Laura Lippman - In A Strange City

A glorious understatement, Tess thought, her eyes still dazzled by the room.

“I can’t help wondering,” she said, “how you would even know if anything was missing. Or how a burglar could choose what he wanted here. You have so many things, I would think a form of paralysis would set in.”

She also couldn’t help thinking how tempted Bobby Hilliard might be, if he stood in this room. He had stolen at least one item from the Pratt, if not more, and this town house was full of the sort of pretty-pretty things Daniel had said were his former colleague’s weakness.

“I’m afraid the burglar knew all too well what he wanted,” Ensor said. “My stereo, my video camera, and a television set in the kitchen. He was a strong fellow, I’ll give him that, hardworking and very methodical. It was almost a relief to have a professional at work, instead of someone who throws a rock through the window and reaches in to grab whatever is handy, like one of those Boardwalk crane games.” He paused as if he had been about to say something more, then laughed. “Actually, I have one of those too, upstairs. From Ocean City.”

“How did this burglar gain entry?”

“The back door was unlocked.” He offered this without apology and without embarrassment. What an idiot, Tess thought, then remembered her conversation with Tyner and felt guilty. No one deserved to be a victim.

“Did you have a security system?”

“I do now. I decided the third time was the charm. But, really, you’re not part of the Bolton Hill neighborhood until you’ve been burglarized at least twice. It’s sort of like joining the Tennis and Swim Club.”

“And all that was taken were electronics.”

“Yes. As I said, the things I collect have no value- except to me. You know, it’s something of a comfort, having things no one else would want.”

Tess had once based her whole life on a similar philosophy. Choose to be miserable, and no one else can make you unhappy. It hadn’t proved to be a satisfying way to live, but it seemed to be working for Ensor.

“Have the police mentioned to you that your burglary may be connected to other crimes?”

Ensor shifted in his seat. He seemed at once bored and wary. “Burglaries often are. People who steal keep stealing.”

“No, I was thinking about the attack on Shawn Hayes and the shooting at Poe’s grave.”

“What an interesting idea. Is it yours?”

Not ludicrous, not surprising, she noted. Just interesting.

“No. I believe it’s the police department’s. Has anyone there told you of this?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, with a tight little smile. “But they have asked me not to speak about it. To anyone. Not to the press and particularly, the homicide detective emphasized, not to a female private detective with her hair in a pigtail down her back.”

“Oh.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, until he resembled a praying mantis. “But I will tell you this much, for your own edification. I’m not gay. In fact, my three ex-wives will be happy to tell you how not-gay I am. So much for the hate-crime theory. Now, shall I call Rainer and tell him you were here? For that is what he asked me to do. Or would you like to offer a defense on your own behalf? I’m amenable to being persuaded.”

He was toying with her, enjoying her discomfort. What he didn’t know was that her discomfort was caused by the implicit sexual boast about his ex-wives. Really, sex with someone who looked like Jerold Ensor would qualify as necrophilia.

“I don’t think I can persuade you.”

“Ah, I am very susceptible to a woman’s charms. One could even say it’s my primary weakness.”

Did he really expect her to pout or plead? She would not have been surprised to find out that, somewhere in this overstuffed town house, Jerold Ensor had a collection of pinned butterflies in a glass case. Now it came to her why his house seemed so creepy: It reminded her of the Gnome King’s sitting room in her favorite Oz book, Ozma of Oz. There, all the items were really people and animals, transformed by the king into permanent objets d’art until a particularly bright chicken broke the spell. It was one of the most literal tales of possession that Tess had ever read, and it scared her more today than it had twenty years ago. She had learned from a man, now dead by his own hand, to be wary of people who took too much pleasure in owning things. They sometimes tried to own people as well.

“Did you know Bobby Hilliard?”

“Not that I know of. But I ate out a lot, perhaps he knew me. The police asked the same question. I understand the source of their interest. What’s yours?”

“I’m not sure,” Tess said honestly. Since the Pig Man’s visit to her office, she felt she had been drawn into a game of blindman’s bluff against her will and she was wandering, eyes covered, in a circle of snickering children. Everyone was in on the joke except her.

“Did you-” she began.

Ensor sat back in his chair, crossing his long legs, resting his narrow face on the tips of his index fingers. “I’m not supposed to talk to you, and I’m not going to unless you make this more fun.”

“I don’t think I want to know what your idea of fun is.” Without bothering to say good-bye, Tess left, her only backward glance for her reflection in the mirror that had borne witness to the death of Francis Scott Key. Really she was going to cut that damn braid off one day. Then how would anyone know her, how would she be described?

If Ensor had been warned to watch out for her, the second burglary victim, Arnold Pitts of Field Street, would be prepared as well. So what? At least Rainer would know she was thorough. Besides, B-and-E-victim number two couldn’t be anywhere near as creepy as Ensor. Stopped at a traffic light on Mount Royal, she checked the map and called her house, only to find Crow completely absorbed in his cabinet-stripping.

“I’ve got one more stop on my way home tonight,” she said. “I’m still trying to figure out why the cops think these things are connected.”

“Hmmm,” was all Crow said, although it was a very supportive “hmmm.” She wondered if the fumes were getting to him.

“What do you want to do for dinner?” She was being her worst passive-aggressive self, hoping Crow would volunteer that he had taken care of dinner, made a winter-suitable meal of, say, beef stroganoff and hot bread.

“I’m not really hungry,” he said, “so it’s up to you.”

Damn, wrong answer. “Okay, I’ll figure something out. It will probably involve cardboard containers.”

“Fine with me.” His voice, which had been absent-minded and dreamy, found a momentary focus. “Any more gifts from your secret admirer?”

“No. I guess we’ve broken up. He doesn’t call, he doesn’t write…”

“I’m not sure how I feel, knowing another man is giving my girl flowers.”

“How do you know,” Tess countered, “it’s a man?”

Crow had fallen back into his fume-induced reverie. “Do you think we should get funky with the kitchen cabinet handles, put on those brass starfish they have at Nouveau, or keep the original handles? They have a kind of retro charm.”

“I’m not having this conversation, I’m not having this conversation,” Tess chanted. “My parents talk like this. In fact, I am coming home tonight with the kind of food suitable for slathering bodies and we are going to have cheap, nasty sex and the only thing that will be off-limits is any discussion of home decor. You wanna talk drapery cords, it better be in the context of bondage. Okay?”

“You mean if I say your skin reminds me of that wonderful new synthetic material that you can’t distinguish from real marble, you’ll object?”