Baltimore Blues (7 page)

“He laughed at you?” Tess asked. “He thought it was funny?”

Rock thought for a moment. “It was a nervous laugh, like he was trying to think of what to say next. Then all these lies began tumbling out, about how he was trying to help Ava pass the bar, and she said she’d sleep with him if he could make sure she stayed on staff. She’d failed it twice and she had to pass the third time or she was out. That part is true, actually—she has failed twice. But she didn’t offer to sleep with Abramowitz in order to keep her job. She would never have done that.”

She might have
, Tess thought.

“Did he say anything else?” Tyner asked.

“He said, he said—” Rock closed his eyes, imagining the scene in his head. “He said, ‘I’m sorry.’ And then he said, ‘But she really is beautiful.’ That’s when I hit him.”

The blow knocked Abramowitz backward on his Oriental rug and broke his glasses. The metal bridge cut his nose, and his head caught a corner of the desk, a superficial wound that bled copiously. Head wounds do that, Tess knew. They can look much worse than they are.

“I stood over him and I put my hands on his throat,” Rock said. “I thought I could kill him. I wanted him to know that, too, wanted to terrorize him the way he had terrorized
Ava. I wanted him to feel as desperate and trapped as she must have. I held his throat in my hands and I looked him in the eyes. I even hoped he might piss himself.”

“Did he?” Tess asked. Tyner gave her a look of disgust. She had never broken her habit of asking any question that occurred to her.

“No. He didn’t even seem scared. Maybe because he once defended real killers, he could tell I wasn’t one. He smiled at me and nodded his head, as if encouraging me. I pushed him back and his head caught the desk again, harder this time. I remember the sound—it was louder, less hollow than I would have thought, as if his head was very dense. He went down. But he was still breathing when I left. I swear he was still breathing.”

“Did you notice the time?”

“Ten minutes past ten by the Bromo Seltzer tower, when I got back to the street,” he said, referring to one of the city’s more unusual landmarks, a ghostly clock tower with the letters of the antacid in place of numerals. “Definitely ten-ten.”

“And the log says you signed in at ten, but the security guard may have rounded it off,” Tyner said. “So, ten minutes, maybe less, for a somewhat detailed conversation and a brief fight. You could have killed him in that period of time, but you would have had to have been very efficient. And there is still twenty minutes before the custodian finds Abramowitz, time enough for another person to finish your work.”

“But who?” Tess asked. “A disgruntled former client? A robber? One of his law partners? And isn’t it awfully coincidental they happened to come along right after Rock had bloodied him?”

“You’re thinking like a reporter,” Tyner admonished. “Or a state’s attorney. It’s not your job to solve this case or poke holes in my theories. All you have to do is help me gather enough information so I can go into a courtroom in four or five months and create a reasonable doubt about Rock’s opportunity. Unfortunately, thanks to you, his motive
is all too strong, so we’re going to have to downplay that part of it. I want you to interview the security guard and the custodian as soon as possible. The security guard first—he’s more important, as he’s the one who puts Rock there at ten o’clock. I’ll tell you later if there’s anyone else worth checking out. By the way, it would help if you looked like a grown-up. Why don’t you cut off that horse’s tail hanging out of the back of your head?”

“No!” It was Rock, not Tess, who yelled. Tess wore her hair long because it required less work. She had no sentiment about it. Rock obviously did.

“Then put it up. Wear a suit,” Tyner said. “Usually a criminal lawyer has to make his client over, not his assistant.”

“Your assistant? Excuse me, Tyner, but am I actually getting paid for this? I haven’t heard anyone mention money.”

“Yes. You get to keep the money Rock paid you for your initial ‘investigation.’ But I think your fees are a bit high, so you’re starting with a debit of twenty hours. After you put in those twenty, I’ll pay you twenty dollars per hour and twenty-five cents a mile.”

Shit, Tess thought. She’d have to work ten hours just to buy a suit.

“As for you,” Tyner said, turning to Rock. “No interviews. Stay away from Ava, at least for now. And, since you’ve already taken the day off from work, I think you should go straight to the boat house for a long workout. Do some drills, then go to the fort and back, with some pyramids thrown in for good measure. The Charles will come up before your trial, and I’m going to make sure you’re there.”

