Laura Lippman - Baltimore Blues

Kitty had shoved some mail under her door. Just as Tess's phone calls sometimes went to the bookstore, her mail inevitably was mixed up, too, going to the front entrance instead of the side. It was seldom anything to mourn. No love letters had been mislaid, or million-dollar checks from Publishers Clearinghouse. Tonight's offerings were typical. A "Dear Occupant" brochure from a local dating service, Great Expectations. She wondered if Miss Havisham was a satisfied customer. A Victoria's Secret catalog-she had bought four pairs of underwear from the company three years ago and they continued to send her a catalog every two weeks. A form letter from the state, never good news. Was it already time to get a new driver's license?

A thin photocopy fluttered out. Her copy of VOMA's pink sheet. She had forgotten requesting it and, knowing state government as she did, had never expected to see it in less than the two weeks promised. And then Cecilia had convinced her, more or less, that VOMA was a dead end.

She studied the blurry copy. Yes, two board members had been added to VOMA the last time the nonprofit renewed its charter, just this spring. Seamon P. and Luisa J. O'Neal. Abramowitz was still listed as the agent and had attached this addendum to the annual tax statement. Hadn't Pru told Cecilia his involvement was incidental, a onetime irony? Tess felt Abramowitz tugging on her sleeve, trying to point the way, much the way Jonathan had seemed to be guiding her today through the interview with Fauquier and his own computer files.

They were both leading her in the same direction, to the same place.

Location, location, location. According to Jonathan's files, one of Fauquier's early victims, Damon Jackson, had been discovered behind the O'Neals' house, along Cross-Tree Creek. That's what Fauquier had called it in his confession, although the police report listed it as Little Wyman Falls. Cross-Tree Creek. Little Wyman Falls. If it had not been for the O'Neals' silly bickering over the name, Tess never would have remembered it.

Tess wanted nothing more than to sleep. If she could have forced herself, she would have squeezed four or five hours of oblivion out of the night's remains, then gone to the boat house for a good, punishing workout. She would have gone to Jimmy's and eaten her bagels, glad again that the cook threw them on the griddle the minute she walked in the door. She would have done all her routine things, the things that made her feel strong and capable. She wanted her rut back.

Instead she stayed up all night, watching the clock, making lists and waiting, for the second time in two days, for state offices to open. At 8:30, a mug of strong coffee in hand, she set herself up in Kitty's office, working the fax, the phone, and old sources at the secretary of state's office and the attorney general. It took some coaxing, but by 10 A.M. she had the documents she wanted spread out in front of her. Then, her hand shaking slightly, she called the O'Neals.

The maid answered, as Tess had expected. She was prepared to play the bully. To her surprise Luisa O'Neal came on the line when she heard who was calling.

"Oh, dear," she said, gracious as ever. "I know Shay has a very full schedule today. And we're leaving for the beach after work. We're taking a long weekend at our little place in Bethany."

A little place on the beach with six bedrooms, five decks, and two Jacuzzis. Tess had seen photos in the Blight 's Sunday magazine last year.

"Actually, Mrs. O'Neal, I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh, dear," she said again, as though she had longed to visit with Tess. "I have tennis this morning. But I could meet at one-thirty. The girls always like to have lunch after."

"I'll see you then."

At 1:15, sure of her destination this time, Tess headed north. There was a chill in the air, as if fall had decided it had to make a fainthearted stab at showing up just in time for the last day of September. This was Baltimore at its best-clear blue sky, a steady breeze, warm in the sun and cool in the shadows. As she did every year at this moment in time-and it sometimes seemed no more than a moment-Tess forgave the city its wretched summer and forgot winter would return. Constant clemency and a talent for amnesia. Both were key to life here.

She turned off Charles Street onto Cross Place. PRIVATE PROPERTY, a sign reminded her. TRESPASSING FORBIDDEN. Luckily the blue and white banner she had saved after the last visit flew from her antenna. In the weeks since Tyner and Tess had fled the street, autumn had taken hold here, too. The trees along the cul-de-sac were scarlet and gold. Blood and money, Tess thought.

No maid met her at the curbside, not today. And when Tess knocked it was Mrs. O'Neal who let her in and led her to the sun room.

"Tea?" she began, but Tess held up a hand.

"I don't really need any refreshments," she said. "This isn't exactly a social call."

Without her husband in the room, Mrs. O'Neill did not seem so washed-out and fragile. Her face was still strikingly pale-she must wear a cap on the tennis court, Tess thought-but her limbs, left bare by an all-white tennis dress and the cardigan across her shoulders, were deeply tanned. The bones of her shins were long and sharp, her wrists knobby. Tess had not realized how tall Mrs. O'Neal was, almost six feet, or how muscular.

"Yes, I understand that. I am surprised, Miss Monaghan, you didn't want my husband here. We have no secrets, you know. We are partners in everything."

I didn't want to be double-teamed. I'm not ready for two-on-one . "Everyone has secrets, Mrs. O'Neal. If I remember correctly you didn't know about your husband's interest in Ava Hill until my last visit."

"I should say we don't have secrets about important things." She walked over to the window and looked out, sighing and hugging her arms. The leaves behind the house were already thinning out. Baltimore's cruel, brief autumn. It did improve the view, however. One could see all the way to the creek bed, to the meadow beyond. The houses on the far hill were almost visible, instead of just windows winking through the trees.

"You have such a nice view," Tess said.

"We owned all of this once, you know. Up until ten years ago we still owned the houses on either side and all the land to the creek."

"Did something happen ten years ago?" Tess's voice wavered a little, despite her best efforts.

"You tell me, Miss Monaghan."

She walked back to her wing chair, crossing her legs at the ankle and folding her hands in her lap. Tess, feeling like Scheherazade, took a deep breath. After weeks of telling lies and bluffing, with uneven results, it felt odd to speak the truth, to say only what she knew and nothing more. It also felt dangerous. If she was right about Mrs. O'Neal, the woman would do anything to protect her family.

"Ten years ago Tucker Fauquier's killing spree ended. He had been raping and killing little boys off and on since the late 1970s, since he was eighteen. But when he was arrested they could charge him with only one murder, because only one was witnessed. It was a capital crime and he got the death penalty. But because Fauquier buried his victims in carefully concealed places, only confessions could resolve the other murders. Encouraged by his lawyer because he was already condemned to die, he eagerly told police all the details. Bodies were found all over the state-twelve in all. One of them was unearthed at the foot of your property, along Little Wyman Falls. An eleven-year-old named Damon Jackson. He lived near the old stadium, off Greenmount Avenue, and had disappeared early in Fauquier's career, as he prefers to call it."

"Yes, I know all this. I was at home the day the police came. I watched from here as they unearthed the body. Actually we didn't sell the property until after that, so I guess it was less than ten years ago."