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PART FOUR

Right is right, even if everyone is against it, and wrong is wrong, even if everyone is for it.

– WILLIAM PENN

Everybody, if you in the drug business, your object is to reach the top and do business with the connect. Nobody who's in the business stay at the bottom; not unless you's a fool. If you do something, you do it your fullest. So your object was to be like the Monopoly game. You start at Go and you want to go around and pass the board. So, that's what your object would be. To reach the top.

– JAMAL MORRIS, United States v. Williams, United States District Court, Eastern District of Pennsylvania, Criminal Docket No. 02-172, February 20, 2004, Notes of Testimony at 429

THIRTY-THREE

First thing the next morning, Vicki and Reheema picked out another new-to-you car, a nondescript beige Intrepid, vintage 2000, automatic transmission, 78,000 miles, which rented for a hundred a week. They parked the Sunbird in a garage, at thirty bucks a day, because they couldn't take the risk of turning it in, even though Vicki was worrying about her skyrocketing stakeout costs.

They parked the Intrepid down the street from the diner closest to their new favorite car dealership and settled into a table for breakfast. Only a few tradesmen were in the restaurant, which had wood-paneled walls, harsh ﬂuorescent lights, and red Formica tables that were permanently greasy. They chose the restaurant for the TV, not the decor or the food, and they weren't wrong. The big-screen Panasonic was mounted on a plywood stand high in the corner, and the scrambled eggs arrived in a blue plastic basket.

Vicki sipped her coffee as Reheema read Bill Toner's police record. On TV, Live at 10 was running a special feature on the Toys "R" Us shooting, and the newspaper headlines this morning had been all about the bloodbath. The city had reacted emotionally, and Vicki knew the pain would only intensify as funerals for the children began. Morty's murder paled in newsworthiness and ofﬁcial attention.

Reheema looked up. Her eyes were bright and alert, her hair hidden by a new Eagles hat, and she wore a plain gray sweatshirt under her pea coat. If it bothered her to know the name of the man who had almost shot her to death, it didn't show. "You got these papers from your boyfriend?"

"Yes."

Reheema frowned. "You told him what we're doin'?"

Not exactly. "No, I went in his briefcase while he was asleep. I scanned the documents and printed them."

"Damn, girl!" Reheema's eyes lit up with admiration.

"Hey, I'm not proud of it." Vicki couldn't have taken the papers or Dan would have known. She'd also copied the HIDTA charts and record of Ray James, but she hadn't told Reheema about him yet. She wasn't sure when, how, or even if, she would. How do you tell someone that you may/may not have the name and address of her mother's murderer?

Oblivious, Reheema was still smiling. "You stay outta the kitchen last night, you ho?"

Vicki winced. "Stop. I love the man."

"Slow down, girl. He left his wife two days ago."

"She left him."

"All the more, and he's not divorced yet."

"That's only the legal part."

"You're a lawyer."

"I hear you. Enough." Vicki checked the TV, where the T-Mobile commercial was over and a BREAKING NEWS banner was coming on. She edged forward in her seat. "Heads up. It's the press conference."

"Ooh, wow."

Vicki watched as the TV screen showed Strauss behind a podium, with the American ﬂag on his right, standing next to a phalanx of suits that ended in Dan. Her heart leaped up. "That's Dan, on the end!"

Reheema turned to the TV. "He's white?"

Vicki laughed. "He's strawberry blond. Hot, huh?"

"He's all right." Reheema smiled.

Vicki looked again at the TV. Bale wasn't onscreen. Odd.

Strauss was saying, "No one needs to remind anybody of the appalling scenes that took place yesterday at Toys ‘R' Us. Men, women, and children were murdered, and the cowards who killed them must be stopped so we can live our lives, shop with our children, and enjoy the great opportunity this country offers us all."

"What's that man running for?" Reheema asked, pushing her eggs away, half eaten.

"To accomplish that, my office is pleased to announce an initiative entitled Project Clean Shopping, whereby the highest priority will be given to the prosecution of shootings, assaults, and other crimes that take place in the shopping areas, strip malls, or indoor malls of the city of Philadelphia."

Vicki thought of Morty. Mr. Clean.

"You have already heard at the mayor's press conference, earlier this morning, that the Philadelphia police will double the number of patrol ofﬁcers to our city's shopping areas and strip malls. Law enforcement will work together to protect the safety of our citizens and the economy of this thriving city. So please, go about your business. Mourn these victims, honor them by enjoying yourselves and by living your lives. Don't permit a few thugs-or your fears-to keep you from shopping for your family and yourselves."

"S'all about the money," Reheema said, sipping her coffee.

"I'll take questions in a minute, but I'd like to introduce you to Dan Malloy, one of the best prosecutors in my ofﬁce, who will be heading up Project Clean Shopping. The press release we distributed today lists Dan as the contact point, so you now have his phone and e-mail. Please, folks, feel free to ask Dan all the hard questions. Leave the easy ones for me."

Wow! "Wow!" Vicki couldn't hide her surprise. Dan hadn't mentioned it last night. She felt confused and proud, both at once.

"Dan the man," Reheema said, smiling, and Vicki felt the proud part surge to the fore.

"Good for him. He deserves it."

"Wonder if they know he does it in the kitchen."

"Behave." Vicki watched the rest of the press conference, in which Strauss answered softballs with a politician's expertise. When it was over, she scooped up a forkful of eggs. "We'd better get going, we have our work cut out for us, playing catch-up. Dan says ATF assigned a special group to this case, because of the level of violence, and after yesterday, we have to be careful. Let's just see what goes on and try to stay away from the guns, huh?"

"Including mine?"

Vicki set down her fork and eased back into the booth seat. "On you?"

"Yeah."

"Where is it?" Vicki eyed Reheema's pea coat. "I'm not wearing my X-ray specs."

"My coat pocket."

"You got bullets, too?"

"They go inside the gun, Harvard. No fun without."

Their eyes met over the leftovers. Vicki said, "Well, I won't tell you you're wrong, and you wouldn't listen anyway."

"True."

"Where did you get it, by the way?"

"Around."

"What's that mean?"

"In the neighborhood."

"Wait. When you wanted guns before, you bought them in a gun shop."

"Went to jail in between. Learned a lot." Reheema smiled, tight, and picked up her fork. "Finish your breakfast."

But Vicki had lost her appetite. Guns. HIDTA. Bill Toner.

Maybe they were in over their heads. For the ﬁrst time, she felt afraid, and ironically, it was because they were armed now, too.

"By the way, can I take you up on your offer last night, about the money?"

Good. "How much do you need? I got some cash."

"To get started, three hundred, if you can manage."

"I think I have it on me. I took out extra for the new car." Vicki reached for her wallet, counted out the bills, then stopped. "But I want collateral. The gun."

"What?"

"Give me the gun and I'll give you the money. I need collateral."

Reheema cocked her head, her lovely eyes narrowing. "You just don't want me to have a gun."

"No, really?" Vicki made a duh face, but Reheema didn't laugh.

"It won't help either of us if you have it. You don't know how to use it. You're good with a computer, but a gun is something else."

"You're no better than I am."

"Am, too."

Vicki clucked. "Have you ever shot a gun?"

"Yeah."

Oh. "At somebody?"

"Of course. How else you gonna hit 'em?"

Maybe National Honor Society only goes so far. "Still."

"Fine." Reheema shoved her hand into her pea coat and took out a gun as easily as car keys. It was a revolver with a silver barrel and a black handle, and she set it on the red table with a clunk.

"What are you doing?" Vicki snatched up the gun and put it on her lap before anybody saw it, not that there was anybody around to see. And even on her lap, the gun felt unsafe, as if it might spontaneously combust. Vicki had never been this close to a loaded weapon that wasn't pointed at her.

"Now gimme the money." Reheema stood up, hand outstretched, and Vicki handed her the cash. She folded it into a wad and stuffed it into her jeans pocket. "And don't think I can't take that gun from you, anytime I want it."

"Be that way." Vicki slid the gun into her purse, then stood up and tried to recover her dignity. It seemed oddly beside the point, now that she was carrying concealed.

Vicki and Reheema circled Lincoln Street a few times in the Intrepid, getting a bead on the new Cater Street operation since Browning's death. There were unfamiliar lookouts at both ends of Cater, but the same steady stream of customers ﬂocked to the hole. The smaller snowplows must have come, because Cater had been cleared, permitting car traffic and curbside crack takeaway to recommence, busy as Outback Steakhouse.

Vicki had given up trying to figure out why having a gun made her feel less safe, and they forgot their lovers' quarrel and focused on the goings-on on Cater, once the Intrepid was parked behind their favorite snowbank.

"Same wine, different bottle," Reheema said, and Vicki nodded. Bright light ﬂooded the car's crappy black interior, reflecting off the leftover snow. They actually needed the sunglasses, if not the dumb hats.

"Wonder if it's a whole new crew."

"Crew?" Reheema looked over the top of her sunglasses. "Where'd you learn that?"

"MTV."

"Proud a you." They both laughed, and Reheema asked, "So what's the plan, we wait for the go-between?"

"Right. I still wanna go up the chain, especially now that we're on to something. I think it's Toner's crew that hit Jack-son's house that night and killed her and Morty. Now we have to ﬁnd the equivalent of Browning, but in Toner's crew, then go on up to the connect." Vicki started digging in her backpack for her camera. "I assume this organization works the same way."

"Gotta sell the crack, then gotta get more, and somebody got to bring it to you."

"Right." Mechanical. "So we watch and wait. We are the stakeout professionals."

" 'Xactly, lil' home."

Two hours later, they had moved the Intrepid a few times because the lookouts in Toner's crew were more watchful, spending no time smoking or talking to the customers, which made sense because they didn't know them. It got Vicki thinking. "This is a tougher organization."

"Why?"

"They're not from the neighborhood. This is a business, to them."

"It was a business to the others, too."

"It seemed more like a party, in comparison. Not like these guys, and the go-between doesn't come as often." Vicki checked her watch. "Browning's crew would've had Mr. Black Leather here once already."

"Might mean they got more than one seller in the hole. Double the supply." Reheema eyed the customers. "Weather's better, volume increasing. They're more competitive. Survival of the ﬁttest."

"I stopped counting customers, but I could start again."

"Don't bother, it's a lot."

"Sure is," Vicki said, taking a picture.

Half an hour later, a black van barreled around the corner from the far end of Cater and stopped in front of the house, idling exhaust. "Look alive," Reheema said.

"The company car." Vicki snapped a photo as a man got out of the driver's seat in a puffy Eagles jacket and black knit cap. "Finally, a Philly fan."

"Got a passenger, too."

Vicki took a picture even though she couldn't see a thing through the windshield because of the glare. In the next minute, the man reached back inside the van and came out with a black Nike gym bag, then turned and hustled with the bag into the hole.

"Ain't that nice? He works out." Reheema put on her seat belt, but Vicki felt too tense to joke around and put on her belt, too. In the next minute, the man hustled back to the van with the Nike bag, jumped inside, and the van took off toward them. The women ducked in unison, and as soon as it was almost out of sight, the Intrepid took off.

With a nervous Vicki riding shotgun.

THIRTY-FOUR

"Look, in the front seat, the passenger seat." Vicki worried, three blocks later, that they'd been spotted by the go-betweens in the black van.

"So what?" Reheema maneuvered the Intrepid behind a Toyota pickup but stayed on track. They were traveling down a numbered street, and in her panic, Vicki had lost her sense of direction.

"The passenger has a ball cap on, so you can see the brim every time he turns his head."

"Okay, so?"

"He turns around a lot. I can see the brim every two minutes, practically. I think he's watching us."

"Calm down. It's only been ﬁve minutes."

Vicki tugged down her Phillies cap. "They know we're following them."

"No, they don't."

"Yes, they do! They could. These guys are smart."

Reheema stopped at the traffic light, two cars behind the van. "So what do you wanna do?"

"Let 'em go."

"Oh, come on!"

"It's daylight and this is too risky. Better to be safe than sorry."

"Don't be stupid."

"Take a left. Bail. Abort, abort, abort."

"Oh, all right." Reheema steered the Intrepid to the left and they turned onto the side street.

"We can pick them up after dark. We'll come back."

"Dumb." Reheema pulled up to the curb and found a parking space behind a PECO truck. She cut the ignition and looked over. "Why you so damn jumpy?"

"I don't know."

"You all right? You look white." Reheema smiled. "Too white."

"I'm fine," Vicki said, queasy. "My stomach feels funny. Either it's the plastic eggs or the thought that we're gonna get killed."

"You want some water? I know you put a bottle in that backpack." Reheema reached back and got the backpack.

"No! Wait!" Vicki shouted, a moment too late. Reheema already had the backpack and was pulling out Ray James's arrest record and mug shot.

"Yo, this guy's from my neighborhood. This address is near me."

"Yeah." Vicki reached for the papers but Reheema was already reading the record.

"Why do you have this? Says here he's done time for assault, with a knife."

Vicki shuddered. For a minute she didn't know what to say.

"Who is this guy?" Reheema held up the record, her eyes searching Vicki's in a way that compelled the truth. "You holdin' out on me? You get this record the same way you got Toner's?"

"Uh, yes." Vicki felt her heart pounding. She should have left the records at home, but she'd been afraid Dan would come across them. And now that Reheema knew about James, Vicki couldn't lie to her.

"What aren't you tellin' me?" Reheema asked, her voice wounded, and then she came up to speed. She tore off her sunglasses, and her dark eyes hardened with a familiar distrust. "He has something to do with my mother."

"Maybe, maybe not. They're not sure." "Tell me!" Reheema said, but it came out like a command, dispelling the warmth between them. "I will, but-" "I have a right to know what happened to my mother." "You do-" "She's my mother. Tell me what you know!" "Calm down and I will." "Fine." "Good. Thank you." So Vicki began, thanking God she had gotten the gun from Reheema ﬁrst. She told Reheema everything, taking her through the HIDTA records, too, and by the time she was ﬁnished, she could see that Reheema was calmer, more reasonable. "So as much as you would love to get him, he may not be the killer."

"But he could be. Or he could know who is." "No. Ray James has my phone, is all we know." "So when do these ATF suits go talk to him?" "ATF may not have jurisdiction and they'll have to work with Philly, because murder is a state-law crime. The Philly cops were represented at this meeting last night, and this would come under their jurisdiction-"

"Stop." Reheema held up a palm. "Bottom line."

"Your mother's murder is a matter for the Philly police. They're on it. You met Detective Melvin that morning, right? He's a good guy. He'll question James as soon as he lawfully can. Understand?"

"Understand." "Any questions? It is kind of complicated." "No questions." Reheema turned in the driver's seat, twisted on the ignition, and backed out of the space. She went forward too fast, almost hitting the bumper of the PECO truck.

"Reheema, where are we going?"

"Where'd you think?"

"Reheema, we can't go over there." Vicki held on tight, literally and ﬁguratively, as the Intrepid took off down the street.

"I can."

"It could compromise their investigation."

"They ain't investigatin'."

"Yes, they are."

"No, they're not." Reheema hit the gas to pass a furniture truck. "My mother's last in line, behind your ATF friend and the little blond kids at the Toys ‘R' Us. You said so yourself."

Vicki ﬂushed. "We can do this the right way."

"I'm not gonna do anything wrong."

"You can't."

"I'm not." Reheema ran a red light, ignoring a loud HONK! "All I'm gonna do is go over and ask the man a few questions."

"But it's not our place to do that."

"It's my place."

"I have another idea."

"Me, too, but you took my gun."

Vicki was pretty sure Reheema was kidding. "Instead, why don't we call Homicide and ask them what progress they're making? Make sure that they got the word about Ray James? Find out what they're doing about him?"

"Go ahead. Call 'em. Tell 'em I said how they doin'." Reheema barely slowed at the corner of the street, then took a right, heading for the main road.

"Okay, I will." Vicki reached in her purse, bypassed the loaded gun, and retrieved her cell phone, then dialed Philly Homicide. She knew the number from her old D.A. days. "Detective Al Melvin, please."

"He's not in," answered a gruff male voice, which Vicki knew belonged to the desk ofﬁcer, a detective stuck with answering the phones this tour. "Detective, this is Vicki Allegretti. I'm an AUSA and I'm calling about the Arissa Bristow case." "Who?" "Allegretti." "No, the case." "The victim's name is Arissa Bristow." "Is it open?" Reheema's eyes shifted knowingly, and Vicki hit a button to lower the volume on the cell. "Yes, of course, it's open. Ms. Bristow was killed last Friday night, stabbed to death in a house on Lincoln Street." "What's your ofﬁce have to do with it?" "I'm calling as a friend of the family." Reheema snorted. The detective asked, "Okay, how can I help you?" "Detective Melvin was investigating the case, with a partner." "Melvin and his partner are both over at City Hall." Gulp. "Is there a number there where I can reach them?" "Listen Mrs. Bristow-" "Allegretti." "I'll leave a message you called, that's the best I can do." "When will they get the message?" "Soon as they can. We're all a little busy lately, with what happened at Toys ‘R' Us." Sarcasm tinged his tone. "You seen the news lately?" Reheema's mouth flattened to an I-told-you-so line, and Vicki got mad.

"You know, I wouldn't think you guys would drop the ball just because another murder comes along. There was an ongoing investigation, and I'm here with a member of the victim's family."

"My condolences to the family, and I assure you, Detective Melvin is working the case. Is that what you wanted? What you called for?"

"No. I wanted to know what progress Detective Melvin had made, and speciﬁcally, if he has contacted a lead named Ray James yet."

"I'll let him know you asked. Thanks for calling."

"Thank you." Vicki gave him her cell number and ﬂipped the phone closed as the Intrepid veered around a corner, racing to Lincoln Street. At this point, they were half an hour away.

"So, did they say hey?" "We're not gonna go crazy here." "No one's goin' crazy," Reheema said, and ran another red light. "You keep running the lights, we're gonna pick up a cop." "No, we won't. Didn't you see your boss on TV? The cops are at Toys ‘R' Us."

"Think of it this way," Vicki said, changing tacks. "If we go there now, we'll be showing our hand, like you said. Right now, James doesn't know that HIDTA is recording his phone calls. He doesn't know they're building a case against him. If we go over and start asking questions about the phone, he's gonna ditch the phone for sure."

"You might be right." "Good," Vicki sighed, relieved. "You might also be wrong. Or what happens to him after might not matter." Vicki felt her ﬁrst tingle of true fear. "He's dangerous. James is a dangerous man." Reheema smiled. "You got a gun." "I won't use it, and neither will you." "I'm dangerous, either way." "Oh, that's great." Vicki started to lose her temper, which she knew wouldn't help her cause. "Reheema. I guarantee that however tough you think you are, James is a lot tougher." "I can handle him. Record says he's ﬁve six, one ﬁfty. I got a couple inches on him and I've been lifting for almost a year." Yikes. "That's not the point." "Listen, if you're scared, don't come." Suddenly Reheema twisted the black wheel of the Intrepid to the right, yanked the car to the curb in front of Popeyes fried chicken, and pressed the brakes. The car lurched to a stop. "Get out."

"What?" Vicki asked, startled. "Go. Leave. This is a decent neighborhood, you'll be ﬁne. Get yourself some chicken wings and I'll come back for you." "No." Vicki knew she should go, at the same moment she knew she'd stay. "Get out." Vicki sat stiff in her seat. "I don't want to." "Why not? You'll lose your job." "Not if you behave yourself, I won't. I'm in. You need me." Reheema burst into merry laughter, like her old self, and the two almost became friends again. "I'm saving you from yourself, Reheema." "The hell you are!" "Also you'd miss me. You'd have separation anxiety." "No, I wouldn't." Vicki waved a hand. "Go ahead, tough girl. Drive." Reheema laughed again. "You're kiddin'." "Go." Vicki turned to her, grave. "But I'm watching every single move you make. And if I have to shoot you, I will."

"Damn!" Reheema said, and hit the gas. They arrived at James's house faster than most rockets, and the Intrepid pulled up in front of a crumbling brick row house. Reheema cut the ignition, took out the key, and started to leave the car, when Vicki put a hand on her arm to stop her.

"How about this?" Vicki asked, as a last-ditch effort. "How about you let me do the talking and we don't tell him who you are?"

"How about not?" Reheema's features had fallen into lines as ﬁxed as dark marble.

"If I question him, maybe I can convince him to come in and confess, as opposed to muscling him."

"I want to muscle him."

Vicki experienced another fear tingle. She'd had so many on the way over, she felt electriﬁed. "Reheema, I'm begging you, please be smart."

"Enough talk." Reheema broke Vicki's grasp and got out of the car, slamming the door behind her.

Oh, great. Vicki jumped out of the passenger seat and ran around the other side as Reheema climbed the concrete steps to James's front door in two bounds and started pounding. James's row house stood in the middle of the block, in worse repair than the rest of the neighborhood. It had only one black shutter on the ﬁrst ﬂoor, for two windows, and its front door had been painted a bright, mismatched green, as if bought used or poached from a junkyard.

"Stay calm," Vicki said, but Reheema kept knocking.

"James! Ray James!"

"Calm!" Vicki eyed the street, which was still except for Re-heema's banging on the door. In one of the houses, a dog started barking.

"Ray James! Open up!"

"Maybe he's not home."

"James! Open this door!"

"We could call him on the cell, see if he's home."

"Open this door!" Reheema shouted, and before Vicki could realize what was happening, much less could stop her, Reheema had reared back and shoved the door with all her might, breaking it open at the lock. "That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!"

"Reheema!" Vicki shouted, terriﬁed.

But Reheema was already pushing the door the rest of the way open and breaking into the house.

THIRTY-FIVE

"James! Ray James!" Reheema shouted over a blaring TV, and Vicki hurried inside the dark row house after her. A short hall ended at an arched entrance to a living room, where the noise was coming from.

"Oh! Who're you?" a man asked, his voice fearful.

"You Ray James?" Reheema demanded.

"Yes, don' hurt me!"

"Reheema! Stop!" Vicki rounded the corner just in time to catch Reheema yelling at a man who was lying in a bed in the darkened living room. He raised his arms partway, as if she had a gun. He was youngish, black, and obviously ill, because the bed was an adjustable hospital bed with an orange-and-green Brophy's Medical Supply sticker on the footboard. Next to it sat a plastic white commode with the same sticker, and the coffee table was serving as a makeshift night table, littered with tall brown bottles of medication, a pebbled plastic pitcher, a box of blue Kleenex, and a scalloped paper plate holding two pizza crusts.

"Reheema Bristow! Know that name? BRISTOW!" Reheema yelled, and Vicki grabbed her arm.

"Get a grip! The man is sick!"

"So what?" Reheema shot back, her fury abated, if only by degree, like a hurricane downgraded to a tropical storm. She turned to James.

"Gimme your cell phone!"

