Butchers Hill (6 page)

"I mean, you can sequester
yourself, but what does it accomplish?" she asked Tess this
evening, unpacking books by yet another round of interlopers. Amis,
Ellroy, Updike, the two Roths, Henry and Philip, and the latest from
the local guys, Madison Smartt Bell and Stephen Dixon. "You
can shut yourself off for a while, but eventually you've got
to face them."

"That's why I fought
against going to Western High School," Tess said, sitting on
the old U-shaped soda fountain that still sat in the center of the
store. "A public all-girl high school is a nice concept, but
I never wanted to be safe in some little namby-pamby girl
world."

"Bullshit," Kitty said,
breaking down and flattening the now empty boxes. "You
didn't want to go to Western, my dear niece, because you came
out of the womb with a taste for testosterone. You hated Western
because you resented being in a flirting-free zone."

"You've got it backward.
We could flirt all we wanted—out in the quad at lunch time,
with the boys from Polytechnic. I wanted to argue with them, compete
with them for the highest grades and see if they would still ask me
out."

"Tess, you were a C-cup at age
twelve. Einstein could have gotten a date with a Poly boy if he had
breasts. In fact, Einstein with breasts is probably the Poly ideal to
this day."

Kitty's latest boyfriend, who
appeared to be twenty-five to her forty-whatever, picked this moment to
enter the store, clutching an armful of irises whose ragged stems
indicated they had been pilfered from someone else's garden.
Will Elam. Will He Last, to Tess. A graduate student, he was a little
scrawny and a lot too brainy for Kitty. The smart ones never went
quietly at the end of the two, three weeks she allotted her boyfriends.
They always wanted to know
why
,
when there was no why, other than Kitty's low threshold for
boredom.

"Now that you mention it, I think
I know which side of the family that boy-crazy gene came down
on," Tess said.

Kitty, cooing over her flowers, ignored her.
Will was lost in Kitty-land, that tiny country where the flag was the
color of strawberry-blond curls, the official scent was Garden Botanika
freesia, and the only sound one heard was a contralto whisper.

"I'm going
out," Tess announced, on the off chance someone might be
paying attention to her. "Don't wait up."

A
t
the Daily Grind, Tess insisted on paying for Martin Tull's
latte and chocolate biscotti.

"I take it you want a
favor," he said dryly.

"How crass. Did it ever occur to
you that maybe I want to treat for once, instead of having you grab the
check as if I were a charity case?"

"And maybe you want a
favor."

"Maybe," she said,
stirring a little sugar into her cappuccino. No reason to rush.
Tull's curiosity would eventually get the better of him. He
had an avid interest in her little business, in part because he had
played matchmaker between her and his retired colleague, Edward Keyes.
Tess suspected the switch to private detective was a change he might
make himself one day, if the commissioner ever made good on his threat
to rotate him to other departments. Homicide was Tull's
calling. As long as he was allowed to practice his vocation, he
wouldn't leave.

But he was distracted just now, his eyes
sliding over to the recreation pier across the street from the
coffeehouse.

"They're not
there," Tess said.

"Who?" His voice was all
innocence, as if he hadn't glanced at the pier several times
already.

"Your alter egos.
They're on hiatus. I always forget, which one is based on
you? The blond one whose eyes are too close together or the bald,
smoldering one?"

"He's not bald anymore
and he's leaving the show, even if it gets picked up for
another season."

"Thought you didn't
watch."

"It's in the papers,
sometimes. I read the articles to make sure the show isn't
going to be a shoot in my neighborhood. They close streets and
everything, it's a real hassle. They like Hamilton, I guess.
There's a lot of variety in the houses up in Northeast
District. Looks good on TV."

Tess smiled. Leave it to Baltimore, usually
so finicky about its national image, to embrace a television program
that spotlighted its murder rate. The network television show about
Baltimore homicide cops was such a part of the city now that a robber
had once surrendered to the actors by mistake. True, production could
be something of a pain, especially here in Fells Point, where the
recreation pier stood in for police headquarters. But the show got the
city right, and after all those years of being force-fed Los Angeles
and New York locations, it was thrilling just to hear some pretty boy
say "Wilkens Avenue" and "Fort McHenry
Tunnel" on national television, as if they were real places.

