Devil's Corner (12 page)

"Dad, it's not about you."

"No, it's about you. Because you, for some reason, want to hurt us, when we have given you everything. You even make much less than you could earn with us and you've no equity! You're not even building toward anything!" Her father stiffened, struggling to keep a civil tongue. "You know, if we owned a family farm, you would take it on, no questions asked. But we own a family law firm, and you refuse. You feel
justified
in refusing. And to add insult to injury, it's not that you don't want to practice law, which perhaps I could understand. No, it's that you don't want to practice our kind of law. That's like saying, I'll grow alfalfa for my family, but not corn!"

"It's different from—"

"No, it isn't! You're a lawyer, Victoria, and you know about foreseeable consequences. If you can foresee the consequences, you are charged with intending them, are you not?"

"Yes, but—"

"So it's foreseeable that our firm, without anyone to leave it to, will simply be"—her father was so angry, he was at a loss for words, which was as angry as he ever got—"
defunct
. The Allegretti firm will simply cease to exist. And you know this and you persist nonetheless, so you are charged with intending that consequence. And why? Because it's not your kind of law!"

"Dad, can we seriously be having this argument again?" Vicki asked, finally getting angry. "I should have a choice, don't you think?"

"Not when you have an obligation! To us, to me and your mother! And not when it can get you killed! If a choice is what you want, then you have it! And if you want to live like a pauper, then do!" Her father rose and gestured to her mother. "Look! Look at what you're doing to her!"

Vicki looked. Her mother's glossy head bent slightly over her plate and her lips, their gloss finally worn off, pursed in pain. She was trying not to cry.

"Mom, I'm sorry, don't cry," Vicki said, feeling a tug, not for the first time. Morty was dead, and now her mother was upset. It had all gone to hell in a handbasket. She didn't want to quit. She didn't think they were right. But she was so very tired. Suddenly the phone in the kitchen started ringing.

"I'll get that." Her father rose and went into the other room, leaving them in miserable silence. Vicki knew that her mother was listening to the phone, to hear if it was a client; like most self-employed people, they worked around the clock. The two women sat in suspended animation until her father returned, his bearing erect, his features emotionless.

"The phone's for you, Victoria," he said.

"Me?" She rose stiffly, with a dog attached to her toe, which was when it struck Vicki that maybe her parents were herding her, in their own way. Biting her to keep her close. She knew that they loved her, and she loved them, too, despite their best efforts to the contrary.

"Be right back," she said, wondering who was on the phone.

SIXTEEN

"Vick, why is a black guy answering your cell? Are you cheating on me?"
Dan
. "I can't talk now."

"What up? You said you'd call, and when you didn't, I called your cell. What happened?"

"It's a long story." Vicki could hear stone silence from the dining room. At least her mother wasn't crying. "I e-mailed you, too. Didn't you check your BlackBerry?"

"I didn't have a chance."

"Why does he have your phone? He doesn't even know who you are. Did you get into trouble?"

"We'll talk about it later."

"That means yes. Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"You don't sound fine. You sound upset."
I am upset
. "I'm fine."

"Are you staying overnight at your parents'?"

"Are you insane?" Dan laughed. "When will you be home?"

"An hour."

"Want me to come over? Mariella's on call."

"No thanks."

"Then call me, no matter how late. I want to talk to you. I don't like the way you sound. You're worrying me lately, with Morty and all."

"Okay," Vicki said, touched. The man could read her like a book. "Gotta go."

"No matter how late, call me."

"Okay."

"Swear?"

"Swear."

"Okay, good-bye, sweetie."

She hung up, warm inside. Dan was truly worried about her. And he didn't bite.

Vicki got back to her house around ten o'clock, where she ignored her bills, mail, e-mail, and phone messages, and tiredly headed straight for the phone in her bedroom, shedding her coat on the way upstairs, dropping her purse, and kicking off her wounded shoe. She couldn't wait to call Dan and tell him what had happened on Cater Street. He could help her sort it out. He'd been an AUSA so long, he'd have good ideas. Should they bust Mrs. Bristow's dealer? Should they get her into rehab? And Vicki wanted to work on some theories with him, about Shayla Jackson and Bristow.

