Baltimore Blues

might not ring any bells. But if someone strikes out fifteen times, at one A.M., on all five editorial terminals, they'll start looking hard. I can't risk that. It's one machine or nothing, Tess.'

With fifteen, Tess had felt cocky. Ten-a cinch. Even five would have seemed a sporting chance. Three was narrow and arbitrary, straight out of the Brothers Grimm. Being clever wouldn't be enough. She would have to be lucky.

She hunched over the screen, feeling like a reporter again. She was on deadline and all she needed was the first word, her lede. Once she had it, all the other words would follow.

'P-u-l-i-t-z-e-r,' she typed, thinking of Jonathan's unabashed ambition.

Strike one! the computer replied.

'Try his girlfriend's name,' Whitney whispered in her ear. 'Or his middle name. A lot of people use middle names.'

'I had thought he might use one of his journalism idols,' she said, but typed in D-a-p-h-n-e, anyway.

Strike two! the computer said, a bit smugly, Tess thought. One more shot.

Tess closed her eyes. She knew Jonathan. She had him under her fingernails. She just had to dig out the right piece, the incriminating hair or fiber. Their last night together-but he hadn't given up anything then. He had lied to her that night, told her Abramowitz was inconsequential in the story he was pursuing. While she was hiding the floppy disk in her drawer, he had been hiding far more.

That wasn't the night she wanted to remember. It was the time before, the time he didn't die. Even then, Tess knew now, he had been feeling a little smug and superior-he already knew Abramowitz was Fauquier's lawyer, and he knew the connection was not incidental. Why would he withhold such information when it might have helped Tyner? Because, whatever he knew, he remained convinced Rock had killed Abramowitz.

Still, he had been so nice that night, as nice as he had ever been. Perhaps as nice as he could be. They had watched the sun rise. What had they talked about up on the roof? How he had envied her for being from the city, when he was just a suburban mall rat. Her family, her roots here. Their days at the Star. A story about a fire, a fire he couldn't find. The way the rewrite man had ridiculed Jonathan for the rest of his days at the Star, calling him Sparky. The way Jonathan had gloried in getting a job while the rewrite man went into PR.

'Trust me,' he had said. 'There's not a day I go to work and I don't think about Sparky and Nick.'

Not a day. She had two choices here, but only one chance. She typed in the old nickname, taking special care. The computer blinked, went blank, then, seemingly a million years later, blinked again. Sign-on successful, just a moment please. Tess was now Jonathan Ross.

Even in his personal basket, paranoid Jonathan had taken steps to keep prying eyes from his notes and stories. He had slugged his stories by the dullest names possible in order to deter browsers. Tax bill. City ordinances. Utility rates. Mayor's speech. Insurance rates. Sewers. Tess tried the last one, finding a list of prison sources and their numbers.

Zoning-city. Here was Jonathan's first interview with Fauquier, transcribed, apparently, from a tape recording. Zoning-county. More Fauquier. But nothing Fauquier hadn't told her, in fewer words and less time.

'Check the keyword,' Whitney advised. 'He might have assigned the same keyword to all his notes on this.'

Access issues. Whitney showed Tess how to request the computer to sort the stories with that heading. Within seconds they had a list of eleven files.

'No printouts,' Whitney hissed. 'They make records, too.' Tess nodded and began reading through the various entries, retracing Jonathan's steps chronologically.

Apparently he had first met Fauquier in July while doing research for his series on how the first execution would affect life on Death Row. But Fauquier was not to be the focus of the piece. Jonathan was concentrating on another inmate, a cop killer who seemed positively benign alongside Fauquier. He had interviewed Fauquier merely for his assessment of his colleague. Miffed, Fauquier had tried too hard to be outrageous, claiming repeatedly he should be the star of Jonathan's series, for he was so much more 'accomplished.'

