Charm City

is a Weinstein. The Monaghans are not given to thoughtfulness. I remember when your mother-'

Spike seemed to stir slightly, and everyone turned back to him expectantly. But it was nothing.

'I guess it doesn't do much good for us to sit here and stare at him,' Tess said. 'I think I'll go downtown and take advantage of the Beacon-Light's database, see if there's been a string of tavern robberies, or anything about greyhounds in the news recently. It's a long shot, but it's all I've got.'

'You're going into work dressed like that?' her mother murmured, as Tess bent down to kiss her cheek.

'I like the way she looks,' her father insisted. And they started again, like some museum exhibit with a tape- recorded loop.

It was almost 4 before Tess stopped to meet Tyner for a late lunch at Roy Rogers, one of their shared guilty pleasures along with gangster films and fried green pepper rings dipped in powdered sugar. Tyner ordered what he insisted on calling the Trigger special, the quarter-pound cheese-burger with a side of macaroni salad, while Tess settled for the 'holster' of french fries. That was their term, not hers.

'Happy trails,' Tyner said, as he always did, lifting his twenty-ounce Coca-Cola, another shared vice.

'Same back at you. I'm surprised some do-gooder group hasn't targeted the fries packaging for extinction. Baltimore has always been good at symbols, even if it sucks at doing anything about real problems.'

'You're so crabby you remind me of me. You know what you need?'

Tess gave him a dark look. 'That is not an issue in my life right now, thank you very much.'

'I'm talking about rowing. You need to get back on the water, the sooner the better. You know, you can go out this early if you dress properly. Rock told me-'

'Rock? I heard the Natural Resources police pulled him off the water in February and threatened him with charges if he didn't wait until it was safe.' Tess dredged a fry through her own mixture of barbecue sauce, ketchup, and horseradish, another reason she loved Roy 's. 'But you're right, I am in a mildly rotten mood. I spent most of the afternoon with the Blight's computer system, to no avail. It's a bitch to learn, and once I finally got it up and running, it wasn't much use.'

'Did you find out anything you can link to Spike's beating?'

'I found out there have been several tavern robberies this winter, but no one was beaten in any of those. And the only mention of greyhounds was a two-year-old story on this annual picnic held by local people who had adopted the dogs. Totally goofy. They hold contests for the dog with the longest tail and best costume. Too bad there wasn't a halitosis prize, Esskay could win that in a walk.'

Tyner rolled over to the 'Fixin's bar' for a plate of free pickles and onions, which he sprinkled with pepper and ate raw. The girl behind the counter gave him a dark look-once one's sandwich was gone, these extras were presumably off-limits-but Tyner was a regular and the staff had learned long ago it was easier to let him do what he wanted. Tess knew she should learn the same lesson, but she couldn't help trying to match him for sheer orneriness.

'What about your paying job?' he asked, when he returned. 'Made any progress on that?'

'I skimmed the Blight's early Sunday edition. One of the sports columnists had an intriguing rumor, says Paul Tucci might be willing to put together a new ownership group if the NBA tried to block the basketball deal on the grounds Wink wasn't morally elevated enough to join the ranks of NBA owners.'

'Tucci's probably floating that rumor,' Tyner said.

'Yeah, I thought the same thing. You know what he said? ‘We shouldn't lose sight of the fact that basketball would be good for the city under any local ownership plan.' Isn't it strange how quickly this has become the conventional wisdom, like an-apple-a-day, or early-to-bed-early-to-rise? A sports franchise will make you healthy, wealthy, and wise.'

Tyner pointed a long finger at her nose. 'I'm going to give you some advice-'

'Oh God, no, anything but that.' Tess pretended to cower, even as she finished off her last fry.

'What did Deep Throat say in the garage? Follow the money? Well, I have much older, much more universal advice. Cherchez la femme, Tess. Cherchez la femme.'

'La femme?' Tess needed a moment, then she smiled. 'Good idea, Tyner. I think I'll stop by the home of Rosita Ruiz on my way home tonight.'

'Giddyap,' Tyner said, then made a whinnying sound so accurate that the other Roy diners looked around uneasily.

Nothing put Tess more in the mood to work than strict injunctions against it. If she had been Bluebeard's wife, she would have been in the secret room the first night. Pandora's box? Opened before it was across her doorstep. The editors had told her to conduct all interviews on-site, the union had told her to stop the interviews entirely. She was counting on Rosita, out of the newsroom for two days and on deadline for most of today, not to know either of these injunctions.

Rosita lived in a high-rise north of Johns Hopkins University 's Homewood campus. The strip of apartment buildings along University Parkway catered to every taste: struggling students, well-to-do seniors, young professionals, even those rich enough to pay $1 million for a view of Hopkins ' lacrosse field. Rosita's building fell in the lower part of the range. A stark modern tower, its dingy lobby had the feel of a graduate student dorm, while its balconies held the accessories of young adults in transition from school to career: expensive bicycles, cheap hibachis, plastic stacking chairs. There were two views: nostalgic residents could face south, toward the campus they had left so recently, while the strivers looked hopefully toward the stately homes of Baltimore 's north side.

In the foyer, the mailbox showed an R. Ruiz, on the eighteenth floor. It was almost too easy for Tess to slip through the security door, disappearing among the people lugging home groceries and take-out food. No one seemed to know anyone here, nor wanted to, judging from the way everyone stared at the elevator's ceiling as it ascended.

A pink-cheeked Rosita answered the door in bicycle pants and a T-shirt with a picture of a bare-breasted mermaid, labeled La Sirena. Her hair was slick and wet, her toes separated by wads of cotton, apparently in preparation for the bottle of polish she held in her hand, a very girly pink. Tess would have expected something darker, bloodier.

'Feeney's friend,' Rosita said. 'Bess.'

'Tess. And I'm here as a contractual employee of the Beacon-Light, part of the paper's preliminary investigation into what is being called the unscheduled publication of the article you wrote with Kevin Feeney.'

'You're the investigator they hired?' Rosita asked incredulously. She had not dropped her arm from the door, so Tess was still in the hall.

'Yes. I work for a local attorney and have a little experience in the field.' Very little.

'I thought you were suppose to conduct the interviews in the office, starting with the people who were there that night.'

'There are no hard-and-fast rules. I happened to be in your neighborhood and thought I'd drop by. I guess I'm kind of a workaholic.' She smiled at her lie, suspecting it might create a bond. 'This isn't about guilt, you know. It's a fact-finding, cover-your-ass kind of thing, in case Wynkowski sues. That's all.'

Rosita gave her terrible imitation of a smile. 'Trust me, this is all about guilt. Luckily for me, I'm not guilty.'

'So why don't we sit down and talk about this for a few minutes? Then I can put a little check by your name, and everyone will be happy.' Except the editors, the union, and you, when you realize you weren't supposed to talk to me at all.

'Okay, but you can't stay long. I've got plans tonight and I just got home from work-we have an amazing story running tomorrow. It's going to blow the lid off this city.'

'Blow the lid off this city?' If Tess hadn't been intent on charming Rosita, she might have reminded this newcomer that Baltimore had managed to keep its lid firmly in place through the great fire of 1904, the riots of 1968, the Orioles' 21-game losing streak in 1988, several crooked city officials, and a savings- and-loan scandal that had anticipated the national S amp;L crisis by several years.