"Right." Vicki took a left turn, and Reheema frowned.

"You're lost, aren't you?"

Vicki nodded. "Don't start with the Harvard stuff again."

"Did I say anything?"

FORTY-ONE

An hour later, Vicki parked the Cabrio, grabbed her bag and the newspaper, and they walked together in the cold sun to Jackson's house, a two-story brick semidetached. The crime scene tape was gone, though a shred of yellow strip flapped in the bitter wind. Vicki felt herself shudder at the sight. Coming back to where Morty had been killed was easier in theory than in practice. Somehow, having his killer in custody didn't ease the pain.

She and Reheema walked up the concrete front steps of the row house attached to Shayla Jackson's and knocked on the front door. The door opened, an older man answered, and Vicki stepped forward. "Sir, my name is Vicki Allegretti, and I'm trying to learn a little about your neighbor, Ms. Jackson, who was killed the other day."

"Didn't know her," the man answered, and slammed the door shut.

"Nice technique," Reheema said, and Vicki smiled as they went down the front walk and to the next house.

Vicki knocked on the door, and an older woman answered, so she introduced herself and said, "I'd like to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Ms. Jackson, who was killed the other day. It won't take long."

The woman looked from Vicki to Reheema, behind her bifocals. "What do you wanna know?"

"May we come in?"

"No."

"Did you know Ms. Jackson?"

"Not very well, she kep' to herself."

"Did you talk to her much, even casually? Like if she had to borrow something, or you did?"

"No. I saw on the TV they caught the guys that killed her."

"They did. Were you here that night? Did you see or hear anything?"

"I was at work, I clean at night. I missed the whole thing."

I didn't. "How long did Ms. Jackson live here, if you know?"

"She moved in two years ago, maybe less. I hardly talked to her but once or twice, when the trash man didn't come, during the strike, you know."

"Did she work?"

"I don't think so. She stayed in a lot. Played her music, I use ta hear it through the wall."

Vicki made a mental note. "Do you know if she owned or rented?"

"Rent. We mostly rent on this street. From Polo Realty, in Juniata. They own all these houses."

"Did she live alone, as long as she lived here?"

"Yeh."

Vicki held up the newspaper through the plastic storm window. On the second page were photos of the people killed in the Toys "R" Us murders, with a sidebar about Browning and his driver, whose name was David Cole. Vicki pointed at Browning. "Ever see this man visit Jackson at her house?"

"That was her boyfriend."

"Why do you say that?"

"He was here a lot."

"When would that be about? From when she moved in or later?"

"When she moved in, I think. He helped her move in. I seen him."

"Was she pregnant then?"

"She was pregnant?" The woman's graying eyebrows raised. "Oh yeah, I heard that on the TV but I didn't know that, for myself."

"Okay, ever see the other two?" Vicki pointed to the pictures of Cole and Bill Toner.

"No."

"Ever see any other men visit?"

"No."

"Ever see girlfriends visit?"

"No."

"No one girlfriend in particular? You know, like girls have a best friend?"

"No."

"Ever hear her mention a girlfriend named Mar?"

"No, I hardly talked to her." The woman looked behind her. "I gotta go now. I got a cake in the oven."

"Thanks so much for your time," Vicki said, and the door closed.

Reheema said, "She was lying about the cake."

"I would, too."

Vicki and Reheema tried the next seven houses, stopping at the end of the street; two of the neighbors wouldn't answer the door, and the other five knew progressively less about Shayla Jackson. Then they went back to Jackson's and resumed at the first house on the other side, with Reheema pressing the bell. A black teenage boy answered, his eyes widening when he saw a gorgeous black woman standing on his doorstep, having stepped out of his dreams.

"I'm Reheema Bristow, is your mother at home?" she asked, and the kid nodded.

Suddenly, Vicki's cell phone started ringing in her purse, so she stepped back and pulled it from her bag.

Groaning when she read the display.

Vicki stepped off the elevator into work, surprised to find the floor crowded and abuzz with action. Reporters and photographers spilled into the elevator bank, talking and laughing in groups, with still cameras hanging on their shoulders and steno pads stuffed in the back pocket of their jeans. ATF personnel, Philly uniformed cops, and an older AUSA stood talking to the press. She had to barrel through the throng to the reception room, and heads began turning as reporters recognized her and began to call to her.

"Just one comment, Ms. Allegretti!" "One question, Ms Allegretti? "Picture, Vicki, how about a picture?" "Nice bust, Allegretti!"

Vicki put her head down and called "No comment" to the reporters mobbing her. The reception desk was fully staffed behind its bulletproof glass, and both receptionists buzzed her in with matching grins and a thumbs-up. Beyond the door, AUSAs, ATF agents, secretaries, and paralegals were going back and forth in the halls, and they all congratulated Vicki on the fly. She acknowledged so many snippets of "Sweet!" "Great work!" and "Go get 'em!" that she felt like a celebrity.

AUSAs in jeans and sweaters worked in their boxy offices off the hall, but heads popped up from their desks and smiled at her when she passed, and a group of senior AUSAs stood talking near her office, their heads turning as one when she walked by. "Way to go, Vicki!" called one of the nicest, Marilyn Durham, and an AUSA next to her, Martin Frank, called out, "Allegretti, sweet!" A third, Janie Something, hollered, "'Bout time, sleepyhead!"

"Thanks!" Vicki called out and ducked into the office's formal conference room. She opened the door, and everyone who was anyone was in mid-meeting. It was a large, modern room with a panel of windows on two sides, and the noonday sun streamed cold onto Strauss, presiding at the head of the table, then Bale, Dan, and the office's public relations flack, ATF chief Saxon, a top tier of FBI and ATF agents, the commissioner of the Philadelphia police and two of his white-shirted deputies, and the deputy mayor. The room smelled pleasantly of aftershave, and they all sat with fresh coffee around the glistening table, each with a black three-ring binder bearing the gold DOJ emblem.

"Good morning, Vick!" Bale chirped up, too classy to give her in public the grief he'd given her on the phone.

"Sorry I'm late," Vick called out, avoiding Dan's eye.

"S'all right, you deserve the extra rest!"

Strauss nodded. "Sure do, young lady! It's been a long trip since that tragic night, but it's all over now." There followed nods and smiles all around, even from Saxon.

"Vicki," Bale continued, "we just got started and we'd like to give everybody an overview, so we're all on the same page." He pointed to an empty chair at the table. "Why don't you grab a coffee and take your seat, so we can get this party started." Everybody smiled. "By the way, before I forget, at noon tomorrow you'll meet with Special Agent Barbara Pizer on Kalahut, that new case. It should take all day." Bale turned to Saxon. "Barbara's a very experienced agent, right, John?"

"One of our best," Saxon answered. He'd lost some weight, and Vicki felt happy for her new friend.

"So, Vick, you'll be multitasking for a while, working the new case and prepping for the grand jury, but you can handle it."

"Thanks," Vicki said, bypassing the coffee and taking her seat in the sun. She felt a wave of guilt that Bale had had to call her to come in. She had hated to leave Reheema to finish the canvassing alone, lending her the Cabrio and her cell phone, but Vicki could see now that she had to be at this meeting. Even though she was one of only three women in the room, and undoubtedly the youngest of all, Vicki felt for the first time as if she belonged here. She had finally become an Assistant United States Attorney. Now all she had to do was figure out how to be in two places at once.