"Okay, okay, okay." James's eyes widened in fear and he ﬁshed a cell phone from the bedcovers, then thrust it at Reheema. "Here. You can have it. Take it."

"Ha!" Reheema grabbed the phone with its blue daisy cover and showed it to Vicki. "Yours?"

"Reheema, take it easy, look at the man," Vicki said, holding fast to Reheema's arm. Something was wrong with James. His head listed to the left, he hadn't shaved in days, and his words slurred slightly when he spoke. He wasn't drunk but seemed loopy, as if he was on medication.

"Where'd you get this phone?" Reheema demanded, brandishing it.

"My home."

"Who?"

"Wha'?"

"TELL ME WHERE YOU GOT THE PHONE!"

Vicki squeezed Reheema's arm. "Reheema, take it easy."

James's eyes ﬂared. "Chucky! Chucky gi' it to me."

"Chucky WHO?"

"Call him Chucky Cheese. Look like the Chucky doll."

"Where's Chucky live?"

"Dunno," James answered.

"Yes you do! Where!" Reheema broke Vicki's grip with ease, stepping to the edge of the bed, so Vicki stepped neatly between them and faced the prone man.

"Mr. James," she asked, "do you know where Chucky lives? Just tell us and we'll go. We're trying to ﬁnd out where he got the phone."

"I forget the street name. The street, with the bank."

"Which bank?"

"Dunno. Blue sign, 'bout ten blocks up." James pointed over his head, and Reheema shoved Vicki aside.

"The PNC that's on Jefferson Street?"

James nodded weakly.

"Okay, he lives on Jefferson. What house number on Jefferson, Ray?"

"I dunno."

"THINK!"

Vicki jumped. "Reheema, don't bully him!"

"Middle… of the block, red… door," James stammered, and Reheema exploded.

"You got this phone when you killed my mother!"

"No!" James's eyes widened, holding his hands higher. "I ain't killed nobody! I been inna hospital, gettin' ma damn foot cut off! Look!" He lowered a hand, pulled back the bedcovers, and revealed a bandaged stump on his left foot, sitting in a foam-blue holder. Vicki hid her surprise at the sight, and even Reheema took a step back.

"When'd you get that?"

"Saturday morning."

Vicki interjected, "So you were in the hospital Friday night?"

"Yeah. They took me in to run the tests, then they cut it off the next day, jus' like that."

Vicki planted herself in front of Reheema. "Mr. James, when did you get the phone?"

"When I ge' home, next day."

"When was that?"

James blinked dully. "What's today?"

"Thursday. When did you come home from the hospital?"

"I come home Saturday." James seemed to lose focus, his eyelids drooping to a close. "Saturday mornin'."

Vicki nodded. "So Chucky gave you the cell phone on Monday."

"Yeah, Chucky gi' it to me."

"Did Chucky tell you where he got the phone?"

"No."

Reheema couldn't take it anymore, demanding, "Where'd you get the phone, Ray?"

"I tole you. Chucky. Chucky got everythin', everythin' you need, he got it. Chucky like a store," James mumbled, his eyes still closed. "Alls I do now lay here and talk onna phone. Can't do no business, can't do nothin'. I watch the TV and talk to my homes, all day long."

Hmm. Vicki realized that would explain the HIDTA frequency reports; James was making the same calls but the substance was different, and in time the call pattern would change. ATF never would have gotten the warrant for James, on that record.

"You better be tellin' me the TRUTH!" Reheema spat out, and James waved her away like a ﬂy.

"Le' me alone, le' me in peace. I din' kill nobody. I din' do nothin'."

"Thank you, Mr. James," Vicki said, then turned to Reheema. "I think we're ﬁnished here, don't you?"

"Hmph!" Reheema edged away from the bed.

Now. Vicki walked ahead of her, because she had a Secret Plan. She couldn't let this happen again. Suddenly, she bumped Reheema's side like a common pickpocket, grabbed the car keys from her hand, and ran down the hall and toward the front door with them.

"What are you doing?" Reheema shouted, caught by surprise and momentarily left behind.

Go, go, go! Vicki ﬂew out the front door and into the cold, ran for the Intrepid and jumped inside, locking the doors.

"What the HELL YOU DOIN'?" Reheema reached the car a split second later and hit the glass window, furious.

But Vicki wasn't staying to answer. She'd twisted on the ignition, hit the gas, and driven off, with Reheema giving chase.

Yikes! Vicki hadn't counted on Reheema trying to run down a car, so she floored the gas pedal. The Intrepid picked up nicely, and she tore down the street and took a swift right onto the main drag, heading for the PNC Bank at Jefferson Street. She checked the rearview, and Reheema was sprinting down the block. Vicki hit the gas, caught the next two green lights, and spotted the PNC Bank. By then, Reheema had disappeared from the rearview mirror.

Yippee! Vicki turned right onto Jefferson and raced toward the house with the red door. She would get this job done without bullies, interference, or illegality. Chucky Cheese didn't sound dangerous. And if Vicki had to defend herself, she had a law degree.

It turned out that Chucky was not only harmless, he was eighty-proof, and he leaned way too close to Vicki as they sat in the front seat of the Intrepid. They had parked behind a CVS three blocks from his house, where Reheema would never find them. Chucky was about sixty-five years old, African-American, and a diminutive ﬁve foot three in a thick green parka. He had shrewd brown eyes with a mercantile glint and, as James had suggested, served as the eBay of the hood.

"Ya want information, that'll be twenty bucks," Chucky said, his breath scented with Budweiser.

"Another twenty?" Vicki had already spent twenty to get him in the car with her, once she had convinced him she didn't want to "party."

"Money talks, or Mr. Chucky walks." Chucky grinned, showing the gap between his front teeth that had undoubtedly given him his nickname.

"Fine." Vicki reached into her wallet yet again and handed him the twenty. "Okay, so tell me-"

"Ya need a watch, a new watch?"

"I got a watch."

"Classy girl like ye'self, ya gotta wear Rolex."

"I don't want a fake Rolex, Chucky."

"Ain't fake!"

"Of course it is." Vicki had already bought from him a fake Vuitton bag, a counterfeit pink-and-black Burberry scarf, and a bootleg copy of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. The stuff sat between them on the seat like a barricade of knockoffs. She watched with dismay as Chucky started digging again in the backseat, where he'd insisted on putting his bedsheet, like Santa with his bag of copyright violations.

"Ya need a Rolex, Miss Vicki." Chucky plopped back into the passenger seat, holding a fake stainless Rolex. "Ya need ta buy this."

"No, I don't."

"Ya do if you wanna know where I got that cell phone."

"Do you really know where you got it?"

"Yes, I do, swear I do." Chucky nodded, his bald head dotted with tiny gray hairs, covering a veiny brown scalp.

"I don't believe you. I'm guessing you sell a lot of cell phones."

"I do all right with the phones, this time a year."

"So tell me what my phone looked like."

"Little silver one, Samsung, blue daisies, green center in each one."

Vicki couldn't help but be impressed. She liked a fence who knew his inventory.

"Watch is thirty dollars." Chucky handed her a Rolex that gleamed like Reynolds Wrap.

"Thirty dollars for this? Come on!"

" 'Scuse me, twenty."

"Excuse me! Ten!"

"Twenty."

Maybe bribes are deductible. Vicki handed over another twenty, and Chucky slipped it into his pocket.

"You won't be sorry, Miss Vicki. Lemme show you what I been savin' for you, special for you." Chucky reached for the backseat, rummaging again.

"No, I'm not buying anything else. Now tell me where you got that cell phone."

Chucky sat down and dangled a fake gold chain with a humongous Mercedes symbol. "Like it?"

"No."

"It's real big."

"True, no subtlety there."

"Eighteen karat!"

"I'm sure."

"P. Diddy got one just like it." Chucky swung the necklace back and forth like a cartoon hypnotist. "Yours for twenty bucks."

"No. Absolutely not."

"Come on! Ten bucks! You got ten bucks, girl!"

"No!" Vicki raised a ﬁrm, ﬁnal hand. "Now tell me what I need to know."

Half an hour later, Vicki was steering the Intrepid back onto the main drag. She had dropped Chucky off at his house and picked up Reheema, who had been sitting on his front steps, simmering despite the frigid temperature. Reheema didn't say anything, remaining opaque behind her sunglasses and knit hat. Or maybe she was just thawing out.

"Reheema, you don't have to talk to me, if you don't want to." Vicki slipped on her sunglasses against the sunlight. "Even though I bought you all this nice stuff, including that lovely Mercedes-Benz necklace."

Reheema looked out the window.

"P. Diddy has one, you know. It's twenty-four karat."

Reheema didn't respond.

"Okay, have it your way. I found out where Chucky says he got the cell phone and I'm taking you there, right now. I'm taking you with me this time, because even you will behave yourself in these circumstances."

Reheema stayed turned away.

"I understand why you're angry, and I would be, too. Very angry and very hurt. In pain. But you were way out of line with James, and I couldn't let you do that again. It was wrong."

Reheema didn't budge.

"We're trying to ﬁnd out who killed your mother and bring him to justice. Maybe it's not technically our job, but we aren't doing anything wrong or illegal." Vicki paused for a response that didn't come. "You crossed the line with James. You can't terrorize someone in the name of justice. If you do, you're worse than the worst criminals. You're shooting kids at Toys ‘R' Us."

Reheema didn't speak, but by this point, Vicki was thinking out loud anyway, and for once not worrying about whether it was a good thing to do or not.

Ten silent minutes later, the Intrepid found Pergola Street and pulled up in front of the house.

THIRTY-SIX

The kitchen was painted a bright white, ringed with refaced white cabinets, and smelled pleasantly of baked chocolate and watered-down Lysol. A white plastic tablecloth with scalloped edges covered the table, topped with a chipped plate of crusty brownies. Vicki and Reheema sat catty-corner in two chairs, opposite Mrs. Bethave. She wore the cheery red-and-white uniform of a waitress at Bennigan's, but her eyes sloped down at the corners with evident fatigue. Next to her sat her son, Albertus, an undersize eight-year-old engulfed by a hooded gray sweatshirt. He sat behind an open math book, a notebook page with a pointy protractor lying on it, and a half-eaten brownie on a pebbled napkin next to a glass of milk.

"I'm Vicki Allegretti, as I said at the door, and this is my friend Reheema Bristow. Thank you so much for letting us in."

"Fine," Mrs. Bethave said coldly. "I don't have a lot of time. Soon as the sitter gets here, I gotta get to work."

"Okay, I'll make this quick. We're here because I just met a man named Chucky, who lives a few blocks away on Jefferson Street. Do you know Chucky?"

"Everybody knows Chucky." Mrs. Bethave half-smiled, but Vicki was watching Albertus for a reaction. The boy had huge brown eyes and a somber milk mustache.

"Chucky said that last weekend, on Sunday afternoon, he paid your son Albertus ﬁve dollars for a cell phone that he had."

Albertus blinked, one movement of his baby-camel's eyelashes.

Vicki continued, "I need to know if that's true, and if it is, where Albertus got the cell phone, and when."

"Why do you want to know?"

"It's my cell phone and it was taken from me-"

"Albertus don't steal."

"I didn't mean that. Of course he doesn't. The phone was stolen from me by a woman who was later murdered." Vicki gestured to Reheema. "Her mother, Arissa Bristow."

Mrs. Bethave's eyes shifted to Reheema and back again.

"The cell phone was an unusual one," Vicki said. "It had a cover with blue daisies on it. It was pretty."

Albertus blinked again, his forehead creased with the guileless anxiety of a child. He was afraid he was going to get in trouble.

"I think that whoever stole my cell phone from Mrs. Bris-tow might have information about who killed her."

"Or mighta killed her hisself," Mrs. Bethave shot back, her tone colder.

"Yes, of course, that's possible. We're following the cell phone back in time, to see where it leads." Vicki tensed, now that their cards were on the table, and Mrs. Bethave must have sensed it, too, because she turned to Reheema.

"You wanna know who killed your mama."

"Yes, I do," Reheema said, and Mrs. Bethave turned back to Vicki.

"What about you? Why'd you care?"

Reheema answered for her, "She's my friend."

Wow.

Mrs. Bethave thought a minute, then looked down at Albertus. "Mook, you know what these ladies talkin' 'bout?"

Albertus glanced timidly up at her face, then nodded.

Yes! Vicki felt like cheering.

"Look at me, son." Mrs. Bethave cupped Albertus's chin and turned his face up to her. "Chucky gave you ﬁ' dollars for the phone?"

Albertus nodded, his chin tight in his mother's hand.

"Where'd you get that phone? You ﬁnd it somewhere?"

Albertus shook his head, no.

"Then where'd you get it?"

Albertus raised his hands and signed rapidly, his dark ﬁngers flying, and Vicki held her breath for the translation. Chucky had told her that the little boy was deaf and that he read lips.

Albertus ﬁnished signing, and Mrs. Bethave's eyes ﬁlled with alarm. Her hand dropped from his chin and her lips parted. She jumped to her feet so abruptly, she bumped the three-ring notebook, startling all of them.

"Oh no! No, no, no!" Suddenly panicky, Mrs. Bethave hurried around the table and almost lifted Vicki bodily from her chair. "Go now, out, you two! That's the way it is, you two got to go."

"Mrs. Bethave, please, what did he say?" Vicki rose rather than be thrown out, but Reheema stood her ground.

"I'm not goin' anywhere, lady! Whoever gave him that phone killed my mother! Who gave it to him?"

"I can't, I can't say, you have to go."

"I need to know who!"

"You wanna get my child killed?" Mrs. Bethave shouted back, standing toe-to-toe with Reheema. With a mother's ferocity, Mrs. Bethave more than matched the taller and younger woman. "I'll never tell, no matter what! That man is a killer! He kills for money and he'll kill my boy, sure as we stand!"

He kills for money? The words broke the standoff, and Vicki and Reheema exchanged looks.

"Go! Don't tell anybody you were here!" A terriﬁed Mrs. Bethave shooed them both out of the kitchen and to the front door. "Please! Jesus!"

"Wait, no!" Reheema shouted, recovering first, but Mrs. Bethave had pulled open the door and was physically pushing them out into the cold.

"Never tell anybody you were here, never!"

Mrs. Bethave slammed the door closed and dead-bolted it with a loud, ﬁnal ca-thunk.

Vicki steered the Intrepid onto the cross street, driving from the Bethave house faster than necessary. She worried for Mrs. Bethave's safety and for Albertus, and it had been all she could do to stop Reheema from breaking down the Bethaves' front door.

"Look, we got our answer, for the present time," Vicki said. "We followed my phone down the line and we know where it ends. And it leads to another question. Why did she say it was someone who kills for money? What did she mean by that?"

Reheema was shaking her head. "I shoulda broken down that door."

"I had assumed it was an opportunistic crime. An addict or someone from the neighborhood." Vicki thought back to that night, to poor Arissa straggling in only her housedress down the cold street. The older woman had been easy prey for anyone, but Vicki didn't need to draw a picture for her grieving daughter. "It doesn't seem likely it was a murder for hire. Maybe that's not what she meant. You think that's what she meant?"

"You can sit here and guess all you want, but Bethave knows who killed my mother."

"And we're not going to get her killed for it, or that little boy. She's protecting her family."

"And I'm protecting mine. I shoulda beat it out of her."

"You don't mean that, and she wouldn't have told you anyway." Vicki looked over to double-check, but it was darkening in the car, and Reheema had her sunglasses on. "Look, it's getting late. Let's grab something to eat and go over to Cater."

"I'm not hungry."

"Then let's go over to Cater now and pick up the black van. It's dark, and I feel better."

"I feel worse." Reheema was still shaking her head. "She knows who did it, and we're drivin' away like it's nothin'."

"We'll ﬁgure it out, just give me some time." Vicki tried to think of a lawful solution but kept coming up dry. "If we tell the cops, that'll put her in danger, and she'll deny she said anything anyway. At least we know where she lives and we have the information."

"What if she leaves?"

"She won't. She has a job and a kid in school."

"What about witness protection? Don't the feds do that all the time?"

"Only for federal crimes, like racketeering. Murder is a state-law crime."

Reheema scoffed. "Lawyer talk."

"I'm sorry," Vicki said, meaning it. She had been raised with a reverence for her profession, but for the ﬁrst time, she was beginning to understand what people meant by legalese.

"You talk about making sense, now something else makes sense. I couldn't ﬁgure why a killer would give up a cell phone like that. But he gives it to a kid who can't talk."

"Yeah." Vicki nodded. It was why Chucky hadn't known when or where Albertus had gotten the phone. The child hadn't been able to tell him.

"But why not throw the phone away? Why take it at all?"

"Maybe he liked Albertus, was trying to do him a favor."

"A killer with a heart of gold. Stabbed my mother to death. We should go back."

"No."

"Turn around. I want to go back."

"No."

"I'll go back without you. Ditch you like you ditched me."

"Then I won't let you out of my sight. We'll have a sleepover at your house. I'll bring the nail polish. You got popcorn?" Vicki accelerated into light traffic, which had picked up now that people were coming home from work. She switched lanes, then took a right, a left, and another right, and in time, Reheema looked over.

"Where you goin'?"

"Cater Street."

"Then turn around, Harvard," Reheema said, with a soft chuckle, and Vicki knew they were back on track.

Darkness descended as Vicki and Reheema sat in the front seat of the Intrepid, parked near the end of Cater. They'd found a new parking space across the street; they were changing things to avoid signaling the watchers, and now that they'd identiﬁed the van, didn't need to see it pull up in front of the vacant lot.

"They'll pull in from the far side, and we'll see them when they come out. This is safer." Vicki eyed the watcher at their end of the street, four houses up from the corner. He wore a long green army coat and a dark knit cap, and he tended to face the other end of the street. "It helps that the action comes from the far side. We caught a break."

"Yeah." Reheema's tone echoed in the cold, hollow interior of the car. She had grown progressively quieter since their discovery at the Bethaves' house, and Vicki's heart went out to her.

"We'll ﬁnd your mother's killer."

"You're damn right, we will. Your way or mine."

Vicki let it go, her eyes retrained on the dark street. Thick clouds conspired to hide the moon. "Hope we didn't miss the run to the supplier's."

"Yeah." Reheema checked the car's dashboard clock. "It's seven already. Won't your boyfriend wonder where you are?"

"I left him a note, saying I'd be out shopping."

"He'll believe that?"

"I shop a lot." Vicki reached in her pocket for her cell. "I ﬁgured I'd call him about now and say hi."

"Go for it."

Vicki retrieved the phone and flipped it open, making a bright blue spot in the car. She was about to press in Dan's cell number when she heard a car engine and looked up.

"It's them!" Reheema said, pointing needlessly, as the black van veered around the corner, spraying snow.

Vicki closed the phone and twisted on the ignition, and they took off.

THIRTY-SEVEN

An hour later, Vicki and Reheema had successfully followed the black van from Devil's Corner through the city to a seamy section of Southwest Philly, on Getson Street, not ten blocks from Aspinall, where Browning lived. Dilapidated row houses lined the street, but lights shone from within some. Vicki could see that people lived here, but not as many or as middle class as the solid families of Devil's Corner. Fewer cars stood parked outside and many of the houses were dark shells, tall black rectangles that stood out like missing teeth against the lighted homes.

Vicki pulled into an empty space near the end of the street, about six houses down from the row house that Eagles Coat had gone into with his gym bag. As far as she could tell in the dark, the row house was number 8372 Getson; it was two stories of brick facade with a tumbledown front porch and snowy AstroTurf on its front steps. Lights were lit inside but curtains covered the windows. Getson Street stood silent except for the occasional car driving down it, and nobody walked dogs or set out trash; it was too cold or dangerous for anybody to be outside tonight. On one corner was a seedy bar, and at the corner opposite a lighted yellow sign read THE RITE SPOT; it hung over a mom-and-pop grocery store, with black bars covering the door and a smudgy plastic window, a bulletproof square of ﬂuorescent light.

Vicki cut the ignition. "Maybe this is his work home, or whatever they call it."

"Yeah." Reheema looked around, sliding off her sunglasses. "This neighborhood isn't nice enough to be where he lives."

"Good, and it's only eight, he has to be still doing business tonight." Vicki double-checked the clock. "Maybe he'll even pay a visit to his connect."

"It's possible. You got the gun?"

"We won't need it."

"Probably not, it's not like they're violent or anything." Reheema smiled. "Is it still in your purse?"

"Not telling."

"Backpack?"

"No comment." Actually, Vicki had moved the gun to her left coat pocket, where it could shoot out an ovary.

"Have it your way."

"The plan is we wait and we watch. Then if we see Toner, we call the cops. Otherwise, we follow where they go and give that info to the cops."

"You sure you don't want to gimme my gun?"

"Absolutely not." Vicki eased back in the driver's seat, her adrenaline buzzing. It had been more exciting to follow the van than she wanted to admit and she became acutely aware of her body; the residual ache of the teenager's blows still hurt her sides, and she could almost recall the tenderness of last night, in bed with Dan. So much had happened in such a short time, since Morty had been killed. Vicki felt oddly as if she'd lived her entire life in one week and realized that perhaps she hadn't been living it well enough before.

"You should call your boyfriend. We don't want him calling later."

"Yeah, thanks. I'll make sure of it." Vicki retrieved her phone from her purse, covered the blue light so it didn't give them away, and pressed speed dial for Dan. His phone rang, then his voicemail picked up, and Vicki faked a light tone. "Hey, babe, I'm out shopping and ran into an old friend from law school, so I'll be home late. This new phone keeps cutting out, so if you can't get through, don't worry. See you way later or I'll call. Love you." She hit the Power button, turned off the phone, and slipped it back into her pocket. "Okay, we won't be interrupted."

"Good."

"Maybe I'll take some pictures." Vicki dug in the backpack, retrieved the camera, disabled the flash, and snapped away. She didn't know how much she could get in this low light level, but she was committed to the picture taking since it had actually paid off with Toner. Fifteen photos later, she had shot every scene she could conceivably take from the car. She set the camera down and watched the house with Reheema. No one left it or went inside. Eight o'clock became nine o'clock, and Reheema touched her arm.

"You awake?"

"Yep."

"I have to go to the bathroom. Do you?"

"Of course, we're girls. And I'm hungry." Vicki twisted around and eyeballed the grocery store and the bar. "I vote for the store. I'll bet they'll have a bathroom they'll let us use."

"If we go quick, we won't miss anything." Reheema tugged down her knit cap and got out of the car, as did Vicki, who grabbed her purse and joined her.

They crossed the street with a wary eye on 8372 and hustled together toward the grocery, like an urban version of Mutt and Jeff. Vicki felt the gun inside her coat pocket, which was when she realized that you couldn't shoot a gun in mittens anyway. They reached the store, and close up, Vicki could see it had once been glass storefront, now boarded up with plywood panels that were littered with old keystone-shaped stickers for the Pennsylvania Lottery, a faded picture of the cartoon camel smoking a cigarette, and a sticker that read WE ACCEPT FOOD STAMPS.

