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-c-crape, 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 amp;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 pushing 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."
Vicki resumed finger counting. "And, three and four, the things I'd bet money on are that Jamal Browning was the boyfriend of Shayla Jackson, and that Mrs. Bristow gave the guns that Reheema had given her to the Cater Street dealers, in return for crack." Vicki considered it, then decided she was right. Funny how that always worked. "It's just too coincidental that the CI turns up dead in a houseful of fish-scale coke, and she happens to be the girlfriend of the dealer who sells to Cater Street."
"It's a baby drug business, from the sound of it, and that's a small world in Philly, believe it or not. Coincidences abound."