Vicki only half-listened to the mayor’s speech, an adequate lecture by a man who had never met Morty, either, and looked around the room for Dan. He would have arrived early, because he always arrived everywhere early, so he’d be in this room somewhere. When the crowd shifted at the front, Vicki spotted Chief Bale with his chic wife. Bale squared his shoulders, because Strauss was taking the microphone.
“Welcome, everyone. I’m Ben Strauss, the U.S. Attorney for our district, but I consider myself honorary ATF today. But don’t let me anywhere near a weapon. It wouldn’t be the first time a lawyer shot himself in the foot.”
People laughed softly, even agents who couldn’t abide Strauss. All was forgiven today, and death had a way of persuading people to set aside their differences. Everybody, that is, except Vicki.
“Frankly, I didn’t know Morty that well, at least not as well as my AUSAs knew him. For that reason, I’d like to introduce one of them who knew Morty exceptionally well, Dan Malloy, who will say a few words on Morty’s behalf.”
Whoa. Vicki’s ears pricked up. Dan hadn’t mentioned it at breakfast. Maybe it came up after? In the next minute, he emerged from the crowd at the front and stood tall before the microphone. His hair had been combed back, wet as a little boy’s, but his suit was sharply tailored and Italian. He looked like a candidate for something, and even though Vicki was miffed that he hadn’t mentioned it to her, she would have switched parties to vote for him.
“Welcome, everyone.” Dan managed a smile, but it was shaky. “Morty worked closely with so many of us AUSAs that sometimes I thought he was a prosecutor. He knew more criminal law than most lawyers, and he had more street smarts than most crooks.”
People laughed, nodding, and Vicki bit her lip. It was true. Tell it, Dan.
“I loved Morty. He was everything a federal law enforcement agent should be, and everything a man should be. Morty always said he would lay down his life for his job, and he died the way he lived — in the service of all of us.” Dan paused, swallowing visibly, and Vicki wondered for a minute if he’d lose control. “I knew Morty very well and saw firsthand all the hard work he did — work that, frankly, I got the credit for. Morty made me look good, and that’s the way ATF, FBI, and DEA agents are — they make us prosecutors look good, and we get the glory while they labor, literally, undercover.”
Around the room, ATF and FBI agents nodded, and conferred briefly.
“Morty, I’m speaking for each and every AUSA in the Philadelphia office when I say: we love you and we miss you already. I’ll never play ‘Brick House’ without thinking of you. Thank you.”
People sniffled, and ATF agents hung their heads. Even if they didn’t know Dan, his words had identified him as a real insider. Only someone who knew Morty would know he loved “Brick House.” Dan had comforted all of them, even Vicki. Cardinal Bevilacqua himself then took the microphone, saying a brief prayer, and everyone bowed his head. When Vicki raised hers, her gaze found Dan, standing between Strauss and Mariella. Mariella had her arm around him and her head close to him; his broad shoulder shook slightly and his head hung. Vicki felt a stab of sympathy for him. She wished she could comfort him, but Dr. Bitchy was on the spot. Bitterness edged Vicki’s thoughts, and she willed herself to banish it. Wives and husbands belonged together at times like this.
I have to get over him.
The reception line started to move so people filtered past the casket, and Vicki’s throat felt tight as she reached the front of the line. She spent the next hour in a fugue state of heart-wrenching images. Bent gray heads in line. A flag holder on a stand next to the coffin, the red, white, and blue a neatly folded, thick triangle. An open casket, and Morty. His face still in death: his cold hand tacky to Vicki’s touch, from whatever makeup they’d put on his skin. Photos of Morty at the Elliot Ness party were placed in his coffin with paper notes and a Commodores CD. And gallows humor; propped on an easel, an enlargement of a silly photo of Morty in a T-shirt that read, I HAVE A RESCUE FANTASY.
Vicki blinked back her tears and shifted over, shaking hands with the few family members who stood beside the casket, Morty’s cousins or something, then Strauss, a priest, and finally, Bale. She was way too emotional to be talking to Bale about Aspinall Street, and he hardly met her eye anyway. She escaped the room and was in the entrance room on the way out when someone touched her arm.
