Devil's Corner (18 page)

"You're way outta line, kid." Saxon rose behind his desk and pointed a thick finger at her. "Does Bale know what you've been up to?"

But Vicki was too angry to answer. She turned her back on him and headed for the door.

"Don't you walk out on me, Allegretti! Answer my question! Does your boss know what you've been doing?"

"Tell you what." Vicki turned on her heel at the threshold. "You go food shopping, and I'll let you know when I get my next lead, okay?"

And she walked out before he could shoot.

When Vicki got home, she took an even greater risk than surveilling a drug dealer or questioning the masculinity of an ATF chief—she called her parents. She wanted to explain about Detective Melvin's call. She pressed in the number and took a fifty-fifty chance that the parent she actually liked would answer. After two rings, her mother picked up.
Yes!

"Mom? Did Detective Melvin call you yet, from Homicide?"

"Goodness, yes, we just hung up," her mother said, alarmed. "What
is
going on? Are you okay, dear?"

"I'm fine."

"Thank God! Did you actually need an alibi?"

"No, not really."

"Your father's at the gym. I'm beside myself. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. My wallet was stolen last night by a crack addict, who was killed last night."

"But you were here last night, and you didn't tell us anything about this."

And I'm still not
. "We kind of had a fight, remember?" Vicki felt a tug. "I'm sorry I upset you, Mom."

"I'm sorry, too, dear." Her mother's tone softened.

"And for the record, I don't live like a pauper."

Her mother sighed. "You know your father."

"Uh, yeah."

"Maybe I won't mention to him that the detective called."

"Thanks." Vicki felt touched. "I have to go now, Mom. Don't worry too much."

"Just be careful."

"I will. Bye. Love you."

"Love you, too. Good-bye."

Vicki hung up, ignoring the knot in her chest. She thought about calling Dan but she didn't want to cause more trouble for him. She felt a little disconnected from the world. Without Morty. Without Dan. And after Saxon called Bale, without a career.

Vicki considered it. The smart thing to do was call Bale and preempt Saxon, but she'd get fired for sure. She turned it over in her mind, but her brain kept skidding on the ice. She was too tired to think. She needed to eat something and she needed a good night's sleep.

And only after that would she know what to do next.

TWENTY-THREE

Vicki woke up in the morning to a distinctive sound of winter: the
sc-c-c
-
crape
, sc
-c-c-crape, sc-c-c-crape
of a neighbor shoveling his sidewalk. She groaned and checked her bedside clock.

10:49. Late. She felt a wave of guilt. She'd have to get up andshovel her sidewalk so she didn't get sued. Growing up with both parents as lawyers, Vicki had been indoctrinated to shovel before the dreaded underlayer of ice wreaked havoc with the American system of civil liability.

She turned over and stuck her head under the pillow. She hated to shovel snow and put it off as long as possible, a rebel with a Back-Saver shovel. She consoled herself in her own childishness. It was nice and dark beneath her pillow, and her bed felt soft, comfy, and warm. The radiator hissed in a reassuring way, whispering
stay asleep, stay asleep, stay asleep
, but it couldn't drown out
sc-c-c-crape, sc-c-c-crape, sc-c-c-crape
, and neither noise stood a chance against
YOU'LL GET SUED, YOU'LL GET SUED, YOU'LL GET SUED.

Vicki turned over and squeezed her eyes shut, but it was inevitable. Nothing could silence her lawyer's conscience, and no pillow could block the realization that today was Morty's wake. It was still hard to believe he was dead. She flung off the pillow, rolled out of bed, and tried not to have another thought that would make her sad while she went to the bathroom, pulled on old sweatpants and a crimson hoodie sweatshirt, then trundled downstairs in the chilly house, put on her winter coat, boots, mittens, and stupid Smurfy hat. Then she went to the basement to retrieve her shovel, trundled back upstairs with it, went to the front door, and opened it into a blast of cold air.

The snow had stopped; the sky was clear and blue. The Holloway kids had already been out playing, evidenced by a snowman with a tiny head like Beetlejuice and M&M eyes dripping blue tears. Her street had been plowed, snowing the parked cars in until the next decade, and almost all the sidewalks had been shoveled, including her own.

Huh?
In the middle of her perfectly shoveled walk, leaning on a snow shovel in his down coat and a Phillies cap, stood a grinning Dan Malloy.

"Nice hat, babe," he said.

Vicki clapped with delight, though her mittens made a
muh muh muh
sound that had no payoff. "What did you do, Dan?"

"That'll teach you to think about moving. All the neighbors in Center City are mean."

"This is so nice of you!"

"Will work for coffee."

"Done!" Vicki waved him inside. Ten minutes later, they had shed their boots, coats, hats, and mittens and left them by the door in a jumbled pile of his-and-her things, the sight of which made Vicki unaccountably content. She padded barefoot on the cool pine floor into the kitchen, going ahead of Dan. "That was really great of you. I hate to shovel."

"I know that."

"You do? How?"

"Because you told me once."

"I did?"

"Yes." Dan smiled and sat down in his customary chair at the kitchen table, while she reached in the cabinet for the coffee grounds, a role reversal for them. He looked typically unshaven, and his reddish bangs sprayed over his blue eyes, making even hat head look good. Luckily, today he was wearing a bra, in the form of a ratty white turtleneck under the same blue crewneck sweater.

"So you just decided to come over and shovel my walk?"

"Yeah. Mariella had to go in, so I have the day free."

The M-word. Vicki, in denial, had almost forgotten. Dan's snowboots might be parked next to hers, but his bedroom slippers were next to Mariella's. Meantime, he had on her favorite jeans, which were soaked from snow at the lower legs. If they were in a movie, Vicki would ask Dan to take his pants off so she could throw them in the dryer, and they'd end up in each other's arms. Unfortunately, they were in Philadelphia, where things like that never happened and people sat around in wet pants.

"Catch me up, Vick. What's going on? I haven't seen you since they tried to arrest you. You gotta get a new cell phone."

"I will." Vicki poured tap water in the back of the coffeemaker and turned the button to On. "You want breakfast?"

"You have food in the house?"

"There's eggs." Vicki knew because she'd had some for dinner last night, and Dan was already on his bare feet, heading to the refrigerator.

"Scrambled, okay?"

"Fine."

"My specialty." Dan took out the eggs and a stick of butter, and Vicki drew way-too-pathetic pleasure from the fact that they were cooking side by side in her kitchen. Dan set the eggs and butter on the counter and went into the base cabinet for the fry pan. "So I know you've been up to no good, because Bale called me this morning, asking where you were."

"He did?" Vicki turned, surprised. Funny the things husbands don't tell you. Other women's husbands, that is. "What did he say?"

"That he's been calling here and there's been no answer. Said he was trying to find you."

"When did he call?"

"Last night and this morning."

Saxon must have called Bale. "Oh no, I must have slept through it. I conked out as soon as I hit the pillow."

"I called late last night and this morning, too."

"I guess I was really sleeping. I didn't even hear the Holloway kids making the snowman."

"You didn't check your messages?"

"No, I was too tired when I got in." And truth to tell, she hadn't wanted to know if Dan had called. Since his fight with Mariella, she didn't feel as if she should call him back. Vicki tabled that for now. "What did Bale say? Is he mad? I'm pushing it, I know."

"He didn't say. You'd better call him, but not until after you tell me what happened yesterday."

Vicki was getting tired of giving everybody reports, but Dan was a great sounding board and he was on her side. The coffee started to drip, and its wet aroma filled the air. The kitchen was bright, quiet, and still; if the snow had been insulation yesterday, it was a cocoon today. Vicki retrieved their Elvis and Harvard mugs, interrupted the coffee in mid-stream, and poured them both a cup.

"Thanks." Dan melted butter in a Calphalon pan, as Vicki leaned against the counter and began the account of what had happened. By the time she was finished, they were sitting before plates of leftover eggs and Vicki was on her third cup of coffee, which was weak because she had interrupted the brewing process.

"I hate when I do that," she said.

"What?"

"Mess up the coffee, so the first cup is too strong and the ones after it suck. I'm my own pet peeve."

"You're too impatient." Dan set down his fork.

"Is that possible? Can you be just impatient enough?"

"
You
can't." Dan smiled. "That's part of the reason you're getting yourself in trouble with the brass."

"Let the lecture begin."

"No lecture here. You know what you're doing is nuts."

"Insulting Saxon?"

"Yes, and stalking drug dealers." Dan's mouth made a grave line.

"I don't want to talk about that. I want you to help me figure out the connection between Jamal Browning and the Bristows, if there is one."

Dan cocked his head. "Well, lay the facts down and organize them, as if they were evidence. Build your case, only undisputed facts first. Then we'll go from there."

"First, Browning supplies crack to Cater." Vicki counted off on an index finger. "Two, Browning was the boyfriend of my CI."

Dan shook his head. "That's not undisputed. The mother never heard of him."

"But it's likely, and the mother never heard of anybody."

"Not good enough." Dan spoke in his official jury-closing voice. "Second undisputed fact is that Mrs. Bristow was killed right after she bought drugs at Cater."

Vicki resumed finger counting. "And, three and four, the things I'd bet money on are that Jamal Browning was the boyfriend of Shayla Jackson, and that Mrs. Bristow gave the guns that Reheema had given her to the Cater Street dealers, in return for crack." Vicki considered it, then decided she was right. Funny how that always worked. "It's just too coincidental that the CI turns up dead in a houseful of fish-scale coke, and she happens to be the girlfriend of the dealer who sells to Cater Street."

"It's a baby drug business, from the sound of it, and that's a small world in Philly, believe it or not. Coincidences abound."

"Possibly. And we know that Reheema didn't know Jackson or Browning."

"Wrong. You don't know that at all."

"I do know it. I believe Reheema."

"Why?" Dan asked in disbelief.

"Because she convinced me, and so did that stuff I saw about her on her bulletin board. And the fact that she didn't know Jackson was corroborated by her boss."

"Jackson testified they were best friends."

"People lie under oath," Vicki said, because Reheema had taught her such things.

"And as between Jackson and Reheema, you believe Reheema, a known felon? Just because she ran track?"

"It's just a feeling I have about her. Reheema's different. And she's not a felon, because she wasn't convicted." Vicki sounded idiotic even to herself, and Dan's mouth dropped open.

"She pulled a gun on you, Vick!"

"She thought I was trespassing."

"So? If you thought somebody was trespassing, would you pull a gun on them? Would you even have a gun to pull? Or would you run out and call the cops?"

Vicki gathered it was rhetorical.

"Of course not. But just as it's second nature to you to call the cops, it's second nature to Reheema not to. Her experience of the cops is completely different from yours. For you, the cops are saviors. For her, they're enemies. You're the enemy." Dan nodded. "This is where Episcopal Academy comes in."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Vick, you're a rookie in this subculture, for want of a better word. You come to it with new eyes, and it's kind of exciting."

"It wasn't exciting, what happened to Morty."

"That's not what I meant and you know it." Dan flushed red, and Vicki regretted her words.

"Sorry."

"What I meant was the whole gangsta thing. The jewelry, the coke, the nicknames."

"I'm not new to it. I saw it at the D.A.'s office."

"Not this. Not with stakes this high. If these boys get caught, they go away for life. The boys who play that, they're a different breed. They're what the NBA is to high school ball. They like the big money—tens of millions of dollars—and they kill for it."

"I know all that," Vicki said irritably, but Dan leaned forward, intent.

"No, you don't. You bring this Main Line thing to it. You believe Reheema when she tells you, ‘No, I didn't resell the guns, I gave them to my mommy.' ‘No, I don't know Jackson.' You believe her because you tell the truth and you project that onto her. You believe her because you were raised in a world where people told the truth."

Obviously, he'd never eaten dinner at the Allegrettis'.

"No offense, but you're completely naïve. You can't believe her. You can't believe any of them. They lie to you all the time. Lying is a way of life for them, especially lying to you, an AUSA."

Vicki didn't like this new side of Dan. "You sound racist. Everything's ‘them' and ‘they.' "

"It's got nothing to do with race. I know these people, the mentality."

"What people?"

"People like my father."

It took Vicki aback. He never talked about his father. "How do you mean?"

"A liar, a cheat. A bad boy who grew up not knowing how to make a dime, so he learned how to steal it. Scam for it. Smile for it. The guy could charm the pants off you and you'd never know they were gone until you looked down." Dan shook his head. "How can I make you understand? My dad grew up in a poor neighborhood, just like your dad did. Some kids become straight arrows, like your dad. Go to school, make A's, graduate. Others shuck and jive and look for the angles. The quick buck. They want to be a big shot. My dad's as white as Irish lace, but he's gangsta to the core."