Charm City

building, or my office in Mount Vernon?'

'We prefer you do everything on site,' Jack Sterling said, finally beating Colleen Reganhart to the punch. 'You'll have a cubicle on the third floor, where the old presses used to be. For the duration of your contract, you'll also have a security card and a temporary ID, so you can come and go as you please.'

'What about the union? Won't it keep the employees from cooperating with me?

Colleen Reganhart stood. 'Let us worry about the union.'

Pfieffer jumped to his feet, hands on his hips as if ready to lead a cheer-make that a yell-while Sterling stretched, audibly cracking his lower back. Only Lionel Mabry continued to sit, staring out the window at a brown- breasted pigeon on the ledge. Even by a pigeon's standards, it was a mangy thing, vicious and cruel looking.

'What a pretty, pretty bird,' Lionel cooed with pleasure. 'Spring's first robin.'

Chapter 7

Sour and disoriented, Tess left the Beacon-Light feeling as if she had spent an hour trapped with a querulous family in some run-down boardwalk fun house. She made her way carefully down Saratoga Street, her usually quick stride slowed by the unfamiliar high heels.

'S' cuse me, miss. You know the way to the hospital?'

An old car had pulled alongside her, a bright blue AMC Hornet that had to be at least twenty years old, one of those lumpy little seventies cars like the Pacer, which had seemed good ideas at the time. The man calling out to her was in the passenger seat. Burly and bearded, he wore dark glasses that hid most of his face, despite the overcast skies.

'There's more than one,' she said, taking care to make sure she wasn't within grabbing distance, a street- smart practice drilled into her years ago by a paranoid mother. 'Is it an emergency, or are you looking for a particular one?'

The man twisted his head to confer with someone in the backseat, someone Tess couldn't see, then turned back to her.

'It's a Catholic one,' he said. 'That help?'

'You must mean Mercy. Go straight and you'll see it in about four blocks.'

Again, a hushed conference with the backseat. 'Naw, that's not it. The one we want is named for some lady. Agatha, Annie, somethin' like that.'

'St. Agnes?'

'Yeah. We got a friend there. Got beat up real bad. Word is, he might not make it.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' Tess said, taking a step back and casing the street quickly. There were a couple of stores along this strip and a one-way alley she could dart down. She'd kick her shoes off if she had to, make a run for it in her stocking feet.

'Yeah, poor old Joe is at death's door, the doctors say.' Then why was he grinning so broadly?

'Joe?'

'Joe Johnson. Real good guy. You know him? Small world and all, like they say.'

'No, but I can help you find St. Agnes. It's way out in the suburbs. Take the next right, go up about two blocks, and then make a left on Franklin, taking it out to the Beltway, then take the Beltway to I-95 South and get off at Jessup.' If they followed her directions, they'd go wildly out of their way and end up either at the State Police barracks or one of the state prisons. She had a feeling either destination would be appropriate.

'Thanks. Hey, can we drop you off wherever you're going?' The back door opened, but not wide enough for Tess to see anyone in the backseat.

'No! I mean-I wouldn't want to take you out of your way. I'm sure you're anxious to see…Joe.'

'Oh yeah, we're real anxious.' The man smiled at her, and the car roared off. She watched them head north as she had instructed, then made her way to the closest pay phone. Spike was in intensive care, the nurse reminded her. No one but family was allowed to visit, and no one but Kitty and her parents had tried.

Tess wasn't reassured. A call to admitting told her what she suspected: no Joe Johnson had entered St. Agnes this week.

Adrenaline pumping, she quickly thought of someone who could help her out. And best of all, she could work out while consulting him.

Durban Knox had owned his eponymous boxing gym in East Baltimore for almost forty years. When the neighborhood had been infiltrated by the upwardly mobile in the 1980s, he had tried to cash in by adding fancy weight machines, Lifecycles, Stairmasters, and Star-Track treadmills. The club had caught on, but not because of the new equipment. Instead, doctors, lawyers, and stockbrokers came to box alongside the regulars, usually within days of some newspaper article announcing that boxing was the newest workout for doctors, lawyers, and stockbrokers. The most recent version of the boxing-is-back story had professional women taking up the sweet science. Tess was not tempted. With everyone else in the ring, she enjoyed almost exclusive title to most of the non-boxing equipment. And as Spike's niece, she also enjoyed the almost exclusive protection of Durban, who made sure the male patrons left her alone. Even if she had wanted one to talk to her, he wouldn't have dared, not under Durban 's watchful eye.

But now it was Spike who needed protection.

'Yeah, I know some guys who could keep an eye on him,' Durban said, after hearing about Tess's encounter on Saratoga Street. 'Better do it that way, instead of going to the cops. Spike wakes up and finds some cop outside his hospital room door, he ain't going to be very happy with you.'

'I don't know how I'll pay them-'

Durban flapped his hand in front of his face as if he smelled something bad. 'We'll talk about that when Spike wakes up. Now, stop wasting time and get cracking. Tyner told me you gotta lot of work to do to get ready for the rowing season. I'm suppose to make sure you don't dog it.'

Although it was above freezing, warm enough to run outdoors, Tess opted for five miles on the treadmill, jogging until she had the sweet, rubbery feeling only an overheated gym can provide. Imagining Colleen Reganhart's bright blue body beneath her feet, she pounded out her last mile in under 7:30, the treadmill's top speed.

'I'm watching you, Tess,' Durban called across the room, pointing to the clock. 'Seventy-five minutes on aerobics, Tyner said. He also says you gotta do more weight work.'

'Fine, I'll do the bike. I've got Don Quixote to keep me company.'

'Yeah, well get him to spot you on some bench presses, too. Tyner said.'

Tess settled on the stationary bike with her book propped on the control panel. After a few minutes, she barely noticed the gym's sounds around her-the throb of the speed ball, the duller tones of the heavy bag, the muted thuds of colliding bodies. In its own way, Durban 's was a serene place. She always felt safe here.

A sudden breeze swept through the room, changing the pressure like a cold front coming through town. An entourage had arrived, and the bright white light of a television camera was capturing its every movement. What was the fuss? Durban had trained a few moderately successful boxers in his time, but no one who could generate this kind of heat. Tess saw the silver-haired anchor from Monday night's rally, unnaturally pink in his makeup, schmoozing with Paul Tucci, still walking stiff-legged but no longer using a cane. The Tucci money seemed to promote that kind of reflexive brown-nosing. The rest of the group looked like bankers and Chamber of Commerce types, blue suited and bland.

The suits parted and Wink Wynkowski emerged, shockingly scrawny in a gray wool singlet. Interesting costume for someone with legs the size of my forearms, Tess thought. Wink hadn't gained weight as he aged, but he also hadn't put on any muscle, or bothered to expose his narrow chest and stringy arms to the sun. With his tanned face and pale body, he appeared to be wearing a white turtleneck and stockings beneath the skimpy one-piece.

'I'm going to work out, get a little glow going,' Wink told the anchorman. 'I work out every day, I tell you that? Wait, here's a line for you: ‘Wink Wynkowski might be sweating at the gym, but he's not sweating the bullshit