"I didn't think so. Either way, it's a lawsuit that could result in liability for you personally. Meeting with a defendant is within the scope of your official duties, but trying to kill one is not."

"You're not backing me?"

"Of course not." Bale's brown eyes went hard, like chocolate cooling. "You had no business setting up a proffer meeting, or a meeting of any kind, when you knew you had no case. There's just no excuse for it. What were you thinking?"

Gulp. "It was my last chance. I was gonna let her go after that."

"You shoulda dropped those charges first thing this morning. What did you use for a proffer letter?"

"The old one in the file."

"So Strauss's signature is on it? Strauss will love that, that's great." Bale pursed his lips under his mustache. "He talked with PR and they're press-releasing it. The media knows you were at the scene last night, and the press release sets forth your very sincere apology and explains that you were upset over the murder of an ATF case agent you knew very well. I dropped the charges against Bristow and she'll be released from the FDC by tonight."

No. "She knows those shooters, Chief."

"Melendez told me she denied all of it, and he believed her."

"Gimme a break. He's a man, and she's hot." Vicki felt her bile rising. "Chief, obviously, there's a connection between Bris-tow and the CI. The CI volunteered to testify against her, apparently out of the blue. I told you, there's a memo in the file."

"That's what you're pinning this theory on, a memo in the file? That's why you attacked a defendant and her lawyer?"

Not her lawyer, but never mind. "My CI gets shot a few days before she's going to testify and she's my whole case. It can't be a coincidence. There has to be a link."

"Melendez says you were out of control. He said that you have a big mouth for such a small woman, which I can vouch for."

"Thanks."

"Don't be a smartass. You need representation. Understand?"

"Understood." No lawyer would take this case without a five-thousand-dollar retainer, half of Vicki's savings. Her father would represent her for free, but then she'd have to tell him the truth, which was unprecedented.

"The locals are all over us now. We need good relations with the Roundhouse. I don't have to tell you that, do I? Don't make me sorry I convinced Strauss not to can your ass."

"I'm not fired?" Vicki felt her throat catch with gratitude.

"Suspended without pay, for a week." Bale rubbed his smooth forehead irritably. Rumor had it he was getting Botox injections, but Vicki would never again spread that around.

"Thanks, Chief."

"The only reason he gave it to me was that you won last month in Edwards. I went to bat for you because I know why you did it. You reacted emotionally. You were close with Morty."

Morty. Vicki looked away. A pale sun ray filtered through the windows of the corner office, landing on the electroplated plaques, etched crystal bowls, and hunk-of-acrylic awards. Black office manuals and rule books filled the shelves lining the wall.

"Hey, look at me," Bale said, and Vicki did. "I'm responsible for you now. One step out of line, and I don't go to bat for you again. You're still new here. Watch your step. We're not fast and loose, like the D.A.'s office. You got it?"

"Yes, Chief."

"Good." Bale's voice returned almost to normal. "Melendez also told Strauss you asked Bristow about some names. Jay or something. Teeg. You gave those names to the Philly detectives last night, didn't you?"

"Of course." Vicki had. She wasn't even lying.

"And to ATF, too?"

"Yes."

"So you're not completely crazy."

"No, not completely."

"It's Friday. Morty's memorial service will be on Monday. You will attend, then take the week off without pay. If anyone from Homicide calls you to look at a photo array, you'll go, but that's it. Be back at your desk on Monday and start redeeming yourself."

"What about my cases? I have a suppression hearing in Welton on Tuesday."

"I'll reassign it, and Malloy will watch your desk while you're away. Now get outta my sight." Bale's phone rang but he let the secretary get it. "Don't stop at your office, just go home and stay home. No talking to the press, and no more shenanigans."

"Okay, Chief. Thanks again."

Vicki left the office and closed the door behind her. She walked down the hall to her office, and when she turned the corner, the secretaries were standing up at their desks and behind them AUSAs were coming out of their offices.

And all of them were clapping.

Vicki said thanks to everyone, taking only her coat from her office. She didn't need anything else from it anyway. She had the Bristow file in her briefcase.

And she knew just where she was going.

NINE

Vicki hurried through the crowded parking lot and checked her watch on the run: 12:45. She wrapped her old down coat closer and reached the concrete entrance to the medical examiners', just as an older African-American woman was leaving. Her gray head was bowed in grief and she carried a wad of Kleenex in her hand. Vicki felt a pang of sympathy and realized that she wasn't too late after all. Shayla Jackson's mother had been due here to identify the body at noon, and the grieving woman had to be she.

Mrs. Jackson walked with another older black woman supporting her elbow, though the woman was struggling with two large purses, a canvas bag stuffed with red yarn, a folded newspaper, and a plastic-covered library book. Vicki felt vaguely like a vulture as she swooped down on the forlorn pair, reaching them just as one of the leather purses fell to the parking lot, pebbled with city grit and rock salt. Vicki scooped up the handbag before both women toppled over.

"Got it," Vicki called out, restoring the bag to the friend.

"Thank you, thank you so much." Mrs. Jackson looked at her with gratitude and managed a sweet smile, though tears pooled in her reddened eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses. Up close, she looked about eighty years old, with sparse hair the hue of sterling silver and deep fissures for crow's-feet and laugh lines on dry, ashy skin.

"Yes, thank you," the other woman chimed in. "It's hard to carry all these things. I should have thrown away my newspaper, but I didn't get a chance to read it yet."

"I understand." Vicki held on to Mrs. Jackson, who leaned lightly on her arm. The woman couldn't have weighed one hundred and ten, including her coat. "Are you okay, ma'am?"

"Yes, I guess. I'm so tired. I had to… I just had to…"

Her friend supplied: "Her daughter was murdered."

Vicki couldn't hide the ball another minute. She introduced herself and asked, "Aren't you Ms. Jackson, Shayla Jackson's mother?"

"Why, yes." Her wet brown eyes fluttered in surprise. "Well, not exactly, I'm her auntie." She pronounced it awn-tee.

"Well, it's nice to meet you."

"I'm her Auntie Tillie. Mrs. Tillie Bott. Mr. Bott passed away in 1989. Shayla used to call me Auntie Tillie but now she calls me Tillie, or Mama Tillie." Ms. Bott seemed disoriented, understandable under the circumstances. "Shayla was the neighbor lady's girl, but the neighbor run off. I raised her as my own, after my children were grown."

"That was kind of you," Vicki said, touched, but Mrs. Bott shook her head, wobbly.

"Not at t'all. That child gave me more than I ever gave her. She was just so sweet-"

The friend interjected, "How did you know who Tillie was?"

"I'm an assistant U.S. Attorney. I was going to meet with Shayla last night when she was killed." Vicki noticed Mrs. Bott's hooded eyes widen and she softened her voice. "Shayla told me that she had important information for me on a case, so my partner and I went over to her house. It was my partner who was killed with her."