Butchers Hill

by Laura Lippman

  "No, ma'am, the door was like that when I got here," Beale said, more to himself than to her.

  "I am surprised you just came in and sat here, waiting for me. How did you known I'd be in on a Saturday?" Tess dialed the Eastern precinct, rather than tie up the 911 line. The city had a nonurgent line now, too, 311, but she thought a break-in qualified for a police visit sometime in this millennium.

  "I didn't. Just thought I'd drop by and when I saw the door, I decided I better come in and babysit your stuff. This computer wasn't going to last for long, not in this neighborhood."

  The desk sergeant at the precinct picked up and put her on hold before she could even get a single syllable out. Tess did a quick visual scan of the room. Nothing obvious was missing—the computer, the scanner, the printer were all still here. The flying rabbit picture was in its place over the wall safe. Perhaps addicts had broken in, looking for metal to sell to one of the scrap yards. A few of the metal dealers weren't too particular about the origins of the copper downspouts, iron grilles, and old water heaters that came rolling up in shopping carts, day after day. But the old stove was still in place, as were the faucets.

  Still on hold, she unsheathed her computer and turned it on. Her files were there, apparently untouched. On a hunch, she enlarged the window, checking the "last modified" dates—nothing. Then again, printing a file out didn't count as modifying it. She glanced at the printer. There was paper in the tray, and she only put paper in as she needed it, given that Esskay's hair tended to settle on anything left out. Besides, she was stingy with paper. It was one part of her overhead she could control.

  "Do you know anything about computers?" she asked Beale skeptically.

  "Huh. I know enough not to buy a Mac, like you did. I have an IBM clone, with 200 megahertz and a gigabyte of memory. Did you know you can read almost every newspaper in the country online? I bet I save fifty dollars a month that way."

  "Someone might have made some copies of my files last night."

  "Don't you have a password, for security?"

  "No," Tess said. If Beale were really so computer-savvy, he should know that. Hadn't he seen her use the computer on his first visit here? "It never occurred to me I'd need one, not in a one-woman office."

  "What was in my file, anyway?"

  "Not much. Some leads on the twins. You weren't too good on the names by the way. They're Treasure and Destiny Teeter."

  "Never was good with names," Beale murmured. "So where are they?"

  "Not sure. According to neighbors, they technically live on Biddle Street, but they're still seen a lot around here." She wondered if she should tell him that, according to the neighbors' description, neither one was exactly college material. But college tuition was only one example of the help Beale wanted to provide. Maybe he could get Treasure in drug rehab, find Destiny a program, something like the Nelsons' school in D.C., only for girls.

  "That all you found? That's not much."

  Tess, still on hold with the Eastern Precinct, hung up and hit the redial button. Again, she was placed on hold before she could utter a single syllable.

  "I think it's pretty good, considering how little information you brought me. Four days ago, I didn't even have the names. Now I know where to look for the twins, and I've pinpointed another one, Salamon Hawkings. He's on scholarship at a private school. Eldon Kane is wanted on a warrant and believed to be far from Maryland, so I guess we can cross him off your list."

  "You been to see the Hawkings boy yet? School's almost out."

  "Haven't had a chance."

  "Moving kind of slow, aren't you? If I pay by the hour, I expect you to make the most of every minute."

  Beale was as exasperating as Gramma Weinstein, never pleased, never satisfied.

  "I've found it's something of a handicap, having to play Tipton to your anonymous benefactor. Schools don't much like strangers trying to track down their students for reasons they won't divulge. Now I have to come up with a plausible reason to see Salamon Hawkings."

  "That's easy," Beale said. "When you get in touch with the school, just tell them there's some money coming to the Hawkings boy, without being too specific. People always go for that."

  "You mean like those unclaimed accounts the state advertises every year?"

  "Naw, that's too easy to check. Maybe you could be that place that makes kids' dreams come true. Make-a-Wish, Dream-a-Dream, whatever it's called."

  "I think that's for sick kids," Tess said. "Still, it's the right idea, at least."

