Butchers Hill

a new shopping center. The deal should go through later this summer. Poppa finally made a good investment, even if it did take ten years after his death to pay off.'

'I'm surprised he didn't have to sell this when he filed for bankruptcy,' said Uncle Jules, putting on his reading glasses to inspect the deed. After all, he would share in this windfall, too, as would his Deborah.

'It was a personal investment, held outside the corporation. Samuel wanted to build a house in the country for when he retired. Who knew it would ever be worth anything, so far out? But what was considered far doesn't seem so far anymore, the way people are fleeing the city every day. I paid the taxes and held onto it, and now our ship has come in. My lawyer says we might get as much as two hundred thousand dollars for the land if we play our cards right.'

The deed moved around the table, from hand to hand, until it was Tess's turn to study it. Five kids, four grand-kids, two hundred thousand dollars-so this was a chit, worth more than twenty-two thousand dollars. If they played their cards right.

The Weinsteins had finally caught a break. Lord knows they were due. She had caught a break. If the sale went through, she'd have a nest egg, more than enough to float her through the lean times.

Good old Poppa. It was as if he had reached out from beyond the grave and slipped a quarter in the slot, giving her one more ride on the flying rabbit.

Chapter 7

It was commonly believed that the mayor of Baltimore awoke every morning and turned southward, a huge smile on his face. No matter how poorly his city was run, he could count on Washington, the nation's capital, to be in even worse shape. Higher homicide rate, dumber schools, bigger potholes and a convicted drug user at the helm, until the city finally despaired and turned the whole mess over to a control board. Yes, things could always be worse, the streets of Washington seemed to sing, as Tess's car bumped and jolted its way to the Nelsons' school on Capitol Hill.

The Benjamin Banneker Academy was a former bank, a sandstone building with fortress-thick walls on a not- too-bad block east of the Capitol. Although she knew the area fairly well, Tess could never accustom herself to its checkerboard quality, where a block of restored town-houses suddenly gave way to rowhouse slums. In Baltimore, neighborhoods were good or bad, and it was easy to avoid the trouble spots. On Capitol Hill, you could buy a three-dollar cup of coffee and a dime bag of heroin within five minutes of each other. One wrong turn, and you were suddenly starring in your own private version of Bonfire of the Vanities.

Tess tried the oversize door of the Benjamin Banneker Academy. Locked-unusual for a school, but plain common sense here. The Nelsons were probably hypersensitive about safety, given the circumstances in the death of Donnie Moore. She pressed the buzzer and waited on the stone steps. A round-faced young man poked his head out and said, 'No visitors during lessons, ma'am.'

'Mr. and Mrs. Nelson are expecting me.'

He looked her over, closed the door without comment, then returned several seconds later, opening the door to her. Tess saw now that he wore a dark blue uniform in a military style. His black shoes were mirror shiny, his trousers had a knife-sharp crease. Although his full cheeks gave his face a babyish cast, the rest of him was hard and slender, with the big, defined muscles of a weight-lifter pressing at the seams of his uniform. 'I'm sorry, ma'am. But as the monitor, I have strict instructions not to admit anyone, especially reporters.'

'I'm not a reporter.'

The young man looked puzzled, as if he knew of no other occupation for white women who came to the door of the Banneker Academy. A slight woman in a floral shirtdress came out into the hall, pulling a white cardigan over her narrow shoulders. The woman's posture was even more formidable than the monitor's, so straight and proper that it made Tess's spine ache just to look at her.

'Miss Monaghan?'

'Yes, I'm the one who called to talk about Donnie-'

'Of course.' The woman touched the young monitor's elbow. 'Drew, you may go back to your post. Mr. Nelson and I will be in the study if you need us.'

She led Tess into a small, shadowy room lined with bookshelves, but no books. Apparently the Banneker Academy's endowment was not a lavish one-everything looked used and threadbare. She glanced at the globe standing in the corner. It was enormous, a beautiful world of dark, lush colors, and bright blue oceans. That kind of globe usually cost a fortune new, but this one was at least ten years old, with Europe, Russia, and Africa all hopelessly out of date.

Mr. Nelson, a compact man with a moustache and close-cropped hair, rose from a faded wing chair by a casement window and offered his hand.

'Welcome to Benjamin Banneker Academy,' he said, but his voice didn't sound particularly welcoming, and his hand slid quickly through hers, as if he found the contact distasteful.

'Thank you. I'll admit I'm a little confused. Is this a school or an orphanage?'

'Both,' Mrs. Nelson said, 'although we don't like the term ‘orphanage.' The Banneker Academy is a charter school, a private school that receives monies from the district under a program designed to make the public schools more competitive. At the same time, it's a group home. The boys admitted here as students are placed through the city's foster care program.'

'So you're double dipping.'

Mr. Nelson frowned. 'We're not doing anything illegal if that's what you're suggesting. These are two separate programs under the same roof.'

'I didn't mean to imply-'

'I'm sure you didn't,' he said stiffly. Great, she had managed to offend him in what was supposed to be the innocuous, buttering-up portion of the conversation. Step aside, Dale Carnegie, let Tess Monaghan show you how it's done.

Mrs. Nelson interceded, trying to smooth things over. 'We convinced the district to allow us to open a private school for the boys who have become our wards. We are the faculty, we are the parents. If George and I have learned anything from our…missteps over the years, it's that it's no use rearing children right, only to send them into schools where our teaching is undone.'

So now it was the Baltimore school system's fault that the Nelsons' wards had been running wild in the streets. Was anyone to blame for what happened on Fairmount Avenue five years ago?

'Our boys have consistency now, and they flourish,' Mrs. Nelson continued, her voice quiet but impassioned. 'I grant you, we can't teach them advanced calculus, or physics, but if we have a boy who wishes to study those subjects, we can obtain the services of a tutor from the district. One day, we'll have our own gifted-and-talented program, and teachers will be fighting to work here.'

'One day,' said Mr. Nelson, who seemed less starry-eyed than his wife. 'We have a ways to go.'

'You said you learned from your missteps. I assume you mean Donnie Moore.'

The Nelsons looked at each other. Tess saw him nod, ever so slightly, as if giving her permission to speak of what had been so long forbidden.

'Donald,' Mrs. Nelson said. 'Yes, I was referring to Donald.'

'I'm trying to find the other children who lived with you when Donald was killed.' Tess had never heard anyone employ this more formal version of his name-not his mother, not Detective Tull, not even the newspaper accounts of the time-but she was willing to appropriate the usage if it helped her gain some small rapport with the Nelsons.

'Why?'

Tess was ready for this question, more ready than she had been with Keisha Moore.

'A local victims' rights group is interested in helping the children.'

'Now? Doesn't it seem a bit late? They've probably just begun to heal, and you-your victims' group-wants to remind them of the horror they saw.' Mrs. Nelson pulled her sweater over her shoulders, as if just thinking about Butchers Hill gave her a chill. 'I don't see much love in that kind of philanthropy, Miss Monaghan.'