Devil's Corner

  Synopsis:

  When prosecutor Vicki Allegretti arrives at a rowhouse to meet a confidential informant, she finds herself in the wrong place at the wrong time — and is almost shot to death. She barely escapes with her life, but cannot save the two others gunned down before her disbelieving eyes. Stunned and heartbroken, Vicki tries to figure out how a routine meeting on a minor case became a double homicide.

  Vicki’s suspicions take her to Devil’s Corner, a city neighborhood teetering on the brink of ruin — thick with broken souls, innocent youth, and a scourge that preys on both. But the deeper Vicki probes, the more she becomes convinced that the murders weren’t random and the killers were more ruthless than she thought.

  When another murder thrusts Vicki together with an unlikely ally, she buckles up for a wild ride down a dangerous street — and into the cross-hairs of a conspiracy as powerful as it is relentless.

  DEVIL’S CORNER

  LISA SCOTTOLINE

  to my daughter,

  my favorite heroine of all time

  PART ONE

  I do call the city to be laid out by the name of Philadelphia. Let every house be placed, if the person pleases, in the middle of its plat, so there may be ground on each side for gardens or orchards or fields, that it may be a green country town, which will never be burnt, and always be wholesome.

  — WILLIAM PENN,

  Instructions to His Commissioners, 1681

  Q: What type of drugs did you deal?

  A: I started out dealing small quantities, then over the years I grew to bigger quantities of drugs.

  Q: And what type of drug was it that you specialized in?

  A: I started out dealing crack cocaine, and I started dealing cocaine, powder cocaine.

  Q: About when was it that you started dealing crack cocaine, about how old were you?

  A: About 13 years old.

  Q: And can you tell me where it was that you got started?

  A: I got started on the block of Ithan Street, 50th and Market, around West Philadelphia area.

  — JAMAL MORRIS,

  United States v. Williams, United States District Court,

  Eastern District of Pennsylvania,

  Criminal Docket No. 02–172, February 19, 2004,

  Notes of Testimony at 242–243

  ONE

  Vicki Allegretti always wondered what it would feel like to look into the barrel of a loaded gun, and now she knew. The gun was a black Glock, nine millimeter, and it was aimed at her right eye. Vicki observed the scene out-of-body, as if it were happening to a girl with a better sense of humor. Wonder if black guns make you look thinner, she thought.

  Holding her point-blank was an African-American teenager with cornrows, who looked as terrified as she was. He looked about fourteen years old, showing just a shadow of a mustache, and his brown eyes were jittery with fear. He kept shifting his weight in his big Iversons, standing tall in baggy jeans and a red satin Sixers jacket. He’d frozen in place when he’d come downstairs and found Vicki standing there, his shocked expression suggesting that he hadn’t shot many lawyers. At least not his share.

  “You don’t want to do this, pal,” she said, only apparently calmly. The kid’s long fingers trembled on the gun’s crosshatched grip, and his other hand cradled a bulge underneath his jacket, as if he were hiding something. She had evidently interrupted a burglary by a rookie. Unfortunately, the Glock was an all-star. “I’m an assistant U.S. Attorney.”

  “Wha?” The teenager swallowed hard, his eyes flickering with confusion.

  “I work for the Justice Department. Killing me is like killing a cop.” Okay, it wasn’t technically true, but it should have been. “If you shoot me, they’ll try you as an adult. They’ll go for the death penalty.”

  “Get your hands up!” The teenager’s eyes flared, and he wet his lips with a large, dry tongue.

  “Okay, sure. Relax.” Vicki raised her hands slowly, fighting the instinct to run. He’d shoot her in the back if she did; the living room was so small, she’d never make it to the front door. Maybe she could talk her way out of it. “Listen, you don’t want to upgrade a burglary charge to murder. The stuff that’s under your jacket is yours now. Take it and run.”

  “Shut up!”

  So Vicki did, holding her hands up, her thoughts racing ahead. None of this was supposed to be happening. She had come to the row house tonight to meet a confidential informant in a minor straw purchase case. The meeting was to be so routine that Bob Morton, an ATF case agent, was finishing his cigarette outside by the car. Could she stall until Morty got here? And where was her CI now?

  “Jay-Boy!” the kid yelled up the stairwell, panicky. “Jay!”

  Vicki noted the nickname. She could identify every zit on the kid’s face. She wasn’t getting out of this alive. She couldn’t wait for Morty. She had to do something.

  “Jay! Where you at?” the teenager shouted, half turning away, and Vicki seized her only chance. She grabbed the barrel of the Glock and twisted it upward. At the same instant, Morty walked through the screen door and the whole world exploded.

  “Morty, watch out!” Vicki shouted. The Glock fired, jerking convulsively. The barrel seared her palms. The shot split her eardrums. The teenager wrenched the gun back, yanking her off her feet. Simultaneously, another shot rang out. Not from the Glock. Too close to be from Morty’s gun. Vicki’s throat caught and she looked past the teenager. A man in a goatee and a black coat was shooting at Morty from the stairs.

  “No!” Vicki screamed, grappling for the Glock. She glimpsed Morty as he fell backward, grimacing with pain. His arms flew open like a marionette’s, throwing the gun from his hand.

  “NO!” Vicki screamed louder, as the shooter on the stairs kept firing. A second gunshot, then a third and fourth burst into Morty’s chest, exploding the blue ripstop of his down jacket, jerking his fallen body on impact.

  Vicki’s heart hiccupped with fear and she yanked harder on the gun. The teenager punched her in the stomach, and she doubled over, gasping for breath. She released the Glock and hit back. She connected with his Sixers jacket and held on for dear life.

  “Let go!” the teenager shouted, punching Vicki again and again. She flailed and after a solid body blow, crumpled to the floor, the wind sucked out of her. As she fell, she heard the faraway scream of a police siren and the kid shouting, scared, “Jay, we gotta go! Jay!”

  Vicki lay doubled over on her side, her body paralyzed with pain. Tears blurred her vision. She couldn’t collect her thoughts. She heard footsteps and panting, then a chamber being ratcheted back. She opened wet eyes into the two bottomless black wells of a sawed-off gun. Hot smoke curled from the barrels, filling her nose with a burning smell. Aiming the weapon was the shooter with the goatee.

  My God, no. Vicki rolled over in a last effort to save herself.

  “Don’t do it, Jay, she’s a cop!” the teenager screamed. Then, “No! Get it! Hurry!” Suddenly they were scrambling to pick things up off the floor. Whatever they’d stolen must have fallen out of the Sixers coat.

  “Leave it go, Teeg! We gotta go!” The shooter was already sprinting away, his hands full. The teenager bolted after him, jumping over Morty and out the front door, leaving the row house suddenly quiet.

  Morty. Vicki rolled back over and struggled to her feet, stumbling across the living room to him.

  “Morty!” she called, anguished, when she reached his side. He was lying on his back, his arms still flung wide, his blue eyes fluttering. “Morty, can you hear me? Morty?”

  He didn’t answer, his gaze barely focused. His neat features had gone slack and a sheen of perspiration coated his forehead and wet his sandy hair. Fresh blood gurgled from his chest and drenched his jacket, soaking its bright
blue to slick black, spattering its exposed white stuffing with red flecks.

  No, please, God. Vicki choked back tears. She covered the wound with her palm to stanch the flow and reached into her raincoat pocket, grabbed her cell phone, flipped it open, and pressed speed dial for 911. When the dispatcher picked up, she said, “I’m at 483 Maron Street, off of Roosevelt Boulevard! I have an officer down! Officer shot!”

  “Excuse me?” the dispatcher answered. “Miss, what did you say your name was?”

  “Allegretti! Hurry, I have an ATF agent shot! Send an ambulance! Now!” Vicki tucked the slippery cell phone under an ear and pressed against Morty’s wound with all her might. “What do I do? He’s shot in the chest! I’m trying to stop the blood!”

  “Keep it up and don’t move him,” the dispatcher answered. “Stay calm and I’ll get you an ambulance.”

  “Thank you! Hurry!” Vicki pressed harder on the wound. Blood pulsed hot and wet between her fingers. Morty’s lips were parting. He was trying to say something.

