Devil's Corner (16 page)

In time the foot traffic fell into a pattern; customers walking into the vacant lot, then leaving five to ten minutes later. A few cars came down the opposite cross street, driving toward Vicki, the windshield wipers pounding to keep the snow off.

They stopped at the vacant lot to let somebody out and back in again after the buy; the transaction was never made curbside. Only a car or two drove past her and up Cater, because the vacant lot was closer to that end, and she noted their license plates.

She documented everything in her pocket-size Filofax. Every hour or so, the same man, a short man in a black leather coat and black leather baseball cap, would leave the vacant lot, walk down the street away from the Cabrio, then return in about twenty-five minutes to half an hour. Alternating with him, but making the same trip on roughly the same schedule, was a taller man in an Eagles jacket and black knit cap. Vicki theorized that they were the go-betweens, going back and forth to a crackhouse that supplied the store.

On the third trip by the man in the Eagles coat, Vicki set aside her notes and started the Cabrio engine. She cruised forward in the driving snow, finally turning on the heat and switching the defrost to MAX to keep the windshield clear. She took a right at the corner and sped to the end of the street, her windshield wipers pumping to keep up with the snowfall. She stopped at the traffic light, striking a blow for lawful behavior everywhere, and turned right.

By the time she was on the cross street, the man in the Eagles coat had reached the top of Cater Street on foot. Vicki slowed the Cabrio to a crawl and double-parked by a salt-covered Taurus to watch him. Eagles Coat had his back to her, the emblematic bird flying high, its talons splayed. The street was quiet; there was little traffic. Nobody was out in the snow; on the drive over, she'd heard reports of a big storm.

Eagles Coat got into a battered blue Neon parked at the middle of the line-up of cars. Vicki waited while he started the Neon, and when he pulled out of his space, she let a black Ford truck get between them for cover, then took off after him. They cruised to the top of the street together, his speed quicker than hers. She stepped on it, tailgating the black truck.

Her heartbeat picked up as the Neon took a left onto Cleveland Street and headed west.

The black truck went straight, leaving her exposed, but a pile of fresh snow covered the Neon's back window, and the driver made no attempt to defrost it. The Neon had to be ten years old, with a large dent buckling the back fender. Vicki had heard that drug dealers kept the nice cars for driving around in and used crummy cars for "work," because they were less conspicuous. The felonious version of a station car.

The Neon sped forward heedless of the weather conditions, with icy snow streaming sideways across the street. Pellets hit the window, making
tinck tinck
noises, and the windshield wipers worked frantically. Vicki drove as fast as she could, letting the occasional car get ahead of her to minimize her chance of being spotted, since snow on the back window of the Neon was sliding off.

They threaded their way out of Devil's Corner, and Vicki could see through her steamy window that the neighborhood was worsening. They took a right and a left, and the Neon turned quickly onto a street, then parked. She drove past it because she couldn't stop fast enough and she wanted to avoid being spotted. She went around the block to the street into which the Neon had driven and glanced at the street sign. It was crooked, but its bright green was readable in the snowstorm:

ASPINALL STREET.

Whoa
. Vicki flashed on the envelopes on Shayla's dresser, in the row house. They were being forwarded to her boyfriend, Jamal Browning. He lived on Aspinall Street.

Vicki's heart thumped harder. She leaned forward over the steering wheel but the Neon was parked too far away to see much. She waited. Trying to stay calm. Wishing she had a cell phone. Who would she call? The cops. Dan. Somebody. Anybody.

She assumed that Eagles Coat was going to Jamal Browning's house on Aspinall Street, because it seemed unlikely that that there were two drug dealers on Aspinall Street. That meant that Jamal could have been supplying the drugs to the new store on Cater, where Mrs. Bristow had bought her drugs. Could that be the connection? Had Reheema given her mother the guns, then her mother sold or traded them on Cater Street for crack, which was in turn supplied by Jamal Browning? Did that mean the guns had ended up with Browning? And what was Reheema's connection?

