"I'm not fired?" Vicki felt her throat catch with gratitude.
"Suspended without pay, for a week." Bale rubbed his smooth forehead irritably. Rumor had it he was getting Botox injections, but Vicki would never again spread that around.
"Thanks, Chief."
"The only reason he gave it to me was that you won last month in Edwards. I went to bat for you because I know why you did it. You reacted emotionally. You were close with Morty."
Morty. Vicki looked away. A pale sun ray filtered through the windows of the corner office, landing on the electroplated plaques, etched crystal bowls, and hunk-of-acrylic awards. Black office manuals and rule books filled the shelves lining the wall.
"Hey, look at me," Bale said, and Vicki did. "I'm responsible for you now. One step out of line, and I don't go to bat for you again. You're still new here. Watch your step. We're not fast and loose, like the D.A.'s office. You got it?"
"Yes, Chief."
"Good." Bale's voice returned almost to normal. "Melendez also told Strauss you asked Bristow about some names. Jay or something. Teeg. You gave those names to the Philly detectives last night, didn't you?"
"Of course." Vicki had. She wasn't even lying.
"And to ATF, too?"
"Yes."
"So you're not completely crazy."
"No, not completely."
"It's Friday. Morty's memorial service will be on Monday. You will attend, then take the week off without pay. If anyone from Homicide calls you to look at a photo array, you'll go, but that's it. Be back at your desk on Monday and start redeeming yourself."
"What about my cases? I have a suppression hearing in Welton on Tuesday."
"I'll reassign it, and Malloy will watch your desk while you're away. Now get outta my sight." Bale's phone rang but he let the secretary get it. "Don't stop at your office, just go home and stay home. No talking to the press, and no more shenanigans."
"Okay, Chief. Thanks again."
Vicki left the office and closed the door behind her. She walked down the hall to her office, and when she turned the corner, the secretaries were standing up at their desks and behind them AUSAs were coming out of their offices.
And all of them were clapping.
Vicki said thanks to everyone, taking only her coat from her office. She didn't need anything else from it anyway. She had the Bristow file in her briefcase.
And she knew just where she was going.
NINE
Vicki hurried through the crowded parking lot and checked her watch on the run: 12:45. She wrapped her old down coat closer and reached the concrete entrance to the medical examiners', just as an older African-American woman was leaving. Her gray head was bowed in grief and she carried a wad of Kleenex in her hand. Vicki felt a pang of sympathy and realized that she wasn't too late after all. Shayla Jackson's mother had been due here to identify the body at noon, and the grieving woman had to be she.
Mrs. Jackson walked with another older black woman supporting her elbow, though the woman was struggling with two large purses, a canvas bag stuffed with red yarn, a folded newspaper, and a plastic-covered library book. Vicki felt vaguely like a vulture as she swooped down on the forlorn pair, reaching them just as one of the leather purses fell to the parking lot, pebbled with city grit and rock salt. Vicki scooped up the handbag before both women toppled over.
"Got it," Vicki called out, restoring the bag to the friend.
"Thank you, thank you so much." Mrs. Jackson looked at her with gratitude and managed a sweet smile, though tears pooled in her reddened eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses. Up close, she looked about eighty years old, with sparse hair the hue of sterling silver and deep fissures for crow's-feet and laugh lines on dry, ashy skin.
"Yes, thank you," the other woman chimed in. "It's hard to carry all these things. I should have thrown away my newspaper, but I didn't get a chance to read it yet."
"I understand." Vicki held on to Mrs. Jackson, who leaned lightly on her arm. The woman couldn't have weighed one hundred and ten, including her coat. "Are you okay, ma'am?"
"Yes, I guess. I'm so tired. I had to… I just had to…"
Her friend supplied: "Her daughter was murdered."
Vicki couldn't hide the ball another minute. She introduced herself and asked, "Aren't you Ms. Jackson, Shayla Jackson's mother?"
"Why, yes." Her wet brown eyes fluttered in surprise. "Well, not exactly, I'm her auntie." She pronounced it awn-tee.
"Well, it's nice to meet you."
"I'm her Auntie Tillie. Mrs. Tillie Bott. Mr. Bott passed away in 1989. Shayla used to call me Auntie Tillie but now she calls me Tillie, or Mama Tillie." Ms. Bott seemed disoriented, understandable under the circumstances. "Shayla was the neighbor lady's girl, but the neighbor run off. I raised her as my own, after my children were grown."
"That was kind of you," Vicki said, touched, but Mrs. Bott shook her head, wobbly.
"Not at t'all. That child gave me more than I ever gave her. She was just so sweet-"
The friend interjected, "How did you know who Tillie was?"
"I'm an assistant U.S. Attorney. I was going to meet with Shayla last night when she was killed." Vicki noticed Mrs. Bott's hooded eyes widen and she softened her voice. "Shayla told me that she had important information for me on a case, so my partner and I went over to her house. It was my partner who was killed with her."
"You mean that policeman?" the friend interjected, again.
"Yes. He was an ATF agent." Someday Vicki would figure out why she kept correcting everybody about Morty. "I was coming here to talk with Mrs. Bott about Shayla, but I hate to bother you now. Maybe we could talk another time."
"We don't live here," the friend answered. "We're country people. We live in Florida. We're going home now. We're going to the bus. We took an airplane here, but we're taking a bus back. The airplane is too expensive."
"You're leaving now?"
"On the three o'clock bus."
"Then we have some time to talk."
"No, we don't."
Vicki wondered when library patrons got so tough. "Wait a minute, did Mrs. Bott talk to the police yet?"
"What police?"
"The Philadelphia police."
"No."
"Didn't they call you to talk about Shayla?" Vicki addressed Mrs. Bott, but she was dabbing her eyes with the soggy Kleenex ball, then resettling her glasses on the bridge of her nose.
"No, they didn't call her," the friend answered. "Now, excuse us, we have to go. We're going home and we're going to take Shayla home to rest, home with us. She'll rest better, home where she grew up."
Mrs. Bott looked so broken, and the cold air dried the tearstains on her lined cheeks, making whitish streaks in the cold. As much as Vicki's heart went out to her, she couldn't let them go.
"I have an idea," Vicki said gently. "Maybe we could go somewhere warm and talk over a cup of coffee. Before you two leave."
"No, she's too upset," the friend answered, drawing Mrs. Bott closer to her side. Vicki kept her grip on poor Mrs. Bott's other arm. If it became a tug-of-war, the library fan was going down. Vicki was younger, stronger, and a federal prosecutor, which should count for something as against the reserve list.
"I'm sorry to have to intrude." Vicki leaned over and spoke directly to Mrs. Bott. "And I'm sure the police are going to call you, but I want to find whoever killed Shayla and my friend. I'm hoping that what you know about Shayla could help me."
"Did you tell that to the police?" the friend broke in, and Vicki bit her tongue.
"Yes, but I have questions of my own."
"That's not your job," the friend shot back, and Vicki was considering decking her when Mrs. Bott cleared her throat, lowered her Kleenex, and said: