Devil's Corner (39 page)

"Thanks." Vicki swallowed the lump in her throat. "Let me walk you out." They left the conference room and went down the hall to reception, and Vicki looked back as they passed Dan's office. He was on the phone, but perked up and caught her eye.

"Vicki?" he called out, covering the receiver with a hand.

"Gimme five minutes," she called back, almost like the old days.

But she knew those days could be gone forever, after they had their next conversation.

FORTY-FOUR

Vicki went back to Dan's office, walked in, and closed the door behind her, just as he was hanging up. He stood up at his desk, his expression soft and a little sheepish. He looked handsome, unshaven, and regretful in his jeans and navy crewneck, which had to be fusing with his skin by now.

Vicki tabled her feelings. She didn't have time for them. "We have to talk."

Dan put up a hand. "I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He smiled crookedly. "Did I mention I was sorry?"

Vicki felt a tug. "It's not about us. It's more important than us."

"Nothing is more important than us." Dan smiled, cautiously. "Except maybe giving Zoe her meds in the morning."

"I remembered."

"God, I do love you," Dan said, with meaning, and as touched as she felt, she set the plea agreement on top of the papers on his desk.

"What's this?"

"You tell me." Vicki sat down as he slid the plea agreement toward him and took his seat, reading it. She wished he would hurry. Night was falling outside the window to his left, a transparent wash of blue, too thin to mirror his office, which was neat, as usual. Books and treatises stood at attention on shelves, and accordion files sat in alphabetical order on the credenza, next to a Nerf football spray-painted gold, a worn baseball glove, and the Leaning Tower of Baseball Caps, standard-issue for every boy AUSA.

"It looks like a plea agreement in
U.S. v. Montgomery
," Dan answered, glancing at the papers.

"Your case."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't." Dan smiled. "Is this a game?"

"You signed the plea agreement."

"No, I didn't."

Vicki blinked. "Look at the signature page."

Dan turned to the back of the agreement and read the signature page. "Huh. I didn't sign this."

"It's not your signature? It looks like it."

"I know." Dan shook his head, mystified. "I see what you mean. It does look like my signature, but I didn't sign it. I don't remember this case."

"It's only eight months ago, or so."

"Yes, so I would remember it, and I don't. David Montgomery? Don't know the name, and I'd never give him that easy a deal." Dan eyed the signature again. "Somebody must have forged my name."

"A
forgery
?" Vicki felt her mouth drop open. She just assumed a signature in this office was a valid signature, but maybe she was being naïve. The only alternative was that Dan was lying, and she couldn't bring herself to conclude that, not yet.

"It has to be a forgery, because I didn't sign it."

Vicki considered the possibility. "If it's a forgery, it explains a lot. But who would forge your name, and why?"

"I don't know." Dan looked at the agreement again, then held it up to the lamp on his desk, a halogen light with a black metal shade.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know, trying to see something. A watermark, a fingerprint, I don't know. This is weird." Dan lowered the document, still examining the last page. "Strauss and Bale signed it, too. This looks like their signatures, but maybe they're forged, too."

"
Three
forged signatures?"

"If you'll forge one, you'll forge three."

"But that's crazy," Vicki said, nonplussed. "Who would do that?"

"I don't know. I can't explain this, babe."

Vicki couldn't either. "Maybe it was your case, and you've forgotten? You were on trial at the time, in Morales, the heroin distribution case." She had figured this out during her ATF meeting. "Maybe you were so preoccupied, you don't remember the deal, or signing it."

"Let me think a minute." Dan frowned deeply. "No, I swear, I don't remember this case at all. I didn't work this case. You have the file?"

Vicki slid it across the table, and Dan thumbed through it, reading.

"This is old CP stuff. Common Pleas. Nothing from the federal case."

"I know. I assumed you had the rest of it, the indictment and the grand jury transcripts."

"I don't. It's not my case. Where'd you get this?"

"The To Be Filed bin, on the very bottom. Buried."

Dan returned to reading the file. "Hmmm. Looks like Mr. Montgomery's been a bad boy. He lucked out with this deal, big-time. Who's his lawyer, Clarence Darrow?"

Vicki felt too confused to laugh, and Dan kept reading and commenting.

