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  The tap on her shoulder took her by complete surprise, and she whirled, her gun still raised.

  Calder had his hands up.

  She pulled off her ear protection.

  “I was afraid of that,” he said, hands still in the air. “That’s why I waited for you to empty your piece.”

  “I think there’s a shooting range etiquette, approaching from the next stall, not from behind.”

  “I’ll make a note of it.”

  She waited for him to say something, and when he didn’t, she turned and reeled in her target. The left side of the target bore the majority of the hits.

  Ben looked over her shoulder. He looked bemused as he asked, “Did you pass firearms at the police academy?”

  Nora was indignant. “Of course I passed.” She thought for a moment, then added, “But just barely.”

  “And Nora Khalil doesn’t like coming in anything but first,” he surmised.

  She looked sheepish. “Something like that. Also I guess I’d like to feel competent to take the important shots.”

  “Hmm. Okay, can I offer two suggestions?”

  She nodded.

  “First, I think you’re not there yet mentally.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You have to really believe you need to shoot this person.”

  Nora was silent, frowning.

  “You have to stop thinking that you can run down the person and tackle him, or talk him out of it. There is no other way to deal with him than to shoot him dead. You have to be clear in your head that your partner or the victim or whoever—they need you more than the perp needs to live.” His face was very close to hers as he said, “Yesterday, I knew that I had no other option than to shoot that woman.”

  She tilted her head, regarding him, aware again of the enormity of the life taken for her own. “Are you okay?” she whispered.

  “Nora, I’d do it over a thousand times. It was absolutely the right thing to do.” His voice was strong. It looked like he meant every word.

  “Even if it was my mistake for getting myself in that situation?” she said, her voice heavy with regret.

  He gripped her arm, and his touch shot through her, electric. “Nora, you didn’t hand her the gun!”

  She nodded, taking a small step backward so that he was forced to release her. She fought to make her voice steady. “Okay, what’s the other thing?”

  He sighed, smiling. “You’re tightening your elbow and upper arm on discharge. You have to relax.”

  Nora narrowed her eyes. “How can I get all this clarity about the need to shoot someone and still … relax?!”

  “Well…” Ben Calder scratched his head for a moment. “Would it make sense if I said that the clarity should let you relax? When there’s no other choice whatsoever, your body should just submit to that and function in a way that lets your actions become really smooth and true.”

  She blinked a few times, skeptical. “Okay. Show me.”

  Calder stepped into the next stall, and they both pulled earmuffs over their ears. He extracted his weapon from its holster and extended his right arm, resting his wrist in the palm of his left hand. He looked at her, then spoke loudly enough so she would be sure to hear. “Your neck muscles have to be soft, relaxed—it’s an easy way to tell if your upper arm is gonna be tense or not.” She watched him pat the tendons in his own neck by way of demonstration.

  He took a visible breath, centering himself, and then unloaded a round of bullets.

  Nora waited ’til he had reeled in his target to walk into his stall. “Impressive.”

  The target’s head was gaping with bullet holes.

  “Try again?”

  She nodded. “Okay.” She had another full magazine.

  “Show me your stance.”

  She faced the target, cradling her gun hand in her open palm.

  He shook his head. “Try turning your right side—you are right-handed, yes?—turn slightly toward the target.”

  She turned obediently. She felt his palm against her neck, as his other hand tugged the left side of the ear protection away from her ear. “Relax,” he said, softly, before replacing the plastic. When he withdrew his hand from her neck, he left traces of his scent on her skin. She inhaled deeply, then leveled the gun and depressed the trigger as she exhaled. One, two, three, four … she stopped at ten, reluctant to waste all seventeen rounds again.

  “Better,” he said, as they both pulled off their earmuffs to pore over the target. “Stick with me, you’ll own the range in no time.”

  She nodded, noting the improvement. “Thanks. Thanks, Ben. I’ll spend some more time this afternoon, after we’re done with Dewayne Fulton.”

  “Good.” He took a breath, and the now-familiar flirtatious glint came back to his eye. “Now, why won’t you go out with me?”

