Laura Lippman: The Sugar House

Tess supposed it was possible to spend one’s life in Baltimore and never venture into Martin’s West, but she didn’t know anyone who had managed this feat. All roads eventually led to this glitzy, overwrought banquet hall on the western edge of the Beltway. If Dante’s Inferno were updated and relocated to Charm City, it would have to include a new circle of hell-political fund-raisers at Martin’s West.

But she was enjoying herself this evening, grabbing hors d’oeuvres from the trays that whizzed by-once she ascertained there was no crabmeat in them. She didn’t want to have an allergic reaction and miss all the fun. The food was pretty good, for banquet hall slop, but Dahlgren, a Baptist, had made predictably poor wine selections. All the money in the world, and he cheaped out on the wine, serving Romanian swill. Tess sipped a gin-and-tonic, a relatively foolproof drink.

Herman Peters paced in restless circles around her, disdaining food and drink, keeping in constant touch with the city desk by cell phone and pager.

“There’s a homicide in the Eastern district,” he said mournfully. “A woman shot her husband because he wouldn’t stop changing the channel with the remote. It would be my five hundred thirteenth homicide straight. I hate to miss it.”

“You’d hate missing this more,” Tess assured him. “By the way, you did make sure Feeney was there to do rewrite, right? This is going to break close to deadline, and you’ll need someone who actually knows something about Maryland politics.”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s there. I just wish you’d tell me more about what’s going to happen.”

“Go with the flow, Hermannator. Show’s starting.”

A mediocre jazz band had been playing standards, interspersed with the inevitable Christmas music, on a stage at one end of the hall. They broke after a particularly funereal version of “A Christmas Song,” and Whitney came out in the WASP seasonal uniform-long velvet skirt and white silk blouse. At least she didn’t have on one of those embroidered Christmas sweaters that so many otherwise sensible women donned this time of year.

“If I could have your attention for a moment, ladies and gentlemen.” Between her vowel sounds and golden hair, she had it immediately. “This fund-raiser was to have been a joyful event, celebrating the fact that the campaign has already passed the $1 million mark in contributions. But I’m afraid it has been overshadowed by a tragedy, the apparent death of Senator Dahlgren’s legislative aide, Adam Moss.”

The crowd dutifully murmured in shock, although Tess sensed they were merely being polite. If anything, the party-goers seemed a little annoyed that someone had the bad taste to cast a pall over what was to have been a festive event.

“State police found Adam’s car this morning in Sandy Point Park, along with a note, indicating he planned to jump from the Bay Bridge,” Whitney continued. “A motorist had reported seeing a man walking on the southern span about three A.M., but Adam’s body has not yet been found. The senator thought about canceling the fund-raiser, but the letter police found in Adam’s car specifically requested this event go on as planned.”

Herman Peters unsheathed his notebook with one hand, and began dialing his cell phone with the other. Tess put a hand on the notebook. “Not yet,” she whispered. “There’s more.”

Dahlgren walked up on the stage now, his face arranged in a suitably somber expression.

“The fact is,” Whitney took two sheets of paper from one of her skirt’s deep pockets, “Adam cared so much about the senator that his note details how Meyer Hammersmith has tainted the campaign by making illegal contributions. Apparently, Hammersmith tried to skirt the federal limits by using dead people and the employees of a Southwest Baltimore bar owner, Nicola DeSanti, to pour his own money into the campaign.”

This earned the gasps and scandalized whispers that Adam Moss’s mere suicide had failed to incite. Dahlgren stopped and stared at Whitney, forgetting to close his mouth. Tess could imagine her father saying: Once a backbencher, always a backbencher . Thinking about her father still stung. They had not spoken since the fire.

“Adam indicates in his letter that Hammersmith’s betrayal of the senator may have been the result of a love triangle. It appears the two men had quarreled over someone. Who, it’s not clear, but Adam seems to take personal responsibility for the rift. He asks the State Police not to prosecute Dahlgren, whom he describes as a man of integrity”-Whitney squinted at the letter as if reading it for the first time-“the only man I ever…Hmm. Well, Adam probably didn’t want that part read out loud.”

Tess had kept an eye on Hammersmith while Whitney was speaking. He had been backing up steadily along one wall of the banquet hall, until he was at the rear. She watched him slip away now, through the kitchen doors. Herman Peters saw it, too, and started after him, but Tess held his arm.

“The story’s here. Don’t run after him for a ‘no comment.’ You can get as much by phone later. I have his number.”

Dahlgren, a pale man to begin with, looked ghastly now, his broad forehead sweating, his eyes taking on that Dan-Quayle-in-the-headlights glaze. He tried to nudge Whitney away from the podium, but she didn’t yield. He pushed her more overtly. She held her ground, smiling sweetly. In desperation, Dahlgren yanked the mike from the stand and stepped around her, trying to get the crowd’s attention back.

“It’s Christmas time, a joyful time of year for all of us,” he said. “And Hanukkah time, too, of course, as well as Kwanzaa for many of our friends here tonight. But it’s not April Fool’s Day, a fact my staffers seem to have forgotten. I’m sorry for this ill-advised practical joke. It’s not at all funny.”

“No, it’s not funny,” Whitney agreed. She could be heard even without the mike, because everyone in the vast room had fallen silent. “You see, Hammersmith made those illegal contributions only because you blackmailed him into becoming your finance manager, according to Adam. Murder and extortion and illegal campaign contributions and arson-it’s all here, in great detail. Would you like me to read the rest of it?”

At this point, Dahlgren bolted from the stage, looking as if he were going to be sick. Det. Martin Tull was waiting for him at the stage’s edge.

“Senator, I’m arresting you for withholding evidence about a homicide in the city of Baltimore, a felony crime.” A friendly state’s attorney had agreed to let Tull take Dahlgren in, knowing the charge would never stand. The real case against Dahlgren was in the campaign records, and the only punishment the state would ever exact was the end of his political career. But Tess had been adamant-she wanted a public perp walk for this very public perp. She had even called the television stations she hated so much, and instructed them to wait outside Martin’s West. “Good visuals?” the weekend assignment editors had all chirped. “Superb visuals,” she had promised.

“Now you’ve got your story,” she told Herman Peters, who wore a rapt expression, like a little boy regarding his first bicycle on Christmas Day. The end of his homicide streak was clearly forgotten now.

“Do you think she’d give me her copy of the suicide note?” He was nodding toward Whitney, who still held center stage.

“Take mine,” Tess said. “I’ve got a photocopy she gave me when I came in. It’s very complete, it explains how everything fits together-Hammersmith, Dahlgren, the death of Gwen Schiller. But grab Whitney now if you have any questions. We’re meeting my boyfriend for a late supper at the Brass Elephant bar.”