"Wrong. You didn't read the statute. It's in the definitions section, right up front." Dan folded his arms. "You gonna say it or not?"

"Okay, thanks." "You're very welcome." Vicki tried to buck up, and started liking Dan again. Or loving him, as the case may be. "I'm just sad, is all." "I know. Me, too." They started walking again. "They're not moving fast enough. I mean, did you see it in there? All that brass? Morty almost gets lost in the process." "No, he doesn't. They care." "But they need to get moving! Washington? It's a murder case, not a Senate hearing. So will they keep us posted?" "Bale said he'd give you a call when the suits leave." "Good, I need a paycheck." Vicki shook her head. "Am I off suspension yet, did Bale say?" "No." "Argh!"

They reached the Cabrio, and Dan put a hand on her shoulder. "Take it easy, sweetie."

"I have no choice." Vicki dug in her purse for her car keys. "So what about my cases?"

"I got your back. Chin up." Dan gentled her chin upward with a cold hand. "By the way, what did you think of my speech, in there?"

"It was great."

"Thanks. It wasn't easy." Dan appraised her, his eyes ice-blue in the bright sun, the pupils telescoped to pinpoints. "You gonna be okay, Vick?"

"Yes. You?"

"I've had better days." Dan checked his watch, then frowned. "I gotta go."

Vicki unlocked the Cabrio door. "Give her my best," she said, but when she turned back, Dan had already taken off.

Leaving Vicki alone with her questions.

And her impatience.

TWENTY-FIVE

By noon on Monday, Vicki had done everything possible to get her life back to normal. She had cleaned her house, paying special attention to the rooms that the cops had upended, then went out to buy a new cell phone and get groceries. When she came home, she organized her closet, worked out on the elliptical, and finally pasted her hair with a conditioning "masque" that made it greasier than ever. She ran for the telephone every time it rang because she thought it would be Dan or Jim Delaney, which it wasn't.

She sat now at the kitchen table, ignoring half of a turkey sandwich, sucking down another cup of coffee, and paging idly though the newspaper. It was all murder all the time, and she closed the page. It had stopped snowing, leaving a foot on the ground, so she and the Holloway kids had a snow day. Only one of them was happy about it. It wasn't easy to sit around and leave important matters to federal agencies, especially the investigation of Morty's murder. Vicki was in mourning, with a side order of cabin fever. She hadn't spoken to another human being in a whole day, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd convicted anybody.

Her new cell phone lay beside her, and she gave in, picked it up, and flipped it open. She called Dan at the office, but he was in court, so she left her new cell number. Then she thought about it. She didn't have to be so passive with the very single Mr. Delaney. She called the D.A.'s office, but he was out, so she left a message with a receptionist who was too new to know her. Who else could she call?

She looked out the bright kitchen window. Bare tree branches swayed in the bitter wind. She had two good girlfriends from law school, both married, but one had had a baby and left the world, and the other, Susan Schwartz, was in-house counsel at Cigna. Vicki called Susan but she was on vacation. As a last resort, she called her parents, but they were in a meeting, so she left her new cell number with the receptionist. Then she was fresh out of people to not reach, so she ate the turkey sandwich and stared at the discarded newspaper, reading beneath the fold. Which was when she saw it.

And ran upstairs to get dressed.

Vicki entered the room and sank unnoticed into an empty chair in the last row. The wake was completely different from Morty's, as the crime scene had been completely different from Morty's. The funeral home was in the city, not the suburbs. The viewing room wasn't large and well-decorated, but small and shabby, with a dark navy-blue rug that had been worn almost threadbare at the door, where Vicki lingered. Lemon-scented Glade, not flowers, perfumed the air, and only two bouquets of red roses flanked the plain casket, which was mercifully closed, of course. And instead of being crowded, only a handful of people were in attendance, leaving rows of empty brown folded chairs. Vicki counted six mourners, including Reheema.

The mourners faced the front of the room, and there was no representative of the funeral home in sight. Reheema sat alone in the front row, her head bowed, her dark hair smoothed into a tiny, stiff ponytail. She wore a black dress and black flats. In the row behind Reheema sat five women, all older African-American women, dressed in heavy coats and small velvet hats. They looked like the church ladies that Vicki had expected Mrs. Bristow to be, or perhaps used to be.

Vicki felt a twinge of guilt. She didn't know if she should be here. She didn't know if she had a right. She'd come because she'd felt she had to pay her final respects to a woman whose murder she might have caused. It was the least she could do; it was the beginning of setting it right, which she hoped would end with convicting the killer. She would stay for Mrs. Bristow.

But her gaze remained on Reheema. It was only thirty feet to the front of the room, and Vicki could see Reheema's shoulders shaking just the slightest bit. Was she crying for the mother she had spoken so cruelly of?

Of course.

So Vicki wasn't the only one who had mixed feelings about her parents. She flashed on the scene at Morty's funeral, when Dan had gotten upset and Mariella had comforted him. If Reheema was crying, no one was consoling her. The church ladies were talking among themselves, off to the side. Reheema sat alone in her grief.

Like me.

Vicki squirmed in the hard chair. She felt an unrealistic urge to go sit with Reheema, though she knew it was out of the question. Reheema would have her thrown out. Or shot on sight. Instead, Vicki stayed put, bowed her head, and said a prayer. But when she looked up, Reheema was walking down the aisle on the side of the room, tears streaking her cheeks. Her wet eyes flared a bloodshot red when she spotted Vicki.

"I'm leaving," Vicki said preemptively, rising to bolt, and Reheema grabbed her upper arm, propelling her toward the exit door.

"You're damn right you are. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to pay my respects to your mother."

"Get out of my life." Reheema pulled her to the front door and yanked it open with her free hand. Brutal cold slapped them both in the face, and Reheema's eyes narrowed against the chill. "Go. You got no business here."

"If it's any comfort, I made progress on her killer."

"I don't need comfort from you." Reheema shoved her through the open door, where Vicki turned, suddenly resentful.

"You know, you could show a little interest."

"I'm not interested."

"In your mother? The one you're crying over?" The words came out more harshly than Vicki intended, but she might never get another chance. She softened her tone. "I'm sorry, it's just that I'm so close, I could get to the bottom of this, if you helped me."

"Helped you?" Reheema's lips parted in disbelief and she forgot her tears. "Why would I help you?"

"It's not about me and you. It's about your mother and my partner. I think their murders are connected. I found out it was Jamal Browning who supplied the store on Cater Street. He was Shayla Jackson's boyfriend."

"Gimme a break."

"And even though you don't know these players, I think you might have something to do with it."

"Me? I was in the FDC, thanks to you."

"I didn't buy her the guns. You did."

"You tellin' me I killed my own mother?" Reheema blinked, angering, and Vicki shook her head.