Reheema opened the door. "Make this fast. Stay with me."

"You my passport?"

"No, your bodyguard."

They entered the store, and the older salesclerk looked up. He was about sixty, with deep wrinkles, small dark eyes behind crooked bifocals, and a dour down tilt to his mouth. He wore a quilted vest in army green and a black sweatshirt, and he'd been reading the sports page of the Daily News, spread open on a grimy white counter that was almost engulfed by stacked cartons of cigarettes on the top, and on the sides by multicolored bags of Cheetos, Doritos, Snyder's Hard Pretzels, Rold Gold pretzels, Beef Jerky, and Fritos. The store was small, dusty, and smelled of the Newport he'd been smoking, resting in a ﬁlthy metallic astray with a beanbag bottom in incongruous tartan.

"Help you?" the salesclerk asked warily, eyeing them.

"We need to buy some food and use the bathroom, too."

"It's only for employees."

"Great, I need a job." Reheema slid off her knit cap like a hip-hop Joan of Arc and ﬂashed him a beautiful smile. "When do I start?"

The salesclerk laughed, which ended in a single cough. "Oh, okay, young lady, it's in the back, past the cleaning supplies. Hurry up now, almost closin' time."

"Thanks," Reheema said, and the salesclerk waved her down the single aisle between a wall of Friskies and Tide detergent.

"Turn off the light when you're done," the salesclerk called after her, too late. "Don't nobody ever turn off the light."

"I bet," Vicki said, just to make conversation, feeling like she did at home, when her mother left her alone with her father. She pulled two crinkly bags of Lay's chips from the rack and set them on the counter. "You got any sandwiches?"

"No."

"Okay."

"If it's okay with you or not don't matter, 'cause we got no sandwiches. It's not like a 7-Eleven here, we don't got everything. It's just me here, I don't even own the place. Koreans own it."

"I see," Vicki said pleasantly, and continued buying stuff in hopes that the salesclerk would like her and, by extension, white people in general. She stacked Doritos, Fritos, and Cheetos on the counter in a pile of saturated fats, then went into the aisle for Chips Ahoy and Pecan Sandies, stalling until Reheema ﬁnally returned and the salesclerk brightened.

"You live around here?" he asked Reheema, as Vicki traded places with her and went down the cramped aisle to the employee bathroom. It turned out that the bathroom was just as lovely as she'd expected, and she got out of there quickly, hurrying back into the store, where she froze on the spot.

Buying a carton of Winstons, pushing two twenties across the counter next to Reheema, stood the teenager who'd almost shot her the night Morty was killed. He wore his Iversons and a black jacket instead of the satin Sixers jacket, but she would never forget that face.

"Reheema, grab him!" Vicki shouted, lunging for the teenager, who reacted instantly and ran for the door, banging it open and getting away.

"Wha?" Reheema turned to Vicki, her mouth open.

"That's him! The kid from that night!" Vicki ran past the startled salesclerk and out the door with Reheema right behind her.

The teenager sprinted across Getson Street in the dark, running straight, his big sneakers two white blurs. Vicki darted after him, almost on his heels. Her heart pumped frantically, her legs churned, and her red boots skidded on icy spots, but she managed to keep up the pace. She felt the anger and pain she had been suppressing take over, powering her forward. The teenager had almost killed her. He knew who had killed Morty. Vicki reached into her coat pocket as she ran, holding the gun so it wouldn't ﬂy out. It felt heavy and right, even in her mitten. The teenager might have a gun, but there was no stopping her. She couldn't let him get away.

Vicki flashed on the night Morty was gunned down. The sight of the kid brought it all back. The sound of the bullets. The way Morty fell. The smell. The watery blood on his lips. Morty's last words. Rage coursed through Vicki's body. She picked up the pace.

"Move over!" Reheema shouted, passing Vicki on the right and taking off like a missile after the teenager.

Go, go, go! Astounded, Vicki kept running, her lungs about to burst. She had never seen anyone run so fast. She thought of the race times on Reheema's old bulletin board. Willowbrook Lady Tigers.

The teenager bolted across the next street, his jacket catching the wind like a dark spinnaker, and Vicki and Reheema pounded after him. The three of them barreled past abandoned cars, vacant row houses, and dumped car tires, heedless as the neighborhood worsened. Vicki kept running, and ahead of her, Reheema's trajectory was the purest of straight lines, a laser on target.

Vicki's breath came in ragged bursts, one block then the next, cold air ﬁlling her lungs and her boots slipping on the slick ice. Her legs ached, but emotion supercharged her.

The teenager veered left down the side streets, his arms pinwheeling to keep himself from falling. Reheema took the curve like a sports car, hugging it tight despite the snow and ice cold. They both disappeared around the corner, and Vicki marshaled her strength and put on the afterburners. She couldn't fall behind. She had to get this kid.

She hit the corner and saw Reheema ahead, closing in on the teenager. The gap between them shrank from six row houses to ﬁve, then to four. Reheema almost had him! Vicki sped up and prayed he didn't have a gun.

Reheema was reaching out to grab his flying coat. The teenager glanced back in fear. Vicki held her breath, hoping he didn't draw.

Reheema lunged forward, grabbing him by the coat with one long arm and tackling him to the snowy sidewalk. They went down together, sliding into the wall of a vacant row house.

Vicki's heart leaped to her throat, fearing for Reheema. Hoping she caught the kid. It was too dark to see what was happening. Reheema and the teenager appeared to be tussling in the snow, and in the next minute they both vanished inside the alley, out of sight.

"Reheema, watch out!" Vicki shouted, out of breath. "He could have a knife!" Her heart felt like it was jumping out of her coat. She tore to the mouth of the alley and was confronted by an unlikely scene.

Reheema was standing off to the side, her chest heaving and her hands on her hips, and the teenager was holding his hands up high, his dark eyes panicky and wide, his Iversons planted, and his back against a snow-covered Dumpster.

"Please, lady!" The teenager appealed to Vicki, his voice choked with panic. "I'm no cop killer! I didn't kill no cops! I didn't shoot you, remember? I'm Teeg, Teeg Brumley, you know me? I'm the one told Jay not to shoot you, that you were a cop! I saved your life! Please, don't hurt me!"

"Wait, calm down!" Vicki said, stunned. Her chest formed a knot of fury and pain. She couldn't catch her breath.

"I didn't know Jay was gonna kill nobody, I swear! I didn't know cops were gonna be there! Or the pregnant girl or the white cop!"

Morty. Vicki still couldn't catch her breath, and it wasn't from exertion. The teenager was giving her a full statement. She didn't know if she could even listen without Miranda warnings, but she couldn't not listen. She had to know the truth.

"Tha's all I know, I swear! I didn't shoot nobody! Jay did it all! Jay Steptoe's the cop killer, not me! He works for the boss, too! He's on Getson right now, at the meetin'!"

Vicki gasped. So Jay Steptoe was the name of the man who had murdered Morty. He was only a few blocks away, right now. For a minute, she couldn't speak, then she got her bearings. She couldn't compromise the indictment against Steptoe. "Listen, wait, Teeg, you don't have to say any of this, you have the right to remain silent-"

"We was supposed to go get the brick, is all, I swear! Me and Jay! All I know is Jamal wasn't paying the boss for the brick. He didn't pay the boss, so the boss sent us over to get the brick back!"

Vicki couldn't believe her ears. The kid was telling her why Morty had been killed, but it wasn't why she thought. It wasn't a battle between mid-level suppliers at all. It was a dispute with a creditor, and taking back the drugs was a gangsta version of a repo. "Teeg, you have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law-"

"I know all that, you gotta believe me! You give me protection, I'll give you everything. The boss sent me there, it wasn't my fault! Preston Courtney sent me there!" The kid was growing hysterical, spilling his guts. "He does business with Jamal, with all of them, all over the city! He's the big boss! He supplies everybody! He's the connect!"

Vicki's eyes widened. The connect. "Teeg, in a court of law, we'll use these statements against you, and you have the right to have an attorney present at any questioning-"

"The boss is at Getson right now, with all them! That white guy in the van that they're lookin' for? He's there, too! They sent me out for cigarettes! I don't come back, I'm dead. You gotta protect me now!"

Vicki held up a hand. "If you can't afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights? Teeg, do you hear me?"

"Yes, I understand! You gotta protect me! Courtney's the one who sent Jay and me! It's his fault the cop got shot, not me! I didn't do it! I didn't do nothin'!" Suddenly the teenager fell to his knees in the snow, beginning to sob. "I didn't do it! They did! I never killed nobody! Now they're gonna kill me!"

Vicki found herself taking a step back, trying to process it all. The teenager had dissolved into tears, doubled over in fear, like the child he was inside. Preston Courtney and Steptoe were responsible for Morty's death. And they were both at a meeting on Getson Street, right now.

"Vicki?" Reheema asked.

Vicki turned to the unaccustomed sound. She had never heard Reheema say her name and heard it now as if from far away. Courtney and Steptoe had killed Morty. They were only a few blocks away, within her grasp. They wouldn't be there forever. Vicki's head pounded, her heart hurt.

She put a hand into her pocket.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Within fifteen minutes of Vicki's phone call, an astounded Chief Bale swept into the alley with unmarked cars bearing armed ATF agents in navy windbreakers, and the remaining hours of the night pulsed with police activity. Teeg Brumley was arrested and taken in handcuffs to the FDC, where Strauss and Bale themselves videotaped his statement, and Vicki, Reheema, and later Dan watched from behind a two-way mirror to the interrogation room. Vicki prayed that Brumley would repeat everything he'd told her, and the teenager had a court-appointed lawyer present while he gave his statement again, elaborating on what he'd said in the alley and even admitting that Vicki had informed him of his Miranda rights. Dan gave her a hug for that, though it was otherwise strictly business. As much as Vicki needed the comfort, there was no time for romance.

Strauss and Bale brokered a deal by which Brumley pleaded guilty to a lesser offense in return for cooperation and testimony in court against the others. Reheema gave her statement and went home, while Vicki, Dan, and a cadre of AUSAs and staff worked all night to prepare complaints and warrants against one Preston Courtney and Jay Steptoe for conspiracy to murder Special Agent Robert Morton, in addition to complaints and warrants against ten other individuals for numerous counts of crack cocaine sales and distribution, as well as various weapons offenses. It turned out that ATF had been surveilling the Getson Street house from an apartment on the street, waiting for the right moment to make a drug and ﬁrearms bust. The right moment had ﬁnally arrived.

Dan worked alone on the complaints and warrants for William Toner for the conspiracy to murder the seven men, women, and children who had been killed at the Toys "R" Us, then gave them to Vicki at ﬁve in the morning. She took the complete stack into Bale's office, set them down in front of him, and took a seat in the chair in front of his desk.

"Time to make the doughnuts, boss," Vicki said. As hard as she'd worked, she felt only energized.

"Ready, kid?" Bale turned from his computer keyboard, swiveling in his black Aeron chair, and for a moment they looked at each other over the papers. A new morning broke behind him, the sky turning a lovely pink-gray from the bottom up, gleaming off all the mirrored skyscrapers, setting them aglow. Either that, or Vicki was tired to the point of delirium.

"Good to go."

Bale smiled wearily, his skin tight from the night's effort and his eyes reddish but alert, with something like amusement. He had taken off his trademark gold cuff links and rolled up his sleeves, but with care, so that the folded cuff made a perfectly flat panel against his strong forearm. A tiny tattoo of an American ﬂag peeked from its underside.

"You have ink?" Vicki asked, surprised, and Bale smiled.

"That's why I never wear short sleeves. Don't tell."

"I won't."

He pointed a stiff ﬁnger at her. "And don't spread any more BOTOX rumors about me, you brat."

Busted. "How'd you ﬁnd out?" "Debbie Hodill." Vicki leaned forward. "So, is it true?" "Of course," Bale answered, and they both laughed. "Now, to business. We have a judge to wake up, and then some bad guys." He took the stack of papers and pulled them toward him, his ﬁngers a dark contrast against the pristine white.

"This would be the happy ending, right?" "Not yet." "You mean after we arrest them?" "Shhh." Bale raised a slim ﬁnger to his mustache. "Can you be quiet, just for once? We're not finished. These are just paper, right now. They need the proper signatures, then they assume the force of law."

The force of law. Vicki liked the sound of the phrase, more powerful than a mere gun. Reheema had been right about that, but she hadn't realized it before.

"Let's see." Bale slid the ﬁrst paper off the stack, with the caption that read UNITED STATES V. PRESTON COURTNEY AND JAY STEPTOE.

Vicki felt a deep satisfaction. She had written it herself. "That's the complaint and indictment for Morty's murder."

"I know, that's why they call me Chief. Now, hush." Bale took the warrant, read it completely, and ﬁnished at the signature page. The usual procedure was merely to initial the papers, but given the high-proﬁle nature of the case, the ofﬁce had decided to have them signed in full.

"Here's your pen, Chief." Vicki slid a black Montblanc from its immaculate crystal pen holder and handed it to him, but Bale swiveled around in the chair and slid a new piece of paper out of the computer printer behind. Vicki set the pen down, puzzled. "What's that?"

"A new page. I corrected a mistake you made. I noticed it when I read it earlier."

"A mistake on Morty's papers?" Vicki's mouth went dry as Bale signed. "I proofread them a zillion times. What was wrong?"

"This." Bale handed her the page across the desk, and Vicki looked at it. He had added a new signature line, left blank, and underneath the line, it read:

"For the United States: VICTORIA ALLEGRETTI."

"Sign, please." Bale handed the Montblanc across the desk.

Vicki felt herself tear up, then blinked it away.

"Better hurry and sign. We got some killers to catch." Bale waved the pen, and Vicki took it.

"Does this mean it's my case?"

"Absolutely." Bale nodded, with a smile. "My sign-off is pro forma. I can't think of anybody more deserving."

"Thanks, Chief," Vicki managed to say, and signed the complaint and warrant without crying all over it, which was a feat.

"I would let you handle it through indictment and trial, but we'll need you as fact witness, describing what happened and making the ID of the shooter. You know you can't do both, under the rules."

"I know." But Vicki could at least handle the initial appearance and work behind the scenes at trial. She gave the papers back to Bale. "Thanks."

"Now shut up while I sign the rest." Bale sat down and started reading, which gave Vicki time to recover her composure.

"I guess this means I keep my job?"

"Unfortunately. I can't ﬁre you now." Bale didn't look up from his reading. "I want you at the press conference."

"Yay!" Vicki couldn't help herself. Outside the window, the sun was rising and a new day dawning, but she was pretty sure it was a coincidence.

"And at the conference, we will provide no details at all about how this case went down. You keep those details to yourself and let Strauss and ATF do all the talking." Bale kept reading. "Don't blow this, or Strauss will have my head."

"Agreed."

"But you know what I think, don't you? I told you last night." Bale looked up, pen poised and eyes narrowed the way they had at about two in the morning, when he'd lectured her over pizza about the dangers she'd caused herself and others. "Never again, you promise?"

"Promise. But I'm going to the arrest, aren't I?"

"You stay in the car, like a good pup."

"Arf!" Vicki barked, and Bale got busy reading again. She watched, then took a ﬂyer, since he was in an admitting kind of mood. "You have to admit I did a good job, boss."

"No, I don't, because you didn't." Bale didn't look up, but kept signing. "You got good results, but your methods were terrible. Dangerous. I'm putting you on another drug case, Kalahut, pairing you with ATF agent Barbara Pizer. She'll keep you too busy to think about playing detective."

"Understood," Vicki said. She decided to shut up and start taking yes for an answer.

But she found herself thinking, unaccountably, of her father.

Vicki had never been part of a major federal drug bust, and the takedown played out with a coordination and precision that would have amazed the average taxpayer, if not combat veteran. Twenty ATF agents in full gear, deployed with assault riﬂes and fresh warrants, reinforced by FBI agents and Philly SWAT teams, conducted, at exactly eight-seventeen on Friday morning, surprise raids on the homes, businesses, and street corners worked by each of the fifteen defendants. Dan had gone with Strauss to watch them execute the warrant on Toner for the Toys "R" Us murders, but Vicki, protected in a heavy black Kevlar vest and ensconced in an unmarked escort van, watched as ATF knocked and announced themselves at the row house of Jay Steptoe, then burst in to execute. The agents emerged without gunfire or event only ten minutes later, with a struggling Steptoe, dressed in black sweatpants and a white T-shirt.

Vicki gasped. Steptoe was cursing and ﬁghting the agents, his expression showing the same malevolence it had the night he'd shot Morty to death, then turned the gun on her. She peered out the tiny porthole of the van, deriving great satisfaction in seeing him dragged down the front walk, kicking and screaming, and into a waiting squad car.

"Woohooo!" Vicki turned to the right, by habit, but Reheema wasn't there. As a civilian, she hadn't been permitted to come, and Vicki had barely had a chance to say good-bye to her, and thanks, before she'd put her in the elevator.

Wouldn't have got him without you, Lady Tiger, Vicki thought as she watched the squad car drive off, with its siren blaring.

Vicki wasn't completely surprised to ﬁnd the press conference as carefully staged, timed, and coordinated as the drug bust.

U.S. Attorney Strauss, Chief Bale, brass from ATF, FBI, Philly police, and finally Dan and Vicki stood at the front of the room, in the glare of klieglights and at least forty-five still cameras and videocameras. Strauss took the podium precisely at 12:10, arranged to give the local networks the time to broadcast the warehouse fire du jour, then cut to the press conference.

Strauss cleared his throat. "My ofﬁce today is announcing that a major victory has been won in Project Clean Shopping to keep the city of Philadelphia free of violent crime. Today, we have arrested and captured one William Toner, the individual who, as part of a drug conspiracy, is charged with the murder of two drug dealers and ﬁve other innocent citizens in front of Toys ‘R' Us the other day."

Photos snapped, motor drives whirred, and there was even applause.

"In addition, as part of the same master raid, we have today arrested one Jay Steptoe for the murder of ATF Special Agent Robert Morton, whom you may recall was shot down last week in the line of duty."

There was applause at that, and Vicki looked down.

"Here are the charges, and the defendants, in summary," Strauss continued, and Vicki didn't listen to the rest, not after the part about Morty. She was thinking about what Bale had said, about the force of law, and how in the end, it had prevailed. The ofﬁce would have to try the case against Steptoe and she would have to make sure they won, and something told her that she would, for Morty.

"Finally," Strauss concluded, "it is very important at this time for me to give credit for his ﬁne investigative and supervisor efforts in connection with this matter, which, as you can imagine, was a Herculean task." Strauss paused, and the silence made Vicki look up, bringing her out of her reverie.

"I would like to publicly thank Chief Howard Bale, Section Chief, for his unwavering commitment both to justice and to the safety of our citizens in this highly dangerous and vitally crucial area of law enforcement. Chief Bale?" Grinning, Strauss extended his long arm, like a game show host, at Bale. The audience clapped, and Vicki joined them spontaneously, and Dan followed suit so she wouldn't look stupid. She would have to thank him later, in bed.

Bale took the podium and said a few words, then the ATF and FBI brass, and ﬁnally the mayor, the police commissioner, the deputy mayor, and the president of the chamber of commerce, who invited everybody to come out and shop, shop, shop in safety. The press conference ﬁnally ended, and Vicki couldn't help but wonder if Reheema had been watching TV and what she thought of the show.

Which reminded Vicki that she still had some unfinished business.

THIRTY-NINE

Vicki lay with her head happily nestled on Dan's warm chest, at home, in the quiet dark of the bedroom she was coming to think of as theirs. She knew the thought was premature, but it was hard to think clearly after really terriﬁc sex with a man she loved, under a white baffle comforter, with a calico cat curled into a variegated ball at the foot of the bed. Especially when you've left work early to make love. Vicki considered making hooky sex her new hobby.

The late afternoon sun, which had been outside the bedroom window when they had come home, had long gone, swept away by the frosty blue blast of a winter sky. It had to be six o'clock, or later. Vicki focused dreamily on the blue square over the half curtains, but couldn't tell if it would be cloudy again. As a little girl, she used to watch for the stars before sleep, imagining them in winter as hard as diamonds, ﬁred by the cold of heaven.

"So that was my reward?" Dan asked, his voice soft and deep.

"Yes. I'm a fan of positive reinforcement. Lucky you."

"In that case, it'll have to do."

"Very funny. " Vicki pinched Dan's side, and he squirmed.

"I'm still mad at you, though."

"Aw. Don't start all over again."

"I am. You've been rewarded, too, by my fabulous sexual prowess, but you should be punished."

"Spank me."

"I'm not kidding. Going into my briefcase? Stealing my papers? Staking out dangerous felons? Lying to me, day after day?"

"I'm sorry I lied to you."

"You even acted like you hadn't seen that photo of Toner, when you took it!"

Vicki winced. "I'm sorry about that, too."

"What about the other things?"

"I'm not sorry about them."

"You should be!" Dan didn't sound like he was smiling, and it was killing her postcoital stargazing.

"Look, I won't make a habit of it, but I got the guy who killed Morty and I'm proud of that. And aren't you happy we got Toner?"

"You and Reheema could have been arrested, too! She's the one who got you into this."

"No, she didn't," Vicki said, defensive. "If anything, I got her into it."

"I don't like her. The woman is hostile."

"I like her. Hostility is part of her charm."

After a minute, Dan said, "Vick?"

"What?"

"Your behavior was really inappropriate."

Vicki smiled. "You sound like the school principal."

"Maybe because I am. Or at least, I will be."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not supposed to say."

"Tell me. What's going on?" Vicki lifted her head and looked up at Dan, and in the semidarkness, his lips were curving into a mysterious smile.

"Well, some promotions are in the wings. It's unofficial now, but they're going to announce it on Monday, to the ofﬁce and the press."

"Announce what?" Vicki shifted excitedly onto her elbow, and Dan was already propping himself up on a pillow.

"I'm going to be the new chief."

"You! Congratulations!" Vicki's heart ﬁlled and she reached for Dan, and he hugged her back warmly.

"Isn't that amazing?"

"It's great!"

"I get a raise, too, three grand." Dan grinned. "There's a transition period. The promotion becomes effective a month from next week."

"What's happening to Bale?"

"He's gonna be the new U.S. Attorney."

"Wow! No wonder Strauss thanked him at the conference."

Dan nodded. "Strauss told me he's setting up the press."

"And Strauss is going to be what?"

"He's about to be nominated to the Third Circuit. They've been talking about it behind the scenes for months."

"You're kidding! I had heard that was what he wanted."

"Yeah, and with the bust today, he was told it's been put on the front burner and he'll be confirmed with no problem. I think he's heading for the Supremes, but I don't know."

"Well, good for him. Dan, jeez! You, chief?" Vicki began to process the news. "Wait, does that mean I'm sleeping with my boss?"