“Vicki?” It was a man’s voice, and she turned. A tall, dark-haired man about her age stood there, looking attractive in a dark, pinstriped suit. “I’m Jim Delaney, I don’t know if you remember me. I came to the D.A.’s office right when you were leaving. I’m in the Insurance Fraud Unit.”
“Right.” Vicki remembered him only vaguely. “We met at that party.”
“Ken Stein’s barbecue, in Merion.”
“Right.”
“I’m sorry about what happened to Agent Morton.” Delaney looked at her with obvious sympathy. His eyes were a watercolor blue. “I read in the newspaper that you two worked together.”
“Thanks.” Behind Vicki, the front door opened and a cold gust blew in. People shuffled ahead in the reception line, the women drawing their coats tighter around them.
“Are you leaving? I’ll walk you out.”
“Sure.” Vicki turned, zipped her coat on the fly, and went outside, descending the granite steps. Her hair blew in her face, and she almost tripped at the bottom, where Delaney put a steadying hand on her elbow.
“You all right?”
“Yes, thanks.” The cold air stung tears drying in her eyes.
“How about I walk you to your car?”
“I’m parked in the far lot.” Vicki pointed, and they took off.
“Are you going to be okay, after this?”
“Sure.” Vicki nodded.
“It must have been awful, to be there when he was killed. That’s traumatic.”
“It was,” Vicki said, though she hadn’t thought of it that way until now.
“You know, people at the D.A.’s office still talk about you. You were a great prosecutor, quick on your feet. I saw you in court once, I don’t know if you know that. I was at Dechert at the time. You were trying the Locke case.”
“Locke.” Vicki flipped through a mental file cabinet. “Home invasion. Wait, I lost that one.”
“Yes.” Delaney laughed, and so did Vicki. “But you made me want to try cases. Criminal cases.”
“I did?”
“I made my decision that day,” Delaney answered warmly, which was when Vicki realized what was going on. His hand hadn’t left her elbow, and since he didn’t have a wedding band, she wasn’t pushing it away.
“Really? Little old me? Tell me more about how great I lost.”
Delaney laughed again. His dark, curly hair blew in the wind, and he had a nice laugh, too. “Listen, I know this isn’t the best time, but the way I see it, I owe you dinner.”
Wow. “You do. A really nice dinner.”
“So, if you don’t have any plans right now and want some company, how about I take you out? You shouldn’t be alone, and I can offer you an excellent shoulder to cry—”
“VICK!” came a sudden shout from behind them, and Vicki turned.
Dan. Running toward her. Concern creased his forehead, and she wondered if something was wrong. He was winded when he reached her, his chest heaving and his breath puffing white in the chill.
Dan nodded to Delaney. “ ’Scuse me, can I borrow this girl? It’s important.”
“Sure.” Delaney released Vicki’s arm and stepped back.
“It might take us a while, friend,” Dan said brusquely, and Delaney nodded.
“Vicki, maybe I should give you a call, another time?” Delaney asked, and before she could process it, he had edged away.
“Yes. Do.”
“You in the book?”
“Yes,” Vicki said, and Delaney said good-bye, then walked away as she turned to Dan, concerned. “What’s the matter?”
Dan cracked a w
ry grin. “Sorry to interrupt. Who was that?”
“Mr. Right.”
Dan laughed. “Since when?”
“Okay, Mr. Right Now. Which would have worked for me.”
“You can’t be serious. What a geek.”
“He’s not a geek, he’s an ADA.”
“Not in Major Crimes, he’s not. I can tell.”
“He’s in Insurance Fraud.”
Dan fake-snored, closing his eyes and dropping his head to the side.
“Very funny.”
“Shhh, I’m asleep.”
Vicki looked over Dan’s shoulder. Delaney was long gone. The reception line shifted forward in the cold. “Where’s Dr. Mariella?”
Dan fake-woke up. “In the ladies’ room.”
Hmmm. “So what’s the matter? Is something going on?”
“Yes, I need to talk to you.”
“I’m parked this way,” Vicki said, and they walked together into the wind. Dan took her arm, but she missed the way Delaney had held her. Also, he was single.
“Listen, I fixed everything between you and Bale,” Dan said, under his breath, and Vicki looked at him in surprise.
“What do you mean?”
“I told him what we talked about this morning, all about your theory, and he said it sounded like you made a real connection. He said he’s going to talk to Saxon about it, smooth some feathers, and ask ATF to get the surveillance squad on Jamal Browning.”
“You’re kidding!” Vicki felt off balance. As happy as she was that they’d go forward on Browning, she wished she had been a part of the discussion. “When are they going to start surveillance? I know they have a big meeting, but it’s not until Wednesday.”
“Bale didn’t say.”
“I wish I could be there. They should do it right away. They don’t need a warrant or anything, it’s plain view.”
“And guess what?” Dan strode on. “ATF is already running down a lead on your cell phone.”
“What’s the lead? The guy with the gravelly voice?”
“I don’t think Bale knows. It’s ATF. They got tech experts in Philly and D.C. on it, Bale says.”
“D.C.? Then it will never happen.”
“Don’t be so negative.”
“All they have to do is go to Cater Street and ask around. My cell phone has blue daisies on it, for God’s sake.” Vicki shook her head. It felt colder out, but it could have been her imagination. “No self-respecting drug dealer will carry that around for long.”
“Bale thinks they’ll ask the judge for a tap.”
“With what? Don’t they need my affidavit for probable cause? Or my notes?”
“Evidently not,” Dan answered, then waved at a phalanx of uniformed Philadelphia police, attending a black Cadillac hearse. Morty’s hearse. Vicki looked away.
“Well, what else do they have on Browning? The bills at Shayla’s house? That’s not enough.”
“I didn’t ask, and he wasn’t telling. I got the idea it was confidential.”
“When are they going for the tap? They can’t do anything until this meeting, unless they moved it up. Did they move the meeting up?”
“I didn’t cross-examine him, Vick. I was just happy to hear you’re still gainfully employed.” Dan picked up his pace. “He got your phone message.”
“Think I could be at that meeting?”
“Honestly, no. But he’s not even that mad that you were harassing drug dealers. Great result, huh?”
“Great. Thanks.”
“You’re happy, right?”
“It’s Morty’s wake, how happy can I be?”
Dan stopped in his tracks, frowning beside a powdery mound of plowed snow. “You know what I meant.”
“Yes, and I appreciate what you did.” Vicki felt confused, her thoughts a grief-stricken jumble. “I wish I had talked to Bale, though. I want to be the one to indict on this case.”
“You’re too junior, Vick, and you couldn’t try it anyway. You’re a fact witness. You were there.”
“I could still be on the indictment. I want to work that case. I want to be the one—”
“Stop.” Dan put up a hand. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. It doesn’t matter who’s on the indictment, does it? The only thing that matters is that they get the conviction.”
Vicki shook her head. The only thing she agreed with was that they couldn’t discuss this now, or here, beside Morty’s hearse.
“You know I’m right.”
“For now, maybe.”
“Good.” Dan smiled, cocking his head. His hair blew sideways in the cold, drying stiff from the mousse. “Then isn’t it time for the magic word?”
“Huh?”
“ ‘Thank you.’ ”
“You’re shameless, Malloy.” Vicki rolled her eyes. “Please is the magic word, anyway.”
“Wrong. You didn’t read the statute. It’s in the definitions section, right up front.” Dan folded his arms. “You gonna say it or not?”
“Okay, thanks.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Vicki tried to buck up, and started liking Dan again. Or loving him, as the case may be. “I’m just sad, is all.”
“I know. Me, too.” They started walking again.
“They’re not moving fast enough. I mean, did you see it in there? All that brass? Morty almost gets lost in the process.”
“No, he doesn’t. They care.”
“But they need to get moving! Washington? It’s a murder case, not a Senate hearing. So will they keep us posted?”
“Bale said he’d give you a call when the suits leave.”
