“What’d ya want ta drink?” she asked.
“ ’Course she wants a drink!” Bale shouted down the table, hoisting his glass. “Give her what I’m having, rum and Coke!”
“May I have a Diet Coke?” Vicki asked, turning to the waitress, but she was already gone. Instead, leaning over her, close enough to kiss, was Dan Malloy. He was whispering something when the room erupted with shouting.
“Malloy! Malloy! Where the hell you been?” Strauss yelled, and Bale joined in:
“You workin’ late again? Tryin’ make me look bad?”
“Malloy, you SUCK!” shouted a federal marshal whom Vicki recognized from the intramural football championship. “They can promote you, but you still SUCK!” The other marshals burst into laughter, then started chanting. “YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK!”
“Thank you, thank you!” Dan laughed, straightened up, and waved like a presidential candidate, as Vicki tried to figure out why he was standing there.
“Get your hairy ass over here, Malloy!” Saxon shouted, making a megaphone of his big hands. “I wanna hear that punch line!”
“Gimme a minute!” Dan shouted back, then leaned down again and slipped her his cell phone. “Reheema called. She’s fine and she wants you to call her back. Press one.” He straightened again quickly and wedged his way toward Saxon.
Surprised, Vicki got up with the cell phone and hurried toward the bar where she could hear, pressing one on the way. The call connected instantly; her new cell phone had been Dan’s number one speed dial. “Reheema?” she asked.
“Yo, you there?”
“Yes.” Vicki pressed her hand over her free ear. The noise from the dining room intensified as the chanting turned profane. The civilian couple left, laughing as they walked past Vicki on their way to the exit.
“I’m okay, I’m fine. Good work on Montgomery. Later, you have to tell me how you found out.”
“Sure. Why did you call Dan?” Vicki asked, confused.
“I had to. I couldn’t reach you at the office, and he was on your speed dial. Number one.”
Modern love. We used to be on each other’s speed dials.
“Listen, I have news, big news, but you need to be where I can talk to you.”
“I can talk here.” Vicki was watching Strauss and Bale, laughing. The marshals clustered around Dan and they were laughing, too, their entrees untouched in the revelry.
“Where are you? It sounds noisy.”
“It is. I’m at this dinner for work. It’s a little hard to hear.”
“Who’s there, at the dinner?”
“Everybody from work, the detectives, the mayor. What’s the difference?”
“Damn, girl! Hurry up and get yourself where you can hear me.”
“Okay.” Vicki walked farther away from the dining room into the empty bar. The bartender watched the Flyers on TV, but it was quieter. “Now it’s fine. What?”
“What I’m going to tell you, you have to stay calm. Don’t let it show. Keep a poker face.”
“What?” Vicki’s gut tensed. Through the doorway she could see Strauss still laughing with Bale, their heads bent together, and the marshals joking around with Dan. She looked away, to concentrate on what Reheema was saying.
“I found this neighbor who knew something, an old lady. Black. Her name is Dolores Cooper, and she lives alone, way down at the end of the block, across the street from Jackson. She doesn’t know Jackson, but here’s what happened.” Reheema was almost breathless with excitement. “Cooper loses her dog one night about a month ago, so she goes knockin’ on the neighbors’ doors, up and down the street, and she knocks on Jackson’s.”
“And?”
“It was late at night, around eleven o’clock. Cooper knocks and knocks on the door. Nobody answers it. But she sees the lights on and she hears people, so she keeps knockin’. Still no answer, but she sees the lights on and she’s buggin’ about her little Taco Bell dog.”
“Taco Bell dog?”
“The dog with the Spanish accent. The Taco Bell dog.”
“A Chihuahua?”
“Whatever. So she goes to the front window and looks inside the house, through an opening in the curtain.”
“Whoa.”
“I know, right? She looks inside the living room, and who does she see sitting there on the couch, inside Jackson’s house?”
“Who?”
“Chief Bale, from your office, and a white guy.”
What? Vicki couldn’t have heard Reheema right. She pressed the cell close enough to her ear to give herself a brain tumor.
“You there?”
“Say again, please,” Vicki said, her mouth dry.