  Beale stood to leave. He wore the same brown suit from his first visit, only with a blue-and-yellow striped shirt this time. He carried the same yellowing Panama in his hands.

  "Just don't lollygag," he said. "I am paying you by the hour, as I recall. And that doesn't include sitting here, waiting for a locksmith." Then he was gone, without a "thank-you," without a word of praise for what Tess had done so far. Well, that's what being in business was about. People who paid you didn't have to be grateful, they just had to give you checks that cleared. On that score, Beale was a dream client.

  Still on hold at the Eastern Precinct, she hung up and called her landlord instead. Let Hersh deal with the busted door, nattering to the locksmith about how he, tortoiselike, had progressed so far beyond the Weinstein hares. She was going to work out.

  Tyner had been unusually nice to Tess as of late. She suspected he felt guilty for forcing her out of the nest of his office and giving her desk away while her chair was still warm. Certainly, she didn't expect his little kindnesses to last. But she was enjoying the temporary benefits of his guilt, the gifts he showered on her, such as the new watch and this free summer pass to his gym, the Downtown Athletic Club, a place she couldn't afford on her own budget.

  The DAC, as its denizens called it, was not the grandest club in Baltimore, but it was easily the largest. Built in an old warehouse on the site where Lincoln's funeral train had passed through, it had its own history. The legendary fights over parking, as the workout-bound folks jockeyed for the spaces closest to the door, determined not to walk one more inch than necessary. The pickup scene that made the men's locker room strictly NC-17 on the weekends. Then there was the apocryphal story about the man who suffered a heart attack during the peak evening hours. While some people had rushed to his aid, other impatient exercisers had used the confusion to sneak ahead in the StairMaster line.

  "Oh, c'mon, Mr. Gray," protested the young trainer who was bumping Tyner's wheelchair up the short flight of steps to the main floor as Tyner repeated all these stories to Tess, his stentorian voice jouncing with each stair. "You know no such thing ever happened here."

  "If it isn't true, it should be," Tyner insisted. With the attendant's help, he hoisted himself into the Nautilus butterfly machine, pulling on his weight-lifting gloves once he was settled. "What do you have today, Tess? Weights or aerobics?"

  "I rowed this morning, a good long one, so all I have are weights. But I'll start with lower body."

  "Don't slack. I'll be watching you."

  "Watch yourself." Tess reached out and caught Tyner's arm as he attempted to return the weight to its resting position. "C'mon, fight me a little, old man. Press harder. Harder. You can do it."

  He could, quite easily. Tyner had taken good care of himself. Above the waist, he was as lean and strong as he had been in his early twenties, when he was on the Olympic rowing team. Below—well, below, he was what he had been for more than forty years, since a speeding car had crumpled his legs and ended his Olympic pursuits.

  "I've still got much more upper-body strength than you," he taunted her good-naturedly.

  The DAC was quiet on a Saturday afternoon. Although school wasn't out, people with weekend shares had already started heading to the shore, or moved their athletic pursuits outdoors while the weather was so fine. Tess would have preferred to be outside herself, but there was no outdoor substitute for weight-lifting.

  A stringy, pale man in his forties was on the quad ma
chine. "May I work in?" she asked.

  "Only two more," he said, holding up two fingers helpfully. But he just sat there, as comfortable as a man on a barstool, in no hurry to move. Tess decided to work on the leg press instead of waiting, and took the machine next to him.

  "What do you think of that?" he asked, still stalling, not anxious to start his next set.

  "Think of what?" she gritted out as she released on the final rep, the weight bouncing a little as it hit. She hoped Tyner hadn't heard it, he'd been on her back for such sloppy work.

  "The guy in the wheelchair. What's that about?"

  "I'm not sure what you mean."

  "He's an old guy in a wheelchair, for Christ's sake. What's the point? I do this because I got divorced last year and I'm, you know, out there. Gotta keep the old bod in shape. I hate it, but that's the price you pay. What's he doing it for?"

