Devil's Corner Read online

  “Pistachios, almonds, not roasted, unsalted.”

  Saxon made a note with a Bic pen, his oversize hand curling around the paper; he looked like an overgrown schoolboy except for the fact that his gray-blond hair showed a large bald patch. Saxon himself was king-size, easily six four, with broad muscular shoulders in a white cotton polo shirt too thin for winter. His nose and cheekbones were large and pronounced; his eyes an overworked and bloodshot blue, and even his complexion looked ruddy, with a touch of rosacea. Still, he was handsome in a middle-aged alpha-wolf way, and Vicki liked him because he hung up the phone by saying, “Love you, too.”

  Saxon looked up at Vicki, who introduced herself as she walked in and extended a hand, which he shook, half rising. “Allegretti, how do I know your name?”

  “I’m the AUSA who worked with Morty. We got the conviction in Edwards, and we were on Bristow.”

  “Of course. Morty.” Saxon frowned and pursed his lips, which were thin and chapped, as he eased back into his high-backed chair. “Jesus, God. Poor Morty. Siddown, kid.” He waved at one of two padded brown leather chairs in front of his desk. “You were with him, right?”

  “Yes.” Vicki flashed on the scene of Morty at the doorway, blood bubbling at his lips, then forced it away.

  “I read your statement. You did a good job, lots of details. It must have been tough.” Saxon eyed her, appraising her. “Well, you know, we’re all so sorry. Sorry for all of us. Sorry for Morty. He was a great agent. A thorough, professional agent. He would investigate a case no matter how long it took.” Saxon ran a massive palm over his forehead, which only messed up hair that was baby-thin in front. “He was such a good guy, even his ex-wife called to say she’s sorry.” Saxon smiled, and so did Vicki.

  “Morty always said he was married to the job.”

  “He was. ATF was his family, all the family he had. The office is in a state over it.”

  “I can imagine.” Vicki felt a twinge at having cut ATF out of her jurisdictional analysis. She felt oddly as if she had betrayed Morty’s memory.

  “So what can I do for you?” Saxon checked his watch, a gold-toned Seiko. “You heard She Who Must Be Obeyed. It’s late and I gotta go.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about the investigation of Morty’s murder.”

  “Right now? On a Saturday night?” Saxon raised blond, furry eyebrows. “Pretty girl like you, you must have somewhere you have to be.”

  Actually, no. “I’ve been upset over Morty, so I’ve been doing some digging on my own.”

  Saxon’s eyes narrowed. “You’re an AUSA, right?”

  “Yes, and I was an ADA before that. I’ve been an acronym for a long time.” Vicki was trying to lighten his sudden bad mood, but it wasn’t working.

  “What do you mean, digging on your own?”

  “Just asking some questions and—”

  “You have no business doing that.” Saxon frowned. “We sent your description of the doers to every ATF office in the country. That’s where you end and we take over. We’ll find those scumbags.”

  “Does that mean ATF will be in charge of the investigation?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Saxon’s features flattened to a bureaucratic mask, and Vicki shrugged.

  “Because I care. About Morty.”

  “ATF cares about Morty, too.” Saxon laughed without mirth, his manner growing unfriendlier by the minute, and Vicki sighed. What had she said wrong? Or did this guy just need more carbs?

  “I didn’t say you didn’t. It’s just that I found out some things today that are related to his murder.”

  “What things?”

  “That’s what I came to tell you.” It wasn’t the way Vicki had expected this conversation to go, but at least he wasn’t pointing a gun at her. She began the story in chronological order. “I guess you heard about the murder this morning of Arissa Bristow.”

  “Bristow?” Saxon frowned. “How do I know that name?”

  “It was on the TV news.”

  “What’s that have to do with Morty?”

  “Arissa Bristow was the mother of my defendant in the straw purchase case, the one that Morty and I went to see the CI about. The CI was named Shayla Jackson.”

  “Jackson, I remember. But Bristow? When was she killed?”

  “This morning, it was on TV,” Vicki repeated. “Didn’t Chief Bale call you, or someone from Philly Homicide?”

  “No. What happened?” Saxon leaned across his desk, and Vicki filled him in about Mrs. Bristow, Reheema, and Cater Street, and finally Aspinall Street and Jamal Browning. She gave him a copy of her notes from her purse, which she took him through in detail. His eyes widened as she spoke, and he took notes on the same legal pad as his shopping list. When she was finished, he leaned back in his chair and set down his pen, deep in thought.

  “I think Mrs. Bristow’s murder is related to Morty’s, and the drug traffic to all of it.” Vicki was thinking out loud again. “A loose end is that guy who has my cell phone. He has to know something. I figure this is more than enough for a Title III tap on the cell, don’t you?”

  “This concerns me,” Saxon said, but he wasn’t speaking directly to Vicki anymore. His gaze strayed to the windows, but the blinds were drawn. Still he kept looking in that direction, maybe by habit. He seemed to have forgotten that she was even there. “I’m not happy I wasn’t told about this situation.”

  “I’m not, either.” Vicki sensed this would be the falling-through-the-cracks part. The jurisdictional turf war. These agencies would have to talk to one another if they wanted to catch Morty’s killers. “Who has jurisdiction in the investigation, as you see it? I know ATF will want to follow up because of Morty, but as a legal matter, I think Philly Homicide should—”

  “I’m not going to discuss that with you.”

  Vicki blinked. “I thought we were discussing it.”

  “No, we weren’t. Relations between ATF and other federal agencies on a specific case isn’t appropriate for us to discuss.”

  Vicki felt slapped down. He didn’t mind discussing the case when she was the one giving information. “I guess that will be decided at the meeting on Wednesday.”

  Saxon lifted an eyebrow. “How do you know about that meeting?”

  “I’ve kept it completely confidential, of course.”

  “That’s not the point. How do you know?”

  Vicki paused. She didn’t want to rat on Detective Melvin. The plastic Jesus doll stared at her. Behind Jesus was John Saxon. For a minute she didn’t know what to say.

  “Allegretti,” Saxon said sternly, “you’re way out of line, what you’ve been doing. Going to Bristow’s house, surveilling Cater Street, following a suspect to Aspinall. You’re not a professional, and this is dangerous work. You shouldn’t be taking any part of an investigation on yourself.”

  “I didn’t intend to, I was just following up when I went to see Reheema.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that, either. It’s better left to law enforcement.”

  Vicki was getting a little sick of hearing that. “I am law enforcement.”

  “You’re a lawyer.”

  “I’m an AUSA and it’s my partner who got killed.”

  “A loose cannon is what you are,” Saxon said, as if it were an official pronouncement, and Vicki finally got mad.

  “You know, if I hadn’t made any progress, you’d have a point.” Suddenly, the emotion, pain, and exhaustion she had been suppressing for two days caught up with her, and Vicki rose to her feet. “But I don’t need this. All I know is that Morty’s dead, and I’m the one driving around after the bad guys. So excuse me if I don’t knuckle under.”

  “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 and shovel 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-ccrape, 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 pushi
ng 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.”