Lisa Scottoline - Devil's corner

"Yeah, I'm back."

"I'm okay, but I have real bad news."

"I'm all ears," Vicki said, her gaze on the closed door.

"What's the bad news?" Vicki asked.

"Mar's dead."

"No." Vicki looked out the window, a black, moonless square that reflected her own unhappiness. There were no stars again. "How?"

"Drug overdose. Crack."

Whoa . "That's terrible. For her and for us."

"I know, right?"

"When?"

"July."

"Last summer. How'd you find out?"

"Long story short, I canvassed the street and got nowhere. Nobody knows Jackson, nobody sees her. Then I remember that lady near Jackson's house, who said their landlord was Polo Realty in Juniata, so I call their offices and go there."

"Good for you."

"I asked can I see the lease, I was Jackson's cousin and maybe I would rent the place, to keep her memory alive."

"And he bought that?"

"He's white. He thinks black people got some weird ways."

Vicki laughed.

"He's right. Look at Michael Jackson. Man's a freak."

"Okay." Vicki laughed again. Despite the bad news, Reheema was evidently flushed with success, and one of them needed self-esteem right now.

"Well, Jackson signed the lease, but the deposit check, for the earnest money, was from a Martella Jenkins." "Mar." "Right, and her address was right on the check." "Yes! Where does she live, or did she live?" "Northeast, so I went over. By the way, that Cabrio's a nice car." "You're not getting the Cabrio." Vicki smiled. "The Intrepid has your name all over it."

Reheema chuckled. "Anyway, her brother told me how she died. He didn't know Jackson, though. He just got back from the army. Been gone five years."

"Great work!" "Thank you, thank you." "Where are you now?" "Still in the Northeast, 'bout an hour away." "Perfect. Pick me up at the office, will you?" "Oh, sure. Driving Miss Vicki." "Gimme a break. Also, I think you should stay at my house tonight." "No way," Reheema said, and hung up.

By eleven o'clock, after a short but intense car ride, they arrived at Vicki's house, but they were barely speaking. Vicki trundled downstairs with a sheet, a thermal blanket, and a feather-filled pillow, while Reheema sulked on a chair in the living room. Zoe rubbed against the leg of her jeans, her tortoiseshell tail curled into a question mark.

"Here we go," Vicki said, hitting the living room. "I'll make up the couch. It'll be nice and comfy." "I want to sleep in my own house."

"Somebody could be trying to kill you. Namely, me." Vicki dumped the bedclothes on the coffee table.

"This is dumb."

"It is not."

"It is, too."

"I'm taking no chances."

"If somebody's gonna kill me, they could kill me here. This way, you're in trouble, too."

Eek . "Nobody can hurt you with a tiny but very potent AUSA like me on guard." Vicki looked at Zoe, who blinked, green-eyed. "Also, a cat with a heart problem."

"I want my gun."

"No." Vicki made a mental note to take the gun from her purse and put it in a drawer upstairs. She couldn't get it through the metal detectors at work; they kept confiscating it at security and giving it back to her. Evidently she wasn't the first AUSA to be carrying, but it was a huge pain in the butt and was making her nervous, besides.

Reheema got up, grabbed a white sheet, and helped Vicki tuck it around the couch cushions, a task they finished jointly, albeit in silence.

"You still pouting?"

"Yes."

"Sorry." Vicki smiled and sat down on the couch, newly made. "You did well today."

"I know."

"I think what you found out fleshes out what happened to Shayla, if you're interested."

"More thinking out loud?" Reheema sat back down on the chair, in resignation, if not approval.

"Well, you said that Mar was killed last summer. That's about when Jackson's mother told me she decided to change her life. That would make sense, right?"

"Right."

"Okay, so let's assume Jackson dabbles in crack, and-"

"You don't dabble in crack. It dabbles in you."

"What I mean is that Jackson is running with a druggie crowd, and her boyfriend is Browning, ace crack dealer. He moves her into a nice place and sets her up."

"Knocks her up, too."

"I hate that expression."

"Sorry, Miss Vicki."

Vicki smiled. "Okay, anyway. Then she gets pregnant and realizes that she has to keep her body clean and change her life. Or she'll end up like her friend Mar, or her baby will."

"People wake up." Reheema nodded. "Not often enough, but they do. Some do."

"So? So what? We learned more about Jackson, but not enough. Or enough to know why she'd frame you, as part of her rehab. Her calling our office would have happened about the same time." Vicki sighed, her fatigue catching up with her, as well as nagging thoughts about Dan. "The problem is, what do we do now? We're at a dead end."

"Not necessarily. I still got people to canvass. Lots of people weren't home today. I'll go back again tomorrow and talk to the ones I missed. They'll be home because I heard it's gonna snow again tomorrow, so everybody'll be hunkering down."

"Were they nearby neighbors?"

"Not really, but you never know. I never quit a race, and I won't start now."

Vicki smiled. "Okay, good. Because I have to go back to work."

"No problem, I'll keep the car and the phone. If you call, leave a message. I got the code."

"Done."

Reheema scratched the top of Zoe's multicolored head. "Did Dan the Man say anything about my mother?"

"He already talked to the U.S. Attorney, who's gonna talk to the commissioner himself."

"When's that gonna happen?"

"I think today or tomorrow."

"Thanks." Reheema paused. "I didn't bother Bethave today, as much as I wanted to."

"Good restraint."

"Not at all. I figured it'd only make her run. She has to think we let it go." Reheema half-smiled. "I'll take the couch."

"No, I will."

"What if Dan the Man comes home and finds me in your bed?"

"He won't." Vicki gave a short laugh, and Reheema cocked her head.

"Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise?"

"Not really. Well, maybe a little."

"Like what?"

Vicki couldn't decide how much to tell her. "He wants me to behave myself, is all."

"Ha! Then he better come get his damn cat," Reheema said, and burst into laughter.

A minute later, so did Vicki.

Even though she knew it was completely lame, Vicki got up early the next morning and spent way too long trying to look hot for her estranged boyfriend, blow-drying her hair and putting on her best jeans and blue cashmere sweater. Reheema dropped her off at work on her way to canvassing, and Vicki stepped off the elevator at eight o'clock into an empty elevator bank; by the time she got to reception, she realized that the media, staff, and curiosity-seekers wouldn't be in today, only the hardworking, fully committed, blown-dry AUSAs. Like me!

Vicki waved to the one receptionist, who buzzed her in without a thumbs-up, and she went down the hallway, which was also empty. She braced herself and popped her head into Dan's office, but he wasn't at his desk, though his light was on. Fine. Be that way.

She had work to do and couldn't mope around forever. She went to her office with a cup of fresh Starbucks, took off her coat, pushed up her sweater sleeves, and closed her door so she wouldn't be tempted to look up and see if Dan was there. The night's sleep had brought no change in perspective on their fight; in other words, she still knew she was right and he was wrong. But she missed him.

She sat down at her desk, finished her grand jury script, then started on the other witnesses. The medical examiner, Dr. Soresh, would have to testify, and Vicki looked through her mound of mail for his report, which had come in last week. She found a thick brown envelope with the familiar seal and braced herself. Autopsy reports were always awful to read; she'd start with Jackson's and move on to Morty's only when she felt strong enough. All she had to do was get the basics from each: official cause of death, number and location of entrance and exit wounds, to sketch the case for the grand jury.