal socks, one of which was suspiciously large.

"You had the man in the kitchen?"

"Wait here, please." Vicki ran past Reheema in stocking feet, out of the dining room, and up the stairs. She didn't want Dan to know what she was up to today. She'd rather get busted by Reheema than him. She reached the bedroom, slid on the hardwood ﬂoor in her soft socks, and hurried around to the far side of the bed, where Dan was just waking up, muzzy and rubbing an eye with a balled ﬁst.

"Vick?"

"Baby." Vicki leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, deliciously stubbled. "Stay asleep. The house is yours. The door locks when you leave. Take care of yourself today. I have to go."

"What? Where?" Dan lifted his head and opened his eyes, in pale blue confusion. His breath was just as bad as hers, which was the only lucky thing that had happened so far this morning.

"I'll call you later. Go back to sleep. I love you." Vicki kissed him again, then straightened up, hurried out of the room, and ran down the stairs, where a gloating Reheema waited at the front door, holding the coffee and red snow boots.

"In the kitchen?" Reheema whispered, grinning, and Vicki ignored her while she grabbed the boots and stuck her feet inside, then snagged her purse and backpack on the ﬂy, and opened the front door.

From upstairs, Dan called out, "I love you, too!"

Vicki hustled them both outside and closed the door before Reheema could say, out loud:

"Oh no, it's not like that!"

THIRTY

Gray and white snow clouds covered the sky, and Vicki and Reheema circled the block on which they thought Jamal Browning lived, in Overbrook Hills, scoping it out before settling into a parking space. In the daylight, his home was a well-kept, if modest, semidetached row house, and its front yard, bounded by a costly wrought-iron fence, contained a snow-covered Little Tikes slide, a Razor scooter, and a black BMX bike with training wheels.

"I don't see a padlock on that BMX bike," Vicki said, snapping a picture through the telephoto.

"Ain't nobody takin' that child's toys." Reheema pulled the Sunbird into a parking space down the street from the house, next to a curbside pile of dirty snow and in front of a side yard, so that no house was directly in front. The street was more residential than Cater and Aspinall; the girls couldn't sit here forever, undetected. Reheema cut the Sunbird's ignition. "This one's the best we can do."

"Maybe we drive around in a little while, keep moving." Vicki looked around. Schoolkids with Spiderman lunch pails and backpacks were gathering on the far street corner with their watchful mothers, evidently waiting for a school bus.

Vicki couldn't help but smile at the scene. "Aren't those kids so cute?"

Reheema sipped McDonald's coffee, where they'd stopped for bathroom and breakfast.

"They're so small, aren't they? I can't believe we were ever that little, but we were."

Reheema looked over. "You gonna be like this all damn day?"

"Like what?"

"You know, all happy and white."

Vicki laughed. "What?"

"You gotta get over this."

"Why? I can't help it." Vicki flashed on an instant replay from last night, erotic enough to keep her dreamy for hours. She'd had one hour's sleep and three orgasms, a superb ratio. "I love the man."

"Too soon for that."

"Are you kidding? It's been a year. One year of foreplay." Vicki had told Reheema about Mariella and Dan, which, for some reason, hadn't completely allayed her concerns. But Vicki was too happy, or too tired, to hear any objection. "He's a great guy. He's just great."

"Hard to get excited about a U.S. Attorney."

Assistant. "Not that hard."

"So." Reheema paused, with a sly smile. "How hard?"

"Hard enough, and that's all I'll say about that." They both laughed and returned their attention to the house.

"I don't think he'll be comin' out anytime soon," Reheema said. "Drug dealers don't start the day early, but I didn't wanna miss him."

"Sure. Makes sense." But Vicki was thinking about love, especially as applied to Reheema. "I was surprised that you weren't seeing anybody."

"Nobody special."

"Why not? I mean, you're beautiful, you're smart, and your body is phenomenal."

"Calm down."

Vicki smiled. "You look like a model, even in that dumb hat."

"Means a lot, coming from a girl who wears ﬁreman boots."

They laughed again. They were more relaxed together today, if only a fraction. "So? Vicki asked, after a minute.

"What?"

"Give."

"There used to be a man, now there isn't." Reheema looked over, her emotions opaque behind her sunglasses, though she was smiling. "And that's all I'll say about that."

Vicki turned as a school bus appeared and rolled to a stop at the corner, belching sooty smoke. The doors slapped open, and the kids piled on willy-nilly, collecting last-minute kisses and hugs. The bus pulled away from the waving mothers, and Vicki noticed the front door opening at the house. "Check it, Ree."

Reheema raised the binoculars to her sunglasses. "My mother used to call me Ree."

Oops. Vicki took a photo as a pretty young black woman left the house, tugging along an adorable little boy, who looked about four. That they were mother and son was undeniable; they had the same tall, thin build, same large, almost black eyes, and same short hair, cut natural. They even wore matching red Sixers jackets, the sight of which chased Vicki's love ﬂashback away, replacing it with an awful memory of the night Morty had been killed. She took another picture, glad that the camera covered her face.

"Now we get to see which car is theirs." Reheema raised the binoculars. "I say the Lexus. What do you say?"

Morty. Vicki had lost her appetite for their guess-the-car game. She watched as the young mother stopped to light a cigarette, a purple mat tucked under her arm, then greeted the other mothers now scattering from the corner. Then she said good-bye and walked with the child to a gold Explorer, chirped the door unlocked, and they got inside.

