“Good.”
“Maybe I’ll take some pictures.” Vicki dug in the backpack, retrieved the camera, disabled the flash, and snapped away. She didn’t know how much she could get in this low light level, but she was committed to the picture taking since it had actually paid off with Toner. Fifteen photos later, she had shot every scene she could conceivably take from the car. She set the camera down and watched the house with Reheema. No one left it or went inside. Eight o’clock became nine o’clock, and Reheema touched her arm.
“You awake?”
“Yep.”
“I have to go to the bathroom. Do you?”
“Of course, we’re girls. And I’m hungry.” Vicki twisted around and eyeballed the grocery store and the bar. “I vote for the store. I’ll bet they’ll have a bathroom they’ll let us use.”
“If we go quick, we won’t miss anything.” Reheema tugged down her knit cap and got out of the car, as did Vicki, who grabbed her purse and joined her.
They crossed the street with a wary eye on 8372 and hustled together toward the grocery, like an urban version of Mutt and Jeff. Vicki felt the gun inside her coat pocket, which was when she realized that you couldn’t shoot a gun in mittens anyway. They reached the store, and close up, Vicki could see it had once been glass storefront, now boarded up with plywood panels that were littered with old keystone-shaped stickers for the Pennsylvania Lottery, a faded picture of the cartoon camel smoking a cigarette, and a sticker that read WE ACCEPT FOOD STAMPS.
Reheema opened the door. “Make this fast. Stay with me.”
“You my passport?”
“No, your bodyguard.”
They entered the store, and the older salesclerk looked up. He was about sixty, with deep wrinkles, small dark eyes behind crooked bifocals, and a dour down tilt to his mouth. He wore a quilted vest in army green and a black sweatshirt, and he’d been reading the sports page of the Daily News, spread open on a grimy white counter that was almost engulfed by stacked cartons of cigarettes on the top, and on the sides by multicolored bags of Cheetos, Doritos, Snyder’s Hard Pretzels, Rold Gold pretzels, Beef Jerky, and Fritos. The store was small, dusty, and smelled of the Newport he’d been smoking, resting in a filthy metallic astray with a beanbag bottom in incongruous tartan.
“Help you?” the salesclerk asked warily, eyeing them.
“We need to buy some food and use the bathroom, too.”
“It’s only for employees.”
“Great, I need a job.” Reheema slid off her knit cap like a hip-hop Joan of Arc and flashed him a beautiful smile. “When do I start?”
The salesclerk laughed, which ended in a single cough. “Oh, okay, young lady, it’s in the back, past the cleaning supplies. Hurry up now, almost closin’ time.”
“Thanks,” Reheema said, and the salesclerk waved her down the single aisle between a wall of Friskies and Tide detergent.
“Turn off the light when you’re done,” the salesclerk called after her, too late. “Don’t nobody ever turn off the light.”
“I bet,” Vicki said, just to make conversation, feeling like she did at home, when her mother left her alone with her father. She pulled two crinkly bags of Lay’s chips from the rack and set them on the counter. “You got any sandwiches?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“If it’s okay with you or not don’t matter, ’cause we got no sandwiches. It’s not like a 7-Eleven here, we don’t got everything. It’s just me here, I don’t even own the place. Koreans own it.”
“I see,” Vicki said pleasantly, and continued buying stuff in hopes that the salesclerk would like her and, by extension, white people in general. She stacked Doritos, Fritos, and Cheetos on the counter in a pile of saturated fats, then went into the aisle for Chips Ahoy and Pecan Sandies, stalling until Reheema finally returned and the salesclerk brightened.
“You live around here?” he asked Reheema, as Vicki traded places with her and went down the cramped aisle to the employee bathroom. It turned out that the bathroom was just as lovely as she’d expected, and she got out of there quickly, hurrying back into the store, where she froze on the spot.
Buying a carton of Winstons, pushing two twenties across the counter next to Reheema, stood the teenager who’d almost shot her the night Morty was killed. He wore his Iversons and a black jacket instead of the satin Sixers jacket, but she would never forget that face.
“Reheema, grab him!” Vicki shouted, lunging for the teenager, who reacted instantly and ran for the door, banging it open and getting away.
“Wha?” Reheema turned to Vicki, her mouth open.
“That’s him! The kid from that night!” Vicki ran past the startled salesclerk and out the door with Reheema right behind her.
The teenager sprinted across Getson Street in the dark, running straight, his big sneakers two white blurs. Vicki darted after him, almost on his heels. Her heart pumped frantically, her legs churned, and her red boots skidded on icy spots, but she managed to keep up the pace. She felt the anger and pain she had been suppressing take over, powering her forward. The teenager had almost killed her. He knew who had killed Morty. Vicki reached into her coat pocket as she ran, holding the gun so it wouldn’t fly out. It felt heavy and right, even in her mitten. The teenager might have a gun, but there was no stopping her. She couldn’t let him get away.
Vicki flashed on the night Morty was gunned down. The sight of the kid brought it all back. The sound of the bullets. The way Morty fell. The smell. The watery blood on his lips. Morty’s last words. Rage coursed through Vicki’s body. She picked up the pace.
“Move over!” Reheema shouted, passing Vicki on the right and taking off like a missile after the teenager.
Go, go, go! Astounded, Vicki kept running, her lungs about to burst. She had never seen anyone run so fast. She thought of the race times on Reheema’s old bulletin board. Willowbrook Lady Tigers.
The teenager bolted across the next street, his jacket catching the wind like a dark spinnaker, and Vicki and Reheema pounded after him. The three of them barreled past abandoned cars, vacant row houses, and dumped car tires, heedless as the neighborhood worsened. Vicki kept running, and ahead of her, Reheema’s trajectory was the purest of straight lines, a laser on target.
Vicki’s breath came in ragged bursts, one block then the next, cold air filling her lungs and her boots slipping on the slick ice. Her legs ached, but emotion supercharged her.
The teenager veered left down the side streets, his arms pinwheeling to keep himself from falling. Reheema took the curve like a sports car, hugging it tight despite the snow and ice cold. They both disappeared around the corner, and Vicki marshaled her strength and put on the afterburners. She couldn’t fall behind. She had to get this kid.
She hit the corner and saw Reheema ahead, closing in on the teenager. The gap between them shrank from six row houses to five, then to four. Reheema almost had him! Vicki sped up and prayed he didn’t have a gun.
Reheema was reaching out to grab his flying coat. The teenager glanced back in fear. Vicki held her breath, hoping he didn’t draw.
Reheema lunged forward, grabbing him by the coat with one long arm and tackling him to the snowy sidewalk. They went down together, sliding into the wall of a vacant row house.
Vicki’s heart leaped to her throat, fearing for Reheema. Hoping she caught the kid. It was too dark to see what was happening. Reheema and the teenager appeared to be tussling in the snow, and in the next minute they both vanished inside the alley, out of sight.
“Reheema, watch out!” Vicki shouted, out of breath. “He could have a knife!” Her heart felt like it was jumping out of her coat. She tore to the mouth of the alley and was confronted by an unlikely scene.
Reheema was standing off to the side, her chest heaving and her hands on her hips, and the teenager was holding his hands up high, his dark eyes panicky and wide, his Iversons planted, and his back against a snow-covered Dumpster.
“Please, lady!??
? The teenager appealed to Vicki, his voice choked with panic. “I’m no cop killer! I didn’t kill no cops! I didn’t shoot you, remember? I’m Teeg, Teeg Brumley, you know me? I’m the one told Jay not to shoot you, that you were a cop! I saved your life! Please, don’t hurt me!”
“Wait, calm down!” Vicki said, stunned. Her chest formed a knot of fury and pain. She couldn’t catch her breath.
“I didn’t know Jay was gonna kill nobody, I swear! I didn’t know cops were gonna be there! Or the pregnant girl or the white cop!”
Morty. Vicki still couldn’t catch her breath, and it wasn’t from exertion. The teenager was giving her a full statement. She didn’t know if she could even listen without Miranda warnings, but she couldn’t not listen. She had to know the truth.
“Tha’s all I know, I swear! I didn’t shoot nobody! Jay did it all! Jay Steptoe’s the cop killer, not me! He works for the boss, too! He’s on Getson right now, at the meetin’!”
Vicki gasped. So Jay Steptoe was the name of the man who had murdered Morty. He was only a few blocks away, right now. For a minute, she couldn’t speak, then she got her bearings. She couldn’t compromise the indictment against Steptoe. “Listen, wait, Teeg, you don’t have to say any of this, you have the right to remain silent—”
“We was supposed to go get the brick, is all, I swear! Me and Jay! All I know is Jamal wasn’t paying the boss for the brick. He didn’t pay the boss, so the boss sent us over to get the brick back!”
Vicki couldn’t believe her ears. The kid was telling her why Morty had been killed, but it wasn’t why she thought. It wasn’t a battle between mid-level suppliers at all. It was a dispute with a creditor, and taking back the drugs was a gangsta version of a repo. “Teeg, you have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—”
“I know all that, you gotta believe me! You give me protection, I’ll give you everything. The boss sent me there, it wasn’t my fault! Preston Courtney sent me there!” The kid was growing hysterical, spilling his guts. “He does business with Jamal, with all of them, all over the city! He’s the big boss! He supplies everybody! He’s the connect!”
Vicki’s eyes widened. The connect. “Teeg, in a court of law, we’ll use these statements against you, and you have the right to have an attorney present at any questioning—”
“The boss is at Getson right now, with all them! That white guy in the van that they’re lookin’ for? He’s there, too! They sent me out for cigarettes! I don’t come back, I’m dead. You gotta protect me now!”
Vicki held up a hand. “If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights? Teeg, do you hear me?”
“Yes, I understand! You gotta protect me! Courtney’s the one who sent Jay and me! It’s his fault the cop got shot, not me! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do nothin’!” Suddenly the teenager fell to his knees in the snow, beginning to sob. “I didn’t do it! They did! I never killed nobody! Now they’re gonna kill me!”
Vicki found herself taking a step back, trying to process it all. The teenager had dissolved into tears, doubled over in fear, like the child he was inside. Preston Courtney and Steptoe were responsible for Morty’s death. And they were both at a meeting on Getson Street, right now.
“Vicki?” Reheema asked.
Vicki turned to the unaccustomed sound. She had never heard Reheema say her name and heard it now as if from far away. Courtney and Steptoe had killed Morty. They were only a few blocks away, within her grasp. They wouldn’t be there forever. Vicki’s head pounded, her heart hurt.
She put a hand into her pocket.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Within fifteen minutes of Vicki’s phone call, an astounded Chief Bale swept into the alley with unmarked cars bearing armed ATF agents in navy windbreakers, and the remaining hours of the night pulsed with police activity. Teeg Brumley was arrested and taken in handcuffs to the FDC, where Strauss and Bale themselves videotaped his statement, and Vicki, Reheema, and later Dan watched from behind a two-way mirror to the interrogation room. Vicki prayed that Brumley would repeat everything he’d told her, and the teenager had a court-appointed lawyer present while he gave his statement again, elaborating on what he’d said in the alley and even admitting that Vicki had informed him of his Miranda rights. Dan gave her a hug for that, though it was otherwise strictly business. As much as Vicki needed the comfort, there was no time for romance.
Strauss and Bale brokered a deal by which Brumley pleaded guilty to a lesser offense in return for cooperation and testimony in court against the others. Reheema gave her statement and went home, while Vicki, Dan, and a cadre of AUSAs and staff worked all night to prepare complaints and warrants against one Preston Courtney and Jay Steptoe for conspiracy to murder Special Agent Robert Morton, in addition to complaints and warrants against ten other individuals for numerous counts of crack cocaine sales and distribution, as well as various weapons offenses. It turned out that ATF had been surveilling the Getson Street house from an apartment on the street, waiting for the right moment to make a drug and firearms bust. The right moment had finally arrived.
Dan worked alone on the complaints and warrants for William Toner for the conspiracy to murder the seven men, women, and children who had been killed at the Toys “R” Us, then gave them to Vicki at five in the morning. She took the complete stack into Bale’s office, set them down in front of him, and took a seat in the chair in front of his desk.
