Laura Lippman - Charm City

"You should know that Paul Tucci is one of the men on the tape. In fact, he'd probably be doing a victory dance if it weren't for his bad knee. Is that going to be a problem?"

Mabry looked puzzled. "What a strange question. If anything, it heightens our interest."

"But you didn't want to run the original Wink story, the one with all the unsavory information about him , because you didn't want to kill the city's chance for a basketball team. What's the difference?"

"Miss Monaghan, you shouldn't believe everything a reporter says, even when the reporter is one of your friends." She squirmed a little under Mabry's knowing smile. "Our publisher did have some concerns along that line, but I was uncomfortable with the Wink story simply because I didn't see the point of dredging up pieces of his past when that had nothing to do with his fitness to own a sports franchise. Jack Sterling understood my feelings and he played on them. Of course, now I know Jack had his own agenda and that his articulate speeches about letting people reinvent themselves were neither dispassionate nor disinterested. But I still stand by my decision that Wink was entitled to know the names of his critics."

"You knew Sterling better than anyone here." Anyone living , Tess amended in her mind, thinking of Rosita. "Why did he follow you here, knowing someone might recognize him?"

"I think he wanted the job so badly he convinced himself no one would remember a fat boy named Raymond from thirty years ago. Then Wink came to an editorial board meeting and Jack was discovered. He still could have confessed-I wouldn't have fired him, although I would have made damn sure he had nothing more to do with the Wynkowski story. Instead, Jack promised to kill the story in return for his old friend's silence." Mabry paused. "Funny, how in the end it was Colleen who set Jack's downfall in motion. If she hadn't put the first story in the paper, there would never have been a second one, the one that so enraged Wink. And Jack might have figured out a less dire way to ensure Wynkowski's silence."

Tess made a polite, noncommittal sound. Lionel Mabry wasn't a bad person at heart, and that was a limitation. He could never imagine the Jack Sterling she had faced in Leakin Park. Yes, Sterling was trying to protect himself and the life he had created. But the man who had struck her had also been having a suspiciously good time. It was as if he had waited all these years to indulge those instincts again. "Bad boys get caught." Well, he was a bad boy now.

She stood to leave. "One more thing about the track story-I want Kevin Feeney to write it."

"Miss Monaghan, I do not let outsiders dictate internal decisions." Mabry was the Lion King again, tossing his hair back indignantly, growling and posturing as if she were an employee he could tyrannize.

"I understand that in theory. In practice, if you don't give the story to Feeney, I'm going to distribute copies of these videotapes to every television station in town, as well as the New York Times , the Philadelphia Inquirer , and the Washington Post . Be awfully embarrassing to be scooped on a story in your own backyard."

Mabry hesitated. Tess could tell he was torn between wanting to make a point and wanting exclusive title to the story. You could almost hear the point-counterpoint echoing in his brain. Principle or potential Pulitzer? Principle or Pulitzer? Principle-Pulitzer? Principle-Pulitzer ?

Pultizer won. She had thought it would. "I don't appreciate your tactics, but Feeney is an excellent reporter. I'm sure he'll do well on the story. Is it all right with you-" Mabry couldn't resist a small spin of sarcasm "-if I assign another reporter to work with him?"

"Sure, as long as it's someone who doesn't buy information or twist people's quotes." She regretted the words as soon as she said them. Rosita's crimes seemed so small now, certainly too small to die for.

"Do you ever think about going back into reporting?" Mabry asked, walking her to the door, always the gentleman. "We still haven't filled some of the vacancies caused by, uh, this spring's events. You obviously have potential as an investigative reporter."

The question was only two years too late. Still, it was nice to hear. Nicer still to say: "No thanks, Lionel. I have a job, a job I think I'm getting pretty good at."

One of her ribs sent up a little shoot of pain just then, as if to remind her not to be too cocky.

Funny, to think of the injustices to which Tess had been blind before Esskay had come into her life. For example: why was it so difficult to find a restaurant in Baltimore where dogs were allowed? The bars in Fells Point welcomed them, but Baltimore had few of the sidewalk-type restaurants that made it possible for a dog to enjoy a good meal. How species-ist.

She and Feeney settled on Donna's, a local chain of coffee bars with pretty good food, once you got past its New York aspirations. And while Mount Vernon was a little grimy for outdoor dining, the day was too beautiful to waste: a cloudless sky, a light breeze that kept the sun from being too hot. Baltimore springs had the life span of a fruit fly, so it was important to cherish each fair day. Summer would be here soon enough.

Tess ordered wine, and after a brief inner struggle, decided on the mozzarella sandwich with pesto, on olive-oil-rich focaccia. She'd be back at full strength soon enough, she'd work those calories off. Feeney had the turkey sandwich with tapenade, on sourdough, while Esskay had the roast beef and provolone, hold the bread.

"This is a great story, almost makes up for me not being able to write about Sterling," Feeney said, studying her notes. "Sure it's mine?"

"As sure as I can be. There's a reason he's called the Lyin' King."

"Yeah, but he's competitive. He'll put the paper first. He always does in the end."

"So did Jack Sterling. I wonder how he would have arranged for the Blight to get the exclusive on my death?"

Esskay, who had downed her lunch in seconds, was straining at her leash, desperate to chase the dogs she saw in the park across the street. Then her quicksilver attention turned to the trash blowing past in the breeze. A white hot dog wrapper caught an eddy of air, floated upward, then reversed direction and plummeted to earth. Had Rosita fallen like that? Had she known she was falling? Had she been knocked out, like Wink, or just woozy enough for Sterling-her former boss, her former lover-to pick her up in his arms for one last embrace, then toss her over the balcony before she realized what was happening? But maybe she had jumped, as Sterling still maintained.

"Detective Tull told me they'll probably never be able to charge Sterling with Rosita's death. If she had painkillers in her blood, like Wink, it would be different. But all they found was alcohol. And it made sense for his fingerprints to be all over the apartment. He searched it, remember?"

"The yearbook never turned up, did it?"

"No, Sterling tossed it in a land fill. Lea Wynkowski has gotten it into her head that it's my fault somehow. I made it possible for her to collect the life insurance and kept her out of Paul Tucci's clutches, and she's pissed at me over a yearbook. Isn't that rich?"

" A grateful mind/By owing owes not ." Feeney smirked at her blank look. "Milton. Paradise Lost ."

"Well, aren't you branching out?" Her voice was harsher than it meant to be, her mind unable to turn off the image of Rosita falling through space.

"Don't mind me," she added contritely. "It's just that I should have known. From the moment I saw that pizza, I should have known it was Sterling."

"How?"

"Turkey sausage. You have to be a psycho to eat that stuff."

Feeney pointed up the street. "Speaking of psychos, look at Whitney, trotting to keep up with Tyner's wheelchair on the downhill grade. I didn't know they were coming along today."