Devil's Corner (21 page)

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

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

And ran upstairs to get dressed.

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

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

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

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

Of course.

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

Like me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm not interested."

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

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

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

"Gimme a break."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I walked."

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

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

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

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

Definitely have to get over him.

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

Which was why she was surprised when the phone rang.

TWENTY-SIX

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?" Vicki was about to start the engine,

but she held off. "This car works great."

"Not for what you're talkin' about. It won't do. Unh-uh."

"You mean, for our plan?" Vicki got finally up to speed.

Reheema was a woman of so few words, it was like playing connect-the-dots. "For
your
plan. I'm just along for the ride."

"Not really."

"Yes,
really
."

"You said on the phone you'd cooperate."

"
Cooperate
means snitch," Reheema shot back, and Vicki bit her tongue. She had suspected their relationship wasn't going to be roses, but she had to make it work if they were going to do the job.

"That's not what I meant."

"That's what you said."

"Okay, poor choice of words. Sue me."

"I am."
Oops
. Vicki had almost forgotten. The lawsuit that Melendez had told Bale about. "You're still going through with that?"

"Sure."

"Even though you said you'd help me? That you'd work with me?"

"I
am
workin' with you. You oughta see me when I'm not."

"I have," Vicki said, her tone harsher than prudent for someone Trying to Make Friends. "When?"

"The Beretta, remember? The lethal weapon part? The aimed-at-me part?" Vicki managed a smile, which she thought was big of her, but Reheema's eyes flared in ready anger.

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

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

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

Assistant U.S. Attorney. Common mistake.

"You have guns that put people away. Guns that put me away!"

"Hold on. You did buy two very real guns, ones you can see."

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

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

"For
what
?"

"For pointing a gun at my favorite heart."

"No."

"Reheema, we're trying to clear the air here."

"My air is
clear
."

"I said I was sorry. You can say you're sorry."

"Why?"

"That's how it works."

"Go to hell."
Or not
. "Fine." Vicki gave up, faced front, and squeezed the steering wheel. It was hard to look tough in J. Crew red mittens, but she was trying. Reheema cleared her throat and faced front, too. "We need a new car. This car is too conspicuous. You said so yourself."

"I was joking."

"You were right. For once." Reheema smiled in spite of her self, which Vicki took as an apology. She looked over. "Why is it conspicuous? Because it's white?"

"Where you from?"

"Philly."

"You were
not
raised in Philly, girl."

"Well, specifically, I grew up in Devon, but I consider it—" Reheema's eyes narrowed. "That where they have that horse show?"

"Yes, the Devon Horse Show."

"You ride horses?"

"When I was little, I had lessons." Vicki was tired of being defensive. Especially on her salary. "What's this have to do with my car?"

"It's suburban."

"What's suburban about a Cabrio?" Reheema snorted. "Convertible's suburban, automatically.

You keep this car in the hood, the homes slit the rag top. Take the CD changer, air bag, all gone. Wouldn't last an hour."
Oh
. "And that little red H on the back window? That doesn't help, either, Harvard."

"It's crimson, not red."
But never mind
. "Black people go to Harvard, too, you know."

"But not to Avalon."

"What?"

"Your bumper sticker—‘Avalon, Cooler by a Mile'? Black folks don't go to Avalon, New Jersey."

Which could be why my parents bought a house there.

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

"It happens."

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

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

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

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