"Honestly, yes. If we keep this up." Dan's smile faded, and Vicki felt a note of worry.

"What do you mean, if? Of course we'll keep it up. We love each other."

"I'm not saying I want to give you up. I just got you."

"Me, too. I mean, me, neither!" Vicki was too tired to think. She hadn't slept in twenty-odd hours. Her eyelids felt suddenly leaden, but it could have been a stress reaction. "We can keep these things separate. Love and work, you need both."

"In the same place? What about the way it looks? There'll be gossip."

Vicki didn't like his tone of voice. She wished it weren't so dark so she could see his face more clearly. "They gossiped about us when you were married, too. Who cares about gossip anyway?"

"We both do. People don't know about us now, but I have discretion, as Chief, in giving out cases. Promotions, raises. It'll look like I'm favoring you."

"Well, you won't." Vicki felt her heart tug. "What, do you stop loving me when you get a promotion?"

"No, of course not," Dan answered softly. "I do love you, sweetie." He reached for Vicki and pulled her close, where she burrowed back into his chest, reclaiming him. He sighed. "Look, let it go, for now. This was an endless day, and I have no idea when was the last time you slept. Let's just get some rest."

"I can't sleep after this!"

"Yes, you can. You're beat." Dan shifted down in bed, still holding Vicki, and pulled the comforter over them both. "Just go to sleep and don't worry about a thing."

"I am worried."

"Everything's gonna be all right," Dan said, kissing her head. "Good night."

"Good night," Vicki said, but she was remembering something about relationships. Men always slept better after a ﬁght. In fact, a good ﬁght was like Tylenol P.M. for men. She tried to relax and kept watching the sky to see if the stars came out. But they didn't.

The next time Vicki opened her eyes was 9:17 at night. The bedroom was dark and quiet except for the hissing of the radiator and Dan's regular breathing. The cat wasn't in her spot any longer, but had left for her nightly walkabout, which included scratching noisy newspaper, crawling into noisy shopping bags, and meowing out the window, noisily, at streetlights. Vicki liked Zoe, but stepcats had their drawbacks.

She turned over and remembered what she and Dan had been talking about just before they'd fallen asleep. She turned and tried to put it out of her mind, without success. She got up, went to the bathroom, then came back to bed, sat down carefully, and watched Dan sleep the peaceful sleep of the newly promoted.

I love you, sweetie.

Vicki felt nervous, worried, hungry, and disoriented. She had been up and active for so many nights, she'd become as nocturnal as Zoe. She found herself wondering what Reheema was doing. They hadn't spoken since the morning. She looked down at Dan, arms thrown up behind his head, and knew she'd never fall back to sleep. If she went back to bed, she'd just wake him. She needed to think, and she needed a friend. So she got up, got dressed, and left her new boss a note on the pillow.

An hour later, Vicki was back in her beloved Cabrio, listening idly to KYW radio's continuous loop of coverage of what they were calling the Toys "R" Us Arrests and the Major Drug Bust. The mayor was quoted at length, then Strauss, on audiotape, and Vicki was enjoying hearing great things about truth, justice, and the American way when she remembered something she had forgotten.

She fumbled in her pocket for her cell phone, bypassing that pesky gun from the night before. She found the cell, ﬂipped it open with a thumbnail, and pressed speed dial for her parents' home number, so it didn't look like she was playing favorites by picking one cell or the other. She had a ﬁfty-ﬁfty chance. The phone stopped ringing and the call connected.

"Mom?" Vicki asked, hopefully.

"Hello, honey!"

Yes! "Just wanted to say hi. I ﬁgured you guys would have seen me on the news. We arrested the man who killed my partner, the ATF agent."

"Yes! It was very exciting!" Her mother sounded genuinely happy, and in the background, Ruby the Insane Corgi barked and barked. "What a wonderful result, and you looked so nice up there. Your shoes were perfect."

"They always are." Vicki smiled. This phone call would be easy, because the party line was completely sanitized. This time the United States Attorney was lying to Vicki's parents, though she welcomed the help.

"Hold on a sec. I'll get your father on the extension."

No! The only thing worse than her father on the phone was her father on the extension. Her mother covered the phone while she called for him, and he picked up after a trafﬁc light changed to green.

"Victoria?" her father said. Now there was barking in stereo.

"Yes, hi. I just wanted to say hello, and tell you things are going well. I guess you saw the press conference and the news."

"Yes, I read the account online, too. Sounds very interesting, and the phones have been ringing at the office all day. Harry and Janet Knowles, you know what nice people they are, called and so did Maureen Thompson and Gail Graves."

Their client family. "That's nice."

"Also her sister, Lynne Graves Stephenson, you remember her, from Chester County. Will Donato called, too, and one other. Oh yes, Karen Abdalla-Oliver and Mama Jean Bright-cliff."

You sure that's everybody?

"And Phyllis Banks, from South Philly."

"South Philly Phil?" Vicki smiled at the memory. She missed Phyllis.

"Yes. She's very happy for you. You and your colleagues must be very pleased."

"I am." But you will never be.

"It sounds like a very big case, fifteen defendants, all manner of counts."

Her mother added, "Well, I hope you're getting some rest, dear. You did look a little tired, on TV."

It's the sex. "Well. I gotta go, Mom. It's late. I just wanted to check in."

"Good, get some sleep, honey," her mother said, and her father added:

"Pleasant dreams."

In time, Vicki crossed into Devil's Corner and had reached Lincoln Street, surprised to see lights, commotion, and activity. She drove down Lincoln, closer to whatever was going on; one block, then two, until she had to stop. Reheema's block had been cordoned off by police sawhorses, and a crowd of people filled the street, milling around outside, even in the frigid air. TV klieglights sliced the night sky, calcium-white beams kniﬁng the cold cobalt-blue, and the white microwave antenna of a mobile newsvan towered almost as high as the row houses.

Vicki's mouth went dry. She flashed on the scene outside Shayla Jackson's, the night she'd been killed. Reheema's block looked like a crime scene. What could it be? She had listened to the radio on the way over, and the news had been dominated by the Toys "R" Us arrests and the drug busts. She hadn't heard anything about trouble in Devil's Corner. Maybe it had just happened and hadn't hit the media yet.

Alarmed, Vicki slammed on the brakes, yanked up the emergency, and parked the car. She jumped out and hustled toward the crowd and the TV lights, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat. She reached the crowd and heard noise, talk, and shouting coming from near Reheema's house.

"What's going on?" Vicki asked a man in a down parka, but his thick hood was up and he turned away. Then she heard rap music and what sounded like singing.

Huh? Vicki wedged her way through the crowd, which was buzzing and chattering happily away. People carried homemade signs that they pumped in time to the thumpa-thumpa rap. A handwritten poster on a stake read, KEEP THE DEVILS OUT OF DEVIL'S CORNER! Another sign, Magic Marker on oak tag, said, TO HELL WITH THE HOLE!

Vicki relaxed, smiling. It wasn't a crime, it was some sort of block party. She wedged her way toward Reheema's, where she smelled hot dogs and grilling barbecue. Nelly rapped about Nellyville on a boom box, and neighbors danced, laughed, smoked, and talked on the street and sidewalk, heedless of the temperature. It was a joyous sight for a street that used to be so deserted, and in the middle of the crowd, dancing tall above the other heads, there bopped a familiar knit cap.

"Reheema!" Vicki called out, making a mitten megaphone. Reheema looked over at the sound, but couldn't see a very short AUSA among the revelers. "It's me!"

A few neighbors looked over curiously, but most clustered around a TV reporter, watching the interview and making funny faces in the background. The TV reporter was the only other white face in the crowd, and he held a bubble microphone in front of a mother cradling a bundled-up toddler on her hip. The mother said into the mike: "This is a celebration of the families who live in Devil's Corner! We're takin' back our neighborhood! We shut down the store on Cater Street and we're gonna make damn sure it don't come back!"

The TV reporter looked a little nervous, the neighbors cheered, and Vicki threaded her way to the knit cap.

"Come 'ere, girl!" Reheema shouted above the din, smiling broadly when she recognized her. "What're you doin' here!"

"I missed you!" Vicki shouted back, and they made their way to the fringe of the crowd, where it was quieter.

Reheema beamed. "Check it! What do you think of our party?"

"It's great! What's going on?"

"We tore down the wall on Cater, threw out the trash, and cleaned out the hole. And we got teams signed up for a neighborhood watch." Reheema waved at someone who had been calling her name. "Gonna walk around. Wear orange safety belts, like in grade school."

"For real?"

"Believe it! It's a party!" "Ding, dong, the witch is dead!" Reheema blinked. "Say what?" "White culture thing." Reheema smiled. "Whatever, isn't it great? I never met these people, now they're all coming out, meetin' each other. Organized. Together. And guess what, I'm block captain!" Vicki saluted. Reheema laughed. "I gotta give you the credit. I'm not gonna sell this house. I bought and paid for it, and my mother lived here. I belong here. And I started to ﬁgure, why does this Harvard girl care more about where I live than I do?"

Vicki smiled, touched.

"When they had that press conference today, all those suits, and then you, I said to myself, All right, let's see if we can keep it clean here, on our own. So I went door to door and they all took it up." Reheema grinned. "They were just scared, is all."

Vicki looked around, happily. "Well, they're not anymore." Reheema eyed the crowd, too. "No, they're drunk!" They both laughed, and if they'd been girly girls, they would have hugged. But that wasn't happening, and the stars weren't diamonds, either.

Vicki said, "I wanted you to know I appreciated your help, all last week, and with that kid. I never could have caught him. You were so brave, and you can run!"

Reheema shook it off. "I owe you, too. You gave me back my house." "I didn't forget about your mom." "I knew you wouldn't." "Good." Vicki liked the sound of that. It was trust, which was even better than a hug. "Tomorrow morning, at nine?" "Ha! You got a plan?" "What do you think?" And they slapped ﬁve. Black glove against red mitten.

FORTY

Saturday morning, Vicki and Dan got up early, showered, dressed, and went down to the kitchen together, making coffee more silently than usual. Vicki worried that something was wrong. First, Dan hadn't wanted to make love when they woke up, but she tried not to let that bother her. Maybe he was the one man on the planet who didn't automatically want to make love in the morning. Second, when Dan brushed against her elbow on his way to the coffeemaker, he said, "Excuse me." Vicki tried not to give that much weight, though she was losing that battle, too. Loss of libido and good manners were sure signs that a couple was circling the toilet.

"Are we breaking up?" Vicki asked, turned suddenly from the sink.

"What? No. Of course not." Dan's brow furrowed, and he looked at her like she was crazy.

"I'm not crazy."

"I didn't say you were."

Oh. "Last night you said we might break up, because of your promotion."

"No I didn't." Dan hit the Brew button. "I said I was worried about how our being a couple would affect work, and vice versa, but that doesn't mean we're breaking up."

Vicki blanched. "It sounds like it does."

"Well, I didn't mean it that way." Dan smiled. The coffee began its happy gurgling, and he came over and gave her a hug. He was wearing Vicki's favorite baggy jeans and navy crewneck, and even that didn't cheer her up. "How about we go on a date tonight? A real date, go out and celebrate?"

"Celebrate what?" Vicki whined, and enjoyed it. Nobody could whine like a suburban girl.

"Celebrate that the good guys won, and, in this case, they happen to be in love with each other."

"Okay."

"Good." Dan gave Vicki a quick kiss, which she worried was too wife-y and not girlfriend-y enough, then he patted her on the butt, which was downright quarterback-y. "Now we gotta get to work."

Go, team! "We do?" Vicki checked her watch. 7:38. She was supposed to meet Reheema at nine.

"Yeah, we do. We executed a coupla warrants yesterday, if you remember." Dan laughed softly as he opened the dishwasher, grabbed their Harvard and Elvis mugs, and set them on the counter. "We have to start preparing for the grand jury hearings. We'll need scripts for cross-examination, for witnesses, subpoenas prepared, you know this drill." Dan's cell phone started ringing in its belt holster, and he twisted it upward to read the display. "Unknown number, that's the press. I told Strauss I'd be in at nine."

Great minds. "Uh, well, I was going to meet Reheema this morning."

"Your friend from last night." Dan's face lengthened under his fresh shave. "What trouble did you two get into, anyway?"

"None, we just said hi." Vicki cheered up. "They were actually having a party in the neighborhood, and they're gonna keep the crack out. We actually helped them. That neighborhood will survive now, and Reheema's organizing it."

"Is that the truth?" Dan lifted an eyebrow, and Vicki made a decision.

"I'm not going to lie to you anymore. That's all we did. But we still don't know who killed her mother or why she was set up for the straw purchase, and I want to help her with that."

"Oh, you do."

"I was wondering what you thought, too, about something else. Can you listen without freaking out?" Vicki didn't wait for an answer. She had told him last night that she'd taken Toner's record from his briefcase, but she hadn't mentioned she'd taken the HIDTA charts of Ray James, too. Time to come clean. "I'd love to have my sounding board back."

"Go right ahead," Dan said, pouring them coffee, so Vicki accepted her mug and ﬁlled him in about her taking James's records and tracing her cell phone to Albertus. Dan wasn't smiling when she was ﬁnished. "So it's hired killers, now."

"Even I think I might be in over my head."

"But you're not gonna stop, are you?"

"Dan, Reheema ran down that kid for me, and he could have been armed, for all she knew. I owe her."

"No, you don't."

"Then it's the right thing to do." Vicki couldn't believe his stubbornness. "Even a crack addict is somebody's mother. This one was Reheema's. She deserves justice as much as Morty does, isn't that the point? Equal justice under the law?" Chief?

"Okay. You want my help?" Dan set his mug on the tile counter, with a ceramic clank. "Let's make a deal."

"What?" Vicki smelled another fake Vuitton.

"Let me handle it. I'll ask Strauss to make a phone call and get the Bristow homicide a top priority for the Philly cops. VIP treatment. They'll have time, now that the Toys ‘R' Us case is cleared. I also give him a heads-up, off the record, about Bethave and her son. See if he can get a patrol car on their block, keeping an eye out."

"Great!" Vicki felt better already, and Dan was already smiling at her the way he used to. Yesterday.

"In return, you and Reheema don't investigate hired killers. This really is a matter for the cops. You've done great legwork, but it's too risky to go further. Deal?"

"Deal." Vicki nodded. "Only one loose end. I still don't know why Shayla Jackson set Reheema up for the straw purchase. None of the busts yesterday explain that at all. I don't even know how Jackson knew Reheema."

"What's the difference, Vick?" Dan asked, with a weary smile. "Reheema is ﬁne now, and the guy who killed your CI is in custody. No harm, no foul."

Vicki almost laughed. "Except that Reheema lost almost a year of her life in jail."

"If she had told us she had given the guns to her mother, she probably wouldn't have been charged."

"But her mother would have been. It's still a loose end."

"Life is full of loose ends. You can't know everything, babe." Dan smiled. "Now. You coming to work with me?"

"Not yet. I have something to do this morning."

"Not with Reheema?"

"Yes."

Dan laughed. "What now?"

Vicki told him, but she wasn't asking permission.

And, in the end, it wasn't given.

An hour later, the morning sun was climbing the clouds in the sky and Vicki was back driving the Cabrio, supplied with fresh coffee and newspapers. She'd have to return her rental ﬂeet, but that was low priority today. Stopped in trafﬁc, she read the newspaper headlines. TOYS "R" US GUNMAN IN FEDERAL CUSTODY, announced a banner on the Philadelphia Inquirer, while the local tab went with KID KILLER KAUGHT. Both papers had a short sidebar and bio on Morty, including a photo and quotes by Strauss. Neither newspaper had a sidebar on Shayla Jackson.

Vicki glanced up but traffic was still stalled, so she went back to reading. Both papers covered the stories every which way, including sidebars on the ATF SWAT team methods, new security measures in shopping malls, use of surveillance security cameras, and the crack cocaine trade. She paged to the Inquirer op-ed, where an editorial entitled IGNORED AT OUR PERIL emphasized the connection between the crack cocaine trade and random violence at toy stores. Vicki counted that as progress.

The traffic freed up, and she took off, and in no time entered Devil's Corner and turned onto Lincoln Street. The sawhorses were gone, but crushed paper cups, soiled napkins, and beer cans littered the street, and they were being picked up by a small cadre of neighbors carrying black trash bags. Reheema, in her pea coat, was one of the hardy few, and she dumped her Hefty bag in a can and waved good-bye to her neighbors when she spotted the Cabrio.

Vicki pulled up at the curb, leaned over, and opened the passenger door for Reheema, who looked like a new woman. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, gold studs made bright dots in her ears, and a light swipe of pink gloss gave her full lips a shine.

"Wow, you look great!" Vicki said.

"No more disguises, thank God." Reheema folded herself into the passenger seat, and almost immediately the Cabrio interior ﬁlled with a lavender fragrance.

"You even smell great. I have a girl crush."

"I showered!" Reheema smiled. "I got heat, electric, and water."

"Party! We so love our utilities."

"We so do!"

"In fact, how about I buy the Intrepid, and you can pay me back when you get a job." Vicki felt ﬂush, now that she had her job back. "Or you can have the Sunbird. I'm your vehicle, baby."

"I'll think about it, thanks a lot." Reheema grinned. "Now, where we goin'?"

"First, let me tell you what's going on with your mother's case." Vicki hit the gas and pulled away as she filled her in about the deal with Dan. Reheema nodded, listening with her head slightly inclined.

"So Dan the Man is gonna pull some strings?"

"He'll get the case VIP treatment, he said."

"We'll see what he comes up with, for the time being. I want to know who killed her."

"Of course," Vicki said, praying that Dan came through. "If the cops pick up this hired killer, that frees us to try to ﬁgure out why Jackson set you up."

"Wonder if they're connected."

Vicki looked over and almost ran the red light. "Think out loud."

"What?"

"Tell me what you're thinking. Maybe we can ﬁgure it out together. I do it all the time."

"I never do."

Vicki smiled. "Go ahead. Try."

Reheema paused. "Okay, well, it's just that Jackson framed me, about a year ago, and then somebody killed my mother. It's like a puzzle, and if you just look at that one piece, it kinda makes you think somebody doesn't like the Bristows."

Vicki blinked. "True. Any ideas?"

"If my dad weren't dead already, I woulda thought of him, ﬁrst."

Vicki kept her own counsel. It made her family issues look like comic relief. "Any other relatives?"

"No, just her and me, long as I can remember. I had an uncle but he's gone, too."

"What about that boyfriend you mentioned?"

"Gone and married."

"I'd wonder about the FDC, but the timing's wrong, you were set up before."

"I got no enemies."

"Hard to believe," Vicki said, and they laughed, now that they were friends. Almost.

"Think they're connected?"

"Possibly." Vicki was kicking herself. She should have thought of that herself, but she had been so focused on Morty. "It doesn't change what we have to do. Let's let the cops work from that end and we'll work from ours. If we meet in the middle, we still win."

Reheema nodded. "So, what's the plan?"

"We canvass the neighborhood."

"Which means what?"

"Well, our problem is that we don't know why Jackson set you up. We have to learn more about Jackson and ﬁgure out her connection to you. So we ask her neighbors. Cops do it all the time after a murder. It's only because this time they had an eyewitness-me-it wasn't so necessary. Or if they did it, I don't know."

"What about what you thought before, that maybe Jackson was jealous of me? That Browning and her saw me and so she set me up."

"That's one of the reasons I want to find her friend Mar, who her mother told me about. Mar could tell us if Browning even knew you." Vicki remembered that missing ﬁle of grand jury testimony. "Without support, it's farfetched."

Reheema fell quiet as the Cabrio wound its way through trafﬁc, and so did Vicki, until a thought struck her:

"What if you're in danger now, Reheema?"

"What?"

"What if whoever was hired to kill your mom intended to kill you, too?" Vicki's ﬁngers squeezed the steering wheel, as the possibility began to dawn on her. "I mean, you were supposed to be released from the FDC earlier that day, and the paperwork got held up. Maybe you were the real target, and your mom was just there. Or they meant to get you both." Vicki locked eyes with Reheema and they both knew it wasn't that crazy. "Whoa."

"Yeah." Reheema winced as Vicki dodged a SEPTA bus passing on her left. "But who would know I was being released? Had to be somebody at your ofﬁce."

"What?"

"Think about it. If that's true, the only people who knew I was being let out of the FDC were the people in your ofﬁce, whoever they are. Or the Philly cops, or the ATF guys. Did any of them know?"

Vicki scoffed. "Then that's not what happened. Forget it. That's impossible."

"Is it?" Reheema lifted an eyebrow.

"Of course it is. But it is possible that you're in danger, so it's all the more reason we have to learn more about Jackson. Her mother told me that Jackson had decided to change her life and was going to move. We know she was packing." Vicki toted it up. "I think she broke up with Browning and wasn't dating anyone."

"Okay. So?"

"None of us lives in this life alone. She had a friend. Mar." Vicki was thinking out loud, too, and it was nice to have someone else as a sounding board. Maybe that was the Almost Friend part. "Did she go to a gym? Did she go to a doctor? She was pregnant, so she'd need prenatal check-ups. Who's her doctor?"

"Okay, so we go to the houses and we ask questions."

"Right." Vicki took a left turn, and Reheema frowned.

"You're lost, aren't you?"

Vicki nodded. "Don't start with the Harvard stuff again."

"Did I say anything?"

FORTY-ONE

An hour later, Vicki parked the Cabrio, grabbed her bag and the newspaper, and they walked together in the cold sun to Jackson's house, a two-story brick semidetached. The crime scene tape was gone, though a shred of yellow strip ﬂapped in the bitter wind. Vicki felt herself shudder at the sight. Coming back to where Morty had been killed was easier in theory than in practice. Somehow, having his killer in custody didn't ease the pain.

She and Reheema walked up the concrete front steps of the row house attached to Shayla Jackson's and knocked on the front door. The door opened, an older man answered, and Vicki stepped forward. "Sir, my name is Vicki Allegretti, and I'm trying to learn a little about your neighbor, Ms. Jackson, who was killed the other day."

"Didn't know her," the man answered, and slammed the door shut.

"Nice technique," Reheema said, and Vicki smiled as they went down the front walk and to the next house.

Vicki knocked on the door, and an older woman answered, so she introduced herself and said, "I'd like to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Ms. Jackson, who was killed the other day. It won't take long."

The woman looked from Vicki to Reheema, behind her bifocals. "What do you wanna know?"

"May we come in?"

"No."

"Did you know Ms. Jackson?"

"Not very well, she kep' to herself."

"Did you talk to her much, even casually? Like if she had to borrow something, or you did?"

"No. I saw on the TV they caught the guys that killed her."

"They did. Were you here that night? Did you see or hear anything?"

"I was at work, I clean at night. I missed the whole thing."

I didn't. "How long did Ms. Jackson live here, if you know?"

