Laura Lippman - Charm City

When Wink's past was revealed, he must have decided that Tucci should be humiliated as well. Or perhaps he thought Tucci was the source of the stories, that Tucci had set him up in order to force him from the ownership group. It would have been easy enough for Tucci to dose Wink's drink with Percodan, or whatever he took for his still ailing knee. Even lame, Tucci was big enough to carry a slight guy like Wink to his car, hoist him into the convertible, and wait for the carbon monoxide to work.

"There's my girl." Spike's brown eyes fluttered as he came to. His speech was slurry and soft, almost as if he had no teeth, but he was awake, he would live.

Remembering the nurse's injunction, she didn't try to ask him anything other than "How do you feel?"

"Been better."

"I found the ears."

He looked troubled. "I didn't want you to."

"Yeah, well, when I'm allowed to interrogate you, I want to know more about that."

"I'll tell you everything I told the police."

"I'm guessing that's not much."

Spike smiled, closed his eyes, and drifted back to sleep.

"Good night, Uncle Spike, I gotta go see a man about a dog. One of the human variety."

"It's not a bad theory," Sterling said cautiously that evening, as Tess paced in his office, running through the scenarios she had concocted in Spike's hospital room. She could hear the skepticism in his voice, and it hurt. She had counted on him to be the one person who wouldn't think she was crazy.

"But not a good one, right?"

Sterling wasn't a great liar. Although he tried to smile encouragingly, his eyes made it clear he thought her idea half-baked at best. Tess turned away from him and looked through the glass windows of his office, toward the newsroom. Dusk had fallen and snow was in the forecast again, so deadlines had been moved up, stealing time from the production of the paper in order to ensure its delivery. Consequently, the reporters and editors on the city desk were frenzied, gripped in their own snowstorm panic attack. It didn't help that they were trying to report on something that hadn't actually happened yet.

"You think I'm spinning my wheels, trying to prove Rosita was killed so I can absolve myself in her death," she said flatly. "You think I should have stayed at the hospital with my Uncle Spike, rather than chasing down a junior high school yearbook."

"There's just not enough solid information to go to the police with your theory yet. You'll have to wait until schools open Monday to check your hunches. And I'm not sure enrollment records are public information."

"Oh, I'd get them somehow. I have an uncle in state government who could always call in a favor. I could have them by tomorrow if I really pushed."

Sterling played with a paper clip, twisting it into a straight line, then into a triangle. "There is a way we could make things move even faster, if you're willing to be a little devious."

"Always," Tess said. "What's your plan?"

"You told me Lea cut a page out of the yearbook before she gave it to Rosita. But if Tucci has the book, he doesn't necessarily know why the page is missing."

"So?"

"Think, Tess. What was Linda's maiden name?"

"What is this, the Socratic method? Linda's maiden name was Stolley."

"How many kids fell between Stolley and Tucci in the eighth grade at Rock Glen Junior High?"

Tess visualized the page. The photos had been small, in order to accommodate five across and eight down, forty in all. Linda had been in the middle of the page. Rock Glen was a big school, there were probably plenty of eighth graders between ST and TU. Still it was possible-plausible, even.

"So if Tucci thinks that page is hidden somewhere…"

"He might be interested in getting it back. And even if we're wrong about his class photo falling on that page, if we're vague enough, he might think there's another page cut from the book, which does show his photograph, in some club or something."

Tess practically held her breath as Sterling picked up his phone, asked information for the number to the Tuccis' import-export business, then dialed.

"Paul Tucci, please," he said, after what must have been eight or nine rings. "I'm sure he'll want to take this call. Tell him it's'…someone from the yearbook committee at his old school. His real old school."

Now, this is a man after my own heart , Tess thought happily.

"Mr. Tucci, I have the yearbook page I think you've been looking for. No, I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about. I'd like to make this available to you, for a price. Why don't we meet and discuss this, sooner rather than later? At the tennis courts in Leakin Park, in an hour. Come alone, Mr. Tucci. You may rest assured, however, that I won't be alone and I won't have the page with me, not tonight. It's in a safe place." He paused, let Tucci have his say. "Tonight, Mr. Tucci. No second chances."

He hung up the phone and Tess could tell he was pleased with himself.

"I'll have Lionel call Detective Tull and tell him what we're up to," he said. "But not until the last possible minute."

"And Feeney," Tess said. "You should alert him, so he can be in on the story from the first."

"No, I'm afraid the police would frown on that. Besides, how would you explain it to Tucci? Feeney will have plenty of time to follow the story. After all, I'm sure at least two of the primary sources will cooperate. Now let me go tell Lionel what we're up to, and give him Detective Tull's number."

"Sure," Tess said, studying her wrist the way Lea Wynkowski had, although she had no golden bracelet to twist. It didn't seem right for Feeney to miss out on this. As soon as Sterling was out of sight, she sat down at his computer, signed on, and sent Feeney a message:

This is Tess typing. Leakin Park in 30 minutes for the story of your life. SERIOUSLY!!!!!!!!

The message went through, indicating Feeney's computer at the courthouse was on, but he didn't reply. Maybe there was time to page him-

"Hacking again? I hope you're not sending messages out under my user name," Sterling said from the door. His voice was sharp, but he laughed when she jumped.

"N-no, no messages at all. I was checking the forecast, seeing how bad it's not going to be."

"Just teasing you. Look, Lionel thinks our plan is a little unorthodox, but he's going to back us up. Says he'll call the police at the appointed hour. Now, are you a McDonald's woman, or a Burger King loyalist?"

"Roy Rogers, pardner."

Only a few light flakes had started falling when they pulled into the gravel parking lot off Windsor Mill Road, but that hadn't kept other drivers from acting as if a fullscale blizzard was laying siege to the city. Roy Rogers had run out of buns-plenty of roast beef and ground beef patties, just no buns to put them on-and Tess had ended up making do with potato salad, while Sterling had settled for baked beans. It wasn't a half-bad dinner, but her stomach was doing nervous flip-flops, wondering how angry Sterling would be when Feeney showed up. If Feeney showed up-she couldn't be sure he had seen her message.

"Let's have our picnic in the snow," Tess said, getting out and then climbing up on the trunk of Sterling's car, a new-looking Honda Accord. She was conscious of testing him, checking to see if he was fussy about his car. She considered that a bad sign in a man.

Sterling rummaged through the glove compartment, then perched next to her on the trunk.

"Something to warm you up?" he asked, holding out a small bottle of amber-colored whiskey and a pewter Jefferson cup, the collapsible kind that came in fancy picnic baskets. She and Whitney had used them and a thermos to smuggle mint juleps into the Hunt Cup one year.

"You drive around with this in your car? I'm shocked, Mr. Sterling, shocked."