Laura Lippman (28 page)

“Thanks, I guess.” He folded it in half, and stuck it in a pocket of his topcoat. A new cashmere coat, Tess noticed, one that fit him perfectly.

“You ready to go?”

“I can take a cab, you know.”

“Not on Christmas Eve. You’ll never get one to come get you over here.” He still looked reluctant. “I promise I won’t notice which train you board. I won’t even get out of the car at the station.”

Adam regarded her speculatively. His beauty was still astonishing to her, she could not imagine what it must be like to be at large in the world with that face. To be a woman with such a face, or an about-to-be-woman, as Gwen had been, must have been more terrifying still. Had Meyer Hammersmith thought his “ownership” of these beauties made him beautiful by association?

“I’ll let you drop me off,” he said at last.

“It seems only fair,” Tess said. “Since I’m the one who convinced you to leave your car at Sandy Point Park, and now it’s impounded by the State Police.”

As she promised, Tess stayed in the car when they arrived at Penn Station. She let Adam Moss get out, watched Joseph Kane disappear into the Christmas Eve crowd.

She then parked her car on St. Paul Street and walked inside, studying the tote board. There was a Northeast Direct to New York in fifteen minutes. But Adam had said
he was going west. So he must be on the Chicago train, which left an hour later.

He came out of the newsstand. He was not happy to see her.

“Are you spying on me?”

“Not exactly. But it’s Christmas Eve. No one should get on a train on Christmas Eve and not have someone to see him off. It’s not as if there’s someone waiting for you.”

“You don’t know where my journey will end, or who might be there for me,” he said.

“Well, I also want to give you a Christmas gift,” Tess said. “Wait right here.”

She went into the souvenir shop and returned with a small bag. “Turn your back,” she said. “I have to make a slight adjustment.”

He complied, sighing.

“Okay, I’m done. Turn around.”

She handed him a snow globe. The shop had carried a variety of scenes—the Inner Harbor, the city’s skyline. But Tess had chosen the one of the Bay Bridge, and made a small alteration with a marking pen, inking a large red X toward the bottom.

“Remember, that’s where you are.”

“Where Adam Moss is.”

“Where Adam Moss is,” she amended. “How you’re going to keep from being recognized is beyond me. You don’t have a forgettable face, you know. One photograph of you and the new candidate—”

“I’m not the kind of operative who ends up in photographs, or yakking on CNBC. I’m from the old school. I stay in the background.”

The tote board’s tiles began turning, and the Northeast Direct showed “All Aboard” at Gate E. To Tess’s surprise, Adam began walking toward the stairs.

“I thought you were heading west—”

“I am. But I have someone to see in New York first.” Mysterious to the end. Adam Moss may change his name, but he’d never change his ways. Tess walked with him to the staircase, and down to the tracks, into the icy night air. She wanted to see him get on the train, wanted to know he was safely away. The train swept in, already full of holiday travelers. Intent on getting a seat, Adam pressed forward, not even saying goodbye.

“Hey, Joe—”

He turned at his new name. Good for him.

“Pick a better candidate this time, okay?”

“I couldn’t find a worse one, that’s for sure.”

T
HE MOST SURPRISING THING
T
ESS RECEIVED FOR
Christmas was an eviction notice.

“I’m so sorry, Tesser,” Kitty said, after breaking the news at their holiday dinner. It was a small affair, just her, Tyner, Tess, and Crow. Tess’s parents had decided to go away for the holidays, given that it would still be months before their house was rebuilt. “But when I got the permits for the elevator construction, they found out about the apartment on the third floor and reappraised the property. My tax bill has gone up so much that I’m going to have to start charging a fair market rate for the apartment. To justify that, I have to make some improvements. You’re welcome to move back in, after the renovations, but I’ll understand if you think you can do better.”

“It’s not your fault,” Tess said, suddenly glad that Crow had remembered to put some dope in her Christmas stocking. It more than made up for his failure to find a local beauty supply store willing to part with its “Human Hair” neon sign.

But when Crow saw her rummaging for rolling papers after lunch, he proposed taking a drive instead.

