Rough Justice

'No. It doesn't sound right. The kid said Darning was rich.'

'You can't take a little kid's word on what rich is, Mare. Five dollars is rich to a kid that young.' Judy pressed her boot into her ski clip, leaning on Mary's shoulder for balance. 'Let's go, girlfriend. Time to roll.'

'The kid said street money. Do you know the phrase street money?'

'What phrase? He didn't mean it as a phrase. The kid lives on the same street as Darning, literally. Street money. Get it?' Judy popped the other ski on and slipped her hands into the pole straps. 'Come on. Put your skis on.'

'I think the kid was repeating something he heard. Something Darning said. There is a term street money.'

'There is? What's it mean?'

Mary smiled. 'You're so totally, like, Californian. It's what you pay for votes. You give somebody street money so they can buy votes in their district.'

'Fascinating.'

'Welcome to Philadelphia.'

'Thank you very much.' The wind was gusting hard, and Judy's ankles were wet and chilled. 'Put your skis on, Mare. We'll discuss it at my apartment.'

Mary tried to find her ski clip with her boot, but the ski kept slipping away. 'You know, a lot of those articles I got from my computer search were about Steere and Mayor Walker. How much they hate each other.'

'Yeah, so?' Judy knelt down and steadied Mary's ski until her boot finally clicked in.

'So maybe it's a political thing. The election is coming up. Maybe street money was paid or will be. Maybe there's some political angle to this.'

'Next ski,' Judy said, squinting against the spray of ice particles blowing into her face from the ground. 'Let's go, Mare.' With her eyes half closed, Judy couldn't see the smoked glass window of the Grand Cherokee sliding down to the halfway point, even if she had been looking.

'Are you listening, Jude? It could be political.'

'Put your fucking boot in the fucking clip.'

'Jeez Louise. Touchy, aren't we? I'm trying to solve a murder here. It's not easy.' Mary nosed her other boot down, finally found the clip with her toe, and locked it in.

'Hallelujah.' Judy straightened up, telemarked to turn around, and skied a few feet down the sidewalk to take the lead. 'Follow me,' she called back.

'Maybe Darning gets the money from somewhere,' Mary called after her, hobbling through the snow. It was so damn cold. The air was too frigid to breathe. 'Someone gave him street money.'

Across the street, the Grand Cherokee's window edged down past the halfway point. Its tinted glass was mottled with powdery snow. It was too dark to see the driver. The engine idled and exhaust wafted from its tailpipe. The windshield wipers beat harder.

'Let's get into the street, where it's easier,' Judy yelled to Mary. She looked for an opening between the cars parked at the curb. Covered with snow, the cars looked like an Almond Joy bar. Judy spotted a space and headed for it, skiing into the street. 'Come on, Mare. Try and keep up.'

'Show-off,' Mary muttered.

Judy took off into the middle of the street and skied away from the ruts made by passing cars. The snow was knee-deep in some spots. It had been hours since Judy heard a weather report.

Mary made her way into the street with difficulty. She heard a loud hydraulic cranking and saw a snowplow in the distance, with a yellow caution light flashing on its cab. Maybe they were plowing the streets on the way to Judy's apartment. It would help. Mary couldn't believe anybody went cross-country skiing for fun. It was brutal, endless work. For that she could go to the office.

'Mare!' Judy called to her. 'You okay?'

Mary tried to answer, but her words were swallowed by the cold wind and the noise from the snow-plow. She struggled against the storm and tried to keep up. It was a lost cause. Snowflakes flew into her eyes. Her hands were wet in her gloves. The blizzard didn't seem to be letting up. Mary fell behind Judy a few feet, then half a block.

Behind Mary, the tinted window of the white Cherokee slid all the way down. A hand in a leather glove appeared from inside the car and brushed snow from the door frame. A second later, the barrel of a hunting rifle nosed out and pointed down the street.

26

It's a great truck, Christopher had told Marta. Don't judge it by the way it looks. The tires are new this year. Bridgestones.

Marta identified Christopher's ancient truck instantly because it was the most disgusting wreck in the hotel garage: a faded blue pickup with a dented white cover over its long bed. Its back fender and body were marred by dings, its doors rusted with cancerous edges, and it cowered in a far corner of the underground garage like a leper. The only bright spot on the truck was its cherry-red bumper sticker: FARRIERS SHOE IT BETTER.

The bumper sticker was Lainie's idea, Christopher had said, though Marta could have guessed as much.

She lingered near the garage wall and glanced nervously around for Bogosian. Had she lost him for good? She didn't think he'd followed her to the hotel because she'd kept checking behind her. Still, she couldn't be sure. Maybe he was lying in wait like he'd been at Steere's town house. He knew there was a conjugal visit scheduled, maybe he'd anticipated she'd try to reach the jury. Or maybe Steere had. Still, she had to go.

Marta hurried to the truck, slipped the key in the lock, and climbed inside when the door creaked open. She