They threaded their way out of Devil’s Corner, and Vicki could see through her steamy window that the neighborhood was worsening. They took a right and a left, and the Neon turned quickly onto a street, then parked. She drove past it because she couldn’t stop fast enough and she wanted to avoid being spotted. She went around the block to the street into which the Neon had driven and glanced at the street sign. It was crooked, but its bright green was readable in the snowstorm:
ASPINALL STREET.
Whoa. Vicki flashed on the envelopes on Shayla’s dresser, in the row house. They were being forwarded to her boyfriend, Jamal Browning. He lived on Aspinall Street.
Vicki’s heart thumped harder. She leaned forward over the steering wheel but the Neon was parked too far away to see much. She waited. Trying to stay calm. Wishing she had a cell phone. Who would she call? The cops. Dan. Somebody. Anybody.
She assumed that Eagles Coat was going to Jamal Browning’s house on Aspinall Street, because it seemed unlikely that that there were two drug dealers on Aspinall Street. That meant that Jamal could have been supplying the drugs to the new store on Cater, where Mrs. Bristow had bought her drugs. Could that be the connection? Had Reheema given her mother the guns, then her mother sold or traded them on Cater Street for crack, which was in turn supplied by Jamal Browning? Did that mean the guns had ended up with Browning? And what was Reheema’s connection?
Vicki got so excited, she almost missed Eagles Coat leaving a house in the middle of the block, then making his way down the snowy sidewalk. He got into the Neon and took off, presumably back to Cater. Vicki hit the gas, steered the Cabrio onto Aspinall, and drove down the street, not daring to pause at the house. It was a rundown brick row house with a yellow plastic awning bowing with disrepair and snow.
Number 3635. Jamal Browning’s house.
“Yes!” Vicki shouted so loud her voice reverberated in the tiny Cabrio. But now what did she do?
She wasn’t about to knock on Browning’s door, but she knew how to accomplish the same end.
TWENTY-ONE
An hour later, Vicki reached the Roundhouse, Philadelphia’s police administration building. It looked almost pretty in the snow, only because the whiteness hid the cracked windowsills and stained concrete of its aging facade. The building was composed of two joined circles, hence its nickname, and its design had been positively space-age in the 1970s. She parked in the press space in the lot, as she used to as an ADA, switched off the ignition, and got out of the Cabrio. The cold tightened her chest, and she pulled her down coat tighter around her. It was almost six and the sky was dark. The parking lot was only partly full, which was deceptive; the Roundhouse wasn’t closed for business on the weekend, but only got busier. She’d been here more times than she could count, and hurried to the entrance, kicking snow onto her ankles, and went inside the revolving door.
Ten minutes after that, Vicki found Detective Melvin in the ratty squad room of the Homicide Division. The blue paint on the walls had dulled to grime, and large institutional desks dotted the room, defying any normal path of travel. Water-stained curtains hung from uneven valances along the far wall, which curved with the south side of the building. The air smelled of cigarettes, though smoking wasn’t allowed. On TV, Cold Case showed America a sanitized replica of the squad room every week. Nobody would believe how crummy it really was, which was the problem with the truth.
“Have a nice chat with my parents?” Vicki asked, sitting down in the old metal chair next to Detective Melvin’s desk.
“Not yet. Is that why you’re here?”
“No,” Vicki answered, and told him the whole story in detail. By the time she was finished, Detective Melvin was looking at her like her father did, which wasn’t good.
“Wait a minute,” he said, holding up a hand. “In the beginning, you said you went to see Reheema, to explain to her why her mother had your wallet. You felt you owed her that.”
“I did.”
“So why were you taking notes on drug trafficking on Cater?” The detective gestured to Vicki’s Filofax pages, spread out on the cluttered desk.
“I know what I saw, and so do you.” Vicki leaned forward. “The opening of a crack store on Cater, supplied by a dealer on Aspinall. And Browning is connected to Shayla Jackson because of the bills in her house. It’s a silver platter.”
