Devil's Corner (3 page)

The corners of the mirror were festooned with plastic leis, a multicolored array of Mardi Gras necklaces, and a black foamy cap that read Taj Mahal. Photographs had been stuck inside the mirror's frame, and Vicki eyed them. There were five pictures, and everybody in them was dressed up. The venues were tony, if the prominent advertising backdrops were any indication: the NBA All-Star game, the BET awards. Three of the photos were of the same young man: an African American about thirty years old, with a broad smile and largish eyes. He had a muscular, compact form, a heavy gold chain around his neck, and his hair was shorn into a close fade, revealing a script tattoo on the side of his neck, indecipherable.

The other photos were also of the young man, but this time he was standing on the boardwalk, the ocean behind him, being hugged by a young woman with an equally broad smile. She looked to be about twenty-something and wore heavy makeup, a white halter top, jeans shorts, and platforms. Lots of gold jewelry but no wedding ring. A sea breeze blew through her straightened hair, and in the last photo she wore a foamy black cap, turned sideways. Taj Mahal. The same hat as on the mirror.

Vicki felt a pang. The woman must be Shayla Jackson. The man must be her boyfriend.

Her gaze fell under the lamplight on the bureau, where an open jewelry box gleamed like a cartoon treasure chest. The trays overflowed with hoop earrings, gold bangles, diamond-studded tennis bracelets, gold chain necklaces; it was several thousand dollars' worth of jewelry, and amazingly, none of it had been disturbed, much less stolen, by the teenagers. Obviously, Teeg and Jay-Boy were no ordinary burglars.

Clutter around the jewelry box hadn't been touched either. Bottles of expensive perfume—First, Chanel, Shalimar—lay next to a pen, a pair of Gucci sunglasses, and a few scattered bills for Philadelphia Electric, Verizon, and Philadelphia Gas. Vicki looked closer. They were utilities bills for this house, and the postmark was last month. The bills were addressed to Jackson, but she hadn't opened them. She had crossed out her own name and address and written in its place "Jamal Browning, 3635 Aspinall Street."

Assuming it was Jackson's handwriting, which seemed likely, even Vicki could connect these dots. Jackson was sending Browning the bills for the house. He was keeping her. He had to be the boyfriend in the photos. Vicki hadn't seen drug paraphernalia anywhere downstairs, much less money counters or digital scales used by big-time dealers. Jackson probably wasn't a coke dealer, especially of fish-scale coke; more likely, hers was a stash house and she was keeping the drugs for someone else. Someone she would risk her neck for by keeping it on her premises; someone who trusted her with such valuable merchandise. Jamal Browning, her boyfriend. But why was she moving?

"It's a goddamn shame," one of the techs said, behind Vicki. She braced herself and turned on her heel. Even so, she was completely unprepared for the awful sight.

Shayla Jackson lay on her back on the blue rug, between her periwinkle-flowered bed and the wall, her slim arms apart and her pink palms skyward. Her brown eyes, the same lovely ones in the photo, lay wide open and staring fixedly at the ceiling. Her legs, slim and long in jeans, lay horribly twisted, and she was barefoot. She was wearing a dark, loose V-neck sweater, now soaked with black blood. Bullet holes strafed the front of her chest, cutting a blood-drenched swath between her breasts. The blasts exposed red muscle and white sternum, and the skin unfurled like common cloth to expose the cruelest blow of all: Jackson's bloodied midsection puffed high and round.

"She was
pregnant
?" Vicki asked, appalled, and one of the kneeling techs looked up.

"Eight months," answered an Indian doctor working on Jackson's body, his glossy head bent over her chest wounds.

"My God." Vicki shook her head. Her stomach flipped over. She gritted her teeth to keep queasiness at bay.

"Who are you?" The doctor looked up, his round eyes flickering with annoyance. He wore a maroon sweater vest under his lab coat, which had a black nameplate that read Dr. Mehar Soresh.

Vicki introduced herself and said, "This is my case."

An African-American tech added: "She's the AUSA almost got shot with the ATF agent."

Dr. Soresh returned to his examination. "Then you're one lucky lady tonight."

Vicki didn't reply. She couldn't. She wouldn't know where to start. She had gotten her partner killed.

Dr. Soresh continued, "In answer to the question you were about to ask, the child could not have been saved. Mother and child were dead when they hit the floor."

