Lisa Scottoline - Devil's corner

"I don't feel like a party. I'm going to the Philly detectives with this."

"Those detectives, Melvin and the other one? They'll be at Angelo's, too." Dan stood up with a final sigh, regarding her as if from a distance. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "So now what, babe? You gonna come to the dinner and make a big scene? Wave a plea agreement around and scream about forgery?"

"Why not, Dan?" Vicki gestured at the dark window. "Re-heema's out there and this guy is loose. What if he tries to finish the job and kill her? Am I supposed to forget about that? Go out and have a few drinks?"

"There's a time and a place for everything, and the dinner tonight would be neither the time nor the place."

"Is everything about politics with you?"

"I'll ignore that, too, because I know you're upset." Dan bore down, his voice calm and steady. "But please, I'm asking you, don't do this tonight, not there. They'll never forget it. You'll end your career. It's suicide."

"No, Dan. It's murder." Vicki turned on her heel, with the file.

Before she left for the restaurant, Vicki stopped by her office to call Reheema. Her cell rang and rang, then her voicemail picked up again and she left another message: "Reheema, it's getting dark and I'm worried about you. Call me as soon as you get this." Vicki stopped herself. Reheema had her cell, so where could she call her? Angelo's was the office's go-to restaurant, around the corner. "In five minutes, I'll be at a restaurant, Angelo's." Vicki gave Reheema the address and phone number, which she knew from ordering takeout all the time. "Call me there and we'll-"

Beep , the voicemail stopped. Her message box must be full. Vicki hung up, frustrated. She had to get going. She grabbed the plea agreement, folded it, and stuck it in her purse; there was plenty of room now that she'd left the gun at home. Then she went to the door, plucked her down coat from the hook, and hurried out of the office.

By the time Vicki hit the sidewalk, the sky was dark and the new snow reached almost the top of her boots. The air wasn't as bitter cold as it had been before the storm, and snow fell steadily, more bits of ice than cornflake flurries, visible only under the streetlights, shaken from the sky like common salt. She hustled down Chestnut Street, which sat under a foot of newfallen snow and was deserted except for an empty SEPTA bus churning past, its tires dropping caked white zigzags formed by its treads.

Everybody was staying home tonight, waiting to see what the storm would bring, and Vicki felt approximately the same way. She didn't have any choice but to do what she was going to do. If it ended her career, so be it. If she lost the man she loved, then that would have to be, too. Hurrying along in the cold, kicking snow sparkling in the streetlight, she reflected that she'd never taken a stand with so much on the line. Even fighting with her father over her job didn't qualify. In the end, Strauss and Bale had been right; this was the bigs. Vicki bent her head against the storm and hurried ahead.

The sidewalk in front of Angelo's had been shoveled, but with two feet of snowbank lying around the entrance, the place seemed more bunker than restaurant. Vicki wiped wet hair from her face, pulled on the heavy door, and went inside, where she was greeted by the smells of Rolling Rock on tap, slow-cooked tomato sauce, and filthy red rug. Angelo's Ristorante was an Olive Garden without the health code compliance, and Vicki could never understand why the U.S. Attorney's Office had adopted the dump. Not that it mattered tonight. At least it was warm.

She walked into the small entrance room, actually a dark bar with a greasy counter, which was empty tonight except for the bartender watching ice hockey on the TV. Vicki nodded hello to him and followed the noise level to the back, which was hopping. Three long, red-checkered tables had been set up and the seats filled by everyone who had been at the meeting the other day, but now they were wearing casual dress and mixed drinks. Strauss sat happily at the head of the center table, talking with the mayor on his right, their animated expressions illuminated by candles flickering in thick yellow bowls. Bale sat next to him, chatting up the deputy mayor, and lawyers from the city solicitors, joking around with the office's public relations lady. Filling out the rest of the long table were other AUSAs and some recent alums, including Jim Cavanaugh, who caught Vicki's eye and winked.

The table on the far left was ATF and FBI; Chief Saxon raised a glass beer mug, along with the top tier of FBI and ATF agents, and a group of federal marshals, all laughing and talking. The table on the right was headed by the police commissioner, in shirt and tie, and the seats occupied by his deputies, a few favored beat cops in uniform, and at the far end, Detective Melvin and his taciturn partner with the golf windbreaker, whose name Vicki kept forgetting. A civilian couple sat at a red-checkered table along the paneled wall, but the smallish, square room was otherwise dominated by law enforcement. Dan was nowhere in sight, and she tried not to care. Her mission was to get Bale's ear in this crowd, then Detective Melvin's.

"Allegretti!" Strauss called out, gesturing to her. "Siddown and dry off! Have a drink!"

"The Vickster!" Bale waved at her with a broad smile, then resumed his conversation with the deputy mayor.

Vicki wiped her hair back again and dripped her way to the table, where the only seat was at the near end, so she took it, sliding out of her coat and purse and hanging them on the back of her chair. She would have to wait to make her move because dinner had just been served. Sheets of eggplant parmigiana, oval plates of fried calamari, huge bowls of meatballs and penne pasta covered the table, and a young waitress materialized and plunked an empty dinner plate in front of Vicki.

"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.