  “Oh, man…” Nora forced herself to look away. She made her voice cool. “If I’d known you’d start hounding me, I’d never have let you save my life.”

  “Come on, Nora. I’m a really nice guy. Ask Burton.”

  Nora laughed. “Burton hates me. I’m not Ivy League enough. Or too PD—not FBI material. Or too brown.”

  Calder couldn’t disagree with her. “I think it’s because you run so much faster than he does. Makes his manhood feel all threatened and stuff.”

  She gave a half smile, disappointed that Calder didn’t refute what she had guessed about his partner’s dislike for her.

  “BUT!” Ben continued, “But he’s brilliant, so he’d be a good character witness, right?” As she shook her head, he added, “Okay, look, ask Wansbrough. Hey, you can do a background check on me and everything.”

  “Look, Ben…” she sank onto the bench at the shooting stall’s edge. “What you’re up against here is … complicated.”

  “Complicated how?” he demanded.

  “I just—look, I just don’t date. That’s not how we do things.”

  “Who? How who does things?”

  “Egyptians. Muslims. It’s just not done.”

  Ben holstered his gun and sat down on the bench across from her, frowning. “Are you seriously telling me you can’t date me because I’m not Muslim?”

  “I don’t…”

  He leaned forward, then, eyes intense. “Wait. Are you seriously telling me that this kick-ass, fast-as-lightning, proud officer of the Philadephia Police Department has never been on a date before, ever?”

  “Oh, for…” Nora sighed. “Yes, okay. I’ve never dated. I don’t see how that affects my ability to kick ass.”

  “Never gone to prom?”

  “Never gone to prom,” she affirmed. “So?”

  He tilted his head to regard her. “Never been kissed?”

  Nora rose. “Okay, this conversation is over. Come on, it’s almost nine.”

  “Nora, have you ever kissed a guy?”

  With her left hand, she pointed at the Glock. “Benjamin Calder, I have seven bullets left in this thing. Do not push me.” She made for the door.

  He stood too, then placed himself between her and the door. “You would prefer shooting me to kissing me?”

  Nora swallowed hard, inhaling the scent of his aftershave again. “Yes,” she answered curtly.

  “Why won’t you date me?”

  “Are you sexually harassing me?”

  He put his hands up again. “No, I’m asking a perfectly valid question.”

  Nora met his green eyes, then carefully holstered her weapon. She sighed. “Because … our relationship has nowhere it can possibly go. Girls like me don’t date just to date, for entertainment. And guys like you, no matter how nice, are not interested in going where girls like me want to go.”

  “Which is?” he asked softly.

  “Home to meet my dad,” she answered. This time, when she moved for the exit, Calder let her pass.

  * * *

  Dewayne Fulton was defiant. He did not look like he had appreciated the night in the holding tank where he’d come down off h
is high. His lawyer exuded slick—expensive suit, mauve tie, chunky gold watch. From her position on the other side of the two-way glass, Nora felt queasy. Dewayne was not scrimping on legal fees. What sort of defense could he possibly be planning?

  Calder and Burton took the lead on the questioning. Nora stood with John, listening to the tinny sound of the voices as they were piped through the hidden speakers. She was relieved to be able to stand on the sidelines this time and watch the scene unfold. Dewayne was by turns hostile and silent. His attorney kept repeating like a mantra, “I advise you not to answer that, I advise you not to answer that.” The agents worked hard to establish Dewayne’s whereabouts on the night Kylie was murdered, and they came up against wall after wall.

  Finally, Eric Burton asked about Kylie. “How long had you been following her before you got her alone?”

  Silence.

  “How did you get her into your car?”

  Silence.

  “How did you muffle her screams?”

  This set him off. Dewayne sprang out of his chair, twisting his cuffed wrists in frustration. “I didn’t rape that raggedy girl. And I sure as hell didn’t kill her!”

  “Isn’t it true that you raped and stabbed Kylie out of revenge? Wasn’t one of your Junior Black Mafia brothers killed by Kylie’s brother Kevin?”

