"Hello?" a woman answered, confusing Vicki for a second.

Of course, it was Mariella. She recognized the slight British inflection. Then Vicki heard masculine laughter in the background. Dan.

"Mariella, oh, hi. It's Vicki."

"Vicki, hey, you caught us at a bad time. A very bad time." There was more laughter, and Vicki realized that Mariella and Dan were in bed together. Dan was laughing, then Mariella started laughing. "No! No! Daniel, no tickling! Daniel!"

Vicki felt a wave of shame, then didn't know why. What was she ashamed of? That she was dying to talk to a married man? Yes, for starters. That he was at this moment making love to his wife? Yes, that too. That she would have traded beds in a minute? A trifecta!

"Daniel! Don't tickle!"

"Mariella, sorry, I should go," Vicki said, but Dan's deep voice came on the line, breathless.

"Vick, talk to you in the morning! Duty calls!"

She was about to say good-bye, but Dan had already hung up.

It left Vicki in her blue bedroom, alone except for the silence. She sat still for a minute, propped up by her pillows, trying to process what had just happened. Mariella must have taken a break and come home; she did that sometimes, at weird hours. Dan would have been delighted to see his wife, as he was for every drop of time she threw his way, as an afterthought or no.

He adores her, you idiot. Right now they're making love, five blocks away. GIVE IT UP, LOSER! YOU NEED A VIDEO?

Vicki stopped feeling sorry for herself, at least temporarily, and picked up the phone. There was work to do. She had made a mental list of all her credit cards and spent the next half hour getting each toll-free number from 1-800 information, then canceling the cards. She ordered a new ATM card, rush delivery, and she'd still have to get a new driver's license and DOJ creds. She sighed and lay back in the pillows, to devise a good lie to explain how they'd been lost. She closed her eyes against the lamplight. Her mind wandered and her thoughts flowed where they would. She was still for another minute, then she reached over and picked up the phone, dialed a number, and waited.

One ring, two rings, three rings, four. After five rings, the answering machine switched on and said:

"You have reached Grandmaster Bob Morton, and, yes, I am even better-looking than I sound. Please leave a message for me and The Commodores." The tape segued instantly into Morty's trademark song, "Brick House."

Vicki felt a wrenching deep within her chest. She listened to the song, then hung up, and dialed again. She did that four more times, and by the fifth time, she felt better just holding the receiver, listening to Morty, feeling connected to him, somehow. Tonight she didn't know what to do about his murder, but tomorrow she would. She had to. She couldn't help feeling she was on to something, and she couldn't leave it to the cops, ATF, or anyone else. Morty was her partner. Vicki hung on to the phone long after the song had finished, and when the tears came, she let them slide down her cheeks until she fell soundly asleep.

Rring! Rring! It was the telephone that woke Vicki up, her face stuffed in her pillow. She cracked a scratchy eye at her alarm clock. The red digital numbers read 8:15. She had slept in.

Rring! Rring! She pushed herself up from the bed and reached for the phone.

"Vick." Dan, his voice unusually grave. "You near a TV?"

"Uh, yes."

"Turn it on. Right now."

"Why? I'm asleep."

"Just do it."

Vicki reached for the remote on the nightstand and flicked on the TV, set to channel ten. Grisly images flickered across the screen: yellow crime scene tape, uniformed cops standing around a row house, a black van, and a low metal gurney on wheels, bearing a black body bag. In the next scene, a pretty blond reporter said:

"Arissa Bristow was found dead this morning of multiple stab wounds. The body was discovered in Mrs. Bristow's West Philadelphia home, and police have no suspects at the present time." Then the screen changed to a commercial for I Can't Believe It's Not Butter.

My God. The news stunned Vicki. She felt suddenly chilled in the bedroom and yanked the comforter from the bed, wrapping it around her naked form.

"Isn't Bristow your straw's last name?" Dan asked. "Think she's a relation?"

"It's her mother." Vicki muted the commercials, numb.

"Her mother killed, the night after Morty? Think it's a coincidence?"

Vicki couldn't answer. Her head was spinning, tangling her thoughts. Dan didn't know what had happened last night. She hadn't had the chance to tell him. She didn't know where to begin.

"Vick? You okay?"

"I met her, I was there," Vicki started to say, but she couldn't finish. I should have stayed with Mrs. Bristow. I should have made sure she got home safe. Her knees went weak, and she felt herself sinking down onto the bed in the comforter.

"Vick, what's going on?"

"I wish I knew."

"I'm coming over. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"You don't have to," Vicki said, but she was interrupted by the ringing of her doorbell downstairs, followed by a loud pounding on her front door. The sound frightened her, unaccountably. "There's someone at the door. I have to go."

"Vick?"

"Hold on." Vicki shed the comforter and looked around the room for something to put on. She felt more naked than she was. Something felt very wrong. Suddenly, events were getting ahead of her, out of control. The knocking pounded louder on the door. She had to get dressed. She had to go. "Dan?" she heard herself say.

"I'll be right over, baby," he answered, understanding instantly.

SEVENTEEN

Five minutes later, a scene was taking place that Vicki couldn't have imagined if she'd tried. Two Philly homicide detectives sat across from her on her couch, and against the front wall stood Chief Bale. He had shifted into official mode, unsmiling under his groomed mustache, his dark eyes a mixture of distance and disapproval. He wore his Saturday best, jeans and a black turtleneck under his camel-hair topcoat, but his manner was anything but casual. The cops sat on one side of the coffee table, Vicki sat on the other, and between them on the coffee table, in a clear plastic evidence bag, was her black Kate Spade wallet.

She'd felt almost physically sick when they'd set it down like a trump card. Next to it lay two smaller evidence bags, one that contained her green-and-white plastic library card and the other a curled-up white paper card, her membership to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Evidently, crack addicts wouldn't be seeing the new Manet exhibit. And if Vicki screwed up now, neither would she. She didn't know if Chief Bale was here as friend or foe, but you didn't have to be a former ADA to realize that the detectives were here to question her in connection with Mrs. Bristow's murder. The wallet made her a lead, if not a suspect.

"Your wallet was found on the body," the black detective said. His name was Albert Melvin, and he was young and attractive; clear brown eyes, a generous mouth, and a brawny build in a black leather jacket that seemed to retain the winter cold. He'd shaved his head completely, a macho look that struck Vicki as incongruous with his warm, if official, smile. She was guessing he'd taken the test only recently, because she didn't know him and he wasn't as dressed up as your standard Philly homicide detective. Detective Melvin gestured at his evidence array on the coffee table. "This is your wallet, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course."

"No money was in it. No credit cards, no driver's license. Just the membership card and the library card."

"I'm not surprised."

"How did Ms. Bristow get your wallet? Do you know?"