“It’s good, but it doesn’t prove anything yet.”
“I make out an affidavit of what I saw, to get you probable cause for search of the house and for arrest of the two street dealers and whoever’s at that crack house. Business is booming and will only grow. We can end this thing right now.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. This could lead to whoever killed Shayla and Morty, and maybe even Mrs. Bristow. It’s a good lead.”
“I agree, it’s a good lead, I didn’t say it wasn’t a good lead.”
“Not to mention that the drug business will take down the street, then the neighborhood.”
“I’ve heard that happens, yes.” Detective Melvin was already gathering up Vicki’s notes, his muscles flexing in the gray pullover he must have been wearing under his leather jacket this morning. Hard to believe that was the same day; Vicki was already feeling like they were old friends, though she could have been delusional.
“Did you see Browning yet? Did you question him?”
“Not yet, but we will.”
“What’s the holdup?”
“We have procedures, Ms. Allegretti.”
“Please, call me Vicki when you lie to me.”
“I’m not.” Detective Melvin pursed his lips.
“What procedures, then? The homicide procedures I remember are running down leads. Browning is a clear lead in Jackson’s and Morty’s murder, and they may all be connected.”
“This is a complicated situation, and I’m not at liberty to discuss the particulars of the investigation,” Detective Melvin answered firmly, and Vicki eased back into her chair. Being pushy was getting her nowhere fast, and she could see Melvin wasn’t happy about the situation, either.
“Does that mean we can’t talk about wiretaps? Are you going for a wiretap on my cell? You could get one, based on these facts.”
“We understand that and we’re investigating it.”
“I know ATF would get a Title III tap.”
“We’ll investigate our way, not yours or ATF’s.”
“Which would be what?” Vicki knew she was on thin ice, and Detective Melvin’s eyes went hard.
“Look, I don’t have to keep you apprised. If I call your boss and tell him what you’ve been up to, he’ll fire your ass.”
Gulp. “But if you could just tell me what you’ve been doing, maybe I can help.”
“I don’t need your help, thank you. I thought I made that clear this morning.” Detective Melvin stacked her notes into a little Filofax tower, like silver-dollar pancakes. “I’ll talk to my sergeant about what you learned today, about Browning on Aspinall and the Neon. And I’ll turn your notes over to the Narcotics Strike Force.”
“The Narcotics Strike Force? But what if the Cater Street store is connected to the murder of my partner?”
“We handle that part, they handle the other. They’ve had other complaints from the neighbors. They know about the situation, but they’re taxed. They’ll give this attention if it comes from Homicide.”
“Will they coordinate with the feds?”
“I’m sure they will, but there are jurisdictional issues.”
“Who has jurisdiction, state or federal?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you,” Detective Melvin answered, but Vicki couldn’t let her hard work fall between the cracks.
“I say you have jurisdiction over the whole case. It’s a murder, at bottom, whether a federal agent or not, and I think it has to stay with you, not the Narcotics Strike Force.” Vicki was thinking out loud, issue-spotting in criminal procedure. She knew that Homicide could run-and-gun in a way the fed
s never could. Making a federal case wasn’t just an expression.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Detective Melvin’s forehead relaxed, and his voice softened. They both knew that jurisdiction was a question of legal power, so it always became a legal power play, and this situation would only make it worse. “But at this point, we think it’s a local offense, so it’s ours. Doesn’t mean we don’t have to coordinate.”
“With whom?”
“A task force.”
“Oh no.” Task force was police code for a committee. Vicki could only guess the pressure he was under. “But somebody has to be running the store, right now. Time matters in a murder investigation.”
Melvin managed a smile. “I’ve heard that, too.”
“What’s the precedent in cases like this?”
“There isn’t any.”
“There has to be,” Vicki said in disbelief. “Morty couldn’t have been the first federal agent killed in the line of duty.”
“Actually, in Philly, he is. Except for one case that doesn’t help us much. An FBI agent, Chuck Reed, was killed making an undercover buy in the nineties, remember? In a car at Penn’s Landing?”