Vicki got so excited, she almost missed Eagles Coat leaving a house in the middle of the block, then making his way down the snowy sidewalk. He got into the Neon and took off, presumably back to Cater. Vicki hit the gas, steered the Cabrio onto Aspinall, and drove down the street, not daring to pause at the house. It was a rundown brick row house with a yellow plastic awning bowing with disrepair and snow.

Number 3635. Jamal Browning's house.

"Yes!" Vicki shouted so loud her voice reverberated in the tiny Cabrio. But now what did she do?

She wasn't about to knock on Browning's door, but she knew how to accomplish the same end.

TWENTY-ONE

An hour later, Vicki reached the Roundhouse, Philadelphia's police administration building. It looked almost pretty in the snow, only because the whiteness hid the cracked windowsills and stained concrete of its aging facade. The building was composed of two joined circles, hence its nickname, and its design had been positively space-age in the 1970s. She parked in the press space in the lot, as she used to as an ADA, switched off the ignition, and got out of the Cabrio. The cold tightened her chest, and she pulled her down coat tighter around her. It was almost six and the sky was dark. The parking lot was only partly full, which was deceptive; the Roundhouse wasn't closed for business on the weekend, but only got busier. She'd been here more times than she could count, and hurried to the entrance, kicking snow onto her ankles, and went inside the revolving door.

Ten minutes after that, Vicki found Detective Melvin in the ratty squad room of the Homicide Division. The blue paint on the walls had dulled to grime, and large institutional desks dotted the room, defying any normal path of travel. Water-stained curtains hung from uneven valances along the far wall, which curved with the south side of the building. The air smelled of cigarettes, though smoking wasn't allowed. On TV,
Cold Case
showed America a sanitized replica of the squad room every week. Nobody would believe how crummy it really was, which was the problem with the truth.

"Have a nice chat with my parents?" Vicki asked, sitting down in the old metal chair next to Detective Melvin's desk.

"Not yet. Is that why you're here?"

"No," Vicki answered, and told him the whole story in detail. By the time she was finished, Detective Melvin was looking at her like her father did, which wasn't good.

"Wait a minute," he said, holding up a hand. "In the beginning, you said you went to see Reheema, to explain to her why her mother had your wallet. You felt you owed her that."

"I did."

"So why were you taking notes on drug trafficking on Cater?" The detective gestured to Vicki's Filofax pages, spread out on the cluttered desk.

"I know what I saw, and so do you." Vicki leaned forward. "The opening of a crack store on Cater, supplied by a dealer on Aspinall. And Browning is connected to Shayla Jackson because of the bills in her house. It's a silver platter."

"It's good, but it doesn't prove anything yet."

"I make out an affidavit of what I saw, to get you probable cause for search of the house and for arrest of the two street dealers and whoever's at that crack house. Business is booming and will only grow. We can end this thing right now."

"We?"

"Yes, we. This could lead to whoever killed Shayla and Morty, and maybe even Mrs. Bristow. It's a good lead."

"I agree, it's a good lead, I didn't say it wasn't a good lead."

"Not to mention that the drug business will take down the street, then the neighborhood."

"I've heard that happens, yes." Detective Melvin was already gathering up Vicki's notes, his muscles flexing in the gray pullover he must have been wearing under his leather jacket this morning. Hard to believe that was the same day; Vicki was already feeling like they were old friends, though she could have been delusional.

"Did you see Browning yet? Did you question him?"

"Not yet, but we will."

"What's the holdup?"

"We have procedures, Ms. Allegretti."

"Please, call me Vicki when you lie to me."

"I'm not." Detective Melvin pursed his lips. "What procedures, then? The homicide procedures I remember are running down leads. Browning is a clear lead in Jack-son's and Morty's murder, and they may all be connected."

"This is a complicated situation, and I'm not at liberty to discuss the particulars of the investigation," Detective Melvin answered firmly, and Vicki eased back into her chair. Being pushy was getting her nowhere fast, and she could see Melvin wasn't happy about the situation, either.

"Does that mean we can't talk about wiretaps? Are you going for a wiretap on my cell? You could get one, based on these facts."

"We understand that and we're investigating it."