"She moved in two years ago, maybe less. I hardly talked to her but once or twice, when the trash man didn't come, during the strike, you know."

"Did she work?"

"I don't think so. She stayed in a lot. Played her music, I use ta hear it through the wall."

Vicki made a mental note. "Do you know if she owned or rented?"

"Rent. We mostly rent on this street. From Polo Realty, in Juniata. They own all these houses."

"Did she live alone, as long as she lived here?"

"Yeh."

Vicki held up the newspaper through the plastic storm window. On the second page were photos of the people killed in the Toys "R" Us murders, with a sidebar about Browning and his driver, whose name was David Cole. Vicki pointed at Browning. "Ever see this man visit Jackson at her house?"

"That was her boyfriend."

"Why do you say that?"

"He was here a lot."

"When would that be about? From when she moved in or later?"

"When she moved in, I think. He helped her move in. I seen him."

"Was she pregnant then?"

"She was pregnant?" The woman's graying eyebrows raised. "Oh yeah, I heard that on the TV but I didn't know that, for myself."

"Okay, ever see the other two?" Vicki pointed to the pictures of Cole and Bill Toner.

"No."

"Ever see any other men visit?"

"No."

"Ever see girlfriends visit?"

"No."

"No one girlfriend in particular? You know, like girls have a best friend?"

"No."

"Ever hear her mention a girlfriend named Mar?"

"No, I hardly talked to her." The woman looked behind her. "I gotta go now. I got a cake in the oven."

"Thanks so much for your time," Vicki said, and the door closed.

Reheema said, "She was lying about the cake."

"I would, too."

Vicki and Reheema tried the next seven houses, stopping at the end of the street; two of the neighbors wouldn't answer the door, and the other ﬁve knew progressively less about Shayla Jackson. Then they went back to Jackson's and resumed at the ﬁrst house on the other side, with Reheema pressing the bell. A black teenage boy answered, his eyes widening when he saw a gorgeous black woman standing on his doorstep, having stepped out of his dreams.

"I'm Reheema Bristow, is your mother at home?" she asked, and the kid nodded.

Suddenly, Vicki's cell phone started ringing in her purse, so she stepped back and pulled it from her bag.

Groaning when she read the display.

Vicki stepped off the elevator into work, surprised to ﬁnd the ﬂoor crowded and abuzz with action. Reporters and photographers spilled into the elevator bank, talking and laughing in groups, with still cameras hanging on their shoulders and steno pads stuffed in the back pocket of their jeans. ATF personnel, Philly uniformed cops, and an older AUSA stood talking to the press. She had to barrel through the throng to the reception room, and heads began turning as reporters recognized her and began to call to her.

"Just one comment, Ms. Allegretti!" "One question, Ms Allegretti? "Picture, Vicki, how about a picture?" "Nice bust, Allegretti!"

Vicki put her head down and called "No comment" to the reporters mobbing her. The reception desk was fully staffed behind its bulletproof glass, and both receptionists buzzed her in with matching grins and a thumbs-up. Beyond the door, AUSAs, ATF agents, secretaries, and paralegals were going back and forth in the halls, and they all congratulated Vicki on the fly. She acknowledged so many snippets of "Sweet!" "Great work!" and "Go get 'em!" that she felt like a celebrity.

AUSAs in jeans and sweaters worked in their boxy ofﬁces off the hall, but heads popped up from their desks and smiled at her when she passed, and a group of senior AUSAs stood talking near her office, their heads turning as one when she walked by. "Way to go, Vicki!" called one of the nicest, Marilyn Durham, and an AUSA next to her, Martin Frank, called out, "Allegretti, sweet!" A third, Janie Something, hollered, "'Bout time, sleepyhead!"

"Thanks!" Vicki called out and ducked into the office's formal conference room. She opened the door, and everyone who was anyone was in mid-meeting. It was a large, modern room with a panel of windows on two sides, and the noonday sun streamed cold onto Strauss, presiding at the head of the table, then Bale, Dan, and the office's public relations flack, ATF chief Saxon, a top tier of FBI and ATF agents, the commissioner of the Philadelphia police and two of his white-shirted deputies, and the deputy mayor. The room smelled pleasantly of aftershave, and they all sat with fresh coffee around the glistening table, each with a black three-ring binder bearing the gold DOJ emblem.

"Good morning, Vick!" Bale chirped up, too classy to give her in public the grief he'd given her on the phone.

"Sorry I'm late," Vick called out, avoiding Dan's eye.

"S'all right, you deserve the extra rest!"

Strauss nodded. "Sure do, young lady! It's been a long trip since that tragic night, but it's all over now." There followed nods and smiles all around, even from Saxon.

"Vicki," Bale continued, "we just got started and we'd like to give everybody an overview, so we're all on the same page." He pointed to an empty chair at the table. "Why don't you grab a coffee and take your seat, so we can get this party started." Everybody smiled. "By the way, before I forget, at noon tomorrow you'll meet with Special Agent Barbara Pizer on Kalahut, that new case. It should take all day." Bale turned to Saxon. "Barbara's a very experienced agent, right, John?"

"One of our best," Saxon answered. He'd lost some weight, and Vicki felt happy for her new friend.

"So, Vick, you'll be multitasking for a while, working the new case and prepping for the grand jury, but you can handle it."

"Thanks," Vicki said, bypassing the coffee and taking her seat in the sun. She felt a wave of guilt that Bale had had to call her to come in. She had hated to leave Reheema to ﬁnish the canvassing alone, lending her the Cabrio and her cell phone, but Vicki could see now that she had to be at this meeting. Even though she was one of only three women in the room, and undoubtedly the youngest of all, Vicki felt for the ﬁrst time as if she belonged here. She had ﬁnally become an Assistant United States Attorney. Now all she had to do was ﬁgure out how to be in two places at once.

After the meeting, she felt recharged and went to her ofﬁce and worked all afternoon, preparing scripts for the grand jury in Morty's case. The ﬁrst script she prepared was for herself, painstakingly setting out each question she should be asked and the answer she'd give, so she'd be able to give a smooth presentation, devoid of emotion. It didn't mean preparing it wasn't emotional, because it required her to relive that night. AUSAs and other staff bustled up and down the halls, but she managed to tune them out and focus on the task at hand.

As the afternoon wore on, she found herself thinking about Reheema. Vicki had called her cell but there was no answer, and her voicemail picked up, so she'd left a message, asking her to call back. She'd told Reheema her voicemail code so she'd be able to retrieve her messages.

When it started to get dark and Reheema still hadn't called back, she began to feel anxious. Was Reheema in danger? Why hadn't she called? Had she found out something? How long did it take to canvass Jackson's street, anyway? Twilight turned to nighttime, and Vicki worried through the pizza the ofﬁce had ordered. She'd come back to her desk and called her cell again, but voicemail had picked up. By nine o'clock at night, she understood completely why her parents acted like jerks when they were worried about her.

I want a corgi.

"Snack time!" came a voice from the door. It was Dan, grinning, with a large brown bag in his hands, and the ofﬁce ﬁlled instantly with a delicious aroma.

"What's in there?" Vicki asked, and he came in and kicked the door closed with the back of his Adidas.

"Room service from Joe's Peking Duck, just for my baby. That's right, I am a great boyfriend." Dan set the bag down and raised his arms. "Reward me, woman."

"Yay!" Vicki rose and gave him a warm hug, which he returned, then found her lips with a very good kiss. "Wow. Taking a chance in the ofﬁce, aren't you?"

"Just one more." Dan kissed her again, and she felt like his girlfriend again. They broke the embrace, and he started digging in the take-out bag, hauling out the white containers with funny red dragons, one after the other. "Here we have your favorite entree, chicken curry, and cold sesame noodles for an appetizer."

"Yum. Where's yours?"

"I ate with Strauss and Bale and them, at Joe's Peking Duck."

"The big boys." Vicki felt mildly hurt. "You didn't invite me?"

"Aw, babe, it was sort of a spontaneous, late-night thing." Dan winced. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Vicki let it go. She didn't want to prove his point that they couldn't have a relationship at work, even if they couldn't. "I'm just worried about Reheema."

"Reheema? Fill me in, and I promise not to get mad." Dan took a seat opposite her desk and leaned back in the chair the way he always did, while Vicki ﬁshed in her desk drawer and found a pair of disposable chopsticks, then sat down with her chicken dish and dug in.

"First, did you talk to Strauss about the hired killer and the Bethaves?"

"Yes, I did, and he said he'd talk to him after the meeting today. You saw, the commissioner himself was there." Dan smiled. "Good things are gonna happen now. You'll see."

"Great. Thanks." The chicken tasted wonderful, hot and spicy, and Vicki cheered, momentarily. "Well, Reheema and I kept our side of the bargain today, but I'm worried about her."

"Why?"

"I think she could be in danger. That maybe her being framed and her mother's murder are related, and that whoever went to kill her mother was supposed to kill her, too."

"What?" Dan's eyes went a bewildered blue. "Why would anybody want Reheema dead?"

"I don't know, but then again, I don't know why they'd want her mother dead, either, and that happened." Vicki set down her chicken curry. "She wondered if it is someone at the office, since the only people who knew she was getting released from the FDC were us."

"That's crazy. You guys are going crazy." Dan rose, and Vicki bore down.

"You promised not to get mad."

"I'm not mad, I'm frustrated. You can't believe that. That someone from here is plotting against Reheema?" Dan shook his head. "It's like I told you, people like Reheema, they have a different view of the world, coming from a different experience. I don't have to tell you that blacks and whites view the justice system differently, do I?"

"No."

"So of course she's gonna think law enforcement is plotting against her! It's as old as O.J.!"

"Look, obviously, it's no one from here, but I am worried about her."

"You know what bothers me? That there was a roomful of top brass today-every agency in the friggin' city-all sitting around a table, working to make her life better, and she doesn't think of that!" Dan was getting red under his freckles. "Cops and ATF risk their necks every day, and she doesn't think of that! Morty got killed running down a CI, and she doesn't think of that!"

Whoa. Vicki put up a hand. "She does, and so do I. Please, Dan, sit down. If she's paranoid, she's entitled to it."

"But you should know better." Dan met her gaze evenly, and Vicki didn't ﬂinch.

"Not when she was arrested on the say-so of somebody who said she was her best friend and didn't know her at all. I'm concerned enough to make her stay at the house tonight, so she's safe."

"Stay with us?"

"On the couch."

"You're overreacting!"

"I don't want her alone, and I wouldn't sleep worrying like this." Vicki checked the window, where the gray of twilight was deepening toward an inky blue. "I have no way to reach her, short of grabbing a cab and going looking."

"Don't even think about it, Vick. Bale and Strauss are still working. You have to be here."

"What if something happens to her?"

"They're already talking about you."

"What?" Vicki's mouth went dry.

"They're questioning your commitment. Even Bale, since you won't let it go."

"My commitment?" Vicki couldn't believe her ears. "We made the bust of the century, at least partly because I put myself out there! Way out there!"

"But you did things they don't want you to do. Running around, playing cop." Dan sighed. "Just because they're with the program to the media doesn't mean there aren't doubts about you around here. They're just closing ranks."

Vicki couldn't process it fast enough. So much for her ﬁfteen minutes of fame. She felt suddenly stupid for believing the press releases. It had all gone to her head. Is it possible to like positive reinforcement too much?

"They think you're in too deep, because of the trauma of being there, when Morty was killed. You're too emotionally involved because of Morty, and now with Reheema."

"Who thinks that?" Vicki asked, stung.

"They all do." Dan's eyes softened, and he sat back down into his chair. "They wanted to talk to me about staffing at dinner. That's why I didn't ask you to come."

Oh no. "So what did you say?"

"I went to bat for you, of course. You're a great young prosecutor, the best in your class." Dan's mouth ﬂattened with a sort of sadness. "But I'll tell you something, because I love you-they're watching you."

"You're making me paranoid."

"You should be. Your credibility is in question. Your reputation. To me, that's worse than being ﬁred any day."

"But you're going to be chief. You know me."

Dan leaned over. "Vicki, listen to me. You have to stop this. This running around with Reheema. This talk. It's jeopardizing your career and it's embarrassing."

"To whom?" Vicki asked, then she realized. To him.

"You have to make a choice."

"Between Reheema and you?"

"No. Between Reheema and you."

Suddenly the phone rang on Vicki's desk, and she grabbed the receiver. "Allegretti."

"Yo, girlfriend." It was Reheema.

"Where are you? Are you okay?"

"Fine. Sorry, I had the cell phone off."

"I was so worried!" Vicki said, and in the background, Dan got up and went to the door. "Reheema, wait, hold on a minute." She covered the receiver with her hand. "Dan, wait!"

Dan turned at the door, his hand on the knob. "I'll be at a hotel tonight. You two have fun." Then he walked out and closed the door behind him.

"Vicki? Vicki?" Reheema was saying, and Vicki swallowed the tightness in her throat.

"Yeah, I'm back."

"I'm okay, but I have real bad news."

"I'm all ears," Vicki said, her gaze on the closed door.

FORTY-TWO

"What's the bad news?" Vicki asked.

"Mar's dead."

"No." Vicki looked out the window, a black, moonless square that reflected her own unhappiness. There were no stars again. "How?"

"Drug overdose. Crack."

Whoa. "That's terrible. For her and for us."

"I know, right?"

"When?"

"July."

"Last summer. How'd you ﬁnd out?"

"Long story short, I canvassed the street and got nowhere. Nobody knows Jackson, nobody sees her. Then I remember that lady near Jackson's house, who said their landlord was Polo Realty in Juniata, so I call their ofﬁces and go there."

"Good for you."

"I asked can I see the lease, I was Jackson's cousin and maybe I would rent the place, to keep her memory alive."

"And he bought that?"

"He's white. He thinks black people got some weird ways."

Vicki laughed.

"He's right. Look at Michael Jackson. Man's a freak."

"Okay." Vicki laughed again. Despite the bad news, Reheema was evidently flushed with success, and one of them needed self-esteem right now.

"Well, Jackson signed the lease, but the deposit check, for the earnest money, was from a Martella Jenkins." "Mar." "Right, and her address was right on the check." "Yes! Where does she live, or did she live?" "Northeast, so I went over. By the way, that Cabrio's a nice car." "You're not getting the Cabrio." Vicki smiled. "The Intrepid has your name all over it."

Reheema chuckled. "Anyway, her brother told me how she died. He didn't know Jackson, though. He just got back from the army. Been gone ﬁve years."

"Great work!" "Thank you, thank you." "Where are you now?" "Still in the Northeast, 'bout an hour away." "Perfect. Pick me up at the ofﬁce, will you?" "Oh, sure. Driving Miss Vicki." "Gimme a break. Also, I think you should stay at my house tonight." "No way," Reheema said, and hung up.

By eleven o'clock, after a short but intense car ride, they arrived at Vicki's house, but they were barely speaking. Vicki trundled downstairs with a sheet, a thermal blanket, and a feather-ﬁlled pillow, while Reheema sulked on a chair in the living room. Zoe rubbed against the leg of her jeans, her tortoiseshell tail curled into a question mark.

"Here we go," Vicki said, hitting the living room. "I'll make up the couch. It'll be nice and comfy." "I want to sleep in my own house."

"Somebody could be trying to kill you. Namely, me." Vicki dumped the bedclothes on the coffee table.

"This is dumb."

"It is not."

"It is, too."

"I'm taking no chances."

"If somebody's gonna kill me, they could kill me here. This way, you're in trouble, too."

Eek. "Nobody can hurt you with a tiny but very potent AUSA like me on guard." Vicki looked at Zoe, who blinked, green-eyed. "Also, a cat with a heart problem."

"I want my gun."

"No." Vicki made a mental note to take the gun from her purse and put it in a drawer upstairs. She couldn't get it through the metal detectors at work; they kept conﬁscating it at security and giving it back to her. Evidently she wasn't the ﬁrst AUSA to be carrying, but it was a huge pain in the butt and was making her nervous, besides.

Reheema got up, grabbed a white sheet, and helped Vicki tuck it around the couch cushions, a task they ﬁnished jointly, albeit in silence.

"You still pouting?"

"Yes."

"Sorry." Vicki smiled and sat down on the couch, newly made. "You did well today."

"I know."

"I think what you found out ﬂeshes out what happened to Shayla, if you're interested."

"More thinking out loud?" Reheema sat back down on the chair, in resignation, if not approval.

"Well, you said that Mar was killed last summer. That's about when Jackson's mother told me she decided to change her life. That would make sense, right?"

"Right."

"Okay, so let's assume Jackson dabbles in crack, and-"

"You don't dabble in crack. It dabbles in you."

"What I mean is that Jackson is running with a druggie crowd, and her boyfriend is Browning, ace crack dealer. He moves her into a nice place and sets her up."

"Knocks her up, too."

"I hate that expression."

"Sorry, Miss Vicki."

Vicki smiled. "Okay, anyway. Then she gets pregnant and realizes that she has to keep her body clean and change her life. Or she'll end up like her friend Mar, or her baby will."

"People wake up." Reheema nodded. "Not often enough, but they do. Some do."

"So? So what? We learned more about Jackson, but not enough. Or enough to know why she'd frame you, as part of her rehab. Her calling our ofﬁce would have happened about the same time." Vicki sighed, her fatigue catching up with her, as well as nagging thoughts about Dan. "The problem is, what do we do now? We're at a dead end."

"Not necessarily. I still got people to canvass. Lots of people weren't home today. I'll go back again tomorrow and talk to the ones I missed. They'll be home because I heard it's gonna snow again tomorrow, so everybody'll be hunkering down."

"Were they nearby neighbors?"

"Not really, but you never know. I never quit a race, and I won't start now."

Vicki smiled. "Okay, good. Because I have to go back to work."

"No problem, I'll keep the car and the phone. If you call, leave a message. I got the code."

"Done."

Reheema scratched the top of Zoe's multicolored head. "Did Dan the Man say anything about my mother?"

"He already talked to the U.S. Attorney, who's gonna talk to the commissioner himself."

"When's that gonna happen?"

"I think today or tomorrow."

"Thanks." Reheema paused. "I didn't bother Bethave today, as much as I wanted to."

"Good restraint."

"Not at all. I figured it'd only make her run. She has to think we let it go." Reheema half-smiled. "I'll take the couch."

"No, I will."

"What if Dan the Man comes home and ﬁnds me in your bed?"

"He won't." Vicki gave a short laugh, and Reheema cocked her head.

"Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise?"

"Not really. Well, maybe a little."

"Like what?"

Vicki couldn't decide how much to tell her. "He wants me to behave myself, is all."

"Ha! Then he better come get his damn cat," Reheema said, and burst into laughter.

A minute later, so did Vicki.

Even though she knew it was completely lame, Vicki got up early the next morning and spent way too long trying to look hot for her estranged boyfriend, blow-drying her hair and putting on her best jeans and blue cashmere sweater. Reheema dropped her off at work on her way to canvassing, and Vicki stepped off the elevator at eight o'clock into an empty elevator bank; by the time she got to reception, she realized that the media, staff, and curiosity-seekers wouldn't be in today, only the hardworking, fully committed, blown-dry AUSAs. Like me!

Vicki waved to the one receptionist, who buzzed her in without a thumbs-up, and she went down the hallway, which was also empty. She braced herself and popped her head into Dan's ofﬁce, but he wasn't at his desk, though his light was on. Fine. Be that way.

She had work to do and couldn't mope around forever. She went to her ofﬁce with a cup of fresh Starbucks, took off her coat, pushed up her sweater sleeves, and closed her door so she wouldn't be tempted to look up and see if Dan was there. The night's sleep had brought no change in perspective on their ﬁght; in other words, she still knew she was right and he was wrong. But she missed him.

She sat down at her desk, finished her grand jury script, then started on the other witnesses. The medical examiner, Dr. Soresh, would have to testify, and Vicki looked through her mound of mail for his report, which had come in last week. She found a thick brown envelope with the familiar seal and braced herself. Autopsy reports were always awful to read; she'd start with Jackson's and move on to Morty's only when she felt strong enough. All she had to do was get the basics from each: ofﬁcial cause of death, number and location of entrance and exit wounds, to sketch the case for the grand jury.

Vicki slid out the papers. POSTMORTEM REPORT: JACKSON, SHAYLA read the boldface line at the top. She scanned the ﬁrst page, containing the grim details about Jackson: "Pregnant Black Female, Age 23; Height 5'4"; Weight, 145." After that, it stated Cause of Death-exsanguination and internal injury due to gunshot wounds-and Manner of Death-Homicide. Vicki made a note of the Manner of Death for her script and turned the page. EXTERNAL EXAMINATION read the top of the page, and the description of the external examination of the body began at the top: "The head is normocephalic. The scalp hair is black and is up to six inches in length. The irrides are brown and the sclerae showed petechiae…"

Vicki skipped ahead, then was sorry she had. The cold, typed detail of the chest wounds, in old-fashioned Courier font, were gruesome, and she skimmed them quickly to get to the facts she needed and finish this awful job. She skimmed down to abdomen, which described in medical detail the gunshot wounds to Jackson's abdomen and her uterus beneath, which were all the more horrifying because of the level of medical detail. Just when Vicki thought she couldn't take any more she noticed something in the detail:

The fetus, approximately eight months and one week in gestation, was a female of mixed race, apparently African American and Caucasian.

She blinked, surprised. Vicki had assumed Shayla Jackson's baby was Browning's, but the report meant that it couldn't have been. What did it mean, if anything? Could that have been why they broke up? She skimmed the rest of the report for another reference, but didn't ﬁnd any.

Suddenly her phone rang and she jumped. "Allegretti," she said, hoping it was Dan.

"Vicki, it's Jane, in reception? There's a buncha boxes just got delivered for you from ATF, Special Agent Pizer. Label says the matter is Kalahut."

"My new case. I'll be right there." Vicki got up, almost relieved to leave the grisly postmortem report behind for a minute. She opened her door and checked Dan's ofﬁce on the fly, but it was still empty. She went to the reception room, which was dominated by fifteen cardboard boxes with ATF stickers, stacked in the center. "You weren't kidding."

"They delivered a few boxes last night, too," Jane said from behind her bulletproof window. "They're in the ﬁle room."

"There's too many to put in my ofﬁce. Do we have a spare conference room, at least for a few days? I got a meeting with Agent Pizer today." Vicki checked her watch. 11:05. "At noon."

"Hold on." Jane checked the conference room log. "C is free until Friday. It's the little one, with no windows."

"I'll take it. Where's the dolly?"

"In the closet."

"Thanks." Vicki retrieved the orange dolly, loaded the boxes, and wheeled them into the conference room, making three trips, then she headed to the ﬁle room for the remainder. The ﬁle room smelled vaguely of dust and was empty, large, and windowless. Four cardboard boxes with ATF stickers sat stacked on the counter. Vicki loaded two boxes on the dolly and was about to leave when she remembered the missing transcript from Shayla Jackson's grand jury testimony. It would only take a second to look for it.