“No.” Vicki was at Harvard Law in the nineties, but she never dropped the H-bomb unless she had to. “Remind me.”
“It was a buy-bust that went wrong, in that yuppie cocaine ring. The dealer was coked up and panicked. He shot Reed, who shot back. They were both killed.” Detective Melvin winced with the regret that cops show at another’s passing. Grief was the one thing that crossed jurisdictional lines.
“So there was no need for an investigation to find Reed’s killer.”
“Right, there’s no precedent on this one.”
“But it is a state law matter, and civilians were killed, too — Jackson, her baby, and Mrs. Bristow, if her murder is related.” Then even Vicki thought better of it. “Still, everybody at ATF loved Morty. They’ll want to take care of their own.”
“Right, of course. So would we.” They fell silent on their respective sides of the desk. Vicki felt the tug of conflict, and Detective Melvin sighed, a resigned sound that came from deep within his broad chest. “We already scheduled a meeting about your partner’s murder with top brass at your office, and with ATF, DEA, and FBI.”
“Why would FBI have jurisdiction? Because they take it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, I did.” Vicki considered the situation. The FBI was the grabbiest federal agency in existence, after the IRS. “When is the task force meeting?”
“They were talking about Tuesday, but realistically, it’ll be Wednesday. They need a day after the memorial service of your partner.”
Morty’s funeral. Vicki felt a tightness. She’d been so wrapped up in catching his killer, she hadn’t thought about his burial. “When is the memorial service scheduled for?”
“I got a memo. The wake is tomorrow night, the memorial on Monday.”
Vicki checked her emotions. “Wednesday is when you all meet? That’s forever, in a murder investigation.”
“This has to be done right,” Detective Melvin said, but even he didn’t sound like he believed it, and Vicki was shaking her head.
“Procedures?”
“In a word.”
“So we have a tangle over whether it’s state or federal, then we have a tangle over which federal it is, ATF, FBI, or DEA.”
Detective Melvin looked almost as miserable as Vicki. “I’m not even invited to the meeting, only my captain and the feds.”
“All that law getting in the way of justice.”
Detective Melvin smiled crookedly, but Vicki was already rising to her feet.
“Got a Xerox machine?”
“Sure, why?”
“Time’s a-wastin.’ ”
Vicki reached over and picked up her notes.
TWENTY-TWO
It was almost seven by the time Vicki made her way through the snowstorm to the United States Custom House. A frigid wind gusted from the Delaware River, snow flurries flew around the building, and the American flag at its top flapped madly. Custom House, only ten minutes by Cabrio from the Roundhouse, was a stolid gray edifice that anchored the corner of Second & Chestnut Streets and housed a number of federal agencies; the passport office, the FDA, GSA, and ATF. The building looked positively bureaucratic in contrast with the funky restaurants, art galleries, and bistros dotting Olde City, and only a single couple was out in this bitter night, walking cuddled together against the storm. Vicki hurried past them, up the cleared granite steps, and into Custom House.
At this hour, the building was closed to the public, and the lobby was empty except for two weekend security guards at the metal detector. She barely knew the unfriendly one sitting at a standard-issue wooden desk, reading the movie listings in the Daily News, but the other, her pal Samuel, looked up from peeling his fingernails. He blanched when he recognized Vicki, and she knew why.
“Yo, Samuel.” Vicki was about to produce her ID when she remembered it was gone. “I don’t have my ID with me, okay?”
“No sweat, Vicki.” Samuel waved her around the metal detector. She’d been here almost every day last year, while she and Morty interviewed witnesses and laid out their case at the ATF offices.
“Appreciate it. Anybody up there still?”
“Oh yeah, plenty, even the brass.”
“Great.”
“Sorry about Agent Morton,” Samuel said when Vicki had almost passed. It came out as an afterthought, though she knew it wasn’t; he must’ve been getting up his nerve to say something, which touched her all the more.
