FORTY-SIX

Vicki took her seat and faked a smile as Bale rose and started singing "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling," which brought more laughter from the crowd. Beer and wine flowed freely, and the entrees were forgotten. The waitresses arrived with acute triangles of cherry cheesecake and set the desserts in front of each seat, whether occupied or not; obviously the staff wanted to end this meal quickly and close the restaurant because of the storm. Vicki wished them luck; she had seen this floor show at the Christmas party. It started in Ireland and ended in Motown.

Bale led the singing, into a knife microphone, " ‘Sure 'tis like the morn in Spring, In the lilt of Irish laughter, you can hear the angels sing.' "

Vicki plastered her smile in place and sipped the Coke that had been put beside her plate. Rum. Ugh. She sipped it because she felt thirsty and watched the action, thinking. She couldn't bring herself to accept that Bale knew Jackson, but she couldn't imagine why else he'd be there, only a month ago. Did Bale have something to do with framing Reheema? And who was the white guy? Could it be someone else from the office? The thought stunned her. But what was the connection to Montgomery and the forgeries?

While Bale sang, Vicki reasoned it out, thinking aloud to herself, if such a thing were possible. Bale could have been the one who gave Montgomery the sweet plea deal and forged the other signatures. He still handled some cases himself, so it was at least possible. That would mean that he knew Montgomery. But it didn't mean that he had anything to do with Montgomery killing Reheema's mother, or Reheema, did it? Of course not. But why forge the signatures? Why hide the plea agreement in the To Be Filed bin? Why lose the rest of the federal file on Montgomery?

At the front of the room, Strauss looped an arm around Bale, and they segued into their Motown medley, though instead of "Ooh Baby Baby," they went with "My Guy," to surging laughter.

Vicki analyzed the events separately, to determine if they were connected. One, a month ago, Bale was meeting with the only witness against Reheema, who would frame her on the straw purchase case, and two, almost a year ago, he gave a plea deal to a man who would eventually kill Reheema's mother and maybe Reheema.

Vicki blinked. The nexus could be Reheema. Did Bale have something against Reheema? Some reason to want her convicted for a straw purchase, and later, even dead? What was going on? Vicki resisted the conclusion. What was she thinking? That Bale put Jackson up to framing Reheema and he hired Montgomery to kill her?

Am I nuts? Vicki felt suddenly light-headed and sipped her watery rum and Coke, watching the crowd get rowdier and sing their way through the entire Motown catalog. They tried to get her to join in, but she waved them off, aware that Dan was watching her from the front of the room. She had his cell phone in her purse; she'd give it to him later. She picked at the cheesecake, but it didn't help. She shouldn't have had the rum, and pushed the drink away.

She tried to plan, despite her attack of nausea and/or disillusionment. The most prudent thing would be to wait until she interviewed Cooper, then after she had all the facts, to approach Bale to see if he lied, then trap him. A typical cross-examina-tion. What was it Justice Holmes had said? Cross-examination was the engine of truth. But she couldn't think of Justice Holmes, Bale, or Mystery White Guy right now. Her stomach was iffy. She needed to wash her face, to feel better.

She got up, left the room, and went to the bar. On TV, the Flyers were losing and the bartender wasn't there, and Vicki walked past the barstools and downstairs to the ladies' room, which was a grimy single bathroom in the basement. She washed her face and dried it with toilet paper, because Angelo's had only those stupid air hand driers, then she assessed herself in the mirror. Her eyes were a tired blue, her hair was finally dry but hung in black waves, and her lip gloss was long gone. But her stomach felt a little better. She went back upstairs and crossed the bar area. The bartender was still gone and the TV was on, and Vicki glanced back at the screen. And gasped.

On the TV, the familiar red banner read LIVE-BREAKING NEWS, under a dark shot of a snowy city backstreet and a white Cabrio, cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. The Cabrio's driver's-side door hung open, and dark stains splattered the beige interior of the door. Blood. The screen switched to a view from the back of the Cabrio. In the back window was a crimson H and an Avalon bumper sticker. Vicki felt as if her heart stopped. It was her car.

Reheema.

The voice-over said, "An attempted carjacking leaves one dead on a side street in the Greater Northeast tonight. Chopper Six was first on the scene with this exclusive footage."

No. Reheema. Montgomery had killed her and made it look like a carjacking. Vicki gripped the bar for support.

The voice-over continued, "The dead man has been identified as David Montgomery of West Philadelphia."

What? Montgomery, dead?

"An eyewitness told police that the carjacking victim was the driver of the VW Cabrio, an unidentified woman, who was stopped at a stop sign when the man allegedly jumped from a car behind her, opened her car door, and attempted to forcibly remove her from her car, ultimately shooting her."

Reheema.

"The victim fired back, killing Montgomery with one shot. She has been taken to University of Pennsylvania Hospital, and police report that she suffered gunshot wounds to the stomach and is in critical condition."

Reheema, in critical condition.

The TV screen switched to a weather story, and Vicki watched numbly as a male announcer in a station-logo windbreaker stuck the clichéd yardstick into a snowbank. She felt stunned. Disoriented. Unhinged. The news seemed almost surreal, but the attack on Reheema was proof positive. The killer was Montgomery. Reheema had been shot and could die. Vicki should go to the hospital but she couldn't leave here, not the way she felt right now. She had something to do. She wasn't waiting another minute. Damn prudence, politics, and even Justice Holmes.

FORTY-SEVEN

Bale was talking to the office's PR lady, standing near the edge of the singing group, now led by Strauss, who was warbling "Tracks of My Tears" with the police commissioner and the mayor himself. The federal marshals formed a separate group, segueing into "Uncle John's Band," for an impromptu battle of the bands. Dan must have been somewhere in the center of the marshals group, because Vicki didn't see him. She made a beeline for Bale.

"I need to talk to you right now," Vicki whispered in his ear, curling her fingers around the sleeve of his tailored jacket.

"I didn't know you cared," Bale joked, liquor on his breath. He permitted Vicki to lead him out of the dining room and into the bar, which was still empty, and they stopped near the front door. Bale wavered slightly, clearly the result of rum and Coke. His brown eyes looked shiny, his skin greasy, and his white cutaway collar was uncharacteristically unbuttoned, with his silk tie hanging.

"Reheema Bristow was just shot by David Montgomery. She killed him."

"I don't understand." Bale blinked slowly, the effects of alcohol or bad acting.

"You're not that drunk, Chief. You know who David Montgomery is. You handed him the deal of the century. You forged Dan's and Strauss's names on the agreement to make it look kosher. And I can't believe this, even as I say it, but you sent Montgomery to kill Reheema. To finish the job he started with her mother."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Bale's gaze shifted nervously to the dining room, but he didn't seem outraged or even confused, which confirmed Vicki's worst suspicions.