'F: He kills one little cop while he's high, and you want to write about him? Why, because he says he's a Christer now and writes letters to the guy's family? I killed more people than anyone here. If you want to write about us, you have to write about me! That other guy, he's a nigger, anyway. It's easy for a nigger to get condemned. But a white man has to be really bad. If I killed some cop while I was on dope, I wouldn't even be here. It's just like everywhere else-affirmative action. The standards are so much lower.

'JR: Well, my purpose is to get readers to understand the humanity of the people here. Focusing on you wouldn't achieve that. It would be more like Frankenstein-the villagers would storm the jail, torches in hand, ready to execute you.'

Nice comeback, Jonathan. Much better than my threat to kick his ass.

The interviews began again after Abramowitz's death. Fauquier had lured Jonathan back to him with his boast about the fake confession and the cover-up. Then he had teased him languidly, enjoying the attention and, perhaps, a slight sexual charge from boyish Jonathan.

'Too bad I can't go see Abramowitz,' Jonathan had typed at the end of one file, a summary of Fauquier's legal history. 'Tess's friend didn't do me any favors by killing him.' Tess smiled. That egocentric touch was pure Jonathan, like hearing his voice again.

The other files were series of facts from Fauquier's confessions, broken down into categories. Dates. Nothing seemed out of place there. Methods of dispatch. All of Fauquier's victims had been strangled or their skulls crushed, then buried in well-concealed graves. Victims' names. Victims' addresses. Names of the investigators in each case. Where the bodies were found.

'He left his bodies in some nice places,' Whitney observed, peering over Tess's shoulder. 'State parks and wildlife refuges out in the country, little wilderness areas hidden in the city. Look-Damon Jackson died in a much nicer place than he ever lived. I guess in murder, it's the same as real estate. Location, location, location.'

'Location, location, location,' Tess repeated. She turned off the computer.

'Did you find what you wanted?'

'I found something. Whether I want it, or can use it, remains to be seen.'

It was not yet two when she arrived home. Whitney, charged up by their midnight mission, had wanted to go to a bar or an all-night dinner, but Tess's body was still indifferent to alcohol and food. All she wanted was her bed, solitude and, maybe, a joint.

Kitty had shoved some mail under her door. Just as Tess's phone calls sometimes went to the bookstore, her mail inevitably was mixed up, too, going to the front entrance instead of the side. It was seldom anything to mourn. No love letters had been mislaid, or million-dollar checks from Publishers Clearinghouse. Tonight's offerings were typical. A 'Dear Occupant' brochure from a local dating service, Great Expectations. She wondered if Miss Havisham was a satisfied customer. A Victoria's Secret catalog-she had bought four pairs of underwear from the company three years ago and they continued to send her a catalog every two weeks. A form letter from the state, never good news. Was it already time to get a new driver's license?

A thin photocopy fluttered out. Her copy of VOMA's pink sheet. She had forgotten requesting it and, knowing state government as she did, had never expected to see it in less than the two weeks promised. And then Cecilia had convinced her, more or less, that VOMA was a dead end.

She studied the blurry copy. Yes, two board members had been added to VOMA the last time the nonprofit renewed its charter, just this spring. Seamon P. and Luisa J. O'Neal. Abramowitz was still listed as the agent and had attached this addendum to the annual tax statement. Hadn't Pru told Cecilia his involvement was incidental, a onetime irony? Tess felt Abramowitz tugging on her sleeve, trying to point the way, much the way Jonathan had seemed to be guiding her today through the interview with Fauquier and his own computer files.

They were both leading her in the same direction, to the same place.

Location, location, location. According to Jonathan's files, one of Fauquier's early victims, Damon Jackson, had been discovered behind the O'Neals' house, along Cross-Tree Creek. That's what Fauquier had called it in his confession, although the police report listed it as Little Wyman Falls. Cross-Tree Creek. Little Wyman Falls. If it had not been for the O'Neals' silly bickering over the name, Tess never would have remembered it.