She flicked on the lamplight beside her bed, slid out of her suit jacket and blouse, then slithered out of pantyhose and her skirt, feeling better once she was home. She loved her bedroom. She had painted the walls a bright cobalt blue last year, by herself, and she had a big TV/DVD player on a white metal stand affixed to the wall. Her dresser, next to the closet, was a pine four-drawer she'd bought secondhand, and the room was neat, clean, and comfy. She undressed, slipped into an old Harvard T-shirt, and tucked herself under her puffy white comforter while she called Dan.

"Hello?" a woman answered, confusing Vicki for a second.

Of course, it was Mariella. She recognized the slight British inflection. Then Vicki heard masculine laughter in the background.
Dan
.

"Mariella, oh, hi. It's Vicki."

"Vicki, hey, you caught us at a bad time. A very bad time." There was more laughter, and Vicki realized that Mariella and Dan were in bed together. Dan was laughing, then Mariella started laughing. "No! No! Daniel, no tickling! Daniel!"

Vicki felt a wave of shame, then didn't know why. What was she ashamed of? That she was dying to talk to a married man?
Yes, for starters
. That he was at this moment making love to his wife?
Yes, that too
. That she would have traded beds in a minute?
A trifecta
!

"Daniel! Don't tickle!"

"Mariella, sorry, I should go," Vicki said, but Dan's deep voice came on the line, breathless.

"Vick, talk to you in the morning! Duty calls!"

She was about to say good-bye, but Dan had already hung up.

It left Vicki in her blue bedroom, alone except for the silence. She sat still for a minute, propped up by her pillows, trying to process what had just happened. Mariella must have taken a break and come home; she did that sometimes, at weird hours. Dan would have been delighted to see his wife, as he was for every drop of time she threw his way, as an afterthought or no.

He adores her, you idiot. Right now they're making love, five blocks away. GIVE IT UP, LOSER! YOU NEED A VIDEO?

Vicki stopped feeling sorry for herself, at least temporarily, and picked up the phone. There was work to do. She had made a mental list of all her credit cards and spent the next half hour getting each toll-free number from 1-800 information, then canceling the cards. She ordered a new ATM card, rush delivery, and she'd still have to get a new driver's license and DOJ creds. She sighed and lay back in the pillows, to devise a good lie to explain how they'd been lost. She closed her eyes against the lamplight. Her mind wandered and her thoughts flowed where they would. She was still for another minute, then she reached over and picked up the phone, dialed a number, and waited.

One ring, two rings, three rings, four. After five rings, the answering machine switched on and said:

"You have reached Grandmaster Bob Morton, and, yes, I
am
even better-looking than I sound. Please leave a message for me and The Commodores." The tape segued instantly into Morty's trademark song, "Brick House."

Vicki felt a wrenching deep within her chest. She listened to the song, then hung up, and dialed again. She did that four more times, and by the fifth time, she felt better just holding the receiver, listening to Morty, feeling connected to him, somehow. Tonight she didn't know what to do about his murder, but tomorrow she would. She had to. She couldn't help feeling she was on to something, and she couldn't leave it to the cops, ATF, or anyone else. Morty was her partner. Vicki hung on to the phone long after the song had finished, and when the tears came, she let them slide down her cheeks until she fell soundly asleep.

Rring! Rring!
It was the telephone that woke Vicki up, her face stuffed in her pillow. She cracked a scratchy eye at her alarm clock. The red digital numbers read 8:15. She had slept in.

Rring! Rring
! She pushed herself up from the bed and reached for the phone.

"Vick." Dan, his voice unusually grave. "You near a TV?"

"Uh, yes."

"Turn it on. Right now."

"Why? I'm asleep."

"Just do it."

Vicki reached for the remote on the nightstand and flicked on the TV, set to channel ten. Grisly images flickered across the screen: yellow crime scene tape, uniformed cops standing around a row house, a black van, and a low metal gurney on wheels, bearing a black body bag. In the next scene, a pretty blond reporter said:

"Arissa Bristow was found dead this morning of multiple stab wounds. The body was discovered in Mrs. Bristow's West Philadelphia home, and police have no suspects at the present time." Then the screen changed to a commercial for I Can't Believe It's Not Butter.