She checked her watch: 11:15.

She'd have to get it done fast.

FORTY-THREE

Vicki pushed the dolly aside and went around the counter to the case ﬁles, which were kept in cabinets arranged alphabetically by the defendant's last name. She stopped at the Be-Bu drawer, pulled it out, and went though the files for United States v. Bristow. No luck. Just in case the transcript had been misﬁled, she pulled out Branigan, Brest, Bristol, and Bruster, and thumbed through them, but it wasn't there. She thought a minute. It wasn't that old a ﬁle, less than a year, and it would still be active. Maybe it was misfiled under Jackson, which would have been an easy mistake to make. She went to the Ja-Jo cabinet and found the Jackson ﬁles; there were at least ﬁfty of them.

Argh. Vicki didn't have much time. She pulled out each Jackson ﬁle, one defendant at a time-Alvin, Adam, Boston, Calvin-and checked every one for Shayla Jackson's transcript. Still no luck. She closed the cabinet with a ﬁnal click, but she couldn't stop thinking about that transcript. It would be Jackson's own words and the details of what she knew about Reheema. It had been convincing enough to get a grand jury to indict. Where the hell was it? Vicki thought back to her walk with Cavanaugh and tried to remember what he had said about the transcript:

"I admit it, I wasn't into ﬁling. Maybe it got misﬁled."

Vicki reasoned it out. If Cavanaugh hadn't filed the transcript in Reheema's case ﬁle before he left the ofﬁce, then, after he left, it would ﬂoat around and somebody would most likely send it to the ﬁle room. What would the ﬁle clerks do with it? It would be a transcript, clearly from a grand jury proceeding. They'd be too diligent, or too scared, to throw it away, so they'd stick it somewhere. Where? Vicki realized the answer as soon as she'd asked the question:

The To Be Filed bin! It was a paper version of a homeless shelter. All sorts of stray legal documents were stuck in To Be Filed; papers that nobody could throw away without guilt, or fear of termination. The ﬁle clerks were supposed to ﬁle the documents from the To Be Filed bin when they got free time, which was never. Vicki looked around for the To Be Filed bin and on top of the ﬁrst panel of cabinets sat not one but three overﬂowing bins, all labeled TO BE FILED. Maybe they reproduce?

Vicki went up on tiptoe, slid the ﬁrst bin off the top of the cabinet, then set it on the floor and sat down in front of it, crossing her legs. She started skimming the papers and setting them aside on the rug; she felt energized by the thought of finding the transcript and by Mocha Java, grande size. The ﬁrst document was a proffer letter in United States v. Streat, the second was a trial transcript in United States v. Gola, the third was a motion to suppress in United States v. Washington, and so on. Each case caption listed a litany of aliases and nicknames: "Psycho Chris," "Ant," "Shakey," "Baby Al," and "Boxing Bob." The bin was truly a miscellany, documents thrown into a stack, with the only common thread being that nobody knew what else to do with them. Vicki kept reading and in time ﬁnished the ﬁrst bin. No Jackson transcript.

She got up and traded the ﬁrst bin for the second, then sat back down and got to work. More stray documents, the mundane and the fascinating, all heaped together. By the end of the second bin and still no Jackson transcript, Vicki was telling herself to keep going because the oldest stuff would logically be in the third bin and Cavanaugh had left the office some time ago. She got up, traded bins, then sat down and kept looking, setting the papers to the side as she read. She slowed as she neared the end of the third pile, like a reader making a good book last. But when she finished, there was no transcript.

Damn it to hell! Vicki sighed and checked her watch. 11:45. The ATF agent would be here in ﬁfteen minutes, if the snow didn't slow her down. It had started this morning, and by the time Vicki had gotten into work, there'd been two inches' accumulation. She hurried to put the stacks of miscellaneous papers back in the bin, then stopped at one of the documents when something caught her eye. She picked it up. It was a standard plea agreement in a drug case, United States v. David "Kermit" Montgomery. But it wasn't the caption that caught her eye, it was the address of the defendant: 2356 Pergola Street, Apt. 2.

Vicki paused. How did she know that street name? Then she remembered, because it was such an unusual name. Pergola was the Bethaves' street. She flipped through the plea agreement, curious. The indictment was against Montgomery for conspiracy to distribute, and the guilty plea had been entered for a lesser included offense and jail time of six months.

Vicki raised an eyebrow. Merry Christmas, Mr. Montgomery. It was a sweet deal for conspiracy to distribute, especially in this climate. Whose case had this been? She turned to the last page and checked the signatures. Strauss and Bale, who signed every plea agreement, and underneath them, the AUSA who had worked the case: Dan Malloy.

Vicki blinked. Odd. It wasn't like Dan to let anybody off so easy. Still, so what? She had to get ready for that Kalahut meeting. She stuck the plea agreement on top of the other papers, stood up with the To Be Filed bin, and replaced it on the top of the ﬁle cabinet. She had to get out of here. The Jackson transcript was gone. She went over to the dolly to leave, then stopped. Pergola Street. Looking would take only another second, and she'd come this far.

Vicki went back to the ﬁle cabinets, took the plea agreement out of the bin, and double-checked the name. David Montgomery. She went to the M's, opened the drawer, and thumbed though the ﬁles to see if there was a case ﬁle for David Montgomery. She ﬂipped through Martin, Michelson, then, Montgomery. In fact, there were three David Montgomerys, aka, respectively, "Meenie," "Holy Man," and finally, the one she'd seen on the agreement, "Kermit." Bingo.

She pulled out the third Montgomery ﬁle, which was fairly thick, and opened it. It was a typical legal-size manila folder, and on the left side, attached by a steel fastener, a copy of Montgomery's mug shot was attached to his criminal record. He had narrow, almost slitted eyes, and a small mouth, unsmiling. Next to his mug shot, it read: "Black Male, D/O/B 1/2/72, Height, 6'2", Weight, 210 lbs." Vicki skimmed down the record of offenses: assault with a deadly (knife), aggravated assault, attempted murder for hire.

She felt her heart stop. Knife assaults. A murder for hire. A hired killer, on Mrs. Bethave's street? Could Montgomery be the man who had knifed Reheema's mother to death? The man Mrs. Bethave had been so afraid of? It was too great a coincidence, wasn't it? How many hired killers could there be on Pergola Street?

Vicki suppressed her emotion, so she wasn't jumping to conclusions. She checked the date of the plea agreement. Eight months ago. So Montgomery would be out of prison by now, having served only six months. He'd be free. Living on Pergola Street. Her mouth went dry. She checked Montgomery's house number, 2356. What had Bethave's house number been? Vicki couldn't remember, but it was in the 2000s; she remembered because she had driven across Twentieth Street to get there. So they lived on the same block of Pergola.

Her thoughts raced ahead. Mrs. Bethave had freaked out when Albertus had signed her the killer's name, as if Montgomery could see Vicki and Reheema at the house if they didn't leave fast enough. She could imagine how it would have happened, if Montgomery was the one: Saturday had been the day of the snowstorm, and Albertus could have been playing on the street, as the Holloway kids had been, on Vicki's block. Albertus could have run into Montgomery on the street, and Montgomery could have handed Albertus the cell phone he'd taken from the woman he killed the night before. Arissa Bristow.

Vicki put it together, with a start. David "Kermit" Montgomery. Kermit. The frog. The man who had answered her cell phone that night had spoken in a gravelly voice. Dan had noticed it, too. Was that why Montgomery's nickname was Kermit? Because of his froggy voice? My God.

Abruptly, the door to the file room opened, and Vicki almost jumped out of her skin. She turned, and in the threshold stood Jane, the receptionist. "Vicki, oops, sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. That ATF agent has been waiting outside, for your meeting."

"Oh, jeez. Thanks." It was all Vicki could do to slip the ﬁle behind her and to collect herself. "Please, tell her I'm sorry, I'll be right there."

"Okay." Jane closed the door.

Vicki's thoughts were a jumble, but she didn't have time to process anything now. She went to the dolly, tore open the top cardboard box, and shoved the Montgomery ﬁle inside. Then she wheeled the boxes out of the ﬁle room, dumped them in the conference room, and ran to her office with the Montgomery ﬁle, which she hid in a drawer. Then she picked up the phone and pressed in the numbers to her cell phone. Snow fell steadily from a gray sky while the phone rang and rang, then her voicemail picked up. She felt herself tense. Reheema had insisted on turning off the phone during her interviews, and Vicki hoped she wasn't answering because she was with one of Jackson's neighbors.

The beep sounded, and Vicki said, "Reheema, I think I have an ID on the man who killed your mother and I'm worried about you. Watch out for a big black guy." She winced when she realized how it sounded. "I'm not kidding or being suburban. He has slitty eyes, age thirty-three, he's about six two, two hundred pounds. His name is David Montgomery, but don't you dare do anything to track him down. I'm going to the cops with this as soon as I can. Call me when you get this message." She hung up, then hit the buttons to forward her calls to the conference room, for when Reheema called back. Then she arranged her face into a professional mask and went to reception to meet Agent Pizer.

Ten minutes later, Vicki was sitting in the shoe box of a conference room with the very able ATF agent, taking notes when it seemed like she should be, asking questions on autopilot, and organizing papers into more piles of papers. Her thoughts were elsewhere. Not only was it weird enough to work with an ATF agent who wasn't Morty, but she sensed she was right about Montgomery. She'd have to talk with Dan and Bale, then get to the Philly detectives so they could pick Montgomery up. Looking in the Bethaves' neighborhood for suspects with a record of murder-for-hire would have been among the first things the detectives would commonly have done, but she wasn't taking the chance that they'd done it yet.

Vicki wondered how it would make Dan feel to learn that someone he'd given a deal to had killed somebody, or even how it would make him look, but she couldn't think about that now. Bale would feel worse for approving it, whether he had reviewed it with any care at all or even if he'd just signed it on Dan's say-so. She didn't know Strauss that well, but she gave him the beneﬁt of the doubt that he'd feel terrible, or at least unhappy that he'd gotten egg on his face. It wouldn't be enough to upset his appointment to the bench or the other promotions, already in the works.

Vicki couldn't begin to answer the harder question of why anybody would hire Montgomery to kill Reheema's mother, or if she weren't the intended victim, Reheema. There were too many missing pieces. She kept looking over at the telephone on the small credenza, expecting Reheema to call, but she didn't. Had she gotten the message? Was she safe? Was Montgomery after her?

Vicki excused herself, saying she had to go to the bathroom, but instead ran to her ofﬁce and called Reheema again. Still no answer, and she left another message. She hurried back to the conference room, checking her watch on the run. 3:50. At least it was still light out. Montgomery wouldn't attack in broad daylight, would he? He hadn't before. She returned to the conference room, her thoughts going around and around, and allegedly got back to work. She glanced at her watch at 4:01, 4:20, and ﬁve more times until 5:01. It had to be getting dark outside, but she couldn't tell without windows. The ATF agent was working away, but Vicki couldn't take it another minute.

She stood up and stretched, theatrically. "Well, we made a lot of progress today," she said, though she had no idea if they'd made progress or not. "I guess it's closing time."

"I thought we were scheduled until six o'clock, and we're in the middle of this-"

"I'm sorry, I thought five o'clock, and with the snow, we should end a little early, don't you think? It was great meeting you." Vicki extended a ﬁrm hand across the table, focusing on Agent Pizer for the first time. She was attractive, with her brunette hair cut chin length, and a warm smile. It would've been great meeting her. "Next time, let's have lunch."

"Sure, and I guess we can knock off now." Agent Pizer seemed relieved to slide her jacket from the chair next to her.

"You're right about the snow, and it is Sunday, after all."

"Yes, day of rest and all that. And look at the conference table." Vicki gestured to the clutter. "It's a mess, which means we worked very hard."

Agent Pizer laughed. "I knew you'd be funny. Morty really thought the world of you."

"Really?" Vicki asked, surprised. Neither of them had mentioned him until this minute. "He wasn't the type to get mushy."

"I know, it wasn't his style. But he told all of us about you, and he seemed so happy since you two were working together, this past year."

"Thanks." Vicki swallowed the lump in her throat. "Let me walk you out." They left the conference room and went down the hall to reception, and Vicki looked back as they passed Dan's ofﬁce. He was on the phone, but perked up and caught her eye.

"Vicki?" he called out, covering the receiver with a hand.

"Gimme ﬁve minutes," she called back, almost like the old days.

But she knew those days could be gone forever, after they had their next conversation.

FORTY-FOUR

Vicki went back to Dan's office, walked in, and closed the door behind her, just as he was hanging up. He stood up at his desk, his expression soft and a little sheepish. He looked handsome, unshaven, and regretful in his jeans and navy crewneck, which had to be fusing with his skin by now.

Vicki tabled her feelings. She didn't have time for them. "We have to talk."

Dan put up a hand. "I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He smiled crookedly. "Did I mention I was sorry?"

Vicki felt a tug. "It's not about us. It's more important than us."

"Nothing is more important than us." Dan smiled, cautiously. "Except maybe giving Zoe her meds in the morning."

"I remembered."

"God, I do love you," Dan said, with meaning, and as touched as she felt, she set the plea agreement on top of the papers on his desk.

"What's this?"

"You tell me." Vicki sat down as he slid the plea agreement toward him and took his seat, reading it. She wished he would hurry. Night was falling outside the window to his left, a transparent wash of blue, too thin to mirror his ofﬁce, which was neat, as usual. Books and treatises stood at attention on shelves, and accordion files sat in alphabetical order on the credenza, next to a Nerf football spray-painted gold, a worn baseball glove, and the Leaning Tower of Baseball Caps, standard-issue for every boy AUSA.

"It looks like a plea agreement in U.S. v. Montgomery," Dan answered, glancing at the papers.

"Your case."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't." Dan smiled. "Is this a game?"

"You signed the plea agreement."

"No, I didn't."

Vicki blinked. "Look at the signature page."

Dan turned to the back of the agreement and read the signature page. "Huh. I didn't sign this."

"It's not your signature? It looks like it."

"I know." Dan shook his head, mystiﬁed. "I see what you mean. It does look like my signature, but I didn't sign it. I don't remember this case."

"It's only eight months ago, or so."

"Yes, so I would remember it, and I don't. David Montgomery? Don't know the name, and I'd never give him that easy a deal." Dan eyed the signature again. "Somebody must have forged my name."

"A forgery?" Vicki felt her mouth drop open. She just assumed a signature in this office was a valid signature, but maybe she was being naïve. The only alternative was that Dan was lying, and she couldn't bring herself to conclude that, not yet.

"It has to be a forgery, because I didn't sign it."

Vicki considered the possibility. "If it's a forgery, it explains a lot. But who would forge your name, and why?"

"I don't know." Dan looked at the agreement again, then held it up to the lamp on his desk, a halogen light with a black metal shade.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know, trying to see something. A watermark, a ﬁngerprint, I don't know. This is weird." Dan lowered the document, still examining the last page. "Strauss and Bale signed it, too. This looks like their signatures, but maybe they're forged, too."

"Three forged signatures?"

"If you'll forge one, you'll forge three."

"But that's crazy," Vicki said, nonplussed. "Who would do that?"

"I don't know. I can't explain this, babe."

Vicki couldn't either. "Maybe it was your case, and you've forgotten? You were on trial at the time, in Morales, the heroin distribution case." She had ﬁgured this out during her ATF meeting. "Maybe you were so preoccupied, you don't remember the deal, or signing it."

"Let me think a minute." Dan frowned deeply. "No, I swear, I don't remember this case at all. I didn't work this case. You have the ﬁle?"

Vicki slid it across the table, and Dan thumbed through it, reading.

"This is old CP stuff. Common Pleas. Nothing from the federal case."

"I know. I assumed you had the rest of it, the indictment and the grand jury transcripts."

"I don't. It's not my case. Where'd you get this?"

"The To Be Filed bin, on the very bottom. Buried."

Dan returned to reading the ﬁle. "Hmmm. Looks like Mr. Montgomery's been a bad boy. He lucked out with this deal, big-time. Who's his lawyer, Clarence Darrow?"

Vicki felt too confused to laugh, and Dan kept reading and commenting.

"A public defender. Uh oh, they're gaining on us."

"Dan, it's not funny."

"Tell me about it. It's my name on those papers, and I'm a better prosecutor than that."

Vicki didn't know what to think, and Dan met her eyes with his usual blue frankness.

"What do you want me to say, babe?"

"The truth. I want you to tell me the truth."

"I'll ignore the insult. I'm telling you the truth." Dan stiffened, hurt. "Now what's going on?"

"I think that Montgomery killed Reheema's mother. He lives on the same block as the Bethave family, he's a hired killer who was free when she was murdered, and his nick-name's Kermit, I bet because his voice is froggy."

Dan's expression grew as serious as she had ever seen him.

"What?" Vicki asked.

"I should've known, this is about Reheema. I thought it was something from your meeting with the ATF agent, but it's not." Dan looked suddenly sad, his strong shoulders sloping. "I should have known."

"If what you're saying is true, someone forged your name, and Bale's and Strauss's, unless they signed it. Aren't you concerned about that?" Vicki leaned forward. "A minute ago, before you knew why I was asking, you looked very concerned."

"Yes, it's a bad thing. I was concerned, I am concerned. Somebody signed my name on some papers, and we'll look into it tomorrow." Dan sighed. "But that doesn't mean that Montgomery killed Reheema's mother. You didn't find any killer, just because somebody forged my name on papers about his case. It's not logical. It doesn't follow."

"How can you be certain he's not the killer?"

"How can you be certain he is?" Dan raised his voice, and Vicki stood up, taking the file and plea agreement from his desk.

"I don't want to ﬁght anymore, I don't have time. I'm going to ask Bale why he signed this, or if he signed this, and-"

"Don't, Vick. He's not in, anyway."

"Is Strauss?"

"No."

"Where are they?"

"Over at Angelo's, I was just about to tell you. We're all going out to dinner tonight, to celebrate the bust. Plus everybody knows about the promotions, so we're partying before the official announcement. Of course, you're invited. I was hanging around, waiting for you."

"I don't feel like a party. I'm going to the Philly detectives with this."

"Those detectives, Melvin and the other one? They'll be at Angelo's, too." Dan stood up with a ﬁnal sigh, regarding her as if from a distance. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "So now what, babe? You gonna come to the dinner and make a big scene? Wave a plea agreement around and scream about forgery?"

"Why not, Dan?" Vicki gestured at the dark window. "Re-heema's out there and this guy is loose. What if he tries to finish the job and kill her? Am I supposed to forget about that? Go out and have a few drinks?"

"There's a time and a place for everything, and the dinner tonight would be neither the time nor the place."

"Is everything about politics with you?"

"I'll ignore that, too, because I know you're upset." Dan bore down, his voice calm and steady. "But please, I'm asking you, don't do this tonight, not there. They'll never forget it. You'll end your career. It's suicide."

"No, Dan. It's murder." Vicki turned on her heel, with the ﬁle.

Before she left for the restaurant, Vicki stopped by her ofﬁce to call Reheema. Her cell rang and rang, then her voicemail picked up again and she left another message: "Reheema, it's getting dark and I'm worried about you. Call me as soon as you get this." Vicki stopped herself. Reheema had her cell, so where could she call her? Angelo's was the office's go-to restaurant, around the corner. "In five minutes, I'll be at a restaurant, Angelo's." Vicki gave Reheema the address and phone number, which she knew from ordering takeout all the time. "Call me there and we'll-"

Beep, the voicemail stopped. Her message box must be full. Vicki hung up, frustrated. She had to get going. She grabbed the plea agreement, folded it, and stuck it in her purse; there was plenty of room now that she'd left the gun at home. Then she went to the door, plucked her down coat from the hook, and hurried out of the ofﬁce.

FORTY-FIVE

By the time Vicki hit the sidewalk, the sky was dark and the new snow reached almost the top of her boots. The air wasn't as bitter cold as it had been before the storm, and snow fell steadily, more bits of ice than cornflake flurries, visible only under the streetlights, shaken from the sky like common salt. She hustled down Chestnut Street, which sat under a foot of newfallen snow and was deserted except for an empty SEPTA bus churning past, its tires dropping caked white zigzags formed by its treads.

Everybody was staying home tonight, waiting to see what the storm would bring, and Vicki felt approximately the same way. She didn't have any choice but to do what she was going to do. If it ended her career, so be it. If she lost the man she loved, then that would have to be, too. Hurrying along in the cold, kicking snow sparkling in the streetlight, she reflected that she'd never taken a stand with so much on the line. Even ﬁghting with her father over her job didn't qualify. In the end, Strauss and Bale had been right; this was the bigs. Vicki bent her head against the storm and hurried ahead.

The sidewalk in front of Angelo's had been shoveled, but with two feet of snowbank lying around the entrance, the place seemed more bunker than restaurant. Vicki wiped wet hair from her face, pulled on the heavy door, and went inside, where she was greeted by the smells of Rolling Rock on tap, slow-cooked tomato sauce, and filthy red rug. Angelo's Ristorante was an Olive Garden without the health code compliance, and Vicki could never understand why the U.S. Attorney's Ofﬁce had adopted the dump. Not that it mattered tonight. At least it was warm.

She walked into the small entrance room, actually a dark bar with a greasy counter, which was empty tonight except for the bartender watching ice hockey on the TV. Vicki nodded hello to him and followed the noise level to the back, which was hopping. Three long, red-checkered tables had been set up and the seats ﬁlled by everyone who had been at the meeting the other day, but now they were wearing casual dress and mixed drinks. Strauss sat happily at the head of the center table, talking with the mayor on his right, their animated expressions illuminated by candles flickering in thick yellow bowls. Bale sat next to him, chatting up the deputy mayor, and lawyers from the city solicitors, joking around with the ofﬁce's public relations lady. Filling out the rest of the long table were other AUSAs and some recent alums, including Jim Cavanaugh, who caught Vicki's eye and winked.

The table on the far left was ATF and FBI; Chief Saxon raised a glass beer mug, along with the top tier of FBI and ATF agents, and a group of federal marshals, all laughing and talking. The table on the right was headed by the police commissioner, in shirt and tie, and the seats occupied by his deputies, a few favored beat cops in uniform, and at the far end, Detective Melvin and his taciturn partner with the golf windbreaker, whose name Vicki kept forgetting. A civilian couple sat at a red-checkered table along the paneled wall, but the smallish, square room was otherwise dominated by law enforcement. Dan was nowhere in sight, and she tried not to care. Her mission was to get Bale's ear in this crowd, then Detective Melvin's.

"Allegretti!" Strauss called out, gesturing to her. "Siddown and dry off! Have a drink!"

"The Vickster!" Bale waved at her with a broad smile, then resumed his conversation with the deputy mayor.