  “Nobody messes with my crew. Nobody!” Dewayne Fulton shouted furiously.

  His lawyer was on his feet, “That’s enough, Dewayne, just calm down!”

  “Exactly,” Burton was saying, ignoring the lawyer, his voice the picture of Princeton calm. “That’s exactly right. Nobody messes with the Junior Black Mafia. So you taught the A&As a lesson they wouldn’t forget.”

  “Shiiiit,” Dewayne said, shoving his chair aside with his foot. It careened across the room, toppling when it hit the wall.

  “Sit down, Dewayne,” Calder said, retrieving the chair. “Why don’t you tell me about the meth we found.”

  “I don’t know shit about no meth.”

  “Dewayne. Are you still buying from New York?”

  Dewayne looked up contemptuously. “You don’t know shit.”

  “Okay, enlighten me,” Calder replied, perching on the edge of the table.

  But Dewayne Fulton had lapsed back into silence.

  Calder said softly, “We found a laptop at the scene.”

  Dewayne looked up sharply, but said nothing.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “You’re fishing, Agent Calder,” the lawyer observed. “I doubt you have anything at all.”

  Nora watched as Dewayne’s features relaxed. Dammit.

  Burton leaned in, practically hissing at the lawyer, “At this point, you should know there’s a ninety percent chance that Dewayne will be looking at the death penalty. I give no guarantees, but your client has intimate knowledge of the meth trade here in Philly. Might be a smart legal strategy to convince him to tell us what he knows. The more information he can give us, and the more meth labs we can shut down and supply chains we can disrupt, the more likely it is that he will be looking at a life sentence instead of death.”

  The lawyer actually rolled his eyes. “You’re in no position to offer life or death at this point. You have no crime scene to place him in, and no murder weapon. Do you have anything concrete to link him to drug trafficking? Not that you’ve offered. What are you planning, to convict him on hearsay? The word on the street? You have nothing at this point—except a dead hooker.”

  Calder gave the lawyer a cursory look, then spoke while staring down Dewayne. “Dewayne knows what we have. Ask him.”

  He and Burton exited and joined Nora and John in the next room.

  “There’s one other thing we do have,” Nora said immediately.

  “What’s that?” demanded Burton, still irritated from the interview.

  “The not-dead hooker. The hysterical one.”

  Wansbrough was nodding, his face pinched. “I got reports that she had a tough night in the hold. The methamphetamine levels in her system were apparently much higher than Dewayne’s.”

  “Do we have a name on her yet?” Calder asked.

  “No name. Prints show nothing, no priors. She won’t talk. Still in shock.” Wansbrough sighed.

  “Well, we can see her, right?”

  “Tomorrow. Maybe Monday,” Wansbrough said dismissively, clearly uninterested. “Now, I hate to admit it, but that lawyer has some points. Any updates on the search for the murder weapon?”

  “Montgomery Watt is trying to get us an exact description of the knife, make and model,” Burton said.

  Wansbrough shook his head.

  Nora said, “But I thought it was open and shut. The CODIS database had confirmed that the semen on Kylie’s body was Dewayne’s.”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean he killed her, especially if we don’t have an exact crime scene or a weapon.”

  “We found Kylie’s hair in his car…”

  “But no blood. And we can’t find the knife. It isn’t enough. The Assistant U.S. Attorney is going to complain.”

  “You don’t think Dewayne could ever make bail, do you?” Nora asked.

  “If it were only on the murder-rape charges, he could at this point. We’re focusing on possession and firing at a federal agent with intent to kill until we can sew up these other things. I have a call in to Judge Rippin. I think I can trust him to be reasonable, but I’m going to try to cover all the bases.” He looked at Calder and Burton. “After you two are done with him, take Watt’s description of the knife and flip Fulton’s car and home upside down. And gentlemen, if there was some pertinent information on that computer, you had better bring me some pertinent information.”

  “But we already…”

  “I know. Do it all again. Go sweet-talk Libby and Jonas. They are already pissed they are here on a Saturday. Piss them off more.”

  Nora fought off a fierce wave of anxiety, envisioning Dewayne out on the street. “We need Mrs. Baker to consent to protective custody.”

  “She’s already refused,” Burton said. “Some of your brothers from the PPD were there only yesterday, and they didn’t get anywhere with her.”

  Nora looked at Wansbrough. “Let’s go ask her again.”

  * * *

  Nora stared mutely out the window as the landscape began its rapid transformation. As they crossed over the Schuylkill at Market Street, they passed the gritty splendor of 30th Street Station and entered in among the erudite brick high-rises of University City. Every other block had a dust-caked construction crew coaxing another harsh-angled building into its place in the skyline. It was here that Drexel and Penn fought for turf as viciously as any street gangs. Nora gazed at a group of young women waiting for the pedestrian crossing signal. Each wore a slight variation of the same uniform: leather boots, long sleek hair, nubby sweater, skinny jeans, oversized bag. They laughed in unison, and Nora tried to remember if she had ever made quite the same sound.

  At 38th Street, the landscape changed again. The lumbering blocks of mega-labs and research centers gave way to pawnshops and check-cashing storefronts, grimy restaurants that offered both Chinese food and hot wings, and small groceries with crippled neon signs and tense metal gratings that seemed ready to be yanked down at a moment’s notice.

  As Wansbrough guided the car into Southwest Philly, they passed residential areas with wide-shouldered twins and Queen Anne-style houses with wraparound porches, but at 50th Street these became slimmer, wan-looking houses, crowding in on each other with matching cases of peeling paint and partially collapsing rooftops. Block after block fanned out beyond the Suburban’s bulletproof glass. Old men sat empty-handed on front stoops, tired eyes looking out from gaunt, stubbly faces. Boarded-up storefronts wore the bold, defiant marks of gang artists.

  Mrs. Lenora Baker answered the door. She wore an apron and held an oven mitt in her hand, suggesting she had been in the middle of preparing lunch. She regarded them steadily, took a deep breat
h, then invited them in. With a slow, pained shuffle, she led them into an immaculate sitting room, coughing slightly, and the agents took their seats on a sofa that looked as though no human had actually sat there before.

  “I’m sure you have some reason for being here,” she said, laying the oven mitt on her lap. “But first I need to know when you’ll be giving me back my Kylie.”

  John and Nora looked at each other. John, at least, seemed prepared for the question. “Mrs. Baker, I know it would be far more difficult for you to bury Kylie and then have to submit to an exhumation if some issue comes up. Please give our forensic scientist just a little more time to make sure he has everything he needs in order to put Dewayne Fulton away forever.”

  “Away? Shouldn’t he get the death penalty?” she demanded, clutching the gold cross that dangled from her neck as though to steady herself.

  John answered, “We’re threatening him with that given the heinous nature of the crime…”

  “Because she was little, my Kylie. Just a little girl…”

  Nora cleared her throat softly. “Twelve, actually. When a murder victim’s age is twelve or less, it’s considered an aggravating circumstance warranting the death penalty in Pennsylvania.”

  Mrs. Baker looked as though she wanted to spit at her, and Nora looked quickly away. Her eyes fell on a tall black man with a long, heavy beard who was emerging from what looked to be the basement. He wore flip-flops and a carefully pressed long white gelabiyya.

  “My son, Rashid,” Mrs. Baker said, by way of explanation.

  Nora and John rose and extended their hands. Rashid shook Wansbrough’s but not Nora’s. Instead, he let his gaze slide quickly over her and then focused on the floor.

  Mrs. Baker’s voice was anguished. “They won’t give us Kylie yet.” She pressed a tissue to her mouth to cover a fit of coughing.

  Her son patted her back as he stood next to his mother’s wing-backed chair, his black eyes glittering with emotion. “It’s time we buried my sister,” he said. “Your people have had enough time.”

  “Mrs. Baker,” Wansbrough was saying. “We owe you a debt of gratitude. Your information led us to Daniella Miller, and without her, we would have had a far more difficult time finding Dewayne Fulton. He’s in our custody now. What you did was a remarkable act of courage…”