"No." Dan set his mug down, and coffee sloshed around the side. "She's not around anyway, and we're just keeping each other company. She should trust me."
"Maybe she does, but she still doesn't like it." Vicki had to admit that Mariella wasn't being unreasonable. "You two were in bed together when I called. She doesn't like it; no woman would."
"I told you to call, and so what? Things are going crazy lately, with Morty being killed and now Bristow's mother. She acts like that's not happening. My God, it's like I have this whole life she doesn't know about!"
"You have to be sensitive to her," Vicki said, managing not to choke on the words.
"Plus, she doesn't know what it's like to work in our office, to try to move up there." Dan raised his voice, his tone sharpening. "She doesn't know what it's like to be on trial, day after day. Write motions at night. Meet with witnesses around a court schedule."
Nobody knows what that's like, except another AUSA, Vicki thought, but would never say it, because it was way too true. People at work shared things that outsiders would never understand.
"She doesn't know what it was like to lose Morty. I worked with him for two years, had three cases with him. You saw him every day for a year, on Edwards. You knew him, and now he's dead!" Dan's voice broke, in pain. For Morty. For her. For himself. Vicki felt like hugging him but knew she couldn't. It confused her. She wanted him, but not this way, and she didn't want to cause trouble for him.
"Dan, calm down. Mariella just wants more of your time."
"I want more of hers!"
Ouch. "Right. So you both want the same thing, and this will blow over." Vicki set down her mug. "She's at home now, right?"
"Yes."
"You left her to come over here?"
"Yes."
"Smooth move, Malloy."
"I wanted to help you! You're in the middle of a mess! You needed me!"
Vicki's cheeks got hot. A day ago, she would have loved hearing that. Now, it was a problem. "You helped me, and I appreciate it. But you should go home."
"I'm not supposed to be home, anyway. I'm supposed to go buy salt for the sidewalk, then pick up the dry cleaning."
"Then go home and ask her to go with you. Or take her to brunch."
"She'll say she's too tired. She's been on call for three days."
"Then she'll like that you asked." Vicki waved good-bye. "Go. See ya."
"But what about Bale? He said he'd call you. And your house is a mess, from the cops."
"I'll handle it. Sayonara." Vicki put her hands on Dan's strong shoulders, which felt painfully good, then turned him around and pushed him out of the kitchen, grabbing his coat on the way and handing it to him. "Here. Put a bra on and go home to your wife, who loves you."
"Huh?"
But Vicki had already opened the door. She didn't bother to explain and she ignored the hard knot in the middle of her chest. Doing the right thing was no fun at all. Her only consolation was that she was getting rid of any interference.
So she could get busy.
NINETEEN
The snow was sticking, coming down heavily with more predicted, but Vicki wasn't worried about the weather. The Cabrio was great in snow, the windshield wipers thumped energetically away, and she had bigger things on her mind. Devil's Corner lay under a thin blanket of fresh snow, two inches so far, according to AccuWeather. Through the window she could see that Mrs. Bristow's block was as deserted as it had been yesterday, except that the fresh snow covered the trash, debris, and filth she knew lay underneath. No children played out in front of the houses; no tongues caught snowflakes. There wasn't a snowman in sight.
Vicki found a parking space down from Mrs. Bristow's house and got out of the Cabrio, setting a loafer into wet slush. A chill wind hit her like a blast, jolting her to a realization. No official vehicles were parked out front; no crime scene techs or police cruisers with their engines idling. She hadn't seen a cop in front of Mrs. Bristow's house, guarding the crime scene and logging personnel in and out. In fact, there wasn't any yellow crime scene tape or police sawhorses. She checked her watch. Noon. Only hours after Mrs. Bristow had been found knifed to death, the scene was already closed.
She hurried toward the house, head down against the driving snow, her thoughts churning. She couldn't help but remark on the contrast between this murder scene and Morty's. There'd been tons of uniforms there, not to mention detectives, crime scene techs, FBI, ATF, and DOJ personnel. Admittedly, Morty was a federal agent and the scene had been a triple homicide, but Vicki didn't think that completely accounted for what she was seeing. She reached the step, hesitating before going in. She didn't relish what she had to do, but she knew she had to do it.
She knocked on the closed door once, then again. There was no answer. Snow blew sideways into her ears and hair; she had gone out without a hat, she'd been in such a rush. Wind bit her nose; it was twenty-five degrees. She had no gloves on, either, and pounded the door once more, hard. It creaked open.
Vicki blinked. The door hung ajar. She didn't want to simply barge in. "Hello?" she called out. "Hello, anybody home?"
There was no answer.
She felt a shiver all the way to her toes, and it wasn't the cold. A woman had been killed here, and the last time she had walked through an open door, Morty had been killed. Too much violence, too much death; all these row homes, awash in blood. Not even the snow could cover it up and hide it, not forever.
"Anybody home?" she called out, louder, knocking again on the open door. A chill wind blew harder, carrying her voice off with the snowflakes and opening wide the front door.
Crap. Now Vicki was standing in an open doorway, watching snow blow into the dark living room. She conceded the obvious and stepped inside, shutting the door. She blinked away the snow blindness, waited until her eyes adjusted to the interior light, then turned around.
The living room looked completely different from yesterday. It was much darker because newspapers had been taped up against the windows like temporary curtains, and only indirect light streamed in. The beach chair lay folded on the brown couch, which had been moved into the center of the room and was loaded with black Hefty trash bags, their yellow drawstrings pulled tight. The dark red rug had been rolled up and also placed on the couch, resting on the two armrests, and every bit of trash in the room had been picked up. The floorboards looked swept and had even been washed clean; wet spots dried here and there, and a lineup of empty water jugs sat against the wall, next to a metal dustpan and new corn broom. The air smelled a little more normal, but it was still as cold inside as out.
"Hello?" Vicki said. The house was still. She braced herself and went into the bedroom where Mrs. Bristow had been killed. The dirty mattress had been lifted up and was standing on end, with the bloodstained side evidently against the wall. Still, it emitted an awful stench; rotting, human blood.
Vicki turned away. The end table had been pushed against the mattress, she guessed to hold it upright, and this room had been cleaned, too, all the debris and crack paraphernalia swept into trash bags and piled in the center of the bedroom. She went into the kitchen, expecting more of the same, and she was right. The cabinets hung open and empty; all the food and cigarettes had been taken out and, presumably, disposed of in the trash bags in the center of the room. The floorboards had been swept and mopped; a large white Rubbermaid bucket sat in the corner and a lemony Pine-Sol odor filled the room. A cockroach skittered across the counter, but Vicki sensed he'd be history soon.
"WHO'S IN THERE?" someone shouted, all of a sudden, and Vicki startled, whirling around.