My God.
The news stunned Vicki. She felt suddenly chilled in the bedroom and yanked the comforter from the bed, wrapping it around her naked form.

"Isn't Bristow your straw's last name?" Dan asked. "Think she's a relation?"

"It's her mother." Vicki muted the commercials, numb.

"Her mother killed, the night after Morty? Think it's a coincidence?"

Vicki couldn't answer. Her head was spinning, tangling her thoughts. Dan didn't know what had happened last night. She hadn't had the chance to tell him. She didn't know where to begin.

"Vick? You okay?"

"I met her, I was there," Vicki started to say, but she couldn't finish.
I should have stayed with Mrs. Bristow. I should have made sure she got home safe
. Her knees went weak, and she felt herself sinking down onto the bed in the comforter.

"Vick, what's going on?"

"I wish I knew."

"I'm coming over. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"You don't have to," Vicki said, but she was interrupted by the ringing of her doorbell downstairs, followed by a loud pounding on her front door. The sound frightened her, unaccountably. "There's someone at the door. I have to go."

"Vick?"

"Hold on." Vicki shed the comforter and looked around the room for something to put on. She felt more naked than she was. Something felt very wrong. Suddenly, events were getting ahead of her, out of control. The knocking pounded louder on the door. She had to get dressed. She had to go. "Dan?" she heard herself say.

"I'll be right over, baby," he answered, understanding instantly.

SEVENTEEN

Five minutes later, a scene was taking place that Vicki couldn't have imagined if she'd tried. Two Philly homicide detectives sat across from her on her couch, and against the front wall stood Chief Bale. He had shifted into official mode, unsmiling under his groomed mustache, his dark eyes a mixture of distance and disapproval. He wore his Saturday best, jeans and a black turtleneck under his camel-hair topcoat, but his manner was anything but casual. The cops sat on one side of the coffee table, Vicki sat on the other, and between them on the coffee table, in a clear plastic evidence bag, was her black Kate Spade wallet.

She'd felt almost physically sick when they'd set it down like a trump card. Next to it lay two smaller evidence bags, one that contained her green-and-white plastic library card and the other a curled-up white paper card, her membership to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Evidently, crack addicts wouldn't be seeing the new Manet exhibit. And if Vicki screwed up now, neither would she. She didn't know if Chief Bale was here as friend or foe, but you didn't have to be a former ADA to realize that the detectives were here to question her in connection with Mrs. Bristow's murder. The wallet made her a lead, if not a suspect.

"Your wallet was found on the body," the black detective said. His name was Albert Melvin, and he was young and attractive; clear brown eyes, a generous mouth, and a brawny build in a black leather jacket that seemed to retain the winter cold. He'd shaved his head completely, a macho look that struck Vicki as incongruous with his warm, if official, smile. She was guessing he'd taken the test only recently, because she didn't know him and he wasn't as dressed up as your standard Philly homicide detective. Detective Melvin gestured at his evidence array on the coffee table. "This is your wallet, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course."

"No money was in it. No credit cards, no driver's license. Just the membership card and the library card."

"I'm not surprised."

"How did Ms. Bristow get your wallet? Do you know?"

"Yes, she took it from me, last night. My wallet and my cell phone." Vicki told herself to stay calm. She could ask for a lawyer, but it would signal that she had something to hide, and Bale would fire her again, after he fired her for going to see Mrs. Bristow in the first place. She could represent herself; she knew how the Philly detectives put their cases together and she could anticipate the questions they'd ask. "I'd like to explain what happened, if I may."

"Please do," Detective Melvin answered, with his official smile. Next to him on the couch, the other detective made a note in his steno pad, his dark head bent so his pinkish bald spot showed. He wore glasses and a navy suit, with a skinny striped tie.

"First, I'm an AUSA and I had nothing to do with Arissa Bristow's murder." Vicki met Detective Melvin's eye to show him she wasn't guilty, which turned out to be harder than she'd expected. She didn't kill Mrs. Bristow, but she did feel guilty about the murder, and even she could hear it taint her tone. "I did meet Mrs. Bristow last night and may well have been the last person to see her alive, depending on what the coroner told you about time of death." Vicki waited a minute, but they weren't volunteering any information. "Let me start at the beginning, which is when I left Chief Bale's office yesterday, before noon."