Devil's Corner Page 17

  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 herself, 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.

  Vicki looked at the dealership with satisfaction. “This is perfect.”

  Reheema curled her upper lip. “I said, a new car. This is the brokest-ass car lot I ever saw.”

  “We’re supposed to be inconspicuous.”

  “We can be inconspicuous in a new car. And we can look good doin’ it.”

  “Come on.” Vicki slid her keys from the ignition and grabbed her purse, but Reheema stayed put.

  “I thought we were cooperating.”

  “I’m paying, you’re cooperating.”

  “Oh no, you didn’t just say that.”

  Vicki got out of the car, yanked on her mittens, and walked onto the plowed lot, making a beeline for a grimy white Camaro with a dented front end. She skimmed the sign: AS IS, 1984 CHEVY CAMARO, 60,374 MILES, BUY FOR $1250, RENT FOR

  $50/WEEK. MPFI FUEL-INJECTED, TRANS REBUILT 10,000 MILES AGO. “Sounds good, and the price is right. We’ll rent.”

  Reheema came up behind her, hands shoved deep into the pocket of her pea coat. “What is it with you and white cars?”

  “I’m suburban, with a little H.”

  “Crimson, not red.”

  “Correct. Details matter.”

  “Hold on, check this.” Reheema went one car over, to a sports car that had been repainted cobalt-blue, with metallic shimmer. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” She read the sign aloud. “ ‘1986 Nissan 300ZX, 110,000 miles, Z-bra included.’ ”

  “How much?”

  “Three grand to buy, a hundred a week to rent.”

  “That’s some bra. No.”

  “But it’s in great condition.”

  “Too much money.”

  “I would look damn good in this thing.” Reheema couldn’t stop gazing at the sports car. “You’re single, right?”

  “Yes.” But he’s not.

  “Got a boyfriend?”

  “Not a prayer.”

  “Not for long.” Reheema spread her arms wide. “In this.”

  “No,” Vicki said, with regret. She shifted over to the next car, a black sedan with a dented fender and a black rubber strip peeling from its side door. She skimmed the sticker out loud. “ ‘1995 Pontiac Sunbird, four cylinders, 120,000 miles, $1,500 to buy, $75 a week to rent.’ Not bad.”

  Reheema walked over. “I’m not feelin’ it. S’boring.”

  “Exactly.” Vicki peeked inside. “Only one problem. It’s a gearshift. I don’t drive a stick.”

  “Can’t you learn, Harvard?”

  “You know how to drive a stick?”

  “Sure, I went to a real college. Temple.”

  Vicki was distracted by a short white man in a gray coat, coming out of a one-room building in the middle of the lot, presumably the office. A Fotomat sign was a painted ghost under the building’s grimy white. Vicki said under her breath, “Let me do the talking.”

  “No, I’ll do the talking.”

  “But I know how to negotiate.”

  “So do I.”

  “I’m the lawyer.”

  “You couldn’t get me to plead out.”

  Ouch.

  “And you can’t even drive a damn stick.”

  “Okay, fine. Go get ’em, girlfriend.”

  Reheema’s eyes shifted under her cap. “Black people stopped saying girlfriend a long time ago. We talk just like you white folks now, since you done give us the vote.”

  “Gimme a break,” Vicki said, just as the little salesman came chugging up, his breath puffing in the cold air like a toy locomotive.

  “Welcome, ladies!” he sang out. His bald head looked cold and the tip of his nose had already turned red. His blue eyes were bright behind thick glasses and he clapp
ed his gloved hands together, as if to generate excitement. Or heat. “How are you two lovely ladies doing today?”

  “Fine,” they answered in unison, with equal enthusiasm, which is to say, none.

  “Great day to buy a car! You girls have my undivided attention! No waiting, right? Ha ha!”

  Reheema stepped forward. “I want me a cheap car that don’ look like crap. And don’t be rippin’ me off. You messin’ with the wrong girl.”

  Huh? Vicki did a double-take at the appearance of Street Reheema, especially after the lecture she’d just received.

  “Certainly, certainly.” The salesman edged away from Reheema and looked at Vicki. “And, miss, you are?”

  “Her life partner.”

  Reheema burst into startled laughter, and Vicki smiled to herself.

  Half an hour later, Reheema was driving the Sunbird off the lot with Vicki in the passenger seat, because they didn’t have time for her stick lesson after dropping the Cabrio back at home and going to the bank, where she had withdrawn the cash to rent the car. They had jointly negotiated ten bucks off the price, and the dealer had agreed to “detail” the car, that is, hose it down and spray the interior with Garden in a Can. The Sunbird was a washed-out light blue inside, and its floor was covered with aftermarket shag rugs, somebody’s idea of pimp-my-ride. Armor All greased the blue vinyl bucket seats, and there was no cute little H on the rear window, in crimson or even in red.

  By noon, the two women were rolling, and one of them was missing her Cabrio very much.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Vicki and Reheema staked out Cater Street, parking the Sunbird behind a tall snowbank made by a city plow when the cross street had been cleared. The tall, triangulated mound hid them from view of the lookout, smoking a cigarette halfway down the block. And both women were in extraordinarily professional disguise; Reheema’s knit cap covered her hair and Exxon-station sunglasses hid her eyes, and Vicki wore Dan’s Phillies cap and Chanel sunglasses, to fashionably conceal her forbidden whiteness. Even so, she was pretty sure that they looked like two women, one white and one black, driving while blind.