Vicki wasn't about to ask.

"Furthermore, my theory is that the first bullet was to the uterine area, so the baby died first." Dr. Soresh extracted a long silvery probe from his black bag. "Somebody wanted this baby dead, that's for sure."

Vicki's thoughts raced ahead. Was it Browning's baby? Was it somebody else's? Who would want a baby killed? And what, if anything, did it have to do with the straw case? The questions forced her to think clearly. "Dr. Soresh, do you know who's going to identify the body? Who's next-of-kin, do you know?"

Soresh didn't look up. "Mom's coming in from Florida. Tampa, I think. She'll come to the morgue, look on the TV screen. We make it easy on 'em, not like on
CSI
. Big dramatic thing, undraping the body, ta-da."

"No boyfriend is coming?"

"Not that I know of."

"A baby mama drama," the black tech said, and Dr. Soresh shot him a dirty look.

"I don't know, that's not my bailiwick. I have Mom coming in at noon tomorrow. She's next-of-kin, and that's good enough for me."

"Will you send me a copy of your report, when you're finished?"

"Sure. What's your name again?"

"Allegretti. I'm an AUSA."

"Got it."

"Thanks," Vicki said, getting her bearings. Morty was dead and so was a pregnant woman. And a baby, gone. She didn't know how or whether any of this connected to her straw purchase case, but she intended to find out.

Starting now.

FOUR

Downstairs, the crowd in the house had grown, and Vicki made a beeline through the badges for Bale, who was shooting his French cuffs, revealing a flash of gold cuff link as he stood talking to the U.S. Attorney, Ben Strauss. Strauss, a blond six footer gone gray, towered over Bale in a dark blue suit and no topcoat. The first and last time Vicki had seen Strauss was when he addressed her as one of five new assistant U.S. Attorneys, after they'd returned from orientation. Strauss had impressive credentials, almost twenty-five years working for Justice, even if he came off a trifle Aryan, as compared with Bale; standing together, the two men were a twin cone of soft-serve chocolate and vanilla.

Bale spotted Vicki first, as she reached them. "How's my girl?" he asked, looping an arm around her, pulling her into their circle.

"Hanging in," Vicki answered, and Strauss nodded somberly.

"I'm sorry about Morty. I know you two were friends."

"Thanks."

"He was a great agent, one of the best. I had been meaning to drop you an e-mail about the nice result you two got in Edwards. Good job."

"Thanks."

"You were a good pair. I'm sure he taught you everything you know, right?"

"And then some."

"Morty never liked me, you must know that."

Maybe he's not so bland
. "He never said anything like that to me," Vicki said, though it wasn't true. Morty had disliked the

U.S. Attorney for his grandstanding and headline grabbing.Strauss churned out initiatives all the time, press-released and posted on the DOJ website; Project Clean Sweep, Project Clean Schools, Project Clean Block. Morty had nicknamed him, predictably, Mr. Clean.

"Good. Well. Maybe I'm wrong. I'd like to think that." Strauss patted Vicki's arm stiffly, his eyes a razor-sharp blue.

"Vicki's had a rough night," Bale said, drumming up positive reinforcement.

"She sure has, a rough night," Strauss repeated, properly cued. "I'd say this is trial by fire, isn't it? Maybe you should take some time off. Tomorrow, and the weekend."

"Actually, I'm wondering if this is connected to my straw case. I know we found the coke, but I think this was a stash house. Jackson wasn't the dealer, not for that kind of weight. I think she was just keeping it for—"

"I drew the same conclusion and so did ATF," Bale interrupted. Strauss's pale eyebrows lifted.

"Her boyfriend's name is Jamal Browning." Vicki knew she was talking out of turn, but it had never stopped her before. "I think he keeps her, and he may be the father of her baby, because there's bills on her dresser with his address. Her moving puzzles me, though. They weren't moving in together or she wouldn't be forwarding bills to him by mail. If they were breaking up—"

"You did some detective work, huh?" Bale smiled in a way that said shut up, which Vicki ignored. "I don't think there was another man in the picture, not yet.

First off, she was pregnant, and it's hard enough to meet anybody. Second, there's still her boyfriend's photos on her mirror and—"

"Vick, let's finish this discussion later," Bale said, his voice low. He shifted from one fancy loafer to the other. "This isn't the time or the place."

