"Good. Well. Maybe I'm wrong. I'd like to think that." Strauss patted Vicki's arm stiffly, his eyes a razor-sharp blue.
"Vicki's had a rough night," Bale said, drumming up positive reinforcement.
"She sure has, a rough night," Strauss repeated, properly cued. "I'd say this is trial by fire, isn't it? Maybe you should take some time off. Tomorrow, and the weekend."
"Actually, I'm wondering if this is connected to my straw case. I know we found the coke, but I think this was a stash house. Jackson wasn't the dealer, not for that kind of weight. I think she was just keeping it for-"
"I drew the same conclusion and so did ATF," Bale interrupted. Strauss's pale eyebrows lifted.
"Her boyfriend's name is Jamal Browning." Vicki knew she was talking out of turn, but it had never stopped her before. "I think he keeps her, and he may be the father of her baby, because there's bills on her dresser with his address. Her moving puzzles me, though. They weren't moving in together or she wouldn't be forwarding bills to him by mail. If they were breaking up-"
"You did some detective work, huh?" Bale smiled in a way that said shut up, which Vicki ignored. "I don't think there was another man in the picture, not yet.
First off, she was pregnant, and it's hard enough to meet anybody. Second, there's still her boyfriend's photos on her mirror and-"
"Vick, let's finish this discussion later," Bale said, his voice low. He shifted from one fancy loafer to the other. "This isn't the time or the place."
"Agreed." Strauss glanced around to see if anybody had been listening. "We don't need leaks."
"But time matters." Vicki lowered her voice, even though no one was snooping. "Tonight, everything's fresh, and at bottom, this is a murder case. In the D.A.'s office, we would always-"
"You're in the bigs now." Bale frowned. "We're lawyers, not cops. Morty's in very good hands, the very best. Philly Homicide's on it, and the FBI and ATF are breathin' down their neck. They'll collect the evidence and run it down."
"The Mayor's Office has shown a special interest, too." Strauss checked his watch. "I'm on my way to see him right now. We'll press-conference in the morning." He turned to look out the open front door of the row house. Klieglights shone outside, from the TVs and other press. "They're swarming out there. A triple homicide, a cop murdered." He glanced back at Vicki. "I don't have to tell you, no statements to the press."
"Of course not."
"Good." Strauss clapped her on the shoulder, then nodded to Bale. "How, we'll talk tomorrow."
"Whenever you're ready." Bale nodded. He and Vicki watched Strauss leave, his silhouette tall and lean in the klieg-lights, framed by the threshold of the front door. His breath made a puff of smoke in the frigid air, and he didn't even pause in the spot where Morty had been cut down.
"You like him, Chief?" Vicki asked, watching Strauss go.
"I got a uniform out there, to take you home," Bale replied, his dark eyes reflecting the white glare of the TV lights, and the moving shadows.
As soon as Vicki reached the pavement, reporters hit her like a blast of cold air. "Vicki, any comment?" "Vicki, can you describe the killer?" "Ms. Allegretti, what were you doing here tonight?" "Where were you when Special Agent Morton got shot?" "Vicki, did the ATF agent have any last words?"
Morty. Vicki kept her head down as she barreled through the crowd, holding up a no-comment hand. She'd run this gauntlet once in the D.A.'s office, but Strauss had been right, this was the bigs. The police presence was double the usual, including dogs and horses, and the media was national, evidently including jackasses.
"Is it true the woman was pregnant?" "Was this a drug bust?" "Why weren't the Philly cops there?" "Why were you involved?" "Victoria, look this way! Just one picture, please!"
Reporters thronged so close that Vicki almost tripped on a black electrical cable powering the bright klieglights, foam-covered microphones, black cameras with rubbery collapsible shades, and whirring videocameras. She caught sight of herself in a monitor, her head floating, oddly disembodied, in the wintry black sky. On the screen, she looked even shorter than five two, which she hadn't known was physically possible.
A uniformed cop signaled to her from in front of an idling cruiser. Traffic on the usually busy boulevard had been rerouted to the inner lanes, and behind the cruiser sat a ring of police sawhorses, holding back neighbors and onlookers who were talking, smoking, and calling out questions, despite the frigid temperature. Vicki wished she could find out what they knew about Jackson, Jamal Browning, or comings and goings at the house, but she wasn't about to canvass the neighborhood within earshot of the media.
She sprinted for the police car, introduced herself to the cop, and slipped into the warmed-up backseat. The car took off, edging through the crowd until they reached open road. Vicki didn't say anything as the cruiser sped through the darkened streets. She tried not to feel the ache in her ribs. Or, worse, in her heart.
In time, the cruiser took a right onto the drive that snaked along the Wissahickon River: they passed lovely old Tudor homes, and in the next few minutes they arrived at her development, East Falls Mews, which was supposed to blend in, but didn't. Attached town homes of faux stone with ersatz Tudor touches lined the winding streets, newly paved; it was a lame place to live, but the rent was low and it sat just inside the Philly limits, a job requirement for D.A.'s. Lately Vicki had been talking about moving into Center City, so she had a hope of Meeting Somebody, but her social life was the last thing on her mind tonight. That is, until the squad car pulled up in front of her house.
Because, to her surprise, shivering as he sat on her front step was just the man she wanted to see.
FIVE
Once they were inside, Vicki fell into Dan's embrace, realizing when she was enveloped how much she needed him. She burrowed into the chilled puffiness of his North Face jacket, feeling underneath the hard contours of his chest and the comfort of his strong arms. His open neck smelled of cold air and hard soap, and he was tall and lean, even in the down jacket. She held him as close as was permissible, then pulled away. Theirs was a relationship that drove Vicki crazy, even if it would make Plato himself proud.
Because Dan Malloy was married.
Vicki knew the rules: a hug was allowable, if the duration was brief and there was no contact below the waist. A kiss was kosher, if it was on the forehead and she had won a felony conviction. The word that began with L and rhymed with glove was forbidden, unless they were talking about Sicilian pizza, which they both loved. Of course, explosive sex, hot sex, combustible I-have-denied-myself-for-too-long sex, I've-been-thinking-about-this-forever sex had never happened. And it wasn't ever going to, outside of Vicki's imagination, where it occurred with great frequency and mutual satisfaction.
"I wanted to make sure you were okay." Dan held Vicki at arm's length, searching her face with sky-blue eyes, slightly watery from the cold. His gingery hair, layered with longish sideburns, was a sexy rumple. "You must be dying inside. I always thought Morty was like a father to you."
Exactly. Vicki had never felt so completely understood by someone who was so completely married.
"Jesus, he's dead. I can't believe it."
"How did you find out?"
"From TV. It's impossible that he's gone." Dan's eyes went dazed and his voice husky. His eyes clouded with sadness, and the corners of his flattish lips turned unhappily down, his frown so deep that the freckles dotting his forehead clustered together. "He was such a great guy. A hardworking guy, and fun. He could always make me laugh."