A lawyer cum rowing coach. Maybe Rock had hired the right guy. Not many other attorneys in town knew the fall rowing schedule, or how to train for a head race. If only Tyner felt so kindly toward
her
.

T
he security guard, Joey Dumbarton, lived in a part of Baltimore sometimes called Little Appalachia, a valley catching the overflow from the already marginal neighborhoods to either side. Rickety row houses spilled down the slope on the eastern edge of Jones Falls, then went halfway back up Television Hill before petering out. It was one of Baltimore’s rare all-white enclaves, and the residents were determined to keep it that way.

Joey greeted Tess at the door of his Formstone row house in a pair of cutoff sweatpants drooping over black bicycle shorts, topped off by an old robe that appeared to have started its life as bright red terry cloth. Now it was dull, the color of dried blood, and the material was flat and matted, like a dog that needed a bath. Since Tess had called in advance, she assumed this was how Joey dressed to meet all his guests.

He did seem delighted to have a visitor, offering her soda and beer, then leading her by the hand up two flights of stairs to his bedroom on the third floor.

“This place is going to be be-you-tiful,” Joey told her as they climbed. “We have big plans for this house.”

Plans appeared to be all they had. On the first two floors studs waited for drywall, wires hung loose, and plaster dust caked every surface. There was no kitchen as far as Tess could see, and a glimpse of the doorless bathroom convinced
her to control her bladder by whatever means necessary.

Once in his bedroom, Joey sat on a bare mattress, too big for the fitted sheet someone had tried to stretch across it. It appeared to be the only piece of furniture in the room, but Tess couldn’t be sure. A chair, a sofa, even a breakfront could have been hidden beneath the mounds of dirty clothes scattered across every square foot of floor space. She was ankle deep in underwear.

“Siddown,” said Joey the affable host, patting a spot of mattress next to him. He was a pale, colorless man. Only a hint of yellow touched his hair, lashes, and skin; his eyes were flat gray. Tess preferred to stand, but mindful of Tyner’s admonition to ingratiate herself, she perched on the corner of the bed, tensing her leg muscles so she didn’t make contact with the bare mattress. The gray skirt of her new suit, a consignment find that didn’t quite fit, slid halfway up her thighs.

“As I told you on the phone last night, I need to ask a few questions about Michael Abramowitz’s murder,” she began. “This is just an interview, sort of a predeposition if you will. No big deal.”

“You know, murder is really a legal term,” Joey said. “You should say homicide. Or slaying, maybe. That’s a word the newspaper really likes—slaying.”

Great, Joey the security guard was going to instruct her in legal nuance. “Are you studying to be a lawyer?”

“Naw, but I was an extra on ‘Homicide’ last season. And I watch those real cop shows. You know, those shows where they arrest people on camera? They’re very educational.”

“Yeah, they’re really good.” Tess had never seen the kind of show he described, but she had an idea of how they worked. She leaned toward him, trying to yank down her skirt as she did. “If you were on one of those shows, what would they want to know from Joey Dumbarton, perhaps the key witness in the murder—the
slaying
—of Michael Abramowitz?”

“OK, right, I know this,” Joey said, as if surprised by a
pop quiz. He liked the idea of himself as the star witness. Tess thought he might.

“I would say”—he looked past her left shoulder, as if staring into a camera, as if he had been waiting much of his young life to look into a camera—“I would say, ‘I’ll never forget that night. The O’s were whompin’ on the A’s. I had my little radio on, listening to the game, and I could hear the fans yelling over at Camden Yards. Then, at ten o’clock—and I know it was ten ’cause I marked it on my sheet—a white male, about thirty years old, six feet tall, and maybe two hundred pounds, came in, looking anxious and disdrawed.”

“Disdrawed?”

“Dis-strawed. You know, all upset. The white male was known to me as one Darryl Paxton, the boyfriend of one Ava Hill, also known to me, as she works in my building, often stays late, and is very good-looking. I let him upstairs without calling up, as he frequently came by for Miss Hill. About ten-fifteen, he ran out. I noticed ’cause I had to mark it on the sheet. I started to yell after him, but I figured he had a fight with his girlfriend, so I just wrote it in for him.” He dropped his television face and voice. “How’s that?”

“Great,” Tess said, giving him her warmest smile. “I just want to go over a few things.”