Vicki wiped her hair back again and dripped her way to the table, where the only seat was at the near end, so she took it, sliding out of her coat and purse and hanging them on the back of her chair. She would have to wait to make her move because dinner had just been served. Sheets of eggplant parmigiana, oval plates of fried calamari, huge bowls of meatballs and penne pasta covered the table, and a young waitress materialized and plunked an empty dinner plate in front of Vicki.

"What'd ya want ta drink?" she asked.

" 'Course she wants a drink!" Bale shouted down the table, hoisting his glass. "Give her what I'm having, rum and Coke!"

"May I have a Diet Coke?" Vicki asked, turning to the waitress, but she was already gone. Instead, leaning over her, close enough to kiss, was Dan Malloy. He was whispering something when the room erupted with shouting.

"Malloy! Malloy! Where the hell you been?" Strauss yelled, and Bale joined in:

"You workin' late again? Tryin' make me look bad?"

"Malloy, you SUCK!" shouted a federal marshal whom Vicki recognized from the intramural football championship. "They can promote you, but you still SUCK!" The other marshals burst into laughter, then started chanting. "YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK!"

"Thank you, thank you!" Dan laughed, straightened up, and waved like a presidential candidate, as Vicki tried to ﬁgure out why he was standing there.

"Get your hairy ass over here, Malloy!" Saxon shouted, making a megaphone of his big hands. "I wanna hear that punch line!"

"Gimme a minute!" Dan shouted back, then leaned down again and slipped her his cell phone. "Reheema called. She's fine and she wants you to call her back. Press one." He straightened again quickly and wedged his way toward Saxon.

Surprised, Vicki got up with the cell phone and hurried toward the bar where she could hear, pressing one on the way. The call connected instantly; her new cell phone had been Dan's number one speed dial. "Reheema?" she asked.

"Yo, you there?"

"Yes." Vicki pressed her hand over her free ear. The noise from the dining room intensiﬁed as the chanting turned profane. The civilian couple left, laughing as they walked past Vicki on their way to the exit.

"I'm okay, I'm ﬁne. Good work on Montgomery. Later, you have to tell me how you found out."

"Sure. Why did you call Dan?" Vicki asked, confused.

"I had to. I couldn't reach you at the ofﬁce, and he was on your speed dial. Number one."

Modern love. We used to be on each other's speed dials.

"Listen, I have news, big news, but you need to be where I can talk to you."

"I can talk here." Vicki was watching Strauss and Bale, laughing. The marshals clustered around Dan and they were laughing, too, their entrees untouched in the revelry.

"Where are you? It sounds noisy."

"It is. I'm at this dinner for work. It's a little hard to hear."

"Who's there, at the dinner?"

"Everybody from work, the detectives, the mayor. What's the difference?"

"Damn, girl! Hurry up and get yourself where you can hear me."

"Okay." Vicki walked farther away from the dining room into the empty bar. The bartender watched the Flyers on TV, but it was quieter. "Now it's ﬁne. What?"

"What I'm going to tell you, you have to stay calm. Don't let it show. Keep a poker face."

"What?" Vicki's gut tensed. Through the doorway she could see Strauss still laughing with Bale, their heads bent together, and the marshals joking around with Dan. She looked away, to concentrate on what Reheema was saying.

"I found this neighbor who knew something, an old lady. Black. Her name is Dolores Cooper, and she lives alone, way down at the end of the block, across the street from Jackson. She doesn't know Jackson, but here's what happened." Reheema was almost breathless with excitement. "Cooper loses her dog one night about a month ago, so she goes knockin' on the neighbors' doors, up and down the street, and she knocks on Jackson's."

"And?"

"It was late at night, around eleven o'clock. Cooper knocks and knocks on the door. Nobody answers it. But she sees the lights on and she hears people, so she keeps knockin'. Still no answer, but she sees the lights on and she's buggin' about her little Taco Bell dog."

"Taco Bell dog?" "The dog with the Spanish accent. The Taco Bell dog." "A Chihuahua?" "Whatever. So she goes to the front window and looks inside the house, through an opening in the curtain." "Whoa." "I know, right? She looks inside the living room, and who does she see sitting there on the couch, inside Jackson's house?" "Who?" "Chief Bale, from your ofﬁce, and a white guy." What? Vicki couldn't have heard Reheema right. She pressed the cell close enough to her ear to give herself a brain tumor. "You there?" "Say again, please," Vicki said, her mouth dry. "Cooper sees your boss! The black one, Chief Bale, and a white guy with him." No. "That's not possible."

"She's sure of it."

"How does she know it was him?"

"I showed her the front page of today's paper, like you did yesterday. I was showing her Browning, and all of a sudden she points beside his picture to Bale. She knows Chief Bale. He was in Jackson's house last month!"

"Couldn't be. Who else's picture is on the front page?"

"Wait a minute." There was the sound of a newspaper rustling. "It's today's paper, Sunday. The page I showed her has Toner, the white van guy, and Browning and his driver, Cole. And Strauss and your boyfriend, Dan the Man. But she didn't identify them. Only Bale."

It couldn't be. Not Bale. "Who is the white guy she saw?"

"She couldn't see his face. She only could see the face of the black guy, Bale. He was closer to the window. They were both sitting on the couch."

"She must be wrong. He would have said something the night Morty and Jackson were shot."

"Vicki, Cooper identiﬁed the man. Didn't even stop to think about it. Knew Bale right off. Said she remembered him because he was a very nice dresser. Fancy suit and tie. Mustache. Handsome. Looked like a rich man. Like a lawyer, she said."

My God. It sounded exactly like Bale. Could it have been him? Did Bale know Jackson? Why hadn't he said anything?

Vicki asked, "How good are her eyes? You said she was old."

"Not that old. Sixty."

"She wear glasses?"

"No."

"Is she nuts?"

"No, she's cranky."

"Does she drink or do drugs?"

"Vicki, give it up. She saw Bale and a white guy, and she never got her Taco Bell dog back. She'll never forget that night, she says. She loved the dog. She cried when she told me the story. I spent all afternoon with her."

"What were they doing in the room, Jackson and the two men?"

"Talking."

Something was very wrong at the ofﬁce. Bale. The forgeries. Montgomery and Jackson. Were they connected? How?

Vicki asked, "Then what happened?"

"Cooper left. She felt all guilty when she found out Jackson was murdered. I think she feels worse about the dog, though."

"Why didn't she tell this to the cops?" Vicki asked, but she knew the reason.

"They didn't interview her, and she was ashamed to admit she spied on the girl, anyway."

"You have her address?"

"Sure."

"I'll have to talk to her. I want to verify it."

Reheema scoffed. "Whatever, she'll tell you the same thing."

"Where are you?"

"On Jackson's street, in your car."

"Come home now. Keep moving. Montgomery's out there somewhere."

"It'll take me two hours to get back to Center City, in this snow."

"Good, call me when you're close to the restaurant and you can pick me up. I'll keep Dan's phone with me, or try the restaurant."

"Got it."

"Reheema? Good work," Vicki said, then hung up. She flipped the phone closed, her thoughts and emotions in a tumult, and looked up. In the dining room, they were all laughing, joking, and launching into a chorus of "Danny Boy," with Dan singing loudest of all:

" ‘From glen to glen, and down the mountain side, The summer's gone, and all the ﬂowers are dying, 'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.' "

Vicki couldn't go back into the room yet. She couldn't believe it. She had always trusted Bale; she liked him the best of all the brass, and now he was going to be U.S. Attorney. What had he been doing in Jackson's house? Who was the white guy? What, if anything, did any of it have to do with Montgomery? Had Bale forged those signatures, and why? Vicki didn't have any answers, but she couldn't get them standing here. She steeled herself and went back into the party, with Chief Bale and a roomful of white guys.

They were all singing with Dan, " ‘But come ye back when summer's in the meadow, Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow, 'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow, Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.' "

Ouch. Vicki met Dan's eye, then looked away.

So be it.

FORTY-SIX

Vicki took her seat and faked a smile as Bale rose and started singing "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling," which brought more laughter from the crowd. Beer and wine ﬂowed freely, and the entrees were forgotten. The waitresses arrived with acute triangles of cherry cheesecake and set the desserts in front of each seat, whether occupied or not; obviously the staff wanted to end this meal quickly and close the restaurant because of the storm. Vicki wished them luck; she had seen this floor show at the Christmas party. It started in Ireland and ended in Motown.

Bale led the singing, into a knife microphone, " ‘Sure 'tis like the morn in Spring, In the lilt of Irish laughter, you can hear the angels sing.' "

Vicki plastered her smile in place and sipped the Coke that had been put beside her plate. Rum. Ugh. She sipped it because she felt thirsty and watched the action, thinking. She couldn't bring herself to accept that Bale knew Jackson, but she couldn't imagine why else he'd be there, only a month ago. Did Bale have something to do with framing Reheema? And who was the white guy? Could it be someone else from the ofﬁce? The thought stunned her. But what was the connection to Montgomery and the forgeries?

While Bale sang, Vicki reasoned it out, thinking aloud to herself, if such a thing were possible. Bale could have been the one who gave Montgomery the sweet plea deal and forged the other signatures. He still handled some cases himself, so it was at least possible. That would mean that he knew Montgomery. But it didn't mean that he had anything to do with Montgomery killing Reheema's mother, or Reheema, did it? Of course not. But why forge the signatures? Why hide the plea agreement in the To Be Filed bin? Why lose the rest of the federal ﬁle on Montgomery?

At the front of the room, Strauss looped an arm around Bale, and they segued into their Motown medley, though instead of "Ooh Baby Baby," they went with "My Guy," to surging laughter.

Vicki analyzed the events separately, to determine if they were connected. One, a month ago, Bale was meeting with the only witness against Reheema, who would frame her on the straw purchase case, and two, almost a year ago, he gave a plea deal to a man who would eventually kill Reheema's mother and maybe Reheema.

Vicki blinked. The nexus could be Reheema. Did Bale have something against Reheema? Some reason to want her convicted for a straw purchase, and later, even dead? What was going on? Vicki resisted the conclusion. What was she thinking? That Bale put Jackson up to framing Reheema and he hired Montgomery to kill her?

Am I nuts? Vicki felt suddenly light-headed and sipped her watery rum and Coke, watching the crowd get rowdier and sing their way through the entire Motown catalog. They tried to get her to join in, but she waved them off, aware that Dan was watching her from the front of the room. She had his cell phone in her purse; she'd give it to him later. She picked at the cheesecake, but it didn't help. She shouldn't have had the rum, and pushed the drink away.

She tried to plan, despite her attack of nausea and/or disillusionment. The most prudent thing would be to wait until she interviewed Cooper, then after she had all the facts, to approach Bale to see if he lied, then trap him. A typical cross-examina-tion. What was it Justice Holmes had said? Cross-examination was the engine of truth. But she couldn't think of Justice Holmes, Bale, or Mystery White Guy right now. Her stomach was iffy. She needed to wash her face, to feel better.

She got up, left the room, and went to the bar. On TV, the Flyers were losing and the bartender wasn't there, and Vicki walked past the barstools and downstairs to the ladies' room, which was a grimy single bathroom in the basement. She washed her face and dried it with toilet paper, because Angelo's had only those stupid air hand driers, then she assessed herself in the mirror. Her eyes were a tired blue, her hair was ﬁnally dry but hung in black waves, and her lip gloss was long gone. But her stomach felt a little better. She went back upstairs and crossed the bar area. The bartender was still gone and the TV was on, and Vicki glanced back at the screen. And gasped.

On the TV, the familiar red banner read LIVE-BREAKING NEWS, under a dark shot of a snowy city backstreet and a white Cabrio, cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. The Cabrio's driver's-side door hung open, and dark stains splattered the beige interior of the door. Blood. The screen switched to a view from the back of the Cabrio. In the back window was a crimson H and an Avalon bumper sticker. Vicki felt as if her heart stopped. It was her car.

Reheema.

The voice-over said, "An attempted carjacking leaves one dead on a side street in the Greater Northeast tonight. Chopper Six was ﬁrst on the scene with this exclusive footage."

No. Reheema. Montgomery had killed her and made it look like a carjacking. Vicki gripped the bar for support.

The voice-over continued, "The dead man has been identiﬁed as David Montgomery of West Philadelphia."

What? Montgomery, dead?

"An eyewitness told police that the carjacking victim was the driver of the VW Cabrio, an unidentified woman, who was stopped at a stop sign when the man allegedly jumped from a car behind her, opened her car door, and attempted to forcibly remove her from her car, ultimately shooting her."

Reheema.

"The victim ﬁred back, killing Montgomery with one shot. She has been taken to University of Pennsylvania Hospital, and police report that she suffered gunshot wounds to the stomach and is in critical condition."

Reheema, in critical condition.

The TV screen switched to a weather story, and Vicki watched numbly as a male announcer in a station-logo windbreaker stuck the clichéd yardstick into a snowbank. She felt stunned. Disoriented. Unhinged. The news seemed almost surreal, but the attack on Reheema was proof positive. The killer was Montgomery. Reheema had been shot and could die. Vicki should go to the hospital but she couldn't leave here, not the way she felt right now. She had something to do. She wasn't waiting another minute. Damn prudence, politics, and even Justice Holmes.

FORTY-SEVEN

Bale was talking to the ofﬁce's PR lady, standing near the edge of the singing group, now led by Strauss, who was warbling "Tracks of My Tears" with the police commissioner and the mayor himself. The federal marshals formed a separate group, segueing into "Uncle John's Band," for an impromptu battle of the bands. Dan must have been somewhere in the center of the marshals group, because Vicki didn't see him. She made a beeline for Bale.

"I need to talk to you right now," Vicki whispered in his ear, curling her ﬁngers around the sleeve of his tailored jacket.

"I didn't know you cared," Bale joked, liquor on his breath. He permitted Vicki to lead him out of the dining room and into the bar, which was still empty, and they stopped near the front door. Bale wavered slightly, clearly the result of rum and Coke. His brown eyes looked shiny, his skin greasy, and his white cutaway collar was uncharacteristically unbuttoned, with his silk tie hanging.

"Reheema Bristow was just shot by David Montgomery. She killed him."

"I don't understand." Bale blinked slowly, the effects of alcohol or bad acting.

"You're not that drunk, Chief. You know who David Montgomery is. You handed him the deal of the century. You forged Dan's and Strauss's names on the agreement to make it look kosher. And I can't believe this, even as I say it, but you sent Montgomery to kill Reheema. To ﬁnish the job he started with her mother."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Bale's gaze shifted nervously to the dining room, but he didn't seem outraged or even confused, which conﬁrmed Vicki's worst suspicions.

"You were in Shayla Jackson's house a month ago. I have an eyewitness. It was late at night, in her living room, you and a white guy."

Bale's face fell abruptly, his forehead creased. He met Vicki's eye and his lips parted slightly; for the first time since Vicki had known him, he wasn't controlling the situation.

"Tell me what's going on, right now, Chief. The truth, or I'm taking you to the commissioner this minute."

"Hold on, it's not what you think, Vick. Come with me, I'll explain everything." Bale took her arm and, before she knew it, he was tugging her outside the restaurant and under the tiny roof over the entrance. Snow fell softly, and the back street was deserted, all the shops closed. Vicki worried for a minute that she wasn't safe, but the entire law enforcement community was on the other side of the door. Bale touched her arm gently. "Relax, Vick, it isn't what it looks like. Calm down."

"I can't calm down. Reheema was shot, Chief. Did you-"

"Okay, let me explain." Bale's expression was soft, his brown eyes urgent in the yellowish lights over the restaurant entrance. "I'm trusting you to keep this to yourself. It can all blow over, it's almost blown over already."

"What is? What are you saying?"

"Project Clean Sweep, remember? Strauss's push to get guns off the street. Started last year, before you came. Big success. I had a lotta pressure on me to get convictions. Pressure from Strauss, pressure from the media." Bale stepped closer, lowering his voice needlessly, and Vicki smelled the rum that was undoubtedly loosening his tongue. "You know the reports the gun dealers make, of the multiple purchasers. I took a little shortcut, paid some folks to say they knew the people on the reports and that they resold the guns. Reheema was on the list."

"You paid Jackson to frame Reheema?"

"Yeah," Bale admitted, his voice low.

"Chief." It was all Vicki could say.

"Oh come on, get real. You know they resold the guns. Why else they buying eight or nine semiautomatic weapons? Glock, Taurus, Ruger, Smith and Wesson? We knew they did it. We just couldn't prove it without the witness."

"Reheema didn't do it. She didn't-"

"She's the only one, and you know it. With the rest, it was going through the motions."

"The motions are due process." Vicki felt sickened and angry. "And where'd you get the money for this?"

"Don't ask too many questions, Vick. Take it from me, it's the government, there's money around."

"How many people did you do this to?"

"Let it lie, Vick, they're in prison now, and I'm about to get the big job. Play ball and it'll go away. It was a one-shot deal, I won't do it again." Bale's tone turned almost plaintive, as if the tables were turned, and Vicki were the chief and he the AUSA. "I learned my lesson, believe me, I did. This thing got way outta control."

Vicki couldn't believe her ears. "Chief, did you really send Montgomery to kill Reheema?"

"Look, I had to. I was exposed, with Bristow. She's got an attitude problem, that one, I heard from the way she mouthed off at the detention hearing. When Jackson got killed and the case against Bristow fell apart, I knew she wouldn't shut up."

"Chief, that's conspiracy to murder!"

"It wasn't all my fault. You got into it and you wouldn't let it go! This whole thing woulda gone away if you-"

"Murder doesn't go away!" Vicki interrupted, incredulous. "Montgomery murdered Reheema's mother! He tried to murder her! You can't get away with that!"

"Don't think of it that way, Vick. Just let it go. Montgomery's dead and gone, so I have no exposure. Let it go, and I'll take care of you."

"Let it go?" Vicki repeated, horriﬁed.

Suddenly, the wooden door opened, and Angelo's bartender came out in a black knit cap and a Flyers jacket. He nodded to them both and walked up the street in the storm. Bale gestured her away from the entrance, and Vicki followed him to the next little overhang that covered the entrance of a low-rent jewelry store. The lights were off inside the store, and in the front window, a blue neon sign glowed, DIAMONDS BOUGHT AND SOLD. Velveteen display stands in the window stood empty, the diamonds gone.

Vicki tried to gather her thoughts, but they wouldn't gather, she was so appalled. "Chief, how can I just let it go? How can you?"

"Look, Montgomery was just insurance, in case another one blackmailed me. Everybody in the neighborhood knew him, he kept everyone in line. I swear, I didn't really think I'd have to use him."

"Another one?"

Bale ignored the question. "Come on, when I made the deal with Montgomery, I didn't know the case against Reheema would fall apart. I didn't know those kids would kill Jackson and Morty that night. How would I know that Browning didn't pay his bills? Like I say, it just got outta control."

"It's wrong, Chief, all wrong. You have to turn yourself in."

"Oh, please!" Bale snorted, the neon blue outlining the contours of his cheekbone. "Are you kidding? Right now, when I'm this close? When I ﬁnally got over? Are you nuts?"

"You have no other choice!"

"You want me to do time with the clowns I convicted, Vick? Ruin my wife and family?"

"No, I don't, but it's the only way."

Bale stepped back in anger, as if pushed. "You're pretty high and mighty for a kid, you know. So full of yourself. So naïve, so gullible. You think I'm the only one who cuts a corner or two? You're a rich kid, you don't know jack about how things get done."

"Chief-"

"You think I worked alone?" Bale's eyes ﬂashed in the blue darkness. "You know I didn't. You know I was in it with a white man. Don't you want to know who he is?"

The white guy.

"Guess. We'll play a little game. Guess the white man who worked with me to set Bristow up. Guess the white man who found Jackson in the ﬁrst place."

"It's not Dan, is it?" Vicki blurted out, before she realized she'd even suspected him.

And Bale smiled.

FORTY-EIGHT

"That altar boy?" Bale said. "Malloy? No way."

"Not Strauss."

"The boss?" Bale snorted. "Nah, he didn't know a thing. He turns his head away. He only knows what he wants to know. He doesn't like to get his hands dirty."

"Then who?"

"Morty."

Vicki felt stunned, as if from a blow.

"Yes, it was Morty."

No. "Chief, you're lying."

"The hell I am! Your great Morty, your beloved Morty, everybody's beloved Morty." Bale looked almost gleeful. "It was Morty who knew Jackson, not me. He found her for me. He was the white man with me that night, when we went to her house, to get her ready for Bristow's trial."

Morty. "That can't be. He would never-"

"Yes, he would. He did. He was dedicated, all right. He wanted the guns off the street and he did what it took. Ha!" Bale seemed to draw strength from revealing the secret, a seasoned prosecutor saving his best argument for last. "Your case, Bristow, was the last case, the last one, and we woulda made it happen if those kids hadn't broken in that night!

Morty didn't see that one comin,' poor guy."

"But why would he-"

"Morty wanted the guns off the street, Vick! You know that! You heard at the wake, nobody worked harder. He was happy to do whatever he could do, and you should be, too. You know, you and him were a lot alike."

Vicki felt too heartsick to ask what he meant.

"You and Malloy, you think I don't know about you two? The way you look at each other? Mixing business with pleasure. Morty was, too. Had to go and fall in love with the CI, with Jackson. She was twenty years younger than him." Bale leaned over. "And it was his baby she was carrying."

The baby in the postmortem report. She was mixed race.

"He was gonna marry the bitch! That's Morty for you! That's the real Morty! Married to the job, for real! Surprised?"

Vicki couldn't speak. She flashed to the night Morty was killed. Him lying there, blood bubbling on his lips. The ﬁrst thing he'd asked: "How's the CI?"

"See, that's my point, Vick. Morty was in on it because it was the right thing to do. It got us what we wanted, what we're all working for."

Vicki remembered Mrs. Tillie Bott, telling her that Shayla had said she was going to change her life. She'd been planning a future with Morty.

"If it was good enough for Morty, isn't it good enough for you?"

Vicki couldn't answer. Agent Thompson, just today, had said, "He seemed so happy since you two have been working together, this past year." But it was Shayla Jackson whom Morty had been with this past year. He'd fallen in love and was going to be a father.

"You should've let it go, Vick. I told you to get off it, I warned you to get off it! I even assigned you to another case, but you wouldn't let it go."

"How can I, Chief?" Vicki asked, aching. "You have to." "I can't. I won't." "Come on, kid. What're you doin' here? What're you doin' to me?" Bale's gaze shifted, suddenly jittery. "You're backin' me into a corner here, you know that?"

"You backed yourself into it, Chief. I know about you and so does Reheema. Dan will know, too, when he finds out Montgomery shot Reheema. Nobody's gonna let it go, Chief. It's over."

"I thought we were friends! We got along pretty good, didn't we? I didn't fire you when I could have, I knew you would never let go then. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right?" Bale's eyes looked suddenly wet, and Vicki felt a twinge of sympathy.