“We can start looking for a new place for you to live,” he said. “Check out other neighborhoods. You’ve got to treat this as an opportunity.”

“On Christmas Day?” But there was nothing else to do, except digest turkey and sauerkraut, so she put on her coat, pulled Esskay’s new Christmas sweater over the dog’s head, and piled into Crow’s Volvo.

It quickly became apparent that the drive was much more targeted than Crow had let on. He headed north, into the funky little neighborhood they had found when trying to get to Thirty-fourth Street all those weeks ago. They never did make it to see the lights, she realized, feeling wistful for the holiday season that had passed her by. Next year, she resolved, work was going to be less consuming. There were worse things than divorce work and dumpster diving.

Crow turned up what appeared to be an alley, although it was marked with a street sign. East Lane. One side was bordered by the long, wide backyards of the large houses one street over, while the other side was a deep slope, with smaller houses and cottages hugging the hillside overlooking a wooded park.

“Stony Run Park,” Crow said. “Named for the creek that runs through it.”

He stopped at a small dilapidated bungalow, which looked more like someone’s abandoned fishing cabin than a real house. Built into the side of the hill, it was virtually a tree house, with decks and screened porches taking up more square footage than the proper living quarters.

“Who lives here?”

“No one anymore. It’s for sale,” Crow said, taking a key from under an old milk box.

“I don’t see a sign,” Tess said.

“The real estate agent hasn’t listed it yet. He’s a friend of Tyner’s, said he’s going to put it on the market at the beginning of next year.”

“So Kitty has been planning to kick me out all along, and you knew it, and Tyner knew it, and you didn’t tell me?”

“We thought it would soften the blow if you had a place to land,” Crow said, letting her into the empty house. It had the feel of a place where no one had lived for a very long time. She liked that feel. It also had a neon sign that said “Human Hair” hung on the wall. Crow really did pay attention, she realized. He not only listened to her stated wants, he was capable of anticipating her desires as well, desires she had yet to form. She tried to find a downside to this, but failed utterly.

The house was perfect—or could be, with months of work. Walls would have to come down, the kitchen would have to be completely redone, the floors needed sanding and, given the water stains on the peeling wallpaper, a new roof was probably required as well. The window sashes were mushy from dry rot, the doors had swollen with humidity until they scraped the floor, mice droppings were thick in the corners. But all Tess could see was herself, here in the spring, surrounded by trees, living out a Swiss Family Robinson fantasy.

The moment she gave into the dream, she saw it slipping through her fingers. It hurt, wanting something this much, then realizing she could never have it.

“I can’t afford a house in this neighborhood.”

“It’s surprisingly cheap for Roland Park,” Crow said, “because it’s so small and in such bad shape.”

“No bank would give me a loan.”

“They will if you have a cosigner. And when the cosigner’s name is Dick Schiller, you’d be surprised at
how easy it is to get money. He said he’d give you a personal loan at market rates, if it came to that.”

She wasn’t ready to give in, not yet. “It needs at least fifty thousand dollars’ worth of work. I don’t have that much cash, and I couldn’t do it myself.”

“I could,” her father said, stepping out of the rear bedroom. “I’m pretty handy, Tesser, in case you didn’t know.”

They eyed each other cautiously. Although they had spoken by phone after Dahlgren’s debacle, making halfhearted apologies and assuring each other there were no hard feelings, they had not seen each other since the night of the house fire. Her father was always at Spike’s place, working, when she stopped by the Catonsville rental that was the Monaghans’ temporary home. He was very busy, her mother assured her, and very happy. Tess had tried hard to believe both things were true.

“I thought you were away for the holidays,” she said, pushing up her sleeves so he might notice the gold watch on her left wrist. She didn’t really like it much—it felt prissy and delicate, after so many years of wearing a man’s Swiss Army wristwatch. But it told the time, it was reliable. If her father wanted to think a watch could make her more of a girly-girl, she was willing to go along with it.

“We were going to Deep Creek Lake, but Crow told me what he was up to when he stopped by the bar this week.”

“Crow was at the bar?”

“He’s a partner.” Her father smiled at her confusion. “Not a full one, just a little piece. He’s going to bring bands in on the weekends. Blues, he says, maybe jazz.”

She should have been pleased, but it unnerved Tess a little, this vast conspiracy to make her happy. She wasn’t comfortable with anything going on behind her back, good or bad.

“So what do you think, Dad? Is this a good investment
for a self-employed businesswoman who can’t even get a bank loan on her own?”

“I don’t know what kind of investment it is,” her father said. “As I told you once, I was never much good at figuring out what makes money. A smart man could probably turn a house fire into an opportunity, but all I know how to do is rebuild it and move back in. For you, though—for you, I think it’s a good idea to get out and be on your own. You’re a grown-up, Tesser. You’re capable of making your own decisions.”

“Even if I make the wrong ones, sometimes?”

“Especially when you make the wrong ones.”

Esskay circled the room, a little panicky at the sight of a place with no soft furniture on which to rest. Crow had retreated to the kitchen, where he was opening and closing the cabinets, testing the old-fashioned metal latches, scratching at the decades of paint covering the woodwork. “Pine, I think,” he called out. “Maybe maple.” Patrick stood with his hands in his pockets, studying the neon sign with the sort of baffled expression he had once reserved for Crow. He didn’t understand her, not entirely, Tess realized. He never would. Parents probably never understood their children. That was okay. She didn’t understand him, either.

“I would prefer,” Pat said, his voice a little stiff, as if he expected resistance, “that I be the cosigner on the loan, if you go through with this. I know I’m not a famous billionaire, but I think my credit’s just as good.”

“No, you’re wrong about that,” Tess said, shaking her head.

“What?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s better. I’d much rather do business with you.”

They shook on it. It was a deal, after all, not a time for hugging.

Favors, Arnie Vasso had once said. Your father knows all about favors. He had meant it as an insult, a sly reference to the corners the Monaghans and Weinsteins cut here and there. Now Tess saw it for the simple truth it was: Her father understood favors. How to do them, how to accept them, how to walk away when the price was too steep. It was a lesson she wouldn’t mind learning someday.

Maybe this was the place to start.

First and foremost: love and undying gratitude to John Roll, who makes everything possible. For those who believe nothing good ever came of the Maryland General Assembly, all I can say is that I met my husband on the floor of the Senate, and have never regretted it.

My colleagues at the
Baltimore Sun
continue to help me get things right in spite of myself. Mike James and Kate Shatzkin of the
Sun
wrote the articles that inspired this book. I am indebted to William F. Zorzi Jr. and Tom Waldron, who have long been my patient guides to the Maryland political scene. Tom Stuckey of the Associated Press and Rick Tap-scott of the
Washington Post
also contributed to this book, although they may not realize it. Thanks, too, to the editors—Eileen Canzian and Robert Benjamin, in particular—who gave me a front-row seat on the 1998 governor’s race. Joe Mathews shared his South Baltimore expertise. Peter Hermann, as always, was a cherished technical adviser.

Susie Rose arranged my first shooting lesson; any errors are the result of an inattentive pupil. I’d never have met Susie if it weren’t for Sherry Dougherty and Sandee Mahr, so a toast to the Misses Chardonnay, Merlot, and Cabernet.

A factual note: Maryland has only forty-seven senate districts. There has never been a senator from the forty-ninth district in Maryland. There has, however, been a governor who held an AK-47 on a smirking reporter. Of course, he’s no longer governor. He’s now the state’s comptroller.

LAURA LIPPMAN
was a newspaper reporter at the
Baltimore Sun
for fifteen years. Her Tess Monaghan novels—
Baltimore Blues, Charm City, Butchers Hill, In Big Trouble, The Sugar House,
and
The Last Place
—have won the Edgar, Agatha, Shamus, Anthony and Nero Wolfe awards, and her novel,
In a Strange City,
was named a
New York Times
Notable Book of the Year. Her latest standalone crime novel,
Every Secret Thing,
was published by William Morrow in September 2003. You can visit her website at
www.lauralippman.com
.

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