“Have at me.”

“You were very specific about the time. Do you wear a watch? Or is there a clock you can see from the desk?”

“I wear four watches, two on each wrist. Eastern, central, mountain, and western.”

“Pacific.”

“No, ma’am. Just the four. I don’t have Tokyo time. I like things nice and even, you know, two on each wrist.”

She let that pass. “So you checked eastern time, and it was ten exactly when Rock arrived. Did you check your watch the second he left, or did you get distracted? Maybe the game got exciting and you didn’t write it down for a few minutes.”

“Uh-huh. I’m very attentive. I take my job seriously. A
lot of guys, they become security guards ’cause they can’t find no other kind of work. I’m proud to be one of Miltie’s Minutemen.” Tess gave him a blank look. “That’s who staffs the Lambrecht Building. Miltie’s Minutemen. Best security force in town. No felons on our staff.”

Tess was tempted to ask if this was Miltie’s motto, but she didn’t want Joey tearing off on another tangent. “So you’re sure of the time. What about after Rock—Mr. Paxton—left? Did anyone else come in?”

“There’s no one on the sheet.”

“Does that mean no one else came in?”

“There’s no one on the sheet,” he repeated. Tess had a feeling one of Uncle Miltie’s knights had a little chink in his armor. She stared into his colorless eyes, trying to muster the authority of a video camera.

“What about someone who worked there? Or someone who didn’t follow the rules, who just ran by you?”

“People who work there can come in the back way with a key, go straight to the elevators. I don’t even
see
them. But there’s no one else—”

“On the sheet. I know. Look, Joey, I’m sure you’re a good Minuteman. I don’t want to get you in trouble with Miltie. But if someone ran by you—didn’t listen to you, sneaked by when you were listening to the game—I need to know. Maybe that’s the person who killed Michael Abramowitz.”

He shook his head. “I do my job right.”

“Could someone get by you?” she pressed. “Maybe if you walked away from the desk to see what was going on in the street? Don’t you stretch out or sneak a bathroom break without anyone there to spell you?”

“I told’ ja. No one got in. Everyone signs the sheet.”

She sighed and gave him one of the business cards Tyner had gotten for her, a rush job from a printer who owed him a favor. The card simply said:
Tess Monaghan
and listed her number at the bookstore and her home number. Plain and stark, the cards had a certain dignity. They made Tess feel downright legitimate.

“Which of these is a home number?” Joey asked with
great interest. Wonderful—the only thing Tess was going to get out of this was unwanted calls from a horny security guard.

“Both are business numbers. Call if you mean business.” She left Joey on his unmade bed, his red robe the only color in the dim room. She hoped one of those reality shows came calling one day. He was a natural.

It was about eight miles from Joey’s rundown row house to the West Baltimore home of Frank Miles, the custodian who had discovered Abramowitz’s body. Statistically it was a more dangerous place—a once-middle-class neighborhood, undone by white flight, further undone by black flight. But Tess felt comfortable here. She had grown up not far away, a straight shot down Edmondson Avenue. If a place had been safe in her lifetime, she had trouble thinking of it as dangerous.

By the look of things Frank Miles was the only nonrenter left on his block. His house had metal awnings and freshly painted trim. The tiny lawn was a thick green mat, bordered with pink and white impatiens, showing surprising staying power for September. A pedestal with a shiny green gazing globe sat in the exact center of the emerald lawn. It reminded Tess of the glass globe the witch consulted in
The Wizard of Oz
, but all she could see in it was her own distorted face.

When she rang the bell Mr. Miles yanked the door open as if wild with impatience to see her, grabbed her arm, and hustled her past the storm door and heavy wooden door, putting the chain on behind her.

“Not a good idea to linger in open doors on this block,” he said. “You don’t want to be a mushroom. Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

A little dazed, she accepted it gratefully, sure she need not fear the bathroom here. The house, like the yard, was neat and orderly, although it bore the traces of a man on his own. The screen on the old television was streaky, and a fine coating of dust settled over everything, the kind of dust most men can’t see. The framed photographs on the wall had been hung meticulously but were smeary with fingerprints. Mr.
Miles and a woman on their wedding day, lots of children, a girl in a graduation gown. Widower, she guessed. And probably the most eligible man in his church, judging by his casserole-laden girth.