"Losin' my touch." Reheema clucked. "Hell no, what's that under her arm? The purple roll? Tell me that's not a yoga mat!"

"It is." Vicki took a photo of the license plate as the gold Explorer pulled out of the space. "I don't think we should follow her. I think she's taking the kid to preschool and I don't wanna miss our man."

"She's got herself a yoga mat? A yoga mat? She gonna smoke that cigarette in the damn yoga class?"

Vicki lowered the camera, and Reheema peered at her over the top of her sunglasses.

"You okay, Tinker Bell?"

No. "Are we getting closer to whoever killed my partner?"

"We're doing what we can do."

"Tell me we can get them."

"I can't do that. I can only tell you that we'll try."

Vicki blinked. "Fair enough."

Two hours later, a white Neon finally pulled around the corner, coming toward them, and both women saw it at the same instant.

"Driver's here!" Reheema said, sitting suddenly upright, and Vicki grabbed the camera, aimed it at the Neon's windshield, and shot quickly. It reﬂected the cloudy sky, but maybe they could get something off it on the computer. The women watched, tense, and a minute or two later, the front door to the house opened and a tall man emerged, with a black Adidas bag.

"It's him!" Vicki almost shouted, recognizing Browning's face through the telephoto. It was the same man as in the photo! "Reheema, do you recognize him?"

"No, never saw the man before."

"Rats!" Vicki fired five great shots of Browning's face, in close-up, as he hustled to the Neon, his Adidas bag swinging, then opened the passenger-side door and jumped inside.

"Get down!" Reheema said quickly, and they both ducked so their heads didn't show as the Neon drove past.

"Thought you said that was dumb," Vicki said, excited, and Reheema popped up and switched on the ignition.

"It's dumb when you do it, not when I do it." Reheema maneuvered the Sunbird quickly out of the space.

"Go!" Vicki said, needlessly, because they were already driving down the block, taking a right at the corner. "We gotta stay with him. We can't lose him."

"We won't lose him," Reheema said, bearing down. "I never lost a man I wanted to keep."

Later, after having followed the white Neon through noontime rush hour into the city, past buses and cop cars and snow plows and salt trucks, then ﬁnally out to South Philly, Vicki and Reheema sat parked at the drug dealer's ﬁrst stop. A Toys "R" Us.

"I can't believe this!' Vicki said, edging up in her seat. Five minutes ago, Browning and his pal had left the Neon, grabbed one of the shopping carts, and wheeled it into the store. "What kind of drug dealer goes shopping? At Toys ‘R' Us?"

"Prices are good." Reheema laughed. "Maybe he needs a board game."

"He's supposed to be a drug dealer!" Vicki fairly shouted, then caught herself before she cursed. She had been raised better than to use profanity. But not better than to have three orgasms. Her frustration boiled over. "Could this man's day be more boring?"

Reheema was laughing. "I don't know, the wife's at yoga class and he's at Toys ‘R' Us, doin' the shoppin'. You ask me, that boy needs a marriage counselor. He's whipped."

"This would be funny if it weren't such a waste of time." Vicki sat watching the entrance. The Toys "R" Us anchored the huge strip mall, which drew customers from everywhere in the city. The parking lot, two city blocks long, was crowded with cars and minivans looking for spaces. Women and kids walked this way and that with strollers and shopping carts. Vicki sighed. "How will we ever learn something about Browning? His supplier, or even his connection to you?"

Reheema stopped laughing. "What do you think is the connection to me?"

"If you don't recognize Browning, I don't know. Unless he knows you and you don't know him."

"Only one way to ﬁnd out." Reheema slipped off her sunglasses. "I'm goin' shoppin'."

"What do you mean?" Vicki felt panicky. This wasn't in the Master Plan or the New Master Plan. "What are you gonna do?"

"Walk by the man, see if he knows me, see if he says anything to me." Reheema opened the door, and a cold blast of air blew inside the car. "You're not the only one gettin' impatient here."

"I don't know." Vicki couldn't process it fast enough. "He might be dangerous."

"In a toy store?" Reheema climbed out of the driver's seat and shut the door.

"Wait, be careful," Vicki called after her, opening her passenger-side window, but Reheema was already striding away from the Sunbird, making a beeline for the Toys "R" Us entrance. She made a tall, dark silhouette with the knit cap, pea coat, and jeans, and in the clunky Timberlands looked almost like a man from the back, but for the sexy swing of her walk. She waded through the moms and kids, grabbed a shopping cart, and wheeled it inside the store. Vicki reached for the camera, to watch her better through the telephoto lens.

Rring! Rring! Vicki jumped at the sound. Her cell phone. She reached quickly into her backpack, resting on the Sun-bird's blue shag, and pulled out the cell. The electronic display read DAN. Good and bad. She had to get it or he'd be suspicious. Also, she was crazy about him. She juggled the camera to ﬂip the phone open. "Dan, I'm crazy about you but I can't talk now." "What are you wearing?" "No time for that. I have to go." "Listen, last night was-" "The best night of my life, but I have to go." Vicki kept watching through the camera, in close-up. "Hold on, I have a question. Did you take your clothes off the kitchen ﬂoor and wear them again?"