“Time to make the doughnuts, boss,” Vicki said. As hard as she’d worked, she felt only energized.
“Ready, kid?” Bale turned from his computer keyboard, swiveling in his black Aeron chair, and for a moment they looked at each other over the papers. A new morning broke behind him, the sky turning a lovely pink-gray from the bottom up, gleaming off all the mirrored skyscrapers, setting them aglow. Either that, or Vicki was tired to the point of delirium.
“Good to go.”
Bale smiled wearily, his skin tight from the night’s effort and his eyes reddish but alert, with something like amusement. He had taken off his trademark gold cuff links and rolled up his sleeves, but with care, so that the folded cuff made a perfectly flat panel against his strong forearm. A tiny tattoo of an American flag peeked from its underside.
“You have ink?” Vicki asked, surprised, and Bale smiled.
“That’s why I never wear short sleeves. Don’t tell.”
“I won’t.”
He pointed a stiff finger at her. “And don’t spread any more BOTOX rumors about me, you brat.”
Busted. “How’d you find out?”
“Debbie Hodill.”
Vicki leaned forward. “So, is it true?”
“Of course,” Bale answered, and they both laughed. “Now, to business. We have a judge to wake up, and then some bad guys.” He took the stack of papers and pulled them toward him, his fingers a dark contrast against the pristine white.
“This would be the happy ending, right?”
“Not yet.”
“You mean after we arrest them?”
“Shhh.” Bale raised a slim finger to his mustache. “Can you be quiet, just for once? We’re not finished. These are just paper, right now. They need the proper signatures, then they assume the force of law.”
The force of law. Vicki liked the sound of the phrase, more powerful than a mere gun. Reheema had been right about that, but she hadn’t realized it before.
“Let’s see.” Bale slid the first paper off the stack, with the caption that read UNITED STATES V. PRESTON COURTNEY AND JAY STEPTOE.
Vicki felt a deep satisfaction. She had written it herself. “That’s the complaint and indictment for Morty’s murder.”
“I know, that’s why they call me Chief. Now, hush.” Bale took the warrant, read it completely, and finished at the signature page. The usual procedure was merely to initial the papers, but given the high-profile nature of the case, the office had decided to have them signed in fu
ll.
“Here’s your pen, Chief.” Vicki slid a black Montblanc from its immaculate crystal pen holder and handed it to him, but Bale swiveled around in the chair and slid a new piece of paper out of the computer printer behind. Vicki set the pen down, puzzled. “What’s that?”
“A new page. I corrected a mistake you made. I noticed it when I read it earlier.”
“A mistake on Morty’s papers?” Vicki’s mouth went dry as Bale signed. “I proofread them a zillion times. What was wrong?”
“This.” Bale handed her the page across the desk, and Vicki looked at it. He had added a new signature line, left blank, and underneath the line, it read:
“For the United States: VICTORIA ALLEGRETTI.”
“Sign, please.” Bale handed the Montblanc across the desk.
Vicki felt herself tear up, then blinked it away.
“Better hurry and sign. We got some killers to catch.” Bale waved the pen, and Vicki took it.
“Does this mean it’s my case?”
“Absolutely.” Bale nodded, with a smile. “My sign-off is pro forma. I can’t think of anybody more deserving.”
“Thanks, Chief,” Vicki managed to say, and signed the complaint and warrant without crying all over it, which was a feat.
“I would let you handle it through indictment and trial, but we’ll need you as fact witness, describing what happened and making the ID of the shooter. You know you can’t do both, under the rules.”
“I know.” But Vicki could at least handle the initial appearance and work behind the scenes at trial. She gave the papers back to Bale. “Thanks.”
“Now shut up while I sign the rest.” Bale sat down and started reading, which gave Vicki time to recover her composure.
“I guess this means I keep my job?”
“Unfortunately. I can’t fire you now.” Bale didn’t look up from his reading. “I want you at the press conference.”
“Yay!” Vicki couldn’t help herself. Outside the window, the sun was rising and a new day dawning, but she was pretty sure it was a coincidence.