"I know ATF would get a Title III tap."

"We'll investigate our way, not yours or ATF's."

"Which would be what?" Vicki knew she was on thin ice, and Detective Melvin's eyes went hard. "Look, I don't have to keep you apprised. If I call your boss and tell him what you've been up to, he'll fire your ass."
Gulp
. "But if you could just tell me what you've been doing, maybe I can help."

"I don't need your help, thank you. I thought I made that clear this morning." Detective Melvin stacked her notes into a little Filofax tower, like silver-dollar pancakes. "I'll talk to my sergeant about what you learned today, about Browning on Aspinall and the Neon. And I'll turn your notes over to the Narcotics Strike Force."

"The Narcotics Strike Force? But what if the Cater Street store is connected to the murder of my partner?"

"We handle that part, they handle the other. They've had other complaints from the neighbors. They know about the situation, but they're taxed. They'll give this attention if it comes from Homicide."

"Will they coordinate with the feds?"

"I'm sure they will, but there are jurisdictional issues."

"Who has jurisdiction, state or federal?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that with you," Detective

Melvin answered, but Vicki couldn't let her hard work fall between the cracks.

"I say you have jurisdiction over the whole case. It's a murder, at bottom, whether a federal agent or not, and I think it has to stay with you, not the Narcotics Strike Force." Vicki was thinking out loud, issue-spotting in criminal procedure. She knew that Homicide could run-and-gun in a way the feds never could. Making a federal case wasn't just an expression.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Detective Melvin's forehead relaxed, and his voice softened. They both knew that jurisdiction was a question of legal power, so it always became a legal power play, and this situation would only make it worse. "But at this point, we think it's a local offense, so it's ours. Doesn't mean we don't have to coordinate."

"With whom?"

"A task force."

"Oh no." Task force was police code for a committee. Vicki could only guess the pressure he was under. "But somebody has to be running the store, right now. Time matters in a murder investigation."

Melvin managed a smile. "I've heard that, too."

"What's the precedent in cases like this?"

"There isn't any."

"There has to be," Vicki said in disbelief. "Morty couldn't have been the first federal agent killed in the line of duty."

"Actually, in Philly, he is. Except for one case that doesn't help us much. An FBI agent, Chuck Reed, was killed making an undercover buy in the nineties, remember? In a car at Penn's Landing?"

"No." Vicki was at Harvard Law in the nineties, but she never dropped the H-bomb unless she had to. "Remind me."

"It was a buy-bust that went wrong, in that yuppie cocaine ring. The dealer was coked up and panicked. He shot Reed, who shot back. They were both killed." Detective Melvin winced with the regret that cops show at another's passing. Grief was the one thing that crossed jurisdictional lines.

"So there was no need for an investigation to find Reed's killer."

"Right, there's no precedent on this one."

"But it is a state law matter, and civilians were killed, too— Jackson, her baby, and Mrs. Bristow, if her murder is related." Then even Vicki thought better of it. "Still, everybody at ATF loved Morty. They'll want to take care of their own."

"Right, of course. So would we." They fell silent on their respective sides of the desk. Vicki felt the tug of conflict, and Detective Melvin sighed, a resigned sound that came from deep within his broad chest. "We already scheduled a meeting about your partner's murder with top brass at your office, and with ATF, DEA, and FBI."

"Why would FBI have jurisdiction? Because they take it?"

"I didn't say that."

"No, I did." Vicki considered the situation. The FBI was the grabbiest federal agency in existence, after the IRS. "When is the task force meeting?"

"They were talking about Tuesday, but realistically, it'll be Wednesday. They need a day after the memorial service of your partner."

Morty's funeral.
Vicki felt a tightness. She'd been so wrapped up in catching his killer, she hadn't thought about his burial. "When is the memorial service scheduled for?"

"I got a memo. The wake is tomorrow night, the memorial on Monday."

Vicki checked her emotions. "Wednesday is when you all meet? That's forever, in a murder investigation."

"This has to be done right," Detective Melvin said, but even he didn't sound like he believed it, and Vicki was shaking her head.

"Procedures?"

"In a word."