Uh. "No, I took them to the dry cleaners." Shoppers with their kids in hand moved in and out of the glass entrance doors of the Toys "R" Us. No Reheema.

"You dry-clean your jeans?" "Sometimes, and I have to go." "Where are you?" "Shopping." "Where?" "Neiman Marcus." "In the suburbs?" Dan hmmmed. "But your car is still in the garage." "A friend picked me up." "I don't believe you, my sweet. What are you really up to?" Busted. "Okay, it's a surprise. A surprise for you. Now tell me you're okay so I can hang up." "I'm better than okay. I'm getting divorced." "Already?" Vicki watched the store entrance through the camera. An old man in a walker went in, but no sign of Reheema.

"I signed the papers and messengered them to her lawyer, and she's agreed to give me Zoe. She's having his maid drop the cat off. Also, that meeting is today, at ﬁve, with the FBI and ATF, about Morty's investigation."

The meeting. Vicki had forgotten, with all that was going on. "I wish I could be there."

"I'll tell you what happens. I may get to go."

"Really?" Vicki eyed the Toys "R" Us entrance, distracted. Two little boys were having a tug-of-war with a new scooter. "Then you have to tell me everything."

"Of course. Be home after, okay?"

It had a nice ring. "Light a ﬁre under 'em." Vicki ﬁgured it sounded like what she would say if she were at Neiman Marcus. "I have to go. Call you later. Bye."

She ﬂipped the phone closed, set it down, and focused her attention on the store entrance, through the telephoto. Her heart was thumping again, but she didn't know if it was true love or true anxiety. If Browning knew Reheema, would he hurt her? Vicki put a hand on the door handle, tempted to go after her, but stopped herself. Vicki's picture had been all over the news, and she could be recognized, even in the sunglasses and Phillies hat. And Browning wouldn't hurt Reheema in a public place, would he? Still, if Reheema wasn't out of the store in ﬁve more minutes, Vicki was going in.

She kept her attention on the entrance, taking a few photos of the scene. A salesclerk in a blue apron collected shopping carts from the lot. A white work van slowed near the entrance, waiting for a parking space. A man and his wife, huddled together against the cold, entered the store with two kids, followed by a woman with three kids, holding hands in a daisy chain. And in the next minute, through the telephoto, Vicki recognized Reheema, mostly because of her distinctive walk.

"Yay!" Vicki yelled in the car, and then she couldn't believe her eyes: Reheema was leaving the store with Browning!

What? Vicki kept her eye plastered to the camera and took a series of photos, in amazement. As they walked, Reheema was putting on her cap against the cold, smiling, and Browning was smiling, too, carrying a plastic bag of red-and-white Huggies. The two of them were talking like old friends, and on Browning's other side walked his driver, also carrying a bag of Huggies.

Reheema was not only safe, she had scored! Vicki didn't understand it, but shot another picture. Did Browning know Reheema or had she struck up a conversation with him inside the store? How did they get to be friends so fast? What the hell was going on? This wasn't in any Plan at all.

Suddenly Vicki heard an earsplitting pop pop pop from the store entrance. She blinked, uncomprehending. She knew that sound. It was unmistakable.

Gunﬁre.

THIRTY-ONE

"REHEEMA! RUN!" Vicki screamed. She dropped the camera, ﬂung open the car door, and ran for Reheema.

Pop pop pop! Reheema took off as if from a starter pistol, sprinting in the heavy Timberlands, pounding toward the Sunbird. Mothers screamed in terror, scooping crying toddlers into their arms. A little boy turned toward the gunshots, covering his ears. Two little girls fled in panic, their ponytails ﬂying.

Pop pop pop came more gunﬁre, like a war zone. Browning crumpled to his knees, his face hitting the asphalt. A little boy near him was shot, trying to run away. Browning's driver was cut down, dropping the Huggies. A toddler fell beside her mother, the child's pink snowsuit splashed hideously with red.

Pop pop pop! The salesclerk ran for his life but was cut down. A mother was strafed and tripped, dropping an infant. The white work van that had been idling near the store entrance flew out of the parking lot, its tires squealing. Vicki couldn't read its license plate on the run.

"REHEEMA!" she screamed.

"Back to the car!" Reheema grabbed Vicki by the arm and together they ran back to the Sunbird and jumped inside. Police sirens blared nearby. In this busy part of town, help was already on the way.

"You okay?" Almost breathless, Vicki slammed the car door closed, grabbed her cell phone, and dialed 911. Men and women ran from the store to the victims, and one salesclerk came running out, shouting into a cell phone.

"I'm alive!" Reheema ﬂoored the gas pedal.

And they were outta there.

The Sunbird came ﬁnally to a stop at the ﬁrst Irish pub off the expressway. By that time, the two women were ﬁnally breathing normally, wet-eyed and shaken as they sat side by side at the far end of a crappy wooden bar. The shellac on its wooden surface peeled like clear nail polish, and its stacks of cocktail napkins smelled strangely of Lysol. The place was empty except for two drunk guys who sat near the bartender at the other end of the bar. The TV overhead was on mute, but Brit-ney Spears sang "Toxic" loud enough to make it almost a song.

Vicki stared stunned at the shot glass in front of her, which was full of amber ﬂuid. "I never drink hard stuff."

Reheema sat slumped before her glass. "I don't drink."

"Then who ordered the shots?"

"You, or maybe me," Reheema answered, then picked up her glass. "Let's do it to it."

Vicki picked up her glass. "One, two, three." They downed their shots together, swallowed in unison, and set the shot glasses down at the exact same moment, with a restaurant-grade clunk. Vicki said, still stunned, "It didn't help, did it?"

"No. Nothing can." Reheema shook her head. "I have never seen anything like that in my life. And I've seen some terrible things."

Vicki nodded, her throat burning. "That was carnage. I mean, they shot everywhere. They didn't care who they hit.

Little kids. Babies." She tried not to cry. She was too stunned to cry. She wanted to understand. "But they got who they were after. Browning."

"Looks that way."

"We should have stayed to help."

"They had it under control. The cops were on the way."

"So tell me what happened."

"You saw what happened." Reheema wiped her eyes, but Vicki needed to know the details.

"Tell me what happened inside the store, and we'll see if we can piece this thing together. I'm two minutes from going to the cops."

"Another round!" Reheema called to the bartender, who arrived after a minute, poured them both a shot, and wisely withdrew. She sighed, shaking her head. "Oh man. This is bad, real bad."

"Try to focus and tell me."

"Well, I walked by Browning twice, in the store. I had my hat and sunglasses off and made sure he saw my face. He looked me over both times, like I was a stranger. I don't think he knew me."

"You're sure?"

Reheema downed her second shot. "Yeah. He was in the diaper aisle, and he and the driver were joking. It sounded like he forgot which diapers he was supposed to buy, and I walked down the aisle. I was pretending I was buying some baby oil, and he asked me what size diapers do six-month-olds get." Reheema started rolling her empty shot glass on its end. "I knew that was crap, because it says it on the package."

"I wonder what baby he's buying for? The kid we saw was about four." Vicki tried to reason, despite the gunshots reverberating in her ears. "If there was a baby in that house, his wife, or whatever, wouldn't have left it alone to go to yoga."

"The man is a playa, a gangsta." Reheema's tone was weary. "He got kids everywhere."

"Okay. Right."

"He asked me about my kids." Reheema kept playing with her glass. "I said I didn't have any, I wanted the baby oil for my skin."

"Good save."

"Then he asked me my name and I said Marcia, and I asked him his and he said Jamal, and he said did I live around here, and I said no, I was in from D.C. for the day, visitin' my sister."

"You're a better liar than I am."

"My mother's daughter."

Ouch. Vicki felt a twinge of sympathy, and regret. "Look, maybe we should wait a little to talk about this. We're both upset, and you almost got-"

"I'm ﬁne."

"You could have been killed."

"I wasn't." Reheema stop playing with her glass. "So, anyway, he and I, we kep' talking and the driver got the diapers, then Jamal said could he walk me out and I started to get worried, and I said I was gonna take the bus, and when we got outside he asked me what was my number and I was about to give him a fake one when the shooting started."

"That's it?"

"That's all."

Vicki eyed her second shot, untouched. "So what have we learned? One, Browning doesn't know you. Two, somebody wanted Browning dead and he got his wish. And three, the new bad guy drives a white van."

"Wait, look." Reheema pointed above the bar at the TV, and on the screen was a blue BREAKING NEWS banner.

"Can you turn that up?" Vicki called to the bartender, who reached up and increased the volume loud enough to overcome Britney. The TV screen switched to a scene of the parking lot, above a red caption that read TOYS "R" US MASSACRE. A pretty reporter came on in a red suit and stiff haircut, saying into a bubble microphone:

"Seven people were shot and killed, and fifteen more wounded, five critically, in what appeared to be a drive-by shooting this afternoon at about twelve-thirty, in front of the Toys ‘R' Us store on Regon Avenue. The injured have been taken to area hospitals-"

Vicki could barely watch, sickened. Seven dead. Browning. His driver. The salesclerk. The mother. The baby, the toddler, other children, who else?

The reporter continued, "Police are on the lookout for a white Dodge van, 2003, which had a small American ﬂag decal in the back left window, and was being driven without license plates. We realize there may be many such vans in the Delaware Valley area, but viewers who see a 2003 white Dodge van, with a ﬂag in the rear window, are encouraged to call the police tip line or Action News at…"

Vicki's shoulders sagged. Morty. Jackson. The baby.

The TV screen switched to the next story, a warehouse ﬁre, in the Northeast, and both women turned away. Reheema sighed. "So where were we?"

Vicki straightened up. "Now it's possible that Jay-Boy and Teeg, the kids who shot my partner and Jackson, don't work for Jamal Browning at all. I had thought they did and that the attack was against Shayla Jackson, because of you or your trial, and because Jackson and Browning were evidently breaking up." Vicki forced her brain to reason, despite the shock and the whisky. "But after this, and because Browning didn't know you, I think the real target was Browning, and he's being attacked by a rival gang."

Reheema nodded. "You mean, the teenage kids who shot your partner worked for the white van guy or his boss?"

"Yes."

"But why would they shoot the guy's girlfriend? 'Cause she was pregnant, to hurt him?" Reheema frowned, puzzled. "That man, Browning, he got enough kids already."

The fish-scale coke. Vicki made a judgment call and filled Reheema in, then concluded, "So the rival gang, if that's what they are, struck at Browning to steal his coke stash. They only killed Jackson because she was there, in the way."

"So it wasn't personal. Okay, I'm with you. Lotta business at stake." Reheema thought a minute. "Still doesn't say why your snitch set me up."

"No, it doesn't. That's an open question." Vicki made a mental note. "It must be a turf war." "And we walked into the middle." "Wonder if it's over Cater Street." "There's a thousand Cater Streets in this city." Vicki nodded. "At least we know it's directed at Browning." "Oh, it's directed, all right." Reheema laughed, but it was hollow. "The problem is that now we don't have anybody to follow back up the chain." "Unless the white van supplies from the same place." "Right." "How likely is that?" Reheema's eyes glittered under her cap. "Likely. It's the little guys that ﬁght it out, block by block, brick by brick. The supplier doesn't care who moves his product." "So we gotta ﬁnd the white van." "Us and Action News. And, oh yeah, the cops. A white work van with an American ﬂag? No license plate? No sweat." "Hold on, I have an idea," Vicki said, her thoughts racing ahead. "Let's go."

Vicki sat in front of her desktop computer at home, wolﬁng down a Big Mac while Reheema ate a McDonald's shaker of salad over her shoulder, watching the screen.

"Okay, they're loaded," Vicki said, snapping in the photo card and clicking to slide show, and they both sat back and watched. The pictures, downloaded from her digital camera, started last night in the dark and played out like a short ﬁlm with a miserably unhappy ending. A shot appeared of Browning and his driver digging the car out, almost pitch black, then bright shots of Browning's wife and son coming out of the house, getting in the car, and the photos continued all the way to the Toys "R" Us, with Reheema going in and out, then ﬁnally appearing with Browning, slipping on her cap and smiling at him.

Vicki clicked and pointed. "There, in the right corner. The front bumper of the white van."

"Got it."

"I thought it was waiting for a space. What an idiot."

"Keep going."

Vicki double-clicked and the slide show restarted, each picture dissolving into the next, in that corny way the software dictated, horribly inappropriate in context. The scene changed to a laughing Browning and Reheema, in close-up, cutting out the white van, and then the last shot caught the salesclerk going down, before Vicki had dropped the camera in horror.

"Sweet Jesus," Reheema said, and Vicki put down her sandwich, her stomach upset.

"Somebody has to stop these guys. This is just lawlessness. They're turning the city into the wild, wild West. No order, no justice. Only money and murder." It gave Vicki a second wind. She clicked though the slide show, searching. She had taken so many pictures, one had to have the driver of the white van. The van had been pointing out of the lot, ready to make a quick getaway, and the driver's side had been facing Vicki, full on. She'd been only half a lot away. She had to have him on ﬁlm. She moved the mouse to the right corner of the photo, then clicked. The front end of the white van peeked onto the corner of the frame.

"Yes!" they both said.

"Gotcha, you animal." Vicki eyed a perfect shot of the driver's window, but it was small and dark.

"Can you make it bigger?"

"Watch and be amazed." Vicki moved the mouse to the toolbar and clicked away. Ten clicks later, her large Gateway monitor had a pixelated photo of the driver, dim but visible.

"All right, girl!"

"Thank you, thank you." Vicki scrutinized her handiwork. The photo was dim and too grainy to be perfect, but the features of the driver were clearly visible, and he was young and white.

"Ha!" Reheema snorted. "Ice, ice, baby."

"How does a white boy take over the trade on Cater, street level?"

"He doesn't show his face, that's how. He's the man who talks to the man. He has his boys do his dirty work." Reheema set down her salad.

The driver looked about twenty-ﬁve, his face young and unlined, with large, light eyes, maybe blue or hazel. His hair was shaved into a fade of a light hair, its color impossible to ascertain in this light. Next to him in the seat sat a shadow. Vicki couldn't make out the features of his accomplice.

"Now what do we do?"

"First thing, we get the photo to the cops. Philly, ATF, FBI, the whole alphabet."

"Show our hand?"

"No, not if we don't have to. I still need my job. And I have another lead I want to follow up." Vicki paused. "If I e-mail this, they'll know where it came from."

"Then what?"

"We do it the old-fashioned way." Vicki checked her watch. Three o'clock. Then she remembered. "They're having a meeting today at ﬁve with all the brass, about Morty's investigation."

"Goody."

"Just so they get started," Vicki said, and they both smiled. She hit Print. "Maybe this actual photo of the murderer will help?"

"Least we can do." Reheema laughed. "So what's the old-fashioned way? Drop it off and run like hell?"

"Bingo." But Vicki was thinking about that meeting, and what would happen when Dan came home.

THIRTY-TWO

It was cold and dark by the time Vicki and Reheema had ﬁnished their mail run, delivering enlargements of the white van driver to receptionists at the U.S. Attorney's Ofﬁce, the FBI, ATF, Philly Homicide, and the four major news stations. They completed the task in disguise, having Reheema drop off where Vicki would be recognized and vice versa. Vicki had considered taking the next step in the Former Master Plan, but she was exhausted and wanted to ﬁnd out from Dan how the big meeting had gone. And the shooting had taken a toll on Reheema, who seemed exhausted and had reverted to being remote. After a side trip for some groceries for each of them, they pulled up in front of Vicki's house.

"You sure you don't want to come in?" Vicki asked. "I'm feeling very domestic. I could make you a quick dinner."