“Thanks.” Vicki checked her emotions before they got out of control. She was already feeling shaky, being in this lobby. The last time she had been here was with Morty. They had gone out to pick up hoagies and fought over who ordered the sweet peppers.
I swear I did, he had said.
Nah, you always get hot.
I’m evolving.
Vicki crossed to the small, circular lobby, which was vintage Art Deco. She knew its history, thanks to Morty, who had loved this building; Custom House had been built in the 1930s as a WPA project, and he had always claimed it was to keep South Philly stonemasons busy, because the lobby was fashioned completely of carved marble. A rosy-bronze marble covered the curving walls of the entrance rotunda, and remarkable royal-blue marble pillars, etched with long lines that lengthened their two-story stature, stood in a ring that anchored the domed ceiling. Gold-leaf florets twinkled in the dome against a celestial blue background, giving the entire lobby a heavenly, ethereal feel.
Morty.
Vicki hurried past and went upstairs, the clatter of her footsteps muffled by residual snow. She hit the second floor as she always used to, noting again the oddly painted mauve doorjambs, and pressed a code into the keypad by the unmarked purple door. It was an entrance used only by ATF agents, who bypassed the glass-walled reception area, and Morty had told her the code. She opened the door and had almost succeeded in setting her thoughts about him aside when he was suddenly staring her in the face.
MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR BOB MORTON, read the typed headline, and an almost life-size photo of him hung on the wall, grinning in a tie he wore only for picture day. It was a photocopied announcement of the details of his wake and funeral. Vicki had almost forgotten how handsome he was; she swallowed hard and took a right turn down the hall into an off-white warren of offices, most of which were empty with the lights off, but some of which were not. The Philadelphia office of ATF contained one hundred agents in its several floors, and she could only imagine how busy these halls had been the past few days, buzzing with agents talking about Morty, comparing notes, and consoling one another. Given what had happened, she had guessed that people would be working this weekend; in fact, because the agents spent so much time in court, many routinely worked nights and weekends, catching up on paperwork, interviewing witnesses, and generally giving the lie to the cliché about “government wo
rk.”
Going down the hall, Vicki waved briefly at the agents who looked up from their desks, nodding to acknowledge her; she hadn’t gotten to know them with only a year on the job, much of it spent with Morty. She traveled down the purple-patterned carpet, feeling out of place without him. A sharp solvent smell filled the air in the next hall, and she passed a small room containing a trio of men in long white coats, cleaning rifles on a table. She finally reached the threshold of the large corner office, knocked on another purple doorjamb, and braced herself to meet the boss.
“Mr. Saxon?” Vicki began, then shut up, because he was talking on the telephone and taking notes. He saw her but didn’t wave her in, and she wasn’t surprised since she wasn’t sure he knew who she was. In the meantime, she tried not to listen to any top-secret conversation.
“Eggs, milk, low-fat, no fruit in Phase I,” Saxon said into the phone, and Vicki smiled. The whole world was on South Beach. The phone conversation sounded like an instant replay of Vicki’s dinner with her parents, before they’d bitched her out. Maybe that was their problem. Not enough carbohydrates.
“Brown or white eggs, does it matter?”
Vicki eyed his office, the largest she’d seen here. The three windows were dark behind closed window shades, and the wall behind his desk bore the requisite framed movie poster from The Untouchables with Kevin Costner. ATF jocks loved The Untouchables, Hollywood’s version of the beginnings of their agency, and they uniformly revered the real-life Elliott Ness. Every year, Morty had gone to the Elliot Ness party they held in Baltimore and returned with a killer hangover.
“Ricotta? Maggio? That has to be low-fat, too? Gimme a break here, Kath.”
An American flag stood to the right of the desk, in the far corner, and a coat rack stood on the near corner, holding a baseball cap, winter coat, and navy-blue bulletproof vest that read ATF in characteristically bold yellow letters. The desk was large and simple, of light wood, and immaculately clean except for a plastic party-favor statue of Jesus Christ, still in the box, which sat next to a nameplate that read JOHN SAXON, SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE.