Baltimore Blues (14 page)

“The thrill is gone?” Tess asked.

“No, it’s for you. Since when do you give the store number out?”

“Tyner put it on my ‘business’ cards because he knows I don’t always answer upstairs. Sorry—it didn’t occur to me anyone was going to use it.”

In the office Tess picked up the sleek, modern phone on Kitty’s desk. A deep voice, hesitant and sweet, spoke softly into her right ear. “Miss Monaghan? It’s Frank Miles, the custodian from the Lambrecht Building.”

“Mr. Miles.” She imagined him, girth squeezed into his easy chair, scarfing down a whole bag of Hydroxes. A black Santa Claus on his throne. No beard, though. “What can I do for you?”

“I was thinking—I have so much time to myself, to sit here and think—and I remembered something. There was a man, Miss Monaghan. An angry man.”

“Where, Mr. Miles? At the office?”

“Yes. He came to see Mr. Abramowitz a few months ago and said horrible things, ugly things. It was after hours, so I heard them. He wanted money. He said he would kill Mr. Abramowitz if he didn’t get his money.”

“Was it a man with a baseball bat? The man written up in the paper? Do you remember what month this was?”

“No—maybe spring, maybe summer.”

“With a baseball bat?”

“A baseball bat? I think there was. Or maybe I just heard about it later.”

“Did you catch his name, Mr. Miles? Did you see him?”

A long, sad sigh. “No. No. I’m sorry.” He sounded hurt and defensive, as if he regretted disappointing her.

Tess wanted to sigh, too, with frustration. He hadn’t told her anything she didn’t know. But he had kept her card. He had called. Maybe he would remember something worthwhile.

“I
am
going to check into it, Mr. Miles,” she reassured him. “It’s a good tip, a really good tip. I bet there’s something there.”

That cheered him up. “He was an angry man, Miss Monaghan. Angry over money. Isn’t that a shame? He was mad because they hadn’t paid him for dying, the way they promised. Who needs money for dying?”

“It’s a good tip,” Tess repeated. “And I think I know who it was.”
I just don’t know his name
.

“You’re good at your job, Miss Monaghan. You’re very conscientious, a good, hard worker. I noticed that right off. Good night, Miss Monaghan.”

Conscientious. Good at her job. When had Tess heard that last? She couldn’t remember. The words almost made her want to weep, to thank Mr. Miles profusely, to make her parents proud of her, to get an MBA or go to law school.

But all she said was, “Good night, Mr. Miles.”

T
ess woke up the next morning with an unfamiliar pleasant feeling. She sat up in bed, trying to figure out what it was, this fluttery sensation deep in her stomach. She was eager to begin the day, the real day beyond her workout, before she had to show up at Tyner’s office. Of course. This was what it felt like to have something to do, a job to which one wanted to go. After her conversation with Mr. Miles last night, she was more sure than ever it was essential to find the man with the baseball bat. She couldn’t wait to go see Feeney at the courthouse.

But Tyner had other plans. He was waiting when Tess docked at 7:30.

“I need some help around the office today. What’s your schedule like?”

“I owe Kitty a few hours this morning. And I had some stuff I wanted to do on my own this afternoon.”

“Work for your uncle?”

“Not exactly.”

Still in her shell, Tess bent over her shoes and untied them slowly, with great concentration, more than the task required. When she looked up again Tyner was giving her the hard glare usually reserved for a novice who was dogging it, or an experienced rower who caught a crab—rower jargon for putting one’s oar in at a wrong angle, so the entire shell lurched. A single crab could lose a race or overturn a four.

“I hope you’re not playing detective, Tess. You come to my office this afternoon. You haven’t even earned back all that money Rock paid you. Maybe you can do some typing for me.”

“On Rock’s case? Or some of your other cases?”

“Whatever I tell you to do, you’ll do, when I tell you to do it. That’s our arrangement.” And he rolled away while Tess sat in her shell, nonplussed.

Feeling mildly defiant, she did not dress up for her afternoon at the law office, prompting a stern look from Tyner when she arrived at 2
P.M
., an hour late, in black jeans and a white T-shirt. She bet the jeans bothered Tyner more than her tardiness. Tyner was something of a dandy, obsessed with clothes.

Today, at least, he didn’t insult Tess by making her perform tasks that had nothing to do with Rock’s case. That was the adoring Alison’s job when she wasn’t finding endless excuses to leave the anteroom and bustle into the office.

“She has a crush on you,” Tess said after the third interruption.

“Not at all,” said Tyner. “She just loves her job. I don’t really need her, but her father owns the building, and if I have a bad month, he’ll let me deduct her salary from the rent I pay.”

“Whatever you say, Tyner. I’m sure a girl whose father owns a Mount Vernon town house has nothing better to do than answer your phone and fetch you coffee.”

She was reviewing the statements collected to date, including police reports and a preliminary autopsy, and noting any contradictions. Using Tyner’s color-coded system, she marked every mention of time, separating out “good” and “bad” testimony—i.e., what favored their version of things (red), and what could undermine Rock’s case (blue).

“How’s the autopsy look for us?” Tess asked.

“Well, it doesn’t jibe with Rock’s story. Abramowitz
was
choked, and Rock’s fingerprints are all over his office. But he also has a skull fracture, and the medical examiner ruled the cause of death was blunt force trauma—a repeated beat
ing against the corner of his desk. It wasn’t pretty, Tess. Whoever killed him was in a rage. Half his skull was on that desk. They were picking the rest of it out of the carpet for days, I bet.”

No wonder Frank Miles had been so worried about cleaning up. “What about Rock’s clothing? Did they find any of Abramowitz’s blood on his stuff?”

“Now that’s one of our few breaks. Rock’s clothes appear to be missing.”

“Missing?”

“Rock was wearing a fresh T-shirt and a pair of jeans when the cops picked him up. They went through his laundry basket and found no shortage of soiled shirts, but not a single one with blood on it.”

“So Rock
didn’t
do it.”

“Or he thought quickly enough to get rid of a piece of incriminating evidence. He could have pulled off his shirt and stuffed it into a trash bin on Howard Street. But that’s for the prosecutors to wonder about, and prove.”

Tess bent back over her work, uncomfortable with Tyner’s train of thought.

Her notes now. Joey Dumbarton—a “good” witness, for Tyner could confuse him easily, especially after a few more interviews. Frank Miles—he would testify for the state, but Tess made a note of last night’s conversation. It wouldn’t hurt for Tyner to ask him about the mystery man, to plant in the jury’s mind the idea of an angry man, furious at being denied his money, enraged enough to kill for it.

Of course, killing Abramowitz wouldn’t have accelerated the payment, quite the opposite. Who, besides Rock, had a motive for Abramowitz’s slaying? Tess stared out the window at the tiny park in the shade of the Washington Monument. Ava might. Her sexual harassment claim, which couldn’t be refuted now, may have boosted her bargaining power with the firm. She could have held them up for money, or for unlimited chances at the bar exam. Then again, she had recanted her story awfully fast. Perhaps she had been counting on Abramowitz to pay her off to keep her from
telling the other partners? His private practice was thought to have been a lucrative one, and his estate should be entitled to some of the profits the Triple O made this year, up until his death.

“Hey, did he leave a will?”

“Abramowitz? No, surprisingly. Or perhaps not so surprisingly. Some doctors don’t get physicals; some lawyers put off writing their wills. He left a sizable estate—almost one million dollars in investments and real estate—but he has no living relatives. It’s in probate at orphan’s court, where all estates go when there are no wills.”

“Is that what orphan’s court is for? It always sounded to me like something out of Dickens, a place where orphans were auctioned off to pay their parents’ debt. Perhaps I should feel sorry for Abramowitz, the poor little orphan with no one to leave his millions.”

“When we get through with Abramowitz in court, the one thing I can guarantee you is that no one will feel sorry for him.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s simple. We’re going to try the victim. An ugly strategy, but an effective one. If you can convince a jury someone deserved to die, the jury might acquit. It’s not supposed to work that way, yet it does.”

Tess lowered her eyes, and the reports in front of her blurred and shimmied. She wasn’t naive; she knew a legal defense had little to do with innocence. It was a game. The state had to prove its case, and if it failed then one was “not guilty.” Not too long ago, a man on Death Row had been released when DNA testing proved he had not raped a little girl who was murdered. “He’s not guilty,” the prosecutor said, “but I’m not ready to say he’s innocent.” Tyner was accustomed to those semantic realities. Tess wanted to be able to declare, with all her heart, that Rock was innocent. For only Rock’s innocence could establish her own.

They worked in silence until Alison hurried in again, full of her own importance as she announced a phone call from Seamon P. O’Neal.

“Of O’Neal, O’Connor and O’Neill,” she added as Tyner picked up the phone. Tess tried to eavesdrop, but Alison wanted to chat.

“I didn’t make the connection at first,” she said, wrinkling her perfect, perky nose. “He pronounces his name ‘Shaymun.’ Isn’t that funny? I thought it was Seamen.”

“It’s Irish. And Shaymun is preferable to Seamen, don’t you think? Consider the homophones.” Alison blushed and practically ran from the room. Tess couldn’t be sure if it was the oblique reference to semen, or the word “homophone,” that Alison thought obscene. She turned her attention back to Tyner, but the call was already over.

“He wants to see us—to see
me
,” Tyner said, hanging up the phone. “He says it’s about Rock’s case.”

“Are you meeting him at his office?”

“No, at his house. ‘Sixish, for cocktails,’ he said. But I have a feeling he expects us at six sharp and drinks will be an afterthought. Successful lawyers usually do not arrive home by six, ready for cocktails. Not even founding partners with wealthy wives.”

“Expects
us
. You said, ‘Expects us.’”

Tyner sighed. “It will probably be a boring little fencing session in which Seamon tries to figure out what we know and the implications for the firm. That’s all he cares about, his law firm’s reputation.”

“And I’m the one who knows where and when the star associate spent her lunch hours with the newest partner.”

Tyner threw up his hands. “You want to go, you can go, as long as you drive and stay quiet. I’d like to think you have something better to do with your evenings.”

They left the office at 5:30, usually more than enough time for the three-mile trip to Guilford, one of the wealthiest neighborhoods within the city limits. But the O’Neals lived on Cross Place, a hidden cul de sac unknown to Tess and Tyner, both Baltimore natives. After several wrong turns they finally found their way to the street, a leafy enclave set off by a stone archway thick with ivy. A small sign advised them it was a private block, which may have explained why
it was missing from the city map they had studied futilely.
NO TRESPASSING
, it warned in black, curving letters.

“Cross Place. Of course,” Tyner said. “William Tree, Seamon’s father-in-law, married Amelia Cross and bought this property for her. It was a huge estate at one point, almost two hundred acres. But Tree, always a developer at heart, couldn’t resist subdividing his own land over time.”

“I thought the philosophy was to hold on to land, because they’re not making it anymore.”

“That’s fine if you don’t need any cash flow. Tree had expensive tastes. The center house was his, and the houses on either side were for his two children, William Jr. and Luisa Julia—Ellie Jay. William Jr. died young in an influenza epidemic. The O’Neals took over the center house when her parents died. The O’Neals have a son and a daughter, too, but they apparently gave up on living here in harmony. The other houses were sold a few years back, almost as soon as William Tree, Sr., was in his grave.”

Rambling, redbrick mansions, the houses were identical in almost every aspect. But the middle house had a subtle grandeur its mates could not match. Its lot was a little larger, its lawn crosshatched like the field at Camden Yards. Ancient crepe myrtles wrapped around the house, their blooms just past. A few tiny blossoms, in hues ranging from pale pink to almost purple, littered the grounds, faded confetti after a parade.

As soon as Tess pulled into the driveway, a maid came running to meet them, a pale blue and white banner in her hand. She tied it to the antenna of Tyner’s van.

“The neighborhood watch group gives these out,” she explained matter-of-factly. “It means you’re invited. When people see strange cars these days, they get jumpy.”

This nervousness was new, Tess realized. Once, Guilford had been a safe neighborhood, its grand homes untouched by crime and larceny as if by some secret arrangement. This summer, people in the poor sections to the south and east had started making forays into Guilford. An armed robbery here, a break-in there, at least one rape—the sort of things
the rest of Baltimore had lived with for years. But Guilford’s residents were outraged. A covenant had been broken. The homeowners, many of whom were paying as much as $15,000 a year in property taxes alone, lobbied city hall for the right to hire their own security force. Grudgingly the city had allowed them to pay for the services it could not provide.

The concern for security did not stop at the curb. Waiting in the O’Neal foyer, Tess peeked into the closet and saw the green and red lights of a complicated alarm system. It even had a “lock down” designation, a term Tess had heard only in connection with prisons.

“Why do we have to wait?” Tess whispered. “They told us to be here at six and it’s past that.”

“We wait for the same reason one always waits in these situations. Shay O’Neal has to remind us he’s more important than we are and his time more precious.”

Exactly nine minutes later the maid took them into the sun room at the rear of the house. This was the O’Neals’ version of a den or family room, although Tess knew the furniture cost more than the living room set her mother kept encased in plastic slipcovers. But she was less interested in the room’s plush furnishings than she was in the view, something one never suspected from the house’s staid, formal front.

“Look, Tyner,” she said, walking to the bank of louvered windows. “They did save part of the estate after all. It’s like the rest of Baltimore doesn’t even exist back here.”

It was no backyard, but a wooded hill where leafy paths wove in and out. The trees were just beginning to turn, so glints of red and gold shone among the green. One could barely see the houses on the hill’s far side, their windows winking through the trees.

“It’s a woodland garden,” a woman’s voice began before it was quickly overwhelmed, then smothered by a man’s booming voice.

“We
both
enjoy our garden. We’ve certainly paid enough to get it to look as random as it does.”

Tess turned and faced two of Baltimore’s most famous
citizens, expecting to know them instantly—and realized she had never seen them before. Their faces were at once familiar and strange. Just as she had thought Abramowitz was an old friend because he had been on television, she had imagined she knew the O’Neals because their names were everywhere. On museum wings and soup kitchens, on fat checks to charities. On programs at the symphony and every year’s list of big United Way contributors. Seamon P. O’Neal and Luisa J. O’Neal, on behalf of the William Tree Foundation. It was always worded this way, presumably because Shay did not wish his dead father-in-law to reap all the credit for the fortune he had made and Shay had enlarged.

Still, they looked as Tess might have predicted. Shay was a dead ringer for the generic man featured in the background of catalogs from Talbot’s and J. Crew, always slightly out of focus. A white-haired man with rosy skin and bright blue eyes, he looked as if he feasted on rare roast beef, washed down with robust burgundies or cabernets, followed by a good dose of port. He looked the way Tess had always thought a vampire
should
look after a good meal—not pale, but suffused with blood, red and vivid.