"How would you explain me to your boyfriend?"

"Oh, right. I forgot." Vicki wasn't used to coming home to anything but bills.

"I'm wiped out, anyway. I'm gonna go home and make myself a nice chef salad."

"Didn't you have that for lunch?"

"If it comes in a glass, it ain't a salad."

Vicki had noticed Reheema shopping with a sharp eye on prices at the Acme. "Can I ask what you're doing for money?"

"Using the same green as you."

"You can't have much, after being in the FDC so long." Vicki was choosing her words carefully, especially because she was responsible for putting Reheema there. "And you have to pay bills, get the utilities on. You need infrastructure, right?"

"I'm okay for a while. After we're done, I'm gonna get a job."

"Not at Bennye's."

"God, no."

"Can I lend you some money?"

"No, I'm ﬁne." Reheema stiffened, and Vicki regretted it instantly.

"Okay, just let me know. See you tomorrow morning, later, like nine, after Dan goes to work?"

"Fine."

"I'll let you know anything I ﬁnd out."

"Good." Reheema faced front, nodding.

"Bye." Vicki got out of the Sunbird, retrieved her groceries from the backseat, and closed the door with a ﬁnal slam, feeling oddly as if she had lost something.

A friend.

Or her innocence.

Vicki opened her front door on to a grinning Dan Malloy, standing on her front step in the frigid night, dripping calico cat, the animal's black-and-orange legs draped over his arm. "Well!"

"Zoe, we're home!"

Vicki laughed. "Come in, it's cold. How'd you get her here?"

"Cab. She loved it. She has caviar tastes." Dan stepped inside, then leaned over the cat and kissed Vicki, his mouth an intriguing mix of cold and warm. She kissed him back, then again, and then another time, before they parted.

"Wow." Vicki closed the front door.

"I agree."

"I could get used to this."

"You'll have to, until I get new furniture." Dan looked her over with a smile. "You know, as good as you look right now, you'd look better in bed."

"Thank you." Vicki had showered, which made her feel almost human again in fresh jeans, a pink cashmere sweater, and no sunglasses. "Come into the kitchen and see your surprise."

"I'm getting a surprise?"

"Of course." Only because I'm so smooth.

"Look around, Zoe." Dan set down his briefcase and cat, and followed Vicki into the dining room. "Does the surprise involve you naked?"

"No."

"In a nurse's outﬁt?'

"No."

"A nun's habit?"

"That's so wrong, Malloy." Vicki reached the kitchen, and in the middle of the floor sat a pink plastic litter box, filled with gourmet litter and its own little scoop, resting casually against the side of the tray. "Romantic, huh?"

"Terriﬁc! Thank you!" Dan grinned, pulling her to him and holding her close, and she could feel the cold air clinging to the scratchy wool of his topcoat. "I didn't know they sold litter boxes at Neiman Marcus."

Oops. "Uh, no, they don't. I didn't get the litter box there. I got it from the Acme, where I got groceries for dinner."

"Oh, nice." Dan released her to slide out of his topcoat and put it on the back of the kitchen chair. "What am I making?"

"Hey, I'm making it. We're having ﬁlet mignon, with onions and baked potatoes. It'll be ready in a minute. I'm Martha

Stewart, preincarceration."

"Funny, I don't smell anything."

D'oh! Vicki crossed to the oven and turned it on. "Okay, so we won't be eating in a minute."

Dan smiled. "Doesn't matter. What'd you get at Neiman Marcus?"

Eek. "Nothing. So what happened at the big meeting? Did you go?"

"Yes." Dan's expression changed, suddenly troubled. "Did you see the news, Vick? The shooting at Toys ‘R' Us? Seven people killed, three of them kids, and they say a fourth might not make it. It's disgusting."

"Horrible."

"They should hang that guy. And one was Jamal Browning, shot dead."

No, really? "I heard that on TV. Jackson's boyfriend. Incredible."

"Don't worry, they're gonna get the guy. They already ID'ed him."

"How?"

"You're not gonna believe this. At the end of the business day, somebody sent us a photo of the shooter." Dan reached excitedly inside his jacket pocket and pulled out the photo she'd taken. "Look."

Vicki looked at the photo as if she'd never seen it before, which wasn't easy. "Somebody sent this to us?" And was she wearing Exxon sunglasses or Chanel?

"Dropped it off at the ofﬁce. FBI, ATF, everybody got a copy, like manna from heaven. The FBI thinks somebody from the neighborhood took it and they're too afraid of retaliation to come forward."

The FBI are geniuses. "Probably."

"I'd be afraid, too. What kind of man guns down kids in a Toys ‘R' Us? They coulda hit Browning anywhere, if that's who they were after. It's true scum who does something like that."

Vicki nodded.

"Anyway, it's damn lucky they took the photo, though. The cops had no ﬂash on the shooter. The Toys ‘R' Us surveillance cameras were pointing at the wrong side of the truck, and the eyewitnesses were so freaked out, their descriptions were all over the place. Philly police couldn't even get a composite they had faith in. Then this came in."

Damn, I'm good. "So who is he and what are they doing about it?"

"His name's Bill Toner. He has a record of bush-league crack dealing and ag assault, in Kensington. Philly put an APB out on him, with his last known address." Dan eyed the photo. "Dude's ugly as sin. A cold, cold killer."

"So Toner killed Browning?" Vicki fake-mulled it over. "Do they know why?"

"Not yet." Dan shook his head. "Or at least they're not saying so in an open meeting, with Strauss there."

"Strauss was there? Was Bale?"

"Yep."

"The triumvirate." Vicki would have felt left out if she hadn't been doing something more important. Like their jobs.

"I missed you today." Dan smiled, set the photo on the table, and reached for her, drawing her close. He didn't feel so cold anymore, his chest warm and strong, and Vicki pressed herself against him, his loosened tie silky on her cheek. She felt guilty deceiving him, but if he knew what she'd been doing, he'd try to stop her. She accepted his embrace, and the real, solid comfort it afforded, after the awful afternoon.

"It looked horrible, on TV. These poor people, getting shot."

"I know, I saw it, too. These are real bad guys. Dangerous guys." Dan's voice softened, and Vicki felt the reverberation within his chest as he spoke. "Problem is, you shoulda seen this meeting. The Toys ‘R' Us shooting threw a major wrench into the works. The mayor's on the phone, the city's in an uproar. Then the chamber of commerce starts screaming. Everybody's running around like a chicken and you could see it happen. It was like a tide shifting. I watched Morty go to the back burner."

"Why?" Vicki asked, stricken. "Browning's murder is related to Morty's. These things are of a piece, they have to be."

"Doesn't matter now." Dan frowned in disappointment, too. "Now it's about innocent people being killed while they shop, you can see that. Strauss has to shift priorities to the safety of shopping in the city, to babies and kids getting shot up on the evening news. You can't blame the man."

"But the CI was Browning's girlfriend and she got killed when his coke was stolen. Maybe somebody from the Toner crew, if not Toner himself, is trying to take over Browning's operation."

Dan nodded. "I'm not saying they won't follow up on that, but jurisdiction is still a live issue, unfortunately, and Toys ‘R' Us is an emergency. The situation is acute, and we're in triage. The murder of an ATF agent and a druggy girlfriend in a stash house will not get the same attention as kids shot up when they're at a Toys ‘R' Us. They're already pulling uniforms off the street."

No! "But Morty's life matters and so does hers. And what about her baby?" Vicki felt like the case was slipping away. "If you fix one, you fix the other, don't you see? They can't let Morty go!"

"Wait, there was one thing, hold on, I'll get it." Dan left the kitchen and returned with his briefcase, set it on the chair, and slid some papers out. "Look." He put the papers down on the kitchen table, next to the place setting.

Vicki came over. The papers were charts of ﬁrst names and numbers in computer printing. The names ran down the left side of the chart, the numbers, ten digits, ran down the middle, and then after that was a second column of numbers.

After a minute, she recognized the ten-digit numbers in the middle as phone numbers because they all began with 215, the area code for Philly. Vicki asked, "A list of phone calls?"

"Yes. It's called a Call Frequency Chart. It's fascinating. ATF developed the software program that generates it, for HIDTAs."

"HIDTAs?"

"High Intensity Drug Trafficking Areas. It's a task force within the agency, and ATF assigned the investigation of Morty's murder to them. They specialize in drug operations with an especially high level of violence."

Gulp. "And what does HIDTA do, exactly?"

"Investigate, tap, surveille, you know, get the info for search and arrest warrants, in the most dangerous cases." Dan returned to studying the charts. "HIDTA has developed its own program for investigations of cell phones. You see, dealers have to communicate with each other all the time, and they use Nextel phones or cell phones. It's very mechanical, the drug business."

Vicki had thought the same thing, when she and Reheema were following the dealers the past two days. It was almost primitive.

"HIDTA starts with a normal cell phone, one that's seized, let's say, during a search. They call that the ‘known phone.' They analyze the data in it, like the directory, and ﬁgure out the phone numbers associated with each person called. You follow?"

"Yes."

"Then they subpoena the records for the known phone, over a long period of time, and they load all the information about the calls into the computer. The program they wrote generates a Call Frequency Chart. That is, it makes a record of how often the owner of the known phone calls certain numbers." Dan ran a fingernail across the first line of the list. "This ﬁrst page is a sample, and you can see the ﬁrst name on this list is Lik, which they tell me is the nickname for Malik."

"Okay."

"Lik's number is this one, and the chart shows that the owner of this phone called Lik's number the most frequently of all other calls, in a month's time. The column on the far right is the number of times the owner of the phone called Lik in a month, which is 354. You can look down the chart at the ﬁrst three people the owner called the most. Lik, Tay, and Two. See? He called them 354, 322, and 310 times, respectively."

Vicki did.

"Now, they tell me that drug dealers change cell phones all the time. They use ‘burnout phones' or ‘drop phones,' they call them. Let's say the owner of the phone, the bad guy, drops this phone. He throws it away to avoid the cops."

"Okay."

"The problem used to be that when the bad guy discarded a phone, all the investigation of his activity and calls were gone, and HIDTA would have to start over again. No more." Dan went to the next sheet of numbers. "Now they can ﬁgure out which cell phone he picks up next, using this software."

"How?"

"Because, as a logical matter, he tends to call the same set of people he called before, at the same frequency. See this second chart? This new caller called Lik's number ten times that day. HIDTA does the same thing for the other people called, Tay and Two, and they do it over a long period of time, to enhance the reliability of their conclusion. The odds are that it's the same person making those calls, regardless of which phone he uses. Correct?"

"Correct."

"So then we can reason backward, and say that therefore, the bad guy is now using this cell phone. We can figure out that that's his new cell number and pick up activity on the new phone, losing no time on the investigation. In other words, the fact that they change phones doesn't defeat us."

"Great."

"Now this software has other applications for investigations. For example, what they told us at the meeting is that your cell phone, with the blue daisies"-Dan smiled-"is currently being used by a known mid-level drug dealer. His name is Ray James."

"What?" Vicki was astonished. "How do they know that?"

"Here's his chart, but it's only for a few days, so it's not rock-solid by any means." Dan set two charts side by side. "But see? They had Ray James's known phone from a previous arrest, and they did a Call Frequency Chart for him on the known phone. Then, because they knew your cell number, they began a Call Frequency Chart for your phone after it was stolen."

"So they tapped my cell phone?"

"No, they don't have to tap the phone to get this. They just can get a pen register, a record of calls made by the phone, as opposed to actually listening in to the call."

"Okay."

"So now they load your Call Frequency Report into the computer and ask it for a match, and it comes up with Ray James. In other words, Mr. James, who used to use this known phone"-Dan pointed to the chart on the left-"is now using your phone, because his old Call Frequency Chart matches the one for your phone, on the right."

"My God." Vicki's eyes widened. "So they know Ray James killed Reheema's mother!"

"Not yet."

"But they go and pick him up and question him about the murder, don't they?" Vicki was so tempted to call Reheema, but she couldn't. "Either he killed her or he knows who did!"

"Slow down. They don't do that yet. Why are you getting so excited?"

"But it was only days ago! It's most likely him! Ray James could be the guy with the gravelly voice, that we both talked to!"

"Vick." Dan smiled and held up a warning hand. "Settle down. You know better than that."

"I do?"

"Yes, you do. Think about it, calmly. All it means is that Ray James has the phone from somebody who might know that. Or that Ray James found the phone in a Dumpster or on the street. Or that he bought it from somebody who bought it from somebody else who found it on the street after the killer threw it there." Dan cocked his head, his blue eyes tired. "All we really know for sure is that Ray James has your cell phone."

"We can still ask the man, can't we?"

"Not consistent with that pesky Constitution, we can't. ATF can't, and they won't." Dan laughed. "This is way too soon to be sure, and they don't show their hand until they have the goods. You should know that they would need to show a judge at least a few months of calls to establish probable cause." Dan smiled. "So your phone is hard at work for the common good."

"So what will they do about Ray James?"

"Try to learn more about him, build their case, record his calls. Do it right."

"He has a record?"

"Ag assault, firearms, possession and distribution, the works. His record's in my briefcase; they gave us all copies. They'll follow up, it's just a question of time. You know how they investigate. Morty was the most methodical agent I knew."

Morty. Vicki tried to simmer down. "Ray James doesn't bring us any closer to Morty's killer."

"Not really, no."

"And he's on the back burner."

"For the time being. Then the heat will die down, but they won't forget about him. I won't let them." Dan began to gather his charts. "But we have been told to deal with Toys ‘R' Us, top priority. I put a press release together for Strauss. There's a conference at eleven tomorrow. Everybody's gonna be there, from the mayor on down." Dan put the charts into his briefcase. "Plus, I forgot, they do have the one other guy, a loose end. This guy who was with Browning. They said they'll track him down when they get the chance."

"What guy? The guy who got shot, that one? I thought he was killed."

"No, not that one, another one. Tall guy, walked out of the store with Browning. The FBI thinks he mighta helped set him up for the kill. They're lookin' for him everywhere."

Huh? "I didn't see him on TV."

"He's there, walking with Browning. They picked him up on the surveillance cameras at Toys ‘R' Us. He had some kinda cap on and they only got his back."

Oh no.

"Tall guy, black, that's it. He ran when the shooting started."

Reheema.

"And they're looking for a car that was waiting for him. They got a shot of it on the surveillance camera. He was working with another guy and he ran to him and the car when the shooting started."

That would be me. "Could they ID the other guy?"

"No. Short white guy. The FBI thinks this new gang is multiracial. Gives you hope, doesn't it?"

Eeek. "Did they get the make of car?"

"I think so, but no plate either." Dan slipped the charts into his briefcase, then straightened up with a smile. "No more work for today."

The FBI was looking for Reheema and her, cross-dressing.

"Do you know how nice it is to come home to you?" Dan reached for Vicki and pulled her into his arms, kissing her softly. "You made me very happy today, on what could have been the worst day of my life."

Aw. "Really?"

"Yes, I'm basically homeless, but you made me feel at home. I love you for that. And I cannot stop thinking about last night, which was epic." Dan looked over at the clock on the oven. "I figure we have half an hour before dinner. That's enough for a nap."

"But I'm not tired." And I have to go rent another car.

"What a coincidence." Dan kissed her softly. "Can I interest you?"

"You already have," Vicki answered, kissing him back, and she let him take her hand and lead them both out of the kitchen. She would force herself to have great sex with him, so he wouldn't be suspicious, and her orgasms would only lend realism to her ruse.

But she took one last look backward, ﬁlled with lust.

For his briefcase.