  "You finished on there yet?" Her tone was light, but as sure as Clark Kent slipping into a phone booth, she could feel her secret alter ego emerging. She counted to thirty, but not to control her temper. She was just marking the time of her rest periods, trying to keep them as short as possible.

  "Almost." He huffed and puffed through another set much too quickly, his motions fast and jerky, his legs swinging as loose as a little kid. He held up a single finger. "One more set. What's your name, anyway?"

  "I'm Tess." But others know me as the Emasculator.

  She bided her time, patient now, letting him natter on through a long rest period and then his final set, all the while dropping little hints about the things that made him such a great catch. Oh, he was clever enough to weave it into a narrative, an unnecessarily complicated story about how he hated taking his Range Rover to the ballpark, but it wasn't so bad when you parked in the season ticket holders lot, loved them O's, but didn't eat ballpark food, unless it was at the Camden Club, usually went Dalesio's afterwards. None of this was offered as an invitation—Tess could tell he hadn't decided if she was worthy—but she would have the essential information if he decided he didn't have a better prospect for tonight's game.

  Finally done, he wiped his nonexistent sweat from the seat in a show of courtliness, then pulled the pin out from the seventy-pound mark.

  "Where you want this? I know you gals don't like to bulk up too much."

  "Oh, I don't know," Tess said carelessly. "I'm not feeling at my peak today…how about 120?"

  He laughed, as if this were a wonderful joke, and put the pin where she had asked. With an impassive, bored expression, Tess hopped into the seat and ripped off a set, swiftly, but with good form. Her new friend, now perched on the leg press, paused when he saw where Tess had left the pin. She could tell he was loathe to choose a lighter weight, yet didn't want to get on and find he couldn't lift what she had lifted.

  "I guess I'm done, anyway," he said.

  Not quite. "The man in the wheelchair?" Tess said as he started to walk away.

  "Yeah?"

  "That's my boyfriend."

  Now he was done.

  Tess told Tyner most of the story over lunch, editing out the parts about him. Although Tyner claimed indifference to the idiots of the world, she couldn't imagine that the other man's careless statements wouldn't hurt.

  They were at the Point, the run-down tavern owned by her Uncle Spike. It was never clear whether the tavern was simply a front for Spike's bookie operation, or whether this was what kept body and soul together when gambling was slow. June was a slow time for both businesses—basketball and Pimlico winding down, football far away and baseball a sucker bet. To entice people into the bar, Spike had started offering free peanuts in large, shallow-bottomed barrels. But his assistant, Tommy, refused to sweep the floor every night and it was now impossible to walk through the Point without making a constant, crunching sound and raising little clouds of peanut dust around your ankles.

  "I'm sure your secret life as the Emasculator keeps you quite busy," Tyner said, "but I'm more interested in how your real work is going."

  "It was going fine until someone pried my door open with a crowbar last night. They didn't take anything, but I have a feeling break-ins are going to be a constant worry in my location." "So it was a junkie?"

  "You want some more peanuts?" Tess walked over to the nearest barrel, grabbed two fistfuls, and brought them back to the table, dropping them with a great clattering noise.

  "Have you ever noticed how, in every batch of peanuts you eat, there's one that's almost perfect?" she asked, opening a triple pod. "It's roasted a little darker than the rest, has an almost piquant flavor. So you eat dozens more, looking for one that has that same strong, roasted flavor and instead, you find one that's acrid and shriveled, which cancels out the perfect one, so you eat dozens more, trying to regain your equilibrium, and next thing you know you have peanut belly, all swollen and bloated, and you still haven't found that elusive, perfect peanut."

  Tyner wasn't the type to be distracted by a monologue on peanuts.

  "It wasn't junkies, was it?"

  "No," Tess admitted, sighing out loud. "I think someone went into my computer and made a copy of a file. There was paper in the tray, and I never leave it out. I feed it into the printer as I need it."

  "Which file was copied?"

  "Can't tell, but I assume it was Beale's. He was sitting there when I arrived, said he happened on the scene. Suspicious, I know, but why would he steal his own file? He's entitled to what's in it. Then again, it can't be Jackie. The only person who knows I'm working for Jackie is Jackie."