"But it's why we always
meet here, isn't it? Because you like to sneak peeks at the
actors."

"I like coffee, and I
don't like bars," Tull said. "You live in
Fells Point. Where else are we going to meet?"

"Another coffeehouse?"

A blonde at the next table was trying to
catch Tull's eye, with no luck. He never noticed women. Well,
almost never—an ex-wife lurked somewhere in his past. Then
again, maybe that's why she was an ex, because he
hadn't paid any attention to her. Tull was maddeningly
reticent on the subject. Meanwhile, women were always heaving and
sighing in his presence, practically falling at his feet, but this ace
detective just couldn't crack the case of his own intriguing
looks. Inside, he was forever a short, skinny kid with bad skin, not to
mention those comically small hands and feet.

Tess didn't have any romantic
yearnings toward him. She would remain under her self-imposed dating
ban until she figured out why her judgment in these matters had been so
historically wretched. Of the last three men in her life, one was dead,
one was in jail, and one was in Texas. She wouldn't wish any
of those fates on Tull the teetotaler.

"Do you have a drinking
problem?" she asked suddenly.

"Now that would be a
cliché, wouldn't it?" replied Tull.
"The alcoholic cop."

"A cliché is merely a
truth that's become banal through repetition."

"What if I told you I think
you
drink too much, so I make you meet me here, where you can't
abuse anything but caffeine?"

Tess considered this. Such personal
observations fascinated her, even unflattering ones. Did she drink too
much, or was Tull simply trying to deflect her question? She followed
H. L. Mencken's tips for responsible alcohol consumption:
Never drink before sundown and never drink three days in a row. Well,
she more or less followed those rules. Obviously, you weren't
supposed to wait for evening once daylight savings time kicked in. And
an occasional glass of wine at lunch was merely civilized.

"I'd say you were trying
to change the subject on me," she said. "Besides,
talk about clichés. Everyone thinks I do everything to
excess. I can go cold turkey on anything, any time. Just try
me."

"Like men. Which means I
can't try you." He was teasing her. Tull would have
run for the exits if he thought she had a romantic interest in him.
Tess was suddenly aware of Nancy LaMott's voice on the sound
system, rubbing against them like an affectionate cat. It was one of
those uncanny moments when background music suddenly became a suitable
soundtrack. "Moon River" in this case. Two
drifters. Huckleberry friends, whatever the hell that meant.

"
Breakfast at
Tiffany's
," Tull said.

"Great story, crappy
movie." Tess sobbed every time she saw it.

"Did I ever tell you how George
Peppard got me through insomnia? Some station was showing
‘Banacek' reruns every night. Cleared up my problem
in no time."

"When was this? After your
divorce?"

"I don't
remember." So near, so far away. She had run smack into
another one of Martin Tull's internal firewalls. He could
remember the details of every homicide he had worked in the city, but
he always claimed virtual amnesia when asked a personal question.

"So, I actually had clients
today," she said, knowing this was a subject he would welcome.

"Yeah?"

"
Two
clients in one day. One very direct, slam-dunk missing persons thing.
God bless Autotrack."

Tull snapped his biscotti in two with his
small, very even white teeth. "A lot of that computer stuff
is illegal, or should be. I don't want to know too much about
how you do what you do. Puts me in a difficult position."

"I don't do it
personally, if that's any comfort. But it's the
other case I want to ask you about. It involves finding minors,
possibly in foster care. The computer is useless, or so I'm
told."

"In Baltimore?" Tull
drummed his fingers against the table, instantly engaged.

"Maryland. I think. I hope. I
don't even have their full names."

"Who wants to find them?
Why?"

She sidestepped the first question. It was
none of Tull's business who came to her door, but the why, if
finessed, might be enough to get the help she needed. "They
testified in this court case several years back. My client feels
indebted to them, and he wants to make good on it."

