Laura Lippman - In A Strange City

What had seemed merely interesting at her office was creepy on her threshold. Leaving the rose petals behind, she plucked the envelope from the basket and held it out in front of her, as if it were something lethal or foul-smelling. Arm still extended, she walked inside and sat at the mission table that did double duty as desk and dining room.

miss monaghan had been hand-lettered on the envelope, written in a compressed old-fashioned hand, where even the looping o and the two a’s were more vertical than horizontal. It was good stationery, heavy and substantial. If she was smart, she’d place it in a plastic bag immediately, take it to the police, and let it find a new home with the Evidence Control Unit.

If she was smart… it was a big if. She sliced the envelope open with a Swiss army knife, noting the fabric backing within-blue stripes on cream, gender neutral-and unfolded the creased page with the tip of the knife. The words inside had been typed, on a computer, but in a fanciful font that mimicked the handwriting on the front.

Good morning. The Pratt library is a fine place to do research on a cold winter’s day. Have you ever visited the Poe room? You may have to ask at the information desk for a tour.

P.S. It’s easier to park on Mulberry than on Cathedral Street proper.

At the bottom of the page was a quote, presumably from Poe, although it meant nothing to Tess, who knew only of the bells and Annabel Lee and, of course, the nevermore-ing raven:

There are some qualities-some incorporate things,

That have a double life, which thus is made

A type of that twin entity which springs

From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.

Retreating to the kitchen, she found a pair of tongs, which she used to slide the letter and envelope into a plastic sandwich bag. This accomplished, she decided to hide the document until she could transfer it to the safe in her office. She had an old oyster tin with a false bottom, and she fitted it here. While she was bending over, making sure everything was securely back in place, someone goosed her from behind with a long cold nose. She jumped and turned and found herself staring into Esskay’s accusing eyes. The dog, who had already been walked by Crow this morning, was trying to scam another walk out of Tess.

“A stranger came skulking around here last night,” Tess told the dog, crouching in front of her. “I know you don’t bark, but could you at least whimper? Is that too much to ask?”

She had meant to be rhetorical. But Esskay stuck her nose under Tess’s arm and knocked her backward on her ass.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Tess told the dog. She reached for the newspaper from where she sat on the floor and unsheathed it from its yellow plastic bag, skimming quickly to see if the Beacon-Light was paying attention to the Shawn Hayes angle. Cecilia didn’t even rate a paragraph in the story which meant the Blight editors had been convinced-by the police department, most likely-that she was a crank, a nut. Or perhaps Shawn Hayes’s family, conscious of the discretion he had shown in his life, had prevailed on the paper, arguing that he deserved no less now that he was in a coma. Such deals were still cut for Baltimore ’s most powerful families.

Last night, the local television stations, less discriminating, had given Cecilia her Sunday-night sound bite, but they wouldn’t know where to go with this piece of the story until the print folks showed them the way.

Cecilia’s problem was that the press, local and out-of-town, had already framed the tale in its collective mind. It was Poe, it was a ghost story, it was “human interest.” If Bobby Hilliard had been shot on a corner somewhere, coming home from work, he would have rated a mere paragraph and Cecilia’s theories would have excited much more interest, at least locally. But the Poe angle was too delicious. The media couldn’t surrender it, not yet.

Tess glanced back at the oyster tin. She should call Herman Peters at the Blight and ask if he had the police report on Shawn Hayes. If the two cases were connected-and Rainer, for all his bluster, had never denied this-perhaps it would lead her to the Pig Man.

“Of course, going to the library would just be silly,” she remarked to Esskay “This note is probably someone’s idea of a joke. For all I know, it’s Whitney, pulling my leg.”

Esskay stood over her, pushing out the sour, fishy breaths Tess had come to love because they were an inextricable part of this prima donna disguised as a dog.

“Then again, the library doesn’t even open until ten. So if that’s my first stop of the day we could justify going back to bed for another hour.”

At last, something they could agree on.

Two hours later, as Tess locked her door, she became aware of a sudden motion in the street behind her, the strange little eddy of air created by someone trying to rush without quite running.

Her reaction was so swift that it outpaced instinct: She turned, keys laced through her fists, and let her right arm extend like a jack-in-the-box.

Luckily for her visitor, he was taller than she, and the keys grazed his neck instead of his eyes. Luckier still, his neck was well padded with a plaid muffler, so the keys merely sank into the folds of fabric. But he was caught off guard, and he stepped backward down her step, almost twisting his ankle as he fell to one knee.

Standing over him, Tess recognized the dark hair and prissy mouth of the cable-show talking head from the press conference, even though the mouth was uncharacteristically shut. She stepped around him quickly, heading toward her car.

He scrambled to his feet and managed to insert himself between her and the Toyota, not unlike a salesman who has learned to stick his foot in a slamming door.

“Jim Yeager,” he said, thrusting out a hand. “I need to talk to you.”

“I have an office,” she said. “Do people come to your home on business?”

He continued to block her path, his hand still out, his hopes of a warm welcome not quite extinguished.

“Well, no,” he said. “But I have an unlisted address. One has to, in my line of work. It’s amazing, the things that people project, you know? I’d be afraid of crazy people showing up.”

“Exactly,” said Tess, who also had an unlisted address. Which meant that Yeager had found her through someone’s tip, probably Rainer’s, payback for her appearance at yesterday’s press conference. First a Norwegian radio reporter, now this guy. Rainer sure knew where her buttons were located and how to push them.

“Now, now. Do I look crazy?”

“What you look like,” Tess said, “is a Washington-ian.”

“Is that, a priori, a bad thing?” He liked to use Latin legalisms, it was his shtick, his gimmick, his way of reminding his audience that he had a law school education. “Being a Washingtonian, not just looking like one, I mean.”

“Definitely.” Actually, Tess liked Washington for its beautiful buildings and good food. It wasn’t Washington ’s fault that such insufferable people had collected there, like hair in a drain. Come to think of it, maybe it was Maryland ’s fault. The state had donated the rectangle of land that became the nation’s capital.

“Look, I’m sorry to show up here, but I got a tip that you know something about the Poe case, and I’d like to talk to you about it.”

“If I did know something, it would be information developed from working for a client, and I couldn’t share it with you. If I didn’t know anything-and trust me, I don’t-then I still would have nothing to say to you.”

“Hear me out.” On television, Yeager was a verbal bullyboy, speaking so swiftly and emphatically that his guests seldom got a word in edgewise. But he was soft-pedaling it with Tess, trying to ingratiate himself. He looked like one of those men who had been told- maybe just once, and very long ago-that he was charming. He had curly black hair that made Tess think of the darkest Concord grapes and a heavy coarse-featured face that was too florid for him ever to progress to the more mainstream news shows. Yet he was close to bursting with self-esteem.