“Cooper sees your boss! The black one, Chief Bale, and a white guy with him.”
No. “That’s not possible.”
“She’s sure of it.”
“How does she know it was him?”
“I showed her the front page of today’s paper, like you did yesterday. I was showing her Browning, and all of a sudden she points beside his picture to Bale. She knows Chief Bale. He was in Jackson’s house last month!”
“Couldn’t be. Who else’s picture is on the front page?”
“Wait a minute.” There was the sound of a newspaper rustling. “It’s today’s paper, Sunday. The page I showed her has Toner, the white van guy, and Browning and his driver, Cole. And Strauss and your boyfriend, Dan the Man. But she didn’t identify them. Only Bale.”
It couldn’t be. Not Bale. “Who is the white guy she saw?”
“She couldn’t see his face. She only could see the face of the black guy, Bale. He was closer to the window. They were both sitting on the couch.”
“She must be wrong. He would have said something the night Morty and Jackson were shot.”
“Vicki, Cooper identified the man. Didn’t even stop to think about it. Knew Bale right off. Said she remembered him because he was a very nice dresser. Fancy suit and tie. Mustache. Handsome. Looked like a rich man. Like a lawyer, she said.”
My God. It sounded exactly like Bale. Could it have been him? Did Bale know Jackson? Why hadn’t he said anything?
Vicki asked, “How good are her eyes? You said she was old.”
“Not that old. Sixty.”
“She wear glasses?”
“No.”
“Is she nuts?”
“No, she’s cranky.”
“Does she drink or do drugs?”
“Vicki, give it up. She saw Bale and a white guy, and she never got her Taco Bell dog back. She’ll never forget that night, she says. She loved the dog. She cried when she told me the story. I spent all afternoon with her.”
“What were they doing in the room, Jackson and the two men?”
“Talking.”
Something was very wrong at the office. Bale. The forgeries. Montgomery and Jackson. Were they connected? How?
Vicki asked, “Then what happened?”
“Cooper left. She felt all guilty when she found out Jackson was murdered. I think she feels worse about the dog, though.”
“Why didn’t she tell this to the cops?” Vicki asked, but she knew the reason.
“They didn’t interview her, and she was ashamed to admit she spied on the girl, anyway.”
“You have her address?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll have to talk to her. I want to verify it.”
Reheema scoffed. “Whatever, she’ll tell you the same thing.”
“Where are you?”
“On Jackson’s street, in your car.”
“Come home now. Keep moving. Montgomery’s out there somewhere.”
“It’ll take me two hours to get back to Center City, in this snow.”
“Good, call me when you’re close to the restaurant and you can pick me up. I’ll keep Dan’s phone with me, or try the restaurant.”
“Got it.”
“Reheema? Good work,” Vicki said, then hung up. She flipped the phone closed, her thoughts
and emotions in a tumult, and looked up. In the dining room, they were all laughing, joking, and launching into a chorus of “Danny Boy,” with Dan singing loudest of all:
“ ‘From glen to glen, and down the mountain side, The summer’s gone, and all the flowers are dying, ’Tis you, ’tis you must go and I must bide.’ ”
Vicki couldn’t go back into the room yet. She couldn’t believe it. She had always trusted Bale; she liked him the best of all the brass, and now he was going to be U.S. Attorney. What had he been doing in Jackson’s house? Who was the white guy? What, if anything, did any of it have to do with Montgomery? Had Bale forged those signatures, and why? Vicki didn’t have any answers, but she couldn’t get them standing here. She steeled herself and went back into the party, with Chief Bale and a roomful of white guys.
They were all singing with Dan, “ ‘But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow, Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow, ’Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow, Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.’ ”
Ouch. Vicki met Dan’s eye, then looked away.
So be it.
FORTY-SIX
Vicki took her seat and faked a smile as Bale rose and started singing “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” which brought more laughter from the crowd. Beer and wine flowed freely, and the entrees were forgotten. The waitresses arrived with acute triangles of cherry cheesecake and set the desserts in front of each seat, whether occupied or not; obviously the staff wanted to end this meal quickly and close the restaurant because of the storm. Vicki wished them luck; she had seen this floor show at the Christmas party. It started in Ireland and ended in Motown.