"Car accident?"

"An accident of sorts. These kids
were the only witnesses. He doesn't remember their last
names, though, and isn't sure of their first names."

"Tess, that's a
no-brainer. I mean, it's so easy, you should be ashamed of
yourself for not knowing how to do it."

She pretended to pout. "Okay,
I'm ashamed of myself. I'm totally lost. What do I
do? Where do I start?"

"These kids were witnesses in a
court case, right? So all you have to do is put the case name in the
court computer, and the witness list will pop right up. Even minors
have their full names on file if they're called as witnesses.
Even in a civil case."

Tess sipped her cappuccino, feeling smug.
"Of course, I didn't say it was civil. That was
your supposition."

"Civil or criminal, same
difference, but you said—" Tull looked at her.
"You yanking my chain, Tess? Who is your client, anyway?
Someone on my side of the street?"

"The names of my clients are
confidential, Detective Tull, as you know."

"Criminal, criminal,
criminal," he muttered to himself.
"Homicide?"

"None of your business."

"Homicide it is. A homicide with
kids as witnesses." Tess could almost see Tull riffling the
mental files of his mind, processing each of the two thousand-plus
cases the city homicide squad had handled in the past seven years.
"Kids, kids, kids. The one who was shot by the guy in
Cedonia, for bringing his daughter home too late from the
movies?"

"If I told you the name of my
client, Tyner could be disbarred. Besides, you couldn't be
further off."

"The one where the guy shot the
fourteen-year-old for jostling his car when he walked by, setting off
the car alarm?"

That caught her off-guard. "How
did I miss that one?"

"No, that can't be it.
The
kid
was killed, the
witness was an old woman sitting on her porch." Tull snapped
his fingers. "Dead kid. Kid witnesses. Beale. Luther Beale.
That crazy motherfucker."

"I don't know about
crazy. A little odd, but then who wouldn't be, given the
circumstances?"

"Then it
is
Beale." In his delight, Tull actually slapped himself five,
high and low. "Man, I can't believe
you're gullible enough to believe anything that old bastard
has to say."

Tess stood up abruptly, angry at how easily
he had tricked her into confirming his hunch. Tull took one look at her
face and said, "Why don't we pour our coffee in
togo cups and take a walk?"

Fells Point was crowded and rowdy on a
Friday night, but Tess and Tull knew how to leave the drunken throngs
behind. They walked down Fell Street, a narrow block of newer
townhouses and condominiums jutting into the harbor on a long spit of
land. There wasn't enough parking for cars to be prowling for
a space here, and the only bar was a relatively sedate place. They made
their way to the dock and sat on its edge, staring out across the water
to Locust Point. Tess could see the remains of the Procter and Gamble
plant where Beale had once worked, alongside the Domino's
plant. The "Sugar House" to the locals, with a
blazing neon sign that had written itself across a thousand Baltimore
memories.

"Luther Beale is trying to make
amends for what he's done," she said. "Is
that so hard to believe? Do you have to be
gullible
to think someone might want to do the right thing?"

"I'm sorry,"
he said. "I shouldn't have used that word. But
Luther Beale—Jesus, Tess, he's the devil. His name
should be Lucifer Beale."

"The devil? That old man, in his
brown suit? Oh, Martin, I know he killed a little boy, and it sickens
me, but he's not evil. He's an old man who made a
terrible mistake. He wouldn't be the first guy with a gun to
do that. At least he wants to make amends, or try."

"
That's
the problem. He's still a vigilante at heart, making up his
own justice system as he goes along. First he was the judge and
executioner, now he wants to be the jury, allocating the punitive
damages."

"He made a mistake. One horrible,
terrible, tragic mistake. I'm not saying it's
defensible, but it's not what you're making it out
to be."

"One mistake?
One
mistake?" Tull's voice rose almost to a shout. He
stopped himself, fighting for control. "I bet he told you he
didn't have a record, right?"