"How about this?" Vicki asked, as a last-ditch effort. "How about you let me do the talking and we don't tell him who you are?"

"How about not?" Reheema's features had fallen into lines as fixed as dark marble.

"If I question him, maybe I can convince him to come in and confess, as opposed to muscling him."

"I want to muscle him."

Vicki experienced another fear tingle. She'd had so many on the way over, she felt electrified. "Reheema, I'm begging you, please be smart."

"Enough talk." Reheema broke Vicki's grasp and got out of the car, slamming the door behind her.

Oh, great. Vicki jumped out of the passenger seat and ran around the other side as Reheema climbed the concrete steps to James's front door in two bounds and started pounding. James's row house stood in the middle of the block, in worse repair than the rest of the neighborhood. It had only one black shutter on the first floor, for two windows, and its front door had been painted a bright, mismatched green, as if bought used or poached from a junkyard.

"Stay calm," Vicki said, but Reheema kept knocking.

"James! Ray James!"

"Calm!" Vicki eyed the street, which was still except for Re-heema's banging on the door. In one of the houses, a dog started barking.

"Ray James! Open up!"

"Maybe he's not home."

"James! Open this door!"

"We could call him on the cell, see if he's home."

"Open this door!" Reheema shouted, and before Vicki could realize what was happening, much less could stop her, Reheema had reared back and shoved the door with all her might, breaking it open at the lock. "That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!"

"Reheema!" Vicki shouted, terrified.

But Reheema was already pushing the door the rest of the way open and breaking into the house.

THIRTY-FIVE

"James! Ray James!" Reheema shouted over a blaring TV, and Vicki hurried inside the dark row house after her. A short hall ended at an arched entrance to a living room, where the noise was coming from.

"Oh! Who're you?" a man asked, his voice fearful.

"You Ray James?" Reheema demanded.

"Yes, don' hurt me!"

"Reheema! Stop!" Vicki rounded the corner just in time to catch Reheema yelling at a man who was lying in a bed in the darkened living room. He raised his arms partway, as if she had a gun. He was youngish, black, and obviously ill, because the bed was an adjustable hospital bed with an orange-and-green Brophy's Medical Supply sticker on the footboard. Next to it sat a plastic white commode with the same sticker, and the coffee table was serving as a makeshift night table, littered with tall brown bottles of medication, a pebbled plastic pitcher, a box of blue Kleenex, and a scalloped paper plate holding two pizza crusts.

"Reheema Bristow! Know that name? BRISTOW!" Reheema yelled, and Vicki grabbed her arm.

"Get a grip! The man is sick!"

"So what?" Reheema shot back, her fury abated, if only by degree, like a hurricane downgraded to a tropical storm. She turned to James.

"Gimme your cell phone!"

"Okay, okay, okay." James's eyes widened in fear and he fished a cell phone from the bedcovers, then thrust it at Reheema. "Here. You can have it. Take it."

"Ha!" Reheema grabbed the phone with its blue daisy cover and showed it to Vicki. "Yours?"

"Reheema, take it easy, look at the man," Vicki said, holding fast to Reheema's arm. Something was wrong with James. His head listed to the left, he hadn't shaved in days, and his words slurred slightly when he spoke. He wasn't drunk but seemed loopy, as if he was on medication.

"Where'd you get this phone?" Reheema demanded, brandishing it.

"My home."

"Who?"

"Wha'?"

"TELL ME WHERE YOU GOT THE PHONE!"

Vicki squeezed Reheema's arm. "Reheema, take it easy."

James's eyes flared. "Chucky! Chucky gi' it to me."

"Chucky WHO?"

"Call him Chucky Cheese. Look like the Chucky doll."

"Where's Chucky live?"

"Dunno," James answered.

"Yes you do! Where!" Reheema broke Vicki's grip with ease, stepping to the edge of the bed, so Vicki stepped neatly between them and faced the prone man.

"Mr. James," she asked, "do you know where Chucky lives? Just tell us and we'll go. We're trying to find out where he got the phone."

"I forget the street name. The street, with the bank."

"Which bank?"

"Dunno. Blue sign, 'bout ten blocks up." James pointed over his head, and Reheema shoved Vicki aside.

"The PNC that's on Jefferson Street?"

James nodded weakly.

"Okay, he lives on Jefferson. What house number on Jefferson, Ray?"

"I dunno."

"THINK!"

Vicki jumped. "Reheema, don't bully him!"

"Middle… of the block, red… door," James stammered, and Reheema exploded.

"You got this phone when you killed my mother!"

"No!" James's eyes widened, holding his hands higher. "I ain't killed nobody! I been inna hospital, gettin' ma damn foot cut off! Look!" He lowered a hand, pulled back the bedcovers, and revealed a bandaged stump on his left foot, sitting in a foam-blue holder. Vicki hid her surprise at the sight, and even Reheema took a step back.

"When'd you get that?"

"Saturday morning."

Vicki interjected, "So you were in the hospital Friday night?"

"Yeah. They took me in to run the tests, then they cut it off the next day, jus' like that."

Vicki planted herself in front of Reheema. "Mr. James, when did you get the phone?"

"When I ge' home, next day."

"When was that?"

James blinked dully. "What's today?"

"Thursday. When did you come home from the hospital?"

"I come home Saturday." James seemed to lose focus, his eyelids drooping to a close. "Saturday mornin'."

Vicki nodded. "So Chucky gave you the cell phone on Monday."

"Yeah, Chucky gi' it to me."

"Did Chucky tell you where he got the phone?"

"No."

Reheema couldn't take it anymore, demanding, "Where'd you get the phone, Ray?"

"I tole you. Chucky. Chucky got everythin', everythin' you need, he got it. Chucky like a store," James mumbled, his eyes still closed. "Alls I do now lay here and talk onna phone. Can't do no business, can't do nothin'. I watch the TV and talk to my homes, all day long."

Hmm. Vicki realized that would explain the HIDTA frequency reports; James was making the same calls but the substance was different, and in time the call pattern would change. ATF never would have gotten the warrant for James, on that record.

"You better be tellin' me the TRUTH!" Reheema spat out, and James waved her away like a fly.

"Le' me alone, le' me in peace. I din' kill nobody. I din' do nothin'."

"Thank you, Mr. James," Vicki said, then turned to Reheema. "I think we're finished here, don't you?"

"Hmph!" Reheema edged away from the bed.

Now. Vicki walked ahead of her, because she had a Secret Plan. She couldn't let this happen again. Suddenly, she bumped Reheema's side like a common pickpocket, grabbed the car keys from her hand, and ran down the hall and toward the front door with them.

"What are you doing?" Reheema shouted, caught by surprise and momentarily left behind.

Go, go, go! Vicki flew out the front door and into the cold, ran for the Intrepid and jumped inside, locking the doors.

"What the HELL YOU DOIN'?" Reheema reached the car a split second later and hit the glass window, furious.

But Vicki wasn't staying to answer. She'd twisted on the ignition, hit the gas, and driven off, with Reheema giving chase.

Yikes! Vicki hadn't counted on Reheema trying to run down a car, so she floored the gas pedal. The Intrepid picked up nicely, and she tore down the street and took a swift right onto the main drag, heading for the PNC Bank at Jefferson Street. She checked the rearview, and Reheema was sprinting down the block. Vicki hit the gas, caught the next two green lights, and spotted the PNC Bank. By then, Reheema had disappeared from the rearview mirror.