Bale led the singing, into a knife microphone, “ ‘Sure ’tis like the morn in Spring, In the lilt of Irish laughter, you can hear the angels sing.’ ”
Vicki plastered her smile in place and sipped the Coke that had been put beside her plate. Rum. Ugh. She sipped it because she felt thirsty and watched the action, thinking. She couldn’t bring herself to accept that Bale knew Jackson, but she couldn’t imagine why else he’d be there, only a month ago. Did Bale have something to do with framing Reheema? And who was the white guy? Could it be someone else from the office? The thought stunned her. But what was the connection to Montgomery and the forgeries?
While Bale sang, Vicki reasoned it out, thinking aloud to herself, if such a thing were possible. Bale could have been the one who gave Montgomery the sweet plea deal and forged the other signatures. He still handled some cases himself, so it was at least possible. That would mean that he knew Montgomery. But it didn’t mean that he had anything to do with Montgomery killing Reheema’s mother, or Reheema, did it? Of course not. But why forge the signatures? Why hide the plea agreement in the To Be Filed bin? Why lose the rest of the federal file on Montgomery?
At the front of the room, Strauss looped an arm around Bale, and they segued into their Motown medley, though instead of “Ooh Baby Baby,” they went with “My Guy,” to surging laughter.
Vicki analyzed the events separately, to determine if they were connected. One, a month ago, Bale was meeting with the only witness against Reheema, who would frame her on the straw purchase case, and two, almost a year ago, he gave a plea deal to a man who would eventually kill Reheema’s mother and maybe Reheema.
Vicki blinked. The nexus could be Reheema. Did Bale have something against Reheema? Some reason to want her convicted for a straw purchase, and later, even dead? What was going on? Vicki resisted the conclusion. What was she thinking? That Bale put Jackson up to framing Reheema and he hired Montgomery to kill her?
Am I nuts? Vicki felt suddenly light-headed and sipped her watery rum and Coke, watching the crowd get rowdier and sing their way through the entire Motown catalog. They tried to get her to join in, but she waved them off, aware that Dan was watching her from the front of the room. She had his cell phone in her purse; she’d give it to him later. She picked at the cheesecake, but it didn’t help. She shouldn’t have had the rum, and pushed the drink away.
She tried to plan, despite her attack of nausea and/or disillusionment. The most prudent thing would be to wait until she interviewed Cooper, then after she had all the facts, to approach Bale to see if he lied, then trap him. A typical cross-examination. What was it Justice Holmes had said? Cross-examination was the engine of truth. But she couldn’t think of Justice Holmes, Bale, or Mystery White Guy right now. Her stomach was iffy. She needed to wash her face, to feel better.
She got up, left the room, and went to the bar. On TV, the Flyers were losing and the bartender wasn’t there, and Vicki walked past the barstools and downstairs to the ladies’ room, which was a grimy single bathroom in the basement. She washed her face and dried it with toilet paper, because Angelo’s had only those stupid air hand driers, then she assessed herself in the mirror. Her eyes were a tired blue, her hair was finally dry but hung in black waves, and her lip gloss was long gone. But her stomach felt a little better. She went back upstairs and crossed the bar area. The bartender was still gone and the TV was on, and Vicki glanced back at the screen. And gasped.
On the TV, the familiar red banner read LIVE — BREAKING NEWS, under a dark shot of a snowy city backstreet and a white Cabrio, cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. The Cabrio’s driver’s-side door hung open, and dark stains splattered the beige interior of the door. Blood. The screen switched to a view from the back of the Cabrio. In the back window was a crimson H and an Avalon bumper sticker. Vicki felt as if her heart stopped. It was her car.
Reheema.
The voice-over said, “An attempted carjacking leaves one dead on a side street in the Greater Northeast tonight. Chopper Six was first on the scene with this exclusive footage.”
No. Reheema. Montgomery had killed her and made it look like a carjacking. Vicki gripped the bar for support.
The voice-over continued, “The dead man has been identified as David Montgomery of West Philadelphia.”
