"Vick?" Morty's forehead creased. "That… you?"
"Yes, I'm here, it's me!" Vicki felt her heart lift. She kept her palm over the horrific wound. If anybody could survive this, Morty could. He was a fit forty-five-year-old, he worked out religiously, and he'd even run a marathon.
"What the hell… happened?" A watery red-pink bubble formed in the corner of Morty's mouth, and Vicki fought to maintain emotional control.
"Two kids were here when I came in, it was a burglary. The door was open, and I thought I heard somebody say come in-"
"How's… the CI?"
"I don't know. She may not be home."
"You're okay… right?"
"I'm fine. You're gonna be fine, too." The blood bubble popped, and Vicki watched in horror. If only she'd let him smoke in the car. If only she'd grabbed the gun sooner. The shooter hadn't killed her because he thought she was a cop, but Morty was the cop. On the cell phone, the emergency dispatcher was saying that an ambulance was ten minutes from the house. Vicki said, "The ambulance is on the way. Just hang in, please, hang in."
"Funny. You always said… cigarettes will… kill me." Morty managed an agonized smile.
"You're gonna be fine, Morty. You'll see, you'll be fine. You have to be fine."
"You're bossy for… a midget," Morty whispered, then his smile suddenly relaxed.
And he stopped breathing.
Vicki heard herself scream his name, then dropped the cell phone and tried to resuscitate him until police showed up at the door.
And things got even worse.
TWO
By midnight, the small row house was crammed to bursting with uniformed cops and homicide detectives from the Philadelphia Police Department; crime scene technicians from the city's Mobile Crime Unit; Vicki's chief, Howard Bale, from the U.S. Attorney's Office; and bosses from the FBI and Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. The only person missing was Morty, whose body had been photographed, placed inside a black nylon bag, and taken away, officially pronounced dead. It left Vicki feeling more alone than was reasonable in such a crowd, as she sat on a patterned couch across from a homicide detective.
"Okay, that's it for now," the detective said, flipping his notebook closed and rising from the ottoman.
"Good." Vicki stayed put on the couch, emotionally numb. She had washed her hands but hadn't taken off her trench coat. Dried blood stained its lapels, which she realized only when the detective started looking at her funny. "I forget, did I give you my business card?"
"Yes, you did. Thanks."
"Sure." Vicki would have used his name but she had forgotten that, too. Her body ached and her heart had gone hollow.
She'd given a long statement to ATF, FBI, and finally the homicide detectives, with every detail poured out like murder-scene stream of consciousness. All the time she was thinking of Morty and the CI, who lay upstairs, shot to death. Vicki hadn't seen the body yet because the cops had wanted her statement first, in order to get the flash on the radio.
She rose from the couch on weak knees and threaded her way through the crowd to the stairs. The house was January cold from the front door being opened so often, and she avoided the curious glances and tuned out the ambient conversation. She wanted to stay mentally within, insulated by her stained Burberry. She had to figure out how tonight had gone so wrong, and why.
She made her way to the stairs, past the numbered yellow cards used to mark where shells had fallen. Her thoughts circled in confusion. This was only a routine straw purchase case; the indictment charged that a woman had bought two Colt.45s at a local gun shop and illegally resold them to someone else, the violent equivalent to buying scotch for a minor. The CI had called to inform on the defendant before Vicki had joined the office, and she had inherited the case because straw cases were dumped on newbies to cut their teeth. One of the most dedicated agents from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives had been assigned to partner with her.
Morty. Please forgive me.
Something brushed Vicki's shoulder and she jumped. Her boss, Howard Bale, was standing there, all five feet nine of his African-American pin-striped, well-tailored, tassel-loafered self. A cashmere camel-hair coat topped his characteristically GQ look. Bale always joked that he wasn't black, he was a peacock.
"Oh, Chief." Bale's eyes, the rich hue of espresso, were tilted down with strain, and his lips, buried under a mustache that hid an overbite, curved into a fatigued but sympathetic smile.
"You all right?"
"Fine." Vicki held on to the banister as a crime scene tech wedged by, a quilted vest worn under his navy jumpsuit.
"You drink that water I got you?"
"I forgot."
"I'm the chief, kid. You're not allowed to forget."
"Sorry." Vicki faked a smile. When Bale first arrived at the scene, he had given her a big hug and a cup of water. The gesture wasn't lost on anybody; he was saying, I don't blame the kid, so don't you. Nor did he yell about what a screw-up this must have been, though she guessed that would come. Not that it mattered any longer. Vicki had wanted to be a federal prosecutor since law school, and now she didn't care if she got fired.
"Where you going?" Bale asked.
"To see my CI."
"Wait. Got something I want to show you." Bale gentled her from the stairs by her elbow and guided her back through the living room. Uniforms and detectives actually parted for him; Bale, as section chief of Major Crimes, was next in line for U.S. Attorney. He led her near the front door of the row house, and Vicki stiffened as she got close to the spot where Morty had been killed. "S'all right," Bale said softly, but Vicki shook her head.
"No, it isn't."
"Look down. Here." Bale pointed, and Vicki looked. A ring of cops who had been kneeling around something on the rug rose and edged away. On the rug lay a white object the size of a brick, covered several times in clear Saran Wrap and closed with duct tape. A kilogram of cocaine.
"How'd I miss that?" Vicki asked, surprised. She'd practically had to trip over it, but she'd been focused on Morty.
"You said they dropped something from the Sixers coat." Bale had listened to her statement. "It musta been upstairs, from what you described, with them running down."
"Yes." Vicki had assumed the teenagers had stolen normal things, like jewelry or cash. "Cocaine? A kilogram?"
"That's weight," Bale said significantly, and Vicki understood. A kilogram of coke was supplier-level weight. It would have a street value of $30,000, called "weight money" as opposed to "headache money," the money that street dealers made. Bale leaned close. "Obviously, we won't be releasing this detail to the press. You'll keep this to yourself."
"Got it." Focusing on the cocaine was clearing Vicki's head. "So my CI was a coke dealer? Why would a dealer volunteer to talk to us?"
"After you look around, tell me what you think. I have a theory and everybody agrees. That tells me I'm in trouble."
Vicki couldn't manage a smile because she kept looking at the brick. Morty died for coke.
"No, he didn't," Bale said sharply.
Vicki looked up, surprised she had said anything aloud.
"Morty died for his job, and that's the way he would have wanted it."
"Maybe," Vicki said, though she didn't know if he was right. She couldn't wrap her mind around it just now.
"Notice anything special about this cocaine, little girl?"
"No. Do I flunk?"
"Look again, in the light." Bale snagged a Maglite from a uniformed cop, eased onto his haunches, and turned on the flashlight. He aimed it at the cocaine, and Vicki, crouching beside him, saw what he meant. There was a telltale shimmer to the cocaine, like a deadly rainbow.