“I like my cookies,” he said, and Tess jumped, wondering if he had caught her staring at his waistline. Then she realized he was carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of Hydroxes. Her favorite. There were mint leaves swirling in the lemonade pitcher and she knew from the taste of it—tart, perfect—that he had made it himself, probably just for her.

“I don’t get much company,” he said. “It’s nice to fuss over someone.”

“What about those fine-looking young people in those pictures? Don’t your grandkids come visit?”

“No grandkids,” he said with a regretful sigh. “No
kids
. Most of those on the wall are from a school where I worked before I retired. I got a niece, but she’s just an ol’ crackhead. Yeah, she’d love to come around, but she’d have this place turned into a shooting gallery in about two minutes. No, thank you.”

“I know that feeling,” said Tess, who didn’t. She was wondering how to steer this aimless conversation into a detailed discussion about finding a corpse. Mr. Miles seemed to be having such a good time. For every Hydrox she ate, he ate four.

“But you want to know about the other night,” he said, again seeming to follow her unvoiced thoughts. “About Mr. Abramowitz.”

“Yes. I know you talked to the police, but I want to go over a few details. The security guard called 911 at ten thirty-five after he got your call from the office phone. Did you call him the second you found the body?”

“I doubt if more than twenty seconds passed. I couldn’t help looking, you know. There’s something about a body that stops you cold. And I tried to find a pulse before I called anybody.”

“Do you usually clean Mr. Abramowitz’s office? Did you know him very well?”

“I steered clear of him. When he stayed late it was usually for ball games. He didn’t want anyone coming in to empty the trash. He told me to stay out of his office.”

“So why did you go in that night?”

“The door was open. And I could see something—maybe his leg, I don’t know. Something wasn’t right.”

“And that was what time?”

“I don’t have a watch.” He flashed a bare wrist at her. “You say the call to 911 was at ten something. I guess I found him no more than a few minutes before then. And I stayed until someone came.”

“At ten forty-seven. That’s what the EMS log says.”

He shrugged. “If that’s what the records say. I’ll tell you, it seemed longer. It’s not much fun, keeping vigil over a dead man.”

“How long had you been on the eighteenth floor? Did you see anyone else around?”

“I start at the top and work down. I probably got to their floor about ten-twenty, and I’m pretty sure I had the place to myself. Their office takes up everything, so there’s no other place to go.”

Shit. The last thing they wanted was to narrow the window of opportunity, making it less likely someone other than Rock had killed Abramowitz. If Miles was right another killer, the
real
killer, had less than ten minutes to get in and out.

“How can you be so sure?” Tess asked, sliding into a harsh tone despite Tyner’s warnings. “You said you don’t wear a watch.”

“I can’t.” He smiled sweetly. He probably thought this hilarious, Tess realized. On average there had been a murder a day in the city over the past year, many of them within a five-mile radius of where they sat. Drug dealers may have shot innocent people on this very block. They called them mushrooms, because they seemed to sprout from the pavement. The dealers laughed about it. You can bet people
didn’t get arrested in those murders in less than an hour’s time.

“Want to know something funny?” he asked suddenly. “When I saw him the first thing I thought was, ‘Well, how am I supposed to get all that blood out of my carpet?’ It sounds awful now, but at the time it was the most natural thing in the world. All I could do was think about that carpet. Do you think that makes me a bad person?”

He seemed to really care. She thought back to the dead bodies she had seen as a reporter. There had not been many. The first ones had been the two-dimensional bodies of three teenage girls who had tried to beat a train across an unmarked crossing out in the county. The body of a twenty-three-year-old at the morgue, blue as a raspberry-flavored Icee. He had dropped dead of a heart attack during a job interview, a medical examiner told Tess. Yes, she had seen dead bodies, but her job had been to organize their lives into neat, familiar formulas. Age, a pithy description—“popular cheerleader” had summed up the life of one of the train-flattened girls—school affiliations. Hobbies. Mr. Miles’s preoccupation seemed healthier. But Tess didn’t know how to tell him that.

“And you felt for his pulse, right? At the wrist, or the neck?”

“At his wrist. His neck was so…floppy. I tried to touch it, but it seemed like it might just fall off. I guess that boy must have hated him, to do him like that.”