  "As far as you know."

  "Yeah, but why would she lie?"

  "I haven't a clue, but the one thing we know is that she lied before, right? I mean, even if she had a reason for her elaborate Mary Browne charade, she does lie, and she lies well." Tyner brushed the peanut shells and meal to the floor. "What do you know about the baby's father?"

  "Long gone and long forgotten, some guy from the neighborhood. Didn't want to be a father and signed away paternity. Jackie hasn't seen him for years."

  "She says."

  "Again, why wouldn't she tell the truth about that?"

  "I don't know why anyone does anything," Tyner said. "My job is to remind you the universe of possibilities is large. Don't take anything for granted, Tess. Someone printed a file out of your computer. There are two files there, Beale's and Jackie's. Beale was sitting in your office when you arrived, declaring his innocence before anyone accused him of anything. Strange, very strange. Jackie has lied to you at least once. Who knows if she lied to you about the baby's father, if there's someone else out there who wants to find the little girl." He thought for a moment. "Do you keep your gun in the office?"

  "Yes, in the safe. It was still there."

  "You have a license to carry. Maybe you ought to take advantage of it."

  "Oh Tyner, that's so paranoid."

  "I'd just feel better about you on Butchers Hill if I knew your gun was a little handier. What are you going to do if you walk in on the burglars next time? Say, ‘Excuse me, I just have to get something out of the safe, and then I'll be right with you.' If it is a druggie, you'll need to act swiftly. They're not rational, they might kill you out of sheer stupidity."

  Tess didn't say anything, just kept picking through the pile, still intent on finding that perfect peanut.

  Chapter 11

  On Sunday morning, Tess started her Treasure hunt.

  Although it was on the hot side, she decided to walk, because that's how Treasure would move through the city, heading west to Beans and Bread, then back east to wherever he was squatting near Butchers Hill.

  The Beans and Bread soup kitchen was only a few blocks from her own apartment. Now housed in a former synagogue, the Catholic mission had started in a tiny storefront closer to the water, just around the corner from where Tess now lived. But poverty was one of the few businesses in Baltimore that had never known a slow season, and Beans and Bread had long ago outgrown that small space.

  Sti
ll, Tess wasn't prepared to see almost fifty men and women waiting outside Beans and Bread's doors at 11 a.m. on a Sunday. A broad-shouldered man in mirrored sunglasses stood with his back to the door, murmuring into a walkie-talkie. Occasionally, the door would open a crack, a woman would lean out and whisper to him and the doorman would then shout numbers to the crowd. Five to ten people would present tickets and be admitted inside. The scene was not unlike one of those New York clubs of the moment, although those waiting here were more polite.

  "You can't bring your dog in here, sister." The doorman's voice was firm, but kind. "I'll watch him while you eat, if you like. We've got about a thirty-minute wait right now."

  "I'm not here for a meal. I'm trying to find someone who comes around here, though, a kid named Treasure Teeter."

  "Treasure Teeter?" The mirrored sunglasses stayed focused on the crowd. "Doesn't sound familiar, but I don't know all the names. Sister Eleanor would probably know him, but she's not here today. Can it wait until tomorrow?"

  "If it has to, it has to," Tess sighed.

  "You know what he looks like?"

  "No, just that he's real young, about seventeen, and he may be using."

  "There's one kid who comes in here regular, but I've never heard anyone call him Treasure." He muttered something into the walkie-talkie, listened to the static-y reply. "Joe Lee says the guy I'm thinking of was here when the doors opened at ten. He's long gone by now, though. That's three or four seatings ago."

  An old toothless man, who wore a wool hat and heavy coat despite the warm day, sidled up to the doorman and whispered shyly in his ear. He had been on the streets so long that it looked as if dirt and grime had been baked into his skin and clothes. When Esskay tried to sniff the hem of his navy pea coat, the man shrank back in fear and scurried halfway up the block.

  "What was that about?"

  "Guy says he heard Bea Gaddy is giving away food today, says this kid was headed up there when he left. You know her place, over on Collington?"