"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:

"I wouldn't mind talkin', if it would help Shayla."

A noisy convenience store wasn't what Vicki had in mind for a quiet chat, but the one on the corner of Thirty-eighth and Spruce, down the street from the medical examiner, would do in a pinch. An instrumental version of "Love Will Keep Us Together," the ca-chunk of cash registers, and the endless beep-beep of touch-screen ordering machines filled the air. The place teemed with overgrown frat boys, exhausted med students, and university staff, but Vicki managed to find a free table in the far corner, at which she seated Mrs. Bott and her attack friend, who turned out to be named Mrs. Greenwood.

Sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling glass window, warming the three of them, and by the time they'd started on their 184-ounce cups of brewed coffee and Southwestern wraps with suspiciously colorful ingredients, the small talk was over, Mrs. Bott had almost recovered, and Mrs. Greenwood had turned as nice as a librarian.

"When was the last time you saw Shayla, Mrs. Bott?" Vicki asked, getting to the subject at hand.

"I hadn't seen my baby girl in so long. She hardly ever came home anymore."

"How long?"

"Maybe two years now. Two Christmases ago."

"So you hadn't seen her in a while. Did you talk on the phone?"

"Surely, she'd call me, to keep up. Every other week or so."

Mrs. Greenwood nodded with approval.

"Did you know she was pregnant?" Vicki asked.

"I did. At first she didn't tell me, but then she did. She was afraid I'd get mad at her." The creased corners of Mrs. Bott's mouth turned down. She looked so lost in her heavy coat, and her hair, smoothed back in a frizzy bun, glinted dully in the harsh light. "Lord, a baby. The doctor today, he said it was gonna be a girl. Now, if she had a girl, Shayla wanted to call her Shay, after herself. Shay was her nickname. Shay."

Vicki nodded. So much pain. Who was responsible for it?

"Shay," Mrs. Bott repeated.

Mrs. Greenwood nodded again, behind her coffee. "I always liked that name," she said softly.

Vicki sipped cold coffee and let the moment pass. "When did she tell you she was pregnant?"

Mrs. Bott thought a minute. "About a month ago, she did. I was mighty surprised. I didn't know she was seein' anybody serious."

Mrs. Greenwood laughed softly. "You were so surprised, Tillie. You called me right away. You couldn't believe it, I couldn't, either. I was washin' dishes and I dropped the cookie sheet. Almost made a dent! My best one, with the air cushion." She looked over at Mrs. Bott. "You know the one, with the cushion? The air cushion down in between the layers?"

"I do, yes." Mrs. Bott nodded. "That is a good cookie sheet."

Vicki paused. "Did Shayla tell you who the baby's father was?"

"No. Jus' that they was having trouble and she might move out."

The boxes. "She was getting ready to move where?"

"I don't know, exactly. Said she wanted to find a new place and change her life."

Vicki made a mental note. "What did she mean by that?"

"I don't know. I figgered she'd tell me, in time. I was just happy to have a grandbaby comin'."

"Did she mention a Jamal Browning?"

"No, no. She didn't tell me that."

Vicki didn't get it. "I think he was her boyfriend."

"Don't know him."

"I think he may have been the father of her baby. I believe that he paid her bills, like electric and phone."

"Hmmm. I don't know that. I don't know that name."

Vicki sighed inwardly. "Who do you think was the baby's father?

"I don't know. I didn't ask. I figgered that was her business, not mine."

"Did she date anyone that you know of?"

"Like I say, not serious. She always went out, she liked to dance. Shay was a good dancer. She liked music." Mrs. Bott paused, thinking. "A while ago, there was someone, his name was Dwayne."

Yay! "Dwayne what?"

"I don't know. Or maybe Don. Or Wayne." Mrs. Bott waved a gnarled hand. "That was years ago."

"When she visited, did she ever bring anybody? Any friends or boyfriends?"

"No. She always came alone."

Vicki was getting nowhere. "What did she do for a living?"

"She used to type. She typed. On a computer. Keypunch, they used to call it," Mrs. Bott answered vaguely.

"Did she work for a company, if you know?"

"No, different places. For a temporary, like."

"I see."

"But she never asked me for money, not once," Ms. Bott added.

"So she was independent."

"Yes, very. Stubborn."

"Did she ever mention anyone named Reheema Bristow?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Mrs. Bott thought a minute. "I don't know that name. I would recall that name. Reheema. That's an unusual name."

"Yes, it is," Mrs. Greenwood added, leaving Vicki frustrated.

"Who were her girlfriends, did you know?"

"Not really."

"Didn't she have a best friend? Every girl has a best friend." Then Vicki blinked. Except me. "I mean most girls."

"She said some names. Mar, that was one."

"Mar? Did she have a last name?"

"I don't know it. I would say Mar was her best friend, I think. Mostly she talked about Mar."

"Is Mar in Philly? Do you have her address or phone number?"

"No, I just know Shay used to call her, on the cell phone. When she was home ta visit she'd always be calling Mar. Mar this. Mar that."

Vicki made a note. Maybe there was no connection between Jackson and Bristow. But then again, it was clear that Shayla Jackson wasn't telling her aunt much about her life in Philly, or maybe Vicki was projecting. Either way, time to get down to business: