Devil's corner

"I want more of hers!"

Ouch. "Right. So you both want the same thing, and this will blow over." Vicki set down her mug. "She's at home now, right?"

"Yes."

"You left her to come over here?"

"Yes."

"Smooth move, Malloy."

"I wanted to help you! You're in the middle of a mess! You needed me!"

Vicki's cheeks got hot. A day ago, she would have loved hearing that. Now, it was a problem. "You helped me, and I appreciate it. But you should go home."

"I'm not supposed to be home, anyway. I'm supposed to go buy salt for the sidewalk, then pick up the dry cleaning."

"Then go home and ask her to go with you. Or take her to brunch."

"She'll say she's too tired. She's been on call for three days."

"Then she'll like that you asked." Vicki waved good-bye. "Go. See ya."

"But what about Bale? He said he'd call you. And your house is a mess, from the cops."

"I'll handle it. Sayonara." Vicki put her hands on Dan's strong shoulders, which felt painfully good, then turned him around and pushed him out of the kitchen, grabbing his coat on the way and handing it to him. "Here. Put a bra on and go home to your wife, who loves you."

"Huh?"

But Vicki had already opened the door. She didn't bother to explain and she ignored the hard knot in the middle of her chest. Doing the right thing was no fun at all. Her only consolation was that she was getting rid of any interference.

So she could get busy.

NINETEEN

The snow was sticking, coming down heavily with more predicted, but Vicki wasn't worried about the weather. The Cabrio was great in snow, the windshield wipers thumped energetically away, and she had bigger things on her mind. Devil's Corner lay under a thin blanket of fresh snow, two inches so far, according to AccuWeather. Through the window she could see that Mrs. Bristow's block was as deserted as it had been yesterday, except that the fresh snow covered the trash, debris, and filth she knew lay underneath. No children played out in front of the houses; no tongues caught snowflakes. There wasn't a snowman in sight.

Vicki found a parking space down from Mrs. Bristow's house and got out of the Cabrio, setting a loafer into wet slush. A chill wind hit her like a blast, jolting her to a realization. No official vehicles were parked out front; no crime scene techs or police cruisers with their engines idling. She hadn't seen a cop in front of Mrs. Bristow's house, guarding the crime scene and logging personnel in and out. In fact, there wasn't any yellow crime scene tape or police sawhorses. She checked her watch. Noon. Only hours after Mrs. Bristow had been found knifed to death, the scene was already closed.

She hurried toward the house, head down against the driving snow, her thoughts churning. She couldn't help but remark on the contrast between this murder scene and Morty's. There'd been tons of uniforms there, not to mention detectives, crime scene techs, FBI, ATF, and DOJ personnel. Admittedly, Morty was a federal agent and the scene had been a triple homicide, but Vicki didn't think that completely accounted for what she was seeing. She reached the step, hesitating before going in. She didn't relish what she had to do, but she knew she had to do it.

She knocked on the closed door once, then again. There was no answer. Snow blew sideways into her ears and hair; she had gone out without a hat, she'd been in such a rush. Wind bit her nose; it was twenty-five degrees. She had no gloves on, either, and pounded the door once more, hard. It creaked open.

Vicki blinked. The door hung ajar. She didn't want to simply barge in. "Hello?" she called out. "Hello, anybody home?"

There was no answer.

She felt a shiver all the way to her toes, and it wasn't the cold. A woman had been killed here, and the last time she had walked through an open door, Morty had been killed. Too much violence, too much death; all these row homes, awash in blood. Not even the snow could cover it up and hide it, not forever.

"Anybody home?" she called out, louder, knocking again on the open door. A chill wind blew harder, carrying her voice off with the snowflakes and opening wide the front door.

Crap. Now Vicki was standing in an open doorway, watching snow blow into the dark living room. She conceded the obvious and stepped inside, shutting the door. She blinked away the snow blindness, waited until her eyes adjusted to the interior light, then turned around.

The living room looked completely different from yesterday. It was much darker because newspapers had been taped up against the windows like temporary curtains, and only indirect light streamed in. The beach chair lay folded on the brown couch, which had been moved into the center of the room and was loaded with black Hefty trash bags, their yellow drawstrings pulled tight. The dark red rug had been rolled up and also placed on the couch, resting on the two armrests, and every bit of trash in the room had been picked up. The floorboards looked swept and had even been washed clean; wet spots dried here and there, and a lineup of empty water jugs sat against the wall, next to a metal dustpan and new corn broom. The air smelled a little more normal, but it was still as cold inside as out.

"Hello?" Vicki said. The house was still. She braced herself and went into the bedroom where Mrs. Bristow had been killed. The dirty mattress had been lifted up and was standing on end, with the bloodstained side evidently against the wall. Still, it emitted an awful stench; rotting, human blood.

Vicki turned away. The end table had been pushed against the mattress, she guessed to hold it upright, and this room had been cleaned, too, all the debris and crack paraphernalia swept into trash bags and piled in the center of the bedroom. She went into the kitchen, expecting more of the same, and she was right. The cabinets hung open and empty; all the food and cigarettes had been taken out and, presumably, disposed of in the trash bags in the center of the room. The floorboards had been swept and mopped; a large white Rubbermaid bucket sat in the corner and a lemony Pine-Sol odor filled the room. A cockroach skittered across the counter, but Vicki sensed he'd be history soon.

"WHO'S IN THERE?" someone shouted, all of a sudden, and Vicki startled, whirling around.

She froze at the sight of Reheema Bristow, aiming a small, lethal Beretta at her. The black woman's mouth set in a grim line, and she stood tall and four-square, her feet planted wide apart, as if she were ready to fire.

"I'm within my rights to shoot you dead, Allegretti." Re-heema's dark eyes glittered under a navy-blue watch cap. Snowflakes dotted the cap and her broad shoulders in a navy-blue pea coat.

Stay calm. "That's the third gun pointed at me in two days, and it's getting old. Why don't you put it away before I arrest you for ag assault and weapons offenses?"

"You're trespassing."

"Then I'll go. I came to tell you I'm sorry about your mother." Vicki's chest tightened. She was pretty sure Reheema wouldn't shoot her, but pretty sure had too much wiggle room when it came to small-caliber weapons.

"Why was your wallet on her?" Reheema shot back, her tone icy as winter.

"Put the gun away and I'll answer you. I don't like being threatened."

"I don't like being put in jail. I said, why'd I find your wallet in my mother's pocket?"

"Okay, she took it out of my purse. I came to see her and when I went out of the room-"

"How'd you know she lived here? The phone book?"

D'oh. "That would have been too easy. I found out from your old boss at Bennye's."

"Why'd you come here?"

"To learn about you."

"What did you wanna know?"

"If you had anything to do with my partner's murder. If you had Shayla Jackson killed so she wouldn't testify against you, or if someone did that on your behalf. If you resold the guns, and to whom, which I'm still wondering since the one in your hand isn't one you were indicted for. And that's just for starters. Now, put the gun away."