“Good, I need a paycheck.” Vicki shook her head. “Am I off suspension yet, did Bale say?”
“No.”
“Argh!”
They reached the Cabrio, and Dan put a hand on her shoulder. “Take it easy, sweetie.”
“I have no choice.” Vicki dug in her purse for her car keys. “So what about my cases?”
“I got your back. Chin up.” Dan gentled her chin upward with a cold hand. “By the way, what did you think of my speech, in there?”
“It was great.”
“Thanks. It wasn’t easy.” Dan appraised her, his eyes ice-blue in the bright sun, the pupils telescoped to pinpoints. “You gonna be okay, Vick?”
“Yes. You?”
“I’ve had better days.” Dan checked his watch, then frowned. “I gotta go.”
Vicki unlocked the Cabrio door. “Give her my best,” she said, but when she turned back, Dan had already taken off.
Leaving Vicki alone with her questions.
And her impatience.
TWENTY-FIVE
By noon on Monday, Vicki had done everything possible to get her life back to normal. She had cleaned her house, paying special attention to the rooms that the cops had upended, then went out to buy a new cell phone and get groceries. When she came home, she organized her closet, worked out on the elliptical, and finally pasted her hair with a conditioning “masque” that made it greasier than ever. She ran for the telephone every time it rang because she thought it would be Dan or Jim Delaney, which it wasn’t.
She sat now at the kitchen table, ignoring half of a turkey sandwich, sucking down another cup of coffee, and paging idly though the newspaper. It was all murder all the time, and she closed the page. It had stopped snowing, leaving a foot on the ground, so she and the Holloway kids had a snow day. Only one of them was happy about it. It wasn’t easy to sit around and leave important matters to federal agencies, especially the investigation of Morty’s murder. Vicki was in mourning, with a side order of cabin fever. She hadn’t spoken to another human being in a whole day, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d convicted anybody.
Her new cell phone lay beside her, and she gave in, picked it up, and flipped it open. She called Dan at the office, but he was in court, so she left her new cell number. Then she thought about it. She didn’t have to be so passive with the very single Mr. Delaney.
She called the D.A.’s office, but he was out, so she left a message with a receptionist who was too new to know her. Who else could she call?
She looked out the bright kitchen window. Bare tree branches swayed in the bitter wind. She had two good girlfriends from law school, both married, but one had had a baby and left the world, and the other, Susan Schwartz, was in-house counsel at Cigna. Vicki called Susan but she was on vacation. As a last resort, she called her parents, but they were in a meeting, so she left her new cell number with the receptionist. Then she was fresh out of people to not reach, so she ate the turkey sandwich and stared at the discarded newspaper, reading beneath the fold. Which was when she saw it.
And ran upstairs to get dressed.
Vicki entered the room and sank unnoticed into an empty chair in the last row. The wake was completely different from Morty’s, as the crime scene had been completely different from Morty’s. The funeral home was in the city, not the suburbs. The viewing room wasn’t large and well-decorated, but small and shabby, with a dark navy-blue rug that had been worn almost threadbare at the door, where Vicki lingered. Lemon-scented Glade, not flowers, perfumed the air, and only two bouquets of red roses flanked the plain casket, which was mercifully closed, of course. And instead of being crowded, only a handful of people were in attendance, leaving rows of empty brown folded chairs. Vicki counted six mourners, including Reheema.
The mourners faced the front of the room, and there was no representative of the funeral home in sight. Reheema sat alone in the front row, her head bowed, her dark hair smoothed into a tiny, stiff ponytail. She wore a black dress and black flats. In the row behind Reheema sat five women, all older African-American women, dressed in heavy coats and small velvet hats. They looked like the church ladies that Vicki had expected Mrs. Bristow to be, or perhaps used to be.
Vicki felt a twinge of guilt. She didn’t know if she should be here. She didn’t know if she had a right. She’d come because she’d felt she had to pay her final respects to a woman whose murder she might have caused. It was the least she could do; it was the beginning of setting it right, which she hoped would end with convicting the killer. She would stay for Mrs. Bristow.