"I'm not your enemy, Chief." "Sure you are, you're gonna turn me in!" "I have to turn you in, if you don't turn yourself in." "You and Malloy! You're gonna ruin my career, my life!"

Bale's voice went higher and he grew panicky, desperate. "You want to ruin my life? My kids' lives? That what you want?" "No, but-" "I'm not goin' in, Vick. I can't. I know I did wrong, but I can't go in. Sorry." Suddenly Bale slipped his hand into his jacket and pulled out a dark Beretta. His pained eyes locked with Vicki's over the gun, and she knew from his tears what he was going to do. She had faced a loaded gun before, and this bullet wasn't meant for her.

"Chief, no!" Vicki shouted. She lunged for Bale's wrist just as he started to turn the gun on himself.

Crak! the Beretta ﬁred, and Bale fell backward, knocked off balance. They both tumbled back and fell hard on the snowy sidewalk, the gun ﬂying from Bale's open palm.

"CHIEF!" Vicki screamed, terriﬁed that Bale had been hit, but behind her, the glass window of the jewelry store shattered. A security alarm went off in the next minute, earsplitting in the quiet night.

"No!" Bale moaned, lying still and beginning to sob, and Vicki held him close as a shout came from the entrance of Angelo's.

"VICK! VICK!" It was Dan. Then there was another shout from someone else, then another, closer. The cops and AUSAs were coming, running to them. They would arrest Bale, who was wracked with sobs, and take him away.

Vicki felt like crying, too, but she couldn't give in to emotion just yet.

Reheema.

FORTY-NINE

Vicki and Dan sat together in the waiting room of the hospi-tal's emergency department, which was empty except for a couple waiting to see an ER doctor about a flu. Fluorescent lights shone harshly in the allegedly comforting room, with its pastel-blue walls, hotel watercolors, and pink pamphlets about wellness and the importance of dietary ﬁber. Newspapers and magazines, their covers curled, made a periodical pile on the wooden coffee table, and the place smelled vaguely of McDonald's French fries from a bag left in the waste can. An old TV mounted in the corner was on low volume, but Vicki couldn't bear to watch again the footage of her Cabrio with Reheema's blood on the door. She had left her parents a phone message, so they didn't freak when they saw the TV.

She rested her head on Dan's shoulder, but she couldn't stop thinking about Reheema, who was still in surgery after three hours. Vicki was going crazy without an update on her condition; the doctors were working on her, and the nurses and other emergency staff were busy. She had cried all the tears she could cry and sat in the chair, still in her down coat, feeling exhausted, tense, and guilty.

"I should've been with her, Dan."

"No, you couldn't. You did everything you could."

Vicki didn't reply, but she would never believe that. She could never have predicted where this long road would lead her. Now that she'd reached the end, she didn't want to be here. Not if it cost Reheema her life.

She couldn't stop the mental images of what else was to come. The indictment against Bale. His wife and kids heartbroken. Her ofﬁce and ATF disgraced. Strauss and Saxon before microphones, reminding the public of the overwhelming majority of hardworking, dedicated AUSAs and agents. Lawsuits by those wrongly imprisoned, costing the federal government millions of dollars. Every penny won would be deserved, and even so, couldn't make anyone whole. And some of those released would surely have been found guilty, if the government had been given the chance to prove its case; now they'd be freed, even well-compensated. So they could buy more guns for resale.

"If justice is good, why does it feel so bad?" Vicki asked.

"Lot of things that are good feel genuinely lousy."

"Like what?"

"Apologies, for example. I owed you a major apology and I gave it to you. I was wrong, down the line, and you were right." Dan smiled, tired and still wearing his North Face coat, too. "You know, I love you."

"I love you, too." Vicki liked the new tone in his voice, but neither of them felt like kissing. "So when you gonna dump me?"

"After I sleep with you a few more times."

"Hey!" Vicki shoved him, and Dan laughed softly, defending himself with his hands.

"Stop. I'm not dumping you."

"What about work?"

"We can handle it."

"What about what people will say?"

"They don't like it, they can kiss my Irish ass." Dan smiled.

"I'm sorry I said you had to choose. I was being stupid."

"I'm sorry I said you were political."

"I am. At least, I was."

"I can't believe Morty," Vicki said, disgusted. "He turned out to be such a fraud. A liar. His whole life was phony."

"You're just angry."

"Damn right I am. Look what he did."

"You and me, we don't see Morty the same way."

Vicki frowned. "Since when did you start talking like Dr. Phil?"

"Since about an hour ago, when my girlfriend almost got killed, again, and my professional life turned upside down. It makes you think."

"How do you see him?"

"I'll tell you, if you can listen with an open mind." Dan's smile vanished, and his eyes looked dead-level at Vicki. "It's something I learned from my father, and from Zoe."

"The cat?" Vicki smiled. "Okay."

"As you know, Miss Zoe is loving, smart, and loyal. She has many wonderful qualities. Plus, she loves you."

"I'm her landlord."

"That's beside the point. She hated my evil ex-wife."

"So did I."

Dan smiled. "But to my point. She's wonderful but she's not perfect. She has a heart murmur."

"Yeah, so?"

"I love her anyway."

"So?"

"Think about Morty. He was smart and dedicated and able, but he had something wrong with his heart. And so did Bale. You're angry because you think you can't love them anymore, especially Morty. But you can." Dan nodded. "My father is in the same category, but I love him anyway, too."

"You forgive him?"

"No, I mean I love him. It's a direct line."

"Is that possible?" Vicki didn't get it.

"Yes. Listen to me. I'm older, I'm taller, and I know." Dan reached over and moved a stray tendril from Vicki's face. "You're looking for the perfect man, babe, and all there is is me, and your father."

Vicki blinked, and suddenly there was a rustling at the threshold to the waiting room. They both turned. Reheema's surgeon, an older man in wrinkled blue scrubs and a puffy patterned hat, came bustling in, his face drawn with concern.

"Doc?" Vicki said, alarmed, sitting up.

FIFTY

By early morning, the snow had ﬁnally stopped falling outside the hospital room window, leaving the sky a pure sapphire-blue that appeared only in the coldest winters, as heaven's own reward. Vicki sat in the high-backed chair while Reheema slept, a transparent green oxygen tube looped under her nose, and her hair black and fuzzy on the thin white pillow. A thermal blanket was pulled up to her neck, covering the bandages from her surgery. The doctor had said that she was going to live, but her recovery was going to be slow, so Vicki had sent Dan home.

In time Reheema stirred and her large eyes ﬂuttered open, and Vicki got up and crossed to the bed, feeling a rush of relief. It was one thing to have a doctor say she was going to live, and another to see her ﬁnally wake up. Vicki eased onto the edge of the bed, near Reheema. A splint had been taped to the top of her hand where the IV went into the vein, and her long, dark fingers bent slightly, with the residuum of dried blood under her ﬁngernails.

Reheema opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. "Back off," she said, her voice hoarse. "Last time you got this close… you tried to strangle me."

Vicki smiled. "That was before."

"Before what?"

"Before I knew you'd sue me for it."

Reheema smiled again, then it faded quickly. The spirit was willing, but the body was deﬁnitely weak. She looked as if she could barely keep her eyes open, but when she did, they flashed with attitude. "I'll drop that suit… you treat me right."

"Now don't get fresh. I've been here all night and we haven't fought once."

"I was asleep."

"I'll take it. How do you feel?"

"Fine."

"Congratulations, you're out of intensive care."

"Dumb… to stay in here too long. I feel… ﬁne."

"Oh yeah, you look ﬁne. You know, I bet Dan you wouldn't make it. The minute you woke up, I lost ﬁfty bucks."

Reheema smiled again. "Montgomery dead?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Vicki couldn't deny it. "And Bale's going to prison. I'll give you the details when you feel better."

Reheema smiled contentedly.

"Oh yeah, where'd you get the gun?"

"Where'd you… think?"

"My top drawer?"

"You hid it under your panties… bein' all badass. Oooh." Reheema smiled again, then ran a dry tongue over her lips. "Yo, got some water?"

"Sure." Vicki picked up the beige plastic pitcher on the rolling bed table, poured water into a Styrofoam cup, and held it to Reheema's lips. "The doc said you'd be thirsty after the surgery, because they had to put a tube down your throat. I asked them, hey, can I put the tube down her throat? But they said no."

"Sorry I messed up your car." Reheema sipped some water, then eased back onto the pillow.

"It's okay." Vicki ﬂashed on the bloodstained door on the TV news. She wasn't sure she wanted the Cabrio back, even if they could clean it up. "Lucky for me I already own an Intrepid."

"I get the Intrepid." Reheema eased back onto the pillow. "You take the Sunbird."

"I can't drive a stick."

"Then I got something… to teach you, Harvard."

"I could've told you that," Vicki said, and smiled. She set the cup on the bedside table, reached for Reheema's hand, and cradled it, which they both pretended wasn't happening until Reheema started to drift back to sleep.

And only then did Reheema's hand close around hers.

FIFTY-ONE

It was an August afternoon, and a nectarine sun shone on tall, leggy cosmos, their ﬂowers neon orange, chrome yellow, and vivid magenta. Next to them sprouted a bunchy row of zinnias, in dusty pinks and lemony hues, their heads like pompoms. Honeybees landed on the ﬂowers, then buzzed along. A young mother in jeans shorts and a red Sixers T-shirt stood with a toddler, picking black-eyed Susans with breakaway yellow petals and an unlikely black button at the center. The air felt humid as a hothouse, but it smelled sweet, earthy, and clean.

"This is amazing!" Vicki said, delighted.

"Nice, huh?" Reheema beamed. She looked relaxed and healthy in a white cotton T-shirt and khaki shorts that showed long, muscular legs. Bits of soil caked her knees and covered the beat-up toes of her white Nikes, and only an occasional stiffness in her movements suggested that her healing process wasn't yet complete.

"Very nice! It's great!"

"We're proud of it." Reheema tugged a curled brown leaf from a mass of tiger lilies, which formed an exotic backdrop to a grouping of lovely golden ﬂowers, each one shaped like a sunny star.

"What are those yellow cuties?" Vicki asked, pointing.

"Coreopsis."

"Listen to you! Coreopsis! You feelin' the coreopsis?"

"I know, right? I'm a black girl with a green thumb."

Vicki laughed. "But no gardening gloves."

"Please. I'm not crazy."

Vicki laughed again. They were standing in the new community garden on Cater Street, which was located in the vacant lot that used to be the crack store. The neighbors had cleared the lot, built raised beds out of railroad ties, and created a garden on the right side of the lot, which got full sun almost all day. The left side was cleared, too, though beds had yet to be constructed. Vicki was thrilled to ﬁnally see the garden in bloom; she'd stopped by on her way to Devon, since it was time for an obligatory Sunday dinner with her parents.

"Now which plot is yours?" she asked.

"We don't do it that way. The way we do, the people like me who want to grow ﬂowers, we sign up and plant the ﬂowers together. We planted 'em in May, and now we all pick the ones we want."

"Sounds good."

"I made the rules, of course."

"Of course. You're the Block Captain."

"I'm the Block Diva," Reheema corrected, and they both laughed. "People who want to do vegetables, they sign up for vegetables. The vegetables are behind the ﬂowers, over there."

Vicki shielded her eyes from the sun and looked against the brick wall, in the back bed. Tomato plants stood in neat green lines, tied to stakes by brown string, and an older woman in a sleeveless housedress and orange flip-flops picked ripe beefsteak tomatoes. A row of red and green pepper plants lined up in front, and on a patch of tilled soil lay thick furry vines with large, light green leaves and striped clubs of zucchini, one as big as a Louisville Slugger.

"That zucchini's a lethal weapon," Vicki said.

"Mrs. Walter's pride and joy. She grows so much damn zucchini, she's making bread every day, then relish. You ever eat zucchini relish?" Reheema wrinkled her nose. "S'nasty."

"Now you got suburban problems. You thought it was easy, being rich?"

"Ha! Be careful what you wish, right?"

Vicki laughed, and Reheema did, too, at the ridiculous notion. The neighborhood had begun a comeback, in only two seasons. The town watch patrolled regularly, rarely wanting for volunteers. Neighbors repainted the trim on their houses, replaced asphalt shingles that had fallen off, and put new Astroturf on the porch floors. Trash was stored in cans, not strewn on the street anymore, and the sidewalks had been swept. Best of all, people were outside without fear. This afternoon, mothers hung out on front stoops, talking while little girls jumped rope and boys practiced break-dancing on a ﬂattened refrigerator box. The sight taught Vicki that, however hard-won, justice wasn't an end in itself. Instead, it was a beginning, enabling people to be safe, happy, and free. The rest was up to them.

Reheema cocked her head. "So how's work?"

"Way too busy. With Steptoe cooperating and Bale pleading, I got a boatload of new cases."

"But you love it," Reheema said, and Vicki nodded happily.

"And Dan says hi. And how about you? Did you get that coaching gig you wanted?"

"Yeah, a traveling team, a nice group of girls." Reheema smiled broadly. "Now I'm at city services by day and a track coach on the weekends."

"Take it easy, with the running so soon."

"I'm ﬁne." Reheema waved her off.

Rring! Rring! Vicki's cell phone rang in her shorts pocket and she pulled it out and checked the display. MOM CELL, it read. "Excuse me, I should get this." She opened the phone and said, "Hey, Mom. Are we still on for dinner?"

"Yes, of course."

"What's up?"

"There's been a slight change of plans. We're here."

"What? Where?"

"Your father and I. We're parked in front of your father's old house."

"You and Dad? Here?" Vicki's eyes ﬂared in horror, and Reheema stiﬂed a laugh.

"Yes, dear. You left a message that you were stopping by a community garden in Devil's Corner before you came home, so we thought we'd take a ride down and meet you here. Where are you, exactly?"

In shock. "Wait there. I'll come to you."

FIFTY-TWO

"Mom, Dad, it's great to see you," Vicki said, as she walked over to her parents.

"Isn't this fun, dear?" Her mother came toward her smiling, chic in white Capri pants and a turquoise knit shell, with tan Tod loafers.

"Really fun." Vicki hugged her scented mother, whose sleek hair and skin felt refrigerated from the car's air-conditioning. Her father was standing on the sidewalk and frowning up at his old house, his hands resting on his hips. He wore a white Lacoste shirt and khaki pants, and hovered protectively near the front bumper of their silver Mercedes. The sedan gleamed like a ﬂying saucer, and the Allegrettis looked as out of place as aliens, or at least, lawyers.

"I wanted to see the community garden," her mother said, looking around. Two little girls on their bicycles, their stiff braids ﬂying, stared as they rode past.

"It's around the block, on Cater. I was just there with Reheema."

"Oh, your friend? I'd like to meet her. Is it far?"

"Not really."

"Wonderful, I'll take a little walk. It's good exercise."

NO! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE WITH THIS MAN! "Mom, why don't you wait? We can walk over together."

"But your father wants to look at his old house."

"He'll want to meet Reheema, too."

"Then he will, later. He wants to look at his house now. This trip was his idea. Go talk to him, go through the house with him, then walk over to the community garden." Her mother gave her a discreet shove toward her father, but Vicki had faced loaded Glocks with more enthusiasm.

"Mom-"

"Go!" Her mother turned on her expensive heel and walked away.

"It's on the left, down the middle of the block," Vicki called after her, and her mother waved, though she didn't turn back.

"Where's your mother going?" her father asked, coming over, as lost as Vicki, as if they were two baby birds.

SHE LEFT US ALONE! "To see the community garden."

"Where is it? I thought it was on Lincoln."

"No, it's on Cater. Right around the block." Vicki had grown so used to ﬁlling the air with words, she did it reﬂexively. "I'm sure we can catch up with her. She can't go fast on foot."

"She's a great gardener." Her father kept frowning, but maybe the sun was in his eyes. "She's been talking about that garden all week. This drive was her idea."

Really. "Mom said you wanted to go inside your old house."

"No."

No? "We could." Vicki gestured at the front door, which had been repaired. "A new family moved in, I heard from Reheema. We could just knock and ask, I'm sure they'd let us. Everybody knows Reheema."

"No, it was my father's house, not mine. I don't have any happy memories here. Let's go ﬁnd your mother."

Ouch. "Okay."

Her father walked back to the Mercedes. "You'll never get a space on Cater, Dad." He turned. "I can't leave it here." "Yes, you can. It's safe." "It's an S class." Vicki smiled. "It'll be ﬁne." "You'll indemnify me?" "Up to thirty-seven bucks." Her father pulled out his car keys and chirped the car locked, twice. Vicki turned and they fell into step, walking around the corner, where her father stopped, examining a brick wall. "Funny. I used to play stickball here, against this wall, with a broom and a pimple ball."

"A pimple ball?" "They were white rubber balls with little raised dots. A pimple ball. We'd play for hours, with a half ball." "Why half?" "After the ball was dead, we didn't throw it away. We were too poor to throw it away. We cut it in half." Her father ran his ﬁngers over the wall's soft bricks and came away with soot on his ﬁngerpads that surprisingly, he didn't seem to mind. "We'd mark the wall with chalk for a single, a double, a triple."

"Sounds like fun." "It was." Her father resumed their walk. "Played with the kids from the block. Mimmy. Squirrel. Lips. Tommy G." Vicki looked over again, and her father was smiling. "Nicknames," he explained, needlessly. "Your friends." "Right. We didn't play on Lincoln as much, because of the trafﬁc." They turned onto Cater and walked two doors down, where he slowed his pace in front of a row house. An African-American man stood on a metal ladder, hanging new red shutters on the windows. Her father stopped in front of the house. "My buddy Lips lived here. Leon DiGiacomo. We used to shoot craps in front of this house."

"That's illegal."

"Tell me about it. I got picked up once, by the cops."

"You?"

"Yes, me." Her father sounded almost proud. "They picked us all up for, what they'd call"-he thought a minute, his head cocked-"‘gambling on the highway,' that was it. Must've been an old ordinance. They took us into the station and they made us buy tickets to the thrill show."

"What's a thrill show?"

"Like a circus. The PAL put it on, I think. Motorcycles and dancing bears." Her father laughed, and so did Vicki, surprised. She had never heard him talk about his childhood, and now she couldn't shut him up. He was walking again, pointing across the narrow street to the other side. "And we used to play knuckles in the street, right there."

"Knuckles?"

"A card game. And over there we played Pig and Dog. Basketball. We nailed a trash can to the telephone pole for a hoop." He mused as they walked, the sun shining on his head and shoulders. "I played outside all the time. We all did."

"Sounds like you have some happy memories, after all."

"Nah." Her father stiffened, suddenly. "You can't go home again, Victoria."

"I know people say that, but I disagree. I think you never really leave."

"What?"

"I'm Devon, Dad. I'm Devon, wherever I go. Some people are pure South Philly, and a New Yorker is always a New Yorker." Vicki never thought out loud in front of her father, but didn't stop. It was time to stop editing herself, even with him. "Think about it, Dad. There's Jersey girls and Valley girls. Chicagoans and San Franciscans, Texans and Bostonians. Steel magnolias and Southern gentlemen. And Reheema is so West Philly, when you meet her, you'll see it. She's great."

Her father was frowning, but maybe the sun was in his eyes again. Maybe the sun was always in his eyes, even indoors. Someday he would realize they had therapy for that, but Vicki wasn't going to be the one to tell him.

They reached the garden, where her mother was talking with Reheema. More neighbors were hard at work, weeding the pepper beds, restaking the tomato plants, and cutting cosmos for their dinner tables. Vicki introduced Reheema to her father, who shook her hand stifﬂy.

"So this is the community garden," he said, eyeing the lot. "Very pretty." His gaze fell on the unﬁnished left side, in the shade. "What are you going to plant there?"

Vicki cringed. It never failed, his always seeing the negative. She'd bring home four A's and a B, and he'd ask, Why the B?

"We're not planting anything there," Reheema answered. "We voted to make a place for the little kids. Put in one of those nice wooden playground sets and some wood chips underneath, so they don't get hurt if they fall."

"When are you going to install it?"

"When we get the money. Those wooden sets, they cost like two grand. The neighborhood's tapped out, after the dirt and the railroad ties, but we'll get it." Reheema nodded. "You know, this garden wouldn't have come about without your daughter, Mr. Allegretti. I was just telling your wife, Vicki's the one who got the crack dealers out of here."

"Please," Vicki said, reddening, but Reheema ignored her.

"Vicki saved this block, this whole neighborhood. She should get all the credit."

Her mother smiled, tightly. "We were so worried about her, we didn't appreciate the good she was doing. Maybe we were too worried."

"No, you shoulda been worried!" Reheema laughed. "If she were my daughter, I woulda been worried sick! You wouldn't believe the trouble we got ourselves into, the newspapers only had half the story. She's a real badass, your daughter!"

Hoo boy.

"She gets it from me," her mother said, her smile relaxing, and Vicki laughed, surprised.

But her father didn't reply and kept looking at the garden. Reheema seemed to run out of steam, uncharacteristically speechless. The moment was so awkward that Vicki stepped in to ﬁll the silence.

"Thanks for the tour," she said. "We should probably get going. Congratulations on the garden."

"Thanks, take care."

"Yes, congratulations," her mother said, hugging Reheema brieﬂy. Then she looped an arm around Vicki and they walked onto the sidewalk.

Her father didn't join them but lingered at the entrance to the garden.

"Dear?" her mother asked, and Vicki turned.

"In a minute," her father said quietly, then looked at Reheema. "I'd like to help you with the playground."

"I don't understand," Reheema said, and neither did Vicki.

"I'd like to send you a check, for the playground. I'll make it out for three thousand dollars, to cover the cost of the playset and the mulch. If you need more, you'll let me know."

"You don't have to do that, Mr. Allegretti," Reheema said, with a puzzled smile. "You don't have any responsibility for the garden. You don't even live here."

"I did once, and Victoria's right, part of me always will."

Whoa! Vicki thought, astounded. She would have hugged him but she wasn't sure he'd taken his Pravachol.

"Well. Okay." Reheema broke into a grin. "Mr. Allegretti, thank you so much, from the whole neighborhood."

"You're welcome," her father said, turning to Vicki with a new smile. "Come on, Devon. I'm taking my girls out to dinner."

"You got it," Vicki said, happily surprised, and the three of them turned to walk up Cater Street.

"That was a wonderful gesture, Victor," her mother whispered, taking her father's hand, and he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

Vicki felt her spirits lift, walking behind the two of them. Maybe Dan had been right that night in the hospital. Maybe she just had to accept her father the way he was. And think out loud at every opportunity. Like now:

"Dad, I can't get over it. You said I was right. In front of witnesses."

Her father turned, smiling. "I won't make a habit of it."

"I hope not." Then Vicki got an idea. "Hey, now that we're all in the love mood, can we go to an Olive Garden for dinner?"

"No," her parents answered, in unison.

And Vicki laughed.