What? Montgomery, dead?
“An eyewitness told police that the carjacking victim was the driver of the VW Cabrio, an unidentified woman, who was stopped at a stop sign when the man allegedly jumped from a car behind her, opened her car door, and attempted to forcibly remove her from her car, ultimately shooting her.”
Reheema.
“The victim fired back, killing Montgomery with one shot. She has been taken to University of Pennsylvania Hospital, and police report that she suffered gunshot wounds to the stomach and is in critical condition.”
Reheema, in critical condition.
The TV screen switched to a weather story, and Vicki watched numbly as a male announcer in a station-logo windbreaker stuck the clichéd yardstick into a snowbank. She felt stunned. Disoriented. Unhinged. The news seemed almost surreal, but the attack on Reheema was proof positive. The killer was Montgomery. Reheema had been shot and could die. Vicki should go to the hospital but she couldn’t leave here, not the way she felt right now. She had something to do. She wasn’t waiting another minute. Damn prudence, politics, and even Justice Holmes.
FORTY-SEVEN
Bale was talking to the office’s PR lady, standing near the edge of the singing group, now led by Strauss, who was warbling “Tracks of My Tears” with the police commissioner and the mayor himself. The federal marshals formed a separate group, segueing into “Uncle John’s Band,” for an impromptu battle of the bands. Dan must have been somewhere in the center of the marshals group, because Vicki didn’t see him. She made a beeline for Bale.
“I need to talk to you right now,” Vicki whispered in his ear, curling her fingers around the sleeve of his tailored jacket.
“I didn’t know you cared,” Bale joked, liquor on his breath. He permitted Vicki to lead him out of the dining room and into the bar, which was still empty, and they stopped near the front door. Bale wavered slightly, clearly the result of rum and Coke. His brown eyes looked shiny, his skin greasy, and his white cutaway collar was uncharacteristically unbuttoned, with his silk
tie hanging.
“Reheema Bristow was just shot by David Montgomery. She killed him.”
“I don’t understand.” Bale blinked slowly, the effects of alcohol or bad acting.
“You’re not that drunk, Chief. You know who David Montgomery is. You handed him the deal of the century. You forged Dan’s and Strauss’s names on the agreement to make it look kosher. And I can’t believe this, even as I say it, but you sent Montgomery to kill Reheema. To finish the job he started with her mother.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bale’s gaze shifted nervously to the dining room, but he didn’t seem outraged or even confused, which confirmed Vicki’s worst suspicions.
“You were in Shayla Jackson’s house a month ago. I have an eyewitness. It was late at night, in her living room, you and a white guy.”
Bale’s face fell abruptly, his forehead creased. He met Vicki’s eye and his lips parted slightly; for the first time since Vicki had known him, he wasn’t controlling the situation.
“Tell me what’s going on, right now, Chief. The truth, or I’m taking you to the commissioner this minute.”
“Hold on, it’s not what you think, Vick. Come with me, I’ll explain everything.” Bale took her arm and, before she knew it, he was tugging her outside the restaurant and under the tiny roof over the entrance. Snow fell softly, and the back street was deserted, all the shops closed. Vicki worried for a minute that she wasn’t safe, but the entire law enforcement community was on the other side of the door. Bale touched her arm gently. “Relax, Vick, it isn’t what it looks like. Calm down.”
“I can’t calm down. Reheema was shot, Chief. Did you—”
“Okay, let me explain.” Bale’s expression was soft, his brown eyes urgent in the yellowish lights over the restaurant entrance. “I’m trusting you to keep this to yourself. It can all blow over, it’s almost blown over already.”
“What is? What are you saying?”
“Project Clean Sweep, remember? Strauss’s push to get guns off the street. Started last year, before you came. Big success. I had a lotta pressure on me to get convictions. Pressure from Strauss, pressure from the media.” Bale stepped closer, lowering his voice needlessly, and Vicki smelled the rum that was undoubtedly loosening his tongue. “You know the reports the gun dealers make, of the multiple purchasers. I took a little shortcut, paid some folks to say they knew the people on the reports and that they resold the guns. Reheema was on the list.”