"A public defender. Uh oh, they're gaining on us."

"Dan, it's not funny."

"Tell me about it. It's my name on those papers, and I'm a better prosecutor than that."

Vicki didn't know what to think, and Dan met her eyes with his usual blue frankness.

"What do you want me to say, babe?"

"The truth. I want you to tell me the truth."

"I'll ignore the insult. I'm telling you the truth." Dan stiffened, hurt. "Now what's going on?"

"I think that Montgomery killed Reheema's mother. He lives on the same block as the Bethave family, he's a hired killer who was free when she was murdered, and his nick-name's Kermit, I bet because his voice is froggy."

Dan's expression grew as serious as she had ever seen him.

"What?" Vicki asked.

"I should've known, this is about Reheema. I thought it was something from your meeting with the ATF agent, but it's not." Dan looked suddenly sad, his strong shoulders sloping. "I should have known."

"If what you're saying is true, someone forged your name, and Bale's and Strauss's, unless they signed it. Aren't you concerned about that?" Vicki leaned forward. "A minute ago, before you knew why I was asking, you looked very concerned."

"Yes, it's a bad thing. I was concerned, I
am
concerned. Somebody signed my name on some papers, and we'll look into it tomorrow." Dan sighed. "But that doesn't mean that Montgomery killed Reheema's mother. You didn't find any killer, just because somebody forged my name on papers about his case. It's not logical. It doesn't follow."

"How can you be certain he's not the killer?"

"How can you be certain he is?" Dan raised his voice, and Vicki stood up, taking the file and plea agreement from his desk.

"I don't want to fight anymore, I don't have time. I'm going to ask Bale why he signed this, or if he signed this, and—"

"Don't, Vick. He's not in, anyway."

"Is Strauss?"

"No."

"Where are they?"

"Over at Angelo's, I was just about to tell you. We're all going out to dinner tonight, to celebrate the bust. Plus everybody knows about the promotions, so we're partying before the official announcement. Of course, you're invited. I was hanging around, waiting for you."

"I don't feel like a party. I'm going to the Philly detectives with this."

"Those detectives, Melvin and the other one? They'll be at Angelo's, too." Dan stood up with a final sigh, regarding her as if from a distance. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "So now what, babe? You gonna come to the dinner and make a big scene? Wave a plea agreement around and scream about forgery?"

"Why not, Dan?" Vicki gestured at the dark window. "Re-heema's out there and this guy is loose. What if he tries to finish the job and kill her? Am I supposed to forget about that? Go out and have a few drinks?"

"There's a time and a place for everything, and the dinner tonight would be neither the time nor the place."

"Is everything about politics with you?"

"I'll ignore that, too, because I know you're upset." Dan bore down, his voice calm and steady. "But please, I'm asking you, don't do this tonight, not there. They'll never forget it. You'll end your career. It's suicide."

"No, Dan. It's murder." Vicki turned on her heel, with the file.

Before she left for the restaurant, Vicki stopped by her office to call Reheema. Her cell rang and rang, then her voicemail picked up again and she left another message: "Reheema, it's getting dark and I'm worried about you. Call me as soon as you get this." Vicki stopped herself. Reheema had her cell, so where could she call her? Angelo's was the office's go-to restaurant, around the corner. "In five minutes, I'll be at a restaurant, Angelo's." Vicki gave Reheema the address and phone number, which she knew from ordering takeout all the time. "Call me there and we'll—"

Beep
, the voicemail stopped. Her message box must be full. Vicki hung up, frustrated. She had to get going. She grabbed the plea agreement, folded it, and stuck it in her purse; there was plenty of room now that she'd left the gun at home. Then she went to the door, plucked her down coat from the hook, and hurried out of the office.

FORTY-FIVE

By the time Vicki hit the sidewalk, the sky was dark and the new snow reached almost the top of her boots. The air wasn't as bitter cold as it had been before the storm, and snow fell steadily, more bits of ice than cornflake flurries, visible only under the streetlights, shaken from the sky like common salt. She hustled down Chestnut Street, which sat under a foot of newfallen snow and was deserted except for an empty SEPTA bus churning past, its tires dropping caked white zigzags formed by its treads.

