Devil's Corner Read online

  No. “She knows those shooters, Chief.”

  “Melendez told me she denied all of it, and he believed her.”

  “Gimme a break. He’s a man, and she’s hot.” Vicki felt her bile rising. “Chief, obviously, there’s a connection between Bristow and the CI. The CI volunteered to testify against her, apparently out of the blue. I told you, there’s a memo in the file.”

  “That’s what you’re pinning this theory on, a memo in the file? That’s why you attacked a defendant and her lawyer?”

  Not her lawyer, but never mind. “My CI gets shot a few days before she’s going to testify and she’s my whole case. It can’t be a coincidence. There has to be a link.”

  “Melendez says you were out of control. He said that you have a big mouth for such a small woman, which I can vouch for.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t be a smartass. You need representation. Understand?”

  “Understood.” No lawyer would take this case without a five-thousand-dollar retainer, half of Vicki’s savings. Her father would represent her for free, but then she’d have to tell him the truth, which was unprecedented.

  “The locals are all over us now. We need good relations with the Roundhouse. I don’t have to tell you that, do I? Don’t make me sorry I convinced Strauss not to can your ass.”

  “I’m not fired?” Vicki felt her throat catch with gratitude.

  “Suspended without pay, for a week.” Bale rubbed his smooth forehead irritably. Rumor had it he was getting Botox injections, but Vicki would never again spread that around.

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  “The only reason he gave it to me was that you won last month in Edwards. I went to bat for you because I know why you did it. You reacted emotionally. You were close with Morty.”

  Morty. Vicki looked away. A pale sun ray filtered through the windows of the corner office, landing on the electroplated plaques, etched crystal bowls, and hunk-of-acrylic awards. Black office manuals and rule books filled the shelves lining the wall.

  “Hey, look at me,” Bale said, and Vicki did. “I’m responsible for you now. One step out of line, and I don’t go to bat for you again. You’re still new here. Watch your step. We’re not fast and loose, like the D.A.’s office. You got it?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Good.” Bale’s voice returned almost to normal. “Melendez also told Strauss you asked Bristow about some names. Jay or something. Teeg. You gave those names to the Philly detectives last night, didn’t you?”

  “Of course.” Vicki had. She wasn’t even lying.

  “And to ATF, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re not completely crazy.”

  “No, not completely.”

  “It’s Friday. Morty’s memorial service will be on Monday. You will attend, then take the week off without pay. If anyone from Homicide calls you to look at a photo array, you’ll go, but that’s it. Be back at your desk on Monday and start redeeming yourself.”

  “What about my cases? I have a suppression hearing in Welton on Tuesday.”

  “I’ll reassign it, and Malloy will watch your desk while you’re away. Now get outta my sight.” Bale’s phone rang but he let the secretary get it. “Don’t stop at your office, just go home and stay home. No talking to the press, and no more shenanigans.”

  “Okay, Chief. Thanks again.”

  Vicki left the office and closed the door behind her. She walked down the hall to her office, and when she turned the corner, the secretaries were standing up at their desks and behind them AUSAs were coming out of their offices.

  And all of them were clapping.

  Vicki said thanks to everyone, taking only her coat from her office. She didn’t need anything else from it anyway. She had the Bristow file in her briefcase.

  And she knew just where she was going.

  NINE

  Vicki hurried through the crowded parking lot and checked her watch on the run: 12:45. She wrapped her old down coat closer and reached the concrete entrance to the medical examiners’, just as an older African-American woman was leaving. Her gray head was bowed in grief and she carried a wad of Kleenex in her hand. Vicki felt a pang of sympathy and realized that she wasn’t too late after all. Shayla Jackson’s mother had been due here to identify the body at noon, and the grieving woman had to be she.

  Mrs. Jackson walked with another older black woman supporting her elbow, though the woman was struggling with two large purses, a canvas bag stuffed with red yarn, a folded newspaper, and a plastic-covered library book. Vicki felt vaguely like a vulture as she swooped down on the forlorn pair, reaching them just as one of the leather purses fell to the parking lot, pebbled with city grit and rock salt. Vicki scooped up the handbag before both women toppled over.

  “Got it,” Vicki called out, restoring the bag to the friend.

  “Thank you, thank you so much.” Mrs. Jackson looked at her with gratitude and managed a sweet smile, though tears pooled in her reddened eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses. Up close, she looked about eighty years old, with sparse hair the hue of sterling silver and deep fissures for crow’s-feet and laugh lines on dry, ashy skin.

  “Yes, thank you,” the other woman chimed in. “It’s hard to carry all these things. I should have thrown away my newspaper, but I didn’t get a chance to read it yet.”

  “I understand.” Vicki held on to Mrs. Jackson, who leaned lightly on her arm. The woman couldn’t have weighed one hundred and ten, including her coat. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  “Yes, I guess. I’m so tired. I had to… I just had to…”

  Her friend supplied: “Her daughter was murdered.”

  Vicki couldn’t hide the ball another minute. She introduced herself and asked, “Aren’t you Ms. Jackson, Shayla Jackson’s mother?”

  “Why, yes.” Her wet brown eyes fluttered in surprise. “Well, not exactly, I’m her auntie.” She pronounced it awn-tee.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you.”

  “I’m her Auntie Tillie. Mrs. Tillie Bott. Mr. Bott passed away in 1989. Shayla used to call me Auntie Tillie but now she calls me Tillie, or Mama Tillie.” Ms. Bott seemed disoriented, understandable under the circumstances. “Shayla was the neighbor lady’s girl, but the neighbor run off. I raised her as my own, after my children were grown.”

  “That was kind of you,” Vicki said, touched, but Mrs. Bott shook her head, wobbly.

  “Not at t’all. That child gave me more than I ever gave her. She was just so sweet—”

  The friend interjected, “How did you know who Tillie was?”

  “I’m an assistant U.S. Attorney. I was going to meet with Shayla last night when she was killed.” Vicki noticed Mrs. Bott’s hooded eyes widen and she softened her voice. “Shayla told me that she had important information for me on a case, so my partner and I went over to her house. It was my partner who was killed with her.”

  “You mean that policeman?” the friend interjected, again.

  “Yes. He was an ATF agent.” Someday Vicki would figure out why she kept correcting everybody about Morty. “I was coming here to talk with Mrs. Bott about Shayla, but I hate to bother you now. Maybe we could talk another time.”

  “We don’t live here,” the friend answered. “We’re country people. We live in Florida. We’re going home now. We’re going to the bus. We took an airplane here, but we’re taking a bus back. The airplane is too expensive.”

  “You’re leaving now?”

  “On the three o’clock bus.”

  “Then we have some time to talk.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  Vicki wondered when library patrons got so tough. “Wait a minute, did Mrs. Bott talk to the police yet?”

  “What police?”

  “The Philadelphia police.”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t they call you to talk about Shayla?” Vicki addressed Mrs. Bott, but she was dabbing her eyes with the soggy Kleenex ball, then resettling her glasses on t
he bridge of her nose.

  “No, they didn’t call her,” the friend answered. “Now, excuse us, we have to go. We’re going home and we’re going to take Shayla home to rest, home with us. She’ll rest better, home where she grew up.”

  Mrs. Bott looked so broken, and the cold air dried the tearstains on her lined cheeks, making whitish streaks in the cold. As much as Vicki’s heart went out to her, she couldn’t let them go.

  “I have an idea,” Vicki said gently. “Maybe we could go somewhere warm and talk over a cup of coffee. Before you two leave.”

  “No, she’s too upset,” the friend answered, drawing Mrs. Bott closer to her side. Vicki kept her grip on poor Mrs. Bott’s other arm. If it became a tug-of-war, the library fan was going down. Vicki was younger, stronger, and a federal prosecutor, which should count for something as against the reserve list.

  “I’m sorry to have to intrude.” Vicki leaned over and spoke directly to Mrs. Bott. “And I’m sure the police are going to call you, but I want to find whoever killed Shayla and my friend. I’m hoping that what you know about Shayla could help me.”