"Agreed." Strauss glanced around to see if anybody had been listening. "We don't need leaks."

"But time matters." Vicki lowered her voice, even though no one was snooping. "Tonight, everything's fresh, and at bottom, this is a murder case. In the D.A.'s office, we would always—"

"You're in the bigs now." Bale frowned. "We're lawyers, not cops. Morty's in very good hands, the very best. Philly Homicide's on it, and the FBI and ATF are breathin' down their neck. They'll collect the evidence and run it down."

"The Mayor's Office has shown a special interest, too." Strauss checked his watch. "I'm on my way to see him right now. We'll press-conference in the morning." He turned to look out the open front door of the row house. Klieglights shone outside, from the TVs and other press. "They're swarming out there. A triple homicide, a cop murdered." He glanced back at Vicki. "I don't have to tell you, no statements to the press."

"Of course not."

"Good." Strauss clapped her on the shoulder, then nodded to Bale. "How, we'll talk tomorrow."

"Whenever you're ready." Bale nodded. He and Vicki watched Strauss leave, his silhouette tall and lean in the klieg-lights, framed by the threshold of the front door. His breath made a puff of smoke in the frigid air, and he didn't even pause in the spot where Morty had been cut down.

"You like him, Chief?" Vicki asked, watching Strauss go.

"I got a uniform out there, to take you home," Bale replied, his dark eyes reflecting the white glare of the TV lights, and the moving shadows.

As soon as Vicki reached the pavement, reporters hit her like a blast of cold air. "Vicki, any comment?"

"Vicki, can you describe the killer?"

"Ms. Allegretti, what were you doing here tonight?"

"Where were you when Special Agent Morton got shot?"

"Vicki, did the ATF agent have any last words?"

Morty
. Vicki kept her head down as she barreled through the crowd, holding up a no-comment hand. She'd run this gauntlet once in the D.A.'s office, but Strauss had been right, this was the bigs. The police presence was double the usual, including dogs and horses, and the media was national, evidently including jackasses.

"Is it true the woman was pregnant?"

"Was this a drug bust?"

"Why weren't the Philly cops there?"

"Why were you involved?"

"Victoria, look this way! Just one picture, please!"

Reporters thronged so close that Vicki almost tripped on a black electrical cable powering the bright klieglights, foam-covered microphones, black cameras with rubbery collapsible shades, and whirring videocameras. She caught sight of herself in a monitor, her head floating, oddly disembodied, in the wintry black sky. On the screen, she looked even shorter than five two, which she hadn't known was physically possible.

A uniformed cop signaled to her from in front of an idling cruiser. Traffic on the usually busy boulevard had been rerouted to the inner lanes, and behind the cruiser sat a ring of police sawhorses, holding back neighbors and onlookers who were talking, smoking, and calling out questions, despite the frigid temperature. Vicki wished she could find out what they knew about Jackson, Jamal Browning, or comings and goings at the house, but she wasn't about to canvass the neighborhood within earshot of the media.

She sprinted for the police car, introduced herself to the cop, and slipped into the warmed-up backseat. The car took off, edging through the crowd until they reached open road. Vicki didn't say anything as the cruiser sped through the darkened streets. She tried not to feel the ache in her ribs. Or, worse, in her heart.

In time, the cruiser took a right onto the drive that snaked along the Wissahickon River: they passed lovely old Tudor homes, and in the next few minutes they arrived at her development, East Falls Mews, which was supposed to blend in, but didn't. Attached town homes of faux stone with ersatz Tudor touches lined the winding streets, newly paved; it was a lame place to live, but the rent was low and it sat just inside the Philly limits, a job requirement for D.A.'s. Lately Vicki had been talking about moving into Center City, so she had a hope of Meeting Somebody, but her social life was the last thing on her mind tonight. That is, until the squad car pulled up in front of her house.

Because, to her surprise, shivering as he sat on her front step was just the man she wanted to see.

FIVE

Once they were inside, Vicki fell into Dan's embrace, realizing when she was enveloped how much she needed him. She burrowed into the chilled puffiness of his North Face jacket, feeling underneath the hard contours of his chest and the comfort of his strong arms. His open neck smelled of cold air and hard soap, and he was tall and lean, even in the down jacket. She held him as close as was permissible, then pulled away. Theirs was a relationship that drove Vicki crazy, even if it would make Plato himself proud.