"No, but you're the only link I know of between these events and people. You. You could help me. If we work together, Reheema, we can figure it out." The words came pouring out before Vicki realized what she was proposing. This time she was thinking out loud before her enemy, which was even dumber than doing it before your boss. "I can't do it alone anymore. I stick out like a white thumb in your neighborhood. But you wouldn't."

"You're so full of it!" Reheema tried to close the door, but Vicki stuck her navy pump in it.

"I'm asking you to think about it."

"Think about what?" Reheema closed the door on Vicki's foot, where Ruby the Insane Corgi had chewed. It might be time to retire her shoe, if not her toes.

"Think about helping me find her killer. She was a beautiful woman once, and she loved you. She raised you. Somebody got you to school."

"I walked."

"I saw the picture of her, with the Penn Relays van."

Reheema pushed harder on the door. From inside the funeral home, an older man in a dark suit was rushing to assist her, followed by a clutch of church ladies.

"The woman who drove you in that van is the woman you're crying for." Time was running out, so Vicki made her final pitch. "Show her the respect she deserves. Bury her, then call me." She edged away from the door, then hurried into the cold night, her pumps clattering on the sidewalk.

When Vicki got home, she checked her messages. Dan had called back on the home phone, telling her not to bother calling back, which she knew was code for Mariella's-home-now-so-don't-call. He hadn't called on her new cell though he'd had the number, which meant that he wanted credit for returning her call, but didn't actually want to talk to her.

Definitely have to get over him.

Vicki pressed the button for the next message but there wasn't any. She checked the message machine for a call from Delaney; no messages, just a big, red, digital zero. She hoped the moment hadn't passed. She skipped dinner, discouraged, and climbed the stairs, undressed, and went to bed, where she barely slept. She didn't know what had come over her at the funeral home, shouting at someone who had just lost her mother, and she doubted that Reheema would call.

Which was why she was surprised when the phone rang.

TWENTY-SIX

The next morning, Vicki drove streets still being plowed and salted, in traffic lighter than usual because of the snowstorm, which was more than big enough for Philadelphians to credibly ditch work. She drove past closed stores, restaurants, and offices, and made her way back to West Philly, where fresh snow blanketed the trash cans, fire hydrants, and sagging porch roofs, reflecting the bright sunlight. She blinked against the glare.

Vicki hit the gas, barely able to move in a jacket, white cotton turtleneck, fisherman's sweater, and flannel-lined jeans. She had dressed for the weather this time, and whatever might come. So much was unknown about what had happened and what was going to happen that she couldn't help feeling nervous. She hadn't taken risks like this before in her career, much less her life, but she wasn't going to do anything crazy. Just a little legwork that the cops couldn't do, or weren't doing fast enough. She turned onto Lincoln and had barely cruised toward the curb in front of the house when Reheema, on the sidewalk, flagged her to a stop and opened the car door.

"You didn't have to wait outside," Vicki said, surprised. "It's cold."

Reheema didn't reply, but climbed into the car, letting in a chilling burst of air. She slammed the door behind her and folded herself into the passenger seat, her legs so long that her knees ended up at chest level. "Gotta get a new car."

"Your seat adjusts. The lever's on the side near the door."

"That's not the problem." Reheema reached down and slid the seat back anyway, stretching her legs out. She had on her navy pea coat with her black knit watch cap pulled down so low it grazed her naturally long eyelashes, drawing attention to dark, lovely brown eyes, if only by accident. It would have been a fetching look, if Reheema had been smiling instead of frowning. "This car won't work."

"What do you mean?" Vicki was about to start the engine, but she held off. "This car works great." "Not for what you're talkin' about. It won't do. Unh-uh." "You mean, for our plan?" Vicki got finally up to speed.

Reheema was a woman of so few words, it was like playing connect-the-dots. "For your plan. I'm just along for the ride." "Not really." "Yes, really." "You said on the phone you'd cooperate." "Cooperate means snitch," Reheema shot back, and Vicki bit her tongue. She had suspected their relationship wasn't going to be roses, but she had to make it work if they were going to do the job.

"That's not what I meant." "That's what you said." "Okay, poor choice of words. Sue me." "I am." Oops. Vicki had almost forgotten. The lawsuit that Melendez had told Bale about. "You're still going through with that?" "Sure." "Even though you said you'd help me? That you'd work with me?"

"I am workin' with you. You oughta see me when I'm not." "I have," Vicki said, her tone harsher than prudent for someone Trying to Make Friends. "When?" "The Beretta, remember? The lethal weapon part? The aimed-at-me part?" Vicki managed a smile, which she thought was big of her, but Reheema's eyes flared in ready anger.

"What? You started it, at the conference. That's why Melendez is gonna file. You pulled me across the desk! I was in handcuffs, I couldn't even defend myself!"

Okay, besides that. "At least I was unarmed."

"Unarmed? No United States Attorney is unarmed." Reheema scoffed. "A U.S. Attorney is armed with guns you can't see."

Assistant U.S. Attorney. Common mistake.

"You have guns that put people away. Guns that put me away!" "Hold on. You did buy two very real guns, ones you can see."

"And you couldn't prove I resold them, so I shoulda been free." Reheema pointed in her black wool gloves. "You had me brought up to a conference when you knew that."

Okay. Vicki gritted her teeth and bit an imaginary bullet. "I'm sorry." She paused, waiting, but there was no response. "You sorry, too?"

"For what?" "For pointing a gun at my favorite heart." "No." "Reheema, we're trying to clear the air here." "My air is clear." "I said I was sorry. You can say you're sorry." "Why?" "That's how it works." "Go to hell." Or not. "Fine." Vicki gave up, faced front, and squeezed the steering wheel. It was hard to look tough in J. Crew red mittens, but she was trying. Reheema cleared her throat and faced front, too. "We need a new car. This car is too conspicuous. You said so yourself." "I was joking." "You were right. For once." Reheema smiled in spite of her self, which Vicki took as an apology. She looked over. "Why is it conspicuous? Because it's white?" "Where you from?" "Philly." "You were not raised in Philly, girl." "Well, specifically, I grew up in Devon, but I consider it-" Reheema's eyes narrowed. "That where they have that horse show?" "Yes, the Devon Horse Show." "You ride horses?" "When I was little, I had lessons." Vicki was tired of being defensive. Especially on her salary. "What's this have to do with my car?" "It's suburban." "What's suburban about a Cabrio?" Reheema snorted. "Convertible's suburban, automatically.

You keep this car in the hood, the homes slit the rag top. Take the CD changer, air bag, all gone. Wouldn't last an hour." Oh. "And that little red H on the back window? That doesn't help, either, Harvard." "It's crimson, not red." But never mind. "Black people go to

Harvard, too, you know." "But not to Avalon." "What?" "Your bumper sticker-‘Avalon, Cooler by a Mile'? Black folks don't go to Avalon, New Jersey."