Everybody was staying home tonight, waiting to see what the storm would bring, and Vicki felt approximately the same way. She didn't have any choice but to do what she was going to do. If it ended her career, so be it. If she lost the man she loved, then that would have to be, too. Hurrying along in the cold, kicking snow sparkling in the streetlight, she reflected that she'd never taken a stand with so much on the line. Even fighting with her father over her job didn't qualify. In the end, Strauss and Bale had been right; this
was
the bigs. Vicki bent her head against the storm and hurried ahead.

The sidewalk in front of Angelo's had been shoveled, but with two feet of snowbank lying around the entrance, the place seemed more bunker than restaurant. Vicki wiped wet hair from her face, pulled on the heavy door, and went inside, where she was greeted by the smells of Rolling Rock on tap, slow-cooked tomato sauce, and filthy red rug. Angelo's Ristorante was an Olive Garden without the health code compliance, and Vicki could never understand why the U.S. Attorney's Office had adopted the dump. Not that it mattered tonight. At least it was warm.

She walked into the small entrance room, actually a dark bar with a greasy counter, which was empty tonight except for the bartender watching ice hockey on the TV. Vicki nodded hello to him and followed the noise level to the back, which was hopping. Three long, red-checkered tables had been set up and the seats filled by everyone who had been at the meeting the other day, but now they were wearing casual dress and mixed drinks. Strauss sat happily at the head of the center table, talking with the mayor on his right, their animated expressions illuminated by candles flickering in thick yellow bowls. Bale sat next to him, chatting up the deputy mayor, and lawyers from the city solicitors, joking around with the office's public relations lady. Filling out the rest of the long table were other AUSAs and some recent alums, including Jim Cavanaugh, who caught Vicki's eye and winked.

The table on the far left was ATF and FBI; Chief Saxon raised a glass beer mug, along with the top tier of FBI and ATF agents, and a group of federal marshals, all laughing and talking. The table on the right was headed by the police commissioner, in shirt and tie, and the seats occupied by his deputies, a few favored beat cops in uniform, and at the far end, Detective Melvin and his taciturn partner with the golf windbreaker, whose name Vicki kept forgetting. A civilian couple sat at a red-checkered table along the paneled wall, but the smallish, square room was otherwise dominated by law enforcement. Dan was nowhere in sight, and she tried not to care. Her mission was to get Bale's ear in this crowd, then Detective Melvin's.

"Allegretti!" Strauss called out, gesturing to her. "Siddown and dry off! Have a drink!"

"The Vickster!" Bale waved at her with a broad smile, then resumed his conversation with the deputy mayor.

Vicki wiped her hair back again and dripped her way to the table, where the only seat was at the near end, so she took it, sliding out of her coat and purse and hanging them on the back of her chair. She would have to wait to make her move because dinner had just been served. Sheets of eggplant parmigiana, oval plates of fried calamari, huge bowls of meatballs and penne pasta covered the table, and a young waitress materialized and plunked an empty dinner plate in front of Vicki.

"What'd ya want ta drink?" she asked.

"'Course she wants a drink!" Bale shouted down the table, hoisting his glass. "Give her what I'm having, rum and Coke!"

"May I have a Diet Coke?" Vicki asked, turning to the waitress, but she was already gone. Instead, leaning over her, close enough to kiss, was Dan Malloy. He was whispering something when the room erupted with shouting.

"Malloy! Malloy! Where the hell you been?" Strauss yelled, and Bale joined in:

"You workin' late again? Tryin' make me look bad?"

"Malloy, you SUCK!" shouted a federal marshal whom Vicki recognized from the intramural football championship. "They can promote you, but you still SUCK!" The other marshals burst into laughter, then started chanting. "YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK!"

"Thank you, thank you!" Dan laughed, straightened up, and waved like a presidential candidate, as Vicki tried to figure out why he was standing there.

"Get your hairy ass over here, Malloy!" Saxon shouted, making a megaphone of his big hands. "I wanna hear that punch line!"

"Gimme a minute!" Dan shouted back, then leaned down again and slipped her his cell phone. "Reheema called. She's fine and she wants you to call her back. Press one." He straightened again quickly and wedged his way toward Saxon.