Laura Lippman - In A Strange City

“I’m Tess Monaghan,” she said, “and this is my boyfriend, Crow Ransome.”

That was all it took to melt the frost. “Charlotte Menaker,” she said. “How do you and Cecilia know each other?”

The answer was complicated-and involved so many events better left forgotten, so much violence and waste-that Tess and Cecilia, after exchanging a look, shrugged and laughed.

“Another Baltimore story,” Tess said. “We were… thrown together once, by circumstances. Then Cecilia clerked one summer for the lawyer I work with, Tyner Gray.”

“The handsome man in the wheelchair?”

“I suppose,” Tess said, knowing she would never carry the compliment back to Tyner. Bad enough that heterosexual women thought he was attractive. If he heard a pretty young lesbian had called him handsome, his conceit would be unbearable.

Crow, who had met Cecilia about the same time Tess did, suddenly got up and enveloped her in a bear hug. Cecilia looked faintly alarmed, then relaxed in his grip.

“You look great,” he told her. “I saw you on the news, and I was so proud of you.”

“Oh, yeah, the news,” Tess said. “So how goes the crusade? Has Rainer unbent, told you anything more about his investigation?”

Cecilia appeared torn. Clearly her instinct was to spin the story to her advantage, but Tess was a friend, more or less, not a gullible newscaster.

“The mainstream media gave us cursory mentions, sort of the obligatory crackpot-theories rubric,” she admitted. “But I have a television appearance tomorrow on an hour-long news show, Face Time. We’re going to talk about hate crimes and whether legislation can make a difference.”

“Face Time? That show with Jim Yeager?” Tess asked, nonchalant in the extreme.

“Yes. I know he’s not exactly a friend to our cause, but he does provide a forum for free and open debate.”

Tess wondered if Cecilia had ever seen the show in question, or if she was simply buying into Yeager’s version of what he offered the viewing public.

“I wouldn’t trust him, if I were you,” she said, deciding not to reveal she had turned down a chance to be on the same show.

Cecilia could not bear instructions, no matter how mild or well intended. “I don’t recall asking your advice. Besides, I have a great visual. We just came from the SPCA, where I bailed out Shawn Hayes’s Doberman. The family doesn’t know what to do with her, so they’re boarding her there. I’m going to take her on the show with me. People may not respond to the plight of a gay man, almost beaten to death, but a little doggie mourning for her master gets them every time.”

She pointed to Twenty-ninth Street, where a blue RAV-4 was parked. Tess saw the long snout of a Doberman poking through the window, which had been lowered about an inch to let fresh air circulate in the car.

She hated to anthropomorphize, especially from this distance, but the dog did appear depressed.

“How does a Doberman not come to her master’s aid when he’s being beaten?” she wondered.

“Good question,” Cecilia said. “The police want to think it’s because Shawn Hayes’s attacker was someone he knew. But that would only explain why the dog didn’t bark when the person entered the house. You told me you have a dog. Would it sit idly by while someone was hurting you?”

Tess thought about this. “No, she’d lie idly by, at least if you gave her something to eat first. In fact, if you were feeding her bacon, you could set me on fire and Esskay wouldn’t notice. But she’s no Doberman.”

“The Hound of the Baskervilles,” Crow mused. “Why didn’t the Doberman bark?”

“Ah, but this is a story of Poe, not Conan Doyle,” Tess reminded him.

“It’s not a story about Poe at all.” Cecilia’s voice was edged with irritation. “That’s the very problem I’m having with the press. One man is dead, another is near death, and all anyone wants to do is make weak puns about ”The Telltale Heart‘ and Baskerville hounds, whatever they are.“

They all looked across the street at the dog in question. A suspicious-looking man appeared to be sneaking up on the RAV-4, but he jumped back when he saw what was inside. The Doberman didn’t move, didn’t react at all. Maybe she was capable of sitting out an attack on her master.

“That’s a big dog,” Crow said. “She’s going to need a lot of exercise. Do you have a yard?”

“We not only don’t have a yard, we have a cat,” Charlotte put in, with the tone of the frequently put upon. Get used to it, honey, Tess longed to advise her. Welcome to life with Cecilia. “So I’m not sure how this is going to work. She’s a sweetie, though. Her name is Miata.”

“Miata?”

“Hayes told his friends she was his version of a midlife crisis,” Cecilia said. “Look, why don’t you bring your food over here and join us, instead of shouting across the tables like this?”

She could not have been more offhand, but Tess was moved by the offer. Perhaps Cecilia had room in her life for those who were not allies and comrades, just friends.

“You know, we could keep the dog for you,” Crow said, after they had reconfigured.

Tess choked a little on her orange juice.

“Well, we could,” he said. “Just temporarily. The backyard is fenced, and Esskay could use the company.”

“Esskay doesn’t even know she’s a dog.”

“True,” Crow said, “but she’s very tolerant. If she saw us being kind to some strange new creature, she’d do the same.”

“It wouldn’t have to be forever,” Cecilia said, seizing the opening Crow had given her. “Just temporarily, until Hayes’s family makes arrangements for her.”

“She’s incredibly well behaved,” Charlotte put in. “Except for the sofa incident.”

Cecilia gave Charlotte a sharp look even as Tess asked, “The sofa incident?”

“The SPCA said she ate a sofa while she was with one of Hayes’s relatives,” Charlotte confessed. “That’s why she was put there in the first place.”

“Not all of it,” Cecilia said quickly. “Just part of a cushion. She was making a nest.”

“Don’t worry, Esskay won’t let that happen,” Crow said. “She doesn’t let anyone sit on the sofa.”

It’s strange, how being allowed to do a favor for someone can feel like a gift. Tess was touched that Cecilia would admit to needing anything, much less allow Tess and Crow to fill that need. Sitting here, a happy foursome, they felt like friends.

And friends shouldn’t have secrets from one another. She owed it to Cecilia to tell her what she had learned about the Bobby Hilliard case.

“You know, the cops have widened the investigation, beyond the homicide and the assault,” she said. “They’re looking into two burglaries, too. I’m not sure what’s involved, but they’re definitely not hate crimes, just ordinary break-ins.”

“So?” Cecilia was suddenly on full alert, back in activist mode.

“Well, I thought that might affect what you say on the air tomorrow night.”

“I can’t be overly concerned with property crimes when people’s lives are at risk,” Cecilia said.

“I’m not asking you to equate the four crimes morally. I’m telling you the police think they’re related. Doesn’t that fact make the hate-crime scenario less likely?”

“We have to draw attention to these issues however we can. Police treat gay men who are attacked the way they once treated rape victims.” Cecilia was a rape victim, Tess recalled, and she had never hesitated to wield this bit of moral superiority. “We have to keep pressure on them, if only to ensure that future cases are taken more seriously.”

Tess wasn’t sure if Cecilia was using the editorial “we,” the royal “we,” or merely the pain-in-the-ass self-important “we.”