Laura Lippman - Baltimore Blues

"Except for the fact that's one of the worst-written stories I've ever heard, I'm not sure why you decided to come over and read it to me this evening. But thanks for sharing."

"It's not the story. It's the photograph."

Tess picked up the paper and looked at Frank Miles, smiling his gentle smile in a staff photo that must have been at least fifteen years old. Nice of the school system to provide it to the paper, she thought. Would they have been so cooperative if he was still employed by them?

"Typical head and shoulders shot. Probably every principal and vice principal in the city has one on file. What's so interesting?"

"Because if it wasn't for the photo, I wouldn't have remembered him by name. I know Frank Miles. He tried to join VOMA. Abramowitz had defended two men who raped his daughter."

"Did he know the group's real name, or was it just a happy coincidence that a real VOMA happened into VOMA?"

"We'll never know." Cecilia sat on the bed. "Pru turned him away, of course, the way she always did. I see now she recruited the original members with an eye to finding women who wouldn't look too closely at the group's finances. She wanted weak people, passive people. She didn't want anyone she couldn't control."

"Did he get angry when you turned him away?"

"No. He was very sweet and understanding. He had brought brownies to the meeting, so Pru let him stay, just that once. His daughter was raped back and front by two neighborhood boys, classmates of hers. They said she was a whore who had done everyone in the neighborhood. She killed herself a month after they were acquitted. Pru told Mr. Miles he should find a group for people who had lost children to suicide."

Tess remembered his shadowy living room, the dusty photographs on the wall. "I don't have any children," he had told her. "Just nieces and nephews." But there had been a beautiful girl in a graduation gown.

"Can you prove this? Will the others remember?"

"I'm a few steps ahead of you-again." Cecilia smiled. "He filled out a membership form so he could get on our mailing list. Not that Pru ever mailed anything but fund-raising solicitations. I got her to give it to me after I saw the paper this afternoon. She raised a stink, but I reminded her she's not in a position to call the shots anymore."

She unfolded the old sheet of paper. Frank Miles's handwriting was neat and plain. Tess recognized his West Baltimore address.

"Are you going to the cops with this?"

"That's my next stop. Not because I care about your friend, although I guess no one should do time for a crime he didn't do. I want people to know a sweet, gentle man was driven crazy by what happened to his daughter. If Abramowitz had driven me to my death, I'd like to think my pop would have killed him, too."

Tess reached out and put her hand on Cecilia's arm. "I know you hate Abramowitz, but he did have a conscience. He agonized over the choices he made in his life and he paid for most of them. I read parts of a diary he left. He was very…self-aware. I grew to like him, reading it."

The corners of Cecilia's mouth moved in an odd way that, technically, would qualify as a smile. The ends turned up, a shadow of a dimple showed in her right cheek, but it was the saddest face Tess had ever seen. "Did he ever mention the rape cases in his diary?"

"Well, I didn't read it all," Tess said. It sounded weak, even to her. She saw Cecilia's point. Michael Abramowitz may have been tortured by his capital murder cases, his estrangement from the law, his futile campaign against Seamon O'Neal. But the rape cases weren't important to him.

"Yeah. That's what I thought. Ever read Don Quixote ?"

"No, I keep meaning to read it, but-I did see Man of La Mancha at Painters Mill when I was a kid."

"The nuns make you read it in honors. I keep thinking of this one line. ‘What thanks does a knight-errant deserve for going out of his head when he has good cause?' Frank Miles had good cause, Tess. His family played by the rules and was destroyed by them."

"He didn't have good cause, not against Abramowitz. If he wanted to avenge his daughter's death, he should have killed the rapists."

Cecilia shrugged. "For all we know, he did. I can do research, too. The two guys who raped his daughter were killed in a drive-by last year. Together, just the two of them. Maybe it's just a coincidence."

With that she walked to the door, then turned back. "I am sorry Frank Miles tried to kill you. I guess that was uncalled for."

In spite of herself Tess had to laugh. Cecilia had a talent for making her laugh at the oddest things, when she thought nothing in the world would ever seem funny again. She was still giggling when she fell back asleep, a restful sleep this time. When she woke again it was Saturday morning and Kitty was kneeling by the bed, shaking her awake and telling her Tyner was on the phone. The police had agreed to review the physical evidence from the case. Cecilia was not the only new witness who had come forward. Ava Hill, accompanied by lawyer and mentor Seamon O'Neal, suddenly remembered all sorts of suspicious behavior on the part of Frank Miles.

The charges against Darryl "Rock" Paxton were dropped by mid-October, a week before the Charm City Classic.

Tess, Whitney, Crow, and Cecilia stood on the west side of the Hanover Street Bridge, leaning over the railing and waiting for Rock's race to start.

"You're supposed to call it the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Bridge now," Whitney informed the others. "But no one does. The Vietnam veterans want us to write an editorial on it next month for Veterans Day."

"Great, another group of victims, showing up to demand their due," Tess said, then looked at Cecilia. "Sorry. I didn't mean-"

Cecilia shrugged. "No offense," said VOMA's newest director, who in just three weeks had opened the group to all sexual assault victims as well as their relatives and spouses. She had also become ubiquitous in the media. Surprisingly she could be tactful and thoughtful in front of television cameras, decrying Frank Miles's violence, but maintaining he had been driven to it.

They heard the crowd's roar: The 2,000-meter race had finally started. Crow and Cecilia, not even sure which one of the five scullers was Rock, yelled and clapped indiscriminately. Whitney, watching through field glasses, shook her head and passed them to Tess. Rock was out in front, but his timing was off, his form ragged. Tess could tell he wasn't holding anything back, he was going to collapse toward the finish. Shorter races, head-to-head with other boats, had always been tougher for him than the longer races, run against the clock and himself.

The five boats passed under the bridge and shot out the other side before Tess could dodge the traffic on Hanover Street and position herself to see the finish. Rock was still in the lead, but his energy was flagging. The closest boat was gaining on him inch by inch. Tess pressed her feet against the sidewalk, as if she could give Rock an extra boost. He held on, slipping across the finish line in front of his late challenger, but well off his best time.

"I guess being accused of murder and breaking off your engagement doesn't do wonders for a training regimen," Tess said.

"Not pretty," Whitney agreed, "but it will do."

They left the bridge and headed to the docks so they could carry up Rock's scull in a show of fealty. Along the banks of the Patapsco, it looked as if Whitney's extended family was staging a reunion. Lots of sockless men in plaid pants and V-neck sweaters, women in kelly green, so much blond hair it created a glare.

As they neared the boat house Tess found herself trying to keep her distance. Soon she would have to go back, especially when she had her own Alden hanging inside, a partial payment from Rock and Tyner. They had wanted to give her something sleeker, a Vespoli or a Pocock, but Tess had been firm. The Alden was durable, well-suited to her rowing regime, and less likely to tip. She didn't plan on going back into the Patapsco any time soon.