  “Did you tell that to the police?” the friend broke in, and Vicki bit her tongue.

  “Yes, but I have questions of my own.”

  “That’s not your job,” the friend shot back, and Vicki was considering decking her when Mrs. Bott cleared her throat, lowered her Kleenex, and said:

  “I wouldn’t mind talkin’, if it would help Shayla.”

  A noisy convenience store wasn’t what Vicki had in mind for a quiet chat, but the one on the corner of Thirty-eighth and Spruce, down the street from the medical examiner, would do in a pinch. An instrumental version of “Love Will Keep Us Together,” the ca-chunk of cash registers, and the endless beep-beep of touch-screen ordering machines filled the air. The place teemed with overgrown frat boys, exhausted med students, and university staff, but Vicki managed to find a free table in the far corner, at which she seated Mrs. Bott and her attack friend, who turned out to be named Mrs. Greenwood.

  Sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling glass window, warming the three of them, and by the time they’d started on their 184-ounce cups of brewed coffee and Southwestern wraps with suspiciously colorful ingredients, the small talk was over, Mrs. Bott had almost recovered, and Mrs. Greenwood had turned as nice as a librarian.

  “When was the last time you saw Shayla, Mrs. Bott?” Vicki asked, getting to the subject at hand.

  “I hadn’t seen my baby girl in so long. She hardly ever came home anymore.”

  “How long?”

  “Maybe two years now. Two Christmases ago.”

  “So you hadn’t seen her in a while. Did you talk on the phone?”

  “Surely, she’d call me, to keep up. Every other week or so.”

  Mrs. Greenwood nodded with approval.

  “Did you know she was pregnant?” Vicki asked.

  “I did. At first she didn’t tell me, but then she did. She was afraid I’d get mad at her.” The creased corners of Mrs. Bott’s mouth turned down. She looked so lost in her heavy coat, and her hair, smoothed back in a frizzy bun, glinted dully in the harsh light. “Lord, a baby. The doctor today, he said it was gonna be a girl. Now, if she had a girl, Shayla wanted to call her Shay, after herself. Shay was her nickname. Shay.”

  Vicki nodded. So much pain. Who was responsible for it?

  “Shay,” Mrs. Bott repeated.

  Mrs. Greenwood nodded again, behind her coffee. “I always liked that name,” she said softly.

  Vicki sipped cold coffee and let the moment pass. “When did she tell you she was pregnant?”

  Mrs. Bott thought a minute. “About a month ago, she did. I was mighty surprised. I didn’t know she was seein’ anybody serious.”

  Mrs. Greenwood laughed softly. “You were so surprised, Tillie. You called me right away. You couldn’t believe it, I couldn’t, either. I was washin’ dishes and I dropped the cookie sheet. Almost made a dent! My best one, with the air cushion.” She looked over at Mrs. Bott. “You know the one, with the cushion? The air cushion down in between the layers?”

  “I do, yes.” Mrs. Bott nodded. “That is a good cookie sheet.”

  Vicki paused. “Did Shayla tell you who the baby’s father was?”

  “No. Jus’ that they was having trouble and she might move out.”

  The boxes. “She was getting ready to move where?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. Said she wanted to find a new place and change her life.”

  Vicki made a mental note. “What did she mean by that?”

  “I don’t know. I figgered she’d tell me, in time. I was just happy to have a grandbaby comin’.”

  “Did she mention a Jamal Browning?”

  “No, no. She didn’t tell me that.”

  Vicki didn’t get it. “I think he was her boyfriend.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “I think he may have been the father of her baby. I believe that he paid her bills, like electric and phone.”

  “Hmmm. I don’t know that. I don’t know that name.”

  Vicki sighed inwardly. “Who do you think was the baby’s father?

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I figgered that was her business, not mine.”

  “Did she date anyone that you know of?”

  “Like I say, not serious. She always went out, she liked to dance. Shay was a good dancer. She liked music.” Mrs. Bott paused, thinking. “A while ago, there was someone, his name was Dwayne.”

  Yay! “Dwayne what?”

  “I don’t know. Or maybe Don. Or Wayne.” Mrs. Bott waved a gnarled hand. “That was years ago.”

  “When she visited, did she ever bring anybody? Any friends or boyfriends?”

  “No. She always came alone.”

  Vicki was getting nowhere. “What did she do for a living?”

  “She used to type. She typed. On a computer. Keypunch, they used to call it,” Mrs. Bott answered vaguely.

  “Did she work for a company, if you know?”

  “No, different places. For a temporary, like.”

  “I see.”

  “But she never asked me for money, not once,” Ms. Bott added.

  “So she was independent.”

  “Yes, very. Stubborn.”

  “Did she ever mention anyone named Reheema Bristow?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Mrs. Bott thought a minute. “I don’t know that name. I would recall that name. Reheema. That’s an unusual name.”

  “Yes, it is,” Mrs. Greenwood added, leaving Vicki frustrated.

  “Who were her girlfriends, did you know?”

  “Not really.”

  “Didn’t she have a best friend? Every girl has a best friend.” Then Vicki blinked. Except me. “I mean most girls.”

  “She said some names. Mar, that was one.”

  “Mar? Did she have a last name?”

  “I don’t know it. I would say Mar was her best friend, I think. Mostly she talked about Mar.”

  “Is Mar in Philly? Do you have her address or phone number?”

  “No, I just know Shay used to call her, on the cell phone. When she was home ta visit she’d always be calling Mar. Mar this. Mar that.”

  Vicki made a note. Maybe there was no connection between Jackson and Bristow. But then again, it was clear that Shayla Jackson wasn’t telling her aunt much about her life in Philly, or maybe Vicki was projecting. Either way, time to get down to business:

  “Mrs. Bott, I have a feeling that someone close to Shay, maybe her boyfriend, sold drugs. Do you know anything about that?”

  Mrs. Bott fell silent. “I don’t know about that,” she answered after a minute. “She didn’t do anything like that, growing up. She was a good girl. She drank a little, at parties in school, but nothing like that.”

  “Not Shay.” Mrs. Greenwood clucked a dry tongue, shaking her head.

  “Do you know about any friends of hers who did drugs or
sold them? Or guns? I don’t think she did anything wrong, but she knew some bad people. What you know about this could help find her killers.”

  “I didn’t know anything about that, I wish I did.” Mrs. Bott looked into her paper coffee cup, then sighed. “Shay could get talked into things. She trusted people. She trusted everybody.”

  “So maybe she trusted the wrong people?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe that’s why she wanted to change her life?”

  “Maybe. Yes.” Mrs. Bott nodded.

  But she didn’t get the chance.

  “I know she was lookin’ forward to that baby. She always did want children.”

  Vicki suppressed the image of Jackson, slain in her bedroom. “Did you ever hear the nicknames Jay and Teeg?”

  “No, I surely didn’t.”

  “I think they were involved with drugs, too.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “There seemed to be a lot of money in her life. She had nice jewelry, for example.”

  “Shay did like nice things,” Mrs. Bott answered. “When she was little, she always had to have matching bows. And braids. And dresses.”

  Mrs. Greenwood added. “Mmm-mh. Those little white socks, with the lace on top. The ruffle. All around.”

  “I made those.”

  “I know you did, Tillie.” Mrs. Greenwood’s speech fell into a soft cadence that matched Mrs. Bott’s, a reassuring call and response between old friends. “I know you did.”

  “And shiny black shoes.”

  “Oh, how she loved those black shoes.”

  “She was such a pretty child, a pretty little girl.”

  “She was.”

  “She surely was.” Mrs. Bott smiled happily with Mrs. Greenwood, the two of them forgetting for a minute how it would all turn out, and Vicki let them be, left them to slip into a reverie of what might have been, what could have been, thinking of pretty babies in ruffled socks with shiny patent shoes. Vicki wished for one minute that she could replace the scenes from the medical examiner with those frilly, happy, pastel images. Women like these shouldn’t have to see sights like that. Vicki felt terrible she’d brought up the drug thing and raised questions about Jackson’s memory.