Her attention was drawn to the other messy areas in the bedroom; to the left was a closet whose white louvered doors hung open, with clothing spilling out. She walked over, giving the body and the techs wide berth. A stack of sweaters and sweatshirts had been pulled out and onto the rug. Empty Nine West shoe boxes lay scattered and open on the bedroom floor, as if they had been pulled from the closet in haste. The burglars hadn't stolen Nine West sandals. Had the cocaine been in the shoe boxes?

Vicki turned and scanned the bedroom again. Next to the closet, the dresser, a modern oak one, sat ransacked against the wall. She went over and caught sight of herself in the large attached mirror. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her small nose pink at the tip from crying, and her hair, jet-black and shoulder-length, looked unprofessionally messy. And Morty's blood was still on her coat lapel. She looked away.

The corners of the mirror were festooned with plastic leis, a multicolored array of Mardi Gras necklaces, and a black foamy cap that read Taj Mahal. Photographs had been stuck inside the mirror's frame, and Vicki eyed them. There were five pictures, and everybody in them was dressed up. The venues were tony, if the prominent advertising backdrops were any indication: the NBA All-Star game, the BET awards. Three of the photos were of the same young man: an African American about thirty years old, with a broad smile and largish eyes. He had a muscular, compact form, a heavy gold chain around his neck, and his hair was shorn into a close fade, revealing a script tattoo on the side of his neck, indecipherable.

The other photos were also of the young man, but this time he was standing on the boardwalk, the ocean behind him, being hugged by a young woman with an equally broad smile. She looked to be about twenty-something and wore heavy makeup, a white halter top, jeans shorts, and platforms. Lots of gold jewelry but no wedding ring. A sea breeze blew through her straightened hair, and in the last photo she wore a foamy black cap, turned sideways. Taj Mahal. The same hat as on the mirror.

Vicki felt a pang. The woman must be Shayla Jackson. The man must be her boyfriend.

Her gaze fell under the lamplight on the bureau, where an open jewelry box gleamed like a cartoon treasure chest. The trays overflowed with hoop earrings, gold bangles, diamond-studded tennis bracelets, gold chain necklaces; it was several thousand dollars' worth of jewelry, and amazingly, none of it had been disturbed, much less stolen, by the teenagers. Obviously, Teeg and Jay-Boy were no ordinary burglars.

Clutter around the jewelry box hadn't been touched either. Bottles of expensive perfume-First, Chanel, Shalimar-lay next to a pen, a pair of Gucci sunglasses, and a few scattered bills for Philadelphia Electric, Verizon, and Philadelphia Gas. Vicki looked closer. They were utilities bills for this house, and the postmark was last month. The bills were addressed to Jackson, but she hadn't opened them. She had crossed out her own name and address and written in its place "Jamal Browning, 3635 Aspinall Street."

Assuming it was Jackson's handwriting, which seemed likely, even Vicki could connect these dots. Jackson was sending Browning the bills for the house. He was keeping her. He had to be the boyfriend in the photos. Vicki hadn't seen drug paraphernalia anywhere downstairs, much less money counters or digital scales used by big-time dealers. Jackson probably wasn't a coke dealer, especially of fish-scale coke; more likely, hers was a stash house and she was keeping the drugs for someone else. Someone she would risk her neck for by keeping it on her premises; someone who trusted her with such valuable merchandise. Jamal Browning, her boyfriend. But why was she moving?

"It's a goddamn shame," one of the techs said, behind Vicki. She braced herself and turned on her heel. Even so, she was completely unprepared for the awful sight.

Shayla Jackson lay on her back on the blue rug, between her periwinkle-flowered bed and the wall, her slim arms apart and her pink palms skyward. Her brown eyes, the same lovely ones in the photo, lay wide open and staring fixedly at the ceiling. Her legs, slim and long in jeans, lay horribly twisted, and she was barefoot. She was wearing a dark, loose V-neck sweater, now soaked with black blood. Bullet holes strafed the front of her chest, cutting a blood-drenched swath between her breasts. The blasts exposed red muscle and white sternum, and the skin unfurled like common cloth to expose the cruelest blow of all: Jackson's bloodied midsection puffed high and round.

"She was pregnant?" Vicki asked, appalled, and one of the kneeling techs looked up.

"Eight months," answered an Indian doctor working on Jackson's body, his glossy head bent over her chest wounds.

"My God." Vicki shook her head. Her stomach flipped over. She gritted her teeth to keep queasiness at bay.

"Who are you?" The doctor looked up, his round eyes flickering with annoyance. He wore a maroon sweater vest under his lab coat, which had a black nameplate that read Dr. Mehar Soresh.

Vicki introduced herself and said, "This is my case."

An African-American tech added: "She's the AUSA almost got shot with the ATF agent."

Dr. Soresh returned to his examination. "Then you're one lucky lady tonight."

Vicki didn't reply. She couldn't. She wouldn't know where to start. She had gotten her partner killed.

Dr. Soresh continued, "In answer to the question you were about to ask, the child could not have been saved. Mother and child were dead when they hit the floor."

Vicki wasn't about to ask.

"Furthermore, my theory is that the first bullet was to the uterine area, so the baby died first." Dr. Soresh extracted a long silvery probe from his black bag. "Somebody wanted this baby dead, that's for sure."

Vicki's thoughts raced ahead. Was it Browning's baby? Was it somebody else's? Who would want a baby killed? And what, if anything, did it have to do with the straw case? The questions forced her to think clearly. "Dr. Soresh, do you know who's going to identify the body? Who's next-of-kin, do you know?"

Soresh didn't look up. "Mom's coming in from Florida. Tampa, I think. She'll come to the morgue, look on the TV screen. We make it easy on 'em, not like on CSI. Big dramatic thing, undraping the body, ta-da."

"No boyfriend is coming?"

"Not that I know of."

"A baby mama drama," the black tech said, and Dr. Soresh shot him a dirty look.

"I don't know, that's not my bailiwick. I have Mom coming in at noon tomorrow. She's next-of-kin, and that's good enough for me."

"Will you send me a copy of your report, when you're finished?"

"Sure. What's your name again?"

"Allegretti. I'm an AUSA."

"Got it."

"Thanks," Vicki said, getting her bearings. Morty was dead and so was a pregnant woman. And a baby, gone. She didn't know how or whether any of this connected to her straw purchase case, but she intended to find out.

Starting now.