  “Vick?” Morty’s forehead creased. “That… you?”

  “Yes, I’m here, it’s me!” Vicki felt her heart lift. She kept her palm over the horrific wound. If anybody could survive this, Morty could. He was a fit forty-five-year-old, he worked out religiously, and he’d even run a marathon.

  “What the hell… happened?” A watery red-pink bubble formed in the corner of Morty’s mouth, and Vicki fought to maintain emotional control.

  “Two kids were here when I came in, it was a burglary. The door was open, and I thought I heard somebody say come in—”

  “How’s… the CI?”

  “I don’t know. She may not be home.”

  “You’re okay… right?”

  “I’m fine. You’re gonna be fine, too.” The blood bubble popped, and Vicki watched in horror. If only she’d let him smoke in the car. If only she’d grabbed the gun sooner. The shooter hadn’t killed her because he thought she was a cop, but Morty was the cop. On the cell phone, the emergency dispatcher was saying that an ambulance was ten minutes from the house. Vicki said, “The ambulance is on the way. Just hang in, please, hang in.”

  “Funny. You always said… cigarettes will… kill me.” Morty managed an agonized smile.

  “You’re gonna be fine, Morty. You’ll see, you’ll be fine. You have to be fine.”

  “You’re bossy for… a midget,” Morty whispered, then his smile suddenly relaxed.

  And he stopped breathing.

  Vicki heard herself scream his name, then dropped the cell phone and tried to resuscitate him until police showed up at the door.

  And things got even worse.

  TWO

  By midnight, the small row house was crammed to bursting with uniformed cops and homicide detectives from the Philadelphia Police Department; crime scene technicians from the city’s Mobile Crime Unit; Vicki’s chief, Howard Bale, from the U.S. Attorney’s Office; and bosses from the FBI and Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. The only person missing was Morty, whose body had been photographed, placed inside a black nylon bag, and taken away, officially pronounced dead. It left Vicki feeling more alone than was reasonable in such a crowd, as she sat on a patterned couch across from a homicide detective.

  “Okay, that’s it for now,” the detective said, flipping his notebook closed and rising from the ottoman.

  “Good.” Vicki stayed put on the couch, emotionally numb. She had washed her hands but hadn’t taken off her trench coat. Dried blood stained its lapels, which she realized only when the detective started looking at her funny. “I forget, did I give you my business card?”

  “Yes, you did. Thanks.”

  “Sure.” Vicki would have used his name but she had forgotten that, too. Her body ached and her heart had gone hollow. She’d given a long statement to ATF, FBI, and finally the homicide detectives, with every detail poured out like murder-scene stream of consciousness. All the time she was thinking of Morty and the CI, who lay upstairs, shot to death. Vicki hadn’t seen the body yet because the cops had wanted her statement first, in order to get the flash on the radio.

  She rose from the couch on weak knees and threaded her way through the crowd to the stairs. The house was January cold from the front door being opened so often, and she avoided the curious glances and tuned out the ambient conversation. She wanted to stay mentally within, insulated by her stained Burberry. She had to figure out how tonight had gone so wrong, and why.

  She made her way to the stairs, past the numbered yellow cards used to mark where shells had fallen. Her thoughts circled in confusion. This was only a routine straw purchase case; the indictment charged that a woman had bought two Colt .45s at a local gun shop and illegally resold them to someone else, the violent equivalent to buying scotch for a minor. The CI had called to inform on the defendant before Vicki had joined the office, and she had inherited the case because straw cases were dumped on newbies to cut their teeth. One of the most dedicated agents from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives had been assigned to partner with her.

  Morty. Please forgive me.

  Something brushed Vicki’s shoulder and she jumped. Her boss, Howard Bale, was standing there, all five feet nine of his African-American pin-striped, well-tailored, tassel-loafered self. A cashmere camel-hair coat topped his characteristically GQ look. Bale always joked that he wasn’t black, he was a peacock.

  “Oh, Chief.” Bale’s eyes, the rich hue of espresso, were tilted down with strain, and his lips, buried under a mustache that hid an overbite, curved into a fatigued but sympathetic smile.

  “You all right?”

  “Fine.” Vicki held on to the banister as a crime scene tech wedged by, a quilted vest worn under his navy jumpsuit.

  “You drink that water I got you?”

  “I forgot.”

  “I’m the chief, kid. You’re not allowed to forget.”

  “Sorry.” Vicki faked a smile. When Bale first arrived at the scene, he had given her a big hug and a cup of water. The gesture wasn’t lost on anybody; he was saying, I don’t blame the kid, so don’t you. Nor did he yell about what a screw-up this must have been, though she guessed that would come. Not that it mattered any longer. Vicki had wanted to be a federal prosecutor since law school, and now she didn’t care if she got fired.

  “Where you going?” Bale asked.

  “To see my CI.”

  “Wait. Got something I want to show you.” Bale gentled her from the stairs by her elbow and guided her back through the living room. Uniforms and detectives actually parted for him; Bale, as section chief of Major Crimes, was next in line for U.S. Attorney. He led her near the front door of the row house, and Vicki stiffened as she got close to the spot where Morty had been killed. “S’all right,” Bale said softly, but Vicki shook her head.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Look down. Here.” Bale pointed, and Vicki looked. A ring of cops who had been kneeling around something on the rug rose and edged away. On the rug lay a white object the size of a brick, covered several times in clear Saran Wrap and closed with duct tape. A kilogram of cocaine.

  “How’d I miss that?” Vicki asked, surprised. She’d practically had to trip over it, but she’d been focused on Morty.

  “You said they dropped something from the Sixers coat.” Bale had listened to her statement. “It musta been upstairs, from what you described, with them running down.”

  “Yes.” Vicki had assumed the teenagers had stolen normal things, like jewelry or cash. “Cocaine? A kilogram?”

  “That’s weight,” Bale said significantly, and Vicki understood. A kilogram of coke was supplier-level weight. It would have a street value of $30,000, called “weight money” as opposed to “headache money,” the money that street dealers made. Bale leaned close. “Obviously, we won’t be releasing this detail to the press. You’ll keep this to yourself.”

  “Got it.” Focusing on the cocaine was clearing Vicki’s head. “So my CI was a coke
dealer? Why would a dealer volunteer to talk to us?”

  “After you look around, tell me what you think. I have a theory and everybody agrees. That tells me I’m in trouble.”

  Vicki couldn’t manage a smile because she kept looking at the brick. Morty died for coke.

  “No, he didn’t,” Bale said sharply.

  Vicki looked up, surprised she had said anything aloud.

  “Morty died for his job, and that’s the way he would have wanted it.”

  “Maybe,” Vicki said, though she didn’t know if he was right. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it just now.

  “Notice anything special about this cocaine, little girl?”

  “No. Do I flunk?”

  “Look again, in the light.” Bale snagged a Maglite from a uniformed cop, eased onto his haunches, and turned on the flashlight. He aimed it at the cocaine, and Vicki, crouching beside him, saw what he meant. There was a telltale shimmer to the cocaine, like a deadly rainbow.

  “Fish-scale cocaine?” Vicki asked, surprised. She’d thought it was urban drug myth, yet here it was; a rainbow shine that looked like fish scales, if only in the vernacular of people who didn’t fish.

  “Right. It’s so pure, it increases in volume when they cook it.”

  Vicki had learned this somewhere along the line, too. Most cocaine decreased when it was cooked, by mixing it with water, baking soda, and a cutting agent like mannitol, and stirring until oil formed on the water’s surface. The oil would be cooled on ice, so it crystallized to form rocks. The crackling sound the mixture made when it was boiled gave the drug its name. Crack.

  “This is quality coke, it’s worth forty grand, maybe more,” Bale added.

  “Really?” Vicki couldn’t help but feel a little wide-eyed. It was the reason she had wanted this job, after two years at the D.A.’s office; the chance to prosecute big-time, high-stakes drug trafficking. Only now it had gotten Morty killed. She rose, biting her lip not to lose control, and Bale switched off the Maglite, rising beside her.